The New Achilles

by Christian Cameron

  ‘You are ambitious,’ Philopoemen said.

  Alexanor shrugged. ‘I was going to have a different life. But now that I have found this one, I might as well make the most of it.’

  ‘You are a very private man,’ Philopoemen said, swirling the wine in his cup. ‘Here, have some more wine and tell me why you became a priest.’

  Alexanor started to raise his hand to refuse the wine, but then accepted it. He was still negotiating, and Philopoemen seemed serious, in a lightly drunken and somewhat dangerous way.

  ‘I lost the woman I loved,’ he said. ‘And my father …’ He looked away.

  ‘You lost your father?’ Philopoemen asked. ‘I have been an orphan for as long as I can remember. But with a pair of wonderful stepfathers.’

  ‘No, no.’ Alexanor drank more wine. ‘I don’t even like to think about it.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’ Philopoemen looked out of the window. ‘I don’t like to think about much of anything, brother.’

  ‘I was to wed a woman, Aspasia. I knew her well. I loved her. We virtually grew up together. I went on my ephebe cruise as a marine. We met a heavy Aegyptian pirate and fought.’ Alexanor looked away, out of the window. ‘All my … friends … died. Except me.’

  He shook his head. Shrugged again, started to speak, stopped, and looked at Philopoemen. Who met his eye.

  ‘They all died. The friends of my youth – the men I hunted with, ran with, flirted with girls in the market with, got drunk with. Went fishing. Went running … In a quarter of an hour, they were all dead, and I still lived. It took me six months to recover, at the Temple of Asklepios on Kos.’

  He looked away again, and blinked to rid his eyes of the sight. Gutted like fish.

  ‘I went home to find that my father had arranged for Aspasia to marry his business partner. All my friends were dead in the ship fight. I lost the woman I loved,’ Alexanor found he couldn’t stop. ‘She thought … My father thought …’

  ‘Tell me,’ Philopoemen said gently. His hand was on Alexanor’s shoulder.

  ‘My own fucking father thought that I fled and left them to die,’ he said, and the release of bitterness was like the gout of blood from a death wound. Or the release of the lancing of a boil.

  ‘Your father?’

  ‘And then her father refused to let me wed her.’ He was silent a moment.’But I could look in her eyes and see …’ Alexanor took a deep breath. ‘By the gods, my friend, I thought that I’d put this behind me.’

  Philopoemen came and put a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Oh, Alexanor,’ he said.

  ‘My father asked me why I had come home alive, when the other boys died.’ Alexanor was weeping, where the deaths of the twelve friends had not made him weep. ‘He’s a war hero. He thought I turtled.’ This through tears, against a ball in his throat like a burning apple.

  ‘Apollo!’ Philopoemen spat. ‘I am an arse. I sit here and assume that I am the only man in the world who has troubles.’

  He poured more wine for Alexanor, and the priest drank it off greedily. He waited for a long time – time enough for the sun to move in the heavens.

  ‘I want to ask another question,’ Philopoemen said.

  ‘Ask me anything,’ Alexanor said, his eyes dry. ‘You are the first man I’ve told that story to. At least, the whole story.’

  ‘You loved her?’

  ‘More than the gods.’

  Philopoemen nodded. ‘And yet, you … Tell me what you did to recover.’

  Alexanor shrugged. ‘The temple saved me. I was always busy – I had a clear goal.’

  ‘I dream of them every night,’ Philopoemen said. ‘My children. Sometimes I lie all night in my bed imagining how they died.’

  Alexanor nodded. ‘A year or so,’ he said. ‘Hard work, exercise …’

  ‘Wine,’ Philopoemen said, pouring more.

  ‘No. It’s a false argument. Drugs cover but they do not cure. The cure is time, and the will of the gods, and some worthy activity. So here’s the fucking truth, my brother. I’m willing to play the game and fight to be acting high priest because it keeps me awake and alive.’

  He reached out and slapped the wine cup off the table. It broke on the tiled floor.

  Philopoemen nodded slowly. Then he rose to his feet, picked up his own wine cup and the krater of wine, and threw them out of the window. When he turned back to Alexanor, he was smiling.

  He went and fetched water, and handed a cup to Alexanor.

