The Wooden Walls of Thermopylae (12 page)

I suppose I should have kept quiet but was taken off guard and blurted out,

“Yes, but how did you know?”

He shook his head and laughed softly. He wasn’t laughing at me, it was almost affectionate.

“Why do you think you’re here, Mandrocles, that was your role. Why did you think I brought you on this trip? Last time in Sparta you tried to kill Miltiades’s other son and offended the Ephors.”

This time he was laughing at me, but he saw, I think, that I was hurt so added,

“But you performed your allotted role well, and who knows, there may be some further use for you.”

I didn’t want to answer; I still felt slighted. But then he gave me his gift.

“I have some advice for you. Listen and it will serve you well. Understand the individual and you can handle the crowd. Look inside the individual mind and you will find the levers that drive it. Know that and you know who to trust and when. You can predict them but only if you are genuinely interested in what you find.”

I sat glaring at him, but I was learning an important truth.

He concluded the lesson.

“Know what’s in men’s hearts, Mandrocles, and you control the Demos; and I know what’s in that boy’s heart. Cimon would only talk to you, and even then only in the right place.”

He was right, of course; men have to want to follow you.

As he got up and moved towards his sleeping place I heard him laughing at something he said under his breath. All I caught of it was,

“You like dolphins.”

Next day we would arrive at the Spartan port of Gytheion and anyone who hadn’t known that would have soon picked it up. As the sun rose we were joined by a flotilla of Spartan triremes that shadowed us all the way to the dock. It was clear we were expected. It was only then that the first stage of fear gripped us. The Spartan triremes blocked the harbour mouth behind us.

Lined up on the harbour mole, red cloaked and helmeted, was a phalanx of armed men.

Gytheion is cheerless and dispiriting so it sets the mood for visiting Sparta perfectly. There was no singing or gleeful anticipation as we moored the Athene Nike to her allocated position. The Spartan red cloaks on the quay affected not to have noticed our presence. But we’d more than noticed theirs, why were they here? Had some of Themistocles’s political enemies tipped them off? An air of unease permeated the ship, even affecting Themistocles, although he bustled about attempting a great show of confidence.

Only Cimon seemed pleased to be here but when he and Themistocles prepared to disembark, the commander of the Spartans curtly ordered them back on board. So we waited uneasily as the sun climbed the heavens. Then there was the clatter of hoofs. A group of horsemen burst out from the dingy alleyway leading up to the town that seemed to serve as a main street. Their leader reined in on the quay above us and pushed back his hood, eliciting a peal of joy from Cimon: it was Brasidas.

“What brings a crew of Athenian bandits to Sparta?”

It was as unfunny as it was unusual but what can you expect from a Spartan? Humour is bred out of them except jests concerning cruelty: that they seem to like well enough. However Brasidas was making an effort so we laughed, but
mainly from relief at seeing him and for our appreciation of a Spartan joke’s rarity value.

After the greeting as he was talking to Themistocles and Cimon I took the opportunity to look at him. The years since Marathon hadn’t been kind, the skin seemed stretched tight like papyrus across the prominent bone structure of his face and he’d lost weight. He looked like a man who’d taken at least one wound too many, one which wouldn’t heal: a legacy from Marathon, I suspected. In my short life I’d had the misfortune to see that look on too many men: few of them lasted long and none prospered.

Arrangements had been to billet the crew in Gytheion while a small party of us rode to the city. Very different from my last visit, when we’d arrived in secrecy and darkness forced to bypass Gytheion and avoid the highway. Also this time we would ride; Brasidas had brought us horses.

It didn’t take long to get clear of the port and again I was surprised at the rugged beauty of the land, and more surprised by the absence of farmers and workers and sellers of produce along the highway. But then, the peasants who farmed this land for their Spartan masters weren’t free. They were held in bond, like slaves, and kept in order by fear. As we approached the city of Sparta the land increased in fertility, sheltered by the wild range of the Taygetos Mountains. Ruled by a better state, it could have been an Arcadia fit for the Gods.

For the last section of the ride to the city we were tired and strung out along the road. I was on the left of Brasidas and we were remembering our days with Miltiades. He flinched in the middle of a tale about how the General had tricked the assembly and I saw all the colour had drained from his face; it was dead white. He brushed at his leg with his hand and I saw the spread of blood from above the knee. He noticed my glance.

“A gift from the Medes on the beach at Marathon, never healed properly, too much exercise and it opens.”

I asked,

“Then why send you to fetch us?”

“Can you name another Spartan you’d trust?”

