The Imperfect Spartan

By D. E. Loxwood

Fifteen years after Leonidas' heroic defence of the pass of Thermopylae, Sparta continued to ensure the purity of their blood by casting imperfect babies from the cliffs of Mount Taygetus, and by sending out naked youths armed with daggers, the dreaded Krypteia, to terrorise the native Helot slaves, murdering any potential threats at the dead of night.
In 465 BCE a Spartan youth on the verge of graduation from the Agoge, history’s most brutal military academy, is subverted by competing political intrigues and caught in a triangle of lust, love and jealousy from which death or rebellion can be the only escape.
This is book one in the series, Sunset on Sparta.

• Language: English
• Publisher: D. E. Loxwood
• Release date: Aug 8, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463543818

Book preview

THE IMPERFECT SPARTAN

Sunset on Sparta—Book One

Copyright 2017 D. E. Loxwood

Published by D. E. Loxwood on Smashwords

ISBN: 9780463543818

Smashwords Edition Licence Notes

This is an original novel under the pseudonym D. E. Loxwood. Author and copyright holder details available from [e-mail] . This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people except under the terms set out by the publisher. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

SUNSET ON SPARTA SERIES TITLES

1. THE IMPERFECT SPARTAN

2. DAGGER OF THE SLAVE

3. DEATH OF THE OLYMPIAN

4. THE WOUNDED AMAZON

TABLE OF CONTENTS

PART 1. THE DARK FLOWER

MAP

HISTORICAL NOTE

1. THE GODDESS OF HOPE

2. THE HEIRS OF ARISTOMENES

3. THE QUEEN OF SPARTA

4. PUNISHMENT

5. DISGRACE

6. TRYST

7. SPARTANS ABROAD

8. DARK FLOWERS

9. ILL OMENS

PART 2. THE PROMISE

HISTORICAL NOTE

1. PATRIMONY

2. THE WATER NYMPH

3. THE KING’S GUARD

4. THE INVESTIGATION

5. EPITAPH

6. POSEIDON’S WRATH

7. THE PROMISE

GLOSSARY

Agoge: the military academy which all Spartan males attended from the age of 7 to 20, living, sleeping, and training communally, and away from their family homes.

Paidonomos: supervisor of the agoge, responsible for the overall education, training, discipline, and well-being of the boys and young men.

Ephors: Five annually elected officials with wide ranging judicial powers, including oversight even of the two kings of Sparta.

Gerusia: Senior organ of Spartan government—a council of thirty comprising twenty eight men over the age of 60 and the two kings.

Helot: Somewhat derogatory term used by Spartans to refer to the enslaved Messenians, the original inhabitants of the territories occupied and governed by Sparta.

PART 1

THE DARK FLOWER

HISTORICAL NOTE

"In their marriages, the matron of honour cuts the hair of the bride close and dresses her in man’s clothes, leaving her on a mattress in a dark room. Later the bridegroom arrives in his everyday clothes, sober and composed. Entering secretly into the room where the bride lies, he unties her skirt and takes her. After staying some time together, he returns discreetly to sleep as usual with the other young men. And so he continued this way, spending his days and nights with them, visiting his bride unobserved. She also used her wit to find opportunities for them to meet secretly. In this way it was not until they had children that they ever saw each other’s face by daylight.

An old man with a young wife might recommend some virtuous young man, for her to have a child by him, inheriting the good qualities of the father, and be a son to himself. On the other hand, an honest man who had love for a married woman might beg her company of her husband, so he could raise worthy and well connected children for himself.

Children were not so much the property of their parents as of the whole state, produced by the best men that could be found."

From Plutarch, Life of Lycurgus the Spartan

1. THE GODDESS OF HOPE

A man and two young girls walked along a mountain path in single file. To their right, the mountain sloped down steeply. One move away from the path, or one stumble, would mean almost certain death, their only hope being the occasional small outcropping of rock to stay their slide. The man, of thirty-five years, led the group. Behind him, a four-year-old girl walked, clutching to herself in both arms a clay pot with a lid. Behind her was an eight-year-old girl, carrying a small baby. The clothing of all was similar and simple, an uncoloured rectangle of cloth. In the case of the baby, it was wrapped around him loosely, as it was warm, even with the mid-afternoon shade of the mountain above. For the others, the cloth formed a tunic, pinned at the shoulder and reaching down to the knee, or trailing on the ground for the four-year-old.

