To Love a Spartan

"Men of Sparta, hear me."

Under the unrelenting midday sun, rows of Spartan warriors stood at attention, their sweat-soaked tunics clinging to bodies honed by relentless training. The courtyard smelled of iron and dust, a testament to ceaseless drills. But on this day, their sharpened spears rested at their feet, for there would be no drills.

General Lysandros surveyed them with a steady gaze. His armor gleamed in the golden light, crested helmet tucked under his arm. Behind him, three women in flowing crimson-and-gold veils stood in silence, each a bride chosen by Sparta—destined not by affection but by duty.

Kastor stood among his peers, back straight, pulse resonating with an edge of discomfort he could not explain. He had faced wars without fear, yet something about this day unsettled him.

"A warrior does not marry for love," Lysandros began, his voice carrying over the courtyard like the clang of steel. "He marries as he fights—without fear, without hesitation, without weakness."

The words rang through Kastor’s ears, a familiar lesson, yet today, they felt… different.

Lysandros paced before them, his hands clasped behind his back.

"Sparta has chosen your wives as Sparta has forged you. The women behind me are not soft, nor idle. They were raised in discipline, in strength. They will bear you sons, and when they do, those sons will be taken from them to train, just as you were taken from your mothers. There is no room for tears."

Kastor’s jaw tightened. Even though he had always known this. 

“If you cling to them,” the general went on, “if you find yourself weakened by your feelings for them—you betray us all.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd, almost imperceptible. Kastor did not murmur. He stood still, unmoving, as he had been trained.

The general turned to the veiled women, his voice unwavering. "You will do your duty. You will give Sparta sons."

A sharp stomp of shields on the ground echoed through the courtyard. 

At Lysandros’s nod, the veils were lifted.

Kastor’s breath caught in his throat.

Before him stood Callista, her dark eyes deep as nightfall on the Aegean. A Spartan woman, shaped by discipline—yet something in her gaze did not seem cold. There was strength, yes, but also something distinctly warm, like an ember flaring to life.

His wife. Callista. Her name meant “most beautiful” as he would learn later.

For the first time in his life, Kastor felt his heart skip a beat—a feeling he’d never known, having been raised in the barracks since seven years old.

She inclined her head slightly, a gesture of silent greeting. The golden band of her wedding bracelet gleamed at her wrist. 

Kastor realized his fists had clenched at his sides. He forced them to relax.

The others stepped forward, murmuring the formal words of marriage. Kastor’s voice felt foreign when he spoke them.

It was done.

The ceremony ended, the warriors turned, and Lysandros dismissed them. Kastor followed in their ranks, but as he walked away, he could feel it—the weight of her presence behind him.

For a moment, he imagined turning around. Looking at her once more.

But a Spartan did not look back.

He marched forward, toward the barracks. 

*******

Weeks had passed.

Kastor had done as expected. As demanded.

On the nights permitted by custom, he came to her. It was not love, nor intimacy. It was duty. Sparta had granted him a wife for one purpose alone—to father warriors. When his time was done, he would dress, leave before first light, and return to the barracks.

For the first few nights, he had left without hesitation.

But then… something changed.

At first, it was only a moment. A breath between their bodies where neither moved.

Kastor had felt it the first time his fingers lingered against her skin longer than necessary, when instead of rolling away and collecting his tunic, he had remained beside her, watching the rise and fall of her breath.

Callista was Spartan, but she was not cold.

She did not speak idle words, nor did she reach for him when he left, but there was something in the way her fingers sometimes brushed his wrist before he moved away, in the way her lips parted as if to speak—but never did.

And then one night, he had spoken first.

It was nothing. A whisper. A murmur against the hush of the room. Something about the way the moonlight reflected in her beautiful eyes.

He did not know why he said it. But once he had, he could not stop.

***

One day he left something behind, he had not meant to.

It was just a scrap of parchment. A sliver torn from something larger, folded and forgotten beneath his cloak.

He did not realize his mistake until the next night, when she held it between her fingers as he stepped into the room.

"You wrote this?" Her voice was quiet, but the weight of her gaze was heavier than any blade he had ever held.

He took the parchment from her, staring at his own words, at the treason written in ink.

It was about her.

Not war. Not glory. Not Sparta.

Her.

I have fought men, beasts, and my own pain,

But what defense is there against you?

No armor shields me from this longing.

No war has ever made me feel so alive.

She read it again, as if testing the shape of the words in her mind, trying to understand them. Trying to understand him.

"You were not meant to think this way," she murmured, but she did not sound angry.

"I was not meant for many things," he admitted. 

For a fleeting moment, he thought of taking the parchment back, of telling her it meant nothing. But the words were already between them, and he could no more undo them than he could stop the beat of his heart. 

So instead, he pulled her toward him and kissed her.

***

Months passed. Kastor knew he was no longer the same man who had stood in the courtyard and recited empty vows.

One night, Callista took his hand and placed it against her belly.

A child.

His child.

He thought of the day he was torn from his mother’s arms, barely seven years old, to begin the agoge. He remembered how she did not cry, her face carved in stoic resolve. Such was the Spartan way.

