by Paul Waters
I grinned and laughed with Pasithea. And in my heart I thanked the gods that, out of so many, I had found Menexenos.
The quayside was full of crowds and noise and bustle – people jostling and calling for their friends, porters touting for business or pushing handcarts, stevedores chanting as they worked; water-sellers, wine-sellers, food-sellers, and, sitting on the wall behind, dockside whores of both sexes, making eyes at the sailors.
Amidst all this I became aware of a stirring behind me. I thought nothing of it, until I saw Menexenos’s eyes suddenly go up.
Then I glanced round, just as a large red-faced man emerged, elbowing his way through the crowd, saying irritably in a Latin accent, ‘Let me pass; let me pass.’
It was Caecilius.
I looked at him in amazement.
‘What?’ he said crossly. ‘Do you not know me?’
‘Sir,’ I said, finding my voice. ‘I had no idea . . . I thought you were in Patrai.’
‘I was. Now I am here, on business for your friend Lucius Flamininus. Did he not tell you, though you have sailed so far together? You surprise me.’
Then his glance was caught by Pasithea and he paused.
‘Greetings, Caecilius,’ she said, ‘I trust I find you well.’
‘Hello madam,’ he said, unsurely, and I saw his brow move in a frown as he wondered to himself how she knew his name, and whether he had met her before, and whether he should admit it.
Eventually he coughed and looked away. ‘Well, anyway,’ he said, turning to me, ‘you will find me at the house of Tuchon the Phoenician shipowner, in the street behind the arsenal. Anyone knows his house, it is the one painted red and blue, with the gilded statues outside. Come when you have finished with your friends, if you can find time.’
Just then, from behind, Doron’s high-pitched, nasal voice suddenly rose above the din like some shrill bird-call, crying out indignantly, ‘No, leave it there I tell you! Oh, where is Lucius?’
Caecilius turned, craning his neck.
‘Who is that?’ he said, a sneer forming on his lips.
‘A particular friend of Lucius’s, sir.’
‘Ah! A friend of Lucius’s. I see. Of course. Well I must be getting along. I am a busy man.’
He gave Menexenos a brief nod, frowned once more at Pasithea, turned, and pushed off through the crowd.
Later I went to him. He grumbled at me for a while, as if somehow I should have known he was in Athens. But I could see he was eager to get onto his own affairs, and before long he said, ‘Well, anyway, you will be pleased to hear my friend Tuchon has included me in a nice deal, supplying munitions from workshops on the islands, for which there is quite a need at present. War breeds opportunity, as I have told you before.’
He paused and waited for me to nod. I nodded, and considered Tuchon.
I had met him on my way in. He was a Phoenician from Sidon with sleek black oiled hair, who reeked of some pungent Asiatic scent and flaunted his wealth in his clothes and jewellery. He was, in short, a man in my stepfather’s mould – all except the scent, which in those days no Roman would dare to venture out in.
Caecilius, meanwhile, was talking on, explaining how he had secured from some associate of Lucius’s a contract to supply the fleet and marines, and, since the need was urgent and unexpected, he had been able to push up his price. Lucius, he said, was eager to make his mark while Titus was still busy in Epeiros: he was planning an attack on Eretria in Euboia – ‘a secret still; mind who you tell’– a city held by Philip, which was causing great disruption to allied shipping. ‘I knew my friendship with Titus would prove useful,’ he said, raising a plump didactic finger. ‘Always look to the long term, Marcus. Remember that. A useful lesson.’
‘Yes, sir. I see.’
He leaned back into the soft cushions, folded his hands across his belly, and peered at my uniform, seeming to see it for the first time.
‘What has Titus promoted you to? A captain?’
‘A tribune.’
‘Ah, a tribune.’ He nodded. ‘I suppose, then, you will be going off with the army, and leaving me to handle business alone?’
‘Of course, sir,’ I said carefully, ‘business comes first, that is clear, and I thank you for reminding me. I am sure Lucius will excuse me from my duty, if I tell him you require my help. He will not be pleased, and we are short of men, but—’
‘What are you thinking?’ he cried, lurching forward. ‘You must not displease Lucius at any cost. Have you not been listening to anything I’ve told you?’
