Tyrant

22

Arni had the command of all the slaves. The wagons were moving, and the remounts were coming along, but Arni had Kineas’s warhorse ready, and stood at the animal’s head, despite his other responsibilities.

‘Master ordered me,’ he said. He gave his lopsided smile. ‘Blankets and gear with the baggage. Here’s both your best javelins — and your armour. Clean tunic — Ajax said your best. So it’s your best.’

Kineas grinned, his heart was lifted by seeing Srayanka, and because part of him didn’t believe in fated death, and because, right or wrong, he’d planned the summer away for this battle, and it was his. He slid off his mount. It took too long to change his tunic, too long to get his feet comfortable in the long boots of the heavy cavalryman, too long to close his breastplate and tie his sash. Upriver, they might be dying now.

He took his fancy gilt helmet and put it on the back of his head, and threw his best cloak — blue as her eyes — over his shoulder.

‘Start the fires as soon as you come up,’ Kineas said to Arni. ‘Choose the camp yourself. You’ve seen it done often enough. Get there in time to feed us, and I’ll see you a free man. Tell your men — if we win, every one of you will be free.’

‘My master said the same,’ Arni said with satisfaction.

Diodorus came up with his helmet on. ‘Ready,’ he said. He gave Kineas half a smile. He was exhausted — and so would his men be.

Not as tired as the Macedonians, he reminded himself.

Kineas relinquished the reins of his best riding horse to Arni and mounted Thanatos. ‘Pick a good camp,’ he said, and set the stallion to run.

It was easy to follow the army. They had beaten a road in the tall grass as wide as Memnon’s phalanx. It ran along the river for a few stades and then went straight as a bowstring at a tangent, cutting across the long sweep of the bend.

Kineas was impatient of the speed of Diodorus’s troop. He forgave them their fatigue — they’d earned it — but he needed to be there. He found himself pulling ahead, and finally, he turned, rode back to Diodorus, and shook his head. ‘Pardon me, old friend. I have to go.’

Diodorus waved. Kineas pointed with his whip at Niceas, and the two of them set off at a gallop.

He caught the phalanx at the top of the ridge that dominated the river valley. He waved to Memnon and kept going. Memnon would not expect a chat. He rode down the ridge, passing the first wagons that Arni had dispatched where they were delayed by soft ground. Men were cutting brush and tying it in bundles to hold the weight of the wagons. Kineas rode on. Beyond, the bulk of the phalanx of Pantecapaeum was clear of the marshy ground and there were officers shouting at them to close up, close up. Men were taking their shields off their backs and putting them on their arms.

Battle was close.

From here, on the last heights of the ridge, Kineas could see that there was fighting at the ford. Archers were firing on both sides, and there were bodies on the ground. He could see his own cavalry formed well clear of the ford itself, and he could see a body of infantry — it had to be Philokles — running up to form a line, stragglers trailing away behind them. Few men could run thirty stades over bad ground without pausing, even after a life of training. They might be so tired from the run that they’d be useless in a fight — but they were there.

Niceas pulled up behind him. ‘Orders?’ he asked. He looked calm, but one hand beat at his trumpet and the other was at his neck, rubbing at the smooth face of his owl. His horse dropped its head and its sides heaved. Kineas’s stallion’s head was up and alert — he appeared as though he’d gone for a walk.

Kineas patted his neck. ‘You, my friend, are a champion.’ He looked back at the chaos around the wagons and Memnon’s phalanx behind. He shook his head. ‘Tell Memnon to leave a few files to help the wagons and press on,’ he said. ‘I’m going down.’

From here, the whole field was clear. The river god’s shrine was a cairn that stood on a short isthmus that stuck into the stream near the ford like the thumb on a wrestler’s hand. The thumb and all the ground around it where it met the main bank were thick with big, old trees — oaks and big willows. Just north — upstream — of the thumb was the ford — in the light of the setting sun, the ford was obvious, perhaps because there were slingers standing in it to cast, but the water flowed, wide and shallow, and logs and a big rock betrayed the path of the ford. East of the ford, on the near bank, the river’s floodplain stretched for stades — hard to judge in the red light of evening, but the grass was short, and the ground flat and damp.

