by Paul Waters
‘Gardeners!’ spluttered Phaineas. ‘Do you hear him?’
‘As for Argos, I care nothing for it. Have it back, if you want it.’
‘And Korinth?’ cried Phaineas. ‘Have you forgotten Korinth?’
‘Don’t trouble yourself, Phaineas, about Korinth. It is too far from Aitolia to be a concern of yours. I shall discuss Korinth with Titus, not you.’
At this there was uproar. Philip waited, with a look of amused patience on his face like a comic actor. He turned and said something to Dikaiarchos and the rowers which made them laugh.
Presently he called, ‘It is getting late, gentlemen, and I have a pretty Thessalian girl waiting for me in my bed. Clearly you still have a good deal to discuss, so here is what I suggest. When you have agreed what your terms for peace are, I recommend you set them down in writing, so that you don’t forget.’ He paused and grinned, then turning he nodded at the rowers, and the cutter drew away.
For the rest of the day, and well into the night, the delegates put their various claims in writing. Titus did his best to contain his impatience with this, but in the end said to me, ‘Come, Marcus, let us get some air.’
We walked out along the beach. It was a clear, cool night. The stars shone like crystal, and from the wooded slopes the moonlight silhouetted the forest of maple and oak and tall poplars.
‘No wonder Philip despises them,’ said Titus, after a long silence.
‘He asks them what they want, and they cannot even tell him.’
I nodded. We had left them bickering like midden-dogs about who had rights to which city and which strip of land. I said, ‘Do you think Philip is serious in wanting peace?’
‘No. I realized that this afternoon.’
I asked him why, and he said, ‘Oh, it was nothing Philip said. It was them.’ He gestured back the way we had come. ‘He knows them.
He knew that as soon as he offered them something they would squabble over it.’
‘Then what is he doing?’
‘He wants to show me what they’re like. He wants me to see them through his eyes.’
We walked on. Presently I said, ‘You like him, don’t you?’
He gave a quick laugh. ‘Not quite. He is like a wolf in the mountains, wild and dangerous. He kills at will. He goes where he pleases, and does what he likes . . . No, I don’t like him. He has let his passions rule his reason.’
He paused, frowning, and walked on for a few paces. Then he said, ‘And yet there is something impressive about him; like fire, or like a god, careless of what he is.’
Next day, at the appointed time, we gathered once more on the beach and waited, scanning the sunlit sea. There was no sign of Philip.
‘You see,’ said Phaineas, staring pointlessly out at the empty water. ‘He will not come. He has had his fun.’
‘He will come,’ said Titus. And when the sun had passed its zenith and was sinking towards the mountain ranges of Phokis, Philip’s black warships with their sunburst sails finally appeared.
‘Forgive me,’ called Philip, without a hint of contrition, ‘I have been puzzling over your demands.’ He gestured for his rowers to draw nearer. ‘I wish to speak to Titus Quinctius alone.’
Titus refused, saying the allies could not be excluded. But when Philip insisted, the others agreed to withdraw a little up the beach, leaving only me with Titus. Philip’s cutter drew in. He jumped down into the shallows, and strode up the shingle.
‘Do you never tire of those bickering fools?’ he said.
‘They are my allies.’
Philip shrugged.
‘Will you accept our terms?’
‘Yes,’ said Philip. ‘. . . Mostly.’
‘But not all?’
‘I will give those cur-dogs the bones they want. Attalos may have his ships; the Rhodians may have their strips of land; the Achaians may have Argos, and’ – he pulled a face – ‘Korinth.’
Titus nodded.
‘But not,’ Philip continued, ‘Chalkis in Euboia, or Demetrias.’
‘Then you intend to keep hold of two fetters out of three?’
‘Well you gain one, which is better than none. Remember, Titus, you are losing this war. Do you reject my offer?’
‘It is not for me to accept or reject. It is for the Senate in Rome.’
