It is odd to be haunted by a living person. Everywhere I went, I saw Lydia — in Keltoi girls washing their clothes in the stream by the beach; in women at market, standing by the well.
Why? I really hadn’t thought of her in months. I suspect that I had behaved badly, and Heracles sent these thoughts to torment me. So evil is punished in the world. But it may be that opening the bales of goods — so carefully packed in another world, on Sicily and at Marsala — carried some hint of her. I don’t know.
I do know that I felt a surly failure when I awoke the next morning. I went for a run with Neoptolymos and Seckla — Neoptolymos still a stick figure, but eating like a horse, and Seckla now probably the best athlete among us. My wound still troubled me, so I ran carefully. And slowly. Which suited Neoptolymos, but Seckla simply ran off into the khora, the countryside.
Of course, we ran naked. And nudity is a shameful thing among Keltoi, or at least, it is not as common as among Greeks. We, of course, thought nothing of it. While we ran out along the muddy roads between low stone boundary walls, we were untroubled, but as we poured the daimon of competition into our aching muscles to sprint the last few stades into town, there were men with staves.
We ignored them and sprinted past.
They closed in behind us and followed us to our tents. They were grumbling angrily, and we, of course, hadn’t any idea what they were on about.
Luckily, Sittonax was up, and he laughed at us with them, if you take my meaning, and soon enough they dispersed. As a foreigner, it is always better to be an object of gentle derision.
Detorix came to us at mid-morning. I was organizing some contests, because my morning run had improved my mood and reminded me of what was important in life, and I had decided — again, between one heartbeat and another — to be responsible for the rowers and not simply send them off into the world.
Let me digress, thugater. The truth is that if I released them — or, more likely, drove them away — they would be slaves again in no time. One of the problems with slavery is that it allows a certain kind of man to cease to be, in almost every way. It extinguishes his willingness to be… well, free.
Which of us does not long to be taken care of? Which of us does not desire — at least in old age — children and friends to wait on us and help us walk and piss and eat? Eh?
And the slave — is this not why we call them children? A slave with a soft place, a good master and acceptable work is spared so many decisions, is he not?
Heh. Had you going there, for a moment. It can be quite comfortable, as a slave. If only you are willing to give up everything that makes life worth living.
But once a man has been a slave a certain time, it takes time to make him free. He has to learn to be free.
If you save a man from starving, can you then leave him to starve again?
If you rescue a drowning man, do you push him back in the water?
So.
So I was sitting under an awning on a crisp late-summer morning, while two men — one of the Albans and one of the Greeks — fought with padded sticks. The sticks represented swords. Now, Greeks scarcely ever fight with just the sword, but Polymarchos, back in Syracusa, had taught me a great deal based on using the sword alone. He had introduced me to the theory of combat, much as Heraclitus introduced me to the theory of living your life. A man may be a good man and live a righteous life and never hear a word of philosophy — but for most of us, some education in the theory of living — which we’ll call ethics, just for the sake of completeness — is a great aid. And likewise, now that I’d been introduced to Polymarchos’s remarkable theories on fighting — on body posture, on balance, on control — I saw how all fighting could be governed by these principles.
If I wanted to digress all night — here, fill the cup full, pais, and don’t stint — if I wanted to digress all night, I’d tell you how deeply linked the two theories are. Control, moderation, inner examination Right — the Ionian boy is falling asleep. Back to the story.
I was watching two young men demonstrate that the Greek saying that every boy is born knowing how to use a sword is pig shit. They swung wildly at each other and cringed away from every blow. Detorix came up and leaned on his staff.
‘I need to talk to you,’ he said.
‘Come to take my goods as well as my ships?’ I asked.
He managed to look pained. ‘It will all be returned to you,’ he said.
‘Sure,’ I said, or words to that effect.
‘Your people need to remain clothed at all times,’ he said.
‘All times?’ I couldn’t help myself.
‘I have had complaints. You ran naked-’
I laughed. ‘Sittonax says the Keltoi fight naked,’ I said.
Detorix glared at him with fixed disapproval. ‘Madmen fight naked.’
I shrugged. ‘Greeks take off their clothes to do heavy labour,’ I said. ‘And to bathe. Something we like to do often, even if the sea is as cold as rejected love,’ and my friends laughed.
Doola nodded to Detorix politely. ‘Fishermen say the Carthaginians are in these waters,’ he said.
Detorix looked away.
‘If they catch our ships in this harbour, we’ll lose everything,’ he said.
Detroix didn’t look at us. He shuffled his feet. In fact, for all that he was a tattooed barbarian, he might have been any gods-curse Athenian bureaucrat, unwilling ot take responsibility for a decision.
But as I spoke of bathing, I had a thought. And the thought made me smile.
‘Very well,’ I said. ‘We’ll only be naked when we have to be.’
Detorix stomped away, if a man in light boots can be said to stomp on a gravel beach. He rattled away.
I turned to Doola. ‘We’re going to have a swimming contest,’ I said. ‘I’ve counted days. The Carthaginians could have been here… two days ago. We need to move.’
Doola nodded.
I watched some more bad swordsmanship, and I went out on the gravel and began to give lessons in the most basic elements of sword-fighting — or boxing, for that matter. I walked up and down the beach, speaking to every group of men, pairing them off until every oarsman had a partner of roughly equal experience. I got Alexandros and his mates — the six men with the most experience of fighting — to coach with me; Gaius and Neoptolymos and Sittonax joined them, although I had doubts about the way Sittonax approached swordsmanship.
And as I went from group to group, I outlined the day’s activities.
We formed two long lines, and shuffled back and forth across the sand. I was content for a while just to let them move, practising the most basic footwork of shield-fighting — or, as I say, boxing or any other combat sport. We advanced and retreated, we cross-stepped, we jumped.
After a while, I sent them off to get sticks. Three hundred men take a great many sticks. On the other hand, we were in a merchant town, and they were anxious to sell us anything, including seasoned ash and oak.
In half an hour, two men had broken fingers and one had been knocked unconscious. Pretty good, for three hundred amateurs.
When men were drooping and all learning had ended, I gathered them in a big huddle and gave them a long, rambling speech about comradeship and good spirit. Long enough for them all to rest.
Detorix and his six spearmen and a goodly number of his people were watching all of this from the edge of town.
‘And now — swim!’ I said. And we all ran into the water.
Only about two-thirds could swim.
The men who couldn’t swim just ran into the water and cleaned themselves, cooling their muscles and relaxing.
Those who swam well, however, ran down the shingle, took long leaps into the surf and swam powerfully out to sea. We swam as fast as tired arms could manage, on the prearranged route — out to the big rock off the beach, and then north. I remember watching Doola swim a remarkable stroke — with just one hand, while the other hand held something out of the water.
To the trireme.
Fifty of us went up the side together. The two men left aboard as anchor watch weren’t so much
