Funeral Games

by Christian Cameron

  Satyrus wasn’t in the mood for a philosophical quarrel - the more so as Dionysius, for all his airs, wasn’t nearly as well educated as Philokles. ‘My tutor says that respect for the gods cannot ever be wrong,’ he said.

  ‘You’re such a prude,’ Dionysius said. ‘If you didn’t have a beautiful body, no one would speak to you.’

  Satyrus had learned enough from his sister to sense that Dionysius was unhappy at having Satyrus at centre stage because of his near-triumph in the gymnasium.

  ‘Well fought, youngster!’ called Timarchus, one of the Macedonian cavalry officers. And Eumenes, far above him on the steps, waved. Satyrus waved back.

  ‘So much attention from a lot of washed-up old soldiers!’ Dionysius said.

  ‘They were my father’s friends. And mine,’ Satyrus said.

  ‘You look a lot less like a prig with a flute girl’s lips locked around your cock,’ Dionysius said. Some of the young men laughed - Satyrus’s somewhat Spartan ethics made some of the young men uncomfortable, and they loved to be reminded that he was as human as they - but Abraham, a smaller boy with rich, dark curls and a wrestler’s build, leaped to his defence.

  ‘You’re a godless lot,’ Abraham said. ‘You’ll pay, mark my words!’ He laughed as he said it, because it was one of his father’s favourite remarks.

  Satyrus blushed and pulled his chlamys - a very light garment indeed, in Alexandria - over his shoulder. ‘Nonetheless,’ he said to all his friends, ‘I’m going to the Temple of Poseidon.’

  ‘Bah! No temple girls to ogle, no wine shops to trash, no actors. What’s the point? I’ll go to Cimon’s and wait.’ Cimon’s was their current addiction, a house that stood on the edge of a number of districts, both physical and legal. It was a private house that served wine all day. The wine was served in the form of an ongoing symposium - where a great many women, and not a few men, disported with the patrons. The house stood on the long spit of land where Ptolemy was building the lighthouse, and it had a remarkable view out over the sea. The inscription over the lintel said that it was ‘A house of a thousand breezes’, which Dionysius translated as ‘The house of a thousand blow jobs’ at every opportunity, to Cimon’s apparent delight.

  The owner, Cimon, was a former slave who had risen to prominence running a brothel. Satyrus knew that he was one of Leon’s men, and that Leon owned the tavern at several removes. He went to Cimon’s because he knew it was safe. Whereas Dionysius went there because he thought it was dangerous. Satyrus wondered how Dionysius would deal with a storm at sea or a fight. Despite the young man’s pretty-boy airs, Satyrus suspected that he had a serious backbone.

  ‘I’ll meet you at Cimon’s, then,’ Satyrus said.

  ‘I’ll save you a flute girl,’ Dionysius said. ‘Her cunny will taste of salt, like the sea - perhaps you could make your sacrifice to Poseidon inside it?’

  Satyrus blushed again and smiled. Abraham swatted the Macedonian. ‘You jest too much about pious things,’ he said, and this time he was almost serious.

  The other young men were divided evenly between the two favourites and their differing errands.

  Theodorus laughed. ‘No contest,’ he said. ‘If I go to the Temple of Poseidon with Satyrus, my father will shit himself with happiness. If I’m caught at Cimon’s again, I’ll get the opson and dissipation lecture and you won’t see me for a week. Poppy?’ he said, and a small boy-slave came up to him. ‘Poppy, run and tell Pater that I’m on my way to the temple of Poseidon to sacrifice. Get him to provide some cash.’

  The other young men laughed. Xenophon, Coenus’s son and Satyrus’s best friend, shook his head. ‘None of you will live for ever in Elysium,’ he said.

  ‘You’ll lose interest in religion when your pimples clear,’ Dionysius said. He mimed picking at one. ‘Perhaps they are a gift from the gods?’

  Xenophon stepped up close to the Macedonian. ‘Fuck you, boy-lover. Ass-cunt.’

  ‘Ooh,’ Dionysius said. ‘Very religious.’ He waved, slipping languorously out of Xenophon’s grasp. ‘Another time, darling. And I only love boys with beautiful skin - Satyrus, for instance.’

  Satyrus felt the flush even as the Macedonian went off into the crowd with a dozen howling youths.

  ‘I want to kill him,’ Xenophon said. His face was splotched red and white with fury.

