“It’s over, my boy,” Endius was saying. “You can stop moving your feet…”
“They say many see great Phoebus for the first time during the minor chorus,” asked Zeuxippos. “Can we hope you were so lucky?” Antalcidas saw his lips move, heard his voice, but could only stare back without understanding. If Apollo had truly come to him during the ordeal, he would not have understood a word the god said.
5.
Zeuxippos perpetuated his approval of Antalcidas that night by buggering him at last. The old man sought nothing untoward in this: the strength to rule and be ruled, physically and otherwise, was the aim of a Spartan male’s education, and to that end it was not unusual to mix a little intimacy with lessons in politics and history. And so Antalcidas found himself on his stomach on the bug-infested cot where Zeuxippos took his sleep. The old man was kneeling above him, going on about the nobility of the Spartan rectum, as he seemed to wrestle with the gnarled root between his fingers.
“Give me the honest ordure of a Lacedaemonian crotch anyday!” he said. “The Tegeans are as dry as crones, and the Corinthians-great Aphrodite’s tits!-they grease themselves so much with unguents they might as well be women! In Athens they do it like they do everything else, with their great yapping mouths. But our Spartan diet produces shit as wholesome as butter, and an asshole so soft and sweet it practically winks at you!”
Perhaps as inspired by his own words as by any winks Antalcidas might have given, Zeuxippos pressed down on him with his boney frame. His cock snaked its way into whatever crevice it could find, settling at last into a refuge between the boy’s thighs. He was well wide of the mark, bobbing up and down like the head of some agitated lizard, but Antalcidas felt no urge to direct him.
There were other occasions for pride in his two years in the Rearing. By the end of his time as a Yearling he took part in the rites of Artemis Orthia, attempting to steal cloth-wrapped cheeses from the altar of the goddess’ sanctuary. Firsties with whips guarded the altar as the priestess of the temple stood by with a wooden image of the goddess in her arms. If the guards spared the back of a thief, the priestess would shout that the image was getting heavy with the displeasure of Orthia-the-Willow-Borne. By the time Antalcidas darted in for the last ball of cheese, the priestess screamed that she could bear the weight no longer. A grim-faced Firstie brought the switch down on Stone’s back with such force that it cleared a furrow in his back he carried for the rest of his life.
He fell. The tormentors converged, laying into him as he writhed in every direction. The pain slashed through his mind as the snapping ends of the whips cut his skin. Yet at some point, as the blows all seemed to merge into a single molten core of agony, he could no longer distinguish between that torment and the sensation of a frigid wind cutting his skin during some cold night on Taygetus. Screwing his eyes shut, he saw what he took to be a blade of light piercing the darkness behind his eyelids. And just as he thought to himself, “Is this it? Is it He?”, the heavenly knife flashed again, and again, until the Firsties over him were astonished to see a smile come over him, and the women in the audience, awed, gave indecent, animal cries.
By now even the priestess of Orthia was satisfied. Antalcidas was pulled to his feet, and his right arm raised for the crowd to see. Despite it all, he had never let go of that last ball of cheese. The Lacedaemonians, thrilled by the uncanny as much as by courage, hailed him-until some spoilsport cried, “Remember Thibron!” The crowd then fell into a confused cacophony of cheers and jeers.
Zeuxippos came to him after this with pride pouring from every bristly orifice in his face. “You must tell me now,” he said, grasping his hand with womanly earnestness. “Did you see Him? Did you at last see the Shining One?”
“I think so,” he replied, not too flush with pain and excitement to forget what he was expected to say.
With that, Endius suddenly appeared on his other shoulder. “Now you know the other answer to the question I once asked you, about the purpose of the Rearing,” the boy-herd said. “The purpose is joy.”
“Joy, yes,” Antalcides repeated.
“Let the foreigners and fools call it cruelty. Today you join the ranks of men who know better.”
Laying his hands on either side of the boy’s head, Endius placed a tender kiss on his brow. Zeuxippos, meanwhile, threw his own cloak across the boy’s slashed back and led him away to rest.
Antalcidas took a week to recover. When he was up again, he learned that his triumph had earned him an invitation to one of most eminent messes in the city. This was the so-called Spit Companions, otherwise known as Nuts of the Boar, among whom even royalty was known to sit. Zeuxippos was elevated to its membership more than forty years before. In that time, he boasted, neither the quarters nor the menu had ever changed, so that the members knew that they lay before the very same serving table, eating the very same food that King Leonidas did the night before he departed for Thermopylae. There was, Antalcidas expected, a story to be told for every scratch in the cushionless benches where cups clanked and swords dangled. But as much as he was there to learn from his surroundings, he was also on display, for it was for his elders to determine that night whether he deserved full membership in that or any mess.
“Sit in the proper spot, eat up, and bring honor on yourself,” Zeuxippos instructed him. “But most of all, don’t embarrass me. You’ll get a thrashing if you do!”
By his eighteenth year Antalcidas had fulfilled the promise of his boyhood beauty. His limbs, once sleek, now bore sinews under skin pitted and broiled red by the Laconian sun; he stood a head taller than his contemporaries, with long, knot-knuckled fingers that seemed made to grasp the spear. His features, to be sure, still had a thick, coarse quality, with eyes half-lidded and vague. But attractiveness of face was only important for boys. Men were expected to grow beards at their earliest opportunity. The members of the Spit Companions therefore looked on him with approval as they came in out of the dark and took their places.
There were fourteen of them around the tables, not counting Antalcidas. Among them he recognized Damonon, son of Ischagoras, and Herippidas, son of Lysander, and Ariston, who distinguished himself in the conquest of Delphi before the Athenians took it back. There was Dorieus, son of Alcidas, and Iphitus, son of Periclidas (the admiral, not the governor). Eudamidas, who led the center at Tanagra, was there, as was Antepicydas, son of Epicydas and Edicus, son of Nabis, both Heraclids. Near the head of the table was Zeuxippos, and Isidas who was by that time an ex-ephor. First in honor that evening, with a chair set out for his use, was the Agiad king himself, Pleistoanax, son of Pausanias.
They all stood as they waited for Pleistoanax to arrive. Light came from a single brazier in the center, which cast flicking shadows of the diners and the helot attendants along the walls. Antalcidas was set at the far left corner from the king’s vantage, in the position formally reserved for guests. Zeuxippos watched him there, narrowing his eyes in rebuke when he seemed too comfortable, or too standoffish, until Antalcidas had no idea how he should behave.