The Wooden Walls of Thermopylae

by Nick Brown

  “Well then, you’ll have noticed that the first thing it does is excavate a series of alternative exits it can escape through when a predator comes down the main tunnel. Just common sense.”

  Cimon stared at him; I couldn’t tell if he was repelled or fascinated.

  “Now let me get back to my list: Xanthippus, Aristides …”

  This was Cimon’s breaking point.

  “But you stood with Aristides in the centre at Marathon. Rallied the ranks, took blows for each other. It’s one of our city’s heroic stories, men still sing of it. How could …”

  “This is the Polis, boy, these are the new ways and you need to understand them if you’re going to survive. I hope you listened carefully because believe me, this is the best lesson in politics you’ll ever get.”

  The sun was waning; behind us Ariston barked an order and the Athene Nike headed towards the shore. There was no hiding and skulking in caves this trip; we ran the Athene Nike up onto a gently sloping beach of fine shingle. The crew sang as the keel scraped its way up to its sleeping place. This was so different from my last voyage to Sparta. That had been shrouded in secrecy and dread.

  Fires were built and fish grilled to supplement our rations and while we waited to eat, wineskins were passed round. Themistocles was the most relaxed I’d ever seen sitting in the centre of a knot of gnarled and weather battered Thranitai. In this way he and Cimon were alike; they both felt most at home amongst the hard men who fought for them.

  We finished the wine, licked the salty juices of the fish from our fingers and settled to sleep under the type of starfilled sky that seems almost within touching distance. I lay awake watching the chariots of the Gods streak white and fiery across the heavens, pleased to be free from the company of philosophers who would spout some nonsense about them really being broken off bits of stars.

  Looking back over what I have just written, reader, it came to me that it was on that beach that I began my recovery to a state of equilibrium. From where I sit now the same stars burn high above, unchanging. I wish I could say the same of myself.

  The last outriders of the stars still shone faint in the heavens as we pushed off into light surf next morning. The going was fast and easy, the world relaxed and the Gods mellow. I was sitting with Cimon, looking over the stern at a pod of dolphins frisking and tumbling, when he initiated a strange conversation that showed me how our relationship had changed.

  “Mandrocles, I know of your love for my sister but you must put that aside; it was doomed anyway, and listen, don’t judge, listen.”

  He didn’t know everything about my love for his sister or whatever kind of love she felt for me, but that was for us only, so I said nothing, just listened.

  “I’ve performed my first public act and I’m being judged harshly for it. I know the gossip that for Callias to desire her means that he must have had knowledge of her, to the shame of our family; my shame, in reality.”

  I began to speak to attempt to reassure him but he waved me to silence.

  “I know men say that I’ve played the bawd and pimped my sister to restore my fortunes. I know about the songs they sing. The stories that she seduced me before I was ten and that she’s been fucking me ever since.”

  He paused, his eyes were red, and he was silently weeping, although out of anger or frustration I couldn’t tell, probably both. But I knew now to keep silent. He’d carried this inside for too long; now it had to be leeched.

  “The slurs about our poor house being nothing more than a brothel for unnatural acts. Then the final lie that I tired of her because I wanted fresh meat and saw Callias as a means of offloading my sister, to her eternal disgrace, and my profit.”

  He had to stop and for a time we both pretended a keener interest in dolphins than was the case. Then he was ready to continue.

  “For me this is bad enough, it’s why I’ve become the way I have. But for Elpinice …”

  He left the words hanging; there was no need to say more. For her, it was ruin: she was no fit wife for other matrons to entertain. In Athens then there was no way back for a woman like that, if it hadn’t been for the marriage and wealth of Callias, there were those who’d have made a case for having her stoned.

  I knew what Cimon wanted to say but couldn’t. So he moved on to the point he needed to make, the thing that apart from me and perhaps Elpinice – who knows what they said to each other? – he couldn’t tell anyone. Couldn’t tell anyone because great men don’t talk of such things; don’t show weakness. Hard, isn’t it, when you’re still only a boy?

