Philokles made a face. ‘Veterans should know better than to tell such tales. We were lucky – and brave. There were good men in that taxeis – hard men, and men in the very peak of athletic training. I had ten Olympians.’ He looked out to sea, his spear-butt making a rhythm as he tapped it on the paving stones. ‘I was a younger man myself. Look at me! It has taken me six weeks just to get the lard off my stomach. Fifteen years ago, I’d have had muscles like your cuirass – like you have, wrestler.’ He pointed at Theron, who wore his chitoniskos off one shoulder, showing the near-perfect musculature of his torso.
‘We have Theron. He’s an Olympian.’ Satyrus was interested by the fact that he was now cheering up Philokles, a complete reversal from the day before.
‘Ahh, Theron,’ Philokles said. They were at Diodorus’s gate, which was the closer of the two properties to the drill field. ‘Three days until we march. Where are you heading, young man?’
‘A nap,’ Satyrus said. ‘I have this magnificent physique to maintain. ’
Theron slapped him on the back.
‘Don’t forget to appear at the gymnasium,’ Philokles said. ‘Read something before bed. I have never had a child of my own, lad, but when you speak of having a nap, I suspect that you have somewhere to go tonight. Hmm?’
Blushing, Satyrus hung his head, a complex rush of embarrassments flooding him.
‘Remember what Diodorus said. I do not, note, order you to obey his stricture – only to understand that disobedience will have consequences, for you and for others. Understand me?’
Satyrus wasn’t sure that he did understand, but he nodded anyway, gave a ridiculous smile and then bowed and retreated to his room, where he spent half an hour inspecting his tutor’s comment from any number of angles.
Moonlight would have helped both his mood and the physical difficulty of moving around, but the moon was dark and the stars weren’t much help as a thin haze made the night as black as a priest’s cloak. Satyrus clutched his chlamys tighter and moved carefully back and forth at the base of the steps to the Temple of Poseidon. Deep in the temple precincts there was light – and the soft sound of voices – but out at the edge of the steps there was just a vague glow and the voices sounded like a haunting, and he was afraid. It was foolish for him to have come. He saw assassins in every movement.
Satyrus was beginning to feel a fool. He walked back and forth again, listening for any sign of another person – above him, or perhaps a boat out in the harbour? But he heard nothing but the cry of a late-night gull and somewhere, far off down the curve of the bay, two voices raised in angry confrontation.
He looked at the sky. If there had been stars – the right stars – he could have told the time. The dark sky mocked his ignorance, and the night seemed to move along far more slowly. Satyrus sat on a step, feeling some lingering warmth from the heat of the day. For the thousandth time he thought of Amastris, and then of Melitta, and then of the marvellous machine in Abraham’s house – not that these thoughts were connected, but only that one followed another, and served to keep other thoughts at bay – just thinking that unlocked them like Pandora’s cursed box, and then he was seeing Theo with the dirk in his eye, and then the Sauromatae girl he had killed, and then he shivered.
Why would Amastris leave him waiting? He rose to his feet and walked over to the sea wall. The two voices down the coast were gone. He could hear a kithara playing.
‘My lord?’ came a voice from the top of the steps.
Satyrus jumped. ‘Yes?’ he answered.
‘I have a message, I think,’ the voice said.
Satyrus couldn’t see anything – the god might have been addressing him directly. That seemed unlikely, so Satyrus climbed the steps. He was careful, and he found that he had drawn his sword without thinking.
‘I am here,’ Namastis said. Closer, Satyrus could recognize the Greco-Aegyptian by the sound of his consonants.
‘So am I,’ Satyrus said. Now he could see the priest outlined by the pale luminescence of the white marble portico and the brightly coloured statues that glittered with gold even on the darkest night. ‘Good evening, Master Namastis.’
‘So!’ Namastis said. He sounded amused, a far cry from his daytime subservience. ‘I am asked to perform a task for the palace by a priest of Hathor, and look – I’m running an errand for a Greek.’ He reached out and placed an oyster shell in Satyrus’s hand.
‘I can’t very well read it in the dark,’ Satyrus said.
Namastis made a tapping noise and then a scuffing, as if he was carrying a staff and tapping his sandals. ‘I can light a torch in the outer sanctuary,’ he said. ‘Come.’
