Soldier of Arete (34 page)

Io says she will be very happy to get out of Rope—she does not like it here. Nor do I, though after tomorrow it will be my city. Io asked me to ask Cyklos when we will go to Dolphins for the games.

We ate the second meal at the barracks of the mora to which Hippoxleas belongs. It was a long low shed, bare of everything except tables and benches. Io said on the way over that we had eaten in one of these when we were here previously, warning me not to taste the broth. I soon saw, however, that all the Rope Makers eat it with relish; I tried it, but found it bitter and salty. Hippoxleas told me where it gets its black color, but I do not believe him—there was much teasing of the black man and me, and even a little of Themistocles and Simonides. Bacon, onions, and barley boiled together made up the rest of the meal, though Hippoxleas says they seldom get bacon.

Later I sat listening to Cyklos talk to Hippoxleas and the other young men, although some did not like having me there. I would not call Cyklos a good speaker—his voice is not musical, and he seldom turns phrases—but the young men hung upon every word.

A slave brought wine and dried figs. I wanted to awaken Io and Polos so they could have some, but Cyklos shook his head and I did not. I have saved a fig for each, however.

Though they were couched in so homely a style, some of the things Cyklos told us seemed very striking to me. He talked of Cyrus, a barbarian king who conquered many nations. One of his counselors advised him to shift his capital to a place where the climate was milder and the land more productive. Cyrus refused, saying that soft lands bred soft men. Cyklos then spoke of the fertility of the Silent Country, which abounds in wheat, barley, and every kind of fruit. He asked how it could be that the Rope Makers were not as soft as their soil.

He spoke also of a law which makes a woman a widow as long as her husband remains abroad, asking first whether the law was fair to her husband, and then (when no one replied) whether it was fair to the woman herself. The young men debated the matter and concluded that it was fair to neither: a man should not lose what is his each time he leaves home; nor should a woman forfeit the security of her husband's name because she is separated from him. Cyklos explained the reason for this law; it was made for the benefit of Rope, which must have infants because it requires men. Though he did not say this, I wondered whether it was not made also so that men would not desire to travel.

Cyklos asked, "Would you leave your wife here, Latro, now that you know our law?"

I said that I would not, at which everyone laughed.

"You don't have to worry," he said. "The law applies only to us, not to you." But it seems to me that it has application to me whether these people rule that it applies or not, because I would surely forget a wife as soon as we were separated. And indeed, it is entirely possible I have a wife now, who supposes herself a widow.

"It's we Rope Makers who defend the city, you see," Cyklos said, "and not you neighbors, though we can call on you to fight at need. Did you see our mighty walls today?"

I said that I had not, and that I did not think this city had any.

"It is walled with our shields," he told me.

He yawned and stretched. "We'll have a lot to do tomorrow, I'm afraid—all of us will be up late." I rose with the others, but he motioned for me to sit once more.

When the young men had left, I said, "It's very generous of you to house the children and me as you have, but I'm afraid we must be a burden as well as an inconvenience. Soon, I hope, we should be on our way to Dolphins. I'm sure that you'll be glad to see us go."

He waved that aside, pouring a fresh cup of wine for me and one for himself. "Hippoxleas says you're a master swordsman."

I said I hoped that I had not boasted to him.

Cyklos shook his head. "He's been teaching your boy, and found that you've taught him a great deal already. Pasicrates said you cut off his hand; he thinks there's something uncanny about you. So does the prince regent."

I said, "I think I'm a very ordinary man."

"Then you're not—ordinary men never think of themselves that way. Themistocles tells us you forget. Tomorrow morning will you remember what I tell you now?"

I said that I would write it in this scroll and read it in the morning.

Cyklos opened the chest upon which he had been sitting and produced two wooden swords, tossing one to me. "No thrusting at the face, understand? Everything else is fair. Now try to kill me."

I cut at his hand. He parried very cleverly and sprang at me; I caught his wrist and threw him down, my wooden sword at his throat.

When he had risen and recovered his breath, he asked, "How is it that you don't forget what you know of the sword?"

I explained that knowledge and memory are distinct: "Words written remember, a seed knows."

"Can you drive a chariot? Four horses?"

