A Peerless Peer

by Helena P. Schrader

  “Only some of the time.”

  “And the rest of the time you are out here.” He nodded toward the drill field.

  “No, actually we spend a lot of time in chorus, dancing, and other lessons as well,” Leonidas answered wearily. Why did foreigners always focus only on those aspects of their education that were most outlandish?

  They continued into the city, and the baggage was sent directly to the palace, but Aristagoras insisted on a walking tour of the “most important sites” with only his bodyguards and Leonidas in attendance. Although he tried not to show it to the arrogant young escort commander, Aristagoras was impressed. No, Sparta wasn’t Athens, Memphis, or Sardis. It was a relatively small city. But Aristagoras felt he had been misled by those who claimed Sparta was “not a real city.” Technically, this was true. It had no walls (which was one of the characteristics used to define a city), but it did not lack any of the other characteristics—not the public buildings nor agora, not the gymnasia nor baths, not the theater nor public fountains, not the monuments nor temples. Most impressive was the stoa with the “thousand” columns where the Assembly met—the Athenians, after all, still met in the open. He also found the stately buildings of the Council House, the Ephorate, and the administrative buildings of the agoge impressive for their combination of symmetry, proportion, and Doric simplicity. While the sculptures on the pediments were stiff and heavy by modern standards, they were far from primitive. Furthermore, these buildings were ancient, which lent them a certain dignity divorced from artistic taste. Sparta certainly didn’t lack for palaestra and gymnasia, public baths and athletic fields. Aristagoras found the racecourse, with two charming statues of the Dioskouroi, particularly attractive; and the unique ball field, with two bridges over the moat—one adorned with a statue of Herakles and the other with a statue of Lycurgus—very interesting. All in all, there were far more monuments in the city than Aristagoras had expected.

  What impressed Aristagoras most, however, was the behavior of the citizens. The boys, as he had expected, were shaved, barefoot and scruffy—but he had never met such well-mannered youth in his whole life! Even the poorest urchins in Miletos were rude and impudent, while the sons of the rich were spoiled and self-centered. Here, all Leonidas had to do was call to any of these boys, and they came and stood at attention before him with their eyes down and their hands by their sides. They answered every question he put to them with “sir,” and they were quick to offer help, too. When they had stopped so Aristagoras could dismount from his chariot, boys had come out of nowhere to hold the horses.

  The young men, whom they encountered predominantly on the athletic fields and at the baths, were impressive, too. Again, they behaved with marked deference and respect when Leonidas introduced them. Every one of them welcomed the visitor, wished him a pleasant stay in Lacedaemon, and assured him that he need only ask “any of us” if he needed something. They were all, furthermore, in outstanding physical condition. Aristagoras told himself that there had to be fat, lazy, weak, and ugly Spartiates, but they were not in evidence.

  What was in evidence everywhere were the women. Hadn’t Homer described Sparta as the “land of beautiful women”? Evidently, he had not been referring to Helen alone. Aristagoras was utterly amazed—and a little disconcerted—to discover that women dominated the Spartan agora. In other Greek cities, the agora was not just a place of commerce, but above all the place for men to congregate, exchange news, and discuss everything from politics and court cases to the latest theory of alchemy. In Sparta, in contrast, there were no citizens in evidence at all—only craftsmen, merchants, farmers selling their goods—and women.

  At first Aristagoras was not entirely certain just who these women were. On the one hand they wore old-fashioned peplos, which meant they showed quite a lot of leg when moving rapidly; but there was nothing lewd about them. They generally wore a himation up over their head (though not shrouding their faces), and they appeared more intent on striking a good bargain with the salesmen than on attracting attention to themselves. In other words, they were not whores. Because they were shopping and wore neither gold nor silver, they might have been household slaves, he thought; but most wore very expensive fabrics beautifully dyed in rich colors, set off with bold borders, and clasped with heavy bronze, silver, and ivory pins. Furthermore, they walked upright and seemed very self-confident. “Who are these women?” Aristagoras asked at last.

