So Lykomedes chose his words one by one and went slowly on. “Such helots over there below Ithome are just tribes. They will go at each other with iron once their Spartan muzzle is ripped off. Yes, yes, I supported this war to end Sparta. But the second thoughts always run the wiser. Second thoughts I have plenty as I see my friends in their pride call for endless war and far-fetched ideas about democracy for savages, fueled by the theorems of my former master Pythagoras and a perennial war that allies cannot agree on.”
Most hoplites from Arkadia backed off when they saw some of the Argives push forward, and went back to haggling over booty as they prepared to go home. But Lykomedes was oblivious to the growing throng of the Argive killers who shoved their way forward to the campfires, as if they were pushing their way in the phalanx to get at a Spartan king. The general of the Argive Epiteles had nodded to the well-born in his midst to press ahead, the aristocratic killers that were the sword’s edge of his phalanx. They were the professional hoplites of the One Thousand of Argos, who were in armor in the front row of the crowd and began to jeer and spit as Lykomedes went on.
Lykomedes continued his shouting to the assembled captains of the alliance. “So do not let Epaminondas spoil our work in Sparta by turning our thoughts to Messenia. Just because he cannot storm the acropolis of the Spartans, that is no reason to try to regain our reputation in an accursed land-one that would soon be our graveyard.”
Ainias sat in gloom among the hopla as Lykomedes droned on. He was leaning on a pile of shields and breastplates, murmuring to Melon-tiring of this war after the death of Proxenos. Not one dead Spartan, not one live helot was worth the life of his friend-even though he had long feared his aristocratic Proxenos was not quite up to the bloodletting, to what a Chion or Epiteles had to do to break the backs of the Spartans. Ainias had not washed or cut his hair or trimmed his beard or changed his clothes since the death of Proxenos. He promised that he would not until he neared his widow’s estate on the Asopos far home to the north. But he stood by his Theban friends. He leaned over to Melon. “Our boar-tooth Lykomedes is the perfect balance weight, neither with us nor against us. See how he charts out his distance, seven measures from Sparta and five from us.” He had never liked Lykomedes, but Ainias had never wanted to go all the way to Messenia, either.
Melon nodded. His bad leg hurt, not surprisingly, for he had not marched this much since the time of his wound at Koroneia well more than twenty summers earlier. He got up nonetheless and tossed an empty scabbard over at the feet of Ainias in disgust. “I wish Lykomedes were such a clever sort. But yes, it is only about gold. His belly rules his head. His table costs more than his silver tongue can feed. I hear he has eaten himself the hindquarters of many a goat in the halls of his new Mantineia.” But then Melon cheered up and pointed to the thousand Argives who had swarmed forward to the speakers silhouetted by the campfires. “Look, Ainias. I’d rather have one of those spearmen than ten Mantineians. We have a thousand by their look, and another myriad behind them, every one a match for a Spartan and nearly as good as ourselves.”
The Theban Sacred Band joined the Argive Thousand. In fear, a groan rose among the elders of the Arkadians and Mantineians that the northerners would kill their Lykomedes this very night, as he slunk off into the shadows. Nonetheless, Sinon, the olive picker and demagogue of Mantineia, nodded at his master Lykomedes. He was the right fist after the left jab of Lykomedes and pointed at Pelopidas and also swung at Epaminondas. “Your work is done, Theban. Declare victory. Set up another trophy with another horse and rider in bronze. The great city of Megalopolis is about done. With Mantineia you have your two democratic fetters of Hellas to keep chained the defeated Spartan beast. After all, it is we the neighbor, not you the distant foreigner, who must keep the Spartan animal in our nets.”
“I need three fetters, Sinon, not two,” Epaminondas yelled out to the throng. “With chains, not webbing, for a monster like Agesilaos.”
Sinon stood up again. It was clearer in the firelight that he was a plump sort, with soft hands and a shape like some shadow-tail squirrel whose back legs were twice the girth of his tiny claws in the front. He gestured nervously to the audience, as if he were gnawing on a winter nut. He was not as good a speaker as Backwash of Aulis but he was a braver sort who wished to humiliate Epaminondas, not just to abandon him. “Lords of Boiotia, you can vote as well, either to face a stoning in Thebes, since the new year will be upon you in three days-or to face death with the helots when the Spartans break out of the blockade and go on to hit your backsides as you march to your west.” A roar followed. But heads were already turned back from Sinon-who had six large bags of Spartan gold from the agents of Agesilaos in the bottom of his wagon beneath the tiles. The sudden noise was not approval for Lykomedes from the Mantineians or the Eleans on news of their departure in the morning but rather wonder at the shaggy man who entered the arena and stood next to Epaminondas.
Hundreds were pressing toward the center as the mob contracted and then surged around Lykomedes, who desperately tried to break out. This new intruder looked more like a wild Epiriot than a man of civilized Argos, with unkempt beard and hair-and a long, dirty leather under-jerkin beneath his bronze that fell beneath his knees. The Argive Thousand in the front yelled out, “Kill him, Epiteles. Kill them all, Epiteles. Epiteles.” He pushed aside Sinon as he entered and sent the wide-butt onto his backside. Lykomedes stepped back, but the wild man hit him, too, harder than he had Sinon. A black cape covered the heavy bronze armor of Epiteles, with full greaves, shoulder and arm guards, and a Korinthian helmet of the masters with a black sideways crest, officer style, slung back on his head. The brute, with a crossed eye, appeared a near twin to the Tanagran Philliadas. He was as ugly as Lichas himself, though evil was not quite in his look. No wonder the Argives called him “Torn Dog.” Yet he spoke like a rhetor, not a brawler, and he was as careful in speech as he was rough in look.
“I am Epiteles of Argos. I claim myself polemarchos of the Argives for the year to come. We Argives, seven thousand strong and more, we have voted ourselves last night. We march west to finish the war. Go home in peace, you men of the middle Peloponnesos. We were never folk like you Arkadians or Eleans. We have always fought the Spartan, Dorians though we are. So, yes, we march tomorrow ourselves-with Epaminondas over the mountain to free the helots and finish Sparta. The fewer of us, the better the army. Let it be said that both Epaminondas and Epiteles have a final task under the slopes of Ithome. The only problem I see is that there is no enemy to kill, none that wish to try us.” Yes, this Epiteles sounded like even a better orator than Alkidamas himself. “Well, then, let us all part in friendship, the men of the Peloponnesos except for the Argives. It is decided they return home to the walls that our Proxenos built, with the booty we earned for them, and without the hoplites who protected them.”