Spartan (13 page)

The Greek interpreter, at a sign from the master of ceremonies who stood at the steps, scrambled to his feet along with the chamberlain, and hurriedly translated Demaratus’ words, not
without a tremor in his voice. It was the first time, in his long career of docile and punctual servitude, that he had had to translate a refusal for his master’s ears. A long moment of
embarrassment followed. Even the slow, steady movement of the fans ceased for an instant. Xerxes and Demaratus faced each other for endless moments, as the chamberlain, pale as a sheet, felt his
bowels melting within his fat, flaccid belly.

The King of Kings spoke. ‘O Demaratus, no man would certainly ever be allowed to challenge our majesty as you have done! But it is our will that you know that we consider you King of the
Spartans and as a king, close to us. And thus we comprehend that you are king: even under misfortune, you have not bent your head.’

The interpreter and the chamberlain breathed sighs of relief, hardly believing their own ears. Demaratus bowed his head as a sign of gratitude. The Great King continued, ‘Tell us, O
Demaratus, who are these Spartans, for their name is not known to us.’

Demaratus was startled; it seemed impossible that the Persian monarch could ignore the existence of the most powerful nation of Hellas! He answered, ‘O my Lord, the Spartans are the
strongest and most valorous of the Greeks. No one can match them in war, and no one can tame them. They have no master above them but the law, in front of which all are equal, even the
kings.’

Xerxes arched his right eyebrow. The chamberlain realized, even before hearing the translation, that what this foreigner had said literally astonished the sovereign, who could comprehend Greek
well, despite the fact that he used an interpreter for reasons of etiquette and to ensure flawless understanding. Xerxes made a gesture and the master of ceremonies brought a bench with a purple
cushion to seat Demaratus. Then he spoke again:

‘We do not know these Spartans that you speak of. We would like to believe your words, even if this is difficult for us. We do know, however, the Athenians. They are the most impious of
men, and they dared to bring aid to our Ionian subjects when they rebelled. We have decided to punish them so that their ruin shall serve as an example: so that no one, ever again, shall dare to
challenge our power.

‘All the Greeks of the continent and of the islands must recognize our authority and never think again of rebellion. You know these peoples better than anyone and you can be of great help
to us. This is our belief and our desire.’

The king fell silent. The master of ceremonies waited for the interpreter to finish and then nodded to the chamberlain, who invited Demaratus to exit with him. The audience was over, and the
Spartan took leave of the sovereign with another nod of his head, turned and walked towards the door accompanied by the two dignitaries.

The corridors rang under the nailed boots of the King of Sparta.

*

In the years that followed, the couriers of the Great King galloped across every province of the immense empire, calling their men to arms. The rajas of far-away India, the
satraps of Bactria, Sogdiana, Arakosia, Media, Arabia, Lydia, Cappadocia and Egypt began to enrol warriors. In the ports of Ionia and Phoenicia, hundreds of vessels were brought into shipyards,
while whole forests were cut down in Lebanon and on the Taurus mountains to furnish the necessary wood. Xerxes’ strategists were defining the great plan for the invasion of Europe.

The direction of march cut directly through Thrace and Macedon; these kingdoms were promptly forced into submission. The engineers of Ionia drew up a project for a bridge built on boats that
would allow the great army to pass the strait of Hellespont and cut across the isthmus of the Chalcidice peninsula. This would spare the fleet the rounding of the promontory of Mount Athos, full of
dangerous surface reefs. All of Asia was preparing to spill out onto Greece; a tide of foot soldiers and horsemen would create a new province, obedient and subjugated to the King of Susa. Or leave
a desert scattered with smoking ruins.

The news of these preparations reached Greece with the first ships that springtime brought to the ports of Athens, Aegina and Gytheum. Not that such news was heeded at first: in Sparta internal
affairs had been occupying the attention of its rulers. The news had spread that King Cleomenes, enraged at having been convicted and driven out of his city, was gathering allies in Arcadia and
Messenia and that he was even considering marching against his own country. Alarmed, the ephors decided to call him back in an attempt to restore control, offering to reinstate his royal
dignity.

