Ancient Hoplites

Ancient Hoplites

Thursday, June 15, 2017

The Importance of Being Pretty - An Excerpt from "A Peerless Peer"

In Greek mythology, Helen of Sparta was the most beautiful woman on earth and ancient Greek literature likewise often attributed particular beauty to Spartan women. Yet while no other historical Spartan woman is more quoted than Gorgo, the wife and queen of Leonidas, no source attributes particular beauty to her -- leading me to suspect she was not.  In the following excerpt from "A Peerless Peer" I describe Gorgo's discovery that she is not particularly pretty and what it means for the Agiad princess. 

Gorgo was seven when she was confronted by the fact that she was not considered pretty. The priestesses from the shrine to Helen at Therapne had all the girls between the ages of seven and fourteen muster on the Dancing Floor in order to select which ones would take part in the Heleneia this year. The selected maidens would be garlanded in flowers and walk in the procession, followed by flower-studded straw chariots carrying the prettiest maiden from each of the five villages of the city, to the shrine. There were usually twenty girls chosen as “flower girls,” and Gorgo was eagerly looking forward to taking part now that she was at last old enough. It never occurred to Gorgo that she might not be chosen; but when the priestesses walked along the rows of eager and expectant girls, pointing a finger at the girls they found worthy, they walked past her without a glance. The look on their faces was indifferently dismissive—as if she were no more worthy of consideration than a mule among horses. Gorgo was stunned.

She ran to the fountain house, clambered up on the stone trough, and gazed at her reflection in the water. But her image was shattered by the next helot girl who plunged an amphora into the water to fill it. She ran out again, starting for home, but at the agora she paused to look at her reflection on the burnished bronze face of a massive hoplon hung up for sale. Her face was distorted in the hammered, convex surface, and she ran on, frightened. She reached the Agiad royal palace by the back entrance and scampered into the stable yard, deftly dodging the men offloading hay from a wagon in the alley and ducking under the belly of one of her father’s chariot horses, who was being groomed at a spot that blocked her path to the kitchen stairway.

“You’re old enough to know better than that!” the startled groom scolded, frightened to think what would happen if the king’s precious child were kicked by the powerful beast. Fortunately the stallion was dozing contentedly in the sun, only barely interested in flicking at flies with his tail.

Meanwhile, Gorgo was already halfway up the stairs and running (now a little breathlessly) down the corridor of the helots’ quarters toward the inner courtyard and the private dwellings of the royal family. “Mama! Mama!” Gorgo called as she skidded around the corner into her mother’s chamber.

“Hush!” her mother admonished angrily. “You’ll wake your baby brother!” Her mother, as usual, was hanging over the cradle of her youngest child. Gorgo had lost two younger siblings already: one when he was a toddler and the other when he was just a few weeks old. The latter had been so sickly that everyone shook their heads and whispered that the elders wouldn’t accept him anyway. Now there was another baby brother in the cradle, and Gorgo found it hard to take an interest in him. To her he did not look any different from the others, red andwrinkled and squalling all the time. She did not really think he would live very long, either, so why should she pay him much attention? Obedient to her mother, however, she lowered her voice and whispered loudly, “Mama! They didn’t pick me.”

“For what? What are you babbling about?”

“To be a flower girl!” Gorgo insisted, utterly uncomprehending how her mother could forget something as important as this. “For the Heleneia!”

“Oh, that! I thought I told you not to bother? Besides, this year Demaratus will be making the sacrifice. It wouldn’t be seemly for you to be among the maidens in the procession.”
Gorgo frowned. She understood about the eternal rivalry between the two royal families of Sparta, and that it was important never to suggest that the rival line had some sort of precedence over her own house; but her mother was missing the whole point. “But mother, they didn’t even want me!”

“Of course not; something like that is only for pretty girls. Why, even that hussy Percalus did it.” Percalus was the Eurypontid queen, and Gorgo’s mother hated her with a bitterness that far exceeded the everyday rivalry between the Agiad and the Eurypontid rulers. As soon as the name Percalus arose in connection with the flower girls, Gorgo knew she would get no sympathy from her mother; so she gave up and ran down the hall to her grandmother’s chamber.

