Tyrant t-1, page 16
part #1 of Tyrant Series
Huddled in their cloaks, trying to avoid puddles in the street as they walked back to the hippodrome escorted by a pair of Cleitus’s slaves, Philokles laughed. ‘That went well,’ he said.
Agis laughed as well. ‘I expected my old tutor to appear at the door and point a bony hand at me if I missed a word. Not like performing at the campfire!’
Diodorus was more sombre. ‘They’re hiding something.’
Kineas nodded agreement. ‘Steer clear of it, whatever it is,’ he said to Diodorus. ‘Don’t get involved. Is that clear?’
Diodorus nodded. He looked at the sky, paused, and then said, ‘We’re in for a weather change. Feel it? It’s colder already.’
Kineas pulled his cloak tighter. He was already cold. He coughed.
8
They left as the dawn reddened the frosted glass north of the city, under a cold blue sky. The seven young men were well mounted and each of them had a slave; the two eldest each had two slaves and half a dozen horses. They were well turned out, with good armour and heavy cloaks. And they were all eager to go.
Their eagerness made the situation easier to bear. Hostages or not, they were city cavalry and his men, and Kineas found himself enjoying their company as they followed the narrow track out of the city and up the bluffs beyond to the plain. For stades, the track wound along the stone walls that edged grain fields, now a blasted desert of stubble and broken stalks where the harvesters had cut the crops. Heavy stone farmhouses dotted the landscape and as the morning went on they began to pass farmers making their way into town, most on foot with small carts, a few more prosperous on horseback. Their breath left plumes in the cold air, and the farmers didn’t seem happy to see so many soldiers.
The young men chatted, pointed out farms that belonged to their families, discussed hunting in this or that copse of woods and rehearsed their views on philosophy with Philokles — until Kineas began to ask them questions.
‘How would you ride up to that farmhouse,’ Kineas indicated a distant stone building with his hand, ‘leading twenty men, so as not to be seen in your approach?’
They took him seriously and they talked about it, waving their hands excitedly. Finally the leader, Eumenes — his leadership was obvious to Kineas, less to his friends — pointed. ‘Around the woods and up that little gully, there.’
Kineas nodded. It was interesting to see the change in Eumenes from the timid boy of the night before. Among his own, he seemed quite mature. ‘Good eye,’ Kineas said.
Eumenes flushed at the praise. ‘Thank you, sir. But — if you don’t mind my asking — isn’t cavalry warfare more of, well, fighting man to man? It’s for the psiloi to sneak around — as I understand it. Don’t we cover the flank of the hoplites and fight it out with the enemy cavalry?’
Kineas said, ‘War is about having an advantage. If you can gain an advantage over the enemy cavalry by sneaking, you should do it, don’t you think?’
Another youth, Cliomenedes, Petrocolus’s son stuttered, ‘Is that — is it — is it — I say, can it be, I mean, right? Right to take an advantage? Did Achilles do such things?’
Kineas was now riding easily in the midst of them. Ajax had stayed on his right hand, Philokles had dropped back with an amused look that suggested that mundane matters such as war were beneath his notice, and Ataelus had already galloped off ahead — lost in the morning glare.
‘Are you Achilles?’ Kineas asked.
‘I should like to be,’ said another boy, Sophokles. ‘My tutor says he is the model for a gentleman.’
‘Are you so good a man of arms that I can expect you to cut down any number of enemies?’ Kineas asked.
The boy looked down. Another boy — Kyros — cuffed him.
‘Real war is to the death. And dead, you lose everything — liberty, love, possessions, all lost. To preserve them, a few tricks are required. Especially when your enemies are numerous and better trained than you are.’ He said all the words that old soldiers say to young ones, and was greeted with the same respectful disbelief that he had offered his father’s friends who had fought at Chaeronea.
They dismounted for lunch and the slaves set out a magnificent meal fit for a party of princes on a hunting trip. Kineas didn’t complain — the supplies would be gone soon enough and then they’d by eating the rations that Kineas had on two mules under Arni’s supervision. Philokles ate enough for two and turned the conversation back to philosophy.
‘Why do you think there are rules in war?’ he asked.
Eumenes rubbed his bare chin.
