Spartan (30 page)

‘We have arrived,’ said Kleidemos to Lahgal. ‘The envoy of the Great King, Satrap Artabazus, will meet us in the city.’

‘Look, the summer residence of the Great King, above the fortifications. The satrap lives there,’ observed Lahgal. They approached the southern gate, guarded by two Phrygian archers.
Kleidemos handed Lahgal a sealed wooden tablet, which he delivered to one of the archers.

He told the man, in his language, ‘Bring this to Satrap Artabazus, and tell him that noble Kleidemos of Sparta, son of Aristarkhos, Kleomenid, waits to be received.’ The archer had
him repeat the long, difficult name twice so he was sure of remembering it exactly, and went off.

‘Tell me about this city and these lands,’ Kleidemos asked Lahgal, as they sat on a stone bench along the city wall, stretching their tired limbs, still sluggish from the damp
night’s ride.

‘I don’t know much,’ said Lahgal. ‘I’ve been told that this is the last Phrygian city to the east. Behind those mountains,’ he added, pointing to a bluish
chain that crossed the plateau at about two days’ journey from where they were, ‘begins Lycaonia, a dangerous, unstable region, roamed by fierce marauders that not even the Great
King’s soldiers can keep at bay. After six days, you reach the foot of Mount Taurus, an impassable range that can only be crossed through a gorge so narrow that a pair of yoked oxen cannot
pass. From the mountain you can reach the sea in three days, crossing a region called Cilicia. To the east Cilicia is delimited by another very tall range of mountains that the inhabitants of that
place call Saman. Beyond them extends Syria, the land where I was born.

‘As for this city, I only know that the Meander river flows through marvellous gardens filled with every kind of plant and wild animal. The Persians call these gardens
“pairidaeza” in their language, and you Greeks “para-deisos”: paradise. The Great King hunts there with his noblemen when he is in his summer residence. There is another
river that flows through the city as well, smaller than the Meander, called Marsuas by the inhabitants. I believe you Greeks call it Marsyas; do you remember the legend? The satyr Marsyas was said
to have challenged Apollo to a musical contest along its banks. Defeated, he was flayed alive, and his skin was hung in the cave at the river’s source. It’s still there – we can
see it if you like, although I imagine it’s just the skin of some goat sacrificed long ago to one of the local divinities.’

‘I like hearing these stories,’ said Kleidemos. ‘They remind me of the ones my grandfather Kritolaos used to tell me when I was a child. I think it was he who told me of the
satyr Marsyas. I never would have imagined that one day I would see the place where the story originated.’ Kleidemos let his gaze range over the plain which stretched as far as the eye could
see. The Meander glittered under the sun which had climbed high over the horizon. Just then the archer ran up, saying, ‘Our lord, Satrap Artabazus, awaits you. I shall take you to the
palace.’

Kleidemos and Lahgal followed him through the city as its streets were filling up with people: men and women dressed in an odd fashion, who regarded the foreigners with curiosity. Children began
to follow them, pulling at their robes and trying to sell them the odds and ends they carried in their straw baskets. The archer chased them away, shouting and flailing his bow at them. They
swarmed off, shrieking, in all directions, only to stream back towards the little group that was making its way towards the centre of the city. The acropolis appeared: a hill surrounded by walls,
green with poplars that thickened at the banks of what must have been the Marsyas river. The children ran laughing and shouting towards its gravelly shore. Throwing off their clothing, bags and
baskets, they dived naked into the water, splashing one another. The three men climbed the staircase that led to the palace, and soon entered its atrium. Kleidemos was brought to a room where he
was bathed and dressed, and finally conducted into the presence of Artabazus. The satrap was seated on a pile of cushions. He rose to greet his visitor.

‘Hail, O Spartan guest,’ he said in Greek. ‘You are most welcome in this home. I hope that noble Pausanias is in good health.’

‘He was when I left him at Byzantium about two months ago,’ replied Kleidemos, bowing. ‘He should be in Sparta by now.’

‘Sparta!’ exclaimed the satrap with a surprised and vexed expression. ‘I thought he had not moved from Byzantium. But sit down, please, you must be tired.’ He indicated a
puffy woollen pillow placed on a blue carpet. Kleidemos found it a little difficult to sit in such an uncomfortable position, pulling his Persian garments between his legs.

