“Hilaira,” Alkander started very cautiously, afraid of her reaction, “what would you say if I told you I wanted to work in the agoge?”
“Why should I oppose it?” she asked back. “You can’t just sit around here and get in my way!” She cast the retort at him with a smile and a laugh, making him laugh with her, but they both knew she was serious, too. She’d been running his affairs for nearly a decade. She did not need—or want—any interference from him now.
“Of course, the Gods only know, Epidydes might throw me out the door before I even finish asking. I mean, I’m a mothake—”
“Don’t use that term!” Hilaira cut him off. “It’s not your fault your father had a marginal kleros or that your mother wasn’t good at running it. Just because she couldn’t pay your school fees and Leo had to pay them for you doesn’t make you any less a citizen today!”
“Do you have any idea how many young men are in my same situation now? This last drought has wiped out scores of families,” Alkander pointed out. As someone who had nearly been thrown out of the agoge because his mother couldn’t pay his fees, Alkander paid attention when he heard that one man or another had pulled his son out of school. He knew it was still happening, particularly in years like this, when terrible weather caused the crops on marginal land to fail.
“I know how lucky we are that your sister married the Eurypontid king and that he felt compelled to give us this excellent kleros. I know some kleros are so infertile that nothing a woman does can make them yield enough for her husband and sons. We are very, very lucky.”
Alkander impulsively took a jar of milk and poured some out before the house altar with a prayer of thanks. After his mediocre performance in the agoge and his dependency on Leo, he could so easily have been given one of the marginal kleros that could hardly support a man, much less his sons. Instead, they were living on a sound kleros that turned a small surplus even in a year like this, just because his sister had fired the lust of King Demaratus.
But Hilaira had everything under control here. She could be trusted to keep her sons financially secure. Where the boys needed him was in the agoge. “Hilaira, I’m serious. I want to apply for a position as instructor, with the long-term goal of becoming at least a deputy headmaster or, eventually, even Paidonomos.”
Hilaira nodded. “I can’t think of anyone in Lacedaemon who would be better suited,” she assured him.
“You might be biased,” Alkander noted, pulling her into his arms with relief and gratitude.
Brotus stretched himself out on the cushioned bench beside the hearth and closed his eyes for a short nap. He didn’t intend to sleep long, but drill had been exhausting in the muddy morass the drill fields had become; and after a hefty meal of his wife’s crusty pork chops and bread drenched in herbal butter, the cozy warmth of the room made him sleepy. He left his flaky pastry, made with crushed nuts and honey, on the table beside him for when he woke up.
Pausanias peered around the door, his eyes on the pastry. His mother made wonderful sweets, but she never let him have any. Sweets, she said, were for adults. They ruined children’s teeth, she said; besides, he wouldn’t get any in the agoge and might as well get used to it, since he started in less than a fortnight. But Pausanias loved sweets.
He looked over his shoulder to be sure he wasn’t being watched. He could hear his mother’s stern voice reproaching the housekeeper for some fault. Helots were dumb and always made mistakes. His mother spent her whole day chasing after them and making sure they did their work properly.
He looked back at his father. His father appeared to be sound asleep. One hand had fallen off his belly and hung completely relaxed, the fingers stretched limply toward the floor. The other hand rose and fell with his barrel-shaped chest, encased now in nothing but his sweat-stained chiton. Pausanias took a step into the room and then paused. Except for his rising and falling chest, his father didn’t move. Another step, and another. Brotus was starting to snore very softly in the back of his throat. Pausanias was within range of the honey pastry. Holding his breath, the six-year-old reached out slowly. His hand closed around the pastry and he yanked his arm back. The pastry was his!
But a drop of honey had fallen on his father’s forehead as he snatched the pastry off the table. Brotus came out of his dream with a confused grunt. He felt his forehead with his hand, then stared in confusion at the sticky, clear substance on his fingers. He looked so funny that Pausanias chortled in delight.
