Authors: Christian Cameron
Tyrant (6 page)
‘At your pleasure.’ Diodorus was tall, bony and ascetic looking. He was not any Hellene’s idea of beauty either.
Kineas circled, waiting until the taller man stepped towards him to attack and pushed in to meet him and get inside the man’s long reach. Diodorus took the momentum of the attack into his arms and threw it over his hip,and Kineas crashed his length in the sand.
He got up slowly. ‘Was that necessary?’
Diodorus was embarrassed. ‘No.’
Kineas gave a bitter smile. ‘If you’re trying to tell me that your wrestling is of a different order than mine, I already knew that.’
Diodorus raised his hand. ‘How often do I get a chance to use that move? You walked into it. I couldn’t help myself.’ He was smiling, and Kineas rubbed the sore spot on his back and stepped forward for another hold. He felt a tiny twist of fear - the niggling fear that he carried into every contest, every fight.
He went for a low hold, got a piece of it, and he and Diodorus ended up in an ugly mess on the ground, neither man able to pin the other and both coated in sand and grit. By unspoken mutual consent, they both left off their holds and helped each other up.
Outside, Calchus had pinned the young man he was wrestling. He didn’t seem in a hurry to let him up, and there was a great deal of laughter from the other citizens. Kineas faced Diodorus again and this time they circled and feinted and closed and recovered at a more normal tempo. It was almost dance, and Diodorus stayed to the movements of his gymnasium lessons, which kept Kineas comfortable. He even gained a fall.
Diodorus rubbed his hip and smiled. Kineas had fallen atop him, a perfectly legitimate approach to the game but one inevitably painful to the victim. ‘Even?’
‘Even.’ Kineas gave him a hand up.
Calchus was standing with the young man and some other citizens. He called out, ‘Come and wrestle with me, Kineas.’
Kineas frowned and turned his head, uncomfortable with all these strangers, the twinge of fear strong because Calchus was bigger, a better wrestler and as a boy in Athens had liked to use his advantages to inflict a little pain. Kineas disliked pain. Ten years of war had not accustomed him to dealing with sprains and bruises and deep cuts that took weeks to heal; if anything, ten years of watching men live or die at the whim of the gods had made him more afraid.
He shrugged. Calchus was his host, a fine wrestler and looking to demonstrate his superiority. Kineas gritted his teeth and obliged him, losing the first fall in some carefully fought grappling, taking the second fall by a matter of split-second timing that was more luck than skill, and which surprised both men. Calchus surprised him again by rising from the fall graciously, nothing but praise on his lips, and going on without rancour. Ten years ago, the adolescent Calchus would have come on for blood. The third fall was like the first; careful, at times more like dance than combat, and when Kineas was eventually pinned, the action caused the spectators to whistle in appreciation.
Calchus was breathing hard, and his arm circled Kineas’s waist as he helped him to his feet. ‘You give a good match. Did you all see him?’ he called to the others. ‘He used to be an easy mark for a fall.’
Men hurried forward to compliment Calchus on his victory - and to tell Kineas how well he had done. It was all a trifle sickening - a remarkable amount of praise lavished for so small a thing, but Kineas bore it in the knowledge that he had given a better guest gift than money, a memorable fight that left his host looking well.
The young man that Calchus had wrestled earlier was quite beautiful as he came up to pay respectful comments to the wrestlers. Kineas was unmoved by male beauty, but he appreciated it as much as any Hellene and he smiled at the earnest young man.
‘I’m Ajax,’ the young man said in reply to Kineas’s smile. ‘My father is Isokles. May I say how well you fought? Indeed, I . . .’ He hesitated, swallowed his words, and was silent.
Kineas read him easily - he was an observant youth. He was going to say that Kineas had looked the better wrestler. A smart boy. Kineas put a hand on the smooth skin of the boy’s shoulder. ‘I always imagined Ajax would be bigger.’
‘He’s heard that stupid joke his whole life,’ said the father.
