Tyrant (13 page)

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Authors: Christian Cameron

BOOK: Tyrant
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‘If killing those two is eating your liver, why did you do it? I wasn’t close, but it looked to me like they should have wanted a quick end.’ Philokles slurped some soup from his bowl. ‘Ares and Aphrodite, Kineas. The boy isn’t suffering because you put those two down. That’s just what he’ll tell himself. It’s because he knows that he’s responsible. He did it - he cut the hand off, he fought, in effect he killed. How many fights have you seen?’
 
‘Twenty. Or fifty. More than enough.’ Kineas shrugged. ‘I see where you are leading the donkey, though. Fair enough, philosopher. I’m old enough to ignore the men I kill and I still feel it - so it follows that the boy will feel it worse and blame me. Why not? His blame lies lightly enough on me.’
 
‘You think so? He worshipped you this morning.’ The Spartan rolled back to look at Kineas. ‘I think you’d both be happier if you talked. Happier and wiser. And he’ll be a better man for it.’
 
Kineas nodded slowly. ‘Why are you with us?’
 
Philokles smiled widely. ‘I’m running out of places to go where they speak Greek.’
 
‘Angry husbands?’ Kineas smiled, getting to his feet. Best to get this over with.
 
‘I think that I ask too many questions.’ Philokles smiled back.
 
‘Honour and virtue . . .’ Kineas began, and looked at Ajax across the fire.
 
‘Admit it, Kineas. You still believe in both of them. You want what is good. You strive for what is virtuous. Go tell it to the boy.’ Philokles waved him away. ‘Get going. I intend to eat your stew while you are gone.’
 
Kineas snatched his bowl from the other man and refilled it at the common cauldron as he passed. By tradition, the captain ate last, but everyone had eaten, most men twice, even the slaves. Kineas scraped the side of the bronze with his wooden bowl. While he filled his bowl, Antigonus came up and refilled his own. ‘Fair haul, for barbarians. Twelve horses, some gold and silver, a few good weapons.’
 
‘I’ll divide it after dinner.’
 
Antigonus nodded. ‘It will make the men feel better,’ he said.
 
Diodorus, listening in, nodded. ‘Graccus lived through all those years with the boy king just to die on the plains in a gang fight with stupid barbarians. Sticks in our throats.’
 
Kineas nodded. ‘I’ll keep it in mind,’ he said, and went and sat by Ajax. He did it so suddenly that the boy didn’t have time to bolt. He was just rising when Kineas put out a hand. ‘Stay where you are. How’s your arm?’
 
‘Fine.’
 
‘Long gash. Does it sting?’
 
‘No.’
 
‘Yes, it does. But if you keep honey on it and don’t go mad from the flies, it’ll heal in a week. It won’t hurt in two weeks. And by then, you’ll have forgotten his face.’
 
Ajax took a quick breath.
 
‘I’m sorry I killed him without asking you. Perhaps you would have kept him. But he was a man of my age, and he had never been a slave. Missing a hand, like a criminal? No way for him to live as a crippled slave.’
 
‘Does that make it right?’ Ajax asked. His voice was steady, even light, as if the question had no consequence.
 
‘Right? They attacked us, Ajax. We were crossing this land on the plain, below their hills. They came for our heads and our horses. Next time, we may be the ones in their territory - going right up to their huts in the hills and putting fire to their thatch. That’s what soldiers do. That’s a different kind of right - the right of strength, of one polis against another, where you trust that the men who voted for war had their reasons and you do your duty. This was a simpler right - the right to resist aggression. Like killing a thief.’
 
‘You killed both of them. And then you said . . . you said that that’s all there was, the strong killing the weak.’ Less steady.
 
‘Let me tell you the truth. It’s a rotten truth, but if you can handle it, maybe you’ll make a soldier. Ready?’
 
‘Try me.’
 
‘I’m the captain. Yes?’
 
‘Yes.’
 
‘Rank means you do what is hard. Killing unarmed men is rotten work. Sometimes we all do it. But usually, I do it. so that other men don’t have to.’
 
Ajax watched the fire for a while. ‘You make it sound like a virtue.’
 
‘I’m not done yet.’
 
‘Go on, then.’ Ajax turned and looked at him.
 
‘Mostly, when the polis makes war, or all of Greece, or the whole Hellenic world goes to war - think about it. Do all the men go to war?’
 
‘No.’
 
‘Do all of the warriors go? All the men trained to war?’
 
Ajax laughed without happiness. ‘No.’
 
‘No. A few men go. Sometimes more than a few. And the only thing that makes their profession noble is that they do it so that the others don’t have to.’
 
‘You’re a mercenary!’ spat Ajax.
 
‘You knew that before you came.’
 
‘I know. Why do you think I find myself so craven now? I knew just what happened here and I came anyway, and now I have no stomach for it.’ Ajax had tears running down his cheeks.
 
‘I fight for other men. And for my own profit. It is a hard life, full of hard men. I don’t recommend you become one of them, Ajax. If you wish to leave, I’ll send someone back to the ferry with you. On the other hand, if you wish to stay, you have to answer for yourself if you can do this and be a good man.’ Kineas rose to his feet, felt the age in his knees and thighs. ‘You won’t like the next part. The ugliest part, after the killing. But you should watch.’ He rubbed at his unshaven chin. ‘Besides, the division of spoils is part of war. And it’s in the
Iliad
, so it can’t be wrong.’
 
Kineas put a hand on his shoulder and Ajax didn’t shrug it off. Then he walked off, dropping his bowl by a slave, washing his hands in a leather bucket, and then stood by Diodorus and the string of captured horses. Crax had the sum of all the valuables from the bodies on a bloody tunic at his feet. His face betrayed no emotion, but Kineas could see tension in his stance and in his shoulders - recognition, perhaps, of the origin of the brooches and pins on the blanket at his feet.
 
