Tyrant

3

The next morning he was up with the dawn again. He didn’t have a hard head and he didn’t like to drink too much wine, however good the company.

Once again, Philokles was snoring on the portico. Kineas walked past him, thinking that the man was certainly a nested set of surprises, contrasts within contrasts and he barely knew the Spartan. Fat athlete, Spartan philosopher.

He walked out to the paddock. One of the Gauls was standing sentry. This morning Kineas raised a hand in greeting and then went out to the paddock and got the grey stallion to come to him with a handful of dates. Then he was up on his bare back, his thighs clenched on the animal’s ample sides, and the chill air of the morning was rushing past him as he cantered the length of the paddock. He jumped over the paddock rail without much effort on the stallion’s part and headed north, off Calchus’s farm and on to the rolling hills of the plains. He walked until the sun stood clear and red above the horizon, and then he made a garland of red flowers and sang the hymn to Poseidon, which the grey stallion liked. The stallion ate the rest of the dates and spurned the grass as too coarse, and then Kineas mounted and rode back towards the town, gradually pushing the stallion to his extended gallop, until he was a god, floating on a carpet of speed. The stallion was scarcely winded when he pulled up at the edge of the market. He dismounted and led the grey along the street until he found an early stallholder with a jug of watered wine for sale by the cup. He drank deeply of the sour stuff until he came fully awake. The grey watched him, waiting for a treat.

‘Good fucking horse,’ the Scythian said. He was standing by the stallion’s rump. Kineas turned and saw that he was stroking him and cooing. The grey didn’t resent it.

‘Thanks, I think.’

‘Buy me for wine?’ the Scythian asked. The phrase rolled off his tongue as though he had said it a thousand times.

He didn’t smell so bad this morning and he fascinated Kineas. Kineas paid for more wine, handed a cup to the Scyth, who drained it.

‘Thanks. You ride for her? I see you ride — yes. Not bad. Yes. More wine, please.’

Kineas bought more wine. ‘I ride all the time.’ He was tempted to boast, but couldn’t see why. He wanted the Scyth — a drunk, a beggar, but one with the value of a farm in gold about his person — to like him.

‘Thanks. Rotten wine. You ride for all times? Me, too. Need for horse, me.’ He looked comical, with his pointed hat and his terrible Greek. ‘You got more horse? More?’ He patted the grey.

Kineas nodded gravely. ‘Yes.’

The Scyth patted his chest and touched his forehead — a very alien gesture, almost Persian. ‘I call Ataelus. You call?’

‘Kineas.’

‘Show horse. More horse.’

‘Come along, then.’ Kineas mounted with a handspring, a showy, Cavalry school mount. Before he could think about it, the Scyth was mounted behind him. Kineas had no idea how he had mounted so quickly. Now he felt ridiculous — he hadn’t intended to let the man ride with him and they doubtless looked like fools. He took a back street and kept the stallion moving, ignoring the glances of a handful of early rising citizens. Something for Calchus to twit him with when he was up.

They cantered up to the paddock. All of his men were awake and Niceas had the paddock open for the grey before Kineas could call out.

Niceas held the grey’s head as they dismounted. ‘He’s been here before. Seems harmless. Might make a good prokusatore.’

Kineas shrugged. ‘I have a hard time understanding him, but I think he wants to buy a horse and get out of here.’

Diodorus was stretching his legs against the paddock wall. His hair was a tangle of Medusa-like red snakes in the morning, and he kept pushing the more aggressive locks off his forehead. ‘Who can blame him? But if he’s a Scyth, he’d be a good guide.’

Kineas made a quick decision and went over to the Gaul. ‘Cut the white-faced bay out and bring him here.’

Antigonus nodded and started pushing through the horses. The Scyth walked over to the paddock wall and sat with his back against it, his leather trousers in the dirt. He didn’t seem to mind. He seemed content just to watch the horses.

When Antigonus brought him the bay, Kineas walked it over to the Scyth. ‘Tomorrow, we go to Olbia,’ he said slowly.

