Alexanor turned. Leon was gone; there were a dozen new men on the wall behind him.
‘Damn,’ he said, and set his feet, prepared to sell his life as dearly as possible.
But the new men were not Spartans. They had javelins and narrow shields, and one of them rifled his spear at Alexanor. Instinct, or training, saved him, although the javelin only glittered for a moment, catching the beacon light.
Alexanor got his aspis on it. It clattered away into the darkness.
‘Behind you!’ Leon called.
He was in the street below, having been driven off the wall.
Alexanor turned. There were the two peltastoi he’d chased earlier. They were both facing him. As he took a step towards them Leon got one with a javelin – a fine throw.
The other man threw himself on Alexanor in desperation.
Alexanor was off balance, and his back was naked. As soon as the other man’s arms caught him, he felt his weight go, and the two of them fell, struck the wooden steps, and fell onto the cobbled street below.
He lay, stunned.
The other man was dead, his neck broken at a horrific angle by Alexanor’s borrowed aspis.
Leon ran to him. ‘You alive?’ he asked.
‘So far,’ Alexanor managed. ‘Aphrodite! My ankle is … Fuck. It’s my hip.’
He lay against the cobbles, the stone still warm from the heat of the day.
There were men running, and the steps groaned.
Alexanor tried again to rise, and the pain was too much. He retched and lay back.
Close by, he heard the unmistakable thwack of a bowstring on a heavy bow, and then another. He turned his head, and there were half a dozen Cretan epheboi, their red chitons bright in the firelight.
Leon’s hands were probing his side.
‘It’s not broken,’ he said. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
The archers were clearing the wall, and the peltastoi had nowhere to run except back down their ladder. There were also arrows coming from inside the tower above them, and the archers in the tower couldn’t distinguish friend from foe. Arrows rattled off the steps and the cobbles.
‘Come on,’ Leon said. ‘Get up on the left leg. Push.’
Alexanor powered up, and the pain wasn’t bad until he tried to put weight on his right foot.
‘It’s the leg that’s broken,’ he said.
‘I disagree.’
‘Whose leg is it?’ Alexanor spat.
‘We’re about to be in the middle of a storming action,’ Leon said.
He began to hobble away with Alexanor, and two women came, and put Alexanor on a board, and lifted him. One of the women had water, and gave some to each of them, and then most of the women hurried on, their long dresses kirtled up and full of stones and roof tiles.
‘Give me your sword,’ one woman said to Alexanor.
He handed it over, and the woman took it grimly.
‘Let me see.’
Alexanor got his hip into a crevice in one of the wall-side buildings. He looked up.
The Cretan epheboi had cleared the wall but were hesitant about going back onto it.
Alexanor looked at Leon. ‘Take my shield. Lead the women up the steps and throw rocks,’ he said. ‘Anyone in the ditch will assume the wall is held.’
The group of women were hesitating at the base of the rickety steps. The wall looked like a theatre scene of carnage – dead men, and blood glistening in the distant firelight, trickling off the wall and onto the cobbles.
‘I knew you would say that.’ Leon took a deep breath. ‘Well – it’s the first city that ever made me a citizen.’ He took the aspis. ‘Fuck.’
‘Just stay behind it,’ Alexanor said. ‘Let your enemy fight the shield.’
‘Whatever,’ Leon said.
But he stood straight, grasped his spear in the middle, and shrugged both shoulders, as if throwing off the last yoke of his former slavery.
‘All right, ladies,’ he said. ‘Follow me.’
One of the epheboi, bolder than the rest or perhaps shamed by the courage of the women, picked up the dead peltast’s shield and javelins and followed the women up the steps.
The women gave shrill screams as they came up the steps, but they were bold on the wall, hurling their stones and tiles down into the ditch, and the men in the tower gave a cheer that was echoed farther away.
The epheboi ran up the steps, and Alexanor worried that they’d collapse, but they held on, swaying under the weight of the adolescents. Three of the young men and two women with stolen spears converged on something in the dark, and with a sudden scream, they threw down the enemy ladder. Alexanor, across the street, heard the enemy ladder burst on the rocks below, and men screaming, their cries different from the triumph of the women.
