The Queen of Sparta (32 page)

CHAPTER 41

THE LAST OF THE MESSENIANS

The road to Mt. Ithome

Messene – South-western Peloponnesus

Late summer, 477
BC

The sun was shining in all its glory over Messene. It was a beautiful day. But Sherzada’s mind was elsewhere. He was travelling in disguise so as not to arouse Spartan suspicions; pretending to be a merchant from Italy who had managed to get himself lost.

And as it turned out, the Spartans seemed to have no interest in foreigners who were careless enough to lose their way. Instead, all the soldiers he met seemed to be focusing on the Helots. Security was being tightened everywhere. Something was indeed afoot. Rumours were circulating that the Spartans had sent out not one but several Crypteia squads against the Helots, backed up, as Sherzada was witnessing, by their regular army. The large number of Spartan military patrols Sherzada came across were ample evidence of this. One story suggested that one of the Crypteia squads may even have killed its prey. But no one could confirm this report. The result was fear on the face of every Helot he came across. Fear that it might be their turn next.

But communicating with the Helots proved more difficult. While he had thought through how to evade Spartan suspicions, Sherzada had not really worked out how he would convince the Helots to lead him to Euryanax. Before leaving Italy for Athens, Sherzada had received a letter from Euro. This letter had no mention of Sparta, or Greek politics, or even Gorgo. It only mentioned one woman – a Helot woman – he had fallen in love with in the region of Mount Ithome in Messene. A woman whose beauty was reminiscent of that of Helen of Troy. Her name was Melissa.

If anyone knew where Euryanax could be, it was Melissa. But he had no idea where to start. He did not even know what she looked like, except that she was beautiful. Worse, the prevailing atmosphere of panic meant the Helots were too scared to talk to him. The moment he mentioned Melissa’s name, they made polite excuses and hurried away. But the fact that nearly every Helot avoided answering his questions about Melissa only convinced Sherzada that he was on the right track.

As the sun set, he could see the town of Ithome above him, located on the top of a plateau-like mountain; bearing all the hallmarks of a natural fortress. Sherzada thought he would climb up in the morning and try his luck there. So that night he made himself a modest meal of dried meat and fruits and lay in the open beneath the stars to sleep, covered by his cloak.

When he woke, Sherzada could not see anything. He was blindfolded. His hands tied behind his back. As he struggled to break loose, he felt two pairs of hands forcibly raise him up until he sat uncomfortably on his knees. He could hear men walking around him. They were speaking the rough dialect of the Helots. These were not the meek ones that he had become used to meeting in Sparta. These were the defiant, belligerent kind, at least from their talk. More alarming for him, they were discussing not whether they should kill him; but how. Each of his captors, in turn, came up with a more creative way of transporting him to his Maker. And each time a suggestion was made, there was laughter.

Then a loud female voice ordered them to be quiet. “Do you want the entire Spartan army to descend on this cave, fools?”

There was silence.

The woman told the men to uncover Sherzada’s blindfold. The light from the mouth of the cave blinded him for a moment. But soon his eyes became used to the environment. Though its mouth was very narrow, the cave itself was quite spacious. There were two separate passages extending inside the cave, through one of which the woman seemed to have appeared. All he could make out was her silhouette. Sherzada counted seven men in the cave, all armed. The two nearest were pointing their weapons at him.

“My name is Melissa of the clan Aristomenidae,” the woman said. “I hear you have been asking about me.”

As she came closer, Sherzada could make out her features, her long flowing brown hair. Melissa reminded him of Gorgo, though she was taller, stronger in build, and sterner of tongue. She indeed had the beauty of Helen of Troy, just as Euro had described her. And after all, Helen was a Spartan of Achaean blood, not Dorian.

Melissa spoke Greek as someone who had received good education, unlike most of Helots who spoke a more vulgar vernacular.

