Funeral Games (22 page)

‘Hello, brother,’ she said.

‘You all right?’ he asked.

The corners of her mouth quivered a little, but her smile remained in place. ‘No,’ she said. ‘People are trying to kill me. Us. It’s different from a fight. It’s horrible, Satyrus! I like people!’

Satyrus put his arms around her, happy to comfort somebody. Especially his sister, who usually comforted him. ‘It’s not everybody, sis. It’s just a couple of idiots. If I’d been quicker on my feet, we’d be safe.’

‘What are you, Achilles? Is it all on you? Are you the centre of the world? Stop all this assumption-of-responsibility crap! It’s the product of too much Plato!’ She put her cheek on his shoulder and squeezed. The weight of her head was grinding one of his best gold fibulae into his shoulder, but that was an occupational hazard of being a brother.

‘I didn’t get him, and that Macedonian made me come back here. I should have stayed at it! It makes me feel like shit.’ Satyrus felt better just for saying the words out loud.

She looked up, her eyes red, and shook her head. ‘Slavery doesn’t make them weak, you daft weasel. Slavery makes them desperate. Promise me that when we’re king and queen, we’ll have no slaves.’

‘Done!’ he said. ‘I swear it by Zeus and all the gods.’

They stood there, embracing, for some time. The shadows got longer. Kallista continued to breathe.

‘I’m better,’ Melitta said. ‘Thanks.’ She stepped away and started to rearrange her hair.

‘Hey?’ he said. ‘What if I’m not better?’

She made a rude noise. ‘Can I tell you something?’ she said, her back to him.

‘Probably,’ he said. He was watching Kallista. In his head, he was comparing her blotched face, swollen lips, burn marks and stressed flesh to the image of beauty she had presented the first night in the rose garden. The comparison was full of lessons.

‘When I thought you were dying, I was going to kill myself,’ she said evenly. ‘I don’t think I’d want to live without you, brother.’ She put a pin into her hair.

He rubbed his hand through his hair in embarrassment. ‘Yeah,’ he said. Another of his excellent responses.

‘My lord?’ Draco asked from the other side of the curtain.

‘That’s Draco, our sentry. Come in!’ Satyrus called.

The Macedonian pushed his head through. ‘We’re out of here, my lord. The Medje have your man, and the dinner is on - our tyrant won’t be cowed by a slave. So you’re to dress.’ His eyes flicked over to where Melitta sat. ‘My pardon, m’lady.’

‘Hold on,’ Satyrus said, slipping through the curtain. ‘Thanks.’

Draco grinned from under his Thracian helmet. ‘No problem, m’lord.’

‘What happened to “Satyrus” or “boy”?’

‘Orders. You two is to be treated as visiting royals.’ Draco grinned. ‘Most visiting royals don’t help us loot a house, o’ course.’

‘Can I ask a favour, Draco?’

‘Sure. Ask away. I’m back off duty as soon as I get this thorax off.’ He slung his shield around on his back.

‘Can you find me a chiton? A nice one?’ He pointed to the long streak of black vomit on his fine flame-decorated garment.

Draco grinned. ‘That’s easy. Hey!’ he said, turning. ‘Hey, Philotas! Where’s that squeeze of yours?’

Another armoured man emerged from the columns on the other side of the guests’ courtyard. ‘She’s right here, you whoreson.’

‘Send her over here. The prince needs some clothes.’ Draco chortled.

‘So does she!’ Philotas laughed. ‘It might be a minute.’

Draco shrugged. ‘He’s a pig-dog, our Philotas. Girls love him. His cock’s longer than a girl’s foot.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘His girl is one of the wardrobe slaves. His
current
girl.’

Satyrus tried to be a man of the world. ‘My mother says “no slave girls”.’

‘Aphrodite! Why’s that?’ Draco seemed shocked.

‘Because they can’t decide for themselves. They aren’t in control of their bodies.’ Satyrus managed to deliver the line well, without primness, as if he really knew what he was talking about.

Draco laughed. ‘Ares, who cares?’ he said. ‘Willing? Unwilling?’ He looked at Satyrus. ‘Oh, balls. I’m sorry, boy. Don’t take it like that - I’m no monster. Your mum’s just a little strict for me.’

The slave girl came up, her eyes averted and her ionic chiton neat and graceful. ‘Master?’ she asked.

‘The prince would like to know if he might get a chiton from the wardrobe,’ Draco asked in an official voice. ‘His best got ruined in the poison attempt.’

