A Peerless Peer Page 5

  “What?” the old helot growled at Leonidas. “Another one? What do they want to do? Slaughter them all in a single night? Don’t they see that if the Gods say “no” they mean “no,” and the slaughter of every cock in Lacedaemon will not change that?”

  Leonidas personally agreed with the helot, and he envied him the right to say what he thought, to refer to them as “they” and feel he was no part of them. “They,” however, was Leonidas’ brother. Leonidas nodded ambiguously, and the old helot sighed. He knew that Leonidas had no more power to change things than he did. He flung off his blanket, and with an audible groan dragged himself to his feet. He stuffed his feet into the old, muddy shoes beside his pallet and, muttering to himself, went in search of a new victim.

  Leonidas waited, absently patting Beggar’s head, as she stood with her tongue hanging out one side of her mouth. He found himself looking out at the camp spread out across the valley, noting that it was easy to identify the part of the camp occupied by the Spartans. The Spartans laid out their campfires in lines and at regular intervals. The allies, in contrast, were scattered unevenly—like the stars. They were louder, too, Leonidas registered, and restless. You could see men moving around the fires in large groups, and horses cantered back and forth. He frowned. Even if the allies were less disciplined, there was no real excuse for the amount of activity he could detect.

  “Here!” The helot thrust a burlap sack at him. It was tied closed with twine at the neck, but the body was leaping and wriggling. The cock was wildly trying to break free.

  Leonidas thanked the old man and took the sack in his good hand. He started back toward his brother’s tent, Beggar habitually sniffing the ground, her tail upright and wagging slowly in general contentment as they went. The Spartan camp seemed like an island of calm in a growing storm, Leonidas thought—and then a horse came galloping straight at him. He had to jump aside, almost losing his balance because his broken arm hindered him and the cock was struggling so violently. He glanced up just in time to see that the rider was King Demaratus.

  Leonidas wondered why the Eurypontid king was riding out of the Spartan camp in the middle of the night, and he turned to follow him with his eyes. Demaratus hauled his horse to the right, toward the Corinthian camp. Leonidas watched in astonishment as he plunged in among the fires. He saw men make way for him as he rode deeper and deeper into the camp. Then abruptly he drew up before a particularly large tent lit from the inside, and the Corinthians swarmed around him. Demaratus jumped down and disappeared inside the tent.

  Leonidas considered this a moment, then continued on his way. He turned the sack over to Asteropus. Asteropus snatched it from him and tore it open to remove the cock and inspect it critically. Leonidas had the feeling he was hoping to find something wrong with the animal, so he could send Leonidas back to the perimeter again. Yet he was also in a hurry and asked irritably, “What kept you? The king has been asking after the cock every five minutes.”

  Leonidas treated the question as rhetorical and withdrew. Outside he looked again toward the Corinthian camp. Things seemed to have calmed down somewhat, though there were still large numbers of men around the tent that Demaratus had entered.

  Leonidas considered what he had seen and could not really make sense of it. Not from here. He looked down at Beggar. Seated beside him, she at once looked up and met his gaze. “Shall we go and see what all the fuss is?” Leonidas asked her. She jumped to her feet, her tail wagging, as if to say: Whatever you want to do, master!

  Leonidas walked away from the Spartan camp and entered the Corinthian one. In the darkness, no one could see the color of his himation. He wrapped the himation close, as if he were cold, to cover his splinted arm, and joined the back of the crowd.

  “—I tell you, they don’t have the right!”

  “The Treaty says we must follow the Spartans wherever they lead!”

  “If they’re threatened!”

  “Where does it say that?”

  “Who in Hades do you think decides if they’re threatened? The f**ing Spartans, I tell you!”

  Leonidas recoiled at the vulgar language. Expletives, he had been raised to think, were always superfluous. They added no value to any communication. Even adjectives and adverbs, while considered somewhat frivolous in Laconic speech, provided additional information, but expletives did not. Expletives were merely outbursts of uncontrolled emotion, and as such they reflected poorly on the speaker. Of course, most youths went through a phase when they punctuated their speech with as many of these scorned words as possible, just to show they didn’t care what their instructors, their parents, and the city officials thought; but Leonidas had outgrown that stage. He associated bad language with teenage immaturity, and it surprised him to hear it on the tongues of bearded men. Meanwhile, the Corinthians were still blustering.

