‘Hmm. I am the real commander, alongside a dozen old mercenaries. Right now, some of the Macedonian faction have managed to put a man over me. I need your friends. I need two ranks of spirited, brave, athletic young men. You have a week.’ Philokles smiled. ‘Some of them will die,’ he said.
Satyrus took a deep breath. ‘How many?’
Philokles sneered. ‘How many will die? Ask a prophet.’
‘How many do you need?’ Satyrus shot back.
Philokles rubbed his chin and deflated. ‘A hundred, more or less.’
Satyrus laughed. ‘That’s every prosperous Hellene in Alexandria. The whole young set at Cimon’s!’
Philokles nodded. ‘I rather expected you to start at the gymnasium.’
Satyrus took a deep breath. ‘Leon’s marines?’
Philokles nodded. ‘Ours as soon as they return. They’re watching the approaches at sea. That’s where I expect to get my file-closers.’
Satyrus, interested, reached into a cedar trunk for his own chitoniskos. ‘Sailors?’
Philokles scratched his cheek. He didn’t look at all like the mask of Ares. ‘What are you, some kind of democrat?’
‘You have Aegyptians, right?’ Satyrus took a sponge from a basin and tried to clean himself. He was still partly drunk, but he felt that if he stopped moving he would fall back into the pit.
Philokles shrugged. ‘Some sailors. But right now, every ship with a fighting ram is at sea, watching for One-Eye or his son.’
Satyrus brushed his hair roughly, forcing the horsehair brush through his own as if to punish his transgressions. He put on short Thracian boots and a cloak, put a straw hat on his head and picked up a hunting spear.
‘First,’ he said, ‘I need to apologize to Kallista.’
Philokles nodded. ‘That might be a virtuous act,’ he said. ‘We drill all day at the sea wall. Not that we accomplish much. The Aegyptians have had all the war spirit beaten from them. They go through the motions like slaves.’ Philokles came and suddenly embraced Satyrus. Then he stepped back with his hands on the younger man’s shoulders. ‘Fighting in the phalanx is messy,’ he said. ‘Everything depends on the first two ranks. Everything.’
Satyrus nodded. ‘I’ll be there?’
‘Right next to me. Can you keep my spear side safe?’ Philokles stepped away.
‘You trained me, Spartan.’ Satyrus grinned. The expression used muscles in his face he hadn’t used in days.
‘See you don’t embarrass me, then,’ the Spartan said.
Satyrus walked into his sister’s rooms, announced by Dorcus. He embraced his sister and apologized all at once. ‘I didn’t listen to a word you said,’ he pronounced. She looked terrible - pale and worried - but she smiled for him.
‘I’m your sister, stupid. I don’t need apologies.’ She hugged him nonetheless.
Satyrus kissed her, and they leaned their foreheads against each other for a moment. ‘Thanks to the gods,’ Melitta said. ‘I really thought you were gone. The veritable black pit of despair.’
‘Part of me is still there,’ he said quietly. ‘But Philokles gave me something to do. Acting is so much easier than thinking.’ He hoped that didn’t sound too bitter.
‘Actions have consequences,’ she said. Her eyes flicked away.
‘I keep learning that,’ he said. She was hurting, too - he could see it, but he couldn’t imagine what it was about. ‘I’m off to Cimon’s to recruit an army.’
‘A drunk, lecherous army?’ she said, brightly. ‘Nice of Philokles to find something for you. I’ll just sit here and weave or something.’
‘You’re not a lot better off than I am,’ Satyrus said.
‘No, I’m not,’ Melitta said. ‘And now that you’re back from the land of the dead, I may just go there. Come and talk to me? Promise?’
‘I’d be happy to help,’ Satyrus said in a whisper, and then louder, ‘Where’s Kallista?’ He already smelled her perfume.
‘Right here,’ said the avatar of Aphrodite. Dressed in white and perfumed, she was almost too much to look at. She offered him an embrace, but he took one of her hands, pressed it to his forehead and bowed.
‘My apologies, Kallista. I was weak. And behaved badly.’
‘Hah!’ Kallista drew him into an embrace. ‘Men!’ She smiled and gave him a very unsisterly kiss. ‘One of these days, young man.’
He flushed. But she embraced him again, and then gently pushed him away. He found that he had an oyster shell in his hand.
