Killer of Men - Christian Cameron [189]
He flexed his shoulders and rubbed his scar again. ‘An Athenian magistrate gave me the choice: come here or have an ear cut off.’ He smiled. ‘Not a hard choice. And then, when I was waiting in a warehouse with a bunch of other lowlifes, I heard a man mention your name – he said we’d be fighting under Miltiades of Athens, and Cimon, and Arimnestos Doru. When I got here, Cimon took me for his crew. He said that you were a Plataean. It seemed too much to hope. But here we are.’
Cimon shook his head. ‘What a tale!’ He looked at me. ‘I take it this man is your friend, as he claimed to me.’
I nodded. ‘Absolutely.’
Cimon smiled. ‘I shouldn’t give him to you. For the things you shouted at Paramanos.’
I hung my head. ‘I was in the wrong,’ I said.
Cimon shrugged. ‘You know what I like about you, Arimnestos? That you can say it – just like that. “I was in the wrong.”’ He nodded. ‘Have your friend, and may your friendship always be blessed. You owe me an oarsman.’
‘I’ll see to it you get the best I have,’ I said. Having Hermogenes sitting by my side was like a drink of clean water on a hot day, for all that his news disturbed me.
‘I don’t need your best. He may be your friend, but he’s a scrawny sewer rat. Send me another and we’re quits.’ Cimon rose. His eyes grew serious. ‘This man Simonalkes really murdered your father, Doru?’
I nodded.
Cimon made a face. ‘You have to do something about that, don’t you?’ He shrugged. ‘Some day, some bastard – probably an outraged husband – will kill Pater. And then I’ll have to kill him, or the furies will haunt me.’
Suddenly, with the clarity of long-delayed realization, I understood the raven dreams. ‘Yes,’ I said.
Cimon nodded. ‘Pater will have a fit if you leave before the sailing season ends,’ he said.
He raised an eyebrow and left us alone.
The next day, I took Hermogenes for a sail with Paramanos, Stephanos, Lekthes and Idomeneus. Hermogenes already looked better, cleaner, wearing a new chiton and new sandals. I’d armed him and put silver in his purse. He was two finger’s breadths taller when he was clean and dressed. I hadn’t had a hypaspist since Idomeneus rose to warrior status, and Hermogenes took the job immediately. It made him laugh to dress so well – it was days before he stopped hiking his chiton to look at the purple stripe.
Paramanos wasn’t even angry. He just shrugged. ‘Angry men talk shit,’ he said with a smile. ‘I don’t need a picnic on the sand to make it better.’
‘You’ll want to be at this picnic,’ I said.
We had a fishing smack, a light craft, lovingly built, with a single mast. We took turns sailing it, racing along the Bosporus in a way that real fisherman would never risk their rigging or their boat. Hermogenes looked anxious and Stephanos shook his head at what he, a lifelong fisherman, saw as recklessness.
We sailed down the Bosporus for twenty stades and put in at a gravel beach well south of Kallipolis with an old shrine to a hero long forgotten. I sacrificed there sometimes. So I went ashore first, and Hermogenes and I sacrificed a lamb in thanksgiving, and then we all had potted hare and chicken and lamb and lots of wine.
After we ate, Paramanos sat back, poured a libation and we all shared a cup. Then he rose. ‘Well?’ he said. ‘Is this all by way of apology? Or because you’ve rediscovered your friend?’
I shook my head. ‘No. I know how to come at Ba’ales’ squadron.’
Paramanos nodded. ‘I thought as much. So – tell?’
Instead of telling, I pointed at the upturned hull of our smack.
Paramanos shook his head. ‘Brilliant,’ he said. He shook his head. ‘Why didn’t I think of it?’
That was that.
And it was that week, or the next week, that an ambassador came to us from the Carians, begging us to help them. I was invited to hear him, and Paramanos came with me. We lay on couches with Miltiades and his sons, Agios and Heraklides and the other captains, and the Carians asked us to help them with the Persians.
‘Anywhere we go, Ba’ales can drop troops behind us on the coast,’ the lead Carian