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Authors: Christian Cameron

Tyrant (48 page)

BOOK: Tyrant
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The first squadron had begun to sing the Paean.
 
In the next quiet interval, Kineas said, ‘It is magnificent. But I sought no gift from the king.’
 
‘The king sent it nonetheless,’ Philokles said with a mirthless grin. ‘You might note the pommel. Do you see a resemblance?’
 
Kineas closed his hand on the hilt. ‘You are like a bluebottle fly - no matter how often I swat you, you just come and settle to sting again.’ His intended severity was ruined by his broad grin. He loved it. It fit his hand. Srayanka gleamed in heavy gold from the pommel.
Srayanka - Medea
. ‘He sent this? Really?’
 
Philokles grinned. ‘Really.’ He shook his head. ‘Stop grinning like that - you might hurt your face.’ He pulled his horse out of the column, and fell back to his place.
 
Kineas didn’t stop grinning. The king of the Assagatje had sent him a message. Or a challenge.
 
The ceremony was long, but pleasant, full of music and bright colour. It raised the spirits of the city and of the hippeis and the hoplites, and when the archon tied the magenta sash around his breastplate, Kineas, too, felt a thrill of joy.
 
After the last procession through the town, Kineas took the hippeis back to the hippodrome and dismissed them with his thanks and praise - and with orders to assemble in two days, ready to march. He listened to the sounds they made as they departed - the gossip, the tone of their grumbles, the taunts and the teasing.
 
Morale was good.
 
As if by prior arrangement, the old soldiers - the mercenaries who had come to the city just eight months before - met in the barracks rather than go off to the torch-lit races and the public feast. They were all there - Antigonus, Coenus, Diodorus, Crax and Sitalkes, Ajax, Niceas, fresh back from Pantecapaeum, Laertes and Lykeles, Agis and Andronicus and Ataelus, the last in because it was their turn to curry horses, and Philokles, who appeared with two town slaves and a big amphora of wine. The shape of the amphora revealed it to be from Chios, and they all applauded.
 
Philokles produced a wine bowl from under a blanket and everyone else fetched cups, laid pillows and cloaks on benches for couches.
 
‘We thought we should drink some wine together, one last time before we take the field,’ Philokles said.
 
‘While we’re still your friends - before we become your soldiers,’ said Niceas, one hand on the owl at his neck.
 
They were all stiff at first - Sitalkes and Crax were utterly silent except for nervous giggles as they prodded each other on their shared couch. Ataelus, who rarely shared their revelry, seemed uncomfortable on a couch and moved to the floor, where he sat cross-legged.
 
Philokles rose. ‘In Sparta, we have two customs on the eve of war. One is that we sing a hymn to Ares. The other is that in our mess, every man takes a turn at the bowl. He raises his cup, pours a libation to the gods, and toasts every one of his comrades.’ He grinned. ‘It’s a good way to get drunk very quickly.’ Then he raised his voice. He had no sense of a tune, but others did - Kineas and Coenus.
 
Ares, exceeding in strength, chariot-rider,
Golden-helmed, doughty in heart, shield-bearer, saviour of cities,
Harnessed in bronze, strong of arm, unwearying, mighty with
the spear,
O defence of Olympus, father of warlike Victory, ally of Themis,
Stern governor of the rebellious, leader of righteous men,
Sceptred king of manliness, who whirl your fiery sphere
Among the planets in their sevenfold courses through the aether
Wherein your blazing steeds ever bear you above the third firmament
of heaven;
Hear me, helper of men, giver of dauntless youth!
Shed down a kindly ray from above upon my life, and strength
of war,
That I may be able to drive away bitter cowardice from my head
And crush down the deceitful impulses of my soul.
Restrain also the keen fury of my heart which provokes me to
tread
The ways of blood-curdling strife.
Rather, O blessed one, give you me boldness to abide within
the harmless laws of peace, avoiding strife and hatred and the
violent fiends of death.
 
 
Andronicus got to his feet. ‘Good song!’ he shouted. ‘Too seldom do you Greeks praise the lord of strife.’
 