‘You are right, sir,’ I said, nodding thoughtfully. ‘I shall go and fight. That would be best.’
‘Quite so; quite so.’ And then, ‘Can you fight? Who taught you? I hope you are better at war than you are at business.’
News came from Epeiros. Philip had asked for a meeting with Titus, supposing he could persuade the new young consul to come to easy terms, or, failing that, waste his time in drawn-out negotiations.
He soon discovered that Titus was not another vacillating Roman general, to be pushed back and forth across Epeiros until his consulship was over. At the meeting, Titus told him that if he wanted peace with Rome he must abandon his strongholds in Thessaly, Euboia and Korinth. These cities – Demetrias in Thessaly, Chalkis in Euboia, and the great towering fortress of Akrokorinth – the Greeks called the Fetters of Greece, because whoever held them held effective control of Greece.
If Philip withdrew from these cities, Titus told him, and pulled back his armies from Greece, he could have peace. Otherwise Rome would fight. He had come to free Greece, not conquer Macedon. That was what he intended to do.
But Philip, when he heard this, flew into a rage. He did not fear Rome. He would not be dictated to by some Roman upstart. He vowed to drive Titus and his army back into the sea.
Pomponius sent for me as soon as he heard I was back in Athens.
When I arrived at his residence, he sent for wine, and, when it arrived, actually poured it for me himself and handed me the cup.
Then he said, ‘What are we to do? I imagine you have heard the news from the East?’
I told him I had only just arrived, and had heard nothing.
‘Oh dear,’ he said, shaking his head and looking grave. ‘While Attalos has been occupied in Greece, Antiochos has taken advantage of his absence to attack Pergamon.’ He gave me a bleak look, shook his head again, and went on, ‘It is all going wrong. Antiochos is closing on us from Asia, and Philip bears down on Greece. And now Titus is trapped in the passes of Epeiros . . . I fear, to be quite frank with you, Marcus, that we have taken on more than we knew.’
He looked at me hopelessly and waited.
‘Well, sir,’ I said, setting down my cup, ‘it is war, and now we must fight it.’
‘But think, Marcus, what will happen if we lose. They will not stop at driving us from Greece, you know. They will be in Italy within a year.’
‘Then,’ I said, ‘we must not lose. Titus knows what he is doing.’
‘I hope you are right.’
I looked him in the eye and answered, ‘I am sure of it.’
What I did not tell him, however, was how little confidence I had in Lucius.
I had seen Lucius that morning. After what I had heard, I was starting to fear he would bring down disaster on us all.
I did not tell Pomponius; but, that night, I confided in Menexenos.
I was sitting naked on the edge of the bed, absently dabbing my finger through the single lamp-flame as I talked. Menexenos lay in a tangle of sheets beside me, propped on one elbow, listening.
I was telling him how I had been summoned to Lucius’s quarters in Piraeus, and, arriving at the outer office, had found the clerks rushing about in a great state, while, from beyond the door, Lucius’s angry voice barked out.
I had paused in the antechamber, and asked the officer at the desk what the matter was.
Word had come, he told me in a hushed tone – for Lucius terrified them al
l – that the combined fleets of Attalos and the Rhodians were already at sea, making for Euboia. As soon as Lucius had heard, he had flown into a fury.
‘Well he can’t sail without the fleet,’ I said.
He blinked at me. ‘Tell him that yourself, if you dare. Everyone else has tried. What do you think all this fuss is about?’
Just then the door flew open and a harried clerk rushed out. The man at the desk said, ‘You’d better go in.’
I went through to the map-room.
As soon as I saw him I realized that Lucius was beyond heeding advice from anyone. He was blustering, cursing, red-faced. He had already commandeered the transport ships that happened to be in Piraeus. He would sail for Euboia next day at first light. The fleet – ‘cursed, slow and useless’ – was ordered to follow as soon as it arrived.
‘And so,’ I said, turning to Menexenos, ‘we are to go rushing off to Euboia before we are ready. This is how wars are lost.’
He threw out his arm, resting his hand on my thigh.
