Spartan (34 page)

‘I was sincere when I promised to free you, and I would have done so.’

‘Of course,’ snarled Lahgal. ‘Exactly what you thought you had accomplished: freeing me from every worry while ridding yourself of me forever!’

‘Don’t make jest of me,’ interrupted the king with sadness in his voice. ‘And please listen, I can explain . . . if you promise you will reflect on my words and not let
yourself be dominated by rancour and anger. If you called me here, you must be willing to listen to me.’

‘Talk, then,’ replied the young man coldly.

‘I will. But first I want to know why Kleidemos deceived me.’

‘Your spirit must be truly vile,’ said Lahgal, ‘if you see betrayal where none exists. Kleidemos carried out your orders faithfully, all of them . . . except one. I read your
scroll while he was sleeping and I fled. Not because I feared that he would really murder me; Kleidemos is a good man. But because I didn’t want to make him struggle with his conscience.
That’s not what I came here to talk about, Pausanias; I want to hear other things from you.’

Pausanias was greatly relieved by his answer. All was not lost; he could still manage to convince Lahgal. He began again, not knowing that in that very moment, he was pronouncing his own death
sentence. ‘I did not want you dead, Lahgal, I swear it. The Persians forced me to accept this condition. I couldn’t withhold my assent at that point; they would have become suspicious
and all my plans would have gone up in smoke. I couldn’t risk them considering me an enemy. The lives of thousands of people were at stake. But you must believe me, it was against my will,
and with unspeakable bitterness, that I forced myself to write that order.

‘Perhaps you were merely putting up with me all those years we lived together, Lahgal, thinking only of obtaining your freedom. But I loved you, and you cannot deny the sincerity of my
affection. Tell me, my young friend, did I ever hurt you? Didn’t I help you in every way I could? Didn’t I make you part of my life, my plans, my dreams? You certainly deluded me by
letting me believe that you loved me as well.’

Lahgal looked at that broken man, practically at the mercy of his enemies now. The hero of Plataea! The Panhellenic leader, reduced to a shadow of his former self. The tone of his words seemed
sincere and Lahgal felt moved by pity, but the desire for revenge had pushed him so far that he could no longer turn back. It was all over now. And so he replied using words of guile and Pausanias
left, sorry for ever having ordered his death.

The king returned to Sparta towards evening, wondering how he could get in touch with Kleidemos. Absorbed in his thoughts, at first he didn’t notice the five ephors in front of the Amyclae
Gate, surrounded by about twenty armed men. As he drew closer, he realized they were waiting for him. Ephor Episthenes, who stood behind the others, made a gesture and Pausanias realized that this
was the end. He spurred on his horse in an attempt to escape, but the spear hurled by one of the warriors hit the animal in its side. The horse fell heavily to the ground with its rider, and
Pausanias rolled in the dust. He swiftly got to his feet and began to run, his pursuers close on his heels. He was near the acropolis; he looked around, bewildered, for someone who would offer him
shelter. All the glances he met were hostile or indifferent, and the doors were bolted against him. He sought refuge in the House of Bronze: no one would dare profane that holy place. He closed
himself in, panting, and went to crouch in a corner.

The ephors, powerless to enter and arrest him, had all the doors walled up and removed the roof. And there the king remained, for days and days, parched with thirst under the flaming rays of the
sun and tormented by hunger. His enemies watched with indifferent eyes, perched on the bare beams of the roof, awaiting his death. His shouting and cursing could be heard long into the night. Then
nothing.

The ephors realized that the holy place would be profaned nonetheless if he died there, so they decided to open the doors and carry him out while he was still alive. They dragged him into the
outer courtyard. Trembling with fever, his glassy eyes rolled around horror-filled in hollow sockets.

Thrown into the dust, Pausanias tried to raise his fleshless arm to curse them all, but his strength abandoned him and he fell on his back, gasping his last breath.

Such was the agony and death of he who had vanquished the army of the Great King at Plataea.

T
HE ASSEMBLED EPHORS AND
elders decided at first that the corpse of Pausanias would be thrown into the Keadas torrent, as was customary for traitors,
but ephor Episthenes, who had secretly remained the king’s friend, argued that although Pausanias had disobeyed the orders of the city and was guilty of plotting with the enemy, outside of
Sparta he still enjoyed great fame among the Hellenes as the man who had liberated Greece from the barbarians. His death was punishment enough, and his mortal remains must be conceded the dignity
of a proper burial. The ephor’s proposal seemed a wise one, and so Pausanias was buried with his arms at the very place where he had breathed his last.

But the spectre of Pausanias continued to disturb many a night in Sparta nonetheless. Some insisted that his terrifying screams could still be heard in the House of Bronze late at night, and
others claimed that just after dusk on the seventh day of every month, a hollow metallic noise could be heard coming from his tomb, as though he were striking its walls with his weapons. It was
decided that the oracle in Delphi must be consulted, and the following response was given:

Long was the discussion in the Council House to interpret this response. Some suggested sacrificing a couple of Helots; others argued that death must not be added to death, and that amends must
be made in another form. In the end they decided to build two statues to be dedicated to the temple, and so the ephors and the elders imagined that they could appease the anger of the gods with two
lifeless effigies forged by human hands.

No one spoke any longer of these events, and their echo was extinguished because the mind of man is prone to forgetting, but it was written that the blood of the king would bring a curse upon
the city.

