Spartan (19 page)

‘The traitor certainly did lead the soldiers of the Great King to our combatants, but if this hadn’t happened, what would have changed? The agony suffered by King Leonidas and his
men would only have been prolonged.’ The old man returned to his seat, pulling his mantle over his head and isolating himself in scornful silence.

The ephor, after a long embarrassing pause, spoke again: ‘Noble Archelaus has spoken, undoubtedly influenced by the emotions of the moment. But we all know that it is our duty to punish
the traitor; his name is Ephialtes, son of Eurydemus of Malis. From this moment, no respite will be given him until he has paid the penalty for his foul act.

‘And now,’ continued the orator, ‘it is just that we read the message that King Leonidas, before dying, wished to send us.’ He opened the leather scroll and unwound it
slowly as silence fell over the hall.

‘Why, it’s blank!’ he murmured, growing pale. ‘There’s nothing written here at all.’

Brithos and Aghias had hoped to be welcomed back into the city, since the reason for their safe return to Sparta had been made public, but the shadow of suspicion only grew. In
assembly, the places next to theirs were always left empty, and their old friends no longer spoke to them. Aghias stopped going out by day in order to avoid meeting anyone. He spent his time lying
on his bed, staring glassy-eyed at the ceiling beams.

He went out only at night, and wandered at length through deserted streets, in the dark. His mind was giving way, day by day.

The affection of his parents, who had never lost faith in him, did not count for anything. Excluded from the city that he had always served with devotion, oppressed by the shame that his people
had cast upon him, he had lost all attachment to life.

One night he returned home drunk and feverish. A hot, suffocating wind was blowing, making the dust whirl on the silent streets of the sleeping city.

He opened the door to his home and a gust of wind put out the fire that burned before the images of the gods. Frightened by this sinister omen, he backed into the street, refusing to enter. He
walked towards the house of an old friend who lived nearby to ask him for a lamp to relight the flame in his home, so that his parents, when they awoke, would not find it extinguished.

He knocked repeatedly at the door, and a chained dog began barking. His friend came out, holding a sheet around himself.

‘Aghias,’ he said, ‘what are you doing here at this hour? What do you want?’

‘I was just returning home,’ responded Aghias, confused, ‘and as I was about to enter, the wind put out our flame; please, let me light it with your lamp.’

His friend looked at him with compassion and contempt. ‘No, Aghias, I’m sorry but I cannot give you our flame. My brother was at the Thermopylae . . . remember?’ He closed the
door. The wind increased in intensity, carrying away the insistent barking of the dog. Aghias backed away, staggering, from the threshold. He leaned against the wall that encircled the house and
wept, softly, for a long time.

The following morning they found him hanging from one of the ceiling beams in his home, strangled by his own ragged crimson cloak.

The account of the frightful death of Aghias flew through the city and reached Brithos’ house. It was his mother who brought him the news:

‘Brithos,’ she said, ‘something horrible has happened. Aghias . . . is dead.’

‘Dead?’ echoed her son, jerking to face her.

‘Yes, son. He hanged himself, in his own home, last night.’

Brithos stood for a moment as if struck by lightning, unable to control the tremor that coursed through his body. He then left the courtyard, headed towards his friend’s house. A small
group of women dressed in black was in front of the door, lamenting feebly. He entered the dark room; at the centre was his friend’s body, arranged on his funeral bed, dressed in the armour
that his parents had polished to restore at least a part of its old decorum.

His mother sat dry-eyed, her face veiled, at the dead boy’s head. His father approached Brithos and embraced him. ‘Brithos,’ he said in a broken voice, ‘Brithos, there
will be no funeral for your poor friend, nor will he be escorted by his companions in arms. The commander of your battalion told me that no honours are paid to “those who
trembled”.’

He fell silent, wringing a corner of his cloak through his hands.

‘Those who trembled . . .’ muttered Brithos, as if out of his mind. ‘Those who trembled!’ He embraced the devastated old man again. ‘Aghias will have his funeral
rites,’ he said with a firm voice, ‘as befits a warrior.’

He left for his own house as four Helots began to prepare the stretcher that would bear the body to the cremation site, where a modest funeral pyre of branches had been prepared.

