9
316 BC
Stratokles lay on a couch in the shade of a
flame tree and watched the sun set against the towering storm
clouds to the north. His mind was on a thousand things, but the
beauty of the sunset infected him, and he called for a tablet and a
stylus. But all that came to him were snippets of other men’s poems
and tags of Menander. He laughed.
Lucius, lying on the other couch, coughed and shook
his head. ‘Not much to laugh about.’
‘That’s just where you are wrong,’ Stratokles said.
‘We’re alive. Other men are dead, and we, my friend, are still
alive.’
‘Can’t tell you how - how much I appreciate that
you came back for me,’ Lucius said. His tone conveyed more insult
than flattery - his tone told Stratokles that he never expected,
once wounded, that his employer would pick him up and fight his way
out.
‘What a cock-up, and no mistake,’ Stratokles said.
‘To be honest, I must be responsible, but I cannot see how. Anyway
- I like you, Lucius. I’m tired of thugs. You’re a gentleman.’ He
shrugged. ‘Not sure why I went back for you, myself.’
Lucius started laughing. ‘Oh, fuck, that hurts,’ he
said, and wheezed. ‘So - what next?’
‘We heal up. You’ll be out a month - more, I
expect. I’ll be able to hobble about in a week, but it’ll be a
month before I can exercise.’ He shrugged. ‘Then back to Athens and
fucking Demetrios of Phaleron, who will tell me how I could have
done it all much, much better.’
‘He’s your boss?’ Lucius asked.
‘You are a fucking barbarian, anyone ever tell you
that?’ Stratokles laughed and snapped his fingers for wine. A
Thracian girl with flame-red hair bustled out on to the terrace,
poured his wine and vanished. ‘Demetrios of Phaleron is the tyrant
of Athens. A scion of Phocion. Friend of Kineas, whose children we
just so notably failed to murder.’ He sighed. ‘An extreme oligarch
whose policies will overthrow two hundred years of democratic
traditions in Athens.’ He raised his wine to Lucius. ‘My
boss.’
‘How does that work?’ Lucius asked. ‘I don’t get
much of your Greek politics, but I’ve read Aristotle, and I have
ears. You’re a democrat. If he’s an oligarch, you’re not
friends.’
‘Lucius, if I’ve learned one thing in my life, it’s
that in politics there are no friends.’ Stratokles sighed.
‘Look, there’s no point in deposing Demetrios of Phaleron if that
costs us alliance with Cassander and Athens ends up being sacked.
Give the man his due - Demetrios of Phaleron is brilliant,
ruthless, the best diplomat of the age. And a passable poet.’
‘Poet?’ Lucius asked. He took an appreciative sip
of the wine. ‘Makes my wound pound like the tide on the sea, but
tastes like heaven.’ He looked up. ‘Who owns the redhead?’
‘She came with the house.’ Stratokles waved his
hand. ‘Ours for the use, I think.’
Lucius shook his head. ‘You Greeks are so rich you
don’t know,’ he said. ‘Someday, someone’s going to come and take
all this away from you.’
‘Someone did,’ Stratokles said. ‘His name was
Alexander. And he took our liberty and our way of life and left us
a bunch of mercenary wolves in place of a government.’ Stratokles
shrugged again, sipped wine and watched the red-haired girl return.
‘I’ll give my life, if I have to, to win my city back her liberty.’
The red-haired girl was moving self-consciously, clearly aware of
what the Italian wanted. Perhaps unsure of what to do about
it.
‘I hear a lot about your Alexander,’ Lucius said.
‘Most people say he was a god. We Latins don’t believe in that
crap.’
Stratokles raised an eyebrow. ‘And you predict the
future with the entrails of chickens?’
Lucius laughed. ‘We learned that from you Greeks,’
he said. ‘Hey, girl? Know how to play a flute?’
Stratokles sat carefully at a writing table and
two slaves brought eight-wick lamps for him. The Latin and the
Thracian girl were making a fair amount of noise upstairs, which
made Stratokles smile. The Latin was like a character in Menander -
overblown, comic, larger than life - until he said something like
I’ve read Aristotle.
Stratokles rubbed his hands together, sniffed the
coriander on his fingers and thought, It was worth the risk. I
need a man I can trust - really trust. Lucius is the man. He
remembered the blood and the noise in the house in Heraklea, and
his hand trembled just a little. Stratokles had fought in every
battle of the Lamian War, and ten more actions - but fighting the
monstrous Spartan in the dark had had an almost supernatural terror
to it.
I did it, though.
He watched his hand until the trembling stopped.
Then he flipped his wax tablets open and began to write.
Stratokles to Menander, Greetings!
It is too long since we strolled in the Academy or
listened to the muses - or booed the chorus at the theatre!
Our mutual friend has sent me to virtual exile on
the Euxine - a business trip that threatens to take me until the
end of my life and perhaps a little longer. I have had many
opportunities to observe the trials and triumphs of life, and I
have to say that there have been many trials and few
triumphs.
