Funeral Games (61 page)

Ben Zion turned back with a shrug that seemed at odds with his display of rage - all an act? ‘My daughter. The apple of my eye. Beautiful - is she not? Come, be frank, Hellene. Esther, Ruth, Hannah - all fine girls. But Miriam is like Sophia incarnate.’

‘Except for the lack of wisdom,’ Abraham whispered.

‘Bah! I heard that. Listen, my atheist scapegrace, this Hellene has come to my poor shop to require your service in the phalanx of the city. Eh?’ He looked at Satyrus.

Abraham grinned like a fool. ‘Really? I thought I’d have to beg to join. Very humiliating, for our people. Asked to join? Totally different. I would be
delighted
to serve.’

‘Delighted enough to find ten more like you?’ Satyrus asked. ‘Who can furnish their own panoply to Philokles’ standards?’

‘Ah! Armourers will grow rich all over the city!’ Ben Zion said. Both hands tangled in his beard. ‘How lucky that Leon and I own most of them.’ He nodded. ‘It is as my son says, young master. We hate to beg - but invited? I doubt you’ll find fewer than fifty.’

‘Philokles in command? That’s a frightening thought.’ Abraham laughed.

Satyrus smiled, and then frowned. ‘You could die,’ he said suddenly, unsure how to approach the matter. ‘This is real.’

Ben Zion nodded curtly. ‘War causes death? In Greece, this may be news. In Israel, we already know what war does.’ He nodded to his son. ‘See to it that you do us honour.’

Abraham nodded. He bowed respectfully to his father. ‘I will.’

‘I know,’ Ben Zion said. He turned away suddenly. ‘Your Hellene friend should see this, since it is the triumph of our two peoples, working together.’ He had turned away to hide emotion, and Abraham busied himself with the cups, leaving an embarrassed Satyrus to fend for himself.

He and the giant Hebrew lifted the crate straight up, over their heads, and then carefully off the gleaming bronze that lay beneath. Before the box was clear of the thing, Satyrus had an idea what it was.

‘A machine!’ he said, in awe.

‘More than a machine,’ Ben Zion said. Indeed, it looked like two great tablets of bronze - but on the backs, there were hundreds of gears and cogs and several different handles that could be pulled. The sheer complexity of it boggled the mind.

‘What does it do?’ Satyrus asked.

Ben Zion shook his head. ‘It calculates all the festivals and holy days,’ he said. ‘See the stars? See the moon? Do you know your astronomy?’

‘Well enough to handle a boat,’ Satyrus said.

Ben Zion paid him the compliment of a glance of respect. ‘That is an accomplishment for a boy your age. You Greeks are not as ignorant as some peoples. So what star is that?’

‘I assume this is Orion’s Belt,’ Satyrus said, and then they were exchanging star positions and turning levers. A button was pressed, and the calculator whirred, gears moving inside gears, and then the dials moved.

‘By Zeus and all the gods,’ Satyrus said enthusiastically. ‘It’s more than just a festival calculator, isn’t it? It can predict
where the stars will be
. A great navigator—’

Ben Zion’s face darkened. ‘By the god, and only the god,’ he said softly. ‘This is a holy place.’

Satyrus bowed. ‘I mean no profanity, lord. Many Greeks, too, think there is but one god, of many aspects.’

‘And many Jews think their one god has at least two, or even three aspects,’ Abraham shot in, before his father could reply. ‘I think we should go and recruit more men, Satyrus. While you and my father are still friends.’

In the courtyard, Ben Zion bowed stiffly. ‘I meant no bad feeling to arise,’ he said.

Satyrus, still a little scared of the older Hebrew, bowed formally. ‘None has. I thank you for your hospitality. And the sheer marvels of your machine. Who built it?’

‘Many men - and a few women - had hands in it. Aristotle of Athens divined that the calendar wheels must needs have the same number of cogs as there were days in the calendar. A Pythagorean in Italy worked out the elliptical wheel.’

‘Elliptical wheel?’ Satyrus knew his geometry, but he had no idea what was being described.

‘Another time, Satyrus the curious. I find your company surprisingly erudite for a young barbarian idolater, and would welcome your return.’ Ben Zion bowed.

Satyrus returned the bow. ‘Everyone is someone’s barbarian idolater,’ he said. ‘And thanks for the qua-veh.’

‘I shall send a bag to your house. Have a care of my son. He’s the best of the lot.’ Ben Zion bowed again.

