At this stage their barracks officer, Lepidus, would normally complete a throw, and Leonidas turned his eyes on the man.
Lepidus shook his head and took up his javelin. He strode back seven paces, tested the weapon for weight, then ran forward and, with a grunt of effort, launched it. Even as it left the officer’s hand Leonidas allowed himself a smile of triumph.
Lepidus saw the javelin fall less than three paces short of Leonidas’ mark. He swung and bowed to the younger man. ‘You have a good arm,’ he said, smiling warmly, ‘but you are not dipping your body back far enough on the launch. There is at least another eight paces in you. Work on it.’
‘I will, sir,’ promised Leonidas.
‘Now I’d like to see you Spartan gentlemen run,’ Lepidus told them. ‘Twenty laps of the racecourse, if it please you.’
‘And if it does not?’ shouted a boy at the back.
‘Twenty-five laps,’ said Lepidus. A groan went up, but the youngsters ran off to the start. Lepidus wandered to a wooden bench seat in the shade and watched the young men. Gryllus took the lead, followed by Learchus. But Leonidas had eased himself into fourth place behind Hermias. Lepidus rubbed at his shoulder, where a Persian lance-point was still buried under the bone. The joint ached murderously in winter, and even in summer any effort, like throwing a javelin, caused a dull ache.
Lepidus looked up as the sweating youngsters passed him. He envied them their youth and their energy, remembering his days in the barracks, his longing to march with the phalanx into battle.
He saw a boy at the back of the pack. ‘More effort, young Pausias!’ he yelled, and the boy sprinted into the group, trying to hide from his critical eye.
Lepidus’ mind wandered and he saw again his own youth. Sparta was different then, he told himself, more true to the principles laid down by the divine Lycurgus. The boys in the barracks were allowed two tunics, one for summer and one for winter. There were no minstrels performing in the Theatre of Marble, no plays, no parties at
the homes of the rich. One bowl of black soup a day for the youngsters, and iron discipline maintained by the birch. A race bred for battles. He looked at the runners. Good boys, strong and proud, but Leonidas had many tunics and a warm cloak against the winter wind. And Hermias spent most of his evenings at home with his parents, eating good food and drinking watered wine. Young Learchus had a gold-embossed dagger, made by a craftsman in Thebes, while lazy Pausias filled his belly with honeycakes and ran with all the speed of a sick pig. These boys did not survive on a bowl of soup a day.
Transferring his gaze to Leonidas, he saw that the youth had moved up into second place and was loping along behind Gryllus. The Athenian was a fine runner, but Lepidus knew that Leonidas would accelerate into the last bend and leave him gasping. Only the boy Parmenion could live with the pace Leonidas could set, but never over twenty-five laps, when Leonidas’ greater strength would count.
Using Sciritai alongside real men! Lepidus shook his head. That morning he had been summoned to the Senior over the move.
‘It was none of my doing, sir,’ he said to the grim-eyed old man.
‘Then it should have been,’ snapped the ageing general. ‘The King was displeased, and one of our finest young men was shamed. Are you saying the boy had never attempted such a move in practice?’
‘Never, sir,’ answered Lepidus, his unease growing. This man had been his commanding officer in seven campaigns, and although both were now past forty years from Manhood the general still inspired awe in Lepidus.
‘Put him right, Lepidus. Where will we be if we allow Spartan men to develop such appalling methods?’
‘He is a half-blood, sir. He will never be Spartiate.’
‘His father was a fine warrior, answered the general, ‘and the mother bore herself well. But I hear what you say. Blood will out. Send the boy to me.’
‘He is with Xenophon, sir. His mother’s burial is today and the Athenian has him as a house-guest.’