Polynikes frowned. Do you feel pleasure when you sing, boy?
Yes, lord.
And when you flirt around with that trollop Agathe?
Yes, lord.
Then imagine the pleasure that awaits you, when you clash in line of battle, shield-to-shield with an enemy burning to kill you, and you instead slay him. Can you imagine that ecstasy, you little shitworm?
The pais is trying, lord.
Let me assist you. Close your eyes and picture it. Obey me!
Polynikes was keenly aware of the torment this was causing Dienekes, who held himself controlled and impassive upon his bare couch, just two places down.
To plunge a spear, blade-deep, into a man's guts is like fucking, only better. You like to fuck, don't you?
The boy doesn't know, lord.
Don't toy with me, you twittering sparrow.
Alexandras, on his feet for an hour by this time, had steeled himself utterly. He answered his tormentor's questions, frozen at attention, eyes riveted to the dirt, ready in his guts to endure anything.
Killing a man is like fucking, boy, only instead of giving life you take it. You experience the ecstasy of penetration as your warhead enters the enemy's belly and the shaft follows. You see the whites of his eyes roll inside the sockets of his helmet. You feel his knees give way beneath him and the weight of his faltering flesh draw down the point of your spear. Are you picturing this?
Yes, lord.
Is your dick hard yet?
No, lord.
What? You've got your spear in a man's guts and your dog isn't stiff? What are you, a woman?
At this point the Peers of the mess began rapping their knuckles upon the hardwood, an indication that Polynikes' instruction was going too far. The runner ignored this.
Now picture with me, boy. You feel the foe's beating heart upon your iron and you rip it forth, twisting as you pull. A sensation of joy surges up the ash of your spear, through your hand and along your arm up into your heart. Are you enjoying this yet?
No, lord.
You feel like God at that moment, exercising the right only He and the warrior in combat may experience: that of dealing death, of loosing another man's soul and sending it down to hell. You want to savor it, to twist the blade deeper and pull the man's heart and guts out upon the iron point of your spear, but you can't. Tell me why.
Because I must move on and slay the next man.
Are you going to weep now?
No, lord.
What will you do when the Persians come?
Slay them, lord.
What if you stand on my right in line of battle? Will your shield protect me?
Yes, lord.
What if I advance, defended by the shadow of your shield? Will you hold it high at port before me?
Yes, lord.
Will you bring down your man?
I will.
And the next?
Yes.
I don't believe you.
At this the Peers rapped more vigorously with their knuckles upon the tables. Dienekes spoke.
This is no longer instruction, Polynikes. This is malice.
Is it? the runner answered, not deigning to look in the direction of his rival. We'll inquire of its object. Have you had enough, you psalm-singing wad of shit?
No, lord. The boy begs the Peer to continue.
Dienekes stepped in. Gently, with compassion, he addressed the youth, his protege. Why do you tell the truth, Alexandras? You could lie, like every other boy, and swear you reveled in the witnessing of slaughter, you savored the sight of limbs cleaved and men maimed and murdered within the jaws of war.
I thought of that, lord. But the company would see through me.
You're fucking right we would, confirmed Polynikes. He heard the anger in his own voice and brought it swiftly under control. However, out of deference to my esteemed comrade-here he turned with a mock-courteous bow to Dienekes-I will address my next question not to this child, but to the mess as a whole. He paused, then indicated the boy at attention before them.
Who will stand with this woman on his right in the line of battle?
I will, Dienekes answered without hesitation.
Polynikes snorted.
Your mentor seeks to shield you, paidarion. In the pride of his own prowess he imagines he may fight for two. This is recklessness. The city cannot risk his loss, because he has eyes for the comeliness of your girlish face.
Enough, my friend. This from Medon, senior of the mess. The Peers seconded with a chorus of knuckle raps.
Polynikes smiled. I accede to your chastisement, gentlemen and elders. Please excuse my excess of zeal. I seek only to impart to our youthful comrade some insight into the nature of reality, the state of man as the gods have made him. May I conclude his instruction?
With brevity, Medon admonished.
Polynikes turned again to Alexandras. When he resumed now, his voice was gentle and without malice; if anything it seemed informed with something not unlike kindness and even, odd as it sounds, sorrow.
Mankind as it is constituted, Polynikes said, is a boil and a canker. Observe the specimens in any nation other than Lakedaemon. Man is weak, greedy, craven, lustful, prey to every species of vice and depravity. He will lie, steal, cheat, murder, melt down the very statues of the gods and coin their gold as money for whores. This is man. This is his nature, as all the poets attest.
Fortunately God in his mercy has provided a counterpoise to our species' innate depravity. That gift, my young friend, is war. War, not peace, produces virtue. War, not peace, purges vice.
War, and preparation for war, call forth all that is noble and honorable in a man. It unites him with his brothers and binds them in selfless love, eradicating in the crucible of necessity all which is base and ignoble. There in the holy mill of murder the meanest of men may seek and find that part of himself, concealed beneath the corrupt, which shines forth brilliant and virtuous, worthy of honor before the gods. Do not despise war, my young friend, nor delude yourself that mercy and compassion are virtues superior to andreia, to manly valor. He finished, turning to Medon and the elders. Forgive me for waxing long-winded.
The harrowing ended; the Peers dispersed. Outside beneath the oaks, Dienekes sought out Polynikes, addressing him by his praise-name Kallistos, which may be defined as harmoniously beautiful or of perfect symmetry, though in the tone Dienekes employed, it expressed itself in the converse, as pretty boy or angel face.
Why do you hate this youth so much? Dienekes demanded.
The runner replied without hesitation. Because he does not love glory.
And is love of glory the supreme virtue of a man?
Of a warrior.
And of a racehorse and a hunting dog.
It is the virtue of the gods, which they command us to emulate.
The others of the mess could overhear this exchange, though they affected not to, since, under the laws of Lykurgus, no matter discussed behind those doors may be carried over to these more public precincts. Dienekes, realizing this as well, brought himself under control and faced the Olympian Polynikes with an expression of wry amusement.
My wish for you, Kallistos, is that you survive as many battles in the flesh as you have already fought in your imagination. Perhaps then you will acquire the humility of a man and bear yourself no longer as the demigod you presume yourself to be.
Spare your concern for me, Dienekes, and save it for your boy friend. He has greater need of it.
That hour had arrived when the messes along the Amyklaian Way released their men, those over thirty to depart for their homes and wives, and the younger men, of the first five age-classes, to retire under arms to the porticoes of the public buildings, there to stand the night watches over the city or curl in their cloaks for sleep. Dienekes took these last moments to speak apart with Alexandros.
The man placed an arm about the boy's shoulder; they moved slowly together beneath the unlit oaks. You know, Dienekes said, that Polynikes would give his life for you in battle. If you fell wounded, his shield would preserve you, his spear would bring you safely back. And if death's blow did find you, he would swim without hesitation into the manslaughter and spend his last breath to retrieve your body and keep the enemy from stripping your armor. His words may be cruel, Alexandros, but you have seen war now and you know it is a hundred times crueler.