The only incident I remember well arose out of the fog. I’m going to guess it was the third or fourth day, and again, we launched off a small and rocky cove, just big enough for our ships, with bellies full of lobster and our ships laden only with fresh water. But the fog was everywhere — some trick of the gods — and every morning, to a depth I hadn’t ever seen before. It took all morning to burn off, and for long hours the sun was a golden orb in the haze.
At any rate, that morning, as we rowed north — again, rowing because there was no wind at all — we were trying to practise signalling. Dionysus was making himself increasingly unpopular with the other captains by insisting on drill and signalling when we knew we were after no prey loftier then some Illyrian pirates in pentekonters. No one likes to work that hard. Had we been rowing north to fight the Persians at Lade, we might have felt differently — although, come to think of it, when we rowed to Lade, we all hated Dionysus then, too.
The sun climbed above us in the haze, just visible — one of the few times in your life you can look directly at him in all his glory. And as with the other days, just past midday the fog suddenly burned off, as fast as a bird crossing the sky, so that in one moment it was all we could do to see the ships ahead and behind us in line, and then we could see three ships ahead, and then I could see Dionysus up at the head of the line, and then And then we could see the merchant trireme, six stades away, and just as surprised to see us as we were to see him.
Every ship, even Dionysus, turned out of the line as fast as their oarsmen could respond to volleys of orders, and went from a slow cruise to ramming speed. The triemiolas raised sail, as the fresh wind was suddenly coming off the land.
We could all see it was a Phoenician. Or perhaps a Carthaginian.
And he could see us, too.
His oarsmen beat the water into a froth, like a good Athenian matron making soup the evening before a feast day, and he struggled to get his mainsail up.
It was a race, of sorts. But a horribly unequal one, between ten ships in high training with full crews and marines and sailors and clean hulls, against a lone merchant with fifty oarsmen and old sails.
He could sail much closer to the wind then we could, of course. So as soon as he had his mainmast rigged, he lay over and ran north, and we all lost the wind and had to row.
Lydia was fast, but Paramanos’s new Black Raven was like a racing shell with a ram, and Cimon’s Ajax was as fast as Paramanos. Dionysus’ Agamemnon was as fast as either.
Oh, how we exhausted ourselves! We raced along, our oars all but touching the nearest ship. A missed stroke might have been disaster.
But we were heroes, of course. We didn’t miss any strokes.
We caught the merchant at mid-afternoon, about the hour a gentleman rises from his nap and goes to the agora — not in Plataea, ladies. Men work all day in Plataea. But in Athens.
We caught him, and he surrendered without a fight. Who would even try to fight, with ten sharks all around him?
Cimon’s hull was the first to come aboard his, and Dionysus was second. We carried the captured ship to the next beach and pulled her up the sand and gravel. The oarsmen were cleared off and the deck crew, the miserable owner and the trierarch all cowered together.
She had a cargo of cheap Carthaginian pottery, some Greek wine with Ionian labels that must, itself, have come off a capture and copper with the Cypriote mark. The copper was valuable. The wine we broached on the spot for our oarsmen.
Cimon and Dionysus began to argue over the spoils. Paramanos wandered over to where I stood, seeing to it that Lydia was carried well up the beach and rolled over to dry her hull. He nodded to me.
‘I thought this was your little expedition,’ he said.
I shrugged.
‘Cimon and Dionysus are going to gut each other over a handful of copper,’ he said. ‘Not because it’s valuable, but because they are important men and each has to be first.’
I sighed. The party was over.
Sharing spoils: always the moment when arete goes by the board and life among pirates becomes difficult.
I walked across the sand, cursing how it burned the sides of my feet. It was deep and soft. Try walking with determined gravity and manly elegance across deep sand.
They weren’t quite spitting like Lesbian fishwives. Not quite. But close.
‘Friends,’ I said. ‘This is unseemly.’
That may not seem like a very telling remark to a pair of bloody-handed pirates, but the two of them immediately pivoted on their heels to face me. ‘ Unseemly?’ Dionysus said. ‘I don’t remember asking your opinion.’
‘As long as you are in my squadron, you can listen to any opinion I choose to deliver,’ I said.
