Spartan (5 page)

The moment of his final test approached; the test that for Talos represented a kind of initiation, his passage into manhood. He was excited and enthusiastic about his constantly growing prowess,
but at night, stretched out on his straw pallet, he often remained awake thinking. It was hard to understand what the old man was aiming for with this continuous and even brutal drilling. He had
taught Talos to use his staff as well as the bow. And Talos had learned to bend the cornel crook to his will, while exploiting its formidable power. Certainly, defending the flock from thieves and
from wild animals was a valid reason for wielding such weapons; but that couldn’t explain everything. Talos continued to puzzle over this problem without coming to an answer. Also, he was
very worried about Kritolaos’ rapid decline. The old man was stooped over, his legs had become very unsteady. Sometimes the light in his tired gaze seemed to be going out.

T
HE DAY THAT
K
RITOLAOS
had chosen for the final test arrived: clear but very windy.

The old man and the boy woke up very early and quickly reached the high spring. Talos threw off his cloak and washed himself in the chill spring water. At Kritolaos’ signal, gripping the
bow, he put the sheepskin quiver over his shoulder and walked forward about thirty paces. The old man stood near a young cornel tree, straight and slender. He took its topmost branch and curved it
downward so that its tip nearly touched the ground. He turned to Talos.

‘Careful!’ he shouted. ‘When I let go of the branch, I’ll count to three, and you let fly. All right?’

‘Yes,’ replied Talos, reaching for the quiver. Kritolaos had made the test as difficult as possible: the boy had to hit a small, rapidly moving target, calculating the speed and
direction of the wind. Talos looked up at the leaves of the trees and again at the target, which seemed incredibly small: a twig at this distance! He chose a long, rather heavy arrow, and slowly
put himself into position to shoot.

‘Here we go!’ shouted Kritolaos, releasing the slender branch and moving quickly aside. The tree whistled like a whip, swaying rapidly. Talos held his breath. He followed the target’s
movement for a second, gripping the bow lightly with his left hand. He shot; the heavy arrow, perfectly balanced, flew through the air with a muffled roar. It tore through the tree’s bark and
ended up in a nearby field.

‘I failed, damn it!’ raged Talos, running towards the still-moving target.

‘By Hercules, my boy, you hit it! You got it, I tell you!’ The old man marvelled, still watching the tree. ‘Great Zeus, from thirty paces, in movement, and with this
wind.’ He turned towards the breathless boy. ‘You got it, understand? What did you expect, to nail it straight through the middle? Talos, do you know what this means? In a few months .
. . you’ve done this just in a few months!’

The old shepherd shook with emotion, his knees trembled. It was evident that he had anxiously awaited this moment.

‘Wait, help me to sit down, my boy. My knees won’t hold me up. Come here, sit next to me. There, good. And now listen to me, boy: you will become a great archer, as great as Ajax
Oileus, like Ulysses—’

Talos laughed heartily. ‘Don’t get ahead of yourself, grandfather! Don’t you think that toothless mouth of yours is opened too wide? It was just luck!’

‘Impertinent little bastard!’ exclaimed Kritolaos, his eyes rolling upwards. ‘I’ll break this staff on your rump. You’ll learn to respect your elders!’

Talos tumbled sideways to escape the stick that the old man jokingly threatened him with, then jumped to his feet and ran towards the forest. He called to his dog, ‘Here, Krios. Run! Come
on, old thing, catch me!’

The animal flung himself after its young master, wagging its tail and barking. It was a game they had played many times. He hadn’t yet caught up to the boy when Talos stopped short: behind
a leafy beech tree stump stood a man, unmoving, wrapped in a heavy cloak of dark wool, his face half covered by a hood. He paused a moment, staring at the boy. Then he snatched up a bundle of twigs
and hurried away along the path. Meanwhile Kritolaos, panting, had reached the boy. Obviously disturbed, he gripped Talos’ arm.

‘What’s the matter, grandfather, haven’t you ever seen a wayfarer?’

Kritolaos continued to stare in consternation at the hooded figure rapidly moving away. The old man put the bow to Talos. ‘Kill him,’ he commanded.

‘Have you lost your mind, grandfather? Why should I kill him? I don’t even know who he is, he hasn’t hurt me or anything.’

