Spartan (24 page)

Kleidemos raised his eyes from the floor. ‘There are many things that I can’t understand and many others that I can’t yet even imagine. If what you say is true, tell me how I
can return to the woman who gave birth to me only to abandon me. And how I can abandon the woman who has no blood ties to me, yet saved me from death, nurtured me and loved me. Tell me how I can
leave the humble, unfortunate people who welcomed me as their own – even though I was the son of their enemy – and return to the city which enslaves them? The city that wanted me dead
just because I was lame. Do you believe that a man can be born twice? I was torn from the clutches of the Underworld. The man who saved me, Kritolaos, the wisest of all men, gave me my name –
Talos – so that I would never forget my misfortune. How can I begin to call myself Kleidemos now? I’ve never seen my mother, and my father is nothing more than a face, a look, the
dragon on the shield of the Kleomenids. And my brother Brithos . . . is no more than ashes now, ashes on the field of Plataea . . .’

Pausanias wiped his sweaty brow. ‘Please listen to what I have to say. I have no answer to any of your questions. But don’t judge us . . . yet. Many are the mysteries of a
man’s life, and his destiny is in the hands of the gods. But there is much that I can tell you which you do not know. Sparta is not cruel with her sons. But we must all yield to the law which
is greater than any one of us, even we who are kings. The mothers of Sparta know this well – the mothers who must watch their sons march towards death. And your father knew this well. When he
carried you up to Mount Taygetus, that night so long ago: a stormy night, an anguished night, gripping you to his chest. The weight of that gesture weighed on his heart for all the years he had
left to live. The blade which pierced his heart at the Thermopylae was no more sharp nor more cruel than the one that rent his spirit that night. A black veil descended over his eyes, and no one
ever saw joy in his face again. He was spared nothing: from the moment he learned that you were still alive, his torment only worsened. That night that Brithos went to the mountainside armed,
intent on killing you, his blood turned to ice. And yet he could not say a word. Burning tears that no one ever saw – not even your mother – gnawed away at him year after year in an
endless agony. He loved you until the end, grievously. He fell, disdaining his own life, spilling his blood in the burning dust. Suffering . . . for you. This was your father, the great Aristarkhos
– the Dragon.’

Kleidemos was looking the king straight in the eye now. He stood stock still, hands frozen on his thighs. Two large tears were the only indication of life on his face of grey stone. Pausanias
set down his cup on the table and his hands rose to his face. He fell silent as if listening to the drone of the cicadas, the confused buzz of voices outside the tent. When he spoke again his
metallic voice betrayed his emotion.

‘And your mother was treated no more kindly by fate . . . or by the malevolence of the gods. Her beauty faded early, destroyed by grief when you were torn from her arms. She lost her
husband, the man she had loved with all her soul since her maidenhood. She saw her son Brithos return alive from the Thermopylae after she had already given him up for dead. Only to lose him again,
when he disappeared after the suicide of his friend Aghias. And tomorrow she will learn that he was alive, when they deliver the urn containing his ashes. The women of Sparta know well that their
sons are born mortals, but their pain is no less for this. You are the only one left to her, although she has never dared hope that you would return.’

Kleidemos dried his eyes. ‘There’s another woman waiting for me in her little cottage on Mount Taygetus. The woman I have always called mother,’ he said in a flat voice.

‘I know,’ replied the king. ‘That woman is very dear to you. You will be able to see her whenever you like. Remember nonetheless that she has been much more fortunate than the
unhappy creature that gave birth to you. But this is not all you need to know. I realize that our laws seem merciless to you, but is the world outside any different? We must survive in a world that
has no pity for the vanquished. You were witness to the fury of the invaders yesterday. The body of King Leonidas was found decapitated and crucified at the Thermopylae. The same fate would have
been mine today had we lost.

‘Brithos’ sacrifice saved the lives of thousands of his comrades, young men like yourself whose mothers would have had to mourn for the rest of their days. You’ll tell me that
he was unjustly disgraced by those same comrades just one year ago, that they pushed him to the verge of suicide. But he vindicated himself and his name will be celebrated for centuries – a
name that you inherited with his last breath of life. Brithos now wanders in the reign of shadows and his spirit will find no peace until you have accepted the legacy of sacrifice and honour carved
on the Kleomenid shield. You have a great crossroads before you: one road leads to a quiet life, tranquil, but insignificant; the other will lead you to a difficult, turbulent existence, but offers
you the heritage of a race of heroes. Only you can choose. No one can assist you. The gods have led you here, to where you are now. Your destiny is marked and I don’t believe that you will
turn back.’

