Funeral Games t-3

by Christian Cameron

  Stratokles thought that it was a bad sign that the Macedonians were starting to believe their own propaganda. It was less than ten years since the hoplites of Athens had broken a Macedonian phalanx. He caught the eye of his friend Iphicrates, whose face was mottled red and white with anger. It was his turn to shake his head, even though any outburst would have been supported by every Athenian present. Even Menander, a notoriously unmilitary man, was offended.

  The insult from the regent – viper, a term no man could bear – was almost a compliment from Cassander. Athens, the crap I take for you, Stratokles thought. When the time comes, I’ll bury these arrogant barbarians in their own guts.

  Eumeles – everyone called him Heron, the so-called king of the Bosporus, pushed forward past the Macedonians. ‘Ptolemy still harbours my enemies,’ he said.

  Cassander glanced at Stratokles with a grimace that was hidden from the Euxine’s tyrant. He made a motion with his hand, as if to say ‘What can I do?’

  The regent of Macedon rolled over to look at Eumeles. ‘And no grain will reach my enemies? Your word on it?’

  Eumeles bowed. ‘My word on it.’ He glanced at Stratokles. ‘But I’d like the – ahem – unfinished business wrapped up.’

  Cassander nodded. ‘That’s right. Stratokles – the two children. Olympias wanted them dead – Heron here wants them dead – and you missed them. Eh? Don’t miss them again. Understand?’

  Stratokles shrugged. ‘Heron over there – he wanted them dead. And Olympias made it her business. But it’s no part of an embassy to murder brats.’ He looked to Demetrios of Phaleron for guidance. Demetrios had been a follower of Phocion’s – as had the children’s father, Kineas. Although Stratokles had no real love for Demetrios, he was an Athenian.

  Demetrios’s hard grey eyes narrowed. He took a breath to speak, and then shook his head and took a drink of wine.

  Cassander pursed his lips. It was always dangerous to confront Cassander on any subject, and Demetrios, the most powerful man in the room save Cassander, had refused.

  We must be pretty desperate, Stratokles thought. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I’ll try and put the children down before I leave. But not until then. If my hand is seen, I’ll be expelled or worse.’

  ‘Then don’t be caught,’ Cassander said. Then he relented. ‘I see your point. Hire someone to do it and make sure my hands can’t be seen.’ He smiled. ‘How about your doctor? He’s been useful before.’

  Cassander’s golden good looks and his eyes, heavily lidded like an opium-eater’s, were all deceptive. He’s a good deal uglier than me, Stratokles thought. I think it’s time we changed horses, he thought to himself.

  Later, in a private room, he made the same point to Menander.

  ‘I agree,’ the poet admitted. ‘But Demetrios says we need him right now. Things are bad. Succeed in this Aegyptian thing, and perhaps we’ll get a breathing space.’

  Stratokles took a deep breath and rubbed his nose. ‘I hate him enough to consider tyrannicide.’ At his friend’s startled look, he said, ‘Not our tyrant, Menander – I mean Cassander.’

  But he packed his bags for Alexandria, nonetheless.

  He took the time to send a letter to the doctor in Athens, offering the man a place in his embassy and providing, in addition, a list of members of the assembly of that city and their various transgressions, and he brought Lucius to run his bodyguard. He had many enemies, and the judicious use of force would be required.

  He changed the emphasis of his reporting system, so that reports from Alexandria took priority. He listened to a great many reports from spies before he sailed away in his own trireme for Alexandria, the newest city in the world.

  Stratokles’ informants were capable men and women. He paid informers from the Euxine to the Pillars of Herakles to provide him information. So when the new city rolled up at the edge of the horizon, he knew where Leon lived, and who lived with him; he knew the names of Leon’s ships and the names of his factors. This was routine information, because Leon and Stratokles had brushed up against each other in the pursuit of their own interests – sometimes in conflict, sometimes in alliance – for ten years.

