“What year did you say you left the agoge?”
“After my sixteenth year, sir.”
Leonidas cursed very shortly but crudely, causing Oliantus to look at him in consternation. Leonidas was shaking his head. “There’s no way you can make that up. I can’t put you back in with the seventeen-year-olds. You should be an eirene next year.”
Meander dropped his eyes and murmured, “I know, sir. I didn’t expect that. All I ask is that you let me earn my brother’s fees—”
“You don’t have to earn your brother’s fees!” Leonidas told him angrily. “I’ll pay them; but what are we going to do with you?”
Meander, not knowing Leonidas, heard only the anger in his voice and assumed it was directed at him. He started stammering, “I’m sorry, sir. I would have liked to stay in the agoge, but my father couldn’t pay. I’ve worked as hard as I can.” With each sentence the proud stance was crumbling. Before Leonidas’ eyes he was shrinking, collapsing, turning from Spartiate into helot. “I tried to make the kleros pay. I don’t know—”
Leonidas couldn’t stand it any longer. “Stop it!” he ordered.
Meander went instantly still and just stood as if turned to stone. He had even stopped breathing. He didn’t know what to do anymore. He’d tried being proud and being humble. Nothing seemed to work. He wanted to drop dead.
Oliantus dropped a dry, warm himation over Leonidas’ shoulders and muttered into his ear, “Put him out of his misery and hire him as your attendant. He’d do a better job than that Messenian.”
Leonidas looked at Oliantus and then back at Meander. “So, Meander son of Diactoridas, you passed the Phouxir?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Artemis Orthia.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You can handle javelin, bow, and sword, and you started to exercise with spear, but can hardly have mastered it.”
“No, sir,” Meander admitted.
“You’ve also learned trapping, hunting, and camping, but you never actually carried an aspis or wore bronze.”
“Correct, sir.”
“How would you feel about serving as my attendant?”
“Sir?”
“You don’t have to. I don’t have any other ideas at the moment, but there are probably lots of alternatives. However, serving as my attendant would have certain advantages for you. I might, for example, be able to teach you what you didn’t learn in the agoge. Maybe there’s some way …” Leonidas stopped himself and focused again on the youth. “What do you think? Would you be willing to do that?”
“Sir, I don’t know how to thank you!”
“You’re interested?”
“Of course, sir! It would mean—everything to me!”
“Then that’s settled. Report—is tomorrow too soon?”
“No, sir!”
“Report tomorrow evening, at curfew. Bring whatever kit you have—and don’t worry,” Leonidas cut him off before he could even say it; “what you don’t have I will provide. You can assure your brother his fees will be paid.”
“You won’t regret this, sir!” Meander assured him, looking more dazed than happy.
“No, I won’t regret it,” Leonidas told him firmly. “Now get out of here and let me get changed.” Meander disappeared instantly, and Leonidas turned to stare mutely at Oliantus. What appalled him was that although he’d known about this problem ever since Alkander had almost been thrown out of the agoge for the same reason, he had acted as if everything were all right just because Alkander was saved. He had put his head in the sand and ignored all the others. “I’m going to talk to Nikostratos,” Leonidas announced; and grabbing his himation, he stormed out with Beggar, who struggled to her feet to follow him.
Leonidas found the treasurer in his office, and Nikostratos listened patiently as he railed against the injustice of excluding good youths from the agoge just because of their fathers’ poverty.
Nikostratos nodded agreement. “Somewhere between 160 and 240 kleros were marginal even before this last drought. With the drought, it will have crept up to 320 or more. Several hundred citizens could be facing loss of citizenship. A significantly larger portion don’t enroll all their sons in the agoge. There are probably as many as one thousand youths who are entitled to attend the agoge, but can’t afford to,” Nikostratos summarized, adding, “but there’s nothing we can do about it, Leo.”
“Why can’t the city pay their fees?”
“We could, but only at the expense of other things we need.”
“What in the name of Apollo is more important than the education of the next generation?”
