Funeral Games

by Christian Cameron

  ‘And you, my lady,’ Satyrus said. He kissed her hand, as he had seen Theron do with Kallista.

  She giggled. ‘My father would kill you,’ she said, and followed her maids.

  She left something hard in Satyrus’s hand - a ring. It was quite a ring, made of gold with garnets around a big red stone carved with a tiny, perfect representation of a man with a club and a lion skin - Herakles. He looked from it to her - he’d never held anything so precious.

  ‘Hermes protects travellers!’ she called from the doorway. ‘But Herakles triumphs!’

  PART III

  QUENCHING

  9

  316 BC

  Stratokles lay on a couch in the shade of a flame tree and watched the sun set against the towering storm clouds to the north. His mind was on a thousand things, but the beauty of the sunset infected him, and he called for a tablet and a stylus. But all that came to him were snippets of other men’s poems and tags of Menander. He laughed.

  Lucius, lying on the other couch, coughed and shook his head. ‘Not much to laugh about.’

  ‘That’s just where you are wrong,’ Stratokles said. ‘We’re alive. Other men are dead, and we, my friend, are still alive.’

  ‘Can’t tell you how - how much I appreciate that you came back for me,’ Lucius said. His tone conveyed more insult than flattery - his tone told Stratokles that he never expected, once wounded, that his employer would pick him up and fight his way out.

  ‘What a cock-up, and no mistake,’ Stratokles said. ‘To be honest, I must be responsible, but I cannot see how. Anyway - I like you, Lucius. I’m tired of thugs. You’re a gentleman.’ He shrugged. ‘Not sure why I went back for you, myself.’

  Lucius started laughing. ‘Oh, fuck, that hurts,’ he said, and wheezed. ‘So - what next?’

  ‘We heal up. You’ll be out a month - more, I expect. I’ll be able to hobble about in a week, but it’ll be a month before I can exercise.’ He shrugged. ‘Then back to Athens and fucking Demetrios of Phaleron, who will tell me how I could have done it all much, much better.’

  ‘He’s your boss?’ Lucius asked.

  ‘You are a fucking barbarian, anyone ever tell you that?’ Stratokles laughed and snapped his fingers for wine. A Thracian girl with flame-red hair bustled out on to the terrace, poured his wine and vanished. ‘Demetrios of Phaleron is the tyrant of Athens. A scion of Phocion. Friend of Kineas, whose children we just so notably failed to murder.’ He sighed. ‘An extreme oligarch whose policies will overthrow two hundred years of democratic traditions in Athens.’ He raised his wine to Lucius. ‘My boss.’

  ‘How does that work?’ Lucius asked. ‘I don’t get much of your Greek politics, but I’ve read Aristotle, and I have ears. You’re a democrat. If he’s an oligarch, you’re not friends.’

  ‘Lucius, if I’ve learned one thing in my life, it’s that in politics there are no friends.’ Stratokles sighed. ‘Look, there’s no point in deposing Demetrios of Phaleron if that costs us alliance with Cassander and Athens ends up being sacked. Give the man his due - Demetrios of Phaleron is brilliant, ruthless, the best diplomat of the age. And a passable poet.’

  ‘Poet?’ Lucius asked. He took an appreciative sip of the wine. ‘Makes my wound pound like the tide on the sea, but tastes like heaven.’ He looked up. ‘Who owns the redhead?’

  ‘She came with the house.’ Stratokles waved his hand. ‘Ours for the use, I think.’

  Lucius shook his head. ‘You Greeks are so rich you don’t know,’ he said. ‘Someday, someone’s going to come and take all this away from you.’

  ‘Someone did,’ Stratokles said. ‘His name was Alexander. And he took our liberty and our way of life and left us a bunch of mercenary wolves in place of a government.’ Stratokles shrugged again, sipped wine and watched the red-haired girl return. ‘I’ll give my life, if I have to, to win my city back her liberty.’ The red-haired girl was moving self-consciously, clearly aware of what the Italian wanted. Perhaps unsure of what to do about it.

  ‘I hear a lot about your Alexander,’ Lucius said. ‘Most people say he was a god. We Latins don’t believe in that crap.’

  Stratokles raised an eyebrow. ‘And you predict the future with the entrails of chickens?’

