(no subject)
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. :)
Disclaimers: any character you recognize belongs to Annie Proulx. OC are mine.
Dedication: Definitively to my wonderful beta the_ravingloony. She helped me with the language, listened to me when I was unsure about the fic [often. Very often] 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.
The long table is made of rough wood, still coarse, full of splinters.
Numerous bowls half full of black broth are set on it.
The tall window and the simple, wooden door, are left open even in the fresh air of autumn, the smell of heather and trees and the faint sound of the Eurota come in together with light. At a first glance, the simple white walls and earth-beat floor seem lifeless.
Slight sounds of small footsteps can be heard soon after, and the Hilot who was taking care of the last bowls of broth quickly disappears, just when a tall, muscular man comes in, dressed in a simple white loincloth, his bare chest covered by the scars left by sword and spear, like his legs. His deadpan face looks all around, before looking back on the small courtyard between the cookhouse and the wider one which was used as gym. Maybe fifty boys, aging from seven to eleven, are tidily walking towards him, their small bodies covered only by tunics, their feet bare. All the children have got long hair, usually dark. The man frowns, and that alone is enough to stop all the children on their feet, even if a lot of them look hungrily at the rectangular edifice.
Suddenly, the man speaks in a gravelly voice, frowning.
-Where is Ennis of the Tzalatton?-
The children look at each other, uneasy, small feet brush against the sand of the courtyard.
A dark skinned child, maybe ten years old, who has a bruise on his left cheek makes a step forward, looking at the instructor, waiting.
-Speak, Stratippos of the Licariston-
Only at the sound of the man’s voice the child starts saying.
-His father took him, Instructor. He said he will bring him back in time for the meal-
The man simply nods, gesturing the children to step into the small edifice.
In an orderly way, every child takes his seat on the long, rough form. Dark eyes look at the spoons, and at the very few spoonfuls of dark, foul smelling broth inside the bowls. Yet, only one of two of the littler ones dare to sigh, the other simply eye all around, looking mainly at the larder, quickly thinking about how to steal something from it without getting caught.
But the man keeps waiting, for another ten minutes, looking at the door. Slowly, he starts to frown. After, he looks all around.
-I am going to search for Ennis. Nobody is allowed to eat until my return-
Without other word, the man steps out.
Quiet seconds pass, until suddenly all the little, dark and often curly heads bend down, to whisper exchanges.
-Did you hear about Nikophoros?-
-Yes… His Inspirer killed himself.-
-This means they…-
-Yeah. Probably.-
-I can’t believe it… How did he kill himself?-
At this last question, the children go silent until a boy smiles knowingly, looking with heedlessness into his bowl of dark broth.
-I know. I heard my father talking with my older brother. They found him this early morning, when he and Arion of the Tzalatton… Ennis’ father, went to take him and bring him out of the city.-
All the children look at him. Again, the boy, with fair skin and light brown, long hair smiles, before eyeing at the door and whisper: - He had been ordered to prepare himself to go into exile. He started to drink. The Ephores ordered to chain him. He managed to find a knife and cut himself… holding it into his mount. Bled to death with cuts everywhere. My father says his bowels were visible-
One of the younger boys, with hair almost blonde and big dark eyes, looks at him, shaking his head.
-And Nikophoros…?-
Before the first boy could speak, heavy footsteps are heard. All the children stand up on the rough form, looking intently at the white wall.
The Instructor doesn’t speak, he simply lets the boy who was silently following him enter.
A fair child, fairer than everybody else in the room. His curly blonde hairs are long and trimmed, and he wears a simple white tunic, barefoot like all the others.
Without looking at his peers or at the instructor, he walks until he finds his place and quietly sits down. All the other boys’ eyes follow him, somebody with curiosity, somebody with resentment for the delayed meal, since more than one stomach is rumbling. Yet the child seems unaware, his light brown eyes are big, and his face astonishing pale. When he sits down, the two children at his left and right notice he is trembling a little. They smile with scorn, apparently unnoticed by the boy himself.
-You can eat-
At those simple words, spoon are raised and dipped in the dark broth, a smell of vinegar clear in the air. Yet, no children dare to say anything, not under the watchful eyes of the instructor.
But a moment in which the man is called out is enough. The small, rough, cold room is full again with whisper, thanks to the few spoonful of broth put in the bowl.
-Nikophoros will be sent into exile to. Even if he is only fourteen. He shouldn’t act against nature with his Inspirer. It is a special relationship. My father told my brother so. Lycurgo said it is like a father lying hands on his son. A Spartiate doesn’t do that.-
The same boy as before, strong with the knowledge that comes from his father, talks with certainty, eyeing Ennis a bit. He is the only one who could belie him. But the younger stays still, looking at his empty bowl. All the other boys nod, agreeing silently and thinking about their peer who will for sure end up dead somewhere, without honour and without funeral, damned to wander for the eternity as a shadow.
The two children at his left and right smile again with disdain at the impassivity of their comrade, belied by the slow shaking of the little body. They exchange whispers, joking between themselves about “Athenian boys” and “worthless weaklings” trying to enrage the boy, younger than them.
Disappointed from their lack of success, the one of his right says out, loud enough everyone can hear: -Even Ennis will be sent to exile, one day. He is shaking like an Athenian! Isn’t true, Demetrios? Like he did something today, while we worked he was just wandering with his fath…-
The boy at the right of Ennis doesn’t end the phrase. He finds the Tzalatton fist at his jaw.
-Ehi! What… It is forbidden!-
The few words, stammered from the boy are lost in the cold and now suddenly still air, while Ennis hits again, and again, hurling himself over the other child.
-What is happening?-
The Instructor's tall frame seems to fill the door, but no reply is given. The sound of the fighting is the only answer. With few step, he came close of the two boys, looking at them deadpan.
-Ennis of the Tzalatton. Paramonos of the Kleosphiles. Stop. Now.-
Weirdly, the apparently mad boy seems to respond to the order and stops, shivering, his little brown eyes inscrutable. He has a cut in his forehead, his nose is bleeding.
Paramonos of the Kleosphiles is on the ground, his hands up his face. His nose has a strange angle and he is bleeding badly over the earth-beat ground. Tears unshed are in his eyes and one of his eyes is already blackening.
The man observes everything with one glance and looks at Ennis with something between a frown and an approval noticeable in his eyes.
-Ennis, you will be punished for having started a fight in the cookhouse. For one month you will not come back home.-
The child doesn’t seem aware of the instructor’s words and keeps staring at the window, the smell of flower coming in strongly. The late flowering of broom and strawberry-tree mingled with rosemary, warmed by the cool autumnal sun. The Taygeto seems to stretch forever, like the mountains have no end. He keeps shaking slightly, panting, the cheeks, before white, now reddened.
Paramonos smiles hearing the punishment given to Ennis, and looks around, making sure the other children are aware of it, squaring his already strong shoulders.
The Instructor turns, facing him.
-Paramonos, you will be punished for letting a boy three years younger than you win. You will do double exercise for a month-
The boy mouth hangs wide open, but he knows better than to argue and he nods, lowering his head.
Not a fly moves in the small room, when, at a gesture of the Instructor, the boys stand up and go out of the cookhouse. Nobody seems to care about the bruises and cuts on Ennis or about Paramonos’ broken nose.
Soon after, they come back to their usual routine of exercise, dance, and choirs to the gods, like nothing happened.
Nobody never again talks about Nikophoros or his Inspirer.
-Pyrros! Stupid dog! The sheep! You must take care of the sheep!-
The small boy yells, running down the hill, following the red puppy. The autumn tinges the Taygetos with the warmer colour of Gaia’s palette. Oaks, holm-oaks, chestnuts carry sumptuous clothes in red and yellow and orange. The child, dressed in a battered tunic, is unaware of the beauty that surrounded him, and of the sun that is setting over the proud city in front of him. Swiftly, he dodges briars and thorny acacia branches, avoiding in his pursuit nettles and flowered thistle’s bush.
It is the hour of golden light, and even the dark head of the young child, not older than maybe nine years old, is dyed of the faintest gold. He stops on his feet, rubbing one sandal against his calf, one small but already rough hand over his blue eyes, looking for his dog.