‘I should go,’ he said hurriedly, fooling no one.
‘Go then,’ his sister said. Something going on there - she looked caged, almost desperate, and he owed her. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.
‘Nothing!’ she said. ‘Get out of my rooms before you burst!’
Relieved, he went. Only when he was outside in the courtyard did he think of her look at Xeno and how close the two of them had become on board ship. But then his whole mind went to the oyster shell in his hand.
The message inside the shell said, Lord Ptolemy speaks highly of you and your sister, and I will soon be moved to invite her to visit. The man who brings her might receive a reward.
He went out of the courtyard singing a hymn to Aphrodite.
The fear of pregnancy stalked Melitta’s sleep and her every waking hour. The loss of her virginity troubled her very little - Sakje girls did as they pleased, and she laughed at the posturing of Greek women. But the consequence loomed, and she listened to the music of her body with the avidity of a newcomer to the world of the body, and it carried tales.
Every rumbling of her stomach frightened her. Every itch, every feeling in her genitals, every change in her skin. A chance comment in the market - your hair is richer today, my lady - sent her into depression.
Her lover - Xeno - was worse than useless, vacillating between fear and wonder at what he had done and a strong desire to do it again. And she had a hard time recapturing any of the feeling of the ship about him. In Alexandria, he seemed a strong boy with a tan, and she feared that his obvious looks would give them away, and that the consequences would rule their lives.
She wasn’t going to marry Xeno. She was going to be queen of the Assagatje.
While her brother was still drinking himself into courage after coming back - such a fuss for so little - Xeno went away again when the Hyacinth went to sea to watch for the enemy fleet, and she was left in peace, until her brother walked out with a foolish oyster shell in his fist and Kallista turned to her.
‘Are you pregnant?’ she asked in a mater-of-fact voice. She did wait until Dorcus was clear of the room.
In a matter of minutes, she told everything. She wept in Kallista’s arms until the hetaira made clucking noises.
‘Not the lover I’d have chosen for you, but Hades, at least he’s clean and your own age. By your own will?’
Melitta had to smile at that. ‘I did all the work,’ she said.
Kallista shook her head. ‘I can imagine. Boys - all the same. Was it fun?’
Melitta shrugged. ‘Yes - no. Yes. It was. Didn’t hurt at all. None of that. But so little for so much worry!’
Kallista made a face. ‘Don’t say too much of that, honey bee. Men hate that.’ She frowned. ‘I wish I could tell you that you were safe, but I don’t know. How many days?’
‘Seventeen,’ Melitta said promptly - the whole scroll of her fears rolled into that one number.
Kallista nodded. ‘We course at the same time, so that means nothing. You should see blood in a week - Aphrodite, you did this at the wrong time, girl. Did I teach you nothing? Early or late in the month and you can make mistakes.’
‘And if I don’t?’ Melitta asked. She had hoped - hoped against hope - that when she told Kallista, the hetaira would know and calm all her fears.
‘Then you have a baby. There’s no need to borrow trouble by discussing all that now. That’s for a month from now - maybe more. Girls miss their courses - I still do, sometimes. Late, early,
nothing - it’s like philosophy, honey - it never has the answer you need.’
‘I’m afraid.’
Kallista smiled. ‘Nothing to fear. Are you some streetwalker, or a slave in a rough house? Go and tell Sappho and Nihmu. Today. Get it done. People here love you. You understand me, girl? They even love me, and it took me time to get that - but you are the lady of this house.’
‘Sappho will throw me out,’ Melitta cried.
‘Sappho was a hetaira!’ Kallista said. ‘And she’s been a better mother to me than my mother ever was. Get your head out of your arse - or wherever it is - and tell Sappho. Do you love him?’
‘No,’ Melitta said in a small voice.
Kallista laughed. ‘That’s a mercy.’
Satyrus went to Abraham’s house first because Cimon’s was something he couldn’t face alone. Or because he missed the man - Xeno had turned very strange these last few weeks, and seeing Abraham seemed like a return to a better time. A safer time. Whereas Xeno now lived in a world of war. And Xeno was probably in love with his sister.
His stomach turned over, and he was standing in a public street, the intersection of two great avenues constructed by the conqueror to allow the breezes to move freely through his chosen city. He leaned against a building.
‘Master?’ asked the slave who’d come out with him. Young, smooth-faced and useless.