Aristarkhos and his son Brithos went with a few friends to receive the king when he returned one summer afternoon. Cleomenes was transformed by the passage of years and by his long-nurtured
rage. He descended from his horse, removing his crested helmet, and looked around him. He could count the few who had remained faithful. So this is how it is to be, he thought. The old lion has
returned only to end up in the trap. But perhaps he was too tired to fight back this time. He grasped the extended hand of Aristarkhos, who kissed him on his bristled cheek.

‘We all rejoice at your return, sire, and we offer you the force of our arms and the faith of our hearts.’

The king lowered his eyes to the ground, and murmured, ‘Great is your valour, Aristarkhos. You do not fear to show yourself friend of he who has been unfortunate, but take care of yourself
and your family. These are times of deception and wickedness. Courage and valour seem to be disappearing from this city.’

He turned down the street that led to his house, abandoned for years. As he passed, doors closed as people scurried quickly into their homes. When he reached his abode, he found five ephors
awaiting him. The eldest, bowing slightly, handed him the sceptre. ‘Greetings to you, O Cleomenes, son of Anaxandridas. We render you the sceptre of your father.’

The king barely acknowledged them. He walked through the door into his house. He took off his dusty royal cloak, tossing it onto a stool, and sat down, dropping his white head between his hands.
He heard a footstep behind him but didn’t turn, preparing himself for the thrust of a dagger between his shoulders. Instead he heard a voice that was well known to him:

‘I render homage to my king and greet my brother.’

‘Leonidas, you?’

‘Yes, me. Are you surprised, then, to see me?’

‘No, I’m not. But I would have preferred to see you a little while ago, together with the friends who received me at my arrival. From your hands I would have wished to receive the
sceptre of our forefathers, not from that poisonous snake out there.’

‘Cleomenes, you shouldn’t have come back. Everyone knows that you convinced the Pythia of Delphi to prophesy against Demaratus. The ephors have called you back out of fear alone.
Unless—’

‘I know. Unless this is a trap to eliminate me once and for all; I realized that when I arrived. Almost no one came to meet me, besides Aristarkhos and Brithos and a few friends. Not even
you. But I understand that. The city was already celebrating you as king and my return means—’

‘It doesn’t mean what you think at all,’ interrupted Leonidas. ‘I never aspired to succession; I would have been preceded by my unfortunate brother Dorieus, who now lies
in the distant land of Sicily, buried among barbarian peoples. When you left, my soul was sad and I didn’t have the courage to speak to you. I feared that you would think what I see you are
thinking now.’

Cleomenes listened, absorbed, as he traced odd signs in the ashes of the hearth. He lifted his head, in the dim light, gazing at Leonidas’ face with its short copper-coloured beard.

‘I am grateful for your words, Leonidas. This is a moment of supreme bitterness for me and destiny announces itself darkly to my eyes. In moments such as these, the word of a friend is the
only remedy. Listen to me, though, listen well: for Cleomenes all is finished. I know this now, although before I arrived here I still nurtured a few illusions. Something is being prepared for me,
and perhaps this is only right; wasn’t I, after all, he who dared profane the holiness of the temple and insult the god of Delphi? If a curse is upon me, I will not try to escape my fate. But
you must not see me again. The sceptre of Anaxandridas will soon be back in your hand. And you will no longer have to grasp mine, the impious hand of he whom the gods have banished from their
presence.’ Leonidas tried to interrupt him.

‘No, listen,’ continued Cleomenes, ‘you must do as I say, and Aristarkhos must do the same. Tell him that I highly regard his friendship and his courage, but he has a son, a
valorous warrior, worthy of the glory of his father. I don’t want his future to be stained for having helped me, or for having been my friend. Cleomenes must remain alone, from now on, to
face his destiny. There are no other roads for me to take.’

He rose to his feet. ‘Farewell, Leonidas. You will remember one day that I didn’t hesitate to sell my own soul for the good of my city and for all the Greeks. I did not hesitate to
sanction a lie, had it only served to eliminate Demaratus. He has defended the friends of the Persians, of the barbarians, and now I know for certain that he has appealed to the Great King himself.
But nothing of this matters, now. It has been written that Cleomenes must die, defamed, in his own city.’

