Funeral Games (59 page)

‘I’m in exile!’ Satyrus said.

‘We need to go to Ptolemy anyway,’ Philokles said.

‘Are we done plotting?’ Sappho asked. She waved at the slaves peering out of the door. ‘Come along, my dears. Gently with the poor man.’

‘We have to keep him a secret!’ Diodorus hissed.

Nihmu gave him a raised eyebrow, and his wife poked him in the side as she went by. ‘Keep who a secret, dear?’ she asked.

‘We need to go to Ptolemy now,’ Philokles said. ‘Or it’s all rumour in the morning. Tonight we’ll have his whole attention.’

‘Grumpy attention,’ Diodorus put in.

Philokles frowned, his face like an actor’s mask in the torchlight. ‘We’ve heard about all this for a month, but no firm evidence, and always Stratokles whispering to Ptolemy that it’s all a feint.’ He raised an eyebrow and looked at Satyrus. ‘We have even started training the new phalanx.’

‘Satyrus is still in exile,’ Leon muttered, as if just remembering the fact.

‘Now,’ Philokles said. ‘We have to go now.’

 

‘Herakles’ deified tit,’ Ptolemy growled. ‘This had better be good.’

Leon shuffled. Satyrus had never seen his uncle so nervous, and it suddenly struck him that this was no easy triumph. If Leon was frightened, then there was something about which Satyrus should be frightened.

The ruler of Aegypt was wearing a chiton of transparent wool that showed far too much of his ageing body. He had a garland of drooping grape leaves around his head. But his gaze was steady. ‘You, boy?’ he asked, looking straight at Satyrus. ‘Gentlemen, I thought that we had an agreement.’

Philokles stood forward. ‘I think you had best hear this story yourself. Then judge us.’

Ptolemy nodded. ‘On your head be it. Who tells the tale?’

Leon shuffled, and Satyrus started forward, but Philokles held his ground. ‘We sent Satyrus to sea. Stratokles of Athens sent ships to follow him.’ Philokles was a trained orator, and his arm came up and his stance changed subtly, and his diction became slower and clearer. He dropped his voice, and the hall became quieter, and men leaned forward to hear him speak. ‘Satyrus took the
Golden Lotus
to Cyprus, and Stratokles’ ships followed him there. He fled to Rhodos, and the pirates followed him. Rhodos is under blockade by One-Eye’s fleet. That’s news - but what follows is worse. Satyrus saw the fleet of young Demetrios on the beaches of Syria. Two hundred ships of war and as many transports.’

Even the guards behind the throne made a noise.

‘Silence!’ Ptolemy roared. He had been standing. Now he sat on the pear wood and ivory chair that he used for informal receptions. He held out his hand and a slave put a silver goblet into it. ‘How do you know that these ships belonged to the Athenian ambassador?’ Ptolemy asked. ‘For a month many voices have told me that One-Eye was coming here - always the same voices, I’ll add. Now you have found hard evidence?’

Satyrus didn’t want to be stopped. ‘Lord, we fought and took the Athenian’s galley. Anyone in this room will know it in the harbour. If that is not evidence enough, we have his sailing master and his marines and his oarsmen, too.’ Since the room was still silent, he said, ‘Everywhere my ship went, he followed me.’

Ptolemy’s eyes widened. He nodded. ‘You wouldn’t lie to me, boy?’ he asked with deep cynicism.

‘I swear it on my father’s grave and on - on the lion skin of Herakles, my patron.’ Satyrus wondered what had moved him to say that - the god at his shoulder, he hoped.

Ptolemy turned to his guards. ‘Get me the Athenian,’ he said. ‘Let’s see what he has to say for himself.’

Diodorus stood forth. ‘I’ll bet you a silver owl to an obol that he’s gone - bag and baggage and slaves.’

Philokles began to fidget, and Leon grimaced and stood his ground.

It was a long half-hour. Diodorus yawned, over and over.

