Poseidon's Spear (Long War 3) (14 page)

‘You staying for dinner, master?’ she asked.

I shook my head. ‘Not invited, lass,’ I said.

‘Oh!’ said the serving girl. ‘Cook! He ain’t staying!’

Cook, a big Italiote woman who never seemed to understand that she was a slave, came out of the kitchen. ‘Missy says you are staying to dinner, young master. And the mistress said so, too.
Said she’d be home by now,’ added the cook with a significant sniff.

Well.

‘I’ll give you a nice bowl of hot water and a towel, eh?’ said Cook.

‘Is it true you was a slave?’ said the girl.

I nodded. ‘Twice.’

She sighed. ‘I’d like to be free.’

I washed my hands and face. I had a lesson. I was going to miss it, and I wasn’t sure why.

No, that’s a lie. I knew exactly why I was missing it. I was letting down my teacher, I was distracting myself from my exercise, and I was quite possibly about to betray my master’s
trust while deflowering his daughter.

That’s why I stayed to dinner.

Men’s reasons are complex animals, my young friends. I told myself many things, but here, with you, in the firelight of my own hearth, I know –
I know
– that I wanted
her. And despite guest oaths, and friendship and trust and even love, I was willing to have her body, not even for the sweet desirability of it, but because other men wanted it, and I could not
stop myself from this contest.

Bah! Fill my cup. I disgust myself. And I do not want to tell this part of the story.

Lydia came down to dinner dressed like a goddess in a play: like Artemis as the patron of young women, or Athena as Parthenos, the virgin. She had on a chiton of Syrian linen
dyed the colour of a stormy sea that must have cost as much as five of my helmets. My critical eye saw that her pins had already ripped a line of very small holes in the cloth along the contrasting
linen-tape edges of pure white. Over the chiton, which fell to the floor, she wore a himation of wool that was almost transparent, and fell in frilly folds to the floor – just off white, with
a stripe of pure Tyrian purple. In her hair was a fillet of white linen tape, and on her feet—

Lydia had the most beautiful feet.

On her feet she wore sandals of gold. In fact, they were leather, with gold leaf laid carefully over the sandals, and again, I could see where she had now worn them enough that the gold had come
away from the very top of the arch of leather over her foot.

Noticing these things is not the same as caring. She was as beautiful as a goddess. Her face was radiant, and her carriage was proud and erect. Every line of her body showed through the fabric.
She had muscles on her legs and arms that enhanced her posture.

‘
The girl with the golden sandals has shot me with the dart of love
,’ I said. I knew my poets.

A man of twenty-six has every advantage with a girl of fifteen. Compared to any other possible suitor, I was better. I
was
better.

And I should have known better, as well.

I led her to the table. I clapped my hands for the slaves, and when they came, I pointed at Lydia.

‘Does she not look like a goddess?’ I asked.

Cook gave her a hug, and the two girl slaves curtsied.

And we sat to dine.

If we had been aristocrats, I’d have reclined, I suppose – I’ve honestly only eaten by myself about a dozen times in my life. She’d have sat in a chair, or even fed
herself in the kitchen. But this had developed a sense of occasion, and so I sat in a chair – men did, you know, back then – and Cook served us herself. We had chicken with a lovely
herb sauce thickened with barley, and thick bread with olive tapenade, and some other
opson
that was made with tuna and highly spiced. At every remove, we expected Julia home.

One of the slaves brought us honeyed almonds, which were a special treat, as we knew Cook didn’t really like the mess. The slave girl had obviously sticky fingers and a lot of honey around
her mouth, and Lydia and I both saw it: our eyes met, and we laughed aloud.

And her foot rubbed up along the length of the inside of my leg. And she looked at me, an openly curious look. It said,
I surprised myself, there, but now that I’ve done it, what do we
think?

We drank wine. It wasn’t great wine – Nikephorus didn’t drink great wine. He bought good, dark-red local stuff and he liked it. But it was good wine, and we had two cups each,
and then we shared a cup.

This is where I went over the edge.

When I went to the cupboard and took down the kantharos cup with two handles, I knew exactly what I was doing. But I had crossed over.

Her eyes were huge as she drank, and our hands touched a great deal.

We sat for a long time, just looking at each other, our now bare feet busy.

