Eutropios turned back to Philokles. ‘I have no hair,’ he said. ‘You fight Spartan-style or Macedonian?’ he asked.
‘Spartan,’ Philokles said. ‘With an aspis, not one of these little Macedonian shields.’
‘Now, that’s lucky for you, because I have some made up. No one wants them any more, except some of the cities up north. Hoplite panoply? I have two or three to hand, from an order that never sold. Cavalry equipment? Don’t even ask. Everyone is a horse soldier now. Soon enough, there won’t even be any hoplites. No one wants to do any work any more - everyone wants to ride a fucking horse.’ The Chalcidian grinned sourly. He led them to a heavily built stone house that held up sheds at both ends. The door was sealed shut. He took a curious tool from his belt and twisted the seal wire and opened the door for them.
Satyrus gasped. The room was a veritable treasury of Ares. Bronze helmets, bronze-faced shields and rows of swords, most with a light coat of rust on them, straight-bladed and leaf-bladed and bent-bladed, of every size. Spears stood against the wall, their blades dark with rust, their bronze sauroteres, or butt-spikes, brown or green with patina. ‘All built for the tyrant’s guard, but now he has them aping the Macedonians,’ he said. ‘The swords are good,’ he said, as he plucked a short kopis from the floor and wiped the surface rust off on his chiton. ‘Good work from home. I bought this lot from a pirate - the shipment was for Aegypt. Saves me time to have a store of them.’
Philokles nodded. ‘No scabbards,’ he said.
‘Do I look like a scabbard maker?’ the smith asked. ‘Hephaestos, protect me! Are you expecting to be offered wine? Ares and Aphrodite. Zosimos, will you fetch these fine gentlemen some wine while they look at my wares and ask for fucking scabbards?’
Theron picked up a longer kopis, made in the western style with a bird-shaped hilt. It was a heavy weapon. He swung it without much effort.
‘Sure you wouldn’t like to do a little smithing, boy?’ the smith asked. ‘Shoulders like that, you won’t have to worry about someone trying to kill you in the Olympics. I’ll make you rich.’ He laughed. ‘Hermes, I’m already rich, but I can’t spend it, because I can’t stop working.’
‘He needs Temerix,’ Satyrus said to Melitta. She smiled at him, and then both of them realized that their friend, the Sindi master smith of Tanais, might well be dead, or a slave, with his eastern wife and their three sons, playmates all.
Life would seem exciting for an hour and then something would happen to remind them. Satyrus wiped his eyes and stood straight. ‘Temerix is the toughest man I know,’ he said. ‘He would survive, and Lu is too clever to be - attacked.’
Melitta shook her head. ‘And Ataelus? He must be dead. He was with mama.’
She wiped her eyes, looked around the room and spotted a small helmet with cheekpieces on the stack of helmets, mostly unrimmed Pylos helmets and a couple of Boeotians. She pulled it on and it went down over her eyes.
Philokles lifted it off her head, the bowl fitting in the palm of one of his great hands, and replaced it, rocking it gently on her hair. ‘Not bad,’ he said. ‘We’ll make you an arming cap.’
He reached into the pile and pulled out a small helmet with a bowl like a loaf of bread. ‘Try that,’ he said to Satyrus.
Satyrus wanted to look like Achilles, and not like some cheap foot soldier. This was a plain Boeotian, with a simple rim and no cheekpieces and no crest. He put it on his head and it sank past his temples, but it only needed padding. And a helmet of his own was better than no helmet.
‘Fits,’ he told Philokles.
He went to the rows of swords and came up with a short, leaf-bladed weapon the length of his forearm. Philokles approved, despite the fact that the blade was red-brown with rust.
‘Just a little work,’ the smith said. ‘You suited?’ Then he seemed to relent, relaxing visibly. ‘You want to see the forge?’ he said to Satyrus. He wrinkled his nose at Melitta. ‘Not much for a girl to see.’
Melitta made him laugh by wrinkling her nose back. ‘You need to get to know a better class of girl,’ she shot back. ‘Let’s go.’
Theron and Philokles declined. They were trying shields. So the children followed Zosimos and Eutropios out into the smoke-filled air and then into the largest shed, built of upright rough-sawn boards on poles driven deep into the ground.
