Funeral Games t-3

by Christian Cameron

  Instead of becoming angry, Theron winced. ‘My apologies, host. Philokles is correct.’

  They spoke more about politics, and Satyrus watched Kallista as she sat by her master.

  ‘We should go to bed, if we have to be princes for the tyrant in the morning,’ Melitta said.

  Satyrus nodded and yawned, eager to be an adult and without the strength to be one. ‘Bed,’ he said. Kallista smiled at him, and he smiled back. He would never see her again – it all seemed so unfair. But he rose and said his good-nights, and thanked Kinon with his sister for his spotless hospitality, which made the man smile.

  He stumbled on the smooth marble of the colonnade, and he didn’t even undo the brooches on his chiton, but merely peeled it over his head and handed it to yet another slave and slipped on to his sleeping couch. The spring air had a touch of chill and he pulled his Thracian cloak – carefully cleaned by the staff – over himself, and he was asleep.

  7

  Satyrus woke instantly to a sound in his room. The room was dark, with the doorway illuminated by the light coming from the courtyard and filtering down the colonnade. Something moved across the doorway and Satyrus was alert, his heart beating hard.

  ‘It’s just me,’ Kallista said from the middle of the room.

  Satyrus’s heart didn’t beat any the slower, although for different reasons.

  She slid on to his couch, found the Thracian cloak and wriggled under it, and her breasts brushed against his chest. She giggled, put a hand between his legs and put her mouth unerringly over his.

  He was caught between fear, excitement and an odd anger – this was not the way he wanted Kallista. If he wanted her at all. And yet, he did – as his erection testified.

  She put a hand on his chest and pinched one of his nipples hard, the way his nurse had done when she was angry, but while the pressure was the same, the result was different. She took one of his hands and placed it on her breast – ahhh – a smoothness and softness that was almost unbelievable, a sort of Olympian perfection. His cock leaped to attention under her smooth hand. She laughed.

  In the courtyard, a man screamed ‘Alarm!’ and there was a crash, like a log hitting a wall. The whole building shook.

  ‘Aaaagghh!’ the same voice screamed. Satyrus knew that scream – a man with death in his guts. His erection vanished and his mind moved fast and he was off the couch in the dark, hand sweeping the wall until he found his sword hanging on its baldric from a peg. He put the belt over his head and grabbed the cloak off the bed.

  ‘What in Hades are you doing?’ Kallista said.

  ‘Aaaagh-’ The next scream was cut off suddenly, and then there was another crash and a cheer – a terrible sound, and then running feet. Satyrus threw the cloak over his arm and went to the doorway, brushing the curtain aside.

  There was a man in the colonnade with a weapon. He wore a helmet that glinted in the distant light of the garden, and he was less than an arm-length away, a big shadow against the stygian dark of the corridor.

  ‘Get some light in here!’ the man shouted, his voice filling the corridor. ‘Follow me!’

  Satyrus wanted to hesitate, but before the fear could catch him he cut low, just as Philokles had shown him again and again, his left hand stretched forward with the wrapped cloak to block a counter-blow. And the man caught his movement and his weapon came down into the wool cloak, numbing his arm, but his sword went behind the man’s greave and as Satyrus recovered he pressed the cut, ripping the tendon at the back of the leg just as he’d been taught.

  The man went down in a tangle of bronze and limbs and Satyrus stepped clear just as the man voiced his pain. ‘Aiyyee! Ares! Gods, I’m cut! Aiyyyeee! Ah ah ah!’

  They’re wearing armour, Satyrus thought, and then the fear caught him and he stood paralysed. He tried to open his mouth, tried to call.

  ‘Satyrus!’ his sister shouted. ‘Wake up! We’re under attack!’

  His limbs loosed and he almost fell and then he moved clumsily, stumbling like a drunkard. ‘I’m here!’ he called.

  ‘There they are!’ a man’s voice shouted, and there were torches in the colonnade, light flickering off the thrashing man on the floor. Satyrus got past him, abandoning Kallista, and he was beside his sister.

  ‘Run,’ he said.

  ‘Where?’ she asked him. Their portion of the colonnade led to a blank wall at the corner of the property. In light, there was a mural of more pillars painted there to give the suggestion of space.

  ‘Ares,’ he cursed. ‘Athena aid us!’

