Tyrant

15

They rode like Sakje on the road home, trotting for miles, changing horses, and moving again. They had no escort this time, just Parshtaevalt and a second Cruel Hand called Gavan as guides and messengers.

Through the entire trip, Kineas felt the press of urgency on his shoulders. The ground was hard enough. Zopryon could march at any time, and the campaign, for so long in abeyance, was suddenly upon him and he felt unprepared. He worried about the archon’s treachery, and about the morale of the city, about the lives of his troops and about the alliance of the Sakje, their numbers, their quality.

And having foreseen his own death, he struggled to understand what it meant — or whether he accepted it as genuine prophecy, or merely the result of the smoke. The Sakje used a drug of smoke for many things, including recreation. He’d experienced it more than once now, when visiting Dikarxes, when sitting in the great hall while the drug was cast in braziers. He’d smelled it in Kam Baqca’s tent in the snow. It was possible that the drug was the root of all the dreams. And if the dream was real — it was a two-edged sword. No man wanted to know he had just sixty days to live. But there was comfort, too — to fall at the hour of victory had at least the virtue of predicting victory.

Of all the things he had ever wanted to discuss with Philokles, this — the dreams, the prophecy, oracular powers, dreams of death and of the future — pressed on him every time they spoke, and yet some reserve, some caution about making it more real by discussing it aloud, kept him from it.

And, of course, the Baqca had forbidden it.

On the last day, when the outriders had already seen the walls of Olbia, exchanged shouts with the sentries on the walls, and relieved Kineas’s mind of half its illogical worries by reporting all was well, Philokles rode up next to Kineas. He rode well enough now to be accounted a horseman. He required larger horses than any other man, and he tired them more quickly, but he was tireless in the saddle.

Kineas glanced at him with affection. Philokles was a big man, but he was now a tower of muscle. The fat he had worn when they first met was gone, burned away by almost a year of constant exercise. He was handsome, heavily bearded, and he smiled more often than had been his wont.

‘All is well in the city?’ he asked as he rode up.

‘That’s what the scouts say.’ Kineas was still smiling to himself.

‘You seem happier today,’ Philokles said.

Kineas raised an eyebrow.

‘You have been a silent man for six days, brother. You’re putting the troops off their feed and Niceas is so worried he put me up to this. You are a worrier, but not usually a brooder. Did your amazon play you false? I confess that I heard much speculation about her relations with the king.’

Kineas fidgeted with his reins, which his riding horse resented. The horse showed his resentment by shying at a passing bee and then kicking his rear hooves until Kineas squeezed his thighs and stopped playing with the reins.

‘I have a great deal to think about.’ Kineas didn’t meet his friend’s eye.

‘Doubtless. The man of the moment — the warlord of the alliance.’ Philokles paused, and then said, ‘May I tell you something I know about you?’

‘Of course.’

‘You worry all the time. You worry about many things — some of them very profound, like good and evil, and some of them very practical, like where we’ll camp, and some of them quite silly, like the archon’s potential for treason. It’s all that worrying that makes you a good commander.’

‘This is not news to me, my friend.’ Kineas growled. ‘Why is the archon’s potential for treason silly?’

Philokles said, ‘If he chooses to betray the alliance, you will take action — you and Memnon, and Cleitus, and Nicomedes. If he doesn’t, then no action need be taken. The decision to betray us is in the mind of the archon, and you cannot affect it. So your worry is wasted.’

‘Nonsense,’ Kineas said. ‘I worry at the effect his betrayal might have on the trust of the Sakje. And I plan for contingencies — what if he does thus and such?’

‘Sometimes your worry touches on hubris. But I have strayed from the straight road of my intention. I have seen you worry since the first hour I knew you — sitting on your bench in that cursed pentekonter and worrying at what the helmsman’s intention might be. It is your nature.’

‘Again, this is not news to me.’ Kineas shrugged. ‘I am familiar with what happens inside my head.’

‘So you are. But since we left that Sakje town, you are closed. Nothing moves in your face, and your eyes seldom light. This is not worry. This is more like fear. What do you fear?’ Philokles spoke softly. ‘Tell me, brother. A burden shared is a heart eased.’

