Killer of Men - Christian Cameron [16]
Epictetus bowed. He rose, as if speaking in the assembly. And in a way he was, for in the yard were the leaders of what might have been called the ‘middling’ sort – the men who supported the temples and shrines, who served in war. There were some aristocrats, and two very rich men, but the men in our yard were – well, they were the voice of the farmers, if you like.
‘Men,’ he said. How imposing he was! Tall, strong and burned so dark that he looked like mahogany. Even at fifty, he was someone to be reckoned with. ‘Men of Plataea,’ he began again, and suddenly I knew that he was nervous. That made me nervous, too. Such a strong man? And rich?
‘Last year I went to Athens,’ he said. ‘You know that Athens has overthrown the tyrants. They are gone – fled to the Great King in Persia, or dead.’ He paused and smiled a little. ‘But you know all this, eh? I’m a windbag. Listen. Athens has money – their silver owls are the best coin in Hellas. And they have an army – they muster ten thousand hoplites when they go to war.’ He looked around, took a sip of wine. ‘They have so many mouths to feed in their city that they need our grain. Aye – they import grain all the way from Propontis and the Euxine!’
Men shifted restlessly.
‘I’m no hand at this. So here’s what I’m trying to say. We cannot fight Thebes alone. We need a friend. Athens should be that friend. They need our grain.’ He shrugged. ‘I talked to some men in Athens. They talk to farmers as if they were men of substance, in Athens. Not like some bastards I’ve known, eh? And the men I talked to were very interested. Interested in being friends.’
He looked around.
I remember that I found the idea so exciting that I thought I might burst. Athens – glorious Athens, as an ally?
Which goes to show what you know when you’re seven years old. The rest of them shuffled their feet and looked at the ground.
Draco shrugged. ‘Listen, Epictetus. Your idea has merit – and it’s time we started to talk about these things. No man here will deny that we need a friend. But Athens is so far. Over the mountains. Five hundred stades as the raven flies – more for a man and a cart.’
Myron, another farmer, leaned forward on his heavy staff. ‘Athens would never send their phalanx over the mountains to protect us,’ he said. He had a scar on his thigh from the same fight where Pater had been made lame. ‘We need a friend with five thousand hoplites who will stand their ground beside us, not a friend who will come and avenge our corpses.’
Epictetus nodded to Myron – they had each other’s measure, those two. ‘It might be true,’ he said. ‘But we need a friend far enough away that he won’t force us to be more than just an ally.’ He looked around. ‘Like Thebes and the so-called federation.’
All the men spat at the mention of Thebes.
Myron nodded. ‘That’s sense. How about Corinth?’
Evaristos, the handsomest of the men, shook his head. ‘Corinth is too close and has too many ships and too few hoplites. And no need for our grain. And loves Thebes too well.’
Draco held out his cup to one of our slaves. ‘A splash more, darling,’ he said. ‘What of Sparta? They’ve an army worth something, or so I hear.’
‘Ten times the distance as Athens,’ Epictetus said.
‘I know,’ Draco said. ‘I made my pilgrimage last year to Olympia—’
‘We know!’ many of the men called, tired of Draco’s endless travel tales.
‘Listen, you oafs!’ Draco shouted. They jeered him with humour, but then they were silent. He went on, ‘Sparta is not like us. Their citizens – all they do is train for war.’
‘And fuck little boys,’ Hilarion put in. If the least rich of the farmers, he was the most cheerful and the best with a crowd. And the least respectful of authority. He shrugged. ‘Hey – I’ve been to Sparta. Women there are lonely.’
Draco glared at Hilarion. ‘Whatever their personal foibles, gentlemen, they’re the best soldiers in Greece. And they don’t farm, or make pots, or work metal. They fight. They can march here, if they have a mind to. Their farms will be tilled whether they march or not.