Before I left, I took one last look at Skalias's head. The blood had already been washed away, and now his ghastly maw gaped wide open, exposed for all to see. I touched one of his teeth, and a wave of memory surged over me as if I could once again feel those fangs sinking into my flesh. To endure that again… no. I would not wish it.
Soon after, we set out for the new fort, construction of which had begun several years ago. It demanded great effort. Using the Pyriacs, we purchased resources and technologies from other poleis, deploying our wealth with secrecy. Sparta's economy was strange, obscure even but somehow, it worked.
The lion's share of state spending had always gone to military needs. But for Sparta, this was no burden. We received no wages, no stipends. We lived and died for duty to our homeland. For loyal service, we were rewarded not with gold, but with honor and elevated standing. Food was grown by the helots, who surrendered a portion of their harvest to the state. How much, I never knew. But it seemed they had enough left for barter or trade.
Next came the supply and maintenance of our camps. This fell to the Spartans themselves: cleaning, repairs, and organization down to the smallest detail. Provisions were exchanged for cyclopean gear, and the rest was produced within Sparta itself. Expenses were minimal only raw materials incurred cost, as craftsmen were expected to supply Sparta nearly free of charge. In return, they were granted whatever resources or privileges they required.
In the end, Sparta held the most capable and disciplined army a force far superior to any other polis. And it achieved this while spending the least. Our way of life dictated that all development be directed toward military strength. Other cities could barely muster two, perhaps three thousand men. The rest were raw recruits, hastily gathered before war poorly trained, barely able to follow basic commands.
It was striking to see how the road to the new fort had changed. Once just a trail trampled by men and horses, it had now been leveled and reinforced with stone in places. It was a massive and laborious project years would pass before its completion. Along the road now stood small watch posts, each manned by a pair of Spartans. They kept the peace and were tasked with sounding the alarm at the first sign of danger. However I felt about the last war, it had undeniably changed even the most conservative among us.
The journey didn't take long. For the first time, I saw Sparta's new coastal fort. It was well placed: on one side, the land route was blocked by a natural hill; on the other, a bay opened a perfect harbor for ships and a shipyard. A natural peninsula shielded the coast from storms, and the waves, crashing against the rocks, left the waters of the harbor calm. Further out, within the bay, an island rose with a watchtower atop it a lone sentinel guarding the approach to the fort.
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(The fort's walls were lower, and there were fewer stone structures.)
I noticed ships painted in Sparta's colors gliding across the sea's surface. Naval drills were held daily. We settled into one of the barracks inside the fort, ate, and rested after the journey.
Once we had regained our strength, we made our way to the docks. And there, on the shore, I saw the ships up close for the first time. There were many lined up neatly along the coast. These vessels were called triremes. Along the hull ran three rows of oars, above which flew a red sail bearing the mark of Sparta. At the stern, a wide steering oar dipped into the water. At the prow a bronze ram, meant for breaking enemy hulls, though such ships were rare. Most vessels were simpler: white sails with no markings, one or two rows of oars, smaller, with open decks and no railings.
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One ship docked at the pier. A Spartan aboard tossed a rope with practiced ease, which another caught and tied to the wooden posts, securing the vessel. A gangway was lowered, and the warriors began to disembark. Among them, I spotted a familiar face.
"Damipp!" I called out.
He turned, frowning for a moment then his face lit up with a broad, genuine smile. He recognized me. His gaze shifted toward the Lochagos, and I saw it was Timeus. He nodded, granting leave to break ranks.
Damipp approached me, extending his arm. We clasped forearms and embraced, clapping each other firmly on the back.
"Damocles, it's good to see you," said Damipp, his voice warm and sincere.
"The feeling is mutual, brother."
"You must tell me everything that's happened to you," he said with a grin.
"I will. I promise."
"Later, then. Duty calls," he said, then turned and rejoined the line.
"Is that your brother from the agoge?" asked Heron, who stood nearby.
"Yes. He chose to remain in the army," I replied.
"A wise choice, believe me. I came to this unit with my own brothers. All of them have long since perished," Heron said, his gaze drifting into the distance.
We boarded the ship and took our places at the oars. They gave us a brief explanation of the rowing technique and the importance of keeping to the rhythm no falling behind, no breaking pace. If one failed, the entire system would collapse. At the dock, the oars were pulled in so as not to obstruct other vessels.
When the ropes were cast off, the ship slowly drifted away from the pier and unfurled its sail. It gathered speed gradually, without haste. Only once we had sailed far enough from the shore were the oars lowered, and that was when the real work began.
The ship quickly reached its top speed around twenty-two knots. (Historically, the average was closer to twelve, but among Spartans, the strength of each rower was far greater.) It was exhausting labor: relentless, rhythmic motion, where the true driving force wasn't the wind but man. Once we cleared the harbor and entered open waters, we stopped rowing on command and simply gazed out at the sea, letting our bodies adjust to the swaying and the salty breeze.
A single sail wasn't enough to make ships faster or more agile. The mast needed to be at least twice as tall, the sail much larger. And ideally, there had to be two masts, maybe even three. But the greatest problem was still the timber. Trees tall and sturdy enough for such masts were rare and, for now, out of our reach. What we needed was strong oak, fixed firmly into the ship's hull, but that significantly increased weight and required more resources.
Still, we weren't preparing for a long voyage. To circle Sparta and land on the shores of a hostile polis, all it took was seven hours of rowing. Even if we had to reach the farthest part of Greece, this remained the fastest means of travel free from the whims of the wind.
Having had our first experience at sea, we didn't linger long. Soon we began to head back especially since many were starting to suffer from seasickness. I, too, felt it creeping in. I didn't like the sea. Without solid ground beneath my feet, I felt unsteady almost vulnerable.
When we returned to port, we stepped ashore, and I felt a wave of relief as solid earth met my boots. After hours of rocking with the waves, it felt like waking from a dream like my whole body was remembering what it meant to be grounded/
In my free time, I went to look for Damippus. I found him at one of the barracks, leaning against a wall without his helmet. His hair had grown noticeably since we'd last met. In training camp, we were usually shaved nearly bald, and even after, we'd kept the habit. Though, if I was being honest, my hair had grown out too.
I took off my helmet and approached him.
"You've seen your share of battles, I see," said Damippus, nodding toward my right arm.
The stitches were still visible. Only recently had the healers removed the cord that had bound the wound a cord usually reserved for the dead, used to keep their bodies whole for burial.
"It's been a hard few months," I replied.
We sat at one of the wooden tables, and I began to tell him what I had been through what I had seen. He listened closely, then shared how his own service had gone.
"After everything you told me… I almost regret staying here. But then again, looking at you, maybe I'd be dead by now," Damippus said with a faint smile.
"Maybe. But death is always near. We're Spartans," I said.
"That's true," he nodded.
Until night fell, we remembered the past as if reliving it. We spoke of our days in the agoge, of those we'd grown up with. We said their names aloud, so they wouldn't fade from memory. We remembered them all with honor.
Author's Note
Anyway, do you want Damocles to travel around Greece, see its myths?
On patreon +3 chapters.
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