Funeral Games t-3 Read online

  ‘Perhaps Antigonus will lose?’ Philokles said. ‘I know Ptolemy. He’s a subtle man.’

  ‘You know him?’ Kinon laughed again. He was drunk now. ‘I am in the company of the great.’

  Philokles finished the cup, flicked his wrist and his wine drop scored on the bronze rim of the urn like a bell tolling. ‘I know him pretty well,’ he said. ‘I took him prisoner once.’ He laughed, and Kinon looked shocked.

  Melitta nodded. ‘It’s true. And my father and Philokles released him. They’re guest-friends, I think. Right?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Philokles said. ‘That’s why Diodorus is a little more than just a mercenary to Ptolemy.’

  Kinon shook his head. ‘You took him prisoner? In a battle? Next you’ll be telling me that you knew Alexander!’

  ‘My father did,’ Satyrus said. ‘But please go on. Perdikkas is dead, and Antigonus One-Eye has his army.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Kinon got the bowl and balanced it expertly while talking. ‘Antigonus has the whole field army behind him, and Ptolemy won’t get another miracle in the Delta. He has no soldiers to speak of now, just some military settlers and some useless Aegyptians. He won’t last the season. I’ll miss him – he’s the only one of those Macedonian fucks who wants to build something instead of just killing.’ As he drank, his Boeotian accent got thicker, and now he sounded like a character in a comedy.

  Philokles shrugged. ‘And Eumenes is left with the rump?’

  ‘Less than the rump – although he’s wily. Antipater had him once and he escaped.’ Kinon snapped his fingers for more drink. By this point, he had Kallista sitting on a stool beneath his couch, and he played with her hair while he spoke. Melitta had already excused herself like an Athenian matron.

  Philokles laughed again. ‘I remember his wiles,’ he said. ‘He and Kineas chased each other all over Bactria.’

  Kinon sighed. ‘And then there’s Greece, of course. Now that Antipater is gone, and we had Polyperchon as a replacement – too old, and not smart enough to live – Athens made a bid for independence back, oh, six years or so. They defeated Antipater’s army and frankly they looked to overthrow the whole system. That united all the Macedonians for a while.’

  Philokles shrugged. ‘And Kineas’s old friend Leosthenes died.’

  Kinon looked knowing. ‘Died – or got very sick and slipped away when the whole alliance started coming apart. There are people who claim to have seen him. But the chaos that he caused in Thrace and Greece is why One-Eye has time to move against Ptolemy – because Polyperchon is still rebuilding. The Athenians showed that the Macedonians could be beaten. And there’s a new man on the stage – Antipater’s son, Cassander – he’s a different matter. Bad to the bone, that one – smart like a lion and rotten like an old corpse.’

  Theron shook his head. ‘I paid no mind to politics when I was at Corinth. It wearies me, friends. And all of you know these men – these great men – like fellow guests at a symposium. I’m going to retire, friends, secure in the knowledge that the only people of consequence I know are athletes, and none of them is much of an adornment at a dinner party.’

  When he rose, he gave Satyrus a long look. Satyrus got the message. ‘I thank you for hospitality and good talk, wisdom and beauty.’ He slipped the last in with a look at Kallista.

  Kinon nodded. ‘Tomorrow we’ll have a look at the agora.’

  ‘Perhaps the palaestra?’ Theron asked.

  ‘Of course!’ The host patted his stomach. ‘I may remember the way there!’

  And with that laugh, Satyrus stumbled off to bed. He managed to make it to the couch in his room, and then his wits turned off like a snuffed lamp.

  In the morning, they threatened to stay off. Melitta came to wake him, prodding him under the ribs with her thumbs and tickling his feet until his groans turned to counter-attacks. She giggled, backing away from his couch, and he discovered that he had a splitting headache.

  ‘Time to get up, sleepyhead,’ she said.

  ‘Oh,’ he said, clutching his temples.

  An older slave, heavy with muscle and black as an Athenian vase, came in and began to tidy his chamber. Satyrus wanted to get off his couch, but he couldn’t quite make himself do it.

  ‘Could you fetch us some water?’ Melitta said. ‘You’re twelve, Satyr, not twenty. You drank far too much wine last night.’

  ‘I don’t think it was the wine,’ Satyrus said plaintively. ‘I think I’ve hurt my head, or caught a cold.’