But now, the thought filled him with dread. A father’s dread.

He should have felt nothing. His duty was complete. He had done what was required, what was expected. 

And yet, when he looked at Callista—when he saw her strength, her warmth, the quiet defiance in her eyes—he knew the truth.

This was not duty. This was something Sparta could never name.

***

After it was known she was with child, he was not permitted to return.

His duty was done. His seed was planted. He was expected to erase her from his mind and move forward, just as his father had.

He tried. He failed.

The barracks walls felt tighter, the air heavier. The training ground no longer cleared his mind. He found himself staring into the fire at night, replaying her voice, the way she had whispered his name in the dark.

So he broke the rules.

The first time he sneaked away, it was a test. A moment of foolishness.

The second time, it was choice.

By the third time, he no longer fought it.

The barracks were always the same—hard walls, the scent of iron and sweat. The constant presence of men, always watching, always judging. But in the quiet of Callista’s chamber, he felt something else.

And so he learned to move unseen. Every evening, as dusk settled and the barracks grew hushed, Kastor would wait by the narrow doorway that led to the city’s edge—a secret route only known to a few. He had discovered this passage by chance, a worn stone path shrouded by olive groves and moonlight. He slipped past the guards and into the night, moving like a shadow across his own city.

********

One night he had stayed too long.

The first tendrils of dawn had crept over the horizon before Kastor realized what he had done. The night had slipped through his fingers, lost in whispered words and quiet laughter. Callista had fallen asleep beside him, her breath warm against his skin. 

The barracks would stir soon. Warriors would rise. If he did not return before the morning horn, someone would notice.

Kastor jolted up, pulling on his cloak, pressing a hurried kiss against Callista’s forehead before slipping out into the early light.

He moved fast, heart hammering against his ribs as he darted through the stone path, his breath sharp in the crisp air.

The wall loomed before him—the same one he had scaled so many times before. He jumped, gripping the rough stone, his muscles burning as he pulled himself up.

And below, in the dim light of dawn, Demetrios noticed him scaling the wall. Hidden in the shadows near the training yard, arms crossed, he saw everything.

He did not call out. He did not move.

He simply watched Kastor slip over the wall and disappear into the barracks.

And then, slowly, he smiled.

***

By midday, the training ground was alive with the clash of bronze and the grunts of warriors locked in combat.

But today was not like other days.

King Leonidas himself had come to watch.

He sat beside General Lysandros at the raised platform, a handful of Spartan elders at his side. They spoke in low voices as their eyes followed the movements on the field.

At the center of the training ground, Kastor and Demetrios faced each other, wooden practice spears in hand, their bodies slick with sweat from the midday heat.

They had fought a hundred times before.

They were the two best warriors in Sparta—a rivalry forged since childhood.

Where Kastor was precision, Demetrios was ferocity. Where

Kastor fought with calm control, Demetrios struck with raw hunger.

But there had always been one truth between them.

Kastor was better. Lysandros knew it.

And Demetrios hated Kastor for it.

Lysandros leaned toward the king, his eyes never leaving the fighters.

“Kastor is the strongest of his generation,” the general said. “Disciplined. Focused. A warrior in mind and body. I am training him to lead the army one day.”

Leonidas nodded, watching as Kastor deflected a vicious strike from Demetrios, turning the spear away with practiced ease.

But something was off.

Kastor’s movements were a fraction slower than usual. His stance, usually unwavering, was slightly off-balance.

Demetrios noticed. And he smirked.

Demetrios attacked with sudden, brutal speed, pressing Kastor back. Kastor blocked the blows, but he could feel his body lagging, exhaustion creeping through his muscles.

He had not slept.

The night before still clung to him—Callista’s voice, feeling his baby kick from the womb, the weight of the stolen hours.

Demetrios struck low, forcing Kastor to twist sharply to avoid it. A sharp flare of pain shot through his shoulder.

The king and the general watched in silence, their expressions unreadable.

Then—an opening.

Kastor lunged, twisting his spear, knocking Demetrios off balance. In a flash, he swept his leg out from under him and drove him to the ground, pinning him beneath the shaft of his weapon.

Silence.

Then—applause.

The king and Lysandros clapped, nodding in approval. The elders murmured in agreement.

Demetrios lay beneath Kastor, his face twisted in fury.

For years, he had trained, fought, bled—and Kastor was still above him.

Still the best.

Still the one Lysandros applauded.

Still the one who would lead.

Kastor extended a hand to help him up.

Demetrios did not take it.

Instead, he rose, his knuckles white around his weapon.

His eyes locked onto Kastor’s.

And in that moment, Kastor saw nothing but defeat in his rival’s gaze.

What he did not see was the realization.

What he did not see was the knowledge Demetrios already carried.

Demetrios smiled again, just as he had that morning.

“You looked tired today, Kastor.”

Kastor said nothing, knowing this double life couldn’t last—nor did he mean it to.

*****

Demetrios had been waiting.

For weeks, he had watched Kastor closely—his movements, his absences, the faint weariness in his eyes.

