Funeral Games

Epilogue

T he army of Aegypt gathered its heroic dead for return to Aegypt. Ptolemy collected his looters and his army and thrust north, scattering Demetrios but failing to catch him, and came back to Gaza rich in loot and plunder and leaving Palestine a flaming disaster behind him.

Satyrus and Melitta, like most of the survivors of the battle, spent a day unable to move, and then were pressed into duties – burying the dead. Hauling food.

There were never enough slaves, after a battle. And the danger of renewed conflict was, at first, very real. Demetrios saved most of his cavalry. His patrols began to prowl the shore north of Gaza.

Weeks passed. Ptolemy took his cavalry on a deep raid into Palestine, and cities opened their gates to him. Diodorus rode at his side, and the loot was legendary. But finally, Ptolemy turned for home, and the Phalanx of Aegypt led the march, fourteen hundred veterans. When they entered Alexandria, they sang the Paean, and the crowds cheered them as they cheered no other troops, and Namastis embraced Diokles and Amyntas and Satyrus and Abraham when they were dismissed as if they were all brothers.

And fathers and mothers wept for the dead.

But the war, and the world, marched on.

Alexander’s funeral games had cost a few thousand more lives. But there was still no shortage of contestants.

A week after they returned to Alexandria, Leon sent Satyrus to the slave market with twenty talents of pure gold and Diokles and Abraham as his lieutenants. ‘Buy the best of the Macedonian prisoners,’ Leon said.

‘What for?’ Melitta asked. Everything made her grumpy now – Sappho’s displeasure and Coenus’s too-careful attention.

‘They’ll be the core of our infantry,’ Leon said. ‘Next summer. When we sail for the Euxine.’

That made even Melitta smile, and she waved at Satyrus as he left for the slave pens, accompanied by his friends and some hired guards because of the money.

The captive phalangites looked terrible – underfed, hopeless. They didn’t look like soldiers. Most didn’t even raise their eyes as Satyrus walked among them, and they stank.

‘We want these?’ Satyrus asked Diokles, who still favoured his right shoulder and rubbed it a great deal.

‘There’s a sight for sore eyes,’ said a familiar voice.

Satyrus turned his head, and there was Draco, and Philip his partner.

Satyrus grabbed the slave factor. ‘I’ll take that pair,’ he said.

‘That’s our boy,’ Draco said. He managed a smile. ‘Zeus Soter, lad. I thought we were dead men, and no mistake.’

‘Dead and dead,’ Philip managed. He looked as if he was dead.

Despite their filth, Satyrus hugged them.

‘What’s the game, then?’ Philip asked, eyeing the gold.

‘I want two thousand of the best,’ Satyrus said. ‘Help me choose them.’

‘What for?’ Draco asked. ‘Ares’ dick, lad, that’s more gold than I’ve ever seen except Persepolis.’

‘I’m raising an army.’ Satyrus grinned. ‘With my sister.’

‘Well, lad, the best are mostly dead,’ Draco said. ‘At Arbela and Jaxartes and Gabiene and a dozen other fields across the world.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Free men? You’ll buy us free?’

‘Of course,’ Satyrus said.

‘All right then,’ Draco said, and the fire returned to his voice. Just like that. He straightened up, and began to point at men who were lying in their own filth. ‘Party is over, boys,’ he shouted. ‘We’re going to be free. This here is Satyrus, and he’s our strategos.’

The Macedonians shuffled to their feet.

Satyrus watched, and was afraid. ‘Philokles used to call war the ultimate tyrant,’ he said.

Abraham nodded. ‘Tyrant indeed.’