The Best War Stories [antikvár]

Naomi Mitchison Black Sparta That steep road went on and up, narrow and stony, going back to Sparta, Sparta again worse than ever it was, that freedom they'd promised him gone down the wind - oh, a Spartan promise! He was tied to the end of an ox-cart with a raw hide rope that had dried and tightened in the sun till his wrists were bleeding and his hands swollen; he ached all the time under a load of grain sacks. Far away, behind him now, was Megalopolis, the new city, the city with the fine name where bonds were free at last, the city of the folk that hated Sparta; he would never get there. It was his own fault ever to have trusted a Spartan promise, fought for her, suffered for her. If he fell down the oxen wouldn't stop and the rope would drag him over the stones after them; he must keep up. If only there was water anywhere. If only the rope would stay slack, not tighten suddenly on his sore, burning wrists when the cart jerked. Now one of the sacks had shifted and was rubbing the skin off his shoulder. The road got steeper and stonier still. Up in front, the Spartans with spears shouldered were singing as they went. Four were ordered back to hurry the baggage carts. They wanted to be over the pass, back again in their own hollow valley of Sparta by nightfall. Already they thought how sweet their fair-haired wives would be after so long away. The ox-teams were goaded on, the helot baggage carriers shouted at till they hurried; the four Spartans went forward along the ranks to their places again, and he cowered, expecting to be hit. One of them checked himself and walked slower; he kept pace with the slave at the cart tail. Tragón,' he said, then repeated it, louder. The man took his eyes off the ground and looked round and said 'Phylleidas,' then, hardly raising his voice above the creaking of the cart wheel, 'get me away.' The Spartan, still keeping pace, drew his sword and cut the rope between hands and cart; the loose end trailed over the stones and Tragón almost lost his balance for a moment. Then, still saying nothing, he cut through the knots at the wrists: the hide was so stuck into the cuts it had made that it did not fall away when he pulled.