Poseidon's Spear (Long War 3)

by Christian Cameron

  Except for fifty or so of them, who started killing the others from behind.

  Of course, Epidavros had placed his least trustworthy men on his left. Neoptolymos’s cousins.

  I slowed our advance. I needed cohesion, not impact. ‘Dress the line!’ I roared. ‘On me!’

  The phalanx, such as it was, closed up. Men lapped their shields over their neighbour’s to the left, and our advance slowed as men turned half sideways, and began the crab-walk that hoplites use when they are at the synaspis – the closer order.

  The best-armoured man on the other side – I assumed he was Epidavros – called something to his men, and they roared and charged us.

  An Illyrian charge is a fearful thing, and not very Greek. Or rather, perhaps it is exactly what we looked like at Marathon, when we ran at the Persians. But there were a lot of them, and they came at us screaming, and their front rank men had armour and big spears – they were big men, too.

  Exactly opposite me was a towering figure, like a giant. A head taller than me, with shoulders like an ox and a giant aspis the size of a table in a taverna.

  I hate fighting big men.

  But my daimon was there, too. And as they roared and ran at us, I was Arimnestos of Plataea and no man’s slave or chattel. And this was my fight.

  When he was three paces away, I threw my heavy spear. He was running. Try to run with your aspis covering you.

  He took it in the chest. He had a bronze thorax, and his last thought was the shock that my spear went through it.

  Second to last thought, I guess. He stood and looked at it for long enough that I stabbed him in the throat with my second spear, ripped it clear and stepped up onto his back to kill my second man, a roaring madman all teeth and rage. He seemed to be trying to embrace my shield. I gave him my spear tip, instead, and my spear broke, and while I drew my sword, my line gave a great roar and pushed forward. We had the hill. We were four deep, a forest of skilled spearmen, and a great many Illyrians died in the first seconds of that meeting. The line gave a push, and suddenly we were ten paces down the hill, and men were stumbling back.

  Epidavros roared for his men to stand. He was a few feet from me, faced half away, and Neoptolymos shoved Brasidas aside, took his uncle’s thrust on his shield and thrust back, but the well-armoured man fell back a step and made a good shield parry.

  Fair fights are for fair men.

  I reached out with the tip of my sword and slapped his sauroter so that his spear turned in his hand. He half turned – the panic obvious in his open-faced helmet – as Neoptolymos’s second thrust took him in the cheek, carving through his teeth and jaw and into the back of his throat.

  I knew, in some trained portion of my mind, that I had left the enemy to my left for too long, and I turned my head and thrust with my shield just in time to catch a thrust coming from that direction, but Gaius, bless him, was there, and he powered forward, shield-cut the man, forcing him to raise his aspis, and then cut beneath it into the man’s leg—

  And we had won.

  War is chaos, and a battlefield is so much a piece of the outer night that no man can really tell you exactly what happened in any one place, but from what I saw, it appeared that Neoptolymos’s Illyrian cousins cut into the back of the attempted charge at Daud’s cavalry, panicking the enemy left, which then became a mob of frightened men and not part of an army. Daud’s charge – foolish under other circumstances – passed into the gap, killing few enemies but sewing despair. And Neoptolymos killed his uncle, our front broke their front and they ran.

  I doubt the fighting lasted as long as it takes a man in armour to run the hoplitodromos. We didn’t win because of my brilliant plan; or discipline, or armour, or the hill behind us, or our cavalry. All contributed a little, but the will of the gods and a healthy draught of luck won us the day.

  And the furies, their wings and claws beating at Epidavros. May he rot.

  22

  I’d like to say that Neoptolymos forgave his uncle’s relatives and retainers, but he didn’t, and there was a lot of blood in the next few hours. His cousins gathered around him, shouting out each indignity that they had endured at Epidavros’s hands, and they mutilated the man’s corpse. Then they started to execute the prisoners – slave and free, noble and peasant.

  I could have stopped it.

  But I didn’t.