He is in one small clearing, and the gentle murmuring of water speaks about a stream near.
With a sigh, the boy makes for the stream. And of course here Pyrros was, playing with water, deep only two, three inches, chasing after the golden leaf brought down by the flow.
Still panting a little, the boy sighs.
-Pyrros, you will not convince my father to keep you if you don’t become a good herding dog soon…-
The boy bends over, taking the puppy in his arms and smiling when it licks his chin, barking happily.
-Better to come back. Uncle Stratarchos will have to bring down sheep soon.-
Walking quickly, the boy makes the same path done before, his dark hair damp with sweat. Yet, he smiles, breathing in the sweet smell of the mountain and starts whistling, and puts the dog into his tunic, against his skin. The puppy raises his ears, looking at his young master with quiet brown eyes.
Coming closer to the pasture where he left the sheep with his uncle not thirty minutes before, the boy becomes cautious, and puts the puppy down. Almost tiptoeing, he moves towards the sheep, taking from where he left it the shepherd-hook he had left behind when he started to run after the little dog. Everything seems quiet, and the sunset was just beginning, giving even warmer tones to the mountains. The only sound was the one of the spring near the pasture, giving the source of the little stream Pyrros found fun to dive in. The sheep bleats a little, lambs bouncing over the grass.
He is just going to let go a big sigh of relief when a sound on his back makes him freezing. Fast, he turns on his heels, starting to talk, his big, blue eyes already widened.
-Father, I didn’t want to let the sheep alone, Pyrros heard a sound and I went chec…-
A big sigh escapes the man’s lips.
-Ioan, I am not your father… and we both know you didn’t go to check any sound, did you?-
Torn between relief to see his uncle and guilt, the boy looks at his toes, moving them, uneasily.
-Uncle, don’t tell father! You know he didn’t want to keep Pyrros!-
The man sighs, looking at the red mutt.
-He is the runt of the litter, Ioan…-
-But he is alive! See! You all told me he couldn’t live but I did make him live! Father hates him! Please uncle… I will never left the sheep alone again!-
Big, blue, pleading eyes look at the dark ones of the man who is frowning, but smiles after few seconds.
-Alright Ioan, but you know we can’t keep a useless dog. Your Pyrros have to learn to behave like a good sheep dog or…-
-Yes! Thanks uncle! I am sure he will!-
As usual, the boy doesn’t let his elder to end the phrase, and starts running toward the sheep, yelling to the puppy to follow him.
The man sighs, shaking his head.
-Alright, Ioan. I have to check for the goats in the upper pasture, to bring them down. I will be back in few minutes. Be careful here. Wolves may be around.-
The boy, playing with the puppy, nods and smiles brightly.
-Of course, uncle. I will whistle if something happens.-
The man nods, hesitating before going on his way, not so far from the middle pasture where the boy still plays with the dog.
It is sunset now, and the bloodlike light tinges everything in red. The boy looks all around, and smiles walking as silent as he can towards a hollow oak. He inserts his hand in the cavity, taking out a stick with a resemblance of a little spear, made in wood by childish hands, and a piece of bark that vaguely looks like a shield, with an eye carved in.
Smiling, the boy starts playing, in the red light, which makes the white and brown sheep look like they are bleeding, adding truthfulness to the play.
The red puppy barks, happily joining the game, jumping between the bare legs of the boy, or trying to snap the wooden spear.
Suddenly, the doggy stops, again lifting his head, and starts to growl at something in the path.
Unaware of anything, the boy keeps playing, trying to march like the hoplites do.
Only when the puppy growls start to be loud, he looks at him, puzzled.
-Pyrros what is…-
The boy turns around, and the spear and the shield fall over the ground.
A dark shadow, darker than the one Nyx is spreading all over the word, comes down on him.
The boy swallows, getting paler and paler.
-Ah… father… I was…-
But the man is not listening.
Hours later, a bruised child is sitting out the same hut of nine years ago.
Inside the hut, words are being thrown like rocks.
The louder, the more the little body stiffens, his throat is so tight he can’t swallow, his blue eyes set on the ground.
He knows they are arguing about him. His father and his uncle.
The night is cold, and the flames that flash through the crack in the door only remind him of his lost spear and shield.
Selene plays hide and seek with dark, thin clouds, either showing or hiding the world.
When the boy hears a chair falling, he suddenly stands up, running in the clearing, away, away.
The dark wood stretches all around him when he comes in. Sharp, wooden fingers point at him, and small sounds of hunting animals echo in the night.
The moon keeps its ancient game, uninterested.
Tears in his eyes, the boy doesn’t see the path, which is clear in his mind, not until he come to the smaller hut when they smoke the sheep and lambs' meat.
He let himself fall down, curling under the pilework, hugging his knees.
The branches rustle around him, and he sniffs.
A wet nose tugs his calf, and the boy looks down, eyes blurring with tears.
The puppy looks at him, his head bents on one side, hear up.
He whines a little, tugging him again and Ioan manages a shaky smile, hugging the red doggie close, crying silently in his coat.
Suddenly, he stiffens.
The boy frowns.
Again, he feels something.
A noise.
He tenses up, biting his lips, thinking himself stupid to be out of the safety of his home so late in the night. Images of wolves and evil spirits comes in his mind. He shivers, his throat tight.
But…
He frowns again, puzzled.
That isn’t a sound like wolves… which made no sound by the way… or like evil spirits [which sound do they make?]. It sounds like…
Slowly, he sticks out the head from the pilework and opens his eyes wide.
He jumps out of the pilework, the puppy weirdly silent, and is about to shout when the moon appears clear in the sky, showing the little clearing.
The two boys face each other, one with a stolen half lamb in his arms, the other with a red puppy at his heels. Both bruised, eyes that show sign of tears held and let fall.
Blue meets brown for one long moment, and even Selene and the clouds stop their antique game, looking down.
Time [how much?] later, Electra resumes their old play, and a voice came from the path behind the blue eyed boy.
-Ioan! Ioan! Where are you? Ioan!-
Ioan turns his head hearing his uncle, and this breaks the spell.
-Here you are! I searched for you everywhere, little one! Come home, your mother is worried-
The boy looks at his uncle like he doesn’t know him, batting his eyelids.
-Ioan? Are you alright?-
Stratarchos takes the boy arm, tugging him. The man frowns, looking all around. Nothing is on seen in the small clearing, only the late night and its sounds, its hidden life.
The man sighs, looking at his so called nephew again.
-Ioan? - He asks again, gently.
The boy shakes once, batting again his eyelids.
-Yes, uncle? I am… I am alright.-
The man stops tugging him and pats his dark hair, softly.
-Let’s came home.-
He starts walking, the red doggie, unusually calm, follows them. The night is clear, now, and only vaguely threatening. Their steps make quiet sounds, their breathing small clouds of mist.
-Uncle? What did I… do wrong? Why father was so angry at me?-
The blue eyes look at him sadly, questioning him.
Stratarchos sighs, looking in front of him, seeing the hut not so far away.
-Your father… you know him. Using weapon is forbidden to the Hilots-
-But Uncle… those where just toys! Nothing serious. And Father always speaks of Hitome, and our ancient kingdom… And Father said… I will never be… be like you…-
The man abruptly bends down, putting one finger over the little boy's quivering lips.
-Don’t speak about that, Ioan! Yes but… you will know. Not now. Instead, what were you looking at? You stayed so still I thought there was a ghost there-
The boy stops, turning his body behind, looking at the path just walked, already in the small clearing near the hut. Again, his blue eyes become far away, pointing, too sharp for his age.
The man, who was smiling while doing the questioning, frowns again.
-Ioan?-
-No… no ghost. Just… a…feeling-
Frowning, the man looks at the boy, and then at the path. Without other words, he comes into the hut.
Down the mountains, four little boys are sharing a half lamb, not far away from the barracks they are in as punishment, or for medical care.
One of them, one leg in front on him, with splints put on, and chewing meat, looks at the blonde child who is eating quietly, soundless.
-Ehi, Ennis, why did you need so much time to go over there? I pointed well where my father told me the slaves bring the meat. Did you see a ghost?-
All the other boy chuckle nervously, gulping down their morsels.
The blonde child looks over his shoulders, towards the mountains. His brown eyes become far away, pointing, too sharp for his age.