Be careful, Zoe, the eight-year-old said. You might drop the jar.

Be careful yourself, Melantha, the four-year-old replied, turning her head and scowling. You might drop your brother. As she turned her head, her foot scuffed outwards, sending a cascade of small stones down the mountainside.

Melantha scowled back and jerked her head forward in a gesture suggesting the younger girl should watch the path.

As they neared a pool set into the mountainside, fed by a trickle of water down a narrow gully, the pathway widened and became less treacherous.

The man led them to the edge of the pool. There was an array of clay jars, set down as offerings, most of them very small and more rudely made than the jar that Zoe carried.

Daughter, put the jar down by the others and remove the lid, he said to Zoe.

The small child complied.

The man turned to the older girl. Melantha, the spring that feeds this pool is sacred to Elpis, the Goddess of Hope. When Pandora opened her jar, evils of all kinds flew out into the world to plague us forever. Only Hope remained in the jar. That is why we will add water from this pool to the jar, so it can be a home for Elpis.

He knelt down and cupped some water into the jar.

Elpis, Goddess of Hope, he began. Forgive me that my dear wife, Demetra, who is big with child, is not strong enough to come with us today. Protect Demetra when she gives birth, dear Goddess, and let her provide for me a healthy son and heir. Protect also my daughter, Zoe. Let her grow strong and find a good-hearted husband and let her be my comfort and support when I am old. He turned to Melantha. Your turn now. 

Elpenor, I don’t know what to say, the eight-year-old replied.

Say what is in your heart.

Melantha nodded. She knelt down, still holding her baby brother in one arm. She reached out the other hand and cupped a small amount of water into the jar. Oh, Elpis, please bring Papa safely home to me and protect my baby brother. Melantha glanced at Elpenor.

Is that all? he asked.

That’s all I want, Elpenor.

He nodded and smiled. He reached out and cupped another handful of water into the jar, and resumed his prayer. This poor girl, Melantha, who lost her mother when her brother, Pellinos, was born, deserves your pity. She pleads with you to bring back her father safely. He is with the Spartans now, and King Leonidas, to hold off the barbarians at a place called Thermopylae. Wherever that be, it is far away, and it means little to me whether the Spartans prevail and drive off the barbarians, or whether the barbarians prevail and kill King Leonidas, and every Spartan with him. If anything, that might even bring freedom closer for my people. But for Melantha’s father, and the other Messenians forced to serve the Spartans in their war, I beg your mercy. Let him, and all the other Messenians with him, return home safely. After all, if the Spartans are victorious, everyone will forget that Messenians were compelled to fight and sacrifice, without armour, by their side; and if the Spartans and Messenians all perish, there will only be monuments for the Spartans. Elpis, we are the Messenians, whom the Spartans call helots. We, not the Spartans, are the natives of this soil. Keep alive in my people, Goddess, the hope that one day we will be free to rule our own land again.

Elpenor raised his head and looked at Melantha. Poor child, if your father does not return, you will be my daughter, and the baby you carry will be my son. I promised this to your father when the Spartans took him away with them to war.

Elpis will bring him home, Elpenor.

Elpenor reached out and patted her black, wavy hair, and nodded gravely.

2. THE HEIRS OF ARISTOMENES

Fifteen years later, after King Leonidas and three hundred Spartan warriors had perished at Thermopylae—along with an even greater number of their helot slaves—and fourteen years after the final defeat of the invaders, a small, grey-bearded old man, wearing a crimson cloak, sat on his horse, intently watching a group of two hundred naked young men, each carrying a long spear and heavy, round shield.

There were ominous thunder clouds over the rugged mountain peaks to the west of Sparta. The afternoon sun was still shining over the parade ground, but the atmosphere was oppressive, warm and humid.

A large class of Spartans, all aged around twenty, none of whom had known war, performed a drill on the parade ground to the accompaniment of a simple, rhythmic tune. Only the flautist, a twelve-year-old boy, and the drillmaster, a twenty-seven-year-old man, were clothed, the former in a short uncoloured tunic, the latter wearing a tunic and a crimson cloak similar to the old man watching on his horse.

