Small groups were scuffling even, until Epaminondas abruptly ended the council. “It is decided. We go west, Epiteles and I. You others go home. Friends we all remain who hate the men of Sparta, Lykomedes-at least for the year to come.” At daybreak twenty thousand Boiotians and Argives headed up on their side of the Eurotas northward. They were eager to sweep into Messenia from the topside as the pestle that would hammer the Spartans there against the mortar of Taygetos, and end what was started far to the north at Leuktra. The freed helots among them ran fast to the west to warn their own of the final approach of the men of the north, to ready food and to kill any Spartan on sight still under Ithome.
As for this stranger Epiteles, Melon smiled that sometimes a single good man comes from the shadows for a single task for his own motives. He may have had no stomach for storming the Eurotas or building a city of stone for the Messenians, or for giving democracy to the mob. But for a few days of chaos, marching in the cold to free the helots and killing Spartans on the pathway up Mt. Taygetos? The very gods could not do it better themselves. Melon was now at the van, with Ainias and Melissos, marching once more with Pelopidas and the Sacred Band. All were happy to be on the move and out of the fog and mist of Lakonia, following Epaminondas across the barren orchards to the foot of Taygetos. The sounds of the chafing of wood and metal from thousands were deafening as the army headed for the ice of the high passes. But not a yell, not even a voice was raised, as the men shuddered at the black clouds on the mountain and met a growing hard wind with sleet from the north. Melon had had no word of Chion despite the mob of helots that was coming east from Messenia. He could only hope Chion had settled up by now with Gorgos and freed Neto. Yet, he was not sure whether the freedman was making his way to Ithome down the Alpheios, or had he been killed by kryptes along the way. And Alkidamas-was the old man shivering on the gulf, waiting for a ship to the south? Nor was there any report of Neto after her imprisonment by Kuniskos, but at least Melon at last was heading west to find her and settle with Gorgos. No mention either of the reception ahead in Messenia. The fate of Erinna? Erinna herself was not even much known to Melon. Was his silver at the bottom of the gulf? Melon wondered; since Chion had left Plataia with plans to hand the money over to the trireme at Aigosthena, there had been only silence.
Ainias pointed out Epaminondas. He was riding a three-year-old black stallion, not his red pony, but one taken from the stables of Antikrates. Their general was again bridling it on its back legs in the wind, and waving them all to follow in the howling of ice rain-happy to be free of the Peloponnesians, and happier to have this shaggy Epiteles and his Argives at his side. The tiny Boiotian seemed to have a feel for the frisky horse. So he turned his mount around at the foot of Taygetos as they started to ascend the steep narrow road that wound to the west and northward toward the cloudy pass. Epaminondas called out to this army. It was icy and windy, but there were not yet the high snows blocking the pass, and so the shorter route over Taygetos was open to Messenia. “Follow your Epiteles. Follow Pelopidas. We lead you to the freedom of the Messenians and to freedom for us from Sparta forever. Make the strong weak, the weak strong-and a new Hellas like none other.”
Thousands of Argives and Boiotians heard his message and answered back, “Freedom. Freedom. Eleutheria. Eleutheria ton Hellenon.” Now they left for good the valley of Eurotas as their voices bounced off the rock walls above. Smoke from the fires of the valley blew across as they climbed and even now the Spartans still dared not cross back over the Eurotas. Melon felt his leg loosen up, the pain vanish, just as it had during the battle at Leuktra. Pelopidas was calling out in unison with the Sacred Band. Runaway helots had cut out a path ahead. The Messenians had cleared the road of the black ice and some light snow as they went up the summit, peeking out of the fir and cedar in twos and threes as the army passed on.
Only Ainias kept quiet, with his bloody cape on and his patches of wild hair and his beard mangy. He was full of black bile that this army had forgotten his Proxenos, whose scrolls were about to come alive in stone at Messene, the greatest of the three fetters, on the other side of this dark Taygetos. Helots, Ainias cursed, had brought Proxenos southward across the Isthmos-and helots were not worth his death. Few among us, Ainias snarled to himself, are prisoners of memory and loyal to the past. There are too few of these faithful ones who have a bond with the dead, the sleeping majority who came and went. So, yes, the good few resent mightily that none praise their ancestors, the better, now forgotten men who made their roads, tiled their roofs, and planted their orchards. Not a man among the thousands marching here, not one cared that these cities came from the hard work and thinking of Proxenos, son of Proxenos, forgotten even before the fires of his pyre had eaten away his flesh. Ainias muttered to himself that this was silly to climb a mountain in winter when there were clouds on its top and ice in the air. Better to go up the mountains in summer-or go to the north to the kinder passes around the mountain. That they were passing the Kaiadas, the pits of Sparta where the helots were thrown, meant nothing to the brooding Ainias.
Still, he always liked to fight, and he now was the sole Arkadian in this new army of Boiotians and Argives. So Ainias said nothing ill about fighting into the new year that would confirm Epaminondas a death sentence back at Thebes. Nonetheless, Ainias thought it useless when Spartans were alive at their rear-and the helots hardly worth any more death. Most in the columns left him alone now, since he stank and would not change his cape and jerkin with the blood of Proxenos on it. Rumors spread that the ashes of Proxenos were in his leather bag on his belt, which the Arkadian patted as he swore and slurred.
They marched up through the storm to the passes over the mountain. The army grew as more helots in furs and leather capes began to come out of the snowy pines, and followed along at the rear of the columns. A few Spartans spied down at them from the tallest heights, but quickly fled as some freed helots hiked up the cliffs after them. The red-capes in threes and fours were too late heading home on rumors of the enemies pouring into Messenia, and so gave Epaminondas and his army their road below-terrified of the Boiotians and more scared of the rumored man-bear loose the past month on Taygetos who hunted down Spartans alone and left others be.
Few of the liberators knew what to expect when they crossed the summit into Messenia and down to the Spartan fort beneath Ithome. Would there be a helot version of Lykomedes, or a Messenian Backwash, to undermine their arrival?
CHAPTER 31
Chion was roaming on Taygetos-right now no more than a hundred stadia away from the army, camping alone in the tall icy firs with a bright fire, hunting for Gorgos and his guard. He had come too late to ransom Neto, and heard only that Erinna had failed to rescue her as Gorgos fled into the highlands. Chion now followed Gorgos in his flight to the upper reaches of Taygetos, since there was of yet no trace of Neto back in his abandoned compound nor word of her with him in the upland. He assumed that her corpse had been either burned or buried, but he kept quiet and again promised only that he would come down the mountain with the head of Gorgos and a live Neto by the time Melon arrived with Epaminondas.