‘He saw you using the bow. He’s not one of us, he’s a Spartan. You must kill him. Now, while there’s still time.’ The old man’s voice betrayed his fear.

‘No, I can’t,’ Talos replied calmly. ‘If he attacked me, maybe I could shoot him, but not like this; he’s unarmed, and has his back turned to me.’

Kritolaos didn’t speak another word that whole day, despite Talos’ efforts to cheer him up. He seemed terribly discouraged, as if all of his hopes, his very reason for living, had
been rubbed out in a single moment. The following days were full of anxiety for the old man: he kept a close watch even at pasture, and hardly dared to let his young charge practise with the bow.
When he did allow it, he sought out distant, out-of-the-way places: he acted as though they were being watched, spied upon; every noise startled him, made his eyes brim with tears. Talos became
very worried.

Days passed, months. Springtime was almost over, and nothing untoward had happened. Kritolaos seemed reassured, but his health was quickly declining. Some days he didn’t even go out to
pasture. He sat on his stool for long hours; men from nearby farms going to work or to pasture with their sheep stopped to talk to him. They all seemed strangely troubled, as if they knew that
Kritolaos’ end was at hand. In the evenings, Talos returned alone with the flock and little Krios. After finishing his tasks, he would sit at his grandfather’s feet and talk with him
for hours. Talos reported his progress with the bow, which he still carried with him. Sometimes he was gone for several days at a time, when the pasture was far away, and slept in a crude hut made
of branches, twigs and leaves.

One day, as springtime was ending, Talos was on the slopes of Mount Taygetus, not too far from his home. Kritolaos hadn’t felt well the night before, and Talos didn’t want to be too
far off. His mother could easily reach him if she needed to, or send someone after him.

It was almost noon, and hot. Talos sat under a tree, looking towards the plain where the silver olive trees glimmered. Behind him was a long stretch of road that came from the north and appeared
deserted. Talos had heard from friends of his who were servants in the city that important things were about to happen. The sailors of Gytheum, who brought the fish to market, had seen an immense
fleet coming from the east during the night: hundreds and hundreds of ships with long bronze rostra ploughing through the waves. A great king had sent them from his empire beyond the sea, to wage
war on Athens.

Talos had only very vague ideas of what went on away from his mountain. He had heard Kritolaos speak of the other nations of Greece, but he had never seen anyone except the people of Taygetus
and the warriors of the city. Talos wondered why that great king would want to declare war on such a small city as Athens. Why would he come with all those ships, if what the sailors of Gytheum
said were true? He thought of how much he’d like to see a ship. He’d heard that there were some so big that all the people of a whole village could fit inside, but that couldn’t
be true. Anyway, there was something strange going on: squads of warriors were departing almost every day, both along the north road and the sea road. Many of the Helot shepherds and farmers were
afraid that a great war was about to break out; if so, they would have to accompany the warriors to serve them and carry their weapons.

As Talos was absorbed in his thoughts, his gaze lost over the plain, it seemed to him that he could see something moving far off, on the road that came from the north. Slightly bigger than a
black speck in a cloud of dust. He strained to see: yes, someone was arriving on the road from Argos. Someone running alone under the sun in the direction of Sparta.

Talos stood up, anxious to see better, and began to make his way down the side of the mountain towards a small spring that flowed near the road. The man seemed to be carrying nothing but a small
bundle, tied behind his shoulders: the short chiton that came just to his groin and the dagger hanging from his belt meant that the runner was a warrior.

He was quite close now and Talos could see him very well. When he reached the spring, the man stopped. He was covered with dust and sweat and breathing strangely, blowing air loudly out of his
mouth, and swelling up his huge torso rhythmically. With the water he washed his face, his arms, his legs. Then, removing his chiton, he gradually washed the rest of his body, gasping at the
freezing mountain water.

Talos smiled. ‘Cold, isn’t it?’

‘Ah, yes, boy, it’s cold but it’s good for me. It strengthens the muscles and awakens the energy in these weary limbs.’

The man, nearly naked, had an extraordinary build: thick arms, a wide chest, long, nervous legs. Talos looked at him closely: he had to be a warrior, but what country did he come from? He had a
curious, sing-song way of speaking, and a manner of doing things that inspired confidence. In fact, Talos was amazed at himself for having spoken so spontaneously to a man who was obviously a
warrior. The stranger got dressed again.

