The Isle of Stone

3

Word of Zeuxippos’ return from Messenia spread ahead of him through the villages of Laconia. Before it reached Kynosoura, Andreia could sense the tidings were not good. There was an air that filled Sparta with news of victories of the military or diplomatic kind-an air not of outright celebation, but of quiet reaffirmation of the expected order of things. In this world, the Lacedamonians got their way and foreigners yielded, and it would always be so until the day it wasn’t. That air was absent the day of the old man’s return. There was only a sense of cruel suspension, of a sword that had slipped a little from its tether but still hung over them all.

Zeuxippos would only come to her after he had reported to the ephors. She filled that time in the garden with her daughter, pulling out weeds from between the rows of onion and chickpea. As it was getting difficult to support herself bending over, she sat on a reed mat on the ground, directing the small girl to the places that were out of her reach. Towheaded Melitta, by now scarcely visible under a mop of fine curls, presented her mother with handfuls of stems and leaves.

“No, my silly one-take the weeds by the roots, like this-”

Melitta squealed and snapped her body around in a twist, costing herself her balance. Andreia, half in nervous suspense, made the mistake of laughing at the girl, who bloomed at this encouragement and found her feet to begin the maneuver again. “Silly one. Silly one!” she repeated in varying intonations, spinning.

With the sky threatening a storm that had still not come, she found herself eyeing the oily undersides of the clouds as they slipped by Taygetus. In fact she was indifferent to the prospect of rain. With the birth just weeks away, she would have stayed in her bed if the discomfort of lying down had not been as bad as sitting up. She had not been to the market in a month, sending instead the helot girl Damatria had lent to her. The girl was now overdue, and as her eyes rose to scan the path for her return, Andreia gave a short, involuntary gasp. Someone was approaching the house, but it was no maid. Instead, she recognized the thin form of Zeuxippos, swinging his staff ahead of him in that peculiar way he did, like a scythe.

“There is only a little I can tell you, for there may be informers about,” he began in a conspiratorial hush.

“Of course, elder,” Andreia replied, her head bowed.

“I can confirm that your husband is on the island. There is no question now. He is in good company, as the sons of many well-born families are there: Eudamos, grandson of Isidas; Areus, son of Damis; Epitadas, your brother-in-law. An entire generation of future leaders.”

“So the elders will treat with the Athenians for their release?”

“We have treated with them. There was a truce, but it has failed.”

“But won’t they try again?”

“The Athenians are infatuated with glory. The Gerousia can offer nothing more. We anticipate an attack soon.” He was blunt, but when he saw the effect of his words, he added, “You should prepare yourself.”

He watched her absorb this with the courage appropriate to a Spartan wife. Inwardly, he mused over the ancient predicament of woman, prone on the ground with breasts teeming, body replete with the seed of beautiful men fated to die. He reached out to tousle the hair of little Melitta, bright and careless. Yet how soon would she, too, suffer the perennial sorrow of her sex? The thought gave him sentimental pleasure, like the memory of some long-done hurt. He moved to leave.

“My husband-” she said, halting. He paused, looking at her. “Can you get a message to him for me?”

Zeuxippos believed such a thing to be impossible. But what harm would it do to indulge her?

“I can try, though I promise nothing.”

“Tell him-he has a son.”

The old man smiled. It is somewhat premature, he thought, but it was a good message. He then bid her good-bye with a touch of his staff to his brow.

On his way back, Zeuxippos sighted the lady Damatria coming the other direction with a harvest basket on her arm. Curious, he paused to watch her make her way down to the farmhouse. Andreia, struggling on the balls of her feet, rose to greet her. The younger woman said something to Damatria, who stared back, regarding. Andreia fell into the other’s arms, holding her so tightly that only their clothes distinguished daughter from elder. Zeuxippos sighed and thought how pretty, how reassuring, this sisterhood of shared grief. Among the Lacedaemonians, men were at war, boys growing, women weeping. May all be forever as it was!

As they embraced, the women thought of what each faced losing on the island. Damatria believed she could be forgiven for thinking of Epitadas, just as the other must worry for her beloved Antalcidas. Yet as Andreia wrung out tears on her shoulder, Damatria felt a certain awe in the trust she had earned. She had never favored women very much in her life, after all. There were few things in this world, she believed, that were more ignoble than woman. Yet now she found herself embracing another of her kind, close enough now to smell the dampness on her face, and feel both her trembling and the capsule of her womb, hard as a full wine sack, pressed against the pit of her abdomen.

Melitta, feeling left out, grasped the thighs of her mother and grandmother. Had he seen it, Zeuxippos would have approved the girl’s early taste of the portion of mortal females. But he was already gone, down the path to mess with the Spit Companions.