‘Perhaps things will be different after the assembly,’ offered another gentleman. Kineas knew the man was the largest ship owner in the city and that his son, Cliomenedes, was barely old enough to serve in the cavalry and was coming on the expedition in the morning.
It seemed an ominous statement, the more so as it was left to lie with the spilled wine. None of the other men took it up — not even Philokles. Instead, Cleitus turned the talk to the success of the muster.
Kineas gathered praise — too much praise, he felt. ‘We haven’t begun to train,’ he said. ‘None of you will think of me so highly when your butts are sore.’
That got a laugh, but Clio’s father — Petrocolus — shook his head. ‘We expected another mercenary, like Memnon. We were surprised that you are so clearly a gentlemen. I think I can speak for many men when I say that we’ll be happier for the training — at least, come spring. This notion of winter exercise has my old bones creaking already!’
The party continued on a lighter note from there. Cleitus, despite his public gruffness, was an excellent host. There were dancers — tasteful and skilled — and acrobats, and a dark-skinned freeman who mimed several of the city’s important men — Memnon, Cleitus himself, and finally, Kineas.
Even Kineas had to laugh at the gross parody of his legs and autocratic hand motions. He knew himself immediately — it wasn’t the first time he’d been imitated. The others present roared, and he collected several smiles.
At the end of the evening, Philokles performed on the Spartan harp and Agis recited a section of the Iliad. It was a nice reminder that Kineas’s men were gentlemen of accomplishment, and both performances were well received.
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
