Funeral Games (5 page)

Her brother crawled up the rock on her left side. ‘Any luck? Oh!’ he exclaimed, as one of the pool’s residents powered up from the dark at the bottom of the pool and took the big insect right off the surface of the water and rolled away in a red-orange flash, leaving a growing circle of ripples in its wake.

Melitta grinned in delight, slipping back down the rock and clapping her hands. ‘See?’ she asked, or rather demanded.

Theron’s grin was lopsided and far friendlier than either of the children had seen from him yet. ‘I do see. This isn’t fishing with nets - it is fishing with insects!’

‘Not real insects,’ Satyrus said. ‘For some reason, even if you catch them, the fish won’t take them. But if you tie some feathers to a hook . . .’ He pointed at the rods of young cornel that Philokles had rigged. The dogwood sticks were the height of a grown man, and the horsehair lines were the same length.

‘And if you dabble the bug on the surface like the real ones...’ Melitta added.

‘Then sometimes - bang! - you get a big fish. They strike like a bolt from Zeus.’ Satyrus took one of the rods eagerly. Melitta grabbed another and untied her sandals.

‘I’m going upstream,’ she said.

Philokles nodded. ‘I’ll go with the young lady.’ He followed her. He seemed sober now, and Satyrus thought that his tutor was as happy as he’d ever seen him. Perhaps he needed company. Adult company. The thought saddened the boy a little. He wanted to
be
adult company, but he loved the big Spartan, drink and all, and if Theron of Corinth made him happy, so be it.

Satyrus went back to the rock, pondering the Corinthian and his odd reactions to his sister. He moved carefully up the rock, brought his dogwood rod level with his shoulders and flipped the hook over his head. The feathered hook sank through the still air and landed lightly on the water, the feather of the hackle resting on the surface tension.

After a heartbeat, Satyrus gave the gentlest of tugs and the bug skittered across the surface. He took a breath and repeated the motion.

Nothing. He sighed softly and popped the fly back off the water and over his shoulder, the hook arcing through the air and tiny drops of water brushing his skin. Using just his wrist, he flicked the hook back on to the water, took a breath and skipped the fly.

The movement of the fish was so fast that only long afternoons spent at this pastime enabled the boy to pull the hook
just right
and he had a fish the length of his arm pulling at the end of his rod. He raised the rod and dropped the fish on the cropped grass behind the rock. ‘Will you take it off ?’ he asked Theron, who wasn’t fishing but just watching.

The big man knelt in the grass and took the hook from the fish’s mouth. He bashed the fish on a rock, then pulled out a bronze knife and gutted the fish in two strokes.

‘You’ve done this before,’ Satyrus said accusingly.

Theron smiled. ‘I’ve never seen anyone use a fly like that,’ he said. ‘But my father had a fishing boat. Cleaning fish is the same everywhere, I’d wager.’

Satyrus held out his rod. ‘Want to try?’ he asked.

Theron rinsed his hands in a side pool and reached out for the rod. ‘I’d love to.’

‘Why don’t you like my sister?’ Satyrus asked as the Corinthian flicked his hook on to the water.

‘I don’t dislike your sister,’ the man answered. ‘Do you know that in Hellas, women do not go fishing with their brothers?’

Satyrus could see a rider across the stream. He was a couple of stades away and he was moving so fast that he raised dust.

‘I’ve been to Athens,’ Satyrus said proudly. ‘The girls all had to stay at home.’

‘Exactly,’ Theron said.

‘I thought it was stupid,’ Satyrus added. ‘I think that’s Coenus!’ he said, sliding back off the rock.

‘Who’s Coenus?’ Theron asked politely. A fish chose that moment to hit his lure, and despite his inexperience, he jerked the rod and he hooked his prey - a trout at least as long as his forearm.

‘Well done!’ Satyrus exclaimed with all the enthusiasm of his age. He reached out and unhooked the trout, a big male with a heavy jaw and some fat on his backbone. The big fish had swallowed the hook, and Satyrus pulled carefully at the horsehair line, trying to retrieve the hook - fish hooks were precious.

‘He’s riding hard,’ Theron said.

