The conference had left me with a bad taste, like tainted water. I had had enough of Phaineas and the Aitolians. ‘I cannot understand him,’ I said. ‘Does he really suppose Titus is taking Philip’s gold?’ For in the end, seeing himself outvoted, Phaineas had rounded on Titus, saying he had been bought off.
Menexenos was sitting on the edge of the rock, beside where I lay, with his well-formed runner’s feet trailing in the bright clear water. He had got a sword-cut on his right arm at Kynoskephalai, and a wound on his shoulder, where a javelin had caught him.
‘Phaineas is like most men,’ he said. ‘He does not see beyond what he is, because he lacks philosophy. His words are a mirror of his soul. He would have taken a bribe himself; and so he cannot conceive that Titus would not do the same. He does not know what it is to be noble, and so, when he encounters nobility in others, he does not understand. He looks for low motives, hypocrisy, corruption and self-interest behind every act of greatness, and is not content until he finds it.’
He frowned up at the slopes of Ossa and Olympos, and I saw in his face, like hidden light, the sadness that was always there.
We had had little time together since Kynoskephalai. He had lost good friends that day, young men who felt it was their duty to answer the call of the city, and risk their lives in its defence.
I knew he grieved for the youth Lysandros, who had looked up to him, and would not have volunteered to fight except that he wanted to be alongside Menexenos.
The battle, the war, the death of his father, had all left their mark.
Lately I had been having unsettling dreams; not of the battle, as one might expect, but of my father, as I once did at home in Praeneste. In them he was trying to speak to me, to tell me something important. But his words were faint and distant, and I could not make them out.
I had kept this to myself, for it seemed pointless to burden Menexenos with something I could not explain, when he had troubles of his own. But as I looked at him now I remembered that some kind god had preserved him for me, when so many others had died.
Though it was warm, I shivered. I could not conceive of losing him.
It was like the place where the world ends, and ocean falls into chaos. I averted my mind from it, seeing only madness there.
For a while we sat with our thoughts; but presently he said, ‘Did you notice, today, how quiet the allies were when Phaineas spoke?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It was as though there was something they would not say.’
He nodded. ‘Phaineas does not mention it, but he knows it as well as anyone, and that is why he is so angry. If Macedon is destroyed, it will leave the Aitolians masters of Greece. No one said so, but we have not fought in order to exchange Philip for Phaineas.’
Two days later, Philip came to Tempe to seal the treaty, at the shrine of Apollo, in its setting of laurels, beside the Peneios.
‘Behold,’ he said, arriving with his entourage, ‘I am a wolf brought down by cur-dogs.’
The conditions were read out. Philip listened without comment.
When Titus said that his son Demetrios was to be handed over to Rome as surety, he merely said, ‘It must be as you wish.’
The allies exchanged glances. The envoy from Pergamon said, ‘You do not object?’
‘Of course I object. But I agree. You may have your cities; you may seize my fleet. And you may take my son away. I shall even send my gardeners to Pergamon . . . What more? Is there more?’
Phaineas, vaunting and in triumph, said, ‘It would be better, King Philip, if you showed more humility, now you are defeated.’
‘Humility?’ said Philip, his voice rising. ‘I do not know the word.
Are you fool enough to suppose there is anything you could do that would make me grovel in the dirt? Then, Phaineas, you do not know me. Look at you, puffed up in all your finery, festooned like a Lydian whore. Even if you possessed the whole world, and were as rich as Xerxes or Kroisos, you would still be no more than a sightless fool.
But if I lost everything, I should remain a king. That is the difference between you and me, Phaineas. You will never understand.’
That autumn, when the leaves on the trees were starting to turn from green to gold, and the grapes stood purple on the vine-terraces, we travelled south, and for the rest of that year Titus was occupied with the commissioners who had been sent from Rome to settle the peace.
I returned with Menexenos to Athens. At home, a summons was waiting for him. He had been selected for the Isthmian games, and was to present himself to the gymnasiarch for the trials, which would take place that winter.
When he informed me of this he seemed so unmoved that in the end I asked him if he was not pleased.