In my head, I was screaming at myself to get up and walk away.

I was going to sail to Alba.

Lydia was not coming.

I eventually got up to wash my hands – almonds in honey are sticky. As I rose, I saw that Lydia’s chiton had come a long way above her knee – the sight inflamed me.

I have so many excuses.

I walked to the kitchen. Cook was smiling as I washed my hands.

‘If I didn’t know you was pledged to each other,’ she said. She frowned, then grinned lasciviously. ‘But I do. Never a word will be spoken, eh?’

I gave her a silver drachma.

There was a knock at the slave door, and a willowy boy stuck his head in and was instantly abashed, since he had to assume I was the master.

‘What do you want, boy?’ I asked.

‘Just?’ he said witlessly.

Cook made a cooing noise. ‘He’s the Mater’s boy,’ she said. ‘What do you want, Petrio?’

He made a sort of sketchy bow. ‘Only, my mistress says . . . she is sick, and could you send fennel? And Mistress Julia says she’ll be another hour at least, and please do not tell
the young people.’ He looked at me. ‘And that’s all she said.’

I smiled.

Cook frowned. ‘You ain’t supposed to have heard that,’ she said.

Petrio ran for it.

I shrugged. And went back to the andron.

Lydia was standing by the door to the portico. Her back was to the steps to the exedra, and I assumed she was about to go. I stepped up to her—

I have no idea. We kissed. Who started it? Who stopped? Why?

No idea.

We were in a patch of absolute shadow, and we were fools, and my hands roved her body and hers began, hesitantly, and then with increasing knowledge, to roam mine.

Cook walked right up behind us and dropped a plate.

The crack of the plate was like a dose of cold salt water.

Cook glared at me.

I had Lydia’s chiton around her hips, a hand deeply inside her himation and all the pins off her right shoulder.

She blushed, shook her clothes into place and bolted up into the exedra.

I had very little to repair. So I was left with Cook, who stood with her arms crossed, glaring at me.

‘Don’t tell the young people,’ Cook said. ‘That means she didn’t want you necking in the portico. That’s what I heard.’

I nodded and bowed.

‘You had better marry her,’ Cook said. She shook her head – the weary motion women make when men are involved.

You’ll understand me better if you know that while I was repentant, all I could think of as I walked home was the perfect smoothness of her skin, the hard tip of her nipple under my hand,
the softness . . .

Well, girls, you can giggle all you like. I’m helping you understand the enemy. Because men need only the touch of a breast to turn from lovers to predators. Sometimes less than that. And
what do you get? A man gets an hour’s pleasure, and a woman gets – if she’s unlucky – pregnancy and death. But your bodies are built to tell you otherwise, and when a
man’s hand is on a woman’s thigh, does she think of childbirth, of Artemis coming for her spirit as the baby wails?

No.

Nor does the man, I can tell you.

Even with a porne, the smart ones are careful, gathering seed in a sponge or using . . . other ways. I’m making you
all
blush: I’ll stop. But listen, girls. The joy is the
same for both. It’s the
price
that’s different.

The next day, I went to the shop and worked. At lunch, for the first time I can remember, Lydia came down into the shop with a chunk of bread and some excellent cheese and a
cup of wine. When she put the wine into my hand, her whole hand wrapped around mine. She smiled up into my eyes. And then slipped away with grace.

I wanted her. All the time.

That afternoon, without any connivance, the two of us came together in the corridor behind the kitchen, and there wasn’t another person in sight, slave or free. Before we could breathe, we
were in each other’s arms, drinking deep. Her hand was under my chiton, on my hip, and mine—

We had perhaps ten heartbeats, and we almost managed to make love. Luckily we heard movement, and we broke.

It was all just a matter of time.

And in between these trysts I cursed myself for a fool and a coward and a liar, leading her on, and I swore not to have her.

The problem is, you see, that it no longer mattered. Men make much of the act of sex, but it is the act of possession and love that makes the bond. I didn’t need to ride her – she
had given herself. We hadn’t made a baby, but we had made a pact, and I knew I wasn’t going to keep it.

Liar. Betrayer.

I thought that I could play her along until I was ready to leave. And ‘let her down easily’.

But I never even tried.

