The New Achilles

by Christian Cameron

  ‘Incense – I want to cense him. I need the intervention of the gods. This is beyond me, and if there’s any man I have ever met who is a friend of the gods, it is this one. Maybe he has some immortal ichor in him. Maybe he has the fortune to survive. Maybe the threads of his fate are not yet cut.’

  Alexanor washed and made himself ritually clean; then he went and made a sacrifice at the altar of Apollo in the great temple, aided by twenty other priests as interested in the outcome as he was himself. Then he hurried back, censer in hand, afraid at an almost atavistic level that his friend had died while he was out, convinced irrationally that the incense could do to Philopoemen’s humours what he could not do himself.

  When he came in, Philopoemen was still breathing, and Alexanor censed him thoroughly, so the scent of frankincense permeated the house.

  But there was no change in the patient. Night came, and Alexanor fell asleep in Phila’s chair, by the couch.

  When he awoke, Leon was there, with a six-wick lamp lit.

  ‘He spoke,’ Leon said.

  Alexanor rose, his senses wrecked by fatigue; and yet, some of the ancient authors suggested that it was between sleep and wakefulness that man was closest to the gods and the supernatural. Alexanor had some of that feeling, as if the veils between the worlds were drawn, and he was seeing more deeply into the darkness around him than was quite right.

  Philopoemen seemed to glow in the lamplight. He lay on a kline, head up on the backrest, legs folded, but no longer curled around his wound.

  Alexanor bent over the Achaean.

  Philopoemen managed the faintest trace of a smile.

  ‘I hoped you’d save me,’ he whispered. ‘That’s why I keep you around.’

  ‘You are not saved yet,’ Alexanor said.

  ‘Oh, I’ll make it,’ Philopoemen said, as if he had private knowledge of the workings of his intestines.

  Alexanor could imagine them all too vividly – the coils of glistening rope, flaccid and yet curiously resilient. But a single nick in the walls of the intestine and Philopoemen was a dead man. He smelt the wound, examined Philopoemen’s colour and breath …

  ‘Has Antiphatas summoned the phalanx?’ Philopoemen asked.

  ‘I don’t believe so,’ Alexanor said.

  ‘Tell him I said to summon the phalanx,’ Philopoemen whispered. ‘My death must be the signal for Nabis to attack.’

  ‘Who is going to command the army?’ Alexanor asked. ‘Dinaeos?’

  Philopoemen closed his eyes. He was silent for so long that Alexanor feared the worst, but when he held a little mirror in front of Philopoemen’s mouth, there was vapour on it, and then the man’s eyes opened.

  ‘I will,’ he said. ‘Where is Cyrena?’

  Alexanor was ready for that.

  ‘She’s not here right now,’ he said. ‘She took a wound.’

  ‘Will she recover?’ Philopoemen raised his head, and then sank back.

  Alexanor stood silent until his friend fell asleep.

  ‘He’ll find out soon enough,’ Leon said.

  ‘If he believes, utterly, in his heart that he will recover, that we need him to face the army of Knossos …’ Alexanor shrugged. ‘You know as well as I do that engaging that kind of passion is the key to recovery.’

  ‘You think that if he knows that Cyrena is dead, he’ll let go?’

  Alexanor shrugged again. ‘The balance is so fine, I don’t want to take any chances. Listen, Leon – he could be dead in an hour. In the morning. Or in a week.’

  ‘You saw that the wound fell on the old scar tissue. Lightning struck twice in the same place. It didn’t kill him last time.’

  Alexanor shook his head. ‘I would like to believe.’

  The next day, Philopoemen was awake at midday. There was a crowd outside the doors – a hundred men and women, or more, standing silently.

  ‘Clear broth,’ Alexanor ventured. ‘Chicken. Let him have some and let’s see what eventuates.’

  ‘What’s your theory?’ Leon asked.

  Alexanor stared into the brazier they’d lit to heat the broth.

  ‘Either the intestine is damaged or it isn’t. If it is damaged, it should leak, and there should be intestinal fluids, and chicken broth. If not, he should digest normally. Or as normally as a patient can who’s had an extreme trauma.’

  Leon scratched his balding head. ‘Why risk the broth at all?’

  ‘If the intestine is damaged,’ Alexanor said, ‘he’s already dead. In a way, I wish I had never looked inside a body. The body is tough, and yet, once damaged, very weak.’