“I could think of one or two things—like clean drinking water, the roads into Messenia, and protecting our borders from the Argives. But even if we pay for their education, what then?”
“What do you mean?”
“They graduate, and there are no kleros for them.”
“Why aren’t there?”
“Because there isn’t any arable land left that has not already been assigned or purchased. The only lands available for new citizens are those kleros that have become vacant because of a lack of heirs, but these rarely number more than a half-hundred in any one year. We couldn’t find a thousand new kleros anywhere in Laconia.”
“What about Messenia?”
“Most of Messenia is in private hands.”
“But—what about state factories? Why couldn’t a citizen draw his income from something other than agriculture? Why couldn’t he be given shares in something like the state quarries? Much of my income is no longer agricultural.”
“That’s a very interesting idea,” Nikostratos admitted, adding with a sigh, “but it’s probably not constitutional—at a minimum, it would take a great deal of persuasion to get the Council to propose and the Assembly to accept such a radical change. Secondly, Leo, the Spartan state is bankrupt again. Revenues have declined dramatically in the last decade. We really don’t know how to meet all the expenses we have already, even without taking on any new obligations.” Nikostratos ran his thin, splotched hand over his balding head, and he looked more than his sixty-six years. “It would make more sense for wealthy individuals, such as yourself, to sponsor boys. If the one hundred or so wealthy families with a large surplus income sponsored ten boys apiece, the problem would be solved.”
“But that’s uncertain—it leaves things to chance, to the generosity of individuals, whereas the problem is systemic. Are we equals or not? How can we call ourselves Peers and let our younger brothers sink into poverty indistinguishable from that of helots? This youth Meander has been working in the fields! He was doing helot work, but on a farm too poor to yield anything! There are many helots richer than he—and people like my brother Brotus would rather watch someone starve than give up a single bushel of grain!”
Nikostratos raised his eyebrows, to indicate that Leonidas was exaggerating and that he did not approve.
“I’ll go talk to Phormio,” Leonidas declared, frustrated, and got to his feet again.
Leonidas took his fleetest young colt from the stables and set out for Bryseiai. As happened more and more often these days, Beggar could not keep up; and when Leonidas got too far ahead, she sat down on her haunches and howled in heart-rending protest. She was getting old, Leonidas registered—not for the first time—and went back for her. He dismounted, draped her over his shoulders, and remounted.
At Phormio’s house there was unusual bustle, as imported pottery was offloaded into a warehouse and the wagons loaded again with products from Leonidas’ bronzeworks. Leonidas, however, was a frequent visitor these days, and he knew his way around. He handed his hound and horse over to a slave boy in the stableyard, and took one of the outdoor stairways leading directly up to Phormio’s office.
On this winter’s day the office was closed against the outside, with shutters blocking out both the chill and the view; but inside, no less than three braziers kept the room warm, and oil lamps provided enough light to work.
Phormio got to his feet, smiling at the sight of Leonidas. He ushered his master to the largest of the braziers, commenting, “You look chilled through. Let me order hot wine.”
“I haven’t had lunch,” Leonidas admitted; “if you have anything left over—”
“Of course; and give me that wet cloak.” Phormio took it from Leonidas and handed it to one of the scribes, with instructions to hang it out to dry in the kitchen and return with hot, spiced wine and a big bowl of barley and beef stew. Then he reached across the scribe’s desk and picked up a large bronze krater, which he handed to Leonidas. “Before you tell me what you’ve come for, take a look at this.”
“It’s beautiful!” Leonidas exclaimed instantly, admiring the workmanship with eye and fingers as he turned it around in his hands. The krater had a foot with an elegant, leafy pattern, handles made by lions standing on their hind feet and pressing their front paws against the lip of the krater, and a beautiful bronze relief on the body involving one naked male and three female figures in beautifully draped peplos. “You don’t mean to tell me it was produced in my works?”
“That’s exactly what I’m going to tell you.”
“What is the motif?”