‘I try to grow to fit it,’ Ajax returned. ‘And there was a smaller Ajax, too.’
‘Do you box? Care to exchange a few cuffs?’ Kineas gestured at the straps for boxers, and the boy’s face lit up. He looked at his father, who shook his head with mock indignation. ‘Don’t get too cut up, or no one will want to take you home from the symposium,’ he said. He winked at Kineas. ‘Or should I say, get cut up, so you won’t get taken home? Have kids of your own?’
Kineas shook his head. ‘Well, it’s an experience. Anyway, feel free to put a few welts on him.’
Diodorus helped them both wrap their hands, and then they began, starting as if by mutual consent with simple routines, blows and blocks, and then moving to longer exchanges and thence to sparring.
The boy was good - better than a farm boy in a Euxine backwater had any right to be. His arms were longer than they looked and he could feint, rolling his shoulders to telegraph a roundhouse that never came and then punching short with the off arm. He stretched Kineas, now fully warmed up and eager; a short blow to his cheek gave him some personal interest in the contest, and suddenly they were at it.
Kineas was unaware that they drew every citizen in the gymnasium. His world limited itself to his wrapped hands and those of his opponent, his eyes and torso. In one flurry, each of them jabbed ten or twelve times, parrying each blow with an upper arm, or taking one high on the chest to deliver one to the head.
The flurry ended in a round of applause that moved them apart. They eyed each other warily, still charged with the
daimon
of combat, but the surge of spirit soon dwindled and they became mere mortals in a provincial gymnasium again. They shook hands warmly.
daimon
of combat, but the surge of spirit soon dwindled and they became mere mortals in a provincial gymnasium again. They shook hands warmly.
‘Again?’ said the boy, and Kineas shook his head.
‘Won’t be that good again. Keep it as it is.’ Then, after a pause, ‘You’re very good.’
The boy hung his head with real modesty. ‘I was going as fast as I could. I don’t usually. You are better than anyone here.’
Kineas shrugged and called over the boy’s head to his father, proclaiming how talented his son was. It was an effective way of making friends in the gymnasium. Everyone wanted to congratulate him on his skill, on the beauty of the moment. It made him happy. But he needed a massage and a rest, and he said so, declining innumerable offers of further contests until someone said they were all going to throw javelins and he couldn’t resist. He followed them outside and felt a pang - Philokles, forgotten or ignored, was running laps outside around a big field full of sheep.
Kineas didn’t know what to do with the Spartan, who seemed to have become a dependant. Gentlemen weren’t supposed to be so bereft, but Kineas suspected that he himself wouldn’t have been much different if he had washed up on an alien shore with no belongings and no home. He waved. Philokles waved back.
A slave herded the sheep well down the field and the men started to throw. It wasn’t a formal game; older men who were disgusted by their first throw took a second or even a third until they were satisfied, whereas younger men had to suffice themselves with one throw. It would never have done at the Olympic games, but it was comfortable, as the shadows shortened, to lie on the grass (mindful of the sheep turds) and watch the whole community of men compete. Kineas was conscious of his legs and the imperfections of his body, but he’d proven himself an athlete and was one of them now, making easy conversation with Isokles about the olive harvest in Attica and the problems of shipping olive oil.
Calchus threw with a great cry, and his javelin came close enough to make one of the sheep move with unaccustomed speed. He laughed. ‘That’s the best so far. I have a mind to throw again - they’re my sheep, we could all eat mutton tonight.’
Kineas was to throw next to last and Philokles last, places of honour because they were guests. Diodorus had thrown early - a good throw, with no grunt or cry, beaten only by Calchus. Most of the other towns-men had been competent, but the youth Ajax had surprised Kineas by his poor throw. Isokles had beaten it, throwing well, if short of the final mark, and he’d teased his son.
Kineas was used to throwing from horseback, and he threw too flat, but it was still a long throw - again the sheep started as his javelin landed close to them.
