The Great King (18 page)

‘Every man is at war with his slave,’ she said. ‘In Sparta, we tell the truth about it.’

I nodded. ‘That, I understand, Despoina.’

She smiled. ‘This is Bulis, son of Nicalaos. This brute without teeth is Sparthius, the son of Aneristus. Both front-rank men.’ She nodded, and both men stepped forward. ‘Spartiates, this is Arimnestos of Plataea. He is the man we have asked to transport you to the Great King.’

Sparthius had the good grace to groan and turn his head. Bulis smiled again. His eyes were a little mad. He reminded me of Idomeneaus in many ways.

‘Well, now that they’ve tried to threaten me, I suppose we can all be friends.’ I smiled at Bulis.

He didn’t move. ‘I never threaten,’ he said. ‘Threats are for the weak. There is only fight and not-fight.’

And again, there we were.

Gorgo sighed. ‘It is a wonder women agree to mate with you,’ she said. ‘Bulis . . .’

He bowed, elaborately. And backed up three steps. ‘I make the Plataean uncomfortable,’ he said. ‘I’ll speak to him from a safe range.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I can’t hear you.’

Sparthius laughed, a great booming laugh. ‘We’re going to be together on a ship? Delightful. I will learn so much. Bulis – heel, boy!’ He mimed jerking a leash.

Bulis shook his head at me. ‘No.’

‘No what?’ Sparthius asked.

Bulis came for me.

He came from three paces away, which is a long way in a fight. He was naked, and wearing a sword. I was wearing a chiton, but no sword. I think he was so contemptuous of my skills that he gave me three steps.

I was ready. He hadn’t ever given a sign that he was turning off the fight – hence, I hadn’t stopped being aware of him.

I don’t usually kick, but he had long arms like an African ape and I didn’t want to try him in a grapple – at least, not right away. I snapped a kick at his shin and pivoted and he reached with both hands.

My kick caught some of his shin and changed his balance, and his reaching hands caught my chiton at the pins but his balance was already compromised and I punched and he blocked and then we were circling. He had mostly ripped my chiton away.

Sparthius was swearing.

Gorgo just stepped back. I didn’t see her, but I suspect that she had the look on her face that women wear when men behave like children.

I was aware that all the Spartans were now watching.

He had long arms, and he was quite content to box. He threw a flurry and I backed away. He threw another flurry – four punches in each. I turned. He threw another flurry . . .

I tried to catch his left fist as it came towards me – the last punch in the third flurry. I missed, but my weight was committed, and we were locked in a grapple. His right hand went for my eyes.

They do that, in Sparta.

I passed my hands inside his and pushed his right elbow up and went for the throw, and he pivoted – Hades, he was fast – and tried to pass an arm around my waist. I raised my knee as if to strike his balls and my right fist backhanded him across the nose and I was away.

His smile didn’t falter, and he didn’t back up a step. His nose gushed blood.

I feinted a punch and kicked again. Again, I caught a piece of his shin – this time it was a better kick, and he had to back away, and I rotated, stepped forward and punched hard, forcing him back another step and then . . .

I went for him. It was my best flurry – punch, punch, kick. The kick was a point-blank kick I got from Polymarchos, and unless you are a titan, you back away from a flurry.

He took one more step . . .

. . . and went down over the cooling body of the helot.

I had planned it, so the moment he went backwards I leaped like a predator and was atop him. I caught his attempt to get a knee between my legs but the blow to my parts still stunned me – but my arm was across his throat and I had his right wrist.

He punched me with his left. It was like being hit with an axe.

I have been hit by an axe.

I pushed my right thumb up under his jaw.

Like the helot, he did not submit. He slammed his left into me – again.

I saw stars.

I really didn’t want to kill him. It seemed . . . unwise.

But I didn’t really have another choice, and I didn’t need another blow to my temple, so I shoved my thumb . . .

His whole body went limp.

I waited perhaps ten heartbeats and then staggered to my feet.

I swayed.

And sat heavily. The world was swimming all around me.

Bulis hit
hard
– and that was his
left
hand.

No one applauded, but then, no one gutted me while I sat and breathed. My chiton was ruined – ripped from me early and now a rag on the ground. I picked it up and began to wipe myself down.

