Killer of Men

by Christian Cameron

  At any rate, Histiaeus’s arrival was the last straw. I think that Miltiades imagined that he would become the leader of the Ionian Revolt – and eventually the tyrant of all Ionia. And they would have been better for having him, I can tell you, honey. He may have been a bastard about money, but he was a war-leader. Men loved to follow him.

  I ramble. Here, mix some of that lovely water from the spring in the bowl, and add apples – by Artemis, girl, do you blush just for the mention of apples? What a delicate flower you must be – thugater, where did you find her? Now pour that in my cup.

  We sailed away ahead of the first winter storm, and just as Heraklides predicted, we were soon snug on our couches at Miltiades’ great palace at Kallipolis.

  Aristagoras took his own retainers and fled to the mainland of Thrace. He had founded a colony there, at Myrcinus, and he abandoned the rebellion, or so Miltiades’ informers reported. I wondered where Briseis was. She must be bitter, I thought – from the queen of the Ionian Revolt to the wife of a failed traitor in three short years.

  The winter passed quickly enough. I bought a pretty Thracian slave and learned the language from her. I taught the Pyrrhiche to all my oarsmen, and kept them at it through the whole rainy winter, and we went together to celebrate the feast of Demeter, and the return of the sailing season.

  I was another year older. I dreamed all winter of ravens, and when the flowers began to bloom I saw a pair rise from a day-old kill and fly away west, and I knew that it was an omen, that I should be going home to Plataea, but there was nothing there for me – I thought. I worried more about my oath to Hipponax and Archilogos, which goes to show what fools men are about fate.

  In the spring, Histiaeus declared himself commander of the Ionian Alliance, and set the rendezvous of the fleet at Mytilene again, where he had, over the winter, made himself tyrant. He did it the simple way – his picked men infiltrated the citadel, then he killed the old tyrant with his own hands and every one of his children, too. Soaked in blood, he stepped forward to the applause – the terrified applause, I assume – of the town.

  Miltiades told us the tale at dinner, shaking his head with disgust. ‘Should have been you,’ I said. I didn’t mean it as flattery – simple fact. ‘Not the killings – the lordship.’

  He grinned at me. We were almost friends again – which is to say, he was unchanged, and I had almost forgiven him. Miltiades’ land of the Chersonese was the most polyglot kingdom I’d ever seen – Thracians and Asiatics and Greeks and Sakje at every hand, at dinner and in the temples. If Paramanos was the only black man, he was not the only foreigner. He loved the place, and my fear about his loyalties began to relax. At any rate, that afternoon, we had been joined by Olorus, the king of the local Thracians and Miltiades’ father-in-law.

  He grunted. ‘That Aristagoras,’ he said. ‘I visited him over the winter. He’s a greedy fool, and if he keeps taking slaves out of the Bastarnae and the Getae, they’ll kill him.’

  Miltiades nodded. ‘He is a greedy fool,’ he said.

  ‘Does he have his wife with him?’ I asked, trying to sound uninterested.

  He grinned. ‘Now, that is a woman!’ he said. ‘By all the gods, Miltiades – count yourself lucky you didn’t marry her. She is all the spine Aristagoras lacks.’

  Miltiades shrugged. ‘I met her on Lesbos,’ he said. ‘She is too intelligent to be beautiful.’ He looked at me.

  Heh, honey, that’s how men like Miltiades like their women. Dumb. Fear not – I won’t marry you to one of those. Miltiades’ chief wife – he had several concubines – was Hegesipyle, as beautiful as a dawn and as stupid as a cow tied to a post. Olorus’s daughter, in fact. I couldn’t stand to talk to her. She had never read anything, never been anywhere – my Thracian slave was better educated. I know, because I taught her Greek letters in exchange for her teaching me Thracian, and then we read Sappho together. And Alcaeus.

  Oh, I’m an old man and I tell these stories like a moth darting around a candle flame.

  The point of telling you about that dinner is that Miltiades rose and told us that we would not be joining the rebels. ‘The Ionian Revolt is only dangerous to the fools who play at it,’ he said, and his bitterness was obvious. He was a man who sought constantly for greatness, and greatness kept passing him by.

