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Authors: Christian Cameron
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intelligence.
‘You ruined Lydia,’ he said. ‘Daughter of Nikedemos, who took you into his home and welcomed you – and you ruined her.’ He shook his head. ‘Come,’ he said to his athlete. ‘I would rather miss the games than travel in this ship.’
I could see that his athlete felt differently. I walked to him, planted myself in his path, thumbs hooked in my zone. ‘I have done evil deeds,’ I said. ‘But I have attempted to come right with the gods. Will you hear me?’
He turned his head away. His hands flexed at his sides, and his stance changed slightly – preparing to fight.
I knew his strength and speed. So I took a half-step back and touched my sword-hilt.
‘Speak,’ he commanded.
‘Lydia is married to Anaxsikles the smith, and they have gone to Croton to live.’ I frowned. ‘I helped Anarchos to arrange it. You must just have missed them. I provided the ship and the money. Polymarchos, I never intended that such evil befall her. But I accept that it was through my actions that she came to grief.’ I shrugged. ‘I have nothing more to say,’ I managed, sounding very young in my own ears. It is hard to talk to a man with his head turned away.
‘Nikedemos was a fool to turn her out of his house,’ Polymarchos said. ‘She was a fool to be so hurt by you, and you were a fool to play with a girl so young.’ His eyes met mine. ‘There are many fools in the world and I have been one of them. Are you sorry?’
Anger – anger born of resentment, anger at my own foolishness – bubbled up. I suppose my eyes clouded, and I’m sure my hands clenched, because I can still remember unclenching them. ‘I’m more than sorry. I . . . lost something of what I thought I was.’
He rubbed his beard. ‘Well – I never had you figured for a scheming betrayer, for all you’re a subtle swordsman.’ He glanced at his athlete. The young man was all but begging him. ‘This pup will be much in your debt if you’ll run us across to the coast of Elis.’ He glanced at me from under his heavy brows.
‘I’ve promised to take one of my men to the port for Sparta.’ I pointed to Brasidas. He came over from his fire. He was candidly admiring the young athlete.
‘Brasidas, this is Polymarchos, a hoplomachos teacher, a pankrationist, a wrestler – a fine coach. Polymarchos, this is Brasidas – sometime captain of my marines. A Lacedaemonian.’
Brasidas nodded graciously. Polymarchos matched his nod almost exactly. Then he turned to me. ‘No matter how fast your ship – I’d have to ask you to run to Elis first, or even into the delta of Alpheos. The games are only a week away.’
I looked at Brasidas, and he smiled. He met my eyes and nodded.
‘We’ll take you,’ I said.
Brasidas caught my arm – an unaccustomed gesture from the Spartan. ‘I would see the Olympics,’ he said. Quite a speech, from him.
Ten minutes’ discussion on the beaches of Melita and it turned out that there wasn’t a man in my crew who didn’t want to see the Olympics.
Oh, what a pleasure it is to be rich enough and powerful enough to take a warship to sea with no better purpose than to go to the greatest games given in all the lands of the Hellenes! Mind you, I wasn’t completely a fool. I loaded seventy great Melitan amphora of the best Chian wine I could buy. I’d never been to the Olympics, but there were men in Plataea who had – old Epiktetus, for one – and they all complained about the shameful bad wine and the crowds.
I remember that trip – less than three thousand stades, with a fair wind – as one of the more pleasant of my life. We filled our bilges with wine amphorae and then tucked up the nooks and crannies with water and salt pork and some bread, and we did what only Phoenicians usually did – we sailed the blue ocean, a straight line from Sicily to Elis. It is hard to reckon distances on the pathless surface of the sea, but my estimate was (and is) that it is almost three thousand
‘You ruined Lydia,’ he said. ‘Daughter of Nikedemos, who took you into his home and welcomed you – and you ruined her.’ He shook his head. ‘Come,’ he said to his athlete. ‘I would rather miss the games than travel in this ship.’
I could see that his athlete felt differently. I walked to him, planted myself in his path, thumbs hooked in my zone. ‘I have done evil deeds,’ I said. ‘But I have attempted to come right with the gods. Will you hear me?’
He turned his head away. His hands flexed at his sides, and his stance changed slightly – preparing to fight.
I knew his strength and speed. So I took a half-step back and touched my sword-hilt.
‘Speak,’ he commanded.
‘Lydia is married to Anaxsikles the smith, and they have gone to Croton to live.’ I frowned. ‘I helped Anarchos to arrange it. You must just have missed them. I provided the ship and the money. Polymarchos, I never intended that such evil befall her. But I accept that it was through my actions that she came to grief.’ I shrugged. ‘I have nothing more to say,’ I managed, sounding very young in my own ears. It is hard to talk to a man with his head turned away.
‘Nikedemos was a fool to turn her out of his house,’ Polymarchos said. ‘She was a fool to be so hurt by you, and you were a fool to play with a girl so young.’ His eyes met mine. ‘There are many fools in the world and I have been one of them. Are you sorry?’
Anger – anger born of resentment, anger at my own foolishness – bubbled up. I suppose my eyes clouded, and I’m sure my hands clenched, because I can still remember unclenching them. ‘I’m more than sorry. I . . . lost something of what I thought I was.’
He rubbed his beard. ‘Well – I never had you figured for a scheming betrayer, for all you’re a subtle swordsman.’ He glanced at his athlete. The young man was all but begging him. ‘This pup will be much in your debt if you’ll run us across to the coast of Elis.’ He glanced at me from under his heavy brows.
‘I’ve promised to take one of my men to the port for Sparta.’ I pointed to Brasidas. He came over from his fire. He was candidly admiring the young athlete.
‘Brasidas, this is Polymarchos, a hoplomachos teacher, a pankrationist, a wrestler – a fine coach. Polymarchos, this is Brasidas – sometime captain of my marines. A Lacedaemonian.’
Brasidas nodded graciously. Polymarchos matched his nod almost exactly. Then he turned to me. ‘No matter how fast your ship – I’d have to ask you to run to Elis first, or even into the delta of Alpheos. The games are only a week away.’
I looked at Brasidas, and he smiled. He met my eyes and nodded.
‘We’ll take you,’ I said.
Brasidas caught my arm – an unaccustomed gesture from the Spartan. ‘I would see the Olympics,’ he said. Quite a speech, from him.
Ten minutes’ discussion on the beaches of Melita and it turned out that there wasn’t a man in my crew who didn’t want to see the Olympics.
Oh, what a pleasure it is to be rich enough and powerful enough to take a warship to sea with no better purpose than to go to the greatest games given in all the lands of the Hellenes! Mind you, I wasn’t completely a fool. I loaded seventy great Melitan amphora of the best Chian wine I could buy. I’d never been to the Olympics, but there were men in Plataea who had – old Epiktetus, for one – and they all complained about the shameful bad wine and the crowds.
I remember that trip – less than three thousand stades, with a fair wind – as one of the more pleasant of my life. We filled our bilges with wine amphorae and then tucked up the nooks and crannies with water and salt pork and some bread, and we did what only Phoenicians usually did – we sailed the blue ocean, a straight line from Sicily to Elis. It is hard to reckon distances on the pathless surface of the sea, but my estimate was (and is) that it is almost three thousand
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