The Gates of Athens Page 30

  The trierarch looked to where Epikleos had climbed down to the hold.

  ‘If he prefers older men, I wonder…’

  Xanthippus waved a hand.

  ‘You do not need my permission. He is his own man. He is, however, my greatest friend and a Marathonomachos. He should be treated with the utmost courtesy.’

  ‘Of course!’ Ereius said.

  Xanthippus glanced at him and thought it was no accident Themistocles had placed him in the hands of such an experienced trierarch. Before the sun had moved on the horizon, he had seen every part of the ship and even hung off the prow to look down on the green ram cresting through foam below. The officers were then lined up to greet him, Epikleos grinning at one end. It seemed he was in charge of the hoplites on board, a small group of veterans, some of whom greeted Xanthippus almost in awe. They all knew Themistocles. If that man felt he needed Xanthippus so much he had to break an exile to bring him home, Xanthippus had to be extraordinary. As he was introduced to officers and hoplites, Xanthippus glanced back the way he had come. The ship of Themistocles was already lost to view in all the rest. He was alone, to learn.

  The rowing crews were brought up one by one onto the narrow deck: the thranitai, who rowed on the highest level, the zygioi of the middle seats and the thalamioi, who rowed in the deepest part of the hold and were said to suffer most in rough seas. Xanthippus took their hands with a quick grin and a dry grip. They were all free men of Athens. Many would have stood on the Pnyx to hear discussions. Perhaps some had even voted for his return, he told himself. He tried not to think that some of the older ones could just as easily have voted for him to be ostracised. They were a burly-looking group, with powerful shoulders and grips of iron, so that even his soldier’s hand felt mangled and sore before the last of them had gone past. Still, their strength pleased him. His life depended on their endurance.

  When the formal greetings were over, the crew resumed their duties. Ereius was chuckling as he took Xanthippus by the hand and crushed it once more, a clasp hardly less strong than the Spartan the day before. Though his fingers were pale and bruised, Xanthippus took an odd pride in that. Epikleos had lingered and the trierarch had not sent him away to his duties.

  ‘I understand this is all new to you, strategos,’ Ereius said. ‘Don’t worry about the ship. My little bird will go wherever we want her to – and these lads are the best afloat. Some of the new Athenian crews have slaves rowing them now. Mine are first pick, well trained. They know their orders. You’ll see.’

  Xanthippus wished he felt the same confidence. For that matter, he wished he knew the first thing about war at sea.

  He glanced at Epikleos. At least there was one he could trust completely.

  ‘On the orders of Themistocles, I am to select ninety ships, trierarch. My intention is to gather them in groups of no more than six, to work together.’

  The captain’s sudden frown cleared at that part.

  ‘Six, even twelve would be hard enough, strategos. Ninety is… I do not want to say “impossible” to a man I have been told to teach as fast as anything I’ve ever done. Do you understand? I’ve fought sea actions against Aegina in the past, with dozens of ships on the water at the same time. As soon as battle begins, it’s every crew for themselves. The best ones win, or the luckiest, or the most blessed by the favour of the gods. The rest are rammed and sunk – or boarded, which some say is a worse fate.’

  Xanthippus nodded to show he understood, hiding his frustration. Without the chance to speak to Epikleos in private – if there was even such a place on a trireme – he had no idea if Ereius was one of those who took pleasure in being an obstruction, or whether maintaining command in a fleet action of hundreds of ships was truly impossible. Without knowing the man a little better, it was hard to tell.

  Themistocles had brought him back from exile, as a strategos he could trust. Xanthippus could understand that. At Marathon, Miltiades had needed Aristides, Themistocles, Xanthippus himself and half a dozen others. Some had died in the years since. Others had been ostracised by the Assembly and never come home. Xanthippus clenched his jaw at the thought. They were sorely missed. Good strategoi were rare. Their presence meant an archon could shore up a weakening line, or resist a sudden flanking attack. He could move ranks in his imagination and see the grand scheme carried out.