‘Sure,’ said the Scyth. Impossible to tell if he understood.

‘If you will guide us to Olbia, I’ll give you this bay.’

The Scyth looked at the horse. He got to his feet, ran a hand over her and leaped on to her back. In one stride, he was moving at a gallop and off, over the wall of the paddock and up the road to the plain.

For a group of professional soldiers, it was an embarrassment how totally he had taken them by surprise. He was gone, just a thin tail of hoof dust hanging in the morning sun, before any of them thought of mounting or getting a weapon.

‘Uh,’ said Kineas. ‘My fault. He seemed harmless.’

Niceas was still watching the dust, his hand on his amulet. ‘He didn’t exactly do us harm.’

‘He certainly knew how to ride.’ Coenus was watching the last of the dust under his hand. He grinned. ‘The Poet called them Centaurs, and now we know why.’

There wasn’t anything useful to be done about it. They didn’t know the plains and they didn’t have the time to chase a lone Scyth for days. Niceas put them all, even Kineas, to cleaning their tack and packing it tight for the next movement. They agreed that they’d leave the next morning. It wasn’t that they were a democracy — it was just that they took orders better if they had participated in shaping them.

Of course, Kineas took a good deal of teasing from the citizens — he’d lost them their pet Scyth, didn’t he know better than to let a Scyth up on a horse? Would he let a child play with fire? And more such. Calchus just laughed.

‘I wish someone had woken me up to see you riding with that drunk. The things I miss!’ If he held any rancour about the night’s revel, it was clearly dispelled by his guest’s embarrassment of the morning.

‘I’ll be off in the morning.’ Kineas was indeed embarrassed, and caught his fingers smoothing the hem of his tunic, an old habit.

Calchus watched the men around the paddock oiling leather. ‘I can’t make you see sense and stay?’

Kineas turned up his hands. ‘I have a contract, my friend. When it is done, and I have a talent or two in silver — why, then I’d be pleased to have this conversation again.’

Calchus smiled. It was the first really happy smile that Kineas had seen in two days from the man. ‘You’ll think about it? That’s good enough for me. I have Isokles coming tonight, and his daughter will visit to sing for us. Family evening — nothing to shock a girl. Take a look at her.’

Kineas realized that Calchus, for all his overbearing ways, was working quite hard to make Kineas welcome. ‘You, a matchmaker?’

Calchus put an arm around his shoulder. ‘I said it when you first came. Your father saved our whole family. I don’t forget. You’re fresh from the city — you think I’m a big frog in a little pond. I see it. And I am. Isokles and I — we argue about everything, but we are the men of substance here. And there’s room for more. The pond’s not that small.’

For Calchus, that was a long, emotional speech. Kineas hugged him and got a crushing squeeze in return.

Calchus went off to watch slaves being loaded for Attica. Kineas went back to working on his tack. He was sitting with his back against the outside of the paddock, using the wall for shade, with his bridle laid out in pieces and a new headstall to sew on, when young Ajax loomed above him.

‘Good day to you, sir,’ he said.

‘Your servant, Ajax. Please accept the accommodation offered by this tuft of grass.’ Kineas waved to it and passed a skin full of sour wine, which Ajax drank as if it were ambrosia.

‘My father sent this for you to look at.’ He had a bag of scrolls over his shoulder like a student in the agora. He hoisted it to the ground.

Kineas opened one, glanced at the writing — a very neat copyist — and saw that it was Herodotus.

‘It is only Book Four — the part about the Scythians. Because — well, my father says you are leaving — leaving tomorrow. For Olbia. So you won’t have time to read much.’

Kineas nodded and picked up the headstall. ‘I probably won’t have time to read the first scroll,’ he said.

Ajax nodded. He then sat in silence. Kineas resumed his work, using a fine bronze awl and the backing of a soft billet of wood to punch a neat row of holes down each side of the new headstall. He looked at Ajax from time to time from under his eyebrows — the boy was anxious, fidgeting with scraps of leather and bits of thread. But silent. Kineas liked him for his silence.