As Sherzada’s eyes became more attuned to the light in the cave, he found it more habitable than it had first appeared. There was even a table with some stools in the corner. Melissa pulled one over and sat down on it. “Tell me, why have you been looking for me?”

“I am looking for Euryanax,” he said. “I am here to help him.”

“Why should he need your help? How do I know you have not been sent here to kill him?” When Sherzada told her that he was his friend, she simply responded. “What greater treachery can there be than having a man die at the hands of a man he considers his friend?”

“Perhaps he does not need my help,” said Sherzada, “or perhaps he does. I just need to understand what is going on. I am a foreigner who befriended him and his family. I helped to save Pausanias, as you might be aware, and I will gladly do the same for Euryanax.”

“He is one of us now. We are his family.

“My Lord, you have not been a Helot. You have no idea of the conditions we live under every day. At times, death is far more merciful than living the life of a Helot. And as you well know, any Spartan can legally kill a Helot with impunity. To add insult to injury, the Ephors also issue a directive to us to observe the law – Spartan Law; which basically means that we are supposed to behave ourselves even as our throats are being slit.

“Many of us are regularly beaten, and our women often raped, for no reason other than the Spartans reminding us that they are our masters. And they send the Crypteia to silence the few who dare to speak out or just to kill a random Helot only to remind us that they can.

“We are called ‘Helots’ because we are
Haliskomenoi
– ‘captured people’. Our ancestors, once citizens of proud Greek kingdoms, were captured and enslaved by these Dorian barbarians who now call themselves Spartans. Their ancestors invaded our lands some three hundred years ago. First they seized the Laconian kingdom and its capital, Sparta. They arrogated to themselves the names of those who once dwelt in the city of Helen and Menelaus, enslaving the original Spartans – who became the first Helots. Greedy and still hungry for more land, these self-proclaimed Spartans invaded this land, Messene, and after a bitter struggle brought it under their control.

“I am of royal blood. My mother’s family claim descent from Helen and Menelaus, but on my father’s side I am the direct descendant of Aristomenes, the last great King of Messene, who lived a hundred and fifty years ago. He led the last ‘Great Uprising’ of the Messenians, and came very near to threatening Sparta itself. But eventually, the Spartans put down the ‘Uprising’ and re-established the Helot system with a vengeance. Measures like the Crypteia were introduced to ensure we never rose up again. And the Spartans became even more brutal than before.

“My Lord,” she continued, “I am the last of Aristomenes’ line. My father was killed by the Crypteia last year, in spite of Euryanax’s best efforts to protect him. I had a younger brother whom I loved dearly. He died at Thermopylae along with other Helots, fighting proudly for the defence of Greece. Euryanax told me that you too fought at that battle. You must have witnessed the courage of the Messenians?”

“The Messenians fought with exceptional valour and they died with honour as warriors; our equals,” Sherzada said, and Melissa’s face swelled with the same pride as he had seen in Gorgo’s when he told her about Spartan courage at Thermopylae.

“My Lord, had Messenians been free I would have been their queen. Had the Spartans not reduced us to slavery, Euryanax would have been king in Sparta. Imagine, a united kingdom of Sparta and Messene with free citizens and abundant resources. The Spartans would not have had to rule by terror at home and by bullying other nations abroad. But these Spartans do not see it that way. The time has come to take our future, our destiny, into our own hands. We have to take back our freedom. Nobody is going to give it us, certainly not these Spartans.”

“Why not try something different?” he asked. “Why not seek the help of those in Sparta who sympathize with you?”

Melissa laughed. “Who is mad enough to sympathize with the Helots in Sparta? The one Spartan king who did so, King Cleomenes, was declared insane and then murdered.

“The only Queen who dared to support us is his daughter Gorgo. And now she is under attack just because she dared to try to ban the wholesale slaughter of Helots. The Spartans are reverting to their old mindset. They are punishing even those Helots who fought for Sparta, massacring a hundred Helot veterans of Plataea at the Temple of Poseidon at Taenarus. What power and influence Gorgo had is all but lost, in large part due to her sympathies for us.