“Huh?” Brotus sat up and turned toward his son in a single motion, a frown clouding his face. He saw Pausanias stuffing the pastry into his mouth as fast as he could, hardly chewing in his haste to get it all inside before someone could take it away from him.
Brotus growled, “You impudent little rascal!” and sprang to his feet.
Pausanias bolted. Brotus’ feared fist hit thin air, and that made him roar in rage. “You little bugger! I’ll teach you a lesson!”
Pausanias nimbly slithered out a window and darted across the farmyard toward the barn. Brotus lumbered after him, still shouting insults. He burst into the barn and looked around, bewildered in the comparative darkness. The bull stirred uneasily in his stall. The milk cows blinked at him and moved their jaws in circles as they chewed. Brotus growled, “Show your ugly face, you little bugger, or you’ll be sorry!”
High-pitched laughter tumbled down from overhead, and Brotus looked up to see his son comfortably crouched in the rafters, grinning at him.
“Don’t think I’ll forget about this!” Brotus shook his clenched fist at his son. “You’ll get yours when you come down!”
Then he turned and stormed out of the barn, smiling smugly. The cub was all right, Brotus thought proudly. He liked the boy’s impudence, because that showed courage, and he was proud of how agile and quick he was. Brotus made for the kitchen rather than the hall. “Sinope!” he called for his wife as he crossed the threshold.
“I’m right here; no need to shout!” came the tart retort.
Sinope was no beauty. She was tall for a woman, thin, bony, and flat. Her face was angular, with a mouth that was wide and a little crooked under an oversized, beak-like nose. But Brotus was pleased with her. She’d presented him with Pausanias less than a year after their marriage; and there were two more children in the nursery now as well, a girl and another boy. This production of offspring was a wife’s most important function. Brotus felt his full nursery demonstrated his own virility and underlined his superiority over his twin brother, who was childless again.
But Sinope was more than a good breeder. She also cooked hearty, tasty meals, and she ran the kleros like a drillmaster. The helots got away with nothing here—she even collected the leftovers from every meal and fed them to the pigs rather than letting the helots feast on meat and white bread made for their masters.
“I want another pastry,” Brotus announced, plopping himself down on the bench behind the kitchen table.
“Another?” Sinope asked back. “I don’t know about that.” Her gray eyes went pointedly to his waistline. “You don’t want to get any fatter than you are already.”
“I’m not fat, and I’ll eat as much as I damn well please in my own house!” Brotus growled back, but he didn’t really mind his wife’s concern. It showed she cared about him.
Sinope raised her eyebrows, but she went over to the cupboard and took down the wooden tray with the pastries on it. She placed one on a plain pottery plate with black glaze, manufactured right in Amyclae. She was not one of those spendthrift wives like her sister-in-law, who insisted on buying Corinthian or even Athenian pottery, all painted with fancy figures of people doing any number of silly things. She brought the plate over and thumped it down in front of her husband. Standing before him with her hands on her hips, she asked, “And what were you shouting at Pausanias about?”
Brotus scowled up at her, but then gave up and burst out laughing. “You’re right. He got my pastry, the little thief; but I’ll give him a lesson he won’
t forget as soon as I get my hands on him.”
“I see; which means he got away from you as well,” Sinope concluded rightly.
Brotus laughed again, and their eyes met. They were both very proud of their firstborn.
Sinope sat down opposite Brotus. “While I have your attention, I’ve been meaning to ask you: what do you plan to do when you go off active service?”
“Afraid I’ll get in your hair, are you?” Brotus asked back, then laughed at his own joke. “Not a chance. The Orestes gymnasium wants me to take over the position of chief trainer. They think with me on the staff, all the aspiring boxers will come to the Orestes gymnasium. And I’m not half bad with discus and javelin, either.”
Sinope nodded, satisfied. She had worried that Brotus might decide to just “retire.” Her sister’s husband was like that, and she had nothing but contempt for him. A man ought to be involved in public affairs in one way or another.