  Cimon was there. He had a lovely girl on his couch, I remember, because she had bright red hair and we all teased him about what her children would look like. Miltiades had red hair, too, remember.

  He rose. ‘So what will we do to win honour this summer?’ he asked.

  Miltiades shook his head, and he sounded both bitter and old. ‘Win honour? There is no honour in this world. But we’ll fill the treasury while old Artaphernes is busy with his rebellion.’

  He had a grand plan for a raid down the Asian coast, all the way past Tyre to the harbour of Naucratis. I frowned when I heard it, because I knew the idea must have come from Paramanos.

  We sailed after the spring storms seemed to have blown themselves out. We sailed right past the beach at Mytilene. They must have thought we were on our way to join them, but we didn’t so much as spend the night. We stayed on Chios instead, and Stephanos gave money to his mother and impressed all his friends with his riches and then sailed away, and I was a little jealous of the ease with which he returned home and left. His sister was married now and had three sons, and I held one on my knee and thought about how quickly the world was changing. And I wondered if Miltiades was right, that there was no more honour to be had.

  We fell on the Aegyptian merchants like foxes on geese. All the cities of Cyprus had fallen by then, and they didn’t think there was a Greek within a thousand stades. We came out of a grey dawn, five warships, our rowers hard and strong from the trip south, and they didn’t have a single trireme to protect them. I didn’t even get blood on my sword. Greeks have a name for when a wrestler wins a match without getting his back dirty – we call it a ‘dustless’ victory. We took those poor bastards and we were dustless.

  I took three merchants myself.

  When a squadron came out of the port, too late to save their merchants, we scattered.

  I ran south, at the advice of Paramanos. I dumped the rowers from the ships we’d taken on the low dunes of Aegypt and kept the gold and bronze and the gigantic eggs of some fabulous animal – Africa is full of monsters, or so I’m told. There was a slave girl, too – ill-use all over her, and a flinch reflex like a beaten dog. I kept her and treated her well, and she brought me luck.

  We picked up another pair of Aegyptian merchants just north of Naucratis the day after the raid, ships inbound with no idea of what had happened. More silver and gold, and Cyprian copper. The bilge of Storm Cutter was filled so deep that we had a hard time beaching the ship, and rowing was a horror.

  I beached again, carefully, fed my crew on stolen goat meat and sent the newly captured crewmen to walk back to Naucratis. Then I went west, to Cyrene. That was for Paramanos. He’d found a girl he fancied in the Chersonese, a free Thracian woman, and he’d decided to pick up his children, which filled me with joy – because that meant that he was committed to me. It was touch and go in Cyrene – the authorities knew us for what we were, but Paramanos was a citizen, and they chose not to tangle with my marines. His sister brought his daughters to the boat, clutching their rag dolls, the poor little things – they wept and wept to be put on a boat full of men, and hard men at that. But some things earn the smiles of the gods, and my Aegyptian slave girl turned out to be a fine dry-nurse. She was ridiculously thankful, now that she found she wasn’t to be raped every night. And I have noticed this, honey – animals and people repay good treatment. And the gods see.

  We put to sea with a strong south wind coming hot and hard off Africa. We hadn’t dared to sell even an ostrich egg out of the hold in Cyrene – they didn’t like us, and Paramanos feared that the council would seize the ship. I spent the whole night afraid that he would change his spots and betray us. Which shows that
I had something to learn about men.

  The wind was fair for Crete. We had a hold full of copper and gold and I knew a good buyer. Besides, I wanted to know how Lekthes was doing, the bastard.

  I’m laughing, because most Greek captains thought that it was a great thing just to go down the coast of Asia, or across the deep blue from Cyprus to Crete, but thanks to Paramanos, I sailed the wine-dark as if I owned it, and every night he showed me the stars and how to read them the way the Phoenicians read them.

  Good times.

  Paramanos was showing off for his daughters and they reciprocated, turning into a pair of little sailors. Ten days at sea and they could climb masts. The elder girl, Niobe, had a trick that scared me spitless every time I saw her do it – when we were under way, rowing full out, she would run along the oar looms, a foot on each oar.

  The oarsmen loved her. Every ship needs a brave, funny, athletic eleven-year-old girl.