The sound was loud outside the shed, but inside it was almost overwhelming. Satyrus and Melitta had seen Temerix at work, his hammer ringing on his bronze anvil or his iron one, and they’d seen him work with one of his journeymen, Curti or Pardo, the hammers banging in turns, but this was ten anvils in a circle around a furnace whose heat struck them like fists as they entered, and the hammer blows rang like continuous thunder on a hot summer day. Every smith in the shed was working bronze, building helmets, working them up from shaped trays that were probably made in another shed, working on the bowls and turning the whole helmet slightly after each blow. Every smith had a helper, and some had two, and the pieces were constantly being reheated in the furnace before coming back to the smiths. On top of the high furnace at the centre of the room, a bronze cauldron bubbled away, adding steam to the smoke.
The twins stood, amazed. Individual workers stopped, drinking cool water from pottery canteens hanging on the walls, or watered wine from skins, or a hot drink from the bronze cauldron on top of the furnace, or rubbing their hands, or putting olive oil on a burn, but the shed continued to work as a whole, the ringing of hammers never ending.
Eutropios watched with pride. ‘We’re working a big order,’ he shouted. ‘I love it when every hammer is working.’ He gave them a smile.
At the sound of the master smith’s voice, many men stopped working and looked at him, so he had to wave them all back to work. ‘Guests!’ he shouted. Some of the smiths laughed.
‘Are they slaves?’ Melitta asked.
‘Hard to say,’ Eutropios said. ‘Slaves don’t always make the best craftsmen, young lady. Most of those men weren’t born free. Some are working off their freedom, and others are taking a wage. None of them are getting the same wage they’d make if they had their own forge.’ He shrugged. ‘Every few months, a couple wander off to start a business, and I need more. I eat smiths like my forges eat charcoal.’ He waved at the boys running water back and forth, or carrying nets of charcoal. ‘The boys are mostly slaves. I use ’em until Kinon finds them a buyer. It’s hard work, but good food and all they can eat. They go to market well fed and well muscled.’
Melitta chewed her lip.
‘My sister has taken against slavery,’ Satyrus said in disgust.
‘When you said we could end up slaves, it made me think. What about that girl? Kallista? I’m pretty,’ Melitta said in disgust. ‘Men would look at me the way you all look at her.’
Eutropios laughed. ‘Lady, that will happen anyway,’ he said. ‘Let me be a good host. Come this way.’ He led the way to another shed, where two men worked on long wooden benches while half a dozen younger men held things.
‘Whitesmiths,’ Eutropios said. ‘Finishers. See what they’re making?’ They were finishing small blades - knives shaped like swords but made the size of meat knives. ‘Look at them - no black on them any more. See what Klopi here - he has the knack - see what he’s got. The blade shines like a mirror. People pay money for hilts in bronze and gold - but it is the bladework and the finishing that costs the money to make. And a polish like this won’t rust.’ He swatted Klopi on the back. ‘Nice work. Master work, in fact. Come and see me tonight.’ He looked at the other blade. ‘Not bad. Klopi, help him finish and show him how you got that deep lustre.’
When they emerged from the sheds, Theron and Philokles had a mule with panniers loaded with bronze and iron. ‘We have a good deal of work to do ourselves,’ Philokles said.
They spent the ride back to Heraklea babbling like the children they were, while their tutors made plans.
6
No sooner were they back in the courtyard of Kinon’s
house than Philokles set to work, borrowing labour from the house staff. He sent Zosimos out to find a leatherworker to make scabbards and belts and straps for the corslets, and he started with the shields, ripping the old leather backing off. Melitta and Satyrus were handed jars of rancid oil and scraps of linen and powdered pumice. They enthusiastically rubbed the surface rust off the blades of the swords, helped by various slaves who knew how to use the tools at hand. In minutes they were red to their elbows with rust.
Kinon came out into the working courtyard, dressed in an elegant chiton and with a heavy cloak over his left shoulder. He glanced around. ‘If he’s fobbed you off with a lot of old stuff—’
‘I think we’re entirely satisfied,’ Philokles said. ‘A little work won’t hurt any of us,’ he said with a glance at the twins.
Satyrus agreed. It felt good to be dirty - good to be doing something. He enjoyed the slow progress of his work, watching the red fall away from the steel, and then the rhythmic effort would widen the bright spot. There was a lesson there, he thought.
