Degas's famous painting of a Spartan gymnopaedia
Cynisca narrows her eyes against the blinding sun.
-Clamistra’s face is definitely the most beautiful. But I have to admit Egoria has the finest body
Cleitagora laughs
-We all know you have a weakness for Clamistra. But you can surely see that Egoria is far and away superior to all the girls, in both body and face
-It’s true she stands above them. But I think it’s a pity; she makes the others look short
They both stare critically at the white-robed chorus of girls, singing their hearts out in the dazzling sun; Egoria with her auburn mane standing out a head taller than the others, like a lioness among a herd of deer. Their voices ring out in praise of the goddess, ascending sweet and high into the mountain air, where two eagles circle lazily, almost too high to see.
The stadium is built on high, level ground at the very foot of the sacred mountain. The ancient Shrine of Hera is carved into the rock above them, from whence the Goddess herself looks out over the sunny fertile plains of Sparta to the mountains on the other side. Today she will watch and judge the performers.
The one thousand Spartans gathered, and the Helot slaves attending them, have begun the day by sacrificing twenty four oxen and giving eighteen jars of unmixed wine to the goddess. The smoke from the sacrificial fires still lingers in the upper air, and now the Helots are busy roasting pieces of meat for the feast. The strongest male Helots have been selected for this duty; partly to keep them under surveillance at a time when they might take advantage of their masters’ absence and partly for another purpose. Archius, Nanno’s husband, is among them.
The females, including Nanno, are busy serving wine and performing other duties of attendance. They do not stop to watch the choir, but they cannot help hearing the song.
Which Goddess is the most beautiful?
That question was asked long ago
Under the golden bough where Paris rested
Aphrodite bribed him, and he named her the winner,
But Hera is the most beautiful to us
And always will be.
Aphrodite, with your white limbs and golden hair
You were so beautiful naked that when the gods saw you
Caught nude in a net with your lover Ares god of war
Trapped by your outraged husband, the smith Hephaestus,
They did not pity Ares his public humiliation
But wished it was themselves in the net with lovely Aphrodite
We are only girls, we cannot compete with goddesses
Protect us, wise and beautiful Hera
For our hearts belong to you alone.
Helen, ancient Queen of Sparta
And daughter of Aegis-bearing Zeus,
Who visited your mother in the shape of a swan
Your beauty was such that when you were found,
After ten years, by your rightful husband Menaleus,
From whom you ran away with your lover Paris
Causing all Greece to go to war to reclaim you,
He drew his sword to kill you but instead
On beholding you naked he embraced you
And betook you to his wife once more and lived with you
For twenty years more, in prosperity and peace
We are only girls, we cannot compete with the immortals
Take pity on us, Hera Queen of all the Gods
Only your love will bring peace to our hearts.
Smile on us, beautiful Queen Hera
Goddess, hear our prayer!
Nanno can not help but look upwards along with the rest of the expectant crowd as the last words of the ancient song vanish into the mountain air. And she sees the shower of blossoms float down miraculously from the rocky grove to land on Egoria’s head and shoulders, with a scattering for the rest of the choir, and none at all coming to Nanno herself. Then she comes to herself quickly, when she is kicked by Cynisca for failing to start to serving wine immediately, for once the goddess had shown her pleasure, all can eat and drink.
-If I sang to the Goddess like that, would she protect me too?
-Goddess! Ha! It’s just some old Spartan men throwing down flowers
The maids whisper to each other
-Maybe she’ll piss on them instead one day
-I would if I was up there
-We should climb up there one time…
* * * * * *
Taking a cup of wine from Nanno, without looking at her, Cynisca sits up eagerly, along with the rest of the watchers as the drums and pipes strike up for the girls dance.
- You’ll see what I mean about Egoria
Nanno serves Anaxilus, sitting between his Aunts. The boy she gave birth to, and nursed till two years old, and who looks more like her every day. He is proud and excited on this day, more so since he will soon be seven, and start his agoge , and perform in the festival himself next year.
The choirgirls have shed their white robes and are running into the ring, nude bodies freshly oiled, leaping and jumping, cartwheeling and backflipping, doing the splits mid-air, and their great finale, throwing themselves high and drumming their heels against their buttocks
-fucking monkeys - says Nanno’s sister Agiana is passing her goblets as fast as she can, to load onto the trays the other girls are taking round.
