The End of Sparta: A Novel (43 page)

“Careful, clumsy fools.” Gastêr came up and slapped them down. “Sit with your knees crossed and don’t move. Do you want to beach us before we leave the dock? A ship’s not a dance floor. Hoa. Look over there at who’s coming. He’s late. If that’s your big man, O Alkidama. We have to put that slave—or is he a freedman now?—somewhere. I was hoping we’d swish out before he came.”

No one had heard the bellowing of the approaching stranger. Now Chiôn was upon them, at the beach waving a torch with his good right hand, and then running up the plank out of breath. He seemed clumsy without two good arms, more so than Gastêr, and he stumbled as he approached, but he had a huge iron sword strapped to his back and a travel sack hanging from the leather belt. Finally he coughed out his story on deck—and more than his usual word or two. “I came, Alkidama. On the third day as promised from last we met at Thespiai. I made my Marathon, running the whole way. All the way, from the army camp on Kithairon, all the way and with Mêlon’s money. But Nêto—she’s been taken from the helots in the south, or so that Nikôn says. Into the hands of the Spartans, into the jail of Kuniskos with a ransom on her head. For Nêto, I ran. I saw Mêlon, outside Plataia. He let me take his money I pulled out of his well. Here, take it.” Chiôn threw down the sack of silver and collapsed on the deck, his cloak wet and his breathing heavy. “Oar. Where’s an oar? Give me a butt pad. I’ll row. Where’s the captain? I will watch him as promised.”

“Right here, one arm, right here. So you decided to come after all.” Gastêr laughed at the idea of a clumsy crippled freedman pulling, and instead turned to his drummer and pointed to the sea. “Hey you,
Keleuste
, hit your drum. A beat, one not too fast. I’ll take us right up the middle of the gulf and then out westward.” Then Gastêr broke off a half-loaf and handed it to Chiôn. “How do you like your one arm, brand face?”

“Like this.” Chiôn jumped up, grabbed Gastêr’s chin beard, and pulled the enormous man down to the deck. He would have torn off his scraggly whiskers had not Alkidamas waved him off. Chiôn had already tired of Gastēr’s brag and let him up slowly with a warning, “I came to watch you, fat man. Trick us, or talk like tricking us, and I’ll throw your head overboard. I would rather run to Messenia, so if I have to bleed you, it’s better for me anyway.”

Gastêr gave Chiôn ten feet of room for the rest of the voyage and turned his back to him when he yelled. And with that, the
Theôris
at last went out into the black gulf to the sound of beating and fell heavy into the surf, bound due west out of the great gulf of Korinthos toward the sea of Sikily five hundred stadia away. For all the weight of the hoplites and the short crew and the leaky hull, this
Sacred Mission
made good headway over the black waves as the rowers began to chant and sing, happy returnees now on their last leg to Holy Messenia. Like the wings of some old bird of the sea that limbers up when it leaves the shore, the oars of the
Theôris
dipped and swung outward as the boat picked up speed through the gulf.

Gastêr was calling out over the sea’s roar to Alkidamas. “I like this ship, Alkidama, like it a lot. Built with good seasoned fir from Makedon. Better than what they slap together these days. It has Phormio’s smell all over it. Let’s sell it in Koronê and split the coins. Or don’t you want to give me a little extra for getting it here in one piece?”

Alkidamas ignored him, deep in thinking how best to find Nêto and deal with Gorgos, if Nikôn were right that he was the kidnapper.

All the oars were the same length, but only half the helots hit the waves in unison—even though they pulled from different banks. Too many of these beginners fouled their wood. The oars echoed as they hit each other. “So we row, Chiôn,” Alkidamas patted the freedman as the two sat up. Then he went himself to a top bench below the outrigging and began to pull in front of the slave. “You came as promised, as you always do, Chiôn. As for this new report, don’t worry, we will save our Nêto yet—if as you think your Nikôn is true in his messages, and Nêto still lives and if she can be bartered for in the house of our Kuniskos at Ithômê, wherever that is. A helot like Nikôn does not run a thousand stadia into Boiotia for nothing.”

