by Paul Waters
Otherwise what are we? Windblown chaff, carried along by every chance eddy and current. No, there is no going back. But what would that be, but a return to ignorance? The task of each day is to strive for what is real, a constant return to the light.’
We walked along the path to the altar. The shadows were lengthening; the sun had already dropped below the western spurs of Parnes, sending shafts of light fanning out and upwards. Bats darted among the broken walls that had been the gymnasion and Plato’s school, and somewhere a solitary bird was singing, its call unanswered.
At the altar we paused, each of us resting his palm on the cool, golden marble, our hands close. I looked out towards the river.
‘Eros,’ I said. ‘Love. Yet love is not a god.’
‘He is a daimon – a spirit; he leads us out of ourselves, and towards what is true.’
I smiled. ‘He led me to you.’
‘And me to you. But it is only a beginning, not an end. What we have, we have because of that perfect place that is always beyond.
That is where Eros leads, if we are wise.’
I nodded, and not for the first time reflected that he saw so much further than I. His vision fed and sustained me, and sometimes, in moments when my mind was clear – on a mountain top, or beholding some thing of beauty – I caught a glimpse of what he saw.
A shadow of grief touched my heart. The gods may be for ever, I thought, but for men time is short, and time for love shortest of all.
I had already noted that we were alone. I took his hand and drew him to me, and before he could speak again I closed his mouth with a kiss.
Only my stepfather Caecilius seemed untouched by the general air of gloom. At the house where he was staying in Piraeus there was a constant traffic of merchants and their agents; men with suspicious eyes, who would fall suddenly silent when I passed. They came from Ionia, from Sidon and Antioch, from Sicily, and from vaguely mentioned cities in the north that bordered Macedon, cities that were allies, or near-allies, of Philip.
They were the sort who wait to see which way the wind is blowing before deciding where they are headed. I have always despised such men. I perceived, on my visits to that house, that while we fought to free Greece from tyranny, a whole community of men throve in the shadows, feeding on corruption, and the sufferings of others.
One, a rich merchant from Thebes called Tyrtaios, was my stepfather’s favourite at that time, and they spent long hours together working on some secret business. In general, nowadays, he and I kept a safe distance between us. But one day he announced he was holding a banquet for his friends, and said he wished me to attend.
I was minded to refuse, but Menexenos said it would seem churlish, after I had been away for so long. And so, reluctantly, I went.
Tuchon the Phoenician was there, whose house it was, reeking of Lydian oils and laden with heavy jewellery; there was a trader from Lesbos, and another from Byzantion. But it was Tyrtaios the Theban who was the guest of honour, and I guessed that whatever deal they had been working on had been concluded. I steeled myself for an evening of heavy drinking and gross amusements. These I was prepared for. In the end, though, it was the conversation itself which took me by surprise.
Tyrtaios was a man of about forty-five, with shrewd cold eyes and the demeanour of one for whom concealment had become a habit.
Unlike showy Tuchon with his garish jewels and odious scents, Tyrtaios did not dress up. This was not, I sensed, through poverty, but because it suited him not to draw attention to himself.
The wine began to flow even while the first course was still being carried in, each raising his cup to the other with conniving nods and looks of triumph.
At first, the conversation was as dull as I had expected, all talk of trade and property and possessions. The evening dragged on. I wished I were with Menexenos. The main dishes were served. When the slaves had finished and withdrawn, Tyrtaios observed smoothly, ‘Well I think we all agree that Titus has overreached himself this time.’
There were nods and a general rolling of eyes. ‘Pride before a fall,’
intoned the Byzantine.
‘And, in between,’ said my stepfather, ‘there is business to be done.’ He winked at Tyrtaios and added, ‘Fortune favours the brave.’
‘Quite so, Caecilius, quite so. And from what I hear in the street, it is not only we who now see the folly of supporting him and his stooge Attalos. The Athenians have backed a lame horse, yet again, as indeed your own fine son here can testify.’
At this, the man from Byzantion said, ‘Well they are not to be trusted. When the Romans crossed to Sicily, they said it was to drive out the Carthaginians . . .’
‘Exactly,’ nodded Tyrtaios. ‘And now the Carthaginians are gone, but the Romans are still there. Where is the Sicilians’ liberty now?’