She was relieved to find her grandmother at her loom. Chilonis was an active woman and often away from the palace during the day. “Grandmama!” Gorgo called out as she rushed to fling herself at her grandmother, certain of a receptive hug.

Chilonis was caught a little off guard by the unexpected arrival of her granddaughter, but she managed to open her arms just in time. The impact of the seven-year-old was enough to almost knock her off the stool, however, and she found herself admonishing the child, “Not so rough! You’re too old for that!”

But Gorgo felt her grandmother’s warm arms close around her skinny body, and she knew the older woman was not really angry with her. She ignored the scolding, looked up into her grandmother’s square face, and pleaded hopefully, “Grandmama, I’m not ugly, am I?”

“No, of course not,” Chilonis assured her firmly. “Have some of the boys from the agoge been teasing you or something?” Chilonis, confident that this was just a childhood misunderstanding, even dropped her arms and turned back to her loom.

“It wasn’t the boys,” Gorgo told her urgently. “It was the priestesses of the shrine of Helen. They didn’t even look at me—for the flower girls for the Heleneia!” Gorgo’s distress, as well as her words, drew her grandmother’s attention back to her. She was looking up at her grandmother with wide-set eyes, and Chilonis registered that the child understood fully the difference between the taunting of children and the judgment of grown women. She sighed and took Gorgo back into her arms.

Gorgo understood that, too. It meant it was true: she was ugly. She clung to her grandmother in fright. She knew it was terrible for a girl to be ugly. Hadn’t her mother become queen because she was the prettiest maiden in Sparta at the time? And the same was said of Queen Percalus—that she was the prettiest maiden of the next “crop,” so pretty that King Demaratus had taken her without a dowry.

Chilonis could read Gorgo’s thoughts, and she freed one hand to ruffle the top of Gorgo’s head of unruly bright-red hair. “It’s all my fault, Little One. You take after me.”

Gorgo frowned and looked up in indignation. “But you’re not ugly!”

Chilonis smiled faintly. “Thank you, but that’s not what your grandfather thought. Your grandfather would not have been half so reluctant to take me to wife if he had found me more attractive. And had I been a beauty like your mother or Percalus, then he would no doubt have visited my bed more often—no matter how difficult his first wife, Taygete, made life for him at home. No, my child, there is no point denying it: I was never considered a beauty, and you seem to have taken after me rather than your own lovely mother.”

Gorgo, still frowning, thought about that. She had never thought of her grandmother as in any way deficient. She certainly wasn’t ugly the way some old women were. She was not pock-marked, she had all her teeth, and she had no warts or birthmarks or other deformities. She had a pleasant face and hair the color of bay horses, now streaked with gray. Gorgo did not think it was so bad taking after her grandmother, if it meant she was like her in other ways as well. “Am I as clever as you are, too, Grandmama?”

Chilonis laughed at that and ruffled her hair again. “You are twice as clever as I ever was, child.”

Gorgo broke free of her grandmother’s arms, but only in order to be able to face her more firmly. “Don’t make fun of me!” she demanded, frowning more fiercely than ever. “Papa says you can write poetry and do geometry and read the language of the Egyptians!”

Chilonis laughed again. “I tried to learn hieroglyphics from an Egyptian merchant one winter, but without much success, I fear. And I can teach you geometry if you like, but it was my mother who was really clever at mathematics. She was a student of the great scholar Pythagoras.”

“Daddy says all his brains come from your side of the family,” Gorgo insisted, still trying to come to terms with not being pretty, talking herself into being proud that she took after her not-pretty grandmother.

Chilonis understood, and so she did not contradict this statement. Instead, she suggested that Gorgo and she go out for an excursion. Gorgo eagerly agreed.

It was a hot, sunny day and the air over the city was laden with fine dust: stirred up by the supply wagons trundling through the narrow lanes, kicked up by the herds of boys at play, and blown in desultory clouds from the drill fields across the river. Chilonis turned the chariot away from the river and headed north, past the ball field surrounded by its moat and plane trees. She took the northwest road leading gently up into the narrows of the Eurotas valley. As Chilonis drove she explained to her granddaughter, who had fallen silent and appeared to be brooding again, “The fate of pretty women is not always pretty. Take the most famous of all Spartan princesses, Helen. When she was still a girl, she was abducted by Theseus and had to be rescued by her brothers. Then she was coveted by so many men that her father held a contest among her suitors to auction her off to the one who found his favor. Because of her irresistible beauty she was abducted yet again, this time by a foolish foreign prince, and held captive for ten years in Asia. Even if she was, as some say, seduced rather than abducted, she must still have suffered to see the horrible war she caused. 

