Spartan (8 page)

Pelias watched the boy with tear-filled eyes, then turned towards his daughter, whose gaze still betrayed the fear she felt. ‘Go put on another dress,’ he said. ‘There’s
not much left of the one you have on. Then come back here and don’t leave his side for an instant. I must go into town to our master’s now. The feast will take place in two days and
I’ve still got quite a lot to do.’ He disappeared, closing the door behind him and leaving the house in darkness.

Talos, exhausted, had fallen into a deep sleep. He moaned weakly, turning in his bed. Every small movement made Antinea start, and she moved closer to Talos to better see his face in the dim
light. She then returned to one of the benches, and sat there with her hands folded in her lap. When Pelias returned it was almost dark.

‘How is he?’ he asked in a low voice, entering.

‘Better, I think. He’s sleeping peacefully and his fever seems lower. But just look at how swollen he is!’ replied the girl. Pelias opened the window a crack, and a little of
the glow of dusk entered the room. His face tightened in sadness as he saw Talos’ distended features, the boy’s chest covered in bruises, his skinned and bloodied arms. The old
man’s hands tightened into fists. ‘Damn them,’ he muttered between his teeth. ‘Damn them! And to think that they’re the offspring of the most noble families of the
city: Brithos, son of Aristarkhos; Aghias, son of Antimakhos; Philarkhos, son of Leukhippos . . .’

‘How did you find out their names?’ asked Antinea, shocked.

‘From our friends who serve in their families. Some of those damnable bastards came back in bad shape and the truth has leaked out, even if they did try to make the others believe that it
was some accident that happened during their military drills. That boy Talos, he hit hard! Even though he was alone! It’s strange, I never would have believed it; he is strong, but how could
he have knocked those young warriors to the ground? All those boys do is train and wrestle and fence all day.’

‘I don’t know, father. It was amazing. You should have seen how he used that staff,’ said the girl, indicating the cornel crook leaning against a corner of the room. ‘He
swung it around so incredibly fast, and with so much strength! If they hadn’t all jumped on him together, they couldn’t have beaten him like they did.’

Pelias was very thoughtful for a moment, staring at the shiny cornel rod, then he gripped it with his hands. ‘Old Kritolaos,’ he murmured, ‘no one else . . .’

‘What did you say?’ asked the girl.

‘Nothing, nothing my daughter. I was only talking to myself.’ He put the staff back in its place, then sat down next to the bed where Talos lay sleeping. ‘Now the boy is in
real danger, though. They could kill him at any time.’

‘No!’ cried out Antinea.

‘Don’t you realize what he’s done? Not only has he dared to rebel, but he even managed to strike down some of the Spartans. They don’t need that much of a reason to kill
a Helot. Fortunately, he hasn’t been recognized yet, but it won’t take them long to find out who he is. They saw that he was lame.’

Antinea twisted her hands, and anxiously watched Talos’ face. ‘We have to help him escape immediately, hide him somewhere!’

‘And where, my daughter? A fugitive Helot can’t get very far, and in any case, where could we possibly hide him? Any family who protected him would be exterminated as soon as the
Spartans found them out.’

‘Then, there’s no hope?’

‘Calm down, daughter, we’ll find a solution. For the time being he’s safe. No one saw the two of you come here. At least, I hope not. And then, there is a thread of
hope.’

‘What do you mean?’ blurted out Antinea.

‘You told me that Talos was on the ground, and that one of the boys had raised his javelin to run him through, isn’t that so?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘But he didn’t do it.’

‘That’s true, but I’d thrown myself on him then, I covered him with my body. The Spartans don’t kill women.’

‘I don’t think that’s it. If that boy with the javelin hesitated, there could have been a reason. A reason that escapes us at the moment, but one that was good enough to stay
his hand. In any case, if he had wanted, he would have had his companions drag you off, and he could have easily killed Talos. So if he didn’t do it, it was of his own will. And if he
didn’t kill him in that moment, when he must have been foaming with anger, it’s improbable that he would kill later in cold blood.’

‘But what about the others?’