The ford was half a stade wide, and the far side was as flat as the near side — flat and treeless. Perfect ground for the taxeis. There wasn’t a sign of the Macedonian main body, and he could see for ten stades. He saw cavalry, and some peltasts, and men in cloaks — Thrake, he suspected.

He took one last look and pushed Thanatos down the last of the rise, through the reeds at the edge of the marsh that dominated the south end of the floodplain, and up a short rise on to the firmer grass along the river. He rode looking at the ground. His stallion’s hooves squelched as he cantered, but it was firm enough under the surface water — and it would be drier tomorrow.

He cantered easily across the front of Philokles’ two hundred — and they cheered. He raised his fist to them in salute as he rode past. He rode up to Nicomedes, who sat with Ajax in front of the line.

Nicomedes looked very fine — clean, neat, and calm — but the strength of his handclasp displayed his nerves. ‘By all the gods, Kineas — I’ve never been so glad to see any man.’ He grinned. ‘Command of armies? You can have it. I’ve been in command an hour and I’ve aged a year.’

Ajax tipped his helmet back. ‘He was cautious,’ he said as a tease. Behind him, Heron trotted up to the command group and saluted. Kineas returned the salute and rode over to the gangly young man. ‘Well done, sir. Well done.’

Heron stared at his hands. When he met Kineas’s eye, his own were bright. ‘Did my best,’ he said. ‘All I did was listen to your veterans.’

Niceas laughed. ‘The world’s full of men stupid enough to fuck that up,’ he said gruffly. ‘Take the hipparch’s praise — you earned it.’

Kineas slapped his back, and his hand rang on the other man’s armour. ‘Well done,’ he said again, and transferred his attention to Nicomedes.

Nicomedes pointed to the ford. ‘I refused to be tempted into a fight in the water. If their slingers want to engage our Sindi, so be it. The Sindi seem happy enough with the fight, and none of us are being hurt.’

Kineas nodded curtly. ‘You were correct. We only need to hold. I think they will try one rush before sunset.’ He glanced at the line. Many of Philokles’ men were down on their knees, or leaning to the ground, breathing hard — but more of them were already standing tall, shields resting on their insteps, spears in hand.

Kineas gestured to Eumenes, who rode up immediately. ‘Who have you appointed as your hyperetes?’ he asked.

‘Cliomenedes,’ Eumenes replied. Indeed, the boy was right behind him. The youngest of the boys who had made the winter ride — probably still among the youngest in the troop. Yet Kineas had seen his sword at work among the Getae — he wasn’t really a boy.

‘Very well. Take your troop to the south of Philokles, and cover his left flank. If we are pushed off the river bank, we retire south — so you will be the pivot. Nicomedes — where are the Sindi — at the shrine?’

‘Yes. They went into the trees, and now all that comes out is arrows.’ Nicomedes laughed with a nervous edge.

Kineas nodded. ‘We’ll leave them there.’ He looked to the south and east to find Memnon’s column. They were coming slowly across the marsh. Kineas gestured with his whip at Philokles, and then led the mounted officers towards the Spartan to reach him faster. He rubbed his beard, looked across the river again, felt his heartbeat increase, and reined in his horse with Philokles at his feet.

‘They’ll try for us in a few minutes, gentlemen. Philokles, those are Thrake; peltasts, really, but with big swords. They’ll come for you at a rush, their flanks covered by the cavalry.’

Philokles had his big Corinthian helmet on the back of his head. He looked himself — a big, pleasant man. The philosopher. But when he spoke, he sounded like Ares.

‘We’ll stop them right here,’ he said. ‘I have never fought them myself — but I know them by repute. Only their first charge is worth a crap.’ He smiled, and it was the sarcastic smile of Philokles. ‘I think we can manage them.’