"In contrast, her less attractive cousin, Penelope, was courted by and married to the good Odysseus, the man of her own choice. You see,” Chilonis continued, as she drew up the chariot before a small and ancient monument showing a woman wrapped in a himation, “it is said that on this very spot Penelope pulled her shawl up over her head to indicate to her pursuing father that she went willingly with Odysseus.”

Gorgo stared with new interest at the ancient statue in the shade of the simple Doric temple. “Is that how our custom of stealing brides started?” she wanted to know.

Chilonis smiled, pleased by the notion. “Yes, maybe. I don’t think anyone knows, but it could go back to Penelope. After all, Helen was given to the man of her father’s choice and then turned adulterous—whether by force or free will. Penelope married the man of her own choice and was true to him—a much more Spartan pattern.” This said, she clicked her tongue to the team, and they continued on their way out of the city into the surrounding well-cultivated countryside. …

Gorgo seemed to consider everything very carefully, her brows drawn together in concentration. Then she nodded solemnly. “You don’t act unhappy. And I cannot change it, can I?” She looked up as if hoping for one last promise of things getting better.

Chilonis shook her head and laid a hand on her granddaughter’s fragile shoulder. “No, you cannot change the color of your hair or your eyes, nor can you make your mouth small and full and red. You will never be a great beauty; but if you have the sense to know that a woman is more than a fa├žade and that her value is not in the beauty of her exterior but in the soundness of her mind, body, and character, then you will discover that men who share these qualities—like the good Odysseus—will recognize those qualities in you.”

Thursday, June 1, 2017

"Beautiful" Spartan Women?

We know even less about what Spartan women might have looked like than we know about their men.  To my knowledge, no human remains that can be definitively identified as Spartan women have yet been uncovered. There are also far fewer contemporary portrayals of women in ancient art than men. Furthermore, unlike the images of men,  women in ancient sculpture and pottery are almost invariably shown well clothed. Aside from debunking modern voyeuristic fantasies about adult Spartan women going about very thinly clad, these do not reveal much about the real women they are intended to depict.

The written record is hardly more satisfying. Obviously, we have the Iliad and the tradition of Helen, the most beautiful woman on earth, a demi-goddess, and a Spartan. Herodotus tells of other beautiful Spartan women as well, notably the wife of King Ariston. But beauty, as we all know, is in the eye of the beholder and individual women, no matter how legendary their beauty, tell us nothing about the general appearance of Spartan women. 

More revealing is Aristophanes description of Lampito, the Spartan female character in his farce Lysistrata.  This play from the late 5th century BC intended to amuse Athenian males after their devastating defeat at Syracuse, reflects Athenian steriotypes of contemporary Spartan women. As such, it tells us almost nothing about what Spartan women actually looked like since the audience didn't have a clue either. In a sense, Aristophanes description is no more relevant to reality than depictions of Russian women in American movies from the Cold War as brawny tractor-drivers and factory workers. Still, even the most exaggerated caricatures usually have a grain of truth, and therefore I would like to quote Aristophanes:

Lysistrata: Dear Spartan girl with a delightful face, washed with the rosy spring, how fresh you look in the easy stride of your sleek slenderness.  Why you could strangle a bull!
Lampito: I think I could. It's from exercise and kicking my arse.
Lysistrata: What lovely breasts you have!

What this description suggests is that while Athenians, perhaps in deference to the tradition of Helen, were willing to concede Spartan women might have a pretty face, they presumed Spartan women, because they were known to exercise, developed massive, muscular bodies so unfeminine that they looked like they could "strangle a bull." I would note that portraying enemy women as masculine and non-vulnerable is a useful tool in reducing/eliminating any latent pity men might otherwise have felt for the women of the foe, and so this description may also serve overall propaganda purposes of making Spartan women repulsive to the Athenian audience.

