side today, preeners,”
Styphon grated. “Next time, we shall see.”
Demosthenes nodded grimly, Kleon cackled,
and the hours which followed were consumed by the dispatching of
messengers to and from the Spartan force besieging Pylos as Styphon
sought and received permission from that force's commander to turn
the truce into surrender. There were to be no conditions, but
one strange request was made. Among the trapped Equals was a
priestess of Artemis whose return to Sparta they wished to
arrange.
“A priestess fights with them!” Kleon
scoffed. “Sparta is harder up than we thought!”
I. PYLOS \ 9. False
Priestess
Just after dawn, Demosthenes left his
headquarters in the squat, crumbling citadel perched atop the
acropolis of Pylos and descended into the town. The priestess
captured on Sphakteria had requested an audience with him. He
could come up with no reasonable explanation for why any woman,
priestess or otherwise, should have been present on the island.
It was laughable to think the Spartans might have brought her
there deliberately. Why then had she come, and for how long
had she been among them? Her request for audience suited
Demosthenes well enough to consent to it, if for no better reason
than to satisfy idle curiosity.
The streets he walked were narrow and
winding. Until recently, Pylos had been a city of slaves, and
it showed. The roofs of the Messenian Helots' modest homes
were thatched, the temple columns made of porous stone or even
wood, and there was scarcely a public garden to be found.
Even at this early hour Demosthenes was accosted at every
turn by men and women rushing up and shouting barely coherent
praise. Potters, weavers, carpenters, jewelers, sandal-makers
and hawkers of every ware emerged from their stalls as he passed,
offering up second-rate goods as gifts of thanks to the man they
called Liberator.
Diplomatically refusing, Demosthenes managed
to lose the fawning crowds and reach his destination, a little
whitewashed cottage on a quiet side street of a southern
neighborhood. It was of fresher construction than most in
Pylos, with a terra cotta roof and a small but parched garden in
front. A Messenian guard by the entrance offered him a
cheerful greeting then rapped on the wooden door. It swung
inward, and a mousy girl appeared.
“I would see your mistress,” Demosthenes
said.
The Messenian girl answered with eyes
downcast, “Perhaps you might wait until she has taken her
breakfast, my lord.”
Demosthenes smiled impatiently. “She
is the one who sought audience with me. I promise not long to
delay her.”
Probably accustomed to serving harsher
masters, and unwilling to risk further offense in protecting her
lady’s privacy, the girl stepped aside, and Demosthenes passed
within. The cottage's main room was furnished with a low
couch and a scattered assortment of cushions in gaudy hues.
The soot-blackened corner hearth, gently aglow, was well
stocked with bronze cooking pots and utensils. The Messenian
girl vanished through a faded turquoise curtain into the rear of
the house and spoke some words in an urgent whisper. A second
female voice answered curtly, and the curtain was shoved aside.
“Welcome, lord general,” said the second
voice's owner, an older woman who bowed her head in servile Helot
fashion, beckoning Demosthenes in.
Smiling gratitude, he ducked under the
doorway's low lintel. The rectangular inner room, decorated
with a woven rug and a pair of matching wall tapestries, was well
lit by a north-facing window. Against the leftmost wall was a
neatly made sleeping mat, while to the right sat a low wooden table
flanked on either side by long sitting-cushions. At the
table, seated on a cushion and facing Demosthenes over a breakfast
of bread soaked in dark wine, was the priestess. Behind her
knelt a third young Messenian girl who was focused intently on an
effort to craft some elaborate hairstyle out of
Styphon grated. “Next time, we shall see.”
Demosthenes nodded grimly, Kleon cackled,
and the hours which followed were consumed by the dispatching of
messengers to and from the Spartan force besieging Pylos as Styphon
sought and received permission from that force's commander to turn
the truce into surrender. There were to be no conditions, but
one strange request was made. Among the trapped Equals was a
priestess of Artemis whose return to Sparta they wished to
arrange.
“A priestess fights with them!” Kleon
scoffed. “Sparta is harder up than we thought!”
I. PYLOS \ 9. False
Priestess
Just after dawn, Demosthenes left his
headquarters in the squat, crumbling citadel perched atop the
acropolis of Pylos and descended into the town. The priestess
captured on Sphakteria had requested an audience with him. He
could come up with no reasonable explanation for why any woman,
priestess or otherwise, should have been present on the island.
It was laughable to think the Spartans might have brought her
there deliberately. Why then had she come, and for how long
had she been among them? Her request for audience suited
Demosthenes well enough to consent to it, if for no better reason
than to satisfy idle curiosity.
The streets he walked were narrow and
winding. Until recently, Pylos had been a city of slaves, and
it showed. The roofs of the Messenian Helots' modest homes
were thatched, the temple columns made of porous stone or even
wood, and there was scarcely a public garden to be found.
Even at this early hour Demosthenes was accosted at every
turn by men and women rushing up and shouting barely coherent
praise. Potters, weavers, carpenters, jewelers, sandal-makers
and hawkers of every ware emerged from their stalls as he passed,
offering up second-rate goods as gifts of thanks to the man they
called Liberator.
Diplomatically refusing, Demosthenes managed
to lose the fawning crowds and reach his destination, a little
whitewashed cottage on a quiet side street of a southern
neighborhood. It was of fresher construction than most in
Pylos, with a terra cotta roof and a small but parched garden in
front. A Messenian guard by the entrance offered him a
cheerful greeting then rapped on the wooden door. It swung
inward, and a mousy girl appeared.
“I would see your mistress,” Demosthenes
said.
The Messenian girl answered with eyes
downcast, “Perhaps you might wait until she has taken her
breakfast, my lord.”
Demosthenes smiled impatiently. “She
is the one who sought audience with me. I promise not long to
delay her.”
Probably accustomed to serving harsher
masters, and unwilling to risk further offense in protecting her
lady’s privacy, the girl stepped aside, and Demosthenes passed
within. The cottage's main room was furnished with a low
couch and a scattered assortment of cushions in gaudy hues.
The soot-blackened corner hearth, gently aglow, was well
stocked with bronze cooking pots and utensils. The Messenian
girl vanished through a faded turquoise curtain into the rear of
the house and spoke some words in an urgent whisper. A second
female voice answered curtly, and the curtain was shoved aside.
“Welcome, lord general,” said the second
voice's owner, an older woman who bowed her head in servile Helot
fashion, beckoning Demosthenes in.
Smiling gratitude, he ducked under the
doorway's low lintel. The rectangular inner room, decorated
with a woven rug and a pair of matching wall tapestries, was well
lit by a north-facing window. Against the leftmost wall was a
neatly made sleeping mat, while to the right sat a low wooden table
flanked on either side by long sitting-cushions. At the
table, seated on a cushion and facing Demosthenes over a breakfast
of bread soaked in dark wine, was the priestess. Behind her
knelt a third young Messenian girl who was focused intently on an
effort to craft some elaborate hairstyle out of
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