  “We’ve no quarrel with Athens! Why should we fight them?”

  “If we refuse to fight, what then? You don’t think the f**ing Spartans will take it lying down, do you? The bloody f**ers will kill us all!”

  Leonidas looked hard at the speaker, and the expression on his face frightened him. The man’s eyes burned with hatred. Hatred, Leonidas registered with unease, directed at Sparta, at him. It had never occurred to Leonidas that Sparta was hated by her allies. He had been raised to think that Sparta’s constitution, its orderly society, its superior educational system, and, of course, its superb army were admired throughout the world. It came as a shock to think they were seen as brutal men, capable of slaughtering their allies if the latter did not follow their lead.

  “We outnumber them! As long as we stick together—”

  “The pissing Tegeans are Spartan lap dogs! They’ll never risk defiance!”

  “Then who gives a shit! I say, we’re free men, not slaves! What right have the mother-f**ing Spartans got to tell us who to fight?”

  Leonidas had heard more than enough. He edged his way past the agitated crowd of debaters to try to get a glimpse into the tent. The two hoplites guarding it, however, were alert and very forbidding. He moved away from the entrance and slipped around to the back of the tent. It was dark and still and smelled like a latrine. He tried to walk carefully, but the tent attracted him as a light did moths. Enlarged and distorted by the light of the interior lamps, the silhouettes of several men undulated on the walls of canvas as they gestured and paced.

  With shock, Leonidas recognized the voice that was speaking. It was not Demaratus, but the father of the youth who had been gored by the boar. What was his name? Archidemos? Archi-something.

  Leonidas had been rather intimidated by the Corinthian polemarch the first time they met. He had ridden up on a fretful stallion and scattered orders like Zeus casting thunderbolts. He had taken little note of Leonidas initially, his concern (understandably) being his son. Only as he mounted to follow the cavalcade with the stretcher had he paused, looked around, and then ridden over to thank Leonidas. It had not been very heartfelt, more good manners than anything else, and he had reached for his purse. Noticing at the last moment that it was missing, he offered to “send someone around with a suitable reward.”

  Leonidas had turned him down. “I did not act for the sake of reward, and I do not need it.”

  The Corinthian made no protest. Rather, distracted with worry for his son, he had ridden away without another word. Leonidas would have had to walk back with his broken arm if Alkander hadn’t been there. Alkander had helped him mount the borrowed horse and then jumped up behind him.

  Leonidas noted now, however, that Archilochos was a good orator. He had a clever way with words. What he said was not so different from what the men outside the tent were saying, but there was poetry as well as sentiment in his words. Leonidas had never heard a man talk like that before, and at first it entranced him.

  In Archilochos’ mouth, the campaign was an outrage and an insult. The free cities of the Peloponnese, which had once allied themselves with Sparta for the common good, were now bein
g exploited for the sake of aggressive and reactionary policies. They were being asked to sacrifice their young men on the altar of Spartan ambition. To take part in this campaign was to surrender their sovereignty to Spartan hegemony and to trample underfoot the honor of their fathers, who—heroes all—had fought for freedom and democracy in the Peloponnese.

  After a while, however, the flood of words started to make Leonidas dizzy. The words were seductive by the sheer beauty of their melody, alliteration, and rhyme. But the longer the man talked, the more exhausted Leonidas became. He could no longer remember the beginning of the speech. The words were tumbling over one another, obscuring their predecessors. Leonidas longed for a clear conclusion.

  Instead, another speaker started talking. He was less gifted but equally long-winded. Leonidas sighed and decided he had seen and heard enough. The allies were restless. They did not want to proceed. Worse, they were hostile to Sparta, full of mounting hatred. And the signs were bad.

