Killer of Men - Christian Cameron [170]
Miltiades was the second.
18
Of course it had been Miltiades advising that rascal Aristagoras – he was the ‘Samothracian navarch’. I heard a lot of that story later, and if I have time, I’ll answer all your questions about it. But at that point I was simply happy to see someone I knew. I was happy to have someone to be in command. And I was delighted to receive his flattery, which came thick, fast and accurately.
That short sail from south of Cyprus to Lesbos was my first command, and it had taken its toll. I was bone-weary, and the broken ribs hadn’t begun to knit, so that every weather change and every jostle caused spikes of pain. I had discovered that commanding men is the very opposite of fighting man to man – what I mean is that when I am fighting, the world falls away and everything is right there – the whole circle of the world revealed in a single heartbeat, as Heraclitus used to say. But when you are in command, you have to face the infinite consequences of each action – forward, on and on, until the gods strip the roots of the world away. Is there water? Is there food? Where will you beach tonight? Does that oarsman have a fever? Have you passed three headlands or four?
And it never ends. No sooner were my bare feet in the sand of Lesbos, Miltiades’ arms around me, than my men were asking whether we would need the boatsail brought ashore and a hundred more questions.
Miltiades laughed, released my arms and stood back. ‘The bronze-smith’s son is a trierarch. No surprise to me, allow me to add. You’ve come right in among my ships – why not camp with me?’
I might have done better, waited for the best offer, but I was so happy to see someone from home – to be honest, when I saw Miltiades, I assumed that the Ionians would win. He always had that effect on me. ‘Show me where we can build our fires?’ I asked. He waved and another friend joined me – Agios, now helmsman to Miltiades.
‘You have a ship of your own?’ he asked, and laughed. ‘Poseidon help your oarsmen!’
We walked down the beach and he found me space for fires, a fire for every fifteen men. Then I gathered them all in a big circle and made sure of their mess groups. Eating on the voyage had been a matter of desperation. Now I meant to get them organized.
We mustered ninety-six oarsmen and twenty-one Cretans. I put the Cretans in two mess groups – I didn’t expect them to want to stay, and I didn’t want their bad attitude to infect the rest. The Aeolians and other Greeks and random Asians who made up the rest of the crew I divided in fifteens. I paid silver out of my own hoard to buy them cook pots, right there on the beach – the local market was huge, and every merchant in Mytilene was selling his wares – or hers. The best of the potters was a middle-aged woman with her hair tied up in a scarf and clay on her hands, and her pots were so much better than her competitors that I agreed to pay her exorbitant rates. Men know when they have the best equipment. I learned that from my father. Even pots are part of morale.
I bought a net full of small tuna, gutted and fresh, and the men fell to, cutting and preparing. I had to pay for firewood and vegetables and bread, and by the time the oarsmen were settled to their first good hot meal of the week, my hoard of silver had diminished by a little under a fifth.
I could not afford to be a trierarch.
When my belly was full of wine and tuna, I caught Idomeneus’s eye and picked up my best spear. Ionians follow many of the old ways, and one is that walking with a spear lends a man dignity and formality. I walked over to Miltiades’ fires, and found him easily enough. He was seated on an iron stool, the legs digging deeply into the sand. He was telling a tale – an uproarious tale – and the laughter swept higher every few heartbeats as we walked up the beach towards him. His red hair burned in the sun, and his head was thrown back to laugh at his own story, and that’s one of my favourite ways to remember him. Because he really could tell a story.
‘The hero of