Prologue
Title: Eros
Author: Tatia85
Rating: NC-17 [and not always for sex! .
Notes: This story contains reference to harsh situations. For more disclaimers please see the introduction here: http://tatia85.livejournal.com/1158.html#cutid1 . The story will be no longer than 8, 9 chapters and I have already 3 plus prologue written. :)
Dedication: Definitively to my wonderful beta the_ravingloony. She helped me with the lenguage, listened to me when I was unsure about the fic and cheered my up! Not to mention her wise advise. Thanks cucciola!
Summary: Jack and Ennis in Sparta, set during the Persian War. Ennis is a noble, and Jack... his believed to be a serf.
Feedback: Well, I would love to know what you think of it. Even if you want to flame me, go ahead, I really don't care.
VERY IMPORTANT NOTE: if you aren't familiar with Sparta or with the Ancient Greece, you should read here: http://tatia85.livejournal.com/1158.html#cutid1 . There is an Introduction and a section about warning.
PROLOGUE
[“Author’s” note: I will translate every Greek word use. Don’t worry =P I will even put a little bit of interesting information about ancient Greek =)]
513 BCE
Greece, Laconia. Sparta.
[…] And then Kaos is born, the first among all, and then broad breasted Gaia: everlasting, safe home for mortals and gods who own the snowy summit of Olympus; and, from the wide countries to the abyss, the dark Tartarius; and then Eros, the most beautiful among gods, who disperses all the wisdom from all men and deities, who tames all will, all shrewd advice…
Everything is quiet on thisearly spring night, and the ancient house of the Kuclonas, near the Acropolis, seems surrounded by the unusual, cool softness that has descended over the hard city of Sparta.
Only the sound of Adrasto’s footsteps pacing the ground in the atrium break the silence, echoing in the big, empty, cool room.
Dark eyes go again to the statue of the god, and of the Kuclonas’ heroes, and lips move in a silent prayer to Hera, goddess of childbirth.
The dark head of a mastiff rises from the ground, while the beast, as big as a young pony, and dark as the night itself, and comes close to his master, unaware of the reason for the man's strange behaviour. Paws click on the floor, and a hand made rough with sword and shield and spear rests on the hound's head.
Sensing the stiffness of his master, the hound looks where he is looking. A little wooden door, no decoration. Muffled sound, repressed screams come from it.
The thin lips of Adrasto of the Kuclonas, one of the three hundred who were the private guard of King Demarato and King Cleomene I, stretch in a little smile. His wife Iantha was a strong woman. She wasn’t screaming now.
The man stays still, a white spot into his simple woollen tunic, too light for the cool weather.
Suddenly, the hound’s head rises again, under his master's hand, and the man’s body stiffens some more.
Sharp eyes and keen ears point towards the door.
Quiet minutes pass, while the half moon makes its circle in the sky.
Only once the man’s attention goes to the little window. He shouldn’t be here. He is too young to be home. He should be with his syssitia. Not here. Neither if this is the night of the birth of his firstborn.
His attention is taken back to the door by a tiny sound.
A child wailing.
Other agonizing minutes. And the door opens.
An old lady, dressed in black robe, bringing a pink bundle.
Allowing himself to smile, Adrasto comes closer, stretching his hands while the black hound sniffs the air, scratching the ground with his paws.
Taking the wailing child into his hands, Adrasto freezes.
His eyes look all over the little boy. A male. This is good.
But the child is too little, and he moves his tiny arms and legs weakly.
The little head is covered by dark hair, so like his own.
Adrasto looks at the midwife, without understanding. Yes, the child is not very strong… but not that weak. He could be let to live, at least for a little while.
Then the baby boy opens his eyes.
Blue looks into dark brown, and the latter can’t hide, not with all their training, a spark of pain.
Adrasto sighs.
Blind. His firstborn is blind.
The Spartiate looks again at the midwife, who simple nods. Too blue. Only the blind have got such eyes.
Adrasto lowers his head, looking at the baby boy.
Without a second thought, Adrasto turns, taking his cloak.
His son still in his arms, he turns just once, footsteps again pacing the ground.
-Better to do it now.-
Or I wouldn’t have the strength to.
The midwife just nods again, going back to the puerpera.
Adrasto leaves his ancient home, that won’t be the home of his firstborn.
A drizzle is starting. He grips the cloak over himself, over his still naked son who keeps wailing, unaware of anything.
