Philopoemen opened with a rapid attack, as Alexanor would have expected. Philopoemen used his reach and his long legs to cross the distance between them, his right hand brushing Alexanor’s reflexive jab aside more rapidly than he could really believe, his left hand reaching for Alexanor’s neck …
Alexanor’s snap kick was imperfectly timed, because Philopoemen was faster than he’d expected, and he knew how fast the man was. But it was still accurate, if slightly late. Instead of catching the charging Titan’s knee, it caught his thigh, but it turned him slightly, and both of their complex intentions tumbled away to nothing as they traded jabs and broke apart.
Philopoemen flowed back like thick water, pivoted his hips, and struck again – a punch, a kick, a punch.
Alexanor caught the third punch, a thumb-down wrist block that was also a blow to the adversary’s wrist. Despite the larger man’s speed, his blow was good. He tried to grab the arm, but it was gone, and Philopoemen flowed back as easily as he’d flowed forward.
They circled, both men smiling.
‘I knew this would be excellent,’ Philopoemen said. ‘Lykortas? Are you there?’
‘I’m here,’ Lykortas said. ‘Usually he tosses me around every morning.’
‘Or me,’ Dinaeos said. ‘Glad to have you here, Doc.’
They circled.
Finally, Alexanor stepped in. He intended to draw a kick, and he was startled when instead he drew a punch. He’d misjudged his distance, and the punch caught him above his nose and rocked him. He pivoted and threw a straight kick to cover his retreat; Philopoemen took his foot and pulled, and he was on his back.
Alexanor drank a little more watered wine while the cavalry troopers commiserated.
Then he went back on to the sand. ‘Ready,’ he said.
Philopoemen nodded, and moved in.
Alexanor backed away.
Philopoemen followed him around the circle of watchers for ten strides or more; men were beginning to laugh. And then Alexanor changed the tempo of his retreat. Philopoemen’s kick was too late, and they were grappling, but Alexanor had the initial advantage.
He landed a punch, from quite close, covered the counter-punch with the same wrist block he’d made earlier, and this time he got the hand, or a piece of it, and he went forward, his whole weight and intention like a cavalry charge. His right hand didn’t so much punch Philopoemen as palm his face. His fleeting hold on the reaching hand overstretched the man’s balance. He pulled his knee-shattering kick, merely tapping the back of the Titan’s knee to fold the muscle, and Philopoemen was down.
‘By Zeus!’ Philopoemen bounced to his feet and crushed Alexanor in a great hug. ‘By Zeus!’
Other men came into the ring, slapping Alexanor’s back.
Dinaeos said, into his ear, ‘I’ve never seen him put down.’
Alexanor tried not to be smug.
He returned to where his cloak was, and crouched, ready for a third bout.
Philopoemen shook his head. ‘I take it the knee kick would have broken the knee out sideways?’
‘Yes,’ Alexanor agreed.
‘And if you hold my hand all the way to the ground, you unknit the whole shoulder?’
‘Yes.’
Philopoemen shook his head. ‘Well, that’s two blows right there. We’ll fight again when you have taught me that.’ He reached out a hand, and they shook.
‘I’m for a bath,’ Philopoemen said. ‘Damn it, I feel better than I have in weeks.’
‘And then we see the king?’ Alexanor asked.
Philopoemen nodded. ‘If we must.’ He leant over. ‘Have I told you how much I esteem you, my friend?’
‘Never,’ Alexanor said.
They both laughed, the darkness averted for a while.
It was mid-morning by the time they arrived at the palace, which stood on a long hillside above the Temple of Herakles. Next to the temple, just slightly higher on the hill, was a magnificent, smaller temple that glowed, its white marble almost alive in the fresh winter sunlight.
‘Alexander’s temple,’ Philopoemen said. ‘Shall we make a sacrifice?’
They dismounted.
‘To what goddess?’
Alexanor didn’t recognise the statues, although the temple had military trophies everywhere – aspides and pelti and helmets and spears, as many as at Olympia, or more.
‘It is a temple to glory,’ Philopoemen said, his voice hushed.
‘Glory?’ Alexanor halted in the nave. He looked up at the decorations, and then shook his head. ‘My family are descended from Herakles. I’ll go and offer to my ancestor. But I won’t sacrifice to glory.’
