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Authors: A. Bertram Chandler
Tags: Science-Fiction
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obviously a private joke of some kind.
"The glory that was Greece, the grandeur that was Rome," murmured the Arcadian after a long pause. "But this isn't—forgive me, Brasidus—quite as glorious as it should be. There's a certain . . . untidiness in your streets. And this absence of women seems . . . odd. As I recall it, the average Greek housewife was nothing much to write home about, but the hetaerae must have been ornamental."
"Did they have hetaerae in Sparta?" asked Grimes. "I thought that it was only in Athens."
We do have hetaerae in Sparta, Brasidus thought but did not say, recalling what he had seen and heard in the crèche. Sally (another queer name!) had admitted to being one. But what were hetaerae, anyhow?
"They had women," said Margaret Lazenby. "And some of them must have been reasonably good-looking, even by our standards. But Sparta was more under masculine domination than the other Greek states."
"Is that the palace ahead, Brasidus?" asked Grimes.
"It is, sir."
"Then be careful, Peggy. Watch your step—and your tongue."
"Aye, aye, Cap'n."
"And I suppose that you, Brasidus, will report everything that you've heard to Captain Diomedes?"
"Of course, sir."
"And so he should," Margaret Lazenby said. "When it gets around, these pseudo-Spartans might realize all that they are missing."
"And is the fact that they're missing it grounds for commiseration or congratulation?" asked Grimes quietly.
"Shut up!" snapped his officer mutinously.
Chapter 11
IT WAS NOT the first time that Brasidus had been inside the palace, but, as always, he was awed (although he tried not to show it in front of the foreigners) by the long, colonnaded, high-ceilinged halls, each with its groups of heroic statuary, each with its vivid murals depicting scenes of warfare and the chase. He marched along beside his charges (who, he was pleased to note, had fallen into step), taking pride in the rhythmic, martial clank of the files of hoplites on either side of them, the heralds, long, brazen trumpets already upraised, ahead of them. Past the ranks of Royal Guards—stiff and immobile at attention, tiers of bright-headed spears in rigid alignment—they progressed. He realized, with disapproval, that John Grimes and Margaret Lazenby were talking in low voices.
"More anachronisms for you, Peggy. Those guards. Spears in hand—and projectile pistols at the belt . . ."
"And look at those murals, John. Pig-sticking—those animals aren't unlike boars—on motorcycles. But these people do have good painters and sculptors."
"I prefer my statues a little less aggressively masculine. In fact, I prefer them nonmasculine."
"You would. I find them a pleasant change from the simpering nymphs that are supposed to be decorative on most planets."
"You would."
Brasidus turned his head. "Quiet, please, sirs. We are approaching the throne."
There was a sharp command from the officer in charge of the escort. The party crashed to a halt. The heralds put the mouthpieces of their instruments to their lips, sounded a long, discordant blast, then another. From a wide, pillared portal strode a glittering officer. "Who comes?" he demanded.
In unison the heralds chanted, "John Grimes, master of the star ship Seeker . Margaret Lazenby, one of his officers."
"Enter, John Grimes. Enter, Margaret Lazenby."
Again a command from the leader of the escort, and with a jangle of accouterments, the march resumed, although at a slower pace. Through the doorway they passed, halted again. There was another prolonged blast from the heralds' trumpets, a crash of grounded spear butts.
There was the King, resplendent in golden armor (which made the iron crown somehow incongruous), bearded (the only man on Sparta to be so adorned), seated erect on his high, black throne. There, ranged behind him on marble benches, was the Council—the doctors in their scarlet robes, the engineers in purple, the philosophers in black, the generals
"The glory that was Greece, the grandeur that was Rome," murmured the Arcadian after a long pause. "But this isn't—forgive me, Brasidus—quite as glorious as it should be. There's a certain . . . untidiness in your streets. And this absence of women seems . . . odd. As I recall it, the average Greek housewife was nothing much to write home about, but the hetaerae must have been ornamental."
"Did they have hetaerae in Sparta?" asked Grimes. "I thought that it was only in Athens."
We do have hetaerae in Sparta, Brasidus thought but did not say, recalling what he had seen and heard in the crèche. Sally (another queer name!) had admitted to being one. But what were hetaerae, anyhow?
"They had women," said Margaret Lazenby. "And some of them must have been reasonably good-looking, even by our standards. But Sparta was more under masculine domination than the other Greek states."
"Is that the palace ahead, Brasidus?" asked Grimes.
"It is, sir."
"Then be careful, Peggy. Watch your step—and your tongue."
"Aye, aye, Cap'n."
"And I suppose that you, Brasidus, will report everything that you've heard to Captain Diomedes?"
"Of course, sir."
"And so he should," Margaret Lazenby said. "When it gets around, these pseudo-Spartans might realize all that they are missing."
"And is the fact that they're missing it grounds for commiseration or congratulation?" asked Grimes quietly.
"Shut up!" snapped his officer mutinously.
Chapter 11
IT WAS NOT the first time that Brasidus had been inside the palace, but, as always, he was awed (although he tried not to show it in front of the foreigners) by the long, colonnaded, high-ceilinged halls, each with its groups of heroic statuary, each with its vivid murals depicting scenes of warfare and the chase. He marched along beside his charges (who, he was pleased to note, had fallen into step), taking pride in the rhythmic, martial clank of the files of hoplites on either side of them, the heralds, long, brazen trumpets already upraised, ahead of them. Past the ranks of Royal Guards—stiff and immobile at attention, tiers of bright-headed spears in rigid alignment—they progressed. He realized, with disapproval, that John Grimes and Margaret Lazenby were talking in low voices.
"More anachronisms for you, Peggy. Those guards. Spears in hand—and projectile pistols at the belt . . ."
"And look at those murals, John. Pig-sticking—those animals aren't unlike boars—on motorcycles. But these people do have good painters and sculptors."
"I prefer my statues a little less aggressively masculine. In fact, I prefer them nonmasculine."
"You would. I find them a pleasant change from the simpering nymphs that are supposed to be decorative on most planets."
"You would."
Brasidus turned his head. "Quiet, please, sirs. We are approaching the throne."
There was a sharp command from the officer in charge of the escort. The party crashed to a halt. The heralds put the mouthpieces of their instruments to their lips, sounded a long, discordant blast, then another. From a wide, pillared portal strode a glittering officer. "Who comes?" he demanded.
In unison the heralds chanted, "John Grimes, master of the star ship Seeker . Margaret Lazenby, one of his officers."
"Enter, John Grimes. Enter, Margaret Lazenby."
Again a command from the leader of the escort, and with a jangle of accouterments, the march resumed, although at a slower pace. Through the doorway they passed, halted again. There was another prolonged blast from the heralds' trumpets, a crash of grounded spear butts.
There was the King, resplendent in golden armor (which made the iron crown somehow incongruous), bearded (the only man on Sparta to be so adorned), seated erect on his high, black throne. There, ranged behind him on marble benches, was the Council—the doctors in their scarlet robes, the engineers in purple, the philosophers in black, the generals
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