Funeral Games

by Christian Cameron

  There was a slave market in Krateai, but it wasn’t much, just a red mud-walled barrack with a heavy wooden door. The town only existed because the mountain roads divided here, the northern road going down the valleys to Gordia, while the southern road went past Manteneaon and then turned through the great pass into the plains of Anatolia, roasting in heat at this time of year. A small parcel of slaves - probably taken by thieves, claimed by no lesser being than the tyrant of Heraklea, or so the Macedonian factor said - was bound for Gordia.

  Satyrus had a bruise on his side as big as his head, and the centre of it was livid and leaked pus where the scale armour had deflected the arrow’s point - mostly. His ears still rang from time to time and twice he put down his heavy load to vomit, and the guards hit him with their canes and laughed at his feeble attempts to puke.

  Melitta wanted to kill them - both of them. She was carrying the heaviest load of her life, a basket full of grain purchased with threats in a village lower down the pass. It was, in fact, about half the food that their little caravan had. And the water was running out. Springs were zealously guarded in these steep defiles, and the petty lords and bandit kings who ruled from their eyries charged heavily for each beaker of water.

  But their new owner apparently had a soft heart. He stopped to get them water and a night’s sleep, and bought a quantity of food. Then he offered his whole parcel for sale - Satyrus and Melitta, brother and sister, right on the edge of adulthood, and both startlingly attractive, both virgins - to a pair of Greek merchants. They also offered the other girl - also a beauty, you could tell, despite her pale face and her complaining. Satyrus was naked and had a bad bruise on his side and the girls were clothed, and men in the crowd shouted for both of the girls to be stripped. One of the soldiers in the caravan’s escort used the stock of his riding whip to knock a heckler unconscious, and that was the end of the salacious catcalls.

  Men bid - some bid high, for the twins - but the Greek merchants had cash and a seal from some great power down in the green valleys, and the men of the town glared lustfully at the girls - and the boy - as they were shackled and led away.

  One of the two merchants was a Spartan by his way of talking. He was the worse for wine, even at the height of the sun, and he probably paid too much for the children, for his partner, a Boeotian, glared at him until their little cavalcade rode off down the south fork. No one thought to ask how the Greeks had happened to have so many horses, or why the merchant’s caravan guards went with the Greeks.

  ‘Was that necessary?’ Melitta asked Theron after they had cleared all possible onlookers.

  Theron was still calming Kallista. At some point she had gone from his enemy to his lover, and she had shared his blankets almost every night on the road since the fight with the bandits. She seemed as infatuated with him as he was with her - but even the pretence of a slave auction had driven her into a state not far from madness.

  ‘Theron is not listening,’ Satyrus said. His skin was burned a deep brown from days of riding and days of walking naked in a pack of slaves. His feet were harder than they’d ever been before, but the first day had been agony for him, and he still had an angry red mark on his left arm where the arrow had gone right through his bicep, and the wound in his side, while not life-threatening, hurt when he breathed heavily.

  The soldiers had cooperated to make his journey as easy as possible, but the charade as slaves had been necessary to pass the town. He’d had to carry a load like a slave, and that had inflamed his side and put knots of pain deep into his back. The load had been as light as possible, but he couldn’t be empty-handed without appearing different and negating the whole disguise.

  He had muscles in his shoulders that he’d never had working in the gymnasium, and his chest was broader.

  ‘I did not enjoy pretending to be a slave,’ Melitta said. ‘So - we’re free. Did you worry that we might not ever get free, brother?’

  ‘I worry about everything now,’ he said. ‘Yes, I wondered what would happen if bandits hit us again. We’d be slaves for ever.’

  Philokles swayed on his horse. ‘To some extent,’ he said, ‘we’re all slaves.’

  He had taken a cut in his leg in the fight and Theron had given him wine for the pain, and now he was drinking as hard or harder than before his fight with the Corinthian.

  Satyrus was indignant. ‘I didn’t see you walking naked in the sun, tutor. I saw you drink wine in the shade, though!’

  Their Athenian doctor laughed aloud, a nasty laugh. ‘Ditch him,’ he said. ‘He’s a drunk.’

  That brought no reply, and they rode in silence while the sun sank.