  I suppose that I had secretly wanted Dagon to be in the harbour. He wasn’t. But there were three Carthaginian ships, all small coasters, and we took them from the land while Dionysus closed the harbour mouth, and as the storm came up at sunset, our triremes came onto the harbour beach, safe from the storm, which raged for three days with Adriatic ferocity while the streets of the stronghold ran with blood.

  I know philosophers who praise the Illyrians and the other barbarians for the purity of their way of life – the honesty of a world where a man’s strength is in his hands and his weapons. As a warrior, I realize that this may sound hopelessly pious, but as the rain-thinned blood ran down the cobbled streets of Dyrachos, and Epidavros’s relatives, retainers and womenfolk were hunted, raped and executed, I could only think of them all as barbarians. It can happen in Greece. It has happened in Greece. But by the gods, we do what we can to avoid it.

  Dionysus took Epidavros’s daughters as slaves to sell in Syracusa. In brothels.

  Neoptolymos sat on an ivory chair in the citadel. He had blood under his nails.

  I have blood on my hands, too. I embraced him and wished him well, but I wanted no more of Illyria. He loaded me with gifts: gold cups, an Aegyptian ostrich egg, a silk cloak from Cyprus – he was open-handed with his uncle’s riches. Which was as well, as all of us had oarsmen to pay.

  On the first fine day, I piled all of our loot, our plunder and our gifts on blankets on the beach, with silver ingots and bronze kettles, helmets, swords, spearheads—

  We began the division of the spoils. I sat on my stool to adjudicate arguments. Will that girl clean up well when she stops crying? Can she weave? Compare her value to the value of that silver inlaid helmet – what’s between her legs is softer, but a moment of fever and she’s a stinking corpse, and the helmet will protect your head.

  Ah, thugater, you hide your head. What do you think those scenes in the Iliad are about, when men divide the spoils?

  It took two days.

  There were the Carthaginian prisoners. By then, we had learned from them that Dagon had escaped us by less than two weeks. But at sea, two weeks is an eternity, and his ship had been clear of the Adriatic before our sails nicked the horizon. At any rate, I took the prisoners, as I was determined to send the bastard a message.

  Men made their marks on everything. And there was some rearranging of crews. Most of my oarsmen wanted to go home to Massalia. Not Leukas the Alban, or some of the others. And Daud and Sittonax were done: we’d sworn oaths, and now they were satisfied. They would be going home. Doola and Seckla would return to our little town under the mountains.

  I was going back to Plataea.

  We loaded the spoils on different ships, and we exchanged oarsmen.

  We drank together, one last time. It is odd, I think, and speaks directly to the power of the gods and of our oath, that of the seven who swore one day on a beach in Etrusca, we all lived to go to Alba, and six of us gathered on a beach in Illyria to say goodbye, despite slavery, war, betrayal and murder. We sacrificed an ox, sent his thigh bones to Zeus and asked the King of the Gods to witness that we had fulfilled our oaths to each other. Gaius and I made all of them swear to be guest friends, and each of us swore to visit the others again.

  Giannis took the pentekonter for the oarsmen who were bound for Massalia. Megakles just shrugged. ‘I’ll go where you go,’ he said simply. ‘As long as I never have to serve under that fuckhead again.’ By whom he meant Dionysus.

  Doola and I had a long conversation the last night at Dyrachos. Perhaps someday I’ll tell you what we said. He felt I was making a terrible mistake in going home
.

  ‘Violence burns you like fire,’ he said.

  ‘You sound like Dano,’ I said.

  He shrugged. ‘I no longer eat meat. And now that I have fulfilled my oath, I will go back to Croton and become an initiate,’ he said. ‘You should, too.’

  I am a man of war. Sometimes, when one man wrongs another, only violence will settle the matter. We argued.

  But we embraced.

  And the next day, I sailed for Athens, with Cimon, Harpagos and Paramanos under my stern. And Sekla on my deck. He embraced Doola, but he came with me.

  ‘You get wounded in every fight,’ Doola said. ‘In the end, you’ll be killed.’

  Sekla grinned. ‘Everyone dies,’ he said. ‘I want to see Athens. And then perhaps I’ll go home.’

