Philokles twitched the corners of his mouth. ‘I have allowed the archon’s new factor — another perfumed Mede — to receive some reports that you have deceived the archon — that you intend to take the army and march south with the Sakje. In fact, he was surprised to learn that Sindi farmers have been paid to prepare a battlefield along the Agathes River, digging trenches and preparing traps.’
Kineas raised an eyebrow.
Philokles shrugged. ‘Rumour — all rumour.’ He sneered. ‘Zopryon is more likely to believe a rumour his spies gleaned in the wine shops than a plan spoken before his face. It is a fault all spies share.’
Kineas wrapped his arms around the Spartan. ‘Well done!’
Philokles shrugged again. ‘It was nothing.’ He was pleased by the praise, however. A flush crept up his cheeks.
‘The Macedonian merchants — they’ll know better in a few weeks,’ Kineas said.
‘Hmm.’ Philokles nodded. ‘Too true. However, Nicomedes and Leon have them in hand. That is to say — perhaps it is best if I say no more.’
Kineas shook his head. ‘Nicomedes?’
Philokles nodded. ‘Surely, having seen the ease with which he commands his troop, you no longer believe in his pose as a useless fop?’
Kineas shook his head. ‘I think that I must, despite his obvious skills and authority. I find it difficult to take him seriously.’
Philokles nodded, as if a theory had been confirmed. ‘That is why the Nicomedes of this world are so successful in the long run. At any rate, the merchants are similarly dismissive. They sit in his home, eating his bread, sneering at his effeminate ways, and chasing his slaves and his wife.’ The Spartan looked into the distance. ‘It will be a pity when an outraged freedman kills them both.’
Kineas’s bark of shock caused the big man to look back at him.
‘It’s a rough game, Hipparch. Those men want our blood, as surely as a screaming Getae waving a spear.’
Kineas relaxed, watching the hoplites reforming for a second try at the manoeuvre. He nodded. ‘Thanks. More than thanks. I had assumed there was nothing to be done — and you have done so much.’
Philokles grinned. ‘You are unsparing with praise. Very unSpartan.’ But then his grin faded. ‘The two merchants will be the first two dead in this war. And so it begins.’
‘I know you hate war,’ Kineas said. He reached out to take Philokles’s shoulder, but Philokles moved away.
‘What makes you think that?’ he asked.
The spring festival of Apollo drew every man and woman in the city and most of the populations of the farms for stades around the walls. The streets of the city were packed with people in their best clothes, and it was warm enough to cast cloaks aside, for men to be abroad in fine linen and for women, those who chose to appear in public, to look their best.
The full force of the hippeis now filled the hippodrome — two hundred and thirty horsemen, resplendent in blue and polished bronze and brilliant gold. Kineas could see the difference among the cloaks and armour — the cloaks of the men who had gone to the Sakje had already faded by some shades from the royal blue of the first cloth, and their armour had deeper shades of red from long days in the rain. But the appearance of the whole body was magnificent.
Kineas felt oddly nervous at their head. He was wearing his best armour, mounted on his tallest charger, and he knew he looked the part. He couldn’t explain it. His skills with men came from the gods, and he seldom doubted them, but today he felt as if he was an actor assigned a role, and the adulation of the crowds along the route to the temple increased his sense of unreality. To be appointed the commander of a city’s forces — short of leading the army of his own Athens in the field, he was at the summit of any soldier’s ambition.
His imminent death and all it would mean — the loss of worldly power, friends, love — was never far from his thoughts. He found that he could spare no time for trifles, that every moment mattered, and that he wanted to take his forces out to the camp on the Great Bend as soon as possible, to live his last campaign to the fullest.
To see Srayanka. Even if he could not have her.
He thought all these things, but on this day, he rode to the temple of Apollo like a bridegroom, eager, despite himself, for the honour that the archon intended to bestow.
Philokles rode at his side. ‘You have a certain vanity, I find,’ he said between plaudits from the crowd.
Kineas waved at a group of Sindi who were pointing at him. ‘Most soldiers are vain, don’t you think?’ he asked.
Philokles smiled. ‘Your love of finery is carefully hidden. You parade your poverty and your old, tattered cloak, the better to show the contrast to your magnificence.’
‘If you say so,’ Kineas answered.
‘I do. Or are you, perhaps, afraid to show so much finery every day, for fear someone would take you for Nicodemus?’ Philokles’ last words were almost drowned by renewed cheers. He nodded to Ataelus, who rode forward. He had a linen wrapped bundle, which he passed over to Philokles.
‘We swore an oath,’ Philokles said, ‘not to give this to you until the feast of Apollo.’
Kineas unwrapped the linen. Inside the bundle was his new sword, scabbarded in red leather and hilted with gold — an elegant, sweeping hilt decorated with a pair of flying Pegasus. The pommel was cast and worked like the head of a woman.
The first squadron had begun to sing the Paean.
In the next quiet interval, Kineas said, ‘It is magnificent. But I sought no gift from the king.’
‘The king sent it nonetheless,’ Philokles said with a mirthless grin. ‘You might note the pommel. Do you see a resemblance?’
Kineas closed his hand on the hilt. ‘You are like a bluebottle fly — no matter how often I swat you, you just come and settle to sting again.’ His intended severity was ruined by his broad grin. He loved it. It fit his hand. Srayanka gleamed in heavy gold from the pommel. Srayanka — Medea. ‘He sent this? Really?’
Philokles grinned. ‘Really.’ He shook his head. ‘Stop grinning like that — you might hurt your face.’ He pulled his horse out of the column, and fell back to his place.
Kineas didn’t stop grinning. The king of the Assagatje had sent him a message. Or a challenge.
The ceremony was long, but pleasant, full of music and bright colour. It raised the spirits of the city and of the hippeis and the hoplites, and when the archon tied the magenta sash around his breastplate, Kineas, too, felt a thrill of joy.
After the last procession through the town, Kineas took the hippeis back to the hippodrome and dismissed them with his thanks and praise — and with orders to assemble in two days, ready to march. He listened to the sounds they made as they departed — the gossip, the tone of their grumbles, the taunts and the teasing.
Morale was good.
As if by prior arrangement, the old soldiers — the mercenaries who had come to the city just eight months before — met in the barracks rather than go off to the torch-lit races and the public feast. They were all there — Antigonus, Coenus, Diodorus, Crax and Sitalkes, Ajax, Niceas, fresh back from Pantecapaeum, Laertes and Lykeles, Agis and Andronicus and Ataelus, the last in because it was their turn to curry horses, and Philokles, who appeared with two town slaves and a big amphora of wine. The shape of the amphora revealed it to be from Chios, and they all applauded.
Philokles produced a wine bowl from under a blanket and everyone else fetched cups, laid pillows and cloaks on benches for couches.
‘We thought we should drink some wine together, one last time before we take the field,’ Philokles said.
‘While we’re still your friends — before we become your soldiers,’ said Niceas, one hand on the owl at his neck.
They were all stiff at first — Sitalkes and Crax were utterly silent except for nervous giggles as they prodded each other on their shared couch. Ataelus, who rarely shared their revelry, seemed uncomfortable on a couch and moved to the floor, where he sat cross-legged.
Philokles rose. ‘In Sparta, we have two customs on the eve of war. One is that we sing a hymn to Ares. The other is that in our mess, every man takes a turn at the bowl. He raises his cup, pours a libation to the gods, and