‘I’m pleased enough,’ he answered with a shrug. And then, because I had my eyes on him, he added, ‘I’ll go to my old trainer at the Lykeion. He’s still the best in Athens.’
Yet I sensed there was something else, which he was not telling me. I was minded to ask him again, but just then, as we passed the colonnade of the Stoa of Zeus, on our way back from the Council House, someone called from the shadows and Pandion the pankratiast stepped out, with two of his young friends.
Neither of us had seen Pandion since Kynoskephalai, and we were eager to catch up on our news. He had heard that Menexenos was going to the games, and insisted on taking us to celebrate, to a wine- shop he knew up on the hill. And after that Menexenos seemed in better cheer.
That night, when we were alone, he said, ‘Well it’s going to be a winter of hard practice.’
‘Then I’ll practise with you,’ I said. I stretched out on the bed and reached out to him. ‘We have been too long apart.’
He laughed and took my arm.
Later, as we lay quiet, he said, ‘Let us go to the farm until it’s time for the running trials. There’s work to do there, and I’m not in the mood for the city. I expect it’s the war, but I’ve had my fill of people for a while.’
I propped myself up on my elbow, and smiling said, ‘But not, I hope, of me.’
His serious eyes looked into mine. ‘Not you, Marcus. Never you.
It is a sacred thing between us.’
Next day, since I could put it off no longer, I made my way down to Piraeus to call on Caecilius.
As usual he was full of his own concerns: the Theban Tyrtaios had disappeared, taking with him a large sum of Caecilius’s money. I was not surprised, and told him so, adding that I had never liked the man.
‘No?’ said Caecilius. ‘Then why didn’t you think to tell me? You might have saved me a great loss. Really, Marcus, I wonder what you spend your time thinking about, when you forget matters of such importance. A quiet word might have saved me a case of gold.’
This was a path I did not wish to go down, so I answered, ‘I don’t think you ever told me, sir, quite what business it was you had with Tyrtaios.’
‘Oh, it’s not important now,’ he said, suddenly developing an interest in the papers on his desk. ‘Ah, see here.’
He pulled out a half-open scroll that lay under his wine-cup, and flourishing it said, ‘Your mother writes. She is well. The farm prospers. She says I must not hurry back to Italy for her sake, if there is business to do in Greece . . . It is admirable in a woman, don’t you think, to show such a grasp of the priorities?’
I agreed, imagining my mother and Mouse at peace in Praeneste without him; and in case he saw the light of irony in my eyes I quickly asked what his plans were now. ‘For surely, sir, there is nothing more that keeps you in Athens.’
‘You are wrong. While you have been off fighting I have been busy.’ He paused, and gave one of his significant looks. I felt a sinking feeling in my gut. ‘No doubt you would like to know all about it, but, Marcus, in my experience, the fewer who know the better, and so I shall keep the details to myself . . . for now. But I can tell you I plan a trip to Asia.’
‘Asia?’ I said, eyeing him suspiciously. ‘Not King Antiochos, sir, I hope; no good will come from him.’
‘Don’t pry. I shall tell you when I’m ready. Besides, I know what I’m doing . . . I suppose you heard about old Attalos, by the way?’
‘He was taken ill at Thebes.’
‘Oh, more than that. News came from Pergamon this morning, brought by a Chian trader. He is dead. It seems he never recovered from his illness, and now he is gone.’
He stretched back in his chair and laid his hands on his protruding belly, like a glutton who has enjoyed a good meal. ‘Still,’
he went on, ‘he died a rich man; one can hope for no more than that.’
I remembered Attalos’s various kindnesses to me, and his decency, and how he had used the last of his strength fighting for the freedom of Greece.
‘He was a good man,’ I said.
‘Was he? I daresay he was. His son Eumenes succeeds him. We should keep our ears open. There are always opportunities at such a time.’
I looked at him, and he looked back at me with his small sandstone eyes. His face had fattened since last I had seen him; the weight sat ill on him, for he was not a big-framed man.
There was a scratching on the door.
‘Come!’ boomed Caecilius.
Florus stepped timidly in, like an ill-used mongrel, unsure of its welcome.
‘Ah, there you are; I was just about to summon you . . . Marcus, you remember Florus, don’t you? I have decided to engage him once more. He was in Kerkyra, you know.’