  He moved as unobtrusively as possible toward the front of the tent again. The crowd here had thinned notably, and the men who remained were more morose than agitated. They were awaiting the outcome of what was going on in the tent. Leonidas slipped away in the darkness, heading for the Spartan lines.

  Lost in thought, he did not register that someone had come up behind him until a voice remarked gruffly, “What are you doing here, Leonidas?”

  Leonidas spun around sharply. Demaratus was looking down on him from the back of his tall horse.

  “How did you recognize me?”

  “That ugly bitch doesn’t trail anyone else.” Demaratus jerked his head in the direction of Beggar, who wagged her tail, oblivious to insults. “Now, answer my question. What were you doing here? Spying for your brother?”

  “Should I be?”

  “Tell me: how many men does Sparta have here?”

  “Two thousand Spartiates and that many perioikoi.”

  “And what is the strength of our allies?”

  “Eleven thousand, four hundred and—I believe—ten.”

  Demaratus laughed. “You made that up.”

  “Did I?”

  “It doesn’t matter. You know as well as I do that the allies outnumber us by more than two to one.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So what, young man, does it mean if they refuse to march any further?”

  “That fighting Athens will be difficult.”

  “Difficult.” Demaratus repeated. “Difficult … You’ve never stood in the line, have you, Little Leo?”

  “No, sir.”

  Demaratus nodded. “Difficult indeed. Let me tell you something, Leonidas, son of Anaxandridas: Without our allies, we are a little, insignificant city.” He pressed his calves more firmly on his horse’s flanks and galloped past Leonidas into the darkness of the Spartan camp.

  Leonidas continued doggedly. Four thousand men against twenty thousand. And the signs were bad.

  “Halt!” The command was called by a sentry, who abruptly blocked Leonidas’ path.

  “It’s me,” Leonidas answered. “Leonidas, son of Anaxandridas.”

  “Password!” the sentry snapped back, although he had gone to the agoge with Leonidas and must have recognized him.

  “I haven’t a clue,” Leonidas admitted. He was not attached to any unit, did not do sentry duty, and had no need to know the password.

  The next thing he knew, the sentry was pointing a sword at his throat and ordering him not to move, while shouting for reinforcements. A moment later, two other young men jogged up. “This man was trying to enter and doesn’t know the password!”

  “I’m Leonidas, son of—”

  “Tell it to the lochagos,” one of the newcomers advised, adding, “Come with us, Leo.”

  Leonidas sighed, annoyed but not worried. Since he was not with his unit, he was not subject to any restrictions on his movements. He had no reason to dread a confrontation, he thought—until the tent flap opened and he found himself face to face with Kyranios.

  Kyranios had a reputation for being one of the best tactical commanders in the Spartan army. His lochos was often assigned the most difficult position in the order of battle and frequently given difficult independent tasks. Ambitious officers longed to be assigned to his lochos.

  Leonidas was too young to dream of that. He could not aspire to officer status for years, and as with all ordinary rankers, his initial assignment was based on family and clan ties. He was in the Pitanate Lochos because he was an Agiad; Kyranios commanded the Mesoan Lochos.

  The reason Leonidas found a confrontation with Kyranios intimidating was personal, not professional. Kyranios was the father of the girl with whom Leonidas was in love. Furthermore, the last time they had come face to face, Leonidas had been a mere eirene and had come courting—when he should have been with his charges. Kyranios had made him feel worthless for neglecting his duty.

  The escort reported formally, “This man tried to cross the perimeter and could not give the password.”

  “I expect not,” Kyranios answered evenly. “Dismissed.”

  The sentries withdrew.

  “So, son of Anaxandridas, what were you doing lurking around outside the camp at this time of night?” the lochagos inquired, inspecting Leonidas closely with his eyes.

  “I noticed considerable commotion in the allied camp, sir, particularly among the Corinthians, and went to see if I could find out what was happening.”