He kept working. When the holes were punched, he waxed a length of linen cord and fitted it to a needle — the needle was too large for the job, but it was the only good needle in the camp. Then he began to sew.

‘The thing is…’ Ajax began. But he lost heart and the words just hung there.

Kineas let them dangle for a bit while he finished his length of cord and threaded a new one. ‘The thing is?’ he said gently.

‘I want to see the world,’ Ajax announced.

Kineas nodded. ‘Laudable.’

‘Nothing ever happens here.’

‘Sounds good to me.’ Kineas wondered if he could live in a place where the festivals and the gymnasium were the sum of excitement. But on this day, facing the loss of a horse, an uncertain journey and the tyrant of Olbia, he felt that a life of certain boredom looked preferable.

‘I want to — to join your company. To ride with you. I can ride. I’m not much with a javelin but I could learn, and I can box and wrestle and fight with the spear. And I spent a year with the shepherds — I can sleep rough, start a fire. I killed a wolf.’

Kineas looked up. ‘What does your father say?’

Ajax beamed. ‘He says that I can go with you if you are fool enough to take me.’

Kineas laughed. ‘By the gods. That’s just what I expect he said. He’s coming to dine here tonight.’

Ajax nodded vigorously. ‘So am I. And Penelope — my sister — is going to sing. She sings beautifully, and she weaves wool better than merchant’s wool. And she is beautiful — I shouldn’t say it, but she is.’

Kineas hadn’t encountered this level of instant hero worship before. He couldn’t help but bask in the admiration for a little while. But not long. ‘I shall be pleased to meet your sister. I will talk to your father tonight. But Ajax — we’re mercenaries. It’s a hard life. Fighting for the boy king — that was soldiering for the city, in a way, even if we got a rough reception when we came home. Sleeping rough, aye. And worse. Days without sleep. Nights on guard, on horseback, in enemy country.’ His voice trailed off, and then he said, ‘War isn’t what what it was, Ajax. There is no battle of champions. The virtues of our ancestors are seldom shown in modern war.’

He stopped himself, because his words were having the opposite effect from what he had planned. The boy’s eyes were shining with delight. ‘How old are you?’

‘Seventeen. At the festival of Herakles.’

Kineas shrugged. Old enough to be a man. ‘I’ll talk to your father,’ he said. And when Ajax started to stammer thanks, he was merciless. ‘By the crooked-minded son of Cronus, boy! You could die. Pointlessly, in someone else’s fight — a street brawl, defending a tyrant who despises you. Or from a barbarian arrow in the dark. It’s not Homer, Ajax. It’s dirty, sleepless, full of scum and bugs. And on the day of battle, you are one faceless man under your helmet — no Achilles, no Hector, just an oarsman rowing the phalanx toward the enemy.’

Wasted words. He hoped they were not prophetic, because he still had some Homer in him after ten years of the real thing. He dreaded the pointless death in an alley, or a wine-shop squabble. He’d seen them happen to other men.

Late afternoon and his tack was clean and neat, the horses were inspected, the other men as ready as they needed to be, the armour and cornell-wood javelins packed in straw panniers for the baggage animals. He’d moved from the paddock to the base of the farm’s lone oak tree with a blanket to repair, but Kineas found it difficult to keep his eyes open. The coming dinner reminded him of the girl, Ajax’s sister, and what she would have meant — home, security, work. And her mere mention reminded him that it had been months since he had lain with a woman. Probably not since he left the army. And the contrast seemed vivid. Without even meeting Ajax’s sister, he could see her, at least in the guise of his own sisters. Demure. Quiet. Beautiful, remote, devout, cautious. Intelligent, perhaps, but certainly ignorant, without conversation.

His longest liaison in the army had been with Artemis. Not, obviously, her real name. She was a camp follower, a prostitute, although she insisted on being called Hetaera and claimed that she would be one in time. Loud, opinionated, violent in her loves and hates, given to drinking undiluted wine, she had seen more war than most of the soldiers, for all that she wasn’t yet twenty.