  “Mostly citizens’ wives.”

  “Your wives have to do the daily shopping?” Aristagoras gasped in shock. He would never have let his wife go down to the agora and haggle with craftsmen and other charlatans. She couldn’t add two and two together, anyway. “Your own wife comes here?” Aristagoras pressed him.

  “Of course.” When she is in Sparta, Leonidas added mentally with a sigh.

  “Have you no slaves?”

  “The helots do the heavy work, but it is usual for a Spartiate wife to make most household purchases.”

  “So your women have driven the men out,” Aristagoras concluded; because obviously, men would not willingly congregate where they would be surrounded by a bunch of gossiping women.

  “It is considered bad manners for a young man to loiter around the agora,” Leonidas replied.

  “Why? What can be bad about meeting with one’s fellows and discussing developments in the world?”

  “We can do that in our syssitia—not here in the open where helots, perioikoi, and strangers may see and hear. Besides, there is a prohibition against Spartiates having coins and ‘engaging in trade,’ which some of our more conservative citizens interpret to mean even daily shopping. Our wives are not subject to the same prohibitions, because they have control of the household finances and must be able to both buy and sell goods as needed.”

  “But—that is madness! You let women control your finances?”

  “For the most part, yes, our domestic finances. The city has an elected treasurer, of course—a highly respected man of great knowledge in mathematics and accounting.”

  “Yes, but how can you let women run your private affairs? Their brains are underdeveloped, and they are not—no matter how much they try—capable of understanding higher principles. Why, if I let my wife run my household, we would have nothing but sweets and pretty baubles, and we would all starve.”

  Leonidas shrugged, “We’ve been letting our wives run our households for the last forty Olympiads, and our prosperity is unimpaired.”

  The evidence appeared to support Leonidas. Lacedaemon was certainly prosperous, but Aristagoras could not believe women had anything to do with it. He concluded that the Spartans only pretended this was the case, for reasons only they could know.

  While the mature women were baffling and incomprehensible to Aristagoras, the girls were delectable—and they appeared to run around everywhere. He could hardly credit his eyes when he first spotted them watching the boys at drill outside the city, dismissing them as younger boys watching their elders. But at the baths and then the racecourse, there could no longer be any doubt. Nubile and even younger prostitutes were put on display in a most unusual way. Namely, they were allowed to strip completely naked and then take part in sports alongside the young men. Apparently, by the time they got to be sexually mature they were sequestered away for their paying clients, but the young ones were evidently put on display like this to encourage youths and men to bid for first rights or the like. It was an intriguing custom, and Aristagoras was about to ask more about it, when one of the girls walked right up to them.

  She had just finished bathing, come ashore, dried herself down in full view of everyone, and then pulled on a simple chiton. She was still rubbing dry her bright red hair when she came over to them. “Excuse me,” she said shortly to the stranger, and turned at once to his companion. “Uncle Leo, may I ride Cyclone in the Gymnopae-dia?” Then, before he could get a word in edgewise, she hastened to assure him, “I know it’s my own fault that Shadow isn’t up to it anymore, but she coul
dn’t have won even before the accident. She’s sweet, but she’s not really fast. Not like Cyclone. If you let me ride her, I’ll bring you the laurels! Cyclone is the best mare in all of Lacedaemon! You won’t be riding her yourself, will you? I asked Eirana last time I saw her, and she said she didn’t ride anymore. Please let me ride her!”

  “I’m not going to make a decision now,” Leonidas told his niece sharply, because he was embarrassed by the way she had plunged in, ignoring the stranger. Pointedly he added, “This is your father’s guest, Aristagoras of Miletos.”

  Too late, Gorgo realized that the man with her uncle was someone important. She had been so determined to make her case to Leonidas that she had dismissed the man with him as “some stranger.” Now she turned her attention to Aristagoras, frowning slightly, and noticed his gold rings and bracelets, his woven chiton—and the scandalized look on his face. Embarrassed, she realized her hair was a mess and her chiton falling off one shoulder. Self-consciously she pulled the chiton back in place and reached up to comb her fingers through her hair. “I’m sorry to have interrupted, sir,” she stammered, then turned and darted away.

