‘In fact, I was very close to tossing that … man … on his head,’ Philopoemen said.
‘But you didn’t,’ Alexanor said.
‘I’m a Stoic. Sometimes it’s really annoying.’ He grinned.
‘Let’s go see Phila,’ Lykortas said.
They walked back through the mighty Dipylon gates and up the side of the hill facing the Acropolis, past the Aeropagus. On the hillside were a number of fine homes, and Lykortas led them into the courtyard of one. Alexanor knew a pang; he hadn’t thought of Phila in a year. At the expiration of her contract with the king of Macedon, she’d returned to Athens.
Thais met them at the stairs and took them into the andron, the fine, mosaic-floored room with couches that men used for entertaining.
The hetaera was seated in a heavy Aegyptian chair, combing wool, while two of her women spun it into yarn.
‘The noble matron,’ Lykortas said.
Phila laughed, placed her wool carefully in a basket and stood. She kissed Lykortas on both cheeks, and then greeted Alexanor. She looked into his eyes for a moment.
‘Am I less a matron for being a hetaera?’ she asked. ‘I have two children, after all.’
He couldn’t help but smile, and she responded to his smile with one of her own. And then she smiled at Philopoemen.
‘You again?’ she asked.
He laughed. To Alexanor, he said, ‘We’ve eaten here every night since we came.’
Alexanor had a single, lightning-bolt-like strike of jealousy.
‘I’ve learnt a great deal about your Thracians,’ she said to Philopoemen, as a dozen slaves began to set tables. Thais took Alexanor to a couch, and he was delighted to find that Phila lay down next to him to dine. ‘And some other matters near to your heart.’
Philopoemen lay by himself, and Lykortas lay with Leon. There were no other guests.
‘That’s good, as I cannot find even one.’ Philopoemen shook his head. ‘I spent the day with Chrysippus. I haven’t found a single cavalryman in this city.’
‘A friend says that Macedonians won’t sell any Thracians into Athens, for fear they’ll be used as soldiers,’ Phila said. ‘I’m sorry. I was told to tell you that you might find Thracians at Amphipolis or Zone, on the coast of Thrake. But you won’t find them here, or even at Delos.’
‘So Macedon is determined to attack Athens?’ Alexanor asked.
She rolled on an elbow and looked at him. ‘Perhaps. This sort of harassment is routine.’
Alexanor nodded. ‘It’s the sort of thing Aegypt does to Rhodes. Will we sail to Amphipolis?’
Philopoemen ate some grapes and lay back.
‘I’ll have to ask my captain,’ he said. ‘Alkaeos knows most of the Aegean ports – he knows what we can do and what we can’t.’ He sighed. ‘The gods do not want to make this easy.’
Alexanor felt a pang of guilt. ‘I’m sorry I’ve got you into this.’
‘It’s worse than you think,’ Philopoemen said with a smile. ‘It’s pretty clear to me that every state in the Middle Sea is recruiting. Carthage is going to fight Rome again. The Seleucids are looking at Aegypt. Everyone is backing someone on Crete.’
‘Why?’ Alexanor asked.
Phila laughed. ‘Too many old men died. In this case, Doson in Macedon and Seleucus Ceraunus in Antioch. Ptolemy Euergetes in Aegypt. The board has been wiped clean.’
‘The old board,’ Philopoemen said. ‘Rome and Carthage and Rhodes and the Aetolian League and even little Achaea are all on the board now.’
‘Achaea …’ She smiled, and shrugged.
‘Speak your mind, despoina,’ Philopoemen said. ‘It is your house, and I am a guest.’
‘That is why I will not offend you,’ she said.
‘She means, Achaea is but a province of the Macedonian empire,’ Philopoemen said, and there was bitterness in his voice.
Alexanor noted that while he could keep himself from showing hostility to a domineering fool at the Gymnasium, he couldn’t bear to hear Achaea spoken of as part of Macedon.
‘Regardless,’ Phila said, ‘every empire is now ruled by a new king. No one knows what is next, but everyone is arming for war.’
‘And there are no Thracians to be had,’ Philopoemen said. ‘Unless we go to the barbaric north, and recruit them ourselves.’
Lykortas grinned. ‘I’m ready,’ he said.
‘You?’ Philopoemen said. ‘You are not one of my people, Lykortas. You are a student at the Academy.’