  There was an old Persian station house on the road just south of Geza, a tiny hamlet that had probably existed to serve the needs of the Great King’s messengers. But a Macedonian veteran and his local wife kept the station house, and they camped in the yard and the woman fed them on beans and bread.

  ‘We should fight,’ Theron said, after dinner. He drank some water from the well and handed the dipper to Satyrus. ‘You’re bigger and stronger.’

  Satyrus shrugged. ‘Whatever,’ he said.

  Theron hit him. Not hard, but hard enough to hurt. ‘That was the response of a child,’ he said. ‘I am your athletics coach. You are Satyrus of Tanais. Not a slave, and not an idiot. Act the part.’

  Satyrus of Tanais sat for a moment in the mud by the well. He thought of thousands of replies - bitter, sarcastic, cutting, outrageous.

  ‘You’re right, of course,’ he said after a pause.

  ‘Good for you. Let’s go.’ They walked past some low scrub where the animal pens were, to a cropped lawn kept by goats, and stripped. Melitta followed them.

  Satyrus hadn’t fought anyone since he took the wound in his arm. He took his guard carefully, and the bigger man circled him, and Satyrus found himself viewing the fight from a very different perspective than he had the first time the two of them had faced off on the sand in Tanais. Most of all, he couldn’t see it as a game any more. People could die in a fight. He knew that now.

  Theron had a long reach, and he stepped in and grabbed with both hands. Satyrus blocked and kicked, and after a pair of exchanges, he was down in the grass, a recent contribution from the goats warm and liquid on his thigh, and his left side and shoulder screaming with pain.

  ‘Don’t be so cautious,’ Theron said. ‘Be confident.’

  ‘Easy for you to say,’ Satyrus grunted as he twisted around one of the Corinthian’s long legs.

  Theron tipped him and put him down while he was trying to dodge all those kicks.

  He got up and tried again. This time he moved in close, trying to get inside his coach’s reach. He tried to be confident and got a mouth full of grass for his efforts.

  He got up and they began to circle again. He decided to go for a hold.

  That ended quickly.

  They went ten falls. Satyrus’s new muscles served him well, in that he could continue, and for a blow or two he could match the bigger man. But experience told every time, and weight, and reach. And pain. His shoulder wound hurt all the time.

  ‘Let’s just practise some holds,’ Theron said after the last fall. ‘You are tiring, and we are boring your sister.’

  So they stood in a line and practised guards, and Theron moved back and forth between them, making simple attacks so that his hands and feet could be blocked. When all three of them were breathing hard, he picked up his canteen from his clothes and handed it around.

  ‘I never meant the two of you to remain on the road so long,’ he said. ‘But Draco was sure we were followed until we crossed the mountains. We should have gone south after Bithynia.’

  Satyrus shrugged. ‘We’ll live,’ he said, and a little happiness began to grow in his heart. He turned to his sister. ‘We will live!’

  They had barely spoken in days, and they shared a long embrace.

  Melitta kissed him on the nose and turned to Theron. ‘We have to stop Philokles from drinking,
’ she said. ‘For good.’

  Theron hung his head. ‘He - he and I - it is hard to say this to a child. He thinks he failed you, and then - he feels I have spurned him for Kallista.’ He looked at both of them. ‘And there is more to this than meets your eyes. Trust me. And - trust Philokles.’

  ‘I do,’ Satyrus said.

  ‘I can see that you have a plan,’ Melitta said.

  Theron wiped sweat off his face with his forearm. He paused a moment and said, ‘Perhaps I have, at that.’

  Melitta turned on her brother. ‘Kallista wasn’t for you, anyway. Why not Theron? And Philokles drinks because he is cursed, not because of a silly girl with big eyes.’ She turned back to the Corinthian, and Satyrus thought that she was getting more and more like their mother.

  ‘Tomorrow, as soon as we have ridden over the pass,’ she said, ‘we will get off our horses all together, and search all the baggage, and destroy every drop of wine in the packs.’

  ‘That’s a start,’ Theron said. ‘Until we reach a place that will sell wine.’

  ‘One step at a time,’ Melitta said.

