beautifully, and she weaves wool better than merchant’s wool. And she is beautiful - I shouldn’t say it, but she is.’
Kineas hadn’t encountered this level of instant hero worship before. He couldn’t help but bask in the admiration for a little while. But not long. ‘I shall be pleased to meet your sister. I will talk to your father tonight. But Ajax - we’re mercenaries. It’s a hard life. Fighting for the boy king - that was soldiering for the city, in a way, even if we got a rough reception when we came home. Sleeping rough, aye. And worse. Days without sleep. Nights on guard, on horseback, in enemy country.’ His voice trailed off, and then he said, ‘War isn’t what what it was, Ajax. There is no battle of champions. The virtues of our ancestors are seldom shown in modern war.’
He stopped himself, because his words were having the opposite effect from what he had planned. The boy’s eyes were shining with delight. ‘How old are you?’
‘Seventeen. At the festival of Herakles.’
Kineas shrugged. Old enough to be a man. ‘I’ll talk to your father,’ he said. And when Ajax started to stammer thanks, he was merciless. ‘By the crooked-minded son of Cronus, boy! You could die. Pointlessly, in someone else’s fight - a street brawl, defending a tyrant who despises you. Or from a barbarian arrow in the dark. It’s not Homer, Ajax. It’s dirty, sleepless, full of scum and bugs. And on the day of battle, you are one faceless man under your helmet - no Achilles, no Hector, just an oarsman rowing the phalanx toward the enemy.’
Wasted words. He hoped they were not prophetic, because he still had some Homer in him after ten years of the real thing. He dreaded the pointless death in an alley, or a wine-shop squabble. He’d seen them happen to other men.
Late afternoon and his tack was clean and neat, the horses were inspected, the other men as ready as they needed to be, the armour and cornell-wood javelins packed in straw panniers for the baggage animals. He’d moved from the paddock to the base of the farm’s lone oak tree with a blanket to repair, but Kineas found it difficult to keep his eyes open. The coming dinner reminded him of the girl, Ajax’s sister, and what she would have meant - home, security, work. And her mere mention reminded him that it had been months since he had lain with a woman. Probably not since he left the army. And the contrast seemed vivid. Without even meeting Ajax’s sister, he could see her, at least in the guise of his own sisters. Demure. Quiet. Beautiful, remote, devout, cautious. Intelligent, perhaps, but certainly ignorant, without conversation.
His longest liaison in the army had been with Artemis. Not, obviously, her real name. She was a camp follower, a prostitute, although she insisted on being called Hetaera and claimed that she would be one in time. Loud, opinionated, violent in her loves and hates, given to drinking undiluted wine, she had seen more war than most of the soldiers, for all that she wasn’t yet twenty.
She’d stabbed a Macedonian file-closer who tried to rape her. She’d fucked most of the men in his troop, adopted them and been adopted. She had her own horse, could recite whole passages of Homer and dance every dance the men could - all the Spartan military dances, all the dances of the gods. The night before a battle, she would sing. Like Niceas, she was born in a brothel near the agora in Athens. She made the whole company, even the Corinthians and the Ionians, learn the anthem of Athens, to which she was fiercely patriotic.
Come, Athena, now if ever!
Let us now thy Glory see!
Now, O Maid and Queen, we pray thee,
Give thy servants victory!
She turned their drab followers into part of the company, got them messes, dealt with their squabbles and ruled them. And gave them value. And she had said to Kineas one ngiht, ‘Two things a girl needs to make it in this army; a hard heart and a
Kineas hadn’t encountered this level of instant hero worship before. He couldn’t help but bask in the admiration for a little while. But not long. ‘I shall be pleased to meet your sister. I will talk to your father tonight. But Ajax - we’re mercenaries. It’s a hard life. Fighting for the boy king - that was soldiering for the city, in a way, even if we got a rough reception when we came home. Sleeping rough, aye. And worse. Days without sleep. Nights on guard, on horseback, in enemy country.’ His voice trailed off, and then he said, ‘War isn’t what what it was, Ajax. There is no battle of champions. The virtues of our ancestors are seldom shown in modern war.’
He stopped himself, because his words were having the opposite effect from what he had planned. The boy’s eyes were shining with delight. ‘How old are you?’
‘Seventeen. At the festival of Herakles.’
Kineas shrugged. Old enough to be a man. ‘I’ll talk to your father,’ he said. And when Ajax started to stammer thanks, he was merciless. ‘By the crooked-minded son of Cronus, boy! You could die. Pointlessly, in someone else’s fight - a street brawl, defending a tyrant who despises you. Or from a barbarian arrow in the dark. It’s not Homer, Ajax. It’s dirty, sleepless, full of scum and bugs. And on the day of battle, you are one faceless man under your helmet - no Achilles, no Hector, just an oarsman rowing the phalanx toward the enemy.’
Wasted words. He hoped they were not prophetic, because he still had some Homer in him after ten years of the real thing. He dreaded the pointless death in an alley, or a wine-shop squabble. He’d seen them happen to other men.
Late afternoon and his tack was clean and neat, the horses were inspected, the other men as ready as they needed to be, the armour and cornell-wood javelins packed in straw panniers for the baggage animals. He’d moved from the paddock to the base of the farm’s lone oak tree with a blanket to repair, but Kineas found it difficult to keep his eyes open. The coming dinner reminded him of the girl, Ajax’s sister, and what she would have meant - home, security, work. And her mere mention reminded him that it had been months since he had lain with a woman. Probably not since he left the army. And the contrast seemed vivid. Without even meeting Ajax’s sister, he could see her, at least in the guise of his own sisters. Demure. Quiet. Beautiful, remote, devout, cautious. Intelligent, perhaps, but certainly ignorant, without conversation.
His longest liaison in the army had been with Artemis. Not, obviously, her real name. She was a camp follower, a prostitute, although she insisted on being called Hetaera and claimed that she would be one in time. Loud, opinionated, violent in her loves and hates, given to drinking undiluted wine, she had seen more war than most of the soldiers, for all that she wasn’t yet twenty.
She’d stabbed a Macedonian file-closer who tried to rape her. She’d fucked most of the men in his troop, adopted them and been adopted. She had her own horse, could recite whole passages of Homer and dance every dance the men could - all the Spartan military dances, all the dances of the gods. The night before a battle, she would sing. Like Niceas, she was born in a brothel near the agora in Athens. She made the whole company, even the Corinthians and the Ionians, learn the anthem of Athens, to which she was fiercely patriotic.
Come, Athena, now if ever!
Let us now thy Glory see!
Now, O Maid and Queen, we pray thee,
Give thy servants victory!
She turned their drab followers into part of the company, got them messes, dealt with their squabbles and ruled them. And gave them value. And she had said to Kineas one ngiht, ‘Two things a girl needs to make it in this army; a hard heart and a
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