  ‘Knowledge is power.’

  ‘Sometimes knowledge only leads to an understanding of the horizon of ignorance.’

  Dinaeos came in, wearing boots and a cavalry thorax of brilliant bronze.

  ‘Can I speak to him?’

  ‘Briefly,’ Alexanor said.

  ‘Lives depend on it,’ Dinaeos said.

  ‘His life may depend on it. Go ahead.’

  Dinaeos stood by the bed. Philopoemen’s eyes opened.

  ‘Dinaeos,’ he breathed.

  ‘Strategos,’ Dinaeos said, ‘Nabis has seized the fort at Petra. He beat us there, and already he has raiders in the valley, burning farms.’

  ‘Damn it,’ Philopoemen said.

  ‘It’s not all bad. Periander caught one of the raiding parties, all Illyrians, and smashed it. Took prisoners, got the booty back. Most of our cavalry is out in the fields, hunting raiders.’

  ‘Nabis learns quickly,’ Philopoemen said. ‘Have you summoned the phalanx?’

  ‘Antiphatas says you told him not to,’ Dinaeos said.

  ‘That was … before.’

  Philopoemen began to breathe rapidly, and then his forehead broke out in a sweat.

  ‘Enough,’ Alexanor said.

  ‘Tell him to summon the phalanx,’ Philopoemen whispered. ‘Tell him to … get the … farmers in … We … cows and sheep … not free farmers.’

  ‘I’ll tell him. He’s terrified, Phil. He’s … not dealing with this well.’

  Dinaeos leant forward, but Leon took one of his arms.

  ‘Enough,’ Alexanor said, more fiercely.

  ‘Tell him I …’ Philopoemen raised his head. ‘Begged it!’

  His head fell.

  ‘We could kill him with this,’ Alexanor said.

  Dinaeos turned to Alexanor. ‘It’s worse than I said, Alex. It’s bad. We could lose the whole countryside. Nabis has got more men than I would have believed. He’s put a blocking force out by the main gates of Gortyna and he’s starting to destroy the countryside. Lykortas said he caught a party of Spartan helots stripping the bark off olive trees. He’s burning every village he takes.’

  ‘That’s barbaric,’ Alexanor said.

  Dinaeos shrugged. ‘These are barbaric times. We’ve made Knossos look bad for three years – now they’re in a hurry. We will have to fight.’

  ‘Is anything going well?’ Leon asked.

  Dinaeos smiled. ‘Well, I wasn’t born yesterday. The Spartan hasn’t covered all our gates, so I have cavalry patrols dogging his raids. All our messengers made it out last night, so we’re probably going to get help in the next day or so.’

  ‘You have done something …’ Alexanor guessed.

  ‘I’m making a big wager with the gods, yes. But it’s what he would have done, if he was with us.’

  ‘What?’

  Dinaeos looked around, as if he might be overheard. ‘I sent Telemnastos and the whole archer corps to take Petra back. I’m guessing that Nabis thinks the war has moved into the Vale of Gortyna, now.’

  Alexanor smiled. ‘I am no soldier, but that sounds quite brilliant to me.’

  ‘It means that for the next day, this city is virtually empty of real soldiers. Only the gods would save us if Nabis tried an all-out assault.’ Dinaeos shrugged. ‘By tomorrow night I’ll have Periander’s mercenaries here, and probably Plator’s Illyrians. Plator will probably take command – he’
s senior.’

  ‘But not the elected strategos,’ Alexanor said.

  ‘I’m the elected strategos’s friend and officer, but I’m not even the hipparchos, remember? That’s Aristaenos. He’s in the field with his Achaeans.’ Dinaeos shrugged. ‘And I’m going out, too, as soon as I arrange for Antiphatas to summon the phalanx.’

  The next day was, in its own way, as long and tortuous as the trudge up the acropolis carrying a wounded Philopoemen had been. Every grumble of his patient’s stomach, every twitch of his face, every movement of his legs, was cause for anxiety. Alexanor unwound the bandage on the wound and sniffed it. He tried to time how long he imagined food would take to reach the injured spot, and realised that he knew too little about the function of the stomach or the intestine. He didn’t even have his books.

  He guessed. And worried. Paced.

  ‘Eat something,’ Leon said. ‘I’m going out. This house is empty – we need everything, including food. And I don’t really fancy being returned to slavery. I’m going to grab some weapons.’