Philip sighed and winked at me. ‘It is so tiresome,’ he said, ‘having to deal with servants instead of masters.’
‘We all serve, King,’ said Titus, stung by this.
Philip grinned, showing his perfect white teeth. ‘Not I,’ he said.
Up on the beach the delegates stood just beyond the range of hearing, staring curiously. All of a sudden Philip waved his arms up in the air and cried, ‘Boo!’ at them. They looked away in disgust.
Philip laughed.
‘You joke,’ said Titus.
‘Why not? Life is fun.’
‘. . . And you play for high stakes.’
Philip laughed. ‘Always.’
Titus nodded. I could see in his eyes that he would have liked to smile. He said, ‘I must confer with the others.’
‘Again?’ He glanced at me, casting his eyes over my legs with a lascivious leer. Then he turned back to the water and splashed out, like bearded Poseidon returning to the depths.
No one was content, Phaineas least of all. Eventually the delegates agreed to follow Titus’s suggestion, and refer the matter to the arbitration of the Senate in Rome. Each side would send ambassadors to put its case. In the meantime, there would be a truce of two months.
‘A truce?’ complained Phaineas. ‘Only a fool would agree to a truce with that madman.’
‘Either way, I must seek the Senate’s agreement. So let it be now, in winter, when we cannot fight.’
THIRTEEN
I RETURNED TO ATHENS to the news that Menexenos’s father was dying. The winter had turned suddenly cold, with a biting, dry wind blowing down off the mountains. Kleinias had caught a chill, and it had gone to his chest.
By the time I returned, the house-slaves had brought his bed into his downstairs study. He was lying on his back, unmoving, already like a corpse. In the corner a bronze stove warmed the room.
But when I went up beside him he stirred and regarded me with watery eyes, and made an effort to pull himself up from his pillow.
‘Marcus,’ he whispered, and reached out his hand for me to take.
I sat down on the stool beside the bed, and took his hand. There was a silence. The only sound was his shallow breathing, and the gentle splutter of the charcoal in the brazier.
Presently he said, ‘I am glad I have lived to see my son find a lover such as you. You do this house honour. You have brought me joy.’
My eyes filled with sudden tears. I swallowed. A ball of grief had lodged in my throat, and for a long time I could not answer. But eventually I said, ‘It will pass, sir. You will be up again soon.’
He squeezed my hand. ‘Nonsense,’ he said. ‘You know it and I know it.’
His body might be weak, but he had not grown stupid, and would not be talked to as a child. He closed his eyes to rest, but I could tell from his grip on my hand that he was not sleeping. So I waited, and after some little while he turned his head across the pillow to Menexenos.
‘See to the farm, my boy. There is much to do.’
‘Yes, Father.’
He paused, and attempted to smile. ‘And there is something else . . .’
‘Father?’
‘Win the foot-race at the Isthmia for me. You know you can do it.’
He died that night, in the chill hour before dawn. Next day, while the women were busy with the body, Menexenos and I went out onto the slopes below the high-city.
The wind had ceased, and the air was still and cloudless. Frost clung to the pines, and as we walked our breath plumed in the early morning air.
We came to the grove behind the Areopagos hill, and here we sat, on an outcrop of grey rock. Menexenos pushed his broad hand through h
is hair, pausing when he came to the place where he had shorn the locks at the back, as an offering to the dead. For a long time we were silent.
I have often thought, when faced with the hard necessity of death, that words dissolve of meaning, like mist before a gale. But presently, for the silence was beginning to weigh on me, I murmured, ‘So suddenly.’
He let out his breath. The vapour dispersed in the chill air.
‘He was ready,’ he said.
I thought of the burnt-out farm, and the war, and Menexenos’s lost brother Autolykos. It seemed that everything Kleinias had worked to build had been swept away by madness, and the hard hand of unforgiving fate.
We sat, he with his thoughts I know not where, and I with my thoughts on him. He was staring out at the sky, where it was streaked with crimson dawn behind Hymettos. In the cold I could feel the heat from his body.