Sparta is cool and dark in the night. Only the flames in the Acropolis, in the Temple, give a semblance of warm and light. Adrasto’s eyes look at it for just a moment. For just a moment, he resents that warm and light. Not now. Not this night.
He starts walking - the Taygeto isn’t far away, the Kuclonas’ house was on the edge of Sparta.
Walking in the drizzle, with that bundle he is trying not to think of as alive in his arms, the Spartiate finds the path.
Big, heavy, dark clouds towered over him. He whisper ancient phrases to exorcise evil spirits, while the little bundle in his arms moves a little, like a cub in a bag before it is thrown in the river.
Thunder rumbles nearby, and suddenly Adrasto starts to run.
He runs over the hills, his eyes searching the first summit of the Taygeto.
The drizzle has become a downpour. It is pelting down around him. He trips over in the mud, the rotten smell of dead leaves everywhere, almost falls, but keeps running. The briar stings him, drawing blood from his strong legs, from his arms.
The bushes of cornel and of genista and broom cover the path, but he knows where to go. He falls, this time hitting his knees and his elbows on acuminated stone.
Panting, blinded by the water, he manages to come to the first oak’s bush. He rests for a while, before kneeling, laying the baby boy, who still wails, into a holm-oak’s cavity.
Adrasto looks at his son, biting his lips until they bleed. His face, his long, dark hairs are soaking, but his mouth is dry, like leather has been attached to his palate.
He tears off a piece of his tunic, white and woolen, wrapping it around the newborn.
Now is time to go. To let the gods to make their choice with the child.
Closing his eyes, the warrior stands up, slowly, like Atlas under the weight of the world.
Turning painfully, his back to the holm-oak, he starts to walk slowly.
The downpour is lessening. Only some wind makes the branches to rustle. The smell of damp earth is everywhere, the mud is soft under his sandals. The thick bushes skim his skin. Quietly, dreamlike, the Spartiate walks down the mountain, unaware of the water that still wets him.
Wet, bloodied, defeated, Adrasto stops at the foot of the Taygeto, looking at the Eurota that is foaming wild.
Watching at the river, the man feels the same rage rise inside him. He brings his fist over his mouth, biting the knuckles, closing his eyes shut.
-Not for me... For Sparta we beget him- He yelled, not knowing to who, to what, he is screaming.
After, he runs again, towards his syssitia.
In the ancient house of the Kuclonas’ genos, Iantha sits in front of the statues of Gods and heroes who look back at her, with immutable smiles, carved into cypress’ wood. Her eyes are dry, and her mouth is stretched into a thin line. Jerkily, she takes a handful of cinder from the tripod and she dirties her beautiful hair with it. Soundless, she scratches her delicate face till lines of blood, like the tears she can’t shed, appear on her cheeks. Her eyes look at the ceiling’s girders and her ears hear the howl of wolves, the sound of shutting jaws…
It was late morning in the hut. The man, dressed in a poor, dark woolen tunic, hesitates a little bit before coming in. And suddenly his eyes grow wider.
They look at the place. The simple room with the hearthstone, the paillasse, the tools hanging on the wall of mud and straw… and no signs of who he was searching for.
He rushes out, his brown eyes searching. The little clearing is empty. Only oaks, the bushes, and the far away sound of sheep. The ground is still soft from the earlier rain, and it smells good, of needles, of spring. The sun shines brightly, lightening the light-green buds on the trees. Trying not to look where the earth had been freshly moved, forming a little mound, he start calling, with all the breath in his lungs.
-Klimenes! Klimenes!-
A little yellow dog, with one brown spot over his left eye comes barking to his master, biting his tunic and pulling. Puzzled, the man bends down, caressing the little dog.
-What, Kune? Do you found Klimenes?-
The yellow mutt simply barks and starts to run, down the gentle slope. The man sighs, before trying to run after the little dog, panting a little.
Kune stops, suddenly, sitting on a flat rock and whining slowly, looking back at his master like he knows all the answers, the little tail wagging a little.
The man looks around, trying to regain his composure. They are in a small oak scrub, that shines in the full sunlight, smelling of rain and the first flowers of the year.
He hears somebody humming. A slow, human hum. Catching his breath, the man walks forward, moving a branch with his hand, followed by the small dog.
He stops not long after and bites his lips.
Under a holm-oak, sitting over its roots, there is a woman. She is dressed in the same way as the man: a rough, dark woollen tunic. She looks dirty, and muddy. Her feet are covered in blood. Her hair are messy, with leaves and twigs.