  Xanthippus did not know if the same rules applied at sea. He understood he would have to learn as fast as a bright boy, just to be of use. He prayed to Athena he would never have to choose between orders from this captain, the Spartan who thought he led the fleet – and Themistocles, who clearly did.

  ‘Trierarch Ereius,’ Xanthippus said formally. ‘Back in Athens, I’ve seen codes and messages sent by torch pattern, right across the city, using shields where holes have been punched in the skin.’

  ‘That might be all right from the Acropolis or the Pnyx, strategos. Wouldn’t work in the daylight, though, not at sea. And we don’t sail at night, not ever.’

  There was definitely a hint of pleasure in the man’s obstinacy, Xanthippus could see it now. Perhaps Themistocles had sent him to Ereius to instruct as well as to learn.

  ‘Have a look at the other galleys, strategos,’ the captain went on.

  He took Xanthippus by the arm and Xanthippus let himself be guided to the bare edge, though the hissing sea rushed by and seemed appallingly close. Not for the first time, Xanthippus wondered if a railing wouldn’t be a fine idea.

  ‘See how low they are on the waves, strategos,’ Ereius said, ‘how they rise and fall. We can approach the enemy abreast, in a line, or in files if the width of sea is too constricted. That works well to protect our flanks. But when the fighting starts, it becomes chaos, strategos. I’ve seen it.’

  The implication was that Xanthippus had not. It was all the more irritating for being true.

  ‘Just yesterday, Trierarch Ereius,’ he said, ‘I saw a boat summoned with a banner held high on a spear. Such things are possible, if you have the will.’

  ‘That boat must have been waiting nearby, strategos…’ the man began.

  Xanthippus spoke over him, his voice growing hard. He had no time to be gentle, though it lost him the man’s friendship.

  ‘If you do not have the will, I will relieve you immediately from your post, Ereius. I will call a boat for you and send you to the rear, to wait out the day’s manoeuvres. At sunset, when we return to the port of Piraeus, I will have you dropped on shore to walk into the city, alone. Do you have family there? Then you will explain to them why you were left behind, while the fleet sails against a terrible enemy.’

  ‘I don’t… Themistocles…’ Ereius tried to begin.

  Xanthippus raised his voice another notch and went on.

  ‘Themistocles appointed me. That is the end of his involvement. Now, if I have no faith in your ability to follow my orders, I have no choice but to return you to Athens in disgrace. I will lose your experience and not look back. Do you understand me?’

  The trierarch’s face had lost its jolly expression and become flushed as Xanthippus spoke. The captain nodded sharply, though he was already opening his mouth to continue his objections. Xanthippus raised a finger and watched the man’s mouth close with a snap. Epikleos was staring at nothing, his face blank as he waited in intense discomfort for the clash of wills to end.

  Xanthippus smothered his own dismay at the turn the conversation had taken. Regardless of his lack of sea knowledge, he had no time to be liked, nor to persuade a trierarch who honestly thought he was master on his own ship.

  ‘We serve, Ereius, you and I, at the order of the Assembly,’ he said coldly. ‘An Assembly which is here, all around us, rowing these galleys! I know my people, Ereius. I know they are ingenious. So indulge me, as a hoplite, as a soldier, would you? Without scorn, without ridicule. Is that clear? Or shall I take command?’

  Xanthippus was not completely sure what that would entail, or even whether he could enforce that order with a crew that
were presumably loyal to the red-faced and trembling man standing before him. Yet he showed no sign of weakness as he waited for his answer.

  After an age, the trierarch dipped his head again.

  ‘Please don’t take my ship from me,’ Ereius said. ‘This little bird is all I have.’

  Xanthippus turned him with a hand on his shoulder, putting the ill-feeling behind them. He would not fight a battle more than once, not if he had fought it well. Instead, he looked up to the sail that billowed overhead, held by ropes so taut they seemed like iron.

  ‘I want to try signals on the masts…’ He paused as Ereius began to turn towards him. ‘Yes, I know – masts are unstepped in battle and laid down in the hold, or even abandoned on shore to save the weight. Even so. I want to establish the principle – a few simple signals with banners flying at our greatest height. I was returned early from exile to serve my city. Let us find out if there is any advantage in my being here!’