Alexanor sat in the fire-shot dark, waiting for the next wave of attackers.
But that was the last of the fighting.
Three hours later, Alexanor was lying on a couch. He was next to Philopoemen, and the other man’s wound showed no leakage. He was asleep. In a minute, so was Alexanor.
He awoke when Leon leant over him with soup.
‘He’s already awake,’ Leon said.
Alexanor rolled over, and the pain in his hip was sharp, but not as bad as he’d feared.
Philopoemen was sitting up. On the other side of the Strategos was Dinaeos, with Lykortas and Thodor.
‘We held,’ Alexanor said.
Dinaeos shook his head. ‘Talk about miracles.’
Thodor nodded. ‘You were betrayed,’ he said. ‘We know some things about it.’
Dinaeos shrugged. ‘Later,’ he said. ‘I find it hard to imagine that anyone here would actually offer to let the town be sacked. But maybe. Regardless – Nabis didn’t try hard enough.’
‘One force – they sneaked up past the gate towers and tried for the wall …’ Lykortas smiled at Leon. ‘Well, you know. You were there.’
‘Leon!’ Alexanor exclaimed. ‘You are a hero!’
Leon shrugged. ‘You made me go. It was just duty.’
‘And the women,’ Alexanor said.
‘Women?’ Lykortas asked.
Philopoemen shook his head. ‘You all underestimate women,’ he said. ‘Never mind. What now?’ He looked at Dinaeos. ‘Tell me what’s happening?’
‘I ordered Telemnastos to take Petra back,’ Dinaeos said.
‘Excellent,’ Philopoemen said. ‘Exactly.’
‘Telemnastos took it last night. Nabis had left fewer than two hundred men to hold it.’ Dinaeos was pleased with himself.
‘Excellent. Now Nabis has to take it back.’
‘Up that trail? Telemnastos has half the federal archer corps and a hundred Illyrians holding it.’
Philopoemen closed his eyes. ‘Damn. You don’t need me at all.’
‘I almost lost the city,’ Dinaeos said.
‘Almost doesn’t count in war,’ Philopoemen said. ‘More soup.’
‘What now?’ Alexanor croaked.
Philopoemen glanced at him. ‘Now we fight a battle. I don’t think we can avoid it, although if anyone listens to me, we’ll put it off as long as possible.’
‘Put it off?’
‘Nabis needs to fight to win. But the longer we leave him out there in the plain, the harder he’ll find it to get food or water.’
‘And the more farms he’ll burn,’ Thodor said. ‘This Spartan likes fire.’
Philopoemen took a deep breath and then coughed as the pain in his gut hit him. He spluttered a little, drank some soup, and then shook his head.
‘We can afford to lose farms.’
‘Tell that to the farmers,’ Alexanor grumbled.
‘There are already factions proposing surrender,’ Lykortas said. ‘Sorry, sir, but that’s what I heard this morning.’
‘I’ll bet those women don’t want to surrender,’ Philopoemen said. ‘Damn it, I wish Phila was here. Where’s Cyrena? She’ll mobilise the women for us.’
The sil
ence went on for too long.
Philopoemen looked around. ‘Alexanor?’ he asked, plaintively.
Alexanor swallowed. Hard. ‘She’s …’
Philopoemen looked at Dinaeos.
Then back at Alexanor.
Alexanor gathered all the shreds of his moral courage.
‘She died saving your life,’ he said. ‘She took the second bolt meant to finish you off. She tackled one of the attackers and …’
Philopoemen burst into tears. And then, suddenly angry.
‘You hid her death?’ he screamed.
And then his wound was too much for him, and he subsided, lying with his face to the headrest, sobbing.
Alexanor reached out for his hand, but at his touch Philopoemen flinched and pulled his hand away.
‘She’s dead and no one told me …’ he moaned.
Leon caught the wounded man’s shoulder.
‘Philopoemen!’ he said. ‘You think we can afford to let some farms be burnt to save everyone!’
The Strategos turned his head away.
‘She’s dead!’ he mourned. ‘Oh gods. Dead, and in the ground …’
Leon slapped him. ‘Get with it,’ he snapped. ‘She died so that you could save this city, which she loved. Which I love. Grieve later. Now is not the time.’
