The Great King by Christian Cameron Page B

at him. ‘You’ve hauled ropes, raised tents – you have been a pleasure to have aboard. So please consider camping with us, and you’ll have two hundred fans to cheer you when you run.’
    Polymarchos nodded. ‘That’s no small offer – men from Italy never have anyone to cheer them.’
    The young man bowed. ‘I am honoured.’
    And they were off to the temple. I held it in his favour that he helped us with the camp before he went to face the wrath of the judges.
    I went with Brasidas to get a cup of wine, and we were shocked to find that our canvas taverna had a line threading out of the door and all the way to the edge of the camp, with men pushing and shoving.
    For complex reasons – reasons that this story will touch on, if you stay – it was one of the most crowded Olympiads in anyone’s memory, and wine was already in short supply, three days before the first event was due to be run, and a day before the priests would burn the preliminary offerings. We had sixty big-bellied amphorae, and another six of oil, and we were charging what I considered a fair price that would gain us a large profit, and here were a thousand men, give or take, waiting in line for a cup of wine, with men joining the line so fast that in the time I take to tell this, another fifteen had joined the line behind Brasidas.
    Several places behind me was a handsome young boy with dark skin and slightly slanted eyes. Those eyes were not common on the Inner Sea, and I knew him immediately. I smiled. ‘Ganymede come to life,’ I called out. Other men turned and looked, and the boy flushed. He was Cimon’s hypaspist – a freeman, now, but originally purchased as a slave somewhere in the Chersonnese.
    He bowed. ‘Lord Arimnestos,’ he said.
    I shrugged. ‘You are not a pais any more, and you needn’t call any man lord,’ I said. ‘How is your master? Is all well?’
    ‘He will be the better for knowing that you rode the storm and lived,’ he said. ‘I should go and tell him, but he was most insistent on a cup of wine. There is none to be had except a very bad local wine.’ He looked almost tragically concerned, as young men are when they have been sent on errands.
    I laughed. ‘Please tell Cimon that I will make sure he has wine, if only he’ll come and drink with me. Go – I’ll wait.’
    The boy bowed and ran off.
    I turned to Brasidas. ‘You don’t think power has gone to Alexandros’ head and he’ll refuse us more than one cup?’
    Brasidas smiled. But his smile was the only answer I got.
    We waited as long as it takes a man to deliver the whole of his accusation in a law court – the sun sank appreciably behind the shoulder of the mountain – before we made it to the front of the line.
    One of Ka’s archers – the wounded man, Ata – was sitting cross-legged at a low table. He nodded without looking at us. ‘A drachma a cup – lordy. It’s the trierarch!’ He shot to his feet as he looked up and realised he was addressing me.
    Brasidas smiled.
    I leaned over the low table. ‘We’re charging a drachma a cup ?’
    Alexandros grinned. ‘Yes, sir!’ His smile faltered. ‘We’re making a fortune, sir.’
    I shook my head. ‘We’re not so greedy, gentlemen. Cut the price in half. Save six amphorae for our own use.’
    Men behind me in the line cheered.
    ‘Or double the price, and help fund the war against the Medes,’ said a voice by my right ear, and there was Cimon. ‘I’m a rich man and a eupatrid, and despite that, I considered leaving the temple precincts to run down the coast and buy any wine I could. Even if such behaviour is undignified.’ He smiled at my pais, Hector. ‘Handsome boy. Slave? I remember seeing him on the beach with you.’
    I shook my head. ‘Free. The son of a friend. A citizen of Syracusa.’
    Cimon inclined his head. ‘Forgive my use of the term pais, young man.’
    My hypaspist, Hector, had been silent since the death of his father, and life on board ship – where he was