‘I’d rather visit Thrake than deal with another day of the pompous fucks at the Academy. Who knows? Maybe I’ll end up a Stoic?’
‘He seems more a Cynic than a Stoic,’ Alexanor whispered in Phila’s ear. ‘I can’t see Lykortas denying his body anything.’
‘That makes him an Epicurean, not a Cynic, my dear,’ she said. ‘Although to be fair, the Epicurean notions of pleasure aren’t exactly like my own. They hate the Stoics, though.’
‘He is nonetheless a pleasure-loving man,’ Alexanor said.
‘And yet he asked to share a couch with your freedman, so that Leon would know that Lykortas did not harbour any of the prejudice that the Gymnasium had,’ Phila said. ‘He is a noble man. He is merely young.’
‘And you are so old,’ Alexanor said.
‘I’ll be thirty soon enough.’
She rose, and served them all wine, mixing the wine and water as the host did. Alexanor had never been at a party hosted by a woman, and it had an odd edge to it, but both Lykortas and Philopoemen seemed completely relaxed. Leon, who was used to eating with slaves and servants, was enjoying the tutelage of Lykortas, who showed him what to eat and when, mocking the customs of the Greeks and not his couch-mate’s ignorance.
‘Do you have armour? Cavalry armour?’ Philopoemen asked the younger man.
Lykortas smiled. ‘No. But I’ll have it by the time you sail.’
‘War is not like a bout on the palaestra floor,’ Philopoemen said.
‘More egalitarian?’ Lykortas asked. But he put away his dramatic gestures, and his eyes grew serious. ‘I know, Phil. I know. It will be brutal, and I will probably be too soft for it. But I can’t take any more of the gilded cage. I want to do something. I’m not even sure what I want – what side I’m on. The world is going to Hades – at least you are doing something.’
Philopoemen shook his head. ‘Don’t, I pray, make me responsible for your ethics.’
‘Listen, sir. Do you ever lie in bed in the morning, wondering why you should rise? Wondering why you even exist?’ Lykortas was not relaxed now.
Philopoemen nodded. He handed the wine cup to Leon and sat up.
‘Yes. I know this feeling very well.’
‘You?’ Leon asked. ‘I’ve watched you work on a barn with your own hands.’
‘When I learnt of how my wife and sons died,’ Philopoemen said simply, ‘I thought of suicide. And I didn’t want anything. Food. Sleep. Wakefulness. Thought. Nothing. I wanted nothing.’
There was a moment of silence. It was clearly not the answer Lykortas had expected.
‘I’m sorry, sir. I hadn’t meant … Bah. I’m sick of it. I want to do something.’
‘Do something worthy?’ Philopoemen asked gently.
‘Yes!’ the young man said.
Philopoemen smiled. ‘How do you know what I propose is worthy?’
‘Tell me then, sir. Tell me what are we going to do with these Thracian mercenaries?’ Lykortas sat up.
‘We’ll attempt …’ Philopoemen paused. He looked around. ‘Shall I tell you what young Philip of Macedon wants? He wants Crete in a state of chaos, so that he can start building a navy while Rhodes is busy with Crete. Shall I tell you what Aratos wants? He wants me to fail, of course, but if I succeed, he merely wants me to march around a bit, so that Aratos and the Achaean League can be seen to support their ally of Macedon.’ He looked at Lykortas. ‘Does that sound worthy?’
‘No,’ Lykortas said. ‘But that’s not what you’re go
ing to do.’
Philopoemen tried to hide his own grin, and ended up with a lopsided smile. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m going to find a loose thread in the alliance of cities that rules the island, and I’m going to pull until it unravels.’
‘What loose thread is that?’ Alexanor asked.
‘I found him one,’ Phila said.
‘And then?’ Alexanor asked, moved. He sat up too.
‘And then we’ll conquer Crete, and give them good government, and just laws,’ Philopoemen said.
‘That’s worthy,’ Lykortas said. ‘By the gods …’
Philopoemen’s eyes were shining. ‘And that is only the beginning. I don’t want to conquer the world. I want to make it better.’
Just for a moment a chill touched Alexanor, as if one of the gods had brushed his sleeve.
The coast of Thrake came up slowly – a long, flat coast with high ridges behind it, covered in trees. The freighter had a fair-sized wave at her bow; a steady wind pushed the mainsail, and the oars were in and stowed amidships.
