Sparta was where it all happened. I suppose it could have only been that way. The Spartans were renowned for being the strongest, and ultimately victorious, force in the world. And we were. With our words of 'No retreat' and the constant wish for a 'Perfect death', we were the perfect battle force. Our knowledge of battle tactics were unchallenged by any and we had the confidence to use the terrain around us to aid our efforts. But most of all, we all believed that the gods were on our side.
I was raised to believe that. To believe that if we appeased the gods in their splendor, they would bless us with victory upon victory. To believe that the gods would never abandon the Spartans, nor the greeks. Even the child-loving Athenians. I was raised to respect and love the gods that sat and watched our lives. The gods that were the blame for most of our wars and struggles. But most of all, I was raised to be among the strongest. I was raised to not surrender, to not take no for an answer. I was a Spartan.
Spartan girls were not segregated as they were in the rest of Greece. In Athens, the women were immediately lower than their brothers. A girl could not own land or claim a title. Women were seen but rarely heard. But not in Sparta. The women were as strong as their brothers. A girl could own her own land and claim her own title. A woman was the mother of Spartan soldiers and heroes. A woman as much a hero as her sons. I grew up in that. Spartan girls were involved in gymnastics and sports; together with other subjects such as music, writing and war education. To us, the traits such as grace and culture were frowned upon in favor of physical tempering and moral rectitude. We were not simply to lay down and let the men walk over us. We were taught to defend ourselves if the time came. That was where my childhood was different.
All Spartan boys partook in Agoge. But my mother and father weren't content to allow me to not experience the same. My mother was Clio, a strong woman who had faced enemies at my father's side. My father would often liken her to Artemis, the goddess of the hunt. It gave Stelios and I a sense of pride in who we were. And my father was no less of a warrior than my mother. His shield was dented and broken, his helmet scratched and marked with the scars of battle. He would often tell of us of the bloodlust that captures the heart of men. We would sit and listen in awe.
The sun was dim across Sparta that morning. The wheat swayed in the winds sent by the four wind 's sun scattered along the houses and painted the streets. I can remember hearing my mother and father whispering on the steps of the house. The pain still struck on my mother's face of five months away from my elder brother, Stelios. Now aged seven, he was taken like the rest. I can remember the pang in my heart as I watched the tear roll down my mother's cheek as she fought. She was a warrior, but a warrior protects her family… And she could no longer protect her son.
"I think it's time you started with your daughter." I heard my mother's voice become harsh with those words. But something about it excited me. I knew what she mean't by those words. It meant that she wasn't going to be losing another child.
"I know. I'll be back soon." The monotonous voice of my father uttered. I could hear him leave till his footsteps disappeared into the silence of my mother's breaths.
"Eulalia, are you awake?" My mother whispered in her softer tone as I saw her head peak around the open doorway that was only covered by a thin sheet of blue. Her dark eyes rested upon me with a growing smile. Her frame was thin, you could see the marks of her bones along her collar. But you could also see the muscles that moulder her stomach and her arms. She was the perfect Spartan lady.
"Make sure that you are ready for your father's return, he's got a surprise for you." She said in a smile.
I can remember how I nodded toward her with the smile spreading from ear to ear. My small frame rising from the straw bed with my petite fingers reaching for the linen cloth that would later cloud my immature figure. I was six years old at the time. No semblance of womanhood on my body. But, over the years, countless people have told me of the beauty that would emanate from my mother and the strength from my father.
I found myself sat upon the steps of our house with my chin in my hand, staring off into the fields. I watched as the reeds danced with the winds. I dreamt of Stelios, of the training that he would be enduring at that same time. But I could not imagine it.
"Eulalia." A familiar voice called from behind. My small frame span around to see my father's face, soft and scarred. His brown hair lay shaggy at his shoulders and his jaw was freckled with specks of unkempt stubble. But his smile was gentle. "Are you ready?" He whispered. I can remember nodding frantically, running down the street behind him with curls of blonde floating behind me. Nobody knew where my golden locks came from. My mother had called it a blessing from Apollo as soon as she saw it. And she did love to remind me of it.
The field presented a small strip of land that had made way for a small army earlier that year. The crops were trampled and dead, now coloured by the earth beneath. But a single tree stood tall. The other children liked to whisper about the tree. All alone, yet tall and strong. Some claimed that there was a nymph living within the tree that protected Sparta and her children, but others claimed that it was placed there by Hera. I did not know which to believe, but the tree never seemed to cease it's dancing.
My father stood short beside the vast tree, his coarse fingers gripping a linen sheet.
"Your mother and I felt that it was time that you started to learn, just like Stelios." He whispered as his muscled figure crouched to my level. His digits gripped the linen sheet, withdrawing it from what lay beneath.
"Starting simple." He added as my orbs rested upon the wooden sword that rested along his paw.
"Our little warrior." He smiled, watching as my svelte fingers inched closer till they ran delicately along the wooden blade.
"It's beautiful." I stuttered in a hushed voice. I could see his smile. To this day, nothing matched that smile. Small fingers clung to the hilt of the blade that replicated the sword of my father, this grip smooth wood at that point.
I can remember the sound of the clashing wood. I can remember the feel of the dirt on my skin everytime that I fell to the ground beneath. But, most of all, I can remember the love and pride for what I was doing. I was learning as my brother was. I was becoming a warrior. I was becoming a Spartan.