Chiôn nodded. He had not told Mêlon at the camp the prior night that he had met Alkidamas in Thespiai on the day Mêlon left for Thebes, and had been promised passage on his ship. That this Nikôn showed up on Helikon just before Chiôn’s planned meet-up with Alkidamas made it even easier to go south. Indeed, Damô had told him to rescue Nêto and to hurry with money to Aigosthena, and to draw on the wisdom of Alkidamas. Chiôn fell into his new pulling. He had given the horse to Myron, and covered a hundred stadia on foot over the mountain from Plataia to the shore, all that late day and night, and reached the ship well before dawn as promised. But he could not sleep. Not yet, not with the chance that Nikôn spoke truly, and that Nêto was caught in the hands of Gorgos. So he was still yanking on the oar with his good right arm until the sun came out, when all could see Helikon on their right and off in the distance Parnassos and the waters not far from Kirrha, as the
Theôris
continued westward out of the gulf. He pulled for Nêto.

This rowing was far easier than pressing the lever of the olive-crushing stone on Helikon. These waves gave way to his strength in a way the stone smasher never did. Even with the sunrise, the hoplites were asleep on the outrigging, but just one or two were waking to the gentle surge of the ship. Chiôn could see tall forests close by on the northern shore of the gulf—good places for a man to live in the wild over there, with plenty to kill to eat. Soon the winter morning sun finally came out full, cold and bright. The sea calmed. Gastêr turned into the light wind a little more and in caution began to hug the coast of Boiotia. “A good night and a calmer morning, and already halfway out. We soon make a sharp turn out of the gulf at the mouth and catch the tail wind to Messenia.”

Then something on the horizon caught his eye, and he turned to his tiller. “Hard to the coast! Turn full into Boreas. Take in the wind at our faces. Head right to Boiotia. Look at them, damned Korinthians. Six at least. Not pirates. But warships, faster than ours—and in Spartan pay. They’re pulling our way from all sides. Look, look at them, all good long ships with full crews. Right, right, we go right. Head for the north shore. Cut into the wind. Outrun them. To holy Delphi. Pray to Apollo. Row to the peaks of Parnassos. Ten hecatombs to Poseidon for our safety.”

The
Theôris
made a hard turn and had a lead of twenty lengths, and maybe five more. Ephoros in his trance about the great march kept on writing on the outrigging. But despite a sudden haze on the water and the morning glare, Chiôn already could see on the shore Phokians watching their race. The six triremes behind were closing the distance. Would they catch the
Theôris
before shore? Gastêr went up and down the top deck, grabbed the backs of the necks of the hoplites, and pushed them onto the top benches right below. He took their breastplates and shields and began tossing them over the side.

“Row, fools. You down there, hand them up spare oars. All of you row. Row you boy-butt Ephoros and white-head Alkidamas. Row
proktoi
or you won’t have any scrolls left to write on. Give me an oar and I’ll balance out your slave. Between Chiôn and me, we one-arms will have two arms still, a good left and right each.” The
epibatai
climbed down among the
thranitai
and pulled with the rest. Ever so slowly the
Theôris
surged toward land on the northern shore of the gulf. There was a mob already forming at Kirrha, the port of Delphi, all waving for the helot ship to speed up. About a hundred or so rushed into the surf. These were Phokians who hated the men of the Peloponnesos somewhat more than they hated the Thebans—and they had been paid to harbor Boiotian ships if they came to shore in need. Some bent on one knee with shields and spears, waiting for the Korinthians to beach. Bowmen took aim to pick off the Korinthians if they neared the
Theôris
. Suddenly the pursuers veered off, about three stadia from shore.

The crowd waved in the
Theôris
that slid onto the shore. The helots climbed out and dragged the boat out of the water. They stacked their oars against the keel. Gastêr had them carry their food up the path to the crowd that swarmed them, hawking dry cloaks and for a few drachmas offering them wood for campfires. “Look.
Ide, philoi mou, ide,
” Gastêr yelled as he turned back to the sea. Another four triremes were joining the six, even as the friendly shore crowd of gawkers swelled and more Phokians came up in arms. Ten enemy ships were circling well out of bowshot, crisscrossing the rising early-morning whitecaps to keep the
Theôris
beached and off the gulf, as they relayed in and out from the bay far away at Perachora.

Phrynê had sent Lichas the time and route of Alkidamas. And in turn Lichas had sent the Korinthians money. In return the Korinthian captains promised to keep ships from the northern shore from leaving the gulf. When the wind died, those on the shore could hear the taunts of the enemy rowers over the morning surf. “Cowards. Wide-butts, come out to fight. We’ll kill you for sport. We kill you still.” Gastêr laughed and yelled back to the trireme that darted parallel to the coast. “Whoa. Maybe so. But we’re dry and on ground. You Korinthians. You can stay out there until you freeze. Drink your bilge.”