Kineas caught the eye of his cavalry officers and pointed at the very slight rise in the ground to the south. ‘If we are broken, we rally to the south. Let the Thrake come — Philokles will hold them. When their cavalry comes across, they will be badly ordered — let them get across, and then charge them before they form. Look to me for the timing, but don’t fear to make your own call. I’ll ride with the infantry.’

In fact, it felt odd to be sitting on a horse, well clear of the front line, giving orders. But that was his work, now.

He rode back to the small phalanx — really, more like a handful of peltastoi, with Philokles. The big Spartan gave him one grin, and then tipped his helmet back down on his head, and ran to the front of his men. He pointed across the river, and the two hundred gave a cheer like a thousand men, a cheer that sent a surge of energy through Kineas like a beneficial lightning bolt.

Across the river, the Macedonian slingers were retreating. On the far bank, clear in the fading light, Kineas could see the Thrake and the cavalry. And beyond them, something. It was hard to measure distance, and harder to detect troops moving on wet ground, without dust — but there was something there. A taxeis perhaps — still a few stades away.

The Thrake bellowed a cheer, and then another, and they raised their shields. There were quite a few of them. They beat their big swords against their shields, and they began a chant. Then they started across the ford. They kept no kind of order, and their ranks spread as they crossed.

Kineas had dismissed the handful of Sindi — the blacksmith’s men — as unimportant, but from their position on the thumb, immune to the Thrake and unafraid, they shot arrows right into the side of the charge. The Thrake flinched away from the thumb, crowded to the north side of the ford and came up the bank too slowly, with much of the impetus of their charge lost to the water and the arrows. A chief rallied them at the river’s edge, and led them forward — a hundred or more — and they crashed into the front of Philokles’ men with a noise like a dozen blacksmiths working on as many forges. The chief leaped — a fantastic move — straight from the run of his charge up to the rim of the shield wall and then down, his long sword taking a Greek head even as he fell, but four spears pierced him before his body came to rest and the gap that he opened was filled in three thuds of Kineas’s heart with dead men, Greek and Thrake, and then the epilektoi pushed from the second rank, and the wound in the phalanx was healed as they closed their shields.

More Thrake were coming up the river bank — every man seemed to make his own decision, and some ran off towards the base of the thumb, to end the galling fire of the archers, while others threw themselves into the fight in front of them.

Kineas tore his eyes away from the fight to watch the enemy cavalry. They were trapped in the ford — now they were the victims of the deadly archery, and they couldn’t push forward because of the crowd of Thrake.

The width of an Athenian street away, Philokles’ plume showed in the front rank, and his roar shook the air. Kineas saw the great black spear rise and fall — back and forth, held one-handed on the Spartan’s shoulder, and he punched with it as if it had no weight — back and forth, like a machine for killing men. He was not alone — he was at the corner of his threatened line — yet he killed five men in as many breaths, the great black spear shooting forward with brutal economy, straight through a nose, into a mouth, into the soft flesh under a man’s chin — and out, the broad blade never sinking past its greatest width. Philokles’ arm was black at the hand, red as high as his shoulder, and he was red down his side where the blood of other men ran down his naked skin. Even as Kineas watched, the Greek line solidified, and Philokles’ roar was answered by a push — a heave that threw the Thrake back on their heels, some men actually falling to the ground, and the line stepped over them, and spears in the rear rank rose and fell, the whole phalanx like a loom weaving death.

The Thrake broke. They were being massacred against the round shields, the strength of their charge was spent, and fear took them. They broke and fled into the ford, already choked with latecomers and their own cavalry supports.

Kineas rode up next to Philokles, who was leading his men forward. They were singing, and Kineas had to bellow to be heard. ‘Halt!’ he yelled. He poked Philokles’ helmet with the butt of his javelin. ‘Halt!’

The black spear whirled, and the butt-spite paused a fraction of a foot away from his face. Philokles glared at him with dull recognition. He shouted. His pipe player shrilled a call, and the victorious men of Pantecapaeum stopped. Kineas whirled his mount, put his heels to the stallion’s flanks, and raced to Eumenes.

