Funeral Games t-3

by Christian Cameron

  Nonetheless, he was able to come up to the pillars without being discovered, and he reached out just as she turned.

  ‘Don’t scream,’ he said.

  She opened her mouth, put a hand on his chest and then put her mouth up to his. ‘You came!’ she breathed.

  Her kiss was everything he remembered, and nothing, no shred of conscious thought, entered his head for many heartbeats. She kissed him for so long that he breathed the air from her lungs, and she took it back from him, and then she leaned back against the pillar as if all the strength was gone from her legs.

  ‘You are naked,’ she said.

  ‘I am pretending to be a slave,’ he answered. ‘Besides, my nudity shows my physique, and my physique shows that I am ready to do my duty as a citizen.’ Gods – he was parroting Philokles in the middle of kissing Amastris.

  ‘It shows more than that,’ she said. She ran a finger down his chest. ‘How did you get here?’ she asked, but her tongue didn’t let him answer, and her hand closed over his manhood, and she laughed into his kiss, a low laugh full of promise. Then, before things got out of her control, she took him by the hand and led him back, away from the gate, screened by the line of scaffolding, until they slipped by a pair of torch-bearers and under the columns of the main wing of the palace.

  ‘This is where you first kissed me,’ she said. That seemed to demand certain actions, and then they were moving again. Just the sight of her gold-sandalled feet seemed the most erotic thing he’d ever seen, and he followed her in a daze until they emerged from the line of pillars.

  ‘The gardens,’ she said, as they passed between the gateposts of entwined roses.

  An odd, observant part of his mind noted that she knew the gardens very well, as she led him past the maze to an arbour adorned with a statue of a nymph – possibly Thetis of the glistening breasts.

  ‘I never thought that you would actually come,’ she said into his ear, and then licked it.

  Satyrus picked her up and carried her to the bench.

  ‘Put me down!’ she said, but her voice was soft.

  Satyrus pulled the golden pin that held the shoulder of her dress and began to kiss down her neck, over her shoulder, and without pause up the curve of her breast, even as he sat carefully on the bench. Training was good for many things.

  ‘Oh!’ she said. ‘Satyrus – no. Oh, I never thought that you would come.’

  ‘No?’ he asked, raising his head.

  Her eyes sparkled in the near dark, reflecting distant torchlight like a thousand stars. ‘No,’ she breathed. ‘Not that sort of no. Or perhaps – I don’t know. Oh, my dear.’

  He straightened.

  She drew him down for a kiss, and wriggled off his lap on to the bench. ‘Where’s my pin?’ she asked.

  He produced it, and she carefully thrust it through her gown without repinning her shoulder, and then she turned back to him. ‘I don’t want to lose anything,’ she said, her eyes as big and deep as night itself. Then she unpinned the other shoulder and put the pin in the same place, and turned to him with a smile that took his breath away. ‘Now,’ she said. ‘Gold pins do not grow on trees.’

  The sun streaked the horizon as he rowed back, his mind buzzing, his shoulders curiously tired.

  ‘Make it possible for Ptolemy to give us to each other,’ Amastris had said. That phrase filled his head, and he rowed across the harbour at a speed that might have won a race.

  The beach was silent, except for the snores of the oarsmen and their companions. A pair of women bathed in the sea as he rowed up, and one of them rose out of the water. ‘Aphrodite,’ she called. ‘Coming out of the sea just for you!’

  Satyrus laughed. ‘I have nothing left to give that lovely goddess,’ he said, and both the girls laughed. ‘Nor have we,’ they called.

  His good humour lasted until he climbed into his room, where Philokles sat by his empty bed.

  ‘Where the fuck have you been?’ the Spartan asked. And without listening to an explanation, Philokles said, ‘We were attacked last night.’ He shrugged. ‘I thought you were taken. Dead.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Satyrus said.

  ‘Dorcus is dead. Nihmu has a knife wound in her shoulder. Three men – in through the women’s quarters.’ The Spartan shook his head. ‘Gods – so you were gone all night – and Melitta too, unless her note is forged. She says she has eloped with the god of war, so Stratokles failed by the will of the gods.’

  Satyrus ducked out of his room and down the hall, scattering servants. He went into Sappho’s wing, past the guard. ‘Auntie?’ he called.

