Christian Cameron - The Great King

I pointed with my spear at the enemy centre. ‘Starboard,’ I said.

Nicolas had the port side reverse benches so that we turned in ten paces, and as the turn started, the starboard-side rowers picked up their cushions and turned, so that, as we faced south into the enemy centre, all our rowers were again facing aft, and rowing forward — and the stroke never faltered.

I could tell you stories of the next hour, but they would be lies.

Twice, I was able to rest my rowers. Once, after we were boarded from three ships — Aegyptians, with their fine marines, and I was only saved when Harpagos slew the biggest ship and put his marines into the rear of the men on my deck.

We just lay on our oars or knelt on the deck in the blood of our enemies and breathed.

And the second time was later, when we saw Eurybiades oar bank to oar bank with a ship that appeared to be made of gold — one of the Ionian tyrants. The Spartan thought the man must be the navarch of navarchs and went for him. I led my son on to the enemy deck, boarding on their undefended side, and ran for the back of the enemy marine line.

Two strides from the enemy, my chosen prey turned.

I slipped in the entrails of a dead man, and before I could recover my balance, a dying Spartan, taking me for the enemy, grabbed at my ankle, and down I went.

Hipponax stood over me. He thrust, he cut, he jumped on his wounded leg and danced like a flute girl — and men died.

I got a spear in my crest that wrenched my neck, but I stumbled to my feet, and watched my son kill.

And then, when he made a mistake, I reached over his shoulder and put my spear in a man’s eyeholes, and put a hand on his shoulder, and Eurybiades came and smiled at us.

We were almost in the centre of the line.

That time, we rested, watching the battle and helping no one, for almost as long as the oration of a dull man.

In that time, I saw Dagon’s ship.

He’d moved rowers about, put oars in empty oarlocks, and he was creeping away. He was not alone — wounded ships on both sides were leaving the fight.

I had had ten minutes to watch. There were huge holes in the allied fleet.

But again, the Great King’s fleet had had the worst of it, and was retreating, and Eurybiades and Themistocles were on them — the Peloponnesians and the Athenians and the Aeginians found their second wind, and I limped down the length of my ship to where Hermogenes stood with an arrow in his bicep.

‘You have to take the oars,’ he said.

Brasidas got him free of the leather harness.

I was back to being a helmsman. My helmet burned my brow, my plume hurt my head every time the wind caught it, my armour weighed like the world on the shoulders of Atlas, my hips had developed a strange new pain and I had a wound somehow under my right greave, which was cutting a bloody groove in the top of my foot.

I was better off than many.

‘Friends!’ I roared. Perhaps I squeaked it, but it was loud in my ears. ‘The day is ours. Now — we can rest on our oars, or we can go and help the Athenians finish the Great King’s fleet.’

One of the old salts laughed. ‘Easy, mate — I’ll rest here.’

Other men laughed, too.

‘By Poseidon!’ I roared, with a little of my old battle lust. ‘Then help me get my revenge!’

The old man cackled and flexed his muscles, and in that moment he was like Poseidon himself — old and solid.

‘Revenge, is it?’ he said. He cracked his hands, spat on his palms, and took his oar.

Men around him shook themselves as if they were coming awake.

Men understand revenge. It is easier than patriotism or love or strategy or tactics or even the rough world of consequence.

And revenge is a universal language.

I left the oars to walk the deck. ‘Most of you know I was a slave,’ I said. ‘The man who made me a slave and tried to break my body lies yonder, and there is nothing between me and him but five stades of water.’

Maybe I should make more speeches.

I got between the steering oars and aimed us astern of Dagon’s ship.

And now I had the bit in my teeth.

We passed another Phoenician, wallowing with a bank of dead oarsmen. Easy pickings, and we passed her by. And a Carian full of men who had probably once been my allies — they could scarcely row, and we passed them hand over fist, because of revenge. My oarsmen were heroes, the very Argonauts themselves, and we swept east, the sun under our quarter. I had time to drink some water, to pour more over the wound under my greave, time to take my son’s greave strap — his wound had opened. Greave straps are padded rolls of leather you wear on your ankles — fashionable Athenian boys wear them to parties now.

I walked forward, feeling better. Like a man who had fought hand to hand every day for four days. I spared a thought for the allied army, who would be fighting the Persians again in rotation.

Well, we hadn’t lost. Again. Even as I turned my head, the Ionians in the centre gave in and bolted, and suddenly the Great King’s fleet was running for their beaches.

Only as we closed on Dagon did it strike me that we had won.

But I was not done.

Dagon’s ship ran.

We ate her lead. Three stades, then two, then one. Ka and his men were shooting into the wind, but Dagon had no archers at all.

A hundred paces from Dagon’s stern, I made them stop shooting. I turned to Brasidas.

‘This thing is mine,’ I said. ‘Do not touch him.’

He shrugged and looked pained. In truth, he was too great a man to understand why I needed to kill one opponent, much less one already beaten. But he nodded.

‘And if you fall?’ he asked.

‘See to my son,’ I said. ‘Oh, and kill the bastard. He has it coming.’

‘Why not let me kill him now, then?’ asked Ka.

Hector stood at my shoulder. He smiled.

Hipponax said, ‘I want to come,’ and we all said ‘no’ together, and then — then our marine box started to come alongside his helm station.

Ka leaned out and killed the helmsman. Just like that.

Dagon’s ship yawed, and we slammed into its side. I fell flat — not ready for the collision — and so did Brasidas.

‘Don’t kill any more oarsmen,’ I said. I got to my feet, put my right foot on our gunwale, and had a moment of sheer fear.

Of Dagon.

Of the leap.

Of old age, and being diminished.

And then I jumped.

Once, I had faced Dagon naked, and another time, with a bucket.

Now, I finally faced him on a steady deck, with a spear and an aspis.

Brasidas landed on the deck behind me, and Hector, and Siberios.

‘Ready, Dagon?’ I asked.

He was a big man, and his thighs were like a bull’s, and his arms were as big as my thighs. His spear was red, and he didn’t grunt when he threw it.

He was right behind it, his sword emerging from his scabbard. .

I threw. He hadn’t expected it, and my throw caught him where the crest meets the helmet, and snapped his head back.

I drew, the underhand cut the Spartans had taught me — and I cut to the right, inside his shield, and scored on his naked arm inside his aspis — and I stepped to the left, pivoted, and slammed my aspis at him.

No matter how strong you are, you cannot block an aspis with a sword.

He put his head down, so my following cut — pivoting and stepping again, as Polymarchos taught — didn’t kill him, but went into his crest, and half of it fell to the deck, and he shouted and got a cut on my left thigh.

I pushed my right hand home. Herakles, he was strong. But my feet were planted and my footing was good, and my sword was against his helmet, pushing.

He rolled and cut at my feet from behind.

I slammed my aspis into his sword. He rolled from under the blow and got to his feet.