-No… no ghost. Just… a…feeling-
The answer seems to startle the children, unused to Ennis’ speaking.
But the child says nothing more, bends his blonde head down, looking thoughtfully at the meat in his hands.
The flaming heat of summer tinges the mountains in its driest colour: yellow, brown. Even the leaves look like they are being sucked of all their water.
The sky is white with warmth, endless over the apparently lifeless clearing, sallow grass all around. The sheep bleat weakly, drinking often at the spring, no matter how cool.
The boy bends over, taking some dried grass between his thumb and forefinger, rubbing it slightly.
It isn’t good, if it keeps like that, the sheep will not eat enough…
Blue eyes set on the horizon, frowning. He sighs; their master won’t care why they bring down less meat or wool than they are supposed to. He just wants his own.
A red dog comes, wagging his tail slowly, his tongue stuck out. He is hot, too. The boy smiles, wiping away sweat from his forehead, and after patting the dog between his ears.
-What is it, Pyrros? The sheep are all right?-
The boy smiles weakly when the dog barks, as answering. He let himself fall in the shadow of a pine, the yellow flowers of the ginesta and rock sapphire and cape honeysuckle all around him. The boy sighs, happily, taking off from a small sack near to him a flute. At the sight, the dog raises his ears and hightails it to the other side of the pasture. The boy scowls, sticking his tongue at the dog.
Leaning his bare back against the truck behind him, staring at the leaves rustling above him, playing with the burning sunlight of that lazy afternoon, he puts the flute in his mouth.
He keeps playing for some minutes, before he realizes something is… wrong.
He stares around, keeping playing with one hand, while the other found his sheep hook, ready to strike if it is a predator…
-You don’t play so good, young boy-
The blue eyed child jumps on the ground, shepherd’s crook in one hand, flute in the other, looking wildly around.
-Easy easy… no need to scare the sheep like that. Here I am-
The boy's eyes become even wider, noticing the strange man just appeared.
He is tall, and dark haired, with a long black beard and moustache. His eyes are as black as the night. He is completely dressed, weird in the heat and carries a big belt with tiny… things attached. A sack is held over his side. On the other side, there is an odd-shaped… thing. It looks like it is done with a turtle shell, two horned twigs joined with another one. Between the joining twig and the end of the turtle shell there was some tendon rope.
But what caught his eyes was the sword.
It was beautiful. Even he understands that. Into his leather sheath, too rough for such a splendid hilt… That hilt… shaped like a… bull?
The man smiles at the staring child, keeping himself quiet.
Just the wind whooshes around them, the warm phon that doesn’t bring any relief from the immobile heat.
The black man’s eyes keeps looking at the child, quietly. They lock with his blue ones, with calm strength.
-Who are you, young shepherd?-
His voice, how he hadn’t notice before?, is decided and modulated and melodious.
Nothing answer, just the bleat of sheep, the whoosh of wind, the rustling of leaves. Smells of flowers intoxicate the air all around them, like a drug.
After some moment of silence, the man raises an eyebrow.
The boy shakes, blushing slowly.
-I am Ioan, son of Miseos and Klimenes…-
Now both the man’s eyebrows are raised, and he caresses his beard, whispering.
-Miseos uh…-
The boy holds his sheep hook, nodding.
-Your eyes boy… where did you take them?-
Again, the boy blushes, looking at his feet, staring at his toes that show through the sandals.
-I haven’t taken them. They… have always been there.-
-Uhm… wise words, boy. See you soon, then.-
The boy looks up, at the man, who is leading away.
-Wait, sir! What… what is your name?-
Without turning, the man answers calmly, so soft it is nearly a whisper, barely audible. The boy realizes how the world is silent now, the sheep and the wind… even Pyrros doesn’t make sounds anymore. He looks around, almost losing the man’s answer.
-Minosses-
Then, the man turns his head, adding just as softly.
-The last of the aedos.-
Blinking, the boy looks at the pool under the spring, without understanding. When he raises his head, the man his gone.
There are just sheep, the flower, and the wind.
-Pyrros, help me to bring down the sheep… Uncle Stratarchos should have been here long ago… We have to do it by ourselves friend.-
The boy sighs, loudly, and looks all around, again.
The evening brings some relief from the burning heat of the day. The sun is lowering, and the phon has changed into a gentler breeze. The sallow colour has changed into warm, comfortable red and orange, which makes the mountain looks like it is on fire. The day flowers close their corolla and the night ones hasn’t yet hatched.
The light wind brings mild smells, whispering when it pass through the ancient tombstone over the mountain.
The boys shivers, looking anxious at the graveyard of fallen heroes over the top, he massages his own arm, uneasy.
-They say the ghosts of the kings shriek at night…-
The mumble goes unheard, the dog is herding the sheep, and only the wind, flowers and trees witness the boy’s shake.
-Let’s go, Pyrros-
Turning bravely his back to the top of the mountain, the boy starts walking, coming down, coming home.
The path is the same as always, but never done alone, never at this time of the day. It is starting to get cold. Of course it is the weather that is making him shiver…
Every second the child jumps on his feet, looking nervously at the wood.
He keeps staring all around, eyes big, hands clutching nervously over the sheep hook.
A clearing, above the small hut, appears, one little fence with a shelter, made of wood, is built over it. The nightfall gives it a bucolic appearance, like Eirene herself went down from Olympus to build it perfectly… the small haven, the little stream, the fence… under a small cliff, the hut with its soft smoke, signs of life and warm.
The boy smiles happily, running to open the barrier, while the red dog barks and snaps at their heels. Bleating, the sheep enter the fence. Knotting the fence itself closed, the boy whistles slowly, running and hopping towards home, the previous fear suddenly disappeared, laughing and playing with the red dog which cheerfully snaps and rolls in the grass fragrant of warmly sweet flowers. The crickets sing their ancient summer’s song, jumping away under the child bouncing feet.
The boy chuckles, again, but his cheerfulness stops abruptly when he comes close to the hut.
He frowns, looking at it, and after all around, but there is nobody. As usual. The Hilots don’t have a village.
Tiptoeing, he comes closer to the door, hushing to Pyrros to stay silent. The dog sits, looking at his little master with concern, whining just a little.
Only the light of stars and the one which comes from the crack in the wooden door lights up the night. The boy cautiously puts his cheek against the coarse wood, feeling it against his still smooth skin. He holds his breath, biting his lips, fear again clear in his features: the crackling of the flame is at first everything he hears. But isn’t the flame which scares him… is the voice speaking.
-… found. That is how it went, Minosses. Don’t think he is… fit.-
-Let me judge that, Miseos. I have got a… feeling, about the boy. Ioan, isn’t it?-
-Yeah. That damn boy can do nothing but talk. Good for nothing.-
Tears unshed wet the wood, little toes curl in the sandals, a little chest heavy with contained sighs.
The boy lowers his head, as dark as the truck in that summer night, his small palms against the wood. And so, he doesn’t listen anymore.
-So… It is true? The Persians… ?-
-Yes Miseos. The King of Kings, Darios, defeated the Tracian twelve years ago. Same years of the birth of that… son of yours.-
The man stays still, after those words, like hit by a sudden thought.
-Many are the gods’ ways, Miseos…-
His voice sounds deeper, quieter when he talks, and no answer for a long time comes.
Only the cracking sound of the fire, the gentle one of the wind, outside.
Until… -Let the Great fight the Great, Minosses. And they have been quiet ever since.-
-Yes, until the Great will fight us. One day it will happen. I have talked with Perialla.-
When the last words expand in the air, everything seems motionless. Even the child, outside, doesn’t move, his little forearm still over his blue eyes.
-I want to teach that son of yours, I tell you. Please, let me, old friend-
Again, no answer.
Finally, the so-called father of the child speaks with a heavy sigh, which seems to release a lifetime of sorrow.