  Sappho emerged in a Persian robe, slapped him and then embraced him. ‘You were with a girl!’ she said. ‘Is this what we taught you? You smell of sex. You little fool!’ she said, but she hugged him all the tighter.

  Satyrus wondered why he ever thought that he could get away with anything.

  ‘That’s quite the expensive scent,’ Kallista said from behind Sappho. ‘Were you with Phiale, by any chance? Why didn’t we think of that?’

  He shook his head. ‘I’m so sorry!’ he said.

  ‘Now, if we could recover your sister, I could stop worrying,’ Sappho said.

  Melitta lay under the stars, her two men’s cloaks crossed over her and her legs entwined with Xeno’s. His new boy lay on the other side, full of soup, asleep.

  The boy was a sadder case than Melitta had guessed – mother dead, father dead – killed by their own owner. Melitta thought about the boy’s story, trying to piece together a six-year-old’s account of his life. Something rang – something was trying to fit with the rest of her head, like a piece in a mosaic.

  Xeno was too adoring, and in some ways his adoration was more difficult than anything, but she had shot ten bullseyes out of ten at fifty paces by torchlight, and even the archer-captain of the toxotai was impressed with her – him. She had a place among the archers who were training to face Demetrios’s elephants. Xeno’s adoration seemed a small price to pay.

  Melitta wondered what her brother was doing. In her rush to get free of the smothering confines of Leon’s house, she hadn’t thought about what it would be like to be separated from him, despite his many failings. He was, after all, her twin. Where had he gone?

  Xeno was already snoring. She smiled at him – the bulk of him so familiar and so unfamiliar – and smiled at the thought that none of the other soldiers considered that there was anything remarkable in their sharing blankets and cloaks. She wondered how long she could keep up her role as a man.

  As long as she could.

  22

  T he army of Aegypt was supposed to begin to march with the dawn. Their departure was marked with riots and protests in addition to all the usual difficulties, and the sun crossed the height of the sky before the cavalry had marched. The baggage train of wagons, carts, donkeys and porters filled the road before the first squadron departed, and there were more and more non-combatants with every unit. The feeling in the column was ugly, and the feeling in the streets of the city was worse.

  The Foot Companions were rumoured to have mutinied in their barracks, but they did march – sixteen files deep, with shield-bearers sandwiched between the files of soldiers, so that the men walked unencumbered while their slaves carried their armour, their weapons and their food. Unlike the cavalry, many of whom had worn their best for the departure, partly to make a show and partly to overawe the populace, the Foot Companions disdained to do the same. They walked off in dusty red chitons, grumbling. There were gaps in their ranks, and rumour said that some men had deserted, or worse.

  The other taxeis also marched, each body with two thousand men formed four deep in huge long files, followed by carts and slaves. Only lucky men in these less prestigious formations had a shield-bearer. Again, there were gaps – files where a man or two were missing. Rumours swept the column that there was a plot against Ptolemy – that the Macedonians would rise and murder him – that Aegyptians would murder him – wilder and wilder stuff.<
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  The Phalanx of Aegypt continued to drill on their parade near the sea. At the head of the parade was their equipment. Every man had a bundle to carry, carefully tied, and the phylarchs worked their way down their files, inspecting every man’s campaign gear before passing their files on to the captains who inspected them again. When they were inspected and passed, which took until noon, with the poorer men scurrying to the market and back for last-minute donations, they stacked their gear at the head of the square and did drill until the shadows began to gather, and then Diodorus appeared.

  ‘The strategos of the rearguard!’ Philokles said.

  ‘The very same,’ Diodorus replied, saluting. ‘We wouldn’t even make it to a campsite tonight, my friend,’ he said, pointing at the bundles. ‘Can your men camp here? On the parade?’

  Philokles shrugged. ‘I expected nothing less,’ he said.

  Satyrus stepped up by Diodorus’s leg. ‘All day we’ve heard rumours,’ he said. He was light-headed with lack of sleep. ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘The mutineers have gathered,’ Diodorus said, but his eyes were on Philokles and not his nephew. ‘As we discussed, eh, brother?’

