by Tom Holt
But nobody listened; which was a pity, because when Alexander came back to life again, he stormed Thebes, massacred the citizens and had the place levelled —
except for the house where Pindar, the celebrated poet, was supposed to have lived a hundred years or so ago; it’s nice to see that all those hot, dull afternoons scanning iambic pentameters under the fig-tree in Mieza turned him into a man of culture and refinement.
After that he went back to Macedon, where his mother had just murdered his father’s second wife by roasting her alive over a charcoal brazier, to discover that he had inherited from his father a balance of payments deficit of three million drachmas, which, as I understand it, is roughly how much it would cost to build the Great Pyramid in Egypt.
To say he was annoyed would be an understatement. Imagine how Achilles would have felt if, having killed Hector under the Scaean Gate and stripped him of his armour, he’d had that same armour impounded by the bailiffs on account of unpaid forage bills. As far as Alexander was concerned, his Alexander wasn’t supposed to have to bother with stuff like that, so he did the only honourable thing and pretended he hadn’t heard. Instead, he borrowed a further five million drachmas (I have no idea who from) and marched into Asia with forty thousand men. His first stop, they tell me, was Troy, where he broke open the vault of the temple and helped himself to a shield that was supposed to have belonged to Achilles—
‘Achilles was lucky,’ he told someone at the time. ‘He had Homer to praise him.’
What the other guy said is not, for some reason, recorded.
In spite of Tyrsenius’ dire warnings, we did manage to hire some mercenaries; a hundred Budini horse-archers and fifty or so Thracian light cavalry. The Budini were very much like the ones we’d already met, but the Thracians were a miserable bunch, mostly men who’d been thrown out of their villages for antisocial behaviour of one sort or another. Nobody liked them very much, but they kept to themselves and only bothered those of us who hung around their camp looking for trouble. Nevertheless; we were paying them by the day and they weren’t cheap, which was a further incentive to us to make a move.
Even so, I persuaded my colleagues to restrain their enthusiasm for a little longer, simply because the longer we left it, the better our chances would be of taking them off-guard. We needed the element of surprise. With our deficiency in cavalry, we couldn’t mount the sort of lightning raid they’d hit us with, and besides, we had something rather more permanent in mind than killing a few people at random and torching a handful of buildings.
After endless meetings, discussions, debates, councils of war and other exercises in communal futility, I made a decision. I wasn’t the best person to decide the matter, gods know, and I’m not entirely sure to this day whether I actually had the authority to be quite so unilateral about it, but what mattered was that nobody else knew I didn’t have the authority. If I hadn’t forced the issue, I console myself, we’d probably still be arguing about it now; or at any rate, our grandchildren would.
My idea was to send the Thracians on a make-believe cattle raid. If they were sufficiently convincing (and I couldn’t see any reason why they wouldn’t be; in their particular dialect ofThracian, the words for ‘soldier’, ‘hero’, ‘cattle-thief’ and ‘unmitigated bastard’ are all the same) this would have the effect of turning out the able-bodied and warlike inhabitants of the village en masse, leaving the way clear for us to walk in through the front gate. When the village warriors realised they’d been had, of course, they’d turn back and ride like hell for home, knowing perfectly well what the diversion was in aid of; at which point they’d be ambushed by the Budini and the infantry reserve, with the Thracians coming in at the end to murder and rob the walking wounded. Finally, the ambush contingent would join the main body of the army to help with the demolition work.
Two days before we were scheduled to go, I was sitting in the back room of my house polishing my armour. If you could have seen me then, you’d have got a very good idea of the priority that matters military had had in my general view of things up to that point, because my helmet and breastplate were as green as the lush grass of the Vale of Tempe, the clip in the left-hand greave had gone soft, and the little patch that had been brazed over the hole in the backplate, through which Death had come to visit the armour’s previous one careful owner, had come away on two sides and was curling up like a dry leaf. That armour was worth exactly what I paid for it, which is another way of saying it was junk.
‘Someone to see you,’ Theano said. She had an expression on her face that I just couldn’t place, though I could deduce enough to know it wasn’t a happy one.
‘All right,’ I sighed, putting the breastplate down. ‘I’ll come through.’
As I walked into the main room, I nearly fell over.
‘Well, you’ve got a nerve,’ I said, as soon as I felt able to speak. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
Anabruzas, my old acquaintance, stood up. As he did so, the three men Marsamleptes had set to watch his every move started forward and grabbed their daggers. I frowned and shook my head, and they backed off, looking disappointed.
‘Thank you for the welcome,’ Anabruzas said. ‘Is there any point trying to talk to you?’
I took a deep breath, nodded and told him to sit down. ‘I’d always rather talk than fight,’ I said. ‘I suppose that’s the difference between us. Now, what’s on your mind?’
He looked at Marsemleptes’ men, then at me, and sat down, rather as if he expected the chair to come alive and bite him. ‘I told them not to do it,’ he said. ‘You know by now that I can’t stop them doing something they’ve set their hearts on doing, but I did hope I could talk sense into them. I couldn’t, so there it is.’