It seems to me that I have arranged for all the
grain our friend will need, despite some business matters that did
not go as planned. I would appreciate it if you would tell him from
me that the first shipments of grain should arrive with this
letter.
I also wish to note that some political matters
have not fallen out as our mutual friend might have hoped, or
expected. There is a rumour here that Heron, the ruler of
Pantecapaeum, attacked Tanais, a little city on the Bay of Salmon,
and destroyed it - but failed to catch its rulers. Still, they are
children, and many years must pass before they play any role in the
grain trade!
In addition, it came to my notice while doing
business here that Dionysius of Heraklea is much more powerful in
the region than is commonly asserted in Athens, and Heron, for all
his bluster, has no hope at all of seizing Heraklea or Sinope. That
said, we might consider a slight change in policy. After direct
observation of his business practices, I fear that our partner in
Pantecapaeum may prove difficult and even dangerous. Heraklea, on
the other hand, impressed me with efficiency and culture. And a
great deal of available grain.
I further wish that our mutual friend might
understand that our partner in Pantecapaeum and our friend in
Thrace may not be friends for ever. I wish to have a free hand to
decide where we may turn in such an event, but I will await advice.
In the meantime, shipments of grain from Pantecapaeum, Heraklea and
Sinope should all be arriving at the Piraeus in the next moon.
Think of me as they send their cargoes ashore.
I sit under a beautiful moon, after a sunset of
such splendour that I could wish for your stylus and your muse-led
wits rather than my own. Write and tell me of what passes under the
gaze of grey-eyed Athena.
He read through the tablet, struck out a bad phrase
here and there, and rewrote his work twice. Then he took ink and
papyrus and began to copy fair. He was so intent on his task that
he didn’t notice when Lucius came up behind him in the dark
room.
‘Mars, brother! You’ll lose your sight.’ Lucius’s
voice made Stratokles twitch, but his hand was steady, and his
writing was beautiful.
The Latin bent over the table. ‘You’re either a
scribe or a fucking aristo, Stratokles.’
Stratokles sat back and rolled his shoulders to
loosen the muscle. ‘Guess which.’
Lucius sat on a folding stool and handed the
Athenian a cup of wine. ‘Is that the Menander? The
playwright? Mars and Venus, brother, you are the friend I’ve always
wanted. Look at this fucking house! Ours for the asking. You know
Menander?’ He winked. ‘I could learn to like this.’
Stratokles couldn’t help himself. ‘We grew up
together,’ he said with a shrug, and put a finger to the injury on
his nose. ‘Hermes, my face hurts.’ He laughed. ‘I used to be
accounted a handsome man.’
‘Bah,’ Lucius said. ‘Now you look like a hero. Or a
villain. A man of action. Not a Greek aristocratic pansy.’ He was
reading over Stratokles’ shoulder. ‘You didn’t like Heron any more
than I did, eh?’
Stratokles shook his head. ‘I don’t like people
reading over my shoulder.’
‘Pardon!’ Lucius backed away.
Stratokles shook his head. ‘No. no. Just as a
matter of course. Much of what I write is - secret. I expect that
eventually I’ll share it all with you. But I’m not there yet.’ He
smiled to take the sting out. ‘If you choose to stay with me.
Anyway, no, I thought Heron was a brilliant fool - more of a danger
to us than an ally. I want Demetrios of Phaleron to tell Cassander
to ditch him.’ He touched his nose again and winced.
‘Are we giving up on putting the two children down,
then?’ Lucius asked. He was naked, and he smelled of lavender oil
and cloves - a real improvement, Stratokles thought.
Stratokles shook his head. ‘No. It’s a foolish
order, and probably an ignoble one - but I’ve done worse for Athens
and I will again. We need Heron’s grain. The children must die. I
have other resources in place. I’ve already mobilized
several.’
‘They don’t call you Greeks wily for nothing,’
Lucius said. ‘You have so many spies that you keep some just lying
around for emergencies?’
Stratokles sighed. ‘Yes.’
Lucius laughed. ‘You need to get your sausage wet,
friend. And get drunk. And live a little. I’ll send you the
redhead. She’s open-minded.’
Stratokles shook his head. ‘I’m not really so far
gone that I need a barbarian to get me laid,’ he said.
Lucius laughed, a full-chested roar that shook the
tablets on the table. ‘Mars and Venus, friend. You’re a cool one,
and no mistake.’ He got up. ‘If you don’t want her—’ He hobbled
across the room, his wounded leg barely able to support his weight.
But he stopped at the stairs. ‘What you said - about secrets -
you’ll keep me on?’
‘Absolutely,’ Stratokles said.
‘I’m yours,’ Lucius said.
I know, Stratokles thought. But he didn’t
say it out loud. He just took a sip of wine and ran his eyes over
his letter one more time.