  Philokles gave a strange half-smile. ‘Just as we planned.’ He saluted and then waved at Rafik, his trumpeter, who came at a run. He turned to Satyrus. ‘Lad, get Abraham and tell him to send for the food we discussed. Rafik, sound “Phylarchs to the front”.’ The call rang out, and then Philokles bellowed, ‘On me!’

  Satyrus found himself teaching a strange mix of men how to cook over an open fire. Most were city dwellers with no more knowledge of how to cook than they had of how to sleep comfortably on the bare ground. As he discussed the best mix of cheese and barley in the wine and water, the merits of an egg dropped in the mess, and the taste of the result with a hundred new mess cooks, he also gathered that the men were on edge – excited, too. Something was in the wind.

  When the sun’s long rays welcomed the evening, he found Philokles standing at his elbow, eating a bowl of barley soup and chewing on a piece of fish. ‘Not bad, Phylarch. Your men eat well.’

  Satyrus grinned. ‘Don’t look at me. Diokles brought spices – pepper! Who brings pepper to war?’

  ‘Me,’ Diokles said. ‘Bread and olive oil, Strategos?’

  Philokles pressed close to his student. ‘Diodorus has sent Eumenes into the southern quarter with guides that Namastis provided,’ he said. ‘In an hour we’ll know one way or another.’ He kept his voice low. ‘Your sister – gods only know how – sent a note with a slave boy to Leon. The slave boy told us where Stratokles is – he and all the Macedonians who are bent on mutiny have gathered together. They probably mean to attack the palace.’ He looked around, ate a mouthful of soup and then, seeing the confusion on Satyrus’s face, raised an eyebrow. ‘It’s Stratokles, lad!’

  Satyrus nodded, fatigue forgotten. ‘May I come?’ he asked.

  ‘If the quarry is all in one place – if our information is right – we’ll strike tonight. I mean to use some of our men – Aegyptians and Hellenes together.’

  Diokles grinned. ‘Blood ’em a little? That’s the spirit.’

  ‘So that’s why we stayed behind!’ Satyrus said.

  ‘Hmm. More of an effect than a cause, lad. Good soup. Pick three men and join me at the head of the square in an hour – swords and shields only.’

  ‘Yes, sir!’

  It was full dark by the time they were in the southern quarter. The moon provided some light, and there were guides – Aegyptians, often men from the phalanx that Satyrus recognized. More than a few of them took his hand and shook it, or pressed it to their lips. He didn’t understand why he had their devotion – but he did. That had a taste more bitter than sweet.

  The tannery stank – the smell was so bad that men sneezed and spat.

  ‘Silence!’ Philokles whispered. ‘Wait until you smell the dead on a battlefield!’ He had Xeno with him, and Xeno was holding a small child by the hand.

  Satyrus clasped hands with his friend. ‘Who’s the kid?’

  ‘I bought a shield-bearer,’ Xeno said. He looked pained. ‘He knew how to find that Athenian. Tyche.’

  The boy was trembling. Satyrus knelt down next to the boy. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

  The blond boy turned his head away and hid in the folds of Xeno’s chitoniskos.

  ‘Satyrus, your sister is serving as an archer,’ Xeno said.

  ‘Sappho will kill her,’ Satyrus said. He shrugged. Every time he looked at the head of the alley, his stomach turned over, and the daimon of combat was starting to sing in his ears, and his hands shook. Satyrus had no idea what his tutor’s plan was. He led his file where he was told, to the back gate of a warehouse, where he saw Hama, an under-officer of Diodorus’s hippeis, waiting with another armoured man.

  Hama touched his brow when he recognized Satyrus. ‘Lord,’ he whispered.

  ‘What are we doing?’ Satyrus asked, because Philokles had vanished into the moonlit dark, Xeno and the child trailing along.

  Hama shrugged. ‘When the trumpet sounds, we charge that gate,’ Hama said. He shrugged again. ‘Diodorus says – prisoners.’ Hama showed Satyrus that he had a Persian horseman’s mace. ‘So I brought this.’

  The night was full of men. Satyrus thought that Philokles must have brought half the phalanx, with the other half acting as guides – Ares and Aphrodite, as Diodorus liked to say. With the dismounted cavalrymen, there were two thousand soldiers waiting in the dark.

  Philokles reappeared with his trumpeter, the Nabataean youth called Rafik. Xeno and the child were gone.

