toasts every one of his comrades.’ He grinned. ‘It’s a good way to get drunk very quickly.’ Then he raised his voice. He had no sense of a tune, but others did — Kineas and Coenus.
Ares, exceeding in strength, chariot-rider,
Golden-helmed, doughty in heart, shield-bearer, saviour of cities,
Harnessed in bronze, strong of arm, unwearying, mighty with the spear,
O defence of Olympus, father of warlike Victory, ally of Themis,
Stern governor of the rebellious, leader of righteous men,
Sceptred king of manliness, who whirl your fiery sphere
Among the planets in their sevenfold courses through the aether
Wherein your blazing steeds ever bear you above the third firmament of heaven;
Hear me, helper of men, giver of dauntless youth!
Shed down a kindly ray from above upon my life, and strength of war,
That I may be able to drive away bitter cowardice from my head
And crush down the deceitful impulses of my soul.
Restrain also the keen fury of my heart which provokes me to tread
The ways of blood-curdling strife.
Rather, O blessed one, give you me boldness to abide within the harmless laws of peace, avoiding strife and hatred and the violent fiends of death.
Andronicus got to his feet. ‘Good song!’ he shouted. ‘Too seldom do you Greeks praise the lord of strife.’
Philokles shook his head. ‘We are no friends to the lord of strife.’
But Andronicus was not in a mood for argument. ‘Good custom!’ He walked straight to the bowl, and dipped his cup full. He sloshed a libation on the floor, and raised his cup. ‘To us. Comrades.’ One by one, he said their names, raised his cup, and drank, until he came to Kineas. ‘To you, Hipparch,’ he said, and drained his cup.
One by one, they did it. Lykeles made jokes about each of them. Philokles imitated their voices as he toasted them. Agis spoke well, and Laertes had a compliment for every man.
Sitalkes drank in silence, meeting each man’s eye in turn and drinking to him until he got to Kineas. To him, he raised his cup. ‘I was Getae,’ he said. ‘Now I am yours.’ He drank, and the others cheered and stamped their feet as they had not for Laertes’ pretty rhetoric.
Crax took his stand at the bowl with a belligerent stare. ‘When we fight, I will kill more than any of you,’ he said. And drank.
Ajax took the cup and wept. Then he wiped his eyes. ‘Every man here has my love. You are the comrades I dreamed of as a child, when I lay on my father’s arm and he read to me how Achilles sulked in his tent, how Diomedes led the army of the Hellenes, and all the other stories of the war with Troy.’
Ataelus insisted on having pure wine in his cup. He stood by the bowl for some time. Finally, he said, ‘My Greek is better. So I am not for fear speaking to you. All you — like good clan — you take me from city, give horse. Give honour.’ He raised his cup. ‘Too much talk-talk to toast every one. I toast all. Akinje Craje. The Flying Horse clan — what the Sakje call you. Good name.’ He drank. Then he dipped and drank again, and again, saluting each one in turn in unwatered wine. He walked back to his place on the floor without a tremor, and sat with the same grace as all the Sakje.
Last was Kineas. He waved to Philokles, the acting host. ‘By all the gods — put some water in it, or I won’t live to reach the camp.’ He stood by the bowl. He found that he had a smile across his face so firm that he couldn’t crack it even to speak. He was silent — as silent at Sitalkes or Ataelus had been. Then he raised his cup on the tips of his fingers and tipped it to spill a libation.
‘The gods honour those who strive the hardest,’ he said. ‘I doubt any group of men have worked harder in the last six months than you. I ask that the gods take notice. We came here as strangers, and have been made citizens. We came here as mercenaries. Now, I think most of us go to fight for our city, as men of virtue do.’ He looked around. ‘Like Ajax, I love every one of you, and like Ataelus, I know you for my own clan. For myself, I swear by the gods to do my best to bring you back safe. But I also say this. We go to a hard campaign.’ He looked around. ‘If we fall, let us do it so that some Olbian poet will sing of us, the way the Spartans sing of Leonidas, or the way every Hellene sings of Peleas’s son.’
They cheered him, even hard-eyed Niceas. He drank to them. They raised their cups with a roar.
Much later, a very drunk Kineas slapped Philokles’ shoulder. ‘You’re a good man,’ he said.
Philokles smiled. ‘I can’t hear you say that too often.’
‘I’m for bed. I’ll have a head like an anvil come the dawn.’ Kineas stood unsteadily. Crax was retching outside the barrack’s main door. He sounded like a man on the edge of death.
Philokles pushed himself to his feet. ‘I think you’ll find that dawn is close,’ he said. ‘It’s good to see you happy.’
Kineas hung on to the doorframe as he passed it. ‘I’m happy enough, brother. Better to die happy than…’ He managed to shut his mouth.
‘Die?’ said Philokles. He sounded more sober. ‘Who said anything about death?’
Kineas waved his hands unsteadily. ‘Nothing. Shouldn’t have said anything of the sort. My mouth runs away with me when I’m drunk. Like a diarrhoea of words.’
Philokles grabbed him and spun him around. He rested his forehead against Kineas, which steadied them both. He put a hand behind Kineas’s neck like a wrestler going for a hold. ‘Die happy, you said. Where’s that come from?’
‘Nowhere. Just a phrase.’
‘Donkey shit. Piles of it.’ Philokles sounded harsh.
Kineas rolled his eyes. He couldn’t remember why he had to hide all this from the Spartan, anyway. ‘Gonna die,’ he said. ‘In the battle.’
Philokles ground his forehead against Kineas. It hurt. ‘Says who?’
‘Dream. Kam Baqca. Tree.’ Saying it aloud made it seem a little silly.
Philokles pushed him away, and started laughing. ‘Ares’ swelling member. You poor bastard. Kam Baqca thinks she is going to die in this battle. She’s just spreading the misery.’
Kineas shrugged. ‘Maybe. Knows a lot.’
Philokles nodded. ‘So she does. So walk away. Board a ship. Go to Sparta.’
Kineas shook his head. The myths of his youth were full of men who fled fate to die foolishly. ‘Achilles’ choice,’ he said.
Philokles shook his head angrily. ‘You’re too old for that shit. You aren’t Achilles. The gods don’t whisper in your ear.’
Kineas sat on a table. He’d made it to his room. He kicked off his sandals. ‘Bed,’ he said, and fell on his.
He was asleep before Philokles could muster an argument.
16
Kineas was the last man of the hippeis to reach the camp at Great Bend. He sent the squadrons off, one each day, while he continued to wrangle with the hipparch of Pantecapaeum and wrote detailed orders for the city allies.
Leucon took the elite first troop on the day after the festival. They were ready, still hard from the visit to the Sakje, and eager for it. Kineas sent Niceas to keep an eye on them — and to make sure that their camp was well sited and well built.
On the second day, when Diodorus’s squadron was clear of the gates, six light triremes arrived from their fellow city, the first concrete sign that the assembly of Pantecapaeum intended to honour its pledge. Kineas went down to see them and to discuss strategy with their navarch, Demostrate, a short, fat man with a nose like a pig. Despite his looks — ugly as Hephaestes — he was cheerful, even comic, and his ships were in good order, from the lustiness of their rowers, citizens all, to their sails, painted with a seated Athena twice as tall as a man, floating over the black-hulled ships like banners to the goddess.