I wanted her, body and soul. But not enough, you’ll note, to change my plans, or take her with me.

The next day was the same. But I had begun to hedge my bets. I kissed her when I
knew
that Cook was close by and would end it.

See? There’s no way to tell this to make myself good.

And I
still wanted her
, every minute. When I saw her, all my friends vanished, the boat was a chimera and I was willing to be a smith in Syracusa. For life.

And then, at the whim of the gods, our boat came back.

They had a better boat. As soon as she was pulled up on the shingle, I could see she had almost double the cargo space, and she was better built – the tongues of wood
that held the planks together were tightly placed and beautifully pegged. The steering oars, rather than grey with age, were shining golden wood – new, and very handsome.

They had perfumes and some Etruscan tin. The Etruscan mines are small and stingy, and the Etruscans don’t let much out of the country. But Gaius had arranged the sale, and the tin gave us
an entry into the trade.

It was a step. Two steps.

As we drank that night in a wine shop, Doola pointed proudly at our new boat. ‘We call her
Amphitrite
,’ he said. ‘She rides the waves like a girl riding a man. With
passion.’ He lifted his cup and we all drank, and Seckla put wine on the floor for luck.

‘So—’ Doola was hesitant, and they all looked at me.

‘We want to change the plan a little,’ Seckla said, all in a rush. His hands moved as he spoke. ‘We want to get into the tin trade, first by selling the load we have down the
coast, in the Sikel communities where Demetrios has friends. And then—’

Demetrios couldn’t take it any more. ‘
Amphitrite
can take a longer voyage,’ he said. ‘We take her to Massalia, in Gaul. We load tin there, and we see if we can
get someone to tell us about the north. Then, when we’ve sold some cargoes—’

‘How long?’ I asked.

Doola was the only one to meet my eyes. ‘Two years,’ he said. ‘Maybe three, until we’ve got secure trade connections in Massalia and Etrusca and Latinium. Etrusca is
rich, brother. There’s no reason for us to be here. Sicily is not the hub. Etrusca is.’

I laughed. Shook my head. ‘How’s Gaius?’ I asked.

‘He’s going to come back to us – with a small ship of his own,’ Neoptolymos said. ‘We visited his city.’

‘It’s a dung heap compared to Syracusa,’ Daud said. He shrugged. ‘And everything they have is taken from my people. But they are rich, and they buy tin – all ten
cities. Eleven cities. However many; they pack more cities into the plains of Tusca than we have cities in all of Gaul.’

I shook my head. ‘I’ve got myself into trouble,’ I admitted. ‘If I stay here two years, I’ll be a married shop-owner with a pot belly and four kids. And no
mistake.’

Their faces fell.

For the very first time, it occurred to me that we might part ways. Somewhere in another world, off to the east, I had a ship, a family, some wealth and the burned-out remains of a prosperous
farm. I could always make a go of it there.

I could marry Lydia and take her to Plataea.

I could go and find Briseis. By Aphrodite, friends, I never, ever, forgot Briseis for more than ten heartbeats. Even then.

Heh.

‘If we do as you suggest,’ I said to Doola, ‘we work our way up to the Alba run gradually. I see the value in it. But it is my observation – I hear the gossip here
– that the Carthaginians have all but closed the Gates of Heracles. I don’t know of any ship, Greek or Etruscan, that trades with Iberia or Alba. They carry it all, and they sink anyone
who tries to run the gauntlet. Am I right?’

Neoptolymos took a swig of wine while keeping me in the corner of his eye, and he gave a hard grin. ‘That sounds like a fight.’

Doola nodded, biting his lip. ‘It’s true.’

‘Gaius is a trader, and he’s filled your heads with trade. I’m a bronze-smith, but I’m also a warrior. If we go to Alba – even if we only go to the north coast of
Iberia! – we will have to fight and sail and sneak, and fight again, if we must. And if we spend two or three years learning the trade, the bastards will see us coming. We need to take them
by surprise – a crew of nobodies, a ship they don’t know.’

‘Two ships,’ Demetrios said with a shrug. ‘
Amphitrite
goes too. We can fill her full of stores, and take a rowed ship for speed when we need it. Two ships double the
profit, and make it more likely one gets home.’

I shrugged right back at him. ‘Ten ships? A couple of triremes?’