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hesitantly at his shoulder.
     
    Kineas gestured to him. ‘Philokles, a gentleman of - Mytilene.’ His pause was deliberate; he could see the confusion - even the anger - on Calchus’s face.
     
    ‘He’s a Spartan.’
     
    Kineas shrugged.
     
    ‘I’m an exile,’ said Philokles. ‘I find that exile has this virtue; that no exile can be held responsible for the actions of his city.’
     
    ‘He’s with you?’ Calchus asked. His sense of hospitality and etiquette had eroded in the Euxine, Kineas could see. Calchus was used to being in charge.
     
    ‘The Athenian gentleman saved my life, pulling me from the sea when my last strength was nigh spent.’ The Spartan was plump. Kineas had never seen a plump Spartan before, hadn’t remarked it when they were at sea, but here in the torchlight it was obvious.
     
    Calchus turned on his heel - a rude gesture at the best of times, a calculated insult now - and waved up the beach. ‘Fine. He can stay with me, too. It’s late to be out, Kineas. I’ll save all my “whatever happened to so-and-so” questions for the new day.’
     
    If the Spartan was offended, he didn’t show it. ‘Very kind, sir.’
     
    Despite days of physical labour and several restless nights, Kineas woke with the last of the night and walked outdoors to find the first sleepy slaves carrying water from a well into the kitchen. Philokles had spent the night on the porch, like a servant, but it didn’t seem to have affected him much, since he was still asleep, snoring loudly. Kineas watched the dawn, and when there was light enough to see, he walked down the lane behind the house to the paddock. The pasture beyond had two dozen horses, most of which he was pleased to see were his own. He walked along the paddock until he saw what he had expected to find, a small fire burning in the distance and a man standing near it with a short spear in his hand. Kineas walked over the broken ground until the sentry recognized him, and then all the men were awake, nine men with heavy beards and equally bandy legs.
     
    Kineas greeted each in turn. They were professional soldiers, cavalrymen with dozens of years of war and accumulated scars and none of them had the money or the friends to aspire to the status of the cavalry class in a city - Antigonus, the Gaul, was more likely to be enslaved than made a citizen in any city, and he, like his friend Andronicus, had started with some other mercenaries sent out by Syracuse. The rest of them had once been men of property in cities that either no longer wanted them or no longer existed. Lykeles was from Thebes, which Alexander had destroyed. Coenus was Corinthian, a lover of literature, an educated man with a secret past - a rich man apparently unable to return home. Agis was Megaran and Athenian, a well-born pauper who knew no other life but war. Graccus, Diodorus and Laertes were the last of the Athenian citizens - the last of the men who had followed Kineas to Asia. They were penniless exiles.
     
    Niceas, his hyperetes for six years, came up last and they embraced. Niceas was the oldest of them, at forty-some years. He had grey in his thick black hair and a scar across his face from a Persian sword. He’d been born to a slave in an Athenian brothel.
     
    ‘All the lads who are left. And all the horses.’
     
    Kineas nodded, spotting his favourite pale grey charger out in the paddock. ‘All the best of both. You all know where we’re going?’
     
    Most of them were still half asleep. Antigonus was already stretching his calf muscles like an athlete. They all shook their heads with little interest.
     
    ‘The Archon of Olbia has offered me a fortune to raise and train his hippeis - his cavalry bodyguard. If he is satisfied with us, we’ll be made citizens.’ Kineas smiled.
     
    If he expected them to be moved, he was disappointed. Coenus waved a hand and spoke with the contempt of the true aristocrat. ‘Citizens of the most barbaric city in the Euxine? At