  The black slave snorted. He was only gone for a few moments and then he returned with a silver pitcher of water and a bronze cup. ‘Drink up, master,’ he said with a grin.

  Satyrus raised his head. ‘Why are you smiling? My head hurts!’

  ‘Drink all the water in this pitcher,’ the slave said. ‘I’ll get you another when you are done. Then your headache will cure itself. I promise.’

  Satyrus managed to drink down two pitchers of water, and then he and Melitta made their way out into the rose garden where all the guests were reclining. Melitta watched him with a superior smile. ‘More wine, brother?’ she asked.

  ‘Hard head, boy?’ Philokles asked. ‘Worst age for a male, Satyrus. At twelve, you are invited to behave like a man, but you can’t. Best be wary of the wine.’

  Theron raised an eyebrow at the Spartan, and the two men glowered at each other for a bit. ‘Advice everyone could heed.’

  A young male slave came in, sheathed in sweat, with a scroll. Kinon took it and opened it, his eyes scanning the page, and he frowned.

  ‘I asked our tyrant, Dionysius, to grant us all an audience.’ He rolled the scroll and scratched his chin with it. ‘He has declined the honour, saying that the time for meeting is inauspicious, which is a load of mule dung and no mistake.’ He handed the scroll to the same black slave who had waited on Satyrus after he awoke. ‘Zosimos, have this scraped clean and put in the stack.’

  Zosimos took the scroll and vanished through the pillars of the colonnade.

  Kinon glanced around, pulled out a gold toothpick and went to work on his teeth. Satyrus looked away. A female slave offered him wine, and he hastily put his hand over his cup. ‘Might I have some more water?’ he implored her.

  She went to a sideboard and returned with a gleaming silver pitcher and a slight smile. He accepted both gratefully.

  ‘Something is amiss,’ Kinon said. ‘Nonetheless, I’m sending to Diodorus by courier so that he is warned of your circumstances. I’ll send a caravan with the armour – three days at the least, I’m afraid. What do you need?’

  Philokles leaned forward. ‘Clothes, weapons, remounts. Some cash. Kinon, I am merely being candid – pardon my bluntness.’

  Kinon shook his head. ‘No need to apologize. I am rich, and my friend Leon could buy and sell twenty of me, and together, your burden isn’t a flyspeck. Arms and armour are easy – we make them. Why don’t I have Zosimos take you to the shop? None of the gear will be silver chased or inlaid, but it is all solid and workmanlike. Take what you need or have Zosimos order it with our smith.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘I don’t like the fact that the tyrant won’t see you.’ He looked around. ‘Where is Tenedos?’

  One of the female slaves darted into the colonnade and Tenedos, the steward, emerged, chewing on a stylus. ‘Master?’ he asked, very much in the tone of a man annoyed to be interrupted.

  ‘What shipping came in today, Tenedos?’ Kinon asked.

  Tenedos took a breath and Satyrus thought that he hesitated. ‘Pentekonter from Tomis, laden with wine, property of Isokles of Tomis.

  Merchantman from Athens, laden with pottery and fine woollens and some copper, property of a mixed cartel of Athenian merchants and some of our friends. The copper is ours. Military trireme, no lading.’

  Kinon sat up and swung his legs over the side of his couch. ‘From Pantecapaeum?’ he asked.

  ‘By way of Gorgippia and Bata, if the oar master is to be believed.’ Tenedos tucked his stylus behind his ear.


  Philokles swung his legs over the edge of his couch. ‘Ares!’ he said. He sounded tired.

  Kinon shook his head. ‘This is Heraklea, not some grain town on the north shore of the Euxine. We have laws here, and a good ruler, even if he is a tyrant. But they’ve got to him. Tenedos, I should have told you – now I am telling you. I wish to know anything you learn of this ship, of its master and its navarch and who they visit. Understand?’ ‘Yes, master,’ Tenedos said, sounding both competent and long-suffering.

  Philokles nodded. ‘If you will lend me young Zosimos, I will see to some armour. He looked at Satyrus. ‘Fancy some armour and a light sword, boy?’

  Satyrus was off his couch, headache forgotten, before Philokles was done speaking.

  ‘As would I,’ Melitta said.

  ‘We’re not on the sea of grass now,’ Philokles said.

  ‘Will that render me safe from assault?’ she asked.

  ‘As a woman,’ Kinon started, and then reconsidered. The code of war said that women were exempt from the rigours and results, but no one fought by the code any more. The Spartans and the Athenians had killed the code in their thirty-year war, almost a hundred years before. Women caught with a defeated army were sold into slavery.

