Spartan (20 page)

‘You can count on the servant, he’s one of us.’

‘All right,’ said Karas. ‘You’ll have that armour within three days at the most.’

*

Brithos tried to sit up but a sudden pain in his head nailed him to the bed. He couldn’t understand where he was; figures slowly began to take shape as his vision became
clearer.

‘So, you’ve finally woken up,’ said Talos, seated at the hearth. ‘Know how long you’ve been asleep?’

‘You?’ asked Brithos astonished. ‘Where am I? . . . Who . . .?’

‘I’ll explain everything, but you must listen. No,’ said Talos, watching as Brithos’ hand slipped down to his belt, ‘no, your dagger has been taken away.
You’ve shown that you don’t know how to use it.’

Brithos tried again to sit up, furious as he realized what must have happened, but another sharp pain in his head made him fall back on the goatskin pallet.

‘Karas has heavy hands,’ said Talos, ‘I’m afraid that your head will be hurting for a while. Then we gave you a potion to make you sleep, as well. Now I’ll get you
something to eat, you need to get your strength back.’

‘I won’t eat,’ answered Brithos tersely. ‘I’ll find a way to die. My mind is made up; I won’t turn back just because you and this Karas have played a trick on
me. Do you think I decided to kill myself because I was a bit discouraged? A Spartiate warrior does not lose heart, Helot. I must die because I cannot live without honour. Just as Aghias could
not.’

‘Stop talking as if you were the great Zeus in person. At this moment you’re just a man, like I am. I know what you’re thinking, and I also know what the others in your city
call you: “He who trembled”.’

Brithos fixed him with a look full of hate. ‘It’s your moment, Helot, isn’t it? Well, enjoy it for as long as you can, because if I can’t kill myself, I’ll kill you
with my own hands.’

Talos sneered. ‘What a glorious gesture, killing a lame Helot. I know you’re not new to this type of game, although you usually surround yourself with lots of company to make sure
you won’t fail.’

‘Damned cripple,’ snarled Brithos, ‘I should have killed you that day like a dog.’

Talos slipped Brithos’ dagger from Karas’ pack and offered it to him. ‘If that’s what you want, there’s still time,’ he said.

Brithos gazed at the blade for a moment as if spellbound, then lowered his head. ‘Why did you stop me from killing myself?’

Talos took a breath, putting back the weapon. ‘To tell you the truth, I’m not sure myself. Keeping you alive certainly has no advantage for me. Let’s say that I do have a
reason, but it only concerns me, and for now I can’t tell you about it. I can give you a reason for staying alive, if you’re interested.’

‘If there were one, I would have found it,’ answered Brithos with a bitter grimace. ‘Do you think it’s pleasant to stick a knife between your ribs?’

‘Listen to me,’ said Talos. ‘I don’t understand your code of honour very well, but I think that in any case by killing yourself you’d only have fed into their
accusation that you selfishly saved yourself from the slaughter at the Thermopylae along with your friend Aghias. And you would have left your mother completely alone, after she had already lost
her husband—’

‘A Spartan woman is accustomed to living alone,’ interrupted Brithos. ‘And she’s prepared for the idea that her men may die in the defence of their country.’

‘Right,’ continued Talos, ‘but does it seem to you that you were about to die defending your country last night? As for your women: they may not weep and wail as women do in
the other cities. They may be brought up to bear up against any disaster through the force of their wills. But do you really think, Brithos, that they don’t feel the pain? That’s not
the point, though. If you are a man, you must find the strength to survive, and you must prove that the atrocity that you’ve been accused of is unfounded. You must redeem your family name,
once one of the most illustrious of the city.’

Brithos remained in thought for a long time, holding his head between his hands, then broke the silence: ‘How can I do what you say? There are no witnesses to what happened at the
Thermopylae . . . Wait, there’s Kresilas! Yes, that’s right, Kresilas was taken to the village of Alpeni with that eye infection and perhaps—’

‘Kresilas is dead,’ Talos interrupted him brusquely. ‘When he heard that the three hundred Spartiates were surrounded, he had his Helot lead him by the hand onto the
battlefield and into the thick of the fighting; nearly blind as he was, the Persians slaughtered him immediately.’

Brithos sat up slowly and brought his right hand to his forehead. ‘You know too many things for a Helot.’

