looked to the good old days, deplored the times, and, like their forbears back to the Great War, admired the customs of Sparta. In due course Leonidas went to see it.
Used by now to the high diversions of Athens, drama festivals, music contests, sacred processions put on like great performances, supper-clubs with their verse-capping and well-read wit, he had found Lakedaimon stiflingly provincial. To a feudal lord of Epiros, with deep roots in his demesne, the racial rule of Spartiate over Helot was foreign and uneasy; the blunt-spoken familiarity of Spartiate with Spartiate, and with himself, struck him as boorish. And here too, as in Athens, the great days were over. Like an old dog thrashed by a younger one, which will show its teeth but keep its distance, Sparta had not been the same since the Thebans had marched up to the walls. Barter had gone out, money had come in and was prized here as elsewhere; the rich had amassed great lands, the poor could no longer pay their shot at the citizens’ public mess-tables, and sunk to mere ‘by-dwellers’ whose gallantry had bled out of them with their pride. But in one respect he had found them equal to their past. They could still rear disciplined boys, hardy, uncoddled and respectful, who did what they were told at once without asking why, stood up when their elders entered, and never spoke till spoken to. Attic culture and Spartan manners, he had thought as he sailed homeward; combine them in the pliant mind of youth and they would give you the perfect man.
He returned to Epiros, the consequence of his rank increased by his travels. Long after his knowledge was out of date it had been universally deferred to. King Philip, who had agents in all the Greek cities, knew better than this; nonetheless, when he talked with Leonidas he became aware that his own Greek was rather Boeotian. Along with the Attic speech went the Hellene maxims: ‘Nothing in excess’; ‘Well begun, half done’; and ‘It is a woman’s glory not to be spoken of, either for praise? or blame.’
Here was the perfect compromise. Olympias’ kin was honoured. Leonidas, who had a passion for correctness, would allot her the dues of a high-born lady, himself the dues of a man. She would find him harder than even Philip to meddle with. Through his southern guest-friends he could engage all the proper tutors the King had not time to find, and ensure they were sound in politics and morals. Letters were exchanged. Philip rode off, his mind at rest, leaving orders that Leonidas be given a state welcome.
On the day he was expected, Hellanike laid out Alexander’s best clothes, and had her slave fill him a bath. Kleopatra came in while she was scouring him. She was a podgy child, with Olympias’ red hair and the square build of Philip. She ate too much because she was often unhappy, knowing their mother loved Alexander more, and differently.
‘You’re a schoolboy now,’ she said. ‘You can’t come in the women’s rooms.’
When he found her in trouble he would often console her, amuse her or give her things. When she threatened him with her womanhood, he hated her. ‘I shall come in when I like. Who do you think will stop me?’
‘Your teacher will.’ She began chanting it, jumping up and down. He leaped out, soaking the floor, and threw her in with all her clothes on. Hellanike laid him wet across her knee and beat him with her sandal. Kleopatra mocked him, was beaten in turn, and thrust out screaming, to be dried by the maid.
Alexander did not weep. He had understood the whole business of the appointment. No one had needed to tell him that if he did not obey this man, it would lose his mother a battle in her war; nor that the next one would then be fought over himself. He was scarred within by such battles. When another threatened, the scars throbbed like old wounds before the rain.
ÊHellanike combed his tangled hair, making him clench his teeth. He cried easily at old war-songs where sworn
Used by now to the high diversions of Athens, drama festivals, music contests, sacred processions put on like great performances, supper-clubs with their verse-capping and well-read wit, he had found Lakedaimon stiflingly provincial. To a feudal lord of Epiros, with deep roots in his demesne, the racial rule of Spartiate over Helot was foreign and uneasy; the blunt-spoken familiarity of Spartiate with Spartiate, and with himself, struck him as boorish. And here too, as in Athens, the great days were over. Like an old dog thrashed by a younger one, which will show its teeth but keep its distance, Sparta had not been the same since the Thebans had marched up to the walls. Barter had gone out, money had come in and was prized here as elsewhere; the rich had amassed great lands, the poor could no longer pay their shot at the citizens’ public mess-tables, and sunk to mere ‘by-dwellers’ whose gallantry had bled out of them with their pride. But in one respect he had found them equal to their past. They could still rear disciplined boys, hardy, uncoddled and respectful, who did what they were told at once without asking why, stood up when their elders entered, and never spoke till spoken to. Attic culture and Spartan manners, he had thought as he sailed homeward; combine them in the pliant mind of youth and they would give you the perfect man.
He returned to Epiros, the consequence of his rank increased by his travels. Long after his knowledge was out of date it had been universally deferred to. King Philip, who had agents in all the Greek cities, knew better than this; nonetheless, when he talked with Leonidas he became aware that his own Greek was rather Boeotian. Along with the Attic speech went the Hellene maxims: ‘Nothing in excess’; ‘Well begun, half done’; and ‘It is a woman’s glory not to be spoken of, either for praise? or blame.’
Here was the perfect compromise. Olympias’ kin was honoured. Leonidas, who had a passion for correctness, would allot her the dues of a high-born lady, himself the dues of a man. She would find him harder than even Philip to meddle with. Through his southern guest-friends he could engage all the proper tutors the King had not time to find, and ensure they were sound in politics and morals. Letters were exchanged. Philip rode off, his mind at rest, leaving orders that Leonidas be given a state welcome.
On the day he was expected, Hellanike laid out Alexander’s best clothes, and had her slave fill him a bath. Kleopatra came in while she was scouring him. She was a podgy child, with Olympias’ red hair and the square build of Philip. She ate too much because she was often unhappy, knowing their mother loved Alexander more, and differently.
‘You’re a schoolboy now,’ she said. ‘You can’t come in the women’s rooms.’
When he found her in trouble he would often console her, amuse her or give her things. When she threatened him with her womanhood, he hated her. ‘I shall come in when I like. Who do you think will stop me?’
‘Your teacher will.’ She began chanting it, jumping up and down. He leaped out, soaking the floor, and threw her in with all her clothes on. Hellanike laid him wet across her knee and beat him with her sandal. Kleopatra mocked him, was beaten in turn, and thrust out screaming, to be dried by the maid.
Alexander did not weep. He had understood the whole business of the appointment. No one had needed to tell him that if he did not obey this man, it would lose his mother a battle in her war; nor that the next one would then be fought over himself. He was scarred within by such battles. When another threatened, the scars throbbed like old wounds before the rain.
ÊHellanike combed his tangled hair, making him clench his teeth. He cried easily at old war-songs where sworn
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