But she is smiling to something in her arms.
The wind moves a little bit the holm-oak branches, playing with the sun and the shade while the man gently kneels at her side. The woman looks at him with such joy in her eyes that he feels tears in his own.
-Looks, Stratarchos. Isn’t my son beautiful?-
The woman voice is as sweet as her glance and the man looks at the child in her arms, sucking from her breast, puzzled. When the sun plays again his ancient game and his light hits the baby boy's eyes, a gleam of understanding passes into the man eyes. He looks at the cavity in the holm-oak, then at the child who sucks peacefully. He clears his throat, thinking about the small, fresh mound near the hut before nodding, his voice gentle.
-Yes, Klimenes. Your son is surely beautiful-
-No way, Stratarchos. No way I will bring up a child who is not mine… and who may be blind! How will we feed him? He will be useless all his fucking life!-
-Miseos, the child is not blind. I checked it. His eyes are weird, but he can see. He followed my fingers. They made a mistake with him.-
The voice of the two men are lost in the clear immensity of early evening over the Taygetos. The sheep, thanks to two ugly, yellow dogs, are being brought down for the night. The last rays of the dying sun dye the world in red and orange. Far away, the Acropolis of Sparta, with its proud houses, without defensive walls, gleams like gold. One of the men, the first one who spoke, frowned at that sight, spitting at the ground. His brown eyes, the same color of the battered tunic he is wearing, show pure hate toward the arrogant city.
Stratarchos steps closer, while the other man, yelling at the dogs and shaking his shepherd's crook, starts to walks down the mountain. In the pastures, the only sound heard is the bleating of the sheep, the barking of the dog. Stratarchos breathes deep the fresh air, enjoying it.
He comes closer to the other man, quietly replying.
-We Helots aren’t like them.-
Nothing else is said between the men when, during the last hours of fading light, they take care of the sheep.
Only once Stratarchos notices Miseos looking at the fresh mound, and his lips becoming thinner than ever.
Soon after, they both jerk. A strong child’s wailing comes from close by, from the little hut. Miseos looks at it, then at the clearing. He looks at Stratarchos, fire in his eyes, like he is the one guilty for this, but the man simply smiles. He knows him.
-The boy needs a name- He quietly says.
Again, in the slow-fading light, the man spits.
-He will never know. Hear me, Stratarchos. I don’t want an enemy in my own home. He will never know-
Stratarchos simply smiles again, looking at the sky that is being dotted by Nyx with stars. The crickets are starting their ancient song. Again, he breathes slowly and nods, quietly, watching Miseos.
-Can’t give him one of our ancient names, Stratarchos. Look! - The man points at one summit, not far away -Hilothe. Our dead city. He isn’t one of ours. Will never be.-
Another piercing wail. Miseos jerks, looking angrily at the hut.
-Oh if he can do nothing but shouting, Shout he will be!-
Stratarchos bites his lips, trying not to laugh.
-Well, let's go in, to Klimenes and little Ioan, then- He replies, already thinking about the meal that is waiting for them.
In the meantime, the last spark of the sun dies over the temple of Artemis Orthia.
But down the summit in front of the little hut, the ancient Kuclonas’ house is already surrounded by darkness.
It was late summer in the Tzalatton house.
Arion was looking at his second born, sleeping in his father’s shield, his first crib.
The man bites his lip, standing up and going to the little window.
The Tzalatton’s house was built near the Acropolis, and the bright sun warms it during that long, hot day.
The man walks out of the women's rooms, without paying attention to the Helots working around him, his strong legs moving almost jerkily.
He wipes his forehead from the sweat, searching the looks of the cypress statues in the main room. A spark of fear comes into his eyes, and, in the loneliness of the almost empty house, he allows himself to shake a little when his eyes meet the wooden one of Apollo. Again, sweat forms on his forehead, but this time it is a cold one.
Hearing footsteps, Arion forces himself to turn away from the statues, while his wife, Thais, and his firstborn, Kleidemos Eryx, came into the room. His wife just nods towards him, her slim, strong body and delicate features not showing any feeling, just like the strong woman she is. The little boy, still to young to control himself, runs towards him, greeted by a frown from his father.
Sheepish, Kleidemos Eryx stops and looks at his bare feet, before mumbling, slowly.
-It is good to have you home, father-
Arion allows himself a smile, nodding.