Kineas made a motion to Niceas, who had allowed himself to fall behind, and the hyperetes sounded the halt. The column halted immediately, and every man dismounted. Wineskins were passed, and now that the heat of the sun was full in the sky, men rolled their cloaks and fastened them to their saddles.

Kineas dismounted, took wine from Philokles’ skin, and stood at his horse’s head. The horse pressed his nose into Kineas’s hand, and he scratched the gelding’s head. ‘I cannot,’ he said, at length. The desire to speak of his dream of death was so powerful that he didn’t trust himself to speak more. The desire to speak of his feelings for Srayanka was equally strong.

Philokles spoke slowly. ‘We have shared our secrets. You make me afraid that — shall I say it? That you know something from Athens that threatens us all. Or from the king.’

‘You miss the mark entirely,’ Kineas said, stung. ‘If I knew some doom hanging over us, don’t you think I’d speak of it?’

Philokles stood by his own horse. He took his wineskin, and shook his head. ‘In one thing, you and the tyrant are like brothers. You would not tell us, if you thought we would be better off not knowing. You feel that your will is superior to that of most men.’

‘No commander worth an obol shares all his thoughts with his men,’ Kineas snapped.

‘The tyrant lives in every commander,’ Philokles agreed.

‘Yet you supported my views on discipline,’ Kineas said.

‘Discipline is not secrecy. Every man in the phalanx knows that his survival depends on the actions of all. No deviation can be allowed. That discipline is a public thing. The rules are available to all.’

Kineas’s heart was thudding, and his breathing was fast. He took a deep breath and counted to ten in Sakje — an exercise that was coming more and more easily. ‘You provoke me more easily than any man on earth.’

‘You are not the first man to tell me that,’ Philokles replied.

‘I am not ready to discuss the thing that I fear. Yes. You are right, of course. I am afraid. Yet — and I ask you to trust me on this — it is not a matter that need concern you.’ I am afraid of death. Somehow, just admitting the fear to himself had lightened the load.

Philokles glanced at him sharply, and then held his eye. ‘When you are ready, you should talk about it. I am a spy — I learn things. I know that you saw Kam Baqca. I suspect she told you something.’ He looked hard at Kineas. ‘And I guess she told you some ill news.’ Kineas’s face must have betrayed his inner anguish, because Philokles raised his hand. ‘Your pardon. I see on your face that I am on poor ground. I know you love the lady. If she treats you ill, I’m sorry.’

Kineas nodded. ‘I am not ready to discuss it.’ Yet his friend’s concern touched him, and he had to smile — confronted with the loss of a woman he’d scarcely touched, and his imminent death, which was more important? Men were idiots. His sisters had said as much, many times, and Artemis had concurred.

Philokles slung his wineskin. ‘You’re smiling. I have achieved something! Shall we ride to Olbia, then?’

Kineas managed another smile. ‘Where the worst thing to face is the archon?’ He waved to Niceas to sound the mount order. ‘Who said that war makes things simple?’

Philokles grunted. ‘Someone who had never planned a war.’

‘Once again, I confess that I have underestimated you, my dear Hipparch.’ The archon beamed with satisfaction.

Kineas was growing used to the archon’s abrupt swings of mood and favour. Instead of betraying surprise, or giving an answer, he merely inclined his head.

‘You have lured the bandit king to do his all in our protection — and then, before anyone is committed to a policy of war, we are allowed to negotiate a settlement? Brilliant! And Zopryon, out on the plains with bands of barbarians harrying him…’ The archon, who had been rubbing his chin, now clapped his hands together. ‘He’ll negotiate, all right. Hipparch, I appoint you our commander. I put in your hands the forces of the state. Please do your best to avoid using them.’

Kineas found that he was pleased, despite everything, to be appointed commander. He had thought that, on balance, he would get the post — Memnon, though older, hadn’t seen nearly as much fighting as he — but these things were political and often unpredictable. ‘I will, Archon.’

‘Good.’ The archon signalled his Nubian slave for wine and indicated that he wanted three cups.

Kineas glanced at Memnon, whose dark face was thunderous.