  And he knew that Ptolemy had an Aegyptian mistress and he knew that Amastris, the daughter of Dionysius of Heraklea, was due to return to Alexandria any day – the richest heiress in the Hellenic world, from a city vital to Athens’s interests. He knew that the court was looking to hire a doctor for the palace.

  He even knew that Sophokles the Athenian, standing at his side, had been bribed by Cassander to watch him. The thought made Stratokles smile at the smooth-faced man at his side.

  ‘You always worry me when you are so palpably amused,’ the doctor said. He reached down and rubbed the scar on his knee.

  Stratokles smiled and slapped him on the back. ‘Plenty of work for you in Alexandria, my friend,’ he said.

  ‘My pleasure,’ Sophokles said.

  16

  The sand of the palaestra was cool on his cheek, but he shifted his weight and rotated his shoulders and his trainer rolled off him and backpedalled swiftly, regaining his feet in the motion.

  Satyrus rose a little more slowly, with his hands up and his arms well extended. There was some scattered applause from other men who had stopped training to watch.

  ‘That used to get you every time,’ Theron said. He smiled. ‘Of course, you didn’t always have shoulders like an ox.’

  Satyrus was three years older and heavier, taller and wider, a young man in peak physical condition with long, dark hair and shoulders as wide as many Alexandrian doors.

  But he still hadn’t beaten Theron.

  They circled, and more men gathered to watch. They were army officers and senior courtiers, Macedonians, most of them, although a few were Greeks. They knew a good fight when they saw one, and some quiet wagers began.

  Satyrus spun on his right foot, raised his left a fraction and faked a blow at Theron’s face with his left hand.

  Theron caught his jab and went to hold the arm, and Satyrus had to abandon his feint combination and backpedal to avoid the humiliation of giving his opponent an easy win. He felt the skin abrade as he ripped his left hand free.

  Theron stepped in, following up his advantage, and shot his right fist out, catching Satyrus on the ribs – a bruising blow, but it was only pain. The younger man moved his hips to the right – the same way he’d spun out of the last two holds – and then went left.

  Theron was caught by the move, and Satyrus managed to land a weak left jab to his coach’s head as he moved, and then he did it again, faking a third sliding step and then kicking out with his right foot at Theron’s left ankle. His blow went in, and the Corinthian rolled with the pain, put his weight on his good right foot and shot a fist at Satyrus, catching him high on the side of the head and rocking him back before losing his balance to the left and stumbling.

  Both of them backed away, and every man in the gymnasium breathed as one, and a few cheered. The betting thickened. In Athens, betting on two gentlemen citizens in a public gymnasium would have been bad form, but Alexandria was a different city. A different world.

  Theron circled warily, favouring his left foot.

  Satyrus thought that he was lying. Faking injury was part of the massive repertory of tricks that a good pankrationist had to master, and Theron did it well.

  Given that his left foot is fine, what should I do? Satyrus thought. He wiped sweat from his eyes and fought a temptation to attack just to cut the tension. He had landed several good blows – the leg kick would have put most of his friends down on the sand.

  Theron feinted and Satyrus stepped back, declining the engagement, and both of them went back to circling.

  Satyrus considered a feint based on the false assumption that Theron’s foot was hurt. In a few heartbeats, he assessed the possible blows and holds and chose two simple, obvious moves – a faked kick at the same ankle should draw Theron into committing on the very foot he pretended was injured
. After that weight change, he would step in for a grapple.

  No sooner had he seen the combination than he allowed his body to flow into the routine, not a sudden attack but a graceful sway of a body feint followed by the ‘real’ blow – no more real than Theron’s fake injury, a low sweep with his right foot against his opponents ‘weak’ left leg.

  Theron obliged him by putting his weight on the ‘injured’ leg and striking like lightning.

  Satyrus was quick too, and he took Theron’s blow on the point of his shoulder. The pain was a spike of lightning in his skull, but he was under much of it, and he butted his head straight into Theron’s jaw and then stepped on the man’s left instep and just barely avoided the instinctive planting of his left knee in his coach’s crotch, a killing blow combination that they practised for war but not for the palaestra.

