The New Achilles Read online

  ‘My boys just saved these useless fucks from the Spartans,’ Doson said. ‘And they cheer for the Megalopolitans. Greeks. Really.’ He smiled. ‘You can see how I might find this tiresome.’

  Again, Alexanor could think of nothing to say.

  ‘What kind of reward would move him? Your friend? Estates? Gold?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  The cheers went on and Alexanor wasn’t sure that the king heard him.

  ‘Perhaps I’ll give him a year of Phila’s contract. Enough reward for any man,’ the king said without turning his head. ‘Don’t bother to look offended. You cannot afford her, and I’m paying her. Mercenaries are mercenaries, young man.’ Doson nodded and raised his arm, returning the salutes of the last ranks of Greek cavalrymen, and then he turned to the judges. ‘My thanks for the ovation.’

  They rode out, past a huddle of pankrationists preparing to compete. Alexanor, alone of the Macedonians, saluted them. They, in turn, ignored the Macedonians.

  That night, after watching six bouts of pankration in the stadium, Alexanor was invited to dine with Phila and the king. After Leon had fussed over him, he found himself sharing a couch with Philopoemen at a Macedonian banquet. The drinking had started before Alexanor arrived, and most of the Macedonian officers were drunk already, staggering from couch to couch. Someone had given them all wreaths of wild celery, the reward of victors in the Nemean Games, which only served to make them appear even more like satyrs. On couches farther from the king, a dozen couples rutted away, as if public sex acts were routine matters in Macedon. Two men wrestled, their purple officers’ chitons ripped away to reveal scarred bodies and new blood. Serving slaves moved quickly, with averted eyes, hoping to avoid reaching hands.

  It was the most dangerous party that Alexanor had ever attended: he saw a shoulder dislocated; a slave was thrown over a couch and broke his femur; a man beat a flute girl, lacerating her back and shoulders with a branch that had been part of the decorations, even as his brother officers cheered him on.

  ‘Do her!’ one roared. ‘Get her!’

  She turned to run, and her abuser tripped over his own himation and fell, cracking his head against the stone floor. The terrified girl slipped away into the stoa and vanished. The spectators applauded and several threw their crowns of wild celery after the girl with various lewd suggestions.

  ‘If they terrify all the slaves, we’ll never get any wine,’ Philopoemen said.

  ‘I’m going to—’ Alexanor put his feet on the floor.

  ‘They’ll tear you to pieces,’ Philopoemen said. ‘Don’t.’

  ‘Apollo!’ Alexanor called for aid. ‘Divine musician, save these people.’

  ‘This is the way, with Macedon,’ Philopoemen said. ‘Everything goes to the strongest. It is their whole system of government.’

  Alexanor shook his head, and rolled over to look at the ceiling, which was magnificently decorated with scenes from the war of the Lapiths and Centaurs.

  ‘I can’t watch,’ he said. ‘There’s a man killing another man …’

  ‘Both Macedonians,’ Philopoemen said, after a glance, ‘and neither one of them would thank you for intervening.’ He stiffened and Alexanor looked at him.

  ‘Look sharp,’ he said. ‘It’s Prince Philip.’

  The young heir of Macedon was walking through the party like a priest through a temple. As he passed, men looked wary or stood at attention, but as soon as the young prince was out of earshot, they would return to gambling, drinking, fornicating.

  Philip smiled when he saw Philopoemen. He inclined his head, and Philopoemen sat up and bowed.

  ‘The prince of Megalopolis,’ Philip said.

  ‘We have no princes,’ Philopoemen said. ‘My lord, this is my friend, the priest of Asklepios, Alexanor son of Philokles.’

  ‘Philopoemen, you had more cheers today than my father,’ Philip said. ‘How do you think my father liked that, sir?’

  ‘You are determined to be difficult.’ Philopoemen lay back. ‘Why can’t you Macedonians have a civilised party?’

  Alexanor realised that the two of them knew each other well enough to engage in a bout of needling.

  ‘What kind of party is civilised?’ Philip asked. ‘A dull party.’

  Philopoemen laughed. ‘A good answer for a young man. But I don’t think your father is any better pleased than Alexanor here.’

  Philip shrugged. ‘I admit they all drink too much. When I am king, I will be sober.’

