Funeral Games t-3

by Christian Cameron

  ‘Welcome, prince,’ Nestor called out.

  Satyrus blushed. He blushed more when he saw the murals on the walls. He got in the steam, and then he plunged into a cold bath deep enough to dive and swim, with a beautiful bronze woman with a fish tail at the bottom, as if swimming for the surface. When he emerged, he took a warmer bath and then went into the towel room.

  ‘Massage?’ a bored slave asked. ‘You’re the foreign prince, eh? In there,’ he said.

  Satyrus found himself on a slab between Nestor and Philokles. They were like a pair of matching statues as they reclined, waiting for masseurs – Nestor in black and Philokles in white. Philokles was not at his best – years as a tutor in a backwater had not forced him to maintain his fighting trim – but he was not fat, either. Nestor’s musculature was perfect, and he would have adorned any gymnasium in Greece.

  ‘Boy or girl?’ the towel boy asked.

  ‘Surprise me,’ Nestor said.

  A heavyset man came in and set to work on Philokles. ‘Soldier, sir?’ he asked. ‘I can always tell from the shoulders.’

  Nestor laughed. ‘He’s a Spartan!’ he said.

  The masseur grunted. ‘You’ve pulled some muscles here, sir. Best take some light exercise.’

  ‘I’ll keep that in mind,’ Philokles said.

  ‘Where’s Theron?’ Satyrus asked, as another man started to pummel his shoulders. Then a huge thumb was thrust roughly under his shoulder blade and it hurt. ‘Ares!’ he squeaked.

  ‘Be nice, Glaukis – probably the first real massage the boy’s ever had.’ Nestor hissed between his teeth. ‘They all hurt, m’lord.’

  Satyrus’s masseur grunted and rotated his arm as if forcing his head down in pankration.

  ‘Oww!’ Satyrus said.

  The two big men laughed.

  Eventually, it was over. There was a point where it started to feel good, and another point where he started to feel the glow he got from a long exercise bout.

  ‘Oil, m’lord?’ the masseur asked.

  ‘Just a little,’ Satyrus said.

  The masseur helped him off the slab. ‘Second curtain, m’lord.’

  Satyrus headed down a corridor, barely able to walk with the absolute relaxation of his muscles. Erotic scenes involving various combinations of partners adorned the walls. Satyrus wasn’t prudish and he certainly knew how it all worked – there was even less privacy in Tanais than in Heraklea – but he blushed anyway.

  The second curtain gave way to a small room with a small dark-haired girl not much older than he. She helped him up on to a stool. ‘Scented?’ she asked. ‘Cedar or lavender?’

  ‘No scent, thanks,’ he said.

  She began to apply oil, her hands light but efficient. ‘Anything else, master?’ she asked as she began to massage the oil into his penis.

  ‘No, thank you,’ he said. No squeak at all – he was quite proud of his lack of shock.

  ‘There you go, then,’ she said with an utter indifference that made him feel he’d made the right choice.

  He walked back up the main stair in a glow of well-being, eudaimonia, and he walked straight into his sister’s room. ‘How is she?’ he asked.

  ‘Goodness, you glow like a god,’ Melitta said. ‘She’s breathing better. ’

  ‘Do you know that when they put oil on you in the baths, they offer sex acts? Do they do that in the women’s baths?’

  Melitta giggled. ‘Yes and no,’ she said. ‘Let’s not go into details.’ She turned bright red, and they laughed.

  The laughter went on.

  ‘Go and put some clothes on, brother,’ she said. ‘There’s a slave waiting in your room.’ She made a motion with her hand. ‘We’re suddenly at the age where people will talk if we’re together naked.’

  Satyrus turned a bright red. ‘Zeus Soter!’ he said. ‘That’s disgusting! ’

  Melitta shrugged. ‘The Macedonians do it all the time. Ask your soldier friend Draco.’ Melitta gave a wicked smile – a smile that most twelve-year-old girls couldn’t manage. ‘Your guard friends think that’s what we’re doing in here.’

  Satyrus vowed never to be naked around his sister again and headed off to his room.

  Satyrus found the wardrobe slave waiting for him.

  ‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ he said.

  She continued to look at the floor, but she gave a small smile. ‘That’s polite. I had a nice rest, and I tacked the side seams. Put it on. Good – you’re not dripping oil. Smudges the fabric.’