She’d stabbed a Macedonian file-closer who tried to rape her. She’d fucked most of the men in his troop, adopted them and been adopted. She had her own horse, could recite whole passages of Homer and dance every dance the men could — all the Spartan military dances, all the dances of the gods. The night before a battle, she would sing. Like Niceas, she was born in a brothel near the agora in Athens. She made the whole company, even the Corinthians and the Ionians, learn the anthem of Athens, to which she was fiercely patriotic.

Come, Athena, now if ever!

Let us now thy Glory see!

Now, O Maid and Queen, we pray thee,

Give thy servants victory!

She turned their drab followers into part of the company, got them messes, dealt with their squabbles and ruled them. And gave them value. And she had said to Kineas one ngiht, ‘Two things a girl needs to make it in this army; a hard heart and a wet cunny. That’s not in Homer, but I’d wager that it was the same for the girls at Troy.’

Artemis was well known to pick a unit she liked and go to the strongest man in it, until he died or she grew restless or he didn’t provide for her. She wouldn’t abide a non-provider. Kineas had kept her a year, in camp and city. She’d left him for Phillip Kontos, a Macedonian hipparch, a good professional move, and he didn’t hate her for it, although it occurred to him behind closed eyelids under a tree on the Euxine that he had expected her to stay with him.

Like the women, the life. He didn’t see much hope of becoming a farmer.

He fell asleep and Poseidon sent him a dream of horses.

He was riding a tall horse — or he was the horse, and they flowed together on an endless plain of grass — floating, galloping, on and on. There were other horses, too, and they followed, until he left the plain of grass for a plain of ash. And then they neighed and fell behind, and he rode on alone. And then they were at a river — a ford, full of rocks. On the far bank was a pile of driftwood as tall as a man, and a single dead tree, and on the ground beneath his hooves were the bodies of the dead…

He awoke with a start, rubbed his eyes and wondered what god had sent him such a dream. Then he rose and went to the house’s bath, handed his best tunic to a slave to press and gave the woman a few obols to do a good job. She brought him ewers of warm water to bathe. She was attractive — an older woman with a good figure, high cheekbones and a tattoo of an eagle on her shoulder. Sex crossed his mind, but she was having none of it, and he didn’t press the issue. Perhaps because he didn’t, he got his tunic beautifully pressed, with every fold opened and carefully erased, the linen shining white, so that he looked like the statue of Leto’s son on Mytilene. She accepted his thanks with a stiff nod and stayed out of his reach, which made him wonder about the habits of the house.

He walked naked back to where the men were camped. He had some good things in his baggage, to go with his good tunic. He had good sandals, light and strong with red leather bindings that helped disguise the scar on his leg, but the only cloak he had was his military cloak, which had once been blue and was now a faded colour between sky-blue and dust. He did, however, have an excellent cloak pin; a pair of Medusa’s heads in bright silver from the very best Athenian sculptor and castor. He pinned it to the old cloak with a muttered prayer and slung the cloak over his shoulder anyway, out by the fire with Diodorus and Niceas. The other men had gone to the market to drink. They hadn’t been invited to the symposium, and since most of them were as well born as Calchus, they chose to resent it. Agis and Laertes and Gracus had known Calchus as a boy. They were angry at being treated as inferiors.

Diodorus had a flagon of good wine, and he Coenus and Niceas passed it around while Kineas finished dressing.

Niceas held out a good brooch to put on his cloak, loot from Tyre, meant as a guest gift for Calchus. ‘Save the Medusas for a more worthy host,’ he said.

Kineas wondered what Calchus would think if he knew that the slave-born Athenian on his back farm considered him a poor host. Probably snort in contempt. His ruminations on Calchus were interrupted.

‘Look at that,’ Niceas exclaimed.

Kineas turned and looked over his shoulder. A lone horseman was trotting to the paddock. Coenus laughed.

‘Ataelus!’ bellowed Kineas.

The Scyth raised a dusty hand in greeting and swung his legs over the side of the horse so that he slipped in one lithe movement to the ground. He touched the flank of the horse with a little riding whip and she turned and walked through the gate into the paddock.