‘Stop that!’ Ptolemy insisted, yawning himself. He laughed when he said it, and the tension dropped a little.

A pair of guards came back into the megaron and whispered to Gabines, who whispered in Ptolemy’s ear.

‘So,’ Ptolemy said. He rubbed his chin. ‘He’s gone. Just as you predicted - unless you did him in yourself. Don’t tell me you ain’t capable of it, Odysseus.’ Ptolemy was looking at Diodorus, who nodded.

‘I am,’ Diodorus said. ‘But I haven’t.’

‘Fuck,’ Ptolemy said. It wasn’t very regal. He looked around the room. ‘Clear the room,’ he said to Gabines. ‘They stay, and you, and Seleucus.’

‘Seleucus?’ Satyrus whispered to Leon.

‘Another player in Alexander’s funeral games,’ Leon whispered. ‘He lost his army at Babylon fighting Antigonus, and he came here and offered his sword to Ptolemy.’

The man called Seleucus went and stood on the raised platform by Ptolemy’s chair. A pair of the Cavalry Companions - the
Hetairoi
, Ptolemy’s most trusted troops - came in from the barracks and stood by the chair. Satyrus knew both of them - men Diodorus liked.

‘So,’ Ptolemy said. He looked around. ‘Demetrios
is
coming. Gentlemen, we’re not in good shape.’

No one said anything to deny this assertion.

‘Gabines, how reliable are my Macedonian troops?’ Ptolemy asked.

‘I wouldn’t risk a field battle,’ Gabines replied. ‘Although - if I may be so bold, lord - it is Demetrios, an unknown youth, not old One-Eye in person. He would be a far greater threat, both as a general and as a figurehead.’

Seleucus nodded. He was a short man with the legs of a cavalryman and the speech of a Macedonian noble. ‘One-Eye has the king - that is, young Herakles - and Cassander has the other, unless he’s murdered him. Most of your Macedonians wouldn’t face Herakles or Alexander IV in battle - but young Demetrios has neither of the kings.

‘How many troops will Demetrios have?’ Ptolemy asked.

‘Twenty thousand infantry, forty elephants,’ Seleucus answered. ‘Good cavalry.’

‘So if we could make our infantry fight, we could outmatch him,’ Ptolemy said. He looked at Diodorus. ‘You’re awfully quiet, for you.’

Diodorus yawned again. ‘I’m just old, Ptolemy. But it seems to me that if we launch our army at Demetrios, we roll the dice. If we sit here in Alexandria, he rolls the dice.’

Seleucus nodded. ‘I agree.’

‘The disappearance of Stratokles will panic the extremists in the Macedonian faction,’ Gabines said. ‘Expect defections.’

Ptolemy shook his head as if to clear it. ‘Cassander was double-dealing me? I still find that hard to stomach. If I go down, Antigonus and his golden child get Aegypt. How on earth can that profit Cassander?’

Seleucus shrugged. ‘I don’t waste time worrying too much what a man like Cassander thinks,’ he said. ‘Demetrios is here, now. If we can keep your army together, he may make a mistake. How do we keep the army together?’

Diodorus looked at Philokles. ‘By pretending nothing has happened, except the news that Demetrios is marching here. That by itself should drown all other noise in the agora.’

‘Where is Leon?’ Ptolemy asked.

‘Putting to sea to keep watch on Demetrios’s fleet,’ Philokles said.

Ptolemy nodded sharply, and stood. ‘You, boy,’ he said, pointing at Satyrus. ‘Keep your head down. Understand me, boy?’

‘I have work for him, with the phalanx,’ Philokles said.

Ptolemy nodded. ‘I can accept that.’ He looked around. ‘No talk of this, anyone. If Stratokles surfaces, we deal with it. Otherwise, let the plotters plot, eh? When any of them is ready to defect, I wish to know.’

Gabines nodded.

Ptolemy looked around. ‘Well then. I suppose we’ll try to fight this golden boy and his forty elephants. Athena of the victories, be with us!’ He turned to Seleucus. ‘Ready to march in ten days. Pass the word. And see how they react.’