Satyrus climbed up to the portico behind the blackness that was the priest’s cloak against the white of the steps, and then he paused in the incense-redolent interior. He didn’t know his way and the priest vanished.
He wondered if this was an ambush. He was behaving like an idiot – in more ways than one. And Namastis – was it just coincidence? How would Amastris know of their connection? Satyrus grasped the hilt of his sword, and just then he heard a strong grunt as the Aegyptian blew hard on a spark, and in seconds a resin-impregnated torch burst into flame, with the heady smell of burning pitch.
The scenes of the temple interior sprang to life in the flickering light of one torch, but Satyrus glanced around, his head turning like a falcon’s or a hunting owl’s.
He sheathed his sword and his hand fell away from the hilt. He was, quite literally, starting at shadows.
He went over to the priest and stood with the torchlight at his right shoulder while he opened the shell and read the note.
Apologies.
Satyrus shrugged. ‘Let that be a lesson to me,’ he said.
The priest shook his head, saying nothing. Then he paused. ‘I could offer you a cup of wine,’ he said. ‘We’re not supposed to,’ he added, in a tone that suggested that this rule was not widely obeyed.
Satyrus shook his head. ‘No, thanks,’ he said. ‘I have been enough of a foolish boy for ten nights. I need to get some sleep before Philokles has me on the drill field in the morning.’
Namastis peered at him as if his eyes were weak. ‘You are with the Spartan? In the Phalanx of Aegypt?’ he asked. ‘I hear news of you every day.’ He smiled hesitantly.
Satyrus shrugged. ‘If it is still there in the morning,’ he answered.
Namastis nodded. ‘Yes. The Macedonians didn’t want to arm any mere native and now they seek to drive them all away.’
Satyrus had to laugh. ‘I don’t think it’s an organized plot, friend,’ he said. ‘Macedonian arrogance is sufficient. Panion came today and in one speech undid four weeks of Philokles’ work. And your countrymen aren’t the world’s best soldiers, either. Lots of obedience and not much spirit.’
Namastis rubbed his bare chin. ‘Would a priest of Poseidon be welcome in your phalanx, lord?’ he asked. ‘Satyrus?’ he said.
Satyrus shrugged. ‘My father had priests in his phalanx. In Greek cities, many priests serve in the ranks just like other men.’ He made a face. ‘I have no idea what the tradition is here.’
‘Then I will come tomorrow,’ Namastis said.
As Philokles had predicted, fewer than half of the Aegyptians returned to the ranks the next day, and those that came were surly and often stood immobile instead of exercising.
‘Why did you come, if not to work?’ Philokles asked one. The man carefully grounded his pike and walked off.
‘Look at the bright side,’ Dionysius said. ‘Now we have enough sarissas. ’ He shrugged. Dionysius was the least affected by the death of Theo. He’d never liked the boy and didn’t even pretend to mourn him.
Satyrus was working with the young men, practising with the hoplite arms most of them had – heavy shields, a handspan larger than the Macedonian shields and much deeper, so that they protected the whole body; shorter spears with heavy heads and long bronze butt-spikes, like those carried by Leon’s marines. They were pract
ising a marine tactic – one that Philokles admired – a short burst of a charge from just three paces out from the enemy line. On board ship, this was all the deck space any marine ever had for a charge. On the battlefield, Satyrus reckoned, those three paces represented the length of the enemy sarissas.
He had bargepoles affixed to two-wheel carts so that the spears stood out two spans past the poles of the yokes. A line of these carts represented the enemy, and again and again the young men practised flinging themselves forward three steps, stooping low and shields held at an acute, uncomfortable angle – slam into the face of the carts, hopefully avoiding the tips of the bargepoles. And pushing the carts back.
Every fourth or fifth time, they managed it, and the carts rocked back. The other times, they tripped and fell, or someone got a bargepole in the head or lost his grip or the pace – ugly accidents, and reminders of what would happen when there were veteran killers at the other end of the bargepoles.
It was after one such disaster, with Theron berating a gaggle of Jews as if they were slaves and not the sons of four of the city’s richest citizens, when Satyrus saw that all the Aegyptians were standing still, refusing any further orders. It was a curious form of rebellion – the phalanx was voluntary, and any of them might have grounded their pikes like the first rebel and walked away.