Cynisca’s daughters are competing in the gymnastic dances but she does not watch them. She watches instead to see who else is watching, knowing the best families in Sparta will be selecting their future wives in this event. Cleitagora is watching her nieces fondly, although it is hard for her to take her eyes of Egoria, who continues to steal the show. Cynisca’s favourite, the diminutive Clamistra, is very bit as graceful and athletic as Egoria, but cannot match the spectacle of the bigger girl. Cynisca, watching, muses that Egoria, at fifteen years old, will soon grow too big and heavy to compete at the highest level, and then Clamistra will come into her own. Her lither, small-breasted body will survive puberty better and she will be able to dance competitively into her twenties.
Her own daughters, Cynisca does not watch closely, only a flick of the eyes to ensure they are performing as they should be, that they are kept well up in the marriage market. It is Cleitagora who pushes Anaxilus forward, whispers
-Look! See what your girl-cousins can do
-Huh. I only like the boys’ dance. Boys are better than girls.
-Well, you’ll see the boys dance next, and you’ll see your two boy-cousins, my sons Giro and Fortunus.
Anaxilus, the only boy at home in a family of women, stirred by the music and singing, is mad with excitement to watch the boys’ dance, and to see his male relatives. Like many of the boys present at the gymnopaedia, he had no father to watch, and to watch him. Spartan losses in war had been heavy over the past years; they were not breeding as quickly as they should; they had never really recovered from the terrible earthquake of 367, when over half their Spartiates were killed. The Helots had seized their moment and rebelled, seizing and fortifying the city of Minicae. It had taken ten years of hard fighting to subdue them, and the bitterness on each side was immense.
At other times of troop shortage, the Spartans had bred from Helot women, making a half-race, the Multhucs, who shared some Spartan privileges. But now, relations were so bad the Spartans didn’t want to consider that option. Yet more and more, they were forced to recruit foot soldiers from the Helots to back up their increasingly small but still virtually undefeatable Spartan Phalanxes of Hoplites. These Helots were necessarily trained in combat, and what to do with them when the campaign was over?
Nanno’s husband, Archius, has fought in a number of campaigns. Today, he turns the spit, easily the biggest man in the stadium, yet with the reputation of a half-wit. He too will be performing today, indeed it is performances like these which have stayed the Spartans from the obvious solution of getting rid of him. It is he who has bequeathed to Anaxilus a magnificent frame; such that at six Anaxilus looks more like ten, and is himself is drawing as many looks from the crowd as the competitors.
-she only had one, but what a fine one!
-he looks like a little immortal!
-hush! Don’t say that!
-and where is she – the mother- I don’t see her here
-oh, she went very strange, didn’t you know? She had three babies sent to the pit, you know. And then she refused to remarry when her husband died, won’t come out of the house now
-no!
-yes, that’s why they won’t let her bring up the boy – you know his Aunts take him everywhere with them
-Cynisca and Cleitagora, isn’t it
-yes. Well – you know how wealthy they are. But Hagesichora refusing to breed like that’s a real blow to the family.
-Don’t Cynisca and Cleitagora have children?
-oh, they’ve had them. Cynisca gave three sons to Sparta, and now brings up two daughters to breed some more. See, the second from the left – that’s hers, and the one next to her.
-what about Cleitagora?
-She has three married daughters and two sons in agoge, you’ll see them presently.
-and Cynisca’s sons - they all died childless?
-yes, it was a foolish policy to risk the childless men so early, it shouldn’t happen now
-five children each…well no-one can say they haven’t done their duty
-five is plenty for a Spartan woman. We shouldn’t be like these Helot bitches, having a dozen brats and dying of exhaustion at thirty
-they’ve got no choice, they can’t control their men
-well, that’s our problem too, the fields are full of Helots with weapons training, that doesn’t feel good to me
The various conversations went round around the stadium to end with a huge cheer at the conclusion of the girls’ dance. Almost immediately it was followed by the music for the boys’ dance, still the pipe and drum but this time deeper, louder, more aggressive. It is a martial display, a killing dance.
