Spartan (33 page)

‘And you expect me to believe that that’s all you said to each other? What did Pausanias ask you?’ shouted the officer. ‘Talk, you sorry wretch, or you’ll never
leave here alive!’

Karas raised his sweat-soaked forehead. ‘Sir,’ he said, panting, ‘you know that I had never seen your king before that day. Why would I stand to be tortured for him? I would
say anything to persuade you to let me free.’

The officer sent a quizzical look to ephor Mnesikles who was listening to the interrogation; he came out of the dark corner where he had been concealed. ‘He has a point,’ he said in
a tone that made Karas shiver. ‘Why should he put up with pain and risk his life for a Spartan king he barely knows and certainly does not love? We do know, however,’ he added, taking
the whip from the officer’s hand and approaching the prisoner himself, ‘that your friend Talos has enjoyed Pausanias’ full trust for all these years. And you would do anything to
protect him, wouldn’t you?’

Karas lifted his chained hand to wipe his brow and to gain a little time. He wouldn’t fall into their trap, betray himself. ‘I don’t know what I should be protecting him
from,’ he said, ‘but why would I, even if I did? Talos no longer exists for the mountain people. The man you call Kleidemos is no one for us, and I hope I never see him again. But the
woman who raised him like a mother would have given her life to know he was alive and well. That’s why I accepted to see the king.’

‘You’re lying!’ screamed the ephor, hitting his nose with the handle of the whip. Blood spurted from his tortured flesh, spilling into the mouth and over the chest of the
chained giant. Karas’ face had become a shapeless mask, eyes swollen shut and lips split open. His breath came out as a painful wheeze.

‘Sir,’ he found the strength to say, ‘I can’t tell you what I don’t know. But if you can let me know what you want to hear . . . I’ll say anything, to save my
life.’ His head rolled onto his chest. The ephor stepped away to consult with the
krypteia
officer.

‘He’s very strong,’ he said. ‘We haven’t been able to wrench a single word from him. Maybe he really doesn’t know anything. He has just offered to back us up
in an indictment of Pausanias . . .’

‘I’m not sure about that,’ replied the officer. ‘He may be familiar with our laws, and know that the testimony of a servant cannot be used against any of the equals, let
alone a king. He may have just been trying to mislead us, knowing that we can’t accept such an offer.’

‘How do you think we should proceed?’ asked the ephor.

‘Continue with the torture. Perhaps we haven’t worn down his resistance yet. In the end, we’ll have to kill him, regardless of whether he talks or not. He hates us more than he
fears us right now, and that makes him dangerous. Remember that last night he split the yoke he was tied to with his bare hands and when the guard got there he was already forcing the bars on the
gate . . .’

The ephor glanced over at Karas, who seemed to have fainted. ‘I don’t agree. There are men who won’t be broken by torture, and he seems that kind to me. If we kill him,
we’ll never know what he’s hiding from us. Push him as far as you can; the pain must be annihilating. You must terrify him.’ He looked over at an iron which was glowing red-hot in
the brazier. ‘You know what I mean.’ The officer nodded. ‘If he manages to resist, let him go, but have him followed. Don’t lose him, and be sure to let me know if he tries
to contact Kleidemos, or even meets with that woman up on the mountain. You have Helots working for you; it won’t be difficult for them. If what we suspect is true, he’ll betray himself
sooner or later. I’m going now, you don’t need me any longer. You will report to me tomorrow.’ He pulled his hood over his head and left.

The officer approached the prisoner and brought him to his senses by throwing a bucket of cold water over his head. He walked towards the brazier. Karas’ vision was still foggy. As it
cleared, terror exploded within him, ripping open his soul: a scorching iron, burning with white light, loomed just a palm’s breadth from his face. He could feel the heat.

‘Now you’ll talk,’ said the officer calmly, grabbing him by the hair.

Karas tensed his muscles in a futile and desperate attempt to get away, but paralysing cramps racked his body, already pushed beyond every human limit. He sat very still, calling up all his
reserves of energy, like a wounded boar facing a pack of dogs, bloody and weary, backed up against a tree trunk waiting for the hunter’s spear to tear through his throat.