‘Is Sparta far from here?’ he asked.

‘Not very. If you keep running like you were just now, you’ll be there in no time. There, see: the city is behind that curve in the road, you can’t miss it. But what are you
going to do at Sparta? You’re not Spartan. You must come from far away,’ he added, ‘I’ve never heard anyone speak like you, not even the Messenian shepherds or the fishermen
who come to the market from Gytheum.’

‘So, then, you were watching me. Spying on me?’

‘Oh, no, I was just up there tending my sheep and I happened to see you running from such a long way. Won’t you tell me who you are and where you come from?’

‘Of course, boy, I’m Philippides of Athens, winner of the last Olympics. And you?’

‘I’m Talos,’ replied the boy gazing straight into the stranger’s eyes.

‘Just Talos?’

‘Talos the cripple.’

The stranger was struck silent for a moment. ‘What happened to your foot? Did you fall on the mountain?’

‘No,’ replied the boy calmly. ‘My grandfather Kritolaos says that the midwife who pulled me from my mother’s womb was too rough. But I’m wasting your time;
don’t you have to go?’

‘Yes, Talos, I should go, but if I don’t rest a bit, my heart will burst: I left my city three days ago at dawn.’

Talos looked at him, astonished. ‘That’s impossible! I know for sure that Athens is beyond the sea. You couldn’t have got here on foot!’

‘That’s just how I got here. Philippides doesn’t tell stories, boy. Yesterday before dawn I was at Argos.’

‘It’s not that I don’t believe you, but my grandfather Kritolaos told me that it takes nearly a week to get to Athens from here.’

‘Your grandfather Kritolaos must know a lot of things. Maybe he even knows who Philippides is,’ said the athlete, smiling.

‘I’m sure he must know your name. He spoke to me about the Olympics once. He told me about the valley where the athletes compete. The river that flows there has its source not far
from here, in our mountains. And so,’ he continued, ‘you’ve made it here in just three days. Your mission must be a very important one.’

‘It is. Not only for me, but for all of the Greeks,’ he said, suddenly serious, a shadow passing across his green eyes.

‘I think I know what it’s all about,’ said Talos. ‘The fishermen of Gytheum said that the King of the land of the rising sun has sent hundreds of ships full of soldiers
to plunder the islands.’

‘Not only the islands,’ said the athlete darkly. ‘They’ve already landed on the continent. They’re as thick as locusts, and they’ve set up camp on the beach,
just a little over two hundred stadia from Athens, at a place called Marathon. All of our warriors are down there, but they’ll never suffice to push back that multitude. At night their fires
are as numerous as the stars in the sky. The prows of their ships are as tall as towers. They have thousands of horses, servants, carts . . .’

‘You’ve come to ask for help from the Spartans, haven’t you? They will never agree to it; my grandfather Kritolaos says that the Spartans are awesome warriors, the best, but
they are dull-minded, and can’t see past their own noses. Besides, their city doesn’t have walls, you know. They’d never be willing to abandon it, or leave it unprotected.
That’s another stupidity: if they’d only build walls around the city, a few of them would do to protect it, and the warriors could go to meet any danger instead of waiting until it
reaches the banks of the Eurotas.’

‘You are very wise, Talos, for such a young boy, but I hope you won’t mind too much if your grandfather has made a mistake for once: about the stubbornness of the Spartans. They must
listen to me. If they allow us to be destroyed, it will be their turn tomorrow and there won’t be any Athens to help them.’

‘I know. It’s too bad that you don’t have to convince me. I’d be willing to fight at your side if I could. Your words are so straightforward and persuasive. Are all the
Athenians like you?’

The athlete smiled. ‘Ah, there are far better men than me.’

‘I don’t believe it,’ said Talos, shaking his head. ‘You won the Olympics.’

‘That’s true, my boy, but in my city it’s not only muscles that count. No, the mind is far more important, and our citizens always try to choose the wisest men to govern the
city, not the strongest.’

‘Do you mean that in your city the people choose who will govern them? Don’t you have kings?’

‘No, Talos. We did once, a long time ago, but not any longer.’

‘How strange your city must be!’