Kyranios did not believe in the authenticity of the oracle Cleomenes claimed to have received from Delphi. He was not alone in his doubts. King Demaratus had openly scoffed at it, asking Cleomenes what it had cost him. This, however, had only led to a violent verbal exchange between the two kings that demeaned and discredited them both. Leotychidas, however, sensing a new opportunity to discredit Demaratus, had done all he could to ensure a majority in favor of war when the proposal came to the vote in the Assembly.
Had they all gone mad? Kyranios asked, closing his eyes to the pain and fear that was starting to unman him. No, not all. It had been a close vote, repeated three times; but the young men, like young men always, were full of themselves, cocky, spoiling for a fight …
A knocking on the door made Kyranios lift his head, drop his hands, and square his shoulders firmly. “Come in!” he barked, while his quartermaster and clerk looked briefly over their shoulders toward the door.
Leonidas entered, his helmet in the crook of his elbow, his leather corselet gleaming with oil, and his chiton fresh and clean—as was proper when a junior officer reported to his superior. “You sent for me, sir?”
Kyranios nodded and signaled Leonidas to come forward, but did not stand. He was afraid that getting to his feet would make him dizzy and that Leonidas might notice he was off balance. “I have bad news for you,” he announced, watching Leonidas’ expression closely.
Leonidas, he calculated, was thirty-five—exactly the age he’d been when he’d taken over the lochos. Leonidas admittedly had less experience as a company commander—just three years—but he had handled his company, and before that his task force during the expedition with the Corinthian grain fleet, splendidly. And Leonidas was an Agiad. Kyranios felt he had to take a chance on him.
Kyranios drew a deep breath. “You aren’t going to like this,” he told Leonidas bluntly, “but I have decided to appoint you my deputy; my current deputy will take over your pentekostus.”
Leonidas started visibly and then asked simply, “Why?”
“I need you. That will have to be reason enough for you. Now, as my deputy, come with me to the Agiad Palace.” Kyranios pushed his chair back and dragged himself to his feet, closing his eyes briefly as the room spun around him. When he opened his eyes again, Leonidas was holding out to him the white-crested helmet denoting his rank as lochagos and watching him keenly, but he said nothing.
They walked in silence down the long corridor and out onto the porch of the lochos headquarters. Kyranios kept waiting for Leonidas to say something. He knew Leonidas enjoyed command—just as he had. He was sure he did not want the position of deputy, which was a position without direct command authority, a position more like an adviser. But Leonidas maintained his silence as they descended the steps and crossed the crowded market square. The perioikoi, in anticipation of the campaign against Argos, were offering equipment and supplies—those that the Spartan army and her citizens would need on campaign—in exceptional quantity in the adjacent agora. Armorers and saddlers, shoemakers and bronze workers had all set up their booths here and cheerfully called out their wares.
Leonidas and Kyranios skirted the agora, heading west, past the theater and the Theomelida, which housed the tombs of Leonidas’ ancestors. Leonidas seemed to nod to the dead of his house, but that was all. Instead he turned his attention to the smaller temple to Asclepius that stood opposite the Theomelida. Here, as in the main temple opposite the Cattleprice, preparations for the Asclepia were in progress. A wagon laden with bundles of freshly cut centaurea was being offloaded, and a cage full of live snakes waited under the portico, apparently delivered but not yet collected. “Have you thought of seeking Asclepius’ help?” Leonidas broke the silence at last, indicating he knew more about Kyranios’ illness than the latter wanted.
Kyranios nodded. “I will spend the night in the temple.” More than that he could not do. He dared not consult the military surgeons, for fear they would declare him unfit for active service, and his wife’s home remedies had all proved worthless. But Asclepius’ great love of mankind, which had once led him to try to make men immortal, had not been extinguished by Hades’ hatred—only inhibited. At certain places, such as Epidauros and Kythera, his spirit still stretched out from the Underworld to touch humans; and on the eve of the Asclepia, people had been known to experience miraculous cures to long-standing illnesses right here in Sparta. It was Kyranios’ last hope—along with Leonidas.