The opposite side of the parade ground lay at the base of a hill, part of the foothills to the mountain range to the west. On higher ground here, a group of girls, almost of an age with the youths, was lounging around in their short, colourful tunics. They had been involved in organised activities of their own, running races on the parade ground. As soon as the males had arrived, they had vacated it, and their tutor had allowed them to rest on the rise where they could watch the young men’s drill.

The old man on his horse glanced away from the parade ground as a second rider approached. Also crimson cloaked, he was forty years old, so large and powerful that he looked out of proportion with the horse that carried him. Three of the fingers of his left hand were bent and twisted, having healed badly after being broken.

Hippomachus, The large man said as he drew up, are they all ready for their war games tomorrow?

Hippomachus glanced at him. I’m sure they’ll do themselves honour, Aethon.

Is that Nikanor training them? Aethon asked.

It is, Hippomachus replied curtly.

It’s surprising he still has duties with the agoge.

Is it? Hippomachus asked in surprise.

He is a very close friend of King Archidamus, Aethon said. He’s marked for much bigger things.

Hippomachus frowned at Aethon. I can’t think of anything more important than the education of the young. Can you?

Aethon ignored the question. He and the King were in the same year in the agoge, were they not? 

I watched them grow up together. They were close friends from when they began their training as seven-year-olds until their graduation from the agoge fourteen years later. That he has maintained their friendship since, speaks well of the King’s character.

You could say the connection between them was intimate.

Hippomachus glanced at Aethon. I’m not sure what you mean by intimate. As youngsters, they were inseparable. There was a time before the King reached puberty when the other boys tried to victimise him. Nikanor took it on himself to protect him through a difficult time in his life—a commendable loyalty, I would say.

Or a clever political move, you could say.

That would show an unusual perspicacity for a nine-year-old. 

As supervisor of the agoge, you have no concern over intimate friendships amongst the boys? Aethon asked, again placing special emphasis on the word.

Indeed, I don’t, Hippomachus replied. For a young man, who may soon rely on the one next to him in the line of battle for his survival, the closer the friendship the better. He paused. If you are implying something untoward in their connection, it is of no concern or interest to me. They are of the same age as each other. I see no harm in it.

Of course. However, if it later leads to special favours from the King, that’s a different matter.

I know nothing of that. As paidonomos, my responsibility is to the boys and young men in the agoge. After they graduate from their training, I trust that we have built for them fine characters that will ensure their obedience to the laws, as I’m sure we have for King Archidamus.

And as an ephor, it’s my responsibility to ensure that all obey the laws, including the kings of Sparta.

I’m sure you’ll carry out your responsibility. I just wonder why you’re here, interfering with mine.

Aethon laughed humourlessly. The laws apply to everyone, Hippomachus.

Hippomachus glanced coldly at the ephor, but then the attention of both of the men was drawn to the group of girls on the opposite side of the parade ground. One of them had risen lightly to her feet. She began leaping to the rhythm played by the boy on the parade ground. With each leap, she kicked up both her feet behind her to strike her own buttocks with her heels, her bare thighs revealed on each backward kick. Two other girls rose to their feet and followed her lead, and soon all the girls were involved, turning the activity into a competition of agility and stamina. The girl who had begun it was smaller than most of the others, but even from the other side of the parade ground, she stood out for vivacity and energy.

From the parade ground, Nikanor glanced towards the girls, aware of the distraction they were creating. 

That’s Kalliope, Aethon said. She’s King Archidamus’s niece. She has a similar stature to him, although admittedly she stands somewhat straighter. A prize little bitch on heat, that one. You see the golden tone of her hair? That’s dyed, like the pornais in Korinth who sell themselves to sailors.

She’s a girl, not a boy, Hippomachus rejoined. A little vanity on the part of an attractive young woman to excite the interest of the men does no harm.

A little vanity, Aethon muttered sarcastically, and then looked back to the young men on the parade ground, who had formed themselves into a phalanx eight ranks deep, and were performing moves to shouted orders from Nikanor.

How many of your charges do you expect to graduate successfully? Aethon asked.

All of them, Hippomachus replied shortly.

Assuming they do well in their war games over the next few days.