  ‘Stop acting like a child,’ Abraham said. ‘You let him get at you far too easily. You have pimples. Big deal! I’m a Jew, Satyrus’s father is dead - it’s all grist for Dionysius’s mill.’ The dark-haired young man gave a practised shrug. ‘To be honest, Xenophon, he doesn’t even mean harm, and he is always surprised at the strength of your reactions.’

  ‘My father says that when a man offends you, you fight,’ Xenophon said.

  ‘My father says that when a man blasphemes, I should kill him,’ Abraham said. He raised an eyebrow.

  Xenophon allowed his rage to evaporate under the other boy’s humour. He shook his head ruefully.

  ‘Can we go to the temple now?’ Satyrus asked. ‘Abraham’s right, Xeno. Dionysius is like that to everyone. You just need to roll with it, like a blow on the palaestra.’

  ‘Easy for you to say,’ Xeno spat. ‘You have beautiful skin.’

  ‘Temple of Poseidon,’ Satyrus said, like a battlefield command, and he started walking.

  From the steps of the temple, he could see Leon’s dark-hulled ship with its deep-gored golden sail. The ship was hard to miss, with vermilion paint on the rails and vermilion oars flashing in the sun, so close to the temple as he weathered the point that Satyrus could hear the chant of the oar master and see Leon himself standing by the rail. Satyrus had often imagined commanding the Golden Lotus - he’d made two voyages in her, one just to Cyprus, the other the length of the sea to the coast of Gaul, serving under the helmsman, Peleus - one of the heroes of Satyrus’s adolescent pantheon.

  ‘Uncle Leon!’ he shouted across half a stade of water.

  Leon, closer to the call of the timoneer and the creak of the oars, didn’t hear him as the beautiful ship swept on. Even as she passed the temple, her deckhands were getting the sail down and the whole rowing crew was settling on to their benches for the last pull into the harbour.

  ‘Uncle Leon!’ he called, and his friends took up the cry. Their combined efforts got the black man’s attention, and Leon waved. Leon had been up the Aegean to the Euxine, seeing old friends and avoiding enemies. He had been all the way to Heraklea, or perhaps Sinope. Trade was hard - all the contestants in the Great War had fleets, and every side had authorized pirates to seize shipping in their names. Athens, Rhodos and Alexandria still tried to keep trade going - all three cities required trade to flourish.

  Behind his uncle’s flagship came a dozen merchant ships and then the triangular sails of heavy triremes - six of them. Leon was rich, even by the standards of Alexandria, and when he put together a convoy, only a fleet could take his ships.

  ‘Look at that,’ Xeno said. ‘My father says that when I’m sixteen, I can go with Leon as a marine.’

  Satyrus smiled. He had already gone as a marine and hoped to go again soon - as a helmsman. The thought was never far from his mind.

  But there was a rumour in the villa that Leon was going to take them home. ‘I loved being a marine,’ Satyrus said. ‘I’d love to do it again to get to sea. Even as an oarsman.’

  Abraham chuckled. ‘Rumour is that you, sir, are a prince. Lord Ptolemy isn’t likely to let you ship out again as a marine. Xeno here - well-born Geeks are an obol a dozen.’

  Satyrus shrugged. ‘Not an obol a dozen - if they were, Ptolemy wouldn’t be so desperate to get settlers from Greece.’

  Abraham tugged his beard. ‘Well argued,’ he said. One of his most endearing qualities was that he was open to reasoned argument and he conceded gracefully. The young Jewish man stopped at the edge of the temple precinct. ‘I’ll abide by Jehovah’s precepts and keep my body clear of your idolatry,’ he said. His smile took the sting from his wor
ds.

  Satyrus nodded. Alexandria was home to twenty religions and hundreds of heresies, all of which fascinated his sister. Most citizens had learned to accept other religions, even if they were not entirely respected. Abraham’s people were monotheists, with a few exceptions and a complex set of beliefs about a feminine embodiment of wisdom - Sophia - and they didn’t hold with temples and statues. Not much difference from Socrates, Satyrus thought.

  ‘Enjoy the view,’ Satyrus said, and went inside, Xeno at his heels and Theodorus close behind. Just as they found a priest, Theodorus’s little slave caught up with him and handed him a purse.

  ‘Gentlemen, we’re in funds!’ Theodorus said. ‘Shall we have a ram?’

  ‘That would be noble,’ Xeno said with enthusiasm.

