Cimon scratched under his chin. ‘Yes. Well, you do speak Persian.’ He looked away. And then back. ‘Do you trust me?’ he asked.
I smiled. I remember thinking of all the things about Miltiades that I hated, and those I loved. ‘I’d be very careful of you if we were talking about Athenian politics,’ I said. ‘Outside of that — yes.’
Cimon grinned. ‘No offence taken, Plataean. So — will you accept for the moment that I’m a member of the war party?’
I suppose I shrugged. As he was the leader of the conservatives who wanted war with Persia, it was not a sensible question. ‘Of course.’
He sat back on his elbow, his long, aristocratic legs stretched towards my fire. ‘You know what it will mean if the Great King actually marches — yes?’
I probably frowned. I do now. ‘Yes. Hundreds of thousands of men marching over Greece and a ten-year war to push them out.’ I nodded. ‘Yes. It will be horrible.’
Cimon said softly, ‘It will be the end of Greece as we think of Greece.’ He waved a hand in the direction of the stadium and the hippodrome. ‘They will cast down our temples and burn our cities and cut down our olive trees — destroy a generation of farmers, and loot us until we are even poorer than we are now.’ He paused. ‘And that’s what will happen if we win.’
‘If it is a land war,’ I said.
He nodded. ‘Your bridge — over the Hellespont — that idea frightens me, because I think. . I think it’s true. I didn’t believe you at first. Now — I can see it. A roadbed laid over sixty or seventy triremes.’
‘Two hundred,’ I said. ‘It’d take two hundred triremes to bridge the Hellespont.’ I laughed. ‘Think of it as two hundred ships we won’t be facing.’
‘None of them will take the pirate’s way and fight the Persians down at their end of the sea,’ Cimon said. ‘And when we suggest it, all they see is two men who will make their fortunes-’
‘I already have my fortune,’ I said.
‘As do I,’ Cimon muttered. ‘But. .’ he paused.
I waited.
I remember that Hector came out of his cloak, and brought us wine, and I remember that Cimon stopped talking altogether while the boy waited on us. And that told me a great deal.
Finally he pursed his lips grimly. ‘The ultimate in forward strategy is to go to the Great King directly — and see if something can be done short of war.’
I sat back, deflated. ‘We surrender?’
Cimon looked at me as if I were a fool. I had had a long day and too much wine and I suppose I was. I know a great deal about war, thugater, and one thing I know is that war is always bad. Good for broken fools and pirates and beautiful for young men who fear to be thought cowards. Horrible for women and children and everyone else.
It is one of the harshest truths that, in youth, the things you value — revenge, bloody honour, retaliation on your foes, manly prowess — as you grow older, you learn how hollow they are. Revenge? For the weak. Strong men have other things to do with their time — like live, till the ground, make babies, worship the gods. What is Arete? Are you excellent when you have another man’s life on your blade?
I think not. And I have taken more lives than most men.
Cimon drew a bloody picture that night, as the Great Bear sailed over our heads — a picture of our world in flames. And the excellence that made us what we are — as sailors, as bronzesmiths, as athletes — even as warriors — burned away in the hot fire. With nothing left but the ability to fight — not like Greeks, but like desperate slaves.
Finally he shook his long hair. ‘If they come — I will fight with my fortune and my hands. But better if they don’t come.’
I nodded.
‘How do we stop them?’ I said, convinced.
‘We prepare for war,’ he said. ‘And we appear as powerful, and as united, as we may. Only a strong front and the threat of a real fight will give the Great King reason to hesitate. And a good offer.’
It was my turn to scratch my beard and think.
‘The new Great King — Xerxes — is young. We hear he is very. . emotional.’ Cimon looked at me.
I shrugged. Artapherenes and Cyrus hadn’t so much as mentioned him. My impression is that they didn’t think much of him and had probably backed another contender. No one came to Cyrus the Great’s throne without blood on his hands, and Xerxes killed his brothers to get to the throne — as was usual in the East. And, of course, contemptible to us.
‘Are Persians religious?’ Cimon asked me.
I frowned. ‘Of course. Why ask me? You know as many Persians as I do!’
Cimon shook his head. ‘I wish I did. I didn’t grow up with them, and the Persian renegades at my father’s court were not the men you describe. Renegades are seldom the true representatives of their culture — eh?’
I sipped wine and watched the fire. ‘In truth, Cimon, their best men are very like our best men. Despite the stupid trousers.’
Cimon nodded. ‘It will be dawn all too soon. I’ll make my point. And Gorgo’s. Do you remember Marathon year?’
I laughed. ‘Isn’t that a foolish question?’
‘I prefer to think of it as a rhetorical question. You recall the Persian envoys?’ He looked at me and I winced. ‘I don’t — but I have heard they were killed — in Athens and in Sparta.’
Cimon nodded. ‘Cleomenes ordered them thrown in a well. You must know the story.’
I did.
‘Most Spartiates believe he committed an act of gross impiety and that the gods are very angry at Sparta. I could list you off a dozen things the gods have withheld from Sparta — four bad harvests, a dozen minor failings, a bad earthquake. .’ I was about to speak, but he held up his hand. ‘Spartans are very religious, Arimnestos. Never, ever doubt it. I’ve been in and out of their messes all my adult life. There is nothing about superstition and religious observance that a Spartan doesn’t believe.’
I nodded. Brasidas was a case in point. As usual. It put another face on his exile — of course, he was also cut off from full religious observance. I thought about that a moment, and lost the thread of Cimon’s discourse.
‘At any rate,’ he said, ‘the Spartans believe they are under a curse because of the murder of the heralds.’ He leaned forward. ‘One of the greatest signs of the displeasure of the gods is that Sparta has not won a single athletic event — not at the Isthmian games, not at Nemea, and not here — since the murder of the heralds. So — in the great sacrifice tomorrow, Leonidas will swear an oath to send his own heralds to the Great King — to do with as he pleases. Cleomenes is dead, but Leonidas may — I do not know — offer to send the Great King the men who killed his heralds.’
‘A symbolic act short of submission,’ I said. ‘No earth and water, but-’
‘And an act of piety to Zeus, showing that Sparta will atone for the stain. What is worse than the murder of heralds, sacred to Hermes and Zeus?’ Cimon nodded.
I shook my head. ‘I should sleep,’ I said. ‘There are too many secrets — Aphrodite, Cimon — and someone is throwing sling stones at Polypeithes!’ I got up.
Cimon understood at once. ‘Polypeithes’ injury was. . the act of a man?’ he asked. ‘Son of a whore.’ He looked away. ‘That chariot is the best chance the Spartans have to win the laurel here. And we need them to win, Arimnestos. We need the old, conservative Spartiates to back Leonidas. Because Sparta has a pro-Persian party. .’
I nodded. ‘Of course. There’s a King of Sparta living at the Persian court!’ I got it all, now. It was, as a plot, essentially Greek. It was as if Aeschylus were writing us our doom. The Spartans were the greatest military power in Greece. We all required them. And their house was deeply divided — Hades, Cleomenes only murdered the heralds to make it impossible for his rival king Demaratus to make peace!