He gave a light, sophisticated laugh, and over the rim of his wine-cup he cast his eyes among the guests, making sure they had taken his point.
I looked away. Could Caecilius have misjudged me so badly that he supposed I would to listen to this? I forced myself to bite my tongue. But then Tyrtaios said, ‘But I sense, Marcus, you do not agree.’
‘No, sir,’ I said turning, ‘since you ask me. I do not agree.’
Caecilius gave me a warning look. Tyrtaios arched his eyebrow in overplayed surprise. ‘Do you deny, then, that the Romans are still in Sicily?’
‘We went to Sicily because Hannibal was there. It was the Sicilians who chose to become our enemies, not we theirs.’
‘Of course it is natural for you to feel for your own.’ He gave a patient smile, the kind a teacher might give a dullard pupil. ‘But if the people of Sicily decided to support Hannibal, who is Rome to tell them they may not? And now look at Korinth. Rome cannot expect to march on every free city it chooses.’
‘The Korinthians are not free. They are hostages to a band of cut- throats and pirates, with Philip as paymaster.’
He inclined his head. ‘So you say. Certainly it suits Rome to have it believed.’
Caecilius coughed loudly. ‘The boy is young and na ve.’
‘Yet there is charm in youth, even if there is folly. So let the boy have his say. Freedom for each man to speak his mind is the Athenian way, I am told. And since we are in Athens . . .’ The others joined in his laughter. ‘But perhaps,’ he went on, ‘you have no more to say on the matter. I understand. I hear from Caecilius that you are a friend of Titus, and I am sure no one would blame you for supporting your benefactor, especially when he has made you a tribune. Perhaps, though, when you are able to consider these matters with a more dispassionate eye’ – casting an amused look around the room – ‘you will begin to see that I am right.’
‘You were not at Korinth, sir, and you were not at Abydos. But you are here. So walk beyond the walls and look with your own eyes at the desecrated shrines and burnt-out farms, for that is the kind of freedom Philip offers the Greeks: obey or die.’
Tyrtaios flinched. For an instant I caught a glimpse of the real man behind the mask. Caecilius saw it too. Sharply he said, ‘Marcus, you will apologize.’
But now my anger was up. I cast my eye over the silken hangings and damask cushions and dishes of expensive food, and I thought of the good men who had laid down their lives so that these rich merchants might sit here and sneer, safe in the knowledge that they would never be called upon to fight. I thought of Priscus’s son, who had died at Trasimene. I thought of Abydos, and of the men who had fought at my side at Korinth.
‘Apologize?’ I said. ‘Surely Tyrtaios hopes for Philip’s defeat as much as you or I, or why is he in Athens, which is, after all, at war with Macedon. But forgive me, sir, if I do not stay. All of a sudden I feel sick. It must be something in the food.’
So much for Tyrtaios. Soon I had more serious matters to concern me. A summons came from Lucius. He had taken a house for the winter in the expensive quarter of Athens, in the same neighbourhood as Pomponius, near the gardens of the precinct of Zeu
s.
He gave me a cold look when I was shown in to his workroom; there had been few pretences between us since the day at the walls of Korinth. He pushed a scroll across the table at me, as a man might push away a dish of food that disgusted him. ‘That is for you,’ he said.
I took up the scroll and glanced at its outer cover, and recognized Titus’s broad hand. Then I looked again and frowned.
‘What?’ said Lucius, as if he had been expecting this.
I said, ‘The seal is broken.’
‘I know.’
There was a tense silence. We both stood regarding one another.
But then the quiet was broken by the sound of Doron’s voice, coming from somewhere within the house, shouting angrily at the slave, demanding to know where his boots had been left – the red calfskin ones, his favourites. Distracted by this shrieking, Lucius blinked and looked away.
‘It was I who broke the seal,’ he snapped. ‘I read the letter. I am your commander, and I have every right.’
Doron’s voice once again echoed down the passageway. I said, ‘Shall I read the letter now; or do you prefer to tell me what it says, since you have read it?’
He gave me a sharp narrow-eyed look, sensing insubordination.
But I had been careful with my tone, and after a moment he huffed and said, ‘It seems my brother wants you to go to Nikaia. Philip has asked for a conference, and, since you have met Philip, he thinks your presence there will be useful.’
