Balbus could not resist a smile as he made his way into the quarter. Having visited Athens in his youth, he instantly recognised the essential Greekness of the place. Togas had been replaced by chitons and the clean-shaven Roman fashion had no place here; most of the men wore beards, oiled and curled. On every corner there was a debate of some sort going on, philosophies being exchanged, politics being argued.
He stopped by a street-side vendor to enjoy a cup of wine.
The man tried to fleece him in the typical Greek manner but Balbus rebuked the fellow flawlessly in his own language.
‘I thought you were a tourist,’ the wine vendor apologised.
‘Afraid not.’ Balbus’s answered lightly. ‘Tell me, my good man, is there a Temple of Athene hereabouts?’
‘Athene?’ The vendor scratched his ear, and examined the residue before answering. ‘I thought you Romans called her Minerva? She has a temple in the city.’
Balbus did not take offence at his abrupt manner; Greeks were famous for their xenophobic attitude. ‘I promised a Greek — ’ he stopped and corrected himself, knowing that the Greeks preferred to be addressed in their native terminology, ‘a Hellene friend of mine that I would make an offering for him while I was in the city,’ he lied smoothly. ‘He insisted that I make his devotion in a Hellenic temple of the goddess.’
The vendor sized him up for a moment. ‘Yeah, there’s one down the street. Not much of a temple, though. More of a shrine.’
He gave Balbus the directions. In return, the lanista flipped him a coin, which vanished with preternatural speed.
Balbus found the shrine with no difficulty. It was a small building but, as with most Greek architecture, it was quite beautiful. He made his way inside, pausing a moment to let his eyes adjust to the comparative darkness within. Incense hung heavily in the air, giving the interior of the shrine an ethereal atmosphere. At the far end of the room was an altar behind which was a tall statue of Athene, resplendent in her armour and war helm. Her presence dominated the room and Balbus bowed his head in acknowledgement. Like most Romans, he had a healthy respect for the religions of foreign lands.
‘Can I help you, brother?’
Balbus saw a priest approaching him from behind the statue.
The man moved with an assured grace, his arms and chest were muscular, giving him more the look of an athlete than a cleric.
‘You are the High Priest here?’ Balbus asked in a reverential whisper. It always felt wrong to him to speak at normal tenor in a place of worship.
The Greek’s rugged face creased into a grin. ‘I am the only priest here, brother. Though I think those in Athens might take issue with me if I affected myself with so a grand title as High Priest.’
‘Yes, I should think so.’ Balbus returned the smile, finding the man’s gentle manner putting him at ease. ‘Is there somewhere we might talk? I have some questions that I feel you might be able to help me with.’
‘Of course.’ The priest indicated that Balbus follow him. He lead the lanista back towards the statue of Athene, behind which was a set of steps leading down to a small door. ‘This room is set aside for such purposes,’ he explained as he unlocked the door. ‘As you can understand, people wish to discuss matters with a priest that they feel they can discuss with no other.’
The temple’s anteroom was small and comfortable. There were couches on which to recline, between which lay a small table, decked with fruit and a jug of watered wine.
‘I am called Telemachus,’ the priest said as he sat.
Balbus introduced himself but if the cleric had heard of him he gave no indication.
‘How may I help you then, Lucius Balbus? Do you wish to commune with the goddess? To beg a divine favour?’
Balbus poured a small measure of wine for himself and the priest. ‘Not exactly,’ he said. ‘Tell me, Brother, have you heard of Athene’s Temple in Sparta?’
The priest laughed aloud, so surprising Balbus that he spilled wine down his toga. ‘I certainly have,’ Telemachus replied after a moment. ‘A very strange place indeed. Why do you ask?’
There was, Balbus knew, a time and a place for lies. Any good businessman knew when to cast the dice in honesty, or weigh them to fix an outcome. The lanista felt that there would be no point in trying to deceive Telemachus. Also, it would be impious in the extreme to lie in a temple. ‘I am the owner of a school for gladiatrices,’ he said.
‘Oh.’ Telemachus sat up on the couch. ‘You are that Lucius Balbus! I did not want to say before. I have seen your women on occasion, they are very entertaining.’
‘That’s always good to hear.’ Balbus was somewhat taken aback but was ever the professional. ‘I did not think the priesthood would approve of the games.’
Telemachus’s smile was disarming. ‘Athene is not only the goddess of wisdom, lanista. War is also her dominion.’
‘Ah yes, of course.’ Balbus nodded. ‘The thing is,’ he said, ‘one of my newer charges is a former Priestess of Athene’s temple in Sparta.’
‘Indeed?’ Telemachus motioned him to continue.
‘I was hoping you could tell me a little of this sect and their ways, Telemachus. My Spartan has it within her to be a famous gladiatrix, but of late she has seemed out of sorts. One of my trainers mentioned to me that she — Lysandra is her name — feels abandoned by the gods. I thought you might know how I could counsel her through this difficult time.’
‘The Spartans are a strange breed, lanista. Nowhere is this more evidenced than in the sisterhood your Lysandra was part of. As any learned person knows, Sparta’s history is steeped in military stoicism and covered more or less with glory.
‘This excellence on the battlefield was not attained cheaply, however. From ancient times, even up till today, Spartan youths from the age of seven are compelled to attend the agoge, the Spartan upbringing. It is not dissimilar to a ludus, in its atmosphere and purpose. The difference being, of course, that the Spartans are training their youth for defence of the state, not for the pleasure of the crowd. Their women also are duty-bound to compete in athletic contest, in order that they beget strong sons.’
‘Athletics?’ Balbus brushed absently at the spillage on his toga.
‘That would not explain Lysandra’s brilliance with weapons.’
‘Well, Sparta’s Temple of Athene is an oddity.’ Telemachus nodded. ‘Let me explain. Some three hundred years ago, the Epiran warlord, Pyrrhus, invaded Lakedaimonia, the Spartan heart-land.’
Balbus nodded; all Romans knew of Pyrrhus. He had inflicted many defeats on the fledgling Roman city-state, but his victories had been so costly to his own men, it had given rise to the derisive phrase ‘a Pyrrhic victory’.
‘Then, as now,’Telemachus went on, ‘Sparta’s heyday had passed and, in truth, she was nothing more than a minor Hellenic polis.
Pyrrhus wanted to be the first conqueror to walk in triumph through her streets. As you know, the city of Sparta has never fallen to a foreign power — Alexander chose to ignore her and you Romans chose to make her a client state. But in those days, the memory of her grandness was still fresh in men’s minds and the Epiran decided that he would be the one to take the city.’
Balbus was enjoying himself. He loved a good yarn and the Greek, like most of his countrymen, liked nothing better than the sound of his own voice.
Telemachus drank some wine before continuing. ‘Typically, the Spartans decided that they could fight him off, despite being overwhelmingly outnumbered. They retreated behind their city walls and prepared for a siege.
‘Pyrrhus did not disappoint them and hurled his men at the defences, seeking to swamp the Spartans by sheer weight of numbers. At first the tactic seemed to be working. However, it was at this time that a Spartan Princess called Archidamia went to the women of the city and led them to the walls to fight alongside their menfolk.’