  ‘To Crete,’ Philopoemen said, looking out of the window. And then he turned back, and he was thoughtful. ‘Lentas, the Lion. A port just south of Gortyna.’ He sounded like a man in a dream, and then he turned, suddenly, and his eyes were focused. ‘Surely you’ll be the youngest high priest—’

  ‘That anyone can remember,’ Alexanor admitted. ‘Yes. Well, Doson made a huge donation to the temple. And demanded my promotion.’

  ‘You are the clever one,’ Philopoemen said with a grin. ‘I’ll watch myself, with you.’

  ‘Yes,’ Alexanor said, allowing himself to return the grin.

  Philopoemen fingered his beard. But then he sat back, almost like a deflated wineskin.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Aratos will never let me go.’

  Alexanor leant forward. ‘Am I your physician?’

  ‘Of course,’ Philopoemen said. ‘You have healed me. Twice.’

  ‘Then listen, brother. My prescription for you is that you leave this house and this valley and go out into the world of men and affairs. Wage war and make peace. Live. And I am so committed to this prescription that I have taken a few devious actions of my own to make it very difficult for Aratos to block it.’ The priest sat back.

  Philopoemen tugged at his beard. He looked out of the open window at the mountain above them; at the eagle still in the sky, and the column of smoke from the ash altar of Zeus. He drank, and then looked down, at the field closest to the house.

  There were four small marble stelae there, all in a row. Alexanor knew them immediately as graves.

  Philopoemen looked at them for a long time, as long as it might take a man to sing the whole paean of Apollo.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Let’s do it.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  Temple Grove of Zeus Unifier, Aegio, northern Peloponnese, capital of the Achaean League, Athens, and Thrake (Thrace)

  221 BCE

  ‘You are not particularly good at waiting, I find,’ Alexanor said.

  They were standing in the cool shade of the magnificent pines forming the sacred grove from whence the Achaean League was ruled.

  Philopoemen wore the white himation of a priest of Zeus and had a sharp knife in his hand. He was pouring water from the sacred spring over the bloody blade.

  ‘On the contrary,’ Philopoemen said with a smile. ‘I merely occupy myself while I wait.’

  ‘Aratos wishes to see you,’ Alexanor said.

  ‘Since when are you his errand boy?’

  ‘Since Chiron of Epidauros sent me as his representative to the Achaean League,’ Alexanor said.

  Philopoemen ran a thumbnail along a patch of gristle and then wiped the gleaming Chalcedonian knife on a spotless linen towel.

  ‘How was your sacrifice?’ Alexanor asked.

  ‘He died well, if that’s what you mean. And was propitious.’ Philopoemen bowed to the temple servant, who returned his bow and turned away with the knife. ‘I’m ready for Aratos.’

  Alexanor bit back various comments and led his friend across the temple sanctuary to where the Hegemon and Strategos of the Achaean League stood chatting with his hipparchos, or cavalry commander, Demodokos, a man so fat as to be almost round, and Cercidas, the poet and former Strategos, who was heavy, but not fat.

  Aratos continued to speak to Demodokos as the two younger men stood in the colonnade, waiting. Cercidas protested.

  ‘I won’t have it! He’s dangerous, like his father!’

  Aratos raised a hand and said something, his tone soo
thing.

  Philopoemen glanced at Alexanor and raised his eyebrow.

  ‘Be patient,’ Alexanor said quietly.

  Aratos patted his commander’s back, with a little more drama than was necessary. Cercidas frowned and moved away. Aratos shrugged and then turned, as if seeing Philopoemen for the first time.

  ‘Ah, the young hero. Walk with us,’ Aratos said to Philopoemen. ‘And you, Alexanor. I know that young Philip has included you in his councils.’ His tone suggested that he knew everything.

  Alexanor bowed. The tone Aratos adopted was aristocratic, hearty, and all-knowing, as if the man was playing Zeus in the theatre. Alexanor wanted to writhe with embarrassment.

  Philopoemen’s face was like stone.

  ‘I know that we do not always see eye to eye, young man,’ Aratos said. ‘And you certainly have a number of people who dislike you. But in this case, I hope that you will allow yourself to be guided by me. The king wishes to see the League provide military support on Crete. And you have made quite an enemy in Cercidas, just when he is likely to follow me as strategos again, eh? A little foreign service with the League ought to put the shine back on your armour and put you in a position to resume your political career on your return. And perhaps, if you share some small successes, Cercidas will come to forgive you eventually.’