  The full irony of the next part can’t come home to you, children, unless you understand that I thought that was the end of adventure. I was at Sardis, Lade and Marathon. I went to Alba.

  I was thirty-one years old, and it was time to grow up and go home. Face the burned-out forge. Kiss my sister. Grow a crop. Perhaps arrange for another wife; children.

  Certainly that’s what Cimon and Harpagos and Paramanos and Sekla and I discussed the next two nights, as we worked our way down the coast of Illyria, past Leucas and landed at last at Ithaca. I felt like Odysseus returning, and we made some jokes. The truth is, too much blood had been spilled at Dyrachos for too little, and we were not ourselves. I have found that men of blood can go into black moods for little reason. That was one of those times, for me. Indeed, as we rowed south towards the Peloponnese, the same darkness began to come over me that had driven me off the cliff at Alkyonis when I tried to kill myself. I was savage to Megakles, who bore it with amused resignation, and to Ka, who glowed with his own rage, and to Sekla, who grinned and paid me no further attention.

  That night, though, I saw a satyr near Pheia. Men say they are myth; other men say they live only in the Chersonese, or only in Scythia, or only around Olympia. I know what I saw, and the wonder of seeing it transfigured me. I had walked off the beach to have a piss, and I came back all but glowing. Cimon believed me – told me he had seen one himself in the south of the Peloponnese – while Brasidas ridiculed me and told me to grow up.

  Brasidas had come with us as a passenger – he had the money to pay his mess bill – or the term of his exile was over. Either way, it might have been the longest speech I’d heard from him up until that date.

  ‘You sound more like Thales than like a Spartan,’ I said.

  ‘All Spartans are philosophers,’ he said.

  ‘They have to talk about something in between fighting,’ Cimon said.

  I had decided to sail all the way to Athens to sell my loot, before going across the mountains to Boeotia. In truth, I think I was delaying my return home. Now that I’d decided on it, it scared me. Or rather, confronting my sister scared me, and the thought that she might have died in the meantime.

  I thought a great deal about Odysseus, to tell you the truth.

  The next day, the sky was red at dawn and we debated spending the day on the beach, but the rain, when it came, was gentle, and we put to sea.

  But the visibility got worse and worse, and by midday, I couldn’t see any of the other ships. The wind was rising, and I turned the bow for shore.

  And the wind changed.

  We had had the wind alongside all day, and now it swung from west to east and came up with a howl, almost as fast as I can tell the story. An hour later it was as dark as night, the wind howled in the rigging and the rowers were exhausted, and I knew I couldn’t land the ship in this.

  I had sailed the Western Ocean and I had been captain of my own ship for fifteen years, at that point. But I would have liked to have Paramanos, Harpagos or Demetrios or Doola at my side – or Miltiades or Cimon, for that matter. All of them, better yet.

  I was with Megakles at the steering oars.

  ‘We have to turn and run before the wind,’ I shouted.

  Wearily, he nodded.

  Well, I hoped he agreed.

  I ran down the sail deck to Leukas and Sekla. Held their arms while I shouted in their ears – that’s how bad the wind was. Leukas looked at the sea for a moment, as if he hoped that something would save us – a friendly sea monster, perhaps.

  Then we began to run along among the oar benches, crawling when we had to. We told every oarsman what we were going to do. Every one.

  Because turning a galley across big waves in a high wind is suicide. We had no choice. Only excellent luck and fine rowing and the favour of Poseidon would win us through.

  I ordered Sekla to get the boat-sail up. I needed Leukas to get the oarsmen around, and I was going to be at the steering oars with Megakles. But the boatsail required timing and boatsail courage – and Sekla had plenty of both. He took Ka and the archers.

  Even from the bow I could see nothing to the east, but I thought I could hear breakers under the wind.

  There was no time to think.

  I got on the starboard steering oar. I caught Megakles’ eye, and he nodded.

  The wind roared. We rose on a wave.

  ‘About ship!’ I called, with every force I had.

  The port-side rowers reversed their benches as the bow fell off from the wind. The wind wanted us broadside. We were still climbing a great breaker.

