Spartan attacks were grindingly gradual things, with coherence and precision valued over momentum. With plenty of time to watch the approach of the crimson juggernaut, Sparta’s enemies often broke before they were touched. But the Argives, still nursing their ancient grudge against the Lacedaemonians, stood their ground with locked shields.
“Argos never yields to the Lacedaemonians because she has never forgotten the Battle of Champions in Thyreatis,” Zeuxippos once told Antalcidas. “A century ago, after many battles for the domination of the Peloponnese, we met the Argives outside of Hysiae for a final reckoning. This time we agreed to settle matters the old-fashioned way, with a contest of three hundred handpicked champions from each side. The battle was fought for an entire day in every way possible, from serried phalanxes to individual duels by sword, knife, and bare knuckles. When it was over, divine Hesperus rose over a field with 597 corpses and three survivors, two Argive and one Spartan. The latter could barely stand because of spear wounds to the leg. Yet steadfast and true to his legacy, he offered battle. The Argives laughed at him and went off to their camp to celebrate what they took to be their triumph.
“The drunken Argives returned to consecrate their victory with a trophy. But they were too late: the Spartan had, all by himself, constructed one of his own out of upturned spears and abandoned Argive arms. They sent heralds in protest, demanding he take it down. But the Agiad king, Anaxandridas, ruled that his champion had indeed been left in sole possession of the field, and was by custom entitled to the victory. The Argives blustered, threatening to tear the trophy down, but in the end dared not, for fear of the gods. Since that day the battle has stuck like a bone in the Argive throat-and the Lacedaemonians have never lost a battle.”
This story was told to youths to teach them the need to finish a task once begun. His father’s end was not quite so glorious. As the phalanx advanced on the enemy, Molobrus had the misfortune to stumble on a stone and go down. The Lacedaemonians, trained to avoid at all cost breaks in their lines, could do nothing other than close the gap and march over him. After the first seven ranks had passed, the rear guard felt nothing of him but an indistinct softness in the place where he had fallen. In driving the Argives from the field, the Lacedaemonians suffered only a handful of casualties. One of these was Molobrus, whose crushed remains were identified from the wooden dogtags pounded into the mud.
By all accounts Damatria took the news exceptionally well. A wife of Sparta was not expected to tear out her hair, slash her face, rend her clothes, or engage in any of the other acts of conspicuous grief indulged by women of other cities. Instead, she was expected to take news of her husband’s death in battle as the highest sort of honor. Damatria accordingly went around with her finest clothes and a smile on her face. The neighborhood children festooned her house with wild anemones and roses from the meadows around the city; in return, she had her servants deliver gifts of sweets door-to-door. For its part, the state contributed an honor unique to fallen veterans: the dead man’s family had the right to inscribe his name on his tombstone.
Damatria did not have to pretend to be in good humor. To be spared her husband’s interference in her domestic affairs, not to mention his permanent absence from her bed, were blessings too delicious to contemplate. Molobrus had at last contrived to make himself useful. Still, Damatria spared no expense on his grave, nor on the regular observances there, such as libations with precious oils. That she could afford to do so was beyond question, as she was able to produce a written contract between Molobrus and herself stipulating that all his property, including his share of the ancient portion granted his family by Lycurgus himself, went to her alone. To the annoyance of Lampito and her relatives, the agreement was duly witnessed by three citizen adults, and therefore perfectly legal.
Being still of childbearing age, she remarried with what all agreed was patriotic speed. The owner of the estate bordering hers, Dorcis, son of Nicolochus, had been Molobrus’ patron when he was a Yearling. As a widower nearing the end of his years of active service in the army, Dorcis had frequent occasion to be home and watch this one-eyed beauty march around her property in her sun hat, declaiming commands to gangs of terrified helots. He sent her a stream of gifts-a dressed wild boar, a cutting from a rare apple tree from Asia that produced fruits with golden skin and red flesh, a fine wine jug from Athens covered with painted lovers-that made plain his admiration.
While Molobrus lived she did nothing to encourage him. In this she was somewhat unusuaclass="underline" extramarital couplings that enhanced the chances for procreation-legitimate preferred, illegitimate if necessary-were more than tolerated in Sparta. And if the long-absent husband gave his consent to share his young wife with an older man, such as his childhood patron, the act was not thought adulterous at all, but more properly a stroke of civic philanthropy. Damatria had seen them herself, those patriotic wives with compliant husbands, making their pious rounds of the temples with rouged faces and a swing in their hips. With her experience limited to a rape and the oafish pokings of her husband, she found it all incomprehensible.
Molobrus’ death, and her wealth that followed, changed her view. The estate she inherited was only a fair one, sufficient to feed the household and pay Epitadas’ mess one day. Dorcis’ holdings were more impressive, including twice the land and steady income from several potteries and shipping interests out of Gytheion. Combining their properties would make the largest estate in Kynosoura. Accordingly, when Dorcis came to visit bearing a cart full of jars of imported Thasian black wine, she allowed him to tap one of the vessels to share a taste. As they drank together in the glow of the evening, Damatria let her eye wander over the rim of her cup and linger on his.
The next month they were married.
Their honeymoon was a revelation. Dorcis was nearing sixty but was left with all the appetites of a boy a third his age. With his unctuous smile and full head of hair, he presented a tempting prospect for lonely women all over the village. For the first time in her life Damatria experienced a degree of satisfaction in the bedroom-and a girlish possessiveness she would never have expected in herself.
“You’re not betraying me with that slut Gyrtias, are you?” she asked him one day when he came home with a faintly fucked-out look.
“Certainly not,” he replied, reaching down to adjust himself down there.
“Good. Because if you’re lying, you’ll lose those balls.”
Dorcis believed she was serious, but couldn’t help himself. With her conquest his enthusiasm for his new wife was flagging. Damatria kissed like a teenager who had never learned how, and her empty eye socket, which she hid under a patch during their courtship, was now too often on display for his comfort. He credited himself, though, for telling the literal truth about their married neighbor, Gyrtias.
His taste ran instead to pretty helots who worked in his kitchen and gardens. Erinna, an eighteen-year-old, was unusual among the Messenian girls for her shameless gaze. She shot him with it when she carried baskets of figs across his path, and she shot him again when she fetched water. She challenged him until, during a rushed knee-benders in the root cellar, with his face in hair stinking sweetly of mint and sheep manure, he ground the pride out of her. The other girls were aware of it all, either not meeting his eyes or going out of their way to do so, and Dorcis was so flush with his mastery that he grew indiscreet enough to make a gift to his nymph in sackcloth. It was just a bit of lacework from the cargo of one of his Cretan freighters. But when Erinna wore the cloth on her head one day, Damatria needed nothing more to guess the truth.