  The men with torches came to their comrade and there was commotion and cursing. ‘Hamstrung!’ one voice said. ‘I’ll kill the bastard! Kleon will never walk again!’

  ‘Just kill everwud you fide,’ another voice said. He ripped open the curtain to the room where Satyrus had slept.

  Satyrus was frozen with indecision – the right thing to do was to attack them, make a futile effort to save Kallista. He would die. But it was the virtuous thing.

  He didn’t want to die. He was an ungracious animal.

  There was a crash in the dark and half the light went out. Satyrus crouched and pushed his sister behind him.

  In the fitful torchlight, Satyrus watched Theron and Philokles, side by side, with shields on their shoulders, rip into the armoured men in the doorway. The men turned quickly – too late for the torch-bearer, who went down like a sacrifice and didn’t even moan. His torch lit the scene from the ground, sputtering and burning fitfully.

  The attackers fought back silently. They had swords and they knew how to use them. Philokles gave a cry and stepped back, and one of the adversaries bellowed, stepped forward and died on Philokles’ sword, tricked in the dark into believing he’d hit his opponent.

  Satyrus got his limbs in motion and came up behind them. Again he went low, cutting at the tendons of Theron’s opponent. The man screamed like a horse and went back, straight into the boy, and Theron’s back cut with his kopis took off the top of the man’s head and he collapsed on Satyrus, pumping gore, so that Satyrus was trapped against the wall.

  ‘Shit,’ the last man fighting said, and died.

  ‘There must be more of them,’ Philokles panted. ‘Boy? Are you all right?’

  Philokles was looking into his sleeping chamber. Satyrus was trying not to puke at the warm spongy stuff all over his face. ‘I’m right here,’ he managed in a squeak.

  Theron caught up the torch and thrust it in his face. ‘I thought that man went down too fast,’ he said. ‘Well cut, little hoplite. Now get up. Where’s your sister?’

  ‘Watching your backs,’ she said. ‘There’s more of them, in the other wing, and more yet in the slave quarters. I can hear them.’

  The screams from the slave quarters were harrowing – several people, cries from nightmare. The other wing had the sound of rushing feet.

  Theron and Philokles had time to turn around before they were hit by the rush.

  ‘They’re armed!’ someone shouted, and Theron plucked up the torch and threw it over their attackers and there was no light at all, or almost none – just a flicker of light from the floor, but the attackers were backlit and Theron and Philokles fought from the darkness, nearly invisible.

  Satyrus was on the floor. He could see their feet by the single flickering torch. He reached out and flicked his wrist and the blow was light, but the weight of the blade alone sliced the man’s sandal and his foot, and he yelped and went down. Then another man took his place.

  ‘Kill theb!’ said a voice behind the fight. ‘Gods! Do a hab to do this myself?’

  ‘Give us some help then, Stratokles!’ came a deeper voice. ‘I don’t see you in the front rank!’

  Theron stumbled and went down on one knee. He grunted, his legs straddling Satyrus. Satyrus swung his blade as hard as he could at Theron’s opponent, who took a thrust right through the arch of his foot. He gave a cry, swore and the rim of his shield came down on Satyrus’s face, breaking his nose and sending him
back a foot in a mist of his own blood and the metallic agony of a face wound.

  Cut back cut back. Satyrus knew from wrestling and pankration that the moments after taking a wound were the most dangerous and his sword slashed empty air in front of him as he writhed blind in pain on the ground and his blood fountained down his chest. Then it caught something – a shield – and his arm rang and he skinned his knuckles, the pain almost lost in the pain from his nose.

  Theron powered to his feet under his shield and Satyrus’s opponent went flying back. Then Theron grunted and went down when a spear shaft hit his unprotected head, and Philokles was holding the corridor alone.

  Satyrus wiped at his face and there was another bloom of pain as he tried to stand, using the wall behind him to get himself up, but his nose hurt and his legs didn’t want to work.

  He got up anyway.

  Philokles was everywhere in a burst of god-sent prowess, and his sword was at their throats and at their knees and he forced them all back off the bodies.

  ‘Get that archer in here!’ called the voice that gave most of the orders – a voice that sounded as if it had the worst head cold of all time.

  ‘Like fighting fucking Ares!’ the gruff voice said.

  ‘Charge him! Finish him!’ the man in charge said.