He walked out, watched by several Macedonians, and then went up the steps of the older Temple of Herakles, where he gave a sign to the priest and was admitted to the sanctum. He prayed a little, and then made a small sacrifice, just a pair of oatcakes, as was appropriate to the time of year.
‘You are a foreigner?’ the priest asked.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘From Rhodes.’
The priest nodded. ‘Herakles’ sons are everywhere.’
He offered his hand and, at the clasp, Alexanor offered him another sign, a sign of his order, and the man responded with a smile.
‘I have also been to Delphi,’ the man said, the correct response.
Alexanor could see Philopoemen waiting for him.
‘Another time, I might ask you for some help in talking to the king,’ he said.
The priest nodded. ‘They are all sons of Herakles,’ he said, ‘the kings of Macedon. But this one never comes here. He worships glory.’
Alexanor shook his head. ‘I can’t really imagine anything more foolish to worship.’
The two priests looked at each other. And smiled.
The palace of Pella towered above them, a monument to the power of Macedon, built by Cassander, the front portico larger than the largest temple anywhere in Greece. It towered over them, the power of immense empire rendered physical, in stone.
‘Don’t pretend that you are impressed,’ Philopoemen said.
‘I lived here for a year,’ Alexanor said.
They walked up the long steps, attended by Kaeso. Macedonian officers and Greek bureaucrats passed them without word or a greeting. A Paeonian chieftain, his cloak heavy with gold and his arms tattooed, passed them going down the steps and shook his head in silence, as if to suggest that they avoid the place, the way a traveller might shake his head at a man entering a bad inn.
Under the enormous portico, a great deal of the business of the Macedonian Empire was done. Men sat in the winter sunlight with tables and scrolls; a money-changer changed coins for Macedonian currency; a trio of tax-farmers argued their accounts with a tax official. There were hundreds of men under the portico, in among the colonnade, and some aristocrats strolled along, idly looking at the statues, many of which were loot from the east, from Athens or Thebes.
‘Has there ever been a Macedonian sculptor, I wonder?’ Alexanor asked.
‘You must have been very popular here,’ Philopoemen said.
They walked along the colonnade until they came to three sets of double doors. Alexanor expected that they would go to the right, into the private apartments, but Philopoemen led them off to the left. After crossing an impressive mosaic floor and climbing a short staircase, they emerged into another colonnade and beyond it lay the sands of a palaestra. A dozen pairs of men were out on the sand, wrestling or boxing. One pair was engaged in pankration, and forty or fifty men stood under the vaulted columns, watching the fight. In the midst of them stood Philip. Alexanor knew him immediately – of middle height, but very blond, his hair short and curled, his blue eyes everywhere.
He was not dressed for magnificence. His fine cavalry cloak was edged in the Royal Purple, but his chiton was merely elegant – simple, without gold or embroidery. His boots were practical, soldier’s boots. Only the gold decorations on his belt and the superb ivory and gold work on his sword and scabbard marked out
his rank.
He smiled when he saw Philopoemen, and then he saw Alexanor. Alexanor saw recognition strike the king.
He said something to the man closest to him – Antipater, who had been his father’s trusted aide.
Antipater clearly disagreed.
The king shrugged, and beckoned, quite publicly, to Philopoemen.
Out on the sand, the two contestants were exchanging blows. It was a very different fight from the one that Alexanor had shared with his friend in the dawn light. This was two very big men standing head to head and trading heavy blows, with little deception or manoeuvre. It might have been a different art; neither man blocked, parried, or evaded. The sound of their blows landing on each other’s muscled flesh was the loudest noise on the sand.
‘Our favourite Achaean,’ the king said. Philopoemen made to bow, and the king caught his hands. ‘No, no, none of that. I never seek to embarrass you stiff-necked Greeks.’
Philopoemen flushed.
‘It is many years since you have graced our court,’ the king said to Alexanor. ‘I haven’t seen you since my father died.’
Alexanor bowed. ‘Your Grace, your esteemed father sent me on a mission.’
Antipater laughed. ‘You mean, since you’d failed to save him, you thought you’d better go, eh?’
Most of the Macedonians laughed.