‘You’re wrong, Brithos; it’s exactly because I’m a Helot that I know so many things. Your caste can’t do without us, and so our people are everywhere: they were at
the Thermopylae, they were with Kresilas, they were at the funeral of Aghias.’

‘You’re crazy,’ murmured Brithos. ‘You’re not saying I can redeem my honour and that of my family by asking your people to pass on the word of how valorous I
was!’

Talos smiled. ‘No, I’m not that crazy. Let’s say that I’m crazy enough to go one step further.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘That you can redeem your honour in combat; that’s the only way for a warrior.’

‘That’s impossible,’ answered Brithos resignedly. ‘My companions would refuse; no one would consent to draw up next to me in battle.’

‘That’s not what I meant to say,’ came back Talos. ‘I realize that you can’t take your place back in the ranks of your army.’

‘Well then?’

‘You can do it alone.’ Brithos stared at him, bewildered. ‘Yes, that’s exactly what I mean; if the only way for you to survive is to redeem yourself, then you must combat
alone. Listen to me well. Right now you must worry about regaining your strength. Then we’ll leave together for the north to fight against the Persians however we can, in any way possible,
until your fame convinces your city to change its ideas and call you back.’

‘You really are crazy, Helot,’ replied Brithos after a few moments of reflection. ‘No one has ever attempted such a thing, and besides I’m unarmed.’

‘If you haven’t the courage to attempt such a desperate endeavour, then I have nothing else to say to you. But remember, only a venture so extreme can redeem such an extreme
situation. As for your weapons, you’ll have them before the sun has set twice.’

Brithos began to gain interest, despite himself. He argued with Talos and refuted his answers, he made objections. Talos realized that he had saved him from death . . . at least that death.

‘I could return home to get my armour,’ he said.

‘No,’ argued Talos. ‘No one must see you until the time is right, not even your mother. Think of what I’ve told you, consider it well.’

At that moment the door opened and Karas walked in.

‘Who’s that?’ asked Brithos.

‘The man to whom you owe your life,’ answered Talos, smiling, ‘and your aching head. His name is Karas.’

‘He looks better to me,’ complained the giant, sitting near the extinguished fire. ‘You see that there was no point in worrying?’

‘What news do you bring, Karas?’ asked Talos.

‘A lot of news. Important, too: the Athenians have routed the Persian fleet near the island of Salamis; the Ionians passed over to their side, and the Great King was forced to retreat.
Athens is in the hands of its people again, and they are rebuilding it, but most of the Persian land forces are still in Greece; it seems that they’re preparing to spend the winter in
Thessaly and relaunch their attack next spring. Your people,’ he said turning to Brithos, ‘are sending embassies to all of their allies, in an attempt to muster all the available men
for the battle that is foreseen for next spring.’

‘So,’ said Talos to Brithos, ‘you’ve got several months to get ready.’

‘Ready for what?’ asked Karas.

‘You’ll know when it’s time,’ answered Talos. ‘Now go, you still have to do what I’ve asked.’ Karas left with his cloak and his pack.

‘Well then,’ Talos continued, ‘what do you think?’

‘Perhaps you’re right about this,’ said Brithos, ‘but what did you mean a little while ago when you said something like “we’ll leave together for the
north”?’

‘I meant that I’m coming with you.’

‘I don’t understand—’

‘I have my reasons, but in any case I’ll be useful to you. You know that I’m capable of fighting.’

‘With your crook? I don’t think that you realize . . .’

‘Wait,’ Talos interrupted him. He moved aside a cowhide that covered the cabin floor, lifted a wooden trapdoor, and extracted a grease-coated sack. Inside was the great horn bow.

‘Where did you get such a weapon?’ asked Brithos in awe. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it in my whole life.’

‘This is another thing that I can’t tell you. All you need to know is that I can use it, and use it well. So, you’ll be the heavy infantry and I’ll be the light infantry:
together we’ll form an army.’

‘Then what I heard was true – that someone on this mountain was armed with a bow and arrows.’

Talos smiled: ‘Karas is to blame. He wanted to use this bow one day when we went hunting. He struck a deer without killing it, and the animal escaped with an arrow stuck in it.’