Abraham coloured as they went out of the gate, accompanied by Satyrus’s worthless slave. Ten courtyards further down the avenue, Abraham peeled off his wool robe and flung it to the slave, now another bearded Hellene to outward appearance. ‘That’s the best thing my father has ever said of me,’ he said, in wonder.

‘I liked him!’ Satyrus said.

‘You stood up to him. He likes that - right up until religion enters the picture. Then he doesn’t like it. But you did well. And I’m sorry for Miriam. There’s nothing sluttish about her, but she’s starved for life the way a drowning man starves for air. She claims she’ll go and serve as a hetaira to escape my mother, and sometimes, in her naivety, I fear she will.’ Abraham looked around. ‘Where are we going?’

‘Cimon’s.’ Satyrus wondered if he could do several people a favour at once. ‘Would your father let Miriam see my sister?’

Abraham raised an eyebrow. ‘Your sister is not exactly a byword for genteel behaviour,’ he said. ‘But she is the same age and she and Miriam would probably start their own phalanx together.’ He nodded. ‘I’ll try it on my mother. I should have thought of it myself. You liked her?’

‘I scarcely saw her,’ Satyrus said. Not quite the truth. He’d seldom seen anyone he so instantly liked. Like Amastris.

Queens and Jews, Satyrus thought to himself. I really have to find a nice Greek girl somewhere.

 

With Abraham to guide him, they made three more stops at Hebrew houses where Abraham was welcomed in a way that suggested that he was a man of more worth than Satyrus, a Hellene, had guessed. And young men sprang to follow him, and their fathers guaranteed their panoplies, so that by the time they arrived at Cimon’s they had twenty young men behind them and the porter gawked.

‘I can’t seat all these!’ he said. But he smiled, seeing a great evening and a pile of silver.

‘May I see Thrassylus?’ Satyrus asked the porter, and the great man was sent for and arrived in heartbeats.

‘Master Satyrus?’ he asked.

‘Thrassylus, Antigonus One-Eye and his golden son are coming with a mighty army to burn fair Alexandria to the ground,’ Satyrus declaimed. ‘I need to address your patrons from the stage.’

Thrassylus bowed. ‘Your uncle had already mentioned something of the sort,’ he said. ‘The stage awaits.’

Satyrus walked in, followed by two files of Jewish men, most of whom were quite familiar with Cimon’s. He walked straight up the steps to the wooden stage, where musicians and other performers were commonplace. He stood on the stage and drew his sword, and silence fell over the whole tiled room, punctuate by a buzz of gossip.

‘Demetrios the Golden is two weeks’ march away,’ he said. ‘Every man in this room is a citizen. Demetrios means to destroy all we have - all we hold dear. Our temples, our hearths, our homes. Demetrios will sell our women into slavery and we will be sent to foreign places - if we preserve our own freedom.’ Satyrus had thought his speech out carefully, like the orator he wanted to be. So now he pointed at Abraham and the men seated around him. ‘The Jews will fight. They know freedom - and they know slavery. Look at them - twenty of the richest boys in this town, and they will go to be the front rank of the new phalanx.’ Satyrus raised his sword. ‘Greeks? Macedonians? Hellenes? Are we the worse men? The greater cowards? I will go! I will go with the new phalanx. And you? Anyone out there?’

One young man had the courage to stand up. ‘But I’m a Macedonian!’ he said. He was Amyntas, son of Philip Enhedrion, household officer at the palace. What he meant was that if he was going to fight, his father would find him a place with the other pure-blood Macedonians. ‘And - aren’t you exiled?’

Satyrus shook his head, sword still held out. ‘Bullshit, Amyntas. You are no more Macedonian than Abraham. You, sir, are Alexandrian. Now, get off your arse and fight for our city!’ In his head, he considered that coming to Cimon’s perhaps wasn’t the best way to keep the low profile that Lord Ptolemy had required of him.

Theodorus was sharing his couch with a flute girl, and he suddenly rose up, a little drunk and flushed. ‘My father will kill me. Don’t we have an army to do this, Satyrus?’

Satyrus was still holding out the sword, steady, unwavering, like a male Athena. The sword said, symbolically, that he was judging them. And they were reacting as if they feared his judgment.

‘Defend yourself, Theo. This is our hour. This is when we stand up for the city that nurtured us. I’ve only been here three years, but this is my home, and when I see the foundations of the lighthouse from the deck of the
Golden Lotus
I know that this is the place that I will defend. Who will stand with me?’