“Eros and the Muses.”
Leonidas looked skeptically at Phormio. “I don’t think that is going to sell very well here.”
“Maybe not; but it was the first design by a young artisan, Arion, who applied for the position of master. He’s from Thespiae, and there they are devoted to Eros and the Muses. Besides, the idea was to produce bronzeworks good enough for export again, as in the age of Chilon.”
“A Thespian, you said? What brought him all the way down here?”
“They just got badly beaten in a clash with Thebes. Apparently they had to cede a lot of territory to the victors, and this young man lost his home. He’s looking for a new start.”
Leonidas knew little of the conflict between Thebes and Thespiae, except that it was as old as Sparta’s struggle with Argos. Dismissing it as not his affair, he said, “Make sure he calls on Ibanolis. The old man would be pleased to see someone from home again after all these years. Maybe the young man can even give him word of his family.”
“Can I hire him, then?”
“If he can do designs other than Eros and the Muses. Ask him to design a shield for me. When I go off active service, I surrender my standard-issue shield to a graduating eirene, and will need a personal aspis as a reservist. If he can design a suitable bronze facing for it, he has the job.”
“Good. I’ll tell him. Now, what is it this time?”
“Did you realize that up to a thousand youths entitled to Spartan citizenship are in fact excluded because their fathers are too poor to meet their agoge obligations?”
“No,” Phormio told him. “But it doesn’t surprise me. Some of the kleros are very poorly managed. The soil has been completely exhausted on many. Others have been scandalously shorn of vegetation, overgrazed, et cetera, et cetera. You don’t teach agriculture in your agoge, do you?”
“Our wives are supposed to manage our estates,” Leonidas countered.
“Ah, yes.” Phormio thought about this a moment. Although he wouldn’t want to turn his business over to his wife, he was not blind. “And many of them do it very well. Your mother was a genius when it came to keeping her properties profitable.”
“What if I were to sponsor ten youths in the agoge?”
“If that’s what you want,” Phormio agreed at once—and too readily.
Leonidas cocked his head and considered his steward. “How many youths could I afford to sponsor?”
“What do you mean, afford?”
“Well, what if I carved up all my private estates into kleros that could each be assigned to a youth on graduation from the agoge?”
“I’d have to go back and look at the dimensions of each of your properties. It might be twenty, maybe twenty-five. Certainly not more than thirty.”
“What if I sponsored youths with my other income as well?”
“What do you want to do without?”
“What if I just lived from my own kleros like an ordinary citizen?”
Phormio was no longer smiling. He looked Leonidas in the eye and spoke deliberately: “Are you sure that is what you want to do?”
“Tell me one reason why I shouldn’t?” Leonidas asked back.
Phormio cocked his head to one side and considered his employer, weighing his words carefully before he spoke. Leonidas waited. Phormio was no Spartan, and he did not share their values; and for that very reason, Leonidas expected an answer he could easily refute. He could do without fine horses and kennels or fancy imported pottery.
“Because,” Phormio said at last and very deliberately, “you could do far more good for Lacedaemon by using your wealth in other ways.”
“What do you mean? What is more important than our youth?”
Phormio shook his head. “In the abstract, nothing; but in practice, all you would effectively do is impoverish yourself for the sake of a score of others—and what about the remaining hundreds? How are you going to select who is deserving and who is not?”
Leonidas said nothing, because this was the crux of the matter. If he could help only a score or more, he still failed to solve the fundamental problem.
“The only way to solve the problem as a whole,” Phormio continued, “would be for the Spartan state to assume all obligations for its citizens, just as it does for the military equipment of active units.”
“Nikostratos says we can’t afford it.”
“That is because the Spartan state tends to be excessively parochial. Look at Corinth and Athens. Their elites may be landowners, but they do not derive their wealth from agriculture. Their wealth comes from manufacturing and trade.”
“Our constitution prohibits us from pursuing trades other than arms.”
