die.”
Antalcidas grew impatient as the meal progressed. Lying out in the woods during frigid winter nights, he had warmed himself by dreaming that his membership in a prestigious mess would open a whole world of significance to him-a world of mythic personalities, grand strategy, concentrated wisdom. But instead, the table talk continued to consist of petty insults and matters of hygiene, and not even orotund Zeuxippos seemed to be behaving like himself. Indeed, there seemed to be an unspoken agreement among the members not to treat a subject of any importance. Lying there, his shrunken stomach recoiling from its fill of pig blood, Antalcidas resolved that he would see his expectations realized, even if it cost him any prospect of membership later.
“But what of Athens?” he blurted. “I hear that they have a strong leader in this man Pericles-a leader who knows how to fight. They are building an empire out of reach of any army, at sea. How shall we meet such a challenge?”
All eyes turned to the young guest. After an awkward instant, Damonon and Herippidas laughed out loud, and Isidas smiled into his cup. “It seems that the boy has some interest in diplomacy!” he exclaimed. Zeuxippos glared at Antalcidas, furious.
“If you please,” said the helot server, “Polynicus regrets he cannot attend the king tonight because he is on the hunt. In his place, he bids you to enjoy the gift he had sent to the table…”
The waiters brought out a brace of roasted hares. Pleistoanax, looking much relieved, cleared a place in front of himself. “Let us then remember our friend, the Equal Polynicus, as we envy his good fortune on the hunt.”
And so Antalcidas’ question was answered only by the sound of ripping tendons, decanted wine, and the clink of sucked-clean bones dropped on plates. Antalcidas, as he gnawed at a stringy foreleg, had all but given up on the prospect of edifying talk. Then old Isidas leaned back with his wine cup and made a clicking sound with his tongue.
“An interesting question the boy raises. It is all unclear, it seems. Very unclear.”
“Athens is run by an ignorant, womanish mob!” cried Damonon with sudden vehemence. “They have a few ships, I grant you, but who mans them? Filth and locusts! That rabble will break with the first hint of real opposition, I promise you.”
“Oh, I’d not be so sure about that. If you’d seen their fleet.. .” began Iphitus, the admiral.
“Our mistake was to have let them rebuild their fortifications after we chased the Persians out!” Eudamidas interjected. “Without artillery, we might as well piss on those walls as attack them. If only someone had seen through that cocksucker Themistocles, with all his smooth talk!”
Pleistoanax slammed his cup. “I would think Equals would better govern their tongues in front of the boy. And not let their fears overthrow their reason. What the Athenians don’t know, after all, is that this Pericles, son of Xanthippus, is Sparta’s man.”
Antalcidas shook his head. “Our man?”
“The houses of King Archidamus and Pericles have long shared mutual sponsorship in their respective cities,” explained Pleistoanax. “For that reason, there will be no war. In fact, we are on the verge of a treaty of peace.”
There was another lapse in talk as the helots brought out plates of dried figs and green cheese. As an ex- ephor and soon-to-be member of the Gerousia, Isidas had a special privilege to contradict the king. The others therefore seemed to brace themselves when the elder broke the silence.
“What you say must be true, Highness: our differences will certainly be resolved in peace, or end us all in war. Or do I show too much of a grasp of the obvious, my dear Eudamidas?”
6.
Molobrus did his part to bring honor to his family by dying in battle. It happened a few miles to the west of old Lerna, in a clash with a battalion from Argos. The Lacedaemonians were withdrawing south in the wake of the new thirty-year peace treaty between Sparta and Athens; the Argives, ever eager to exact a toll in blood for the traverse of their territory, blocked their progress. The enemies formed opposing lines and performed their respective sacrifices. Molobrus, to his credit, was in the first rank of the phalanx when the pipes sounded the advance.
Spartan attacks were grindingly gradual things, with coherence and precision valued over momentum. With plenty of time to watch the approach of the crimson juggernaut, Sparta’s enemies often broke before they were touched. But the Argives, still nursing their ancient grudge against the Lacedaemonians, stood their ground with locked shields.
“Argos never yields to the Lacedaemonians because she has never forgotten the Battle of Champions in Thyreatis,” Zeuxippos once told Antalcidas. “A century ago, after many battles for the domination of the Peloponnese, we met the Argives outside of Hysiae for a final reckoning. This time we agreed to settle matters the old-fashioned way, with a contest of three hundred handpicked champions from each side. The battle was fought for an entire day in every way possible, from serried phalanxes to individual duels by sword, knife, and bare knuckles. When it was over, divine Hesperus rose over a field with 597 corpses and three survivors, two Argive and one Spartan. The latter could barely stand because of spear wounds to the leg. Yet steadfast and true to his legacy, he offered battle. The Argives laughed at him and went off to their camp to celebrate what they took to be their triumph.
“The drunken Argives returned to consecrate their victory with a trophy. But they were too late: the Spartan had, all by himself, constructed one of his own out of upturned spears and abandoned Argive arms. They sent heralds in protest, demanding he take it down. But the Agiad king, Anaxandridas, ruled that his champion had indeed been left in sole possession of the field, and was by custom entitled to the victory. The Argives blustered, threatening to tear the trophy down, but in the end dared not, for fear of the gods. Since that day the battle has stuck like a bone in the Argive throat-and the Lacedaemonians have never lost a battle.”
This story was told to youths to teach them the need to finish a task once begun. His father’s end was not quite so glorious. As the phalanx advanced on the enemy, Molobrus had the misfortune to stumble on a stone and go down. The Lacedaemonians, trained to avoid at all cost breaks in their lines, could do nothing other than close the gap and march over him. After the first seven ranks had passed, the rear guard felt nothing of him but an indistinct softness in the place where he had fallen. In driving the Argives from the field, the Lacedaemonians suffered only a handful of casualties. One of these was Molobrus, whose crushed remains were identified from the wooden dogtags pounded into the mud.
By all accounts Damatria took the news exceptionally well. A wife of Sparta was not expected to tear out her hair, slash her face, rend her clothes, or engage in any of the other acts of conspicuous grief indulged by women of other cities. Instead, she was expected to take news of her husband’s death in battle as the highest sort of honor. Damatria accordingly went around with her finest clothes and a smile on her face. The neighborhood children festooned her house with wild anemones and roses from the meadows around the city; in return, she had her servants deliver gifts of sweets door-to-door. For its part, the state contributed an honor unique to fallen veterans: the dead man’s family had the right to inscribe his name on his tombstone.
Damatria did not have to pretend to be in good humor. To be spared her husband’s interference in her domestic affairs, not to mention his permanent absence from her bed, were blessings too delicious to contemplate. Molobrus had at last contrived to make himself useful. Still, Damatria spared no expense on his grave, nor on the regular observances there, such as libations with precious oils. That she could afford to do so was beyond question, as she was able to produce a written contract between Molobrus and herself stipulating that all his property, including his share of the ancient portion granted his family by Lycurgus himself, went to her alone. To the annoyance of Lampito and her relatives, the agreement was duly witnessed by three citizen adults, and therefore perfectly legal.
Being still of childbearing age, she remarried with what all agreed was patriotic speed. The owner of the estate bordering hers, Dorcis, son of Nicolochus, had been Molobrus’ patron when he was a Yearling. As a widower nearing the end of his years of active service in the army, Dorcis had frequent occasion to be home and watch this one-eyed beauty march around her property in her sun hat, declaiming commands to gangs of terrified helots. He sent her a stream of gifts-a dressed wild boar, a cutting from a rare apple tree from Asia that produced fruits with