Melitta began to hum to herself as she worked - a Sakje song about drinking wine. Satyrus started to sing the words, and then they were both singing.
Kinon nodded. ‘I have an appointment,’ he said. ‘Tenedos is out listening for news. I’ll see you at dinner,’ he added. He stopped in the gate, where Zosimos was entering with a leatherworker, the man’s trade obvious from his apron and knife. ‘I’m reminded of my father,’ he said, looking around. ‘This was the way our courtyard would be when he made ready for war, and all his clients and friends gathered to fix their kit.’
Philokles raised his head. Satyrus followed his glance and saw tears on the Theban’s face, and he went back to singing.
Dinner was just as good as the first night, and Satyrus gazed on Kallista until his devotion was obvious to everyone there, but he couldn’t keep his eyes open, and fell asleep on his couch, to his own acute embarrassment.
Melitta stayed up later, listening to the older men make plans and watching the complexities of the interplay between the men. Friendship was growing between Philokles and Theron, and something similar between Philokles and Kinon, but Kinon and Theron didn’t seem to be getting along. She watched them carefully.
After the wine began to circulate quickly and the slaves were sent to bed, Kallista came and stood beside her. ‘May I share your couch?’ she asked.
Melitta moved aside and the older girl lay down. Melitta put an arm around her and they snuggled against each other.
‘I haven’t been dismissed, but Kinon won’t want me listening,’ the beautiful girl said. ‘He’s flirting with the Spartan. Why don’t they just say what they want?’
Melitta peeked over the back of her couch. The men had forgotten them altogether. They were laughing in the way that Melitta associated with jokes about sex, or women. In that respect, Sakje men and Greek men were little different.
‘Philokles doesn’t know what he wants,’ she said.
‘My master wants him,’ Kallista said.
Melitta held her breath a moment. ‘I thought that - that is to say, it seemed. Oh dear. I thought that he loved you?’
Kallista laughed. ‘First, mistress, I’m a slave - he can have me when he pleases, or send me to pleasure his guests. I’ve done all that. But no - in this house I’ve never been asked to oblige my master in any way, except to wait at table. I am an adornment. Much like the silver pitchers.’
‘Oh,’ Melitta said. ‘Do you—Is it better? Than - obliging?’
Kallista laughed. ‘How old are you, mistress?’
‘Twelve,’ Melitta said.
‘I’ve had men since I was eleven,’ Kallista said. ‘Sometimes it’s nice. Sometimes it’s big, drunk men who want me on their cocks in the middle of a party.’ She shrugged, turned away so that Melitta couldn’t see her face. ‘But I’ve never kindled, Aphrodite be thanked, and Kinon hasn’t pushed me at a man since I went into this house. Perhaps my hymen will grow back,’ she said. She rolled over carefully so that the couch didn’t make a noise. ‘Have you? Had a man?’
Melitta felt herself blush. ‘No,’ she said. ‘It all looks - silly.’
The older girl chuckled. ‘You don’t know the half of it. And your brother? Has he?’ The girl pulled her a little closer.
Melitta felt an alarm bell begin to ring softly in her head. ‘Why do you ask?’ she said.
‘No reason,’ Kallista replied. ‘He’s pretty enough, for his age. Men would want him - girls too.’
Melitta thought about that for a moment. ‘I don’t think he’s given it much thought,’ she said.
Kallista stiffened, then rolled away again. She lay with her back to Melitta for a little, and then rolled to her feet. ‘That must be nice,’ she said bitterly, and vanished into the darkness.
Melitta lay by herself for a moment, and then followed the other girl. She could hear the sound of her feet on the colonnade, and she tracked her. The older girl was crying very softly. Melitta caught up with her at the entrance to a dark room by the simple expedient of running a few steps and grabbing her shoulder.
‘I’m stupid sometimes,’ Melitta said.
The older girl collapsed in her arms, sobbing. Her sobs were very quiet. Melitta realized that when you were a slave, you didn’t even own your sobs.
‘Hey!’ Melitta said. She came from a family without a great deal of patience for tears. ‘I’m sorry!’
Kallista put her head on Melitta’s shoulder.
Then she started kissing the nape of Melitta’s neck.