As they approached the front entrance of the palace, they greeted the other four lochagoi, Hyllus, Arkesilos, Niokles, and Diodoros, each with his respective deputy. As a group they mounted the palace steps, then entered past the meleirenes on duty into the reception hall, with the benches around the edge and scenes from the Iliad fading on the walls. They waited here in silence until a household steward led them deeper into the palace, where King Cleomenes awaited them.
Cleomenes had elected to receive the five lochagoi and their deputies in one of the sunny, modern halls in the newer part of the palace. Four doors opened along one side to a garden with a fountain; sunlight and the fresh smell of moist earth and flowers seeped into the high-ceilinged room along with the faint sound of the bubbling water.
Cleomenes’ eyes rested instantly on Leonidas, and he asked as if in alarm, “What brings you here, brother?”
Kyranios answered for him, “I’ve appointed him my deputy.”
Cleomenes raised his eyebrows, and Hyllus frowned, but that was all.
They got down to business. Cleomenes had a map of Laconia and the Argolid. Cleomenes announced that the perioikoi would be reinforcing the entire border region and strengthening the garrisons on Kythera and at Limera. In addition, they would hold the passes to Messenia and have messengers ready to warn of any sign of unrest in Messenia. The Tegeans had been informed of Lacedaemon’s intentions in a secret embassy, and they had pledged neutrality.
Hyllus grumbled about that, saying something about not trusting any “strangers”; but since Cleomenes had clearly already sent the message, there was little point discussing it.
They turned to discuss the march route and expected rate of advance. Hyllus wanted to go in by the fastest route—like a single deadly thrust to the heart of the beast, he said. Arkesilos asked whether, since Tegea already knew their intentions, they couldn’t first march north and then turn east, crossing Tegean territory to take Argos by surprise from the northwest. Diodoros suggested that they divide up the army, sending two lochos by the northern route while the remaining three headed directly for Argos. If the movements of the first two lochos were kept secret, he argued, the Argive army might be drawn west to meet the three lochos invading directly, and could then be outflanked by the two lochos traveling via Tegea.
“If we had enough ships, we could embark the army here at home, and no one—least of all Argos—would know where we were going until we got there,” Leonidas remarked softly, more to himself than to the illustrious company.
“We don’t have that many ships, and who wants to risk a sea voyage anyway?” Hyllus dismissed his remark, but Kyranios looked sharply at his deputy.
Arkesilos was still considering the idea of dividing the army. “What if—”
Cleomenes cut Arkesilos short with a gesture. “What did you say, little brother?” He was staring with narrowed eyes at Leonidas.
“If we had a fleet, we could embark our army from any port in Lacedaemon without alerting Argos to our intentions. We could land near Tiryns and have a far shorter march.”
Kyranios felt as if the tension in his head were easing, even as Hyllus barked, “What’s the advantage of a shorter march? Have our young men grown lazy and afraid of a good hike?”
“A shorter march gives the enemy less time to deploy against us,” Kyranios dismissed his knuckleheaded colleague, while his eyes remained focused on the Agiad brothers. Leonidas wasn’t just standing up to Cleomenes; he was outright confronting him, which was more than Kyranios had expected—and ext
remely encouraging.
“What good is that if we’re all seasick?” Hyllus scoffed, while Cleomenes and Leonidas continued to stare at each other.
Then, abruptly, Cleomenes seemed to come back to the discussion, and decreed: “We’ll take the whole force straight in. Coordination is too difficult across these distances, splitting up too risky. Was there anything else?”
They discussed other details for almost an hour, and then the ten officers were dismissed. They left the palace and dispersed in the direction of their respective headquarters. Kyranios and Leonidas again walked side by side in silence, until Kyranios asked, “You understand what needs to be done, don’t you?”
“You want me to keep my brother in check.”
“Yes, I do.”
