Spartan (2 page)

The woman took a large hamper and arranged some sheepskins and a woollen blanket inside. On these she rested the child, exhausted and full from his meal, already nodding with sleep.

The old man stood a moment to watch him and then returned to the flock. Krios greeted him joyously, barking and jumping at his feet.

‘The sheep! You’re to stay with the flock, not with me! You dumb little mutt . . . do I look like a sheep? No, I’m no sheep; old Kritolaos, that’s who I am, foolish old
man. Away from here, I said! That’s it, bring back those lambs headed for the ravine. A deranged goat would do a better job than you!’

Thus muttering, the old man reached the field where his flock was grazing. The valley opened wide before his gaze, divided by the silver ribbon of the Eurotas river. At the centre of the plain
glittered the city of Sparta: an expanse of low houses covered by small terraces. On one side rose the massive acropolis; on the other, the red-tiled roofs of the temple of Artemis Orthia. On the
right, one could make out the dusty road that led towards the sea.

Kritolaos contemplated the beautiful countryside, resplendent with the dazzling colours of early springtime. His heart was elsewhere; his thoughts went back to the ancient times when his people,
free and powerful, occupied the fertile plain: the old times, preserved in the stories passed down by old men, when the arrogant Spartans had not yet succeeded in taming his proud and unfortunate
people.

The sea breeze ruffled the old man’s white hair. His eyes seemed to search for distant images: the dead city of the Helots on Mount Ithome, the lost tombs of the great kings of his people,
their trampled pride. Now the gods sat in the imposing city of their oppressors. When would the time for honour and revenge return? Would his tired eyes be allowed to see it?

Only the bleating of the sheep, the sound of servitude, reached his ears. His thoughts returned to the little one that he had just snatched from a sure death: who was his family? The mother with
the womb of bronze who had torn him away from her own breast? The father who had delivered him to the wild beasts of the forest? Was this the power of the Spartans? The pity that had moved him: was
it only the weakness of a servant, of a defeated race?

Perhaps – he thought – the gods mark out a destiny for each people, as they do for each man, and we must walk down that pathway, without ever turning back. What it is to be a man!
Poor mortals, prey to sickness, to misfortune, as leaves are prey to the wind. But yearning to know, to judge, to listen to the voice of our hearts and our minds, yes . . . The tiny cripple would
become a man: to suffer, perhaps, to die, certainly, but not at the very dawn of his life.

The old man knew in that moment that he had changed the course of an already marked destiny. The little one would become an adult and he, Kritolaos, would teach him all that a man needs to know
to step along the pathway of life, and more! He would teach him what a man must do to change the course of the destiny that has been assigned him . . . the destiny of a servant.

A name. The little one needed a name. Certainly his parents must have prepared a name for him, the name of a warrior, son and grandson of warriors, the name of an exterminator. What name could
one servant give to another? An ancient name of his own people? A name to remind him of the dignity of an age long past? No, the child was not a Helot, and the brand of Spartan blood could not be
cancelled. Yet he was no longer a son of Sparta. The city had disowned him.

Kritolaos thought of one of the old stories that the children would beg him to tell on many a winter night:
In a time very long ago, when the heroes still walked on the roads of the earth,
the god Hephaistos had fashioned a giant, all of bronze, to guard the treasure of the gods that was hidden in a deep cave on the island of Lemnos. The giant moved and walked just as if he were
alive because in the hollow of his immense body, the gods had poured a miraculous liquid that animated him. The liquid was sealed with a cork, also of bronze, hidden at the bottom of his heel so
that no one could see it. So, the weak point of this colossus lay in his right leg. His name was Talos.
The old man half closed his eyes. The boy’s name would remind him of his
misfortune. It would keep his strength and his anger alive within him. His name would be ‘Talos’.

*

The old shepherd rose, leaning against the crook that was worn down where his large callused hand always gripped it. He rejoined his flock. The sun began its descent into the
sea, and wisps of smoke rose from the cabins scattered among the mountains; the women were beginning to prepare meagre dinners for their men returning from work. It was time to round up the flock.
The old man whistled and the dog began to run around the bleating sheep who clustered together. The lambs leaping across the fields ran to hide under their mothers and the ram moved to the head of
the flock to lead them to the pen.

