Spartan (12 page)

‘Well then, I want to know who she is, mother, and I’m going to find out now. Don’t worry about me if I don’t return tonight. I’m armed and I can defend myself.
I’ll be up there in no time. You go to bed, you must be tired.’

He walked out, quickly disappearing into the shadows. His mother stood at the threshold listening to the sound of his footsteps, until even that sound was swallowed up by the silence of the
night.

*

Karas’ powerful shape was framed by the door. Behind him, the inside of the cabin was lit up by the ruddy reflections of the flames that flickered in the hearth. He opened
his eyes wide in the darkness, as if not believing what he saw before him.

‘Perialla!’ he exclaimed. ‘You, here?’

‘Let me in, quickly,’ the old woman said, ‘I’m nearly numb with the cold.’ Karas moved aside, and the old woman brushed past him, grasped one of the stools and sat
down to warm her hands over the fire. Karas sat down next to her. ‘Are you hungry?’ he asked.

‘Yes, I’m hungry; I’ve been walking since dawn and I haven’t found anything to eat but a piece of dry bread and a few olives at an inn.’

Karas brought her bread and cheese.

‘Have you no wine?’ the old woman demanded. ‘My throat is very dry.’

Karas took a flask from a shelf and poured some red wine into a wooden mug.

He waited until she had swallowed a few draughts and, having checked that the door was well closed, he sat down again next to her.

‘Then, will you tell me what has happened? I can’t understand how you can be here, and how you managed to find me,’ he said, fixing her with a suspicious gaze.

‘How I found you? Oh, Karas,’ she answered, ‘what can remain hidden to Perialla, the prophetess, the voice of the god of Delphi?’ Karas dropped his stare.

‘No,’ continued the old woman ‘you need not worry, no one has followed me, but . . .’

‘But?’

‘But I think that we will soon have visitors.’ Karas leapt up and reached for the heavy club leaning against the wall behind him.

‘Calm down,’ continued the woman. ‘There is no danger, but if my spirit does not deceive me, a young wolf has just put himself on my tracks.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Oh, I’m not speaking of an animal. He is a young shepherd I met down in the clearing who told me the way to your cabin.’ Perialla wrinkled her grey eyebrows as if trying to
remember something. ‘I looked at him well,’ she continued slowly, pronouncing each word carefully. ‘He is wolf-hearted . . . for he fears not to cross the forest at night. I read
the suspicion in his eyes. He will come.’

Karas gazed at her, frowning. ‘Do you know who he is?’

‘No,’ said the woman, ‘but he is not a shepherd.’

Karas poured her more wine. ‘Why have you left the temple?’

‘I was forced to,’ sighed the woman. ‘I lent my mouth to deception and I sold my soul . . . at a high price.’ She gulped down the wine all at once, then broke into coarse
laughter.

‘Do you know why, down there, in the city of the Spartans, King Leotychidas sits on the throne which was rightfully that of Demaratus, who has been living for years in exile?’ Karas
did not understand. The woman grabbed a lock of his hair in her hooked hands and shook his head. ‘I will tell you,’ she continued, ‘even if your mind is dull: because I, Perialla,
the Pythia of Delphi, the voice of Phoebus, sold him.’ She laughed again, hysterically.

‘I know that Demaratus was deposed, before the Athenian battle at Marathon against the Persians, because it was discovered that he wasn’t his father’s son.’

‘Fool,’ hissed the woman, ‘it was I who made him a bastard, persuaded by King Cleomenes who hated him and by the gold of Kobon, his Athenian friend.’

Karas listened, wide-eyed. ‘Quite a lot of gold; I had never seen so much gold in my whole life . . . and there would have been some for you, too,’ she added, shaking her head.
‘I’ve never forgotten Karas the shepherd, who gathered me up exhausted and starving when I escaped from those who had enslaved me.’

‘You shouldn’t have done it,’ murmured Karas, confused.

‘Well, I did it, and it seemed that everything would remain hidden . . . nearly four years had passed . . .’

‘Kobon,’ pondered Karas, ‘I remember him. Wasn’t he the temple scribe?’

‘Yes, your memory serves you well. Kobon was backed by the Athenians, I’m sure. They never pardoned King Demaratus for opposing King Cleomenes, when Cleomenes wanted to punish the
Aeginetans who surrendered to the Persians at the time of the battle of Marathon.’