The slave raised her eyes and looked at his chiton. She fingered the stain. ‘Never come all the way out,’ she said. She brightened. ‘But I have a little bitch who it’ll do good to try. Can we move about, Draco?’

‘Free as friggin’ birds, honey,’ Draco answered. ‘My lord, I leave you in good hands.’

‘Give me the cloth, m’lord.’ She all but snapped her fingers, and Satyrus pulled it off over his head.

‘Get the brooches, m’lord,’ Draco said. ‘Or you’ll never see ’em again.’

‘Don’t you have somewhere you ought to be, guardsman?’ the woman said to Draco. Her nimble fingers plucked the fibulae off the shoulders. ‘No one in this wing would steal, m’lord. Draco is from Macedon - they’re the thieves.’

Draco gave him a look that said he’d stand by his statement, and Satyrus was left standing naked with a pair of gold brooches in his hand and a sword strap over his shoulder.

Life with slaves and guards was so alien that he almost laughed aloud.

Philokles came up behind him. ‘Planning to go to the dinner naked, boy?’ he asked. ‘The sword is a nice touch. You could be young Herakles.’

Satyrus blushed and hurried back to his room. As quickly as he could, he wriggled into a chiton.

‘Best bathe. I can smell the vomit on you,’ Philokles called after him, leaning in past the curtain.

‘Will you go, sir?’ Satyrus asked.

‘I will, too. We can just squeeze it in.’ Satyrus felt his tutor’s hand on his shoulder, and they walked off down the gallery to the stairs.

Philokles didn’t know the palace like Satyrus did now. ‘This way,’ he said, heading down the slaves’ stair. ‘It’s faster!’

‘No, boy,’ the Spartan said. He pulled Satyrus past the slaves’ stair. ‘Not fair to them. You didn’t grow up with slaves, but I did. They need their own places where the likes of us don’t interfere. Just like soldiers. Officers don’t go into soldiers’ parts of camp. Bad manners.’

‘Oh,’ Satyrus said. They went down the public stair together. The baths were crowded because everyone had either been on duty or locked down for the afternoon. The men in the steam fell silent when Satyrus entered.

‘Welcome, prince,’ Nestor called out.

Satyrus blushed. He blushed more when he saw the murals on the walls. He got in the steam, and then he plunged into a cold bath deep enough to dive and swim, with a beautiful bronze woman with a fish tail at the bottom, as if swimming for the surface. When he emerged, he took a warmer bath and then went into the towel room.

‘Massage?’ a bored slave asked. ‘You’re the foreign prince, eh? In there,’ he said.

Satyrus found himself on a slab between Nestor and Philokles. They were like a pair of matching statues as they reclined, waiting for masseurs - Nestor in black and Philokles in white. Philokles was not at his best - years as a tutor in a backwater had not forced him to maintain his fighting trim - but he was not fat, either. Nestor’s musculature was perfect, and he would have adorned any gymnasium in Greece.

‘Boy or girl?’ the towel boy asked.

‘Surprise me,’ Nestor said.

A heavyset man came in and set to work on Philokles. ‘Soldier, sir?’ he asked. ‘I can always tell from the shoulders.’

Nestor laughed. ‘He’s a Spartan!’ he said.

The masseur grunted. ‘You’ve pulled some muscles here, sir. Best take some light exercise.’

‘I’ll keep that in mind,’ Philokles said.

‘Where’s Theron?’ Satyrus asked, as another man started to pummel his shoulders. Then a huge thumb was thrust roughly under his shoulder blade and it
hurt
. ‘Ares!’ he squeaked.

‘Be nice, Glaukis - probably the first real massage the boy’s ever had.’ Nestor hissed between his teeth. ‘They all hurt, m’lord.’

Satyrus’s masseur grunted and rotated his arm as if forcing his head down in pankration.

‘Oww!’ Satyrus said.

The two big men laughed.

Eventually, it was over. There was a point where it started to feel good, and another point where he started to feel the glow he got from a long exercise bout.

‘Oil, m’lord?’ the masseur asked.

‘Just a little,’ Satyrus said.

The masseur helped him off the slab. ‘Second curtain, m’lord.’

Satyrus headed down a corridor, barely able to walk with the absolute relaxation of his muscles. Erotic scenes involving various combinations of partners adorned the walls. Satyrus wasn’t prudish and he certainly knew how it all worked - there was even less privacy in Tanais than in Heraklea - but he blushed anyway.