‘Horse good,’ he said. He reached out a hand for the flagon.

Coenus handed it to him without a moment’s hesitation. The Scyth took a deep drink, rubbed his mouth with his hand. Then Coenus caught the Scyth in a bear hug. ‘I think I like you, barbarian!’ he said.

Kineas shook his head. ‘I thought you stole the horse.’

The Scyth either didn’t understand or ignored the subject. ‘Where for you go? Leave tomorrow, yes? Yes, yes?’

Kineas was conscious of the sounds of conversation from the drive. Isokles and his family were arriving. It was late. ‘Olbia,’ he said.

The Scyth looked at him. He handed the flask to Diodorus as if he had always been part of their circle. ‘Long,’ he said. ‘Far.’ His Greek wasn’t barbaric. He pronounced his few words well, but had no notion of the complex rules of cases that governed nouns.

‘Ten days?’ asked Diodorus. That’s what the merchants had said.

The Scyth shrugged. His eyes were back on the horse.

‘You’ll guide us?’ asked Kineas.

‘Me go for you. You go. Horse good. Yes?’

‘I think that’s a deal, boss.’ Niceas nodded. ‘I’ll just keep an eye on the bugger, shall I?’

Coenus shook his head. ‘Ataelus and I share a hobby. Let’s go get drunk, my friend.’

Ataelus grinned. ‘Think for like you, too, Hellene!’ he said to Coenus. They walked off together toward the wine shops of town.

Niceas looked at Diodorus. ‘I guess we get to watch the camp.’

‘While I go to a dinner party? Excellent.’ Kineas grinned. ‘He’ll make a superb scout if we can keep him.’

Niceas waited until Coenus and the Scyth were out of earshot before going on. ‘He’s plenty smart.’

Kineas had seen some intelligence in the face, but he was surprised to hear Niceas confirm it. ‘Smart just how?’

Niceas pointed at the horse. ‘If he had just stayed here with us, would we trust him on the plains? But he’s already shown he could ride off, right? Stands to reason we’ll trust him more.’

Kineas saw it, put that way. ‘You’re as much a philosopher as that Spartan kid, Niceas.’

Niceas nodded. ‘Always thought so. And if he’s a philosopher, I’m a Hipparch in the Guards.’

‘Enlighten me.’ Kineas was actually standing on the balls of his feet, that eager to be in Calchus’s house on time, but Niceas was not much given to bursts of conversation and when he spoke it was worth listening to.

‘I heard from Dio about his javelin throw. He swam for an hour, maybe more, before you rescued him, or so I heard it. Spartan bastard. Out of shape — don’t know why. But he’s officer class — Spartiate. The tough ones. Fucking killing machines.’

‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ Kineas said.

‘Don’t marry the girl until we’ve done our contract,’ said Niceas.

Dismissed by his own hyperetes, Kineas headed for the house. He was still thinking about Niceas’s comments when he found himself lying full length on a wide couch with the Spartan himself.

‘I hope you don’t mind sharing with me,’ Philokles said. ‘I asked Calchus to put me here. I think he was going to give you Ajax.’

‘Thanks.’ The Spartan’s breath was heavy with wine already. Kineas moved a fraction away.

‘You are leaving tomorrow?’

‘Yes.’

‘For Olbia?’

‘Yes. That’s where we have our contract.’ Kineas was finding it hard to talk to Philokles, a man who seemed immune to social convention, while the other guests, Isokles, Ajax, and a robed and veiled figure that had to be a woman all stood, obviously waiting to be introduced to the principal guest before taking their ease.

‘Will you take me?’ Philokles clearly resented having to ask. A good deal of suppressed arrogance was very close to the surface.

‘Can you ride?’

‘Not well. But I can.’

‘Can you cook?’ Kineas was in a hurry to end this — Isokles had just shifted his weight, they were being very rude to the other guests, why couldn’t Philokles have kept this until the end of the meal? But he didn’t want to say yes.

‘Not if you want to eat it. Otherwise, yes.’