“If any Spartan could have made a difference for us Helots, it is Euryanax, but he too is hounded. No man has been more loyal to Sparta than him. This was the man who led Spartan armies to glory, and now the same Spartans are after his blood. Is this the Sparta you want us to make our peace with?”

“All I am saying is that leading this rag-tag group of young men against the Spartans would be suicide. Even if all the Helots of Laconia and Messene rise up – though I doubt all of them will – they will be torn apart by the Spartan army, the best in Greece.”

Melissa smiled. “You think I don’t know that, my lord? I am very much aware of what we are up against. We have to take our time to plan, to train our young men, and then wait. Even if it takes a few more years, we shall wait for the perfect opportunity. And we shall rise up and bring down our oppressors. The Spartans have ruled over us for at least two hundred years, we can wait a few more before we make our bid for freedom.”

“Are you so sure that you can bring the greatest military power in Greece to its knees?” asked Sherzada. “Are you certain that you can count on the support of every Helot in Messene or Laconia? I am sorry, but I don’t think so. Not even with time.”

“So, my Lord, what would you have us do? Call the Spartans over and ask them to slaughter every single Helot man, woman and child? Because, I am sure, this would be a far better alternative than being in Spartan servitude forever. No, my Lord, there is no language which the Spartans understand other than force, and it is only through violence that we can free ourselves.”

Just then a familiar voice rang out from inside the cave. “We will have to bide our time and find the right moment to strike.”

Though the figure that approached him was Euro, Sherzada could not have recognized him. His once long flowing hair was no more, his once magnificent beard had been replaced by a short stubble. He was dressed in the humble skins of a Helot – though the club in his hand gave an impression of a veritable Heracles.

Euro smiled as he came closer. “I think my disguise is working. This afternoon you passed right in front of me.”

“Careful, my friend. Tempting fate is one thing I have learnt to avoid.”

“And how do you explain your present predicament?” he laughed, pointing at the rope that tied Sherzada’s hands.

“Bad planning,” Sherzada admitted, with an embarrassed grimace.

Euro saw to Sherzada’s binding, allowing him to stretch and move in comfort. Then his voice became grave. “My friend, I once fought for freedom and I am going to fight for it again. But not as a Spartan. My fate is now bound with that of Melissa and her people. I will use all my knowledge and skill to prepare these lads, and many, many more like them in Messene, as well as Laconia, for our ultimate conflict with Sparta. I have been a general of Sparta and I know better than anyone how the Spartans fight.

“Forget about me,” he added. “Go to Gorgo. She needs you now more than ever.”

Sherzada wanted to know more, but Euro hushed him.

He heard Melissa whisper into her husband’s ear, “We simply cannot allow our guest to walk out of this cave. He might alert the Spartans, even unintentionally, about our hiding place …”

“… Don’t worry, Melissa,” said Euro. “I know what to do with our friend.”

The last thing Sherzada saw was Euro’s club coming down on him and then everything went dark.

CHAPTER 42

THE MEASURE OF A MAN

Outside Sparta

Late summer, 477
BC

Sherzada’s head was still hurting a week later. He was getting tired of his Greek friends hitting him over the head as a means of getting him out of trouble. He was sure there were other ways.

He had woken a day and half later – perhaps he had been drugged as well – in a boat bound for the northern Peloponnesian city-state of Hermione. Everybody in the boat thought he had been drunk. This was Euro’s way of getting him out of Messene undetected.

Once in Hermione, sure enough Pausanias’ faithful Helots were waiting for him. They had come from Colophon, bringing Pleistonax and Cleomenes. As Sherzada had promised, he would take the infants to their relatives in Sparta.