‘You aren’t pleased?’ the archon said to Memnon.

Memnon’s voice was flat. ‘Very pleased.’

The archon’s voice was all honey. ‘You do not sound pleased. Are you slighted? Should you have had the command?’

Memnon glanced at Kineas. Shrugged. ‘Perhaps.’ He hesitated, but anger got the better of him. ‘I want to push my spear into Macedon, not hide behind walls and then feign submission! What kind of plan is that?’

The archon put his chin on his hand, one finger pointing up along his temple towards heaven. His hair was cut in the latest mode, with a fringe of ringlets around the crown which accentuated the golden wreath he affected. ‘The plan of a realist, Memnon. Kineas’s plan’s greatest elegance is that the Macedonians can spend all the money and do all the dying, and then at the end we have a full range of political options. We can, if I desire it, rescue poor Zopryon — supplies, a base of operations — and use him to rid us of the bandits for ever.’ While he pronounced these words, the archon glanced at Kineas. He had a wicked smile on his face — the sort of smile a little boy wears when he knows that he does wrong.

Kineas maintained his impassivity. He was finding that the knowledge of his own death had gifted him with as much calm as fear. In fact, the fear was fading with acceptance. He had two months to live. The archon’s desire to manipulate and disconcert was of little moment.

These musings kept him silent too long, and the archon snapped. ‘Well? Hipparch? Why shouldn’t I help Zopryon?’

Kineas wrapped his left hand around the pommel of his old sword. ‘Because he would seize your city at the first pretext,’ he said carefully.

The archon slumped. ‘There must be a way to use him against the bandits.’

Kineas said nothing. The archon’s desires were now of little importance to him.

The archon brightened. ‘We must have a ceremony,’ he said. ‘At the temple. I will vest you with the command in public.’

Kineas’s fingers betrayed his impatience with their rapid drumming at his pommel. ‘We must get our citizens prepared. The hippeis, at least, must be ready to move to the camp.’

Memnon grunted.

‘I believe we can find time for a ceremony that will have important repercussions,’ said the archon. He motioned to a slave who stood behind his stool. ‘See to it. All the priests — perhaps some token of benevolence for the people.’

The slave — another Persian — spoke for the first time. ‘That will take some days to prepare, Archon.’

The archon’s face set. ‘You haven’t heard. Zopryon executed Cyrus — my emissary — on the pretext that as a slave, he was unworthy of serving as ambassador. This is Amarayan.’

Kineas looked carefully at Amarayan, a bronze-coloured man with a rich black beard and a face that betrayed nothing.

‘We will need cooperation from Pantecapaeum,’ Kineas said. ‘We will need their fleet.’

The archon shook his head. ‘There, I must disagree. Any action by their fleet would commit us, I fear.’

Kineas sighed. ‘If the Macedonian fleet is not kept in check, we will not have any options at midsummer.’

The archon tapped his fingers against his face. ‘Oh, very well. I will ask that they bring their ships here.’

Kineas shook his head. ‘They must do more than that, Archon. They must patrol south around the coast, seek out the Macedonian squadron, and destroy it. In addition, I’d like you to close the port.’ He continued to watch Amarayan. ‘There are, no doubt, spies here. I don’t want them to communicate with Tomis.’

The archon spoke slowly, as if humouring a child. ‘Closing our port would be ruinous to trade.’

‘With respect, Archon, we are at war.’ Kineas willed his hand to stop playing with his sword. ‘If all goes well, the grain can be shipped in the autumn.’

‘Athens will not be pleased if we hold their grain ships all summer.’ The archon looked at Amarayan, who nodded.

‘None of the autumn wheat will be coming down the river anyway,’ Kineas countered. ‘The king of the Sakje is holding the grain to supply his army.’

‘Army?’ spat the archon. ‘Bands of savages on the grass are not an army!’

Kineas remained silent.

Memnon stifled a laugh. ‘Archon, you cannot pretend that all is normal. Zopryon is marching here with the intention of taking the city.’

Kineas added, ‘Athens would rather miss a season of grain than lose us to Macedon for ever.’