  Philopoemen said nothing.

  Aratos went on, ‘Young men always think of war, and of course, I hear you are quite the warrior. Crete ought to suit you – the Cretans do nothing but fight.’

  ‘What is the League’s objective?’ Philopoemen asked quietly.

  ‘Objective?’ Aratos asked.

  Demodokos glared at the younger Achaean. ‘Objective, lad? Our objective is to be seen to support Philip of Macedon.’

  ‘Pardon me, Strategos, but if we send a thousand men …’ Philopoemen began.

  ‘Two hundred, I think,’ Aratos said thoughtfully, as if he’d just decided the number. ‘And you can provide a hundred cavalry of your own, can you not? Your fathers must have left you very rich.’ His eyes flashed.

  Philopoemen paused for a moment. ‘Two hundred men cannot accomplish anything,’ he said.

  Demodokos laughed coarsely. ‘Who said you were to accomplish anything?’

  Alexanor saw his whole plan disintegrating before his eyes.

  ‘I believe the young king hopes that Gortyna and Knossos will be defeated, and the old aristocrats replaced with a more moderate government,’ he said.

  Demodokos smiled smugly. ‘The boy king can hope all he wants,’ he said. ‘Knossos has the backing of Aegypt and Sparta and the whole Aetolian Federation. We can’t match that. So we send a symbolic force …’

  Aratos looked discomforted. ‘My hipparchos speaks a little too broadly,’ he said, his voice smooth. ‘Philopoemen, your military reputation is such that we all hope for great things from you.’

  ‘What is the League’s objective?’ Philopoemen asked again.

  Aratos stood straight. He was a fit man. When he drew himself up, Alexanor could see his youth; could see that he was the man who’d stormed Corinth and led armies.

  ‘Our objective is the creation of a federal government of Crete, ruled by moderate lawgivers, who will be allies of the Achaean League and the king of Macedon,’ he said solemnly.

  ‘And to accomplish this mission, against the armies of Aegypt and Knossos and Gortyna and the Aetolian Federation and Sparta and Rhodes, you are giving me two hundred men,’ Philopoemen said.

  Aratos frowned.

  Demodokos smiled nastily. ‘You got it, hero.’

  Aratos turned to admonish his hipparchos, but Philopoemen merely smiled. He looked at Alexanor, and then back at Aratos.

  ‘I accept,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve already raised my tenants and borrowed some good men from my stepfather,’ Philopoemen said. He was writing carefully on a wax tablet while his groom, Laertes, waited with his reins over his arm. ‘I’m just sending a note to Dinaeos, will join us at Mytiline with our tenants. First, though, I’m off to Athens to buy another fifty cavalrymen. More, if I can afford them.’

  ‘I am so sorry,’ Alexanor said. ‘I was used. I’m not as subtle as I thought …’

  Philopoemen shrugged. ‘It’s worse than you think. The League won’t actually vote on these two hundred soldiers until later in the cycle, and then they’ll have to vote on how to apportion them among the member states. Should take all summer. Then a lot of fat old men will vote the minimum funds for their equipment and pay, and then each member state will have to vote, and then choose the men – who won’t be real citizens, I promise you, unless they are bankrupt debtors.’

  ‘This is shameful!’ Alexanor said, feeling a stab of guilt. ‘You must decline!’

  ‘Never in life. Listen. You are right in the important thing. I need to leave the graves … of my dead …’ He forced a smile. ‘I need to go out into the world. The happiest I’ve been since … she died … was at Sellasia. Maybe killing is my business. Maybe I’ll die.’ He smiled. ‘But by the gods, if I come back from this alive and with my reputation intact, Aratos will rue it.’

  ‘Will he work against you?’

  Philopoemen shrugged. ‘Who cares? Cercidas might, but—’

  ‘Why do they alternate?’ Alexanor asked. ‘Perhaps this is a foolish question from a Rhodian, but why is Aratos not always in power?’

  ‘The rather brilliant men who founded the League made laws to protect us from tyranny. One law is that no man can be Strategos two terms in a row.’

  ‘Ahh, that is good.’ Alexanor nodded.