Lahgal vanished as he had appeared and nothing more was ever known about him. Kleidemos, unaware of the whole plot, prepared for the worst when he learned that Pausanias had been confined within
the House of Bronze, but no one ever came looking for him, nor was he ever asked anything. His only encounter with the ephors remained his account of his conduct in Thrace, which was confirmed by
the men of the fourth battalion who had since returned. The great prestige of his name protected him from humiliating inquisitions, and his word as a warrior was sufficient for the authorities.
Nonetheless, the ephors had him watched, looking out for any sign of collusion or guilt. His close relationship with Pausanias and his time among the Helots perpetuated the suspicion and diffidence
of the city, regardless of the irreproachable conduct of the son of Aristarkhos.

The death of the king destroyed any residual hope in Kleidemos that the plan which Pausanias had proposed in Byzantium might be realized. It was no more than a dream, that had once given purpose
to his life but had quickly dissipated, leaving a hollow place in his soul. It made him keenly aware that he could not escape his life: if he had managed to survive yet again, despite the mortal
danger he had been in when Pausanias’ plans were discovered, he really must have a destiny to fulfil. He had no choice but to live his life as it was, while waiting for the situation to
mature.

He did not hide his desire to return to the woman who had raised him on Mount Taygetus, and when he took possession of the house of the Kleomenids, his wish was granted. The ephors imagined that
this would make it even easier for them to trace any suspicious contacts.

And so, at the beginning of the winter, Kleidemos was given permission to leave the
syssitìa
where he had lived for months in complete compliance with the rigid military standards
of communal life, and to take charge of his own home and possessions.

He left the barracks one morning as the sun was rising, followed by a Helot from his father’s house who had loaded up his belongings and armour onto the back of an ass. He left through the
eastern gate, walking slowly and taking in his surroundings: he could just make out the Kleomenid house about ten stadia away, still enveloped in the shadows of the night. Contradictory sentiments
possessed his heart: he would soon see the place where he was born, the house in which for a moment he had known Ismene, the woman who had brought him into the world. And he would soon be bringing
there the woman who had raised him and given him the love that his true mother had denied him.

He felt uncertain, torn: would the people he had spent his youth with still remember him? Would he ever return among them? Kritolaos had once made him their leader, and the great bow still
secretly waited to be taken up once again by Talos the Wolf. In a dark underground chamber, the armour of King Aristodemus and his cursed sword still hoped to see the light, but when would that day
ever dawn?

The house of the Kleomenids was just a stone’s throw away now. The house of the Dragon. The home of Aristarkhos, his father. There, down on the plain, was where he’d first seen him,
and he had never forgotten the sorrow deep in the warrior’s eyes as he saw the boy’s lame foot.

Perialla, running from her own destiny . . . what had she said?

That starry night on the hills of Plataea, those words on Brithos’ lips . . . the Kleomenid Dragon and the Wolf of Taygetus. But Aristarkhos was dead, Brithos was dead. Where was the
dragon now if not deep within himself, in the heart of Kleidemos, Kleomenid, there together with the Wolf of Messenia? There the two beasts attacked each other, feeding on their endless fury, no
truce, no peace . . . for how much longer? Why had the gods reserved so perverse a fate for the little lame boy?

He realized that the Helot had drawn up in front of the gate of the house. The courtyard was invaded by weeds, the enclosure wall was cracked and crumbling, the bones of Melas gleamed white on
the family altar. No one had set foot here for years.

‘Do you know where my mother Ismene is buried?’ he asked the Helot.

‘Yes, noble sir,’ replied the servant. ‘Down there, among those cypress trees.’ He pointed at a rough-hewn stone sarcophagus in the field surrounding the house.

Wait here for me,’ he said to the Helot, and walked towards the tomb of his mother. The sun rose just then, flooding the valley with its light. The house emerged from the darkness and the
cypresses swayed in the early morning breeze. Kleidemos remained at length beside the tomb, his head bowed. He suddenly realized that there was an inscription on her burial stone, half hidden by
the thick coat of moss that had grown there. He took out his sword and scraped away the moss; the inscription read:

Kleidemos called out to the Helot, who tied the ass and hurried promptly over.

‘Who dictated that inscription?’ he asked in a quiet voice, indicating the sculpted stone.

The Helot stopped to consider the writing, then said, ‘Sir, I have been assigned to your service, because for many years I farmed the land of your father Aristarkhos, may he be honoured.
The elders called upon me to build this tomb, along with several companions. I can’t read those written symbols, but if I remember well, only the first four lines were carved into the stone.
I’m certain of it. If you don’t believe me, you can question my fellow workers or consult the archives of the Council, where there must be a copy of this inscription, since it was
carved at public expense.’

‘Are you absolutely sure of what you’re saying?’ urged Kleidemos.

‘I’ve told you the truth, sir. But you can verify it yourself without going to too much trouble.’

‘I thank you,’ he replied. ‘Go on ahead to the house; take my baggage with you. I’ll soon join you.’ As the servant was leaving, Kleidemos observed the inscription
closely: it was obvious that the last three lines had been added. The hand was different and the first four lines were well centred on the slab, while the others continued so low that they nearly
touched the bottom edge of the stone. There was no need to question the other workers. But who could have added those words? And what was the gift they referred to? There seemed to be a message
there, perhaps an important one. He had to discover for whom those words were intended, and what their significance was.

The Helot was in the stable, arranging food and shelter for the ass. He walked towards the house. The oak door creaked open with difficulty on its rusted hinges. The interior was the picture of
desolation: the ceiling of the atrium was draped with spider webs and a thick layer of dust lay everywhere. Large rats scurried away in haste at Kleidemos’ approach. In their niches, the
Kleomenid heroes too were coated with dust and cobwebs. He moved into the other rooms, and saw what must have been his parents’ bed chamber. All that was left of the great bed was the frame
of solid oak; the mattress and covers had been shredded by the mice for their nests. He heard the sound of footsteps in the atrium: the servant had come to ask for instructions.