Funeral Games by Christian Cameron, Cameron Page B

straight for Philokles. He got his own spear out and up and parried Philokles’ butt-spike - the Spartan was just getting the weapon clear of his kill.
    He might have had Philokles then, except that Melitta got under his horse with her knife and ripped at his booted leg, slashing what she could reach, desperate to save the Spartan.
    Satyrus didn’t feel as if he was in control of his own body, because he didn’t recall pushing his body into panicked attack, but he was suddenly cutting at the rider with his akinakes, the blade locked against the other man’s long iron sword. Satyrus saw his blade skip over the bigger weapon and cut the man’s tattooed bicep, and then Theron was there, cutting with his kopis in big, overhand cuts like a slave hewing wood, and they swarmed the man until he was dead.
    When he was down, his cries stilled, they looked at each other, covered in blood. Theron made a sound like a fox’s cry, choked grief or rage, and they all looked away at once.
    Satyrus saw movement in the corner of his eye and he turned to see Thalassa give a little skip, almost rearing. She tossed her hooves at the heavens, and then she toppled and fell.
    Philokles walked over to her, a hand stretched before him in supplication. He put a hand on her withers, and then on her head. He shook his head.
    ‘Her heart went,’ he said.
    ‘Poseidon, Lord of Horses, take her to you,’ Satyrus said, and burst into sobs, heavy, wrenching sobs of a kind he hadn’t cried for people. And Melitta fell across him crying. They went to the horse, patting her head ineffectually and weeping.
    ‘We need to eat,’ Philokles said. His voice had a dead quality to it, as if he wasn’t letting himself think about his words. ‘There’ll be another pursuit as soon as they find a way to cross the river.’
    Melitta shuddered. ‘I thought we were safe,’ she said, and immediately sensed the illogic in her words.
    ‘You’ll never be safe again,’ Philokles said. ‘Get your packs and follow me.’
    All they had was their fishing kit, and they had it on their shoulders quickly. Satyrus stood looking at Thalassa in the grass. ‘We should burn her or bury her,’ he said.
    ‘We should, but we can’t. I’m heading for that house.’ The Spartan pointed at a distant stone house - a Maeotae farmhouse, perhaps the farthest along the shore.
    The yard was empty and the man didn’t want to raise the bar on his door. Philokles threatened him from the yard until he complied, and the twins were afraid of Philokles’ rage. Melitta and her brother had exchanged looks of horror. Yesterday, they had had the love of these farmers. Now they couldn’t trust the man whose roof gave them shelter.
    ‘Hey!’ the man called, scared, as Theron scooped sausage from the rafters.
    ‘We need to eat,’ Theron said.
    ‘We have fish!’ Satyrus said, and Theron managed a smile.
    ‘We do, at that,’ he said. He and Satyrus each had a fish in their soaking leather bags, and the fish were no worse for their swim in the Tanais. Theron broiled them on the hearth and shared the fish with the farmer. It didn’t make him love them any more, but he shared some sour wine, and they were quickly asleep.
     
    Theron woke them at the edge of dawn, a heavy hand on their heads, and pulled them stumbling into the cold spring morning past the terrified farmer.
    ‘Boat on the water,’ he said. ‘Time to go.’
    Out on the swollen river, they could just see the flash of oars as a pentekonter rowed steadily against the current. The boat wasn’t making much headway, but it was coming. The first rays of the sun were pink and red.
    Their horses were all lame, the riders equally spent despite ten hours of sleep, and they had to walk slowly away from the stone house. Theron had a bag of sausages and he handed everyone a link - heavy garlic and spice, overpowering in the morning.
    Or so we thought. Melitta pondered her brother’s sullen silence. He seemed ashamed, when he should be