‘Thrake,’ Syrmas said. ‘But not my part. I’m an Odrysian.’ He pretended to shudder. ‘These are tame Thracians, Greek-lovers.’
‘Not like you,’ Lykortas said. ‘You hate Greeks.’
The Thracian laughed. ‘Fuck your mother,’ he said.
Lykortas shrugged. ‘Too old,’ he replied.
Alexanor winced, but the other men on deck laughed. Lykortas’ youth often took the form of a desire to shock.
‘There’s Zone,’ Syrmas said, pointing. ‘Not a big place, but rich enough. Slavers bring men there, and when bands of mercenaries want to hire out, they camp in the ditch and wait for a customer.’
‘That sounds uncomfortable,’ Lykortas said. ‘Why camp in a ditch?’
‘Not a ditch, the Ditch,’ Philopoemen said. ‘The fortress walls are high, and to make them higher, there’s a deep ditch hewn directly into the rock. It’s as wide as a street and deep – probably a good place to camp. And, of course, it keeps the mercenaries out of the city.’
‘How do you know these things?’ Syrmas asked. ‘You have never been here!’
‘Phila told me,’ Philopoemen said. ‘I like to know what I’m doing. And what I’m getting into.’
Alexanor had another pang of jealousy.
‘This is a good place to practice Stoicism, gentlemen. A slave town is a rough place – one slip and we’ll find ourselves serving wine to some Roman magnate.’ Philopoemen nodded at the shore. He was sharpening his sword.
Alexanor smiled. ‘I’ll at least be his physician. But yes. Anyone can be enslaved here. We should trust no one.’
‘You’ll be the first Rhodian to ever set foot in this place, I’m guessing,’ Philopoemen said. ‘Shall we say you are from Epidauros, instead? Looking for some slaves?’
Lykortas pursed his lips. ‘Why the subterfuge?’
‘Rhodes is in a permanent state of war with the slavers,’ Alexanor said. ‘If they knew I was Rhodian – if they knew I’d been a Rhodian marine …’
‘Right. We won’t let that happen, will we, friends?’
Philopoemen had a way of expressing a command as a polite request. Alexanor admired it.
‘We will not,’ Lykortas said. ‘If anyone gets in our way, I’ll …’ He looked at Philopoemen.
‘We’ll be cautious, and quiet. And if someone offers us violence, we’ll answer with the same.’ Philopoemen smiled thinly. ‘I’m not that much of a Stoic. Everyone wear a sword.’
‘Maybe we should try Abdera,’ Philopoemen said. ‘I thought I’d be meeting someone here.’
He seldom displayed frustration or defeat, but two days in the fleas and lice of Zone had rendered him all too human.
‘This is without a doubt the most depressing place I have ever visited,’ Alexanor said.
He was looking at a huddle of blonde Thracian women, none of them more than fourteen years old. All were blank eyed, and they stood, or sat, with their faces turned towards the fortress wall.
‘They fuck like bunnies,’ the slave owner called. ‘And they will bear strong sons to work in your fields. Every one of them can work with linen or wool all day and pleasure you all night. Come on, gentlemen.’
Philopoemen kept walking. Lykortas paused.
‘I’ve never seen bunnies fuck,’ he said to the slaver. ‘How do they do it?’
‘Uh-oh,’ Syrmas said.
‘All the Thracian sluts are hot for it, you’ll see. I’ll let you try one out for a drachma. Here, try this one.’
The slaver was himself a Thracian, tall, heavy with muscle and fat, and his whole body covered in intricate tattoos. He glared at Lykortas.
‘I like to choose for myself,’ Lykortas said. ‘And I don’t want your slave girl.’
‘Prefer boys? Or just another impotent Greek? Here, I’ll fuck her myself, and you can watch.’
The man had sensed Lykortas’ disgust, and was enjoying it. He stripped the girl with one hand.
She didn’t even flinch.
Lykortas kicked the Thracian slaver in the knee. It was a trained pankration kick, and the knee snapped, and the big man fell, roaring with pain.
And chaos came to the Ditch.
The slaver had guards – a dozen or more men like himself, coastal Thracians who profited by the slave trade. And there were a hundred other small dealers and customers all around the periphery of the fortress, like an agora dedicated to the sale of Thracian women, and stolen Thracian cattle. It smelled of urine and despair.
