Funeral Games t-3

by Christian Cameron

  They heard footsteps, and Nestor came in with a clash of bronze.

  ‘Poison,’ Philokles said. He stuck his hand into Kallista’s mouth and made her gag.

  ‘Hermes, god of travellers,’ Nestor said, making a sign with his hand. ‘Seal off this corridor!’ he called outside.

  ‘Let the doctor in!’ Philokles cried, and moments later Sophokles returned. Behind him, a slave came with a brazier, a bronze bowl and a tripod.

  ‘How did you induce vomiting?’ the doctor asked. He shrugged. ‘One way or another, this is it. Apollo, god of healing, and all the gods be with me.’ He smiled at the slave. ‘Right here. Put the tripod here. Well done. You have some bellows?’

  The slave produced bellows.

  ‘Make it hot!’ the doctor said.

  Kallista opened her eyes and screamed.

  Sophokles threw the herb on to the brazier and a pungent smoke arose. To Satyrus, it was the scent of the sea of grass. The Sakje made little hide tents and sat in them to enjoy the smoke.

  The doctor used the bellows until the smoke was rich and thick, then reversed them, sucking the smoke into the small instrument. He put it in Kallista’s slack mouth and forced the smoke into her lungs. She coughed, choked and vomited again.

  ‘Not dead yet!’ Sophokles proclaimed grimly. ‘Apollo, stand at my shoulder and save her!’ He made more smoke and pushed the bellows deep in her throat before forcing in the smoke.

  She retched and coughed, but no more bile came up.

  ‘Let her down. The next time I need a patient held immobile, you two are my choice. Lay her on the couch. That’s right.’

  Satyrus was light-headed in the smoke. He could see Kallista – in her full beauty, dressed for a party – hovering just over the crumpled and stained victim on the couch, like an allegory. She seemed to smile at him.

  A draught of air pushed the smoke aside, and the vision of a healthy Kallista vanished like a rainbow.

  Kallista drew a deep, shuddering breath. Her whole body twitched.

  ‘Make her drink water,’ Sophokles said.

  Melitta handed her brother a pitcher. ‘Go to the well, draw it yourself and bring it back,’ she said imperiously.

  Satyrus discovered he had the acidic vomit in his hair when he ran a hand through it. He wiped his hand on his chiton – damn, my best one, from Kinon – and ran for the courtyard.

  One of the guardsmen came with him. Satyrus looked at the man under the helmet – one of the Macedonians from the barracks. ‘I’m going for water,’ he said, stepping aside.

  The guardsman was burdened with a heavy spear and a shield. He was slow. Satyrus waited until he was moving and then ran down the stoa towards the stairs.

  ‘Hey!’ the man shouted. ‘Wait for me, lad!’

  Satyrus ignored him, cut down the slaves’ stair to the main courtyard and stuck his pitcher into the water.

  There were groups of slaves, mostly women, all around the fountain, chatting away. Most of them were looking at him. He looked back. When his jar was full, he got his feet under him and hoisted the jar clear of the fountain. All the slaves moved out of his way, clearing a path.

  Tenedos the steward was trying to hide behind another man.

  Satyrus froze. The guard had followed him down the stairs, but he was separated from Tenedos by the whole crowd of slaves. He thought that he could take the slave man to man – Tenedos was bigger and older, but it was unlikely that he had ever trained to fight. He could hear Theron saying, Any time you offer a test of strength to a man, he’ll beat you. But he was just a slave – and Satyrus had a blade.

  Of course, Kallista needed the water.

  Fuck, why is life so hard? he thought. He turned his back on the slaves and set his pitcher down on the stone. He took a deep breath, whirled around and started for the man.

  Tenedos moved fast, shoving a young woman flat on the floor and pushing a bigger man against the rim of the fountain as he fled. Satyrus jumped over a downed stool and saw the Macedonian guard moving fast, despite his armour, across the back of the fountain room.

  Tenedos slipped through a door and was gone. Satyrus rounded the corner at full speed and raced under the eaves of the slave quarters where the women’s quarters overhung the working courtyard, but there was no one there but two old slaves weaving linen chitons who shoved themselves flat against the wall as he raced past. The steward must have gone into one of the slaves’ rooms – or into the kitchens.

  The guard came up, panting. ‘Well?’