Philokles motioned at Kineas. ‘Kineas says that you must be prepared to use subterfuge. Should you use spies?’
Eumenes shrugged. ‘Everyone uses spies,’ he said with the cynicism of the young.
‘Agamemnon sent Odysseus to spy on Troy,’ Sophokles said. He made a face, as if to indicate that he might say such things, but put no faith in them.
‘If you take a prisoner, can you torture him for information?’ Philokles asked.
The boys wriggled, and Eumenes paid too much attention to his food.
Kineas kicked Philokles in the knee without getting up. ‘Odysseus tortures a prisoner,’ he said. ‘It’s in the Iliad. I remember it.’
‘Would you?’ Philokles asked.
Kineas rubbed his beard and looked at his food — much like Eumenes. Then he raised his head. ‘No. Not without some compelling reason, and even then — that’s filthy. Not for men.’
Sophokles glanced up from his bread. ‘Are you saying that rules are foolish?’
Philokles shook his head. ‘I’m not saying anything. I’m asking questions, and you are answering them.’
‘The captain says that war is to the death. So why have rules?’ Sophokles glanced at Kineas, looking for approval. ‘Anything that wins is good. Isn’t it?’
Philokles leaned forward. ‘So — would you attack an enemy during a truce? Perhaps while he is collecting his dead?’
Sophokles sat back, and his face displayed outrage, but with the tenacity of the young, he stuck to his argument. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, if it would give me victory.’
Philokles looked at Kineas and Kineas shook his head. ‘Never,’ he said.
Sophokles’ cheeks developed two bright red spots, and his throat blotched, and he hung his head.
Kineas fingered his beard again, rubbing in the oil from his lunch. ‘Rules in war have purpose,’ he said. ‘Every broken rule deepens the hate between the enemies. Every rule preserved keeps hate at bay. If two cities fight, and both abide by their oaths, follow the rules, and fear the gods — then when they have settled the dispute, they can return to trade. But if one side violates a truce, or murders women, or tortures a prisoner — then hatred rules the day, and war becomes a way of life.’
Philokles nodded. And he added, ‘War is the greatest of tyrants, once fully unleashed. Men make rules to keep the tyrant bound, just as they use the assembly to keep the over-powerful citizens from dominating other men. Fools speak of “getting serious”, or of making “real” war. They are invariably amateurs and cowards, who have never stood in the line with a spear in their hands. In the phalanx, where you smell the breath of your enemy and feel the wind when he farts — war is always real. Real enough, when death awaits every misstep. But when the tyrant is fully unleashed — when cities fight to the death, as Athens and Sparta did a hundred years ago — when all the rules are forgotten, and every man seeks only the destruction of his enemy, then reason is fled, and we become mad beasts. And then there is neither honour nor victory.’
The boys nodded solemnly, and Kineas was left with the feeling that he and Philokles could as easily have proclaimed the utility of torture and rapine and convinced them.
After lunch, Kineas had them throw javelins at a tree on foot, and he watched them mount their horses and commented on how that could be improved. While they threw, he said to Philokles, ‘That was quite a speech. You are against war?’
Philokles frowned. ‘I am Spartan,’ he said, as if that answered Kineas. ‘That Kyros has a good arm.’
Kineas let the subject drop.
‘In combat, you’ll be unhorsed,’ Kineas said. ‘It’ll happen several times. Every time you are on foot in a cavalry fight, you are very nearly a dead man. Being able to remount is the most important skill you can master. Practise mounting your own horse, if you can, practise mounting other men’s horses — because the usual reason for finding yourself on foot is because some bastard has killed your horse.’
When they were all riding into the afternoon, passing the very last walled field and the last deep ditch and dyke that marked the very edge of the town’s property, he said, ‘In wrestling, were you taught first how to fall?’
Ajax smiled, because he’d heard this speech so many times already.
‘Practise coming off your horse, recovering, and getting back on. Practise it at a walk, at a trot, even at a canter. Ajax, here, was barely able to ride a few weeks ago.’ Kineas spared him a good-natured glance. ‘Now he can come off at a canter and remount in a flash.’