That’s all I can remember of the ride. I’ve no recollection of arriving in Sparta and yet that little exchange with Brasidas is clear as day. I remember that we didn’t have to eat black broth in the mess tent however and for that, at least, I was grateful. Themistocles had got it right about our welcome. This time was very different: we were housed in one of the few civic buildings, the one they used to house embassies from friendly states, and although shabby it was a great step up from my previous experience. Themistocles was treated as the guest friend of King Leotychidas who was, in theory, the senior of the two kings. Although you can never be sure, as nothing is the way it appears in Sparta.

Let me tell you about these two kings, reader; it’s worth your attention. Few outside the ranks of the Spartiates get to come even remotely close to a Spartan king yet I’ve known four of them. Yes you did read that correctly, known four – although you’ll have to wait a while to hear about the fourth. Poor mad Cleomenes was the first, Miltiades’s guest friend who died cutting off the flesh from his own legs with a small blunt knife. Neither of the current crop – Leotychidas and the world’s hero, Leonidas – came close to him for leadership and skill, at least while he was still sane.

Leotychidas was cunning and cautious but, as are all Spartans, susceptible to flattery; they’re like little children in that respect. You could see the pleasure in his little piggy eyes when Themistocles ostentatiously deferred to him, lavishing praise on his sagacity and talent.

Anyone who really wants to understand how we managed to supplant them as leaders of the united Greek fleet needs
to look at how Themistocles established a relationship with him. A relationship that enabled him to burrow into the jealousies and insecurities that underpinned his kingship. After that, Themistocles could exploit these weaknesses and manipulate them at will.

As for Leonidas: well, he was driven and fanatical, but also different. Different enough from other Spartans for them to be uncomfortable in his presence. He was a complicated, mixed up man. Remember Cleomenes was his brother and he’d betrayed him, probably been responsible for his death. He’d benefitted from those hideous death agonies and succeeded him as king. Not many people warm to that in a man and in that respect Spartans are no different.

He married Gorgo, Cleomenes’s daughter and heir. What type of man would do that after the way he’d acted? She’d been a strange little girl and had grown up to be an intense young woman who was touched either by the Gods or madness. Put together, they magnified each other’s extremes and fanaticism; it was a volatile mix for a king and queen.

Anyone who spent time with Leonidas, anywhere except on the battlefield, felt disconcerted by him. You looked into his strangely unfocussed eyes and saw he wasn’t there. I think he was made for death and lusted after it and maybe that’s why the powers in Sparta were happy when it took him early at the Hot Gates. For all its welcome, Sparta seemed less at ease with itself and more unstable than during the final days of the reign of poor, mad Cleomenes.

Not all of this was down to the strain of upholding the grip of terror over their Messanian helots, although slave would be a better description than helot. Our victory at Marathon had been a blow to Spartan prestige and judgement and it was a signal to their helot bondsmen that the old order could be broken. No wonder they feared the spirit of the Demos as much as the might of the Persians. All of
this was very evident from the first day of our visit. Evident to everyone but Cimon, that is.

He’d always entertained a strong and totally misplaced admiration for Sparta. And remember, reader, in the end it was his loyalty to those treacherous preening bastards that brought him down. Perversely it was the best of the Spartans, Brasidas, who was most to blame for that misplaced loyalty. I was there. I watched it develop.

On our second day in Sparta when Themistocles was ensconced with the kings, Brasidas turned up early at our quarters.

“Unless this is too early for gentle Athenian city folk, come out and I’ll show you how Spartans live.”

Outside there were three horses and some rangy underfed dogs.

“Come on, mount up and follow me.”

We rode out of the cluster of houses where our party was accommodated, past an ancient simple shrine and into the fields. Sparta was more like a series of loosely attached farmsteads or hamlets than a city. There were no walls or defensive structures but that was all part of the myth: for who would attack a settlement defended by the mighty Spartan army?

But it was good to have some time for ourselves, even though our first destination was the last thing I wanted to see. Sparta straggles across several low hills protruding like pimples and we rode across a number of these towards the river Eurotas. I had a pretty good idea right from the start where we were going, because there aren’t many places worth visiting.

So I wasn’t surprised when we joined a winding track with a plain temple at the end. Lying just beyond it was the older sanctuary of Artemis Orthia, whose roots stretch back into the mists of time. I suppose that they positioned this monstrosity so far from the centre indicates that even the
Spartans might have had some hidden reservations about it.

It is a grim place and well suited to its purpose which, despite all Brasidas’s justification, is cruelty. Here, for reasons which in barbarian lands would include sexual perversity, they whipped and abused young boys. Some of whom died in the process. This they regarded as in some way designed to add character to them as they grew to be men. To an intelligent Athenian, it is obvious that in reality it is just another of the things that render them unable to enjoy normal social relationships with themselves, their women or anyone else.