Under the astonished gaze of his mother, Brithos took from a coffer the parade armour of the Kleomenids, the same that his father had worn on feast days when he appeared at the House of Bronze
with King Cleomenes.

He washed carefully, combed and scented his long raven hair, and gathered it at the back of his neck. Onto his legs he fitted the embossed shin-plates, he donned the bronze cuirass adorned with
copper and tin ornaments, he tightened the belt from which the heavy Spartan sword hung. On his shoulders he fastened the black cloak with a buckle embellished by a great drop of amber. He slipped
on the immense shield of the dragon and took up the spear.

‘Son, why are you doing this? Where are you going?’ asked Ismene.

‘The commander of our battalion has refused an escort for the funeral of Aghias. He said that Sparta pays no honour to one who has trembled. So it is only fitting that a coward be escorted
by a coward to his final resting place. I shall be Aghias’ honour guard.’

He put the three-crested helmet on his head and started off towards Aghias’ house, ignoring the stupor and wonder of the passers-by. He held a vigil over his friend’s body all night,
on his feet, like a statue of the god of war.

Shortly before dawn, when the city was still deserted, the small procession started down the silent streets: in front, the four Helots with the stretcher, behind them, Aghias’ parents with
their heads covered, joined by a small group of relatives. Last came Brithos in the superb parade armour that glittered in the pale light of a grey dawn.

They crossed the centre of the city. The tripods in front of the House of Bronze were nearly extinguished, smoking only slightly. They turned towards the southern port. In the great silence,
only the distant yelping of dogs could be heard, along with the crowing of a cock, immediately swallowed up by the stagnant and immobile air.

As they entered the countryside on the road that led to Amyclae, Brithos noticed a figure wrapped in a worn grey cloak: it was Talos. He gestured for him to join them.

‘You were the only one missing,’ he said hoarsely, ‘at the funeral of “he-who-trembled”.’

Talos joined the end of the small procession that proceeded along the dusty road. He walked for a stretch of road, staring at the meagre stretcher on which the dead man rolled to the unsteady
pace of the four bearers. Then, suddenly, Talos took the reed flute from his pack and began to play. The music that rose from the humble instrument – tense, vibrant – startled Brithos,
as he continued to advance solemnly in the slow funeral procession; it was the battle hymn of the Thermopylae.

At the chosen site, the corpse was placed on the pyre and the flames soon consumed the limbs desiccated by fasting and folly.

These were the funeral honours rendered to Aghias, son of Antimakhos, warrior of the twelfth
syssitìa
of the third battalion, Spartan.

T
HE EVENTS THAT ACCOMPANIED
Aghias’ death were the final blow for Brithos. In the days that followed he withdrew into himself refusing to speak or
even to eat.

One moonless night he left home, having decided to take his own life. He wanted to spare his mother the awful spectacle that Aghias’ parents had been forced to witness, so he headed off
towards Mount Taygetus. He waited for the dead of night when all were sleeping, crossed the atrium barefoot and went out into the courtyard.

Melas, his hound, ran to him yelping, and Brithos put out a hand to calm him.

‘Good boy, be quiet now,’ he whispered, patting the dog until he lay down. He stroked his sleek coat, remembering the proud day his father had presented him with Melas. Brithos rose
to his feet and walked through the countryside along the path that led to the forest, the same one he had taken so many times with his friends as a boy.

He wandered at length through the wood, panicking at the thought of such a dark death, without honour and without comfort – a death no one had ever prepared him for. He searched for a
place where he would never be found, shuddering at the thought of his unburied body, prey to the beasts of the forest.

He thought of his soul, which would drift restlessly at the threshold of the Underworld. He thought of his city; Sparta had demanded the blood of King Leonidas and his father, immolated like
victims on the altar. A senseless sacrifice. His city was to blame for the agony of King Cleomenes, for Aghias’ harrowing end, and was soon to be stained with his own blood, without even
knowing.

He had reached a clearing on top of a hill near an enormous hollow-trunked holm oak surrounded by a thicket of brambles. The moment had come to silence all rumours; to do what had to be done.
Brithos drew his dagger and pressed the tip to his heart. With his right hand open, he prepared to deliver the blow with his palm. But at that moment a great hairy fist pounded like a mallet onto
his head, knocking him to the ground unconscious.