Kineas raised his eyes to Isokles and tried to pass a message. I know I’m being rude, I’m being importuned by someone whose life I saved. Isokles winked. The gods only knew what he thought was happening.

‘I’ll take you. It may be dangerous,’ he added weakly, too late to make any difference.

‘All the better,’ said the Spartan. ‘Goodness, we’re being rude. We should greet the other guests.’

Isokles and Ajax greeted them and took their places on couches. The girl had vanished, probably taken to the women’s rooms on the other side of the house.

Dinner consisted of fish, all very good; lobster, a little undercooked, and then more fish — the sort of opson — filled meal that moralists in Athens complained of. Watered wine made the rounds, a series of slaves bearing in the ewers of wine and Calchus mixing in the water himself. He was the only one alone on a couch, and he started conversations to include all of his guests; the wars of the boy king of Macedon, the hubris of the boy king claiming to be a god, the lack of piety in the younger generation, with the exception of Ajax. Despite his best intentions, he tended to launch monologues on his views on each of these matters. Ajax was silent and respectful, Isokles didn’t rise to the arguments as Kineas had expected he would, and Philokles applied himself to the fish courses as if he didn’t expect to eat this well ever again.

After the last food course basins of water were brought and all the men washed their hands and faces.

Calchus raised a wine bowl. ‘This is really a family gathering,’ he said. ‘To Isokles, my rival and brother; and to Kineas, to whom I owe everything I have achieved here.’ He poured a libation to the gods on to the floor and then drank the bowl to the dregs and upended it to show it was empty. ‘Since we are just family, it will outrage no god or goddess for your daughter to sing for us, Isokles.’

‘I couldn’t agree more,’ said the older man. He took a full bowl of wine and raised it. ‘To Calchus, for hosting us to this excellent dinner, and to his friend Kineas, who we all hope will grace us with his presence for long years to come.’ He, too, poured off a libation.

Kineas realized that it was his turn. He felt out of place, shy, unaccustomedly foreign. He took a full bowl and rose to a sitting position. ‘To the hospitality of Calchus, and to the making of new friends — for new friends are gifts from the immortal ones on high Olympus.’ He drank the cup down.

Philokles took his bowl and stood with it. Kineas could see on the faces of Isokles and Calchus that Philokles had it wrong — he was not supposed to raise a toast any more than young Ajax — but he did.

‘Poseidon, Lord of Horses, and Kineas saved me from the sea, and Calchus’s hospitality made me a man again.’ His libation to the gods was half the cup, and then he drank the rest. ‘Surely there is no bond dearer than guest to host.’ He subsided back on to his couch.

Ajax recognized the quote and applauded. Isokles raised his bowl in salute. Even Calchus, who at best tolerated the Spartan, gave him a nod and smile of thanks.

Two women entered the back of the room, unveiled, their hair piled high atop their heads and wearing fine linen. The older had to be Calchus’s wife, although this was the first time Kineas, who had lived in the house for three days, had laid eyes on her. She was tall, well built, long of limb and elegant in her movements, and she carried her head high. Her face would not have launched a thousand ships, but her expression of pleasure and her obvious intelligence took the place of beauty. She smiled at all of them.

‘This is Penelope,’ she said quietly, without raising her eyes. ‘Daughter of Isokles. I will just sit by and listen, if I may.’ She never raised her eyes, never mentioned her own name — the very picture of a modest matron — except that surely Calchus had no children or Kineas would have seen them.

Penelope had large, round eyes that darted around the room like excited animals. She would lower them when she remembered modesty, but just as suddenly they would start, rise up and seek new quarry.

Kineas decided that she had probably never been out in public before, perhaps never seen men having a private dinner. He himself had often taken a meal with his sisters and told them the news of the day or the gossip from the gymnasium, but not all girls got as much.

Her hair was very black and her skin fairer than most. She had a long neck, long arms, well-shaped hands. She was quite attractive, obviously the female twin to Ajax, but Kineas found her furtive curiosity disturbing — too much like a caged animal. And after Artemis, modesty no longer appealed to him as much.