‘Now!’ he yelled. ‘Into the ford!’

Eumenes wasn’t ready. Clearly, he had been waiting for the fight to develop as Kineas had predicted.

It hadn’t. Kineas had expected the rush of Thrake to push Philokles’ little band back, to give the trap space to develop. Philokles’ victory had happened too fast.

‘Now!’ Kineas bellowed.

Eumenes waved at Clip. ‘Sound: Advance!’ he called.

Kineas rode away, wishing for Niceas. This was too slow — the trap would never be sprung, now. The men of Pantecapaeum had fought too well, and the Thrake had broken too soon. He waved to Nicomedes — harder to see now.

Nicomedes started for the ford, but halted before Kineas reached him.

There wasn’t room for both troops abreast. Eumenes’ men swept by, already at a gallop, and hit the river in a spray of water.

‘Reform the line!’ Kineas yelled. He waved with his sword, and Nicomedes led his cavalry back the little distance they had advanced. Philokles’ men walked backwards, their shields to the enemy. Heron’s troop had never advanced — they were too far to the flank to even see the fighting.

Niceas rode up. ‘We’ll have a camp in an hour,’ he said. He pointed at the ford. ‘What’s that?’

Kineas shook his head. ‘A trap gone wrong,’ he said. ‘Sound the recall.’ Out in the ford, Eumenes’ men were killing fugitive Thrake, but the enemy cavalry were already formed on the far bank.

Eumenes’ men returned in good order, the sting of their rout expunged, and the ford was full of dead men, but the actual damage inflicted on the enemy was slight. He peered into the dusk, trying to read what lay on the other side of the ford. He felt that a taxeis had come up, but he saw no proof.

Behind him, on the ridge, a fire winked into life, and then another.

Memnon’s column marched on to the edge of the dry ground and began to form.

Kineas watched the ford. He praised the men, riding along the line. He took the time to manoeuvre Memnon into the line, right in the centre, facing the ford, with the main phalanx of Pantecapaeum on his right and the epilektoi under Philokles on his left, and the cavalry covering their flanks. By the time they were all in line, Kineas couldn’t see across the river. And there were fires all along the slope of the ridge behind him.

He gathered his officers again, and sent Niceas to get the Sindi blacksmith from his fortress of trees. When they were all present, he saluted them.

‘We stopped them,’ he said. ‘We won the race. We almost hurt them badly. Now we have to hold them until the king comes.’ He looked around in the last light at all the faces — new men and old friends. And Philokles — he couldn’t adapt to Philokles as a killer.

‘This is my plan. The whole army will retire to the ridge, to camp and eat. We’ll hold the ford with a rotation of pickets — cavalry and infantry in every watch, four watches. But…’ He looked around, gathering eyes, making sure he had their attention. ‘When they come, we give them the ford. I think they’ll come at dawn — they’ll push a whole taxeis across at a rush. Let them come.’ He pointed to Temerix, who stood a little apart. ‘You have enough arrows?’ he asked in Sakje.

The blacksmith laughed. ‘All we do for day and day is cut arrows,’ he said.

‘Can you hold the shrine? All night, and as long as you can in the day?’ Kineas asked.

The blacksmith shrugged. ‘I am your man,’ he said. ‘And I came here to die. River god’s shrine is good place for man to die.’

Kineas shook his head, too tired to argue about ordering a man to his death. ‘Don’t die,’ he said. ‘Just hold it until they get across, and run to us.’ He looked around the circle. ‘The rest of you — form just as we are formed now, but here — at the edge of the marsh. We push up the little rise — that’s our line.’

‘With our flank on the river,’ Philokles said. ‘And the other flank in air.’