  She held out a chiton, which was light wool, woven beautifully, but with a double row of purple decoration woven in. ‘Himself will never wear it,’ she said. ‘Came with the tribute and it wouldn’t go around his head, much less his body.’ She smiled. ‘Thank him for it when you make your bow, just so I’m covered.’

  ‘Hestia, goddess of the hearth, watch over you. What’s your name?’ he asked.

  ‘Harmone, my lord. There – you look like a prince. You need gold sandals.’

  ‘I’ve never had such a thing,’ Satyrus said.

  Harmone laughed. ‘I’m a slave, and I have four pairs,’ she said. ‘The world’s a funny place and no mistake.’ She waited at the doorway.

  Waiting for a tip. Satyrus cast around the room, saw all of his kit where the slaves had dumped it – was it really just that afternoon?

  ‘It’s going to take me some time to find my purse,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll wait,’ she said. ‘I knew you was a gent.’

  Satyrus wondered what he had in his purse. ‘Harmone?’ he asked, as he pulled his sleeping roll off the pile. ‘What’s a fair tip? This isn’t how I live every day.’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘Ten gold darics’d do me fine,’ she said, and giggled. ‘You’re a rare ’un. An obol or two is fair for any extra service a slave does, except fucking. That’s more, unless offered free.’

  Satyrus’s hand stopped over his satchel. He looked at her. She smiled.

  She was a good ten years older than him and he wasn’t sure she was offering, and the world was a very confusing place. He had to look away – she was licking her lips – and his downturned eye caught a needle sticking point-first out of the flap of his satchel, just a few finger-breadths from his hand. The point of the needle was dark with something stuck to it – wax.

  Or poison.

  ‘Hades,’ Satyrus breathed. He’d heard of poisoned needles. ‘Harmone. I’ll tip you later. Get Nestor!’

  She caught the seriousness in his voice.

  Satyrus didn’t move. The discovery of the reality of poisoned needles had frozen him in place. He felt very vulnerable indeed. He tried not to think. He didn’t panic, especially – he just crouched by his pack until Philokles and Theron came. Then Nestor arrived with a file of soldiers. They told him not to move while they sent for more soldiers in heavy gear.

  His sister stood in the doorway, dressed for dinner, with her hair piled on top of her head in silver pins, and chewed on her fist.

  Men in heavy felt mittens pulled his gear apart. Men in heavy military sandals came in and literally carried him out of the room. He leaned his forehead against the cool smoothness of a pillar and breathed for a while as his hands and knees shook. Then he went to the door.

  ‘Someone hand me out my sword?’ he asked. Good voice. He did that well – touch of irony.

  Melitta smiled.

  Philokles looked stricken. And a little drunk.

  ‘This is all my fault,’ he said thickly.

  ‘We need to get out of here,’ Satyrus said. ‘If Kallista can travel in a litter, I suggest we leave tonight.’

  The doctor came up behind Philokles. ‘That ankle of yours needs a couple of days,’ he said.

  ‘I could be dead in a couple of days,’ Satyrus said. He managed to hide the bitterness.

  Philokles turned to Nestor. ‘I’d like to send a messenger to the smith to see if his caravan is still going. It has probably left – or been cancelled. If it has left, I’d like an e
scort until we catch it.’

  Theron pushed in. ‘I’ll go,’ he said.

  ‘No, Philokles said. ‘From now on, we all stay together all the time. Nestor leaves a guard on Kallista until we come back from dinner, and then we sleep in Melitta’s room, and in the morning we pack our beasts at first light and ride.’

  Nestor nodded. ‘Pending the tyrant’s permission, of course.’

  Philokles nodded back. ‘Of course,’ he said.

  Sophokles glanced at Nestor. ‘I’ll go with them,’ he said. ‘They all need medical care.’

  Nestor was surprised. ‘You were just hired as the tyrant’s physician,’ he said.

  Sophokles shrugged. ‘I feel responsible,’ he said.

  Satyrus looked at the Athenian, trying to read his soul.

  ‘Let’s go to dinner,’ Melitta said.

  Satyrus was struck again by the sheer bulk of Dionysius of Heraklea as he entered the man’s hall. The tyrant filled the dais, and his couch was three times the width of every other couch, and he lay alone. He was grotesque, and his bristle of short blond hair made his head seem all the smaller. He looked like an ogre come to life.