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ she insisted.

  Theron rolled off his couch. ‘I’ll come too.’

  Philokles raised an eyebrow. ‘We won’t be able to pay you for a long time, athlete. I honour you for your loyalty, but shouldn’t you be finding a new employer?’

  Theron gave a wry smile. ‘So anxious to be rid of me? I thought that I’d get myself a free suit of bronze. That will pay my fees for some months.’

  Kinon laughed. ‘I hadn’t thought what taking in a pair of princes would be like. Of course! Tutors and trainers! We’ll need a sophist!’

  Philokles shook his head. ‘I’ve got that covered,’ he said.

  Kinon laughed heartily. ‘Now I’ve seen everything!’ he said. ‘A Spartan sophist!’

  Philokles returned a twisted smile. ‘Just so. When I can’t convince a man, I kill him.’

  They had to walk all the way, through the landward gate, called the Sinope gate by the locals, from stone-cobbled streets to gravel roads and then to heavily rutted dirt and mud. The armour smith’s place was a dozen stades outside of town, and they went far enough to get a good picture of the life of the local helots.

  Satyrus walked next to Philokles. ‘That ship from Tomis?’ he said.

  Philokles’ eyes flickered over the fields and the bent figures working them. ‘I was thinking more of the trireme. What about it?’

  Satyrus shrugged. ‘Wasn’t Isokles a good friend of my father’s?’ he asked. ‘We’d be safe there.’

  Philokles nodded and tugged his beard. ‘I hadn’t given that thought. You may have a point. We could probably secure passage on his ship. But what then?’

  ‘Across Thrace to Athens,’ Satyrus said.

  ‘Right across Cassander’s territory?’ Philokles asked. ‘Does that seem wise?’

  Satyrus let his shoulders droop. ‘Oh,’ he said.

  The armour smith had a circle of houses, almost like a small village, and a dozen sheds, each more ill-built than the last, and a slave barracks in the middle surrounded by a fence. A stream flowed through the middle of the facility, and it stank of human waste and ash. The road outside the gate was a cratered ruin from heavy cartage, and there was a dead donkey at the bottom of one of the worst pits, its body bloated and stinking.

  Satyrus was shocked, and he wrinkled his nose in disgust.

  Theron smiled. ‘You thought that armour and weapons were made in forest glades by Hephaestos and his mortal helpers? Or inside volcanoes, perhaps?’

  Melitta looked at the devastation of ten forges and all the support the forges required. As she watched, a string of donkeys, perhaps fifty of them, were driven past. Every donkey had a pair of woven basket panniers, and each one was full of charcoal. The drovers were careful to leave the road and get the whole string around the deep potholes where the dead donkey rotted. ‘By the lame smith!’ she said. ‘This is an assault on Gaia! This is like impiety!’

  Theron shook his head. ‘This is a good-sized commercial forge, mistress. ’ He shrugged. ‘Over there,’ he said, pointing at the mountains that stood like a wall on the southern horizon, ‘is Bithynia and Paphlagonia. There is a war there. Armies of twenty thousand men, and every man must have a sword, a spear and a helmet – at least.’ He looked at the twins. ‘We have manufactories in Boeotia and in Corinth. This one isn’t bad. It’s just a dead animal.’

  ‘Wait until you see a battlefield,’ Philokles said.

  The factor of the armour factory was a Chalcidian freedman. His face was red and his arms and legs and chiton were covered in burns, and he had no hair at all. ‘Zosimos!’ he said. ‘A pleasure.’ His voice belied his words, but he gave the black man a quick smile at the end to pull the barb.

  Zosimos bowed and flashed a smile in return. ‘Eutropios, I greet you, and I bring you the greetings of my master, Kinon. He asks that these men, friends of his, and of Master Leon,’ Zosimos said this with a significant look, ‘receive whatever armour they might need, and weapons.’

  Eutropios put his hands on his hips. He had the muscles of Herakles. In fact, his upper physique was a match for Theron’s. ‘I thought he was too well dressed to be a new smith for me,’ he said, looking at Theron. ‘I hoped, though. Listen, tell your master from me that if he wants this big order to go out before the Mounikhion, he had best not be sending me any new orders. If these gentlemen,’ and Eutropios bowed without much courtesy, ‘take armour from the order, I’m that much worse off.’