Then he turned to Alkidamas. “Well, man, we made it halfway, almost. Though I bet we could have hiked as fast on land as we made by the oars. This may be the end of our voyage, if these damned Korinthians decide to patrol in turn, five or so at sea, five or so replaced by fresh ships from over there to the south on the Peloponnesos. For now, we stay put here. We eat—until our Poseidon gives us a winter storm that sinks them. Remember I get paid whether you walk or ride the waves the rest of the way.”

Alkidamas tried to reply over the roar of the surf. “Yes, safe for now—but trapped and still far from Ithômê.”

A Free Messenia

The two women had better sense than to board a winter trireme when Alkidamas had talked grandly of one day taking a boatload of free helots into Messenia to craft a constitution. Instead, months earlier, when Gastêr was still mending the
Theôris
, Erinna and Nêto had crossed the Isthmos as easily as the philosopher and the historian had later not even made it out of the gulf.

But once inside Spartan-held Messenia, Nêto saw that she should have listened to her hide-clad Erinna, who had known the woods and the mind of those like Kuniskos. For all Nêto’s talk of helots and Messenia and the visions of Nikôn, it turned out she understood very little about life in the south, or indeed life outside the protection of the farm of the Malgidai—and nothing about how to live in the wilds of Ithômê. The priestesses of Artemis had offered their precinct to Nêto; but she too often was forced to sleep in the light rains and snow of the forests, given the constant Spartan patrols that crisscrossed Messenia on orders of Lord Kuniskos. It seemed odd to Nêto that the Athenian Erinna, with no trace of Messenian in her speech, might have turned out to be the better friend to the revolt. Or not so odd, since the poetess had lived up on the mountains of Parnes and Hymettos and knew more of the wilds, how to live on the red berries, skin the rabbit, and drink the cleaner brook water, than did even the helots themselves—and how to put an arrow in a mountain thief and yet be five stadia away in the brush by the time his gang found the dying corpse.

When Nikôn’s party finally had climbed over the summit of Taygetos and crossed the borders in the late summer, Erinna went straight up to the highlands along the long spine of Ithômê. Her new spot was not far from the holy ground of wild Artemis Laphria and its priestesses of the sanctuary in their hunting garb. Erinna sang out to Nêto that the two were finally in holy Messenia and at last insurgents in the war against the Spartans that they so long had advocated from a distance. “Stay here where you are safe, Nêto. We are not like foolish men. They blindly walk by the food that can feed us—greens and herbs and berries under their noses. They stalk the bear and deer and are blind as bats to the rabbits and birds that fall into my snares. Up here learn to eat meat again. Pythagoras will forgive the eating of meat for the greater good of Messenia. Take in the peaks around Ithômê. Relearn your Doric tongue. Then, and only then, go down to raid the Spartans below. We cannot yet meet their hoplites in battle, and must kill them at night or through ambushes in the woods—where a stealthy woman can fare better than these loud helot men.”

But Nêto was driven and would have none of it. “I walked a thousand stadia to fight, Erinna. Not paw the backsides and fondle the
titthoi
of your girls. There’s not a
krypt
that can outrun me. Ask Nikôn who knows these helot-killing Spartan patrols. We will go in packs and swarm the Spartans, even on the daylight roads if need be.”

“But Spartan hoplites, Nêto, still control the lowlands, far better men than your friend’s ragtag tribe of insurgents. Better to organize up here until all the Messenians have armor and a good general to storm the fort of Kuniskos—otherwise you will end up either tossed into the Kaiadas or nailed up on one of Kuniskos’s poles.” With that Erinna turned and headed to the far side of Ithômê with Nikôn, while Nêto descended to the sanctuary of Artemis below to meet the priestesses.

At the small hamlet of Aitos, there in the woods Erinna set to organizing her school—to teach the orphaned helot girls the rhetoric of Isokrates and the way of Pythagoras, and for relish the poetry of her dear Sappho and the Boiotian Korinna, and as a treat Pindar as well. She would take her rhapsodists up to Olympia and then down to Pylos and thereby learn the news of Antikrates and his new henchman Kuniskos. If Alkidamas were to bring in his Athenian-raised helots to teach the liberated Messenians of good government, she would do better still and ensure that they had tragedy and lyric and epic poetry as well. Erinna’s new Messenê would not merely be Proxenos’s walled citadel forever safe from Sparta, but a polis of the Muses as well—a new Athens that would ascend in the Peloponnesos as the old one in Attika faded away.