Amarayan leaned forward and whispered to the archon. The archon nodded. ‘I will think on it,’ he said. ‘You are dismissed. You may inform our citizens to prepare themselves to take the field. In five days,’ he glanced at Amarayan, who nodded, ‘we will celebrate the spring festival by appointing you formally to lead the allied army. Perhaps after that, I will close the port.’

Five days. By then the three ships in port would have loaded and gone, carrying whatever messages they had.

Kineas gave a salute and withdrew. In the citadel’s courtyard, under the eyes of a dozen of the archon’s Kelts, Kineas caught Memnon by the shoulder. ‘There will be a battle,’ he said.

Memnon stopped. He was armoured and held his helmet under his arm, his curly black hair was cropped short and his black cloak flapped in the wind. His eyes searched Kineas’s face. ‘You plan to force one?’

Kineas shook his head. ‘I would avoid battle with Zopryon if I can. But the gods-’ Kineas stopped himself, unsure what to reveal. But he needed Memnon, and Memnon needed to know. Kineas couldn’t endure a summer of open hostility with the man. ‘The gods sent me a dream. A very vivid dream, Memnon. There will be a battle. I have seen it.’

Memnon continued to watch him warily. ‘I am not one for gods and dreams,’ he said. ‘You are a strange man. You puzzle me.’ He stuck his thumbs in his sash. ‘But you are not a liar, I think. Do we win this battle?’

Kineas feared to say too much — feared that by saying something, he might change it. ‘I — think so.’

Memnon stepped closer. ‘You dreamed of it, but you only think you know the result? How can this be?’

Kineas let out his breath and shook his head. ‘Ask me no more. I don’t want to discuss it. I only wanted to say that, for all the archon’s prevarications, we will fight. When midsummer comes, we will not submit.’ Kineas glanced over his shoulder. ‘Where did the new Persian come from?’

Memnon smiled briefly, showing his teeth, two of which were broken, and then he spat on the paving stones of the courtyard. ‘Cleomenes gave him to the archon — a fully trained Persian steward. This one was born a slave. He will become very dangerous,’ Memnon said, flicking his eyes towards the citadel. Then he gave Kineas a hard grin. ‘As will the archon, if he finds that he’s not actually at the helm.’

Kineas shrugged. ‘I think that events will take the decisions out of his hands.’

‘I want a battle. I don’t much care how we come to it. All this skirmishing on the grass is well enough for the horse boys, but my lads need a flat field and a long day. We won’t be raiding camps.’

Kineas nodded. ‘Your men are the heart of the city’s citizens. Every week we keep them in the field is a week in which Olbia has no blacksmiths and no farmers. I think,’ Kineas hesitated, wondering for the hundredth time how accurate his numbers were, ‘I think that you can wait a month to follow me. Ten days to march to the camp — you should still be there twenty days ahead of Zopryon.’

Memnon fingered his beard. ‘Twenty days, plus a ten day march — that’s a good amount of time. Enough to harden them, train every day — not so much that they’ll be worn down.’ He nodded. ‘What if Zopryon doesn’t keep your timetable?’

Kineas started to walk to the gate. He didn’t want all of his thoughts reported back to the archon — although he doubted the Kelts knew much Greek. ‘He hasn’t much choice. An army his size, horse and foot — you know as well as I how slowly he’ll move. If he bides his time then he won’t get here in time to even threaten a siege. If he rushes, men will starve.’

Memnon walked with him, out through the citadel gate and down the walls to the town. ‘Your reasoning sounds excellent.’ He laughed mirthlessly. ‘Alexander would take his time coming and to Hades with the consequences. He’d assume that he could take this city — even in late autumn — and that he could use it to feed his troops even if he had to put the people to the sword.’

Kineas nodded as he walked. ‘Yes.’

Memnon stopped in the agora and turned to face Kineas. ‘So why won’t Zopryon do the same?’

Kineas pursed his lips, rubbed his beard. ‘Perhaps he will,’ he said. ‘Perhaps that’s why we’ll fight a battle.’

Memnon shook his head. ‘You sound like a priest. I have no fondness for priests. Dream or no dream — this will be a hard campaign. Mark my words — I’m an oracle of war.’ He laughed. ‘Thus speaks Memnon the oracle — Zopryon will do something we haven’t considered, and all your timetables will be buggered.’

