Funeral Games

8

Satyrus dropped his pack and ran, despite the pain in his ankle, the shifting of his nose and the pounding of his heart. She screamed again.

He saw the Athenian doctor burst out of another curtain halfway around the courtyard and run towards his sister’s room.

He reached under his arm and drew his sword. The gesture was becoming natural.

His sister screamed again and called, ‘Help!’

He pushed through the curtain to her room. Melitta was full-length on the marble floor, trying to hold Kallista. Kallista was flopping on the floor, her face purple. Satyrus put his back against the wall and tried to cover every side of the room with his blade.

‘Poison!’ Melitta said.

Kallista was writhing as if she was in a pankration fight with an invisible opponent. The Athenian doctor burst in, followed by Philokles.

‘Ahhhhhgggg!’ Kallista bellowed. She had both hands at her throat. Her eyes were bulging like eggs.

The doctor cast around the room. ‘What did she drink?’ he barked.

Melitta pointed at a ewer of wine. ‘She tasted it for me. Oh, Hera, she tasted it for me.’

The doctor smelled it. Then he put a finger in, hesitated and tasted it. He wrinkled his lips like a horse and spat.

‘Fuck, she’s dead,’ he said bluntly. ‘Poisoned. Not much I can do.’

Philokles didn’t hesitate. He fell on the girl. Despite her violent struggles, he had her unable to move in seconds. Melitta rolled off. Theron came through the door with his head in a bandage.

‘Help me!’ Philokles growled. ‘Get her legs!’

‘What in Hades?’ the doctor asked.

Theron got his left arm under her knees, pinned her ankles together and wrapped one great hand around them and lifted her up. Philokles kept her arms pinned.

Philokles whirled. ‘You have hemp, doctor?’ he demanded.

The moment her head cleared the stone floor, Philokles yelled, ‘Keep her there!’ at Theron. ‘Hemp?’ he demanded again.

The doctor shrugged. ‘I’ll find some,’ he said, and walked out. ‘Just keep her there,’ he said over his shoulder.

The moment the doctor was out of the door, Philokles punched the slave girl in the stomach – a vicious blow with his whole weight behind it that made Theron stumble.

She responded with an explosive vomit all over Philokles. Some of the stuff spattered Theron and Satyrus got a gobbet in the face.

‘Now look what you’ve done!’ Melitta shouted. ‘Wait for the hemp!’

Satyrus grabbed a towel, sopped it in water and wiped his own face. Then he set to cleaning Philokles.

The Spartan punched the girl again. Upside down, she flinched, her guts heaving, and puked again, a thin stream of black-purple liquid. Satyrus caught it as it passed her mouth.

He tossed the towel in a corner and grabbed another, thanking Zeus that the girls had just bathed. He turned to Theron, who was straining under the continued weight of the girl held up high.

They heard footsteps, and Nestor came in with a clash of bronze.

‘Poison,’ Philokles said. He stuck his hand into Kallista’s mouth and made her gag.

‘Hermes, god of travellers,’ Nestor said, making a sign with his hand. ‘Seal off this corridor!’ he called outside.

‘Let the doctor in!’ Philokles cried, and moments later Sophokles returned. Behind him, a slave came with a brazier, a bronze bowl and a tripod.

‘How did you induce vomiting?’ the doctor asked. He shrugged. ‘One way or another, this is it. Apollo, god of healing, and all the gods be with me.’ He smiled at the slave. ‘Right here. Put the tripod here. Well done. You have some bellows?’

The slave produced bellows.

‘Make it hot!’ the doctor said.

Kallista opened her eyes and screamed.

Sophokles threw the herb on to the brazier and a pungent smoke arose. To Satyrus, it was the scent of the sea of grass. The Sakje made little hide tents and sat in them to enjoy the smoke.

The doctor used the bellows until the smoke was rich and thick, then reversed them, sucking the smoke into the small instrument. He put it in Kallista’s slack mouth and forced the smoke into her lungs. She coughed, choked and vomited again.

‘Not dead yet!’ Sophokles proclaimed grimly. ‘Apollo, stand at my shoulder and save her!’ He made more smoke and pushed the bellows deep in her throat before forcing in the smoke.

She retched and coughed, but no more bile came up.

‘Let her down. The next time I need a patient held immobile, you two are my choice. Lay her on the couch. That’s right.’

Satyrus was light-headed in the smoke. He could see Kallista – in her full beauty, dressed for a party – hovering just over the crumpled and stained victim on the couch, like an allegory. She seemed to smile at him.

A draught of air pushed the smoke aside, and the vision of a healthy Kallista vanished like a rainbow.

Kallista drew a deep, shuddering breath. Her whole body twitched.

‘Make her drink water,’ Sophokles said.

Melitta handed her brother a pitcher. ‘Go to the well, draw it yourself and bring it back,’ she said imperiously.