  In that hesitation, Theron’s left arm wrapped around his neck, pinning his head to the Corinthian’s chest. The second he felt the pressure, Satyrus pushed with the full strength of both legs, attacking into the hold and spilling the Corinthian backwards as he himself twisted to avoid the hold.

  Both of them rolled as they hit the sand and there was a flurry of prone holds and blows and then both of them, scrambling like wounded crabs, rolled apart and got slowly to their feet.

  Applause – hearty, this time. At least a hundred men.

  Satyrus made himself smile. He’d had the fight there, just for a second, and somehow he’d missed his shot and now his confidence was ebbing and his coach was rising, blood leaking from a big gash on his thigh but otherwise unimpaired.

  ‘Lord Ptolemy!’ came the shout. Men scurried to get out of the ruler’s way, and many – not all – bowed.

  ‘Stop that!’ Ptolemy called. ‘Don’t stop the pankration! Hades! Is that Theron?’

  He had a white chiton trimmed in purple and a diadem in his hair. He was one of the ugliest men in the room, with a nose like the prow of a ship and a forehead that rose into a naked egg of baldness.

  Satyrus liked him. He clamped down on his fears and willed himself back into the fight.

  Theron was smiling. He stepped in and launched his usual strong right. Emboldened by the king’s appearance, Satyrus didn’t step back. Instead, he tried the same trick that Theron had used earlier in the bout – he reached out to trap the Corinthian’s blow.

  ‘They’ve been at it five minutes and not a single fall,’ a courtier said.

  ‘You should have seen-’

  ‘Hush!’ the king said.

  Theron was not surprised by his attempted trap. He let his pupil grasp the arm and then he reached out with his other arm and grabbed Satyrus’s right shoulder, half-rotated him on impetus and tripped him over an outflung leg.

  But Satyrus still had the arm. As he went down he tightened his hold – virtually the same attack he’d tried as a much lighter twelve-year-old.

  Theron tried to spin with the hold and Satyrus tried to keep his feet. Both of them failed, and down they both went, to a dogfight on the sand. They fell too close for either man, and Satyrus got an elbow in the face that blinded him and a foot in the gut that took his wind, and then he rolled clear. He’d landed at least one hard shot himself in the scrum. He got to his feet on training alone.

  Theron was slower, rising with his right arm cradled in his left. But he shook his head to clear it and got his hands up to guard.

  Satyrus exerted every mina of his will to raise his arms into the guard, but his left arm didn’t want to obey. It didn’t hurt – it just wouldn’t move. He shook his head and the room swayed. Nonetheless, he had enough grasp of the fight to see that Theron was as rocked as he, and he stepped forward to try a right overhand blow to end the fight.

  ‘Stop!’ the king said.

  The men roared.

  Satyrus rocked a little, frozen on the edge of his blow.

  ‘You are both on the verge of serious injury, and I need every man,’ the regent of Aegypt said. He grinned his farmer’s grin. ‘It was beautiful, though.’

  ‘Who wins?’ called one of the many Philips, an officer in the Foot Companions. ‘We have bets!’

  Ptolemy looked at both of them for some beats of Satyrus’s heart. ‘Draw!’ bellowed the lord of Aegypt, and the crowd roared again.

  Ptolemy came and clasped hands with the contestants before they went off to the baths. He and Theron exchanged a smile – Theron occasionally trained him. Then Ptolemy turned to Satyrus. ‘You are a very promising young man,’ he said.

  That set tongues wagging throughout the court. Satyrus’s ‘family’, his ‘uncles’ Diodorus and Leon and Philokles, were important men.

  Ptolemy’s words suggested to Satyrus that his turn was coming, and his heart soared. He clasped the lord’s arm and beamed. ‘At your service, lord,’ he said.

  Afterwards, after the hot bath and the cold bath and the massage, they went out together with a crowd of Satyrus’s friends, down the steps of the public gymnasium in a tide of adulation.

  ‘You may yet defeat me,’ Theron said with a grin. ‘I doubt it, but I begin to think it is possible.’