‘By Zeus, Karas, I told you to stun him, not to murder him,’ said a voice.

‘The fact is,’ muttered the giant, ‘that these young boys aren’t made of the same wood as in my day.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Just what I said,’ answered the voice from the thick of his beard. ‘You should have been with us when we fought on the Hellespont against the Thracians. There was a Spartan
mercenary who had lost his spear, so do you know what he did? He smashed in the enemy shields with his fist.’

‘You never told me that you fought against the Thracians.’

‘I’ve fought against everyone,’ grunted Karas, hefting Brithos’ body to his shoulders. ‘Let’s get going now before day breaks.’ They headed towards the
high spring, and reached Karas’ cabin by dawn.

‘Finally!’ muttered Karas, letting his burden down onto a goatskin pallet. ‘He was starting to weigh on me.’

Talos removed the hooded cloak that completely covered him, and sat down. ‘Why don’t you get us out something to eat?’ he asked. ‘This midnight stroll has made me
hungry.’

‘Right,’ said Karas, ‘but I don’t think I have much; I haven’t had much time lately for such matters.’ He pulled a crust of bread out of his pack and took a
honeycomb from a cupboard.

‘You’re lucky I have this,’ he said, setting the food on a bench. ‘I found it yesterday, in the hollow of that oak on the peak that faces Amyclae. Now,’ he
continued, ‘would you like to tell me what you intend to do with that?’ he asked, pointing to Brithos, still dead to the world.

‘I wanted him to live, that’s all.’

‘Ah,’ grumbled the bearded giant, ‘we’ve all gone crazy around here. If we had let things take their own course, there’d be one less Spartan by this time. But
no,’ he continued with his mouth full, ‘you have me cover half the mountain to follow this fool, I have to lug him on my back like a sack of flour from the big holm oak all the way back
here. Talos must have some plan, I think, he wants to get revenge for some reason. Or maybe he wants to ask for a pretty ransom, or hand him over to the Persians as soon as they show up here, but
no, no sir, he only wants to save his life!’

‘Listen to me, hardhead,’ answered Talos, ‘there’s something about this man and his family that I still haven’t figured out, and so I don’t want him to die,
understand?’

‘Yes, sure I do,’ grunted Karas, swallowing a mouthful. ‘I won’t argue any more.’

‘Good, and now we have to make sure he stays asleep; if he wakes up he’s likely to go into a frenzy.’ Karas lifted his cyclopean fist.

‘By Zeus, not like that! You’ll end up killing him.’

‘Listen, boy, I’m sure you didn’t mean for me to take him into my arms and sing him a lullaby; he’s too big, and I’m not in the mood.’

‘Come on, Karas, this is no time for joking. Give him some kind of drug that will put him out. What was that stuff you had me drink after the
krypteia
raid? Something that made the
pain pass and let me sleep.’

‘I don’t have any more of that,’ grumbled the shepherd, taking some powder from a leather sack and mixing it with wine and honey. Talos smiled. Karas made the semiconscious boy
on the pallet take a few sips of the liquid.

‘And now, listen well, Karas, because I have another favour to ask you.’

‘What now? You want me to bring you King Leotychidas tied up in a sack, or maybe all five of the ephors?’

‘No, I want a suit of armour.’

Karas scowled, fixing the boy’s eyes. ‘You have your armour . . . if you really want it.’

‘No, Karas, the time hasn’t come yet.’

‘But then what armour are you talking about? I don’t understand.’

‘Karas, don’t worry about whether you understand, just do what I’m asking, if you can.’

‘It will have to be stolen, if I’m not mistaken.’

‘You’re not mistaken in the least – well?’

‘Oh, I’m not afraid of anything. What kind of armour do you need?’

‘Not just any armour: what I want is the armour of noble Aristarkhos. You can find it in a coffer in the house of the Kleomenids.’

Karas gulped. ‘The House of the Kleomenids? By Pollux, couldn’t you have found another place?’

‘I know, I know, Karas, if you don’t think you can do it . . .’

‘Oh, by all the witches in hell, if you want that stuff I’ll get it for you. It’s just that it won’t be easy to get rid of that damned beast that’s always pacing
back and forth in the courtyard. I’d rather be face to face with Cerberus than that black monster.’