“I’m not suggesting you change your constitution or your lifestyle. You can all continue to live in barracks as far as I’m concerned. But we perioikoi do very well with manufacturing, and we could contribute a great deal more to the Lacedaemonian treasury—enabling it to fully finance your educational system if you wanted—if we received more support for our trading activities and interests.”
“What do you mean? I thought you could trade as you pleased. We don’t stop you, do we?”
“No, you don’t. We all prospered for nearly thirty Olympiads. But times have changed. Lacedaemon is no longer allied with Samos and so master of the Aegean, as you were in the age of Chilon. More importantly, since the fall of Croesus and the rise of Darius, the situation has deteriorated dramatically. The Persians are an aggressive and hegemonic power. They want to control everything. They are not content to let others live and prosper outside their sphere of influence. They impose stiff tariffs on anything imported, and export duties on goods they sell. They charge port taxes just for laying alongside—and those are only the official fees! The real cost of doing business with the Persian Empire is the bribes. Every time you turn around, there is a petty or less petty official who wants his ‘cut.’ A merchant doing business from Memphis to Sardis has to ‘settle’ with the port captain, the customs officials, the officers of the watch, the tax collectors, and right on up the chain to the satrap himself. The costs of doing business across the eastern Mediterranean have exploded, and now there is this war.”
“The Ionian revolt, you mean?”
“Yes. Ever since Aristagoras talked the Athenians into sending twenty triremes to help them sack Sardis, the entire Aegean has become unsafe. Our ships can go nowhere without risking attack from either the rebels or the Persians. Both sides treat neutral vessels as fair game. As our trade gets choked off, our revenues decline—and so do our contributions to the Spartan treasury.”
What Phormio said made sense to Leonidas, but it also seemed far beyond his control—unlike paying the agoge fees for boys whose fathers were too poor. Leonidas protested, “There’s nothing I can do about the Pers
ians, Phormio, but—”
“Forgive me for contradicting you, sir, but there is,” Phormio declared. He came to stand directly before Leonidas, and then stepped aside as a slave returned with a tray laden with hot wine and a bowl of steaming soup. The slave set the tray before Leonidas and withdrew.
Leonidas reached for the steaming mug of wine and held it between his cold, red hands. He inhaled the spice-laden scent of the steam and waited for Phormio to enlighten him.
“Sparta needs a fleet, not just an army,” the perioikoi told him. “In your father and grandfather’s day, you used to support significant shipbuilding on Kythera; you had sufficient ships to establish Taras, to transport an army to Samos, and to take your brother Dorieus on an expedition to Africa and later to Sicily. You were even able to land a lochos with perioikoi support in Attica during your first attempt to depose Hippias. But ever since then, your brother Cleomenes has seriously neglected maritime interests. That was a mistake. Sparta needs a fleet stronger than ever before to protect her merchantmen and to project Lacedaemonian power. If you had a significant fleet, you could deploy your troops wherever you liked, and bring them home again. Your influence in the world would increase—and so would your wealth.”
“You’re talking to the wrong Agiad,” Leonidas protested. “Talk to my brother the king.”
“First of all, I can’t, and you know I can’t. Secondly, your brother, for whatever reason, has contributed to the problem and is not likely to be part of the solution. Thirdly, you have a sawmill, Leonidas. For the price of just ten hoplites, you could double its capacity and enable us to lay down keels on at least five triremes.”
“And who would man them?”
“Don’t worry about that. There are more than enough perioikoi youths eager to fight back against the Persian predators. But surely you see: twenty, forty, even a hundred more hoplites in your already invincible army will make no fundamental difference to Sparta’s power; twenty triremes, on the other hand, could be decisive.”
Leonidas knew Phormio was right, but it didn’t address the issue of inequality and injustice for the children of the poor. Still, he had to accept the fact that he could not solve those problems alone. Phormio was right. As far as he could see, only if the state paid for the education of all children could everyone have the same opportunity, and if the state was to pay it had to be able to afford it, and that meant more revenues from the perioikoi.
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