  ‘And virtuous?’ Alexanor asked.

  The prince’s eyes fell on him, and he saw that they all but burnt with intelligence. Alexanor wasn’t sure what he had expected, but it wasn’t this.

  ‘What is virtue?’ Philip asked.

  ‘Strength of character,’ Alexanor said.

  ‘Why is a man who strangles his appetites stronger than a man who satisfies them? They are soldiers. They take what they want. I’m sure it is different for Greeks – it is so long since they were proper soldiers.’ Philip didn’t sneer outwardly, but the disdain was there.

  Philopoemen smiled pleasantly. ‘I think it is time I went back to my farm.’

  ‘You know I don’t mean you,’ Philip told the Achaean.

  ‘And yet, I am a Greek,’ Philopoemen said. ‘And so are most of these slaves.’

  ‘Islanders.’ Alexanor was rigid with anger.

  ‘They are merely slaves,’ Philip said. ‘You needn’t worry about them. There’s more where they came from.’

  Antipater appeared by Philip.

  ‘Prince, your father says this banquet is not for you.’

  Philip stood. ‘I’m not sure I agree,’ he said. ‘Maybe I want a flute girl.’

  Philopoemen rose. ‘I’ll walk you to your tent,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t need a nursemaid,’ spat the prince.

  ‘Your father—’ Antipater began.

  ‘Fuck off,’ the prince said. ‘Didn’t I fight? At Sellasia? Am I not a Macedonian? Why does that not make me a man? If I want to plough some slut’s furrow, why not?’

  Antipater looked around, as if someone might save him.

  Philip reached out for a woman moving past him. He reached his hands around her from behind and grabbed her breasts.

  She stamped down on his instep, twisted, and slammed the palm of her hand into the underside of his jaw, so that he fell full-length across Alexanor.

  The woman was Phila.

  ‘Next time I’ll cut your dick off,’ she said. ‘Friend of yours?’ she asked Alexanor.

  Philopoemen smiled. ‘So neatly done,’ he said, with obvious admiration.

  ‘I’ve been to a couple of Macedonian parties,’ the hetaera said.

  ‘You know this whore?’ Philip sputtered.

  Philopoemen looked down at the fallen prince.

  ‘This is the Hetaera Phila.’ He laid a slight emphasis on the name.

  Philip was angry. ‘Striking the son of the king has penalties.’

  ‘Grabbing Phila’s tits has penalties, pais,’ she said, her voice level. ‘I’m not just any whore.’

  Antipater grabbed the prince.

  ‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘Your father …’

  Philip pushed the other man away, slipping Antipater’s sloppy grip with a pankration break-hold that Alexanor knew immediately. His face was livid; his lips pulled back in a snarl. And then, like a serpent shedding his skin, he put it away. He straightened, his face softened, and he breathed out.

  Alexanor had risen, ready to protect Phila, who, for all her skills, was a head shorter than the Macedonian prince, but the boy had his hands at his sides, and he bowed his head, the way a man might before a statue of a god.

  ‘I apologise, despoina,’ he said.

  She favoured him with a wry smile. ‘You apologise? Or you’ll have me raped by slaves later?’

  Philip flushed. ‘No!’ Then, more calmly, he said, ‘No, lady. I was in the wrong and I acknowledge it.’

  She sank into a deep rever
ence.

  ‘My lord does me too much honour,’ she said, with just a hint of sarcasm.

  Philip smiled. It was a false smile, but whether it was false because the prince was not actually contrite, or false because he was controlling himself, Alexanor could not judge.

  ‘It is past my bedtime, and my royal father has decreed that the party is too much for me. And perhaps I have proven him right.’ He bowed again. ‘And Philopoemen will think less of me.’

  ‘More of you, for the manner of your apology,’ Philopoemen said. ‘But grabbing women at parties is grotesque.’

  Philip blinked. ‘Goodnight.’ He allowed Antipater to lead him away.

  ‘He knows who I am,’ Phila said. ‘He did that on purpose.’

  ‘Did you know who he was?’ Philopoemen asked her.

  She shook her head. ‘No, I’m not insane.’ Her hands were trembling, and she sat down suddenly.

  Alexanor was watching the prince being led out of the hall.