  Satyrus reached into the breast of his chiton and extracted his purse. ‘I couldn’t cover my half,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t be foolish, Satyrus. My pater is paying.’ Theodorus turned to the priest and said, ‘We’d like to sacrifice a white ram for the safe return of Lord Leon. You can just see his Golden Lotus rounding the point.’

  The young priest bowed. ‘Certainly, sir.’ The priesthoods at the new Temple of Poseidon were easy to acquire, and most of the priests were social climbers. This one was no different. He looked them all over and decided that Theodorus, the one with the purse and the silk chlamys, must be the one in charge. ‘Let me choose you a fitting animal.’ He bowed again.

  Satyrus winced. ‘He represents the god. Surely he ought to have a little more spirit.’

  Xeno nodded, and Theodorus laughed. ‘You two deserve each other. Listen, lads. If he was anybody he’d have been at the gymnasium. Do you know him? No. My money is that like all the other priests, his mother’s a local girl and he’s trying to make his way - by being as oily as possible. All the Gyptos are greasy.’

  The priest came back leading a white ram - a very attractive animal. ‘My lord?’ he said to Theodorus.

  ‘My friend is actually making the sacrifice,’ Theodorus said dismissively. ‘I am merely attending.’

  Satyrus took the halter of the animal and led it up to the altar. The ram began to buck and shake as he smelled the blood, but Satyrus’s arm was too strong for him, and Satyrus got the lead rope through the ring on the altar before the young animal could set his feet to pull. Satyrus wrapped the rope twice around his left arm, drew his sword - disdaining the offer of the priest’s dagger - and pulled hard on the rope, cinching the rein tight against the bolt so that the ram was stretched out almost on tiptoe. In one blur of movement he slashed the animal’s throat and then pivoted away from the gush of blood. The priest came up and put a bowl to catch it.

  ‘That was well done,’ Theodorus said. ‘Would you teach me? My father...’

  Satyrus grinned, although both of his shoulder joints hurt from the fight. He turned to the priest and handed him a silver coin. ‘A second sacrifice is never amiss, is it?’ He winked, and the young priest bowed.

  ‘A goat, lord?’

  ‘Yes,’ Satyrus said. He stepped off with the young priest. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

  ‘Namastis,’ the man said. He was a couple of years older than Satyrus, and his beard was wispy. ‘Namastis, lord.’

  ‘Listen, Namastis,’ Satyrus said. His sister was better at his sort of thing, but he could hear Theodorus’s comments playing over and over in his head. ‘You’re as good a man as any of us - and the priest of a great god. Greek men never call each other my lord. Priests are famous for their disdain.’ Satyrus smiled. ‘I appreciate your lack of disdain, but you should never call us lords.’

  Namastis narrowed his eyes, unsure if he was being mocked.

  Satyrus met his eye and held it.

  ‘Very well,’ Namastis said. ‘I’ll find you a goat, shall I?’

  ‘Exactly!’ Satyrus said. ‘I’m Satyrus,’ he said, extending his hand.

  The other man took it. He tried a cautious smile. His hand was limp.

  ‘Now squeeze,’ Satyrus said. Egyptians never got the Greek hand clasp.

  The squeeze was cautious, but Satyrus smiled and nodded.

  ‘Zeus Pater, Satyrus, must you make friends with every half-caste in the city? Is your house full of stray cats?’ Theodorus asked.

  Satyrus grinned at him. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Now, do you want to learn this, or not?’

  Namastis came back with a goat - a healthy specimen with a plain brown coat. Then he set to work with his knife, butchering the first sacrifice. ‘Will you take the meat?’ he asked.

  After a glance at Theodorus, Satyrus shook his head. ‘No. Keep it.’ He looked back at Theodorus. ‘It’s all in your left hand, Theo. The animals know what happens at the altar. They can smell it, right?’

  ‘Too right,’ Theodorus said, shaking his head. ‘At the feast of Apollo, I had to sacrifice a heifer for my family. I fucked it up. Completely. My father’s still not really speaking to me.’

  ‘A heifer is tough,’ Satyrus said in sympathy. ‘And a little more upper-arm strength wouldn’t kill you. Can you carry the weight of a shield?’

  ‘Who cares?’ Theodorus asked. ‘Pater has people to do that for us.’

  Satyrus raised an eyebrow but said nothing. ‘Very well. Here’s my trick. I pass the lead through the ringbolt with my right hand. Then I take it with my left and draw my sword with my right - all one move - and pull and cut.’ He pulled the goat’s head hard against the ringbolt but only tapped the animal with his hilt.

