And then we had to put it out of our minds for a while, because that was when the Triphylians - you can ask me the name of their king but I can't remember it - the Triphylians came up the coast and crossed the river, and we had no choice but to do something about it.
Usually, King Leon wouldn't have waited so long. He'd have pushed them back before they reached the Aipheus, or at the very least held it against them; but here's what I mean about him being a bad king because he was a good one. He was being good keeping away from fighting, because his heart knew the boy wasn't up to playing the part a crown prince should play in a war like that. Because of it, we waited till those Triphylians were like floodwater lapping round our houses, which was very much the wrong thing to do. It's not just Successes that come to the lime, you see.
I remember explaining all this to my wife, when she asked me what the war was about. I told her there wasn't going to be a war, it was just a matter of taking a stand, letting them know we were prepared to draw the line somewhere.
'Letting them know how?' she asked.
I was in a hurry, it was late and I had to get the goats in. 'We'll send a small army,' I said.
'Why not send a big one?'
I was pulling on my boots; they'd got wet and tight. 'No need,' I said. 'Small one'll do.'
'Doesn't sound very clever to me,' she said. 'If I was invading a country and all that turned up to fight me was a small army-'
'They aren't invading,' I interrupted.
'Oh. Then why send an army at all?'
Obviously I wasn't explaining very clearly. 'To make sure they don't invade,' I said.
'Well, wouldn't a big army do that just as well? Better, even. And then, if they do decide to invade after all, you'll be ready for them.'
'It doesn't work like that,' I said. 'Where's my hat?'
'Where you left it. If you send a small army and they decide they want to invade, they'll defeat you.'
'It was on the hook here last time I saw it.'
'And if they defeat you, they'll get all full of themselves and brave, so when you send the big army you should have sent in the first place-'
'I don't think I'll bother with a hat,' I said. 'It's a cool evening.'
'Are you going on this war, then?'
I frowned. 'You make it sound like a festival picnic,' I said.
'Well, it can't be all bad or you wouldn't be so keen to go.'
'Who said I was keen to go?'
'If it's not an invasion but you're sending an army anyway, sounds to me like it's an excuse for something else. Getting drunk, probably, and having chariot races.'
I was starting to feel as if I'd put my head in a beehive; her words were buzzing round me in all directions. 'We only have chariot races when somebody dies,' I said. 'Or is that why you think we have wars, so people can die and we've got an excuse for a chariot race?'
She looked at me. 'With men,' she said, 'I could believe it.'
'That's a stupid thing to say,' I replied.
'Really? So what do you go to war for? And don't say it's to stop the enemy deciding to invade; I'm talking about the real reason. It's to win glory and get famous) isn't it? And you can get just as glorious winning a chariot race as you can getting killed in some battle. It's all the same thing, after all.'
I took a deep breath. 'How did we get started talking about chariot races?' I asked her. 'Nobody except you even mentioned them.'
'That sort of thing,' she insisted. 'You men sit around feeling bored, and then you start thinking, it's not very glorious just sitting around all day, we'd better start a war or something. Like this idea of yours, for the prince.'
I hadn't seen that one coming, either. Talking to my wife, you suddenly found things charging at you round about ankle level from Out of the bushes, like when you're hunting boar in dense undergrowth. 'You've got my heart confused now,' I said. 'How does the prince come into it?'
'Right up at the front end, I expect,' she said. 'You want the prince to get glorious, so you've found him a war to be glorious in. Don't you want your hat?'
'Oh, for - where was it?'
'Right there under your nose, except you couldn't see for looking. So when are you leaving?'
I sighed. 'I don't know, do I? I mean, nobody's even said there's going to be a war yet. Because nobody knows if there's even going to be an invasion. What I mean to say is, we're going to send a few men up there, just to let them know we know they're there. It's as simple as that.'
She looked at me again. 'You call that simple?' she said. 'No wonder things are how they are, if that's your idea of simple.'
My heart told me that if I didn't want to get completely tangled up in this argument, like a goat in a thorn hedge, I'd better get out of there quick; so I did. I don't know how things are in Phoenicia, but here it's always like that when you start talking to women. We say that the gods made women's minds separately from men's - like when a man makes one thing, then tries to make another just the same. They look the same, but if you go up close, you'll start seeing all the differences.
I went up on the hill, and as soon as I was out of sight of the house and had time to think, my heart told me exactly what I should have said - because I knew, really. It's just that when words start stampeding at you, all quick and snapping like a hunter's dogs, you don't get time to think.
Up on the hill, it was all straightforward enough; most things are, it's just us who complicate them. And she was plenty wrong about the war - now she had me calling it a war, and I suppose she was right, at that; we all knew in our hearts there was going to be a war, otherwise where was the point - it being an excuse for putting the prince where he could make a name for himself. Other way about, really, like I told you earlier; Leon didn't want a war because he didn't want the boy to have to get involved. But it set me thinking; my heart was asking me, Well, why not? If there was someone to stand over the boy, tell him what to do, there was no reason why he shouldn't look like he was leading the army. Furthermore, if we sent a big army, what could possibly go wrong? It wasn't like the Triphylians could match us for numbers. Chances were, if they saw us roll up in thousands, they'd take one look and get themselves back over Alpheus as fast as they could go - and then the boy would have won a great and bloodless victory, and everybody'd be happy. The more we thought about it, my heart and I, the better it lay. I knew the Triphylians well enough to know where they'd bend and where they'd break; driving another man's land, running off his cattle, that's one thing, but fighting a big battle is quite another. You don't start a battle you know you can't win - where'd be the point?