  Philopoemen raised an eyebrow. ‘It certainly is, but a faction can still hold the office for years … Anyway – listen, brother. I’m leaving for Thrake from Corinth. Care to come?’

  Alexanor had business for his temple at Corinth. But Thrake was a world away …

  On the other hand …

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘Good,’ Philopoemen said. ‘Because I’ll probably get wounded.’

  They rode east from Aegio, along the coast road, with magnificent mountains rising on their left. As they rode, Philopoemen told Alexanor the myths and tales of Achaea: tales from the Trojan War; stories of the gods of the peaks and valleys, of nymphs, satyrs, and battles. They camped in the valley of Pitsa and rode on into a glorious morning, with the sun shining on the Bay of Corinth. Kleostratos threw his spear in the air, a great turning bar of sunlight, and caught it. Then Philopoemen had to do the same, and cut his hand practising, and they all laughed and rode on to Corinth. Alexanor noted that Philopoemen’s servants were as well mounted as he, and none of them were slaves.

  Leon commented on them.

  ‘Local lads,’ he said. ‘Arkas and Lykon, both Arkadians. His own people, except Syrmas, the one with scars. He’s another Thracian. Your friend freed him as soon as he purchased the man. After Sellasia.’

  ‘A noble act,’ Alexanor said.

  Leon gave him a look.

  Lykon was the cook, an older man. He purchased supplies in towns and then dismounted to gather herbs on the roadside, constantly fussing about the food. But the results were meals so excellent that Alexanor began to wish they’d travel for ever. But after three days they reached the Isthmus, and rode around the town, heading for the port and beaches facing the Aegean.

  ‘I need to go to the Temple of Apollo,’ Alexanor said.

  ‘Let’s find our ship and see our horses aboard first,’ Philopoemen said.

  They rode down on to the beach, and then they rode up and down the shore in the grilling sun, past a hundred hulls either moored stern first, or pulled well up the shingle, or anchored just off the surf, but none of the little ships at the commercial end of the beach was Cyrine, a freighter that Philopoemen had hired.

  ‘When I was younger, and my fathers were alive, I shipped all our produce off this beach,’ Philopoemen said. ‘I know the factors. I’ll find our ship.’

  ‘Tell me of these “fathers”,’ Alexano
r said.

  Philopoemen shrugged. ‘Two tyrannicides. Two philosophers who were prepared to kill to change the world. Revolutionaries. I loved them both. When my father died, they took me in.’ He shrugged. ‘As they loved each other, they had no sons, and hence, some people will tell you, I had the fortune to inherit three great legacies and not just one. My stepbrother is my mother’s child by her second marriage. We are different, but close.’ He looked at Alexanor. ‘See? Eventually you will know all my secrets. Come, let’s ride.’

  But an hour later they were sweating like athletes, and still none of the merchant factors on the beach had any news of the Cyrine.

  ‘If she’s not available by tomorrow night, we’ll hire someone else,’ Philopoemen said. ‘I have a guest-friend here, a Corinthian. We’ll go impose on him. He’ll welcome us.’

  Alexanor wondered if anyone would truly welcome half a dozen armed men with a string of horses, but Nicanor, the Corinthian, came out into his yard to receive them, and his wife, a very small woman, led them to bright, painted rooms herself, while a dozen slaves took their horses.

  ‘Nicanor is a good man,’ Philopoemen said.

  ‘His slaves adore him,’ Alexanor said. It was obvious; a house full of smiles and careful service. ‘Have you ever considered that slavery itself might be an evil?’ he asked, while a young woman served him a pomegranate and took his riding boots.

  Philopoemen threw himself on a couch.

  ‘I think about it all the time. I listened when your Chiron spoke, back at Epidauros. But … one evil at a time. Something as big as slavery would have to be tackled from a position of power – eminence, even.’

  ‘But you might take it on?’ Alexanor made room for Kleostratos, who smiled and began to peel another pomegranate.

  Philopoemen smiled. ‘Can we go to Crete first? And let me ask you this, my idealistic friend. What do we do with all the slaves? Just kick them off our farms?’

  ‘No,’ Alexanor said. ‘No, there would have to be careful manumission, with funds …’

  Philopoemen nodded. ‘Citizenship?’

  Alexanor cringed. ‘Of course not. Not in the first generation. They wouldn’t know how to engage in the democracy.’