And in a heartbeat, every head was turned.
A spear shaft caught Lykortas in the side of the head, knocking him unconscious in a single blow. The spearman reversed the spear to finish the young man, and Alexanor took the shaft in both hands and threw the man over his back. Another Thracian stabbed at him with a spear, and Leon tackled the man, arms around his waist, and dragged him down into the muck.
Alexanor turned, the spear in both hands, and used it as a shaft, body-checking a running man and then dropping him with a blow from the butt of the spear.
The slaver’s guards were pushing forward. Syrmas drew his kopis even as Philopoemen wrapped his chlamys around his arm in a single, practised flip of the fabric. Alexanor blocked a thrust from another spear.
He took a stride forward and stood over the fallen student. He had a moment; he thrust ruthlessly at the man and killed him, the first man he’d killed since he went to Epidauros. Leon scrambled off the corpse and backed away. Alexanor glanced back at him and saw Philopoemen.
Philopoemen had paused, looking at the chaos, the men running. Alexanor never forgot that moment; Philopoemen was calm, measured. Thinking.
Syrmas cut a spear shaft in two with a single blow, broke a man’s nose with the horse-head pommel of his sword, and then cut off another man’s hand. He pushed forward, so that he was next to Alexanor.
Then Philopoemen moved. Alexanor was suddenly too desperate to follow the Achaean’s fights. The only instant he could afterwards remember was Philopoemen’s rising cut with his xiphos, withdrawing the blade from a falling man’s throat to cut up into an unguarded man’s chin, then passing his sword hand around the wounded man’s head and throwing him into two more guards by the turning of the head, snapping his neck in the same motion.
The crowd fell back. Half the slaver’s guards were down, and Alexanor didn’t need to speak Thracian to understand that the survivors were demanding that they be shot down with arrows. Leon pressed against his back, a broken spear shaft in his hand.
‘They are going to charge us,’ Syrmas said. ‘Fucking Thracians!’ He shouted something.
Men shouted back.
Syrmas went mad, or so it seemed. He began a chant, and Alexanor could tell he was taunting his foes. He pointed at his crotch and screamed something.
Philopoemen was covered in cuts. His right arm was red to the elbow. He glanced at Alexanor.
‘I don’t think that’s helping our cause,’ he said cheerfully.
/>
Alexanor parried a thrown spear. The Thracian slavers were hesitant to charge them.
Syrmas spoke a long sentence, punctuated with pointing at the slavers on the ground.
The slavers made up their minds, roared, and charged.
Alexanor had never fought like this without the benefit of an aspis, the big round shield that Rhodian marines still carried, for all that the Macedonians thought them old-fashioned. He felt naked without a shield, and he took a wound immediately; he never saw the weapon that scored his side, and he was only saved from instant death by his enraged adversary’s poor practice. The point went in, but the blade cut the skin and the spear fell free, and Alexanor’s panicked back-blow dented the side of the man’s head.
Philopoemen’s foes fell at his feet. He’d killed two of them in two blows.
Syrmas picked up a big man, raised him over his head, and threw him into the crowd.
Alexanor fell to his knees. The pain was intense, and blood was flowing out of his side. Leon stepped past him and used his half-spear like a woman would use a broom, slamming the saurauter down on the Thracians.
‘Damn,’ Alexanor heard himself say aloud. ‘I’m dead.’
‘I need you to get up, if you can,’ Philopoemen said. It was the voice of command, and it sounded reasonable.
Alexanor pushed himself to his feet.
There were screams from around the corner of the Ditch, by the gate, and the sound of horse hooves. The crowd, which had been pushing forward, suddenly scattered, men barging into the slave pens or throwing themselves at the stone-lined walls of the great ditch.
‘Hold!’ Philopoemen roared.
He was almost perfectly still, his cloak held up with his left arm, his sword point tracing slow and bloody arcs in the air at eye level.
Alexanor leant in, covering his side. Leon stood beside him.
But the Thracians were not attacking, and the last slave guard threw down his spear and ran just as a trio of horsemen burst around the corner. The lead man wore a hat like a sack, well back on his head; his beard was dyed bright red, and he wore enough gold to purchase a ship. The young men behind him were wearing mail shirts. That was all Alexanor saw before the red-beard’s horse was rearing over them, its shadow on Philopoemen’s unmoving guard.
The New Achilles Page 20