that shepherd, we’ll have to give some explanation, won’t we? Because he’s
probably at the service of one of the families of our city. Do you think that it would be cause for honour, you wolves of Sparta, that a Helot cripple made you taste dirt using only a
shepherd’s crook?’
The boys lowered their gazes to the ground.
‘Without counting the fact,’ continued Brithos relentlessly, ‘that when you’ve gone and killed him you’ll never know whether you are able to get the better of a
broken shepherd. What I mean is, fighting him on equal terms!’
‘Brithos is right,’ said one of the youths. Then, turning to him, ‘All right, Brithos, but what do we do next?’
‘That’s it, Euritos, help me to convince these stone heads!’ He thought a moment, and then went on. ‘Listen, friends,’ he said, softening the tone of his voice,
‘I’ll handle this with the help of two or three of you, no more. We’ll make that bastard understand that he should never even dream of rebelling, and we’ll make him wish
that he never thought of playing the hero. We’ll take care of him once and for all.’
Aghias stood up. ‘As you wish, Brithos. The reasons that make you want to save the Helot’s life are more than good enough for me. I do have the feeling, though, that there’s
another reason that only you know, and that you’re not telling.’ He threw on his cloak and slammed the door behind him.
‘Yes, maybe there is another reason,’ murmured Brithos to himself. ‘But you are wrong, Aghias, if you think I know what it is.’
*
Two months had passed since that night, two terrible months in which Talos was prostrate with the death of Kritolaos, his mother’s wordless grief, his own solemn thoughts
of his grandfather’s legacy. The days passed, and sometimes the nights, in dark musings. The responsibility that Kritolaos had invested in him was great; he could tell from the changed way in
which the mountain people treated him.
Day after day they came and he felt in them a strange hope, a faith of sorts surging up about him. The men of Taygetus now spoke to him as one of their own: they made him understand their
suffering, their impotent rage, their fear. But what did they expect from him? How much did they really know about what Kritolaos had revealed to him?
Besides, thoughts of what had happened down on the plain still haunted him: he had challenged the young Spartans. He could not delude himself into believing that the story had finished there. He
feared for his mother, for Pelias, for Antinea; he had seen her, fleetingly, one night at the farmhouse on the road to Amyclae. Talos longed for those days he had spent as a simple shepherd without
worries or fears, those long winter nights passed listening to the magnificent stories of Kritolaos, those times when only the seasons – passing slowly and regularly one into another –
marked the changes in his serene life. Times which seemed impossibly remote to him now.
One day, at dusk, a peasant from the plains arrived at their cottage. Pelias had sent him. He had come to warn Talos to keep on his guard; strange activity had been noticed at the edge of the
forest, and that night the moon would be covered by clouds.
Talos thanked his informer but he didn’t give much weight to the matter; Pelias often worried over nothing. Normal manoeuvres of some division in training, or regular military drills could
have alarmed him. Talos was wrong.
They arrived at the clearing in the middle of the night: four of them, wrapped in dark cloaks, armed only with javelins and daggers, their faces covered by Corinthian helmets.
Talos was rudely awakened by Krios’ furious barking. He hurriedly drew aside the window covering, just in time to hear a desperate yelping and then a final gasp for breath.
A pale ray of the moon pierced the thick clouds for a moment and Talos could make out four shadows at the edge of the courtyard. Near the sheep pen, a huge
probably at the service of one of the families of our city. Do you think that it would be cause for honour, you wolves of Sparta, that a Helot cripple made you taste dirt using only a
shepherd’s crook?’
The boys lowered their gazes to the ground.
‘Without counting the fact,’ continued Brithos relentlessly, ‘that when you’ve gone and killed him you’ll never know whether you are able to get the better of a
broken shepherd. What I mean is, fighting him on equal terms!’
‘Brithos is right,’ said one of the youths. Then, turning to him, ‘All right, Brithos, but what do we do next?’
‘That’s it, Euritos, help me to convince these stone heads!’ He thought a moment, and then went on. ‘Listen, friends,’ he said, softening the tone of his voice,
‘I’ll handle this with the help of two or three of you, no more. We’ll make that bastard understand that he should never even dream of rebelling, and we’ll make him wish
that he never thought of playing the hero. We’ll take care of him once and for all.’
Aghias stood up. ‘As you wish, Brithos. The reasons that make you want to save the Helot’s life are more than good enough for me. I do have the feeling, though, that there’s
another reason that only you know, and that you’re not telling.’ He threw on his cloak and slammed the door behind him.
‘Yes, maybe there is another reason,’ murmured Brithos to himself. ‘But you are wrong, Aghias, if you think I know what it is.’
*
Two months had passed since that night, two terrible months in which Talos was prostrate with the death of Kritolaos, his mother’s wordless grief, his own solemn thoughts
of his grandfather’s legacy. The days passed, and sometimes the nights, in dark musings. The responsibility that Kritolaos had invested in him was great; he could tell from the changed way in
which the mountain people treated him.
Day after day they came and he felt in them a strange hope, a faith of sorts surging up about him. The men of Taygetus now spoke to him as one of their own: they made him understand their
suffering, their impotent rage, their fear. But what did they expect from him? How much did they really know about what Kritolaos had revealed to him?
Besides, thoughts of what had happened down on the plain still haunted him: he had challenged the young Spartans. He could not delude himself into believing that the story had finished there. He
feared for his mother, for Pelias, for Antinea; he had seen her, fleetingly, one night at the farmhouse on the road to Amyclae. Talos longed for those days he had spent as a simple shepherd without
worries or fears, those long winter nights passed listening to the magnificent stories of Kritolaos, those times when only the seasons – passing slowly and regularly one into another –
marked the changes in his serene life. Times which seemed impossibly remote to him now.
One day, at dusk, a peasant from the plains arrived at their cottage. Pelias had sent him. He had come to warn Talos to keep on his guard; strange activity had been noticed at the edge of the
forest, and that night the moon would be covered by clouds.
Talos thanked his informer but he didn’t give much weight to the matter; Pelias often worried over nothing. Normal manoeuvres of some division in training, or regular military drills could
have alarmed him. Talos was wrong.
They arrived at the clearing in the middle of the night: four of them, wrapped in dark cloaks, armed only with javelins and daggers, their faces covered by Corinthian helmets.
Talos was rudely awakened by Krios’ furious barking. He hurriedly drew aside the window covering, just in time to hear a desperate yelping and then a final gasp for breath.
A pale ray of the moon pierced the thick clouds for a moment and Talos could make out four shadows at the edge of the courtyard. Near the sheep pen, a huge
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