Philokles dismounted from his horse, pulled his straw hat off his head and offered his arm to clasp. ‘I’m Philokles of Tanais,’ he said. ‘This is Theron of Corinth, who fought the pankration last year at the Olympics.’
Eutropios nodded, the corners of his mouth turned down in appreciation. ‘So – I’ve heard of you. And you,’ he said to Philokles. ‘You’re the warrior.’
Philokles shrugged. ‘I’m a philosopher now,’ he said, ‘and the tutor to these children.’
Satyrus writhed at being called a child in the presence of a master weapon smith.
‘And who needs arms?’ the smith asked. ‘Oh, get down from your mounts – believe me, I have nothing better to do than to talk to Olympic athletes.’ He turned his back on them and started walking. ‘I’m sure you’ll want to see the workshops. Zosimos worked for me – he can show you anything.’
‘I need arms, as does Theron. And for the young ones – men are trying to kill them.’ Philokles’ voice changed. ‘Pardon, sir, if we have interrupted your work. But I have known a number of craftsmen, and all of them work flat out. There is never a good time to visit. True? Please aid us. We will not require a tour, or much of your time. A few workmanlike items and we’ll be out of your hair.’
Eutropios turned back to Philokles. ‘I have no hair,’ he said. ‘You fight Spartan-style or Macedonian?’ he asked.
‘Spartan,’ Philokles said. ‘With an aspis, not one of these little Macedonian shields.’
‘Now, that’s lucky for you, because I have some made up. No one wants them any more, except some of the cities up north. Hoplite panoply? I have two or three to hand, from an order that never sold. Cavalry equipment? Don’t even ask. Everyone is a horse soldier now. Soon enough, there won’t even be any hoplites. No one wants to do any work any more – everyone wants to ride a fucking horse.’ The Chalcidian grinned sourly. He led them to a heavily built stone house that held up sheds at both ends. The door was sealed shut. He took a curious tool from his belt and twisted the seal wire and opened the door for them.
Satyrus gasped. The room was a veritable treasury of Ares. Bronze helmets, bronze-faced shields and rows of swords, most with a light coat of rust on them, straight-bladed and leaf-bladed and bent-bladed, of every size. Spears stood against the wall, their blades dark with rust, their bronze sauroteres, or butt-spikes, brown or green with patina. ‘All built for the tyrant’s guard, but now he has them aping the Macedonians,’ he said. ‘The swords are good,’ he said, as he plucked a short kopis from the floor and wiped the surface rust off on his chiton. ‘Good work from home. I bought this lot from a pirate – the shipment was for Aegypt. Saves me time to have a store of them.’
Philokles nodded. ‘No scabbards,’ he said.
‘Do I look like a scabbard maker?’ the smith asked. ‘Hephaestos, protect me! Are you expecting to be offered wine? Ares and Aphrodite. Zosimos, will you fetch these fine gentlemen some wine while they look at my wares and ask for fucking scabbards?’
Theron picked up a longer kopis, made in the western style with a bird-shaped hilt. It was a heavy weapon. He swung it without much effort.
‘Sure you wouldn’t like to do a little smithing, boy?’ the smith asked. ‘Shoulders like that, you won’t have to worry about someone trying to kill you in the Olympics. I’ll make you rich.’ He laughed. ‘Hermes, I’m already rich, but I can’t spend it, because I can’t stop working.’
‘He needs Temerix,’ Satyrus said to Melitta. She smiled at him, and then both of them realized that their friend, the Sindi master smith of Tanais, might well be dead, or a slave, with his eastern wife and their three sons, playmates all.
Life would seem exciting for an hour and then something would happen to remind them. Satyrus wiped his eyes and stood straight. ‘Temerix is the toughest man I know,’ he said. ‘He would survive, and Lu is too clever to be – attacked.’
Melitta shook her head. ‘And Ataelus? He must be dead. He was with mama.’
She wiped her eyes, looked around the room and spotted a small helmet with cheekpieces on the stack of helmets, mostly unrimmed Pylos helmets and a couple of Boeotians. She pulled it on and it went down over her eyes.
Philokles lifted it off her head, the bowl fitting in the palm of one of his great hands, and replaced it, rocking it gently on her hair. ‘Not bad,’ he said. ‘We’ll make you an arming cap.’
He reached into the pile and pulled out a small helmet with a bowl like a loaf of bread. ‘Try that,’ he said to Satyrus.
Satyrus wanted to look like Achilles, and not like some cheap foot soldier. This was a plain Boeotian, with a simple rim and no cheekpieces and no crest. He put it on his head and it sank past his temples, but it only needed padding. And a helmet of his own was better than no helmet.
‘Fits,’ he told Philokles.
He went to the rows of swords and came up with a short, leaf-bladed weapon the length of his forearm. Philokles approved, despite the fact that the blade was red-brown with rust.
‘Just a little work,’ the smith said. ‘You suited?’ Then he seemed to relent, relaxing visibly. ‘You want to see the forge?’ he said to Satyrus. He wrinkled his nose at Melitta. ‘Not much for a girl to see.’
Melitta made him laugh by wrinkling her nose back. ‘You need to get to know a better class of girl,’ she shot back. ‘Let’s go.’
Theron and Philokles declined. They were trying shields. So the children followed Zosimos and Eutropios out into the smoke-filled air and then into the largest shed, built of upright rough-sawn boards on poles driven deep into the ground.
The sound was loud outside the shed, but inside it was almost overwhelming. Satyrus and Melitta had seen Temerix at work, his hammer ringing on his bronze anvil or his iron one, and they’d seen him work with one of his journeymen, Curti or Pardo, the hammers banging in turns, but this was ten anvils in a circle around a furnace whose heat struck them like fists as they entered, and the hammer blows rang like continuous thunder on a hot summer day. Every smith in the shed was working bronze, building helmets, working them up from shaped trays that were probably made in another shed, working on the bowls and turning the whole helmet slightly after each blow. Every smith had a helper, and some had two, and the pieces were constantly being reheated in the furnace before coming back to the smiths. On top of the high furnace at the centre of the room, a bronze cauldron bubbled away, adding steam to the smoke.
The twins stood, amazed. Individual workers stopped, drinking cool water from pottery canteens hanging on the walls, or watered wine from skins, or a hot drink from the bronze cauldron on top of the furnace, or rubbing their hands, or putting olive oil on a burn, but the shed continued to work as a whole, the ringing of hammers never ending.
Eutropios watched with pride. ‘We’re working a big order,’ he shouted. ‘I love it when every hammer is working.’ He gave them a smile.
At the sound of the master smith’s voice, many men stopped working and looked at him, so he had to wave them all back to work. ‘Guests!’ he shouted. Some of the smiths laughed.
‘Are they slaves?’ Melitta asked.
‘Hard to say,’ Eutropios said. ‘Slaves don’t always make the best craftsmen, young lady. Most of those men weren’t born free. Some are working off their freedom, and others are taking a wage. None of them are getting the same wage they’d make if they had their own forge.’ He shrugged. ‘Every few months, a couple wander off to start a business, and I need more. I eat smiths like my forges eat charcoal.’ He waved at the boys running water back and forth, or carrying nets of charcoal. ‘The boys are mostly slaves. I use ’em until Kinon finds them a buyer. It’s hard work, but good food and all they can eat. They go to market well fed and well muscled.’