Spartan
Authors: Valerio Massimo Manfredi
F
OR
G
IULIA AND
F
ABIO
PART ONE
My guest, it is difficult for man to stave off what the gods have willed, and this is the worst of human pains: foreseeing many things and being powerless to change any of
them.
Herodotus IX, 16, 4–5
MOUNT TAYGETUS
H
IS HEART FULL OF BITTERNESS
, the great Aristarkhos sat watching his son Kleidemos sleep quietly within the paternal shield that served as his cradle.
Close by, in a little bed suspended by four ropes from the ceiling beam, slept his older brother Brithos. The silence that enveloped the ancient house of the Kleomenids was suddenly broken by the
rustling of the oaks in the nearby forest. A long, deep sigh of the wind.
Sparta, the invincible, was shrouded in darkness; only the fire that burned on the acropolis shot red flares into the black clouds of the sky. Aristarkhos shivered and pushed aside the cloth
covering on the window, staring into the sleeping countryside beyond.
It was time to do what had to be done; the gods had hidden the moon and darkened the earth. The clouds in the sky were swollen with tears.
He took his cloak from the hook on the wall and threw it onto his shoulders, then bent over his tiny son. He lifted him up and slowly drew him close to his chest as the little one’s wet
nurse suddenly stirred in her sleep.
Aristarkhos stood uncertainly for a moment, hoping for something that would force him to put off this tremendous act. Then, reassured by the woman’s deep breathing, he braced himself and
left the room by the atrium, dimly lit by an earthenware oil lamp. A gust of cold wind invaded the courtyard, nearly extinguishing the weak flame. As he turned to close the heavy oaken door behind
him, he saw his wife Ismene standing there like a mysterious divinity evoked by the night, pale, her eyes shining. A mortal anguish was painted on her face; her mouth, taut as a wound, seemed to
contain an inhuman suffering. Aristarkhos felt his blood freeze within his veins, and his legs, sturdy as pillars, turned to straw.
‘It was not for us . . .’ he murmured with a cracked voice, ‘it wasn’t for us that we generated him. It has to be tonight. I’ll never find the courage
again.’
Ismene’s hand reached towards the bundled child and her feverish eyes sought her husband’s. The little one woke up and began to cry. Aristarkhos lunged out of the door, escaping into
the countryside. Ismene, poised on the threshold, watched the man flee into the night, listened to the faint wail of her child . . . tiny Kleidemos, stricken by the gods while still in her womb.
Born a cripple and condemned to death by the terrible laws of Sparta.
She closed the door and slowly walked to the centre of the atrium, pausing to consider the images of the gods to whom she had always brought generous offerings before the child was born and to
whom she had continued to pray, over these long months, to instil strength into that stiff little foot. In vain.
She sat at the hearth in the centre of the huge, bare room and unwound her long, black braids, pulling her flowing tresses over her shoulders and breasts. Gathering up the ashes at the base of
the great copper tripod, she spread them over her head. By the tremulous light of the oil lamp, the statues of the gods and the Kleomenid heroes stared at her, their immutable smiles carved into
cypress wood. Ismene soiled her beautiful hair with ashes and slowly gouged her face with her fingernails as her heart turned to ice.
*
Aristarkhos fled across the wind-battered fields, his arms clutching the small bundle close to his chest. His cape whipped around him, animated by Boreas’ powerful breath.
He trudged up the mountain, struggling to open a path through the thick undergrowth of blackberry bushes and shrubs. Sudden flashes of lightning cast frightening shapes onto the ground. The gods of
Sparta were far away in that bitter moment; Aristarkhos had to proceed alone among the dark spectres of the night, among the evil creatures of the forest who lie in wait for the traveller and drag
up nightmares from the bowels of the earth.
Freeing himself from the grasp of a large bush, Aristarkhos found the trail and stopped a moment to catch his breath. The little one cried no longer, hoarse from his long wailing. Aristarkhos
felt only the convulsive movements of tiny limbs within the bundle, like those of a puppy enclosed in a sack, waiting to be thrown into the river.
The warrior lifted his glance to the threatening clouds that filled the sky. He murmured an ancient oath under his breath, and then started off along the steep path as the first heavy drops of
rain fell with dull thuds against the dust. Past the clearing, the bushes surrounded him again, the branches and the thorns clawing at his defenceless face as he held the bundle against his
chest.
The rain, dense and heavy now, penetrated even the blackberry bushes, and the ground became spongy and slippery. Aristarkhos fell onto his knees. He was soiled by the mud and the dead, rotten
leaves and cut by the sharp stones that jutted up along the steep and narrow footpath. Calling up the last of his strength, he reached the first of the great mountain’s wooded summits, and
entered an oak grove that rose in the middle of a clearing of thick, low cornel and broom.
The rain pelted Aristarkhos, but he continued his slow, unfaltering walk on the soaked, pungent moss, his hair pasted to his forehead and his clothing drenched. He stopped before a gigantic holm
oak, older than the ages. Aristarkhos fell to his knees between the roots and deposited the small bundle within the huge hollow trunk. He paused a moment, grimly biting his lower lip, watching the
small flailing arms of his son.
Water streamed down Aristarkhos’ back, but his mouth was dry, his tongue stuck to his palate like a piece of leather. That which he had come to do was done. His son’s destiny was now
in the lap of the gods. The time had come to silence forever the voice of his blood. Rising to his feet slowly, with immense effort, as if carrying the mountain upon his shoulders, he returned the
way he had come.