So; the next day I went to see King Leon. As I recall, he was sitting outside the house watching them fix the big wagon - there were the wheelwrights, and the smith heating up the big copper tyre for the bust wheel, and a gang of the young men just standing around watching, like they'd never seen a wheel mended before. That made my heart think a small war might not be a bad thing at all; find them something to do instead of hanging about the king's house all day. You know what young men are like. Mostly they weren't any trouble, but once something gets into them, they're like a pack of dogs that haven't been taken for a run - they get snappy and difficult. Stands to reason - at that age you want to be up and doing, not loafing round a courtyard till your beard turns grey.
'Are you trying to confuse me?' King Leon said, after I'd said my piece. 'First you tell me to keep the boy away from the wars, next you want me to start one just for him. You're like those big walking-boots that you can wear on either foot.'
I felt embarrassed, I'll admit; after all, I'd been confoundedly eloquent when I advised him against the idea, so my opponent in the debate was me. 'There's wars,' I told him, 'and there's wars. It all depends on who you're fighting. Truth is, if you aren't Achilles himself, you'd best be choosy about who you pick a fight with. But Triphylians, for Zeus' sake; with them it's just a dance, like at summer festival. Nobody in his right mind'd want to get himself killed in a cattle raid.'
King Leon smiled. 'It's true,' he said, 'they've got a pretty shrewd idea of when it's the right time to call it a day and run. I remember fighting them - well, when I was not much older than the boy is now. Wasn't my first war, not by a way, but the old man let me lead the army all by myself. I tell you, Cleander, I was Hercules and Achilles and the Seven against Thebes, all packed up tight under one helmet; I had all so many clever ideas about how to fight a battle and lead an army it's a miracle I'm still alive. But in spite of my clowning about with masked flank strikes and feints and pretend retreats and all, we still managed to beat them in a single morning. They weren't interested, see.'
'There you are, then,' I said. 'And I'll bet you that when you got home again you were so full of it they could have stuck a spigot in your toe and wheeled you up and down the vine rows in a cart.'
'That's no lie,' said Leon, smiling.
'You see?' I said. 'You'd got something right, it filled your heart. But at the same time I'll wager you never felt like trying all that clever stuff again.'
'That's true,' he said.
'Well, there you have it. You learned a few valuable lessons, and still won. Just what I'm suggesting here.'
You know, I wonder sometimes why the gods suddenly take away our wits and make us stupid the way they do. Sometimes I think it's because they're like children, playing games with us. Sometimes I get the feeling they're punishing us, like parents. Half the time I say to my heart, the gods are no better than the worst of us, the way they treat us; the rest of the time I figure it must be our fault, we're doing something wrong without even knowing it. Anyhow, that's what some god put it into my mind to say, and the same god or one just as mean put it into Leon's heart to listen to me. That's all it takes.
The old blind man called Cleander stopped talking and sat still for a while.
The Phoenician, who'd been fidgeting for some time, reckoned that (being a foreigner) it would be in order for him to misconstrue this silence as the end of the story, and crawl away somewhere dark where he could get some sleep. 'Well,' he said, 'that's quite a tale you've got to tell, thank you. I think I'll go to bed now if it's all the same-'
His host looked round sharply - he'd been sitting with his head slumped forward, communing with whatever shared sorrow was tweaking the blind man 'Don't be silly,' he said, 'the story's hardly begun yet. Sit down. Thrasyllus, our guest's cup is empty, what the hell do you think you're playing at? Come to think of it, why are we still drinking this girls' stuff? There should be a jar of the five-year-old in the back room somewhere, unless the women have got at it while I wasn't looking.'
Compared with the five-year-old, the ordinaire was positively innocuous. Cursing his bad tactical judgement, the Phoenician leaned back against the wall and tried his utmost to keep his eyelids from folding down.
'You'll have to bear with me,' the old blind man was saying. 'It's been a long time, but it still stings my heart to think about it. That was a cruel god, I reckon, the one who robbed us of our brains that day.'
'That's my brother for you,' someone else said, a way further down the table, where the Phoenician couldn't see him clearly for the forest of wagging beards. 'Very sensitive man, my brother. Why don't I tell you all what happened next?'
'You sit quiet, Cratus,' ordered Palamedes. 'Sounds to me like you've had enough for one night.'
But the blind man shook his head vigorously, and as his head moved the firelight glistened on his damp cheeks. 'No, let him tell it,' he said, 'better him than me. It was the god who took my wits, but I deserve to hear him tell it.'
Everyone was looking dreadfully solemn, and the Phoenician wished very much that he'd followed his original plan and gone to Argos for his ox hides. Even Palamedes seemed depressed. 'Come on,' he said, 'don't show me up in front of my guest here. We don't need to hear stuff like that, when we're all friends together.'