Satyrus got bloody fingers on the shaft of the hook and pulled, and the hook ripped free of the cartilage, and the big fish spasmed and vomited blood. Satyrus reversed his bronze knife and killed the fish with a practised blow. Then he laid it on the grass and gutted it. ‘Coenus was one of my father’s companions,’ he said as he worked. ‘He’s quite old - older than you. He married a Persian, and keeps the temple of Artemis down the valley. He’s a great hunter. His son is at school in Athens.’ The boy smiled. ‘Xeno is my best friend. Besides my sister, I mean. I wish he was here.’ More soberly, ‘Coenus says that a tutor is no substitute for Athens.’

‘He’s riding fast,’ Theron said, still perched on the fishing rock.

Satyrus raised his head as he dropped the two fish into the net bag he wore. ‘He is,’ he said. ‘Will you excuse me?’

‘There are other riders behind him,’ Theron said, rising to his feet. Something in the posture of the riders disturbed him.

‘Get the horses,’ Satyrus said. ‘I’m going down to the road. Get the horses and the others.’

Theron hesitated, and Satyrus looked back. ‘Move,’ he said. ‘Coenus is bleeding. Something is wrong.’

The Corinthian chose to obey. He jogged off up the trail along the stream.

S
atyrus ran downstream until he came to where the big oak trees overhung the road. He climbed down into the road. He could hear the rhythm of Coenus’s gallop. He stood in the middle of the road.

‘Coenus!’ he shouted.

If Philokles and Theron were big men, Coenus was bigger, and middle age had not diminished his size. A life of constant exercise kept him fit. He was clutching his left side, and blood flowed freely down his belly.

‘What are you
doing
here, boy?’ he croaked. ‘By the light of my goddess’s eyes!’ He was holding his horse with his knees, despite the wound in his side.

Satyrus had his knife on a cord over his shoulder. He pulled it over his head, opened the brooch that held the shoulder of his chiton and stepped out of the garment. ‘Bandage your side,’ he said, tossing him the garment. ‘What happened?’

‘We’re attacked!’ Coenus said. He turned his head at the sound of hoof beats.

‘They’re well behind you,’ Satyrus said. He was suddenly afraid. ‘Attacked?’

‘Sauromatae,’ Coenus said. He used Satyrus’s chiton as a pad to staunch the blood, and Satyrus stood on tiptoes to help him tie it as tightly as possible. Satyrus found that his hands were trembling and his senses heightened, so that he could hear his sister calling out and Philokles answering.

‘Quick, boy,’ Coenus said. ‘Who is with you?’

‘Philokles, my sister and Theron,’ he answered. ‘The new athletics coach.’

Coenus looked over his shoulder. The rise of the bluff on their left blocked any sight of his pursuers. ‘We have to get to town,’ he said. He grabbed Satyrus’s hand. ‘Thanks, boy,’ he said gruffly.

Satyrus grinned, despite his nerves.

The hoof beats were getting closer.

‘Ares and Aphrodite,’ Coenus muttered. ‘They’re on us.’ He turned his horse and drew his sword one-handed, a crook-bladed
kopis
.

Two men on ponies cantered around the bend in the road. They were barbarians and their horses were painted red. One raised a bow and shot, despite the range. His arrow fell short. They pressed their horses into a gallop and both loosed arrows together.

Satyrus ran off the road into the trees. He was unarmed and nothing but a target, and he was scared. Coenus sat still in the middle of the road. He looked tired and angry. He glanced once at Satyrus, and then put his knees to his horse and she responded with a leap into a canter.

The next two arrows flew over his head.

Behind the screen of trees, Satyrus could see his sister on Bion, the Sakje horse flying along the broken ground at the edge of the water and then leaping the stream like a deer.

Philokles emerged from the cover of the oaks with their horses in his fist. ‘Satyrus!’ he called.

Satyrus ran out on to the road and sprinted for his tutor.

Coenus’s horse took an arrow and gave a shrill cry and then plunged into one of his attackers, and Coenus’s arm went up in the classic overarm cut and came down like an axe cutting wood, and the unarmoured man was literally cut from the saddle, the blade ripping from the curve of his neck all the way into his breast, but the blow was too strong and the horses were moving too fast and Coenus lost his blade. He tried to turn his horse, but the mare was spent from a long gallop and wounded, and she didn’t want to turn.

Coenus’s other assailant had troubles of his own, as he’d kept his bow to hand too long and had dropped an arrow in the road. He froze in indecision as Coenus flashed past him, and he never saw the arrow that took him in the belly.