Kineas was stung — Memnon’s dismissal of his calculations annoyed him — but he had to admit the truth of the man’s assertions. ‘Perhaps,’ he growled.

‘Perhaps nothing. You’re a professional soldier — you know it as well as I. Plan all you like — Zopryon will win or lose at the point of the spear.’ Memnon seemed to grow in size as he spoke. He was passionate. ‘And all the horse boys in the world can’t stop a Macedonian taxeis. When push comes to shove, it’s my hoplites and those from Pantecapaeum who will stand or not stand.’ The thought seemed to delight him. ‘I’ll need to arrange a muster for the Pantecapaeum troops — meet their commander, plan some drills, and see if they have some iron in their bellies.’

Kineas was pleased that Memnon was engaged. He slapped the man on the shoulder. ‘You’re a good man, Memnon.’

Memnon nodded. ‘Hah! I am. They made me a citizen — can you believe it? I may yet die in a bed.’

For a few moments Kineas the commander had forgotten the imminence of his own mortality. Memnon’s words brought it straight back. He sobered. ‘I hope you do,’ he said.

‘Bah! I’m a spear child. Ares rules me, if there are any gods and if any of them care an obol for men — which I doubt. Why die in bed?’ He chuckled, waved, and walked off into the market.

Pantecapaeum was very much in Kineas’s thoughts the next few days. He sent a letter with Niceas as the herald, addressed to the hipparch of the city, requesting that the man meet him to plan the campaign and suggesting a tentative schedule of marches. He told Niceas to bring him a report on the city’s preparedness.

Niceas returned the same day that the three ships sailed. Kineas was on the walls, watching Memnon drill the hoplites in opening gaps in their ranks to permit the passage of Diodorus with the horse.

Philokles came up behind him. ‘Athens will be pleased to get the last of the winter wheat.’

Kineas grunted. ‘Zopryon will be pleased to get a spy report from here outlining every aspect of our plans.’

Philokles yawned. ‘Somebody here is. Two Macedonian merchants came in on the last ship — the pentekonter on the beach.’

Kineas sighed. ‘We are a sieve.’

Philokles laughed. ‘Don’t despair, brother. I took some precautions. ’

Kineas looked out over the walls. The hoplites had been too slow in opening their files, and Diodorus’s troop was caught against the face of the phalanx, dreadfully exposed. In a battle, that small error of marching would have meant disaster. Memnon and Diodorus were shouting themselves hoarse.

Kineas looked back at the Spartan. ‘Precautions?’

Philokles twitched the corners of his mouth. ‘I have allowed the archon’s new factor — another perfumed Mede — to receive some reports that you have deceived the archon — that you intend to take the army and march south with the Sakje. In fact, he was surprised to learn that Sindi farmers have been paid to prepare a battlefield along the Agathes River, digging trenches and preparing traps.’

Kineas raised an eyebrow.

Philokles shrugged. ‘Rumour — all rumour.’ He sneered. ‘Zopryon is more likely to believe a rumour his spies gleaned in the wine shops than a plan spoken before his face. It is a fault all spies share.’

Kineas wrapped his arms around the Spartan. ‘Well done!’

Philokles shrugged again. ‘It was nothing.’ He was pleased by the praise, however. A flush crept up his cheeks.

‘The Macedonian merchants — they’ll know better in a few weeks,’ Kineas said.

‘Hmm.’ Philokles nodded. ‘Too true. However, Nicomedes and Leon have them in hand. That is to say — perhaps it is best if I say no more.’

Kineas shook his head. ‘Nicomedes?’

Philokles nodded. ‘Surely, having seen the ease with which he commands his troop, you no longer believe in his pose as a useless fop?’

Kineas shook his head. ‘I think that I must, despite his obvious skills and authority. I find it difficult to take him seriously.’

Philokles nodded, as if a theory had been confirmed. ‘That is why the Nicomedes of this world are so successful in the long run. At any rate, the merchants are similarly dismissive. They sit in his home, eating his bread, sneering at his effeminate ways, and chasing his slaves and his wife.’ The Spartan looked into the distance. ‘It will be a pity when an outraged freedman kills them both.’