Florus gave me a quick, weak smile, and avoided my eyes. No doubt he did not wish to recall our last meeting.
‘Now is there anything else?’ said Caecilius, already shuffling impatiently at his papers as if I were delaying him. ‘If not, Florus and I have business to attend to.’
Shortly after, Menexenos and I went to the farm.
We hired help, and gathered the little of the olive and grape harvest the Macedonians had left us. We cleared the hillside terraces, retrained the vines, and set to work on repairing the house and animal-enclosures.
To begin with, it was sombre work – shifting charred beams; clearing burnt-out rooms; being reminded of how the farm had once been, and what was lost. But soon we had built something new out of the ruin, and, stone by stone, we set the past behind us.
Each morning we went out running, side by side, in the cool of the dawn, following the track out past Paneion and along the coast- path. Sometimes we saw a farmer, or a traveller on foot or muleback, but mostly we were alone, our footfalls matched, breathing in unison, a curiosity for the goats and sheep.
We talked of the games. Nowadays I expect every Roman with an education knows it, for we have become familiar with Greece. But then Greek things were less well known, and when I asked, Menexenos explained that the games at the Isthmos were held every two years, in honour of Poseidon, who had a temple there. The foot- race, he told me, was a race particular to the Isthmian games: it was neither a short sprint nor a long-race, but something in between.
I asked him what he thought his chances were; but he only shrugged and said he could not tell.
All winter we trained together, and worked on the land, and lay together beside the fire in the old house. When the solstice had passed, and it was time to leave, we could look back on a job done well: the vines had been trimmed, the withy enclosures remade, and the house stood once more with its roof and doors.
We returned to Athens shortly before the running trials were due.
Then, for the first time, I saw the other youths who were being sent from Athens for the games.
Most of the runners had bodies lean to the point of ugliness or sickness, except for their legs, which were a knot of muscles and sinews, as if they had done nothing in their lives but spend each day from dawn to dusk on the sand-track. As they practised, their trainers watched from the terraces, biting their lips; and as soon as each race was done they came rushing forward, clucking and fussing, swaddling their charges in cloaks and warmed towels, and hurrying them off to the bath-house to be rubbed down with aromatic oil.
I looked to see if anyone I knew was there. I had expected to see some of Menexenos’s friends, who had competed in the Athenian games. But there was no one I recognized.
As I was considering this, I saw Pandion amble in under the entrance-arch. He paused, glanced at the runners, then seeing me, came to where I was sitting on the terraces. ‘Hello, Marcus. Isn’t Menexenos with you? I thought he’d be here.’
I told him Menexenos had just gone off to the bath-house. Just then an umpire’s voice sounded as a new race started – a short sprint. We paused to watch. When it was finished Pandion nodded at the scrawny runners and said flatly, ‘And Menexenos is up against such creatures as these.’
I nodded. ‘I know, Pandion. He stands out like a lion among goats.’
We both paused. And then, saying what had been on my mind, I asked him why none of his friends were competing, for they had done well enough in the Panathenaic games. ‘And indeed, Pandion, as I recall, you won the prize for the pankration.’
He frowned. ‘Yes, Marcus,’ he said, ‘but that was just a local affair.’
‘Yet surely one contest is as good as another? But now you only watch from the sides, like the old men.’
After this he paused for so long that I began to wonder whether I had offended him. I was about to tell him that it was of no great importance when he said, ‘Surely you’ve seen for yourself, Marcus? There’s no proportion in it any longer. The games should exist for man; not man for the games. At home we compete with one another out of tradition, and love of physicality, and to try ourselves against our peers. But nowadays, at the great games of Isthmia, or Olympia, or Delphi, there is no place any longer for a gentleman. It is a thing of shame to devote oneself to one thing only, like a slave. A free man should strive for balance and proportion, in the body as well as the soul. The games were about the whole man once: just look at the old statues of Pheidias, or Lysippos, where the soul and the body are in harmony; and now,’ he said, with a nod at the track, ‘look at
them
.’
He sat down on the stone terrace, and crossly waved a dismissing hand, as if he had said more than he intended.