They will. I don’t know all the younger boys in the agoge, but by the time they reach their last year, I know them all… Hippomachus glanced at Aethon, making no attempt to disguise his contempt, …intimately…I know their strengths, their weaknesses, and their characters. All will graduate.

Who are your standouts? Aethon asked, ignoring the older man’s sarcasm.

Hippomachus paused. The tall youth at the front of the phalanx on the right—that’s Leandros. He’s an exceptional athlete. A good spear thrower, and probably the best runner in Sparta. A very fine looking youth, physically perfect.

Aethon nodded. And that heavy, ungainly youth at the rear?

Hippomachus frowned. That’s Amiantos. I’m surprised you don’t know him. He’s a wrestler of exceptional potential, and he throws a spear harder and more accurately than any I know.

He looks clumsy to me, Aethon said, scornfully. But now you mention it, I think I have heard of him. His mother’s name is Melissa, I believe.

Hippomachus looked up at Aethon with narrowed eyes. A moment ago you had no idea who he is, but now you can tell me the name of his mother? I wouldn’t know the name of his mother or of almost any of them.

My memory for names is exceptional. I knew his mother as soon as you told me his name is Amiantos.

Hippomachus showed his scepticism by a slight smile.

For the same reason I can tell you his mentor is Nikanor, Aethon said with a glance to the drillmaster. I was wondering whether Nikanor asked to mentor him, or if he was assigned.

It would have been several years ago, when Nikanor was a student in the agoge himself. I have no idea how he was assigned. What difference does it make?

Sometimes an older youth might develop a particular interest in a younger boy. The connection between mentor and youth is very… intimate, Aethon said.

Again your odd use of that word. As you well know, Aethon, the kind of intimacy you are hinting at between an older mentor and a youth is forbidden. He paused. I find it hard to believe that Amiantos would attract that kind of attention. At the age of thirteen he was already scraping off hairs growing from his chin.

There are all sorts of different tastes.

I’ve heard nothing to suggest anything dishonourable about their connection. You need to be careful in case people might think you’re trying to find scandals where none exist.

Aethon grunted disdainfully.

The young men were now in two columns, marching near the two horsemen. Aethon looked again towards the oversized youth, Amiantos. I notice the way the boy moves seems to favour his right leg. It’s almost as if he has a limp.

Don’t underestimate him. For his size, he’s exceptionally agile. It wouldn’t surprise me if one day he wears the olive crown at Olympia. Hippomachus glanced down at the twisted fingers on Aethon’s left hand. You fought in the games at Olympia yourself. How did that go for you?

Aethon glared at Hippomachus, then turned his head and spat on the ground. He kicked his heels into the sides of his horse, urged it to a trot, and rode away. 

Hippomachus smiled to himself, and looked back to the parade ground. 

Having finished their leaping competition, the girls were again reclining on the ground, watching the young men.

There was more thunder over the mountains. 

In the humid conditions, the sweat poured down the naked bodies of the young men.

In the final move of their drill, they formed a single wheel, two ranks deep, a large and perfect circle in the middle of the parade ground. They turned to face outwards, with the spears held horizontally underarm. Then, in a fluid motion rather like a dance step, they all raised their spears vertically, about faced, and brought their spears down again with a shout, so that now all the young men and their spears were facing towards the centre of the wheel. 

It might well be imagined that there were enemies inside the circle, trapped by this impenetrable wall of spears, awaiting slaughter. 

The boy ceased playing the flute, and Nikanor led the young men in a loud cheer, the girls from their vantage point nearby raising an answering shout.

A moment later there was a flash of lightning, and, almost simultaneously, a deafening peal of thunder from the nearby mountains. All eyes, male and female, turned in the direction of the sound. The girls jumped to their feet, and with scattered raindrops starting to fall, began making their way back towards Sparta, away from the threatening storm. Hippomachus also turned his horse and rode it in a fast trot back into Sparta.

The young men went to retrieve their cloaks from a pile, but Nikanor called them all in, and made them sit on the ground while he delivered, at length, his analysis of their performance, ignoring the rain and the risk of lightning strike. As they listened to Nikanor, with the rain pouring on them, several of the young men glanced towards their cloaks. Oil in the fabric gave them some level of water resistance, but even so, a thorough soaking would mean that, as it was late in the afternoon, there would not be enough time for their cloaks to dry before they took their evening meal. The cloaks were also their only cover for the night in their barracks.