‘The king has had news of growing mistrust in Sparta and did not want to fuel rumours that could have become dangerous. He is sure that no one has the slightest proof against him and that
envy is at the root of it all. I would say that his style of living in Byzantium, which certainly breaks with Spartan conventions, has given the ephors and the elders – always fearful that
the kings’ power will become too consolidated – the excuse to call him back and find some pretext against him. The king however assures you that his freedom will not be curtailed, and
that he will soon be back in Byzantium. I will bring your words, or the words of the Great King, to him there upon my return.’

Artabazus stroked his grey moustache pensively, then spoke again. ‘You shall give him this message from the Great King: “Hail, Pausanias. The proof of friendship that you send has
profoundly moved us. You have liberated persons very close to our heart who had fallen prisoner under your soldiers. We are henceforth willing to consider you our ally and to provide you with
everything you may need, whether this be money or another form of assistance. As far as your request for betrothal with one of our daughters, we are pleased to give our consent and await news from
you on your movements in the future. Your answers may hereafter be communicated to our satrap in Dascylium, in the province of Caria, whom your messengers can reach easily from Byzantium.”
’

Kleidemos replied, ‘His words have been written in my mind, and will be relayed as you have pronounced them.’

‘Very good,’ said the satrap. ‘But please tell me now, what actions does King Pausanias plan to take?’

‘He must first remove any distrust from the minds of the ephors and the elders,’ answered Kleidemos. ‘They regard him with suspicion, despite the great prestige he enjoys for
his victory at Plataea.’

Kleidemos noticed a slight but perceptible expression of disappointment on Artabazus’ face, and he realized that perhaps he should have started with something else. He continued
nonetheless. ‘He is also commander of the Army of the Straits and of the Peloponnesian fleet, and the guardian of King Pleistarchus, Leonidas’ son, who as you well know is still a
child. In any normal situation, the ephors and the elders usually manage to set one king against another, provoking a rivalry that effectively allows them to exercise and reinforce their power. But
Pausanias is practically alone, and concentrates enormous strength in his hands: this is the reason for which he arouses their misgiving and apprehension. It’s evident that the ephors and the
elders are looking for some pretext by which to control him, nothing more . . . I believe. In any case, Pausanias seems very sure of himself. And you must remember that he can count on the support
of the assembly of equals: our warriors greatly admire his intelligence and his military valour. Traditionally, they feel much closer to the king that guides them in battle than to the ephors and
the elders.’

Artabazus was pacing the room, back and forth. He stopped at its centre to offer his point of view. ‘It is thus in our interests to act while we can count on an ally at the height of his
power. If Pausanias were charged with some offence or relieved of his command of the army, all of our plans would have to change. As you know, the situation in Athens is in great disarray at the
moment.’ Kleidemos, completely unaware of what the satrap was referring to, nodded in assent. ‘Themistocles, the Athenian commander who defeated our fleet at Salamis, has been expelled
from his city and is in exile.’ Kleidemos found it difficult to hide his surprise. ‘He could also become our ally one day, if for no other reason than to take revenge on his thankless
homeland. You can tell your king now to be ready to act at a moment’s notice, because the time could be very near. You were able to take your time arriving here because you knew that
Pausanias would not be back in Byzantium before the end of the summer, but you will have to rush on your return journey. You must be waiting for the king in Byzantium, to give him this message as
soon as he returns. Make contact with the satrap at Dascylium immediately, but ensure that this journey remains a complete secret. I know you have a servant with you; we cannot risk him talking and
ruining everything. I will provide you with another servant. Do you prefer a young woman this time, or a good-looking boy?’ asked the satrap solicitously.

‘Oh, no, sir,’ replied Kleidemos promptly. ‘Too much of a luxury for me, and besides, it might attract the attention and the envy of my comrades. I’d rather not be too
conspicuous. I will eliminate the servant myself as soon as we are near the coast. I’ve already been instructed to do so.’

‘As you wish,’ nodded the satrap. ‘Now let me offer my hospitality, so you may have several days to restore your strength before your long journey back.’

Kleidemos accepted, curious to see how those the Greeks called ‘barbarians’ really lived.