-Everything is in the gods’ hand. He is good for nothing but if you want… you will have to be careful, Minosses, if the Krypteia finds out… But I know you will be.But… I want to know one thing. Does this have something to do with you trip to Delphi, Minosses? Is this your will or… the one of somebody greater?-
-You know, Miseos. You just told. Everything is in the gods’ hand. -There is some sound, like the man is now standing up -I will teach the boy. There is still that small hut… that one, on the top of the hill?-
-Yes, last time I checked. Everybody will be pleased to have you here again, Minosses… but… they won’t like it. If they would know, that is, which is not…-
-It will happens, Miseos. I know and I will accept it..-
Again, the boy puts his ear again the wood, after having to swallow tears and sorrow just in time to hear…
-And so, let's open the door and let in my disciple.-
Blue eyes get wide hearing that last part and the child stands up, like he has been struck. He tries to make a step back, his little but already strong muscles tensing…
His father stands in front of him, a dark frame, illuminated from the back by the fire and the boy feels himself freeze, big, blue eyes that reflect the flame, pale, and lips quivering. The red dog recoils, head down, whining, like in front of a bear or a mountain lion.
The boy closes his eyes, waiting for the blow, knowing he shouldn’t eavesdrop on the talk, small fists clenching.
But, for the first time in his twelve years, the blows don’t come.
Instead, his father let him in, and the man he had seen before looks at him, caressing his beard.
-Very well… so, you are my disciple, young Shout.-
A smile plays over the man’s lips. The boy looks at him, with confusion clear over his face. The familiar shape of the hut is like transfixed by that unknown person in front of his home-fire. The mud and straw walls, the thatch, the tools hung on the wall… everything looks weird,
-I am sure you will do very well, young one… very well…-
Over the border of the wall-less city, two figures wait.
Wind strikes them, bringing sand and smell of summer flowers. The heat is not strong, and in the air of this late afternoon bears only a remembrance of the hotter hours of the day. They are not close to the path which leads into the city, but are standing in front of a big valley between the rocky feet of two mountains, the one used for the bigger war training. The sun has long since desiccated the grass, which is now yellow and sandy. The slow Eurota’s murmur just makes the small dale even dryer, even more lifeless.
The bigger figure puts a hand on the shoulder of the smaller, but the last doesn’t seem to acknowledge it.
Two young men, one more a child, the other about sixteen years old. Both have long, dark blonde hairs. Both are lean and tall for their age. And both wear only simple, white tunics.
Suddenly, a sound comes from east and the older boy frowns, turning his head to face it, black eyes questioning, and his free hand runs to the small bronze sword.
The ridge of a mountain blocks his vision, and the older boy clenches his lips, frowning again, trying to discern the noise. He leaves alone the smaller boy, who doesn’t make a move, and step ahead with the graceful moves of the trained fighter, to look.
The last rays of sun tinge the mountain red and orange, only grazing over the dried field, and makes it appear like it is on fire. It touches the older boy, shading him of flame, giving him touch of red in his hairs.
Only the child is left in the shadows.
The young man seems to relax and steps behind, looking briefly at the immobile child, and then at the figure just appeared over the ridge.
A man, tall and strong, dark beard and long hair, with the simple tunic of all the spartiates is coming, riding a black horse.
The shadows are coming down, darkening everything. The black horse seems to fade in the night, like the black bearded man is sitting over Erebos himself.
The man turns his face towards the older boy, looking at him with his only eye.
-Is he the child?-
The older boy just nods, hesitating, biting his lips as to speak.
-I will be honoured to train the younger child of the Tzlatton in the way of the horseman. Even if I don’t understand the decision of your late father about him, I will honour it. Arion was a worthy fighter, and a mighty good admiral. I am glad to hear the Ephores had agreed on him about the training of his younger son. After his last trip to Delphi he did tell me to expect his Bridle soon...-
Speaking, the man swiftly dismounts, letting the trained horse to graze freely in the darkening, yellow field.
The older boy, while the man speaks with deep, gravely voice, stays still. He looks at his brother, small, swift look. Embarrassed glance.
The boy stays still, just looking at the horse. A small smile plays across his lips.
The man seems to notice it, and turn towards him, walking with few, strong step until he is in front of him.
-Hear me, boy. I am Philippos of the Ippocrathes. I will be your instructor for the next eight years. You will obey me or you will be punished. Harshly.-
The boy just nods, looking still at the horse. There is something like fear, or despair, deep felt, in those hazel eyes. And a bruise, just over his left cheekbone.
The man seems to see the bruise in the falling light and raises his eyebrows. He looks at the older boy, who simply returns his gaze and give a sharp nod.
Philoppos turns to face the child, looking at him sternly.
-Well, boy, you might not want to be a horseman. But you got no choice. If you can’t fix it, you gotta stand it.-
Without looking, he adds.
-Leave him with me. I will take him to his new barracks-
The older boy hesitates just a minute. He nods and, with just a glance to his little brother, he is gone.
The man looks at the boy, clutching his lips.
Sad, hazel eyes replies his glance.
Philippos turns away, heading towards the horse, without speaking.
And the child sighs, nodding, before following the man.
The night is fallen over the mountain and the city altogether.
Black broth: typical Spartan dishes, it was made with pork meat and vinegard and blood. According to our source, it didn’t taste so good.
Long hairs: all the spartiates had long hairs. They used to comb them just before battle, in scorn for the enemy.
Inspirer/Hearer: Spartiates, like almost all Greek, encourages a form of pederasty: an elder man would take a younger boy [this relationship started when the boy was from twelve to fourteen years old] and would teach him to become a true citizen and hoplite. The elder was called Inspirer, and the younger was called Hearer. This friendship had even an erotic side. This is for sure. BUT about “how much erotic” there are lots of different interpretations. Lycurgo [see after], in his laws, ordered that if an Ispirer actually touched his Hearer, and the Hearer agreed on that, they both had to either kill themselves or go into exile. So implied Plato into one of his Dialogues. I am choosing such an interpretation not because I am against sex among men [If I would be, I would be in the wrong place= P] but just because it suits better in my story. It is probably true that Spartiates allows same-sex relationship with a ritual meaning, but the degree of sexuality in them is debated… It is quite probably that was allows anything but anal sex, at least among equals [not among Inspirer/Hearer], such as comrade. Anyway, it is debated, and anything I will say about homosexual relationship in my story, thought it is by no means my invention, is just one interpretation among many, and usually the one who suits better the story of our boys.
Lycurgo: mythical king and legislator, his Laws were the laws of Sparta.
Ephores: the oligarchy that rules Sparta in peace. They were five Spartiates older than sixty, chosen by the Equals’ Meeting [all Spartiates older than thirty].
Act against nature: anal sex. I know, Greece is often thought to be absolutely open about “gay-sex” but in many sources we have is implied it wasn’t always so. Remind this is not my thought on the matter, only the interpretation I chose among many for “how much it suits” my story.
“Without… shadow”: Greek believed that if somebody was sent in Hades [afterlife] without funeral and, especially, without a coin under the tongue to pay Caronte, the infernal boatman, they were damned to wander forever. Some kinds, not all, of suicide were handled this way.
Pyrros: flame-like.
Whistle: usually shepherds uses whistle to communicate on long distances.
Selene: Goddess of the Moon.
Electra: Goddess of Clouds.
“Using…Hilots”: yeah, it is true. Hilots were five time as much as Spartiates, and the latter were afraid they could rebel some day.
“I…ghost”: the first ghost-story we have are Greeks. I know, I had to translate one! =P
Aedos: Aedos was the “bards” of ancient Greece. They travel from court to court to sing about ancient myths, usually in poetry. I am talking about VERY ancient Greece, far before the setting of this story and in a time when writing, even if discovered, was still ideographic… if there was writing at all! [In the Dark Ages of Greece, for century people literally forgot how to write, after the Doric invasion]. At that time, Aedos had a high status. They had to know everything by memory and to be able to form verses in the moment they sing them. When the Cities started to rise and writing became used again, however, the aedos started to be fewer and fewer. In my story, Minosses is the last one.
Delphi: a very, very important sanctuary to a “certain” deity was here. Probably, the most important one in all Greece and Mediterranean Ancient World.
Philippos: “horse’s friend”. So all the Philips out here know where their name came from.
“You…horseman”: Sparta’s army did have a horsemen division. But it wasn’t very important or respected, either. Horsemen didn’t fight with the other troops. They did mainly reconnaissance and pursuit… so they had no glory. Thus, the fact that our boy [you recognize him, don’t you?] is kinda lowering his status badly.