  “Who—who—was that—girl?” Aristagoras stammered in utter confusion. It was one thing for a girl-whore to address a favored customer as “uncle,” but to be told he was her father’s guest was outrageous. He was here to see a king!

  “That was my niece Gorgo. My brother’s only child, since his son and heir died in an accident five years ago. He spoils her, I’m afraid.” Leonidas paused, laughed, and added, “We all do.”

  “Your brother’s child? A Spartiate’s daughter? By a slave girl, then?”

  “No, by his wife.” Leonidas turned and looked Aristagoras straight in the eye. “You didn’t think these girls were slaves, did you?” Aristagoras’ expression was answer enough, and Leonidas continued firmly, “They are all the daughters of citizens. They are dressed simply and barefoot only because they are in the public upbringing.” Leonidas was angry because he could tell how shocked Aristagoras was, but he was angry with himself, too. He should have known how the foreigner would react. He should have made a point of telling him about the girls. And Gorgo didn’t make things better by being so bold. But it was too late now. “I think it is time I took you to my brother.”

  “Your brother?”

  “King Cleomenes.”

  Aristagoras stared at him. He tried to remember if he had said anything to this young man that betrayed his intentions, and then thought angrily that it was no wonder the young man had said so little about himself! He had been sent by Cleomenes as a spy, and Aristagoras had fallen for the ruse—hook, line, and sinker. He felt very foolish.

  They returned in silence to the Agiad royal palace with its long, low columned porch and the ancient Kouroi flanking the main door. The meleirenes came to attention for Leonidas, and then one of them said: “Sir! You are to take the stranger to the Tyndareus chamber. His things and slaves are there already.”

  They passed out of the sunlight and into the cool shade of the interior. Aristagoras could sense how old the palace was. The ceilings were lower than was now fashionable, with timber beams made of rough-hewn trees. Underfoot were mosaics so ancient that they were little more than crushed stone, rather than neat squares. At least there were frescoes on the walls here, albeit very old ones in the antique style and rather faded.

  There was no doubt that Leonidas knew his way about, however. He led around several courtyards to a nice, small, well-planted one; and here Aristagoras was greeted by his own staff as if they had feared for his life, despite the bodyguards that still shadowed him. As Leonidas took his leave, Aristagoras could not resist tossing after him, “Going to report to your brother?”

  Leonidas paused, turned back, and answered: “No, my company commander.” Then he walked out.

  Aristagoras could not complain about Cleomenes’ hospitality, although he was now wary of Spartans generally and did not trust his host’s apparent cordiality. The dinner served was excellent—maybe not as refined, and with less fish than Aristagoras preferred, but the meat was excellent and garnished with chestnuts and leeks. It was served on what he was assured was native pottery, which was lighter in color than the products of Athenian workshops, but boasted lifelike scenes. His host shared his excellent wine unmixed, and they had a very pleasant conversation in which Cleomenes asked many questions, giving Aristagoras an opportunity to show off his wide knowledge of the world.

  The next morning there was a proper inspection of the army. This was a formal occasion, with the men in their battle panoply drawn up by lochos for their kings—Demaratus made an appearance, too. Aristagoras took the parade in front of the Council House and then followed by chariot to the drill fields, where maneuvers were held for his benefit.

  It was impossible not to be impressed. These large units demonstrated the same precision of movement and discipline that the little escort had displayed. From the slope of the hill on which he stood, Aristagoras could hear none of the verbal commands—only the salpinx and flutes—but the speed with which units wheeled, shortened or expanded the distances, and the fluidity of their deployment from one formation to the next, suggested mastery of the art of marching far beyond anything Aristagoras had seen up to now. At length he turned to Cleomenes and remarked, “Very pretty; but can they fight?”

  Cleomenes, as intended, was offended and drew a deep indignant breath. “Choose any man you like!”

