Spartan (26 page)

‘When I held her to me and promised that I’d never leave her again, her heart couldn’t bear it. She died in my arms.’

Lahgal got to his feet and held out his hand to Kleidemos, who got up as well. They walked in silence along the seashore, the water at their ankles, listening to the sound of the waves. Lahgal
bent down to collect a beautifully coloured shell and handed it to Kleidemos. ‘This is for you. It will bring you luck.’

‘Thank you, Lahgal. It’s lovely,’ he said, accepting the gift.

‘Oh, it’s nothing, but it will remind you of me when you go away, Two-Names.’

Kleidemos tightened his fist around the shell. ‘Two-Names? Did you call me Two-Names?’

‘Doesn’t that seem like a nice name?’

‘Very nice. And very . . . appropriate.’

Lahgal smiled and winked. ‘I’m hungry, Two-Names, aren’t you?’

‘I could eat an ox with his horns!’

‘Well, run then! Let’s see who gets back to the ass first!’ challenged the boy as he raced through the water, raising iridescent splashes.

*

The sea seemed to be on fire when the bay of the port of Paphos appeared; the sun was low over the water and its golden glow reflected onto the houses of the city. Towering
palms swayed above the roof tops, revealing clusters of yellow flowers among the serrated leaves. Scarlet pomegranate blossoms peeked through shiny dark green foliage in the gardens. The
surrounding hills were covered with olive trees, sparkling silver amidst the black tips of the cypresses. Kleidemos stopped the ass to enjoy the spectacle. ‘I’ve never seen anything so
beautiful, Lahgal, in all of my life. Is that the city of Paphos?’

‘No,’ replied the boy, ‘that is just the port. The city is behind those hills to our right. It is very ancient, and was built around its temple. I’ve never been able to
enter the temple, though, because I’m a child . . . or perhaps because I’m a slave. I don’t know. They say that there are marvellous things inside. Let’s go, the road is
still long.’

‘We won’t reach it before nightfall,’ observed Kleidemos. ‘There won’t be anything to see.’

‘You’re wrong about that!’ said Lahgal, winking. ‘The temple remains open until late at night for pilgrims who want to make a sacrifice to Aphrodite. They say that the
goddess watches them as they make their sacrifice, and if she likes one of them . . .’

‘Just what does this sacrifice consist of, Lahgal?’ asked Kleidemos, intrigued.

‘Come on!’ exclaimed Lahgal, turning around to look at his companion. ‘Then it’s true what they say about you Spartans – that you are thick, and a little slow up
here,’ he said, knocking against his head.

‘What do you mean?’ insisted Kleidemos.

Lahgal pressed his heels into the ass’s flank. ‘All right, so I have to explain everything. You see, there are many beautiful maidens who live inside the temple: they are the
servants of the goddess. The pilgrims enter, make an offering to the temple and then choose one of the girls and then they . . . make sacrifice to the goddess of love. Now do you
understand?’

‘I do,’ admitted Kleidemos, cracking an embarrassed smile. ‘I understand. But what does the goddess have to do with all this? To me it seems like a ploy to fatten up the temple
priests through some thick-headed dolt like me.’

‘Don’t say such a thing!’ interrupted Lahgal. ‘You must be mad! If the goddess hears you, she will strike you down!’

‘That’s enough, Lahgal, no more teasing. The gods cannot afflict me more than they already have. Nothing can frighten me after what I’ve lived through.’

Lahgal twisted around and took Kleidemos’ hand tightly between his own. ‘Beware, Two-Names. The goddess truly exists, and she reveals herself in this temple. Many people have seen
her take on a number of shapes, or so they say. But anyone who has seen her remains so profoundly impressed that his heart and mind are never the same. They say that a Persian satrap to whom the
goddess appeared was struck speechless, and never spoke another word.’

It was getting dark, and there was no one around. The road wound upwards through a forest of holm oaks which rustled in the light sea breeze. The birds nestling among the branches filled the
wood with their twittering. Lahgal, tired of the long journey, shivered and pulled his cape tight around his thin shoulders. The last ray of sunlight sunk into the distant sea, which became
leaden.

‘I have to urinate,’ he said suddenly, breaking the heavy silence.

‘Right now? Can’t you wait until we can see the city, at least?’

‘I said I have to urinate!’