‘What is it with that man?’ he said. ‘Surely it makes no difference to wait for the fleet.’
‘It does to him. He is afraid Attalos will take Eretria without him.
He doesn’t want anyone to steal his glory.’
Menexenos fell back on the pillow and let out a long breath.
When it came to Lucius, neither of us had need for words.
Our small flotilla sailed next day.
Off Andros we met as arranged with the fleets of Pergamon and Rhodes, and together proceeded up the sea-strait north towards Eretria. What Lucius did there would be remembered for a long time by the Greeks.
Eretria is a port-city, on the west side of the long island of Euboia, overlooking the gulf of water that separates it from the mainland. To the north is the great stronghold of Chalkis, one of the Fetters of Greece, where Philip had posted Philokles his general and a force of Macedonians, for he had no intention of losing it. The Eretrians too were allied to Philip. He had left a Macedonian garrison in their city, to make sure of their loyalty, in case they thought to question it.
Everyone had assumed, in as much as we had thought of him at all, that Doron would be staying behind in Athens. But on the morning of our departure he had appeared on the quayside, dressed up in a parody of military clothing – soldier’s scarlet embroidered with blue prancing warriors – and declared in front of the astonished marines that he had come to fight at Lucius’s side.
Lucius had come hurrying down the gangboard and, speaking in the cooing love-talk they used in private together, had pleaded that the mission was too dangerous.
At this, Doron cried out that he would rather die in Lucius’s arms beneath the walls of Eretria, than live his life without him.
The poets and philosophers say that a man’s lover helps him to be brave, and to remember his own virtue. No doubt Doron had picked up some of this from the hack-rhapsodes and cheap entertainers in the dockside taverns of Sami. He had a quick mind, like all tricksters; and now he came out with a long, embarrassing monody to love.
Lucius listened with tears welling in his eyes, as if he were hearing the words of the divine Muses themselves. When the boy had finished he declared, after a short unconvincing protest, that he had lain awake half the night, hoping Doron would come. ‘We shall live or die together!’ he cried. ‘Like the great heroes of old.’
The dockhands, his audience for this pitiful scene, looked on astonished.
In due course, we made landfall close to Eretria.
Though we ourselves were few, Attalos had brought his army and a fleet of twenty-four quinqueremes, and the Rhodians had brought twenty warships of their own fleet, under the command of their general Akesimbrotos.
I had expected to be given my own company to command. But Lucius, I soon found out, had other plans, and shortly after we arrived he summoned me to his tent and said that since I spoke Greek so well I should act as liaison between Attalos, Akesimbrotos and him.
It was little more than a messenger’s work, and he knew it. But it would have been futile to protest. Besides, I was soon glad of this assignment, for I was always one of the first to hear what was going on, and it was through this work that I came to know King Attalos.
At the start, the Eretrians defended the city with vigour. But then, one morning, Attalos said, ‘Marcus, come and listen to this.’
He led me across his encampment towards the guardhouse, explaining as we walked. The night before, he said, his scouts had captured two shepherds who had crept out of the city under cover of darkness, to see what they could retrieve of their flocks. He wanted me to hear what they had to say.
The shepherds were scarcely more than boys. They were being kept in a disused stable, but they had not been tied, and had been given food and drink. They were clearly overawed by old Attalos in his purple-hemmed uniform and royal diadem; but he had told them they had nothing to fear, and during the night they had talked. Now Attalos told them to repeat to me what they had told him.
The walls, they said, had been weakened by our artillery. Food stocks were running low, and it was clear the city could not hold out.
The magistrates had said they wished to sue for terms, but the commander of the Macedonian garrison would not permit it. When the magistrates had objected, the Macedonians threatened them. The Eretrians had had enough of it.
We learnt, too, that Philip had sent urgent messages ordering the Eretrians to hold out at all costs, saying he was sending a force to relieve the city. We doubled the watch on the northern coastal approaches, with scouts keeping watch from the forested high ground, and a few days later an advance party of Macedonians appeared on the road.
