Steven Pressfield - Gates of Fire - An Epic Novel of the Battle of Thermopylae

These thoughts were like a room in the house of the mind that Dienekes spoke of, a room I had sworn since the Three-Cornered Way never to permit myself to enter.

But now, finding myself here in this real room of this real house, before these womanly rustles and scents, the feminine auroras of these wives and mothers and daughters and sisters, six of them, so much female presence concentrated in so close a space, I was driven back in mind against my will. It took all my self-composure to conceal the effect of these memories and to answer the lady's continuing questions in good order. At last it seemed the inquisition was approaching its conclusion.

Answer now one final question. Speak with candor. If you lie, I will know. Does my son possess courage? Evaluate his andreia, his manly virtue, as a youth who must soon take his place as a warrior.

It took no brains to see I was treading the thinnest of ice. How could one answer a question like that? I straightened and addressed the lady directly.

There are fourteen hundred boys in the training platoons of the agoge. Only one displayed the temerity to follow the army, and that in knowing defiance of his own mother's wishes, not to say full awareness of what punishment he must endure upon his return.

The lady considered this. It is a politic answer, but a good one. I accept it.

She rose and thanked the lady Arete for arranging this interview and for providing for its confidentiality. I was told to wait outside in the courtyard. The lady Paraleia's maidservant stood there still, smirking; no doubt she had overheard every word and would blab it to all the Eurotas valley by sunrise tomorrow. In a moment the lady herself emerged, deigning neither to look at nor speak to me, and accompanied by her maid, strode off without torchlight down the dark lane.

Are you old enough to take wine?

The lady Arete addressed me directly, speaking from the doorway and motioning me back within the dwelling. All four daughters slept now. The lady herself prepared a bowl for me, cut six to one as for a boy. I took a grateful swallow. Clearly this night of interviews was not over.

The lady invited me to sit. She herself settled at the mistress's station beside the hearth. She placed a chunk of alphita barley bread on a plate before me and brought a relish of oil, cheese and onion.

Be patient, this night among women will soon be over. You'll be back with the men, with whom you clearly feel more comfortable.

I am at ease, lady. Truly. It's a relief to be away from barrack life for an hour, even if it means dancing barefoot on the hot steel of the skillet.

The lady smiled at this, but it was apparent that her mind was held by a more sober subject. She drew my eyes to hers.

Have you ever heard the name Idotychides?

I had.

He was a Spartiate stain in battle at Mantinea. I have seen his stone before the mess of Winged Nike on the Amyklaian Way.

What else do you know of this man? the lady asked. I muttered something. What else? she insisted.

They say that Dekton, the helot boy called Rooster, is his bastard. By a Messenian mother, who died giving birth.

And do you believe this?

I do, lady.

Why?

I had stuck myself in a corner now; I could see the lady perceive it. Is it because, she answered for me, this boy Rooster hates the Spartans so much?

I was struck with dread that she knew this and for long moments could not find my tongue.

Have you noticed, the lady continued in a voice that to my surprise displayed neither outrage nor anger, that among slaves the meanest seem to bear their lot without excessive distress, while the noblest, those at the brink of freedom, chafe most bitterly? It's as if the more one in service feels himself worthy of honor, yet denied the means to achieve it, the more excruciating is the experience of subjection.

This was Rooster in a nutshell. I had never thought about it that way but, now that the lady had expressed it thus, I saw it was true.

Your friend Rooster talks too much. And what his tongue withholds, his demeanor announces only too plainly. She quoted, virtually verbatim, several seditious statements that Dekton had spoken, in my hearing alone, I thought, on the march back from Antirhion.

I was speechless and could feel myself breaking into a sweat. The lady Arete maintained her expression inscrutable. Do you know what the krypteia is? she asked.

I did. It is a secret society among the Peers. No one knows who its members are, just that they are of the youngest and strongest, and they do their work at night.

And what work is that?

They make men disappear. Helots, I meant. Treasonous helots.

Now answer this, and consider before you speak. The lady Arete paused, as if to reinforce the importance of the question she was about to put. If you were a member of the krypteia and you knew what I have just told you about this helot, Rooster, that he had expressed sentiments treasonous to the city and further declared his intention of taking action based upon them, what would you do?

There could be only one answer.

It would be my duty to kill him, were I a member of the krypteia.

The lady absorbed this, her expression still betraying nothing. Now answer: if you were yourself, a friend to this helot boy, Rooster, what would you do?

I stammered something about exculpatory circumstances, that Rooster was a hothead, he often spoke without thinking, much of what he said was bluster and everyone knew it.

The lady turned toward the shadows.

Is this boy lying?

Yes, Mother!

I spun in startlement. Both older daughters were wide awake, in their shared bed, glued to every word.

I will answer the question for you, young man, the lady said, rescuing me from my predicament. I think you would do this. I think you would warn this boy, Rooster, to speak no more of such things within your hearing and to take no action, however slight-or you yourself would dispatch him.

I was now utterly discomfited. The lady smiled. You are a poor liar. It is not one of your gifts. I admire that. But you tread dangerous ground. Sparta may be the greatest city in Hellas, but it is still a small town. A mouse cannot sneeze without every cat saying God bless you. The servants and helots hear everything, and their tongues can be set a-wag for the price of a honey cake.

I considered this.

And will mine, I asked, be loosened for the cost of a bowl of wine?

The boy disrespects you, Mother! This from Alexa, who was nine. You must have him striped!

To my relief the lady Arete regarded me in the lamplight with neither anger nor indignation, but calmly, studying me. A boy in your position should rightly stand in fear of the wife of a Peer of my husband's stature. Tell me: why aren't you afraid of me?

I hadn't realized until that moment that in fact I wasn't.

I'm not sure, lady. Perhaps because you remind me of someone.

For several moments the lady did not speak, but continued regarding me with that same intense scrutiny.

Tell me about her, she commanded.

Who?

Your mother.

I flushed again. It made me squirm to think this lady divined the contents of my heart before I even spoke them. Go ahead, take some wine. You don't have to play tough in front of me.

What the hell. I took it. It helped. I told the lady briefly of Astakos, of its sack and of my mother and father's murder at the hands of the night-skulking warriors of Argos.

The Argives have always been cowards, she observed, dismissing them with a snort of contempt that endeared her, more than she realized, to me. Clearly her long ears had learned my poor story already, yet she listened attentively, seeming to respond with empathy to hearing the tale from my own lips.

You have had an unhappy life, Xeo, she said, speaking my name for the first time. To my surprise this moved me profoundly; I had to fight not to let it show.