Of Merchants & Heros (41 page)

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 his 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 Aitolians 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.’

‘Then take Thebes,’ said Villius.

Titus smiled. ‘I wish it were so easy. A siege of Thebes could take half a year, and all that time Philip will be strengthening his forces.

Already our spies in Macedon have reported he is calling up the old men and the youths of sixteen, and has been sending to Asia for supplies and mercenaries. But even if we could take Thebes in a week, it is not what we are here to do. We must persuade them, not conquer them.’

‘Then how?’ said Villius. ‘Will you go and persuade them yourself?’

He had been joking. But after a pause Titus answered, ‘Why not? Yes. I shall go to them myself, and they can decide once and for all who to support.’ He nodded to himself, then suddenly grinned. ‘Yes indeed. That is the last thing they will expect.’

We set out soon after, taking a small force through Phokis and into Boiotia. It was the last thing Brachylles and the Theban demagogues had expected. They had taken Philip’s gold; but they were not prepared to pay for it with their blood. Titus addressed the Theban assembly. He did not refer to our army, or the strength of the allies.

Nor did he insult Philip. He merely said that he had come to restore freedom to the Greek cities, which Philip had taken from them. He was fighting for all Greeks, including Thebes, and he hoped they would find it in their hearts to support him. If they would not, he merely asked them not to stand in his way.

When he had finished, the presiding magistrate asked if anyone else wished to speak. No one stood. No one raised his hand. All eyes slewed towards Brachylles, who was sitting with a face like stone.

Like all demagogues, he knew a crowd, and Titus had shamed them by reminding them of their honour. There was nothing Brachylles could say.

With Thebes won over, the stage was set for the final battle, and at the time of the spring equinox our spies reported that Philip was massing his forces at Dion.

We marched north to meet him, through the passes of Phokis, taking the coast road past Thermopylai, and up into the high ranges above Thessaly.

Near Lake Xyniai we made camp, and there we waited for our allies to join us.

The highland air was fresh and clear and luminous. There had been a settlement once beside the lake, until the Aitolians had sacked it earlier in the war; now the only inhabitants were the wildfowl that nested in the reeds beside the water, and rose up in great resentful clouds as we passed. The troops had been penned up all winter: they were impatient for the campaign to begin.