I do not know whether I can or not, and I told him so.

"In the morning, Prince Pausanias is going to ask you to. In less than a day you'll be declared a resident of Rope, and thus a subject of His Highness. Will you agree?"

I said I would certainly agree to try, if the prince of my new city wished it.

Cyklos turned and paced the courtyard, no longer watching me. "We've lost a great deal of prestige," he said. "First it was Peace, then after Clay, Mycale and Sestos. But we'll soon sweep Themistocles from the board, which should help enormously. Then if we dominate the Pythic Games—we
must
win the chariot race—and move boldly against some city of the Great King's—"

I asked whether he intended to kill Themistocles.

"No, no," he said. "Honor him—heap him with honors and gifts. No one can blame us for that."

THIRTY-SIX

Bloodstained

TORN AND RUINED CLOTHING, CLOVEN armor, and the weapons of the heroic king hang in the hall of the prince's house. "These were King Leonidas's," the prince's son explained to us. "My father got them at the Gates when he brought Leonidas's body home. He was my grandfather's brother. Please don't touch anything, sir. My father doesn't permit it."

I took my hand from the dead king's chiton, Themistocles assured the prince's son we would not, and Io whispered, "You want to be a famous warrior? This's the price they pay."

Polos (at whom her whisper was directed) did not appear to hear her, staring at everything with wide, dark eyes.

Pleistoanax said, "All mortals die. Since I must die, I wish to do it as he did, face-to-face with my enemy."

I remarked, "He wasn't actually facing the man who killed him. He was struck from behind by a javelin."

Pleistoanax smiled. "I see you know his glorious history, sir. He had broken the barbarians' line and was charging their king. One of the king's bodyguards killed him, exactly as you say."

Themistocles was eyeing me narrowly. "I don't think Latro can remember Leonidas's history—if he ever heard it—or much of anything else. How did you know about that, Latro?"

"From this chiton. There's a lot of staining near the arms and around the hem, but it's fairly even on both sides; I'd say that someone hacked the arms and legs of the corpse. The wound that killed him left a circular tear in back, about a hand above the waist, and a small hole across from it in front."

Pleistoanax went to look at the chiton as I spoke, and I noticed he did not scruple to touch it. He is a tall boy not yet come to manhood, and rather too handsome for my taste.

"The weapon penetrated his backplate," I continued, "passed through his chest, and was stopped by his breastplate. An arrow wouldn't have pierced the bronze, and would have left a smaller hole. A sword would have left a broad cut in the linen, not a round tear—so would a dagger. A horseman's lance would have made a larger hole, and it would probably have gone through his breastplate as well." I was about to say that the tear left by a shieldman's spear would have been larger, too; but I stopped just in time and substituted, "A king of Rope would never have had his back to the spears.

"So it was probably a javelin," I concluded, "a strong cast by someone not far behind him."

A young Rope Maker with a hand missing had entered while I spoke; from what I read here this morning I knew that this must be Pasicrates. I greeted him by name, and though his face kept his secret, his eyes revealed his surprise. All that he said, however, was, "His Highness will see you, even the children."

"And I?" Pleistoanax raised an eyebrow, determined to show he was no child. I doubt that he is as old as Io.

The prince stood to greet us, in the most gracious possible fashion, embracing Themistocles, Simonides, and me, patting Io's head, and pinching Polos's cheeks. Although Io warned me against him before we came, I liked him at once. His face is rendered hideous by a scar that draws up the right side of his mouth, but no one can be blamed for such accidents.

"This is Tisamenus, my mantis," the prince said, gesturing toward the pudgy little man who had sprung to his feet when the prince rose. Seeing him, I told Io by my glance that she and I would speak about this later. She had described this rabbity little creature as a monster; the monster seemed ready to fawn upon Themistocles whenever he snapped his fingers.

"Sit down, all of you. You, too, Pasicrates. Since you're going with us, there's no reason you shouldn't hear this."

Themistocles cocked his head. "Cimon said something about Your Highness wanting Latro to represent Rope at Dolphins. Will you attend the games in person?"

"Yes, and take you with me if I can—that's why I asked you to come here this morning. It might make a good impression if we could mention it tonight at the ceremony."

