Christian Cameron - Funeral Games

Time passed. She was conscious that he must be bored, annoyed at the passing insects for failing at their duties. But at last a fly slowly came down, one of the big brown flies that the fish loved. It trailed across the water, its abdomen brushing the surface from time to time. Melitta assumed that it was laying eggs – eggs so tiny she couldn’t see them, although she had watched this dance many times.

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.