He sighed, then turned and looked into my face. ‘I was going to tell you yesterday. While you were away I went to the office of the Strategos. I have enlisted in the hoplite corps.’
I knew of this corps. It was a company of volunteers that were going north to join the allies against Philip. For all the brave war talk of the Athenians, few had put their names forward when the call went out.
At another time I might have said that there was no need. But now I merely nodded. But for Philip, and the vainglorious folly of the Athenian Demos, Kleinias might still be living. It was an offering of sorts.
‘In that case,’ I said, ‘we’ll be fighting together . . . Titus has asked me to join him in Phokis. He does not expect the Senate will agree to Philip’s terms.’
He nodded at the sky. ‘Some god had a hand in it then.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Did you tell Titus about Lucius?’
I shook my head. ‘No. He can find out about Lucius from others .
. . if he cares to know. Either way, I don’t intend to come between them.’ I frowned out at the dun hills. For all Titus’s good sense and judgement, when it came to Lucius he could not, or would not, see.
‘This year will be the end,’ I continued after a moment. ‘Philip knows it. So does Titus. And whoever wins, the world will not be the same afterwards.’
We returned home, and next day we travelled out with a cart to the farm, to bury Kleinias there, in the little plot beneath the vine- terraces in the lee of Mount Paneion, where his father and father’s father lay, and his ancestors before that, time out of mind.
Among the ancient faded gravestones I saw there was one still bright and new. It showed a naked youth beside a colt, with a wreath lying at his feet. The name was obscured by ivy. I did not need to ask who it was.
The envoys from Philip, and from the allies, went to Rome to address the Senate. It was Pomponius who told me what happened there.
The Senate, he said, had heard the representatives of the allies first. They had spent most of their address bickering with one another, or heaping insults upon Philip. For a while the senators had listened to this, but quickly they had grown bored with details they did not understand, and irritably questioned the delegates on where the various cities and strips of territory they spoke of lay.
The allied delegates explained: whoever held Demetrias, Chalkis and the heights of Akrokorinth – the Fetters of Greece – held Greece in his fist.
‘And who holds them now?’ the senators asked.
They answered that Philip did.
‘Thank you,’ said the senators. ‘That will be all.’
Next, the envoys from Philip were brought in. They began on a lengthy argument, but the senators, who by this time were in no mood for long-winded Greek rhetoric, cut them off in mid-speech with the blunt question, ‘Does Philip intend to evacuate Demetrias, Chalkis and Akrokorinth?’
The Macedonian envoys looked at one another. They were not used to Roman directness. As far as these cities were concerned, they said, stalling, they had not received, as yet, precise instructions from the King.
‘In that case,’ came the reply, ‘there is nothing to discuss.’
‘And so,’ said Pomponius, looking pleased, ‘Philip has come away with nothing at all. But tell me, when will you see Titus?’
I told him I should shortly be leaving for Elateia in Phokis, where Titus was wintering.
‘You will not be staying with the fleet then?’
‘No.’
He paused for a moment, looking at me through the corner of his eye. ‘The word is,’ he said with a faint smile, ‘it will suit you to get away from Lucius.’
I shrugged. He was fishing for gossip. I did not intend to be his catch.
‘I go where I am told,’ I said.
‘Yes, of course. Quite right. I expect, now, Titus will march up to Macedon and slaughter the wolf in his lair?’
‘I cannot say. If he can persuade Philip to withdraw from Greece, there will be no need for war. That is his aim.’
‘Well, yes,’ said Pomponius nodding. And then, with a laugh, ‘I wish I could go and fight myself; but, well . . .’ He gestured at his slack, overweight body by way of explanation.
‘I understand, sir,’ I said.
I stood, and thanked him for his news, and we walked out to the terrace.