-As it is for me, son. Our annual visit to Delphi was good. The oracle gives to the city of Sparta good prophecies.-
He raises his eyes, meeting the ones of his wife.
-I saw him. He is strong and healthy. He can live-
Only now he sees her features softening a little. Thias calls back Kleidemos Eryx with a gesture, asking with her melodious voice, which makes her the first singer in the sacred choirs for the god.
-Did you choose the name, husband?-
Again, Arion feels cold sweat on his forehead, on his back. Looking directly at her wife, he nods, while another female voice, less tuneful, less beautiful, almost hissing, whispers in his memory.
-Yes. He will be called Ennis.-
Both Kleidemos Eryx and Thias look at him with confusion clear in their features.
-But... father. It is a weird name, it is not a sea one...-
The little child is shushed again with another frown of his elder.
-Kleidemos Eryx, you will never be a good hoplitas and Spartiate if you don’t learn obedience. You hear me, son? Go to your nanny, now- He replies, harshly. Maybe more than he should.
The little boy’s eyes fill with tears, but even at the young age of four he knows enough not to make them spill. He simply nods and, with his light brown head low, he does as he is told.
Thias doesn’t speak, she just looks at her husband, who turns his back to her, looking again out of the small window, at the temple of Artemis Orthia who shines in the last sunrays.
It is true. The Tzalatton enjoy the favor of Poseidon, the great god of Sea, and Kleidemos Eryx, named after the child of Aphrodite, goddess of love, and Poseidon, himself will be an admiral one day. All the Tzalatton have names that link to the sea.
But not his younger one.
The sky starts to darken, while Thias is still looking at her husband’s back.
-Adamanthea will come home soon. She went to make her exercise earlier-
Again, her sweet voice brings him back the memory of his too close up talk with the prophetess…
He nods, without speaking, and looks at his wife, who goes to their lastborn.
And he shivers again, daring to look at the wooden statue of Apollo.
Words said among the wall of the temple, meant only for him, echoes in his mind. Words about who, what, would be waiting him… home.
The man sighs, lowering his head over his large chest. Everything is in the hand of Gods.
Arion closes his eyes, wishing the God of Prophecy had chosen somebody else. Then he hears his wife singing slowly to their last child.
Ennis. The Bridle.
Out of the stern house, like out a hut over the Taygeto, night is falling.
Acropolis: “the tall city”. Higher part of the city where there was, usually, the temples.
Syssitia: literally “shared meal”. It was a group of young men [aged from 20 to 30] who share barracks, meals and life. During war, they fight together. There will be more about this later on.
Taygeto: the mountain range next to Sparta.
Eurota: river on the eastern side of Taygeto.
Kuclonas: Twister in Ancient Greek… I know the word for Twist, but it sound bad =P
Cypress’ statue: like many ancient culture, Greek honoured ancestors and gods by having their effigies carved in wood and put in a small altar home. The wood used was cypress, because it was sacred to the Gods of Death. This is the reason we still have cypress near cemetery, by the way.
Genos: family, race.
“Iantha sits in front… on her cheeks”: it is the Greek ritual for mourning somebody’s death.
Stratarchos: “leader of war”. In Old English… Harold =P
Miseos: hateful. I couldn’t stop myself, I am sorry <.< I had reason not to call Jack and his father with the same name, so I choose this one =P
Nyx: goddess of the night.
Hilot: serf for Spartan’s society.
Hilothe: you will know more about this pretty soon. A little bit of patience…
Ioan: There are two reasons for this name. It is short for Ioannes, or Johannes, or John… and so Jack. But this means, in very Ancient Greek, “shout”. The Greek Tragic [Eschilo, Sophocles and Euripides] used it even in a particular meaning… that you will know sooner or later =)
Artemis Orthia: Artemis was the goodness of hunt and the wild. Orthia because of the place where she was believed to be born.
Tzalatton: Del Mar in Italian means, literally, “Of the Sea”. Tzalatton means the same in Ancient Greek.
Arion: one of the tritons.
Delphi: the most famous and important Greek oracle was located here. The Pitia [read “Pizia”], a priestess, gives prophecy to people who comes from pretty much all the world.
Ennis: yeah, a rather similar word did exist in ancient Greek. It means something alongside “bridle” or “string” =) Poseidon, aside from being the god of the sea, was even the god of horses. So the idea of a “Sea’s Bridle” was not as foreign to ancient Greek as it could be for us.