  He allowed the trierarch to retreat, heading off to give the orders. Epikleos chuckled when Xanthippus turned to him. He expected criticism, but Epikleos only shrugged.

  ‘He knows now that you will not bend. Fine, he needed to understand that. Trierarch Ereius is a good man, Xan, however. The crew work hard to please him and he runs a tight ship. You’ll see.’

  Xanthippus nodded, though he felt colour come to his cheeks. He wondered if he would find the right balance in his manner, or whether he would just continue to humiliate and break honourable men.

  37

  The fleet that returned to the Piraeus at sunset was exhausted. It showed in the rounded shoulders of rowers as their triremes reached a berth and were tied on. In shadowy groups, they trudged across walkways to the stone quays, heads down, looking for food, wine and blessed sleep. Thousands began the walk into Athens, murmuring and laughing, meeting friends and comparing experiences. Without orders, unconsciously, those who had spent the day in formations under Xanthippus drifted alongside one another. They had watched for his flag signals all day, raised on masts or long Athenian spears. At that point, there were still only two – cobbled together from the main colours they had been able to find while at sea. ‘Attack’ was red, with a piece of cloth formed from an old Spartan cloak. At least one white robe had been torn into a hundred strips to signal ‘form the line’. All the men knew Xanthippus had sent boats to Themistocles looking for a blue cloak, but either there was no such thing to be had or, more likely, the owner preferred to keep it whole and himself warm.

  No doubt the city would provide other colours to signal ‘retreat’, or perhaps ‘slow approach’, or any one of a dozen other possibilities. Half the conversations in that slowly moving group of weary men were about the orders it was even possible to give at sea, over great distances. On land, Xanthippus may have been a battle veteran – hoplite and strategos. At sea, he’d had to discover from first principles what could be done. He had driven them hard all day as he learned. They spoke his name with pride despite their exhaustion, the Athenian who had come back from exile, who cried ‘Again!’ over and over until he was satisfied. Those crews had followed his orders from dawn till dusk, without complaint.

  As darkness came, light and laughter bloomed in the taverns in the port and across the city. Forty or fifty thousand men all looking for wine and a meal made Athens raucous for a few hours. Little by little, peace returned as they fell into snoring sleep, in chairs, on benches, sometimes on the street itself, with street dogs curling alongside them for warmth.

  * * *

  Xanthippus could see some of the captains yawning as they took their seats, setting off others around them, so that the hands raised to open mouths spread in ripples. The council building was busy that night, but there was also impatience in the air. Themistocles and Eurybiades had summoned them there, while their men had the luxury of simple sleep and comfort, their labours forgotten for a night.

  Xanthippus took a seat facing the benches, alongside the Spartan navarch and Themistocles. He felt the Spartan’s gaze crawl over him, whether in challenge or simple interest he could not be certain. Either way, Xanthippus had earned his right to be present in that room. His formations had worked themselves to complete collapse all day, but the results were being discussed in every tavern in Athens.

  Cimon entered in a noisier group of captains at the back of the council hall, wearing his youth like a brand in comparison to all the older men hardly able to remain awake. Xanthippus watched as the young Athenian strolled down the central aisle and took one of the seats reserved for senior officers. Cimon seemed oblivious to the stir it caused, so that Xanthippus readied himself to speak in his defence. The young man had worked as hard as anyone that day. His authority had showed in the sharp responses of his twelve, darting across the waters like fierce predators. More than once, Cimon’s ships had caught and pinned those Xanthippus had made ‘enemy’ for an action. His dozen triremes were as fast and disciplined as any other group in the fleet.

  The Spartan Eurybiades shifted in his seat and made a sour expression, but he chose to chew his own lip rather than speak in complaint. He had seen his Spartan ships ‘killed’ more than once, forced to turn onto rams they could not avoid. His own flagship had been hemmed in twice, unable to get free. It did not matter that he had not formally yielded; they knew. He had not enjoyed the experience of cheering Athenians. Still, he made no objection to Cimon’s presence alongside, though the young man had yet to see thirty summers. It did not hurt that Cimon was broad-shouldered and dark with black hair down his arms and chest. He was every inch his father’s son.