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. :)
Disclaimers: any character you recognize belongs to Annie Proulx. OC are mine.
Dedication: Definitively to my wonderful beta the_ravingloony. She helped me with the language, listened to me when I was unsure about the fic [often. Very often] 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.
The long table is made of rough wood, still coarse, full of splinters.
Numerous bowls half full of black broth are set on it.
The tall window and the simple, wooden door, are left open even in the fresh air of autumn, the smell of heather and trees and the faint sound of the Eurota come in together with light. At a first glance, the simple white walls and earth-beat floor seem lifeless.
Slight sounds of small footsteps can be heard soon after, and the Hilot who was taking care of the last bowls of broth quickly disappears, just when a tall, muscular man comes in, dressed in a simple white loincloth, his bare chest covered by the scars left by sword and spear, like his legs. His deadpan face looks all around, before looking back on the small courtyard between the cookhouse and the wider one which was used as gym. Maybe fifty boys, aging from seven to eleven, are tidily walking towards him, their small bodies covered only by tunics, their feet bare. All the children have got long hair, usually dark. The man frowns, and that alone is enough to stop all the children on their feet, even if a lot of them look hungrily at the rectangular edifice.
Suddenly, the man speaks in a gravelly voice, frowning.
-Where is Ennis of the Tzalatton?-
The children look at each other, uneasy, small feet brush against the sand of the courtyard.
A dark skinned child, maybe ten years old, who has a bruise on his left cheek makes a step forward, looking at the instructor, waiting.
-Speak, Stratippos of the Licariston-
Only at the sound of the man’s voice the child starts saying.
-His father took him, Instructor. He said he will bring him back in time for the meal-
The man simply nods, gesturing the children to step into the small edifice.
In an orderly way, every child takes his seat on the long, rough form. Dark eyes look at the spoons, and at the very few spoonfuls of dark, foul smelling broth inside the bowls. Yet, only one of two of the littler ones dare to sigh, the other simply eye all around, looking mainly at the larder, quickly thinking about how to steal something from it without getting caught.
But the man keeps waiting, for another ten minutes, looking at the door. Slowly, he starts to frown. After, he looks all around.
-I am going to search for Ennis. Nobody is allowed to eat until my return-
Without other word, the man steps out.
Quiet seconds pass, until suddenly all the little, dark and often curly heads bend down, to whisper exchanges.
-Did you hear about Nikophoros?-
-Yes… His Inspirer killed himself.-
-This means they…-
-Yeah. Probably.-
-I can’t believe it… How did he kill himself?-
At this last question, the children go silent until a boy smiles knowingly, looking with heedlessness into his bowl of dark broth.
-I know. I heard my father talking with my older brother. They found him this early morning, when he and Arion of the Tzalatton… Ennis’ father, went to take him and bring him out of the city.-
All the children look at him. Again, the boy, with fair skin and light brown, long hair smiles, before eyeing at the door and whisper: - He had been ordered to prepare himself to go into exile. He started to drink. The Ephores ordered to chain him. He managed to find a knife and cut himself… holding it into his mount. Bled to death with cuts everywhere. My father says his bowels were visible-
One of the younger boys, with hair almost blonde and big dark eyes, looks at him, shaking his head.
-And Nikophoros…?-
Before the first boy could speak, heavy footsteps are heard. All the children stand up on the rough form, looking intently at the white wall.
The Instructor doesn’t speak, he simply lets the boy who was silently following him enter.
A fair child, fairer than everybody else in the room. His curly blonde hairs are long and trimmed, and he wears a simple white tunic, barefoot like all the others.
Without looking at his peers or at the instructor, he walks until he finds his place and quietly sits down. All the other boys’ eyes follow him, somebody with curiosity, somebody with resentment for the delayed meal, since more than one stomach is rumbling. Yet the child seems unaware, his light brown eyes are big, and his face astonishing pale. When he sits down, the two children at his left and right notice he is trembling a little. They smile with scorn, apparently unnoticed by the boy himself.
-You can eat-
At those simple words, spoon are raised and dipped in the dark broth, a smell of vinegar clear in the air. Yet, no children dare to say anything, not under the watchful eyes of the instructor.
But a moment in which the man is called out is enough. The small, rough, cold room is full again with whisper, thanks to the few spoonful of broth put in the bowl.
-Nikophoros will be sent into exile to. Even if he is only fourteen. He shouldn’t act against nature with his Inspirer. It is a special relationship. My father told my brother so. Lycurgo said it is like a father lying hands on his son. A Spartiate doesn’t do that.-
The same boy as before, strong with the knowledge that comes from his father, talks with certainty, eyeing Ennis a bit. He is the only one who could belie him. But the younger stays still, looking at his empty bowl. All the other boys nod, agreeing silently and thinking about their peer who will for sure end up dead somewhere, without honour and without funeral, damned to wander for the eternity as a shadow.
The two children at his left and right smile again with disdain at the impassivity of their comrade, belied by the slow shaking of the little body. They exchange whispers, joking between themselves about “Athenian boys” and “worthless weaklings” trying to enrage the boy, younger than them.
Disappointed from their lack of success, the one of his right says out, loud enough everyone can hear: -Even Ennis will be sent to exile, one day. He is shaking like an Athenian! Isn’t true, Demetrios? Like he did something today, while we worked he was just wandering with his fath…-
The boy at the right of Ennis doesn’t end the phrase. He finds the Tzalatton fist at his jaw.
-Ehi! What… It is forbidden!-
The few words, stammered from the boy are lost in the cold and now suddenly still air, while Ennis hits again, and again, hurling himself over the other child.
-What is happening?-
The Instructor's tall frame seems to fill the door, but no reply is given. The sound of the fighting is the only answer. With few step, he came close of the two boys, looking at them deadpan.
-Ennis of the Tzalatton. Paramonos of the Kleosphiles. Stop. Now.-
Weirdly, the apparently mad boy seems to respond to the order and stops, shivering, his little brown eyes inscrutable. He has a cut in his forehead, his nose is bleeding.
Paramonos of the Kleosphiles is on the ground, his hands up his face. His nose has a strange angle and he is bleeding badly over the earth-beat ground. Tears unshed are in his eyes and one of his eyes is already blackening.
The man observes everything with one glance and looks at Ennis with something between a frown and an approval noticeable in his eyes.
-Ennis, you will be punished for having started a fight in the cookhouse. For one month you will not come back home.-
The child doesn’t seem aware of the instructor’s words and keeps staring at the window, the smell of flower coming in strongly. The late flowering of broom and strawberry-tree mingled with rosemary, warmed by the cool autumnal sun. The Taygeto seems to stretch forever, like the mountains have no end. He keeps shaking slightly, panting, the cheeks, before white, now reddened.
Paramonos smiles hearing the punishment given to Ennis, and looks around, making sure the other children are aware of it, squaring his already strong shoulders.
The Instructor turns, facing him.
-Paramonos, you will be punished for letting a boy three years younger than you win. You will do double exercise for a month-
The boy mouth hangs wide open, but he knows better than to argue and he nods, lowering his head.
Not a fly moves in the small room, when, at a gesture of the Instructor, the boys stand up and go out of the cookhouse. Nobody seems to care about the bruises and cuts on Ennis or about Paramonos’ broken nose.
Soon after, they come back to their usual routine of exercise, dance, and choirs to the gods, like nothing happened.
Nobody never again talks about Nikophoros or his Inspirer.
-Pyrros! Stupid dog! The sheep! You must take care of the sheep!-
The small boy yells, running down the hill, following the red puppy. The autumn tinges the Taygetos with the warmer colour of Gaia’s palette. Oaks, holm-oaks, chestnuts carry sumptuous clothes in red and yellow and orange. The child, dressed in a battered tunic, is unaware of the beauty that surrounded him, and of the sun that is setting over the proud city in front of him. Swiftly, he dodges briars and thorny acacia branches, avoiding in his pursuit nettles and flowered thistle’s bush.
It is the hour of golden light, and even the dark head of the young child, not older than maybe nine years old, is dyed of the faintest gold. He stops on his feet, rubbing one sandal against his calf, one small but already rough hand over his blue eyes, looking for his dog.
He is in one small clearing, and the gentle murmuring of water speaks about a stream near.