‘Then, if I understand you well, the Athenians and Cleomenes plotted together to destroy Demaratus.’

The old woman looked at him with a strange sneer. ‘It’s possible, Karas, but I don’t think that it’s very important to either of us anymore. The Council of the Sanctuary
has passed judgement: I am cursed. For ever.’

She lifted her head and the metal discs on her band jingled. ‘Ousted . . . yes, but they didn’t dare put me to death.’ Her eyes glittered in the languishing flames of the
hearth. ‘They are still afraid – of Perialla.’

‘You can stay here, if you like,’ offered Karas. ‘I have the flock—’

‘Quiet!’ interrupted the woman cupping her ear. ‘There’s someone outside.’ Karas grabbed the club and flung himself out of the door.

‘Stop, Karas, it’s me!’ It was Talos, who had been just about to enter. ‘Quick, follow that man,’ he said, grasping the arm that brandished the heavy club and
pointing to a hooded figure that was running towards the edge of the clearing. They rushed after him in pursuit, and Karas had almost caught up with him, but the hooded man managed to spring into a
dense thicket and Karas quickly lost his tracks. Talos arrived, panting.

‘Damn this leg! I could have had him, but I tripped. Just then you burst out of the cabin and nearly smashed my head in with that tree you’ve got in your hand.’

‘I’m sorry, Talos, but in the dark like that . . . Who was it?’

‘I don’t know; a Spartan, maybe. I was on my way up here because a strange old woman—’

‘I know,’ Karas interrupted him.

‘Well, halfway up the trail, I saw him come out of the forest and so I started to follow him. Unfortunately, I had to stay quite far behind him, because the path is full of dry leaves and
twigs and I didn’t want to make any noise. The man came as far as the cabin and seemed to be eavesdropping at the window. I crept nearer and nearer until I could jump at him, but in the dark
I tripped on a dry branch; he twisted free as I fell to the ground, and got away. What I don’t understand is why your dog didn’t attack him.’

‘That little bastard ran off again tonight. It’s mating season; by now he’ll be whining around some penned-up bitch on heat.’

They came through the door, still open wide, but Talos stopped at the threshold, perplexed by the vision of the old woman who had spoken to him down at the clearing, sitting calmly next to the
fire.

‘The young wolf,’ she said without turning. ‘I knew that he would come.’

‘Right,’ said Karas. ‘But before the wolf there was a Spartan snake, and he was spying on us.’

‘I had noticed something,’ said the old woman, ‘but my mind is foggy these days. I don’t see clearly anymore.’

‘Come right in, Talos,’ said Karas to the young man who stood timidly near the door. ‘This woman is not your enemy. She can do great good or great evil, depending how her heart
is inclined, but you must not fear her. One day you will know who she really is. She is going to stay with me now, because she has no place to go, and fortune has dealt her a hard blow.’

‘Come forward,’ said the woman, still not turning to face him.

Talos went to the other side of the hearth and sat down on the floor, on one of the mats. The woman’s face, just barely illuminated by the glowing embers, was spectral. Her grey eyes fixed
him from beneath nearly closed eyelids.

‘There is something terrible in him,’ she said suddenly, turning to Karas, ‘but I can’t understand what it is.’

Talos was startled; how could this woman speak in such a way? Who was she? He had never seen anyone like her.

The old woman closed her eyes, then took something from her sack and threw it on the embers, liberating a thick cloud of dense, aromatic smoke.

‘Perialla, no!’ exclaimed Karas. The woman didn’t even look at him, but leaned forward over the hearth, inhaling the vapours. She grasped the staff that she held by her side,
and began shaking it rhythmically, jingling the rattles.

Talos felt drunk, as if a strong wine had gone to his head.

Perialla panted, shaken by tremors. Her limbs stiffened and her forehead beaded with sweat. Suddenly a lament broke forth from her, as if a blade had penetrated her breast.

‘Powerful gods!’ she shrieked. ‘Powerful gods, let Perialla see!’ She collapsed, her head bent forward, gasping. Suddenly she stood up, leaning on her staff, and opened
her eyes. They were fixed, staring, glassy. A distant howl, in the wood. The woman started: ‘Your sign . . . O Lord of the Wolves, Phoebus, Perialla hears you . . . Perialla sees . .
.’