Turning to the grain of truth this description might provide, as I noted in my earlier essay on Spartan appearance, Spartans were apparently generally taller than their contemporaries, which is probably the result of more meat in their diet.  Since one of the most striking differences about the rearing of girls in Sparta compared to treatment of female infants and children elsewhere is Greece was that they received the same food as their brothers, this meat-heavy diet would have been fed Spartan girls too. (Elsewhere in Greece, girls and women were fed a different, "simpler" diet with no "extras,"--to use Xenophon's words--than their brothers.) In short, the difference in height between Spartans and the citizens from other cities would have been even more extreme when comparing women to women than men to men.

In addition, Spartan girls were expected to run and even race -- hence Aristophanes' reference to  Lampito's "easy stride."  Indeed, if we are to believe Xenophon and Plutarch, Spartan girls were taught wrestling, and were expected to master the bow and javelin, and certainly to master horses -- all things that might make a comedian compare them to women capable of "strangling a bull." 

Certainly, Spartan girls could run, swim and dance. They took part in races both on foot and driving chariots, and they took part in public dances.  All this entailed spending a good deal of time outside in the fresh air, and that meant that Spartan girls were exposed to the elements and their skin would have tanned in the Greek sun.  It also meant that they grew up getting a great deal of exercise -- probably more than most girls get today, and they would very likely have been sleek and lean like their brothers, at least while growing up and in the agoge. After all, Xenophon and Plutarch stress that the girls were being treated like their brothers that regime produced the tall, lean youth of the agoge.

Girls in other Greek cities were, in contrast, not allowed to set foot outside their houses and were expected to be "sedentary." So while the Spartan girls grew tall and fit, women in the rest of Greece grew up stunted from a diet short on protein, rarely had access to fresh air, and did not exercise.  The impact on physical appearance of other Greek women would have been women significantly shorter than their own men (much less Spartans) and without muscles -- though not necessarily thin. (A girl who eats too much of a carbohydrate-intensive diet and does not move more than a few feet in the course of a day can still grow fat, but she is not likely to be lean much less strong.) In short, the contrast between the physical appearance of Spartan and other Greek girls and maidens would have been much more striking than between Spartan and other Greek boys and men.

Admittedly, after marriage Spartan women, unlike their husbands, were no longer compelled to exercise or to eat at common messes, so they might have become comparatively soft and fat.  However, they still had responsibility for their households and this entailed considerable amounts of outside work and exposure to fresh air and sunlight so that it seems unlikely that Spartan women completely lost their physical condition. Furthermore, because Spartan women did not marry until their late teens/early twenties, they would have been brought to childbed at the optimal age, while girls in other Greek cities generally married much younger and bore their first child at 15 or 16, with all the known negative consequences for their health.

Finally, I would like to suggest that Spartan women's education, literacy and economic power also had an impact on their appearance. Women who are raised to think they are important to their society, who are literate and encouraged to voice their opinions, women who have real power tend to stand straighter, hold their head high and move with confidence. I find it hard to image Spartan women sitting hunched over with bowed heads as the women of Athenian pottery do.  

In conclusion, Spartan women would generally have been taller than other women, more physically fit, tanned, and over time they would have aged better -- indeed they very probably lived longer  than women elsewhere in Greece! In addition, they would have held themselves with self-assurance and moved with greater confidence. Perhaps the combination of these things would indeed have made them seem strong (and brave) enough to "strangle a bull" when compared to their contemporaries.

Experience Spartan Society more closely in my  Leonidas' Trilogy:

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Monday, May 15, 2017

A Persian Slave - An Excerpt from "A Heroic King"

The Persian civilization in the 6th and 5th century BC was extremely sophisticated and produced wonderful works of art and literature. Persia was also an aggressive power and crushed the Ionian revolt brutally. In the following excerpt, the impact of that defeat is illustrated through the eyes of a youth.

Danei was a harem eunuch serving Zopyrus’ newest wife, Phaidime, the only wife the Persian interpreter had brought on this voyage. Danei had been captured at the age of thirteen, and castrated because he was one of those beautiful, golden youths that the Greeks occasionally produced. Persian noblemen liked to surround themselves with things of beauty, both animate and inanimate, and Danei fit that category. So for five years Danei had looked after Phaidime, going as part of her dowry to Zopyrus’ household when she married at the age of twelve. Phaidime’s dependence on Danei had compensated him a little for his fate. 