  “But I had to let her marry him. What else could I do? It was the only way to restore the family fortune, to restore my father’s name and reputation. But now I feel unclean, tainted. I let my sister sacrifice everything for my sake. Those rowers cheered me when I came on board but that was only because my father was their hero. Now they want it to be me. But the real hero in this fucking filthy business is …”

  I knew the answer but I also knew he needed coaxing if he were to purge himself fully.

  “Is?”

  “Is Elpinice, my sister, your love, the one whose willing sacrifice has restored the fortunes of the Philiads.”

  We went back to the dolphins and watched in silence until they were just a faint glint on the horizon.

  The weather stayed fine as we cruised across the bay of Argos then followed the rocky spur of the Peloponnese south towards its tip at Hell’s Mouth. Sailing these waters you need a sound boat and a skilled crew. Get carried too close to the shore and you splinter on the rocks. The half-humans living along this shore are descended from long forgotten forest dwellers whose ancestors mated with Lapiths and centaurs. A different blood flows sluggish in their veins.

  There’s no mercy shown to any poor sailor who survives a wreck and struggles to shore in these semi deserted badlands. So we chose our nightfalls carefully. Even so, on the night after we rounded Hell’s Mouth and pulled into the bay of Laconia we knew we were watched. We could hear them in the scrub woodland above us. Hear distant chanting and whistles. That night we banked up the fires and doubled the watch.

  That same night, after Cimon had settled into his bed roll, Themistocles sought me out and sat with me by the fire, staring into the embers.

  “So he got it all out at last, did he?”

  I stared at him, surprised.

  “Cimon, he unburdened himself?”

  I suppose I should have kept quiet but was taken off guard and blurted out,

  “Yes, but how did you know?”

  He shook his head and laughed softly. He wasn’t laughing at me, it was almost affectionate.

  “Why do you think you’re here, Mandrocles, that was your role. Why did you think I brought you on this trip? Last time in Sparta you tried to kill Miltiades’s other son and offended the Ephors.”

  This time he was laughing at me, but he saw, I think, that I was hurt so added,

  “But you performed your allotted role well, and who knows, there may be some further use for you.”

  I didn’t want to answer; I still felt slighted. But then he gave me his gift.

  “I have some advice for you. Listen and it will serve you well. Understand the individual and you can handle the crowd. Look inside the individual mind and you will find the levers that drive it. Know that and you know who to trust and when. You can predict them but only if you are genuinely interested in what you find.”

  I sat glaring at him, but I was learning an important truth.

  He concluded the lesson.

  “Know what’s in men’s hearts, Mandrocles, and you control the Demos; and I know what’s in that boy’s heart. Cimon would only talk to you, and even then only in the right place.”

  He was right, of course; men have to want to follow you.

  As he got up and moved towards his sleeping place I heard him laughing at something he said under his breath. All I caught of it was,

  “You like dolphins.”

  Next day we
would arrive at the Spartan port of Gytheion and anyone who hadn’t known that would have soon picked it up. As the sun rose we were joined by a flotilla of Spartan triremes that shadowed us all the way to the dock. It was clear we were expected. It was only then that the first stage of fear gripped us. The Spartan triremes blocked the harbour mouth behind us.

  Lined up on the harbour mole, red cloaked and helmeted, was a phalanx of armed men.

  Chapter Twelve

  Gytheion is cheerless and dispiriting so it sets the mood for visiting Sparta perfectly. There was no singing or gleeful anticipation as we moored the Athene Nike to her allocated position. The Spartan red cloaks on the quay affected not to have noticed our presence. But we’d more than noticed theirs, why were they here? Had some of Themistocles’s political enemies tipped them off? An air of unease permeated the ship, even affecting Themistocles, although he bustled about attempting a great show of confidence.

