Killer of Men - Christian Cameron [142]
South and east of Crete, the weather seemed to abate and we made a good landfall, and the first night that we slept on a beach, every man kissed the sand. I speak no blasphemy when I say that the furies must have had a lot of law-breaking and oath-breaking to pursue. Perhaps some other bastard took up their attention.
Cretans aren’t like other Greeks. The men of Crete are war-worshippers, and they have aristocrats and serfs – most of the farmers are not free men at all, but something like slaves. Only the aristocrats fight, and some of them still use chariots. I didn’t think much of their primitive agriculture. It is a curse of youth that you cannot keep your mouth shut and so, on our third night in the ‘great hall’ of the local lord, Sarpedon of Aenis, I found myself arguing with local men about how best to grow wheat and barley. I used an unfortunate phrase in the heat of my anger at the fool’s intransigence – we don’t call them Cretans for nothing – and this fool called me out, demanding blood.
‘You must be joking?’ I asked. I’d had some wine.
He slapped me like a woman. ‘Coward,’ he said. ‘Woman.’
Idomeneus came and told me that I had to fight or be ashamed. I laughed. I wasn’t ashamed and I had little interest in fighting. But the lord glowered and the other men hooted at my apparent cowardice.
His name was Goras, and I killed him. He was a good fighter, but half drunk and no match for me. The only danger was from the darkness and the drink – I vowed never to fight under such conditions again. His first blows were wild and thus dangerous, but I set my feet and put my spear into his throat and down he went, and the hall fell silent. Herk shook his head. He gathered me with his other men, paid an indemnity and took us away. In the morning we sailed, heading west along the south coast of Crete.
‘That cost me the whole value of my trading there,’ he said to me in the morning. ‘Can’t you keep that sword in its sheath?’
I wasn’t surly. In those days, killing often brought me a black cloud – I would sit alone and mope. But I heard his words, and they were just words.
We had good weather as we coasted Crete, and we sold our Athenian olive oil and beautiful red-figured and black-figured vases at enormous profit in the market of Hierapytna, and the mood of the crew improved. But not for long.
Herk took me aside after we were invited to the lord’s hall. ‘Could you refrain from killing anyone until our business here is done?’ he asked.
I nodded. ‘Silent as the grave.’
But of course, I wasn’t.
In truth, there’s little I could have done about it. Word of my fight up the coast had made it here. And word of the Ionian Revolt was everywhere, and men behaved like men – like warriors. As they had taken no part, they had to belittle those who had. As we had lost, we were to be humbled.
I have watched this pattern play out too many times. More wine, here.
We were in the lord’s hall, and Herk had sent Idomeneus to watch over me. I was quiet, listening and not talking, striving to be the sort of man – well, the sort of man that Eualcidas had been, silent and cheerful. Grown men always tell you that this is the way of excellence, but they neglect to tell you that it is easier to be silent and dignified and cheerful when you are forty and have won ten battles. It’s like getting women – much easier when you are too old to enjoy them.
Hah, I’m a foul old man. Too true.
I listened to them demean the Ephesians and the Athenians, and I said nothing. I said nothing when they laughed at Aristides’ youth. But I suspect my attempts at dignity weren’t much better than stubborn glowering. I was easy meat. Finally, an older man, a leader, came over to where I stood, and he grinned.
I grinned back – glad that someone, at least, was interested in being my friend.
‘I heard that you killed a man down the coast,’ he said. ‘But I have to assume you stabbed him in the back. I mean – look