But before he left Hermione, he ran into Lucius Cincinnatus, the Roman commander whom he had left in Athens to observe their shipbuilding. He was wearing only a tunic, but Sherzada recognized him from his shaved head and his perfect physique. Cincinnatus told him the Athenians had sold one of their triremes – their warships – to Rome and he had been asked to take the new ship home. When Sherzada asked him how his ship was getting on, given that neither he nor his crew had any prior maritime experience, he shrugged and rreplied, “It hasn’t sunk yet.”

Cincinnatus still doubted whether there was an enthusiasm back home for a navy. Romans tended to be land-lubbers, he said. But he thought it was a novel idea worth trying out. If he did not become the commander of a nascent Roman navy, Cincinnatus could always go back and work on his farm. Either was infinitely more exciting than spending long hours listening to boring speeches in the Senate, which he was now required to do as a newly enrolled Senator.

Cincinnatus told Sherzada that he was using the voyage home to train the crew. And they needed plenty of it. So he was taking his time, deliberating slowing his progress so that the men could become proficient as sailors and marines.

When Sherzada explained he was going to Sparta to help Queen Gorgo, Cincinnatus reminded him that he still held the privileges of a Roman ambassador, one of which was that Roman forces were obliged to come to his assistance should he need it. Since the next stop on their itinerary would be the Spartan coast, Cincinnatus said he was heading for a small island near Cythera where he could continue to train his men. He would remain there for a while should Sherzada need him.

Before he left, Sherzada asked him the one question that had always bothered him about Lucius Quinctius Cincinnatus. “Why do they call you
Cincinnatus
– ‘curly’?” he asked. “I have never seen your head unshaven. Is your hair really curly?”

Cincinnatus laughed. “No my friend, it is in fact straight. The name was given to one of my ancestors for whatever reason and it stuck. Now every generation of his male descendants is condemned to carry it. In all likelihood it was a nickname – probably an ironic one. Do you remember old Caius Julius back in Rome? His family’s nickname is Caesar – ‘the hairy one’ – and he is bald.”

They both laughed.

Later, Sherzada bought horses for himself and a cart with an overhead covering to protect the infants from the hot sun and carry their male Helot escort and the two nurses. But just as the group approached Sparta, the Helots insisted on completing the journey by foot. They feared Spartan retribution for Helots daring to ride on carts, no matter how humble, while ordinary Spartans traveled on foot.

So on the northern outskirts of Sparta, Sherzada disposed of the cart and they continued their journey on foot, while the infants cooperated by falling asleep. Sherzada took turns with the nurses carrying the infants. They headed straight for the Royal Compound of the Agiadae just inside the northern city limits.

Entering the compound, he saw a large gathering in its beautiful garden. Most of the men were, however, not dressed in the Spartan manner. Their cloaks were much shorter, and brighter, and their armour very ornate. However, it was their elaborately plumed helmets that made Sherzada smirk. He had not seen more theatrical military outfits.

In the center stood a scrawny little man wearing a bronze breastplate that seemed a size too large for him. Though the woman he was addressing had her back to Sherzada, he knew it was Gorgo.

Gorgo was wearing a worn-out chiton dress of coarse material with a dark shawl. Her hair was un-brushed, somehow giving the impression that she had just got out of bed. Sherzada contrasted this with the last time he had seen her – the day he had left Sparta – when she had looked radiant in bright colours and expensive jewelry. He felt this had something to do with her guest.

The scrawny man was talking on and on, “… You Spartans are proud of your military prowess, but we Syracusans are second to none. I have led our armies to victory against powerful foes. I defeated an army of 300,000 Carthiginians at Himera. I crushed hordes of those treacherous Sikels at the base of Mount Etna. I destroyed the combined navies of Croton, Lucania and the Bruttium, and …”

Stifling a huge yawn, Gorgo cut him off. “Forgive me, Prince Hiero, but from what I have heard, there were less than even 30,000 Carthiginians at the battle of Himera and you had at least twice that number of troops on your side. And the hordes of Sikels you crushed were only a few hundred hapless peasants who were inexperienced in combat. And as for destroying the combined fleets of Croton, Lucania and Bruttium, I have it on good authority that their total number did not exceed twenty warships compared to your two hundred. Impressive victories indeed, my Lord!”

