Funeral Games (37 page)

‘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 Satyrus 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.

‘So we won?’ Satyrus asked.

‘Listen, boy. Late afternoon, and Eumenes summoned all his commanders to meet him. Remember? I rode away?’ Diodorus looked at him, and Satyrus could see the fatigue in his eyes.

‘Yes,’ Satyrus replied.

‘As I rode up, the fucking Macedonians seized him. They tried to get me.
His own officers
betrayed him.’ Diodorus’s face was a mask. ‘There are no rules any more, Satyrus. No honour. Zeus Soter, they call us mercenaries faithless.’ He shook his head. ‘So be ready for anything. Hear me?’

Satyrus wanted to ask why he’d been brought, but he decided to let it go.

Astlan and a pair of riders rode up, looked at them from a few horse-lengths and cantered easily away. They had bows in their hands, but no arrows on the string - yet.

Satyrus turned out of his uncle’s small column and trotted over to Darya, feeling bold. He reached into his quiver and took out an arrow - one of his own red-shafted arrows fletched in heron feathers. ‘Here,’ he said.

She smiled. She had dimples and jet-black hair. She gave him one of her own arrows. The Massagetae of her band began to tease her, and she swatted another girl with her bow. Then she flashed a smile at Satyrus, who returned it with interest and cantered back to Carlus.

‘I thought that I’d lost you for a moment,’ Carlus said. ‘Try not to do that again.’

‘Give the boy some respect,’ Diodorus said. ‘His Sakje may be all that is keeping us from their arrows.’

Demetrios displayed his impatience by cantering down the hill away from his entourage. ‘Can we get this done?’ he said. ‘My father offers you all your lives. You will take service with us. There, it’s done. You, boy - that’s my spare horse. Hand it over. She’s a Nisaean!’

The silver-helmeted young man reached for Satyrus’s reins.

Satyrus backed the mare away, leaving the blond officer grasping air. ‘Spear-won!’ he said, delighted with himself for remembering the right word at the right time.

‘You lost, you stupid Greek. Give me my horse!’ Demetrios became aware that he was surrounded by enemy cavalry. ‘Touch me and you are all dead.’

Diodorus caught the enemy boy’s bridle and turned his horse. ‘You’ll be worth a pretty penny,’ he said. ‘Ride for it!’

They thundered away, through the surprised Saka and across the ridge, past the gully. Satyrus didn’t start breathing until they were within the circuit of their own pickets. Not an arrow flew their way.

Demetrios was all but raving. ‘You are all dead men! You have broken your oaths! You fucking Greek mercenaries, you scum!’

His escort hadn’t pursued them past the gully.

Diodorus handed the blond’s reins to Hama. ‘I couldn’t resist. Listen,
boy
. We swore no oaths - you offered us no safe conduct. Your herald didn’t have a staff. And you did not win the battle. Now - speak your piece. Then - maybe - I’ll let you go back to your father.’

Demetrios didn’t lack courage. He looked around him, as if assessing the situation. ‘You’re the boy who shot past us yesterday!’ he said to Satyrus. He grinned, suddenly, and looked like the statue of a young Apollo. ‘My father offers you wages. And demands the return of any booty you have taken. And the handing over of certain people. I am not to discuss this in public.’ He looked around him.

Satyrus admired his coolness, because the golden boy was smiling as if he’d just been given a gift.

‘Dad says I’m a hothead. I’ll never live this down. You will let me go? He really will kill you. Look at the force he’s putting together!’ Demetrios pointed at the mass of cavalry already gathering on the ridge beyond the gully.

‘What people?’ Diodorus asked.

‘Eumenes’ widow and her bastard son,’ Demetrios said. ‘We will not mistreat her.’

Diodorus looked south along the valley. From the top of the ridge that had held their pickets all night, he could see that Sappho’s wagons had made fifteen stades and were still rolling.

‘The answer is no,’ Diodorus said after a moment. ‘No, we won’t take service with your father and, no, we won’t return any booty and, no, you cannot have Banugul. Although I wish you fucking had her already,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘As to being fucking Greeks, and mercenaries—’

‘I was overwrought,’ Demetrios said cheerfully. ‘I have a temper.’

‘Your father arranged with the Argyraspids to have my employer murdered, did he not?’ Diodorus was watching as more Macedonian cavalry crested the far ridge.

‘The mutinous troops killed Eumenes,’ Demetrios said. ‘What you say is a very serious accusation.’

‘Go and tell your father that if he wants us, he can try and catch us,’ Diodorus said. ‘Now get off your horse.’

‘This is my best horse,’ Demetrios said.