  And then the port-side oars bit.

  The starboard oars pivoted through another stroke.

  There was a crack forward, where Ka had cut the boltrope of the boatsail, and it filled. Filled, cracked, slapped . . . and tore in half.

  But in those heartbeats while it was intact, it swung the ship a third of the way around, and the oars now had purchase, and the bow was a little west of south.

  We hit the top of the wave, and we weren’t broadside on, and started down.

  The two oar-banks gave a great heave, like hoplites pushing at the climax of battle.

  Our bow came around another point while the wind screamed, and then—

  We were around. Even the ruins of the boatsail were enough to keep the bow pointed west, and now we were running free, and the rising sea was under the stern. Megakles used to swear we were close enough to Prote that he could have thrown a rock and hit the shore. I don’t know.

  I never looked back.

  We spent the night at sea, running before the wind and rain. The turn was terrifying, but it was, in many ways, less fearsome than that soaking, endless maw of darkness and freak waves that rolled across our seas against the wind, making my life and Megakles’ an endless torment of crisis.

  But we did it. On and on, and finally the sky was a paler grey.

  The mainmast went about morning. The pole was bare, of course, but the force of the wind had borne upon it all night, sometimes lashing it back and forth, and never had I thought so ill of the ship’s rig. And finally, there was a thump from below, a scream as an oarsman was pulped by the swinging stump of the mast, and then it was gone over the side.

  Will of the gods. It might just as easily have gone through the shell of the ship and broken us in half, but it didn’t. It killed one man. It only had two heavy ropes supporting it, and we cut them away with swords as fast as we could – took a wave that soaked every man aboard and nigh filled us with water, and then the rags of the boatsail took the windboatsail and we were back on course, bailing like mad.

  That was the last gust of the storm; we were all but sunk. The wave that struck us filled the bilges, and a trireme is a difficult ship to empty of water. Our rowers were already exhausted, and now they were trying to pull the weight of five thousand mythemnoi of water through the waves. The boatsail kept us alive, but we were wallowing, and had the storm risen again to its former ferocity, we would have foundered right there.

  We bailed and bailed, and rigged our wooden pumps, and used helmets and buckets and clay pots and anything we had to get water over the side. We tossed the dead man’s corpse to Poseidon.

  Little by
little, we won our ship back from the sea.

  I can’t tell you how long we bailed. I only know that every man not rowing was standing in the icy water between the thranites’ legs, passing buckets up or taking empty ones down and dumping them as fast as we could. And then, when Megakles reported that we were steering and the wind had died away, I went up to the sail deck – curiously naked without a mainmast – to a calm grey day with a hint of a breeze and every chance of sun later.

  The sea.

  I ordered Leukas to belay bailing long enough to rig the second boatsail.

  In no time, we were moving smartly, and all the oarsmen were bailing, and men began to complain about the lack of water to drink. That’s when I knew we were going to live.

  I knew we were well south of the Peloponnese, in the great blue deep between Carthage, Sicily, Athens and Cyrene. I watched the water for a while, and let the wind take us south and west. The rowers were exhausted. I needed land, water and food.

  Men slept fitfully, and I told them all we would be another night at sea. I served out half the water we had, and all the grain and stale bread. And a dozen flasks of wine.

  It was, thanks to Poseidon, an easy night.

  As the sun touched the eastern rim of the aspis of the world with her rosy fingers, we saw a trireme lying under our lee – low in the water, and unmoving, without even a boatsail rigged.

  We didn’t even have to run down on her – our ship was pointed at her. I thought for a little bit she might be Cimon’s, or Paramanos’s, but as we got closer I thought she was Harpagos’s Storm Cutter until I remembered that the old Phoenician ship was gone, replaced by a sleek Athenian hull. This was no Athenian. This was a heavy Phoenician warship, the kind that fills the centre of their line in battle.

  As we manned the oars and Brasidas armed the marines, we saw them doing the same. The damaged ship began to crawl away from us and her archers lofted a dozen shafts, and one of Ka’s men was killed outright.