‘What’s your name, lad?’ Satyrus asked.
‘Cyrus,’ the boy said, sullenly. Again, Satyrus thought that he wanted a servant he could trust. Someone of his own. ‘It’s nothing,’ Satyrus said. He rubbed his brow. Then he turned on to the Alexandrion and walked along it, passing the temples and the near-palaces of the Macedonian upper class. Many of them were poorer than Uncle Leon, and few of them had the political or military power of Uncle Diodorus, but they lived lives of the most reckless ostentation, because (apparently) that is how they lived in Macedon. Then past the Posideion, with its merchant houses and their public and private wharves. More and more of Abraham’s fellow Hebrews were moving into the Posideion, which had a certain logic to it, as two-thirds of the lots were empty and most of the new arrivals from Palestine were merchants.
Ben Zion had one of the larger houses, a utilitarian building on the Greek pattern with little outward decoration. Like the man himself. Ben Zion tolerated Leon, but the man was reputed to be a Hebrew zealot and he dressed in the plainest of tunics and always wore elements of his Canaanish or Israelite tribal clothing, as if disdaining the Hellenic world in which he lived.
Satyrus had only met him twice - both on errands to fetch Abraham from his lair. Like this one.
Avoiding a man lying dead in the central gutter, and fastidiously wrinkling his nose as a specialist butcher disposed of the unclean parts of an animal, watched by a Hebrew priest, into the very same gutter, Satyrus moved past them, smiled at a knife sharpener because the man was doing such a careful job, and caught a glimpse of a pair of eyes looking out from behind a curtain in the exedra of Ben Zion’s house.
Satyrus smiled to himself, because for all the black clouds in his mood, he was still moved by those eyes - a pair of eyes he was quite sure he would never attach to a voice or a body. Hebrew women lived in even more seclusion than Greek women.
The street door to the courtyard was open, and labourers - a mix of races - were standing with their backs against the courtyard wall, panting. There was a heavy crate on the marble-chipped ground, and Ben Zion stood with his hands on his hips, a heavy wool robe over his vaguely Hellenic tunic.
‘No visiting during working hours,’ Ben Zion barked, catching sight of him.
Satyrus recoiled; then, forcing a smile, he stepped forward. ‘I need your son, sir. Public business.’
Ben Zion had a heavy beard like many older Greek men, and he ran his fingers through it, both hands - a foreign gesture. ‘Public business?’ he asked.
‘You are a citizen?’ Satyrus asked in his best helmsman voice.
Ben Zion actually smiled. Recognition lit his dour face. ‘Yes, young nephew of my partner Leon. I am a citizen.’
Satyrus bowed. ‘Your son is a citizen?’
Ben Zion nodded.
‘I call on your son to serve in the phalanx, with panoply and arms, against the common foe, in defence of the city.’ Satyrus ground the butt of his hunting spear against the marble chips.
‘I hope you’ll have better spears than that,’ Ben Zion said. ‘Leon said you would come. So. And so. Benjamin - fetch my son.’ He motioned at one of the labourers. ‘May I show you a wonder, young warrior? Or do thoughts of armour fill your head to the exclusion of everything?’
Satyrus didn’t know why people didn’t like Ben Zion. He was, in some Hebrew way, just like Diodorus and Leon. ‘I’d be delighted,’ Satyrus said.
Seeing the wonder seemed to involve stripping his chlamys and helping the labourers raise the crate off the marble chips - ‘God send it not be damaged. Fools!’ - and carrying it, the heaviest load Satyrus had ever put his shoulder to, around the corner and deeper into the house.
‘Ahh! Softly! God witness that I have done all I can to get this precious thing into my house! You there, Master Satyrus, you have strong arms - see to it that you have a light touch, as well! Mind the loom!’
A thousand imprecations, some in Greek, and many others in a language that Satyrus didn’t understand, except that it had to be Hebrew. Past a kitchen, whose smells made Satyrus want to eat. He was now carrying the crate with the help of one other man, passing through arched doorways too narrow to admit more hands, and he was unable to do more than walk and carry. He was sweating like an Olympic athlete in the final stade, and the wooden supports by which the heavy thing was carried were beginning to creak and bend.
