Ajax seemed ready to take his place with the heroes of the Iliad - a place accorded to him by every trooper in the hippeis.
But after three days of hearing his son praised and drinking wine, Isokles pushed his way into where Kineas was surrounded by his staff, reading lists of goods to be shipped with his little army, and exploded like a nest of wasps hurled on to the floor.
‘He didn’t need to be a hero!’ Isokles shouted without preamble.
Diodorus sprang to his feet - Isokles had the gait and the look of a madman, his eyes were wild and he had a sword.
Kineas put a hand on his friend’s sword arm. ‘It is grief,’ he said.
Isokles was yelling, the sword almost forgotten as he shouldered his way towards Kineas. ‘He was handsome and young! He was well loved, smart enough at business! I sent him to you for a single summer, to knock the foolishness from his head, and he is dead . Dead for ever! Dead in a war that was nothing to him!’ Niceas grabbed him from behind, pinning his arms, but Isokles thrashed, nearly breaking Niceas’s grip - not an easy thing to do. Philokles tackled him around the waist and Isokles hammered his elbow into the Spartan’s face, breaking his nose in a fountain of blood.
‘You killed him! All of you, with your talk of glory and honour!’ Isokles spat the words glory and honour like poison.
Kineas considered reason. He had warned Isokles that his son might die, a year or more ago at a pleasant symposium in Tomis. But Isokles was beyond reason. And although Kineas had a lifetime of practice at watching those he loved die, and moving on, the death of the golden Ajax had cut at him too, so that he could seldom pass the room where the man’s body lay wrapped in linen without touching it or shedding a tear.
‘We all loved him,’ Kineas said quietly.
‘If you loved him he wouldn’t be dead. ’ Isokles came to a stop in the middle of the room, with Niceas pinning his arms and Philokles, his face a mask of blood, hanging gamely around his waist. ‘You used him for his heroism like other men use a prostitute for her sex.’ He wept bitterly.
That was a charge that bit deeply. Ajax’s relentless heroism had been a foundation of the daimon of the hippeis.
Kineas was silent. He didn’t have an answer for Isokles’ grief, and he felt the justice of the man’s charges. He had never wanted to take Ajax, but he had wanted the boy’s youth and enthusiasm for his company and for his own morale.
Isokles had stopped struggling now. He stood in the middle of the barracks floor, weeping. ‘All of you have stories of his heroism. He might have died in any of them. You revelled in it - you stood back and watched as he threw himself at death.’
Niceas was right at Isokles’ ear - he had the man’s arms from behind. ‘Your son was a great man,’ he said. ‘But you’re a fucking idiot.’ He took a deep breath. Isokles sagged in his grasp. ‘We told your son every day to keep his head down and stop pushing himself at the gods.’ Niceas’s voice broke, and he, too, began to weep. ‘How many times?’ he cried, as he shook the father. ‘How many times did I tell him to watch his own back and mind his place in line?’
‘The night before the great battle,’ Philokles said, his nasal consonants broken like his nose, ‘Kineas told him to grow up and stop acting like an idiot.’
Leon, who had known the boy in a different way, spoke with the hesitation of a former slave. ‘My master - Nicomedes - asked him many times to take care.’
‘If Nicomedes were alive, I would kill him,’ Isokles said. ‘He bears the responsibility above all.’
Philokles, who had worn the wreath as the army’s hero himself, rose to his feet. ‘He burned very bright,’ he said. ‘He burned bright in virtue and honour and died young, and he will live for ever with the gods.’
Isokles, turned sane and grief-wracked eyes on him, the orbs white stele in the red wreck of his face. ‘Keep your
But after three days of hearing his son praised and drinking wine, Isokles pushed his way into where Kineas was surrounded by his staff, reading lists of goods to be shipped with his little army, and exploded like a nest of wasps hurled on to the floor.
‘He didn’t need to be a hero!’ Isokles shouted without preamble.
Diodorus sprang to his feet - Isokles had the gait and the look of a madman, his eyes were wild and he had a sword.
Kineas put a hand on his friend’s sword arm. ‘It is grief,’ he said.
Isokles was yelling, the sword almost forgotten as he shouldered his way towards Kineas. ‘He was handsome and young! He was well loved, smart enough at business! I sent him to you for a single summer, to knock the foolishness from his head, and he is dead . Dead for ever! Dead in a war that was nothing to him!’ Niceas grabbed him from behind, pinning his arms, but Isokles thrashed, nearly breaking Niceas’s grip - not an easy thing to do. Philokles tackled him around the waist and Isokles hammered his elbow into the Spartan’s face, breaking his nose in a fountain of blood.
‘You killed him! All of you, with your talk of glory and honour!’ Isokles spat the words glory and honour like poison.
Kineas considered reason. He had warned Isokles that his son might die, a year or more ago at a pleasant symposium in Tomis. But Isokles was beyond reason. And although Kineas had a lifetime of practice at watching those he loved die, and moving on, the death of the golden Ajax had cut at him too, so that he could seldom pass the room where the man’s body lay wrapped in linen without touching it or shedding a tear.
‘We all loved him,’ Kineas said quietly.
‘If you loved him he wouldn’t be dead. ’ Isokles came to a stop in the middle of the room, with Niceas pinning his arms and Philokles, his face a mask of blood, hanging gamely around his waist. ‘You used him for his heroism like other men use a prostitute for her sex.’ He wept bitterly.
That was a charge that bit deeply. Ajax’s relentless heroism had been a foundation of the daimon of the hippeis.
Kineas was silent. He didn’t have an answer for Isokles’ grief, and he felt the justice of the man’s charges. He had never wanted to take Ajax, but he had wanted the boy’s youth and enthusiasm for his company and for his own morale.
Isokles had stopped struggling now. He stood in the middle of the barracks floor, weeping. ‘All of you have stories of his heroism. He might have died in any of them. You revelled in it - you stood back and watched as he threw himself at death.’
Niceas was right at Isokles’ ear - he had the man’s arms from behind. ‘Your son was a great man,’ he said. ‘But you’re a fucking idiot.’ He took a deep breath. Isokles sagged in his grasp. ‘We told your son every day to keep his head down and stop pushing himself at the gods.’ Niceas’s voice broke, and he, too, began to weep. ‘How many times?’ he cried, as he shook the father. ‘How many times did I tell him to watch his own back and mind his place in line?’
‘The night before the great battle,’ Philokles said, his nasal consonants broken like his nose, ‘Kineas told him to grow up and stop acting like an idiot.’
Leon, who had known the boy in a different way, spoke with the hesitation of a former slave. ‘My master - Nicomedes - asked him many times to take care.’
‘If Nicomedes were alive, I would kill him,’ Isokles said. ‘He bears the responsibility above all.’
Philokles, who had worn the wreath as the army’s hero himself, rose to his feet. ‘He burned very bright,’ he said. ‘He burned bright in virtue and honour and died young, and he will live for ever with the gods.’
Isokles, turned sane and grief-wracked eyes on him, the orbs white stele in the red wreck of his face. ‘Keep your
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