We were ready for them, and surprising them with a charge from the hills we drove them back. Old Attalos, though he was then in his seventieth year, rode in the vanguard, on a splendid white horse caparisoned in red. Lucius rode at his side.
But Doron, in spite of all he had said, was not there, for when the alarm had come, and the camp was abuzz with all the hum and rattle of an army preparing to march, he had developed a sudden stomach cramp. I heard him whining and simpering in Lucius’s tent. He suspected last night’s supper.
Lucius, grief-stricken, was sure the supper was the cause – though no one else had fallen ill – and ordered the camp surgeon to have a healing posset prepared and to sit with the boy. He would have remained behind himself, he said, except he would not leave all the glory to Attalos.
After that day the Macedonians remained at Chalkis and did not venture out again. Attalos, a shrewd old bird, made sure the Eretrians got to hear of it, and, soon after, the townspeople sent envoys to negotiate.
That same night, Attalos called us together. The city, he said, was ready to come over to our side. The only obstacle was the Macedonian garrison. ‘But the garrison is small, and the citizens are many. If we are wise, Eretria will fall into our hands without a fight.’
I shall not relate all that was said. In the end the common view was that we should give the magistrates of Eretria the assurances they asked for, and wait for them to admit us secretly to the city. In the meantime, we should do our best to spare the citizens, and not mount a full-scale assault on the walls.
I glanced at Lucius. He was not a listener by nature. Usually he was the first to make his views known, but tonight he was quiet. He stood biting his lip, as he did when his mind was working.
In the days that followed there was a slackening in the city’s defence.
It was nothing sudden, nothing the Macedonian garrison might notice. I was sharing my tent with Lamyros the ship-pilot. One night, past midnight, something woke me. I opened my eyes and listened, staring into the darkness.
Outside, near the tent, men were stealthily moving. I reached for my sword beside the bed.
‘Lamyros,’ I said in an urgent whisper.
He stirred in his bed, then jolted up. I silenced him with a gesture. We listened, then grabbing our weapons we rushed out
, thinking the enemy had found a way into the camp.
But instead I saw our own men, a line of marines passing in the shadows along the outer path of the camp, carrying scaling-ladders and dressed for battle.
I found one I knew by name, and asked him what was happening.
‘Why, has no one told you, Marcus sir? We are going to take the city – a surprise attack . . . But what is it? Is something wrong?’
‘No, Tertius. Nothing’s wrong.’
I left them, hurriedly pulled on my clothes, then went looking for Lucius.
I found him standing outside his tent, dressed in his best parade- armour: a sculpted, gleaming, muscled cuirass; shining strap- buckles; a gold-studded sword-belt; and a crested helmet of combed red and white horsehair. Doron was at his side, got up in his strange uniform, trying to look like a soldier.
The night was dark almost to blackness. Lucius did not notice me till I stepped into the circle of light thrown by the cresset. Then, seeing who it was, he broke off from whatever he was saying to the boy and glared. He was trying to look fierce and challenging, but he had the look of a schoolboy caught stealing his neighbour’s apples. It was at that moment I knew for sure he had intended to deceive me.
‘Yes, tribune?’ he said coldly.
I asked him what was happening.
‘Is it not clear? We are taking the city.’
I glanced out across the plain, towards the camps of Attalos and the Rhodians. But I had already guessed what I should see. Here and there watchfires burnt, but otherwise all was still.
‘Sir,’ I said, ‘the city is ready to open its gates to us. It will be any day now. There is no need for this battle.’
‘Do not presume to tell me what is needed,’ he snapped. ‘If the city is ready to fall, then I shall take it.’
I lowered my eyes, lest he see the flaring anger in them. I was beginning to understand, and with that understanding came a dull, sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. It was no oversight that I had not been told: he had kept his plans from me deliberately, thinking I would warn Attalos. He wanted the glory of taking Eretria for himself alone, whatever the cost in the citizens’ blood. The Eretrians had been led to believe we were their friends, ready to assist them against the Macedonian garrison. Because of that they had lowered their guard. Now all Lucius needed to do was pluck the ripe fruit from the tree. No wonder, I thought, he had put on his dress-armour. It would be as easy as taking a rattle from a baby.