  ‘Sister, I love you extremely,’ Satyrus said. He felt as if he was putting on his former self, and the last days were a skin that was falling away.

  She hugged him again. ‘I love it when you say things like that,’ she said. She was serious, so he used the embrace to pin her and tickle her ribs until she boxed his ears.

  Neither of them saw Theron grin.

  The next day, the soldiers said that they’d seen bandits ahead. Theron stopped them beside the road where trees gave cover and sent Philokles with Draco forward to scout. Then the rest of them pulled every pack off every mount, opened all the baskets, collected all the wine and dumped it, until the last amphora but one leaked its red contents into the purple dust.

  The Athenian sat on his horse and laughed his laugh at them. ‘He’s a wine-bibber!’ he said. ‘A cistern-ass! You’ll never get it all.’

  Satyrus ignored him and went back to searching. He was appalled to find how many jars of wine were secreted in the packs. Almost every armour pack had something. But he watched the two Macedonian soldiers, again amazed at the skill with which they searched.

  Philip had an amphora to his mouth. He took a long pull and handed it to Satyrus. ‘Last grape until we get the Spartan off the sauce,’ he said.

  Satyrus drank some and passed it to Melitta, who drank a little and handed the jar to Theron, who took a long pull and gave it to Kallista, who finished it.

  ‘What about me?’ the Athenian asked.

  ‘You can have some when you start helping, doctor,’ Philip said.

  They loaded all the panniers and baskets and bundles, tied everything down and rode on.

  The fun started when they made camp. When Philokles began his search, he at least pretended discretion, but then he went on with increasing desperation.

  ‘It’s all gone,’ Melitta said. She walked up behind him, as he searched one of the armour baskets.

  Philokles turned on her, his eyes wild.

  ‘All gone, tutor. Every drop. It’s two days’ travel back to the last town and ten days forward. We all love you and we’ll stand by you.’ She offered her hand to him.

  Satyrus watched with a lump in his throat. Theron and the Macedonians pretended to be doing something else. The doctor watched with the insolence of a man watching bad theatre.

  Philokles made a grunting noise. After a few minutes it became sobbing. Then he was silent.

  The silence lasted a day.

  On the second night, Philokles got wine from somewhere, and he drank it. Then he was sick - violently sick. So sick that he puked his guts out.

  The doctor looked him over, sprawled on his blankets. Fastidiously, he listened at the Spartan’s chest and felt his neck and wrist. He pursed his lips and shook his head. ‘Nothing I can do,’ he said. ‘When a man tries to kill himself with drink, he will.’

  Theron glared at the Athenian and made Philokles drink salt water until he puked again. Then he sat with his arm around Philokles.

  Nobody slept much.

  The next day Philokles lay on the ground, barely breathing. The Macedonians walked around the camp, muttering, and Satyrus threw javelins and spent too much time squatting beside the Spartan.

  ‘Is he actually trying to kill himself?’ he asked Theron.

  Kallista came and sat gracefully by them. ‘I tried to kill myself once,’ she said, in a matter-of-fact voice. She looked at the doctor. In an almost teasing voice, she said, ‘And I almost died of poison, once.’

  Theron looked at both of them, as if considering something.

  Melitta came and sat by the slave girl. ‘Where did he get wine?’ she asked.

  Theron shrugged. ‘We missed something.’

  Melitta looked at Satyrus, who shook his head. ‘Philip and Draco went through every basket,’ he said. ‘I watched them. They’ve been trained to search.’

  Sophokles came up, laid the back of his hand on the Spartan’s cheek and shrugged. ‘You missed something. I told you that you would.’ Then he went and sat near Kallista. He laid two fingers lightly on her cheek, but she shook him off and he smiled at her.

  Melitta watched Theron’s face as he caught the physical exchange. He was angry.

  Satyrus watched the three of them. There was something between the girl and the doctor. Theron was now the girl’s lover. Satyrus rubbed his chin, and his wandering eyes found his sister’s. Somewhere in the contact there was a spark of illumination.

  ‘Of course,’ Satyrus said, his eyes and his sisters locked in silent communication, ‘we never searched your packs.’ He raised his eyes from Melitta’s and looked at Sophokles.