  ‘Charge him yourself, you ball-less fucking Athenian!’ a gruff voice called out. ‘You, warrior. We offer you life. Take it and go free.’

  ‘Come here and die,’ Philokles said. ‘I’m killing your wounded.’ From the sounds, he was doing just that. ‘Who’s the little fuck in the fancy helmet? Anyone you liked?’

  ‘Fuck you! Leave him-’

  ‘Too late. Dead now. This big mule-’

  ‘Fuck YOU!’ the Athenian voice screamed. There was a rush of feet, and then an impact like stone on stone. There were two men on Philokles.

  This was the longest exchange so far. Philokles and the two enemies hammered at each other for five blows – ten blows, and Satyrus stabbed repeatedly at the other men’s feet, but they were fast and had foot-guards on their sandals. Finally, gruff-voice swore and ducked back – but the smaller man forced Philokles back in a flurry of blows. The Spartan was tiring.

  Then the smaller man put his shield over one of the bodies, hoisted the man, took a blow from Philokles on his own blade and backed up a step. Philokles hammered his shield. Satyrus lunged at his lower leg and was defeated by a heavy bronze greave. The man backed away again. ‘Archer!’ he roared.

  ‘Anyone else?’ Philokles said. ‘I’ll come and get you, then.’

  ‘Archer!’ the Athenian screamed again.

  ‘Fuck this!’ the gruff voice said, and there was the sound of feet moving away.

  ‘Stand your ground!’ the commander ordered. ‘You – shoot him!’

  ‘Drop,’ said Melitta’s voice.

  Satyrus didn’t have far to drop, so he obeyed.

  He heard the buzz of an arrow like a drone flying fast, and it hit armour like a hammer on a gourd.

  There was a thin scream, and from his new vantage point back on the floor, Satyrus could see a pair of feet in expensive sandals, stumbling. Then, by the light of the courtyard torches, he caught sight of the man – a livid scar across his face. He was lifting another big man over his shoulder, weaving and then gone into the garden.

  ‘Nice shot, Melitta,’ Philokles said. The words were sane enough, but the voice the dead timbre of a madman – but a sober madman. Fighting had burned the wine out of Philokles. ‘In the dark, too.’

  Satyrus had a hand on Theron. ‘Theron’s alive,’ he said. Then, ‘That was the same man we saw on the plains south of the Tanais. Scar-face.’

  ‘Stand your ground,’ Philokles said. ‘We’re not done yet.’ He sank to one knee. ‘Scar-face tagged me in the shin. Good swordsman.’ He coughed and stood back up.

  Melitta took her brother’s hand and helped him to his feet. She had her bow in her hand.

  ‘There’s fighting by the gate,’ Philokles explained. ‘More fighting.’

  They could hear it, and the screams of the wounded. Satyrus took a deep breath and made himself rewrap the Thracian cloak around his arm. Then he stepped forward until he was abreast of Philokles.

  ‘Here I am,’ he said. Although all his Ms sounded like Bs. Like scar-face.

  ‘Good boy,’ Philokles said. ‘If they come again, just keep them from wrapping my shield for as long as you can.’

  Satyrus resisted the temptation to wipe his nose. Blood was still pouring down his chest.

  Melitta came up close behind them. ‘I have eight arrows,’ she said. ‘That’s all I had in my room.’

  ‘I’m sorry I brought you here,’ Philokles said. The fighting at the gate was petering out. ‘Shall I – shall I kill you?’

  Satyrus felt his knees tremble again and cursed himself. ‘No!’ he said. ‘I’ll die fighting.’

  There. For once, he’d said what he wanted to say.

  Melitta took a deep breath. ‘I think-’ she began.

  ‘Hold! Put down your weapons!’ came a deep voice.

  Satyrus grasped his little sword tighter.

  ‘I have forty swords and as many archers,’ the voice said. ‘Whoever you are, I order you to put down your weapons.’

  ‘Zeus Soter, my lord, the fuckers have killed everyone in the place,’ said a thin, rasping voice, and suddenly there were lines of torches coming in under the colonnade. Twenty feet away, a big black man in head-to-foot bronze armour filled the colonnade, as big as Philokles. He was like a man made of bronze. He looked around quickly and caught site of the three armed people in the dead end. ‘You!’ he shouted. A line of armed men filled the colonnade in front of him with drilled rapidity.