Author: Tatia85
Rating: NC-17 [and not always for sex! .
Notes: This story contains reference to harsh situations. For more disclaimers please see the introduction here: http://tatia85.livejournal.com/1158.html#cutid1 . The story will be no longer than 8, 9 chapters and I have already 3 plus prologue written. :)
Dedication: Definitively to my wonderful beta the_ravingloony. She helped me with the lenguage, listened to me when I was unsure about the fic and cheered my up! Not to mention her wise advise. Thanks cucciola!
Summary: Jack and Ennis in Sparta, set during the Persian War. Ennis is a noble, and Jack... his believed to be a serf.
Feedback: Well, I would love to know what you think of it. Even if you want to flame me, go ahead, I really don't care.
VERY IMPORTANT NOTE: if you aren't familiar with Sparta or with the Ancient Greece, you should read here: http://tatia85.livejournal.com/1158.html#cutid1 . There is an Introduction and a section about warning.
PROLOGUE
[“Author’s” note: I will translate every Greek word use. Don’t worry =P I will even put a little bit of interesting information about ancient Greek =)]
513 BCE
Greece, Laconia. Sparta.
[…] And then Kaos is born, the first among all, and then broad breasted Gaia: everlasting, safe home for mortals and gods who own the snowy summit of Olympus; and, from the wide countries to the abyss, the dark Tartarius; and then Eros, the most beautiful among gods, who disperses all the wisdom from all men and deities, who tames all will, all shrewd advice…
Everything is quiet on thisearly spring night, and the ancient house of the Kuclonas, near the Acropolis, seems surrounded by the unusual, cool softness that has descended over the hard city of Sparta.
Only the sound of Adrasto’s footsteps pacing the ground in the atrium break the silence, echoing in the big, empty, cool room.
Dark eyes go again to the statue of the god, and of the Kuclonas’ heroes, and lips move in a silent prayer to Hera, goddess of childbirth.
The dark head of a mastiff rises from the ground, while the beast, as big as a young pony, and dark as the night itself, and comes close to his master, unaware of the reason for the man's strange behaviour. Paws click on the floor, and a hand made rough with sword and shield and spear rests on the hound's head.
Sensing the stiffness of his master, the hound looks where he is looking. A little wooden door, no decoration. Muffled sound, repressed screams come from it.
The thin lips of Adrasto of the Kuclonas, one of the three hundred who were the private guard of King Demarato and King Cleomene I, stretch in a little smile. His wife Iantha was a strong woman. She wasn’t screaming now.
The man stays still, a white spot into his simple woollen tunic, too light for the cool weather.
Suddenly, the hound’s head rises again, under his master's hand, and the man’s body stiffens some more.
Sharp eyes and keen ears point towards the door.
Quiet minutes pass, while the half moon makes its circle in the sky.
Only once the man’s attention goes to the little window. He shouldn’t be here. He is too young to be home. He should be with his syssitia. Not here. Neither if this is the night of the birth of his firstborn.
His attention is taken back to the door by a tiny sound.
A child wailing.
Other agonizing minutes. And the door opens.
An old lady, dressed in black robe, bringing a pink bundle.
Allowing himself to smile, Adrasto comes closer, stretching his hands while the black hound sniffs the air, scratching the ground with his paws.
Taking the wailing child into his hands, Adrasto freezes.
His eyes look all over the little boy. A male. This is good.
But the child is too little, and he moves his tiny arms and legs weakly.
The little head is covered by dark hair, so like his own.
Adrasto looks at the midwife, without understanding. Yes, the child is not very strong… but not that weak. He could be let to live, at least for a little while.
Then the baby boy opens his eyes.
Blue looks into dark brown, and the latter can’t hide, not with all their training, a spark of pain.
Adrasto sighs.
Blind. His firstborn is blind.
The Spartiate looks again at the midwife, who simple nods. Too blue. Only the blind have got such eyes.
Adrasto lowers his head, looking at the baby boy.
Without a second thought, Adrasto turns, taking his cloak.
His son still in his arms, he turns just once, footsteps again pacing the ground.
-Better to do it now.-
Or I wouldn’t have the strength to.
The midwife just nods again, going back to the puerpera.
Adrasto leaves his ancient home, that won’t be the home of his firstborn.
A drizzle is starting. He grips the cloak over himself, over his still naked son who keeps wailing, unaware of anything.