  ‘That’s how my father taught me,’ Xenophon added. ‘Always use your own weapon. It adds dignity to the animal’s death and keeps your quick draw in training.’

  Theodorus shook his head. ‘It’s like hanging out with Achilles and Patroclus,’ he said. He stepped up and made to take the lead from Satyrus, but Satyrus stripped the lead out of the ringbolt. He stepped away, dragging the goat. Well clear of the altar, he pulled his sword belt over his head. ‘Try this. See how it hangs.’

  Xeno shot him a look as Theodorus pulled the belt on. It was clear that the rich young man had never worn a sword.

  Satyrus stepped up behind him and tugged the hilt until it was under Theodorus’s arm, right under his armpit. ‘Draw it,’ he said.

  Satyrus still carried the short blade he’d got in the Gabiene campaign, and Theodorus drew it easily, but Satyrus caught his wrist.

  ‘Tip the scabbard up, so that the hilt is down and then pull. See? That will work no matter what size sword you carry.’ Satyrus released the other young man’s wrist.

  Theodorus shook his head. ‘You take all this as seriously as my father,’ he said. ‘If I started wearing a sword, Dionysius would mock me.’

  Satyrus considered a number of responses. While he was thinking, Xenophon beat him to it. ‘So only wear a sword on feast days,’ he said. ‘Practise in private.’

  Satyrus looked at the two of them, realizing that his friends didn’t always think the same way as he did. ‘Or you could just ignore Dionysius,’ he said. He could tell from their reactions that while his views on drawing a sword were valuable, his views on Dionysius were not so.

  Theodorus drew the sword, tilting the scabbard each time in a manner that Satyrus found theatrical, but it worked.

  ‘Ready?’ Satyrus said, handing Theodorus the rein.

  The goat immediately began scrabbling with his hind feet. Namastis looked up from butchering the ram. Theodorus dragged the goat up the steps and put the rein through the ringbolt right-handed, but when he switched the rein to his left he gave the animal too much slack and the goat ripped the rein right out of the bolt and ran.

  Xenophon stopped the animal within a few feet of the altar, caught the lead and brought it back to Theodorus. He couldn’t hide his grin. ‘It’s all in the hand switch,’ he said.

  ‘All in the sword draw, all in the hand switch - I need more muscle,’ Theodorus said. ‘This is like spending an afternoon with my father, when he has time for me.’

  ‘No - we’l
l go to Cimon’s when we’re done,’ Satyrus said, and got a smile from his friend. ‘Come on - try again.’ He knew instinctively that he needed to get Theodorus to succeed.

  He caught a smell of burning hair from another altar, and then his spine prickled as he smelled wet cat fur - close. Satyrus looked around, feeling the presence of his god.

  Xeno ignored him and handed the other young man the rein. ‘Through the ring, step in like a lunge, pull, cut,’ Xenophon said. He was about to say more - something like I was six when I learned this - but Satyrus kept him quiet with a look.

  Theodorus was hesitant in his approach to the altar, and he managed to slip on a step and lose the rein. Satyrus stepped on it, his sandal slapping on the marble floor. He smiled at Theo, who took the rein back. He had to drag the goat up all three of the altar steps. His eyes were on his friends.

  ‘Keep your eyes on the animal - all the time,’ Satyrus said. ‘Start concentrating on where you’ll place the cut, and think of your prayer. I think today you should pray to give a good sacrifice!’

  Namastis was watching, his eyes narrow.

  Theodorus passed the hemp rope from his right to his left. Too fast, he pulled on the rein and the goat stumbled - the luck of the gods - and its head came up against the bolt. Theodorus swept the sword out, nicking his ear in the process, and cut - a little too hard, but accurately enough. Blood fountained, catching him across the legs and the lower folds of his chiton.

  ‘I did it!’ he said. He didn’t seem to care that he was drenched in hot blood. There was more flowing down his face from where he’d overdrawn the sword. Satyrus was prepared to glare at Xeno if he mocked him, but Coenus’s son smiled. ‘Well done, Theodorus,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, well done,’ Satyrus said.

  ‘I can’t wait to tell my father,’ Theo said. ‘Thanks! I’m going to do another.’

  ‘Namastis?’ Satyrus said.

  ‘I only have a small goat left,’ Namastis said. There was a twinkle in his eye.