Killer of Men - Christian Cameron [123]
Aristides had a little bronze lantern and he put it on the ground, and I swear that bit of light did more for our morale than all his talk.
Aristides was a serious man, and he spoke seriously. He explained that we were going to do a deed of arms, that men would never forget our actions to save the rest of the Greeks, and then he explained that as long as we held our ground, we were safe.
He was a good man, and my file was better just seeing his face and hearing his voice.
Eualcidas waited until he was finished and then he smiled his infectious smile. ‘We’ll kill us a load of Medes tomorrow,’ he said. ‘And then we’ll slip away tomorrow night while they get ready for a big assault.’ He looked around in the dim lamplight. ‘I’ve faced the Medes before, boys. Thing to remember is that they all wear gold, so when we push forward over their dead, our back-rankers need to get their rings and brooches. And then everyone shares together.’
That’s how you inspire troops. Dying for all of Greece may appeal to a handful of noble young men, but everyone likes the sound of a gold ring.
We were the junior file, just left of the centre of the Athenians, and we must have been the last group they needed to visit. Aristides slapped a back or two, gave my hand a squeeze and walked off into the darkness. He left his lamp – at the time, I thought that it was a tribute to how rich the man was, that a bronze lantern with a fancy bronze oil lamp inside could just be abandoned on a rock. I remember picking it up and looking at it carefully. Pater never made anything like it. It wasn’t good work – I could do better – but the construction was crisp.
Eualcidas hadn’t left. He was watching me look at the lamp.
I was young. I felt that his gaze held some censure, and I put the lamp down and shrugged. ‘My father was a bronze-smith,’ I said.
He nodded and lay back, stretching his legs. ‘You’re not Athenian. I can tell.’
I shook my head. I have to put in here that I was the only non-citizen among the Athenians, and they never held it against me, because while I had been a slave, the friendship between Plataea and Athens had hardened into something like love – or maybe it was forged in those three battles and somehow they’d managed not to fuck it up. But some of the older men would actually touch me for luck, because Plataea had brought Athens luck, or so they said.
So I shrugged. ‘I’m from Plataea,’ I said. ‘But I’ve been a slave for a few years.’
He laughed easily, and the muscles in his throat were strong and golden like bronze. It was, for me, like talking to Achilles – he was that famous. ‘How did a man like you end up a slave?’ he asked.
‘I didn’t end up a slave,’ I retorted. ‘I ended up in the front rank yesterday.’
He nodded, smiled and said nothing, a talent few men possess.
‘Your people enslaved me,’ I said.
He frowned. ‘I’ve been a war-leader for five years,’ he said. ‘I’ve never marched on Plataea. You came to us, once, with the Athenians. You beat us like a drum!’ He laughed.
That got me. I had heard it elsewhere, of course, but always from men who might have had the story wrong.
‘I was there,’ he continued. ‘Right opposite your Plataeans. I have a scorpion on my shield. Were you in the phalanx? You must have been young.’
I nodded, and there were suddenly tears in my eyes. ‘My brother died fighting the Spartans,’ I said, ‘and I took his place in his armour.’
‘He was brave?’ Eualcidas asked.
‘He was. And he died facing a Spartan, man to man.’ I was weeping and the Euboean rolled over and put an arm around me. He didn’t say anything. After a while he rolled back to where he’d been.
I was better. I hadn’t really let myself think about it – my brother’s death, and my father’s, and now, in the dark with a battle looming, I was filled with a bitter, angry grief for both. They were in the ground and I was still here. It’s an odd thing, honey – one I’ve seen often – that soldiers rarely mourn a comrade when he falls. Sometimes it takes years.
‘My father fell fighting your phalanx,