Spartan (4 page)

‘Where are these words written? Who said them? How do you know?’ asked Talos, searching for the old man’s eyes, hidden in the shadows. ‘Who are you, really?’

‘One day you will come to know all of this. And that will be the last day of Kritolaos. Let us go now, the night is almost over and our work awaits us tomorrow.’ He strode towards
the cottage. Talos followed him, tightly holding the great horn bow, the bow of Aristodemus, King.

*

Talos lay on his straw pallet, wide awake in the dark; a thousand thoughts tumbled through his mind. His heart pounded like it had that day down there on the plain, when that
mysterious warrior had spoken to him. He sat up and stretched a hand towards the wall, reaching for the bow that Kritolaos had given him. He gripped it tight with two hands: it was polished and
cold as death.

Talos closed his eyes and listened to the furious beating of his heart, the hammering of his burning temples. He lay down again. His eyes, still closed, saw a city, fortified with powerful
ramparts, crowned with towers, built with gigantic boulders of grey stone on top of a desolate mountain. A city shrouded in a cloud of dust.

Suddenly a violent wind came up, clearing away the thick fog from the parched fields. Warriors appeared, the same he had seen on the plain. There were thousands of them, encased in gleaming
armour, their faces hidden by helmets. They advanced from all directions, encircling the seemingly deserted city. Springing out from behind rocks, bushes, holes in the ground like phantoms, they
were urged onward by the obsessive drumming that came from nowhere. As they advanced, their ranks became tighter, more compact. They fell into a march. Their shields, close one against the other,
became a wall of bronze. Like an enormous, monstrous pair of claws, they prepared to close their grip on the deserted city.

As the extraordinary circle closed, Talos felt his throat tightening so that he could not breathe. As much as he tried, he could not open his eyes or release his hold on the horn bow that burned
into his numb fingers.

Suddenly a frightening, fierce cry exploded like thunder from within the city. The walls were alive with a multitude of warriors, different from the others. They wore strange armour and carried
immense shields of oxhide. Their helmets, also of leather, did not cover their faces. Talos saw the faces of men, of young boys, of old men with white beards. From below, hundreds of ladders were
being placed against the walls, thousands of the enemy soldiers were climbing up from all directions, their weapons in their hands. In silence they scaled the city’s walls.

The crowd on the bastions suddenly parted and a gigantic warrior appeared on the highest tower. His burnished bronze armour completely covered his body. From his side hung an amber-hilted sword.
Talos felt his eyes dim and his heart slow to match the beating of the drum. He looked again towards the scene that seemed to be fading. The warrior held the lifeless body of a young woman, draped
in black. A black drape, a rose of blood on her breast, a cloud of blonde hair, beautiful . . . how he wanted to touch that hair, caress those delicate, pale lips . . . Talos, the cripple.

The drum sounded again, louder, always louder. The bronze warriors poured over the walls like a flooding river overflowing its banks. Their swords tore through the great shields of oxhide,
pierced the leather cuirasses. They advanced, endlessly, hundreds of them, towards the man still standing on the highest tower. The great warrior lay down the girl’s fragile body and lunged
into their midst, whirling his amber-hilted sword. Attacked from every direction, he disappeared and re-emerged like a bull among a pack of wolves.

Silence. Smoking ruins, demolished houses. Dead, all dead. A blanket of dust carried by a warm, suffocating wind covered the martyred bodies, the dismantled walls, the falling towers. A
solitary, motionless figure sat on a smoke-blackened mass. An old man, bent over, with his face hidden in his hands, hands full of tears. The white head lifted . . . a face devastated by pain . . .
the face of Kritolaos!

*

Kritolaos’ face, illuminated by a ray of sunlight, was above him. The old man was saying something, but Talos couldn’t hear him at all, as if his mind and his senses
were still prisoners of another world. Suddenly, the boy found himself sitting up on his straw pallet as Kritolaos said, ‘It’s time to get up, Talos. The sun has risen, we must bring
the flock to pasture. What’s wrong with you, boy? Didn’t you sleep well? Come on, the fresh air will do you good and the cold spring water will wake you up. Your mother’s already
poured milk into your bowl. Get dressed and come to eat,’ he added, leaving.

