Funeral Games

by Christian Cameron

  It was odd, having a younger boy to support, because Satyrus’s feeling of disorientation vanished when he had to lead the boy. He walked straight up to Crax, who was surrounded by soldiers, and asked where he should put his blanket roll and whether he and the boy could get some food, and Crax dealt with him as if he was any other soldier.

  ‘Do I look like a hyperetes?’ Crax said. Then he scratched his dusty blond beard and relented. ‘Your baggage and your sister’s is in first troop’s row. There’s wine and salt-fish stew at the head of every street.’ He grinned. ‘Your Aunt Sappho did well for us.’

  Satyrus walked down the rows of blanket rolls and packs that littered the ‘street’ (there were no tents) of his troop. He felt like a man. He found his sister’s red wool pack and then his own, opened his leather bag and removed the carefully wrapped gold cups. He also pulled out a wooden plate and a horn spoon.

  ‘Let’s eat,’ he said, walking back towards the head of the camp.

  All around him, men were eating and then going straight to sleep in the evening sun. There was little talk and less laughter. Most men prayed, and many libations were poured in the white sand by men who had felt the hand of a god keeping them alive.

  ‘Why are they so quiet?’ Herakles asked suddenly. ‘Soldiers are usually so - boisterous.’

  Satyrus looked at the other boy and felt old. ‘They fought a battle,’ he said. ‘You did too, or so my sister says.’ He looked at Melitta, who was walking with them, being silent and a little gawky - not herself at all. ‘Nobody feels like talking after a battle. Right?’

  ‘I do,’ Herakles said. ‘I never get to talk to anybody,’ he said. ‘And I didn’t get to do anything. Your sister rescued me.’

  Melitta was starting to look uncomfortable. ‘You helped,’ she said. ‘You didn’t lose your nerve.’

  ‘My father would have killed them all and laughed,’ Herakles said miserably.

  ‘You need food,’ Satyrus said, trying to sound commanding. He scooped his wooden bowl full of kykeon, a rich porridge of soft cheese, barley meal and, in this case, wine. ‘Eat!’

  Philokles walked up to the fire, filled his bowl and sat down. ‘Good evening,’ he said formally.

  ‘Good evening,’ Satyrus replied. He was a little shy of the Spartan, aware that he was guilty of gross disobedience.

  ‘The Lady Banugul is concerned for her son,’ Philokles said. ‘Herakles, you should go to her.’

  ‘She told me to leave the tent,’ Herakles said, between spoons of porridge.

  ‘She has just been made a widow,’ Philokles said. ‘Your stepfather—’

  ‘I have no stepfather. My father is Alexander, the God. My mother should never touch another man.’ Herakles spat the phrases as if he had learned them by rote.

  Philokles took a deep breath. ‘Young man, you are not my pupil. But if you were,’ and he gave Satyrus a significant look, ‘I would tell you that your father’s godhood is neither here not there for you - that you are responsible only for your own acts, and need have no concern for your mother or your father. And condemning your mother to a life of celibacy is unfair.’

  ‘Easy for you to say - you just want to fuck her like every other man.’ Herakles turned his head away.

  ‘I assure you that I have no interest in sex with your mother. And if you were my pupil, I would now proceed to beat you to obedience.’ Philokles shot Satyrus a look, and Satyrus sighed.

  ‘Why did you rescue her then?’ Herakles asked. ‘Men only do things for her for one reason - she says it herself!’

  Philokles smiled - a look that neither Satyrus nor Melitta had seen in a long time. ‘Once,’ he said, ‘your mother made a poor decision, and tried to kill Satyrus’s father - and me.’ He raised an eyebrow at Herakles. ‘This is an adult explanation. Are you prepared to be an adult, young man?’

  Herakles looked around - at Melitta, most of all. ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘Your mother tried to kill us. Instead, we killed all her soldiers. Then, Satyrus’s father gave her an escort and let her go. I wanted her killed.’ Philokles sat back.

  Herakles swallowed, hard.

  ‘When time had passed, I saw how Kineas’s - how Satyrus’s father’s mercy had been the right decision, for gods and men. And then I decided that if I, in my turn, could ever do her a service, then I would gain honour with the gods.’ He nodded brusquely. ‘In this way, I share in the honour of my friend, Satyrus’s father. Understand?’

  Melitta nodded. ‘And you have,’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ Philokles said. ‘Herakles, if you have finished that bowl, you should give it to Satyrus, so that he can eat, and I will take you to your mother.’