‘Just on top of this - here - hold it up! Up! Now down - slowly - perfect, my children, perfect!’ Ben Zion actually clapped his hands. ‘Get the crate off, you lot. Master Satyrus, you are ever welcome in my house - you are as strong as my strongest servant, and I might not have got this done without you.’
Satyrus stood up, for the first time seeing where he was - a handsome round room, quite large, with the feeling of a temple. Scrolls in pigeonholes as far as the eye could see, and the crate now rested on an elegant dark stone plinth against a tiled wall. Satyrus rubbed his back, looking around - the ceiling was like the vault of heaven, the first mosaic he’d ever seen. ‘When did my uncle say I was coming?’ he asked, to indicate that he was not altogether foolish.
‘Ah. Today, of course. What can I say, young master? When one has the repute of a famous Hellenic athlete, a poor trader must make what use can be made, yes?’ Ben Zion handed him a steaming cup. ‘Qua-veh. An acquired taste. Nabataean. I have sent a note to your uncle that my sources from Nabataea say that One-Eye’s son invaded them, looking for tribute money, and suffered for it.’
Satyrus nodded at his carrying partner, an enormous man who wore the same tribal marks as Ben Zion. The man nodded back - comrades in fatigue and accomplishment. Then he sipped from the cup and almost spat - the stuff was bitter.
‘Put some honey in it,’ Abraham said from behind him. ‘I see my father got his money’s worth out of your visit.’ He sounded a little contemptuous. It was a tone that Satyrus would never have taken with Leon, but Ben Zion merely smiled.
‘Honey is Abraham’s answer to everything - eh? Greeks will love Jews if only we add a little honey?’ Ben Zion shrugged. Nonetheless, he helped Satyrus himself, using a heavy horn spoon to add honey. A woman appeared with a tray - an attractive young woman, unveiled, who smiled right into Satyrus’s eyes as if they were old friends.
‘Miriam! Up the stairs this instant and no more of your sluttish ways!’ Ben Zion was angry. ‘How dare you?’
‘That’s my sister,’ Abraham murmured. ‘Drink your qua-veh and look imperturbable.’
Satyrus cast a smile at the retreating Miriam, who seemed unbowed by her father’s anger. A female voice was raised from the exedra - Miriam’s mother, Satyr
us had no doubt. He didn’t understand a word of Hebrew, but he would have bet a dozen silver owls that the words ‘what will the neighbours think’ had just been shouted.
Ben Zion turned back with a shrug that seemed at odds with his display of rage - all an act? ‘My daughter. The apple of my eye. Beautiful - is she not? Come, be frank, Hellene. Esther, Ruth, Hannah - all fine girls. But Miriam is like Sophia incarnate.’
‘Except for the lack of wisdom,’ Abraham whispered.
‘Bah! I heard that. Listen, my atheist scapegrace, this Hellene has come to my poor shop to require your service in the phalanx of the city. Eh?’ He looked at Satyrus.
Abraham grinned like a fool. ‘Really? I thought I’d have to beg to join. Very humiliating, for our people. Asked to join? Totally different. I would be delighted to serve.’
‘Delighted enough to find ten more like you?’ Satyrus asked. ‘Who can furnish their own panoply to Philokles’ standards?’
‘Ah! Armourers will grow rich all over the city!’ Ben Zion said. Both hands tangled in his beard. ‘How lucky that Leon and I own most of them.’ He nodded. ‘It is as my son says, young master. We hate to beg - but invited? I doubt you’ll find fewer than fifty.’
‘Philokles in command? That’s a frightening thought.’ Abraham laughed.
Satyrus smiled, and then frowned. ‘You could die,’ he said suddenly, unsure how to approach the matter. ‘This is real.’
Ben Zion nodded curtly. ‘War causes death? In Greece, this may be news. In Israel, we already know what war does.’ He nodded to his son. ‘See to it that you do us honour.’
Abraham nodded. He bowed respectfully to his father. ‘I will.’
‘I know,’ Ben Zion said. He turned away suddenly. ‘Your Hellene friend should see this, since it is the triumph of our two peoples, working together.’ He had turned away to hide emotion, and Abraham busied himself with the cups, leaving an embarrassed Satyrus to fend for himself.
He and the giant Hebrew lifted the crate straight up, over their heads, and then carefully off the gleaming bronze that lay beneath. Before the box was clear of the thing, Satyrus had an idea what it was.
Funeral Games Page 46