Nikaia is a little fishing town on the Malian gulf. I went by sea, in a fast military cutter. Titus met me at the jetty, and introduced me to the delegates from our allies who had gathered there. There was a representative from King Attalos called Dionysodoros; there was the admiral of the Rhodian fleet, Akesimbrotos, who had fought with us at Eretria and Korinth; and there were two men who had been sent by the League of Achaian cities. They greeted me with well-bred military courtesy. The final delegate, however, a discontented- looking, overdressed man, whom Titus introduced as Phaineas, the leader of the Aitolians, stared at me so intently that it bordered on rudeness, and I was left wondering whether he had somehow heard ill of me, or held some grudge. Later, when we were alone, Titus enquired whether I had brought a letter from Lucius. He looked crestfallen when I told him I had not.
‘What, nothing at all?’ he asked.
I looked down and frowned, and rather than hurt him with the truth, said I was sure Lucius would have written if there had been time; he had been much occupied with the withdrawal from Korinth, and seeing to winter quarters.
Titus nodded. ‘Of course. I expect he has much on his mind.’ We were walking in the pleasant walled garden of one of Nikaia’s leading men, where he was staying as a guest. There was an ancient vine growing up over the walkway, and orange trees, and, further off, a row of stately cypresses, with the mountains of Phokis rising up behind. ‘Well, anyway, it is good to see you, Marcus,’ he said after a short pause. ‘Tell me, what did you make of Phaineas?’
I thought again of the staring Aitolian. He had been wearing a heavy dark-blue cloak festooned with ornament: encrusted brooches; rings; pendants on thick chains that hung one on top of the other around his neck.
‘He looked like a pirate,’ I said. ‘And why was he staring at me?’
Titus laughed. ‘He does that to everyone; you’ll get used to it. It’s his eyes: he can’t see unless things are close up.’
‘A strange choice for a general then.’
‘Yes indeed, though I am told he leaves the fighting to others. But you’re right, he looks like a brigand, and that is what he is. All the Aitolians are, just as men say. They’re good horsemen, and tough as old vinestock, and they know the passes between Epeiros and Macedon better than anyone else. But they can’t be trusted. They’re barbarians at heart, and whatever vows and promises they make, they keep them only so long as it suits them.’
‘As bad as that?’
He shrugged. ‘They need to be watched. As for Phaineas, he was Philip’s ally until last year. Then he decided he had more to gain by switching sides.’
‘A man of honour then?’ I said dryly.
‘Indeed. Well, the Greeks are not suspicious of their Aitolian cousins for nothing. But they have been useful, and in war one cannot always choose one’s allies.’
Two days later, Philip arrived, by sea, accompanied by a small fleet of warships.
Everyone looked on from the shore. But it was not Philip I was staring at as the cutter drew in to the shallows; for Dikaiarchos was standing next to him, dressed in a thick quilted coat studded with bronze, his wild, blond hair bleached from a summer of campaigning, his quick amused fox’s eyes taking in the scene around him, and his mouth under his fair beard twisted in a wry grin.
The sight of him kindled all the rage that lay buried in my heart.
I filled my lungs with the cool autumn air and tried to calm myself. I told myself I should have guessed he would be here. But in my rush from Athens I had not considered it.
The cutter slowed. I saw Philip incline his head towards the shore and say something. Dikaiarchos grinned his rakish broad-toothed grin, and placing a hand on Philip’s shoulder said something in answer, at which they both laughed merrily, like two boys out on a fishing trip, without a care in the world.
I realized Titus had spoken to me and looked round.
‘Who is the one with the fair hair?’ he said again. ‘Do you know him?’
‘That is Dikaiarchos,’ I said.
Titus turned and looked. As for me, I realized as his name issued from my lips that I had uttered it no more than a handful of times in my whole life, this man who filled my bad dreams, who burned my very soul.
‘So that is the man,’ said Titus, considering him. And after that there was no time for talking. The cutter drew up till it was some fifteen paces from the shore, leaving the warships standing at anchor further out in the bay. Philip dropped his arm, and at this signal the rowers backed their oars and brought the craft to a halt.
There was a silence, broken only by the lapping of the ripples on the shore, and the calling sea-birds.