  Probably as part of his showing-off for his girls, Paramanos made a disgustingly accurate landfall on Crete, and was insufferable as a result. We walked up the beach at Gortyn’s little port and were welcomed like Homeric heroes – better, in that quite a few of them were murdered. Nearchos embraced me as if he’d forgotten that we weren’t lovers, and his father was decidedly warmer than I feared.

  ‘Tell me everything!’ Nearchos said. ‘Nothing has happened here, of course,’ he said, glowering at his father.

  So I bragged a little of the raid and I talked of the sea. I was falling in love again – with Poseidon’s daughters, as the fisherfolk say. But the sea bored Nearchos – boats were a tool for glory, not an end in themselves.

  ‘You raided Aegypt?’ Lord Achilles asked. ‘Your Miltiades is a bold rascal. You must be a bold rascal yourself.’

  I raised my cup to him and we pledged each other until I stumbled out of the hall into the rose garden and puked up an amphora of good wine. But I gave each of them a cup of beaten gold – half the wages they’d given me, returned in a guest-gift, and then they were my friends for life.

  In the morning, I had a hard head, but I went to visit the bronze-smith. He wanted to buy all my copper, as I expected he would. I gave him a good price and we parted with a dozen embraces.

  ‘Any time you want to give up piracy,’ he said, ‘I could make you a decent smith.’

  I waved to him and went down to the fishermen’s village and found Troas. He was sitting by his Lesbian boat, mending a net.

  ‘I heard you was back,’ he said. He didn’t look up. ‘She’s wed and well wed, and it’s your boy she calved first. So don’t go making trouble.’ Then he looked at me. ‘She called him Hipponax,’ he said. ‘And we all thank you for the boat.’

  I’d sold a pair of the eggs and all the copper. I put a bag on the upturned boat hull. ‘For the boy, when he’s a man,’ I said. I had planned a long speech – or perhaps just a blow. I hadn’t forgotten how he’d given me a boatload of fools.

  But standing there on the beach, by his upturned boat, I had to acknowledge to the gods that his boatload of fools had made me the trierach I was. His hands and the gods had helped make me. Still, I glared at him.

  ‘You nigh on killed me with your cast-off men,’ I said.

  ‘I had no reason to send my neighbours and friends with you, boyo,’ he said, calmly enough.

  ‘I got them home – even the fools,’ I said.

  ‘Aye, you’re a better man than some,’ Troas said. He nodded, and that was my apology.

  ‘I’d like to see my boy,’ I said.

  ‘Nope,’ Troas answered. ‘My fool of a daughter took quite a shine to you, my young Achilles. She’s just about over it now, and settling down to be a prosperous fisherwoman. She almost loves her husband, who’s a good man and not a fucking killer.’ His eyes held mine, as tough in his way as Eualcidas or Nearchos or Miltiades. Then he nodded. ‘On your way, hero,’ he said. ‘No hard feelings. Come back in five years, if you’re alive, and I’ll see to it that you and your boy are friends.’

  I felt a rush of – sadness? Rage? And a lump in my throat as big as one of the ostrich eggs.

  ‘Can I give you a piece of advice, lad?’ Troas asked.

  I slumped against the boat hull. ‘I’m listening,’ I said.

  He nodded. ‘You think you’re happy as a hero, but you ain’t. You’re a farm boy. It’s not too late to go back to the farm. I saw you play house with my daughter and I didn’t figure you’d ever come back. But the fact that you did come back tells a whole different story.’ He went back to his net. ‘That’s all I have for you, son.’

  It is odd how quickly you go from the killer of men to the bereft boy. ‘I have no home,’ I said. I still remember the taste of those words, which slipped past the fence of my teeth against my will.

  Troas looked at me then. Really looked at me. ‘Don’t give me that shit,’ he said, but his tone was kind. ‘Go and make one.’ And he got up and embraced me – Troas, giving me a hug for comfort.

  That’s the way of youth, honey. One moment you are Achilles risen from the dead, the next an old net-mender feels sorry for you. And each moment is as real as the other.

  I got to my feet. I was crying, and I didn’t know why.

