The Last Greek by Christian Cameron

Author:Christian Cameron [Cameron, Christian]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781409176619
Publisher: Orion
Published: 2020-04-15T23:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TEN

Megalopolis, Nemea and Aegio

HOMOLOIOS AND THEILOUTHIOS (LATE MAY TO EARLY AUGUST), 209 BCE

The League cavalry marched into the environs of the Nemean Games, and Alexanor felt as if he was reliving his youth. Fifteen years before, the games had saluted the king of Macedon and then Philopoemen, and now, the entire scene was repeated with minor variations. The Ephors of the Nemean Games were ecstatic to be hosting the mighty king of Macedon, who had a magnificent box of gilded leather and wood painted like marble in the middle of the stadium. But they were, if anything, even more delighted to arrange for the League Cavalry to be cheered.

Alexanor led a selection of the men of Epidauros and Aristides led a selection of the men of Hermione. The small contingents allowed them to manoeuvre better in the confines of the stadium and gave them an excuse to leave the many awkward sods who might have fallen off their horses or couldn’t be bothered to polish their bronze. The Agema came in two squadrons, looking like polished bronze statues, and only a handful of senior officers knew that fully a third of the polished and expert horsemen were the Tarentine mercenaries.

The result was the public appearance of a magnificent professional cavalry force, the kind of force that Aegypt or Macedon or the Seleucids might boast of, but that small states like Achaea never possessed. The crowd roared themselves hoarse, but Alexanor watched the royal box, and Philip of Macedon watched the cavalry with an odd expression – part admiration, part annoyance. He was certainly unimpressed with the enthusiasm of the crowd’s reception of the League cavalry, and when Philopoemen entered, looking like a war god on his fine white Nemean stallion, the waves of ‘Achilles! Achilles!’ shook the ground and left Philip with a very wry look indeed.

‘Watch out for him,’ Alexanor said, when they could be heard. ‘He doesn’t like all this adulation going to someone else.’

Philopoemen smiled. Alexanor was disappointed to see that his friend’s nostrils were widened and his pupils dilated; he was elated by the roars of approbation.

‘Do not, I pray, let this go to your head,’ Alexanor snapped.

Philopoemen’s eyes were sparkling. ‘Go to my head?’ he asked absently.

He made his horse rear, and twenty thousand men roared their approval.

‘I’m not sure that the League needs me at all.’

Philip said it with a brilliant smile – he was a very handsome man. But the comment bore a sting.

Kykliadas shook his head vehemently. ‘Your Grace, with the Romans just across the narrow sea, I promise you that our cavalry, no matter how beautiful, cannot guarantee us peace.’

Philip glanced at Philopoemen. They were inside the precinct of the Temple of Zeus, standing under the ancient trees of the sacred grove of cypresses. The trees were a thousand years old and towered above them, providing a deep and comfortable shade better than a palace.

‘And you, Philopoemen,’ the king said. ‘What do you think? Will you need my humble troops

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