Kineas’s bark of shock caused the big man to look back at him.

‘It’s a rough game, Hipparch. Those men want our blood, as surely as a screaming Getae waving a spear.’

Kineas relaxed, watching the hoplites reforming for a second try at the manoeuvre. He nodded. ‘Thanks. More than thanks. I had assumed there was nothing to be done — and you have done so much.’

Philokles grinned. ‘You are unsparing with praise. Very unSpartan.’ But then his grin faded. ‘The two merchants will be the first two dead in this war. And so it begins.’

‘I know you hate war,’ Kineas said. He reached out to take Philokles’s shoulder, but Philokles moved away.

‘What makes you think that?’ he asked.

The spring festival of Apollo drew every man and woman in the city and most of the populations of the farms for stades around the walls. The streets of the city were packed with people in their best clothes, and it was warm enough to cast cloaks aside, for men to be abroad in fine linen and for women, those who chose to appear in public, to look their best.

The full force of the hippeis now filled the hippodrome — two hundred and thirty horsemen, resplendent in blue and polished bronze and brilliant gold. Kineas could see the difference among the cloaks and armour — the cloaks of the men who had gone to the Sakje had already faded by some shades from the royal blue of the first cloth, and their armour had deeper shades of red from long days in the rain. But the appearance of the whole body was magnificent.

Kineas felt oddly nervous at their head. He was wearing his best armour, mounted on his tallest charger, and he knew he looked the part. He couldn’t explain it. His skills with men came from the gods, and he seldom doubted them, but today he felt as if he was an actor assigned a role, and the adulation of the crowds along the route to the temple increased his sense of unreality. To be appointed the commander of a city’s forces — short of leading the army of his own Athens in the field, he was at the summit of any soldier’s ambition.

His imminent death and all it would mean — the loss of worldly power, friends, love — was never far from his thoughts. He found that he could spare no time for trifles, that every moment mattered, and that he wanted to take his forces out to the camp on the Great Bend as soon as possible, to live his last campaign to the fullest.

To see Srayanka. Even if he could not have her.

He thought all these things, but on this day, he rode to the temple of Apollo like a bridegroom, eager, despite himself, for the honour that the archon intended to bestow.

Philokles rode at his side. ‘You have a certain vanity, I find,’ he said between plaudits from the crowd.

Kineas waved at a group of Sindi who were pointing at him. ‘Most soldiers are vain, don’t you think?’ he asked.

Philokles smiled. ‘Your love of finery is carefully hidden. You parade your poverty and your old, tattered cloak, the better to show the contrast to your magnificence.’

‘If you say so,’ Kineas answered.

‘I do. Or are you, perhaps, afraid to show so much finery every day, for fear someone would take you for Nicodemus?’ Philokles’ last words were almost drowned by renewed cheers. He nodded to Ataelus, who rode forward. He had a linen wrapped bundle, which he passed over to Philokles.

‘We swore an oath,’ Philokles said, ‘not to give this to you until the feast of Apollo.’

Kineas unwrapped the linen. Inside the bundle was his new sword, scabbarded in red leather and hilted with gold — an elegant, sweeping hilt decorated with a pair of flying Pegasus. The pommel was cast and worked like the head of a woman.

The first squadron had begun to sing the Paean.

In the next quiet interval, Kineas said, ‘It is magnificent. But I sought no gift from the king.’

‘The king sent it nonetheless,’ Philokles said with a mirthless grin. ‘You might note the pommel. Do you see a resemblance?’

Kineas closed his hand on the hilt. ‘You are like a bluebottle fly — no matter how often I swat you, you just come and settle to sting again.’ His intended severity was ruined by his broad grin. He loved it. It fit his hand. Srayanka gleamed in heavy gold from the pommel. Srayanka — Medea. ‘He sent this? Really?’

Philokles grinned. ‘Really.’ He shook his head. ‘Stop grinning like that — you might hurt your face.’ He pulled his horse out of the column, and fell back to his place.