Bulis stirred.

I had hoped he was merely unconscious, but unlike many other things I’ve learned from fighting masters over the years, I had never actually used the thumb to the throat to put a man out. There’s learning and then doing.

He coughed, rolled over, and threw up.

All the Spartans laughed.

While they were laughing, I tried to get up again, and I did better. My head hurt, but not with that feverish feeling that goes with concussion.

‘Well fought,’ Gorgo said.

‘He’s hardly our best,’ Sparthius said. ‘But Bulis is not bad. I’d say you were his match.’

‘An even match,’ Calliteles said. He stepped forward from the ring of onlookers – Spartans and helots. ‘An even match in skill, but not in cunning.’ He looked at the gathered Spartiates. ‘How often do I tell you that a fight is what it is? There is no “unfair”. Arimnestos saw the body and used it. Bulis should have known it was there.’

He had been an Olympian – the best wrestler in the world. I assumed he taught them.

Gorgo narrowed her eyes. ‘You knew he was coming for you,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘You might have tried to dissuade him,’ she said.

I managed to raise an eyebrow. ‘Dissuade a Spartan from violence?’ I asked.

‘We’re not Ares mad,’ she said. ‘We are a race of warriors, not a race of murderers. You might have . . . smiled.’

‘Backed up a step or two?’ I asked. ‘Perhaps I might have sent him a couple of heralds.’

She sighed.

I bowed politely to her and to Calliteles. ‘If you’ll pardon me, Spartans – I thank you for my morning’s exercise.’

A helot produced a strigil. And an oil bottle.

Well – a gesture is a gesture. And Spartans love them. So I strigiled the dust and dirt and sweat off, scraping carefully, taking my time, and I oiled myself, while Bulis lay, barely able to move his lips. Then I handed the tools back to the slave and smiled my thanks.

My head swam from time to time – I had waves of dizziness, and then, suddenly, I’d be better. I put my hand to the side of my head and found that the left temple was mushy with blood.

I used my now-ruined chiton to fix that.

‘I feel like a new man,’ I said, lying. ‘Anyone else?’

Gorgo’s hand went up in front of my face as if to strike me. ‘He does not mean that!’ she said, as they all stepped forward. ‘He is not challenging you. He does not know our ways.’

They looked disappointed.

Zeus, the Agoge must be something.

A little after noon, everyone – all free men, that is – begin to gather in the sacred enclosure. I wore a good himation – it was a formal occasion, after all. I led all my rowers – all free men, and with Draco’s permission, cheerfully given – suddenly all Plataean citizens and thus eligible to attend. My head hurt.

Most of my oarsmen didn’t even have a himation, but some did, and I put them in front, and we formed a contingent with old Draco and Styges and the two other Plataeans, both competitors – Antimenides, son of Alcaeus of Miletus who fell at Marathon, and Teucer, son of Teucer of Miletus, who also fell at Marathon. We went together to the stadium with twenty thousand other men, and then we processed to the temple.

At the temple precinct, an old priest was standing with Empedocles. Empedocles pointed me out, and the priest of Zeus pushed his way over to me. He was a man of Elis – older, but very fit, and clearly very rich from the gold chain he wore as a zone.

‘Arimnestos of Plataea?’ he asked.

I nodded. ‘Reverend sir?’

He nodded. ‘Empedocles of Thebes tells me you are a servant of Hephaestus, an initiate of the highest degree.’

I bowed. ‘I have that honour,’ I acknowledged.

‘Empedocles says that you are the right man to make the sacrifice for Hephaestus. Indeed, we have six bulls for the smith god, and only three men to make the cuts.’

Empedocles had made his way to us – he was old enough that men would actually be polite and move aside for him.

‘I’m a little old to swing the sword myself,’ he said. ‘But I’ll say the words. You make the cuts for me.’ He met my eye with a mischievous glint. ‘There are not so many initiates of Hephaestos who can swing a sword, eh?’ he asked.

‘No, sir. Mostly we make them,’ I said.

Both priests laughed.

I turned to Hector. ‘Run and fetch the Raven’s Claw,’ I said. It was one of my first weapons – a heavy kopis, not long, but curved down like the beak of a big raven or any raptor, and sharp as flint.

