A Spartan boy is swapped at birth for a Helot slave boy. This is his story.
Ancient Sparta
Part Three
-Have you been making sacrifices to Artemis every ninth day? I did that through all my pregnancies, and I have never had such misfortune as you
Cleitagora’s hand rests with satisfaction on her own flat stomach. Her latest child, a girl, is not two months old.
Hagesichora lies in bed. Her face is pale and beaded with the sweat of a postpartum fever, but Cynisca does not trouble to soften her irritation.
-To have three feeble babies at your age, it doesn’t make sense. Our family has not even had one infant consigned to the pit before you. It will make it harder for our daughters to get good husbands. It reflects badly on us
Hagesichora groans. Her sisters look impatient, and it is Nanno who holds a cup of bitter herbs to her lips, that will help the fever to abate. Cleitagora says sourly
-I think we all know where the problem lies, and it’s not in our bloodline
-It’s Pausanius. Look what happened to his first wife! She kept producing dead infants, and then she died herself. People said it was her, and Pausanius’s sisters came to us, asking for you for their brother –a fresh young wife for him. And now – exactly the same thing
-One healthy baby out of four. To be honest, I don’t know how he sired Anaxilus
-If you continue to bear his babies, Hagesichora, it will kill you too
Hagesichora groans again. Her sisters’ words are a stream of sound, the room is spinning. Nanno sees the fresh beads of sweat spring to her brow and wants to wipe them away with a cloth dipped in cool water. But she is afraid of appearing too attentive, knows it is best to appear dull and stupid in front of her mistress’s sisters
-Look at you! It’s ridiculous
Cynisca, who has never had a day’s illness in her life. Cleitagora is, on the surface, more sympathetic.
-It’s not your fault. But you must promise us you won’t visit your husband again. When you’re better, we’ll find you a lover, the more virile the better.
Cynisca laughs
-That’ll get you back on your feet! Better than any tonic!
-And Pausanius will agree. He’s bound to see the sense of it. He can’t let you waste yourself on him, you’ve a half a dozen good children in you yet
Neither of them approach their sister, they take their leave from a distance. As they pass through the door Nanno takes up the cloth and dips it in the pitcher of water by the bed. Cynisca and Cleitagora are still talking.
-Who shall we pick for her, sister?
- I have my eye on my husband’s nephew, Lucianus. He’s twenty-one and built like a titan
-It’s essential she starts to breed properly soon. We have lost so many men. Since the earthquake..
-And those cursed Helots, breeding like rats, in their misery. What of that maid – a child every year!
-We should cull her family of its men, as the Gods have culled us of ours
-When they are grown, sister, we will
* * * *
Hagesichora has disobeyed her sisters’ instructions. She has made her way to the barracks in secret and is waiting in her husband’s room. The guards, accustomed to her, have let her in and privately let Pausanius know she is there.
She lies waiting on his straw pallet, the only furniture in the room, just as she did on their wedding night six years before. Then, her head was shaved and she was dressed in a boy’s tunic.
Her hair has grown back now and she wears her own tunic although without the clasp. But still she feels as she did on that night, feels the same thrill of excitement as the door opens and she sees him silhouetted in its frame.
He does not waste words. He falls on her with the hunger of a greedy child who does not know where his next meal is coming from.
Hagesichora, as always, responds without restraint. From the first night they spent together, their mutual passion has astonished them both, and this has never abated. No matter that the fruit of their union - barring Anaxilus – has been weak and sickly, three infants consigned to the pit by the ephors. They do not speak of that; it pains them both but as far as Pausanius is concerned it is none of his business. He does not blame his wife for her failure to bear children, and he has no intention of ceasing to lie with her for that reason.
Yet for other reasons, this is likely to be their last time together. Twined in the spent, tender exhaustion that follows on from their act, Pausanius tells her of his latest posting.
- 300 Spartiates are taking an army to Boeotia, to punish the Thebans for expelling our garrison.
That he would not return unvictorious went without saying. Pausanius had returned from several campaigns already and Hagesichora was not unduly disturbed.
-They are sending only the older men, who have grown sons to take their place, or who are too old to sire more children
At that, she stiffens. His garrison might have to fight to death.
-When do you leave?
-Tomorrow at dawn
Hagesichora says nothing, but hot, shameless tears run down her face. His fingers find their tracks in the darkness, and convey the gentleness his words lack. She presses her body against him, and their cycle of passion begins anew.
By Sabreena
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