After leaving that dark and sinister chamber it was almost a relief to arrive at the exercise fields. Here Spartan men and youths competed and honed their military skills; women are meant to compete here naked but I’ve never seen any. Nor to be honest would I want to if they were to be drawn from the ranks of the Spartan matrons who attend our lodgings. The only exception being Gorgo but it would be a rash and brave man who bedded her. Something of the night hangs over that intense and strange young woman: something that I think goes partway to explaining the unsettled and searching look in the eyes of her husband.

Cimon threw himself into the exercise of arms on the field with enthusiasm. Brasidas and I stayed at the periphery and practised at a more sedate pace, because my body was recovering and his wasn’t. When we took a break he asked between deep breaths,

“How do you find Sparta this time, Mandrocles?”

“Better than last: at least no one’s tried to kill us.”

“That’s because you Athenians have become surprisingly popular since Marathon.”

“You’re good at hiding it then.”

“That’s our way, but Marathon came as a shock here,
most Spartans never thought you’d fight and the ones who did bet on you to lose.”

“So you must be feted then, being the only Spartan there?”

“It’s not our way to fete anybody, I thought you knew that. Anyway, as you can see, Marathon’s been the cause of death for me. Even if it’s a death that’s very slow in coming.”

He smiled, there was no trace of self-pity in what he said and now it was in the open.

“There’s no hope.”

“No, the wound’s too far gone, all I can hope for is too hang around long enough for one last chance to help redeem Sparta’s honour.”

He was as good as his word.

Cimon returned from the exercise in high spirits, flushed and carrying a collection of slight wounds and bruises. To my surprise I too felt the benefits: I was fit enough to fight which, bearing in mind what was headed in our direction, was fortunate. We bathed in a clear cold stream that gushed down from the mountains. The season was turning and the leaves on the scrub oaks turning brown and falling. Too late in the year to be sailing a trireme. As we climbed back onto our mounts Brasidas said,

“Tonight there is a supper being held in the honour of your delegation hosted by both kings and you will attend.”

It was the most un-Spartan affair I’ve ever seen and although it doesn’t appear in any of the heroic stories that are told of the coming war, it did as much as anything to decide the outcome. The supper was held in the house of Leonidas, which had more of the atmosphere of a shrine than a dwelling.

The bewitching Gorgo made an appearance to welcome us. I don’t know if it’s possible to be both exotic and modest but that’s how she seemed, more like a priestess than a queen.

But the place was tainted and the scandal of how this daughter and brother of Cleomenes had benefitted from his death through their unholy alliance seemed to pollute the very pillars of the house. You could sense the ghost of the mad king lurking in the shadows.

We ate in a dimly lit hall but were kept waiting by the late arrival of Leotychidas. Themistocles, full of confidence, affected not to notice; he was like a man on the brink of achieving something great.

Eventually Leotychidas swept in and the glance he exchanged with his fellow king revealed the lack of any love or trust between the two. In that sense it was a typically Spartan arrangement and exactly the type of situation the Ephors liked. With each king keeping a suspicious eye on the other, they could divide and rule. At Leotychidas’s entrance Gorgo did everything except arch her back and spit before withdrawing to her own quarters.

The food was poor but better than expected, as was the wine, which also had the virtue of being less watered than usual. The conversation was dull and repetitive until the tables were cleared, the slaves withdrew and a last crater was mixed. Then it happened.

It started badly and, to me, it seemed disaster confronted us. Leotychidas was speaking at length, putting a Spartan gloss on Marathon. He’d just reached the concluding point.

“You Athenians fought well. We respect that: but of course you had to, because in the Persian ranks there was an Athenian traitor …”

He hadn’t finished but Themistocles interrupted him with a statement that not only ran counter to all rules of guest friendship but was also a direct insult to our hosts.

“Just as there is now a Spartan one.”

A few words, but I’ve seen draggers drawn and blood
spilled over less. Leotychidas was speechless but Leonidas, flushed and furious rasped,

“That is a lie which you will retract.”

This was a man whose favoured response was physical rather than intellectual. Themistocles shrugged his shoulders with the palms of his hands outwards in an expression of puzzled resignation. He smiled then spoke, but it wasn’t the apology Leonidas was expecting.

“I meant no offence; I had wrongly assumed that the whereabouts of the recently deposed King Demaratus of Sparta would be as well known here as they are in every other polis in Greece.”