Kritolaos herded the animals in, dividing the males from the females, and began to milk, collecting the steaming liquid in a large jug. He dipped in a cup and brought it with him into the
cottage.

‘Here we are,’ he said, entering. ‘Here is some fresh milk for our little Talos.’

‘Talos?’ repeated the surprised woman.

‘Yes, Talos. This is the name I’ve chosen for him. Thus I have decided, and thus it must be. How is he? Let me see . . . oh, he seems much better, doesn’t he?’

‘He slept most of the day and just woke up a short while ago. He must have been exhausted, poor creature. He must have cried for as long as he had breath! Now he can’t utter a single
sound. That is, if he’s not mute, on top of everything.’

‘Mute? Absolutely not! The gods never strike one man with two clubs . . . at least that’s what they say.’ Just then, little Talos let out a confused cry. ‘See, he’s
not mute at all. No, I’m sure this little rascal will have us jumping with his shrieks!’ Saying this, he drew near to caress the little one lying in the wicker chest. Immediately, the
baby grabbed the shepherd’s knobbly index finger and held it tightly.

‘By Hercules! These legs aren’t doing too well but we certainly have strength in our hands, don’t we? That’s it, that’s it: grip tight, little one! Never let what
is yours slip from your hands, and no one will be able to take it away from you.’

From the cracks in the door penetrated the rays of a dying sun. They touched upon the old man’s white locks and cast golden reflections of amber and alabaster on the little one’s
skin, and on the poor, smoke-blackened furnishings of the cottage. Kritolaos, sitting on a bench, took the baby on his knee and began eating the simple meal his daughter had prepared. The bleating
of the sheep reached his ears from the pen. And from the edge of the clearing, he heard the deep sigh of the forest, the consuming hymn of the nightingale. It was the hour of the long shadows, when
the gods dispel the pain in men’s hearts and send them purple clouds that bring the soothing calm of sleep.

But down there, on the plain, the noble house of the Kleomenids had already been swallowed up by the cold shadow of the tremendous mountain. From the wooded peaks of the sullen giant, anguish
and pain descended upon the valley. In their marital bed Aristarkhos’ proud wife stared with glassy eyes at the ceiling beams. In her heart the wolves of Taygetus howled, her ears resounded
with the sharp grating of their steel jaws, and their yellow eyes lit up the darkness. Neither the strong arms nor the broad chest of her husband could console her, nor would the tears come to wash
the bitter pain from her heart.

*

Limping on his bad leg, Talos urged the flock along the flowered banks of the Eurotas river, his crook held tightly in his left hand. A light wind sent waves through the sea of
poppies around him, and the sharp odours of rosemary and mint spread through the air. The boy, soaked with sweat, paused to refresh himself with the river water. The sheep were oppressed by the
heat as well, and lay down under an elm whose sunburned branches provided a little shade. The dog curled up near the shepherd boy, wagging his tail and softly yelping. The boy turned to pat his
matted fur, clotted with oats and lupins. Krios nudged closer to his young master and licked his misshapen foot as if it were a painful wound.

The boy watched the little dog with deep calm eyes, occasionally ruffling the thick fur on its back. His gaze became suddenly troubled as he turned towards the distant city. The acropolis,
scorched by the sun, rose from the plain like a disquieting ghost trembling in the sultry air, thick with the deafening screech of the cicadas.

Talos drew a reed flute, a gift from Kritolaos, from the pack strapped across his shoulders. He began to play: a fresh, light melody spread among the field poppies, mixing with the gurgling of
the river and the song of the skylarks. Dozens of them flew about him, rising dazzled towards the flaming sun and plunging down as if thunderstruck to the stubble and the yellowed grasses. The
voice of the flute became suddenly muffled like that of a spring gushing in the darkness of a cave in the deep womb of the earth.

The soul of the little shepherd vibrated intensely to the primitive music of his instrument. Occasionally he laid down his flute and looked out in the direction of the dusty road that came from
the north, as if waiting for somebody.