Themistocles and the prince had seated themselves by then, so the rest of us sat down, too. Themistocles said, "I haven't seen the great games in quite a while—it's certainly tempting. Simonides here goes every year."

"My trade," the old poet explained modestly. "I celebrate the victors from Thought without asking for a fee, if they wish it; as a foreigner, I feel I owe it to the city that's received me so graciously. And there are rich fees to be picked up from the other winners, now and then."

Prince Pausanias winked at his son. "Suppose / won, poet? You wouldn't charge me, would you? Don't you—and Thought—owe us something for my victory at Clay?"

Simonides cleared his throat. "Indeed we do. Why, I'd say that we owe you every bit as much as you'd owe the Long Coast if Themistocles—an example taken at random—had won the Battle of Peace. Who was the fellow you Rope Makers put in charge of the combined fleets? I forget his name. Anyway, between the two of them, I'd have to call Peace your greatest victory, because it was the first."

Pausanias roared with laughter, joined in a moment by his plump little mantis and Pasicrates, and at last by Themistocles himself. Io whispered, "Themistocles was the real commander at Peace."

The prince wiped his streaming eyes. "Poor old Eurybiades! The triumph of a dozen lifetimes, and no one will accord him the least credit. If I win, Simonides, you shall compose my victory ode. Without payment, if you insist—but no one has ever called me ungrateful."

Simonides made him a seated bow.

"Our entry's only nominally mine, however. It's no secret, and you might as well know the facts at the outset. My aunt's the one who bred and trained our team. You've already met her, I understand."

Themistocles and Simonides nodded.

"She's got an eye for horses, and a way with them, like no one else I've ever seen; but you know the law—no married women, and a widow's accounted a wife still. Once wed, always wed, as far as the gods are concerned. We didn't think it was much of an obstacle at first. She'd give the team to Pleistarchos."

Themistocles said, "Sounds reasonable. What went wrong?"

"Pleistarchos, mostly. He can be just as stubborn as any other Rope Maker, and he insisted that if he was going to enter, he wanted to go to Dolphins and watch the race. I think he was actually hoping to drive himself, although he hadn't got up the nerve to propose that."

Themistocles chuckled.

"As you may imagine, my aunt wouldn't hear of it. Neither would the judges—they get nervous whenever one of our kings is out of the country, and who knows when the barbarians are going to try again?"

Themistocles said smoothly, "The war's over, if you ask me. A king of Rope is more likely to be in danger on Redface Island than away from it."

"My thoughts exactly—everything's getting back to normal. Take a look at this letter. The messenger arrived last night."

Themistocles glanced at the papyrus, then read it out loud: "
'Greetings, most royal Pausanias Kleombrotou, from your devoted servant Agis Korin-thou! The spoils of war you entrusted to me I have entrusted to the honest Muslak Byblou upon the following highly favorable terms. Muslak has this very day delivered into my hand a full eight hundred darics for you as surety. Of what your goods bring, he is to retain every tenth coin, and no more. The other nine he shall render in a year, less the eight hundred darics already paid. Shall the gold be sent to you? Or ought I to trade with it? Tin is coming once more and we might do well in that.' "

Io whispered to Simonides, "I thought they didn't trade."

Overhearing her, the prince said, "We don't, child—that is to say, Pasicrates here doesn't, nor do any of the Equals. But King Leotychides can and does both buy and sell on behalf of our city; and so do I, acting as I do in place of King Pleistarchos. Having heard that letter read, you can understand the dangers inherent in it. I find myself, without my knowledge or consent, dealing with a Crimson Man—in theory at least an adversary."

As we walked to this field, I asked Io whether she thought the prince's agent would really do business with the enemies of her people without his permission; the prince and Themistocles, strolling arm in arm, were too far in advance of us to overhear.

"They aren't the enemies of
my
city," Io said, "and I don't know a lot about them. But I know a lot about Pausanias, and I feel sorry for the Crimson Man." After we had taken a few more steps, she added, "I think he would. He'd know what Pausanias wanted—as much gold as possible, any way he could get it. And he'd know, too, that Pausanias couldn't say it was all right."