‘From your description, the boy must have been Brithos, the son of noble Aristarkhos, the last offspring of the Kleomenids. If he doesn’t want it done, you can be sure that the
others won’t do anything. For now, in any case, we have time. Everyone in the city is busy preparing the initiation ceremony for the new warriors, which will be taking place the day after
tomorrow at the temple of Artemis Orthia.’

Old Pelias drew near to Talos, observing his face more closely. He touched the boy’s hair. ‘Poor boy,’ he murmured. ‘Courageous as a lion. He doesn’t deserve to
die; not even twenty years old yet!’ He turned to his daughter: ‘Go, prepare something to eat, so there’ll be something when he wakes up.’

Antinea suddenly remembered that she hadn’t eaten all day, and went to prepare a modest dinner. She called her father when it was ready, but the old man seemingly had to force himself to
eat. They went to bed early, drained by the day’s events.

On his bed, Talos was still deep in a slumber filled with frightening nightmares. His throat was parched and his temples pounded. He saw, in rapid succession, Brithos’ face lit up in
anger, the sinister glimmer of the javelin tip suspended like a death sentence over his head, the faces of the others spinning around him in a frightening vortex. Their mocking laughter echoed
louder and louder in his head. ‘It doesn’t count, Aghias, he’s lame! He’s lame! He’s lame!’ repeated the screaming voices, ten times, a hundred times, louder and
louder.

Talos woke up, crying out with anguish in the middle of the night, his forehead dripping with sweat, his heart beating madly. Before him, softly illuminated by the moonlight, was Antinea. Her
hair looked like silver, diffused like a light cloud around the soft oval of her face. Her short dress was a little girl’s gown that didn’t reach her knees. She placed the lamp that she
was holding on a bench and sat on the edge of the bed. Talos, caught between sleeping and waking, couldn’t seem to come to his senses. Antinea reached her small rough hand up to his forehead
and began slowly to dry his sweat with the edge of the woollen cover, in silence.

Talos watched her with a trembling heart, but that cool hand, on his chest now, seemed to call him back from his nightmare. Antinea’s face became slowly clearer in the near darkness. Her
eyes – full of anxiety and infinite sweetness – caressed his saddened spirit, his shaken mind. He saw her face come closer, slowly, he felt her hair brush his chest like a warm wave,
her lips rested on his thirsty mouth. No longer was the odour of blood filling his nostrils. Talos, the cripple, smelled the sweet scent of hay, of ripe grain, of wildflowers and dreamed in his
heart of Antinea’s golden skin, the perfume of her breast . . . for the first time.

*

As the cocks’ cries spread over the countryside, Antinea left the stable carrying a heavy jug of fresh milk.

Her father Pelias had already gone off towards the city. He was bringing the first fruits of the fields to his master’s house to decorate his table on the great feast day. Two large
sackfuls hung from the saddle of his ass. The girl leaned backwards against the door to open it, entered the cottage and placed the jug on the ground. She filled a cup with steaming milk; it was
time to wake Talos so that he could eat. She quietly entered the room where he slept. A ray of light brightened the room, revealing the straw pallet still stained with blood: empty! Antinea felt
suddenly faint. Realizing that he couldn’t have got far, she rushed outside.

She ran towards the wood near the stream, but there was no trace of him. She turned towards the mountain, but decided immediately that Talos couldn’t have gone that way; he would never
return to his family in that state. There was only one possible explanation: Talos must have gone to Sparta! The one place that both she and her father had forbidden him to go at any cost.

She returned wearily to the farm, weeping by the time she reached the door. She sat on a stool for a while in thought, then suddenly understood what she must do. Antinea stood up and put on a
long cloak which fell from her head to the ground. She started off for the city with her quick step, noting the crowds that were gathering along the streets and in the squares.

Antinea’s intuition had not failed her: Talos had been roaming about on his unsteady legs for some time in the city, hooded to hide his face from the throngs filling the streets that led
to the temple of Artemis Orthia. The great sacrifice and initiation ceremony for the new warriors was about to begin.

Many Perioeci – people of the middle caste: farmers and shopkeepers – had come with their families from the outlying fields, and there were also quite a few Helots. Some were
certainly there in the service of their masters; others, attracted out of curiosity, had come to witness the cruel initiation rites. All at once, from the end of the square in front of the temple,
a roll of drums could be heard along with the sound of pipes. A sound Talos remembered well – he had heard it for the first time when he descended the mountain to the banks of the Eurotas to
watch the returning warriors.