  ‘Who are you?’ Philokles’ voice boomed.

  ‘I am Nestor of Heraklea, the commander of the guard. Put down your weapons or die.’

  ‘I am Philokles of Sparta, and these are the children of Kineas and Srayanka of Tanais,’ he said.

  ‘Let me see! Let me through there,’ the captain said. He stepped out of the line and peered at them. ‘Ares, Spartan! You must be quite the spearman. So they didn’t get past you, eh?’ He stepped forward. ‘Ground your weapons, all of you. My orders are to take you to the tyrant if you live.’

  Philokles swept out an arm and pushed both of the twins behind him.

  Melitta sobbed. ‘Kill me,’ she said. ‘I’m too scared to do it myself. I won’t be a slave!’

  Nestor heard her. ‘No, lady! Stop!’ He held up his hand, and the line of his soldiers paused. ‘We did not do this. A rumour came to us that you were to be attacked tonight. We came in time. I have two dead men in the yard. You may live, lady – I give my word, I bring you no harm but my master’s orders.’

  Satyrus stood, naked, covered in blood, and afraid. He looked at Philokles, and Philokles shook his head.

  ‘I cannot make this choice,’ he said. ‘I can kill men, and discuss philosophy, but I cannot choose. It may be as he says. It may be that you will leave this place to be a slave.’

  Satyrus reached back and grabbed his sister’s blood-slick shoulder. ‘There’s no logic in it, Lita. The tyrant doesn’t need us dead.’

  ‘You wager my life in a brothel?’ she asked. ‘And your own?’

  A dying man gave a long moan.

  ‘We retain our arms,’ Satyrus called out, his thin voice cracking as he called. ‘None of you comes within a sword cut of us.’

  Nestor shrugged. ‘If that’s what it has to be, my lord.’

  Satyrus’s eyes met Melitta’s.

  His eyes said, I want to live.

  So did hers.

  ‘Not if the price is too high,’ she said out loud.

  ‘I think we can do this,’ he whispered. ‘If not – I’ll try to kill us.’

  Satyrus stepped past Philokles, from the dark into the torchlight. There were bodies everywhere, and the torchlight wasn’t kind. It was worse than the end of Orestes. ‘I am Satyrus of Tanais,
’ he said. He bent and wiped his blade on the cloth of a dead man.

  Nestor bowed. ‘My lord. Will you – Ares, you’re a child. Someone get a cloth!’

  The worst of it was that everyone else was dead. Zosimos lay by the gate, hacked down with a heavy blade so that his head was askew from his trunk. Kinon had died in his bed, but he’d been pinned in his sheets and then hacked to pieces. Satyrus didn’t see the steward’s body, but he saw the blood trickling down the steps of the slave quarters like water from a spring, and he finally lost it, spewing tuna steak and barley bread into the blood while some foreign soldier held his head.

  If the tyrant’s guard wanted to enslave him, he wasn’t doing much to resist.

  ‘There, laddy,’ the soldier said. ‘Gives me the fucking willies. Poor boy.’ He was patted on the head.

  ‘Let go of my brother or I’ll cut your hand off,’ Melitta said. She was standing alone in a circle of soldiers, naked and covered in blood, with her akinakes in her hand. Philokles was sitting on a step, drinking wine from a skin.

  ‘Hermes, girl! I’m helping him!’ The soldier stepped back. ‘Fucking Medea come to life.’

  ‘Get her a dress,’ Nestor said.

  ‘I found another live one,’ a third soldier said. He produced Kallista. She was shrieking with sobs, uncontrolled, unacted, her fists pummelling at the man who held her. She was not beautiful. She looked like the embodiment of fury.

  Nestor addressed himself to Satyrus. ‘May I get you some – never mind. Listen, boy. We’re walking away from this. I’m taking you to the citadel. Can you hear me?’

  Satyrus straightened his back. ‘Something I have to do first,’ he said. He walked over to the crowd of corpses where the tyrant’s guard had stormed the gate. ‘A torch, please.’

  One of the guardsmen gave him a torch. He held it high, looking for a man with a scarred face. He didn’t find one.

  ‘Some of them got away,’ Satyrus said.

  Nestor shrugged. ‘Not unless they can fly,’ he said.