Hiero turned red. “Lady Gorgo, think carefully before mocking me. My brother Gelon is childless and on his death-bed. It is not long before I will become master of the most populous of all Greek states. My lady, you are still young and beautiful, but that will not last forever. I offer unparalleled wealth and power. After all, you will be marrying the most powerful of Greek leaders and also the bravest. A real man! You would be a fool, madam, not to accept my proposal.”

“My Lord,” she said, “I have tasted power and found it bitter. I have had wealth but it could not bring me happiness. And as for what makes a man, it is not power; it is not wealth; it is not destroying armies or sinking fleets; it is not even that thing between your legs. Do you know, my Lord, what is the true measure of a man?”

She walked a few steps forward, her head still lost in thought, waiting for his reply. When he did not speak, she suddenly turned and asked, “Tell me, Highness, have you drunk the waters of the mighty Indus? Have you walked along the banks of the tempestuous Tiber? Have you gazed across the wondrous Nile? Were you at Thermopylae, my Prince, fighting among the heroes? Were you at Plataea deciding the fate of Greece? Were you at Fidenae with the Romans overcoming an adversary three times their size? Are you a leader who values wisdom over power? Are you a warrior who prefers peace to war? Are you a man of passion, my Lord? Are you a man obsessed? Do you have that hunger for adventure? Do you have that thirst for knowledge? Have you travelled to distant lands seeking nothing but the Truth? Tell me, Prince Hiero, have you ever thought of others more than for yourself? Do you know what it is like to love without condition? If not, then by what other measure can you truly call yourself a man?”

Hiero of Syracuse turned around, red-faced, and walked away without a word, taking his flamboyantly dressed soldiers with him.

As Gorgo gossiped with her ladies-in-waiting, baby Cleomenes chose that very moment to wake. The howling cries of the infant betrayed Sherzada’s hiding place at the edge of the garden.

She came round to investigate and seeing Sherzada with a babe in his arms, her eyes burned with rage.

“Whose baby is that?” demanded Gorgo of the little bundle he held in his arms.

“It’s not what you think,” he smiled as he stepped forward, soothing Cleomenes.

Pleistonax began to howl equally loudly.

“That’s what they all say,” she responded, clearly bemused. “There are two of them?”

“Queen Gorgo,” said Sherzada, “meet Prince Cleomenes, son of Pausanias and the lady Cleonice, and this is his older brother Pleistonax.”

“Cleomenes!” Gorgo gasped, taking the infant into her arms, and bending to kiss the wailing Pleistonax. “Pleistonax … almost like Pleistarchus … Pleistarchus will be thrilled to see his little cousins. We must go to him now. He has been ill.”

Sherzada followed Gorgo as she walked holding baby Cleomenes tightly and smiling at him, while he cradled Pleistonax, the Helots in tow.

As they approached Gorgo’s apartment, Sherzada saw Pleistarchus come out. He had changed much in the last two years, older and taller than the little boy he had last seen. But he was looking very pale and weak. Still, Pleistarchus welcomed Sherzada with a broad smile. His face lit up as he saw the infants.

Gorgo turned to give the infants to their nurses so they could take them to the home of Pausanias’ younger brother, Nicomedes, who would be their guardian from thenceforth. As she did so, her son collapsed on the ground.

Gorgo cried out. Sherzada picked up the lad and took him back to their apartment. As Sherzada was gently lowering him on to his bed, he smelled Pleistarchus’ breath.

Gorgo managed to smile at last. “I am so glad you came. I have a feeling this will get better now …” As she looked at the worried expression on Sherzada’s face, her smile disappeared. “…What’s wrong?”

“Pleistarchus has been poisoned.”