He felt a vague disappointment. What had he expected?

She began to sing without any warm-up, and she had a clear, light voice. She sang a harvest song from the festival and she sang a love song he had heard in Athens, and then she sang three songs that were quite new to him and whose cadences sounded foreign. Her singing was good, confident, if a little quiet and breathy. She sang an ode and finished with a hymn to Demeter.

They all applauded. Philokles punched his arm and smiled broadly.

Isokles stood. ‘Not every father indulges his children like this — I mean, that she sings songs meant for men. But it seems to me that she has a gift, sent by Leto’s son, and that she should be allowed to polish it and even show it off, if she does so with modesty. Which, I may be excused for thinking, she has done.’ He looked at Kineas.

Kineas once again fretted to be the centre of attention. He saw that Calchus’s wife was looking straight at him — she had lovely eyes, perhaps her best feature — they were all looking at him expectantly. I’ve only been here three days and you’ve cast me in the role of the suitor.

‘Nothing more suitable or modest in the eyes of the gods than for Penelope to show the talents they have given her to friends and family,’ he said. He could see from their reactions that he had not hit the right note — years of commanding men had taught him to read expressions that quickly, and these reactions were not of the best. But what was he to say? To praise her singing or her appearance would be to break the artificial constraints of this being a ‘family gathering’. Was he supposed to take that plunge, moved by a sudden passion, and declare himself her suitor?

Sod that, he thought, suddenly angry.

Philokles shifted on the couch next to him and rose unsteadily to his feet. ‘In Sparta, our women live in public with our men, so I’ll ask you to excuse me if I am uncouth. But surely Penelope is the very image of modest accomplishment; the muses must love a girl who plays so well.’

Kineas looked up at Philokles, who swayed a little as if drunk although he had taken very little wine. His compliment was well received; Calchus’s wife, for instance, smiled and nodded. Isokles looked pleased.

Well shot, Philokles. Kineas punched his arm lightly as he sank back on to the couch, and Philokles grinned at him with a look that said, You’re a slow one, I’ll explain all this later, you dolt.

Isokles rose again. ‘And while I’m indulging my children, I will ask a favour of Kineas here, since he is my fellow guest and the man of the evening. Favour me and take my son with you to Olbia?’

Right in public, where I can’t refuse. By contrast, Philokles’ request was the soul of courtesy. Kineas stole a glance at Calchus’s wife. She looked interested. Kineas said, ‘I am a soldier. The life I lead is dangerous, and the campaigns are long. I fear to take the responsibility for your son and leave his bones in some field. I fear the anger of the gods if I take him from you, and I fear your wrath if some untoward thing might happen. Don’t men say: “In peace, sons bury their fathers, but in war, fathers bury their sons”?’

Isokles was sitting on his couch with his hand on Ajax’s shoulders. ‘He needs to see something of the world. His head is full of Achilles and Odysseus and nothing but the mud and flies of a real campaign will cure him.’ Isokles’s eyes met his own. ‘There is always risk, when you are a father. I let Penelope sing here — I have risked her reputation, and mine. The risk is small, the company near and dear — I accept it. You might say I have known you only three days, but I say, you are the boyhood friend of Calchus and Calchus, for all we are rivals in everything — I speak bluntly to please the gods — for all that we are rivals, Calchus is the closest man to my heart. And your reputation precedes you, too, Kineas. Were you not sent to the boy king with fifty men to be hostages for Athens? And did you not succeed in winning his praise as a man, as a soldier, to the credit of your city? Calchus says that you have made five campaigns in six years, and that only the jealousy of the assembly at your father’s wealth sent you to exile. I have met you. You are a man I could trust with my child.’

‘Or both of them,’ whispered Philokles.

Kineas didn’t want all the praise, nor did he think they knew what little glory he’d garnered with Alexander. Trusted cavalrymen were on mighty charges that shattered Persian armies. Greek cavalry were lucky to be assigned to scout a ford on the flank of the army.