  Herakles rose to his feet and handed Satyrus the bowl. ‘Thanks,’ he said.

  ‘Come back and sit with us,’ Melitta said.

  Herakles smiled. ‘Thanks, Lita,’ he said.

  Philokles was only gone for as long as it took him to walk to where Sappho’s slaves had pitched a small tent for Banugul and back.

  ‘Have you eaten?’ Philokles asked Satyrus.

  ‘Yes,’ Satyrus said.

  ‘Come with me,’ Philokles said. He didn’t say a word as they walked through the camp, until they came to a third troop mess where Theron sat stirring fish stew. Theron looked at Satyrus and then looked away.

  ‘Well?’ Philokles asked.

  Satyrus hung his head. ‘Master Theron, I come to beg your forgiveness for my bad behaviour.’

  Theron nodded. ‘Lad, I am going to offer you the same choice that a tutor once offered me. I know that your actions, and your sister’s, saved lives. I also know that the gods must have worked extra hard to save you from death, and that I gave a year of my life in worry. You understand, boy?’

  ‘Yes, Master Theron.’

  ‘Good. Here is your choice. A beating, now, or I leave your service.’ Theron stood up. He was very large.

  Satyrus didn’t hesitate. ‘I’ll have the beating,’ he said, head up.

  Both men nodded, obviously pleased. Theron had a switch, cut from poplar. He hit Satyrus ten times. It wasn’t a particularly savage beating - Satyrus had had worse from Philokles - but neither was it symbolic. It hurt, and then it was over.

  Afterwards, he lay down on his blankets - face down, because his whole back hurt - and Melitta cried a little.

  ‘Why don’t they beat me?’ she said. ‘It was my idea!’

  Satyrus laughed through a sob. ‘You’re a girl,’ he said.

  ‘Stupid Greeks,’ she said.

  After a while, Theron came and massaged his back, and helped the twins put a pair of cavalry javelins up like an X with a third for a tent pole. ‘You were both very brave today,’ Theron said.

  Despite the pain in his back, Satyrus went to sleep with a smile on his face.

  14

  In the morning, Satyrus was so stiff that he could only rise to his feet by grasping the pole of his impromptu tent, and even that caused his stomach muscles to protest. But he rose when ordered, stumbled out into the near dark and found his beautiful new horse. He made sure she was fed and walked her all the way back to the gully with the watering party before he got a handful of dried figs from his sister and a slice of honey cake from Sappho for breakfast. Melitta was astride Bion, eating her breakfast in the saddle, and casting a great many glances at the small tent where Banugul lay.

  He repicketed his horse and sat with Hama and Dercorix to eat, sharing the honey cake with an appreciative audience.

  ‘You have to pay Apollodorus for that horse,’ Hama said. ‘Or give it back and we’ll find you a remount.’

  Satyrus rubbed his chin, which felt weirdly itchy. ‘I don’t have any money,’ he said.

  Melitta came and sat with her back to his, handing out dates. ‘We’re not poor, brother. Diodorus will give you money.’

  ‘That beast’s worth a talent of silver,’ Hama said.

  ‘Poseidon!’ Satyrus said. ‘Really?’

  ‘She’s wea
ring a dozen mina of silver on her harness, boy.’ He was watching something. ‘There’s trouble,’ Hama said, pointing a tattooed arm at a clump of Saka sitting on their ponies across the gully. Two of them turned and rode away in a spurt of dust.

  ‘Now?’ Satyrus asked Hama. He looked around. ‘Don’t we need to do something about the Saka?’

  The Keltoi man nodded. ‘Not really, lord. No one wants more killing right now - and they have had a taste of bronze from our pickets. Now, no time like the present. Just acknowledge the debt, lad. That’ll be enough.’

  Satyrus wiped his sticky hands on his sister’s barbarian trousers, arousing her indignation, but he skipped out of range and trotted off. She didn’t follow, because Herakles came out of his mother’s tent, wearing a shining white chiton and a diadem of gold.

  Most of the hippeis had camped in the same order that they rode, so each file became a mess and sat around their own fire. Apollodorus was in third file of first troop. Satyrus found him drinking camomile tea.

  ‘Is a talent fair?’ Satyrus asked, walking up.

  All the men in the mess group stood, as if he was an officer.

  Apollodorus frowned. ‘A talent of silver, lord?’ He couldn’t hold the frown. ‘That’ll have to do!’