The second curtain gave way to a small room with a small dark-haired girl not much older than he. She helped him up on to a stool. ‘Scented?’ she asked. ‘Cedar or lavender?’

‘No scent, thanks,’ he said.

She began to apply oil, her hands light but efficient. ‘Anything else, master?’ she asked as she began to massage the oil into his penis.

‘No, thank you,’ he said. No squeak at all - he was quite proud of his lack of shock.

‘There you go, then,’ she said with an utter indifference that made him feel he’d made the right choice.

He walked back up the main stair in a glow of well-being,
eudaimonia
, and he walked straight into his sister’s room. ‘How is she?’ he asked.

‘Goodness, you glow like a god,’ Melitta said. ‘She’s breathing better. ’

‘Do you know that when they put oil on you in the baths, they offer sex acts? Do they do that in the women’s baths?’

Melitta giggled. ‘Yes and no,’ she said. ‘Let’s not go into details.’ She turned bright red, and they laughed.

The laughter went on.

‘Go and put some clothes on, brother,’ she said. ‘There’s a slave waiting in your room.’ She made a motion with her hand. ‘We’re suddenly at the age where people will talk if we’re together naked.’

Satyrus turned a bright red. ‘Zeus Soter!’ he said. ‘That’s disgusting! ’

Melitta shrugged. ‘The Macedonians do it all the time. Ask your soldier friend Draco.’ Melitta gave a wicked smile - a smile that most twelve-year-old girls couldn’t manage. ‘Your guard friends think that’s what we’re doing in here.’

Satyrus vowed never to be naked around his sister again and headed off to his room.

Satyrus found the wardrobe slave waiting for him.

‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ he said.

She continued to look at the floor, but she gave a small smile. ‘That’s polite. I had a nice rest, and I tacked the side seams. Put it on. Good - you’re not dripping oil. Smudges the fabric.’

She held out a chiton, which was light wool, woven beautifully, but with a double row of purple decoration woven in. ‘Himself will never wear it,’ she said. ‘Came with the tribute and it wouldn’t go around his head, much less his body.’ She smiled. ‘Thank him for it when you make your bow, just so I’m covered.’

‘Hestia, goddess of the hearth, watch over you. What’s your name?’ he asked.

‘Harmone, my lord. There - you look like a prince. You need gold sandals.’

‘I’ve never had such a thing,’ Satyrus said.

Harmone laughed. ‘I’m a slave, and I have four pairs,’ she said. ‘The world’s a funny place and no mistake.’ She waited at the doorway.

Waiting for a tip.
Satyrus cast around the room, saw all of his kit where the slaves had dumped it - was it really just that afternoon?

‘It’s going to take me some time to find my purse,’ he said.

‘I’ll wait,’ she said. ‘I knew you was a gent.’

Satyrus wondered what he had in his purse. ‘Harmone?’ he asked, as he pulled his sleeping roll off the pile. ‘What’s a fair tip? This isn’t how I live every day.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Ten gold darics’d do me fine,’ she said, and giggled. ‘You’re a rare ’un. An obol or two is fair for any extra service a slave does, except fucking. That’s more, unless offered free.’

Satyrus’s hand stopped over his satchel. He looked at her. She smiled.

She was a good ten years older than him and he wasn’t
sure
she was offering, and the world was a very confusing place. He had to look away - she was licking her lips - and his downturned eye caught a needle sticking point-first out of the flap of his satchel, just a few finger-breadths from his hand. The point of the needle was dark with something stuck to it - wax.

Or poison.

‘Hades,’ Satyrus breathed. He’d
heard
of poisoned needles. ‘Harmone. I’ll tip you later. Get Nestor!’

She caught the seriousness in his voice.

Satyrus didn’t move. The discovery of the reality of poisoned needles had frozen him in place. He felt very vulnerable indeed. He tried not to think. He didn’t panic, especially - he just crouched by his pack until Philokles and Theron came. Then Nestor arrived with a file of soldiers. They told him not to move while they sent for more soldiers in heavy gear.

His sister stood in the doorway, dressed for dinner, with her hair piled on top of her head in silver pins, and chewed on her fist.

Men in heavy felt mittens pulled his gear apart. Men in heavy military sandals came in and literally carried him out of the room. He leaned his forehead against the cool smoothness of a pillar and breathed for a while as his hands and knees shook. Then he went to the door.

‘Someone hand me out my sword?’ he asked. Good voice. He did that well - touch of irony.

Melitta smiled.

Philokles looked stricken. And a little drunk.