Brithos stared at him. His curiosity to know who this Helot really was had become even keener. How could he possess such a fantastic weapon, worthy of a king? And furthermore, know how to use it
so expertly? And the Helot’s idea that he take up his arms once again for a solitary war had begun to call his spirit away from the thoughts of death that had dominated it.

‘All right, Talos,’ he said after a long silence. ‘If you can get me my weapons, we’ll leave as soon as you wish.’

Talos smiled enigmatically. As Brithos began to nod off, still under the effects of the drug, Talos left to return to his own home.

‘We’ll see each other tomorrow morning,’ he said. ‘In the meantime, don’t move from here for any reason.’

‘Of course not,’ said Brithos, feeling that he had returned from the Underworld. The desire for life had begun to flow again in his veins. He lay down on the goatskin pallet and
abandoned himself to sleep.

Next morning at the first light of dawn, he awoke. The cabin was deserted. He took in his surroundings, rubbing his eyes, and started: he wasn’t alone! A fully armed warrior was standing
in a dark corner of the room. He looked again and realized that it was a suit of armour: the armour of his father, with the crested helmet and the great shield of the dragon.

*

In the centre of the village, the heads of each family had been assembled and lined up against a wall by a group of Persian soldiers. An officer surrounded by several servants
and accompanied by an interpreter was imparting the requisition orders.

The army of the Great King that had remained in Thessaly needed wheat, now that their defeated fleet could no longer supply them. One of the older men, a peasant with grey hair, implored him.
‘Sir, how can we survive if our whole harvest is taken away from us?’

The officer, a Mede with long curly hair, turned to the interpreter. ‘Tell him that we’re not here to discuss things. Those two wagons must be filled with wheat. If there’s
anything left for them that’s no concern of mine. I’m only worried about bringing the wheat back to the camp, as I was ordered.’

The interpreter translated and added, ‘You’d be better off cooperating, peasant, these men have orders to requisition the wheat at any cost. Their army needs provisions, and they
won’t hesitate to kill you all if you resist.’

‘But you, who are a Greek—’ beseeched the poor man.

‘I’m not a Greek,’ interrupted the interpreter, annoyed. ‘I’m a subject of the Great King and so are all of you. Everyone in this whole country, who has dared to
defy his army, will become his subjects. What must I tell my commander?’

The wretched peasant lowered his head. ‘The wheat is underground, beneath the floor of that cabin over there. It has just been threshed.’

‘That’s good,’ twittered the interpreter with his lisp. ‘I see you are a wise man. Well then, get moving, you don’t expect the soldiers to load the wheat, do
you?’

The peasant muttered something to his companions in a low voice, then led them towards the cabin.

‘Very good,’ said the officer, contentedly stroking his beard greased with nard. ‘They seem reasonable enough. They’ll have to get used to the idea that they have a
master. This spring, we’ll have it out with those others, those damned Athenians and those bastard Spartans—’

He never finished: a whistle was heard and an arrow pierced his collarbone. The Mede collapsed, vomiting blood. His soldiers gripped their weapons and glanced around fearfully: nothing, no
one.

Suddenly, from behind a hovel, a man armed with an enormous bow sprang into the middle of the village. He swiftly released an arrow, then darted behind a thick oak tree. Another soldier fell to
the ground, run through.

‘Let’s get that bastard!’ shouted one of the Persians, advancing with his sabre unsheathed. The others, enraged, followed him, only to abruptly draw up short, incredulous: from
behind the tree emerged a fully armed hoplite, gripping a shield emblazoned with an open-jawed dragon. On his helmet three black crests swayed, moved by the warm mountain wind.

From behind the shield appeared the archer who shot another arrow like a lightning bolt, taking immediate cover behind the hoplite. As another of the Persians fell heavily to the ground with his
neck run through, the hoplite tossed back his great black cloak and hurled his spear with enormous strength. A Scythian among the group, as agile as a leopard, swiftly dropped to the ground as the
spear found its mark in the shield of the comrade behind him, tearing through his corselet of pressed linen and ripping into his stomach. The wounded soldier writhed screaming in the dust already
splattered with his blood.

The remaining six lunged at the hoplite all at once, shouting to give themselves courage. Leaping suddenly from behind his cover, the archer tripped two of the enemy who tumbled forward.
Pouncing on the nearest one before he had time to recover, he crushed the man’s chest with one of the horns of his bow.