Dionysus’ mouth opened and closed.
Cimon laughed, slapped my shoulder and nodded. ‘You’re right, Ari! My apologies. You divide the spoils.’
I snapped my fingers and there was my pais with a stool.
As I sat, Dionysus stood, arms akimbo. He glared at me for a long fifty heartbeats or so.
‘I’m not in your squadron, pup,’ he growled. ‘You are in mine.’
I shrugged and sat. ‘No, my friend. I invited you to sail with me. You joined me.’
‘I have drilled and drilled this squadron-’
‘I appreciate that. But that’s not command. Please; you understand command. You commanded at Lade. I asked all my friends on this expedition. It is — pardon me — mine. If anyone could dispute this, it would be Neoptolymos.’
The Illyrian had come up, with all the other captains and a number of other leaders: the commander of the mercenaries from Syracusa, a Spartan called Brasidas; Doola and Sittonax, Vasileos and his nephew; Aeschylus. They gathered around my stool like any Greek assembly — all talking, all with an opinion to offer.
Neoptolymos shook his head.
Paramanos, who had never thought very highly of Dionysus, nodded. ‘You are in command, Arimnestos. Not this wine bag.’
I shook my head. ‘No insults. Dionysus, I will divide the spoils between the ships that performed the capture.’
I think, just for a moment, that he was so angry he considered leaving us. This is a thing I have seen men do. Two hours before, if asked, I think he would quite happily have allowed that I was the trierarch, in as much as anyone was. But having once got his back up Or perhaps it had been an error to allow him to drill the squadron. But he was, quite possibly, the greatest trierarch of our time — the finest innovator, the best tactician. It was from him that I learned how to perform the diekplous and the wheel, perhaps two of our most important tactics.
At any rate, he took a breath — I think to denounce me. And Geaeta did a handstand — something you have to see to believe, done in a chiton — and came to rest by me. She smiled at Dionysus. ‘You are eldest,’ she said. ‘And men talk of you as one of the noblest men of your generation.’ She smiled at him, as if the two of them were the only two on the beach.
Sometimes a woman can say something that would be a matter for swords between men.
His face was almost purple, but she went on. ‘Please, let us not mar this day and this week.’ She put a hand on his arm — she, who he had called a whore a dozen times.
He bent slightly at the waist, looked at the sand for a moment, cocked his head at me and smiled ruefully.
‘It is hard to take orders from a younger man,’ he said.
I nodded.
‘When you are my age, see how you like it.’ He looked as if he was going to say more, but he swallowed it. ‘Never mind. Cimon, my apologies.’
‘And mine to you, sir. I spoke in heat.’ The two clasped arms like men in the gymnasium.
I looked at the stack of copper ingots. It was worth a small fortune — to one man. It was, to be frank, worthless to two hundred oarsmen and marines.
I looked at the two of them. ‘Gentlemen,’ I said, ‘this is a small amount of booty. I propose that, rather than dividing it, we have a foot race, and t
he fastest man takes all the copper. And we dedicate the game to Olympian Zeus, pour the wine down our throats and offer some of the sheep I see on that hill as sacrifices.’
Cimon laughed.
Dionysus laughed.
A seventeen-year-old oarsman from Etrusca won the foot race. We crowned him in olive and his mates helped him carry his copper onto Gaius’s ship. Gaius put his olive wreath on his mast for luck.
That’s the incident that I remember.
Oh, I ran. Of course I ran. I lost in the first heat — Aristides the Younger flew past me from the start. I was placed fifth among eight men.
I felt old. But men said I had made a fine decision, as wise as Odysseus.
As the sun set on our sacrifices, and their smoke climbed to heaven — Cimon was a priest of Zeus, of course, like all the men of his clan — Dionysus put his arm around me. ‘Let’s sacrifice the prisoners,’ he said.
Men began to call for it. Men who surprised me. Young Aristides, for example, and many of the other unblooded young. Paramanos smiled and looked away. Doola shook his head vehemently. Sittonax sidled closer to me.
‘I had no idea,’ he said. ‘I’ve never seen a Greek sacrifice a man.’