Fortunately, the rainstorm was brief, and after Nikanor had dismissed them, the young men retrieved their cloaks and arranged them on themselves as shoulder to knee tunics, heading back through Sparta in pairs or small groups. After returning their spears and shields to the common store, they proceeded to their mess hall on the other side of Sparta.

The city was laid out in a haphazard way, resulting from the fact that it had begun as a group of villages that had spread and melded together into one. Small wooden residences intermingled with more substantial columned temples, small squares, fountains, and statues, and the roads joined each other at random angles. From most parts of the city, the Temple of the Bronze Athena was visible at the foot of the modest acropolis. The mountain ranges to the east and west formed a natural fortress for Sparta and the Lakonian plain. 

Amiantos and his friend Orestes lagged behind the rest. They were a contrasting pair. Amiantos was tall and broad, with massive and muscular thighs and arms, and a wide chest. Orestes was well below average height, of slim build. Not to be underestimated, however, he was wiry and feisty.

What did you think of those girls? Kalliope’s beautiful, isn’t she? Orestes commented as they neared their mess hall.

Amiantos grinned. She’s about your size, Orestes.

Orestes frowned. I didn’t mean that. I know she’s been marked for you.

Amiantos laughed. You make her sound like a she-goat marked for breeding.

Well, honestly, it’s a bit like that. But the truth is she’s not my type.

Oh? And who is your type?

I like Nephele. Have you seen her?

Amiantos laughed again. She’s far too big for you. You’d disappear if she put her arms around you. Or you’d strain your neck looking at her face.

No, Amiantos, I wouldn’t be looking up at her face. He raised both hands open in front of him in a cupping motion at eye level. I’d be looking at her breasts.

By now they had reached their mess hall, a large stone building, and turning along one of its sides, they found that three of the members of their class had chosen this as a place to stand in wait for them. The tallest of these was Leandros, leader of the group. Taller even than Amiantos, his build was very different, slim and perfectly proportioned, from narrow hips to broad shoulders.

Amiantos, we should talk. I wanted to give you some friendly advice, Leandros said loudly as they drew near.

Kastor and Lakis, his habitual companions, identical twins of solid build, only a little shorter than Leandros, sniggered.

Orestes glanced at Amiantos.

I noticed you looking at Kalliope just now on the parade ground, Leandros said.

Why shouldn’t he? Orestes replied for Amiantos.

Leandros looked at the diminutive Orestes and laughed.

She was distracting you, Leandros said, turning back to Amiantos. You almost tripped over your bad ankle.

Amiantos glared at Leandros, and Orestes looked at Amiantos uneasily.

We’re hungry, Orestes again replied for Amiantos. We don’t want to talk. He put a hand on Amiantos’s huge arm. Come on, let’s go.

No room this way. You’d better go back, Leandros said.

I don’t think so, Orestes replied.

Leandros grinned and looked at Amiantos. Sweet how your boyfriend stands up for you. He’ll make Kalliope jealous.

Before Leandros had time to react, Amiantos had Leandros pushed hard against the wall.

Leandros was not as strong as Amiantos, but with the wall behind him he could still keep a grip on Amiantos’s forearms, and for the moment hold him at bay. With the twins attempting to seize hold of Orestes, the group was interrupted by the stentorian command, Enough!

At once the fight ended, and the young men arranged themselves into a line facing Hippomachus, the supervisor of the entire agoge, the military academy to which all Spartan boys belonged.

Hippomachus was sixty years old, slight, and even shorter than Orestes. The other young men were considerably taller, Leandros by more than a head. Amiantos was far broader, about twice his weight. Hippomachus walked up and down, striking each of them in turn on top of the shoulder with his cane.

This kind of behaviour is disgraceful. You’re on the verge of manhood. In a short while you’ll be graduating from the agoge. Have you learnt nothing? Soon you’ll be standing shoulder to shoulder in battle. You’ll need each other. I will not tolerate this.

One by one, the young men went before him and lowered their tunic. He struck each of them once with the cane with all his strength across their upper backs, his feet leaving the ground as he delivered the stroke.

Now you’ll make up.

In a familiar routine, the youths hugged, one to one, arms around each other, foreheads touching. It was only after this ceremony had been completed for every combination that they were allowed to go, and with Hippomachus looking up at them sternly, they walked around the building with heads down, to the entrance and into the mess hall.