‘Will you not come ashore?’ called Titus after a few moments.
His voice echoed off the face of the surrounding rocks.
Philip said something to Dikaiarchos, then turned and called, ‘I think not.’
There was murmuring from those around me.
Titus spread his arms. ‘There are no troops here, as you can see, so who are you afraid of?’
Philip took a step forward. He was wearing a short horseman’s riding-tunic, and around his head a gold fillet, sign of kingship. ‘I am afraid of no one,’ he declared. ‘But I do not trust those men standing with you.’ He jabbed his finger at Phaineas, adding, ‘Especially him.
He is probably hiding a dagger in his cloak. He is an Aitolian, after all.’
Phaineas let out a hiss of indignation. Titus called out across the water, ‘But surely, King Philip, this danger is the same for all.’
‘Not so,’ replied Philip. ‘For if I killed Phaineas, there are a thousand Aitolians to take his place; but if he killed me, there is no one to take mine.’
‘This is outrageous!’ cried Phaineas. ‘I will not stand here and listen to these insults!’
Philip grinned at him. ‘Leave then.’
Titus took a step forward. ‘King Philip, you have asked for this conference. Now I have come as you requested. What is it you wish to discuss?’
‘I am here to listen to you,’ said Philip.
‘How so?’
‘Rome claims it wants peace. Very well. Let there be peace. What are your terms?’
‘You know my terms.’
Philip cocked his head.
‘He is wasting our time,’ muttered Phaineas.
Titus gestured for him to be quiet, then called out across the water, ‘Very well, the terms are these: withdraw your armies from Thessaly and Epeiros; remove your garrisons from Korinth and Argos and the ot
her Greek cities. All this you know. For the rest, you have made war also on our allies, and they must notify you what reparations they seek.’
The delegates began to chatter, like women at the well.
Dionysodoros, Attalos’s man, demanded the return of stolen warships and their crews, and the restoration of the sacred groves Philip had destroyed at Pergamon. Akesimbrotos called for Philip to hand over the Rhodian sea-ports occupied by Macedon, and for the freeing of Abydos. Then Phaineas came shoving up between them and cried, ‘Look at him! He smiles! He plays with us.’
Philip raised his brows. ‘Do you know my private mind now, Phaineas? Have you suddenly developed insight?’ He laughed and threw a grin at Dikaiarchos.
‘You are trying to divide us!’ Phaineas yelled back, furious.
‘Yet,’ said Philip, drawing down his black brows in mock- puzzlement, ‘so far it is only you and your friends who have spoken.
Could it be that you are already divided?’
Phaineas, momentarily lost for words, glared blinking at the water. Then he cried, ‘You are not man enough to face us in open battle, so you hide behind city walls and sell civilians into slavery.
Behold! You are too afraid even to step onto the shore.’
Philip turned to Dikaiarchos. ‘Why, listen,’ he said dryly, ‘an Aitolian accuses me of dishonour! Some historian should write it down, so that our grandchildren may hear of it and marvel.’
He snapped his fingers at the rowers. They took up their oars and brought the cutter closer to the shore. ‘I am the King of Macedon. It is for me to determine how the Macedonians wage war, not some Aitolian turncoat.’
‘Why do we waste our time here?’ cried Phaineas. Then, jabbing at Philip, ‘I can see what you are trying to do!’
‘Oh,’ said Philip with a broad grin. ‘It seems to me you can’t see anything at all. Are you pointing at me, or at that clump of myrtle?’
‘Please, gentlemen,’ said Titus.
‘You should watch yourself,’ said Philip with a nod. ‘Aitolians have difficulty understanding what friendship means. They say they are your allies, and then, when you turn your back, they plant the knife. So beware, Titus. Phaineas is standing behind you.’ He laughed, and continued, ‘Nevertheless, since you ask it, here is what I will do. I shall return the warships you demand, and I shall give the Rhodians their trading ports. As for the damage done to your sacred groves, even I cannot cause trees to spring up full-grown overnight, but I shall send choice plants from Macedon, and my best gardeners to plant them, if that will satisfy Attalos.’ He pulled a face, then smiled, and behind him Dikaiarchos and all the rowers grinned broadly at his joking, mocking tone.