Satyrus ignored Philokles and vaulted on to Thalassa’s back. His tutor was screaming at him to run. He ignored the Spartan and turned his horse down the road to where Coenus’s horse was in the process of collapse, exhaustion and wounds having done her in. His sister’s arrow had saved Coenus, and the Sauromatae warrior sat his horse in the middle of the road, both hands wrapped around the shaft of the arrow, screaming in agony and yet still mounted.

More Sauromatae came around the curve at the far end of the valley, drawn by the screams.

‘Satyrus, run!’ Philokles shouted again.

Satyrus had a secure seat. Thalassa moved under him, and he reached down and secured his gorytos and tied the girdle around his waist as he rode. He tried to ignore the shaking of his hands. He couldn’t hear anything but the beat of his horse’s hooves like the thudding of his heart, and he had a lump of bronze at the base of his throat. He was
afraid
.

Melitta was not afraid. She was on the road, fitting an arrow to her bow. She shot, and the men on the road moved, most of them pushing their horses to the verge or even in among the trees.

Satyrus didn’t draw his bow. Instead, he used his knees to line Thalassa up with Coenus, who was kneeling in the road.

‘Coenus!’ he yelled. His voice was shrill but it carried, and his father’s friend looked up. Then his face changed as if he was making a hard decision - and he stood up, clutching his side.

Melitta shot again. She had a light bow, and now that the surprise of her having a bow at all was lost, the Sauromatae were shooting back - strong men with men’s bows. She backed her horse down the road. She shot again, arching her back as she shot to get the most from her bow.

Satyrus reached down and held an arm out to Coenus. The pain showed like a scar on the big man’s face, and his lips were more white than red, and it was close - no matter how heroic, a twelve-year-old cannot haul a warrior on to the back of a charger. But Coenus found the strength from somewhere and got a leg over, almost tumbling his saviour on to the road, and then Thalassa sensed some change of weight and she was turning, moving away.

Philokles was up on Hermes, with the coach behind him. As soon as he saw his students in retreat, he turned his own horse and pressed him to a gallop, and they were away down the road.

The five of them galloped back along the river road for two stades without slowing, until Bion picked up a stone in his hoof and Melitta had to pick it clear as the men watched the road behind them. Thalassa never flagged, nor did her head go down at the halt. Instead, she looked around, as if aware that fighting was next. Then she raised her head higher, straining at the reins, and gave a cry.

Satyrus had a pounding head and the weight of a grown man who was in pain on his back, and Thalassa’s fidgets were nothing but increased complication until he realized what she was seeing.

‘By the Father of the Gods,’ he said, pointing.

Coenus, slumped in agony, raised his head. ‘Oh, Gods,’ he said, and his head went down again.

Philokles held up a hand. ‘Hoof beats!’ he said.

Melitta vaulted on to Bion’s back. She had her bow in her hand in a moment.

There was a column of smoke rising to the west - from the town. Melitta watched it the way a child watches the death of a loved one - unable to take her eyes away.

Satyrus felt the strength of the fight - the
daimon
, some men called it - leave his limbs, and he felt as weak as he had when Theron hit him in the palaestra. ‘Perhaps it is just a house fire,’ he said, but he didn’t believe his own words.

Melitta’s voice broke as she spoke, but no tears came. ‘Raiders,’ she said. ‘The ships I saw!’

Philokles didn’t sound drunk when he spoke. ‘We must get across the river,’ he said.

There were Sauromatae riders coming around the last bend. They were approaching carefully this time, and there were a dozen of them.

‘We should take refuge in the shrine,’ Melitta said.

Philokles was watching the riders. ‘This - this was planned.’ He shook his head. ‘There will be no refuge in temples, children. All these men have come to kill
you
.’

Satyrus sucked in a breath.

Melitta sat straighter. ‘Well,’ she said, and her eyes were bright with unshed tears, ‘we will have to give them a surprise then.’

Satyrus wished that he’d said such a thing.

‘That’s the spirit,’ Philokles said. He got down from his horse and stood bare-handed on the ground. ‘Can you children shoot one of the riders as close to me as possible? I need a spear.’

Theron looked around at them. ‘What are you doing?’ he asked.

The riders were nocking arrows.

‘Walk away,’ Philokles said to Theron, who remained on the horse they had shared. ‘Leave us and live.’