‘Talk!’ said the officer, pushing the poker even closer. Karas blew blood out of his nose. ‘I know . . . nothing,’ he roared, his mouth foaming. The officer gripped him
tighter and plunged the burning iron into his left eye.

Karas’ scream exploded in the dungeons and charged through the walls of the Council House, a long, atrocious bellow that filled the square, startling the two hoplites leaning drowsily
against their spears.

Not long thereafter the
krypteia
officer left the Council House and, without returning the guards’ salute, crossed the deserted square and walked off into the night. He had done his
job conscientiously, following the orders he had received. And he was convinced that that poor devil down in the dungeons knew nothing, nothing at all. A wretched shepherd could not be so obstinate
or so strong. He had made him believe that he would have blinded both eyes, and yet he hadn’t said a word. There was nothing but sheer terror in the man’s single, swollen eye before he
had collapsed, senseless. He had unchained him before leaving, and left open the door to an underground passage that came up outside the city. His men had been ordered to wait there and follow him.
Ephor Mnesikles was right. If that man was still alive – and didn’t have the good sense to flee as far away as he could – and if he had actually plotted with Pausanias, he would
be devoured by hate and his hate would give him away. Everything would become clear eventually. He was glad to finally return to his quarters and rest after such a tiring day.

Karas began to regain consciousness, roused by the cold wind that was blowing in from the open door. The immense pain in his left socket reminded him of the cruel mutilation he had suffered. The
utter night around him made him believe for a moment that he was completely blind. He burst into tears; it was all over, he only hoped that death would come quickly now. But the shadows began to
clear and he realized that he could make out the edges of the objects around him. He saw the chains hanging from the wall: he had been freed! He blundered to his feet and looked around, noticing
the open door. He walked down the murky passage at length, stumbling, recoiling at the contact with the horrid creatures that lived in those dark recesses. A gust of fresh air hit his face at last,
and from the mouth of the tunnel he could see the stars of Orion, shimmering in the opalescent sky. Dawn was not far off. He crept out and made his way across the deserted fields until he reached
the banks of the Eurotas.

He knelt and washed out the bloody socket, gasping at the stabbing pain caused by the cold water. The moon was beginning to pale when the wounded cyclops rose to his feet, panting with agony and
rage, and raised his fists against the city glowing whitely in the false light of dawn. He walked towards Taygetus. The great mountain was still enveloped in darkness. It welcomed him and hid him
within its impenetrable forests.

*

Pausanias no longer had any justification for remaining in the Troad and thus convinced himself that his only option was to return to Sparta, where the ephors surely still had
no evidence against him. But what the ephors had sought in vain to learn from Karas was about to be offered to them by a person they didn’t even know existed.

They had imagined that Pausanias would attempt to put himself in contact with Karas through the Helots working in the king’s home. They’d already wooed these servants over to their
side with a mix of promises and threats. They were also keeping Kleidemos under constant surveillance.

Pausanias was well aware of the situation and felt like a lion in a cage. Shunned by all, he could contact none of the people he thought he could count on. Nor could he risk meeting Kleidemos,
whom he knew was surrounded by
krypteia
spies. He resigned himself to submitting to the ephors and elders, biding his time until the situation was favourable again.

One morning before dawn, ephor Mnesikles heard a knock at his door. He opened it and found a young dark-skinned foreigner with a hood hiding most of his face. He asked to speak with him.

‘My name is Argheilos,’ he said. ‘I was in the service of King Pausanias at Byzantium. I have things to tell you that you will find very interesting.’

‘Come in,’ invited the ephor, closing the door immediately behind him. The young man sat down and took off his hooded cloak. He was definitely a foreigner, Asian perhaps.

‘Your name is Greek,’ he observed. ‘But you seem a foreigner to me.’

‘I am,’ replied the young man. ‘My true name is Lahgal, and I am Syrian. I served King Pausanias faithfully for years, but now I am here to denounce him. I am no spy, trust my
words, but a man who seeks revenge for a monstrous injustice. In exchange for my loyalty, the king attempted to have me murdered, so that his scheming with the Great King would go
unknown.’

‘What you say is extremely serious,’ said the ephor. ‘Do you realize that you are accusing a Spartan king of betrayal? Careful: if you cannot prove your accusations, you risk
your life.’