  ‘I’m not denying that I have some wine,’ Sophokles said. ‘It’s medicinal, and for my own consumption.’

  Theron shot to his feet. When the Athenian attempted to move, one of Theron’s long arms pinned him. ‘Open his pack,’ he said.

  ‘I like the Spartan,’ Kallista said. She seemed to be speaking to the air.

  ‘I don’t care who you like, slave,’ the doctor said.

  ‘I don’t want him to die,’ she said. ‘Heal him.’

  Satyrus opened the doctor’s bedroll. The outer layer was a pair of goatskins. Inside were two chlamyses, with a cup, a very elegant leather bag, and a pair of amphorae wrapped in wolf skin. The amphorae were themselves beautiful - black, with red and white figures dancing.

  ‘Keep your hands off those, boy!’ the doctor said.

  ‘Bring them here,’ Theron said in a voice of bronze.

  Satyrus obeyed.

  Kallista looked at Melitta for a long time. Melitta met her gaze. Satyrus watched the two of them while he walked back, and felt disoriented. He was surrounded by secrets - even his sister had them. They were staring at each other.

  The doctor was staring at Kallista. Then he looked up. ‘Be careful with those,’ he said. ‘Chian wine - the best!’ His voice had an odd inflection.

  ‘Make him drink it,’ Kallista said. Her voice had a dreamy quality to it.

  ‘Shut up, slave girl,’ the Athenian spat. ‘This has gone far enough.’

  Melitta shook her head. She had stopped staring at Kallista. ‘Have you chosen your side, girl?’ she asked.

  The slave girl looked away.

  ‘Now or never,’ Melitta said.

  Kallista looked at Satyrus. Satyrus understood it all in a moment of inspiration, as if Athena had whispered the whole plot in his ear. He drew his sword and stood by the slave girl. ‘We can protect you,’ he said.

  Melitta gave him the look of a sister who is glad her brother has a brain. ‘Choose!’ she said imperiously.

  Kallista hung her head so that her hair covered her face. ‘He’s no doctor. Not really.’

  ‘You’re a liar, whore,’ the Athenian shot back.

  ‘He kills for money.’ Kallista’s voice was calm.

  ‘I don’t have to listen to this filth,’ Sophokles
said. He began to squirm in Theron’s grip.

  ‘Kallista has chosen her side, traitor,’ Melitta said. ‘You tried to poison us, and her, and now you’ve poisoned Philokles.’

  Sophokles looked around. ‘Foolishness. You may be a princess, but you have the soft head of a woman. I saved her when she was poisoned, and—’

  Theron tightened his grip, inspiration written on his face. ‘The Spartan saved her,’ he said carefully. ‘You put on a show. I didn’t see it at the time.’ He nodded at the recumbent Spartan. ‘He did. He saw through you, you bastard.’

  ‘How long have you known?’ Satyrus asked his sister.

  ‘About two minutes,’ she answered with a hard smile. ‘Kallista told me with her eyes when you got the wine.’

  ‘She’s in on it too, then,’ Draco said. He drew his sword.

  ‘Yes,’ Kallista said. She sighed. ‘They offered me money and freedom.’ She looked around.

  ‘I meet the offer,’ Melitta said proudly. ‘You’ll be free in days, Kallista.’

  It was all too fast for Satyrus. He looked back and forth.

  ‘You have no proof,’ the doctor said. ‘This is insane.’

  ‘I don’t need proof,’ Draco said. ‘Fuck, he must have been planted on the court. Who sent you, you ass-cunt?’ His sword flashed as he hit the Athenian with the bronze hilt.

  The doctor - if he was indeed a doctor - was unprepared for the leap to violence, and he went down clutching his head. Theron jumped him and pinned him again in a classic possession hold - head back, arm locked and near breaking.

  ‘Stop,’ Theron said. The doctor tried to struggle, and there was a burst of activity as he did something, but whatever his surge of wriggling meant, it failed to overcome Theron’s impassive grip.

  Satyrus and Melitta exchanged another glance. Satyrus got up. ‘Would you like to live?’ he asked.

  The doctor couldn’t even look up. ‘Of course,’ he said. If he was aiming for arrogance, he missed. He sounded worried - terrified.