  Philokles dismounted from his horse, pulled his straw hat off his head and offered his arm to clasp. ‘I’m Philokles of Tanais,’ he said. ‘This is Theron of Corinth, who fought the pankration last year at the Olympics.’

  Eutropios nodded, the corners of his mouth turned down in appreciation. ‘So – I’ve heard of you. And you,’ he said to Philokles. ‘You’re the warrior.’

  Philokles shrugged. ‘I’m a philosopher now,’ he said, ‘and the tutor to these children.’

  Satyrus writhed at being called a child in the presence of a master weapon smith.

  ‘And who needs arms?’ the smith asked. ‘Oh, get down from your mounts – believe me, I have nothing better to do than to talk to Olympic athletes.’ He turned his back on them and started walking. ‘I’m sure you’ll want to see the workshops. Zosimos worked for me – he can show you anything.’

  ‘I need arms, as does Theron. And for the young ones – men are trying to kill them.’ Philokles’ voice changed. ‘Pardon, sir, if we have interrupted your work. But I have known a number of craftsmen, and all of them work flat out. There is never a good time to visit. True? Please aid us. We will not require a tour, or much of your time. A few workmanlike items and we’ll be out of your hair.’

  Eutropios turned back to Philokles. ‘I have no hair,’ he said. ‘You fight Spartan-style or Macedonian?’ he asked.

  ‘Spartan,’ Philokles said. ‘With an aspis, not one of these little Macedonian shields.’

  ‘Now, that’s lucky for you, because I have some made up. No one wants them any more, except some of the cities up north. Hoplite panoply? I have two or three to hand, from an order that never sold. Cavalry equipment? Don’t even ask. Everyone is a horse soldier now. Soon enough, there won’t even be any hoplites. No one wants to do any work any more – everyone wants to ride a fucking horse.’ The Chalcidian grinned sourly. He led them to a heavily built stone house that held up sheds at both ends. The door was sealed shut. He took a curious tool from his belt and twisted the seal wire and opened the door for them.

  Satyrus gasped. The room was a veritable treasury of Ares. Bronze helmets, bronze-faced shields and rows of swords, most with a light coat of rust on them, straight-bladed and leaf-bladed and bent-bladed, of every size. Spears stood against the wall, their blades dark w
ith rust, their bronze sauroteres, or butt-spikes, brown or green with patina. ‘All built for the tyrant’s guard, but now he has them aping the Macedonians,’ he said. ‘The swords are good,’ he said, as he plucked a short kopis from the floor and wiped the surface rust off on his chiton. ‘Good work from home. I bought this lot from a pirate – the shipment was for Aegypt. Saves me time to have a store of them.’

  Philokles nodded. ‘No scabbards,’ he said.

  ‘Do I look like a scabbard maker?’ the smith asked. ‘Hephaestos, protect me! Are you expecting to be offered wine? Ares and Aphrodite. Zosimos, will you fetch these fine gentlemen some wine while they look at my wares and ask for fucking scabbards?’

  Theron picked up a longer kopis, made in the western style with a bird-shaped hilt. It was a heavy weapon. He swung it without much effort.

  ‘Sure you wouldn’t like to do a little smithing, boy?’ the smith asked. ‘Shoulders like that, you won’t have to worry about someone trying to kill you in the Olympics. I’ll make you rich.’ He laughed. ‘Hermes, I’m already rich, but I can’t spend it, because I can’t stop working.’

  ‘He needs Temerix,’ Satyrus said to Melitta. She smiled at him, and then both of them realized that their friend, the Sindi master smith of Tanais, might well be dead, or a slave, with his eastern wife and their three sons, playmates all.

  Life would seem exciting for an hour and then something would happen to remind them. Satyrus wiped his eyes and stood straight. ‘Temerix is the toughest man I know,’ he said. ‘He would survive, and Lu is too clever to be – attacked.’

  Melitta shook her head. ‘And Ataelus? He must be dead. He was with mama.’

  She wiped her eyes, looked around the room and spotted a small helmet with cheekpieces on the stack of helmets, mostly unrimmed Pylos helmets and a couple of Boeotians. She pulled it on and it went down over her eyes.

  Philokles lifted it off her head, the bowl fitting in the palm of one of his great hands, and replaced it, rocking it gently on her hair. ‘Not bad,’ he said. ‘We’ll make you an arming cap.’