  “I don’t mean man to man, I mean as an army. Does your army ever really fight?”

  Cleomenes was boiling with rage. “Of course we do. Have you heard nothing about my campaigns in Attica and the Argolid?”

  “Not really. I heard you got besieged on the acropolis once and had to turn back the next time for lack of allies—and indeed, domestic opposition.” Aristagoras looked pointedly at Demaratus, who was talking to one of the lochagoi. “But I have not heard of the whole Spartan army going anywhere and doing anyone any harm in the last five Olympiads.”

  Cleomenes was furious, but he had no answer.

  It was not until the afternoon that they got down to business.

  For the official audience, Aristagoras was received in the ancient throne room, which was relatively low and dingy. The pillars here were thick and painted darkly. There was a hearth at the front of the room, open to the sky (and empty at this time of year), and the throne itself looked as old as the Iliad. It was flanked by two potted trees, a palm and an olive, that undoubtedly had some symbolic significance lost on Aristagoras and which no one bothered to explain. Cleomenes didn’t sit on the throne. Instead he had couches and tables brought in, and they settled down comfortably.

  Aristagoras opened his appeal: “I hope, Cleomenes, that you are not too surprised by my visit. After all, Sparta is the leading city in all Greece, and you are the Spartan king with the greatest intelligence and vision.” Cleomenes bowed graciously at the compliment, although he had far from forgotten the insults of this morning.

  “Now, the fact is this,” Aristagoras continued: “the Ionians have become slaves to the Persians. This is not only their shame, but yours.” Cleomenes raised his eyebrows. “It is your shame, King Cleomenes, because—as I said earlier—the Spartans are the leaders of Greece; and if any Greek is enslaved, then it diminishes your own glory.”

  “Ah,” Cleomenes remarked ambiguously.

  “But if you do that which is pleasing to the Gods and come to the aid of your oppressed brothers, you will find rich rewards. I do not speak only of the rewards of glory and fame—although these would be yours in abundance—but also the rewards of riches quite beyond counting.”

  “We have highly trained accountants here,” Cleomenes corrected the impertinent stranger.

  “So I heard—your women.” Aristagoras laughed to show he recognized this was a joke. Cleomenes only frowned.

  “Please, may I show you something I had made and transported all this way merely to show you where your own interests lie?”r />
  Cleomenes was scowling now. “What?”

  “If I may send to my quarters?”

  “Of course.”

  Aristagoras asked one of the attending helots to go to his quarters and ask his own slaves to bring “the map.”

  Shortly afterward, four of Aristagoras’ slaves appeared, carrying the awkward box offloaded at Limera. Cleomenes was curious, and he got up to stand over the slaves as they pried open the wooden box, revealing a large bronze sheet on which a map of the world had been etched. “Here,” Aristagoras explained, pointing, “are the Gates of Herakles. Here is Italy and Sicily, and here is Hellas, with this dot representing Sparta.”

  Cleomenes pointed, “And that is the Isthmus, Corinth, and there is Athens.”

  “Exactly! Now look here. These are the oppressed cities of Ionia. Here is the Persian provincial capital of Sardis, and here—all the way over here—is the principal seat of the Great King, Susa. But his Empire does not end here. It goes on and on and on to the very ends of the earth in the East. The riches of all this vast Empire would be yours, if only you defeat the Persians in Ionia.”

  Cleomenes gave the tyrant-emissary a skeptical look.

  “I have seen your army and I have heard that it is the best in the world—that is why I wonder so much at its staying here idle when your brothers cry out to you to save them from the Persian yoke. You will have no trouble beating the Persians. They fight in turbans and trousers, and their weapons are bows and short spears hardly better than their arrows. They are softened by a life of luxury and rich foods, nothing like your tough young men! If you defeat these effeminate men with their perfumed hair and painted faces in Ionia, you will not only have freed your brothers, but this whole, vast Empire will be yours for the taking.” He gestured with his hand.

  “Odd that these perfumed men with painted faces have conquered such a vast empire, then, isn’t it?” Cleomenes noted.