by AM Kirkby
***
To his great surprise she didn't seduce him that night, but left with one of the older men; husband? Father? Or merely a political ally? He wondered. Sourly he speculated that she'd only used him to get herself in the mood, and had left with someone wealthier, more useful, more of her own class. One of those young aristocrats, willowy and soigné. For a moment he detested his muscular body, the corded bulges of his biceps, the solid strength of his thighs.
To his greater surprise, the general caught his hand and pulled him back as Ramtha rose, saying “Stay” as if to one of his hounds. The party was winding down; some of the guests wandered into the atrium to enjoy a last few cups of wine under the stars, one was snoring gently on his couch - he'd be picked up later, and put to bed in a spare room, if he didn't get up of his own accord - and a couple of the older men had already come over and said their farewells to the general. He heard a muffled giggle from a dark corner, where two of the guests appeared to be sharing a cloak against the cooler night air. Best not to look too closely. These things happened.
He sat, feeling at a loose end suddenly; all night he'd been pouring wine, or setting food out, or entertaining Ramtha, and suddenly he was without a task to occupy him. The general was chatting to a guest on his left, a conversation the boy felt deliberately excluded from; he was required only to sit, to wait. He breathed deeply, trying to calm himself; he felt coiling distress in his stomach, realised he'd had far too much to drink.
Most of the torches had been extinguished when the general finally rose.
“Come with me,” he said, not even bothering to turn his head back as he strode off to see whether the boy was following. He stumbled slightly on the left side; an old war wound, perhaps, or perhaps the effect of the drink he'd taken on board, though his speech was as clear and brusque as ever. He led the boy straight to his own chamber; looked around for a moment, as if concerned there was no one else there, and then sat heavily on the side of his bed.
“Gods. These parties.” A deep sigh. Then he raised his head quickly, looked at the boy, and said, “Report.”
A moment of confusion, then the boy realised what the general wanted. It was Ramtha he'd had to keep his eye on.
“She talked about the hoplite formation, sir. She wanted to know how it worked. I think she did really want to know; she wasn't just asking me to be polite.” He stopped for a moment, aware he'd started swaying backwards and forwards, to still his body, and to chase a thought that was hovering just beyond his grasp. The general waited, silent. “She did want to know. And I think, I think she understands most of it. The tactics. How to make war.”
“And she was flirting with you?”
Had she been? He thought back. The evening seemed garishly coloured when he looked back on it, a swirl of different moments which he could only order by hard thought.
“Only at first, sir. I think at the end of the evening she was trying to get me drunk.”
“Interesting.” It sounded as if the general was amused. “Why would she do that? You'd be no good to her drunk, after all.”
“I don't think she was after ... that, sir. Maybe she wanted me to forget the questions she'd been asking me.”
The general nodded slowly, his bottom lip sucked in under his teeth as he gave this statement the thought it required. “How drunk are you, boy?”
“A little, sir.”
The general patted the bed beside him, just as Ramtha had patted her couch. The invitation was unmistakable; and impossible to refuse.
Was it a seduction or a rape? He was never sure. He hadn't realised quite what was happening; and he was too embarrassed to demur when he did. The general's breath stank of wine and garlic, yet he never relaxed his control; nor did he speak, just, afterwards, the words “That was good”, and he turned over to sleep, leaving the boy to pull the blankets across and make his way back to the servants' quarters.