Sparta is cool and dark in the night. Only the flames in the Acropolis, in the Temple, give a semblance of warm and light. Adrasto’s eyes look at it for just a moment. For just a moment, he resents that warm and light. Not now. Not this night.
He starts walking - the Taygeto isn’t far away, the Kuclonas’ house was on the edge of Sparta.
Walking in the drizzle, with that bundle he is trying not to think of as alive in his arms, the Spartiate finds the path.
Big, heavy, dark clouds towered over him. He whisper ancient phrases to exorcise evil spirits, while the little bundle in his arms moves a little, like a cub in a bag before it is thrown in the river.
Thunder rumbles nearby, and suddenly Adrasto starts to run.
He runs over the hills, his eyes searching the first summit of the Taygeto.
The drizzle has become a downpour. It is pelting down around him. He trips over in the mud, the rotten smell of dead leaves everywhere, almost falls, but keeps running. The briar stings him, drawing blood from his strong legs, from his arms.
The bushes of cornel and of genista and broom cover the path, but he knows where to go. He falls, this time hitting his knees and his elbows on acuminated stone.
Panting, blinded by the water, he manages to come to the first oak’s bush. He rests for a while, before kneeling, laying the baby boy, who still wails, into a holm-oak’s cavity.
Adrasto looks at his son, biting his lips until they bleed. His face, his long, dark hairs are soaking, but his mouth is dry, like leather has been attached to his palate.
He tears off a piece of his tunic, white and woolen, wrapping it around the newborn.
Now is time to go. To let the gods to make their choice with the child.
Closing his eyes, the warrior stands up, slowly, like Atlas under the weight of the world.
Turning painfully, his back to the holm-oak, he starts to walk slowly.
The downpour is lessening. Only some wind makes the branches to rustle. The smell of damp earth is everywhere, the mud is soft under his sandals. The thick bushes skim his skin. Quietly, dreamlike, the Spartiate walks down the mountain, unaware of the water that still wets him.
Wet, bloodied, defeated, Adrasto stops at the foot of the Taygeto, looking at the Eurota that is foaming wild.
Watching at the river, the man feels the same rage rise inside him. He brings his fist over his mouth, biting the knuckles, closing his eyes shut.
-Not for me... For Sparta we beget him- He yelled, not knowing to who, to what, he is screaming.
After, he runs again, towards his syssitia.
In the ancient house of the Kuclonas’ genos, Iantha sits in front of the statues of Gods and heroes who look back at her, with immutable smiles, carved into cypress’ wood. Her eyes are dry, and her mouth is stretched into a thin line. Jerkily, she takes a handful of cinder from the tripod and she dirties her beautiful hair with it. Soundless, she scratches her delicate face till lines of blood, like the tears she can’t shed, appear on her cheeks. Her eyes look at the ceiling’s girders and her ears hear the howl of wolves, the sound of shutting jaws…
It was late morning in the hut. The man, dressed in a poor, dark woolen tunic, hesitates a little bit before coming in. And suddenly his eyes grow wider.
They look at the place. The simple room with the hearthstone, the paillasse, the tools hanging on the wall of mud and straw… and no signs of who he was searching for.
He rushes out, his brown eyes searching. The little clearing is empty. Only oaks, the bushes, and the far away sound of sheep. The ground is still soft from the earlier rain, and it smells good, of needles, of spring. The sun shines brightly, lightening the light-green buds on the trees. Trying not to look where the earth had been freshly moved, forming a little mound, he start calling, with all the breath in his lungs.
-Klimenes! Klimenes!-
A little yellow dog, with one brown spot over his left eye comes barking to his master, biting his tunic and pulling. Puzzled, the man bends down, caressing the little dog.
-What, Kune? Do you found Klimenes?-
The yellow mutt simply barks and starts to run, down the gentle slope. The man sighs, before trying to run after the little dog, panting a little.
Kune stops, suddenly, sitting on a flat rock and whining slowly, looking back at his master like he knows all the answers, the little tail wagging a little.
The man looks around, trying to regain his composure. They are in a small oak scrub, that shines in the full sunlight, smelling of rain and the first flowers of the year.
He hears somebody humming. A slow, human hum. Catching his breath, the man walks forward, moving a branch with his hand, followed by the small dog.
He stops not long after and bites his lips.
Under a holm-oak, sitting over its roots, there is a woman. She is dressed in the same way as the man: a rough, dark woollen tunic. She looks dirty, and muddy. Her feet are covered in blood. Her hair are messy, with leaves and twigs.
