Spartan (3 page)

The two of them turned back down the path as Krios rounded up the sheep, driving them towards the mountain. On the distant plain, the long column was entering the city: it seemed like a wounded
serpent hurrying to shelter.

Stretched out on his straw bed, Talos couldn’t sleep that night. He couldn’t drive that intense, suffering gaze out of his mind . . . that hand that gripped the spear as if wanting
to crush it. Who was the warrior with the dragon on his shield? Why had he looked at him in that way? That strange music that had awakened so much emotion in Talos’ heart continued to play in
his mind. At last, the late hour closed his eyelids. The warrior’s eyes melted into darkness, the music became slower and then as sweet as a woman’s song, caressing his tired heart
until sleep settled his head to rest.

‘L
ISTEN CAREFULLY, MY BOY,
’ said the old man, considering young Talos with his clear, penetrating gaze. ‘You know well that a bird
with a broken wing will never be able to fly again.’ Talos listened to him intently, sitting back on his heels on the ground next to Krios. ‘But a man is different. You are agile and
quick, even though your foot is lame. But I want you to become stronger and surer in your movements, even more so than the other boys. The staff that you grasp in your hand will be like a third leg
for you and I will teach you to use it. It will seem strange at first, and will take all the determination you’ve got to make it work, but that staff can do much more than just support you as
you walk, as it has until now. You’ll learn to use it to pivot your body out in any direction, gripping onto it with one hand or both, as need be.’

‘What’s wrong with the way I walk, Kritolaos? Are you saying that I’m not quick enough for you? I can catch up with any sheep that wander away from the flock, and in the long
marches to pasture, I hold up better than Krios, and he has four legs!’

‘I know, my boy, but you see, your body is becoming crooked, like a piece of green wood left out in the sun.’ Talos scowled. ‘If we let that happen, you’ll be more and
more limited in the ways you can move, and when your bones have become stiff and inflexible, you won’t be able to depend on your strength any more.

‘Talos,’ continued the old man, ‘your foot was damaged when the midwife pulled you too forcefully from your mother’s womb. Your father, Hylas, was killed by a bear on the
mountain, and I promised him before he closed his eyes that I would make a man of you. I’ve succeeded, certainly: your spirit is strong and your mind is quick, your heart generous, but I also
want you to become very strong, and so agile that nothing will seem impossible to you.’

The old man fell silent for a moment, eyes half closed as if searching for other words in his ancient heart. He laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder, and slowly went on. ‘Talos, answer
me honestly. Have you returned to the plain to see the warriors, even though I’ve forbidden you?’ The boy lowered his eyes, twisting a stalk between his fingers. ‘Yes, I
know,’ continued the old man. ‘You have returned. I’d imagined as much, and I know why.’

‘If that’s so,’ interrupted the boy with a scowl, ‘tell me, grandfather, because I don’t.’

‘You’re fascinated by their force and by their power. Perhaps your heart is not that of a simple shepherd.’

‘Are you making fun of me, Kritolaos? What else can we be but servants and the shepherds of other people’s flocks?’

‘That’s not true!’ exclaimed the old man suddenly, and for a moment his eyes blazed with a fierce and noble light. A hand like the claw of an old lion gripped the boy’s
wrist. Talos was amazed and perplexed. The old man slowly pulled away his hand, and lowered his eyes and his head – the gestures of one who has been forced to learn obedience. ‘No,
it’s not true,’ he resumed in a more subdued tone. ‘Our people have not always been servants. There was a time when we dominated the mountains and the valleys as far as the
western sea. We ruled the plains as far as Cape Taenarum, raising herds of fiery horses. Nestor and Antilochus, the lords of Pylos and Ithome, fought alongside Agamemnon under the walls of Troy.
When the Dorians invaded these lands, our people fought with great valour before submitting. The blood of warriors flows through our veins: King Aristomenes and King Aristodemus—’

‘They’re dead!’ burst out the boy. ‘Dead! And all those warriors that you’re talking about with them.’ His face was distorted with anger, the veins on his
neck bulged. ‘We are slaves, servants, and always will be. Understand, old man? Servants!’

Kritolaos stared at him, saddened and surprised. ‘Servants,’ repeated Talos, confused, lowering the tone of his voice.