  ‘I have never seen a man master himself so quickly,’ he said. ‘And I have seldom seen rage take a man so suddenly. It’s as if he’s two men.’

  Philopoemen tugged at his beard. He reached out and scooped a krater full of watered wine from a passing slave and sat back. He took a drink and handed the krater to Phila.

  ‘You are very beautiful,’ he said to Phila.

  The simple, direct statement seemed to surprise her. She smiled in genuine pleasure, and a slight blush reached her nose.

  She raised the krater as if toasting him. ‘I didn’t know you even admired women, Achaean.’

  He looked away.

  ‘I wasn’t sent here to practise my boxing with the prince,’ she said with a smile. ‘The king wants to see you, Philopoemen.’

  She turned to Alexanor and smiled brilliantly, and he flushed with warmth. He was painfully aware that the hetaera was not for him, and yet she captivated his senses; her smile brought him an instant burst of joy. No woman had ever caused such intense reactions; the scientist in him wanted to measure his pulse against her beauty, her charisma. He observed himself as if from a distance, and smiled ruefully at his reactions. Moreover, he knew that she had reawakened something in him; he suddenly saw other women … all women. Oh, Aspasia.

  Philopoemen rose with a smile at both of them and walked between the couches to where the king reclined.

  ‘Will you come to me tonight?’ Phila asked quietly.

  Alexanor’s inward observer noted that he appeared to have been struck by lightning. The outward man mumbled something.

  Phila laughed. She lay down by him, full length on the kline. She was smaller than him, and took up very little room, even facing him.

  ‘The king is about to ask Philopoemen to serve him as a cavalry officer,’ she said softly.

  Alexanor tore his eyes away from her and looked over his shoulder. Philopoemen was standing by the king’s couch, and then, as the king invited him, he sat, leant over, laughed obediently at some witticism.

  ‘I don’t know …’ Alexanor began.

  ‘It will make his career. Oh, in Athens we have no great love for the king of Macedon, but Philopoemen needs a wider theatre than the tiny stage of Pelops, don’t you think?’ She looked into Alexanor’s eyes. ‘Don’t fall in love with me, darling. Your mother wouldn’t let you marry me anyway.’

  Her tone was light, but Alexanor’s inner observer wondered if her words weren’t true.

  ‘My mother would like you,’ he said.

  She smiled. ‘That’s a much better compliment than being told that I’m beautiful.’

  ‘The king said he would give Philopoemen your contract,’ Alexanor said, a man set on wounding himself.

  ‘Ah!’ She smiled. ‘That would be a real pleasure. I would like to help form a hero.’

  ‘But …’ Alexanor said.

  She put a hand on his chest. ‘My friend,’ she said softly, ‘if you use your arts to cure one man, must all your other patients be jealous?’

  Behind her radiant face, Philopoemen sat straight for a moment. The smile on his face vanished. He said something, and the king sat up. The two men looked at each other with something like enmity.

  Phila rolled over, exposing one beautiful naked shoulder as her linen caught on the couch.

  ‘What in Hades has he done?’ she asked.

  Philopoemen rose with angry dignity and inclined his head to the king before walking towards them, so stiffly that he appeared to be injured. The king made a gesture and began coughing. Slaves hurried to him.

  ‘I’m going back to the king,’ Phila said, rolling off the couch and straightening her peplos.

  Philopoemen brushed past her as if he didn’t see her. He nodded to Alexanor.

  ‘I have to go,’ he said, and walked off.

  A few paces away, a Macedonian cavalry officer threw a punch at his mate, and knocked the man back over their drinking couch. Philopoemen avoided the falling body with a twitch of his hips, stepped over the downed man, and continued into the stoa and out into the night.

  Alexanor followed him. He stopped to look at the man lying on the floor.

  ‘Fuck off, Greek,’ the man who’d thrown the punch said.

  ‘I am a doctor, and a priest,’ Alexanor said.

  He thumbed back one of the man’s eyelids, looked into his eye, and then raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Fuck off, I said,’ the Macedonian spat.

  ‘Help me get him onto the couch,’ Alexanor said.

  ‘Didn’t mean to hit him so hard,’ the drunken Macedonian mumbled, suddenly contrite, and came around the kline. As if he’d never uttered a threat, he took his mate’s feet and the two of them lifted the unconscious man onto the couch.