  He returned an hour later – an hour in which Alexanor discovered that sitting alone with a wounded friend is much, much more wearing than sitting with another priest of Asklepios.

  ‘Antiphatas has summoned the phalanx,’ Leon said, carrying two big bundles and wearing his chiton unpinned at the shoulders like a small Herakles. ‘There are hundreds of armed men in the agora, and more in the stadium.’

  ‘Thank the gods,’ Alexanor said.

  ‘Thank Dinaeos. I just spoke to Lykortas, and he said that Aristaenos, for whatever reason, tried to argue against summoning the phalanx. Lykortas thinks Aristaenos is grasping for power.’

  Alexanor shrugged, uninterested. ‘He hasn’t awakened. Do you have any idea how long digestion takes?’

  Leon frowned. ‘Half a day, I think. Remember Sostratos? He used to time men from their first food in many days to the first stool. Water is surprisingly quick, especially in a dehydrated man, but food is much slower.’

  ‘Dehydration!’ Alexanor shook his head. ‘We haven’t been giving him much water.’

  Leon shrugged. ‘Why not? As you say, either the wall of the intestine is pierced, or it isn’t. And the water will pass through him much faster.’

  ‘By Apollo, I wish I knew …’ Alexanor turned away. ‘Anything! Anything. I’m so ignorant that it’s pure hubris to even practise.’

  The two of them gave Philopoemen water when next he awoke. His eyes were almost instantly clearer. He spoke better, too.

  ‘Ahh,’ he said. ‘I was dreaming of water.’

  Alexanor was watching the bandage.

  ‘Will it grow damp?’ Philopoemen asked with apparent interest. ‘Am I leaking?’

  ‘We hope not,’ Alexanor said. ‘Drink this and go back to sleep.’

  ‘I haven’t had this much sleep since I was a child.’

  ‘On the contrary, brother.’ Alexanor allowed himself a small smile. ‘You slept this much at Epidauros.’

  He made some notes and then joined Leon in the kitchen, where the former slave was making something highly spiced, with chicken.

  ‘I think he is better,’ Alexanor said. ‘I was foolish about the water. Thanks for putting me right.’

  Leon smiled but kept chopping herbs.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Alexanor said.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘When you were gone today, I realised how much … I rely on you. And treat you …’ He took a breath. ‘Like a slave, still.’

  ‘Not always,’ Leon said with a smile. ‘Know how to pluck a chicken?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Leon handed him two.

  Alexanor plucked. Time passed; a fine down of chicken feathers began to float in the afternoon sunlight.

  ‘You are a fine physician,’ Alexanor said. ‘I ought to consult with you more often.’

  Leon shrugged. ‘You are brilliant. I am merely studious. Perhaps I’m dull.’

  ‘No. I tend to ignore you, even though … you often know more than I do.’

  ‘Well,’ Leon said, ‘it’s true that I was at this some years as a slave before you appeared at Epidauros.’

  ‘I regret …’

  Leon turned to him, a meat cleaver in his hand. ‘Don’t. Listen, Alexanor. You raised me from slavery and brought me to the company of men like Dinaeos and Lykortas and even Omphalion. I am over fifty – but now I have respect, even love, from worthy men.’ He smiled with a trace of bitterness. ‘You know that the sage Solon said “count no man happy until he is dead”?’

  ‘Of course,’ Alexanor said.

  Leon nodded. ‘Perhaps in my case, you could say “count no man unhappy until he is dead”. I was a slave at thirteen, and let me tell you, it was brutal. Now, at the other end of life … Listen – more and more, you all speak to me as if I am one of you. This is the best reward. Because I am one of you.’

  Alexanor sighed, thinking of many things.

  Outside, there was a scream, and the sound of a bronze bell.

  ‘Alarm!’ roared a sentry, not far off.

  ‘Shit,’ Leon said.

  Alexanor grabbed one of the spears Leon had brought and then paused.

  ‘Someone has to stay with him,’ he said.

  Leon shook his head. ‘He won’t die – or if he does …’

  The shouts were constant now. The city wall was just a block away, off to the north. The alarm fire was burning on the tower.

  ‘We’re trained men,’ Leon said. ‘We have to go.’

  ‘Why here?’ Alexanor asked the darkness as he ran. Their section of wall was high on the hillside.