“And then I’m going to see that I get elected to one thing or another,” Brotus added, breaking into her thoughts, after finishing off the pastry and wiping the crumbs away with the back of his fist.
“Such as?”
Brotus shrugged. “Whatever. It doesn’t matter so much what, so long as I’m seen to be leading. I’m the rightful Agiad king and as soon as my brother dies, I’m going to take hold of my inheritance. It’s good for people to get used to looking up at me. Being in the Guard was good, but I was one of three hundred there. I need to stand out more.”
Sinope nodded approval; but before she could speak, movement at the door caught the couple’s attention. Pausanias was back, grinning at them.
“Come in here and get what you deserve!” Brotus barked.
Pausanias’ eyes shifted as if considering escape, but then walked straight up to his father and stood still in front of him. “Good boy!” Brotus praised, and then cuffed his son hard with the back of his hand.
Brotus’ fists were those of a professional boxer and his blow, although only a casual flick from the wrist, was enough to make blood gush from his son’s nose. Sinope made an annoyed sound and reached for a wet dishcloth to stanch the bleeding, but Pausanias made no noise; he just stared at his father.
Brotus smiled. “Good boy! Sinope, get our son a pastry.”
“Brotus! That’s not right. You know he’ll get none in the agoge.”
“Not unless he can steal ’em, huh?” He winked at his son.
Pausanias smiled, despite the blood streaming down his face.
His mother handed her son the wet cloth and ordered him to hold it to his nose until the bleeding stopped, while she fetched him the pastry her husband had ordered.
“There are some things you need to know about the agoge, boy,” Brotus started in a fatherly tone while his son stood holding the bloody cloth to his nose. “First, you know each class elects their herd leader, don’t you?”
Pausanias nodded.
“I was elected herd leader as a seven-year-old—and every year after that! I expect the same of you, or you’re going to feel what my fists can do when I have a mind to! Understand?”
Pausanias nodded.
“Good. I was a Victor of Artemis Orthia, too, and the same goes for that.”
Pausanias nodded.
“As regards the Phouxir, you shouldn’t have any trouble with that the way you’re going. Little thief!” Brotus laughed and reached out affectionately to ruffle his son’s hair. Soon it would be shaved off, he thought; but Brotus had no fears for his son. He was going to be all right in the agoge. He already had all the makings of a leader.
They had been out all morning in a drizzling rain that threatened to turn to sleet at any moment. It was bitterly cold, and low-hanging clouds blocked the view of both Taygetos and Parnon, turning the Eurotas valley into a flat plain in the middle of nowhere. The drill fields had been a morass of mud, so the two officers stopped at the entrance to the chamber that served as the office for their enomotia to remove their mud-encrusted boots with fingers red and stiff with cold.
Inside the gloomy room, records and duty rosters were kept, along with some spare equipment and, fortunately, linens. Oliantus grabbed a clean, dry towel and handed it to Leonidas.
Leonidas took the towel, bent down, and started rubbing the mud off Beggar, who had started to shiver violently. He worked diligently, rubbing hard to stimulate the circulation in her paws—apparently absorbed in this task, but in fact trying to think of a way to break the news to Oliantus that he intended to quit the army when he attained full citizenship.
Leonidas knew that his deputy had only remained because of him. Oliantus could have retired last year, but Leonidas had begged him to stay on. Leonidas had told him that the enomotia would not be a happy unit without him; and Oliantus, who had never before been told he was important to anyone, had been persuaded to stay.
But now Leonidas intended to retire, and he knew Oliantus would feel betrayed. When he finished with the dog, he collected his courage and faced his deputy, who was rebraiding his hair after drying it with a towel, and took a deep breath. Before he got a word out, however, they were interrupted by the meleirene on duty.
“There’s someone asking for you outside, sir,” the meleirene reported.