Talos took the hand of the old man, who was silent and bewildered by the boy’s rage. ‘How many years ago,’ continued Talos in a softer voice, ‘tell me, how many years ago
did the things you’re talking about happen? The glory of your kings is forgotten. I know what you’re thinking, I know my words are a surprise to you because I’ve always listened
to your stories. They’re beautiful stories. But I’m not a little boy any more, and your dreams make my heart ache.’ A long silence fell between them, broken only by the bleating
of the flock in the pen nearby.

Suddenly the old man stood up, straining his ears intently.

‘What is it?’ asked Talos.

‘Do you hear them? Wolves! They howled like this the night that you— were born. But it’s not the mating season yet. Isn’t that strange?’

‘Oh, let them howl and let’s go inside. It’s raining, and nearly dark.’

‘No. Did you know, Talos, that the gods sometimes send signs to men? It’s time you knew. Take my cloak and a torch and follow me.’

They started off towards the forest that loomed at the edge of the clearing. The old man chose a tortuous path amidst the trees, followed by the mute, pensive boy. After nearly an hour of this
silent march, they reached the foot of a protruding cliff covered by a thick mantle of moss. At the base of the cliff was a pile of rocks which seemed to have tumbled down from the mountain.

‘Move those stones,’ ordered Kritolaos. ‘I don’t have the strength to do it myself.’

Talos obeyed, curious and impatient to uncover the old man’s mystery. The rain had stopped and the wind had died down. The forest was immersed in silence. Talos worked energetically, but
his task was not easy. The rain-soaked stones, covered with greenish, slimy moss, slipped through his hands, but the boy continued resolutely. By the light of the torch that the old man held, Talos
caught sight of an opening underneath. He moved the last of the rocks away – they had been covering an underground passage! Peering into the darkness, the boy could make out irregular stairs
covered with grey mould.

‘Let’s go in,’ said Kritolaos, nodding towards the entrance of the tunnel. ‘Help me,’ he added, ‘I don’t want to break my leg.’

Talos started down first and reached up to help the old man, who leaned on the boy so as not to lose his footing. The two of them continued down the rough steps carved in the rock, and came to
the opening of a small cave. The dripping ceiling was barely high enough for a man to stand up straight. The cave seemed empty at first, until Kritolaos, moving his torch, lit up one of the corners
and revealed a great wooden chest reinforced with bronze plates. The old man lifted the latch and chipped away at the pitch sealing the lid with the point of his knife.

‘Open it,’ he ordered Talos, who had been watching him astonished.

‘What’s in the chest?’ asked the boy. ‘Some kind of treasure you’ve kept hidden?’

‘No, Talos, there are no riches here. Some things are far more precious than gold and silver. Open it, you’ll see.’

The old man handed him the knife. The chest’s lid was well sealed, but Talos succeeded in forcing it. He shot Kritolaos a questioning look. The old man nodded; Talos struggled to remove
the lid and leaned it back against the cavern wall. He shone the torch inside the chest.

What Talos saw left him speechless: a splendid helmet of bronze crowned with wolf fangs set into the metal, a heavy bronze cuirass decorated with tin and silver, an amber-hilted sword enclosed
in its sheath, embossed thigh-guards and greaves, and a great shield with the head of a wolf, all looking as though they’d just been forged.

‘It’s incredible,’ gasped Talos, not yet daring to reach out and touch. ‘But this is impossible! This chest has been closed up for who knows how long, but look at this
armour: it’s perfect!’

‘Look closer, touch it,’ ordered the old man.

The boy stretched out his hand to touch the resplendent weapons. ‘Grease!’ he murmured. ‘Covered with grease. Did you do it, grandfather?’

‘Yes, I, and others before me, for a very long while. That sack, too, was soaked in grease before being closed. Open it,’ Kritolaos said, pointing to a dark bundle that the boy,
blinded by the armour, had not noticed. Talos worked excitedly to open the rigid, wrinkled sack, and drew out a huge bow, completely covered with a layer of ram’s fat.

‘Excellent!’ exclaimed Kritolaos. ‘It’s still in fine shape. It could strike again if guided by an expert hand.’ His eyes glittered. ‘By an expert
hand,’ he repeated, turning to the boy with a sudden flash of tremendous determination in his eyes. ‘Your hand, Talos!’

The old man’s lean and bony arm, mapped with blue veins, extended the immense bow towards the boy. Talos gazed at it as if hypnotized, not daring to touch it. ‘Take it, boy,
it’s yours,’ Kritolaos urged.