Philokles shook his head. ‘We are no friends to the lord of strife.’
 
But Andronicus was not in a mood for argument. ‘Good custom!’ He walked straight to the bowl, and dipped his cup full. He sloshed a libation on the floor, and raised his cup. ‘To us. Comrades.’ One by one, he said their names, raised his cup, and drank, until he came to Kineas. ‘To you, Hipparch,’ he said, and drained his cup.
 
One by one, they did it. Lykeles made jokes about each of them. Philokles imitated their voices as he toasted them. Agis spoke well, and Laertes had a compliment for every man.
 
Sitalkes drank in silence, meeting each man’s eye in turn and drinking to him until he got to Kineas. To him, he raised his cup. ‘I was Getae,’ he said. ‘Now I am yours.’ He drank, and the others cheered and stamped their feet as they had not for Laertes’ pretty rhetoric.
 
Crax took his stand at the bowl with a belligerent stare. ‘When we fight, I will kill more than any of you,’ he said. And drank.
 
Ajax took the cup and wept. Then he wiped his eyes. ‘Every man here has my love. You are the comrades I dreamed of as a child, when I lay on my father’s arm and he read to me how Achilles sulked in his tent, how Diomedes led the army of the Hellenes, and all the other stories of the war with Troy.’
 
Ataelus insisted on having pure wine in his cup. He stood by the bowl for some time. Finally, he said, ‘My Greek is better. So I am not for fear speaking to you. All you - like good clan - you take me from city, give horse. Give
honour
.’ He raised his cup. ‘Too much talk-talk to toast every one. I toast all.
Akinje Craje.
The Flying Horse clan - what the Sakje call you. Good name.’ He drank. Then he dipped and drank again, and again, saluting each one in turn in unwatered wine. He walked back to his place on the floor without a tremor, and sat with the same grace as all the Sakje.
 
Last was Kineas. He waved to Philokles, the acting host. ‘By all the gods - put some water in it, or I won’t live to reach the camp.’ He stood by the bowl. He found that he had a smile across his face so firm that he couldn’t crack it even to speak. He was silent - as silent at Sitalkes or Ataelus had been. Then he raised his cup on the tips of his fingers and tipped it to spill a libation.
 
‘The gods honour those who strive the hardest,’ he said. ‘I doubt any group of men have worked harder in the last six months than you. I ask that the gods take notice. We came here as strangers, and have been made citizens. We came here as mercenaries. Now, I think most of us go to fight for our city, as men of virtue do.’ He looked around. ‘Like Ajax, I love every one of you, and like Ataelus, I know you for my own clan. For myself, I swear by the gods to do my best to bring you back safe. But I also say this. We go to a hard campaign.’ He looked around. ‘If we fall, let us do it so that some Olbian poet will sing of us, the way the Spartans sing of Leonidas, or the way every Hellene sings of Peleas’s son.’
 
They cheered him, even hard-eyed Niceas. He drank to them. They raised their cups with a roar.
 
Much later, a very drunk Kineas slapped Philokles’ shoulder. ‘You’re a good man,’ he said.
 
Philokles smiled. ‘I can’t hear you say that too often.’
 
‘I’m for bed. I’ll have a head like an anvil come the dawn.’ Kineas stood unsteadily. Crax was retching outside the barrack’s main door. He sounded like a man on the edge of death.
 
Philokles pushed himself to his feet. ‘I think you’ll find that dawn is close,’ he said. ‘It’s good to see you happy.’
 
Kineas hung on to the doorframe as he passed it. ‘I’m happy enough, brother. Better to die happy than . . .’ He managed to shut his mouth.
 
‘Die?’ said Philokles. He sounded more sober. ‘Who said anything about death?’
 
Kineas waved his hands unsteadily. ‘Nothing. Shouldn’t have said anything of the sort. My mouth runs away with me when I’m drunk. Like a diarrhoea of words.’
 
Philokles grabbed him and spun him around. He rested his forehead against Kineas, which steadied them both. He put a hand behind Kineas’s neck like a wrestler going for a hold. ‘Die happy, you said. Where’s that come from?’
 