  Only Cimon seemed pleased to be here but when he and Themistocles prepared to disembark, the commander of the Spartans curtly ordered them back on board. So we waited uneasily as the sun climbed the heavens. Then there was the clatter of hoofs. A group of horsemen burst out from the dingy alleyway leading up to the town that seemed to serve as a main street. Their leader reined in on the quay above us and pushed back his hood, eliciting a peal of joy from Cimon: it was Brasidas.

  “What brings a crew of Athenian bandits to Sparta?”

  It was as unfunny as it was unusual but what can you expect from a Spartan? Humour is bred out of them except jests concerning cruelty: that they seem to like well enough. However Brasidas was making an effort so we laughed, but mainly from relief at seeing him and for our appreciation of a Spartan joke’s rarity value.

  After the greeting as he was talking to Themistocles and Cimon I took the opportunity to look at him. The years since Marathon hadn’t been kind, the skin seemed stretched tight like papyrus across the prominent bone structure of his face and he’d lost weight. He looked like a man who’d taken at least one wound too many, one which wouldn’t heal: a legacy from Marathon, I suspected. In my short life I’d had the misfortune to see that look on too many men: few of them lasted long and none prospered.

  Arrangements had been to billet the crew in Gytheion while a small party of us rode to the city. Very different from my last visit, when we’d arrived in secrecy and darkness forced to bypass Gytheion and avoid the highway. Also this time we would ride; Brasidas had brought us horses.

  It didn’t take long to get clear of the port and again I was surprised at the rugged beauty of the land, and more surprised by the absence of farmers and workers and sellers of produce along the highway. But then, the peasants who farmed this land for their Spartan masters weren’t free. They were held in bond, like slaves, and kept in order by fear. As we approached the city of Sparta the land increased in fertility, sheltered by the wild range of the Taygetos Mountains. Ruled by a better state, it could have been an Arcadia fit for the Gods.

  For the last section of the ride to the city we were tired and strung out along the road. I was on the left of Brasidas and we were remembering our days with Miltiades. He flinched in the middle of a tale about how the General had tricked the assembly and I saw all the colour had drained from his face; it was dead white. He brushed at his leg with his hand and I saw the spread of blood from above the knee. He noticed my glance.

  “A gift from the Medes on the beach at Marathon, never healed properly, too much exercise and it opens.”

  I asked,

  “Then why send you to fetch us?”

  “Can you name another Spartan you’d trust?”

  That’s all I can remember of the ride. I’ve no recollection of arriving in Sparta and yet that little exchange with Brasidas is clear as day. I remember that we didn’t have to eat black broth in the mess tent however and for that, at least, I was grateful. Themistocles had got it right about our welcome. This time was very different: we were housed in one of the few civic buildings, the one they used to house embassies from friendly states, and although shabby it was a great step up from my previous experience. Themistocles was treated as the guest friend of King Leotychidas who was, in theory, the senior of the two kings. Although you can never be sure, as nothing is the way it appears in Sparta.

  Let me tell you about these two kings, reader; it’s worth your attention. Few outside the ranks of the Spartiates get to come even remotely close to a Spartan king yet I’ve known four of them. Yes you did read that correctly, known four – although you’ll have to wait a while to hear about the fourth. Poor mad Cleomenes was the first, Miltiades’s guest friend who died cutting off the flesh from his own legs with a small blunt knife. Neither of the current crop – Leotychidas and the world’s hero, Leonidas – came close to him for leadership and skill, at least while he was still sane.

  Leotychidas was cunning and cautious but, as are all Spartans, susceptible to flattery; they’re like little children in that respect. You could see the pleasure in his little piggy eyes when Themistocles ostentatiously deferred to him, lavishing praise on his sagacity and talent.

  Anyone who really wants to understand how we managed to supplant them as leaders of the united Greek fleet needs to look at how Themistocles established a relationship with him. A relationship that enabled him to burrow into the jealousies and insecurities that underpinned his kingship. After that, Themistocles could exploit these weaknesses and manipulate them at will.