But she is smiling to something in her arms.
The wind moves a little bit the holm-oak branches, playing with the sun and the shade while the man gently kneels at her side. The woman looks at him with such joy in her eyes that he feels tears in his own.
-Looks, Stratarchos. Isn’t my son beautiful?-
The woman voice is as sweet as her glance and the man looks at the child in her arms, sucking from her breast, puzzled. When the sun plays again his ancient game and his light hits the baby boy's eyes, a gleam of understanding passes into the man eyes. He looks at the cavity in the holm-oak, then at the child who sucks peacefully. He clears his throat, thinking about the small, fresh mound near the hut before nodding, his voice gentle.
-Yes, Klimenes. Your son is surely beautiful-
-No way, Stratarchos. No way I will bring up a child who is not mine… and who may be blind! How will we feed him? He will be useless all his fucking life!-
-Miseos, the child is not blind. I checked it. His eyes are weird, but he can see. He followed my fingers. They made a mistake with him.-
The voice of the two men are lost in the clear immensity of early evening over the Taygetos. The sheep, thanks to two ugly, yellow dogs, are being brought down for the night. The last rays of the dying sun dye the world in red and orange. Far away, the Acropolis of Sparta, with its proud houses, without defensive walls, gleams like gold. One of the men, the first one who spoke, frowned at that sight, spitting at the ground. His brown eyes, the same color of the battered tunic he is wearing, show pure hate toward the arrogant city.
Stratarchos steps closer, while the other man, yelling at the dogs and shaking his shepherd's crook, starts to walks down the mountain. In the pastures, the only sound heard is the bleating of the sheep, the barking of the dog. Stratarchos breathes deep the fresh air, enjoying it.
He comes closer to the other man, quietly replying.
-We Helots aren’t like them.-
Nothing else is said between the men when, during the last hours of fading light, they take care of the sheep.
Only once Stratarchos notices Miseos looking at the fresh mound, and his lips becoming thinner than ever.
Soon after, they both jerk. A strong child’s wailing comes from close by, from the little hut. Miseos looks at it, then at the clearing. He looks at Stratarchos, fire in his eyes, like he is the one guilty for this, but the man simply smiles. He knows him.
-The boy needs a name- He quietly says.
Again, in the slow-fading light, the man spits.
-He will never know. Hear me, Stratarchos. I don’t want an enemy in my own home. He will never know-
Stratarchos simply smiles again, looking at the sky that is being dotted by Nyx with stars. The crickets are starting their ancient song. Again, he breathes slowly and nods, quietly, watching Miseos.
-Can’t give him one of our ancient names, Stratarchos. Look! - The man points at one summit, not far away -Hilothe. Our dead city. He isn’t one of ours. Will never be.-
Another piercing wail. Miseos jerks, looking angrily at the hut.
-Oh if he can do nothing but shouting, Shout he will be!-
Stratarchos bites his lips, trying not to laugh.
-Well, let's go in, to Klimenes and little Ioan, then- He replies, already thinking about the meal that is waiting for them.
In the meantime, the last spark of the sun dies over the temple of Artemis Orthia.
But down the summit in front of the little hut, the ancient Kuclonas’ house is already surrounded by darkness.
It was late summer in the Tzalatton house.
Arion was looking at his second born, sleeping in his father’s shield, his first crib.
The man bites his lip, standing up and going to the little window.
The Tzalatton’s house was built near the Acropolis, and the bright sun warms it during that long, hot day.
The man walks out of the women's rooms, without paying attention to the Helots working around him, his strong legs moving almost jerkily.
He wipes his forehead from the sweat, searching the looks of the cypress statues in the main room. A spark of fear comes into his eyes, and, in the loneliness of the almost empty house, he allows himself to shake a little when his eyes meet the wooden one of Apollo. Again, sweat forms on his forehead, but this time it is a cold one.
Hearing footsteps, Arion forces himself to turn away from the statues, while his wife, Thais, and his firstborn, Kleidemos Eryx, came into the room. His wife just nods towards him, her slim, strong body and delicate features not showing any feeling, just like the strong woman she is. The little boy, still to young to control himself, runs towards him, greeted by a frown from his father.
Sheepish, Kleidemos Eryx stops and looks at his bare feet, before mumbling, slowly.
-It is good to have you home, father-
Arion allows himself a smile, nodding.