Pausanias fell silent. He then touched his sword to the shield hanging from the tent post. Several women came in, bringing water with them. They undressed the young man and washed him, as others
prepared a bed. Kleidemos let them massage his aching limbs and accepted a cup of warm broth. Then he lay down and fell into a deep sleep.

The king took a last long look at the boy and smiled to himself. He called one of the guards. ‘No one shall enter this tent or disturb the sleep of this man until I have returned,’
he ordered. ‘If he should awaken on his own, let him go where he likes. But follow him, without being seen, and keep me informed of his whereabouts.’

The guard took up his post. Shortly thereafter the king exited the tent, fully armed. He leapt on his horse and galloped towards the Persian camp, followed by a group from the royal guard. His
troops had been garrisoning the camp since the night before. The allied army commanders awaited him in the tent of the former Persian general.

‘Friends!’ exclaimed King Pausanias, raising a cup. ‘My friends, let us drink to Zeus our King and Hercules our Leader! They have granted us victory over the barbarians. I
salute the concord of all Greeks that has made this day so great and so memorable!’

A chorus of acclamations greeted his words, as the servants passed to fill the quickly emptied cups. But Pausanias had not finished. ‘My fellow officers,’ he began again,
‘allow me to say that these barbarians are truly mad! They already possess all these marvellous things, and yet they have suffered such great pains and taken on such a long journey to fight
over our wretched black broth!’

The guests laughed in appreciation and gave start to the banquet which lasted all that night. But that was the day that Pausanias was struck by the splendour of Persian riches and luxury and
began to be dissatisfied with the frugality of Sparta.

T
HE CLOUDS PASSED SLOWLY
across the sky, urged on by a light breeze. They sailed over the disc of the sun, hiding it as it sank towards the horizon and
cast long shadows on the plain. Kleidemos saw the peak of Mount Taygetus burst into golden flame. He’d been away for so long. He could almost hear the dogs barking, the bleating of the sheep
as they entered their fold on the high pasture. He thought of the tomb of Kritolaos, the wisest of men, covered with oak leaves. He saw himself as a child again, sitting on the banks of the Eurotas
with his flock, little Krios happily wagging his tail. And the woman whom he had always thought his mother; he imagined her sitting at the threshold of her little cottage on the mountain, sad and
alone, spinning wool with her callused fingers, staring at the horizon with her tiny, grey, hope-filled eyes.

The path that led up the mountain was just a few steps away when Kleidemos stopped, leaning on his spear. A horseman raced by at a gallop, raising a cloud of dust and disappearing as suddenly as
he had come.

The wind was still, but big black clouds had now piled into an enormous mass in the middle of the sky. They seemed to throb slowly, a living thing. Kleidemos was gazing up at them when a
lightning bolt flickered for an instant in the belly of the gigantic mass, which seemed to shudder. Then, as he watched, the cloud mass broke free of its form, stretching, twisting, writhing, to
form a shape there in the sky. A clear, unmistakable shape: the shape of a dragon.

Kleidemos heard the voice of Kritolaos in his mind, echoing words pronounced one distant night: ‘The gods send signs to men, sometimes . . .’

He turned, leaving the trail that led up the mountain behind him, his heart swollen with sadness. He continued on down the dusty road as if pushed by some invisible force, until he found himself
standing in front of the home of the Kleomenids, guarded by majestic oaks. The faint light of a lamp which filtered from under a window was the only sign of life in the big, austere house.

Kleidemos stopped, expecting to hear Melas barking, but no sound disturbed the utter silence. He started towards the centre of the courtyard but pulled back instantly, horrified: the hound lay
on the family altar, his throat cut. His white fangs were bared in a horrible grimace. The animal had been sacrificed to the shade of Brithos, and his fierce soul was now roaming the paths of Hades
in search of his master.

Kleidemos walked to the doorway, from which a black veil hung. He laid his hand there and the heavy door opened, creaking. He saw the great atrium, faintly illuminated. Sitting on a stool at its
centre was a woman dressed in black, her hands clasped in her lap. She looked up at him with blazing eyes, while her still body seemed stiffened by death itself. Kleidemos froze on the threshold as
if turned to stone by this apparition. He couldn’t take a step. The woman got to her feet, swaying, and moved towards him. She stretched out pale hands. ‘I’ve been waiting so
long,’ she said in a whisper. ‘My son, it’s taken you so long to come back to me . . .’

