‘In fact,’ Apollodorus said with a quick smile, ‘we never seem to fight from a position of advantage. No one attacks you because you are ready to be attacked, young man.’
Charmides was abashed, and blushed. ‘Of course not. I should have held my tongue.’
In fact, there was quite a crowd to spar with the big Athenian man. He was courteous, careful, and very good.
So good that he won the first night against Satyrus, three throws to two. Satyrus lay watching the stars. It was a long time since anyone had beaten him. He could console himself that he had not used all of his skill — but neither had the other man, he was sure. No one would, in a friendly grapple on the beach. And it was a long time since he had lost, and he was trying to bear it with good grace.
After lying awake an hour, he rolled off his cloak and his two furs and walked up the beach to where his kit lay under his aspis, and took out his canteen. It was full of wine. He sat with his back against the stern, and said some poetry to himself, and then he fetched his travelling lyre and went around the headland and played it for half an hour.
He fell into the playing — some of the best he had ever done. When he had finished with his practices and his hymn to Apollo, he was sleepy, so he went back to his cloak and fell immediately asleep.
‘Am I growing more arrogant?’ Satyrus asked.
He was between the steering oars of his Medea, an hour off the beach at Syros, driving along over the choppy sea with the wind dead astern, all the rowers enjoying being passengers while the deck crew worked like ants to keep the mainsail and the boatsail trimmed and drawing in a tricky wind.
Anaxagoras grinned. ‘I’m sorry — how would I know? I mean, if one throws pitch on a black statue-’
Satyrus swatted him with an open hand. ‘I’m serious,’ he said.
Anaxagoras frowned. ‘Are you? All the tragedies seem to have this moment held in them, brother. And have you ever known a woman to ask you if she was gaining weight, and to want a genuine answer?’
Satyrus looked away in consternation. ‘So the answer is — yes.’
Anaxagoras shrugged. ‘Yes. That is, the siege hardened something in you. You used to be somewhat hesitant about giving some opinions — now you take for granted that your opinion is necessary in all situations.’ He held up a hand to forestall Satyrus’s explanations. ‘Now, to be sure, philos, you are a king, and you are a commander. But since you asked, may I say by way of allegory that I am a famous musician, and that I find that this does not particularly increase my ability to pronounce on how this ship sails?’
Satyrus tried to laugh — he got a smile to his face, at least. ‘Whereas I feel that my expertise as king justifies voicing my opinion on all subjects?’ he asked.
Anaxagoras shook his head. ‘See? You don’t really fancy my opinion.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘I expect I’ll be executed.’
Satyrus looked at the horizon. ‘Fuck off,’ he said. ‘I asked. I was hoping for a less adamant answer.’
Anaxagoras shook his head. ‘You knew the answer before you asked.’
Satyrus sighed. ‘I’m not taking the losses at pankration at all well.’
Anaxagoras grinned. ‘There, I can put your mind at rest. I think that you are bearing them splendidly, in that you haven’t cursed or shouted out loud. When did you last lose?’
‘Lose outright?’ Satyrus thought. ‘Three or four years, anyway.’
Anaxagoras nodded. ‘Well, it’s good for you. Builds character.’
‘My tutor, Philokles, used to say that.’ Satyrus nodded. He was stung, and trying very hard not to show it.
‘All tutors say that,’ Anaxagoras said. He put a hand on Satyrus’s shoulder. ‘May I say — at the risk of hurting you further — that it’s brave of you to ask? And that you can remedy this simply by being silent on occasion?’
Satyrus looked away, and a variety of responses occurred to him. But again, he managed a smile. ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he said.
Polycrates came back from the bow, where he’d gone to catch the breeze. ‘What a perfect morning!’ he said. He nodded to Anaxagoras. ‘My lord, you keep very good company — good men, with good manners and real excellence. That Charmides …’
Satyrus raised both eyebrows.
Anaxagoras smiled. ‘Everyone loves Charmides,’ he said.
‘Where is he from?’ asked Polycrates. ‘Is he of a good family?’
Apollodorus appeared on deck in armour. ‘Very good,’ he said curtly. ‘Swords, Satyrus?’
It was days since Satyrus had practised in armour. Charmides came forward and assisted him in putting on his thorax of bronze, and he and Apollodorus began to move up and down the central gangway.
Satyrus fought with restraint, fighting the temptation to work too hard to vindicate the loss of the night before. And in a few hits, he was too deep in the moment to worry about such stuff. Apollodorus had always stretched him to his limit, and today was no different — if anything, the smaller man was better than usual, leaping high in the air, stepping up off an oarsman’s bench to land a cunning blow along the back of Satyrus’s neck.
But Satyrus, after a slow start, rose to his level. He fought so well that when the two of them came to a stop, they were on the amidships fighting platform, neither man having pushed the other to the bow or stern. Each landed a simple blow, and almost as one they removed their helmets, panting hard, and laughed.
‘Well fought,’ Apollodorus said. ‘You’ve winded me.’
Satyrus had to use his will to keep from bending double to take bigger breaths. He didn’t risk talking, but merely laughed and slapped his marine captain on the back.
Polycrates clapped his hands together. ‘May I?’ he asked. ‘I don’t have armour …’
Satyrus felt much better. He grinned. ‘You may have mine if you don’t mind the sweat.’
Polycrates sent his body slave for a chitoniskos. ‘I should say something nice about the sweat of a king,’ he said, taking the thorax, ‘but you have about soaked the thing through.’
‘You go that long against Apollodorus,’ Satyrus said. In fact, he meant no rivalry by it — Apollodorus was the best fighter and the fittest man.
‘Ah,’ Polycrates said. ‘Then I should wait until tomorrow, when he’s fresh.’
Apollodorus bridled — perhaps at being discussed in the third person. ‘I’m fresh enough right now, Athenian,’ he said. ‘Let’s see what you have.’
Polycrates wasn’t sure he liked that response — it showed in his face — and Satyrus had a moment to see what a powerful man looked like when he was displeased. He looked pompous and silly — and Satyrus knew that he had looked the same the night before when he had lost at pankration. He nodded to no one in particular. He was a day from Athens, with all the danger of the prophecy combined with his anxiety on seeing Miriam — it seems a good time to honour the gods and work on excellence.
Polycrates’ slave brought him a linen chitoniskos, a fine one with a red stripe. The Athenian stripped and put it on, and then Satyrus helped him into his scale thorax, which fitted him well enough, if a little small in the chest. Satyrus tied the cords a full two fingers looser than he would on himself — when he tied it, the rings touched.
Polycrates picked up Satyrus’s practice aspis, and moved it around. ‘Heavy,’ he said, sounding human.
‘I practise with a heavier shield …’ Satyrus began.
‘Of course you do — you fight for real.’ Polycrates flexed his knees, picked up the wooden sword, and saluted Apollodorus. ‘At your service. And I meant no slight, sir, when I said I’d wait for you to be fresh. I feel very much at a disadvantage here — you are professional soldiers, athletes, men who live like heroes from Homer, and I am a rich politician from Athens. If I spoke badly, please accept my apologies.’
Apollodorus hooked his cheek-plates down. ‘Not necessary,’ he said simply, and turned to walk down the command catwalk to the amidships command platform.