Kineas didn’t stop grinning. The king of the Assagatje had sent him a message. Or a challenge.

The ceremony was long, but pleasant, full of music and bright colour. It raised the spirits of the city and of the hippeis and the hoplites, and when the archon tied the magenta sash around his breastplate, Kineas, too, felt a thrill of joy.

After the last procession through the town, Kineas took the hippeis back to the hippodrome and dismissed them with his thanks and praise — and with orders to assemble in two days, ready to march. He listened to the sounds they made as they departed — the gossip, the tone of their grumbles, the taunts and the teasing.

Morale was good.

As if by prior arrangement, the old soldiers — the mercenaries who had come to the city just eight months before — met in the barracks rather than go off to the torch-lit races and the public feast. They were all there — Antigonus, Coenus, Diodorus, Crax and Sitalkes, Ajax, Niceas, fresh back from Pantecapaeum, Laertes and Lykeles, Agis and Andronicus and Ataelus, the last in because it was their turn to curry horses, and Philokles, who appeared with two town slaves and a big amphora of wine. The shape of the amphora revealed it to be from Chios, and they all applauded.

Philokles produced a wine bowl from under a blanket and everyone else fetched cups, laid pillows and cloaks on benches for couches.

‘We thought we should drink some wine together, one last time before we take the field,’ Philokles said.

‘While we’re still your friends — before we become your soldiers,’ said Niceas, one hand on the owl at his neck.

They were all stiff at first — Sitalkes and Crax were utterly silent except for nervous giggles as they prodded each other on their shared couch. Ataelus, who rarely shared their revelry, seemed uncomfortable on a couch and moved to the floor, where he sat cross-legged.

Philokles rose. ‘In Sparta, we have two customs on the eve of war. One is that we sing a hymn to Ares. The other is that in our mess, every man takes a turn at the bowl. He raises his cup, pours a libation to the gods, and toasts every one of his comrades.’ He grinned. ‘It’s a good way to get drunk very quickly.’ Then he raised his voice. He had no sense of a tune, but others did — Kineas and Coenus.

Ares, exceeding in strength, chariot-rider,

Golden-helmed, doughty in heart, shield-bearer, saviour of cities,

Harnessed in bronze, strong of arm, unwearying, mighty with the spear,

O defence of Olympus, father of warlike Victory, ally of Themis,

Stern governor of the rebellious, leader of righteous men,

Sceptred king of manliness, who whirl your fiery sphere

Among the planets in their sevenfold courses through the aether

Wherein your blazing steeds ever bear you above the third firmament of heaven;

Hear me, helper of men, giver of dauntless youth!

Shed down a kindly ray from above upon my life, and strength of war,

That I may be able to drive away bitter cowardice from my head

And crush down the deceitful impulses of my soul.

Restrain also the keen fury of my heart which provokes me to tread

The ways of blood-curdling strife.

Rather, O blessed one, give you me boldness to abide within the harmless laws of peace, avoiding strife and hatred and the violent fiends of death.

Andronicus got to his feet. ‘Good song!’ he shouted. ‘Too seldom do you Greeks praise the lord of strife.’

Philokles shook his head. ‘We are no friends to the lord of strife.’

But Andronicus was not in a mood for argument. ‘Good custom!’ He walked straight to the bowl, and dipped his cup full. He sloshed a libation on the floor, and raised his cup. ‘To us. Comrades.’ One by one, he said their names, raised his cup, and drank, until he came to Kineas. ‘To you, Hipparch,’ he said, and drained his cup.

One by one, they did it. Lykeles made jokes about each of them. Philokles imitated their voices as he toasted them. Agis spoke well, and Laertes had a compliment for every man.

Sitalkes drank in silence, meeting each man’s eye in turn and drinking to him until he got to Kineas. To him, he raised his cup. ‘I was Getae,’ he said. ‘Now I am yours.’ He drank, and the others cheered and stamped their feet as they had not for Laertes’ pretty rhetoric.

Crax took his stand at the bowl with a belligerent stare. ‘When we fight, I will kill more than any of you,’ he said. And drank.