Kineas shook his head and pointed to the ridge. Even in the near darkness the silhouettes of riders were visible. ‘Our friends from the Grass Cats and the Standing Horses will take care of the open flank,’ he said. ‘We let Zopryon — if he’s here — come across. He’ll be at right angles to our line — a terrible position to start a battle. He’ll use more time to reform his line. And he’ll have no way to expect it — which will cost him time. We advance at my word — and we’ll pin them against the river.’ He gave a small smile. ‘Until they get their second taxies across — and then we give ground.’ He motioned over his shoulder. ‘We have a great deal of ground to give, gentlemen — about thirty stades. Stay together, keep the line, and don’t get routed. As far as I am concerned, we can spend all day retreating. I want to hurt him early on, and then retreat until the king comes. That’s all. And tonight — eat well, and sleep.’

They nodded — laughed a little. Their spirits were soaring.

Kineas mounted Thanatos again, and spared the ford one more look. It was lost in the darkness. The Macedonians had fires now, too.

Then he rode back to camp.

They cosseted him — the Sindi, the slaves, his comrades. His kit was already laid out, and he had a tent, ready pitched — the only tent among the hippeis, on a fine summer night with the stars like a canopy of glory across the sky. His cloak and armour vanished as soon as he had them off, and a bowl of cheese and meat and bread was put in his hands. Philokles came to the fire, the blood washed from his arms and side, wearing a tunic. He had a Spartan cup brimming with strong, unwatered wine, which he set on a rock by Kineas’s hand. Just beyond the periphery of his vision, Arni and Sitalkes worked together on Thanatos, washing the mud from his legs, brushing the dirt and sweat from his coat, and he stood calmly enough and bore their attentions.

And beyond Thanatos, a hundred fires rose into the dark, towers of light and smoke from wood carefully gathered by slaves and free men, and at every fire, messes of horsemen and hoplites ate hot food and stared into the flames and thought about what morning would bring.

The old comrades — Lykeles and Laertes and Coenus and all the rest — came to his fire from their separate troops, and sat in a circle, but they left space for newer comrades; Eumenes was there, Ajax and Nicomedes, and Clio, hovering uncertainly around the edge of the firelight until Coenus, who had taught the boy all winter, waved him to the fire.

They were silent for a time. Kineas ate his food and drank the wine in silence, his eyes on the column of fire rising into the night. Sitalkes finished the big stallion to his own satisfaction and Arni took the horse away to the picket lines in the darkness, and the Getae boy — now a man, and a tall man at that — came and sat by Ajax.

Agis rose to his feet and cleared his throat, and hummed a little to himself — an agora ditty from Olbia. Then he bowed his head, raised it, and said:

‘As through the deep glens of a parched mountainside rageth wondrous-blazing fire, and the deep forest burneth, and the wind as it driveth it on whirleth the flame every whither, even so raged he every whither with his spear, like some god, ever pressing hard upon them that he slew; and the black earth ran with blood.

And as a man yoketh bulls broad of brow to tread white barley in a well-ordered threshing-floor, and quickly is the grain trodden out beneath the feet of the loud-bellowing bulls; even so beneath great-souled Achilles his single-hooved horses trampled alike on the dead and on the shields; and with blood was all the axle sprinkled beneath, and the rims round about the car, for drops smote upon them from the horses hooves and from the tyres. But the son of Peleas pressed on to win him glory, and with gore were his invincible hands bespattered…’

And Agis continued the story until:

‘Then the son of Peleas uttered a bitter cry, with a look at the broad heaven: “Father Zeus, how is it that no one of the gods taketh it upon him in my pitiless plight to save me from out the River! thereafter let come upon me what may.

“None other of the heavenly gods do I blame so much, but only my dear mother, that beguiled me with false words, saying that beneath the wall of the mail-clad Trojans I should perish by the swift missiles of Apollo. Would that Hector had slain me, the best of the men bred here; then had a brave man been the slayer, and a brave man had he slain. But now by a miserable death was it appointed me to be cut off, pent in the great river, like a swine-herd boy whom a torrent sweepeth away as he maketh essay to cross it in winter.”