  He held the eye nonetheless, his white chiton immaculate, the gold wreath on his head brilliant in its Helios-like spray of leaves and tendrils that flickered like fire in the lamplight. Satyrus and Melitta led the way to the dais, arm in arm and walking with their heads high, and Satyrus was aware, even as he stared at the tyrant, that every other eye in the hall was on him or his sister.

  The couches of the principal diners were drawn up in a circle. Where women had been invited, they sat in chairs beside their companions. The dinner was not an orgy but a feast, and when Satyrus managed to tear his eyes away from the tyrant, he saw that the couches of the inner circle were full of serious-looking men attended by women their own age – not hetairai.

  Before they approached the circle, Satyrus turned to Philokles. ‘Any special etiquette for tyrants?’ he asked.

  ‘Be polite,’ Philokles answered. ‘Don’t make speeches about the freedom of the assembly.’

  Theron choked a laugh, and then they were passing an empty couch and entering the clear space before the dais.

  ‘Greetings, Prince Satyrus and Princess Melitta!’ The tyrant raised himself on an elbow. ‘Nestor, offer me a libation on the altar for the safety of our twins.’

  Satyrus hadn’t noticed that Nestor had somehow beaten them to the dining hall. The black man was seated behind the tyrant, and he rose, took a libation bowl and poured wine on a small altar set into the wall, with a statue of Dionysius in gold and ivory in a niche over the altar.

  The tyrant nodded. ‘The blessings of Dionysus stay with you. May the strength of our patron Herakles defend you.’ He smiled, and it was a hard, dangerous grin for such a fat man. ‘You are still wearing your sword, young man.’

  Satyrus bowed deeply. ‘I rejoice in your – your favour, Dionysius. I thank you for your hospitality, for the healing of your doctor, the safety of your roof and for your generosity. Even the clothes on my back I owe to you.’ He bowed again, and his voice rose as his nerves betrayed him. ‘But-’ Too squeaky. ‘But – twice, men have tried to kill us under your roof. I beg your forgiveness and your permission to wear this sword.’

  ‘I missed the last part of that,’ Dionysius said. He rolled heavily and the legs of his couch creaked. ‘Nestor, what does the boy say?’

  Nestor leaned down by the tyrant and whispered in his ear.

  Dionysius nodded heavily. ‘So be it. I am deeply sorry that these criminals have so abused my hospitality. Now sit and eat dinner. How is the slave girl?’ He asked the last with a sudden quickening of his eyes.

  ‘She will live,’ Melitta said. ‘She may be – marred.’

  Dionysius’s eyes roved over Melitta. ‘I have a daughter – Amastris – just your age. Would you sit with her?’

  Melitta nodded her head gracefully. ‘I would be delighted.’

  Nestor made a sign, and a chair was moved. Melitta followed the chair to sit beside another girl her own age.

  ‘You sit by me,’ Dionysius said to Satyrus. He pointed to the couch on his left hand.

  Satyrus went and lay on it. Philokles and Theron were escorted to other couches in the second circle.

  As soon as the Tanaisians were in their places, Nestor clapped his hands and dancers entered. They danced the rites of spring as village girls danced them throughout the Euxine, if with more grace, and while they moved beautifully through the familiar figures, the first course was served on three-legged tables next to each couch.

  ‘Nestor tells me you wish to abandon my hospitality,’ Dionysius said. He was enormous, and he was elevated by the height of a man’s lower leg. The combination made conversation awkward, as the tyrant’s head was four feet above Satyrus’s head.

  ‘Lord, you know that the slave – Tenedos, the steward of Kinon – was at large in your citadel?’ Satyrus craned his neck to see the tyrant’s eyes.

  ‘Young Satyrus, I know of every event in this castle. I know when a slave girl fucks – or does not fuck – a guest, and how much he tips her.’ He put a morsel of food in his mouth and winked. ‘Tenedos is now past worrying about, but he had many interesting points to make before he went to Hades.’

  Satyrus nodded, the lesson going straight home to his heart. ‘Did he betray his master?’ he said carefully.

  ‘Yes and no, young man. That is, he admitted that he was turned by this Stratokles, but he claimed – while in enormous pain – that it was the slave girl, Kallista, who was the driving force. Not he, of course.’

  ‘Oh,’ Satyrus said.

