The Isle of Stone

4.

As it became clear that an attack would come at any time, Epitadas decided that the Lacedaemonians should make a sacrifice to Artemis. There were no goats or pigs on the island, so they were at first stymied by the problem of what sort of beast they should offer. The gods soon provided what seemed like a miracle: a pair of storks came out of the south, and after wheeling for some time above the wondering Spartans, landed a short distance down the slope. Namertes, the under-thirty who had helped Antalcidas push a boulder on an Athenian ship, was on guard not far away. He brought one of the creatures down by hitting it in the wing with a rock. Namertes ran forward and took the bird, grasping it by its great beak and gangling feet. The other soldiers cheered as he held his prisoner up in triumph.

Such a handsome prize inspired them to make a lavish gesture. Epitadas ordered a rude altar built out of stones of the old fort, and a flame kindled out of embers left under the dirt by the fire. Epitadas conducted the ritual himself, spraying his bleached tunic with its blood as he sawed off the stork’s head with his sword. Meanwhile, Frog stalked the back of the gathering, pacing stiff-backed like an effigy of himself, fretting over the propriety of offering a skinny bird to Artemis.

“The liver is without flaw,” Epitadas declared.

“And how would we know how the liver of a stork must look?” sneered Frog.

They separated the edible parts from the rest of the carcass. The goddess got the bones and entrails in the form of smoke from the fire, while the morsels of meat were divided between the officers and elder Spartiates. These, as it turned out, included Frog. Antalcidas went up to him as he was licking stork grease from his fingers, looking at him as he would someone fatally ill.

“Your opinion would mean more here, if you didn’t complain about everything.”

Frog turned his back, saying over his shoulder “So would yours, if you didn’t hide behind your brother.”

To the end, the man had a petty nature, but Antalcidas would take no offense. More and more, he had come to agree with Frog’s assessment of their predicament. To defy his brother was unthinkable-though not because of any private promises he had sworn to him or anyone else. For better or worse, a Spartan’s personal honor bound him to his commander. Frog’s honor, though, was not his concern. He resorted to an aphorism:

“The roused bull is better approached from the side.”

Frog departed without giving any sign he had heard this.

Late in the morning the garrison raised a polished shield to flash what they took to be their last message to the mainland. It was a simple question: “What are your instructions?”

They had to wait until the last moments of daylight to get their answer. From the hills over the bay, drenched in the blood-light of sunset, their superiors signaled back:

“The Spartans bid you to do what you think best, as long as it brings no dishonor.”