With a sigh, the boy makes for the stream. And of course here Pyrros was, playing with water, deep only two, three inches, chasing after the golden leaf brought down by the flow.
Still panting a little, the boy sighs.
-Pyrros, you will not convince my father to keep you if you don’t become a good herding dog soon…-
The boy bends over, taking the puppy in his arms and smiling when it licks his chin, barking happily.
-Better to come back. Uncle Stratarchos will have to bring down sheep soon.-
Walking quickly, the boy makes the same path done before, his dark hair damp with sweat. Yet, he smiles, breathing in the sweet smell of the mountain and starts whistling, and puts the dog into his tunic, against his skin. The puppy raises his ears, looking at his young master with quiet brown eyes.
Coming closer to the pasture where he left the sheep with his uncle not thirty minutes before, the boy becomes cautious, and puts the puppy down. Almost tiptoeing, he moves towards the sheep, taking from where he left it the shepherd-hook he had left behind when he started to run after the little dog. Everything seems quiet, and the sunset was just beginning, giving even warmer tones to the mountains. The only sound was the one of the spring near the pasture, giving the source of the little stream Pyrros found fun to dive in. The sheep bleats a little, lambs bouncing over the grass.
He is just going to let go a big sigh of relief when a sound on his back makes him freezing. Fast, he turns on his heels, starting to talk, his big, blue eyes already widened.
-Father, I didn’t want to let the sheep alone, Pyrros heard a sound and I went chec…-
A big sigh escapes the man’s lips.
-Ioan, I am not your father… and we both know you didn’t go to check any sound, did you?-
Torn between relief to see his uncle and guilt, the boy looks at his toes, moving them, uneasily.
-Uncle, don’t tell father! You know he didn’t want to keep Pyrros!-
The man sighs, looking at the red mutt.
-He is the runt of the litter, Ioan…-
-But he is alive! See! You all told me he couldn’t live but I did make him live! Father hates him! Please uncle… I will never left the sheep alone again!-
Big, blue, pleading eyes look at the dark ones of the man who is frowning, but smiles after few seconds.
-Alright Ioan, but you know we can’t keep a useless dog. Your Pyrros have to learn to behave like a good sheep dog or…-
-Yes! Thanks uncle! I am sure he will!-
As usual, the boy doesn’t let his elder to end the phrase, and starts running toward the sheep, yelling to the puppy to follow him.
The man sighs, shaking his head.
-Alright, Ioan. I have to check for the goats in the upper pasture, to bring them down. I will be back in few minutes. Be careful here. Wolves may be around.-
The boy, playing with the puppy, nods and smiles brightly.
-Of course, uncle. I will whistle if something happens.-
The man nods, hesitating before going on his way, not so far from the middle pasture where the boy still plays with the dog.
It is sunset now, and the bloodlike light tinges everything in red. The boy looks all around, and smiles walking as silent as he can towards a hollow oak. He inserts his hand in the cavity, taking out a stick with a resemblance of a little spear, made in wood by childish hands, and a piece of bark that vaguely looks like a shield, with an eye carved in.
Smiling, the boy starts playing, in the red light, which makes the white and brown sheep look like they are bleeding, adding truthfulness to the play.
The red puppy barks, happily joining the game, jumping between the bare legs of the boy, or trying to snap the wooden spear.
Suddenly, the doggy stops, again lifting his head, and starts to growl at something in the path.
Unaware of anything, the boy keeps playing, trying to march like the hoplites do.
Only when the puppy growls start to be loud, he looks at him, puzzled.
-Pyrros what is…-
The boy turns around, and the spear and the shield fall over the ground.
A dark shadow, darker than the one Nyx is spreading all over the word, comes down on him.
The boy swallows, getting paler and paler.
-Ah… father… I was…-
But the man is not listening.
Hours later, a bruised child is sitting out the same hut of nine years ago.
Inside the hut, words are being thrown like rocks.
The louder, the more the little body stiffens, his throat is so tight he can’t swallow, his blue eyes set on the ground.
He knows they are arguing about him. His father and his uncle.
The night is cold, and the flames that flash through the crack in the door only remind him of his lost spear and shield.
Selene plays hide and seek with dark, thin clouds, either showing or hiding the world.
When the boy hears a chair falling, he suddenly stands up, running in the clearing, away, away.
The dark wood stretches all around him when he comes in. Sharp, wooden fingers point at him, and small sounds of hunting animals echo in the night.
The moon keeps its ancient game, uninterested.
Tears in his eyes, the boy doesn’t see the path, which is clear in his mind, not until he come to the smaller hut when they smoke the sheep and lambs' meat.
He let himself fall down, curling under the pilework, hugging his knees.
The branches rustle around him, and he sniffs.
A wet nose tugs his calf, and the boy looks down, eyes blurring with tears.
The puppy looks at him, his head bents on one side, hear up.
He whines a little, tugging him again and Ioan manages a shaky smile, hugging the red doggie close, crying silently in his coat.
Suddenly, he stiffens.
The boy frowns.
Again, he feels something.
A noise.
He tenses up, biting his lips, thinking himself stupid to be out of the safety of his home so late in the night. Images of wolves and evil spirits comes in his mind. He shivers, his throat tight.
But…
He frowns again, puzzled.
That isn’t a sound like wolves… which made no sound by the way… or like evil spirits [which sound do they make?]. It sounds like…
Slowly, he sticks out the head from the pilework and opens his eyes wide.
He jumps out of the pilework, the puppy weirdly silent, and is about to shout when the moon appears clear in the sky, showing the little clearing.
The two boys face each other, one with a stolen half lamb in his arms, the other with a red puppy at his heels. Both bruised, eyes that show sign of tears held and let fall.
Blue meets brown for one long moment, and even Selene and the clouds stop their antique game, looking down.
Time [how much?] later, Electra resumes their old play, and a voice came from the path behind the blue eyed boy.
-Ioan! Ioan! Where are you? Ioan!-
Ioan turns his head hearing his uncle, and this breaks the spell.
-Here you are! I searched for you everywhere, little one! Come home, your mother is worried-
The boy looks at his uncle like he doesn’t know him, batting his eyelids.
-Ioan? Are you alright?-
Stratarchos takes the boy arm, tugging him. The man frowns, looking all around. Nothing is on seen in the small clearing, only the late night and its sounds, its hidden life.
The man sighs, looking at his so called nephew again.
-Ioan? - He asks again, gently.
The boy shakes once, batting again his eyelids.
-Yes, uncle? I am… I am alright.-
The man stops tugging him and pats his dark hair, softly.
-Let’s came home.-
He starts walking, the red doggie, unusually calm, follows them. The night is clear, now, and only vaguely threatening. Their steps make quiet sounds, their breathing small clouds of mist.
-Uncle? What did I… do wrong? Why father was so angry at me?-
The blue eyes look at him sadly, questioning him.
Stratarchos sighs, looking in front of him, seeing the hut not so far away.
-Your father… you know him. Using weapon is forbidden to the Hilots-
-But Uncle… those where just toys! Nothing serious. And Father always speaks of Hitome, and our ancient kingdom… And Father said… I will never be… be like you…-
The man abruptly bends down, putting one finger over the little boy's quivering lips.
-Don’t speak about that, Ioan! Yes but… you will know. Not now. Instead, what were you looking at? You stayed so still I thought there was a ghost there-
The boy stops, turning his body behind, looking at the path just walked, already in the small clearing near the hut. Again, his blue eyes become far away, pointing, too sharp for his age.
The man, who was smiling while doing the questioning, frowns again.
-Ioan?-
-No… no ghost. Just… a…feeling-
Frowning, the man looks at the boy, and then at the path. Without other words, he comes into the hut.
Down the mountains, four little boys are sharing a half lamb, not far away from the barracks they are in as punishment, or for medical care.
One of them, one leg in front on him, with splints put on, and chewing meat, looks at the blonde child who is eating quietly, soundless.
-Ehi, Ennis, why did you need so much time to go over there? I pointed well where my father told me the slaves bring the meat. Did you see a ghost?-
All the other boy chuckle nervously, gulping down their morsels.
The blonde child looks over his shoulders, towards the mountains. His brown eyes become far away, pointing, too sharp for his age.