Anaxilus is on his tip-toes with excitement. The boys, their hair as long as the girls, their bodies also nude and freshly oiled, leap into the ring. Their movements are stronger, more decisive and the overall effect quite different from the exuberant girls dance. They cry out in step with their dance moves; all moves that a Hoplite must make in battle, and in between they throw themselves into pyramids to show their strength. Anaxilus is beside himself
-I told you! The boys are better than the girls! I’m going there – aren’t I, Auntie?
-Soon, little Spartan, soon.
They give out their war cry, a deep throated and blood-curdling yell, as they all leap simultaneously into the air to deliver an imaginary killing blow to a downed opponent with their spears.
-vicious bastards. You’ll see them again, come October
-nasty little bastards. Catch ‘em stealing all the time, I take ‘em back up the hills and they whip ‘em half to death
-you shouldn’t. They’ll hold that grudge against you when the time comes
The maids are busy now preparing the cakes and salads to go with the roast meat, they whisper, their heads close to each other. Every one of them knows someone who has lost a relative in Krypteia.
Gossip as they might, the maids are careful not to say anything that would get them into real trouble if overheard. The subject most strictly banned was the recent heavy losses the Spartans had suffered against the Thebans. And there was a story, only ever told from one individual to another, in strictest privacy and in the dead of night. This was that there were Helots conspiring with the Theban king Epimandias so that when the Thebans attacked Sparta, the Helots would rise up and help the Thebans to defeat Sparta, thus winning their freedom. It was a story only ever passed in whispers, one to one. But everybody knew it.
Although many of the boys competing have no father to watch them, they are far from being bereft of male guidance. Indeed their whole lives from the age of seven have been spent exclusively in male company. In addition to this, from the age of twelve each boy has a personal mentor from among the men in their twenties; one to advise, protect, guide and love him. Competition, as in all other aspects of life, was fierce between the boys to attract the bravest and strongest of the men to be their lover. Boys, on the other hand, who deliberately chose a rich and influential partner were sneered at, and watched jealously to ensure they did not profit unfairly by their connection.
After the boys’ dance there is a break for lunch before the throwing, jumping and running races in the afternoon, followed by the male choirs in the beauty of the evening. The Helot women begin to serve; the men on the spits are taken off and put into their dancing costumes. These are designed to be ludicrous, with holes at the breasts, buttocks and genitalia, and huge painted heads with abject expressions. Before donning the headdresses, the mens’ heads are wrenched back and a funnel forced into their throats. Down this the Spartan soldiers pour undiluted wine, not ceasing till the Helots are in the final stage of intoxication. Then the giant headdresses are fixed on and they are driven out into the arena, staggering, to another tune, a ponderous and discordant one.
More Helots stand at the side with whips, their job to lash any competitors who do not show the required enthusiasm for the dance, which consists of clumsy and comic moves. But one who does not require lashing is Nanno’s husband Archius. He seems happy to gyrate lewdly to the requirements of the dance music, to thrust his buttocks out; to behave in every way as if he wished nothing more than to thoroughly entertain his watchers. Like many of the men chosen, he happens to have rather large genitals. The Spartan men and women think little of this; they consider small genitals more manly, and say the Helots remind them of apes. The spectacle of the Helots drunken dance is meant to provide a little light relief but also to remind the Spartans that drunkenness is low and beneath them, and to ensure that the crowd sticks to its moderate consumption of mixed wine, even on a feast day.
Another comic dance follows that of the drunken Helots, and this time the victims of ridicule are themselves Spartans; more particularly the bachelor Spartans who have failed to take a wife despite reaching the designated age. They are spared the forced drunkenness, but are obliged to wear humiliating costumes, this time with giant asses heads. Some of them enter into the spirit of it and others are visibly sulky. Their song, which the same Helots with whips equally compel them to sing with gusto, tells why it is right they should go through this humiliation.
-If Spartan men were all like us
Our state would crumble into dust
The women are encouraged to catcall and mock those reluctant bridegrooms, a commodity Sparta could ill afford. Despite any personal preference, it was a Spartan man’s duty to reproduce and it was considered deeply antisocial to refuse; the chronic troop shortage made it even more of an issue.
-Scared to stick it in, soldier?
-Can’t fight your way through a girls’ bush, is that it?
-Try it, we promise not to poke back!
-Bring your mother with you, she can hold your hand on your wedding night!
*next part of the story to be posted soon - Anaxilus leaves for agoge*