Even Alexanor was astounded at Leon’s fierceness. But he did not relent, and Philopoemen met his eye.
‘We have no other choice but to fight,’ Leon said. ‘And you are the man everyone will follow. I have her body – it is tended to but not buried.’
Alexanor was ashamed that he hadn’t thought of any of that; Leon had.
Philopoemen shuddered. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said in a small voice.
Philopoemen’s bedside became the command council of Gortyna, and indeed, after Plator’s arrival and the Strategos of the Lyttians, Idomenaeos, it was the command council of the League of Crete, the whole force of the Neoteroi.
‘Nabis is a very capable adversary,’ Philopoemen announced.
He was wearing a purple-red chlamys wrapped around him; he lay on the couch while most of the other men stood, dust-covered and in armour.
‘He’s found a new way over the mountains,’ Dadas said. ‘We can raid his convoys, but he has re-established contact with Knossos.’
‘And he’s offering terms,’ Lykortas said.
‘Also a brilliant move,’ Philopoemen said. ‘We could lose through political manoeuvring as thoroughly as losing on a battlefield. Where is his camp?’
‘He’s withdrawn up the valley to the east,’ Dinaeos said. ‘To cover his new supply line.’
‘And you are raiding into his territory?’ Philopoemen asked.
Dinaeos looked smug. ‘Of course. Aristaenos went the day before yesterday, all the way to the gates of Knossos, but that’s just my feint. To cover Plator. He’s moving along the mountains—’
‘Along the mountains?’ Alexanor asked.
‘From Petra! East along the ridge, trying to find where the Knossian convoys run. If a goat can make it through those mountains, the Illyrians can do it.’ Dinaeos had made heaps of almond shells to represent terrain. ‘Here, I expect.’
‘We need to make sure all of our mercenaries are paid up,’ Philopoemen said.
Antiphatas spoke up. ‘Why? We pay at the end of the season—’
‘Nabis is backed by the Rhodians,’ Philopoemen said. ‘He will try and buy our mercenaries.’
‘We won’t have the money to pay our citizen levy,’ Antiphatas said. ‘Men always say you are yourself a mercenary, and you take care of your own first.’
‘You may withhold the pay of the Achaean League troops, if you like,’ Philopoemen said. ‘But I promise you, the closer we get to the day of battle, the more Nabis will try and use silver to win for himself.’ He looked at Dinaeos. ‘How many men does he have?’
‘Maybe fifteen thousand,’ Dinaeos said.
‘By Zeus,’ Philopoemen said, stunned. ‘That many?’
Dadas shrugged. ‘When he retreated from our walls and went to cover his convoys, I lay in an olive tree and counted. Thracians count the stars and their enemies and all their enemies’ horses. We know how to count.’
‘Fifteen thousand men,’ Philopoemen said. ‘That’s a lot of food.’
‘An incredible amount of food,’ Dinaeos said. ‘We need more cavalry.’
‘We won’t be receiving any,’ Philopoemen said. ‘So we have what … nine thousand?’
‘If you count every ephebe in the Federation and all our allies,’ Antiphatas said. ‘Then maybe eleven thousand.’
‘We need to starve him for two weeks,’ Philopoemen said.
Lykortas nodded. ‘We need to arm our peasants and make them prey on his foragers,’ he said. ‘And maybe we need to try and buy his mercenaries.’
‘We have no money!’ Antiphatas cried.
‘They don’t know that,’ Lykortas said. ‘How underhanded am I allowed to be?’
Philopoemen smiled grimly. ‘I know I’ll regret this, but do whatever damage you can, Lykortas.’
Lykortas stretched. ‘Does anyone doubt that Zophanes arranged for the killers who attacked Philopoemen?’
‘Zophanes?’ Philopoemen asked. He grabbed at his cut, doubled in sudden pain from his own rapid movement. ‘Gods. I want him dead, then.’
‘I have a better use for him,’ Lykortas said.
Philopoemen’s face took on an unaccustomed look of sheer hatred.
‘If Cyrena were here, she would agree with me,’ Lykortas begged. ‘Let me use this traitor for our own ends. I can help save the city. Let me do this.’