‘And you won’t here,’ I said. ‘By Zeus, are we as bad as barbarians?’ I seldom swear by Zeus. But some things I walked across the sand, as drunk as a sailor, and stumbled to the prisoners with a hundred oarsmen and officers behind me. Most of them knelt in the sand. The Carthaginian helmsman grabbed Paramanos’s knees and began to beg for his life in Phoenician.
The trierarch eyed me steadily. He didn’t kneel.
‘You are a free man,’ I said. ‘Go — walk away.’
He didn’t say a word. He caught the eyes of his mates and picked up a bundle at his feet. Paramanos, somewhat surreptitiously, handed the helmsman a sword.
The Carthaginians were off up the beach before most of my audience knew I’d let them go.
‘You really are too soft for this,’ Dionysus said, wine-soaked breath in my face.
I shrugged. ‘Perhaps,’ I said.
Like I said, that’s the only incident that sticks in my head.
Word must have been out that there was a squadron at sea: the Adriatic was as empty as a mud puddle after rain. The morning after we released the Carthaginians, the wind came up — a favourable wind — and we sailed across the Adriatic. Our swords were sharp, and we were as ready as men can be.
We landed south of Dyrachos an hour before nightfall on a late summer evening: the sun took his time going down to the west, over the mountains, and we were ashore and camped before the night was dark. Insects chirped and it sounded like Greece. It smelled like Greece.
We built no fires, but rolled in our cloaks and slept on the sand, and in the morning we were up long before the sun.
‘Now I need a horse,’ Neoptolymos said. He and the Spartan, Brasidas, stood together, both in full armour.
‘Because you don’t want to walk?’ I asked.
‘I intend to ride around and raise my friends and relatives,’ he said. ‘Dyrachos is sixty stades — that way.’
I had slightly different notions of how to proceed, based on years of experience with Miltiades. I sent all my archers inland under Ka, and before I was done with my stale bread and sour wine, Ka was back, all but bouncing on the balls of his feet like an eager hound with a fine bay led by the halter.
He had four prisoners and a dozen horses. Ka was from the far south of Aegypt — Nubia, and not Numidia, South even of the Kingdom of Adula, of which, if you stay with me long enough, you’ll hear more. To be honest it was years before I truly understood the difference. But both peoples love horses, ride superbly and view horse-thieving as a natural part of life.
We started our march for Dyrachos before the sun cleared the distant coast of Italy, and Ka and his men were all mounted, with Seckla laughing along with them. Seen together, Numidians and Nubians are as different as Keltoi and Hellenes, and yet they rode like Scythians, knees high, hips moving with the gait of the animal, and with their dark skin they looked like centaurs on their stolen bays.
I kept Neoptolymos from riding inland. I feared that he would be taken or killed, and that he would give himself away. He accepted my ‘guidance’ with an ill grace, and the command party was a surly group as we trudged inland over the first low ridge. The khora was incredibly prosperous — fields of oats and barley stretching away in a beautiful patchwork. Harvest wasn’t far off.
Once we were clear of the coastal scrub, we had excellent sight lines — which, of course, meant we could be easily observed. I sent Ka and his scouts well ahead, blessing the gods I had made such a provident purchase. The Nubians knew their business: they rode south and east to the horizon, collecting every horse on that flat plain and terrifying the inhabitants.
I have to say a word about Illyria. The Illyrians are like Hellenes — indeed, many of their aristocrats claim Hellenic descent, and they share our gods and heroes, although they have some cruel monsters of their own. They are far more warlike than Hellenes — the whole of Illyria is in a perpetual state of war, and every man’s hand is against everyone else, or rather, perhaps I should say that every aristocrat’s hand is against every other aristocrat. They have no ‘hoplite class’ of farmers. There are only the rich, and slaves. The only real way for slaves to win their freedom is by fighting: they arm their slaves for war, and the bravest are promoted to the aristocracy. On the other hand, the least effective warriors are captured and made slaves, or killed.