‘All right, all right, don’t get upset,’ Kleidemos pulled on the ass’s halter and he stopped. He got down while the boy, slipping down the packsaddle, was already at the
side of the road. He was back in a moment.

‘That was it?’ asked Kleidemos.

‘That was it.’

‘Well, get back on, it’s late.’

‘My bottom hurts and I’d rather walk. You’re comfortable there on the saddle, but I’ve been sitting on a bunch of bones. I’ve had enough.’

‘All right. Let’s walk.’

A thin crescent moon appeared over the tops of the trees, shedding a pale glow on the dusty white road. They walked for a while in silence.

‘Two-Names, don’t you want to go to the temple any more?’

‘No, I’d like to go, really. After what you told me, it would be foolish not to go. Who knows, maybe the goddess has something to tell me.’

‘You’re not afraid, Two-Names?’

‘Yes,’ replied Kleidemos, ‘I am a little afraid. The gods can tell us things we’d rather not know.’

The city began to appear behind a curve in the road: it stood on a hill, ashen in the moonlight.

‘Lahgal,’ Kleidemos began again, ‘do you know what the statue of the goddess looks like?’

‘I’ve heard it described. But I’ve never seen it, as I was saying. It doesn’t have features; it doesn’t have a face and a body, like the statues of the other
gods.’

‘What does it look like, then?’

‘Well, they say it is a double spiral that tapers at the top and comes to a point.’

‘That’s very strange. I’ve never heard of anything like that.’

‘They say it is the symbol of life, or the shape of life itself.’

‘But life has different shapes: in men, in animals, in plants, in the gods themselves. Don’t you agree?’

‘This is what we see. But I have the feeling that life is a single thing. When it’s there, men move, they talk, they think, they love and they hate. Animals graze and chase each
other over the fields. Trees and bushes grow and flourish. When it’s gone, bodies dry out and decay. Trees wither.’

‘And the gods?’ asked Kleidemos, astonished by the words of the boy who trotted along at his side, trying to measure his steps with Kleidemos’ rolling gait.

‘The gods cannot be alive if they can’t die. Or perhaps they are life itself. Anyway, the artists who make them look like us are wrong. That’s why the goddess you’ll see
is a double spiral. She has the shape of life.’

Kleidemos stopped in his tracks and turned to Lahgal. ‘Who taught you these things? I’ve never heard a child talk like this.’

‘No one. I’ve listened in on the pilgrims who remain at the temple. They speak an old dialect from this island that you would never understand. No one pays attention to a child. A
slave-child to boot. They talk as if only their dogs or horses were around, but I listen because I want to learn everything I can. And some day . . . perhaps I’ll be free and be able to come
and go as I like, and visit distant lands.’

The first houses of Paphos were just a stone’s throw away. Lahgal headed straight towards a ramshackle city gate, seemingly in disuse, but the road soon led to the high part of the city
and the temple lights glittered before them. They stopped at a spring.

‘Wash yourself,’ said Lahgal. ‘You smell sweaty.’

‘Listen, Lahgal, you surely don’t imagine that—’

‘I’m not imagining anything, you fool. You are going to wash before going into the temple, aren’t you?’

Kleidemos took off his chiton and washed himself at the spring. Lahgal then brought him to the entrance of the temple. It was not very tall, built of blocks of grey stone with a portico in
front. Its wooden columns supported a lintel which was decorated with brightly painted panels. Kleidemos stopped to look at them.

‘You’ll see them better in the light of day,’ protested Lahgal. ‘Go inside now,’ he said, pushing him towards the entrance. ‘I’ll wait for you out
here.’

Kleidemos approached the threshold: a reddish glow filtered from the half-open doors. He entered a large hall, divided by two rows of wooden columns, each of which supported a three-flamed oil
lamp. The air was permeated with a sharp, inebriating odour coming from a bronze brazier at the end of the hall, in front of the image of the goddess. The large bronze sculpture stood as Lahgal had
described it on a pedestal. The flickering light of the lamps cast rippling reflections into the spirals, sudden flashes which seemed to animate the statue with a sinuous upward movement.