  ‘Still some human in you, eh, boy?’ he said. ‘Give me another hug then, and I’ll pass it to your son in a few years.’ He held me close. ‘If you don’t leave this life soon, all you’ll be is a killer,’ he said.

  I held him hard, and then I went back down the beach to my ship. Nearchos was waiting, with Lekthes. Lekthes was standing with a sea bag on his shoulder and all his armour nicely shined. His wife held his hand and wept. I kissed her and promised to bring him home, and then I embraced Nearchos.

  ‘I have three ships and all the men to man them,’ Nearchos said. ‘When you – when you want me, call. We’ll come.’

  I sailed away with a lump in my throat.

  Part V

  An Equal Exchange for Fire

  All things are an equal exchange for fire and fire [is an equal exchange] for all things, as goods are for gold and gold for goods.

  Heraclitus, fr. 90

  It is necessary to know that war is common and right is strife and that all things happen by strife and necessity.

  Heraclitus, fr. 80

  20

  We didn’t see another ship until we were north of Miletus – the rebels and Miltiades between them had swept the oceans clean. North of Samos we caught a merchantman out of Ephesus – I knew the ship as soon as I saw him on the horizon. It had been Hipponax’s pride, a big, long merchant with enough rowers to be a warship. I remembered what Briseis had said, that Diomedes had taken all their wealth, and we ran him down easily enough. They used slave rowers, and slaves will never save your cargo.

  With my spear at his throat, the captain admitted that he served Diomedes of Ephesus.

  I took the ship as well as the cargo, and all the slaves at the oars, too. But I put the deck crew ashore east of Samos. ‘Tell Diomedes that Arimnestos took his ship,’ I said. ‘Tell him that I’m waiting for him.’ I laughed to think how the little shit would react.

  And then I took my new ship back to the Chersonese. On the way, I stood in my bow and wondered at what Troas had said, and how I had cried. How could I ever give this up to shovel pig shit? I was a lord of the waves, a killer of men. I laughed, and the gulls cried.

  But over on the European coast of the Chersonese, a raven cawed, the raucous sound braying on and on.

  Miltiades came down to the docks to meet us, and I laid his share of the take at his feet – every obol – and he shook his head.

  ‘Walk with me,’ he said.

  We walked down the beach, and I remember the smell of the sea-wrack and the dead fish rotting in the white-hot summer sun.

  He put an arm around my shoulder. ‘I thought you’d deserted,’ he said. ‘I apologize. Men will tell you that I said some things about you. But you are weeks overdue.’

  ‘I had a lot of copper in
my bilges,’ I said. And it was true. ‘I went to a port I know in Crete to sell it.’

  He wasn’t listening. ‘Right, right,’ he said. ‘I have a note for you. From Olorus.’ He handed me a small silver tube.

  I opened it. It held a scrap of papyrus, and on it someone had written a verse of Sappho.

  I smiled.

  ‘I have a big draft of recruits coming in,’ he said. ‘You planning to crew that Ephesian ship yourself?’

  ‘Planning to return him to his true owner,’ I said. ‘An old friend of mine. But I paid you your half.’

  Miltiades shook his head. ‘I told your father once that you were more like an aristocrat than most men I knew,’ he said. ‘You love this man enough to give him a ship?’

  I had an idea – a mad idea. I’d thought about it since I’d had Diomedes’ captain under the point of my sword. Or perhaps since Troas told me that I should go back to the plough and find a home.

  I would need Miltiades’ good will, though. So I shrugged and told the truth – always disarming with manipulative men. And women. ‘I love Aristagoras’s wife,’ I said.

  It was Miltiades’ turn to shrug. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen her. Even pregnant. And men tell me things. About you, too.’

  ‘It is her ship,’ I said.

  Miltiades nodded. He turned to face me and he was a different man. He was dealing with me a new way – one warlord to another, maybe. Or one adulterer to another. ‘If you send her that ship,’ he said, ‘her husband will take it – and lose it.’

  ‘I thought that I might just kill her husband,’ I said. And go back to my farm in Boeotia? I wondered.

  ‘His people would follow you to Thule. To the Hyperboreans.’ Miltiades shook his head. ‘I hate the bastard, too, but if he goes down, my hand can’t be in it, and that goes double for my captains. I feared you might have some such foolishness in mind.’