  ‘Herald coming in,’ another trooper said, shovelling barley-porridge into a bowl. ‘Can’t be good news.’ He handed the bowl to Satyrus. ‘Barley, lad?’

  It was full of honey, and Satyrus ate the whole bowl with more appetite than he thought he had, while the herald dismounted and exchanged words with Andronicus beyond the wagon laager.

  ‘Clean your bowl, lord?’ a woman asked.

  The camp was almost besieged by women - not their own women, who were inside the laager, but hundreds of hungry refugees from yesterday’s disaster, begging food for their children. Grim-faced pickets kept them outside the wagons, but many of the troopers handed out their scraps.

  A few single men simply walked out of the gate and chose companions. They and their children changed status instantly, coming in past the pickets. Satyrus watched his uncle, who in turn was watching the process with a jaundiced eye. He shook his head, gathered a couple of handfuls of grass and wiped the bowl clean and handed it back to the owner. Then he walked over to Diodorus, who stood alone, looking thunderous. Satyrus wanted to continue being a soldier, not a boy. He hoped he’d be allowed to ride with the troop again.

  ‘Good morning, Strategos,’ Satyrus said.

  Diodorus finished his wife’s honey cake. ‘Nice piece of work yesterday, boy,’ he said, dusting his hands on his chiton.

  ‘I told you not to get honey on that chiton,’ Sappho called.

  The strategos looked sheepish and stepped away from his wagon. ‘We need to move,’ he said. ‘The refugees will get desperate tomorrow. Antigonus - the strategos, not our troop commander - has demanded a parley.’ The hippeis seemed to get an unending amount of mirth out of the fact that they had both a Eumenes and an Antigonus among them.

  Satyrus was delighted to be addressed in such an adult manner. It seemed to promise well. ‘What will you do?’ he asked.

  Diodorus nodded. ‘You and I will go and meet the great man,’ he said, ‘While Eumenes and Crax get our people out of here. You ready to move?’

  Satyrus was wearing the same chiton as yesterday and no boots. ‘May I have a few minutes, sir?’ he asked, heart pumping hard.

  ‘Five. No, three. Hurry.’ Diodorus was already turning away to Crax, who looked clean, neat and golden.

  Satyrus had missed some change in orders, because all around him men were tying up their kit, wrapping spare gear in cloaks and tying them in bundles, handing things to slaves. Satyrus’s gear was the last in his area of the camp to be lying on the ground under the hasty shelter. He pulled it all down and tried to roll his cloak as tightly as he saw the soldiers doing, but his sister stopped him.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ she said. ‘I’ll get slaves to pack you. Get your corslet on and your boots.’

  His Thracian boots were crusted in salt and dried hard, but he got them on, feeling the beating in his back and the fatigue in his abdomen. His corslet was soaked through with sweat and clammy. The cord that held his sword was almost broken and he tied it hurriedly and tossed the scabbard over his head and made sure it was in his armpit, and then he made himself trot to his mare, although he didn’t want to trot anywhere. Melitta didn’t look exhausted, and his uncle and Crax looked as fresh as the new day.

  Of course, neither of them had been beaten by their tutors for disobedience.

  It took him three attempts and some ungraceful squirming to get a leg over the mare’s back. She stood for it, though, and he was up. Only then did he realize that he didn’t have his petasos hat or his helmet.

  ‘Zeus Soter,’ he swore, and regretted his impiety. Too late to get his hat. He rode around the camp to the gate, pushed his horse through the crowd of women and children, and reined in by his uncle.

  Melitta ran up, clutching his hat. He smiled at her. ‘What would I do without you?’ he asked.

  ‘Get even redder,’ she said. She clasped his hand, and then his uncle was up on a charger and they were riding, out of the gate, through the women, past the pickets and past the gully. Andronicus came with them, his trumpet on his hip, and twenty troopers led by Hama.

  On the far side of the gully they saw the band of Saka. The chief motioned with his hand, as if beckoning the Tanais troopers to come across. The gesture might have been well meant, but it might also have been mocking.

  ‘I’ll go,’ Satyrus said. ‘I can talk to them.’

  Hama grunted.

  Diodorus sighed. ‘Nothing less threatening than a twelve-year-old.’

  Hama spat. ‘They could kill him.’

  Diodorus looked around. ‘Carlus? Go with him. Do it, Satyrus. Our goal here is to waste as much time as possible.’ Diodorus patted him on the shoulder.

