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

For my part, I was summoning every ounce of self-composure I possessed, to speak correctly, in proper Greek worthy of a freeborn, and to hold myself with respect not only for her but for my own country and my own line.

And why, the lady asked, does a boy of no city display so much loyalty to this alien country of Lakedaemon, of which he is not, and can never be, a part?

I knew the answer but could not judge how much I dared entrust to her. I responded obliquely, speaking briefly of Bruxieus. My tutor instructed me that a boy must have a city or he cannot grow to be fully a man. Since I no longer possessed a city of my own, I felt free to choose any I liked.

This was a novel point of view, but I could see the lady approved of it. Why not, then, a polis of riches or opportunity? Thebes or Corinth or Athens? All that can come to you here is coarse bread and a striped back.

I replied with a proverb that Bruxieus had once quoted to Diomache and me: that other cities produce monuments and poetry, Sparta produces men.

And is this true? the lady inquired. In your most candid judgment, now that you have had opportunity to study our city, its worst as well as its best?

It is, lady.

To my surprise these words seemed to move the lady profoundly. She averted her gaze, blinking several times. Her voice, when she summoned herself again to speak, was hoarse with affect.

What you have heard of the Peer Idotychides is true. He was the father of your friend Rooster.

He was something other as well. He was my brother.

She could see me react with surprise.

You didn't know this?

No, lady.

She mastered the emotion, the grief, I now saw, that had threatened to discompose her.

So you see, she said with a smile brought forth with effort, that makes this young Rooster something of a nephew to me. And I an aunt to him.

I took more wine. The lady smiled.

May I ask why the lady's family has not sponsored the boy Rooster and put him forward as a mothax?

This is a special dispensation in Lakedaemon, a stepbrother category of youth, available to the lesser-born or bastard sons of Spartiate fathers primarily, who could despite their mean birth be sponsored and elevated, enrolled in the agoge. They would train alongside the sons of Peers.

They could even, if they showed sufficient merit and courage in battle, become citizens.

I have asked your friend Rooster more than once, the lady answered. He rebuffs me.

She could see the disbelief on my face.

With respect, she added. Most courtly respect. But with finality.

She considered this for a moment.

There is another curiosity of mind which one may observe among slaves, particularly those who spring from a conquered people, as this boy Rooster does, being of a Messenian mother. Those men of pride will often identify with the meaner half of their line, out of spite perhaps, or the wish not to seem to curry favor by seeking to ingratiate themselves on the better side.

This was indeed true of Rooster. He saw himself as Messenian, and fiercely so.

I tell you this, my young friend, for your sake as well as my nephew's: the krypteia knows. They have watched him since he was five. They watch you too. You speak well, you have courage, you are resourceful. None of this goes unobserved and unremarked. And I will tell you something more. There is one among the krypteia who is not unknown to you. This is the Captain of Knights, Polynikes. He will not hesitate to slit a treasonous helot's throat, nor do I think that your friend Rooster, for all his strength and spirit, will outrun a champion of Olympia.

The girls by now had all succumbed to slumber. The house itself and the darkness beyond its walls seemed at last entirely, eerily still.

War with the Persian is coming, the lady declared. The city will need every man. Greece will need every man. But just as important, this war, which all agree will be the gravest in history, will afford a mighty stage and arena for greatness. A field upon which a man may display by his deeds the nobility denied him by his birth.

The lady's eyes met mine and held them.

I want this boy Rooster alive when war comes. I want you to protect him. If your ear detects any hint of danger, the slightest rumor, you must come straightaway to me. Will you do this?

I promised I would.

You care for this boy, Xeo. Though he has scourged you, I see the friendship you share. I implore you in the name of my brother and his blood which flows in this boy Rooster's veins.

Will you watch over him? Will you do this for me?

I promised that what I could do, I would.

Swear it.

I complied, by all the gods.

It seemed preposterous. How could I stand against the krypteia or any other force that sought to murder Rooster? Still somehow my boy's promise seemed to ease the lady's distress. She studied my face for a long moment.

Tell me, Xeo, she said softly. Do you ever… have you ever asked anything just for yourself?

I replied that I did not understand the lady's question.

I command one other thing of you. Will you perform it?

I swore I would.

I order you one day to take an action purely for your own sake and not in service to another.

You will know when the time comes. Promise me. Say it aloud.

I promise, lady.

She rose then, with the sleeping infant in her arms, and crossed to a cradle between the beds of the other girls, laying the babe down and settling it within the soft covers. This was the signal for me to take my leave. I had risen already, as respect commanded, when the lady stood.

May I ask one question, lady, before I go?

Her eyes glinted teasingly. Let me guess. Is it about a girl?

No, lady. Already I regretted my impulse. This question I had was impossible, absurd. No mortal could answer it.

The lady had become intrigued, however, and insisted that I continue.

It's for a friend, I told her. I cannot answer it myself, being too young and knowing too little of the world. Perhaps you, lady, with your wisdom may be able to. But you must promise not to laugh or take offense.

She agreed.

Or repeat this to anyone, including your husband.

She promised.

I took a breath and plunged in.

This friend… he believes that once, when he was a child, alone at the point of death, he was spoken to by a god.

I pulled up, minding keenly for any sign of scorn or indignation. To my relief the lady displayed none.

This boy… my friend… he wishes to know if such a thing is possible. Could… would a being of divinity condescend to speak to a boy without city or station, a penniless child who possessed no gift to offer in sacrifice and did not even know the proper words of prayer? Or was my friend hatching phantoms, fabricating empty visions out of his own isolation and despair?

The lady asked which god it was, who had spoken to my friend.

The archer god. Apollo Far Striker.

I was squirming. Surely the lady will scorn such temerity and presumption. I should never have opened my cheesepipe.

But she did not mock my question nor deem it impious. You are something of an archer yourself, I understand, and far advanced for your years. They took your bow, didn't they? It was confiscated when you first appeared in Lakedaemon?

She declared that fortune must have guided me to her hearth this night, for yes, the goddesses of the earth flew thick and near at hand. She could feel them. Men think with their minds, the lady said; women with their blood, which is tidal and flows at the discretion of the moon.

I am no priestess. I can respond only out of a woman's heart, which intuits and discerns truth directly, from within.

I replied that this was precisely what I wished.

Tell your friend this, the lady said. That which he saw was truth. His vision indeed was of the god.