Talos shook himself. Still dazed, he held his head between his hands and looked slowly around him for the bow: nothing! The bow had disappeared! He searched under the pallet, among the
sheepskins that lay piled up in a corner of the room. Could it all have been a dream? he thought. No, impossible . . . but what, then? Dumbfounded, he moved aside the hanging mat that separated his
sleeping place from the rest of the house and went to sit before the bowl of milk that his mother had poured.

‘Where’s my grandfather, mother? I don’t see him.’

‘He’s gone out already,’ answered the woman. ‘He said he’d wait for you with the sheep at the high spring.’

Talos quickly downed his milk, put a piece of bread in his pack, took his staff, and hurried to the place his mother had indicated. The high spring flowed from the mountain not far away from
Talos’ cottage. The shepherds of Mount Taygetus used this name to distinguish it from another that spouted at the large clearing at the edge of the forest, where they usually brought the
animals to drink in the evening before closing them in their pens. Talos crossed the clearing quickly and entered the forest. He started along the high path and soon saw Kritolaos in the distance,
driving the flock along with the able help of little Krios.

‘Grandfather, listen, I—’

‘I know, you didn’t find the bow.’ The old man smiled and opened his cape. ‘Here it is, boy. In good hands, as you can see.’

‘By Zeus, grandfather! I could have died when I didn’t find it this morning. Why did you take it with you? And why didn’t you wait for me like the other mornings?’

‘I didn’t want you asking questions in front of your mother.’

‘So, she’s not to know about any of this?’

‘No, your mother knew well where I took you last night and what you saw, but she mustn’t know anything else. A woman’s heart can be easily troubled. Now follow me,’ he
said, starting up along the path again, covering the bow with his cape. They walked along together until the boy broke the silence.

‘Why did you take that bow, grandfather? Why do you keep it hidden?’

‘The first question is reasonable. The second is only silly, Talos.’

‘All right, the Helots are forbidden to carry weapons. This is a weapon.’

‘Let’s say, a very unusual weapon.’

‘Right, but will you at least answer the first question I asked you?’

‘Yes, son, you have a right to the answer,’ said Kritolaos, stopping in the middle of the path. Krios had already understood where they were headed, and stubbornly continued to drive
the sheep in the direction of the small grassy clearing near the high spring. ‘I want you to learn to handle this weapon with the same skill as the great Ulysses.’

‘But how could that ever be, grandfather? You are so old and I—’

‘You must only believe in yourself,’ reprimanded Kritolaos. ‘As for me, don’t think I’ve become this old doing nothing.’

They had reached the small grassy clearing where the flock was already grazing under Krios’ vigilant eye. Kritolaos looked around; his gaze searched the peaks of the surrounding hills to
assure himself that they were completely alone. He threw his cape to the ground and held out the bow to Talos.

‘So I’m too old, is that it?’ he asked with a smile. ‘Listen well, greenhorn,’ he continued, winking, ‘who taught the great Achilles to use his
weapons?’

‘Old Khiron, the centaur, if I’m not mistaken.’

‘That’s exactly right; and who taught the great Ulysses to use his bow?’

‘The father of his father in the forests of Epeiros.’

‘Good!’ laughed the old man, satisfied. ‘I thought that as your beard was sprouting, your mind was going soft. As you can see, it’s the old man’s experience that
allows an ignorant and presumptuous young one to become a man worthy of his name.’

Talos rubbed his chin; it seemed too much to call those sparse little hairs a beard. He gripped the bow firmly in both hands with a suddenly serious expression.

‘Not like that, by Hercules! That’s not the stick you use to push the goats into their pen. Pay attention: look here, this part covered with silver is the handgrip, which must be
grasped firmly in your left hand.’ The boy nodded, imitating what he was taught.

‘Very good,’ continued the old man. ‘With your right hand you must pull taut the cord that will shoot the arrow forward.’

‘But there is no cord here,’ protested the puzzled boy.

‘Of course not! If there were, this weapon wouldn’t be worth anything. The bowstring is attached only at the moment when you want to use the bow, and then must be taken off again. If
this weren’t done, the bow would become curved and lose all of its flexibility, and thus its power. Don’t worry, here’s the bowstring,’ he said, rummaging in his pack.
‘It’s made of corded gut. I’ve been preparing it myself for many weeks without your knowing.