  When they were all present, over three hundred trierarchs had been crammed into that meeting hall. Almost two hundred were from Athens, but for the rest, the Agora that ran alongside and the Acropolis that loomed above were places of legend, almost, like the sanctuary to Apollo at Delphi or the flanks of Mount Olympus. A full moon sailed above the city, bathing her in pale grey. Some of the men looked in awe through stone columns across a city they knew only by reputation – Athena’s own.

  Themistocles had found time to bathe and change into a white robe that left his right shoulder bare. His hair was still wet. Most of the other men still wore ship tunics, cloaks and sandals, though the air was thicker and warmer in the city. In comparison, Eurybiades and his sixteen Spartans still wore breastplates over long tunics and the famous red cloaks, bare thighs revealed as they sat together. Facing them, Xanthippus wrapped and unwrapped his hand in a fold of the robe Agariste had found for him, dyed a pale blue. It would be torn up and distributed the following day. He had not intended her to come herself, but his runner had brought her to the council building. They had stolen a kiss there, while some of the other men whistled and made her blush. She still waited outside, with Epikleos to guarantee her safety. Xanthippus knew his friend would defend her honour with his life. There would be no trouble for a woman out after dark, not that night.

  ‘Navarch, archons, trierarchs…’ Themistocles began, looking around until he was sure he had their complete attention. ‘It is my honour to play host tonight in Athens. Would you address them, Eurybiades?’

  The Spartan had obviously expected the invitation. He stood and nodded to the fleet captains as Themistocles sat down. Xanthippus looked over in surprise, but it seemed Themistocles was determined to treat the man with honour.

  ‘The Persians have not sprung our crews waiting for their advance, not yet,’ Eurybiades began. ‘When word does come, we will have three or four days – at most – to sail north and hit them. Each dawn before then is a gift of the gods, to train, to grow fit.’

  He half-turned to Xanthippus, considering his words. Xanthippus stared back as if carved from stone and Themistocles moved uncomfortably.

  ‘I have seen new flag signals of red and white being used today. These are to cease. They are a distraction in battle – and I will not allow my captains to be distracted.’

  Xanthippus stood up quickly.

  ‘Navarch, the resul
ts have been…’

  The Spartan talked over him as if he had remained silent.

  ‘There is only one order in battle, at least for us. When the Persian fleet is sighted, we must approach and engage. Our task is to sink, board or burn. I will not play the battlefield at sea. In fact…’

  ‘In fact, Eurybiades, you command the fleet,’ Themistocles said, the richness of his best Assembly voice filling that place. He patted the air near Xanthippus, who sat down reluctantly, fuming. ‘Though I think this is an internal matter for the ships of Athens. I witnessed a dozen small group actions today – one ship caught by three, a clear “kill” as they worked together. I believe you were involved in one or two yourself.’

  He bit his lip for a moment as the Spartan glared at him. Xanthippus knew Themistocles would choose his words carefully. In that, he was the veteran and the Spartan was just a newborn. Even so, Eurybiades was as stubborn as all the men of his city.

  ‘If the order is always simply “attack”,’ Themistocles went on, ‘why have leaders and officers at all?’ Themistocles spread his hands in simple appeal. ‘Navarch, you command the fleet, but this is a matter for Athenian captains, I think. Forbid the tactic to your Spartan crews, of course, but from what I witnessed today, Athens sees the value in smaller formations – and the signals between them. I hope we can depend on your wisdom in this.’

  Themistocles sat down as if the point had been settled. He looked over the group and appeared to be selecting another trierarch to speak. Eurybiades stood still and Xanthippus shook his head in irritation. The Spartan was wreathed in his own fury, growing redder by the moment.

  ‘If that is your final word…’ Eurybiades began.

  To his surprise, the archon of the Corinthian ships called out over him.

  ‘Corinth stands with Athens, Eurybiades. They pinned my crews today six times, just by calling in, or scattering – some flag signals they had devised themselves. It worked, which is what matters. I would know more of those.’