  ‘That’s the steward from Kinon’s!’ Satyrus said. Seeing that his words meant nothing to the guard, he said, ‘The assassin!’

  The guard nodded sharply, put a bone whistle to his lips and blew hard, over and over. Every slave in the area immediately lay flat on the ground, and the corridors around the courtyard were full of the sound of running feet.

  ‘We’ll get him,’ the man said. ‘As soon as I get a squad here, my lord, you’re going straight back to your chambers.’

  Satyrus shook his head. ‘I can identify him. He’s in one of these rooms. Let’s-’

  The guardsman shook his head. ‘Look, lad – we’re protecting you. Let us fucking protect you.’ He grinned.

  Half a dozen archers appeared, big black men with ostrich plumes in their hair.

  ‘Assassin. In one of the slave rooms.’ He pointed his spear.

  ‘Take him alive!’ Satyrus shouted.

  The lead archer turned. ‘Perhaps,’ he said with a wicked smile.

  ‘Back to your room, my lord,’ the Macedonian said. Behind him, three of the archers nocked arrows while the other three drew wicked-looking iron knives.

  ‘Medje,’ the Macedonian said. ‘Your steward is doomed. Wait until they get their fucking monkeys. They can smell a man a stade away.’

  Satyrus did not want to leave the chase, and he wanted to learn more about the Medje – he’d seldom seen a group of men who gave such an impression of competence. ‘How will they know him?’

  ‘If he isn’t lying on the floor in the position of submission.. .’ The Macedonian shook his head. ‘And if he is, he won’t have a slave disk. Now move.’

  Satyrus put his sword back in the scabbard and snatched up the pitcher as he passed the fountain house, angry with himself, and ran for the slave stairs.

  ‘I saw Tenedos,’ he said as he put the pitcher into Melitta’s hands. It didn’t seem as if anyone in the room had moved. ‘He was in the working courtyard. I think he saw me watching him.’

  ‘Did he escape?’ Philokles asked. ‘Why didn’t you run him down?’

  Satyrus thought that was unfair. ‘The palace guard are after him. One of our guards made me come back.’

  Nestor nodded. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘That’s a man who knows his busi ness.’

  ‘What on earth were you thinking, boy?’ Philokles asked. ‘Nestor, will you search the palace?’

  Nestor grunted. ‘I’m sure it is being done. And the boy did right – as did my man. Your prince has no business chasing assassins. He’s the target.’ He leaned out into the corridor and began to shout orders. Then he turned back to the room.

  ‘You two will know him?’ he said to Philokles. ‘You and Theron come with me. I’ll make up two parties. I must attend the tyrant – he’ll lock the palace down.’

  ‘We don’t need the palace locked down,’ Philokles said.

  Nestor shook his head. ‘We do. This may all be aimed at the tyrant.’

  Frustrated, Satyrus glared at Philokles in the middle of the room. Melitta took the pitcher. ‘Don’t mope,’ she said. ‘Send slaves for more water.’

  In a few minutes, the whole complex was flooded with soldiers. Men of the guard were at every door and most of the windows, and when a slave moved, guards would call out so that the slave’s movements were watched and recorded somewhere. Every time the whistles blew, all the slaves would lie flat, their arms by their sides. It was efficient and scary.

  Draco appeared at Satyrus’s s
ide. ‘A man can’t even get laid without your enemies fucking it up,’ he said. But he gave Satyrus a grin. ‘Let’s go to your rooms, my lord. I’ve been ordered to go through them with you.’

  He gave Satyrus a nod, and together they went out into the stoa, as another guardsman called out that they were moving. When they reached Satyrus’s portion of the wing, they went through all of the rooms on his side, opening every chest and looking under every chair and bed and behind every drape. His thoroughness was unsettling. Satyrus had never considered that men might be trained to search a room.

  Slaves continued to bring pitchers of water. Satyrus turned to go back to his sister’s rooms.

  ‘No more traffic,’ Draco said. ‘You can wait here, my lord.’

  ‘You know me,’ Satyrus said.

  ‘Go to your room. Read the Iliad. Whatever. Just obey, understand?’ The Macedonian mercenary was all business.

  Satyrus shrugged with adolescent annoyance and went to his room. He was alone. He went to the alcove and found the scroll bag he’d seen there the day before.

  Sure enough, the Iliad.

  Satyrus slumped on the floor and tried to read about Achilles’ rage, and tried not to think about the hourly process of assassination.