  Lucius laughed. ‘We learned that from you Greeks,’ he said. ‘Hey, girl? Know how to play a flute?’

  Stratokles sat carefully at a writing table and two slaves brought eight-wick lamps for him. The Latin and the Thracian girl were making a fair amount of noise upstairs, which made Stratokles smile. The Latin was like a character in Menander - overblown, comic, larger than life - until he said something like I’ve read Aristotle.

  Stratokles rubbed his hands together, sniffed the coriander on his fingers and thought, It was worth the risk. I need a man I can trust - really trust. Lucius is the man. He remembered the blood and the noise in the house in Heraklea, and his hand trembled just a little. Stratokles had fought in every battle of the Lamian War, and ten more actions - but fighting the monstrous Spartan in the dark had had an almost supernatural terror to it.

  I did it, though.

  He watched his hand until the trembling stopped. Then he flipped his wax tablets open and began to write.

  Stratokles to Menander, Greetings!

  It is too long since we strolled in the Academy or listened to the muses - or booed the chorus at the theatre!

  Our mutual friend has sent me to virtual exile on the Euxine - a business trip that threatens to take me until the end of my life and perhaps a little longer. I have had many opportunities to observe the trials and triumphs of life, and I have to say that there have been many trials and few triumphs.

  It seems to me that I have arranged for all the grain our friend will need, despite some business matters that did not go as planned. I would appreciate it if you would tell him from me that the first shipments of grain should arrive with this letter.

  I also wish to note that some political matters have not fallen out as our mutual friend might have hoped, or expected. There is a rumour here that Heron, the ruler of Pantecapaeum, attacked Tanais, a little city on the Bay of Salmon, and destroyed it - but failed to catch its rulers. Still, they are children, and many years must pass before they play any role in the grain trade!

  In addition, it came to my notice while doing business here that Dionysius of Heraklea is much more powerful in the region than is commonly asserted in Athens, and Heron, for all his bluster, has no hope at all of seizing Heraklea or Sinope. That said, we might consider a slight change in policy. After direct observation of his business practices, I fear that our partner in Pantecapaeum may prove difficult and even dangerous. Heraklea, on the other hand, impressed me with efficiency and culture. And a great deal of available grain.

  I further wish that our mutual friend might understand that our partner in Pantecapaeum and our friend in Thrace may not be friends for ever. I wish to have a free hand to decide where we may turn in such an event, but I will await advice. In the meantime, shipments of grain from Pantecapaeum, Heraklea and Sinope should all be arriving at the Piraeus in the next moon. Think of me as they send their cargoes ashore.

  I sit under a beautiful moon, after a sunset of such splendour that I could wish for your stylus and your muse-led wits rather than my own. Write and tell me of what passes under the gaze of grey-eyed Athena.

  He read through the tablet, struck out a bad phrase here and there, and rewrote his work twice. Then he took ink and papyrus and began to copy fair. He was so intent on his task that he didn’t notice when Lucius came up behind him in the dark room.

  ‘Mars, brother! You’ll lose your sight.’ Lucius’s voice made Stratokles twitch, but his hand was steady, and his writing was beautiful.

  The Latin bent over the table. ‘You’re either a scribe or a fucking aristo, Stratokles.’

  Stratokles sat back and rolled his shoulders to loosen the muscle. ‘Guess which.’

  Lucius sat on a folding stool and handed the Athenian
a cup of wine. ‘Is that the Menander? The playwright? Mars and Venus, brother, you are the friend I’ve always wanted. Look at this fucking house! Ours for the asking. You know Menander?’ He winked. ‘I could learn to like this.’

  Stratokles couldn’t help himself. ‘We grew up together,’ he said with a shrug, and put a finger to the injury on his nose. ‘Hermes, my face hurts.’ He laughed. ‘I used to be accounted a handsome man.’

  ‘Bah,’ Lucius said. ‘Now you look like a hero. Or a villain. A man of action. Not a Greek aristocratic pansy.’ He was reading over Stratokles’ shoulder. ‘You didn’t like Heron any more than I did, eh?’

  Stratokles shook his head. ‘I don’t like people reading over my shoulder.’

  ‘Pardon!’ Lucius backed away.