‘I saw the shepherds from the highlands yesterday,’ the old man had said. ‘They say that the warriors are returning and with them many of our men who served in the army as
porters and muleteers.’ Talos wanted to see them; for the first time he had brought his flock down from the mountains to the plain so as to see the Spartan warriors he had heard described
with so much anger, with disgust, with admiration . . . and with terror.

Krios suddenly lifted his snout to sniff out the still air, and growled.

‘Who’s there, Krios?’ asked the young shepherd, suddenly springing to his feet at the edge of the river. ‘Good boy, quiet now, there’s nothing wrong,’ he
said, trying to calm the animal. The boy strained his ears, and after a while seemed to hear a far-off sound; a sound of flutes like his own but very different, joined by a deep rhythmic noise like
distant thunder. Soon after, Talos distinctly heard the rumble of a multitude of footsteps treading the ground, reminding him of the time the Messenian shepherds had passed with their herds of
oxen. Suddenly from behind the hill on his left he saw them appear. It was them: the warriors!

In the shimmering air, their outline was confused yet formidable. The sound that he’d heard came from a group of men who advanced at the head of the column playing pipes, accompanied by
the rhythmic roll of drums and the metallic sound of kettledrums. It was a strange music, unchanging, haunting, made up of taut vibrant sounds that awoke an extraordinary longing in the boy, an
uneasy excitement that made his heart beat crazily.

The hoplites came behind them, foot soldiers with legs sheathed in bronze greaves, chests covered by armour, faces hidden by the sallets they wore on their heads, decorated with black and red
crests. Their left arms carried great round shields adorned with fantastic animals, monsters that Talos recognized from Kritolaos’ stories.

The column advanced with measured step, raising up dense clouds of dust that covered the crests and the banners and the warriors’ curved shoulders.

When the first ones came close to him, Talos felt a sudden pulse of fear and an urge to flee, but a mysterious force from the depths of his heart nailed him to the spot.

The first ones passed so close that he could have touched the spears that they leaned on as they walked, if he had just reached out a hand. He gazed into each face to see, to know, to understand
what the shepherds had told him. He saw their staring eyes, stinging with sweat behind the grotesque masks of their helmets, blinded by the blazing sun; he saw their dust-covered beards, he smelled
the acrid odour of their sweat . . . and their blood. Their shoulders and arms were bruised. Dark clots of blood stained their hands and sweaty thighs, and also the tips of their spears. They
advanced, impervious to the flies that settled avidly on their tortured limbs. Awed, Talos stared at the fantastic figures who marched past him to the endless cadence of that strange music as it
became increasingly distant, unreal, absurd, like a nightmare.

The sensation of an unexpected, oppressive presence suddenly shook the boy and he wheeled around: a wide chest covered by a storied cuirass, two huge hairy arms as full of scars as a holm oak
that a bear has used to sharpen its claws, a swarthy face framed by a raven beard, sprouting its first white bristles, a steel hand tight around the hilt of a long ashwood spear shaft. Two eyes as
black as night that shone with the light of a powerful and tormented will: ‘Keep that dog back, boy. Do you want a spear to split apart his bones? The warriors are tired and their hearts are
vexed. Call him off, his barking is annoying us all. And go away yourself, this is no place for you!’

Talos drew back, dazed as if awakened from a dream. He called the dog and walked away, leaning on his staff to ease his limp. After a few steps, he paused and slowly turned his head; the warrior
stood immobile behind him with an astonished expression. He stared at the boy in wild pain. His shining eyes fixed the boy’s deformed foot. Biting his lower lip, the warrior was shaken by a
sudden tremor, his thighs of bronze were unsteady as reeds. It lasted but a moment; the man covered his face immediately with the great crested helmet, took up the shield emblazoned with the figure
of a dragon, and joined the end of the column as it curved down the road.

The tension that had gripped Talos suddenly abated and he felt a hot stream of tears rise from his heart. They filled his eyes and ran down his cheeks until they wet his bony chest. All at once
he became aware of a tremulous calling from the path that led down the mountain: it was old Kritolaos, struggling along as fast as his old age and aching legs would let him.

‘Talos, my son!’ exclaimed the distressed old man, hugging the child, ‘Why did you do it, why did you come here? This is no place for you! You must never come here again, do
you understand? You must promise me . . . never again!’