Theo sneered. ‘Who commands this phalanx? Is this the foreign phalanx that my father laughs at on his way to the sea wall?’ Young men were stirring on their couches.

‘Foreign? If your Macedonian father means that the rank and file were born
here
, then he has the right of it. We will be the front rank of the
Phalanx of Aegypt
. Philokles the Spartan will lead us and train us. But you - every man here - you train at the gymnasium. You can afford the fullest panoply - better than any mercenary and better trained than some Pellan farm boy who has never wrestled a fall. Stand up! Flex those muscles! Show your elders that we aren’t soft!’ Satyrus spoke to the room in general, but his eyes were on Dionysius the Beautiful, who flirted with him and wrote verses about his sister’s breasts.

Theo stood up. He was swaying. ‘My father will kill me,’ he said. ‘Can I come and live at your house?’ But when his hands were steady, he said, ‘I will serve.’

‘Fuck, I’ll serve too,’ Amyntas said, and stood by his couch.

Dionysius, the handsomest young man in Alexandria, and one of the richest, smiled - and stood. ‘If I’m willing to put my body between Demetrios and this city,’ he said, ‘then the rest of you should be with me.’ He smiled wickedly. ‘You all have so much less to lose.’

Dionysius was the deciding vote, if it had been an assembly. Suddenly all the young men were standing, and the older ones - most of them already soldiers, looked around, muttering. Some applauded, but others looked angry. Satyrus did a quick count and found that he had eighty-six adherents.

He took them as a mob to the parade ground, the keener boys attempting to march and failing utterly. He handed them over to Philokles, who kept a straight face and made the Spartan salute.

‘I need Theo and Dio and Abraham,’ he said. ‘For recruiting.’

‘Carry on,’ said the voice of Ares. Then Philokles grabbed his shoulder. ‘I take it that every patron of Cimon’s saw you?’

‘Yes,’ Satyrus said, defiantly. ‘I told you I was going there.’

‘You are a man now, and not a boy. But if they saw you, they will start adding things together. Understand?’

Satyrus nodded. ‘I understand. I’m at risk.’

‘Good lad. Watch yourself. Your uncles are probably all starting at shadows.’

T
heo knew the richest boys. Dio knew the handsomest boys and the athletes and musicians. Abraham knew the Jews, and some of the Nabataean metics and other Arabs. They went as a group of four from door to door, portico to portico, palace to warehouse.

They gathered a hundred and forty more young men, one and two at a time. It took days, precious days, and every armourer in Alexandria had orders for the finest armour, the lightest corslets with the best iron and bronze scales.

It was curious work that left Satyrus exhausted at the end of the day, full of minor triumphs and equally minor snubs and rebuffs - doors closed to him that he’d always imagined opened, a share of curses, but worst of all, the bored refusal of the rich - men who mocked him for his recruiting campaign, and men who questioned his sanity.

Croseus the Megaran, for instance, waited only to be told the magnitude of the threat before ordering his best things packed and taking one of his own ships for Corinth. ‘I owe this city nothing,’ he said. ‘Neither do you. Stop being foolish - you will not get my son to stand in the ranks. That’s for slaves and fools - poor men who have to do such things. Men like us don’t fight. Leon won’t be in your precious phalanx, I’ll wager.’

‘No, sir,’ Satyrus said.

‘See? Childhood fantasies. Myths. Like thinking that Alexander was actually a god.’ Croseus shook his head.

‘Master Leon will serve with the cavalry,’ Satyrus said.

‘Take your foolery and your rudeness and get out of my warehouse,’ Croseus said.

Again, he found his Macedonian friends vanishing like startled gazelles in a hunt down the Delta. Not all of them - Theo’s father was delighted to see his son in the ranks - but others spoke, quietly or openly, with derision, of the city and of Ptolemy. It was one of these meetings that showed that the war of the factions had reached explosive proportions.

Sitalkes was a young man that Satyrus knew from pankration. His father was an officer in the Foot Companions, a captain of ten files, who shared the name Alexander with most of the Macedonian men of his generation. Sitalkes stood in his own courtyard, enthusiastically nodding as Dionysius and Satyrus gave him the whole recruiting speech - and then his father came through the courtyard gates.

‘Well, well,’ he drawled. ‘Boy, are these your friends? Please introduce me, unless we don’t use such polite conventions any more.’

Sitalkes bowed. ‘Pater, this is Abraham, son of Isaac Ben Zion. This is Satyrus, son of Kineas of Athens. Dionysius, son of Eteocles; Theo, son of Apollion. All of them—’