Kleidemos regarded her in silence.

‘I know,’ she said, ‘you don’t know how to answer, but you recognize me, don’t you?’ Her arms dropped to her sides.

‘I’m your mother. Ismene, bride of Aristarkhos, mother of Brithos . . .’

She turned her bewildered eyes to the sacred images of the Kleomenid heroes, blinded by dark strips of cloth. ‘Dead . . . they’re all dead. And you were dead, too, Kleidemos.’
The boy trembled as Ismene lifted her hand to touch his face. ‘But you’ve come back to your home, now,’ she said, pointing at the open door. ‘Twenty-two years . . .
twenty-two years have passed since I saw you for the last time at that very threshold, in your father’s arms.’

‘My father?’ murmured Kleidemos vacantly. ‘My father abandoned me to the wolves.’

Ismene fell to her knees. ‘No, no! No, my son, your father entrusted you . . . to the mercy of the gods. He sacrificed all of the lambs of his flock so that the gods would take pity. His
anguish had no rest, his torture no end. He had to choke back his tears. And when the pain was too much for him, he fled from this house, wrapped in his cloak. He fled to the wood . . . to the
mountain . . .’

Kleidemos looked towards the wall, where he saw a grey wool cape with a hood hanging from a nail. He shuddered. In his mind’s eye he could see that hooded man . . . up at the high spring,
on a windy afternoon: his father! Ismene’s broken voice brought him to his senses. ‘He offered his own life to the shades of his ancestors so that you might be spared. Oh son . . . my
son . . . none of us can ever disobey the laws of the city, and none of us knows any other way. Only this everlasting pain. Incessant pain, awaiting only death. And everlasting tears.’

Ismene moaned, hiding her face in her hands. Her curved back shook and her soft crying cut him like a blade in the deep silence of the house, moved him like a lullaby. Kleidemos felt a hot wave
encompass his heart, melting away the numbness that had overcome him. He bent over her, took off her veil and laid his hand on her grey head, caressing her hair softly. Ismene raised her red eyes
to his face.

‘Mother,’ he said with a tired smile, ‘mother, I’m back.’

Ismene grasped his arms, pulling herself laboriously to her feet. She gave him a long look of incredulous love.

‘Mother . . . it’s me. I’m back.’

Ismene clutched him to herself, whispering incomprehensible words into his ear. Kleidemos held her close and he could feel his mother’s heart beating against his chest, stronger and
wilder, like that of a sparrow that a boy squeezes too tightly in his hand. Her heart beat fast and then suddenly weakened until it stopped beating entirely. Ismene collapsed, lifeless, in her
son’s arms.

Kleidemos looked at her without believing. He lifted her and held her to his chest, walking towards the threshold. Legs planted wide, he raised her still body to the sky. A dull lament escaped
him, a confused whimper which became shrill and harsh until it exploded into a cry which rose, full of horror and despair, up to the cold distant stars. He howled like an animal being ripped apart
by a pack of ferocious wolves and his howl flew over the fields, over the city rooftops, to the banks of the Eurotas, reverberating on the harsh slopes of Mount Taygetus. It dashed against the
rocks and was lost in a thousand echoes, over the sea.

K
ING
P
AUSANIAS UNROLLED
a map onto the table. He weighed down the edges and raised his eyes towards Kleidemos, who was sitting
opposite him. ‘Come closer,’ he said. ‘I have to show you something.’ The youth stood and leaned over the table. ‘Look,’ said the king, pointing at a jagged line
on the right of the map. ‘This is Asia – the land of the rising sun. Or rather, this is the coast of Asia that faces our country. It then extends to the east for tens of thousands of
stadia, all the way to the river Ocean. But no one has ever been there, except for the men of the Great King, and we know very little about those distant lands. What you see here,’ he
continued, indicating little red circles along the coastline, ‘are the Asian cities inhabited by the Greeks: Aeolians, Ionians and Dorians. Each one of them is larger, more populous and
richer than Sparta. Our victories at Plataea and Mycale have liberated them from the dominion of the barbarians for now, but we cannot rule out another invasion. The Great King has never contacted
us or admitted his defeat in any way: do you realize what that means?’