‘I see,’ I said. ‘So you’re telling me you have absolutely no authority to negotiate any kind of settlement.’
He rubbed his eyes, like a very tired man. ‘What they’re saying,’ he replied, ‘is that there’s no point trying to talk to you now because after what happened, you’re never going to listen. If I can go back to them and tell them otherwise, I might be able to make them see sense.’
I looked at him, then said, ‘And if you do go back and tell them we’re ready to talk, what makes you think they’ll trust either of us?’
He smiled sadly. ‘They know me,’ he said. ‘And they’ve dealt with Greeks long enough to know that they take this sort of thing seriously — you know, treaties and oaths and honour, the sort of thing you make laws and write poems about. Oh, you’ll bend the law right back on itself if it gives you an advantage, but you’ll stick to the letter of it. A wise man from one of the other nations of my people once said that Greek laws are like our bows; they’re designed to be bent almost indefinitely but never to be broken.’
‘That’s neat,’ I said. ‘I must use it myself some time. And if I try really hard, I suppose I could interpret that as a compliment to our integrity. Now, do you have anything specific to propose, or is this just an exercise in vague hand-wringing?’
He shook his head. ‘I have a very specific proposal,’ he replied. ‘I propose that we pay blood-money for your people who were killed, as if this was a family feud between us; then we join together to build a wall between your land and ours, which we both undertake never to cross without the other’s leave. And, since you have no particular reason to trust us without some sort of security, we’ll send you the second sons of each of our leading families as hostages;
hereafter, for every Greek who’s killed by one of us, you’ll be entitled to execute five of our children.’
I nodded. ‘That’s a very favourable ratio,’ I said. ‘But personally I’d rather you simply gave up killing Greeks.’
‘So would I,’ he replied angrily. ‘I still have one son left—’
‘Which is more than can be said of me,’ I broke in. I felt guilty for saying it, though I’m not sure why. It was as if it was cheating to equate his son with mine, because he’d loved his s
on... The thought made me frown.
He looked at me. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and I knew he meant it. ‘But you must try to understand, we don’t think the way you do, and I’m trying to be realistic.
With the best will in the world I can’t guarantee there won’t be any more killings. If I pretended otherwise, I’d end up being proved a liar, and then there’d be no hope of peace after that. All I can do is try and arrange matters so that, if there is any more violence, we know that we’ll come out of it far worse off than you. If there’s anything else you think I can do, please tell me.’
I didn’t say anything; I was thinking, what a remarkable man this was, a man who’d sent his own son to be ritually slaughtered by us the first time he’d tried to make peace; and here he was again, asking to be allowed to send us his other son, fully expecting that there’d be a time when we slaughtered him, too.
This man was no philosopher, he didn’t profess to disregard the material world as an unimportant illusion. There are philosophers and holy men who offer up their lives and the lives of those they love for the good of others because they put no value on life, and so they offer something they don’t care much about.
That’s cheating, of course. And I’ve heard that among some of the Scythian tribes, when their king dies his wives and servants and companions are pleased and honoured to have their legs and necks broken and be buried in the same mound as their lord, because it means they’ll go to the pastures in the land of the dead that are specifically reserved for kings and great lords, instead of the cold steppes where commoners go. That’s cheating; it’s haggling with death for a better deal, getting a higher price for what you’ve got to trade than it’s actually worth. And those men who die in battle, whose names are read out before the people and whose sons are honoured on Remembrance Day with laurel crowns and suits of armour provided at public expense; everyone dies eventually, but at least they’ve bought something with their death, obtained an advantage that they haven’t necessarily deserved. But I couldn’t see where Anabruzas was taking his profit in this deal; he was paying out and there didn’t seem to be anything in it for him. A strange man, and one I couldn’t help admiring, insofar as it’s possible to admire a fool.
‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do,’ I said. ‘I’ll talk to my people. I’ll try to make them understand. I’m making no promises; that way, I won’t be made a liar either. But please, bear this in mind. We don’t want to have to fight you, or anybody. We don’t like fighting, we don’t have the same notions of honour and glory as you do; basically, we just want to know we’re going to be left alone.
If we have to defend ourselves, we’ll do so as thoroughly and effectively as we possibly can, but we look at this sort of thing as if we were keeping accounts.
Every dead Greek is a net loss, and we get no profit from killing any number of your people.’
He looked at me as if he expected me to say something else, as if what I’d been saying was obviously incomplete. ‘That’s all,’ I said. ‘Now you go away and do your best, and I’ll do what I can.You never know, we might get out of this mess yet.’
An hour or so after he’d gone, Prodromus the Founder came bustling in with a face like thunder.
‘I don’t believe it,’ he said. ‘After everything we’d agreed.You gave your word.’
I had my hands full with a broken greave; I was trying to solder a new clip, but the fire wasn’t hot enough to make the solder run. ‘What are you babbling about now, Prodromus?’ I asked.
‘You made a deal with the Scythian,’ he said. ‘One of the guards who was here with you came and told me. You’re betraying the trust of the whole city, I hope you know that.’
I sighed. ‘Balls,’ I said. ‘I’m doing no such thing.’