So spake he, and forthwith Poseidon and Pallas Athene drew nigh and stood by his side, being likened in form to mortal men, and they clasped his hand in theirs and pledged him in words. And among them Poseidon, the Shaker of Earth, was first to speak: “Son of Peleas, tremble not thou overmuch, neither be anywise afraid, such helpers twain are we from the god — and Zeus approveth thereof — even I and Pallas Athene. Therefore is it not thy doom to be vanquished by a river; nay, he shall soon give respite, and thou of thyself shalt know it. But we will give thee wise counsel, if so be thou wilt hearken. Make not thine hands to cease from evil battle until within the framed walls of Ilios thou hast pent the Trojan host, whosoever escapeth. But for thyself, when thou hast bereft Hector of life, come thou back to the ships; lo, we grant thee to win glory.”’

He stopped there, well short of the death of Hector, declaiming that part of the tale brought men ill luck. When he bowed his head to show that he was done, the space beyond the fire was black with men standing in silence to hear him. And there was silence, thick and black as night, when he was done, as if by staying perfectly still, they could win more words from him, but he bowed his head again, and went back to his place, and sat. Then the men beyond the firelight sighed, and the sound was like the wind in tall trees.

Kineas stood, and offered libation to all the gods from Philokles’ cup and their dwindling store of wine. He raised his voice and sang, ‘I begin to sing about Poseidon…’ And every man in earshot responded, and they all sang together.

‘The great god, mover of the earth and fruitless sea,

God of the deep who is also lord of Helicon

And wide Aegae.

A two-fold office the gods allotted you,

O Shaker of the Earth,

To be a tamer of horses and a saviour of ships!

Hail, Poseidon, Holder of the Earth,

Dark-haired lord!

O blessed one, be kindly in heart and

Help those who ride on horses!’

Kineas had at his feet a wreath of oak leaves, made by Ajax and Eumenes working together by firelight. When the hymn was done, he lifted it from the ground, walked across the fire circle, and placed it without further words on the brow of Philokles. When the wreath touched the Spartan, they roared, a single long note. And then the men were silent, feeling the nearness of the gods, and of death.

Niceas broke the silence, walking up to Agis. He put a hand on Agis’s shoulder. ‘Better than Guagemala,’ he said.

Agis shrugged, clearly drained. ‘When it comes to me,’ he said, ‘it is like a spirit speaks through me, or a god. I am no actor, and sometimes I can’t believe that I can remember the passage.’

The other men who had known him for years all nodded. Even Kineas thought that the Megaran was god-touched.

But Ajax smiled. In the bright sun of battle, that boy was altogether gone, but he was beautiful in the firelight, and in his face lingered the boy who had followed them off to war from his father’s house. ‘I love to hear the Poet,’ he said. ‘It is almost — like the hymn, to listen on such a night, and the eve of battle?’

Nicomedes rolled his eyes, and Philokles gave a snort, almost the bray of a donkey, and Ajax’s head went back in resentment.

‘The Poet knew war,’ Philokles said. ‘And he did not love it. He told a great tale — the tale of one man’s rage, and through that rage, the tale of what war is. Ajax, you are no longer a virgin.’ A rude chuckle from the fire. ‘War is madness, like the rage of Achilles.’

Ajax’s chin was still up, and his voice was strong. ‘Every man here made war today,’ he said. ‘You, Philokles, were a hero risen from the very lines of the Poet.’

Philokles stood up, and on his head sat the wreath, a crown of valour, and he seemed the tallest man at the fire, red and gold in the firelight. ‘War makes men beasts,’ he said. ‘I fight like a wise and cunning beast — a predator. I killed nine men today — or perhaps ten.’ He shrugged, and seemed to shrink. ‘A wolf might say as much. And a wolf would stop killing when his hunger was sated. Only a man kills without need.’

Ajax, stung, said, ‘If you hate it so, you need not fight!’

Philokles shook his head. The firelight played tricks with his face — his body was red and gold, but his face had black hollows for eyes, and his grin raised the hair on Kineas’s neck. ‘Hate it?’ he said through his grin. ‘Hate it? I love it like a drunkard loves wine — and like the drunkard, I prate about it when I’m sober.’ He turned away, and plunged through the circle into the darkness beyond.