‘You praise me above my merits. I will take Ajax to Olbia and show him a little war, and cure him, as you ask.’ Kineas sighed. Philokles hit him in the ribs quite hard with an elbow.

Calchus sprang up. ‘Enough family business. Wife, be off with you — it is time for men to speak of men’s things and drink some wine.’

His wife took Penelope by the hand and she rose gracefully, nodded her head to the guests, and withdrew. She had never spoken a word. She was what — fifteen? Sixteen? Kineas watched her go and noted the scowl on the face of Calchus’s wife.

‘Does Ajax have a good horse?’ Kineas asked.

‘Not as good as any of yours. Ours are lighter, really just for a race behind the agora.’

Kineas looked to Isokles. ‘If he’s coming with me, he’ll need money to buy equipment in Olbia — you don’t have the items here, I looked in the market. Two heavy chargers and a light horse — probably his racehorse is too fine for the work. Several heavy tunics. A big straw hat like slaves wear in the fields — the bigger, the better. Two javelins — good ones, with cornell wood shafts and bronze heads. Boots to protect his legs when we manoeuvre. And a sword. I’d like him to carry a cavalry sword. I’ll teach him to use it.’ He looked at the boy. ‘You ride well?’

Ajax looked down modestly. ‘Well enough.’

‘Chair seat? On the rump of the horse?’

‘No. Like the Dacae. I learned to ride from one when I was a boy.’ Ajax looked up to see if this was the right answer.

It was. ‘Good. And armour. The panoply will be as much as a hoplite’s — heavy breastplate and back, and a helmet with cheek pieces.’

Isokles was fingering his beard. ‘How much? I want him to have good equipment and good horses. They can keep a man alive.’

Kineas nodded sharply, all business on familiar ground. ‘Exactly. I have no notion what things cost in Olbia, but with all the Scyths there I hope that good horses are plentiful and cheap. Still — a hundred owls?’

Isokles laughed. ‘Ouch. Look, Ajax, why didn’t you just ask to have a ship built for you?’ He held out his hand. ‘No, I jest. A hundred owls in a purse, and another fifty for you, Kineas, against expenses.’

Kineas knew it was customary for Hipparchs to hold extra money on campaign for the sons of the rich, but he had never benefited from it. ‘Thank you.’

‘I don’t want him to seem poor besides the sons of the rich in Olbia. Send for more if things are expensive.’

Calchus rose from his couch. ‘I, too, have something for you, Kineas.’ He beckoned to the doorway, and a young male slave came in. ‘This is Crax. A Thracian. He claims to be good with horses, and he can handle a spear. You need a slave — a man of your position looks naked without one. ^’

‘You are too generous,’ said Kineas, who had not owned a slave of his own in years. He didn’t know what to say. Crax looked more like a potential recruit than a slave — good carriage, good muscles, young, and his stance suggested that slavery had not beaten his aggressiveness out of him.

‘Well, I insist. We all want you to succeed — go, please the tyrant, win a few talents, and come back here. And I’ll be honest — Crax is a bit much for my foreman to handle. Nothing for you, I’m sure.’

Crax stood like a soldier at attention. Cavalrymen had a saying — no worse gift than an unbroken horse. ‘Thank you, Calchus. Thank you for the hospitality and the care you gave my men and horses, and now this. I’ll repay you when I can.’ He gestured to Crax. ‘Fetch my cloak and sandals, will you?’

Crax marched out of the room.

‘So soon? You and Philokles have so much to add to spice our conversation, ’ said Isokles.

‘I apologize for leaving you so early, but I’ll be riding with the dawn.’

‘And taking my son. Well, I’ll enjoy his company another hour.’

Kineas nodded to Ajax. ‘Join us when the sun is rising by the paddock. I’ll provide you a horse until we can buy you a string.’

Ajax looked as though it was all too good to be true. ‘I can’t wait until morning.’

Kineas looked at Isokles and shook his head. ‘I can.’ He nudged Philokles.

Philokles showed no sign of feeling the nudge. ‘I’ll just stay here and enjoy my last night of civilization,’ he said. He raised his wine bowl to have it filled.