‘Nowhere. Just a phrase.’
 
‘Donkey shit. Piles of it.’ Philokles sounded harsh.
 
Kineas rolled his eyes. He couldn’t remember why he had to hide all this from the Spartan, anyway. ‘Gonna die,’ he said. ‘In the battle.’
 
Philokles ground his forehead against Kineas. It hurt. ‘Says who?’
 
‘Dream. Kam Baqca. Tree.’ Saying it aloud made it seem a little silly.
 
Philokles pushed him away, and started laughing. ‘Ares’ swelling member. You poor bastard. Kam Baqca thinks
she
is going to die in this battle. She’s just spreading the misery.’
 
Kineas shrugged. ‘Maybe. Knows a lot.’
 
Philokles nodded. ‘So she does. So walk away. Board a ship. Go to Sparta.’
 
Kineas shook his head. The myths of his youth were full of men who fled fate to die foolishly. ‘Achilles’ choice,’ he said.
 
Philokles shook his head angrily. ‘You’re too old for that shit. You aren’t Achilles. The gods don’t whisper in your ear.’
 
Kineas sat on a table. He’d made it to his room. He kicked off his sandals. ‘Bed,’ he said, and fell on his.
 
He was asleep before Philokles could muster an argument.
 
16
 
K
ineas was the last man of the hippeis to reach the camp at Great Bend. He sent the squadrons off, one each day, while he continued to wrangle with the hipparch of Pantecapaeum and wrote detailed orders for the city allies.
 
Leucon took the elite first troop on the day after the festival. They were ready, still hard from the visit to the Sakje, and eager for it. Kineas sent Niceas to keep an eye on them - and to make sure that their camp was well sited and well built.
 
On the second day, when Diodorus’s squadron was clear of the gates, six light triremes arrived from their fellow city, the first concrete sign that the assembly of Pantecapaeum intended to honour its pledge. Kineas went down to see them and to discuss strategy with their navarch, Demostrate, a short, fat man with a nose like a pig. Despite his looks - ugly as Hephaestes - he was cheerful, even comic, and his ships were in good order, from the lustiness of their rowers, citizens all, to their sails, painted with a seated Athena twice as tall as a man, floating over the black-hulled ships like banners to the goddess.
 
Demostrate immediately agreed to hunt down the Macedonian triremes. ‘He’ll get more as the summer wears on, mark my words,’ said the fat man. ‘I’d just as soon wreck those he’s got as soon as they come under my hand.’
 
‘Go with the gods,’ Kineas said. ‘The tide’s on the make. I won’t hold you.’
 
‘Good to meet a general who knows the sea. Is it true you’re a citizen? Will you stay? You’ve become quite the famous figure in Pantecapaeum.’
 
Kineas shrugged. ‘I think I’m here to stay,’ he said.
 
‘That’s good to hear. Hard to trust a mercenary - no offence intended. ’
 
Kineas stood up on the oar rail and leaped to the wharf. ‘Send me word if you have an action.’
 
Demostrate waved. ‘I’ve played this game before. I can get three more hulls in the water by midsummer - if I get them, and I’ve cleared his squadron, I may just cruise the Bosporus.’ He leered. ‘My lads would love to take a few merchant men.’
 
Kineas turned to Nicomedes, who had accompanied him down to make an introduction. ‘He looks more like a pirate than a merchant.’
 
Nicomedes laughed. ‘He was a pirate. Pantecapaeum made him navarch to stop his predatory ways.’ He laughed.
 
Kineas realized that he had been expected to know as much - that the fat man had been making fun of both of them with his comment about mercenaries. ‘I assume he’s as competent as he appears?’
 
Nicomedes nodded. ‘He’s a terror. He used to prey on my ships.’
 
‘How’d you stop him?’ Kineas asked.
 
Nicomedes made a moue and winked. ‘It would be indelicate to relate,’ he said. Then his voice changed - all business. ‘I’m off with my squadron tomorrow. I want to voice a concern - a real concern. Come to my house.’
BOOK: Tyrant
12.28Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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