-No… no ghost. Just… a…feeling-
The answer seems to startle the children, unused to Ennis’ speaking.
But the child says nothing more, bends his blonde head down, looking thoughtfully at the meat in his hands.
The flaming heat of summer tinges the mountains in its driest colour: yellow, brown. Even the leaves look like they are being sucked of all their water.
The sky is white with warmth, endless over the apparently lifeless clearing, sallow grass all around. The sheep bleat weakly, drinking often at the spring, no matter how cool.
The boy bends over, taking some dried grass between his thumb and forefinger, rubbing it slightly.
It isn’t good, if it keeps like that, the sheep will not eat enough…
Blue eyes set on the horizon, frowning. He sighs; their master won’t care why they bring down less meat or wool than they are supposed to. He just wants his own.
A red dog comes, wagging his tail slowly, his tongue stuck out. He is hot, too. The boy smiles, wiping away sweat from his forehead, and after patting the dog between his ears.
-What is it, Pyrros? The sheep are all right?-
The boy smiles weakly when the dog barks, as answering. He let himself fall in the shadow of a pine, the yellow flowers of the ginesta and rock sapphire and cape honeysuckle all around him. The boy sighs, happily, taking off from a small sack near to him a flute. At the sight, the dog raises his ears and hightails it to the other side of the pasture. The boy scowls, sticking his tongue at the dog.
Leaning his bare back against the truck behind him, staring at the leaves rustling above him, playing with the burning sunlight of that lazy afternoon, he puts the flute in his mouth.
He keeps playing for some minutes, before he realizes something is… wrong.
He stares around, keeping playing with one hand, while the other found his sheep hook, ready to strike if it is a predator…
-You don’t play so good, young boy-
The blue eyed child jumps on the ground, shepherd’s crook in one hand, flute in the other, looking wildly around.
-Easy easy… no need to scare the sheep like that. Here I am-
The boy's eyes become even wider, noticing the strange man just appeared.
He is tall, and dark haired, with a long black beard and moustache. His eyes are as black as the night. He is completely dressed, weird in the heat and carries a big belt with tiny… things attached. A sack is held over his side. On the other side, there is an odd-shaped… thing. It looks like it is done with a turtle shell, two horned twigs joined with another one. Between the joining twig and the end of the turtle shell there was some tendon rope.
But what caught his eyes was the sword.
It was beautiful. Even he understands that. Into his leather sheath, too rough for such a splendid hilt… That hilt… shaped like a… bull?
The man smiles at the staring child, keeping himself quiet.
Just the wind whooshes around them, the warm phon that doesn’t bring any relief from the immobile heat.
The black man’s eyes keeps looking at the child, quietly. They lock with his blue ones, with calm strength.
-Who are you, young shepherd?-
His voice, how he hadn’t notice before?, is decided and modulated and melodious.
Nothing answer, just the bleat of sheep, the whoosh of wind, the rustling of leaves. Smells of flowers intoxicate the air all around them, like a drug.
After some moment of silence, the man raises an eyebrow.
The boy shakes, blushing slowly.
-I am Ioan, son of Miseos and Klimenes…-
Now both the man’s eyebrows are raised, and he caresses his beard, whispering.
-Miseos uh…-
The boy holds his sheep hook, nodding.
-Your eyes boy… where did you take them?-
Again, the boy blushes, looking at his feet, staring at his toes that show through the sandals.
-I haven’t taken them. They… have always been there.-
-Uhm… wise words, boy. See you soon, then.-
The boy looks up, at the man, who is leading away.
-Wait, sir! What… what is your name?-
Without turning, the man answers calmly, so soft it is nearly a whisper, barely audible. The boy realizes how the world is silent now, the sheep and the wind… even Pyrros doesn’t make sounds anymore. He looks around, almost losing the man’s answer.
-Minosses-
Then, the man turns his head, adding just as softly.
-The last of the aedos.-
Blinking, the boy looks at the pool under the spring, without understanding. When he raises his head, the man his gone.
There are just sheep, the flower, and the wind.
-Pyrros, help me to bring down the sheep… Uncle Stratarchos should have been here long ago… We have to do it by ourselves friend.-
The boy sighs, loudly, and looks all around, again.
The evening brings some relief from the burning heat of the day. The sun is lowering, and the phon has changed into a gentler breeze. The sallow colour has changed into warm, comfortable red and orange, which makes the mountain looks like it is on fire. The day flowers close their corolla and the night ones hasn’t yet hatched.
The light wind brings mild smells, whispering when it pass through the ancient tombstone over the mountain.
The boys shivers, looking anxious at the graveyard of fallen heroes over the top, he massages his own arm, uneasy.
-They say the ghosts of the kings shriek at night…-
The mumble goes unheard, the dog is herding the sheep, and only the wind, flowers and trees witness the boy’s shake.
-Let’s go, Pyrros-
Turning bravely his back to the top of the mountain, the boy starts walking, coming down, coming home.
The path is the same as always, but never done alone, never at this time of the day. It is starting to get cold. Of course it is the weather that is making him shiver…
Every second the child jumps on his feet, looking nervously at the wood.
He keeps staring all around, eyes big, hands clutching nervously over the sheep hook.
A clearing, above the small hut, appears, one little fence with a shelter, made of wood, is built over it. The nightfall gives it a bucolic appearance, like Eirene herself went down from Olympus to build it perfectly… the small haven, the little stream, the fence… under a small cliff, the hut with its soft smoke, signs of life and warm.
The boy smiles happily, running to open the barrier, while the red dog barks and snaps at their heels. Bleating, the sheep enter the fence. Knotting the fence itself closed, the boy whistles slowly, running and hopping towards home, the previous fear suddenly disappeared, laughing and playing with the red dog which cheerfully snaps and rolls in the grass fragrant of warmly sweet flowers. The crickets sing their ancient summer’s song, jumping away under the child bouncing feet.
The boy chuckles, again, but his cheerfulness stops abruptly when he comes close to the hut.
He frowns, looking at it, and after all around, but there is nobody. As usual. The Hilots don’t have a village.
Tiptoeing, he comes closer to the door, hushing to Pyrros to stay silent. The dog sits, looking at his little master with concern, whining just a little.
Only the light of stars and the one which comes from the crack in the wooden door lights up the night. The boy cautiously puts his cheek against the coarse wood, feeling it against his still smooth skin. He holds his breath, biting his lips, fear again clear in his features: the crackling of the flame is at first everything he hears. But isn’t the flame which scares him… is the voice speaking.
-… found. That is how it went, Minosses. Don’t think he is… fit.-
-Let me judge that, Miseos. I have got a… feeling, about the boy. Ioan, isn’t it?-
-Yeah. That damn boy can do nothing but talk. Good for nothing.-
Tears unshed wet the wood, little toes curl in the sandals, a little chest heavy with contained sighs.
The boy lowers his head, as dark as the truck in that summer night, his small palms against the wood. And so, he doesn’t listen anymore.
-So… It is true? The Persians… ?-
-Yes Miseos. The King of Kings, Darios, defeated the Tracian twelve years ago. Same years of the birth of that… son of yours.-
The man stays still, after those words, like hit by a sudden thought.
-Many are the gods’ ways, Miseos…-
His voice sounds deeper, quieter when he talks, and no answer for a long time comes.
Only the cracking sound of the fire, the gentle one of the wind, outside.
Until… -Let the Great fight the Great, Minosses. And they have been quiet ever since.-
-Yes, until the Great will fight us. One day it will happen. I have talked with Perialla.-
When the last words expand in the air, everything seems motionless. Even the child, outside, doesn’t move, his little forearm still over his blue eyes.
-I want to teach that son of yours, I tell you. Please, let me, old friend-
Again, no answer.
Finally, the so-called father of the child speaks with a heavy sigh, which seems to release a lifetime of sorrow.