  Stratokles shook his head. ‘No. no. Just as a matter of course. Much of what I write is - secret. I expect that eventually I’ll share it all with you. But I’m not there yet.’ He smiled to take the sting out. ‘If you choose to stay with me. Anyway, no, I thought Heron was a brilliant fool - more of a danger to us than an ally. I want Demetrios of Phaleron to tell Cassander to ditch him.’ He touched his nose again and winced.

  ‘Are we giving up on putting the two children down, then?’ Lucius asked. He was naked, and he smelled of lavender oil and cloves - a real improvement, Stratokles thought.

  Stratokles shook his head. ‘No. It’s a foolish order, and probably an ignoble one - but I’ve done worse for Athens and I will again. We need Heron’s grain. The children must die. I have other resources in place. I’ve already mobilized several.’

  ‘They don’t call you Greeks wily for nothing,’ Lucius said. ‘You have so many spies that you keep some just lying around for emergencies?’

  Stratokles sighed. ‘Yes.’

  Lucius laughed. ‘You need to get your sausage wet, friend. And get drunk. And live a little. I’ll send you the redhead. She’s open-minded.’

  Stratokles shook his head. ‘I’m not really so far gone that I need a barbarian to get me laid,’ he said.

  Lucius laughed, a full-chested roar that shook the tablets on the table. ‘Mars and Venus, friend. You’re a cool one, and no mistake.’ He got up. ‘If you don’t want her—’ He hobbled across the room, his wounded leg barely able to support his weight. But he stopped at the stairs. ‘What you said - about secrets - you’ll keep me on?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Stratokles said.

  ‘I’m yours,’ Lucius said.

  I know, Stratokles thought. But he didn’t say it out loud. He just took a sip of wine and ran his eyes over his letter one more time.

  10

  They rode through the night and all through the next day, changing horses every hour and changing the mules on the litter twice. Nestor sent them with guides and a pair of soldiers - Philip and Draco, and Sophokles, the physician. He was a poor rider and a constant drain on their spirits, complaining at every turn of the road.

  They crossed the plain south of the city, riding through long rows of farms kept by Mariandynoi helots. The farmers watched them from their fields, and once a woman sitting on a bench in front of her hovel spat as they rode by. Their guides were Mariandynoi. Satyrus wondered if either of the pair - Glaucus or Locris - felt the same way.

  They crossed the Kales River around noon and immediately they were climbing into the mountains of Bithynia. The guides were stunned at their speed and began to join in complaints about the pace from Sophokles and Kallista. By the time the sun had begun to set, even the soldiers were complaining.

  Melitta teased them. ‘You conquered Persia?’ she asked, riding up close. ‘You must have walked.’

  That kept them going another hour. They camped on a feeder stream of the Kales, with the whole valley of the river at their feet and the sea just on the edge of the horizon in the distance.

  Philokles made the entire ride in silence. He dismounted without a word, took out an amphora of wine with some ceremony and emptied it while Theron glowered at him. Then he fell asleep.

  The twins watched, hurt but unable to express themselves. After a while, ignored by the soldiers, they made up a bed, put Kallista into it and fell asleep themselves.

  The next morning they were a mass of stiffness, aches and pains. Kallista was awake, and complaining, but Theron got them all in the saddle an hour after sunrise.

  ‘Do you understand that if we’re caught, we’ll all be killed?’ he said. ‘Everyone get that through your skull - or your hangover,’ he added with a glare for Philokles.

  ‘No one could keep that pace you set yesterday,’ Draco grumbled. ‘Give us a rest.’

  ‘Stay behind if you need rest,’ Theron shot back. ‘Leave the litter and ride. We have to move faster!’

  They rode an hour before Kallista began puking. She lost her breakfast and proclaimed that she couldn’t ride another stade. ‘My thighs are bleeding!’ she cried.

  Theron rode up to her and pulled her off her horse. He put her across his saddle. ‘Ride!’ he ordered.

  At the noontime halt, Draco offered Satyrus a bite of garlic sausage. ‘Your tutor intends to ride at this pace all the way to Eumenes?’ he asked.

  Satyrus gave the Macedonian a tired grin, happy that the man had decided not to stay mad. ‘My sister and I can keep this up for days. This is how we ride, on the sea of grass.’

