“Surely, Pleistarchus,” I said, “the ephors would not dare challenge the authority of the kings?”
Pleistarchus snorted. “This wouldn’t be the first time the ephors have acted against the kings. Why, my own grandsire …” He trailed off.
Diotima said, “King Pleistarchus, would a Spartan assassin really kill another Spartan, and if so, why? This is hard to believe.”
“Then I must take you to someone who will convince you, someone who, frankly, I’d rather avoid.”
“Who’s that, sir?”
Pleistarchus shuddered. “My mother.”
Pleistarchus departed to arrange the interview.
I said, “Quick, Markos, what do you know about Queen Gorgo?”
“Daughter of one king, wife to another, mother to a third,” he replied. “Gorgo’s been the power behind the kings of Sparta for three generations. They say she’s the smartest woman in Hellas.”
“A likely story,” sniffed Diotima, who had her own pretensions in that area. “They always make these claims about royalty.”
“Well, you’re about to have your chance to find out,” Markos told her.
A guard came, and we were escorted, Diotima, Markos, and I, to the tent of Queen Gorgo, in the very center of the camp. I would never have guessed the tent contained royalty, for it looked like any other. The dowager queen of Sparta sat within upon a hard wooden chair, the only concession to comfort an upright back. A guard stood at attention behind her, and it wasn’t merely for show; the man looked ready to kill the slightest threat.
Gorgo was so thin I could count her bones. Her hair was tied back and gray, which exposed the outline of her skull. The image was accentuated by perfect teeth that seemed too large for the rest of her. Her hands were like the claws of a bird. Her dark eyes had the look of an alert and merciless eagle.
Gorgo noticed me, and I felt like some bug crawling underfoot.
She said, “So you’re the ones they say are causing so much trouble.”
I waited for Markos to defend us, but when he stood silent I replied, “I think the one causing the trouble, Queen Gorgo, is the man who murdered Arakos.”
“No need to get uppity with me, young man. I said that’s what people in Olympia are saying. I didn’t say I agreed. My son tells me you need to know about the krypteia.”
“We asked the question,” I said. “An anonymous note claims secrets killed Arakos. Pleistarchus thinks it might refer to the Spartan krypteia, but there are other interpretations. Would the krypteia really murder one of their own citizens? And if so, why? Especially since, except for his ability to fight, there was nothing special about Arakos.”
“Nothing special,” Gorgo repeated, then said, “There’s one thing about Arakos, but I cannot conceive of it as a motive for murder. Did you know that the father of Arakos was one of the Three Hundred?”
“Markos told me.”
“His father fought and died at the gates of Thermopylae, alongside my husband Leonidas. After the war, I personally made sure that the children of the Three Hundred were cared for. If anyone harms a child of the Three Hundred, it’s as if they harmed my own. You understand?”
“Yes, Queen Gorgo.”
“Tell me what you know.”
I did. It was the first chance I’d had to explain to Markos the anonymous note on the ostrakon and its strange message. He exclaimed when he heard it.
I finished by saying, “And so we want to learn whatever we can of this krypteia.”
“I see.” Gorgo was silent for a long moment. Then she said, “There’s a family history …”
“Yes?”
“My father, Cleomenes, was king of Sparta. My father-how shall I put this delicately? — my father went stark raving mad.”
“That’s delicate?” I asked the Queen of Sparta.
“I’m known for speaking my mind.”
“Insanity is sent by the Gods,” Diotima pointed out. “Usually to punish.”
The Dowager Queen examined Diotima head to foot, like an officer examines a soldier. “You are?”
“I am Diotima of Mantinea.” Diotima lifted her chin proudly.
“Your accent says you’re Athenian.”
“Yes, Gorgo. I go by the name of my mother’s city.” I could tell Diotima was favorably impressed by the way she stood a little straighter, as she would before a high priestess.
Gorgo said, “You’re right, Diotima of Mantinea. Insanity is the curse of the Gods. In my father’s case, in the war against the Argives, he dragged prisoners from a temple sanctuary and cut them to pieces.”
I winced. “That would do it.” To abuse temple sanctuary is almost the greatest crime there is.
“So the Gods cursed my father, and his condition worsened until the family had no choice but to put him in chains. Can you imagine the shame? A king of Sparta in chains? Then, one day soon thereafter, they found him dead.” Gorgo sat up even straighter, if that were possible.
“The official story is that, while still chained in his cell, my father obtained a knife from the helot who was set to guard him. My father used the knife to skin himself alive, beginning at the shins, and laid his own flesh in strips beside him, all the way to his thighs. When he was finished there was only the meat and muscles and veins. The feet he left. I don’t know why. It made the sight all the more horrific, to see those normal feet at the end of legs with the meat hanging off.” Gorgo shuddered, her first sign of humanity.
“Then he started on his groin. I won’t tell you what he did to himself there. He died as he sliced the last of the skin from his stomach.”
“This is terrible,” said Diotima, truly shocked.
“The moronic guard claimed my father had threatened him if he didn’t hand over the knife. I didn’t believe his story. I insisted the fool be executed.”
“You said that was the official story,” I prompted.
“Your stress on the word is correct. My father was mad, I don’t deny it, but he wasn’t insane enough to strip the flesh of his body with his own hands. My father’s condition was an embarrassment to the Spartans.” Gorgo waved an arm, almost dismissively. “Something had to be done. I suspect something was done. I have no proof, but I believe he was killed and the death purported to be his own act. The krypteia are the natural suspects. You asked if the krypteia could kill a Spartan. They could. They’d even dare to murder a king.”
I said, “None of this explains why the ephors or the krypteia would target Arakos. The motive escapes me.”
Gorgo laughed, without the slightest trace of humor. “You’re the ones who asked the question. It may be, as you suggest, that these secrets are not Spartan ones. Arakos spent an unusually long time on his own, out of Sparta, on account of his athletic prowess.” She thought for a moment, then said, “I don’t know if it’s relevant, but I talked to him last year, after the Games at Nemea.”
“Yes?”
“He was very unhappy with the result. Well, who wouldn’t be? He came in second.”
“Second’s better than last,” I said.
“In a war, second is last, and Spartans don’t raise losers. Arakos seemed to think there’d been cheating. I put it down to anger at losing.”
“Thank you for telling us this,” I said.
“There’s no requirement to thank me. I do this purely out of self-interest.” Her expression didn’t change as she added, “I’m an ill woman; soon I will depart for Hades, and there’s no telling what those idiot men will do without me to guide them. I need to engineer a period of peace while I still can, but this investigation threatens to destabilize all of Hellas. I need you to find a solution that gives me a chance to keep people calm.”
That seemed to be what everyone wanted. The problem was, everyone disagreed on what constituted the right solution.
“And if we find Timodemus did kill Arakos?” Diotima asked. “What will you do then, Queen Gorgo?”
“Cheer on my men as they lay waste to Attica.”
I nodded automatically. This was the wife of Leonidas, who had led the Three Hundred. She had watched and waved to her own husband as he marched off on a suicide mission. The Queen of Sparta would do whatever had to be done.