The Isle of Stone

3

On his fourteenth birthday Antalcidas moved on to the age-class of the propaides. He was mostly beyond the rigors of outdoor life, having long since become a thief with the skills to appropriate food, water, and shelter from helots or, if possible, from the unguarded estates of Equals. Unwary weaklings and youngsters supplied the rest, including the fawning respect due to their superiors. On the negative side of the ledger, he was under increasing responsibility to educate the boys beneath him, even as he continued to receive punitive thrashings from the three age-classes above. Being both men and boys, authorities and subordinates, propaides like him were caught in the middle.

This dilemma became more acute when, upon a raid on an olive grove, he stumbled on a brawl between two younger boys. Thibron and another Firstie sat watching the fight from a log as they passed a canteen between them. The boys dueled with iron sickles, lunging awkwardly at each other. The spectators shouted encouragements, spurring them to soldier on despite their exhaustion.

“Are you finished, girls?” asked Thibron. “Didn’t your boy-herd teach you that a Spartan never raises a hand in surrender?”

“Look at the way he stares at you! Will you let him get away with that?” exclaimed the other.

The boys dutifully went at each other again, their blades flashing as they cut the air. When the taller antagonist stepped into a column of sunlight, Antalcidas was stunned to see the face of Epitadas.

He had not glimpsed his brother in many years, yet he recognized him instantly. He knew that Epitadas would have been a year behind him in the Rearing; in his idle moments, as when he lay awake on his nest of rushes at night, Antalcidas wondered where Epitadas’ pack must be. Had they been on the same mountain before, out of sight of each other around some impassable outcrop? How many times had his brother taken cover when Antalcidas’ group passed him, just as Antalcidas’ had once fled at the sight of older boys?

The fight, it seemed, had not been bloodless. Epitadas had a cut over his eye, and his opponent was bleeding from a slashing wound on his upper left arm. Both were too tired to hold up their weapons, but just circled each other out of arm’s length, darting in to attack when they saw an opening. More disturbing, neither of the adults present seemed to be interested in keeping the boys from harm.

“Honored fathers!” Antalcidas addressed them. “Do you wish me to take spotting position, or to confiscate their weapons-as custom demands?”

This sudden interference, and his particular emphasis on established custom, got the men’s attention. Thibron turned to him with a mouth full of wine, surprised; his companion frowned.

“Who the fuck are you?”

This exchange distracted Epitadas, who swiveled his head around, gaped-and took a blow from a sickle handle in the temple. He collapsed, dropping his weapon.

“There, it’s finally over.”

Epitadas’ opponent, a scrawny youth who had bitten down so hard on his lower lip that his incisors were lodged there, moved in. Laying the chipped edge of his blade against Epitadas’ neck, he waited as the latter groaned and wiped the blood from his eyes.

“Give up now,” he commanded.

Epitadas focused on his enemy above him, saying nothing.

“I said, yield to your master.”

A bolus of blood-soaked spittle rolled from his perforated lips onto Epitadas’ cheek. The sickle blade was pressed harder against his throat.

“That’s enough, young man,” said Thibron, who rose and scratched his balls as if after a long afternoon at the theater.

“Yes, a boy needs to learn when it’s worth it, does he not?” chimed his comrade.

Having lost interest, the Firsties departed. Antalcidas rushed to remove the weapons, which the victor released with what appeared to be decided relief. Epitadas, for his part, glared at his opponent and didn’t look at Antalcidas at all. His face betrayed nothing but a sullen, smoldering hatred.

The other boy, whose name and affiliation Antalcidas never learned, turned and walked away. There was a moment while the adults were still in sight and Epitadas climbed to his feet. And then, before Antalcidas could move to stop him, Epitadas pursued his enemy into the woods, running at him with admirable stealth.

Antalcidas followed with a mounting sense of dread. He was just in time to see his brother insert the point of the sickle into the center of the boy’s back. It was a pitiless blow, inflicted with no warning or hesitation on a defenseless opponent. Epitadas watched with faint curiosity as his enemy, eyes gaping white, spun around, trying to reach the handle behind him. As this went on for some time Epitadas smiled, clapping his hands as if watching a dance. Blood poured trembling from the crook of the blade, spattering the amber carpet of pine needles. When the boy fell at last, it was on that soft bed. Epitadas crouched to watch his face as he went still.

“What have you done, Brother?” Antalcidas asked.

Epitadas narrowed his eyes.

“So it is you.”

They watched as a blood-colored bubble appeared at the victim’s left nostril. It seemed to grow forever until it burst and was replaced by another. A curious gurgling sound came from the vicinity of the wound.

“You’re not as tall as I imagined, stone-thrower,” Epitadas remarked.

Stepping across the prone body, he extracted the sickle and tossed it into the brush. Then he approached Antalcidas, coming to within inches of his face, looking down on him despite being eleven months his junior.

“You were saying something back there, distracting me when I had matters in hand…”

“Epitadas.”

“Never interfere again. Understand? Never.”

“Brother, listen-”

“I’ll take that as your word.”

The reunion over, Epitadas made off in the direction of the river. When he was gone, Antalcidas flew to Mesoa for help. As he ran, the odd thought occurred to him that Thibron, handsome and ingenious Thibron, so square-jawed and ideal, might be in trouble with his elders like any other boy. He also wondered just how many of the people of Sparta knew about the incident of the stone-throwing. What would his mother say?

Epitadas’ victim was not quite dead. As the craft of medicine still bore a whiff of foreignness for the Lacedaemonians, and was therefore regarded with suspicion, no physician attended to the boy. Instead, two veteran Spartiates put him on a table in a nearby house and applied a field dressing. This stopped the external bleeding but accomplished nothing more. The boy’s abdomen continued to fill with blood.

To inflict a mortal injury on a peer, even in the guise of training, was a crime in Sparta. Isidas the Ephor was summoned, along with five of the knights to apprehend the accused. Draping the gray locks of his beard back over his shoulder, Isidas leaned down to talk to the boy.

“Who did this to you, son?”

The other looked up at him with studied fortitude in his eyes.

“Am I hurt, father? I can’t feel it.”

“You are hurt. Who did it?”

The boy smiled. “I know what you’re doing, elder. This is a test. You want to see if I will bear the wound.”

The ephor squeezed his hand. “It is not a test.”

“There is no crime to avenge-I would have done the same to him if I had the chance.”

Isidas went on trying to convince the boy to name his murderer until he stopped giving replies. His last words were about going to tell his parents he had passed “the trial.” The ephor stood, a crease of regret crossing on his face.

“A shame to lose a boy like that,” he said to the knights. “And I believe his father now has nothing but girls.”

He turned and saw Antalcidas standing there.

“You-I understand you like to throw stones.”

Antalcidas shifted nervously, not knowing how to reply.

“Yes, elder.”

“I know you were there, son. Speak freely-no one will hurt you. You have my promise.”

Antalcidas took care to look the ephor in the eye as he answered, and to use as few words as possible.

“It was Thibron,” he said.