But Danei had never expected to find himself back in Greece. When he was ordered to prepare his mistress for a long voyage, no one bothered to tell him where they were headed. The Persian Empire was so vast that a “long voyage” need not take one beyond its borders. Even when slave gossip suggested Zopyrus had been given an important “diplomatic mission,” there was no reason to assume the mission was to the Greeks. It could just as well have been to the Egyptians or the Nubians or the wild peoples to the east. It was only after their ship put in at a Greek port after a frightful voyage that Danei learned where he had landed. The realization that he was in Lacedaemon had filled him with amazementbut not joy. Rather, he felt confused and ashamed. In fact, he wanted to hide, but slaves soon learn to accept everything ….

Because Danei could speak Greek, the other slaves insisted he accompany them on their errands. At first Danei was terrified that someone would realize he was Greek and recognize that he was a slave and a eunuch. In Persia there were tens of thousands of eunuchs, many in powerful positions, so it didn’t seem so bad. Here, among his own people, Danei felt mutilated and unnatural. So far, however, no one appeared to have taken particular note of him at all.

Today he was alone. He was dressed in the clothes of a Persian slave: unbleached raw linen trousers bound at the waist with a drawstring, and a long-sleeved shirt. He wore a floppy cotton hat to cover his blond hair, and straw sandals that rasped (rather than clicked) on the paving stones. He hobbled around the edge of the agora, clinging to the shadows as best he could, with his head down to avoid catching anyone’s eye. As he moved, he cast furtive glances in the direction of the produce stands being set up. Danei was more comfortable with women, so he hobbled over to the women’s stands.

The first was laden with baked goods: flaky crusts oozing honey, tarts with raisins and crushed walnuts, sweet bread pockets stuffed with apples, and other delicacies that made Danei’s mouth water. What a wonderful surprise for Phaidime, he thought at once, his eyes widening.

The woman at the next stall burst out laughing. “Looks like you’ve got a new customer, Laodice!”

The woman behind the sweets stand smiled at Danei with an expression that reminded him so sharply of his mother, it made his heart miss a beat. When the Persians came, he and his mother had been separated almost at once. He had never seen her again. She was not young even then, and she had raised four children almost to adulthood. Danei hoped they had spared her the indignity of rape. There had been so many young girls to satisfy their lust …. He preferred to think of his mother like the slaves in the harem, looking after the children of Persian wives and concubines, cooking and cleaning for the privileged women of the rich. But sometimes, when he saw a slave woman bent under a load of firewood, or struggling with an amphora of water, he pictured his mother’s facelined and worn and hopeless.

“What can I sell you today, young sir?” said the woman behind the sweets stand, bringing him back to the present.

“Oh, I’m just a slave,” he hastened to correct her, ever conscious of his status. “Butbut I do have money to buyfor my mistress. I’m sure she’d like some of these.” He pointed to the honey squares.

Only those?” the saleswoman asked, astonished. “What about some of the raisin and walnut tarts? Or my lemon squares? Do you want to test my wares to be sure they are good enough?” she suggested with a little wink.

Danei understood her gesture as one of kindness, a woman showing sympathy for a boy in bondage. Her kindness lured a smile from him as he glanced up and asked, “May I try the lemon squares and the almond tarts, please?”

She smiled back and bent to retrieve a knife from under the counter to start cutting into her wares. His eyes focused hungrily on the sweets, Danei did not realize someone had come up behind him until a deep male voice asked, “Where are you from, young man?”