Leonidas did not welcome the interruption. His decision to quit the army affected Oliantus more than anyone else, and he owed him an explanation. Furthermore, he was annoyed by the fact that the meleirene had expressed himself imprecisely. Any meleirene ought to know that an officer expected precise information in the fewest possible words. At a minimum, the meleirene should have informed Leonidas whether this was a citizen (a man who had completed his active service), a young man (one still in the army), a youth (a fourteen- to twenty-year-old), a boy (a seven- to thirteen-year-old), a perioikoi, or a helot. “Someone” was too vague a term. “Who is it, and what does he want?” Leonidas asked irritably.
“He didn’t say what he wanted, sir,” came the strangely hesitant answer; and then the information, “It is Meander, son of Diactoridas, sir.”
The name meant nothing to Leonidas, but it sounded Spartiate, and Oliantus had already turned away. The conversation would have to be continued later. Leonidas signaled for the meleirene to let the man in, while he turned to toss the dirty towel in a corner.
“Give me your wet things,” Oliantus suggested, adding reproachfully, “Where’s your attendant?”
“Mantiklos?” Leonidas asked, as he handed Oliantus his wet himation and started to untie his leather harness to get down to his wet chiton. “He got some poor girl pregnant and is trying to talk his way out of marrying her.”
Oliantus said nothing, but his expression said it all: he did not approve of Mantiklos or of Leonidas retaining him. But there was no time for further discussion, because a strange figure stood in the doorway.
Leonidas turned to face the visitor, and still did not know what to make of him. He was tall, slender, tanned, and young. Leonidas guessed he was in his late teens or early twenties, but his hair was not shaved like a youth of the agoge, nor was he in training armor like a young man. His clothes were far too simple for a perioikoi youth, but the way he stood—straight as a spear with his chin up—was not a helot stance. Not that he was impudent. He had his eyes down and his hands at his sides—just like a youth of the agoge, which he obviously wasn’t.
“You asked to see me,” Leonidas remarked, his leather cuirass now hanging loose.
“Yes, sir.” The youth swallowed visibly. “I heard, sir.” He licked his lips. “I was told, sir, that you once paid the agoge fees of a boy too poor to pay his own way.”
“Yes,” Leonidas admitted, his eyes studying the youth more intently than ever. He was in good physical shape, but barefoot, and his himation was very shabby. Furthermore, his fingernails were torn and ingrained with dirt, as if he’d been working in the fields.
“Sir, our crops failed after the drought this summer. My father saw he wouldn’t be able to meet his syssitia payments, so
he hanged himself.” The young man said it emotionlessly, his eyes still down; but Oliantus caught his breath, and Leonidas glanced at his deputy. Meander was continuing, “I’ll work without wages for the next nine years if you’ll just pay the agoge fees.”
“How can you work for me and attend the agoge, and why nine years?” Leonidas demanded.
“Because that’s when my brother will graduate and get his own kleros, sir.” Meander risked looking up for a split second, and Leonidas saw the desperation in his eyes.
“Your brother?”
“My younger brother Aristodemos, sir. He’ll turn twelve at the solstice.”
“How old are you, Meander?”
“Nineteen, sir.”
“But you’re not in the agoge.”
“No, sir.”
“Why not?”
“My father pulled me out three years ago, because he couldn’t afford to have two sons in the agoge at the same time.”
“He pulled his elder son out of the agoge, but let his younger son remain?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Look at me,” Leonidas ordered.
The young man lifted his eyes and looked straight at Leonidas; his throat was working.
“Why did your father do that?”
“He thought my brother was better than I, sir.”
Leonidas had grown up being told that Dorieus and Brotus were better than he—that he was superfluous and second-rate. But he wasn’t. He’d proved that, and he didn’t think for a moment that the young man standing in front of him was second-rate, either. If nothing else, he’d had the courage to come here—and offer to work like a slave for nine years to keep his brother in school. Leonidas wondered if his brother would have done the same for him. “What does your mother think of all this?” he asked.
“She never contradicted my father, sir, and she hasn’t lived with us for years. She lives in Messenia with her sister.”
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