* * * *

The young Spartans took their meals at long, permanent wooden tables. They were in noisy high spirits in anticipation of their departure for the coming war games, the most important in their long years in the agoge.

The tall, straight figured helot Elias, a man of forty, served his master Amiantos and Amiantos’s friends at his table. As he poured their wine, he spoke quietly to Amiantos.

Are you well, young master?

Not realising he was giving anything away, Amiantos looked up at Elias in surprise.

I’m fine.

Such high spirits, Elias commented loudly, for the benefit of the whole mess hall. You Spartans take yourselves too seriously.

Leandros was at the neighbouring table and decided to continue his attack on Amiantos through his servant. Do you have any daughters in the villages for us? I’ll bet you a skin of wine they’ll be taking us seriously.

Elias turned towards Leandros. There’ll be a price to pay if I hear any of you school boys have got up to dirty work with our Messenian girls.

His response provoked laughter, but it won the attention of all the young Spartans.

Leandros continued his attack. You’re not Messenians. You were conquered. You’re helots. You’re our slaves, and we can do what we want.

We’re not as docile as you think, Elias replied calmly. We Messenians are natives of the soil. You are temporary intruders.

There was more laughter. It always surprised Amiantos to see how much Elias could get away with.

We’ve been here for twenty generations, someone else shouted. Is that temporary?

And maybe you’ll be here twenty more, Elias lectured, but in the end we’ll send you packing. It’s the law of history, the law of nature. There will be a reckoning, a counting up of scores. For every injury to my people there will be twenty returned to you and your descendants.

Please stop, I’ll wet myself. This came from further away and provoked more laughter.

Elias moved towards the side of the mess hall, where speakers stood when they needed the floor. The laughter died down in expectation.

Let me educate you young men. We Messenians have a legend, a salutary story that we tell our children. It’s forbidden for Spartans to hear it.

A hush came over the room.

If it’s forbidden for Spartans to hear, how can you tell us? Amiantos commented drily.

Elias glanced at Amiantos. Only the ending is forbidden, he replied, as if stating the obvious. Then he addressed the whole room again. But when you’ve heard it, maybe you’ll learn some respect for Messenian maidens, and know to leave them alone. 

This provoked more laughter, but others were calling for a hush, the young soldiers eager for the story the eloquent helot was promising to tell. 

Elias began quietly. This itself drew in his audience. They had to strain somewhat to hear his words. But as the story developed, his voice became more and more intense.

"It was this way. For two generations, Messenians had rankled under the yoke of the Spartan conquest. Remember this when you march through our territory today. We, not you, are the natives of the soil. You are the outsiders. 

"Well, from the proudest and most ancient of Messenian families came Aristomenes. None felt the Spartan slavery more deeply than he, since the traditions of his family were so free and noble. Therefore Aristomenes, inspired by the fire of freedom, raised rebellion over the Messenian plain, even marching his army into Lakonia, capturing Amyklae, less than half a day’s march from Sparta itself. 

In Amyklae there was a beautiful young maiden named Sofia. Her parents had died when she was very young. She was descended from the Messenians of the Lakonian plain, amongst the first to be conquered and enslaved by Sparta. Not only was she beautiful beyond description, she was pure and virtuous in every act and thought. By comparison, Spartan women today are whores.

Elias paused for the angry protests to die down. Amiantos noticed the slightest trace of a smile on his otherwise impassive face.

"Now, this Sofia gained her freedom when Aristomenes captured Amyklae. At once, even though her origins were the most humble imaginable, Aristomenes saw the courage in her heart, and the two became lovers.

"Now that the fire of rebellion had been lit, Aristomenes won victory after victory over Sparta. But sadly, in the end, you prevailed over us, such are the fortunes of war. The Messenians, at length, held only the stronghold of Eira, but still for years they held out, and the best efforts of the Spartans were fruitless.

"Such was the indomitable spirit of Aristomenes and others like him, that they could not bear to be contained in one fortress while watching Spartans laying waste their native soil. He led sorties against the besieging Spartans and inflicted heavy casualties in heroic feats. In the end, the full force of the Spartan army was brought into play, and Aristomenes and fifty of