You might think that this vicious system would create superb warriors. Perhaps it does, but I never met them. Mostly it creates brutal, ignorant aristocrats and a society of semi-slave land-tillers with nothing but contempt for their ‘lords’, who can’t seem to grow food or protect them. Neoptolymos was a fine man and a pretty fair spearman — but I taught him that. And slavery mellowed him.
By the time the sun was high in the sky, we’d marched twenty stades or more and we had a dozen prisoners — local men, all ‘unfree’ but more like overseers than like slaves. Neoptolymos insisted we take them, because he said they would report to his uncle if they could.
In fact, Neoptolymos, after seven years with me, had reverted to being an Illyrian. He wanted to kill them all.
From the eldest of them, we heard the story of the last few years. Epidavros had seized power after arranging for Neoptolymos’s murder, but after that, things had gone wrong. He had seized power with the support of the Carthaginians, but he failed to deliver the tin he had promised, and so the Carthaginians had abandoned him. His own cousins had begun to raid his borders, and take his land and his slaves, and he had spent the last two years in a constant state of war. Last summer — while we were bringing our tin over the mountains — he had gone to sea with a dozen pentekonters and taken a pair of Phoenician merchantmen, and Carthage had sent a reprisal raid which had burned the shipping in his harbour, including a pair of Greek merchantmen who he had seen as his most promising new allies.
I’d like to moralize and say that Epidavros got what he had coming to him, but that’s Illyria.
However, because of the Carthaginian raid, his petty kingdom was as alarmed as the house of a man who has been robbed. The overseers all agreed that by now, Epidavros had been fully informed of our force — he had coastal towers every few stades, or so they claimed.
Neoptolymos wanted to start burning things.
We camped that night at the edge of a stand of ancient oak trees in the foothills, having marched farther east than we needed. I wanted to hug the edge of the hills and avoid detection — and obvious moves like taking the direct route. We sat down in messes: a hundred mercenaries, another hundred marines and a dozen aristocrats, plus Ka and his Nubians. An odd collection, but, I think, as deadly a raiding force as I ever commanded.
I was warming to the Spartan, Brasidas. He was quite the gentleman, with fine manners and a ready smile. He almost never spoke — just met your eyes and grinned.
If he agreed, he’d nod and if he disagreed, he’d raise his eyebrows.
‘What are you doing here, Brasidas?’ I asked. ‘Spartans never leave home. They’re afraid of water!’
He grinned and rolled his eyes. Meaning, ‘So you say, Plataean.’
‘You are allowed to speak, you know,’ I said.
He nodded gravely. And smiled. Meaning, ‘When I have something to say, perhaps I will.’
‘A Theban cut your tongue out?’ I asked.
He smiled and took a drink of wine. ‘No,’ he said.
‘I wish you Spartans would learn to say what you mean in a few words!’ I laughed. He was very likeable.
He smiled, and raised his cup to me.
He was built like a wrestler, with long limbs and lots of muscle. He was a handsome man, but most Spartans are. His equipment was very plain.
Cimon was sitting with me. He said, ‘Why’d you leave the land where Helen bore sons to Menelaus, Brasidas?’
Brasidas shrugged. ‘Bored,’ he said, and smiled. He made a face, and held out his cup to my pais. ‘Poor,’ he admitted.
Cimon nodded. ‘My father had many Spartan guest friends. Their mess fees are high — a man needs two or three estates to pay.’
Brasidas nodded.
‘If anything goes wrong — if crops fail, or helots revolt — a man can find himself without his mess fee.’ Cimon watched the Spartan carefully. It was an odd form of social interrogation. Cimon would make guesses, and we’d watch his body language for confirmation.
Brasidas was a patient man. He had the kind of strength that is beyond mere temper, or the need to prove itself. But he got up, swallowed the last of his wine, nodded and walked off.
Meaning, ‘None of your business.’
Cimon rose to follow him, but I held him back. ‘It’s his business,’ I said. ‘Let him go.’
Cimon nodded.
Neoptolymos joined us, his face thunderous in the firelight. ‘Why won’t you let me burn these farms!’ he demanded. It was odd — a sign of how I was growing, between Heraclitus and Dano, but I couldn’t help but be amused at the complete contrast between the taciturn Spartan and the emotional Illyrian.
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