‘Uh-oh,’ Abraham muttered. He pushed the helmet back on his head so that his arming cap showed white against his tawny skin.
‘Why are we working so hard, if all the Gyptos are going to quit?’ Dionysius asked. He took a pull from his elegant black canteen and then handed it around. It had straight unwatered wine.
Satyrus drank some anyway. ‘If Philokles were here, he’d say that if they mutiny, that’s their decision and not ours about defending our city.’
Dionysius looked far more capable than he usually did. He raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s a nice argument for the schoolroom, dear. But for a man who’s considering facing a line of spears, it doesn’t seem to me to carry much weight.’
Philokles was standing with his hands on his hips. His face was red, as if he was about to give way to anger. The Aegyptians moved as if a breeze was passing over a field of their own emmer, and a sigh escaped from their ranks, which were none too even.
And then a file of men in dark cloaks came on to the parade ground from the west, towards the temple district. Most of them – but not all – were of mixed birth. A few were marked by their features and their distinctive linen garments as Aegyptian priests. There were more than twenty of them, and they came to a dignified halt behind Philokles.
Namastis stepped out from the gaggle of priests. ‘Lord Philokles? The temple district sends its tithe of men who are citizens to serve.’
Another sigh escaped from the men in the ranks.
Philokles returned the priest’s bow. ‘Twenty willing men delight me, but the favour of the gods would delight us all.’
An older man wearing the curious long garment favoured by servants of the older Aegyptian gods stepped forth. ‘I may not serve under arms,’ he said. ‘But if I might address your men, you might find them better soldiers.’
Philokles frowned, and then stepped out of the command spot at the head of the square. ‘Be my guest, priest,’ he said politely. He walked over to where Theron and Satyrus were standing. ‘Can’t hurt us,’ he said with a shrug. ‘Perhaps he’ll help. I know him – Temple of Osiris. A fine speaker.’
Theron shook his head. ‘Strange, like all barbarians. Priests who won’t fight?’
Satyrus furrowed his brow. ‘You told me that in Corinth the priests of Aphrodite didn’t fight, but pimped for their priestesses who sold their bodies.’
Theron rubbed his nose and had the grace to look embarrassed. ‘Um – that’s true.’
Philokles and Satyrus exchanged glances, even as the older priest of Osiris raised his arms and began to speak.
Some of the men in the ranks looked inattentive, bored or even angry to be addressed by the priest – but a great many more listened as if receiving the words of the great gods themselves, and some fell to their knees until the priest was done speaking. One by one, five priests addressed them in Aegyptian. Then all five gave a benediction in Greek and in Aegyptian, and they went off to the side, where a stand of date palms offered some shade.
The priests of the Greek gods also offered benedictions, but when they were done, Namastis clapped his hands and slaves brought them shields and linen armour like the Aegyptians wore, and good Greek Pylos helmets straight from the forges.
Philokles looked around. ‘Harmless,’ he said. He rolled his shoulders as if taking the weight of his responsibility back. ‘Might even do some good.’
It had done some good. If the natives had ever intended mutiny – and none of the Hellenes knew them or their language well enough to know – they meant no mutiny now. Most of them began to drill with something like enthusiasm, and despite the fact that they were a thousand men short of their required size since the day before, Philokles led them through exercise after exercise with something like enthusiasm himself, and Dionysius shook his head in admiration at their first successful wheel all the way through a circle – a difficult manoeuvre even for professionals. Of course it was easier with half the men, but the spirit of the whole was different – profoundly different.
When the sun touched the horizon, Satyrus sought out the priest of Poseidon. ‘What did you do?’ he said.
Namastis shook his head. ‘I did very little. It had already been discussed – but meeting you last night stiffened my spine.’
‘What did the priest of Osiris say? It was like magic!’ Satyrus said.
‘Yes!’ Namastis replied. He glanced at Philokles. ‘He told them to act like men. That the eyes of the entire lower kingdom were on them. That they, and they alone, stood between the old gods and destruction.’
Satyrus shook his head. ‘Well, he’s a fine old fellow.’