Danei nearly jumped out of his skin. He turned to look over his shoulder at the owner of the voice and felt his heart in his throat. It was one of the Spartiatestall, muscular, tanned, and wearing bronze armor including a helmet tipped on the back of his neck, the nose piece resting on his forehead. Danei wanted to flee. He started to shrink back, away from this man who smelled of sweat and bronze and freedom. “II’mno one,” Danei told him. “I’m sorry.” He turned to run, but the woman stopped him.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of, young sir. That’s just the master come to snatch a slice of cheesecake for himself. Here.” Still poised to flee, Danei turned to look at her. She was smiling at him, an almond tart on the palm of her hand. “You need it more than he does,” she noted with a little nod in the direction of her masterwho, incomprehensibly, laughed at her impudence. Danei gaped. No Persian’s slave would risk using such a tone of voice with his master, and if they did, they would probably have their tongue torn out. “It’s all right,” she assured him gently, “the master won’t hurt you.”

“She’s right. I won’t.”

Danei still hesitated, but now it was in shame rather than fear. The man was the embodiment of masculinity, and Danei felt the scar between his legs as if he were naked. He looked down at the pavement beneath his feet, rooted to it from sheer humiliation. He was remembering how they had been lined up and castrated on a bloody block, one after the other, without so much as a glass of wine. Two men held the boys down backward over the block. The surgeon made a few expert cuts with his knife. The removed genitals landed in a bucket that had to be emptied several times before the day was over, and then each new eunuch was pushed off the block to make room for the next victim. Danei had struggled too much at the wrong moment. The surgeon’s knife slipped and the man cursed in professional annoyance. Another man grabbed Danei and crushed a cloth down into his wound with all his might, ignoring Danei’s screams. Danei passed out. When he came to again, a crude bandage was made fast to his crotch with tarred twine and the bleeding had slowed to a trickle, but he would never again walk without a limp. He was yanked from his memories by the saleswoman. She reached out and took his hand, pressing her pastry into it. As he looked up and met her eyes, he saw only his mother looking back at him, not just pitying him but encouraging him, too. He closed his
eyes, unable to bear it.

“You speak with the accent of the islands,” the terrifying Spartan hoplite insisted. “Which island are you from?”

Danei looked up at him and mouthed the word. When was the last time he’d dared utter it? “Chios, master,” he whispered, and then he dropped his eyelids over his eyes to hide his tears. The word, said at last, instantly conjured up images: the sun coming up over the Aegean, the smell of the soil when his father turned it with a plow, the humming of the bees in their little orchard, his mother singing ….

“Chios?” the Spartan inquired, unsure if he had read the youth’s lips correctly.

Danei nodded, his eyes still down and staring, unintentionally, at the Spartan’s sandaled feet while his free hand tugged unconsciously at the hem of his shirt, pulling it down to cover his crotch more completely.

There was a pause. Then the deep voice said softly, “A man’s heartnot his extremitiesmake him a man. My life was once saved by a squadron of Chian triremes. I know the Chians did not go crawling on their bellies to the Persians, but died upright, as free men. I believe the sons of such men have the hearts of lionsno matter what the Persians have done to their bodies.”

Danei gasped and looked up. Their eyes met only for an instant, and then the Spartan turned and was gone. Danei stood rooted to the pavement and watched the Spartan continue down the street. He was filled with a strange sensation of lightness. Danei’s father had been boatswain on one of Chios’ proud triremes, and he had been killed at sea in the great sea battle. More than half of Chios’ ships had been crushed and sunk in that battle, but the remainder, with shattered rams and crushed sides, limping and listing, had been dragged to Chios by the triumphant Persians. There the captive men had been hog-tied and run up the halyards of their own ships like bunting. There they had been left to die slowly of thirst as the sun burned them like rotting grapes. Danei had recognized some of the men, the fathers and brothers of friends, his cousins, a maternal uncle. While the men died overhead, the Persians had herded the boys onto the open decks and divided them into categories: the galleys, the mines, whores, eunuchs …. Danei stared after the Spartan until he turned a corner and was lost from sight, and still he stared after him, trying to remember with every nerve of his body what he had said. A man’s heart, not his extremities…. The image of his father, dressed as he had been the day he sailed away for the last time…. His father had died a free man….The sons of such men…. He turned and looked at the saleswoman in wonder.

She was no longer alone. The exchange had attracted two other Spartiates. They were younger than the man who had spoken to Danei. The first, wearing a striped chiton and hair braided at a rakish angle, remarked, “You can take his word for it, young man. He knows what he’s talking about.”

“Butwho was he, master?”

“That was Leonidas, the man who should be king of Sparta.”