‘I can prove what I’ve said, whenever you like,’ replied Lahgal.

‘Then the truth must come to light as soon as possible. Tell me what you know: you will not regret having helped us to put a stop to such infamous betrayal.’

Lahgal told everything that he had seen and surmised during the years he lived with Pausanias. He told of the journey to Kelainai as well, portraying Kleidemos in a way that absolved him of
blame.

‘You know Kleidemos, Kleomenid, very well, then,’ observed the ephor. ‘We are aware that Pausanias esteemed him greatly and entrusted him with important missions.’

‘I do know him,’ said Lahgal. ‘I brought him the king’s instructions personally when he was commanding the Thracian battalion. I can assure you that he knew nothing of
Pausanias’ betrayal. The king had ordered him to go with me to Kelainai to study the location of Persian garrisons in the interior, on the pretext of supposedly preparing a military
expedition which would chase the Persians beyond the Halys river. Only I knew the mission’s true purpose: to report to Satrap Artabazus that Pausanias was ready to march against Sparta, and
that he needed money and men. Kleidemos was given a message that I was a spy; when his mission was completed and he didn’t need me any longer as an interpreter, he was to kill me. I managed
to read the message unknown to him while he was sleeping and I escaped.’

‘Well,’ the ephor said, ‘what you must know is that as a foreigner you may not testify against one of the caste of the equals, nor against a king. Pausanias is both, although
his regency is about to draw to a close: Prince Pleistarchus is about to reach puberty. Pausanias must be persuaded to unfold his plans in the presence of Spartan citizens who can testify against
him.

‘This is my plan: first you must let Pausanias know that you are here and want to meet with him. I’m sure he will agree to it. There is an old abandoned building on the Taenarum
promontory; it is there you will go. You must get him to talk so that several witnesses who are hiding behind a false wall can hear him. We’ll worry about the rest. Now go. It is not
opportune for you to be seen here. Try to remain hidden and not to attract undue attention. You will be rewarded for this service, but as you know the equals cannot handle money. I cannot pay you
now, but I will find a way. Do you prefer Athenian or Euboean silver . . . or coins from Cyzicus?’

‘I’m not doing this for a reward,’ replied Lahgal. ‘I won’t take your money.’ He stood up, covered his face and walked out.

Three days later Pausanias found a message in his house, although none of his servants could say how it had got there. What the message said filled him with dread: Lahgal was alive! Kleidemos
had lied to him or worse, betrayed him. He thought of fleeing, but realized that it would be like admitting his guilt. And who would provide a haven for a fugitive stripped of all power? It was
better to face the situation. If it was truly Lahgal who had written the message, and certain phrases left no doubt in his mind, perhaps he could convince him to keep quiet. Or at least find out
who else knew. He decided to meet him at the appointed place. He knew it well: an old observation tower in ruins nearly at the tip of the promontory. A barren, desolate, wind-swept place.

He entered through a ramshackle door and heard a voice he recognized very well ringing out in the gloom. ‘They say that no one ever comes back from the Underworld, don’t they
Pausanias? And yet here I am. Come in, come in, don’t just stand there.’

‘Listen—’ began the king.

‘No. You listen,’ interrupted the young man, emerging from the shadows, ‘I’m stronger than you are now.’ Pausanias’ hand fell, perhaps inadvertently, to the
hilt of his sword.

‘You fool!’ said Lahgal. ‘Do you think I am so imprudent that I have taken no precautions if you should try to kill me a second time?’

Pausanias let his arm drop and lowered his head. ‘I’m listening,’ he said resignedly.

‘I’ve asked you to come here so I can know for what offence you condemned me to death. If having served you loyally, irreproachably, having cured you when you were ill, followed you
like your own shadow, endured your lust—’

‘I thought you loved me,’ Pausanias said plaintively.

Lahgal laughed scornfully. ‘Have you fallen so low? Come now, you know there can be no love between one who commands and one who serves – only violence: inflicted and suffered. So
don’t think you can try to play with my feelings for you; they never even existed. I pledged my complete dedication in exchange for the promise of my freedom. An honest exchange, man to
man.’