Tonight, he would find out why.

Hidden in the shadows outside the barracks, Demetrios followed at a distance, his footsteps silent against the cold stone. Kastor moved with practiced ease.

But Demetrios was a shadow at his back.

He trailed Kastor through the winding streets, past the dim glow of torches and the quiet hum of sleeping Sparta.

A house, tucked away from the central roads. A door opening.

And then—her.

Callista.

His wife. His pregnant wife.

Demetrios stilled in the darkness, pressing himself against the rough wall as Kastor stepped inside. The door stayed ajar, a sliver of light spilling out. He edged closer, ears straining.

Her voice came first, low and urgent.

"We can’t stay, Kastor. Not after the child comes. They’ll take him—tear him from us like they tore you from your mother."

Kastor’s reply was a hushed rumble.

"I know. There’s a ship at Gytheio—two nights from now. We cross the sea, far beyond their reach. Raise him free."

Callista’s breath caught.

"Free… Can we make it?"

"We will," Kastor said, his tone fierce.

Demetrios’ pulse quickened, the words sinking in. Not just weakness—treason. Kastor, the best of them, plotting to flee Sparta with his wife and unborn son. The realization curled inside Demetrios like a blade. 

This was his moment.

He turned and disappeared into the night.

*******

Lysandros stood silent as Demetrios spoke.

Firelight danced across the walls, reflecting in the general’s eyes—eyes that once watched Kastor grow from a mere boy into Sparta’s finest warrior. His expression unreadable.

However Demetrios could see it. The fury beneath the surface. The disappointment.

When Demetrios finished, Lysandros exhaled slowly, his hands clasped behind his back.

For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of the flames.

Then—"If this is true, he has failed Sparta."

Lysandros’ voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of a hammer.

"And failure must be punished."

Demetrios straightened, pulse hammering with anticipation. "Shall I challenge him?"

But Lysandros shook his head.

"You will prove it first. I will not dishonor my best warrior on words alone." He turned toward Demetrios, his gaze hard as iron. "We will watch him. Catch him in the act. And when we do—he will face judgment."

Demetrios smiled.

Kastor’s days were numbered.

***

This night felt different.

Too still.

Kastor moved carefully, his senses sharp as he weaved through the narrow streets. The barracks had been too quiet. No murmurs, no shifting of restless bodies. A silence that felt unnatural.

His gut twisted. Something was wrong.

Still, he pressed forward. One last time.

The house was just ahead. A warm glow flickered from within. Callista was waiting.

He stepped inside, and she was there—his wife, his love, his undoing.

She came to him at once, her arms wrapping around his shoulders, her breath warm against his neck. He exhaled. For a moment, the world felt right.

And then—she stiffened.

Her hands clenched against his back.

Kastor felt it too.

A sound.

Armor shifting. Metal scraping against leather. Heavy boots moving in the dark.

He turned sharply—too late.

A torch ignited in the shadows outside. Then another.

The glow spread like wildfire, illuminating the ring of Spartan soldiers encircling the house.

A trap.

The doorway darkened as Demetrios stepped forward, his smirk sharp as a blade.

"Found you."

Behind him, the soldiers parted, and General Lysandros emerged, his expression carved from stone. His gaze met Kastor’s, and for the first time, there was no pride in his eyes.

Only judgment.

"You were my greatest warrior, Kastor." The general’s voice was like iron, unyielding. "I trained you since you were a boy. I shaped you into something greater than yourself. You were meant to lead."

Kastor clenched his fists.

"And now you’ve traded our honor for her touch."

Lysandros’ gaze faltered—just a flicker—as he judged the boy he’d raised like a son. Duty demanded this, but the cost gnawed at him.

"A warrior’s heart bends to no soft thing," Lysandros continued, his voice quieter now. "And you have become weak."

"I am not a cruel man." His tone was measured. "You will face punishment. You will not lead my army. But you will not die. I would rather break you than waste a good soldier"

Kastor did not flinch, but his breath tightened.

Lysandros then glanced at Callista—to her rounded belly. His lips curled in disgust.

"Your wife, however… she will not be spared." Lysandros’ gaze hardened. "She is the poison that has softened you. The spell that bewitched my greatest warrior."

Callista grasped his wrist. She was trembling.

"Her lands will be stripped. Her wealth will be seized. She will live as a slave—nameless, forgotten."

His voice was unwavering.

"And the child?" Kastor asked, his own voice barely above a whisper.

"Taken," Lysandros said simply. "Raised as a slave. Child of a traitor will never be a Spartan."

The words landed like a blow to the chest. Kastor’s heart pounded. He had fought a hundred battles, but none had ever felt like this.

Kastor looked at her—really looked at her. She nodded.

A deep breath. A final beat of silence.

He knew what he had to do.

Slowly, he reached for his sword.

Lysandros’ expression darkened. "Do not be a fool."

Kastor did not answer.

The blade gleamed in the firelight as he drew it free.

And beside him—Callista drew a short blade.

A breathless moment.

Their blades caught the firelight, a spark of defiance no law could quench.