Kineas didn’t have to speak to gather the attention of the men. He raised a hand for attention. ‘Gentlemen. As is our custom, we will divide the spoils of our enemies by share, in turns. For the good of the company, I take these.’ Kineas reached among the brooches and took both of the large gold ones. They were worth twenty owls apiece and would feed the horses for several days in a city. No one demurred, although they were easily the most valuable objects in the pile.
 
Then he pointed to the Scyth. ‘Ataelus discovered their war party and gave us warning. He also slew four of them. I say he gets the first share.’
 
It was uncommon for a new man, or a barbarian, to be given the first share. There was a buzz of talk, but not an ugly one. On the one hand, there wasn’t much spoil to divide, and first choice wasn’t a matter of heaps of gold. On the other hand, the buzz seemed to say, the Scyth had probably saved all of them, or at least saved them from a harder fight.
 
Antigonus, himself a barbarian born, raised a fist at the Scyth. ‘First share!’ he rumbled. Other men took up the cry.
 
Ataelus looked around as if making sure he was being chosen. He grinned from ear to ear. Then he went to the string of captured horses and leaped astride the tallest, a pale bay mare with a small head and some Persian blood in her. He gave a loud
yip yip!
and then dismounted to release her from the string.
 
It didn’t surprise Kineas that the Scyth took a horse, but it pleased the men, who wanted the ready cash in the form of silver and coins. The tradition of a first share to the man judged most worthy was often a two-edged sword, causing resentment as easily as it rewarded military virtue. But Ataelus’s choice made him popular, or perhaps more popular.
 
The rest of the division was by strict seniority. Niceas chose second, and whatever grief he might feel for Graccus, he chose carefully from the pile, a heavy silver torc with a chain attached that was worth a month’s pay. Ill armoured as the Getae had been, they wore good jewellery and carried coins.
 
The other men each took a share in turn, and there were plenty of items left after the first share had passed. Ajax did not join in the sharing, but Philokles did and no one complained - the Spartan was already accepted.
 
Kineas allowed them to circle around again, so that most men had at least a dozen owls worth of silver and some had more. What was left on the tunic after the second sharing was mostly bronze, with a few small silver rings.
 
‘Slaves,’ Kineas said. He pointed at the tunic. Ajax’s slave came forward willingly - he had become the head slave by age and experience and he didn’t hesitate, but took the largest silver ring and put it on his hand. Then he winked at Crax.
 
Crax’s face in the firelight showed the tracks of tears like rivulets on a hillside after a storm. Nonetheless, he reached down and took another silver ring. Then they divided the bronze coins between them. No one noticed this last division, because they were examining the horses, bickering over their small size and complaining that the Scyth had taken the only good one. The sun slipped under the hills to the west while they divided the horses.
 
Ataelus came up to Kineas. ‘Me look?’ he asked, pointing at the two heavy brooches in Kineas’s hand.’
 
Kineas handed them over. The Scyth looked at them in the last light, the red sun colouring the gold so that it looked like new minted copper. He nodded. ‘Make for my people,’ he said. He pointed to the horse and stag motif that ran through both. They were very fine for barbarian work, the haunches of the horse well worked, the head of the stag noble and fine.
 
While Ataelus looked at the brooches, Kineas glanced at Ajax twice, but the young man showed nothing but weary resignation at the evils of an older generation. Ataelus handed the brooches back and returned to gloating over his horse. Kineas shrugged, took his cloak and rolled in it on the ground. He didn’t think of Artemis, and then it was morning.
 
5
 
D
awn patrol brought no surprises. The girths were well attached, the baggage loaded, and Ajax’s slave whistled while he scraped the cauldron. Ataelus had curried both of his horses until their coats shone. His example got others to currying, which pleased Kineas who liked men to look their best every day.
 
Kineas rode off apart to have a moment to himself. He watched them working, watched the last items roped down to the packhorses - plenty of them, now, and lighter loads for each, which meant they’d move faster.
 
Ajax’s slave waited patiently by his knee. When Kineas noticed him, the slave bowed his head. ‘Par’n me, sir.’
 
Kineas felt that the man’s whistling had helped to set the tone of the morning, that sharing the booty with the slaves had somehow pleased the gods. ‘I don’t know your name.’
 
The slave bowed his head again. ‘Arni.’
 
Kineas chewed the barbarian name a little. ‘What is it, Arni?’
 
‘Par’n me fur askin. I wunnert if we - if’n there’d be more fight’n.’ He looked eager. ‘I cin fight. If’n you were to want it. Could take a swort or a knife. Plenty left a’ yesterday.’
 
Arming slaves was always a dangerous business. Crossing the plains, however, was the immediate problem. ‘Only until we reach a town. And Crax?’
 
The slave smiled. ‘Give ’im a few days. Aye. E’ll come round.’
 
Kineas nodded. ‘Watch he doesn’t take your weapon and kill us all before he does so.’
 
Arni smiled, shook his head and withdrew.
 
Horses shining, richer and with a score of remounts, the column rode across the plains.
 
Three days of uneventful travel brought them to the scatter of Greek homesteads surrounding Antiphilous. Antiphilous was a settlement so small it could barely be thought of as a colony - indeed, it was the colony of a colony, guarding the southern flank of the more prosperous towns of Tyras and Nikanou, both centres of the grain trade with the interior because they controlled access to a bay so deep it was like a small sea. Kineas had never seen any of them, but he’d heard enough to have a sense of the area. He gave an inward sigh of relief when his horse’s hoofs were on the gravelled dirt of a Greek road.

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