Melitta froze for a moment, and then wriggled out of the other girl’s embrace with all the skills that her brother had taught her. ‘Hey,’ she said again, the sound of her voice threatening to get louder if required.
‘Oh,’ Kallista said. ‘I thought—’
‘Aphrodite,’ Melitta said.
‘I’d like to be friends,’ Kallista said.
‘Do you always chew on your friends?’ Melitta asked.
‘It’s fun,’ the older girl breathed.
‘Listen, Kallista,’ Melitta said, stretching a hand out. ‘I ride with the spear-maidens in the summer. I know what girls do.’ She shrugged. ‘Maybe we can be friends.’ She pushed away from the column at her back. ‘But not lovers. I’m twelve, not five - I know how all that works.’
‘Do you?’ the beautiful girl asked, and Melitta caught the derision.
‘Well,’ Melitta admitted, ‘probably not.’
Kallista squeezed her hand.
Melitta felt a flutter of something, like a flush that spread from her chest to her groin. She let go of Kallista’s hand and fled for her room, leaving Kallista laughing, or crying, behind her.
But she didn’t get to sleep quickly.
Kallista was on her mind when she awoke, and as soon as she bathed she walked around to her brother’s room, where he was stretching as if for the palaestra.
‘You look better,’ she said.
He shrugged. ‘Comes and goes,’ he said. ‘You?’
‘The same.’ She sat on his sleeping couch. ‘You have a thing for Kallista,’ she said accusingly.
That got her brother to grin. ‘I do,’ he said. ‘Just like our Lady Mother promised - all the feeling in the world, as if she was the only woman who had ever lived, Aphrodite incarnate.’ He spoke with self-mockery, because their mother had lectured them so often on the perils of young love and the intrigues of sex.
Then he sat down next to her and they embraced, both thinking of their mother.
‘Maybe Mama is all right,’ Melitta said.
Satyrus held her more tightly, and she hugged him back.
‘Kallista made a pass at me last night,’ Melitta said.
Satyrus stiffened and then sat back. ‘Oh,’ he said.
‘She asked me about you,’ Melitta said. ‘I rather like her. It’s nice having a girl to talk to. But there’s another face to her - something else. When she asked about you, she sounded - greedy.’
>
Satyrus got up and went back to doing his pankration guard positions. ‘Oh, I understand,’ he said. ‘With my well-known riches, she thinks I’ll make a good client? I think I’ve seen the play.’
‘Yes,’ Melitta said. ‘I think that’s just how she sees you.’ She was sorry to inflict pain on her brother, but she saw her shaft sink into him. She promised her mother, alive or dead, that she’d fill that role whenever she had to - somebody in the family had to be tough. And she wasn’t letting her brother get taken by a hetaira, no matter how lovely. It made her feel better.
‘Ouch,’ Satyrus said. He faked a kick with his left leg and then struck with his left hand, but in a flare of anger he misjudged his distance and his hand hit the plastered wall. Dust flew, and he cursed, holding his hand under his right armpit. ‘Fuck,’ he said.
‘Satyr!’ his sister admonished.
‘I feel like an idiot,’ he said.
‘I’ll withhold the obvious comment,’ she said. ‘Let’s go and eat.’
‘I need to get out of this house,’ Satyrus said. ‘Wine one night and slave girls the next. Save my virtue, Lita.’
‘I’m doing my best,’ she said.
‘Weren’t you tempted by her, though?’ he asked. He put his hand in the water pitcher.
‘No,’ she lied.
They walked out together to breakfast, pancakes and honey with sesame seeds. They both ate all they were offered, and then had to bathe again because they were so sticky. Philokles laughed at them, and Melitta laughed at herself, because for all her wisdom (and she offered prayer and libation to Athena for her help the night before), she was still a little girl who ate too many pancakes.
By mid-morning, they were in the business courtyard again, cleaning helmets under Theron’s exacting direction. Philokles had a pile of horsehair.
While they worked, Philokles went over his plan. ‘Tomorrow or the next day, we’ll go south,’ he said. ‘Theron will go as the captain of the escort and I will go with him. You are just two noble children travelling under our charge. We’ll be travelling through a war. I hope that we don’t have to do it for long.’
Funeral Games Page 11