-As it is for me, son. Our annual visit to Delphi was good. The oracle gives to the city of Sparta good prophecies.-
He raises his eyes, meeting the ones of his wife.
-I saw him. He is strong and healthy. He can live-
Only now he sees her features softening a little. Thias calls back Kleidemos Eryx with a gesture, asking with her melodious voice, which makes her the first singer in the sacred choirs for the god.
-Did you choose the name, husband?-
Again, Arion feels cold sweat on his forehead, on his back. Looking directly at her wife, he nods, while another female voice, less tuneful, less beautiful, almost hissing, whispers in his memory.
-Yes. He will be called Ennis.-
Both Kleidemos Eryx and Thias look at him with confusion clear in their features.
-But... father. It is a weird name, it is not a sea one...-
The little child is shushed again with another frown of his elder.
-Kleidemos Eryx, you will never be a good hoplitas and Spartiate if you don’t learn obedience. You hear me, son? Go to your nanny, now- He replies, harshly. Maybe more than he should.
The little boy’s eyes fill with tears, but even at the young age of four he knows enough not to make them spill. He simply nods and, with his light brown head low, he does as he is told.
Thias doesn’t speak, she just looks at her husband, who turns his back to her, looking again out of the small window, at the temple of Artemis Orthia who shines in the last sunrays.
It is true. The Tzalatton enjoy the favor of Poseidon, the great god of Sea, and Kleidemos Eryx, named after the child of Aphrodite, goddess of love, and Poseidon, himself will be an admiral one day. All the Tzalatton have names that link to the sea.
But not his younger one.
The sky starts to darken, while Thias is still looking at her husband’s back.
-Adamanthea will come home soon. She went to make her exercise earlier-
Again, her sweet voice brings him back the memory of his too close up talk with the prophetess…
He nods, without speaking, and looks at his wife, who goes to their lastborn.
And he shivers again, daring to look at the wooden statue of Apollo.
Words said among the wall of the temple, meant only for him, echoes in his mind. Words about who, what, would be waiting him… home.
The man sighs, lowering his head over his large chest. Everything is in the hand of Gods.
Arion closes his eyes, wishing the God of Prophecy had chosen somebody else. Then he hears his wife singing slowly to their last child.
Ennis. The Bridle.
Out of the stern house, like out a hut over the Taygeto, night is falling.
Acropolis: “the tall city”. Higher part of the city where there was, usually, the temples.
Syssitia: literally “shared meal”. It was a group of young men [aged from 20 to 30] who share barracks, meals and life. During war, they fight together. There will be more about this later on.
Taygeto: the mountain range next to Sparta.
Eurota: river on the eastern side of Taygeto.
Kuclonas: Twister in Ancient Greek… I know the word for Twist, but it sound bad =P
Cypress’ statue: like many ancient culture, Greek honoured ancestors and gods by having their effigies carved in wood and put in a small altar home. The wood used was cypress, because it was sacred to the Gods of Death. This is the reason we still have cypress near cemetery, by the way.
Genos: family, race.
“Iantha sits in front… on her cheeks”: it is the Greek ritual for mourning somebody’s death.
Stratarchos: “leader of war”. In Old English… Harold =P
Miseos: hateful. I couldn’t stop myself, I am sorry <.< I had reason not to call Jack and his father with the same name, so I choose this one =P
Nyx: goddess of the night.
Hilot: serf for Spartan’s society.
Hilothe: you will know more about this pretty soon. A little bit of patience…
Ioan: There are two reasons for this name. It is short for Ioannes, or Johannes, or John… and so Jack. But this means, in very Ancient Greek, “shout”. The Greek Tragic [Eschilo, Sophocles and Euripides] used it even in a particular meaning… that you will know sooner or later =)
Artemis Orthia: Artemis was the goodness of hunt and the wild. Orthia because of the place where she was believed to be born.
Tzalatton: Del Mar in Italian means, literally, “Of the Sea”. Tzalatton means the same in Ancient Greek.
Arion: one of the tritons.
Delphi: the most famous and important Greek oracle was located here. The Pitia [read “Pizia”], a priestess, gives prophecy to people who comes from pretty much all the world.
Ennis: yeah, a rather similar word did exist in ancient Greek. It means something alongside “bridle” or “string” =) Poseidon, aside from being the god of the sea, was even the god of horses. So the idea of a “Sea’s Bridle” was not as foreign to ancient Greek as it could be for us.