Spartan : A Novel

by Valerio Massimo Manfredi; Christine Fedderson Manfredi

• ISBN13: 9780743475426
• ISBN10: 0743475429
• Edition: 1st
• Format: Hardcover
• Copyright: 2003-11-04
• Publisher: Atria

Summary

These eyes...he'd seen them before, staring at him, but he didn't remember where, or when. He remembered, without knowing why.In this epic story filled with passion, courage, and adventure, the author of the internationally bestselling Alexander trilogy tells the tale of two warriors united by blood and torn apart by law.This is the saga of a Spartan family, unraveled by a harsh custom of their people that causes them to abandon one of their own. The elder son, Brithos, strong and healthy, will live comfortably; but Talos, weak and feeble, must be sacrificed to the wolves of Mount Taygetus. Unbeknownst to his grieving parents, however, the child is miraculously found and saved by a Helot -- the once-proud people who now live in servitude to Sparta.While his brother is raised in the mighty warrior caste, Talos, who is now a slave, is schooled in the history of the Helot people by his adoptive father. It is then that he learns of the legend of Aristodemus, the last King of the Helots, whose armor, it is prophesied, will be worn again by the liberator of his vanquished race. When the brothers meet for the first time since their separation, it is over crossed swords as Talos defends the woman he loves from the brutality of Brithos. But fate has a greater destiny in store for them -- and as war looms on the horizon, their lives become entwined in ways neither could have imagined. They live out their story in a world dominated by the clash between the Persian empire and the city-states of Greece until the voice of their blood and of human solidarity unites them in a thrilling, singular enterprise.

Excerpts

CHAPTER 1: Mount Taygetus His heart full of bitterness, the great Aristarkhos sat watching his son Kleidemos sleep quietly within the paternal shield that served as his cradle. Close by, in a little bed suspended by four ropes from the ceiling beam, slept his older brother, Brithos. The silence that enveloped the ancient house of the Kleomenids was suddenly broken by the rustling of the oaks in the nearby forest. A long, deep sigh of the wind.Sparta, the invincible, was shrouded in darkness; only the fire that burned on the acropolis shot red flares into the black clouds of the sky. Aristarkhos shivered and pushed aside the cloth covering on the window, staring into the sleeping countryside beyond.It was time to do what had to be done; the gods had hidden the moon and darkened the earth. The clouds in the sky were swollen with tears.He took his cloak from the hook on the wall and threw it onto his shoulders, then bent over his tiny son. He lifted him up and slowly drew him close to his chest as the little one's wet nurse suddenly stirred in her sleep.Aristarkhos stood uncertainly for a moment, hoping for something that would force him to put off this tremendous act. Then, reassured by the woman's deep breathing, he braced himself and left the room by the atrium, dimly lit by an earthenware oil lamp. A gust of cold wind invaded the courtyard, nearly extinguishing the weak flame. As he turned to close the heavy oaken door behind him, he saw his wife Ismene standing there like a mysterious divinity evoked by the night, pale, her eyes shining. A mortal anguish was painted on her face; her mouth, taut as a wound, seemed to contain an inhuman suffering. Aristarkhos felt his blood freeze within his veins, and his legs, sturdy as pillars, turned to straw."It was not for us..." he murmured with a cracked voice, "it wasn't for us that we generated him. It has to be tonight. I'll never find the courage again."Ismene's hand reached toward the bundled child and her feverish eyes sought her husband's. The little one woke up and began to cry. Aristarkhos lunged out of the door, escaping into the countryside. Ismene, poised on the threshold, watched the man flee into the night, listened to the faint wail of her child...tiny Kleidemos, stricken by the gods while still in her womb. Born a cripple and condemned to death by the terrible laws of Sparta.She closed the door and slowly walked to the center of the atrium, pausing to consider the images of the gods to whom she had always brought generous offerings before the child was born and to whom she had continued to pray, over these long months, to instill strength into that stiff little foot. In vain.She sat at the hearth in the center of the huge, bare room and unwound her long, black braids, pulling her flowing tresses over her shoulders and breasts. Gathering up the ashes at the base of the great copper tripod, she spread them over her head. By the tremulous light of the oil lamp, the statues of the gods and the Kleomenid heroes stared at her, their immutable smiles carved into cypress wood. Ismene soiled her beautiful hair with ashes and slowly gouged her face with her fingernails as her heart turned to ice.Aristarkhos fled across the wind-battered fields, his arms clutching the small bundle close to his chest. His cape whipped around him, animated by Boreas's powerful breath. He trudged up the mountain, struggling to open a path through the thick undergrowth of blackberry bushes and shrubs. Sudden flashes of lightning cast frightening shapes onto the ground. The gods of Sparta were far away in that bitter moment; Aristarkhos had to proceed alone among the dark specters of the night, among the evil creatures of the forest who lie in wait for the traveler and drag up nightmares from the bowels of the earth.Freeing himself from the grasp of a large bush, Aristarkhos found the trail and stopped for a moment to catch his breath. T