Free Spartan by Valerio Massimo Manfredi Page B

sackfuls hung from the saddle of his ass. The girl leaned backwards against the door to open it, entered the cottage and placed the jug on the ground. She filled a cup with steaming milk; it was
time to wake Talos so that he could eat. She quietly entered the room where he slept. A ray of light brightened the room, revealing the straw pallet still stained with blood: empty! Antinea felt
suddenly faint. Realizing that he couldn’t have got far, she rushed outside.
    She ran towards the wood near the stream, but there was no trace of him. She turned towards the mountain, but decided immediately that Talos couldn’t have gone that way; he would never
return to his family in that state. There was only one possible explanation: Talos must have gone to Sparta! The one place that both she and her father had forbidden him to go at any cost.
    She returned wearily to the farm, weeping by the time she reached the door. She sat on a stool for a while in thought, then suddenly understood what she must do. Antinea stood up and put on a
long cloak which fell from her head to the ground. She started off for the city with her quick step, noting the crowds that were gathering along the streets and in the squares.
    Antinea’s intuition had not failed her: Talos had been roaming about on his unsteady legs for some time in the city, hooded to hide his face from the throngs filling the streets that led
to the temple of Artemis Orthia. The great sacrifice and initiation ceremony for the new warriors was about to begin.
    Many Perioeci – people of the middle caste: farmers and shopkeepers – had come with their families from the outlying fields, and there were also quite a few Helots. Some were
certainly there in the service of their masters; others, attracted out of curiosity, had come to witness the cruel initiation rites. All at once, from the end of the square in front of the temple,
a roll of drums could be heard along with the sound of pipes. A sound Talos remembered well – he had heard it for the first time when he descended the mountain to the banks of the Eurotas to
watch the returning warriors.
    The crowd opened to allow the court to pass. First came the priests wrapped in white robes, their heads bound with long woollen bands that fell to their shoulders. Next came the heralds and the
temple servants. A short distance behind them followed the divisions of equals, warriors dressed in crimson cloaks and tunics covered with polished armour, their helmets crowned with high horsehair
crests.
    Talos, half hidden behind a column, felt a shiver run down his spine as he watched them march in perfect order with their measured step. He saw himself as a boy, on the edge of that dusty road,
before a warrior who fixed him with sorrowful eyes. The equals began to wheel, arranging their ranks into four rows all around the square. They stopped, still as statues, shield against shield,
hands gripping long shining spears. At the end of the column came the royal guard with their scarlet crests rippling in the wind, their great shields decorated with the insignia of the city’s
most illustrious families. On one of those shields, Talos saw a dragon with shining scales of copper. The boy’s heartbeat quickened; he tried in vain to search for the face of that warrior,
hidden behind the helmet’s mask. Behind them, the two kings: Cleomenes on his black stallion and Leotychidas in the saddle of a Corinthian sorrel, their armour richly adorned and their great
mantles falling to cover the hindquarters of their steeds. Finally came the supervisors of the barracks and, behind them, the youths who aspired to become eirenes , men and warriors who would
defend the power and honour of their city.
    Taking their places, the two kings signalled to the heralds, who sounded the trumpets for the beginning of the sacrifice. The steaming blood of the slaughtered animals dripped on the pavement
and a pungent odour spread through the square as their