Deep silence surrounded the idol; Kleidemos could hear the soft crackling of the incense on the brazier coals. He sat down on an oxhide there on the floor; his limbs felt sluggish, sleepy
somehow. He couldn’t take his eyes off the statue, as the double spiral seemed slowly to take on a life of its own, rotating upwards, its coils sparkling with a bloody light. The movement
seemed to become imperceptibly faster and Kleidemos blinked to chase away the illusion. It had to be an illusion . . . or was it the effect of that strange fragrance that pervaded the air? He was
so tired, and hungry, as if he hadn’t eaten all day – yes, that must be it; he was seeing things.

In fact, the image was now motionless on its pedestal, but to its right . . . to its left? . . . a woman appeared. He rose to his knees as she stood before him, and her crimson dress slipped off
her golden limbs . . . slipped to the floor, where it seemed a scarlet rose, withering at her feet. Her legs, like those of a magnificent deer, bore rings of silver, shining . . . the same
reflections in the image of the goddess and on her thighs of bronze. And the fragrance . . . it was stronger, and different, scented with almonds, bitter somehow. But why couldn’t he see her
face? Long flaming hair covered her face, fell over her breasts. She came closer . . . closer . . . lifted her head – a soft music caressed his ears, the indefinable melody of distant flutes
– and she showed her face. O most powerful gods . . . most powerful gods! It was the face of Antinea.

He reached out his arms. ‘O goddess, lady of this place, don’t let this be a cruel dream,’ he whispered. ‘O my far-away love . . . why was our season so short? . . .
Antinea – her face dissolving behind a veil of tears, that night, with the dying sun, never to return – Antinea!’ he gasped. ‘Antinea . . .’

He lay back in a wave of fragrant hair, set ablaze in an ardent embrace that seemed never ending. The light of the lamps trembled and faded, the last sparks scattering in the gloom that
enveloped the sanctuary. The idol of bronze, perfectly still now, cold and dark, reflected only the pale rays of the moon.

*

Dawn began to lighten the great hypostyle hall of the temple. A man wrapped in a dark cloak entered through a door behind the image of the goddess and walked to where Kleidemos
was still in a deep sleep. He turned to the woman lying next to him.

‘Well? Did he talk?’

The girl covered herself and got up. ‘No, nothing of any interest,’ she said softly. ‘The fumes from the sacred brazier had totally inebriated him. But he kept calling me by a
certain name—’

‘What name? It could be important.’

‘Antinea, I think. He was so passionate, his eyes were full of tears. I felt terribly sorry for him,’ she said, looking over at the youth. Kleidemos stirred but did not open his
eyes. ‘You could have spared me this one,’ she added, whispering.

‘Don’t complain,’ said the man. ‘You’ll be paid enough to make you forget the inconvenience. But are you sure he said nothing else – not even in his
sleep?’

‘No, nothing. I stayed awake all night, so I wouldn’t miss a word, just as you ordered. But what makes this young man so special? He’s no Persian satrap or Sicilian
tyrant.’

‘Don’t ask me because I don’t know myself. I don’t even know who is behind all this. It must be very important, nonetheless; perhaps he is from a powerful family on the
continent. Are you absolutely sure he said nothing in his sleep?’

‘Nothing that means anything. If there’s a secret in his mind it’s hidden so deeply that not even the abandon of sleep and love can liberate it. I can tell you that he loves
this woman called Antinea with immense passion. He must have lost her just when he loved her most, beyond any imagining. And so the wound never closed. He saw Antinea in me, his lost love.
That’s all that I can say. But his love was so intense that it frightened me. He might have destroyed me had the illusion been broken.’

‘I don’t think so. The illusions that are aroused in this place sacred to the goddess always spring from some source. His soul must be split: another force, another will, lives
within him. Like another person.’

‘Then why didn’t you allow the great priestess herself to intervene? She would have been able to see all the way into his soul and to understand.’

‘The great priestess was watching him as he entered the temple. The shadow of a wolf was behind him, flashing an evil light from his red eyes and baring his fangs when she tried to delve
into his mind.’

The young girl wrinkled her brow and pulled her cloak close around her naked body. She turned away and walked towards the end of the room, followed by the man. They disappeared through the
little door which had remained open. Kleidemos opened his eyes and looked up. The light of morning was pouring through the opening in the ceiling. White doves cooed and pecked on the roof cornice,
sparrows fluttered into the luminous space, chirping finches announced the rising sun. Kleidemos struggled to get up, bringing his hands to his temples. He crossed the large room and went outside
under the portico. Lahgal was there at the bottom of the stairs on his feet, with the ass.