Spartan (28 page)

‘I don’t know anything besides what I’ve already told you. But you will be allowed to take her into your service – in the house of the Kleomenids.’

Kleidemos grabbed the young man’s hand. ‘Are these truly the words of the king?’

‘They are,’ replied Lahgal. ‘You can believe me. I haven’t come all this way to tell you lies.’ He fell silent, looking deep into Kleidemos’ eyes. The glacial
light shining there had suddenly caught fire. ‘What must I tell my king?’

‘I accept,’ he said without hesitation. ‘I’ll do whatever he wants. Leave immediately, and tell the king—’

‘Leave immediately? Is this the hospitality you promised me?’ said Lahgal, laughing. ‘I shouldn’t have hurried!’

‘You’re right, I’m behaving terribly but there’s something you must understand: nothing is more terrible than solitude, and these have been the loneliest days of my life.
But you haven’t told me, how did all this come to be? How did you enter into the service of the king?’

‘Pausanias bought me from my master when the fleet left Cyprus. I’ve always served him as best I could. I learned your dialect and I mastered the language of the Persians. I realized
that there was no one the king could trust; he was spied on by his own allies, his own government. So he needed someone who would be absolutely faithful to him. This was my fortune. Little by
little, the king assigned me increasingly important tasks, and now he trusts me with even the most sensitive missions. Like coming here to talk to you.’

‘When will I be relieved of duty here?’

‘Immediately, if you like. You can return to Byzantium with me. Your deputy commander will take over until the king sends another officer to conduct the next campaign.’

‘Byzantium . . . I can’t believe that I’ll be able to leave this life, return to Sparta—’

‘Wait, the mission you’ll have to carry out will be neither easy nor brief, I believe.’

‘It doesn’t matter. Anything will be better than continuing this massacre, than spending another year in these desolate lands. Let’s leave right away, Lahgal.
Tomorrow.’

‘As you wish,’ replied the young man. He took a leather scroll from his cloak. ‘These are the instructions for your deputy: you’ll have to read them on the
skythale
.’

‘Fine,’ agreed Kleidemos. ‘I’ll have him called immediately.’ He gave orders to the guard posted at the entrance to the tent, who returned shortly thereafter with
the taxiarch of the first battalion. The officer saluted him and, at a gesture from his commander, removed his helmet and sat down on a stool. Kleidemos removed the
skythale
from its case.
It was a smooth boxwood stick marked with two parallel spiralling lines, the guides where the leather scroll was applied in the prescribed way so as to become legible. Kleidemos fastened the scroll
to the stud at the top and then carefully turned the stick until the leather strip was rolled onto it, following the guide. He attached the bottom end to another stud at the opposite side of the
stick. The message, which had been written horizontally on a similar stick of the same length and thickness, was apparent now:

Kleidemos handed it over to his deputy, who read it as well, noting the seal of Pausanias at the end.

‘When will you leave, commander?’ asked Deuxhippos.

‘Tomorrow at dawn. Prepare to take command.’ The officer got to his feet. ‘I know I’m leaving my men in good hands,’ added Kleidemos, reaching out his right
hand.

‘Thank you, commander,’ said Deuxhippos, gripping his hand in some surprise. ‘I shall attempt to show myself worthy of this honour.’ He put on his helmet and left.

‘You’ll sleep in my tent,’ Kleidemos said to Lahgal. ‘I don’t have a pavilion for guests – I haven’t had many visitors.’

Lahgal stripped to lie down, tired after his long journey. He had a man’s body, but his burnished skin glowed with the delicate beauty of an oriental. Kleidemos noticed that he had shaved
his thighs and pubes, as if to soften the full exuberance of his virility. After Lahgal had fallen asleep, he still sat watching the coals in the brazier that burned in the centre of the tent. He
stretched out his hands to warm them and his gaze fell on the studded armlet that Philippides, the champion of Olympia, had given him that long-ago day. Dangling from it was the coloured shell that
Lahgal had given him as a child, on the beach in Cyprus. He ripped it off and tossed it onto the ground, smashing it under his heel.