The palace was much more beautiful than any he had ever seen in Greece or Asia. Lahgal was taken to the slaves’ quarters, but Kleidemos was given a large, spacious room in the upper
quarters of the palace, open both to the east and to the west, refreshed by evening breezes.

He dined towards dusk with Artabazus and found the food delicious: all sorts of roasted game flavoured with savoury herbs. He was most surprised by a huge bird that the cooks brought to the
table garnished with all the long, iridescent feathers of its tail, each of which had a big green-blue eye at the tip. Noticing his guest’s amazement, the satrap had a live specimen brought
in a cage so he could see the bird in its natural state. It was a gorgeous animal, so brilliant in colour that Kleidemos was speechless. The plumage on its neck and breast was intensely blue, and
its tail was nearly two cubits long. But its call was the most ungracious sound one could ever imagine. He was told that the bird came from distant India, the last eastern province of the Great
King, beyond which extended the endless Ocean.

He was shown yet another bird, smaller but with an even more brightly hued plumage: red, purple, black and white. They explained that it was hunted in the land of the Phasians, a northern tribe
that took their name from the River Phasis that originated in the Caucasus and flowed into the Pontus. After the game, sweets and fruits were served: pomegranates, figs and a sort of rosy apple
covered with fuzz, deliciously juicy and thirst-quenching. It was very sweet and had a hard pit at its centre. Kleidemos nearly broke his tooth biting into it, to the great hilarity of his fellow
diners. These fruits were grown only in the palace garden, and the trees had been brought directly from far-off Persia, so they were called ‘Persian apples’.

After dinner, a eunuch accompanied Kleidemos to his room, which was decorated with enamel flowers and trees with gaily coloured birds and wild animals. But it was the bed that surprised him
most: it was so big that four people could have slept in it, and was supported by gilded bronze legs in the shape of winged human figures.

On the bed lay a dark-skinned girl who was very beautiful, her body gracefully veiled by a Milesian slip. The eunuch said in his broken Greek that he hoped she would be satisfactory; she came
from the northern Mosynoecian tribe, famous for disregarding any constraints. In fact, their men and women coupled in the open air, without a care as to who might see them; with a few obscene
gestures, he tried to let Kleidemos know the delights that were in store for him. He added that other girls were also available if he preferred: Bithynians, Cappadocians, Lycians, even Egyptians
– all experts in the rites of Aphrodite.

Kleidemos thanked him, assuring him that she would be quite all right and that he would let him know if he wanted a different one on the morrow. The eunuch left with a naughty grin, wishing him
a restful night and closing the scented cedar door behind him. Kleidemos looked at the girl, who was examining him from head to toe with great curiosity. He walked over to one of the balconies to
look outside. The view was enchanting: the city beneath him was still red with the last light of dusk. The immense upland plain to the south was dotted with what seemed dusty clouds, close to the
ground. They quivered with golden reflections before fading off into the shadows. They were flocks of sheep, their shepherds guiding them into the Kelainai valley, in flight from the rapidly
descending darkness.

Kleidemos could almost hear their bleating, or perhaps he was just imagining it, as he saw himself leaning on his crook among his sheep and lambs, followed by the big ram, the leader of the
flock. As he did once, so long ago . . . how long ago he couldn’t even say. Then the valley darkened all at once and the black shadow invaded the plateau, lapping at the foot of the mountains
which were still topped by a sky as blue and weightless as a byssus veil. At that moment, opposite the setting sun rose the moon, white and luminous as though it had long left the waves of the
Ocean from which it was said to emerge.

Kleidemos felt a light touch on his shoulder and turned to look at the girl who stood nude before him, illuminated by the moonlight. He let her lead him by
the hand to bed, he let her undress him and caress him. She would look at him, smiling and whispering little phrases that he couldn’t understand, but her voice was so sweet, her hands so soft
and smooth that he could barely feel her touch. And while she kissed him with lips as moist and cool as violet petals, her firm breasts against his chest, he thought that the bodies of the gods
must be like hers. Never touched by fatigue or withered by pain. He thought of Antinea, the only woman he had ever loved in all his life. Her hands would have become callused from years of hard
work and her skin would be burnt by the sun, but her eyes perhaps . . . her eyes perhaps shone still, so green, like the fields of Taygetus.