-Everything is in the gods’ hand. He is good for nothing but if you want… you will have to be careful, Minosses, if the Krypteia finds out… But I know you will be.But… I want to know one thing. Does this have something to do with you trip to Delphi, Minosses? Is this your will or… the one of somebody greater?-
-You know, Miseos. You just told. Everything is in the gods’ hand. -There is some sound, like the man is now standing up -I will teach the boy. There is still that small hut… that one, on the top of the hill?-
-Yes, last time I checked. Everybody will be pleased to have you here again, Minosses… but… they won’t like it. If they would know, that is, which is not…-
-It will happens, Miseos. I know and I will accept it..-
Again, the boy puts his ear again the wood, after having to swallow tears and sorrow just in time to hear…
-And so, let's open the door and let in my disciple.-
Blue eyes get wide hearing that last part and the child stands up, like he has been struck. He tries to make a step back, his little but already strong muscles tensing…
His father stands in front of him, a dark frame, illuminated from the back by the fire and the boy feels himself freeze, big, blue eyes that reflect the flame, pale, and lips quivering. The red dog recoils, head down, whining, like in front of a bear or a mountain lion.
The boy closes his eyes, waiting for the blow, knowing he shouldn’t eavesdrop on the talk, small fists clenching.
But, for the first time in his twelve years, the blows don’t come.
Instead, his father let him in, and the man he had seen before looks at him, caressing his beard.
-Very well… so, you are my disciple, young Shout.-
A smile plays over the man’s lips. The boy looks at him, with confusion clear over his face. The familiar shape of the hut is like transfixed by that unknown person in front of his home-fire. The mud and straw walls, the thatch, the tools hung on the wall… everything looks weird,
-I am sure you will do very well, young one… very well…-
Over the border of the wall-less city, two figures wait.
Wind strikes them, bringing sand and smell of summer flowers. The heat is not strong, and in the air of this late afternoon bears only a remembrance of the hotter hours of the day. They are not close to the path which leads into the city, but are standing in front of a big valley between the rocky feet of two mountains, the one used for the bigger war training. The sun has long since desiccated the grass, which is now yellow and sandy. The slow Eurota’s murmur just makes the small dale even dryer, even more lifeless.
The bigger figure puts a hand on the shoulder of the smaller, but the last doesn’t seem to acknowledge it.
Two young men, one more a child, the other about sixteen years old. Both have long, dark blonde hairs. Both are lean and tall for their age. And both wear only simple, white tunics.
Suddenly, a sound comes from east and the older boy frowns, turning his head to face it, black eyes questioning, and his free hand runs to the small bronze sword.
The ridge of a mountain blocks his vision, and the older boy clenches his lips, frowning again, trying to discern the noise. He leaves alone the smaller boy, who doesn’t make a move, and step ahead with the graceful moves of the trained fighter, to look.
The last rays of sun tinge the mountain red and orange, only grazing over the dried field, and makes it appear like it is on fire. It touches the older boy, shading him of flame, giving him touch of red in his hairs.
Only the child is left in the shadows.
The young man seems to relax and steps behind, looking briefly at the immobile child, and then at the figure just appeared over the ridge.
A man, tall and strong, dark beard and long hair, with the simple tunic of all the spartiates is coming, riding a black horse.
The shadows are coming down, darkening everything. The black horse seems to fade in the night, like the black bearded man is sitting over Erebos himself.
The man turns his face towards the older boy, looking at him with his only eye.
-Is he the child?-
The older boy just nods, hesitating, biting his lips as to speak.
-I will be honoured to train the younger child of the Tzlatton in the way of the horseman. Even if I don’t understand the decision of your late father about him, I will honour it. Arion was a worthy fighter, and a mighty good admiral. I am glad to hear the Ephores had agreed on him about the training of his younger son. After his last trip to Delphi he did tell me to expect his Bridle soon...-
Speaking, the man swiftly dismounts, letting the trained horse to graze freely in the darkening, yellow field.
The older boy, while the man speaks with deep, gravely voice, stays still. He looks at his brother, small, swift look. Embarrassed glance.
The boy stays still, just looking at the horse. A small smile plays across his lips.
The man seems to notice it, and turn towards him, walking with few, strong step until he is in front of him.
-Hear me, boy. I am Philippos of the Ippocrathes. I will be your instructor for the next eight years. You will obey me or you will be punished. Harshly.-
The boy just nods, looking still at the horse. There is something like fear, or despair, deep felt, in those hazel eyes. And a bruise, just over his left cheekbone.
The man seems to see the bruise in the falling light and raises his eyebrows. He looks at the older boy, who simply returns his gaze and give a sharp nod.
Philoppos turns to face the child, looking at him sternly.
-Well, boy, you might not want to be a horseman. But you got no choice. If you can’t fix it, you gotta stand it.-
Without looking, he adds.
-Leave him with me. I will take him to his new barracks-
The older boy hesitates just a minute. He nods and, with just a glance to his little brother, he is gone.
The man looks at the boy, clutching his lips.
Sad, hazel eyes replies his glance.
Philippos turns away, heading towards the horse, without speaking.
And the child sighs, nodding, before following the man.
The night is fallen over the mountain and the city altogether.
Black broth: typical Spartan dishes, it was made with pork meat and vinegard and blood. According to our source, it didn’t taste so good.
Long hairs: all the spartiates had long hairs. They used to comb them just before battle, in scorn for the enemy.
Inspirer/Hearer: Spartiates, like almost all Greek, encourages a form of pederasty: an elder man would take a younger boy [this relationship started when the boy was from twelve to fourteen years old] and would teach him to become a true citizen and hoplite. The elder was called Inspirer, and the younger was called Hearer. This friendship had even an erotic side. This is for sure. BUT about “how much erotic” there are lots of different interpretations. Lycurgo [see after], in his laws, ordered that if an Ispirer actually touched his Hearer, and the Hearer agreed on that, they both had to either kill themselves or go into exile. So implied Plato into one of his Dialogues. I am choosing such an interpretation not because I am against sex among men [If I would be, I would be in the wrong place= P] but just because it suits better in my story. It is probably true that Spartiates allows same-sex relationship with a ritual meaning, but the degree of sexuality in them is debated… It is quite probably that was allows anything but anal sex, at least among equals [not among Inspirer/Hearer], such as comrade. Anyway, it is debated, and anything I will say about homosexual relationship in my story, thought it is by no means my invention, is just one interpretation among many, and usually the one who suits better the story of our boys.
Lycurgo: mythical king and legislator, his Laws were the laws of Sparta.
Ephores: the oligarchy that rules Sparta in peace. They were five Spartiates older than sixty, chosen by the Equals’ Meeting [all Spartiates older than thirty].
Act against nature: anal sex. I know, Greece is often thought to be absolutely open about “gay-sex” but in many sources we have is implied it wasn’t always so. Remind this is not my thought on the matter, only the interpretation I chose among many for “how much it suits” my story.
“Without… shadow”: Greek believed that if somebody was sent in Hades [afterlife] without funeral and, especially, without a coin under the tongue to pay Caronte, the infernal boatman, they were damned to wander forever. Some kinds, not all, of suicide were handled this way.
Pyrros: flame-like.
Whistle: usually shepherds uses whistle to communicate on long distances.
Selene: Goddess of the Moon.
Electra: Goddess of Clouds.
“Using…Hilots”: yeah, it is true. Hilots were five time as much as Spartiates, and the latter were afraid they could rebel some day.
“I…ghost”: the first ghost-story we have are Greeks. I know, I had to translate one! =P
Aedos: Aedos was the “bards” of ancient Greece. They travel from court to court to sing about ancient myths, usually in poetry. I am talking about VERY ancient Greece, far before the setting of this story and in a time when writing, even if discovered, was still ideographic… if there was writing at all! [In the Dark Ages of Greece, for century people literally forgot how to write, after the Doric invasion]. At that time, Aedos had a high status. They had to know everything by memory and to be able to form verses in the moment they sing them. When the Cities started to rise and writing became used again, however, the aedos started to be fewer and fewer. In my story, Minosses is the last one.
Delphi: a very, very important sanctuary to a “certain” deity was here. Probably, the most important one in all Greece and Mediterranean Ancient World.
Philippos: “horse’s friend”. So all the Philips out here know where their name came from.
“You…horseman”: Sparta’s army did have a horsemen division. But it wasn’t very important or respected, either. Horsemen didn’t fight with the other troops. They did mainly reconnaissance and pursuit… so they had no glory. Thus, the fact that our boy [you recognize him, don’t you?] is kinda lowering his status badly.