  He felt like a fool, running into the darkness, leaving his patient, but, as Leon said, trained fighters were in short supply, and Dinaeos’ words were echoing in his head.

  Only the gods would save us if Nabis tried an all-out assault.

  Up a narrow street to an alley. Philopoemen had ordered the wall-street that ran around the walls to be cleared of all shops and hasty shelters rigged against it; here it had been done. The city wall rose three times the height of a man. The stone had been exposed by weather, the old plaster broken away, and the wooden steps running up to the top of the wall were in poor repair. The alarm fire on the near tower gave the scene a golden glow.

  Alexanor had no armour and no shield. He got his heavy wool chlamys on his arm and ran up the steps, the whole wooden frame groaning under his weight.

  He looked up, and there was a man …

  Bronze …

  Cloak. Red.

  Alexanor slashed at the man’s armoured legs and put his shoulder into the man’s groin, taking him completely by surprise. He continued forward, slammed the man into the front face of the wall, and took a punch to the head. Then they were grappling. The other man grabbed for his nose and eyes, his hand pressing blindly into Alexanor’s face. Alexanor turned his hips, slammed a knee into the other man’s groin, stepped back, missed his hold, and then caught the other man’s failed punch and threw him off the wall, down into the houses.

  There was a ladder against the outside of the wall. It was full of men. There were men trying to storm the tower, and other men on the wall. They had torches. Alexanor took all that in with one hasty glance, and then his sword was in his hand and he was facing a Spartiate with an aspis. The man charged him, and all Alexanor could do was back away, but the Spartan was a veteran, and backed him into a corner by the tower. One blow Alexanor deflected, but his attempt to tangle the man’s spearhead with his cloak failed, and he took a long gash on his ‘shield’ arm.

  Then the Spartiate’s face relaxed, and he fell. He collapsed in silence, his arm back for a killing blow, and there was Leon, a spear held in both hands like a man boar hunting.

  ‘Cover me!’ Alexanor yelled

  He knelt, wrestling with the dying Spartan for possession of the big aspis. After a moment, life left the man’s eyes, and Alexanor took the aspis off his arm and put it on his own. He picked up the Spartan’s h
eavy spear.

  Leon was facing two men on the catwalk. They were not Spartans; they were helots, or light-armed mercenaries, and they were not eager to face the priest and his spear. They threw half-hearted attacks from out of distance and called to men below them on the mountainside to come up the ladder faster.

  Leon covered their attacks with his spear.

  The Spartans attacking the tower began to notice that there were suddenly defenders on the wall.

  Alexanor roared the war cry of the Rhodian marines and charged the two peltastoi, and they ran.

  The Spartans attacking the tower abandoned their attempts to take a doorway and turned on Alexanor.

  Leon picked up a stone, stored there ready for the purpose, and threw it down the ladder.

  Alexanor charged the Spartans. There was no other choice. He had an aspis, and years of training told him: better to be going forward.

  The Spartans had the same training. He went shield-to-shield with the nearer man, their aspides cracking together in the darkness. Alexanor had no helmet and had to be cautious; but he was strong, larger than his opponent, and he went to win the shield push, using the round face of his aspis with the cunning his hoplomachos had taught him. He turned the force of the other man’s charge, channelled it, turned his hip, struck with the spear.

  The Spartan raised his shield to cover …

  Alexanor exploded into him, one sudden push with all his weight behind it; the spear attack had been a feint, and the Spartan fell off the wall.

  The second man thrust hurriedly, and his thrust tore at Alexanor’s scalp.

  ‘Trouble!’ Leon roared.

  Alexanor nicked the other man in the knee, slammed his shield forward, kicked again, thrust … The Spartan stumbled back. Alexanor was relentless, kicking with both his feet – one-two – and the copper studs on his outdoor sandals scored the man’s ankles and made him flinch. But the Spartan was well trained. He set his hips and pushed back, and suddenly his xiphos appeared, licking around the shield like a steel viper, and it bit into Alexanor’s left bicep.

  Alexanor punched, the spear in his left hand too long for the close fight. He used the shaft to clear the sword off his shield, reversed his hand as the man stumbled back, and thrust from the left side, using the saurauter, or butt spike of his weapon. He’d meant it as a feint, a clearing blow to buy a moment, but the bronze spike went over the Spartan’s shield and into his face, and the man went down without a scream.