Alexanor knew his Macedonians. He laughed too. Then he said, ‘It would be hard to blame me, since he never took one iota of my advice.’
Philip smiled. ‘I know, Alexanor. Truly, I do.’
Behind the king, the two champions were beginning to hurt each other. The larger stumbled, swaying, but caught himself, and his great fist lashed out again.
‘What brings you here?’ the king asked.
‘My lord, I was sent by the Hierophant of Kos …’
Alexanor had a prepared speech, and he was ready to give it, however distracting the surroundings, but just then the larger contestant fell backwards, his knees folded and he was down.
Most of the court applauded.
‘Well struck, Cortus!’ the king shouted. He turned to Philopoemen. ‘You’re a great one for the pankration, Achaean. What do you think of our champion? He’ll go to Nemea and then perhaps to the Olympic games.’
‘What does a Greek know of fighting?’ asked one of the courtiers.
Philopoemen shrugged. ‘Well,’ he said in a drawl that was a parody of his slight Arkadian accent. ‘Well, laddie, I was fighting this morning. While you were still nursing a hangover.’
Even Antipater laughed. The king laughed so hard he had to turn away.
Alexanor had never seen Philopoemen trying so wilfully to please someone, except Phila. He wondered at it. His friend was smiling. The Macedonian courtier was not smiling.
‘Who were you fighting?’ the king asked.
‘This lout here dropped me,’ Philopoemen said.
The Macedonians looked at wiry Alexanor.
‘Oh,’ said Antipater. ‘I’d imagined that you were good, at least, for a Greek.’
‘You note, Antipater, that our Achaean has made no comment about our champion. You don’t think he’s very good, do you?’ the king asked.
Philopoemen shrugged. ‘No,’ he said simply.
The king frowned. ‘You are very plain spoken. Why don’t you like him?’
Antipater smiled. ‘Oh please,’ he said. ‘Please tell us.’
Philopoemen shrugged. ‘It’s a matter of style and tactics. Your Grace, Alexanor wishes to approach you on a matter—’
‘Alexanor is a pankrationist too, apparently,’ Antipater said with ill-concealed glee. ‘Why doesn’t he tell us his views on Cortus?’
‘His Greek views,’ another man said. The courtiers laughed.
Alexanor smiled. ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘the name of the last Macedonian fighter to win in the Olympics?’
They looked at him.
He shrugged. ‘I saw Agesidamos down Klosander a few years back. Klosander fought the same way as this man – he never touched Agesidamos. Too slow.’ He turned to the king. ‘Your Grace, may I give you my address?’
The king was slightly red in the face. ‘This is the Macedonian style,’ he said. ‘We believe it is better training for real war.’
Philopoemen raised an eyebrow. ‘You, the descendent of golden Alexander, who was the master of the deceptive attack and the counter-strike, are advocating this sort of stolid, dull offence?’
The silence that came after Philopoemen’s remark had a tangible quality, as if every man present wanted to be sure that the king had heard the damning words.
The two men looked at each other, eyes locked.
Then they heard a set of sandals approaching. Heads turned, and the silence was broken.
The king said, ‘Philopoemen, you are the harshest—’
‘Ah,’ said a round, unctuous voice. ‘It is our Philopoemen. Must you always argue with the king, my boy?’
It was Aratos – older, greyer, and perhaps a little rounder.
Philopoemen’s eyes didn’t leave the king’s. ‘Isn’t it my duty to correct power, if power has gone astray?’
Antipater shook his head angrily. ‘No, Greek. It’s your duty to do what you’re told.’
Philopoemen smiled. Alexanor knew that smile. It was the smile he’d worn, watching Nabis run at Gortyna.
‘Really?’ Philopoemen asked. ‘He has you for that, after all.’
Antipater reached for his sword. The men around him restrained him. Aratos was as white as a fish’s belly.
The king smiled. His eyes were still locked with Philopoemen’s.
‘I suppose that it’s useful to have a naysayer,’ the king said. ‘Do you think you could defeat Cortus?’
‘Yes,’ Philopoemen said.
The king nodded. ‘Show me.’
Philopoemen nodded twice. Then he said, ‘Your Grace, it’s hardly a fair contest. He’s bleeding, and tired.’