‘Don’t patronize me, Greek.’ Namastis looked far more imposing in a linen corslet and a helmet than in his robes. ‘And don’t patronize him.’
Satyrus bit back an adolescent retort and nodded. ‘I won’t.’
Namastis shook his head. ‘It’s hard not to be touchy when you are half-caste. Listen – he also told them that Philokles is the very avatar of the war god – at least for now.’
‘My tutor?’ Satyrus laughed, but then he stopped. A great many scenes passed before his eyes in a few heartbeats. ‘That’s not altogether far from the mark,’ he said.
Namastis glanced over Satyrus’s shoulder to where a knot of fashionable young men waited for their friend but were too polite to break in on the two of them – or too disdainful of the Gypto. ‘You Hellenes are great fools,’ Namastis said. ‘He wasn’t speaking in allegory, Satyrus. He meant that Philokles is the very avatar of the god of war. Here. Now.’ The priest picked up his spear and swung it carefully erect. The full length of the pike made any sudden movement perilous.
A prickle at the back of Satyrus’s neck, and then the smell of a wet lion skin, and then nothing – a sort of absence of sense.
‘You are god-touched,’ Namastis said reverently. ‘I forget Hellenes are not all fools. My apologies, lord.’
‘Satyrus, not lord,’ Satyrus said, offering his hand.
Namastis took it, and clenched it hard – too hard, but a good try. ‘Men are hunting you,’ he said suddenly.
‘I know,’ Satyrus said. He actually smiled, like the hero in an epic, although his smile was more self-mockery than dismissal of danger.
‘No Aegyptian will help them,’ Namastis said. ‘That much I guarantee you. But the Macedonian faction intends your death. They have hired men. That is all we know.’
Satyrus favoured the hand all the way back to Leon’s villa by the sea.
No more oyster shells came, and no fights with his sister, who was gone – visiting Amastris herself, or so Dorcus claimed. Satyrus went to sleep picturing elements of the drill.
&nb
sp; And in the morning, the ranks were full. Two thousand Aegyptians, half-castes and Hellenes stood together in the ranks. Their armour was a patchwork, and their spears and sarissas were four different lengths, and most men had neither body armour nor cloaks – but the ranks were full.
Philokles asked the priest of Osiris and the priest of Zeus to address the men. Each offered a brief prayer. And then, when the priest of Zeus had intoned the hymn to the rise of day, Philokles gestured to Abraham.
‘We have no priest of your god, son of Ben Zion,’ Philokles said. ‘Can you sing a hymn or some such? This taxeis will use every shred of divinity on offer.’
Abraham nodded. He was in the front rank, beyond Dionysius whose beauty included the kind of fitness that caused Philokles to put him in the front. He shuffled forward past Dionysius – no easy task with an aspis – and stood in front. In a deep voice he began a hymn – Hebrew, of course. Fifty voices picked it up. Some sang softly, as if embarrassed, and some carefully, as if forcing the words from their memories. But they sounded well enough, and they smiled self-consciously when finished – just as the Aegyptians and the Hellenes had done.
‘If all the gods are satisfied, we need to do a great deal of work,’ Philokles shouted.
For the first time, his words were greeted with the sort of spontaneous cheer he expected from good troops.
At supper, back at Leon’s, Philokles shook his head. ‘We were down,’ he said. ‘Now? I see a glimmer of that fickle creature, hope.’
Theron grunted and ate another helping of quail. ‘When do we march?’ he asked. ‘And will we carry the baggage?’
Philokles shrugged. ‘I can’t believe the delays. Ptolemy hasn’t even decided on a strategy yet – he vacillates, so I’m told, between offence and defence, and he has twelve thousand slaves rebuilding the forts along the coast. And six thousand being gathered to support the army. We won’t carry the baggage – but if we have a defensive campaign, these men will melt away, priests or no priests. And if the campaign flares into sudden battle before marching makes them hard – again, I dread it.’ But after these words, he brightened. ‘But I tell you, gentlemen – philosopher that I am, something changed today. I felt it. I, too, will go to my task with a lighter heart.’ Philokles looked at Diodorus. ‘When do we march, Strategos?’
Funeral Games t-3 Page 49