Leonidas gazed into the tired eyes of the old warrior: what remained of the terrible destroyer, of the cold, lucid mind capable of conceiving daring battle plans and executing them from one
moment to the next? He felt deep pity for that man his father had generated with another woman, and yet whom he had always admired, if not loved as a true brother.

‘Perhaps you are right,’ he said. ‘Few men have the courage to challenge the gods, and you were one of them, Cleomenes. I will do as you say, so that other wounds do not fester
on the body of Sparta. Difficult moments await the city. Farewell, O King of ours. I know that you will do nothing that would tarnish your repute as a warrior. In your veins runs the blood of
Hercules.’ He left the room, stopping for a moment at the door, his back to the blinding light of the street. He then disappeared into the deserted city.

The end of Cleomenes was appalling. It was said that he had begun to drink in the style of the barbarians from the north: great quantities of straight wine, not mixed with water in the Greek
fashion. It was said that he was losing his wits – that he had begun to hate everyone, and that he struck with his sceptre anyone he met on the street. The ephors declared that the city could
no longer tolerate this shame; he was taken and tied to a stump in one of the city squares. There the king was a helpless target for his enemies’ scorn. On his knees, his wrists torn by the
chains, his clothing in rags, he implored passers-by for death. One morning, shortly before dawn, he managed to incapacitate the Helot who as a final insult had been ordered to guard him, by
stunning him with his chains when he was asleep. He got hold of the man’s dagger, and began to slash away at his body: his legs, his thighs, his hips. Some said that they heard him shrieking
in the silence of the morning; others claimed that their houses rang with a prolonged, insane, chilling laugh. The Helot, regaining consciousness, saw the king collapse into a pool of blood, never
dropping his fiery gaze, grinding his teeth in an atrocious grimace. The king once more turned the dagger against himself and sliced open his abdomen.

Thus died Cleomenes, son of Anaxandridas, besmirching the face of his city with his blood and his own tortured flesh.

*

Talos, hearing that Cleomenes had returned, hoped to see Antinea again, but he was quickly disappointed. He learned that Krathippos, not daring to return so soon to Sparta, had
decided to stay at his estate in Messenia, keeping Pelias and his daughter with him. As much as Talos tried, he could learn nothing more, until one day some Messenian shepherds reported that old
Pelias was living in near poverty farming a rocky field, and that the girl worked hard all day to lighten her father’s load. She wanted Talos to know that she hadn’t forgotten him and
that her heart would never belong to another man. It was Karas who told him all this; he had heard it from the shepherds. Karas urged him not to despair: one day, perhaps, the two of them would
return to their farm on the plain. But in Talos’ mind, only pain lay in hoping.

In Krathippos’ absence, Talos continued to turn over his harvest every year to the overseer. He went hunting, when he could, with Karas, and he took care of his mother. The tumultuous
events of his early youth seemed far away, and every day that passed made him more like the other mountain shepherds. The secret of which he was the only repository lay at the bottom of his soul
covered by a kind of oblivion, like a useless object forgotten at the bottom of an abandoned well.

Rumours that the Great King was mustering troops in Asia began to filter as far as the mountain, rippling the Helots’ monotonous existence, arousing first curiosity and then worry. They
wondered if the war would ever really reach them, if the King of Persia would truly bring his troops across the sea. The women especially were agitated at these rumours, dreading the day their men
would have to depart with the Spartan warriors, abandoning their homes, their fields, their flocks. To face only fatigue, hunger, thirst – terrible hardships without any advantage for them,
without even hope. For these people, already oppressed by the burden they carried each day, the possibility of war was a nightmare.

In the last war, fought against the Argives by King Cleomenes, the Helots has suffered greatly, and lost many lives, but at least they were close to their own homes. If the Great King really
arrived in Hellas, no one could tell where the armies would have to close ranks, or how long the conflict would last. They were not really concerned about who would win. In any case, nothing would
change for the wretched Helots: new victors would certainly not consent to the removal of the heavy yoke that they were forced to bear.