  ‘Keep him awake,’ Alexanor said. ‘He may have a concussion.’

  ‘Didn’t mean to hit him so hard,’ the Macedonian said again.

  Alexanor raised the man on the cushions, and then took a piece of charcoal from the nearest brazier, holding it in tongs. He waved it under the unconscious man’s nose until the man began to cough. His eyes opened.

  ‘Keep him awake. No more wine.’ Alexanor made himself smile at the drunk Macedonian.

  ‘Sure,’ the man said. ‘Never meant to hit you so hard, Alexos.’

  Alexanor tossed the burning coal back into the brazier and hung the tongs by it, where they belonged, and walked out under the line of columns. But he’d waited too long. Philopoemen was gone.

  Alexanor rose in the morning, after watching Phila sleep. He watched her too long; he was afraid to leave her, too conscious that he would probably never lie beside her again.

  But eventually, he wriggled off her couch. His clothes, neatly cleaned and pressed, were piled on a stool. He dressed silently, drank a bowl of warm broth that Thais provided, and looked out over a magnificent Nemean morning. He was tempted to ask the young slave why … Why does your mistress receive me in her bed? Why am I here? Why doesn’t the king care?

  Thais frowned at him. ‘Your friend, the Achaean hero, has already left.’

  Alexanor looked at her, a hollow forming in the pit of his stomach despite the warm broth.

  ‘Left?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. The whole hippeis of Megalopolis mounted and rode away shortly after dawn. I was washing clothes.’ She smiled.

  Alexanor ran a hand over his throat and wondered where Leon was, and whether he felt abandoned, and where he’d left his razor.

  ‘Why? Some mission?’

  ‘Oh, no.’The slave began to fold laundry from a basket. A male slave appeared, unfolded a small table, and vanished silently. ‘Mistress told me last night. The king asked him to serve, and Philopoemen refused.’

  ‘Yes, I saw that,’ Alexanor said. ‘I wandered around trying to find him.’

  The slave girl shrugged. ‘Who refuses a king?’

  BOOK II

  THREADS OF FATE

  CHAPTER ONE

  Megalopolis

  221 BCE

  Alexanor r
ode his horse into the courtyard of the roadside inn, and Leon came behind with their pack mule and closed the yard’s gate. They were on the edge of night; winter was not far away, and the wind seemed to blow through Alexanor’s heavy cloak and the wool chiton beneath it like a knife of ice cutting to his bones.

  ‘I’ll be happy to pour some warm wine down my throat,’ Leon said. ‘In fact, I might prescribe two cups.’

  Alexanor laughed, and slid from his charger, wincing as his hip socket gave him a painful twinge. An Illyrian spear had caught him below the waist two months before; the wound was healed, but the muscles would not knit properly, and cold weather didn’t help.

  Slaves emerged from the warm light within and took their horses, cursing at the number; two men with four horses and a mule.

  ‘I’ll make sure they do their job,’ Leon said. ‘Go and get warm.’

  Alexanor shook his head. ‘I’ll go when you go,’ he said, and the two men helped the slaves tend to the animals. It wasn’t so much that they wanted to help as that both of them had enough experience of roadside inns to want to make sure that their horses were actually fed, watered, and rubbed down.

  Inside, the central hearth of the inn was piled high with logs and the fire roared, although no warmth seemed to get below waist level. The owner came to them as Alexanor ducked his head to get in the low door. He liked what he saw: the low room was hung with oregano and thyme; he could smell soup from the kitchen; best of all, the place was almost empty.

  A slave girl brought them a bench to sit on and stools for their feet, and the two men sat back, soaking in the warmth and drinking a kykeon, in this case hot wine with grated cheese and a little boiled barley.

  ‘You like it?’ the slave girl asked. She smiled.

  Both men nodded and gulped greedily. She ladled more into their cups.

  ‘Where are you gents from?’ the innkeeper asked.

  ‘Epidauros,’ Leon said.

  ‘Illyria,’ Alexanor said.

  The innkeeper looked back and forth. ‘Well, which is it, gents?’

  ‘We’re both servants of Asklepios at Epidauros,’ Alexanor said. ‘We have been with the king of Macedon in Illyria.’

  ‘Oh, may the gods bless him!’ the innkeeper said.