“I’m not sure it will work. He doesn’t respect my opinion—as you saw this afternoon.”
“What I saw was that you made him stop and think for a very long time. That’s a good start. Not many men can do even that anymore.”
Leonidas sighed and nodded.
Leonidas put his horse away in its box stall and then went to the neighboring stall, where the unwanted colt was kept. The colt was a dapple-gray so dark it was almost black, with enormous feet and a head that was too big for its age, making it ugly. For almost six months Leonidas and Pelopidas had been hand-feeding it; and their success could be measured in its growth, for the colt was so much bigger than normal that they called him “Elephant.” He came at once to Leonidas and nuzzled him, expecting feed. Leonidas, who never came empty-handed, gave him an apple. Elephant wanted more and pushed him with his head, making Leonidas laugh at his surprising strength. Offended, the colt turned and bounded to the far side of the stall, then stood looking at him over his shoulder with his ears pricked forward hopefully. When Leonidas left the stall door, Elephant rushed back to the door, kicked it to attract Leonidas’ attention, then hung his head over the stall door, stretching out his neck. Leonidas took another apple from the barrel and handed it to the impudent colt. Then he went around the helot quarters to enter the back of the main house, following the hearth light that spilled in golden squares out of the windows of the main house onto the terrace.
This was Leonidas’ favorite time with Gorgo, after Agiatis was in bed and the helots had withdrawn to their own quarters. As they settled down beside the hearth, Leonidas announced, “Kyranios isn’t well,” remembering the way the commander had looked earlier in the day—with dark circles under his eyes and lips pulled so tight that the lines of his face sharpened, making him look old and sour.
“Do you think he won’t make the campaign?”
“He doesn’t think he will. He wants to position me as his successor.”
Gorgo hesitated, tried to see what was wrong with that, and couldn’t; so she asked earnestly, “Isn’t that good?”
“It could be. It depends what happens. There is nothing quite so ruinous to a commander’s reputation as a lost battle,” Leonidas noted with a smile. Then he grew serious again and added, “He thinks I can influence your father.” Leonidas watched his wife’s reaction carefully.
Gorgo did not even seem surprised. She nodded and snuggled closer to him and then, annoyed by the leather ties on his corselet, she drew back and undid them deftly, opening the stiff leather armor at the side and slipping her arms inside. “Kyranios is very wise, Leo. My father doesn’t take advice well, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t hear it. And even if he doesn’t always heed good advice, he doesn’t always ignore it, either. Besides, he likes you—sometimes.”
Leonidas looked down at his wife, remembering the threats Cleomenes had made after their elopement. She was leaning her cheek contentedly on his leather breastplate, and he could see only a tangle of auburn curls. “What makes you think that?”
“He told me,” Gorgo answered simply. She shifted in his arms to look up and meet his eyes. “You have to try, Leo. He gets these crazy ideas sometimes, and if there is no one there to tell him off, he can become obsessed with them.” She paused, and then she added, “I love you for spending so much time with me and Agiatis, but I understand that your first duty is to Sparta.”
The Asclepia was the first festival in the spring—even before Artemis Orthia, which in turn preceded the major summer festivals of the Hyacinthia, Gymnopaedia, and Karneia. It did not attract large crowds of foreign spectators, largely because travel was still uncertain at this time of year and because it was planting season, when most Greeks liked to ensure all went well on their estates. But this did not mean it was an unimportant festival in the Spartan calendar. As with other festivals, men on active service got home leave and the agoge was closed, so both men and boys were home with their families. Anyone who was ill spent the eve of the festival in a night-long vigil in one of the temples to Asclepius. The following day extended families, neighbors, and friends celebrated together over large feasts. Newborn lambs or kids were roasted whole over outdoor pits; and then as the stars came out, the guests gathered around the bonfires, swapping jokes and stories over last year’s wine.
On the second day of the Asclepia, however, there were performances in the theater. Girls draped in centaurea performed a variety of dances, accompanied by a woman’s chorus. After this the youths took the stage to the music of flute, cithara, and drum.