He was speechless for a moment. ‘Euxenus, you can’t lie to me, I’ve heard everything that was said in this room. You told that man you’d do everything you could to promote a peaceful settlement.
‘I know,’ I said. ‘I was lying.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I was lying,’ I repeated. ‘I have absolutely no intention of trying to talk you and the rest of them out of attacking the village; partly because I know it wouldn’t work, but mostly because I want to see that village burned to the ground and the heads of the men who killed my son stuck on poles among the ashes.’
Prodromus looked at me as if I was talking Persian. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘You told that man...
‘That’s right. And he’s gone back to his village, and right now I expect he’s telling all the people how the Greeks are willing to talk, and this is their last, best hope for peace. With any luck, he may even convince them. Which’ll make our job that much easier the day after tomorrow.’
I don’t think I’ve ever seen anybody look as shocked in all my life. ‘Euxenus, for the love of the gods,’ he said. ‘You can’t do that, it’s...’
‘Clever,’ I said. ‘Is that the word you were looking for?’
‘It’s inhuman,’ he shouted. ‘It’s disgusting. I refuse to have anything to do with it.’
I smiled. ‘I can’t remember asking you,’ I replied, ‘so that’s all right. Oh, for pity’s sake, Prodromus, we’ve all solemnly agreed that the day after tomorrow we’re going to attack their village and kill the lot of them. Compared with that, a little white lie is neither here nor there.’
He stared at me as if I’d grown an extra head. ‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this,’ he said. ‘Not from an Athenian.’
‘Ex-Athenian,’ I reminded him. ‘Now please, unless you’re any good at soldering, shove off and stick your conscience where it won t get in the way. And if I were you, I’d keep my face well and truly shut or the next couple of days; that’s unless you want the Scythians to learn what we’ve got planned for them. I have a feeling that our security isn’t everything it should be, or how did they know the gate was going to be left open?’
He opened his mouth, then closed it again and went away without another word.
And, in case you were wondering, I got the solder to run perfectly well after that. I suspect that before I hadn’t been using enough flux.
The average Thracian, when you get to know him, is probably a decent enough fellow. I expect they herd their sheep and goats the same way we do, plant their barley and their beans, argue with their wives, spoil their children, fall out with their relatives, grumble about the weather, grow old and die exactly the same way as everybody else. By the same token, the average Thracian, like the average Greek, is born, lives and dies in his native village and never goes more than twenty miles from it in his whole life. It follows that the Thracians we hired weren’t average Thracians, just as we weren’t average Greeks.
So I can’t justify a statement along the lines of ‘All Thracians are worthless, treacherous bastards’; I must reserve my hatred and abuse for the particular bunch of Thracians I had dealings with, and that’s all to the good; the fewer of them, the more hatred there is to go around.
Worthless, treacherous, cowardly bastards; they took our money, we gave them a relatively safe and perfectly simple job to do, and they cocked it up. I don’t subscribe to the theory, popular around the city of Antolbia shortly after the events I’m about to describe, that their actions were deliberate, if only because they were far too stupid to have done what they did on purpose. If they’d been trying to screw up the operation they’d have got it wrong, and things wouldn’t have turned out nearly so badly for us.
You’ll remember the plan, Phryzeutzis; my plain, simple, logical plan whereby the Thracians were to drive off the Scythians’ livestock, drawing the main war-party out of the village and leaving it open to our main army; meanwhile, once they’d realised they’d been tricked, the war-party would hurry back towards home and run straight into the ambush we’d set for them.
Well now. What could possibly go wrong?
On the day, I’d chosen to go with the reserve, who had the job of ambushing the
war-party. Partly this was because that engagement was the only one that could possibly go wrong (the attack on the undefended village would just be a massacre, and you don’t need to be an Alexander or a Brasidas to organise the slaughter of women and children), mainly because I didn’t really want to be there when the non-combatants got killed. I know; hypocritical and pointlessly squeamish, but what the hell.
The Thracians set off just before dawn, and we followed almost immediately, since we had to get to the ambush site on foot. We arrived and were in position when the war-party set out. We watched them galloping furiously up the nicely conspicuous trail the Thracians had left, made a rough estimate of their numbers, which tallied nicely with what we knew of the fighting strength of our enemies, and did our best to keep calm and stay quiet while we waited for them to come back.
We waited.
A long time.
Noon came and went. Noon is a very hot time when you’re crouched behind a rock in full armour, and as we hadn’t anticipated being there for nearly that long, we hadn’t burdened ourselves with much drinking water. If we stayed put, not only were we going to fry to death, we were also missing out on what was happening elsewhere — for all we knew, the Scythians had caught and obliterated the Thracians and, flushed with success, were sweeping down on unguarded Antolbia; if we moved, we ran the risk of being caught out in the open by the war-party and severely handled.
It was at this point in my reasoning that I gave up. Either way, I could picture myself facing an angry mob of Founders, all saying, ‘How could you have been so stupid—?’ It was bad, but not nearly as bad as finding out you’ve been sitting behind a rock all day while your friends and neighbours were being cut down where they stood by barbarian horsemen.