  Philip shook his head. ‘I’d rather die,’ he said. He shrugged. ‘But I won’t. Just you watch. I won’t die.’

  Kallista lay on the patchy mountain grass and sobbed. At the end of the halt, Theron picked her up like a sack of grain and put her across his lap to ride.

  ‘Fucking hills is full of thieves,’ Draco said, watching the hillsides around them as they rode.

  ‘We’re going too fast for thieves,’ Philip said. He nodded at Theron. ‘Athlete knows his business. At this speed, any bandit what sees us gets left in our dust.’

  ‘We need a watch tonight,’ Draco said. He drew his knees together, favouring his thighs and trying to sit back on his horse’s haunches. ‘Prince, you willing to take a trick? I hear how you’re a swordsman.’

  Satyrus looked away, unsure - as he always was with these men - whether he was being mocked or praised. ‘I’ll take a watch,’ he said.

  Draco pushed his gelding up next to Theron. ‘Three watches? You and the Spartan, me and the boy, and Philip and the guides?’ He looked at the Athenian doctor with thinly disguised contempt. ‘And you, Sophokles? Can you fight?’

  ‘I’d rather not,’ the doctor said.

  ‘That’s fucking helpful. You helots - what about you?’

  The guides, Locris and Glaucus, looked at each other. ‘We’re not allowed weapons, lord,’ Locris said.

  ‘Can you throw a javelin?’ Draco asked.

  Both men nodded, after some looking around.

  ‘Sling?’ Philokles asked. It was his first sensible word in a day.

  Again, both helots looked at each other for some time. After a minute, Locris nodded. ‘We can sling,’ he said.

  Draco and Philokles shared a look. Draco nodded back. ‘Why don’t you two boys make yourselves slings at dinner?’ he said. ‘And I’ll give each of you a javelin and my warrant that you can carry it.’

  ‘Thank you, lord,’ Locris said to the Macedonian. Everyone was a lord to the helots.

  At dinner, the two of them sat by the fire, unweaving a net bag for the twine and then making slings. They wove the fibres - braided them, really - so fast that Satyrus couldn’t follow their motions.

  Philokles watched him watching. ‘In Sparta, a helot can make a weapon out of anything,’ he said. ‘The Spartiates keep disarming them, and the poor bastards never really give up.’ He stroked his beard. ‘Ten slingers will beat a hoplite every time.’

  Satyrus wanted to say ‘You’re sober!’ but he knew that would be the wrong thing to say. ‘I haven’t had a lesson in weeks,’ he said, as if requesting a lesson from your tutor was an everyday thing.

  Philokles gave him
a tight smile. ‘The last three weeks have been nothing but lessons, boy.’

  Sophokles, the doctor, produced a wineskin. ‘Here!’ he said, offering the skin to Philokles. ‘Have some wine!’

  Philokles swatted the skin away. ‘Rat piss.’ He produced his own. ‘Want some?’ he asked. He looked dangerous; he thrust the skin at Satyrus like a swordsman.

  Satyrus sat on his haunches, balancing his forearms on his knees. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t want any wine. And I’d rather you didn’t have any, either.’ His voice broke as he said it. Philokles scared him when he was this way. ‘Why do you have to be like this?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’ Philokles said, and started drinking.

  The doctor watched the Spartan, his face full of anger. Later he offered wine to Melitta, and she glared at him. ‘Keep your wine,’ she said. Sophokles stalked off.

  Still later, when they were all in their blankets, Philokles started to sing. Satyrus didn’t know the tune, but it sounded martial, with a strong beat. The big man was by the fire, dancing, stomping his feet to the rhythm of the music that he sang. The postures of the dance looked like pankration, and then they looked like swordsmanship, and then they looked like marching. Philokles’ dancing was beautiful, and he danced on, singing as his own accompaniment.

  ‘Fucking Spartans,’ Philip said.

  ‘You people ought to do something about him,’ Sophokles said.

  Later, just before the Dog Star set, the Spartan sat suddenly, like an olive shaken from the tree, and burst into tears.

  It was a long night.

  ‘You look glum, brother,’ Melitta said. She didn’t look glum. Riding freed her, somehow, and she wore her freedom on her face when she had a horse to ride.