And beyond Thanatos, a hundred fires rose into the dark, towers of light and smoke from wood carefully gathered by slaves and free men, and at every fire, messes of horsemen and hoplites ate hot food and stared into the flames and thought about what morning would bring.
The old comrades — Lykeles and Laertes and Coenus and all the rest — came to his fire from their separate troops, and sat in a circle, but they left space for newer comrades; Eumenes was there, Ajax and Nicomedes, and Clio, hovering uncertainly around the edge of the firelight until Coenus, who had taught the boy all winter, waved him to the fire.
They were silent for a time. Kineas ate his food and drank the wine in silence, his eyes on the column of fire rising into the night. Sitalkes finished the big stallion to his own satisfaction and Arni took the horse away to the picket lines in the darkness, and the Getae boy — now a man, and a tall man at that — came and sat by Ajax.
Agis rose to his feet and cleared his throat, and hummed a little to himself — an agora ditty from Olbia. Then he bowed his head, raised it, and said:
‘As through the deep glens of a parched mountainside rageth wondrous-blazing fire, and the deep forest burneth, and the wind as it driveth it on whirleth the flame every whither, even so raged he every whither with his spear, like some god, ever pressing hard upon them that he slew; and the black earth ran with blood.
And as a man yoketh bulls broad of brow to tread white barley in a well-ordered threshing-floor, and quickly is the grain trodden out beneath the feet of the loud-bellowing bulls; even so beneath great-souled Achilles his single-hooved horses trampled alike on the dead and on the shields; and with blood was all the axle sprinkled beneath, and the rims round about the car, for drops smote upon them from the horses hooves and from the tyres. But the son of Peleas pressed on to win him glory, and with gore were his invincible hands bespattered…’
And Agis continued the story unticlass="underline"
‘Then the son of Peleas uttered a bitter cry, with a look at the broad heaven: “Father Zeus, how is it that no one of the gods taketh it upon him in my pitiless plight to save me from out the River! thereafter let come upon me what may.
“None other of the heavenly gods do I blame so much, but only my dear mother, that beguiled me with false words, saying that beneath the wall of the mail-clad Trojans I should perish by the swift missiles of Apollo. Would that Hector had slain me, the best of the men bred here; then had a brave man been the slayer, and a brave man had he slain. But now by a miserable death was it appointed me to be cut off, pent in the great river, like a swine-herd boy whom a torrent sweepeth away as he maketh essay to cross it in winter.”
So spake he, and forthwith Poseidon and Pallas Athene drew nigh and stood by his side, being likened in form to mortal men, and they clasped his hand in theirs and pledged him in words. And among them Poseidon, the Shaker of Earth, was first to speak: “Son of Peleas, tremble not thou overmuch, neither be anywise afraid, such helpers twain are we from the god — and Zeus approveth thereof — even I and Pallas Athene. Therefore is it not thy doom to be vanquished by a river; nay, he shall soon give respite, and thou of thyself shalt know it. But we will give thee wise counsel, if so be thou wilt hearken. Make not thine hands to cease from evil battle until within the framed walls of Ilios thou hast pent the Trojan host, whosoever escapeth. But for thyself, when thou hast bereft Hector of life, come thou back to the ships; lo, we grant thee to win glory.”’
He stopped there, well short of the death of Hector, declaiming that part of the tale brought men ill luck. When he bowed his head to show that he was done, the space beyond the fire was black with men standing in silence to hear him. And there was silence, thick and black as night, when he was done, as if by staying perfectly still, they could win more words from him, but he bowed his head again, and went back to his place, and sat. Then the men beyond the firelight sighed, and the sound was like the wind in tall trees.
Kineas stood, and offered libation to all the gods from Philokles’ cup and their dwindling store of wine. He raised his voice and sang, ‘I begin to sing about Poseidon…’ And every man in earshot responded, and they all sang together.
‘The great god, mover of the earth and fruitless sea,
God of the deep who is also lord of Helicon
And wide Aegae.
A two-fold office the gods allotted you,
O Shaker of the Earth,
To be a tamer of horses and a saviour of ships!
Hail, Poseidon, Holder of the Earth,
Dark-haired lord!
O blessed one, be kindly in heart and
Help those who ride on horses!’
Kineas had at his feet a wreath of oak leaves, made by Ajax and Eumenes working together by firelight. When the hymn was done, he lifted it from the ground, walked across the fire circle, and placed it without further words on the brow of Philokles. When the wreath touched the Spartan, they roared, a single long note. And then the men were silent, feeling the nearness of the gods, and of death.
Niceas broke the silence, walking up to Agis. He put a hand on Agis’s shoulder. ‘Better than Guagemala,’ he said.
Agis shrugged, clearly drained. ‘When it comes to me,’ he said, ‘it is like a spirit speaks through me, or a god. I am no actor, and sometimes I can’t believe that I can remember the passage.’
The other men who had known him for years all nodded. Even Kineas thought that the Megaran was god-touched.
But Ajax smiled. In the bright sun of battle, that boy was altogether gone, but he was beautiful in the firelight, and in his face lingered the boy who had followed them off to war from his father’s house. ‘I love to hear the Poet,’ he said. ‘It is almost — like the hymn, to listen on such a night, and the eve of battle?’
Nicomedes rolled his eyes, and Philokles gave a snort, almost the bray of a donkey, and Ajax’s head went back in resentment.
‘The Poet knew war,’ Philokles said. ‘And he did not love it. He told a great tale — the tale of one man’s rage, and through that rage, the tale of what war is. Ajax, you are no longer a virgin.’ A rude chuckle from the fire. ‘War is madness, like the rage of Achilles.’
Ajax’s chin was still up, and his voice was strong. ‘Every man here made war today,’ he said. ‘You, Philokles, were a hero risen from the very lines of the Poet.’
Philokles stood up, and on his head sat the wreath, a crown of valour, and he seemed the tallest man at the fire, red and gold in the firelight. ‘War makes men beasts,’ he said. ‘I fight like a wise and cunning beast — a predator. I killed nine men today — or perhaps ten.’ He shrugged, and seemed to shrink. ‘A wolf might say as much. And a wolf would stop killing when his hunger was sated. Only a man kills without need.’
Ajax, stung, said, ‘If you hate it so, you need not fight!’
Philokles shook his head. The firelight played tricks with his face — his body was red and gold, but his face had black hollows for eyes, and his grin raised the hair on Kineas’s neck. ‘Hate it?’ he said through his grin. ‘Hate it? I love it like a drunkard loves wine — and like the drunkard, I prate about it when I’m sober.’ He turned away, and plunged through the circle into the darkness beyond.
Kineas followed on his heels. He followed the Spartan along the ridge, past a campfire of Olbian hoplites, and then another, and down the hill a ways, stumbling on the uneven ground in the dark until he saw the pale shape of his friend’s back settle. Philokles was sitting on a great rock that stuck up from the ground like an old man’s last tooth. Kineas sat next to him.
‘I am an ass,’ Philokles said.