Ajax did it on cue, without warning, taking his horse a few steps away into a field, rolling from the saddle and landing on his side. He looked winded, but he bounced to his feet and his horse had already stopped. He ran to her and vaulted into the saddle, his back straight and his leg thrown clear of her back. He looked like an athlete.
Several of the young men thought he looked more like a god. Then they all had to do it, their fine cloaks and armour getting an array of dirt and dents as they threw themselves to the ground and remounted. Several of them lost their horses entirely — Eumenes, a competent young man, rolled out of the saddle and his horse bolted, and had to be run down by Kineas himself. After that, Kineas curtailed their enthusiasm. ‘We have miles to ride today,’ he said.
Ajax rubbed his hip. ‘That hurt.’
Kineas smiled at him. ‘You did it very well.’
Ajax beamed. If he still held an opinion on Kineas’s actions in the fight with the Getae, it had been dulled by time and the routine of the unit. Kineas felt some awkwardness in having Ajax as his second in command with all these raw youths, but Ajax took to it immediately, tacitly appointing Eumenes his own second man. Only when Kineas and Philokles had spoken about war had there been something in Ajax’s look — some hesitation perhaps, or disagreement.
The sun was slipping down in the west when Ataelus, his red hood brilliant in the dying sun, came back. Kineas had his cloak tight around him, the bulk of his horse warming his lower half and the icy wind cutting through his helmet.
‘Well?’ asked Kineas.
‘Easy,’ said Ataelus. ‘For me, yes? Tracks and hooves, tracks and hooves. For me I find it. Tomorrow night, we for they camp. Yes? They camp?’ He gestured.
‘You saw their camp, and we’ll be there tomorrow night?’ asked Kineas.
‘See? No. See with eyes? Not for me. See with this!’ and the Scyth pointed at his head. ‘Tracks and hooves — for knowing where, not for seeing where, yes?’
Kineas lost the thread of this, especially as the Scyth tried to introduce details — and barbarian words. ‘So you went out, saw tracks — and we’ll be there tomorrow night?’
‘Yes!’ The Scyth was happy to be understood. ‘Tomorrow, maybe night. Yes. Food?’
Kineas offered him a loaf of bread from lunch and a clay flagon of wine — good wine. The Scyth rode away chuckling.
They continued until near dark with the river flowing dark and cold on their right. On a deep, sandy curve they stopped, and the slaves made camp. The boys were amateurs and insisted on having their own tents, their own bedding, and consequently were too cold to sleep. Kineas slept in a huddle with Philokles, Arni and Ajax, while Ataelus, more private or perhaps more practised still, pulled his horse down and slept against it.
In the morning the boys were drawn. They stood and shivered, waiting for their horses, waiting for the food to be prepared. Kineas set them to throwing javelins. His throat hurt, and he rubbed at it. Arni brought him a tisane and he drank it with honey. It helped for a while.
The sun was a bright orange ball against a dark sky. Arni came over to Kineas with a cloth in his hand, rubbing Kineas’s silver wine cup clean. ‘That’s heavy weather,’ he said, pointing his chin at the sun. Kineas nodded absently.
The boys warmed up quickly and in a few minutes they were again abuzz with questions, most of which was directed at Ajax, who handled them well enough. All of the boys were curious about the Scyth and most wondered aloud if he was some sort of privileged slave. If Ataelus understood any of it before he rode away, he gave no sign and left Ajax to explain his status.
It took more than two hours to get all of the boys packed and mounted — their slaves, while patient and capable, were not used to moving quickly and none of them was used to any discipline beyond the rods of their tutors. Ajax had to raise his voice, and Kineas enjoyed the spectacle of Ajax shouting down an embarrassed Eumenes when the boy wanted the fire to stay lit.
‘But I’m cold!’ said the boy. He sounded horrified that anyone could fail to see this as a crisis.
‘So am I. So are the slaves. Get mounted.’ Ajax sounded so much like Niceas that Kineas turned away to smile.