Diodorus saluted, as did Coenus.

 

Satyrus slept for a whole day, and then the reaction hit him. The killing - the fighting - left him feeling nothing, and then it left him feeling like a stranger. His body seemed strange. His thoughts, or lack of them, seemed strange. The accomplishment of commanding a ship seemed a small thing - the death of Peleus loomed large.

His sister came and went. She babbled about riding and said something about Xeno, as if her infatuation for his best friend needed to be discussed. He listened to her without hearing a word, said what he hoped were the right things in return and she went away.

The third morning, he felt no better. So he drank some wine and that seemed to help. He just kept reliving his decisions - when to turn the ship, when to fight. He saw too many ways he could have done it. Spur-of-the-moment improvization was revealed as boyish bravado.

His sister came and he listened to her, and then drank more wine, and that helped too. Kallista came, closed the curtain at his door and kissed him.

He stiffened immediately, and she caught his erection with a practised hand. ‘Have your attention?’ she asked.

‘Mmm?’ he answered. She was not melting into his arms.

‘Philokles has been around several times asking for you, and everyone in this house is girding for war, and you are sulking like Achilles.’ She relinquished her hold on his body and he pawed at her, and she shrugged him off with a laugh and walked out through his curtain, leaving him feeling like a
boy
.

He sat on the floor, depressed and ashamed of all his many weaknesses, and then he found another amphora of wine.

And then Philokles came.

‘Stand up,’ Philokles said. He was taller than usual, at least viewed from the floor. He’d added muscle to his chest and his paunch was almost gone.

Satyrus obeyed. ‘I’m a little drunk,’ he slurred. ‘You’ll understan’, I’m sure.’

‘There’s work to be done,’ Philokles said. His voice was kind.

Satyrus couldn’t meet Philokles’ eye. ‘I - am - sorry.’

‘Because you slobbered at Kallista? Or because you got Peleus killed?’ Philokles was clean and sober. ‘Most men would grab Kallista’s tits if they could, and any man worth his stones would have to think hard after he ordered men to their deaths. That’s good. However, your time for such thoughts is over. Stop wallowing. Get up. The world’s going to hell and we have work to do.’

‘You’re the philosopher, Philokles! And the hoplomachos, the best spear in Alexandria. And I’m just a boy.’ There, it was said. He felt better, and took a little wine.

Philokles went and sat on the bed. He had military sandals on and a chitoniskos, the undergarment to armour. He was dressed for war. He rubbed his chin and then nodded. ‘I’m here to get you moving and bring you out of this. It’s tempting to tell you a couple of lies and get your heart beating again.’ He shrugged and raised an eyebrow. ‘But you’re a man, not a child.’

‘Twenty men died. Peleus and nineteen others. I want—’ Satyrus bit his lip. ‘I did not do much of the fighting,’ he said.

‘You want to be forgiven?’ Philokles’ face was the mask of Ares. ‘There is no forgiveness, Satyrus. None. Just the next task. You are as brave as you need to be and your fears about your courage are foolish,’ Philokles said. ‘But you can prove yourself brave, if you like. Come and stand your ground with me in the phalanx. Beside me. In the front rank.’

Satyrus nodded. ‘Yes!’ he said, willing to try. He drew a breath. ‘Very well,’ he said. It came out pretty well. ‘So that’s the next task?’

‘I took that for granted, as you don’t appear an ingrate and you are a citizen. It will mean that you won’t ride with the hippeis. Frankly, you’re not a trained cavalryman. And it will help me keep you hidden. I believe that Stratokles will hunt you. And the factions - it’ll be open fighting soon, anyway. But you have friends - dozens of friends. Young men who go to the gymnasium, fight on the palaestra, run the races. I want them.’

‘You want them? Are you the commander?’ Satyrus thought that Philokles would make a very good commander.

‘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.’