But Cleander, the old blind man, kept shaking his head and insisting, with the air of a man to whom guilt and anguish have given extraordinary stamina; so, to shut him up, Palamedes finally said, 'Go on then, Cratus, let's have your party piece. But try to keep it short, will you? There's some of us want to be up early in the morning.
CHAPTER TWO
'Now then,' said the blind man's brother, 'where had we got to? Ah yes, Cleander was telling you how he persuaded the heart of King Leon, who'd made up his mind against the idea, to take out the army against a bunch of Triphylians who'd slipped across the river. All with me so far? That's fine, then.'
Well (Cratus continued), as soon as the word got around that we were going to war, everybody got so excited you'd think they'd all been sitting on an anthill.
It's as if one of those clever goldsmiths - like the ones in your country, friend Phoenician - was making a cup or a bowl, the ones with scenes from upper-class life all round the edge. Damn smart the way they do it, by the way, with a little anvil and a stake to support the metal from the inside, and tapping away on the outside with a little hammer. Well, if you opened me up you'd see scenes from that war beaten all round my heart.
Partly I remember it so well because it was the first war I was old enough to go on. I'm the kid brother, you see; there's fifteen years between Cleander and me, though they've always said that I've got Cleander's old heart in my body and he's got my young heart in his. Which figures, if you ask me, but that's another matter. The point is, I was as excited about the war as I could be without bursting like a sodden wineskin. All I'd ever heard was the wars. I could've sung you songs about Theseus and Diomedes, all the battle scenes, I'd have got the names right too - who killed who and how, just like those old men who sing for a living. Our father had promised me that when I was old enough, I could have grandfather's old shield and spear - only fair, I'd been burnishing the blasted things every day since I was six, which gave me as good a claim to them as anybody - and he'd give me an old helmet of his and a breastplate and pair of greaves he'd been given by a visitor that were never going to fit him again; and I already had a sword of my own, from my mother's father. As soon as the word went round, I fetched them all down out of the rafters and set to with a scrap of buckskin and the finest white sand I could find -it's a wonder I didn't polish a hole clean through that helmet (it was thin enough, Zeus knows; useless bloody thing). When I wasn't polishing I was out in the back orchard practising my spear-throw; I'd set up an apple on a stump at twenty paces, and if I didn't split five out of six apples, I'd be ashamed of myself. And when I wasn't polishing or smashing up perfectly good apples, I was hanging round the horse-pens with the other lads of my age, watching them break in the horses and talking about what big things we were going to do, and what the war would be like.
I reckoned I'd be in the front of the baffle. After all, I was big and strong and quick; not a fighter of course, I assumed I'd be charioteering for Cleander here. I was a hell of a good driver in those days, and that's my heart talking. I'm out of practice now, of course, just hauling logs and olives in our little mule-cart. Back then I could manage four big horses and still have a hand free. Of course, it helped that I still had all my fingers.
(Being human, the Phoenician immediately craned his neck and tried to get a look at the man's hands; but he had them folded in his lap, hidden by the table. This time, though, he caught a glimpse of his face; or at least his nose and eyes, the rest being in shadow.
Nondescript, he noted; not one of those people you can recognise in a crowd a hundred paces away.)
But I'm getting ahead of myself (Cratus said). like I was telling you, I had it all worked out, every last detail of the battle - my heart could only see a battle, not a war; I was too young then to know they're not the same thing - every spear-cast, every one-on-one combat, all the moves like we'd been taught. I could close my eyes, and my heart could see wonderful battles, every scene crisp and sharp, just like those magnificent Phoenician plates. You're grinning, my young friends. Probably you do the same; it's one of the secret and rather disgusting habits
of young men, fighting battles with yourself in the dark.
We went to the war as a family, of course; me, Cleander here, our middle brother Meson, our cousins Leucas and Melas, their father (our uncle Eumachus), our mother's brother Thaumastes and his three boys (Gallon, Doryclytus and - help me out, Cleander, what was the third one called? That's right, Mylon) and her kid brother Deistratus, who was the family's pride and joy, a genuine first-class hero. I can't remember now which war it was in, either the third war against the Arcadians or the second war against the Achaeans (who gives a damn, anyway?), but he'd done something or other extremely brave at some point, and when we were kids our hearts were full of it. Naturally, Uncle Deistratus was in charge of us, or at least he told us what to do, and since nobody else ever seemed particularly interested in what we got up to, I guess that made him our commanding officer. Things were rather more flexible back then than they are now, in any case; so long as you showed up on time. and didn't attack your own side by mistake, you were mostly free to go about things in your own way.
One of the good things about being invaded is that you don't have so far to go to get to the battle. It takes the shine off the sense of occasion if you've got to walk or trundle along in a chariot all day just to get to where the fighting's going to be. Fortunately, the Triphylians were in a particularly daring mood, and had pushed along until they were no more than a morning's drive away. We set off just before dawn, figuring that if we got there early enough we could fight the baffle in the morning, have a picnic lunch and be back home in time for dinner.
Olympiad Tom Holt Page 3