The fury of the elements seemed to have spent itself as Aristarkhos descended among Mount Taygetus’ abrupt crags. A light fog rose, spreading between the trees, covering the dripping
bushes, skimming the footpaths and the clearings. The wind continued in stiff breezes, shaking the water from the foliage. Aristarkhos shuddered with every breath; his muscles cramped violently in
the cold. Stumbling down the mountain, he left the forest behind him and reached the plain. He stopped again, for just a moment, and directed a last sombre glance at the mountain peak.
The glimmering waters of the Eurotas river ran through the damp fields before him, illuminated by the moon, whose frigid rays cut a broad gash between the clouds. As he began to cross the
river’s wooden bridge he heard a sudden noise on his left. Aristarkhos turned sharply: the faint moonlight revealed a horseman, his face hidden by a helmet, sitting erect on his steaming
mount. The emblem of the royal guard flashed for an instant on his burnished shield.
Sparta . . . Sparta already knew! At a sharp blow of the rider’s heels, the horse reared and began its gallop, disappearing with the wind, far off in the fields.
*
‘Krios, Krios! In the name of the gods, won’t you stop for a moment? Come back here, you rascal!’ The small mutt paid no heed; trotting decisively down the
footpath, he splashed through the puddles as the old shepherd followed him, swearing, with his uncertain step. The little dog headed resolutely towards the trunk of a colossal holm oak, howling and
wagging his tail.
‘Damn you!’ grumbled the old man. ‘You’ll never be a shepherd’s dog . . . what is it this time? A porcupine, that’s what it’ll be, or a baby blackbird .
. . no, it’s too early in the season for the blackbirds. By Zeus and Hercules, could it be a bear cub? Krios, are you set on my ruin, you little beast? His mother will show up and kill us
both.’ The old man finally reached the point where Krios had stopped. He stooped to pick up the dog and turn back, but suddenly stopped still, bent double. ‘It’s no bear cub,
Krios,’ he muttered, calming the dog with a rough caress, ‘it’s a cub born of man. He is not even a year old!’
‘Let’s see,’ he continued, unwrapping the bundle, but when he saw the little one, numb from the cold, barely moving, a dark, grave expression passed over his face.
‘They’ve abandoned you. Yes, you were left to die . . . with that leg you’d never have become a warrior. And now . . . what shall we do now, Krios?’ he said scratching his
beard. ‘Shall we abandon him, too? No. No, Krios, the Helots don’t behave this way, we Helots do not abandon children. We’ll take him with us,’ he decided, gathering up the
bundle from the hollow of the tree. ‘And you’ll see that we can save him. If he hasn’t died yet, it means that he is strong. Let’s go back now, we’ve left the flock
unguarded.’
The old man set off towards the house as the dog joined a flock of sheep at pasture nearby. He pushed open the door of the cottage and entered. ‘Look what I’ve found for you,
daughter,’ he said, turning to a woman past her youth who was intent on curdling a great vessel of milk. The woman, with expert movements, lifted the curd with a cloth and hung it from a hook
on the ceiling beam. Drying her hands in her apron, she curiously drew closer to the old man, who had laid the bundle on a bench and was carefully unwrapping it. ‘Look, I’ve just found
him in the hollow of a big holm oak . . . it’s one of them. They must have abandoned him last night. Look at his little foot, see? He’s not moving it. That’s why they did it. You
know, when one of them is born with some defect, they just leave him to the wolves! But Krios found him and I want to keep him.’
The woman, without speaking, went to fill a bladder with milk, tying one side to create a swelling and pricking it with a pin. She brought it to the lips of the little one, who began to suck
slowly at the warm liquid, and then more avidly.
‘Ah, I said he was strong,’ exclaimed the old man with satisfaction. ‘We’ll make a good shepherd out of him. He’ll live longer than if he’d remained among
them. Doesn’t great Achilles tell Odysseus in the Underworld that it is better to be a humble shepherd in the land of sun and life than a king among the shadows of the dead?’
The woman stared at him, her grey eyes veiled with a deep sadness. ‘Even if the gods have stricken his leg, he will always remain a Spartan. He is the son and the grandson of warriors. He
will never be one of us. But if you wish, I will feed him and help him grow.’
‘Of course I want you to! We are poor and fate has made us servants, but we can give him the life that was taken from him. And he will help us in our work; I’m getting old and you
have to do almost everything yourself. You were denied the pleasure of marrying and having children, my daughter. This little one needs you, and he can bring you the joy of being a
mother.’
‘But look at his leg!’ said the woman, shaking her head. ‘Perhaps he’ll never be able to walk, and our masters will have given us only another burden to bear. Is this
what you want?’
‘By Hercules! The little one will walk and he will be stronger and more clever than the other boys. Don’t you know that misfortune makes men’s limbs more vigorous, their eyes
more piercing, their minds quicker? You know what must be done, my daughter, you take care of him and never let him want for fresh milk. Steal the master’s honey if you can, without letting
him know. Old Krathippos is further gone than I am, and all his son thinks about is the young wife he sees once a week when he can leave the barracks. None of the family cares any more about the
fields or the flocks. They’ll never notice another mouth to feed.’