Out in the garden, his usual clients were waiting in the cold of the morning – Greeks seeking permits; Roman traders; junior officials of the Athenian government. I smiled inwardly, amused at how I had suddenly become the honoured guest, since Titus had become consul. Pomponius had been telling everyone who was likely to mention it to me that he had seen my potential from long ago.
‘Oh, Marcus,’ he said, pausing at the top of the step before we parted. ‘Do please remember me to Titus when you see him.’
‘Yes, sir. Of course.’
‘You might mention, if the opportunity arises, that I have been recalled to Rome. He may care to put in a word on my behalf . . .’
I bade him goodbye.
As I passed out beneath the gate, I heard his voice, returning to its usual self-important tone, cry out at the waiting clients, ‘Who’s first?’
Soon after, I travelled north.
I found Titus distant and preoccupied, and looking tired. It took me until the second day to find out what was troubling him.
We had eaten a dinner with the military commanders who were gathered there. They were Romans mostly, but among them were a few Greeks, including short-sighted Phaineas the Aitolian. Titus’s friend Villius had come from Rome. I was glad to see him again, and it might have been a pleasant evening but for the Aitolians.
Phaineas and his entourage were in the mood to celebrate. They had got what they wanted from the Senate, and as the evening wore on, they grew loud and vaunting, declaring with drunken sweeps of their arms and great belly-laughs that they would utterly destroy Macedon, enslave the people and display Philip’s head on a spit.
The new Roman officers listened with disapproving restraint.
Their Greek was poor, but they understood enough to realize that there was something excessive and gross about such talk. War was war: unpleasant but necessary. The Aitolians’ blood-lust disgusted them.
I suppose Phaineas’s company sensed their disapproval, and, with the odd sensitivity of such men, they objected. They began to wonder in loud voices why these new officers had not stayed at home in Italy, for clearly they had no stomach for the fight.
They were not the first – or the last – to take Roman restraint for Roman weakness. The officers were men who had battled against the marshalled ranks of Carthage for a generation, and they did not need drunken Aitolian bandits to teach them courage. In pointed asides in Latin, they began to say so, and their meaning would have been clear in any language.
Eventually Titus threw his men a warning look and they fell into a bristling silence. Afterwards, Villius and I joined him in his private rooms. Titus sat down heavily in the armchair and called for wine.
‘Remind me of this night,’ he said, ‘if I ever pick Aitol
ians as allies again.’
He sighed, and pressed his fingers to his eyes. There was a tap on the door, and a dark-haired Phokian slave-boy came in with wine in a bronze flask. Titus absently watched him as he filled the cups.
I said, ‘Is that what’s been troubling you – the Aitolians?’
He took up his wine-cup, looked at it, then set it down again without drinking. ‘No, not that. I can manage the Aitolians . . . I have not had the chance to tell you, Marcus, but—’ He broke off, and turned to the slave-boy. ‘Thank you, Damoitas. I shan’t be needing you any further. You can go off to bed now.’
He waited until the boy had closed the door behind him and his footfalls had disappeared along the passage before he went on.
‘Ten days ago,’ he said, ‘I had a visit from Zeuxippos of Thebes.
He travelled at night, and came in disguise. He told me the Thebans have appointed that rabble-rouser Brachylles as leader, and he has been stirring up the common people against us, telling them we mean to enslave them.’
I sat forward. ‘What will they do then? Will Thebes declare for Philip?’
He shook his head. He looked strained. One saw it in his eyes, and the corners of his mouth. ‘Not while we are so close – according to Zeuxippos. No; like cowards, they will wait until we are halfway to Macedon and otherwise engaged. Then they will turn against us.’
He pulled himself up from the chair and crossed to the window.
The court outside was lit by a flaring cresset, mounted on the gateway. Under the arch stood two guards in Roman uniform. He looked out for a moment, then turned back to me and Villius. ‘We need Thebes on our side, or at least neutral. I cannot move against Philip with the threat of a hostile Boiotia behind us.’