*

‘Tell me now, Kleidemos: you who were born twice, you of two names, who are you really? Can you tell me whether you are a son of Sparta or of the people who brought you up
on Mount Taygetus?’

King Pausanias was waiting for an answer, but Kleidemos was silent and confused.

‘You cannot answer me, can you? Your heart is still with those who raised you. But at the same time you cannot suffocate the call of your true race, the blood of Aristarkhos the Dragon.
And this is why I know that you will understand and support my plan. Sparta can no longer hope to survive by governing in the same way as when she was founded by the descendants of Hercules. The
number of equals is decreasing year after year. One day, not long hence, our army will no longer have enough warriors to fend off any enemy attack. The Helots themselves, constantly growing in
number, could pose a threat. For this reason, Sparta must change, and all the inhabitants of Laconia must become her citizens, eliminating all distinctions.’

‘But that’s impossible,’ protested Kleidemos coldly. ‘The Helots hate you.’

‘And they will as long as this state of affairs lasts. But if we give them the status and dignity of free men, the right to possess land and weapons, the chasm that now divides them from
the equals will cease to exist. Slowly, perhaps, but it will be bridged. In many other Greek states, this happened a hundred years ago. Look at Athens: she is building an empire on the sea and
prospering in her riches. My plan can – must – be accomplished,’ exclaimed the king, ‘but for this to happen, the custodians of our institutions must be eliminated.
Destroyed, if necessary.’ Kleidemos was shocked by Pausanias’ words, even as he continued in a calmer tone. ‘I am practically alone in this endeavour, and I do not have the power
to bring it to fulfilment. I need a powerful ally – the most powerful.’ He seemed absorbed in his thoughts for a moment, then stared straight at Kleidemos, eyes flashing: ‘The
King of Kings!’

The young man shuddered. ‘My father and my brother died in the attempt to rid Greece of the Persians, and I shall not betray their memory,’ he said, and got up to leave.

‘Sit down!’ ordered the King with a peremptory tone. ‘Your father and your brother, as well as Leonidas and all his men at the Thermopylae, were sacrificed in vain, betrayed by
the blind obtuseness of the ephors and the elders of Sparta. They are the ones truly responsible for the deaths of your family. The inhumane laws they rule by forced your father to abandon you on
Mount Taygetus. But now one age has drawn to an end and another is about to begin: Sparta must change, or she will die, dragging the Helots with her in her plunge towards ruin. This is why I need
you. I know the Helots will listen to you and follow you.

‘The time has come for me to reveal something to you. I know about the bow that you used at Plataea, I’ve seen the mark carved into it: the wolf’s head of the King of Messenia.
The man who you thought was your grandfather, old Kritolaos, must certainly have told you about him. There isn’t much I don’t know, Kleidemos – I commanded the
krypteia
for
ten years. When your brother Brithos went up the mountain that night with his Molossian hound, I knew what was happening. And I also know about the Spartan warrior who roamed the mountain for
years, wrapped in a grey cape, his head covered with a hood . . .’

‘My father,’ admitted Kleidemos, trembling.

‘Yes, your father. Listen to me, you bear one of the most illustrious names of Sparta, and at the same time you are the heir of Kritolaos, the leader of the Helots. One day you will return
among them and convince them to support my plan. I’ll get rid of the ephors and the elders, and even of King Leotychidas if necessary – with the help of the King of Persia.

‘Xerxes is prepared to back me with impressive means, certain that I will one day become his faithful satrap in a Greece reduced to a province of his immense empire. This shall never come
to be; I defeated his army at Plataea and I shall defeat him once again. But right now I need his money.

‘You should know that I have powerful friends in other cities of Greece, including Athens. Now I must return to Sparta, because the ephors have begun to suspect something, and I must
ensure them of my loyalty. But you will bring my message to the King of Persia. You will deliver it to the custodian of the imperial palace at Kelainai in Phrygia and remain there until you receive
his answer. And then you will return to Byzantium. I would calculate that to be at the beginning of the autumn. And I shall be here once again, in my place.’