Calchus winced. ‘You’ve become an athlete while I run to fat in exile,’ he said.
Philokles picked up several javelins before choosing one. He walked over to Calchus, who was talking business with another man. ‘This is scarcely sporting. I’m a Spartan.’ He said it with a smile, an overweight Spartan showing a sense of humor.
Calchus didn’t understand. He indicated with a flick of his head that he had been interrupted. ‘If you can do better than we have, let’s see it.’
Nettled, Philokles gestured at the sheep. ‘How much for the straggling ewe?’
Calchus ignored him, returning to his conversation and then jerked his head around in time to see Philokles throw, arching his body and almost leaving the ground. The javelin leaped from his hand, flew high and descended fast. It knocked the ewe to the ground, all four feet splayed, the bolt from heaven pinning her to the ground through her skull.
There was a moment of shocked silence and then Kineas began to applaud. Then they all applauded the throw and teased Calchus about his ewe, suggesting various prices for her, some obscene, until Calchus laughed. Most of the town’s social interaction seemed to revolve around keeping Calchus pleased. Kineas didn’t like to watch it.
Isokles pointed down the field. ‘Let’s have a run,’ he said. And they set the distances and were off, running for a while in a pack until the better runners grew bored and took off. They circled the field three times, a good distance, and finished in the yard of the gymnasium. Kineas was close to last and took some good-natured teasing about his legs, and then they headed for the baths.
Tired and clean, with a couple of bruises and a general sense of
eudaimia
, well-being that inevitably came to him from the gymnasium, Kineas walked beside Calchus. Diodorus had gone off with some younger men to see the market.
eudaimia
, well-being that inevitably came to him from the gymnasium, Kineas walked beside Calchus. Diodorus had gone off with some younger men to see the market.
‘You could do well here,’ Calchus said suddenly. ‘They like you. This fighting you do - it’s no job for a man. In defence of your city, that’s different. But - a mercenary? You squander what the gods have given you. And one day some barbarian’s sword is in your gizzard, and there you are. Stay here, buy a farm. Take a wife. Isokles has a girl - she’s pretty enough, smart, a housekeeper. I’d put you up for citizenship after the festival of Herakles. By Zeus, they’d accept you today after that boxing.’
Kineas didn’t know what to say. It appealed. He’d liked the men. The citizens of Tomis were a good lot, provincial but not rustic, given to gross jokes and amateur philosophy. And all good sports. He shurgged. ‘I owe it to my men. They came here to join me.’ Kineas didn’t add that something in him looked forward to another campaign.
‘They can just as easily move on and take up service elsewhere. You are a gentleman, Kineas. You don’t owe them anything.’
Kineas frowned. ‘Most of them are gentlemen, Calchus.’
‘Oh, of course.’ Calchus waved dismissively. ‘But not any more. Not really. Perhaps Diodorus? Could be a factor, or your steward. And those Gauls - they should be slaves. They’d be happier as slaves.’ Calchus spoke with authority and finality.
Kineas frowned again and allowed himself to be distracted by a man lying in the street. He didn’t need to quarrel with his host. ‘A barbarian? ’ he asked, pointing.
The man in the street was plainly a barbarian. He wore trousers of leather and had filthy long hair hanging in plaits, and a leather jacket covered in a riot of colourful decoration, and he wore gold. His jacket had several gold ornaments, and showed spaces where other bangles had been removed. He had an earring in his ear. And a cap on his head like a Thracian.
And he stank of urine and vomit and bad sweat. They were almost on top of him. He wasn’t asleep - his eyes were open and unfocused.
Calchus looked at him with deep contempt. ‘A Scyth. Disgusting people. Ugly, stinking barbarians, no one can speak their language, and they don’t even make good slaves.’
‘I thought they were dangerous.’ Kineas looked at the drunk with interest. He imagined that at Olbia there would be a lot of Scyths, born to horseback, a dangerous enemy. This one didn’t look like a warrior.
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