  ‘Ahh, to be so young. A man will say anything under torture. Anything. It need not be the truth. Indeed, it seldom is.’ The tyrant took a whole quail and dropped it in his mouth.

  ‘What of the Athenian? If I may ask, lord?’ Satyrus took a quail for himself when the platter was offered.

  ‘Fled – days ago. By ship, I suspect. But he will have left other agents here, I have no doubt.’ The fat man spat bird bones into his hand and dropped them into a bowl on his couch.

  ‘How convenient for everyone,’ Satyrus said.

  ‘I regret that I must agree. In your place I would suspect that the tyrant Dionysius was complicit.’ He smiled.

  Satyrus sipped his wine bowl. ‘The thought had crossed my mind,’ he said. He tried to sound like a man of the world, but instead he heard a scared boy.

  ‘But of course, if I wanted you dead, you’d be dead.’ Dionysius winked again. ‘Nestor could have gutted you both and had your meat served in a local shop at the crook of my finger. Or you could die of poison right now, from the wine in that cup. You didn’t have it tasted. You’d never know. Or I could have you strangled in your sleep by my slaves. Really, there’s no need to concern yourself with such things – you are so utterly in my power that it may be that I just can’t make up my mind how to dispose of you.’

  Satyrus forced himself to take a bite of food. He had no idea what it tasted like. His mind was not moving.

  ‘The sword you wear is a nice conceit, but will it defend you from poison? Or even from a determined man with a sword? From my ill will, it offers no defence at all, and by wearing it, you accuse me of being a poor host. It is rude.’ The tyrant rolled over on his couch, and from his position under the huge man, Satyrus could see the length of the thongs that held the mattress and how stretched they were.

  ‘But you wished to make a statement. Perhaps you felt that you needed to get my attention. Boys do such things. They posture.’ The tyrant smiled again. ‘I posture too. When you are as old as I, and as fat, men will assume that as you are ugly, so you are evil. Don’t you? Kalos kalon? The beautiful is the good. Eh, boy? And since I’m so ugly, I must be evil. I must rape virgins every night, and perhaps bathe in blood. Eh?’ The man leaned over the edge of his couch. ‘So when they call me evil, I posture a little. Understand, boy? Stupid, violent men often mistake goodnes
s for weakness and see evil as strength. You look smart. Do you know whereof I speak?’

  Satyrus had, in fact, got the drift. He raised his cup. ‘I drink to the virtue of ugliness, lord,’ he said, turning a pretty phrase. He’d held it in his mind since the tyrant had used the stock phrase Kalos kalon.

  Dionysius sat up, and his couch protested. ‘Nestor, did you hear that? The boy just paid me a genuine compliment!’

  Nestor chuckled.

  ‘Virtue of ugliness, indeed. Well said, young man. I think we may indeed be friends. Tell me what you want.’ Dionysius snapped his fingers, and the second course was served. He watched the servers with much the same pride as Kinon had shown, and then a messenger distracted him.

  ‘Lord, I want to – that is-’ Satyrus stared at the tyrant. What do I want? he thought. Since the man was distracted, he looked around, and his eyes found Melitta’s, sitting on an ivory-decorated chair to his right. Sitting next to her, with her face almost touching his sister’s, was the Nereid from the other night, her black curls framing her face. She was telling his sister a story, and they were both laughing. Melitta caught his eye, and the other girl saw her attention waver and turned her head to look at him, and their eyes met.

  Hers were green. All thought left his head. So green. A slave bent over his dining table.

  The slave was holding out a solid silver ewer, and he should have asked if Satyrus wanted more wine. Instead, he opened his mouth, and the buzz of the diners, the ebb and flow of conversation, the drone of flies and the sound of the sea spoke like the voice of the god from his mouth.

  ‘That girl is what you want,’ said the slave. He raised the ewer.

  ‘What did you say?’ Satyrus asked.

  ‘More wine, master?’ the slave squeaked.

  When Satyrus looked back, his sister and the Nereid were laughing together again. He looked at the slave. The boy was terrified. Well, slaves were often scared. He was learning a great deal about slaves.

  He held up his wine cup. The boy raised the pitcher and poured, and Satyrus noted that the pitcher was nearly empty.

  The boy spilled wine when his hands shook, just a few drops that fell harmlessly on the couch’s cover.