  As for Leonidas: well, he was driven and fanatical, but also different. Different enough from other Spartans for them to be uncomfortable in his presence. He was a complicated, mixed up man. Remember Cleomenes was his brother and he’d betrayed him, probably been responsible for his death. He’d benefitted from those hideous death agonies and succeeded him as king. Not many people warm to that in a man and in that respect Spartans are no different.

  He married Gorgo, Cleomenes’s daughter and heir. What type of man would do that after the way he’d acted? She’d been a strange little girl and had grown up to be an intense young woman who was touched either by the Gods or madness. Put together, they magnified each other’s extremes and fanaticism; it was a volatile mix for a king and queen.

  Anyone who spent time with Leonidas, anywhere except on the battlefield, felt disconcerted by him. You looked into his strangely unfocussed eyes and saw he wasn’t there. I think he was made for death and lusted after it and maybe that’s why the powers in Sparta were happy when it took him early at the Hot Gates. For all its welcome, Sparta seemed less at ease with itself and more unstable than during the final days of the reign of poor, mad Cleomenes.

  Not all of this was down to the strain of upholding the grip of terror over their Messanian helots, although slave would be a better description than helot. Our victory at Marathon had been a blow to Spartan prestige and judgement and it was a signal to their helot bondsmen that the old order could be broken. No wonder they feared the spirit of the Demos as much as the might of the Persians. All of this was very evident from the first day of our visit. Evident to everyone but Cimon, that is.

  He’d always entertained a strong and totally misplaced admiration for Sparta. And remember, reader, in the end it was his loyalty to those treacherous preening bastards that brought him down. Perversely it was the best of the Spartans, Brasidas, who was most to blame for that misplaced loyalty. I was there. I watched it develop.

  On our second day in Sparta when Themistocles was ensconced with the kings, Brasidas turned up early at our quarters.

  “Unless this is too early for gentle Athenian city folk, come out and I’ll show you how Spartans live.”

  Outside there were three horses and some rangy underfed dogs.

  “Come on, mount up and follow me.”

  We rode out of the cluster of houses where our party was accommodated, past an ancient simple shrine and into the fields. Sparta was more like a series of loosely attached farmsteads or hamlets than a city. There were no walls or def
ensive structures but that was all part of the myth: for who would attack a settlement defended by the mighty Spartan army?

  But it was good to have some time for ourselves, even though our first destination was the last thing I wanted to see. Sparta straggles across several low hills protruding like pimples and we rode across a number of these towards the river Eurotas. I had a pretty good idea right from the start where we were going, because there aren’t many places worth visiting.

  So I wasn’t surprised when we joined a winding track with a plain temple at the end. Lying just beyond it was the older sanctuary of Artemis Orthia, whose roots stretch back into the mists of time. I suppose that they positioned this monstrosity so far from the centre indicates that even the Spartans might have had some hidden reservations about it.

  It is a grim place and well suited to its purpose which, despite all Brasidas’s justification, is cruelty. Here, for reasons which in barbarian lands would include sexual perversity, they whipped and abused young boys. Some of whom died in the process. This they regarded as in some way designed to add character to them as they grew to be men. To an intelligent Athenian, it is obvious that in reality it is just another of the things that render them unable to enjoy normal social relationships with themselves, their women or anyone else.

  After leaving that dark and sinister chamber it was almost a relief to arrive at the exercise fields. Here Spartan men and youths competed and honed their military skills; women are meant to compete here naked but I’ve never seen any. Nor to be honest would I want to if they were to be drawn from the ranks of the Spartan matrons who attend our lodgings. The only exception being Gorgo but it would be a rash and brave man who bedded her. Something of the night hangs over that intense and strange young woman: something that I think goes partway to explaining the unsettled and searching look in the eyes of her husband.

  Cimon threw himself into the exercise of arms on the field with enthusiasm. Brasidas and I stayed at the periphery and practised at a more sedate pace, because my body was recovering and his wasn’t. When we took a break he asked between deep breaths,