'That cost me the whole value of my trading there,' he said to me in the morning. 'Can't you keep that sword in its sheath?'
I wasn't surly. In those days, killing often brought me a black cloud – I would sit alone and mope. But I heard his words, and they were just words.
We had good weather as we coasted Crete, and we sold our Athenian olive oil and beautiful red-figured and black-figured vases at enormous profit in the market of Hierapytna, and the mood of the crew improved. But not for long.
Herk took me aside after we were invited to the lord's hall. 'Could you refrain from killing anyone until our business here is done?' he asked.
I nodded. 'Silent as the grave.'
But of course, I wasn't.
In truth, there's little I could have done about it. Word of my fight up the coast had made it here. And word of the Ionian Revolt was everywhere, and men behaved like men – like warriors. As they had taken no part, they had to belittle those who had. As we had lost, we were to be humbled.
I have watched this pattern play out too many times. More wine, here.
We were in the lord's hall, and Herk had sent Idomeneus to watch over me. I was quiet, listening and not talking, striving to be the sort of man – well, the sort of man that Eualcidas had been, silent and cheerful. Grown men always tell you that this is the way of excellence, but they neglect to tell you that it is easier to be silent and dignified and cheerful when you are forty and have won ten battles. It's like getting women – much easier when you are too old to enjoy them.
Hah, I'm a foul old man. Too true.
I listened to them demean the Ephesians and the Athenians, and I said nothing. I said nothing when they laughed at Aristides' youth. But I suspect my attempts at dignity weren't much better than stubborn glowering. I was easy meat. Finally, an older man, a leader, came over to where I stood, and he grinned.
I grinned back – glad that someone, at least, was interested in being my friend.
'I heard that you killed a man down the coast,' he said. 'But I have to assume you stabbed him in the back. I mean – look at you. No intestines. No reply to the insults we heap on you. Or are you some sort of woman?' He laughed, showing all his teeth.
I sputtered. This is where heroes are supposed to make a good speech, but I was taken by surprise and I failed. Blood rushed to my head and when Idomeneus tried to hold my arm, I punched him in the mouth. Then I turned.
'You want to die?' I asked. I don't remember what else I said – just that.
He laughed. And threw a punch, a fast punch, right through my defences, and knocked me flat, dislocated my jaw.
I lay there in a rage of pain, and he laughed again.
'This is their great killer?' he asked his friends. When I got to my feet, he didn't even take a stance. He feinted, and then I was on my back again, and my right temple felt as if his knuckle had gone through it.
They all laughed – all except the Athenians. They didn't laugh – but they did nothing to help. My friends – the men I'd fought beside – they weren't all on Herk's ship. And Herk himself shifted uneasily, but he stayed put.
Not cowardice. Just being practical men of business.
I got to my feet slowly. I wasn't thinking too well. And I was filled – suffused – with the purest spirit of Ares. Ares, the hateful god. I was glowing with hate. I felt betrayed.
I was young.
My tormentor came forward again and I stumbled towards him, and he laughed. They all laughed. That's what I remember best – the laughter.
The rage and the hate were all through me, and with them came a plan, and I followed my plan.
I let him chase me around the hall. I fell over benches. I accepted the humiliation, backing, always backing – running, even. Oh, yes. I was the coward he thought me, step by step, and men roared with laughter to see my antics.
Except Herk. He knew me, and his eyes grew big, and when I was close to him he yelled something at me, pleading.
Then my head cleared. Two heavy blows to the head do not leave you with much, in a fight. But if you are used to taking blows – and I was – you can get your own back, if you stay alive and keep your blood pumping. I'd run around the hall for five minutes by then, and I'd taken blows – to my abdomen, but it was thick with muscle, and to my thighs, where the other tormentors rained their fists on me as I hopped past.
When my head was clear, I jumped a bench and a kline in one bound and stood in the open space in the middle of all the men. He came at me, and he was still laughing.
He threw his punch, and I caught his fist in the air and broke his arm. The sound of his arm breaking was like a limb snapping from a good, old olive tree.
Then I broke his neck.
And they all stopped laughing. I said nothing. I watched them lie on their couches frozen in the act of fondling their boys.
Now they had the rage and I was calm. I watched the rage flow out of me and into them. He'd been someone they liked – someone they fancied. Now he was meat.
They were warriors. They had elaborate codes of honour, and they did not rush me like a pack.
Herk shook his head and all the Athenians gathered together. Knives began to appear around the hall, and swords.
I let my eyes rove over the Cretans, looking for a leader. I'd like to say I was like a ravening wolf, or a lion who had just killed a bull – but I was shaken by the killing. I had broken his arm – had I always meant to break his neck, too?
Yes.
'He attacked me,' I said to the room. 'And insulted me. How would you have me respond?'
Herk touched my shoulder and I flinched, not from fear, but because I was tense, waiting for them to rush me.
'Come,' he said. 'Before they kill you.'
They let us walk away. I still wonder about it – I didn't see fear in them, only rage – the same engulfing redness I had felt.
We were not welcome after that. No mess – the Cretans live in messes of warriors, like the Spartans – no mess would have us to dinner, and no man would trade with us. My fellow oarsmen looked at me with fear and I heard them whisper behind my naked back as we rowed the long ship west along the south coast of Crete. That was a black time.
We rowed along the coast and the next night we camped on a beach. I tried to sleep by myself, but instead I sat awake, watching the stars. Then Herk came, and Cleon, the man who had held my back when we sacked Sardis.
They shuffled, and I shuffled. Hard to explain how men who can fight and kill in the phalanx can't tackle, oh, many things, like talking to a friend who's doing wrong, or getting a girl you really like to look at you. So many ways to be a coward. So we sat a while, looking at the stars.
'I can't keep you aboard,' Herk said, suddenly.
There it was. We'd all known what he had to say. I had hoped for something different, but I knew – I knew from the heavy silence. Nor had I forgiven them – for letting me down. Nor had they forgiven themselves – so they held it against me. See? Nothing is simple.
So I watched the stars a while longer. But my rage mostly died with the man whose neck I broke, so after a longer pause than anyone wanted, I said, 'I know.' I shrugged, I think. But I was bitter, and young.
'Tomorrow we will come to Gortyn,' Herk said. 'The richest kingdom on Crete. The king is always hiring mercenaries. I'll do my best for you – I promise. By Hermes, lord of trades. But you – my friend, you are under a curse, and it burns black over your head, a sign for every man who can see. And your curse kills. The men – they should love you. You are a hero. Instead, they're afraid of you. And so am I. I can't risk taking you across the blue water to Piraeus. Someone will put a knife in you, and feed you to Poseidon. One storm – that's all it would take. They'd gut you.'