Philopoemen looked away. ‘Do it,’ he said.
Lykortas smiled.
‘We need time,’ Dinaeos said.
‘Ask this Nabis for his terms,’ Alexanor suggested.
They all looked at him.
‘We should ask this Spartan for terms?’ Dinaeos asked.
Alexanor shrugged. ‘Surely the discussion of when and where to hold the discussion will take a day or two.’
Philopoemen nodded. ‘I feel that we are at the limit of what might be allowed by the gods,’ he said. ‘But we will listen to whatever Nabis offers, and we’ll undermine the peace party in the city. I agree.’
‘Will you put it to the Assembly?’ Lykortas asked.
‘No!’ Leon said.
‘Yes,’ Dinaeos said. ‘Telemnastos would insist if he was here.’
Philopoemen agreed. ‘What are we, if we lose faith in our own institutions?’
The next day, Philopoemen sat at home while Dinaeos addressed the Assembly. It was a very military assembly; most of the men present had been summoned to the phalanx and wore their armour. They listened to Dinaeos, and then to Antiphatas and to Alexanor, who rose for the first time to address the Assembly on anything but a medical matter.
Zophanes looked at him suspiciously, but did not rise. Afterwards, when the Assembly had voted to send a delegation to the Knossian army, Zophanes accosted Alexanor under the stoa of Apollo.
‘Where is my son, priest?’ he asked.
‘At Epidauros,’ Alexanor allowed.
‘I want him back,’ the older man said. ‘Or I will see to it that your life becomes very difficult indeed.’
‘You seem to me to be in a weak position to make threats.’
‘I know your father,’ Zophanes said. ‘I found him. We have exchanged a letter or two. And I know people on Kos – that’s how I got my worthless son his office. I can have you replaced. Or I can allow you to continue to hold your new office. But you need to shut up and make way for native men who know their business to rule here. And I’ve told your father all about your dealings with this Achaean and his mercenaries.’
‘Then it seems to me we have nothing more to say to each other,’ Alexanor said. ‘I care nothing for your dealings with Kos, and as to my father, he has disinherited me. We are nothing to each other. Your son is beyond my control. He broke the laws of gods an
d men and will be punished for it.’ He bowed. ‘Good day to you.’
‘Revel in it,’ Zophanes called out, to his back. ‘At best, you lot have a few days left in power.’
From Leon, he heard that their arrangements for the conference were taking longer than anyone expected. Alexanor had plenty to do seeing to his patient, and he spent his spare time in exercise, because his hip and right thigh, although not broken, hurt like blazes. He did what he could for himself, and fed Philopoemen, but even he had to admit that the miracle had happened a second time.
‘You must live a very clean life, or the gods love you,’ he said.
‘If the gods loved me, Cyrena would still be alive.’ Philopoemen’s voice was flat; his face had acquired its set, statue look, the look he’d worn on his farm in Arkadia.
Alexanor walked to the window and opened it.
‘Look outside,’ he said. ‘Come. I’ll support you.’
He put an arm around his friend and helped him to the balcony over the street.
There were two hundred men and women below them.
‘Look!’ Alexanor said.
Men looked up; a woman pointed. Philopoemen waved.
‘There he is! Alive! He cheats death!’ called a man.
‘Achilles! Achilles!’ called a dozen voices, and then the chant was taken up, and it rebounded off the walls and seemed to fill the very air with sound.
‘Achilles! Achilles undying. Achilles Athanatos!’
Alexanor took him back to his kline.
‘Now tell me the gods don’t love you,’ he said.
Philopoemen shook his head. ‘What am I to say to them?’
Alexanor had no answer for that, so he was silent a while. Then he looked at his friend.
‘Will you ride to meet this Nabis?’ Alexanor asked.
‘I was going to ask you the same,’ the Achaean replied. ‘Of course I want to hear what he has to say. And I want him to see that I’m still alive. I wonder if he remembers us?’
‘I remember him well enough, thank you.’ Alexanor was taking Philopoemen’s pulse. ‘I only remember him as a figure in good armour, though, and then as a golden figure, fleeing. Does he know you?’
The New Achilles Page 34