  Satyrus glanced at Hama and rode forward. He angled off to avoid the gully and then rode straight at the Saka, who came to meet them, surrounding them and calling shrilly to one another.

  Carlus towered over him, right at his shoulder, his spear on its throwing loop.

  ‘Whose band is this?’ Satyrus called out in Sakje, and the man with the most gold reined in his pony and laughed.

  ‘Astlan of the River Foxes,’ he called.

  ‘I am Satrax of the Cruel Hands,’ Satyrus responded. ‘My mother is Srayanka, who fought with your Queen Zarina against Iskander.’

  Astlan raised his hand in greeting. ‘Names of story,’ he said. ‘You do not look like a son of the people,’ he said. He shrugged. ‘But you talk the people’s talk.’

  ‘We intend to make parley with Antigonus,’ Satyrus said. ‘Will you let us pass?’

  The Massagetae chief shrugged. ‘You are no enemy of mine, son of Srayanka. Ride free.’

  The Saka whooped and rode off in a thin veil of dust.

  Satyrus rode up the ridge towards the bluff, Carlus at his shoulder. A couple of the Saka paced them, and a young woman waved at him.

  ‘Greetings, cousin!’ he shouted.

  She grinned. ‘Greetings, cousin!’ she shouted back, and rode in closer. She had gold plaques on her tunic and gold in her hair and gold foil wrapped her braids. ‘You are just a boy!’ she said when she was closer. ‘I thought you were a spear-maiden!’

  Satyrus blushed with embarrassment, but she smiled again. Her eyes had an odd shape. ‘I’m Darya of the Golden Horses,’ she said. ‘I killed a Greek yesterday! Yiee!’

  ‘Satrax of the Cruel Hands,’ he called to her. I maimed a peasant and cut down some fleeing men who wanted my horse.

  She paced him up the ridge. ‘Good hunting!’ she called, and wheeled away, waving her bow. ‘Nice fucking horse!’

  My sister would have made her a friend for life, Satyrus thought. He sighed.

  Carlus grunted. ‘My shoulders are tight,’ he said. ‘I wait for the arrow in the back.’ He gave Sat
yrus a gap-toothed grin. ‘Like riding with your father, eh?’

  At the top of the ridge were a dozen horsemen, and Satyrus was surprised to find that one of them was the young officer he’d outrun the day before.

  ‘Hail, lord,’ he said, slowing his mount. ‘I come to speak for Diodorus of Tanais.’

  The young man had a blond beard and bright blue eyes. ‘I am Demetrios,’ he said in a tone replete with self-importance. ‘Bring your Diodorus to me.’ He looked down the ridge. ‘You seem friendly with my Saka. I’m surprised they did not eat you for breakfast.’

  Satyrus kept his face as neutral as twelve years could manage. ‘I will go and find my strategos.’

  ‘Don’t keep me waiting, boy,’ Demetrios called. His breastplate and helmet were newly polished. His eyes were on the horse Satyrus was riding.

  Satyrus bowed from the back of his mare and turned away.

  ‘Where did you get that horse?’ Demetrios shouted after him.

  Satyrus affected not to hear and rode down the ridge and around the gully, passing back through the loose line of Massagetae. They paid him no attention at all, although Darya waved at him.

  He cantered back to Diodorus and saluted. ‘Demetrios awaits you at the top of the ridge.’ Satyrus shook his head. ‘I don’t like it.’

  ‘I don’t like it either, lord,’ Carlus said. ‘He has a hundred men around him and he’s a hothead boy. He didn’t offer us laurel or olive or safe passage.’

  ‘Demetrios is Antigonus’s son,’ Diodorus said. ‘He honours us, in a backhanded way. And we’re buying time.’ He motioned over his shoulder, where a distant curl of dust indicated Sappho’s wagons rolling out, heading south and east. They started forward around the gully, riding slowly, never faster than a walk.

  ‘You know what happened last night?’ Diodorus asked Satyrus.

  Satyrus wondered if this was about his punishment. He looked at the strategos. ‘No,’ he said. Anything to keep his uncle talking.

  ‘We didn’t lose the battle yesterday. Antigonus lost his phalanx - heavy casualties. Our leader, Eumenes, rallied his beaten cavalry at the end of the day, and Antigonus retreated.’ Diodorus’s voice was grim, and he held his horse to a walk, although Demetrios was plainly visible on the skyline.