That second day they played at being a patrol. Kineas didn’t insist on any real degree of skill, but he sent the boys out to scout and report and he went out a few times with them, listened with patience to their reports of deer or cattle tracks, dead sheep, marshland to the west. He instructed. He kept them busy. By noon, he had started to cough in earnest. He didn’t feel bad — in fact, he was enjoying himself — but the coughs got longer. They ate in the saddle when the sun was high, because the boys were tired and Ataelus had returned to report that there were groups of Sakje ahead of them and they could expect to meet a hunting party any time. Kineas had long since admitted to himself that he liked what he had seen of the Sakje, barbarians that they were, and he didn’t expect any hostility from them — but professional caution and a certain desire to impress made him unwilling to be caught with a fire at a meal by one of their patrols. Besides, the sky was dark and it had grown curiously warm. Kineas didn’t know the plains, but he knew the sea. Weather was coming. From the saddle he said a prayer and poured a libation.
After lunch, it began to snow. Kineas had seen snow in Persia, but not like this — big, heavy flakes like the down from a goose. He pulled his cloak around himself and started to cough again, finally leaning over in his saddle and coughing until his chest ached. He noticed that Philokles was supporting his weight in the saddle.
‘You’re scaring the boys,’ Philokles said. ‘And we can’t see the river any more.’
Kineas raised his head and realized that he could scarcely see the head of his horse. His helmet sat on his brow like a block of ice. His brain began to function again. ‘Ataelus!’
The Scyth appeared out of the swirling snow. ‘Here I am!’ he shouted.
‘Go fetch in the two boys who are out. We’ll stay right here.’ He coughed again. ‘Hermes, protect us.’
Ataelus vanished into the snow. The horses crowded together, which suited their riders. Greek gentlemen rode in tunics and boots, armour if the occasion demanded, but fashionable gentlemen did not wear trousers. All of the boys were in their best tunics and their armour, to awe the barbarians. Now they were very cold indeed.
‘Philokles? Pick your way along the river and find us some trees. Better yet, find a house.’
‘Or a tavern?’
‘You understand. Don’t go far and don’t risk getting lost. We won’t move until Ataelus comes back, and then we’ll ride upstream. Take Clio.’
Philokles collected the boy and trotted off into the white curtain. Kineas thought the stuff was letting up; man and boy remained visible to him several horse lengths away.
Eumenes pressed his horse against Kineas’s mare. ‘Are we — lost?’ he asked. Are we in real trouble?
‘This’ll pass soon enough,’ said Kineas, and coughed again. ‘I’m going to get us together and then find some cover. We may be cold.. ’ He lost the ability to speak, coughed and coughed, then felt better. He spat some phlegm and was relieved to see there was no blood in it. I made my sacrifice to You, lord of contagion. I helped a horse race for your glory, Lord Apollo. But, he remembered he had not offered a sacrifice, being busy with his own affairs. A white lamb on your altar when I return, he vowed. And coughed again.
Eumenes watched him, his clear brow furrowed with worry under the bronze brim of his helmet. Kineas got himself erect in the saddle. ‘How do you keep a company moving in heavy weather?’ he asked.
‘Uh,’ murmured Eumenes. Kineas looked around. The snow was lighter, but the boys were huddled together and their faces were pale, their mouths thin. They were on the edge of panic.
‘You find a mark you can see and move to it. Then you find another mark and you move to that. It’s slow, but it beats getting lost. If you can’t see far enough to find a mark, you stop and wait for the weather to clear.’
Kyros, the one who threw the best javelin, said, ‘I’m cold.’ He said it softly, but his words carried real conviction and his cheeks had bright red spots.
Kineas knew that he was on the edge of real difficulty, but he had already made a hard choice — to stay put until the Scyth returned. He stuck to it. ‘Push in closer to Ajax. By Ares, young gentlemen, you should all learn to love one another a little more. Ajax is a particularly elegant specimen — no one should mind cuddling with him.’ Several of the youths glanced at Ajax and most of them chuckled, and he seized on this slight thaw in the tension. ‘How many of you were cold last night? Everyone? Learn to be comrades! Tonight, you are going to have mess groups — you’ll eat and sleep in sections, like Spartans. It works. Don’t blush, Kyros. No one is threatening your virtue. It’s too cold.’ He was holding back a cough, trying to get them in hand before he made a spectacle of himself, but the urge to cough overpowered him. The snow in the air seemed to trigger the coughing. He tried to keep his back straight and cough into his hands. It was shorter, but the coughs seemed deeper in his chest, harsher. His hands were shaking.