The king’s smile was broader. ‘All the easier for you, then.’ He raised a hand. ‘Cortus? I’d like you to fight this man – an Achaean.’
Cortus nodded slowly. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Can I hurt him?’
The king looked at Philopoemen. ‘How soft does he need to be?’ he asked, his tone derisive.
Philopoemen sighed, as if the prospect annoyed him. ‘He can play as hard as he likes, Your Grace.’
‘You heard that, Cortus?’ The king smiled at his court. ‘Let’s hear some bets, gentlemen.’
Antipater laughed. ‘I’d like to bet on Cortus, but I doubt anyone will take my money.’
Alexanor glanced at Aratos, and caught a gloating look on the politician’s features. You hate Philopoemen as much as Antipater, he thought.
‘I’ll take your wager,’ Alexanor said.
‘One hundred gold?’ Antipater asked.
‘For what?’ Alexanor said. ‘A clean win? A hold? A fall?’ He shrugged. ‘I’ll wager you at one hundred to your one hundred that my man wins the first fall.’
Philopoemen dropped his chlamys, and unpinned his chiton.
‘How many of us can you wager with?’ asked another courtier.
Alexanor counted in his head. ‘Three of you,’ he said, a little too contemptuously. ‘Decide among yourselves.’
The king turned his back on Alexanor. I was the wrong man to send on this mission, Alexanor thought.
Philopoemen walked out onto the sand.
‘Begin,’ the king said.
Philopoemen walked all the way to engagement distance without taking a fighting stance.
Cortus threw a blow, and Philopoemen passed around it like smoke. His kick was in tempo with his steps; he caught the other man in the groin. As the big pankrationist folded, Philopoemen caught his head and threw him.
Cortus lay, moaning.
Philopoemen walked back to his clothes, and the new pool of silence around the king.
He put on his chiton; Alexanor pinned it at the shoulder.
&nb
sp; ‘You didn’t even fight!’ the king suddenly exclaimed.
‘Your man doesn’t know what a fight is,’ Philopoemen said. ‘I had every advantage – reach, height, wind. You even let me watch him fight his last fight.’ He shrugged. ‘I took full advantage of what I was offered.’
Kaeso picked up his cloak. ‘That was amazing,’ he said in his Latin-accented Greek.
Philip turned. ‘Are you a Roman?’
The young man lowered his eyes, and then raised them. ‘Yes,’ he said.
Philip laughed. ‘How apt! I’m about to make war on Rome.’
‘Is he one of the slaves from Hannibal’s victories?’ Antipater asked.
‘Yes,’ Alexanor said.
‘Good!’ Philip said. ‘Let’s have him tell us all about the Roman armies. If there are any left for us to fight.’
Kaeso squared his shoulders. ‘No, Your Grace. I am a slave, but no traitor. You’ll have to find out for yourself.’
Antipater laughed. ‘Talk about stupid. Let’s put him to a little torture. We’ll have it out of him.’
‘Why?’ the king asked. ‘Who cares? I have all of Barca’s notes, and Demetrios here has fought them, too. I don’t need to torture a slave.’ He looked at Kaeso and smiled. ‘I like your courage.’
Then he turned to Philopoemen, and his tone was much more dangerous.
‘But now that you’ve made your point about our pankrationist,’ he said, ‘what do you think of my plan to make war in Italy?’
Don’t say it, Alexanor wished.
Philopoemen frowned. And said nothing.
‘Oh, come,’ said Aratos. ‘You have an opinion on everything, Philopoemen. Why not tell the king what you told me?’
Philopoemen looked … betrayed. But only for a moment, and then he turned his head slightly, as if to study an adversary, except the man he was looking at was his fellow Achaean, Aratos. The Strategos.
‘You wish this?’ Philopoemen asked.
Aratos smiled broadly. ‘I do.’
‘Ah,’ Philopoemen said. ‘Too late, I fully understand.’ He turned to Alexanor. ‘I’m sorry.’
Alexanor smiled ruefully.
‘I think it is a terrible, foolish notion, Your Grace, one you can only follow if you refuse to read the information available to you and instead believe your own propaganda.’ Philopoemen bowed.
The New Achilles Page 42