Free Spartan by Valerio Massimo Manfredi Page A

on the ground, and that one of the boys had raised his javelin to run him through, isn’t that so?’
    ‘Yes, that’s right.’
    ‘But he didn’t do it.’
    ‘That’s true, but I’d thrown myself on him then, I covered him with my body. The Spartans don’t kill women.’
    ‘I don’t think that’s it. If that boy with the javelin hesitated, there could have been a reason. A reason that escapes us at the moment, but one that was good enough to stay
his hand. In any case, if he had wanted, he would have had his companions drag you off, and he could have easily killed Talos. So if he didn’t do it, it was of his own will. And if he
didn’t kill him in that moment, when he must have been foaming with anger, it’s improbable that he would kill later in cold blood.’
    ‘But what about the others?’
    ‘From your description, the boy must have been Brithos, the son of noble Aristarkhos, the last offspring of the Kleomenids. If he doesn’t want it done, you can be sure that the
others won’t do anything. For now, in any case, we have time. Everyone in the city is busy preparing the initiation ceremony for the new warriors, which will be taking place the day after
tomorrow at the temple of Artemis Orthia.’
    Old Pelias drew near to Talos, observing his face more closely. He touched the boy’s hair. ‘Poor boy,’ he murmured. ‘Courageous as a lion. He doesn’t deserve to
die; not even twenty years old yet!’ He turned to his daughter: ‘Go, prepare something to eat, so there’ll be something when he wakes up.’
    Antinea suddenly remembered that she hadn’t eaten all day, and went to prepare a modest dinner. She called her father when it was ready, but the old man seemingly had to force himself to
eat. They went to bed early, drained by the day’s events.
    On his bed, Talos was still deep in a slumber filled with frightening nightmares. His throat was parched and his temples pounded. He saw, in rapid succession, Brithos’ face lit up in
anger, the sinister glimmer of the javelin tip suspended like a death sentence over his head, the faces of the others spinning around him in a frightening vortex. Their mocking laughter echoed
louder and louder in his head. ‘It doesn’t count, Aghias, he’s lame! He’s lame! He’s lame!’ repeated the screaming voices, ten times, a hundred times, louder and
louder.
    Talos woke up, crying out with anguish in the middle of the night, his forehead dripping with sweat, his heart beating madly. Before him, softly illuminated by the moonlight, was Antinea. Her
hair looked like silver, diffused like a light cloud around the soft oval of her face. Her short dress was a little girl’s gown that didn’t reach her knees. She placed the lamp that she
was holding on a bench and sat on the edge of the bed. Talos, caught between sleeping and waking, couldn’t seem to come to his senses. Antinea reached her small rough hand up to his forehead
and began slowly to dry his sweat with the edge of the woollen cover, in silence.
    Talos watched her with a trembling heart, but that cool hand, on his chest now, seemed to call him back from his nightmare. Antinea’s face became slowly clearer in the near darkness. Her
eyes – full of anxiety and infinite sweetness – caressed his saddened spirit, his shaken mind. He saw her face come closer, slowly, he felt her hair brush his chest like a warm wave,
her lips rested on his thirsty mouth. No longer was the odour of blood filling his nostrils. Talos, the cripple, smelled the sweet scent of hay, of ripe grain, of wildflowers and dreamed in his
heart of Antinea’s golden skin, the perfume of her breast . . . for the first time.
    *
    As the cocks’ cries spread over the countryside, Antinea left the stable carrying a heavy jug of fresh milk.
    Her father Pelias had already gone off towards the city. He was bringing the first fruits of the fields to his master’s house to decorate his table on the great feast day. Two large