‘Now we shall attach it to the bow. Watch carefully: you prop one end of the bow on the ground behind your left leg, being sure to keep it in a vertical position with your left hand. Like
this, you hook the cord to the ring at the bottom, and then attach the other end to the hook that’s jutting out on the top part of the bow.’

‘But it won’t reach!’

‘Of course it doesn’t reach. If it did, the bow wouldn’t have any force. It would be too flexible, and your arm wouldn’t be long enough to string it. To be able to hook
the cord, you have to curve the bow with all your strength, leaning your whole body onto the upper horn that you’re grasping with your left hand. At the same time, with your right you must
extend the end of the cord until you can slip it over the final ring, into the right hook. Simple, no?’

‘It’s easy for you to say, grandfather,’ replied the boy, panting as he tried to carry out Kritolaos’ instructions. ‘This thing is hard! It just won’t bend,
and then . . .’ continued Talos, unhappily abandoning his efforts, ‘and then, you mean to tell me it takes all this work just to fix the cord? Damn it, grandfather, if I really had to
defend myself against an enemy, as you say, he could easily cut me to pieces while I’m standing here like an idiot with this thing that won’t bend. I don’t think you should have
counted on me, old man. Maybe you’re like Khiron or the father of Laertes but I’m not the great Achilles, or brave Ulysses. I’m Talos, the cripple.’

‘When you’re finished feeling sorry for yourself,’ burst out Kritolaos, irritated, ‘and when you’ve stopped whimpering like a little girl, I’ll tell you some
more things you should know. To begin with, here’s one: stop thinking that everything can be learned easily and immediately. All difficult things require willpower, and learning to use this
bow is certainly not an easy task. It’s not muscles that are lacking, it’s your faith in yourself. Now let’s stop this small talk, take the bow and do as I’ve told
you!’

The tone of his voice was so commanding that Talos didn’t consider even the smallest objection. He swallowed the knot that he felt rising in his throat, and grasped the upper horn of the
bow with his left hand, pulling the cord with his right. He clenched his teeth, drawing on all his force. Painfully straining his muscles, he began to pull with a constant, continuous effort.

‘Yes, boy, like that, grip tight!’ Kritolaos instantly heard his own words echoing in his mind. He saw a small hand reaching up to squeeze his index finger from a rough cradle, the
distant light of a sunset that entered through a crack in the door, the long shadows. The image suddenly faded as he saw Talos’ face dripping with sweat, the expression of triumph in his
reddened eyes. He had conquered the great horn bow! Talos grasped the bow-stave in his left hand, and his right touched the string that vibrated with a low hum.

‘Is this what you meant, grandfather?’ Talos asked smiling. Kritolaos’ look was full of emotion and amazement.

‘You’ve strung the bow of Aristodemus,’ he said with a tremor in his voice. The boy looked at the gleaming weapon, then lifted his eyes serenely to his grandfather’s,
filled with tears.

‘The bow of Kritolaos,’ he murmured.

*

Many months had passed since the day Kritolaos had begun to teach Talos to use the bow. Every day, the old man had demanded increasingly intense training from the boy. The
incredible perseverance of the old master overcame even Talos’ occasional discouragement. By the end of autumn, when the first cold winds blew up from the mountains, the boy had become quite
agile. His arms, stretched by constant exercise, had become brawny and muscular. His physique was well developed; although he was just a little over sixteen, he seemed much more a man than a
boy.

Kritolaos, on the contrary, was in quick decline. It seemed that the energy that was blossoming in the boy’s limbs must have been draining from Kritolaos’ tired bones. The effort of
continuous concentration had rapidly exhausted the old man’s spirit. As the days passed he became increasingly fretful, hurried by his fear of not finishing the task he had begun. This very
fear seemed to feed the endless attention needed to direct and guide the boy, protected from prying eyes in some hidden valley or solitary clearing.

Talos’ exercises were progressively more difficult; Kritolaos had taught him to make arrows, to balance them perfectly, and to shoot with great precision and power. The bow itself, rigid
at first because it had not been handled for so long, had repeatedly been on the verge of breaking. Talos had greased it thousands of times and warmed it by the fire, so that it gradually became
more elastic.