  Achilles failed to illuminate his problem. No one in the Iliad faced enemies who crawled in the dark and used poison – well, except Odysseus. But the winged words had their own healing; he was lost soon enough, reading avidly.

  There was shouting in the corridor, and a sound in the distance like a scream, and his head came up from his scroll. He was scared. He wondered if the next thing he’d see would be an assassin bursting through the door.

  ‘Fuck,’ he said. Without meaning to, he thought of his mother and the warmth of her infrequent embraces. And then he thought about the Sauromatae girl crying for her mother as she lay dying. His hands shook.

  He backed into a corner, his brain running like a chariot drawn by maddened horses. He thought about the city and the stables and about his mother. He thought about his father, the demi-god. He thought about his sister. About Kallista. What kind of life did she lead? Would she die? Was it his fault?

  Slowly, his breathing slowed. His hands stopped shaking, and he realized that he had his sword in his hand, and he was huddled in the corner of his room.

  ‘I’m losing my wits,’ he said aloud. He sheathed the sword and wiped his face and then poured water over his head and rubbed his face, hard.

  ‘Draco?’ he called out. Voice fairly steady. Of course, the man had heard him. No privacy anywhere.

  ‘My lord?’ the soldier asked.

  ‘I’d like to go down to my sister’s room,’ Satyrus said.

  ‘Prince Satyrus moving!’ Draco called. ‘Go ahead, my lord.’

  Satyrus stepped out into the evening air and moved along the gallery to Melitta’s room. When he passed the soldier, the Macedonian turned to look at him.

  ‘Another few minutes and this’ll be over,’ he said in a whisper.

  ‘Thanks,’ Satyrus said. ‘Lita?’ he called.

  ‘Come in!’ she said, and he ducked through the curtain.

  Melitta was sitting on a chair by Kallista, who was lying on the bed. She was deeply unconscious. Melitta gave a bright and entirely fake smile.

  ‘Hello, brother,’ she said.

  ‘You all right?’ he asked.

  The corners of her mouth quivered a little, but her smile remained in place. ‘No,’ she said. ‘People are trying to kill me. Us. It’s different from a fight. It’s horrible, Satyrus! I like people!’

  Satyrus put his arms around her, happy to comfort somebody. Especially his sister, who usually comforted him. ‘It’s not everybody, sis. It’s just a couple of idiots. If I’d been quicker on my feet, we’d be safe.’

  ‘What are you, Achilles? Is it all on you? Are you the centre of the world? Stop all this assumption-of-responsibility crap! It’s the product of too much Plato!’ She put her cheek on his shoulder and squeezed. The weight of her head was grinding one of his best gold fibulae into his shoulder, but that was an occupational hazard of being a brother.

  ‘I didn’t get him, and that Macedonian made me come back here. I should have stayed at it! It makes me feel like shit.’ Satyrus felt better just for saying the words out loud.

  She looked up, her eyes red, and shook her head. ‘Slavery doesn’t make them weak, you daft weasel. Slavery makes them desperate. Promise me that when we’re king and queen, we’ll have no slaves.’

  ‘Done!’ he said. ‘I swear it by Zeus and all the gods.’

  They stood there, embracing, for some time. The shadows got longer. Kallista continued to breathe.

  ‘I’m better,’ Melitta said. ‘Thanks.’ She stepped away and started to rearrange her hair.

  ‘Hey?’ he said. ‘What if I’m not better?’

  She made a rude noise. ‘Can I tell you something?’ she said, her back to him.

  ‘Probably,’ he said. He was watching Kallista. In his head, he was comparing her blotched face, swollen lips, burn marks and stressed flesh to the image of beauty she had presented the first night in the rose garden. The comparison was full of lessons.

  ‘When I thought you were dying, I was going to kill myself,’ she said evenly. ‘I don’t think I’d want to live without you, brother.’ She put a pin into her hair.

  He rubbed his hand through his hair in embarrassment. ‘Yeah,’ he said. Another of his excellent responses.

  ‘My lord?’ Draco asked from the other side of the curtain.

  ‘That’s Draco, our sentry. Come in!’ Satyrus called.

  The Macedonian pushed his head through. ‘We’re out of here, my lord. The Medje have your man, and the dinner is on – our tyrant won’t be cowed by a slave. So you’re to dress.’ His eyes flicked over to where Melitta sat. ‘My pardon, m’lady.’