  ‘What are all these men for?’ Satyrus asked.

  ‘I’m using a hammer to crack an egg,’ Philokles said. ‘It’s a good strategy to use, if you have the option. Put another way, more is more.’

  Satyrus was going to ask another question, but Philokles put out his hand. ‘Steady – we’re going before they see us. Ready?’

  Satyrus nodded.

  Philokles raised his hand, and Rafik put the trumpet to his lips.

  Satyrus ran for the gate with Hama. Behind them, a dozen phalangites with a log jogged along, and Satyrus felt foolish as he stepped clear to allow the ram to hit the gate. It blew open as if Zeus had struck it with a thunderbolt.

  The courtyard was full of men – dozens of men, perhaps hundreds, some in armour, all with weapons. They might have been formidable, except that they were under attack from thousands of men coming out of the dark, and they were taken completely by surprise.

  That didn’t affect Satyrus, who was the third man through the back gate. The first was Philokles, who had a shield, a huge Greek aspis, and a club, and the second was Hama with his mace. Each felled a man, and then Satyrus was facing a panicked Macedonian who was screaming – not that Satyrus was listening. He punched his shield into the man and knocked him down, then headed for the building.

  He fought a second man just heartbeats later – turning the man away from Philokles and then stabbing him in the chest as he tried to fight. Most of the men were trying to surrender, but the phalangites had their blood up and they were breaking heads.

  Satyrus hesitated, shouting at men he knew to spare the men surrendering, and Hama stepped in front of him and burst open the main door with his shoulder and got an arrow in his shield, but this didn’t slow Hama by a pace – he put the shield up and pressed forward, virtually blind, his speed a wicked surprise to the man behind the door. Then he stopped, quick as a cat, and cut under his shield, breaking knees and shins.

  Satyrus followed Hama through the door. An arrow whispered evilly by his face and then he was facing a rush from a side room – despite his strength, he was shoved back against a wall, and then the man who slipped past him screamed as one of Satyrus’s Aegyptian rear-rankers spitted him on his long knife.

  ‘Thanks!’ Satyrus said.

  The man grinned and shook his head. ‘I’m with you, lord!’ he said. Then Diokles pushed forward past the Aegyptia
n.

  ‘Lost you in the press,’ Diokles said.

  They entered the side room, some kind of wine shop, and two more men rushed them from behind the trestle tables that marked the land-lord’s portion of the shop. One man had an axe, but he hesitated when Satyrus faked a cut at his head, and then he was dead. The other man fell to his knees.

  Diokles killed him anyway, running the sharp point of his kopis into the man’s neck.

  At the back of the shop were stairs up to the exedra, or so Satyrus assumed. The front door of the shop burst open, and there was Diodorus in full armour.

  ‘It’s me!’ Satyrus shouted.

  ‘Hold!’ Diodorus bellowed. He came in, and a dozen troopers came in behind him. Satyrus knew most of them.

  Now or never. Easy enough to hesitate and let them go first – Diodorus or Eumenes, perhaps, or Diokles or his nameless Aegyptian file-partner. Fuck that. ‘Follow me!’ Satyrus yelled, and went for the stairs. He roared, and his fear fell away. Inside, he laughed with triumph.

  There was an archer on the stairs. Satyrus got his shield up and felt the blow as the arrow went into his shield, popping through the bronze face and the papyrus leaves and the poplar wood to prick his arm. He roared again, banished the flood tide of fear and his legs powered him up. He thrust his shield into the archer and his sword under it, over it, everywhere until the blood flew and the man fell – a nameless stranger, not the Athenian doctor who he saw in nightmares but some poor mercenary, toppling off the stairs with his guts spilling free like an anchor chain. Then he turned as a knife glanced off his scale cuirass.

  ‘I surrender!’ said the man who had just failed to kill him.

  Satyrus held his swing. The man backed away, dropping the knife. ‘I surrender!’ he said and ran back through the door.

  ‘Satyrus!’ Eumenes of Olbia called from the base of the steps. ‘Wait, boy!’

  The man who had just surrendered fell backwards against him, pleading. ‘Please!’ he begged. ‘Help!’ he squeaked.

  Phalangites and cavalrymen had used ladders to storm the exedra and were killing every man they found.