Seventeen-year-old Aristodemos was flushed with excitement as he peered, through a crack in the canvas dividing the orchestra from the stage, at the growing crowds pressing into the theater. They were lucky. This year the weather was exceptionally mild, and there was not a cloud in the sky. That made people more willing to stay for the later performances than in wet, cool years.
“It’s practically the whole city!” one of Aristodemos’ fellow dancers exclaimed with enthusiasm.
“And both kings!”
“Are they spitting at each other yet?”
“Not yet—they just act as if the other stinks.”
“Places!” Euryleon ordered. The previous year, at the retirement of the old chorus master, Euryleon had taken over as choreographer of the youths’ dance company. His shortsightedness was no disadvantage in this role, as he seemed to see the whole picture more clearly, while his hearing had always been particularly acute to compensate for his weak sight. Furthermore, while Euryleon had never been taken very seriously by his peers because of his underperformance as an athlete and hoplite, the boys of the dance troupe were in awe of his willingness to try radical new formations and moves.
At the center of today’s performance was Aristodemos, because he had a solo performance that required a series of dramatic leaps and kicks. He had practiced them so often that he sometimes thought he did them even in his sleep; yet he was nervous as they took their places in the chorus line, preparatory to taking the stage.
A silence slowly descended over the theater—until even the screeching of the crickets, from the olive trees surrounding the temple of the Bronzehouse Athena on the hill behind the theater, could be heard. Then the drum started its slow beat and the company took the stage.
The youths were dressed in leather training armor over black chitons, but they wore no cloaks and carried no weapons. They were barefoot, although they wore leather greaves and leather helmets over their shaved heads to give them a martial look. The dance started slowly, with the whole line of sixteen youths carrying out the same steps, then broke into two lines of eight that faced each other, filed through one another, and then broke again into half-sections of four. These formed a four-spoked wheel that turned upon the stage, then broke apart to form a circle, and broke again into a long line; all the while, the pace had been increasing.
At last Aristodemos’ moment came. He detached himself from the line, moved to center stage directly in front of the kings, and started his solo performance, while his fellows and eventually the whole audience clapped in time to the music. Before long the clapping started to break up into applause. Aristodemos felt the applause in his veins like uncut wine. It rose to his head and he
leaped higher and faster than ever before. And then it was all over, and he was gasping for breath and almost slipped on his own sweat as he stepped back into the line for the final group figures.
The audience was on its feet in approval.
“Isn’t that your brother Meander?” one of Aristodemos’ fellow dancers asked out of the side of his mouth as they took their bows.
Aristodemos glanced up and to his horror, saw his colleague was right. Meander had pushed his way to the edge of the stage and was clapping wildly and calling out to him.
Aristodemos hastily looked down and pretended he hadn’t seen him. How could his brother embarrass him like this? Now, at the moment of his greatest triumph! What an idiot! Did he have to draw attention to himself, hardly better than a helot, and so remind everyone that Aristodemos was just a mothake?
The troupe of dancers was withdrawing from the stage, making way for the last performance of the day. They crowded into the tent behind the orchestra, chattering excitedly. “Well done,” Euryleon praised them all, nodding contentedly. “Well done! Good job!”
“Aristodemos! Aristodemos!” The voice pierced through their own excited noise.
“I can’t believe he’s doing this to me!” Aristodemos protested generally, looking in distress from left to right for a place to hide.
“Aristodemos!” Meander called again, pushing his way through the crowd, grinning from ear to ear. “You were wonderful!” As he reached his brother, he threw his arms around him in an enthusiastic hug. “I was so proud of you!”
Aristodemos tried to shrug off the offending embrace of a non-Spartiate. “Yeah, thanks,” he muttered. He was so busy avoiding his brother’s eye, and freeing himself of the unwanted intimacy, that he did not realize that Leonidas and Gorgo had followed Meander into the tent.
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