The boy must have sprinted all the way to the tents. He came back scarcely able to breathe, bursting with pride. That pleased me – hard to say just why.

I took the sword and put the cord over my shoulder, and followed the priests out of the procession – or rather, to the front. There, the hundred or so men who would commit the sacrifices walked in splendour. It was almost the only occasion throughout the world when a man might wear a sword in public with a himation.

I was glad I’d worn so dignified a garment as a himation. I was in the same rank as the King of Sparta, and he smiled and winked as I was placed between two other Boeotians. The men around me were mostly hereditary priests, with a sprinkling of professionals – great aristocrats and powerful men. There, for example, was Adamenteis of Corinth, next to Leonidas.

It is, of course, an enormous honour to be asked to give a sacrifice at Olympia.

Just for a moment, I thought of my dead wife, Euphonia, who had been an aristocrat’s daughter in Attika, and who would have
loved
to know that her bronzesmith husband would sacrifice alongside Aristides of Athens – five men to my left – and the Agiad King of Sparta.

I hadn’t thought of her – just as a person, not an object of grief – in years. The thought of her simple pleasure in my achievement made me . . . stronger. It was itself a gift from Aphrodite. I was not afraid. I was the husband of noble Euphonia, and I had every right to sacrifice in public as a priest of Hephaestus.

And something inside me healed.

We marched to the sound of flutes and horns, and we climbed the great steps.

Friends – what is life?

It is not the edge of the sword.

It is not all forbidden love and piracy.

That night – climbing the steps of the great temple of Zeus at Olympia with Leonidas of Sparta on my right and Aristides of Athens on my left – with Themistocles and Lykon of Corinth and a hundred other men I didn’t know as well – with a sea of torches going back across the plain to the stadium and the camp – going to sacrifice to the immortal gods . . .

I was with Greece.

Friends, this is hard to say. Someday, I will die.

Every man who was there will die. Most are long since dead.

All our children, all our wives, all our slaves. All will die.

But this must never die.

Why did we fight the Persians?

So that, rather than one man walking alone into his temple to sacrifice for his people to his gods – like the Great King . . .

So that all men might walk into their temples and sacrifice to their gods. Together. Quarrelling about precedence and complaining about the mosquitoes, all the way.

That is Greece.

I was elated, but my hands shook.

Bulls are enormous.

Leonidas of Sparta sacrificed the first animal. By right of kingship, he was the senior priest of Zeus present. He raised his hands, no sword visible, and made the great prayer to Zeus.

And then, in front of twenty thousand Hellenes, he swore to send two hereditary heralds to the Great King. He swore it at the great altar of Olympia. He swore it to make restitution for Sparta’s impiety. He didn’t say as much, but there was a collective gasp as he recited his prayers, asking for the forgiveness of great Zeus, god of kngs and kingship, and Hermes, god of heralds and messengers.

I happened to catch sight of Adamenteis of Corinth at that moment. I marked him down as a Medizer. He glared at the Spartan king with unconcealed hatred.

If Leonidas saw him, he gave nothing away. With all Greece watching, the Agiad King of Sparta walked up to his animal – all white, as tall as his shoulder – and he placed his left hand on the animal, and it stopped calling to its mates. It raised its head slightly . . .

The sword came from under his arm with the fluidity of water flowing. He never let the bull see the weapon – the sword rose and fell, not two movements but a single beat, and the bull – headless – fell to its knees.

Twenty thousand men roared to Zeus.

Not every man killed as cleanly as the King of Sparta, but every man killed his animal. Aristides – my friend, the priggish man of justice – was the only man to kill his bull as elegantly as Leonidas. He was of an age with the Spartan king, and as an Athenian aristocrat, he’d trained just as hard, and his cut flowed like water from a broken dam – sudden and yet smooth like planished bronze.

And then it was my turn. Forty thousand eyes on me.

I did not attempt to draw and cut like the king. I had my kopis loose in my hand, and raised my arm and rolled my hips and my animal fell to its knees, its head cleanly severed, and there was a roar – a beautiful roar.

Empedocles slapped my back with surprising strength. ‘Beautiful, lad! Now follow me.’

I was . . . not quite of the earth. Listen to twenty thousand Greeks roar their prayers to the gods and try to be calm.