She began to shake the rattles, intoning a strange cant as the two men, in silence, watched her spellbound, unable to move a finger. In the confused sing-song, words began to surface like
branches of a tree in a sea of fog, and then the words tied in, one with another:

Perialla closed her eyes and fell quiet. Then, again, she began rattling on the staff in her hand. That strange, even sing-song poured out of her mouth, a cant that began sweet and low, then
became hard, strident.

The prophetess seemed to be searching for something in her voice. Restless, terrible thoughts flashed through her eyes and crossed her forehead, which wrinkled violently as if racked by painful
contractions. Her eyes seemed to stare into a void, and then suddenly came to rest on Talos’ face. Words suddenly spilt forth:

Then, exhausted, she crumbled to the ground with a low moan.

From that day, destiny began to fulfil itself. Perialla disappeared as she had arrived, although the figure of the wandering old prophetess lived on for years in the stories of the mountain
shepherds.

The deception uncovered, King Cleomenes was deposed for having procured the exile of Demaratus. Cleomenes left Sparta one day at dusk, wrapped in his cloak, on the back of his black
thoroughbred.

He was joined by some of his loyal friends, among them Krathippos, master of Pelias and Antinea. The peasant and his daughter were forced to abandon the farm to follow their master to a distant
land.

And so one summer evening Talos, alone in the courtyard, watched Antinea go off with her father, riding on the back of an ass. He continued his waving, both hands in the air, until her image
dissolved behind a veil of scalding tears.

He felt his heart close up like a wounded hedgehog: never again would any woman seem beautiful or desirable in his eyes.

He returned to his mountain as the city of Sparta paid honour to the new King, Leonidas, son of Anaxandridas of the race of Hercules.

D
EMARATUS SAT IN THE ANTECHAMBER
of the grandiose Hall of Apadana, morosely watching the enamelled door flanked by two enormous soldiers of the Immortal
Guard. Behind that door was the throne of the Great King Xerxes, son of Darius the Great, who would soon receive him.

He watched the Carthaginian ambassador leave the room, wrapped in a beautiful purple mantle fringed in gold, followed by two dignitaries with jewel-studded mitres on their heads. They spoke
excitedly among themselves in their incomprehensible language, with a decidedly satisfied air. Demaratus looked at his worn boots with a bitter smile, grasped his sword and adjusted his grey wool
cloak on his shoulders, draping it as best he could. He took under his arm his crested helmet, the only remaining sign of his past royalty, and stood: the moment had arrived. He opened the door and
was met by the chamberlain and the interpreter, a Greek from Halicarnassus.

‘O Demaratus, the Great King awaits you,’ he announced. The Spartan followed them through a door that two guards were just opening. As he entered the room, he was dazzled by the
splendid marbles, the multicoloured enamel, the gold and precious stones, the carpets. He would never have imagined that so much wealth could exist in a single place. A canopy at the back of the
room crowned the throne of Xerxes, his long beard curled, the mitre of gold on his head and the ivory gem-encrusted sceptre in his right hand. Behind him, two servants slowly waved large
ostrich-feather fans. A cheetah, lazily licking its fur at the foot of the step, abruptly raised his small head to stare at the small advancing group.

They stopped at the foot of the throne; the Greek interpreter and the chamberlain prostrated themselves, faces to the ground. Demaratus remained standing and greeted the king with a nod of his
head. The king shot him an irritated glance as the chamberlain, his face still to the ground, barked something at the Greek interpreter who, twisting his head to one side, whispered frantically,
‘You must prostrate yourself, now, kneel down and touch the ground with your forehead.’ Demaratus, impassive, fixed the Great King with a steady gaze.

‘Don’t be a fool,’ hissed the interpreter as the chamberlain continued to bark insistent orders in his incomprehensible language.

Demaratus regarded him with a sneer, and then turned to the visibly enraged sovereign, still as motionless as a statue in the solemnity of his heavy regal garments. ‘I am Demaratus, son of
Ariston, King of the Spartans,’ he said. ‘I come grateful for your benevolence and driven by necessity and misfortune, but not for this shall I prostrate myself at your feet, sire. It
is a custom of all Spartans, free men, never to prostrate themselves before anyone.’ He silently regarded the King of Kings.