Ajax took the cup and wept. Then he wiped his eyes. ‘Every man here has my love. You are the comrades I dreamed of as a child, when I lay on my father’s arm and he read to me how Achilles sulked in his tent, how Diomedes led the army of the Hellenes, and all the other stories of the war with Troy.’

Ataelus insisted on having pure wine in his cup. He stood by the bowl for some time. Finally, he said, ‘My Greek is better. So I am not for fear speaking to you. All you — like good clan — you take me from city, give horse. Give honour.’ He raised his cup. ‘Too much talk-talk to toast every one. I toast all. Akinje Craje. The Flying Horse clan — what the Sakje call you. Good name.’ He drank. Then he dipped and drank again, and again, saluting each one in turn in unwatered wine. He walked back to his place on the floor without a tremor, and sat with the same grace as all the Sakje.

Last was Kineas. He waved to Philokles, the acting host. ‘By all the gods — put some water in it, or I won’t live to reach the camp.’ He stood by the bowl. He found that he had a smile across his face so firm that he couldn’t crack it even to speak. He was silent — as silent at Sitalkes or Ataelus had been. Then he raised his cup on the tips of his fingers and tipped it to spill a libation.

‘The gods honour those who strive the hardest,’ he said. ‘I doubt any group of men have worked harder in the last six months than you. I ask that the gods take notice. We came here as strangers, and have been made citizens. We came here as mercenaries. Now, I think most of us go to fight for our city, as men of virtue do.’ He looked around. ‘Like Ajax, I love every one of you, and like Ataelus, I know you for my own clan. For myself, I swear by the gods to do my best to bring you back safe. But I also say this. We go to a hard campaign.’ He looked around. ‘If we fall, let us do it so that some Olbian poet will sing of us, the way the Spartans sing of Leonidas, or the way every Hellene sings of Peleas’s son.’

They cheered him, even hard-eyed Niceas. He drank to them. They raised their cups with a roar.

Much later, a very drunk Kineas slapped Philokles’ shoulder. ‘You’re a good man,’ he said.

Philokles smiled. ‘I can’t hear you say that too often.’

‘I’m for bed. I’ll have a head like an anvil come the dawn.’ Kineas stood unsteadily. Crax was retching outside the barrack’s main door. He sounded like a man on the edge of death.

Philokles pushed himself to his feet. ‘I think you’ll find that dawn is close,’ he said. ‘It’s good to see you happy.’

Kineas hung on to the doorframe as he passed it. ‘I’m happy enough, brother. Better to die happy than…’ He managed to shut his mouth.

‘Die?’ said Philokles. He sounded more sober. ‘Who said anything about death?’

Kineas waved his hands unsteadily. ‘Nothing. Shouldn’t have said anything of the sort. My mouth runs away with me when I’m drunk. Like a diarrhoea of words.’

Philokles grabbed him and spun him around. He rested his forehead against Kineas, which steadied them both. He put a hand behind Kineas’s neck like a wrestler going for a hold. ‘Die happy, you said. Where’s that come from?’

‘Nowhere. Just a phrase.’

‘Donkey shit. Piles of it.’ Philokles sounded harsh.

Kineas rolled his eyes. He couldn’t remember why he had to hide all this from the Spartan, anyway. ‘Gonna die,’ he said. ‘In the battle.’

Philokles ground his forehead against Kineas. It hurt. ‘Says who?’

‘Dream. Kam Baqca. Tree.’ Saying it aloud made it seem a little silly.

Philokles pushed him away, and started laughing. ‘Ares’ swelling member. You poor bastard. Kam Baqca thinks she is going to die in this battle. She’s just spreading the misery.’

Kineas shrugged. ‘Maybe. Knows a lot.’

Philokles nodded. ‘So she does. So walk away. Board a ship. Go to Sparta.’

Kineas shook his head. The myths of his youth were full of men who fled fate to die foolishly. ‘Achilles’ choice,’ he said.

Philokles shook his head angrily. ‘You’re too old for that shit. You aren’t Achilles. The gods don’t whisper in your ear.’

Kineas sat on a table. He’d made it to his room. He kicked off his sandals. ‘Bed,’ he said, and fell on his.

He was asleep before Philokles could muster an argument.