  Satyrus shook his head. ‘I had a moment today…’ He shrugged. His neck hurt, and his left eye would have a bruise like badly applied henna in an hour or so. ‘I still have a lot to learn.’

  ‘Music to my ears, boy!’ Theron said.

  ‘A cup of wine with you, master?’ Satyrus asked.

  ‘No. Go and drink with your cronies, boy.’ Theron put a giant arm around him and gave him a squeeze. ‘Your uncle Leon is home tonight. His ship is already in with the lighthouse. And when he’s home you’ll be worked like a dog, and no more playing with flute girls.’

  Leon had taken Satyrus on a dozen voyages. Satyrus had rowed, he had served as a marine and he had served as a super-cargo, counting amphorae. Leon believed that boys needed to work. This summer, he had sailed twice as helmsman – under instruction, of course. Satyrus loved girls and wine, but so far, the greatest love of his life was the sea.

  Satyrus grinned, already being tugged away by his friends. ‘I’ll be there. And I’ll sacrifice to Poseidon for his safe return.’

  ‘See that you have a safe return, boy!’ Theron called over the crowd, and then they were away, crossing the great agora where the four districts met.

  ‘You don’t believe all that shit, do you, Satyrus?’ Dionysius asked. Dionysius was a year older, the son of a Macedonian in Ptolemy’s service. He was handsome, well bred and intelligent, and he could quote most of the plays of Aristophanes and every new work by Menander. ‘Propitiating the gods? That’s for peasants.’

  Satyrus wasn’t in the mood for a philosophical quarrel – the more so as Dionysius, for all his airs, wasn’t nearly as well educated as Philokles. ‘My tutor says that respect for the gods cannot ever be wrong,’ he said.

  ‘You’re such a prude,’ Dionysius said. ‘If you didn’t have a beautiful body, no one would speak to you.’

  Satyrus had learned enough from his sister to sense that Dionysius was unhappy at having Satyrus at centre stage because of his near-triumph in the gymnasium.

  ‘Well fought, youngster!’ called Timarchus, one of the Macedonian cavalry officers. And Eumenes, far above him on the steps, waved. Satyrus waved back.

  ‘So much attention from a lot of washed-up old soldiers!’ Dionysius said.

  ‘They were my father’s friends. And mine,’ Satyrus said.

  ‘You look a lot less like a prig with a flute girl’s lips locked around your cock,’ Dionysius said. Some of the young men laughed – Satyrus’s somewhat Spartan ethics made some of the young men uncomfortable, and they loved to be reminded that he was as human as they – but Abraham, a smaller boy with rich, dark curls and a wrestler’s build, leaped to his defence.

  ‘You’re a godless lot,’ Abraham said. ‘You’ll pay, mark my words!’ He laughed as he said it, because it was one of his father’s favourite remarks.

  Satyrus blushed and pulled his chlamys – a ve
ry light garment indeed, in Alexandria – over his shoulder. ‘Nonetheless,’ he said to all his friends, ‘I’m going to the Temple of Poseidon.’

  ‘Bah! No temple girls to ogle, no wine shops to trash, no actors. What’s the point? I’ll go to Cimon’s and wait.’ Cimon’s was their current addiction, a house that stood on the edge of a number of districts, both physical and legal. It was a private house that served wine all day. The wine was served in the form of an ongoing symposium – where a great many women, and not a few men, disported with the patrons. The house stood on the long spit of land where Ptolemy was building the lighthouse, and it had a remarkable view out over the sea. The inscription over the lintel said that it was ‘A house of a thousand breezes’, which Dionysius translated as ‘The house of a thousand blow jobs’ at every opportunity, to Cimon’s apparent delight.

  The owner, Cimon, was a former slave who had risen to prominence running a brothel. Satyrus knew that he was one of Leon’s men, and that Leon owned the tavern at several removes. He went to Cimon’s because he knew it was safe. Whereas Dionysius went there because he thought it was dangerous. Satyrus wondered how Dionysius would deal with a storm at sea or a fight. Despite the young man’s pretty-boy airs, Satyrus suspected that he had a serious backbone.