Kleidemos was absorbed in thought. What he had heard was nearly unbelievable, but he was struck by the realization that what Pausanias wanted to achieve was right. In such a world he would be
able to set free the people he had lived with since birth without spilling blood, and without denying the Kleomenid name.

‘I will leave as soon as you wish,’ he said suddenly. Pausanias walked him to the door. He laid a hand on his shoulder.

‘There’s something about you that I’d still like to know,’ he said. ‘Who is Antinea?’

‘Antinea . . .’ murmured Kleidemos, lowering his head. ‘Antinea was someone that Talos knew.’

And he fled into the starry night.

*

Kleidemos beheld wealthy Cyzicus, straddling two seas, populous Adramyttium and Pergamum, and then Ephesus, its port teeming with ships. He journeyed up the majestic Meander to
Hieropolis, with its hot springs. He saw Sardeis, vast and rich, and the tumbledown temple of the Great Mother of the gods, incinerated by the Athenians during the Ionian revolt.

Lahgal accompanied him, acting as his interpreter with the barbarians who escorted them across certain tracts so they would not fall prey to the thieves who infested the interior. Asia was
immense, and lovely: mild hills sloped into verdant plains, covered with purple thistle flowers and the red poppies whose juice brought oblivion to men’s troubled souls. When the sun
descended towards the horizon, the heavens flamed with scarlet clouds, edged in a deep violet that melted into the intense blue of the sky. Endless flocks headed off then towards their pens,
raising dense clouds of dust that could be seen from a distance. The fleece of the lambs and sheep shone like gold, and their bleating faded off into the silent plain when the last shaft of
sunlight went out with a flash. And then the firmament, so incredibly clear, would teem with millions of sparkling stars, while the monotonous chant of the crickets rose from the earth, joined by
the howling of dogs from isolated houses. The smell of Asia was intense and penetrating: the fragrance of the yellow broom, so strong it was inebriating, and the dry, bitter scent of absinthe. Only
the sharp odour of wild sage recalled his boyhood on the mountain. At night, they would see silent groups of men, their faces veiled, riding on monstrous animals with faces like sheep and two huge
humps on their backs. Distasteful beasts that let out a rude moan when they knelt to allow their masters to mount them.

As time passed and the sun carved an ever-wider arch into the sky, the terrain itself changed. Yellow and ochre, swathed with deep green wherever a stream or river meandered in wide turns across
the sunny plain. The heat became nearly unbearable, and in the evening a furious wind would pick up, creating dozens of whirlwinds that danced over the parched earth. These columns of dust twisted
and turned, darting here and there, then vanished like spectres amidst the crumbling rocks.

But nightfall did not extinguish that scorching wind. The incessant hissing went on for hours, tumbling dried amaranth bushes over the arid grass like gigantic spiders. When it finally abated
the vast high plain filled with rustles, crackles, murmurs. The eyes of the jackals sometimes glittered in the dark, and their mournful calls rose from the rocks to the red moon as it ascended
slowly between the solitary peaks. Its pale rays lit the misshapen wild fig bushes and the fleshy foliage of the carob trees.

Off in the distance, here and there, they could make out the black shapes of volcanoes that had been dormant for centuries. Typhon, the father of the winds, was said to live deep in their
bellies: from his horrendous mouth escaped the fiery breath that withered the grass and flowers and enfeebled travellers’ tired limbs.

One day, as he was approaching his destination, Kleidemos saw something that he would never forget: a colossal plane tree towering in the middle of the dusty plain, so enormous that he had never
seen one like it in his whole life. Its smooth white trunk immediately branched off into four limbs, each of which was as thick as a fully-grown tree. He drew closer, to admire it and to rest in
its shade. His astonishment increased when he saw an armed man standing under that immense tree. Kleidemos knew those weapons and decorations well: it was one of the Immortals, the personal guard
of the Great King!

He wore an embroidered overgarment, open at the sides, with a pair of trousers made of precious fabric gathered at the ankle and woven with a rose pattern in silver thread. His curly black
beard, framing an olive-toned countenance, met with his thick, carefully combed and scented locks. Golden rings hung from his ears and a colourful leather quiver swung from his shoulder. His bow
was finished in silver and a spear sparkled in his right hand.