The crowd opened to allow the court to pass. First came the priests wrapped in white robes, their heads bound with long woollen bands that fell to their shoulders. Next came the heralds and the
temple servants. A short distance behind them followed the divisions of equals, warriors dressed in crimson cloaks and tunics covered with polished armour, their helmets crowned with high horsehair
crests.

Talos, half hidden behind a column, felt a shiver run down his spine as he watched them march in perfect order with their measured step. He saw himself as a boy, on the edge of that dusty road,
before a warrior who fixed him with sorrowful eyes. The equals began to wheel, arranging their ranks into four rows all around the square. They stopped, still as statues, shield against shield,
hands gripping long shining spears. At the end of the column came the royal guard with their scarlet crests rippling in the wind, their great shields decorated with the insignia of the city’s
most illustrious families. On one of those shields, Talos saw a dragon with shining scales of copper. The boy’s heartbeat quickened; he tried in vain to search for the face of that warrior,
hidden behind the helmet’s mask. Behind them, the two kings: Cleomenes on his black stallion and Leotychidas in the saddle of a Corinthian sorrel, their armour richly adorned and their great
mantles falling to cover the hindquarters of their steeds. Finally came the supervisors of the barracks and, behind them, the youths who aspired to become
eirenes
, men and warriors who would
defend the power and honour of their city.

Taking their places, the two kings signalled to the heralds, who sounded the trumpets for the beginning of the sacrifice. The steaming blood of the slaughtered animals dripped on the pavement
and a pungent odour spread through the square as their entrails were placed to burn on the fires of the altar. The great moment had arrived: the doors of the temple were flung open. The five ephors
emerged and went to take their places among the elders. The first of these raised his right hand, and the heralds called out the names of three young candidates: Kresilas, son of Eumenes;
Kleandridas, son of Eupites; and Brithos, son of Aristarkhos.

Talos started; although physically exhausted, he felt a shock coursing through his limbs. He realized that he had come just for this. That boy Brithos, whom he had never seen before, had been
about to kill him. Maybe he would kill him yet. Talos had to know the outcome of this test.

The priests pronounced the ritual formulas and the servants stepped forward to strip the boys of their clothing and hold their arms fast. The whipping began to the tune of the pipes. The
spectators were struck silent. The boys stiffened at the first lashes, all of the muscles of their bodies contracting in a single, wrenching spasm. Then, exhausted, they abandoned themselves to the
pain, shaking uncontrollably as each blow fell.

Talos moved up among the crowd, grinding his teeth in pain from the jabs and shoves of the spectators. He finally reached the first row, lined up to watch the frightful rite. His eyes rested
mercilessly on Brithos’ tormented body. Brithos continued to stand upright, whereas the other two boys called with him to the test had begun to bend their knees. The cool, strange music of
the pipes went on, measured by the cracking of the whips as the boys’ bare backs were flogged.

Kresilas was the first to fall. The servants immediately ran to help him up and to carry him out of the sacred enclosure. Next was Kleandridas. Although they all passed the test, each tried to
hold out as long as possible to demonstrate his superiority over pain. Brithos alone remained. He ground his teeth, his hair was plastered to his forehead, his chest drenched with sweat. His eyes
were glassy, but he remained standing.

Talos lowered his eyes to the ground in disgust. When he lifted them it was to see Brithos crumble to his knees and then to his hands, his head swinging between his shoulders. Talos felt an
acrid joy invade his spirit, poisoned by the desire for revenge. The servants came towards Brithos to lift him, but he motioned them away.

He slowly lifted his head and chest to look at the crowd before him. Talos lowered his hood, uncovering his battered face. Brithos blinked several times to clear away the tears and the sweat
from his eyes, and recognized the boy before him. They glared at each other for long moments with eyes full of ire, of challenge . . . of admiration.

*

The bloody rite went on until all the youths had passed the initiation trial. Their shoulders were then covered with the crimson cape of the
eirenes
, and each new warrior
received a shield adorned with the great ‘lambda’ which stood for Lakedaimon, the ancient name of Sparta.