  Kyranios considered the young man in front of him critically. He had long held a low opinion of Leonidas because of the company he kept. Alkander had been an inept stutterer as a boy, and when his widowed mother became too poor to pay the agoge fees, he should have been expelled and excluded from future citizenship. Instead Leonidas, although only a boy, had paid for Alkander’s school fees from his own considerable fortune and enabled Alkander to gain his citizenship. He hadn’t turned out so badly in the end, Kyranios admitted; but Leonidas’ other best friend, Prokles, had. Through negligence and self-indulgence, Prokles had been responsible for the death of one of his charges last year when he was an eirene—and that was unforgivable. Prokles had been rightly sentenced to exile for twenty years. Finally, the fact that Leonidas had left his charges unattended to come courting was something Kyranios considered reprehensible.

  Nor had this recent incident with the boar done much to change his opinion. As far as he could see, it had been pure chance that brought Leonidas and Alkander to the scene and, if one was objective about it, their rescue efforts had been badly flawed; first, they failed to kill the boar in the initial assault, and second, Leonidas failed to avoid the front hooves when delivering the coup de grace.

  Yet for all that, Kyranios liked what he saw now, and he liked the answer Leonidas had just given him. It spoke well for the young man that he had noticed what was going on in the other camps. Too many young men never seemed to see anything that happened outside of their own mess-tent! Even more impressive was that it had aroused his curiosity. As a leader of men, Kyranios had long since learned that curiosity was by far the most reliable indicator of intelligence. Education, even literacy, could be drummed into the dullest brain with persistence and sanctions, but curiosity could not. Finally, the fact that Leonidas had gone to investigate suggested initiative and courage. Courage was not in short supply in the Spartan army, but Kyranios felt initiative too often was.

  “What did you find out?” Kyranios asked.

  “The allies are very angry with us, sir. They think this campaign is unjustified and that we are misusing the provisions of the treaty for our own benefit.”

  Kyranios nodded. He knew all that, but it never hurt to have one’s opinions confirmed. It showed that Leonidas had indeed kept his eyes and ears open.

  “And Demaratus was there consulting with Archilochos,” Leonidas added a little gratuitously, since he had not been asked. He simply couldn’t help thinking of Eirana and how he would need her father’s approval if he were ever to bring her ho
me as his bride.

  “What did you just say?” Kyranios asked sharply.

  “King Demaratus took part in a meeting at Archilochos’ tent in which the allies poured out their grievances.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  “I did not hear him.” Leonidas hesitated, but then added, “He overtook me on his return, however, and indicated he considered it foolish to proceed against Athens without the allies.”

  “Without them it is inadvisable; with them it would be madness.”

  “Sir?”

  “Did you learn nothing at the agoge?” Kyranios snapped irritably. “The last thing a commander needs when he commits to battle is untrustworthy troops. They break away just when you need them most, disrupt the order of battle, weaken your line, or expose your flanks. Perhaps worst of all, they have the potential to demoralize or confuse even your best men. They almost certainly lead to chaos and defeat. I would rather fight at a three-to-one disadvantage with reliable troops than achieve superiority in numbers with untrustworthy men. If the allies do not want to fight, we should let them go. We will be stronger without them.”

  Although what Kyranios said made sense, Leonidas still found the thought of fighting Athens alone daunting. His expression betrayed this.

  Kyranios, of course, could have dismissed him, but instead he found himself explaining, “Think about it, son of Anaxandridas. War is almost always a failure of diplomacy. It is always better to get what you want by negotiation rather than aggression. But it is particularly foolish to use bloodshed to try to obtain something that cannot be sustained. Look at your own father! He recognized that we had more to gain by making Tegea an ally rather than a subject. The hotheads wanted to conquer Tegea. They wanted to make the Tegeans slaves and divide up the land among themselves. And then what? The Tegeans would have been no less resentful of our rule than the Messenians. We would have faced a series of uprisings, which the Messenians would have joined. We would have been bogged down in nearly continuous internal warfare—impoverished, weakened, bled. Chilon saw that and he, with Athena’s help I’m sure, convinced your father that it was wiser to make a friend of Tegea than a perpetual enemy.