Kineas followed on his heels. He followed the Spartan along the ridge, past a campfire of Olbian hoplites, and then another, and down the hill a ways, stumbling on the uneven ground in the dark until he saw the pale shape of his friend’s back settle. Philokles was sitting on a great rock that stuck up from the ground like an old man’s last tooth. Kineas sat next to him.

‘I am an ass,’ Philokles said.

Kineas, who had seen a great deal of bad behaviour on the night before battle, punched the Spartan in the arm. ‘Yes,’ he said.

‘He keeps his eyes so tightly closed to the horror. He wants war to be like the poem — he doesn’t see how often they crash to the dusty earth clutching their guts.’ Philokles’ voice was soft. ‘It is easy to kill a man, or a city, yes?’

‘Too damned easy,’ Kineas said.

Philokles nodded, talking to himself as much as to Kineas. ‘If you train your whole life to be a warrior — offering nothing to the gods, learning no poet, perhaps even illiterate — you might make a superb killing man. Yes?’

Kineas nodded, unsure where the Spartan was going with his argument.

‘You might be the finest fighter in the world. Deadly with a sword, deadly with a spear, mounted, on foot, with a rock, with a club, however you chose to fight. And you might spend all of your money on equipment for it — armour, shields, swords, the best of everything. Yes?’

‘I’m sure you’re going somewhere with this,’ Kineas said, but his attempt to lighten the tone failed.

Philokles grabbed him by both shoulders. ‘Just so that you could protect yourself, because it is so easy to be killed. You could imagine every threat that might come against you — every man who wanted your purse, every man who sought to steal your horse, or your armour. You might live your life in a wilderness, to be able to see the enemy coming — or perhaps you would fight for power, so that you could bid other men to protect you.’

‘Like a tyrant,’ Kineas said, because he thought he understood.

‘Perhaps,’ Philokles said dismissively. ‘Because my point is that you can live like that — you can spend your entire life on security, either as a man or as a city. And a child with a sling stone can kill you dead in a moment. There you are — dead — and you have lived a life without a single virtue, except possibly courage — you are illiterate, brutish, and dead.’

Kineas began to see. ‘Or?’

Philokles looked out over the water. ‘Or you can live a life of virtue, so that men seek to protect you, or emulate you, or join you.’

Kineas thought about it for a moment, and then said, ‘And yet we killed Socrates.’

Philokles turned back to him, his eyes sparkling. ‘Socrates killed himself rather than relinquish virtue.’ He made a rhetorical gesture, like a man about to speak before the assembly. ‘The only armour is virtue. And the only excuse for violence is in the defence of virtue, and then, if we die, we die with virtue.’

Kineas allowed a slow smile to creep over his face. ‘Now I think I know why I haven’t heard of other Spartan philosophers.’

Philokles nodded. ‘We’re a violent lot. And it’s always easier to die defending virtue than to live virtuously.’

Kineas had heard a great deal of philosophy in the hours before battle-dawns, but Philokles made more sense than the others. He gripped his hand. ‘I think you and Ajax have more in common than you would have me believe.’

Philokles grunted.

‘He’s an ass, too. Listen to me, brother. I have a favour to ask.’ Kineas’s voice was light, but he put an arm around Philokles — a gesture he seldom made.

‘Of course.’

‘On the night before battle, I like to listen to Agis, and then I like to hear the voices of my friends. Because you are right — but tonight, we are not beasts. We are men. Come with me, back to the fire.’

Philokles had tears in his eyes that glittered like jewels in the moonlight. He wiped his eyes, and his fist brushed against the wreath in his hair. ‘Why did you give me this thing?’ he asked. ‘I am no hero.’

Kineas pushed him off the rock, and the two climbed up the hill, their feet loud on the hard turf, so that Philokles might never have heard Kineas’s reponse.

‘Yes, you are,’ Kineas said, but very softly.