Talos took the amazing weapon into his hands. It was made of an animal’s horns, smooth and polished. The handgrip was wrapped in a thin sheath of silver embossed with a wolf’s head.
The deep indentation on the right showed how many arrows had been shot from that weapon, with great force. Talos was pervaded by wild emotion, a thousand thoughts wheeling through his head. A
strange essence seemed to emanate from that old bow and flow into his body, making him shake like a reed.

‘Whose bow is this, Kritolaos? Whose are these weapons? I’ve never seen anything like them. Not even the warriors down on the plain had anything like this. This bow isn’t made
of wood.’

‘You’re right, Talos. It’s made of horn.’

‘But animals with horns this long don’t exist!’

‘You’re right, they don’t. At least not in our country. The animal who provided these horns ran ten or more generations ago on the distant plains of Asia. The bow was given to
us as a gift by a lord of that land.’

‘But who . . . who did it belong to?’

The old man had a solemn, almost noble, expression. ‘This is the bow of King Aristodemus, lord of Pylos and Ithome, sovereign of the Messenians, heir of Nestor, shepherd of peoples.’
He lowered his white head for a moment, then gazed again at the boy, who stood before him with widened eyes and parted lips: ‘Talos, my boy, I’ve waited so long for this
moment—’

‘What moment, Kritolaos, what do you mean? I don’t understand. It’s as if my mind were full of smoke.’

‘The moment in which to pass on the King’s bow. I am the last custodian of these weapons, preserved so jealously for generations. These are the symbols of the pride of our people,
the last remembrances of our freedom. The time has come for me to entrust you with this terrible and precious secret. I am old, and my days could soon come to an end.’

The boy gripped the horn bow, and stared with bright eyes at the armour. Suddenly he raised his eyes to meet Kritolaos’ gaze. ‘But what am I to do? I don’t know anything about
our people. Weapons are made for fighting, aren’t they? Aren’t they, Kritolaos? I’m a cripple and I’m just a boy. Close up that chest again. I can’t, I don’t
know how. You shouldn’t have shown me those weapons, it’s useless. No one will ever use them again.’

The old man rested his hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘Calm down, Talos, calm down. There are still so many things that you don’t know and that you must learn. It will take time,
but one day someone will wear that suit of armour. When he does, King Aristodemus will return to his people again and restore their lost freedom. The gods already know his name. Now, take that bow.
I’ll teach you to use it to defend yourself, and to live with this secret even after I’m gone. The bow will be your faithful companion. It will save you from wolves and bears. And from
men, Talos. From men as well.’

‘Why would I be in any danger from men? I’ve never hurt anyone. Who cares about the life of a crippled shepherd?’ Talos asked morosely.

‘There are things I can’t tell you yet, boy. Be patient, one day you’ll know. Now close that chest, it’s time to go.’

Talos set down the bow. Lowering the lid of the chest, he glanced once again at the weapons glowing with a sinister light under the flickering torch light. He suddenly reached out his right hand
to the sword’s hilt.

‘No, Talos, stop!’ cried out the old man, startling the boy. ‘Don’t touch that weapon!’

‘You scared me! Why shouldn’t I touch it? It’s only a sword, even if it did belong to a king.’

‘To a great king, Talos. But that doesn’t matter,’ grumbled Kritolaos, as he hurried to shut the chest himself. ‘That weapon is cursed!’

‘Oh, you and your silly superstitions!’

‘Don’t joke about this, Talos,’ responded the old man, gravely. ‘You don’t know. With that very sword King Aristodemus sacrificed his own daughter to the gods of
the Underworld, to win victory over his enemies and freedom for his people. A futile act. No one has ever since dared to grip that sword. You must not touch it!’

The chastened boy took the torch from the old man in silence and traced it along the borders of the chest, melting the pitch to seal it once again. They left the cavern, and Talos replaced the
rocks at the entrance, camouflaging them with moss so that they seemed undisturbed. He ran to catch up to Kritolaos, who had already started down the path. The old man’s torch was reduced to
a flaming stub.

They walked in silence until they reached the edge of the clearing. The pale light of the setting moon revealed their cottage. Krios’ yelping greeted them.

Kritolaos tossed away the butt of the torch and paused, turning to Talos. ‘Some day a man will come to take up that sword, Talos. It is written that he will be strong and innocent, moved
by such a strong love for his people that he will sacrifice the voice of his own blood.’