  ‘Hold on,’ Satyrus said, slipping through the curtain. ‘Thanks.’

  Draco grinned from under his Thracian helmet. ‘No problem, m’lord.’

  ‘What happened to “Satyrus” or “boy”?’

  ‘Orders. You two is to be treated as visiting royals.’ Draco grinned. ‘Most visiting royals don’t help us loot a house, o’ course.’

  ‘Can I ask a favour, Draco?’

  ‘Sure. Ask away. I’m back off duty as soon as I get this thorax off.’ He slung his shield around on his back.

  ‘Can you find me a chiton? A nice one?’ He pointed to the long streak of black vomit on his fine flame-decorated garment.

  Draco grinned. ‘That’s easy. Hey!’ he said, turning. ‘Hey, Philotas! Where’s that squeeze of yours?’

  Another armoured man emerged from the columns on the other side of the guests’ courtyard. ‘She’s right here, you whoreson.’

  ‘Send her over here. The prince needs some clothes.’ Draco chortled.

  ‘So does she!’ Philotas laughed. ‘It might be a minute.’

  Draco shrugged. ‘He’s a pig-dog, our Philotas. Girls love him. His cock’s longer than a girl’s foot.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘His girl is one of the wardrobe slaves. His current girl.’

  Satyrus tried to be a man of the world. ‘My mother says “no slave girls”.’

  ‘Aphrodite! Why’s that?’ Draco seemed shocked.

  ‘Because they can’t decide for themselves. They aren’t in control of their bodies.’ Satyrus managed to deliver the line well, without primness, as if he really knew what he was talking about.

  Draco laughed. ‘Ares, who cares?’ he said. ‘Willing? Unwilling?’ He looked at Satyrus. ‘Oh, balls. I’m sorry, boy. Don’t take it like that – I’m no monster. Your mum’s just a little strict for me.’

  The slave girl came up, her eyes averted and her ionic chiton neat and graceful. ‘Master?’ she asked.

  ‘The prince would like to know if he might get a chiton from the wardrobe,’ Draco asked in an official voice. ‘His best got ruined in the poison attempt.’

  The slave raised h
er eyes and looked at his chiton. She fingered the stain. ‘Never come all the way out,’ she said. She brightened. ‘But I have a little bitch who it’ll do good to try. Can we move about, Draco?’

  ‘Free as friggin’ birds, honey,’ Draco answered. ‘My lord, I leave you in good hands.’

  ‘Give me the cloth, m’lord.’ She all but snapped her fingers, and Satyrus pulled it off over his head.

  ‘Get the brooches, m’lord,’ Draco said. ‘Or you’ll never see ’em again.’

  ‘Don’t you have somewhere you ought to be, guardsman?’ the woman said to Draco. Her nimble fingers plucked the fibulae off the shoulders. ‘No one in this wing would steal, m’lord. Draco is from Macedon – they’re the thieves.’

  Draco gave him a look that said he’d stand by his statement, and Satyrus was left standing naked with a pair of gold brooches in his hand and a sword strap over his shoulder.

  Life with slaves and guards was so alien that he almost laughed aloud.

  Philokles came up behind him. ‘Planning to go to the dinner naked, boy?’ he asked. ‘The sword is a nice touch. You could be young Herakles.’

  Satyrus blushed and hurried back to his room. As quickly as he could, he wriggled into a chiton.

  ‘Best bathe. I can smell the vomit on you,’ Philokles called after him, leaning in past the curtain.

  ‘Will you go, sir?’ Satyrus asked.

  ‘I will, too. We can just squeeze it in.’ Satyrus felt his tutor’s hand on his shoulder, and they walked off down the gallery to the stairs.

  Philokles didn’t know the palace like Satyrus did now. ‘This way,’ he said, heading down the slaves’ stair. ‘It’s faster!’

  ‘No, boy,’ the Spartan said. He pulled Satyrus past the slaves’ stair. ‘Not fair to them. You didn’t grow up with slaves, but I did. They need their own places where the likes of us don’t interfere. Just like soldiers. Officers don’t go into soldiers’ parts of camp. Bad manners.’

  ‘Oh,’ Satyrus said. They went down the public stair together. The baths were crowded because everyone had either been on duty or locked down for the afternoon. The men in the steam fell silent when Satyrus entered.