Calchas was no hoplomachos – not just a fighting master. He didn't have a special dance to teach, nor were his lessons about the sword as organized as his lessons in writing. Rather, we'd be deep in a passage of the Iliad, and he would look up and make such a comment as I just made.
'Arimnestos?' he'd say. 'You know that if you hit a man often enough in precisely the same place in the helmet, his helmet will give way? And you'll spill his brains?'
I'd look at him, trying to imagine it. And then we'd go back to the Iliad.
There is a passage, late in the poem, when Achilles is still sulking and Hector rages among the Greeks. And several of the lesser heroes form a line, lock their shields and stop Hector's rush. I remember him singing that whole passage softly. The autumn light came in strongly through our horn window and dust motes floated in the shaft of light. When this happened, I liked to imagine that the gods were with us.
Calchas looked up, into the shaft of light, and his eyes were far away. 'That's how it is, when the lesser men seek to stop the better. You must lock your shield with your neighbour's, put your head down and refuse to take chances. Let the better man wear himself out against your shield. Poke hard with your spear to keep him at arm's length and refuse to leave the safety of the shield wall.' He shrugged. 'Pray to the gods that the killer finds other prey, or trips and falls, or that your own killers come and save you.'
'But you were one of the better men,' I said. 'You werea – a killer.'
Suddenly his eyes locked with mine and I could see him in his high-crested helm, his strong right arm pounding a lesser man's shield down, down, until he made the killing cut. I could see it as if I was there.
'Yes,' he said. 'I was a killer of men.' Then his eyes slipped away. I knew where he was – he was on a battlefield. 'I still am. Once you have been there, you can never leave.'
4
A sowing and a reaping, and another year. Animals died under my spear. I read all of Theognis from Mater's book and came to appreciate that grown men had sex with boys and grew jealous when they took other loves. And that aristocrats could be ill-tempered and avaricious like peasants.
You should read Theognis, my sweet. Just to understand that being well-born is a thing of no value.
I read Hesiod, too. I knew much of him by heart by now, of course. In Boeotia, he is our own poet, and we spurn mighty Homer so that we can love Hesiod better. Besides, his poems are for us – farmers. Is Achilles really a hero? He's as much of a bitch as Theognis, to my mind. Hector is the hero. And even he would not have made much of a farmer – well, perhaps I do mighty Hector wrong. Given a month of rain, Hector would not surrender or sulk in his barn.
I was bigger. I was stronger. I could throw a javelin farther and better than any boy my age in the valley, and Calchas was talking about the boys' games at places like Olympia.
Across the river, the farm grew richer. Every grape vine was trellised and trimmed, the apple trees had supports on the branches and all the new growth was excised in spring by what seemed to me to be a phalanx of slaves.
Miltiades' money could be seen everywhere in our community. Myron had two ploughs. Epictetus's younger son, Peneleos, went with the great man to fight, and his father bought a second farm for his older son. There was talk of his older son wedding Penelope when she turned twelve or thirteen.
Hermogenes was freed and joined his father as a man who worked for wage. All their family was freed now, and Bion made himself a helmet and a great bronze shield and was welcomed into the taxis. Not all freed men were so welcomed – but Bion was a special case.
I went with my brother and Hermogenes to watch the men dance at the festival of Ares. All of them had practised the dances since they were old enough to learn – twelve or thirteen, in most cases. And my father had done well by Bion, teaching him – something that I knew Pater did only with the quickest of learners. So Bion did not humiliate himself, although as a newly freed and enfranchised man, there were farmers eager to see him fail.
That's how men are, honey. Don't you know? With peasants, it is the same in Asia and Aegypt and Boeotia. They think there is much evil in the world and little good, and that one man's gain is another's loss. If Bion was free, then a free man would become a slave. So they whispered.
I watched them dance. I had seen it before – it was magnificent and made my blood run fast, two hundred men in bronze and leather, swaying in line, turning around, thrusting with their spears, parrying with their shields.
Two years and more on the mountain and I knew those moves better than the dancers. I watched with a critical eye – and, honey, there is nothing more critical than a boy of eleven.
It was also my brother's first year in the dance. He was well kitted, with a fine Corinthian helmet and a big shield to keep him safe in the storm of bronze. I watched him dance and thought he did it well enough, but the boy in me couldn't avoid criticism, so that night I asked him why he didn't change the weight on his feet when he went from defence to attack.
Of course he had no notion of what I was talking about, but only heard his younger brother finding fault. We wrestled in the barn – to a draw. I was weaker, but I knew quite a bit more. There's a lesson there, too. All my skill – and I had quite a bit of skill already – was not enough to match his longer reach and his smith's strength.
And even with my blood up, I wasn't fool enough to put a finger in his eye.
But the next day, he cut two poles and asked me to show him what I meant. So I showed him as Calchas showed me – how the movement of your hips reinforces the push of the spear or the rise of the shield. Chalkidis was no fool. No sooner did he see, than he was asking questions. And he took his questions to Pater. Pater came and watched us.
His eyes narrowed. 'I sent you up the mountain to learn to read and write,' he said. 'What is this?'
I was proud of my martial skills, so I showed him. I showed him the guards that Calchas taught and the spear attacks. I could hit my brother at will, although when I had the weight of a real aspis on my shoulder, I could barely move.
Pater shook his head. 'Foolishness,' he said. 'All you should do is keep your place in the shield wall. The rest is madness. The moment you lunge, the enemy to your right plunges his spear in your thigh. Or your neck. Every attack you make leaves your shield side uncovered. ' He shook his head. 'Calchas must stop teaching you this nonsense.'
'He is a great warrior,' I said hotly.
Pater looked at me as if really noticing me for the first time. 'There are no great warriors,' Pater said. 'There are great craftsmen, great sculptors, great poets. Sometimes, they must put a spear on their shoulder. But nothing about war is great.' Pater looked across the valley, towards the shrine. 'Your teacher is a broken man who keeps a shrine about which no man cares a whit. He teaches boys to read and he nurses old hatreds. I think that it is time I brought you home.'
'Many men care about the shrine!' I said. There were tears in my eyes.
Pater dusted his hands. 'Come,' he said.
We walked to the shrine. I argued, and Pater was silent. When we arrived, Pater ordered me to collect my things. And he went and spoke to Calchas alone.
I still know nothing of what they said to each other, but I never saw a frown or a harsh word. I collected my javelins, my spear 'Deer Killer', my scrolls and my bedroll. I put them on the donkey and went to kiss Calchas goodbye. He embraced me.