asked.
The man took another drink. He seemed more sober now. ‘Not all daemons are bad. Anyway, only the ghosts of those unjustly slain harm the living. The gods let them walk to punish those who robbed them of the divine gift of life. It was the Scythians’ custom to sacrifice the servants, so they were killed justly.’ He passed the amphora to Mastabates. ‘Is it hard being what you are?’
Mastabates drank, trying to arrange his alcohol- and narcotic-fuddled thoughts. ‘Yes, it is not easy. Men – normal men, whole men – see us as things of ill omen: like eastern priests, cripples, like monkeys. They turn away if they meet us. No, it is not easy to be thought of as a monkey.’
The man considered this. ‘I went to a dream diviner once – probably a charlatan. He told me the kinds of men one should never believe if they spoke to you in a dream: actors, sophists, priests of Cybele, the poor and eunuchs. They all raise false expectations.’
‘Why did you bring me here?’
‘Nor should you trust Pythagoreans, or prophets who divine from dice, from palms, from sieves, or from cheese. But the dead are always worthy of credence.’ He put out a hand and touched Mastabates’ face.
‘I thought you were one of those who saw my kind as ill omened. I thought you did not care for my company,’ Mastabates said.
‘My likes and dislikes are of no importance. It is the will of the gods.’ He trailed the back of his fingers down Mastabates’ cheek as if measuring him. ‘Do you know what you are?’
Mastabates stepped back. The man’s eyes were odd. This was all becoming strange beyond measure.
‘I think you really do not know.’ The man’s eyes were flecked red in the torchlight. He stood between Mastabates and both the unblocked tunnels.
‘We should go.’ Mastabates heard the anxiety in his own voice. He had been a fool; a drunken, womanish fool.
The man drew his sword. In the flickering light, the steel seemed to ripple.
Mastabates took another step backwards, panic rising in his throat.
The other watched him.
‘You killed the slave in the river,’ Mastabates said.
‘And many others.’
Mastabates went to draw his own blade. He had forgotten the amphora. It slipped from his grip and shattered loudly. Wine splashed on to his boots.
The man made no move.
Mastabates fumbled his short sword clear of its scabbard.
No need to abandon
all attempts at manly virtue,
he thought.
A eunuch can still be a man.
The other flexed his sword arm.
‘Why?’ Mastabates said.
The man paused, as if he had been waiting for the question, had been asked it before under like circumstances. ‘For your own good, and the benefit of others. Because the gods …’
Mastabates thrust forward, sword aimed at the body.
Caught unaware, the man was late blocking. Mastabates’ blade was only a hand’s breadth away when a clash of metal deflected it. The eunuch’s momentum carried him. He crashed into the man, who staggered backwards.
Mastabates was clear. He was past the killer, was at the entrance tunnel. He went to hurdle the remains of the cart. A bone turned under his foot and his ankle twisted. He went down, crashing among the papery, dry baulks of timber. His sword slipped from his grasp.
The wind was knocked out of him, and his ankle hurt abominably, but Mastabates was up in a moment. He scrabbled on his hands and knees, groping in the dirt for his sword. Noises behind him. His fingers closed on the hilt. He rolled over, bringing the blade up.
A flash of burning light, a jarring impact, and Mastabates’ sword was smashed from his hand. The steel went spinning, skittering across the floor of the tomb to its dark further reaches.
The killer stood over him. He held the torch in one hand, his long sword in the other. The sword was pointed at Mastabates’ throat.
No, not disgrace myself. No, not beg,
Mastabates thought.
Be a man.
He was panting. So was the killer. Apart from their breathing, all that could be
The man took another drink. He seemed more sober now. ‘Not all daemons are bad. Anyway, only the ghosts of those unjustly slain harm the living. The gods let them walk to punish those who robbed them of the divine gift of life. It was the Scythians’ custom to sacrifice the servants, so they were killed justly.’ He passed the amphora to Mastabates. ‘Is it hard being what you are?’
Mastabates drank, trying to arrange his alcohol- and narcotic-fuddled thoughts. ‘Yes, it is not easy. Men – normal men, whole men – see us as things of ill omen: like eastern priests, cripples, like monkeys. They turn away if they meet us. No, it is not easy to be thought of as a monkey.’
The man considered this. ‘I went to a dream diviner once – probably a charlatan. He told me the kinds of men one should never believe if they spoke to you in a dream: actors, sophists, priests of Cybele, the poor and eunuchs. They all raise false expectations.’
‘Why did you bring me here?’
‘Nor should you trust Pythagoreans, or prophets who divine from dice, from palms, from sieves, or from cheese. But the dead are always worthy of credence.’ He put out a hand and touched Mastabates’ face.
‘I thought you were one of those who saw my kind as ill omened. I thought you did not care for my company,’ Mastabates said.
‘My likes and dislikes are of no importance. It is the will of the gods.’ He trailed the back of his fingers down Mastabates’ cheek as if measuring him. ‘Do you know what you are?’
Mastabates stepped back. The man’s eyes were odd. This was all becoming strange beyond measure.
‘I think you really do not know.’ The man’s eyes were flecked red in the torchlight. He stood between Mastabates and both the unblocked tunnels.
‘We should go.’ Mastabates heard the anxiety in his own voice. He had been a fool; a drunken, womanish fool.
The man drew his sword. In the flickering light, the steel seemed to ripple.
Mastabates took another step backwards, panic rising in his throat.
The other watched him.
‘You killed the slave in the river,’ Mastabates said.
‘And many others.’
Mastabates went to draw his own blade. He had forgotten the amphora. It slipped from his grip and shattered loudly. Wine splashed on to his boots.
The man made no move.
Mastabates fumbled his short sword clear of its scabbard.
No need to abandon
all attempts at manly virtue,
he thought.
A eunuch can still be a man.
The other flexed his sword arm.
‘Why?’ Mastabates said.
The man paused, as if he had been waiting for the question, had been asked it before under like circumstances. ‘For your own good, and the benefit of others. Because the gods …’
Mastabates thrust forward, sword aimed at the body.
Caught unaware, the man was late blocking. Mastabates’ blade was only a hand’s breadth away when a clash of metal deflected it. The eunuch’s momentum carried him. He crashed into the man, who staggered backwards.
Mastabates was clear. He was past the killer, was at the entrance tunnel. He went to hurdle the remains of the cart. A bone turned under his foot and his ankle twisted. He went down, crashing among the papery, dry baulks of timber. His sword slipped from his grasp.
The wind was knocked out of him, and his ankle hurt abominably, but Mastabates was up in a moment. He scrabbled on his hands and knees, groping in the dirt for his sword. Noises behind him. His fingers closed on the hilt. He rolled over, bringing the blade up.
A flash of burning light, a jarring impact, and Mastabates’ sword was smashed from his hand. The steel went spinning, skittering across the floor of the tomb to its dark further reaches.
The killer stood over him. He held the torch in one hand, his long sword in the other. The sword was pointed at Mastabates’ throat.
No, not disgrace myself. No, not beg,
Mastabates thought.
Be a man.
He was panting. So was the killer. Apart from their breathing, all that could be
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