Satyrus discovered he had the acidic vomit in his hair when he ran a hand through it. He wiped his hand on his chiton – damn, my best one, from Kinon – and ran for the courtyard.

One of the guardsmen came with him. Satyrus looked at the man under the helmet – one of the Macedonians from the barracks. ‘I’m going for water,’ he said, stepping aside.

The guardsman was burdened with a heavy spear and a shield. He was slow. Satyrus waited until he was moving and then ran down the stoa towards the stairs.

‘Hey!’ the man shouted. ‘Wait for me, lad!’

Satyrus ignored him, cut down the slaves’ stair to the main courtyard and stuck his pitcher into the water.

There were groups of slaves, mostly women, all around the fountain, chatting away. Most of them were looking at him. He looked back. When his jar was full, he got his feet under him and hoisted the jar clear of the fountain. All the slaves moved out of his way, clearing a path.

Tenedos the steward was trying to hide behind another man.

Satyrus froze. The guard had followed him down the stairs, but he was separated from Tenedos by the whole crowd of slaves. He thought that he could take the slave man to man – Tenedos was bigger and older, but it was unlikely that he had ever trained to fight. He could hear Theron saying, Any time you offer a test of strength to a man, he’ll beat you. But he was just a slave – and Satyrus had a blade.

Of course, Kallista needed the water.

Fuck, why is life so hard? he thought. He turned his back on the slaves and set his pitcher down on the stone. He took a deep breath, whirled around and started for the man.

Tenedos moved fast, shoving a young woman flat on the floor and pushing a bigger man against the rim of the fountain as he fled. Satyrus jumped over a downed stool and saw the Macedonian guard moving fast, despite his armour, across the back of the fountain room.

Tenedos slipped through a door and was gone. Satyrus rounded the corner at full speed and raced under the eaves of the slave quarters where the women’s quarters overhung the working courtyard, but there was no one there but two old slaves weaving linen chitons who shoved themselves flat against the wall as he raced past. The steward must have gone into one of the slaves’ rooms – or into the kitchens.

The guard came up, panting. ‘Well?’

‘That’s the steward from Kinon’s!’ Satyrus said. Seeing that his words meant nothing to the guard, he said, ‘The assassin!’

The guard nodded sharply, put a bone whistle to his lips and blew hard, over and over. Every slave in the area immediately lay flat on the ground, and the corridors around the courtyard were full of the sound of running feet.

‘We’ll get him,’ the man said. ‘As soon as I get a squad here, my lord, you’re going straight back to your chambers.’

Satyrus shook his head. ‘I can identify him. He’s in one of these rooms. Let’s-’

The guardsman shook his head. ‘Look, lad – we’re protecting you. Let us fucking protect you.’ He grinned.

Half a dozen archers appeared, big black men with ostrich plumes in their hair.

‘Assassin. In one of the slave rooms.’ He pointed his spear.

‘Take him alive!’ Satyrus shouted.

The lead archer turned. ‘Perhaps,’ he said with a wicked smile.

‘Back to your room, my lord,’ the Macedonian said. Behind him, three of the archers nocked arrows while the other three drew wicked-looking iron knives.

‘Medje,’ the Macedonian said. ‘Your steward is doomed. Wait until they get their fucking monkeys. They can smell a man a stade away.’

Satyrus did not want to leave the chase, and he wanted to learn more about the Medje – he’d seldom seen a group of men who gave such an impression of competence. ‘How will they know him?’

‘If he isn’t lying on the floor in the position of submission.. .’ The Macedonian shook his head. ‘And if he is, he won’t have a slave disk. Now move.’

Satyrus put his sword back in the scabbard and snatched up the pitcher as he passed the fountain house, angry with himself, and ran for the slave stairs.

‘I saw Tenedos,’ he said as he put the pitcher into Melitta’s hands. It didn’t seem as if anyone in the room had moved. ‘He was in the working courtyard. I think he saw me watching him.’

‘Did he escape?’ Philokles asked. ‘Why didn’t you run him down?’

Satyrus thought that was unfair. ‘The palace guard are after him. One of our guards made me come back.’

Nestor nodded. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘That’s a man who knows his busi ness.’

‘What on earth were you thinking, boy?’ Philokles asked. ‘Nestor, will you search the palace?’

Nestor grunted. ‘I’m sure it is being done. And the boy did right – as did my man. Your prince has no business chasing assassins. He’s the target.’ He leaned out into the corridor and began to shout orders. Then he turned back to the room.

‘You two will know him?’ he said to Philokles. ‘You and Theron come with me. I’ll make up two parties. I must attend the tyrant – he’ll lock the palace down.’

‘We don’t need the palace locked down,’ Philokles said.

Nestor shook his head. ‘We do. This may all be aimed at the tyrant.’

Frustrated, Satyrus glared at Philokles in the middle of the room. Melitta took the pitcher. ‘Don’t mope,’ she said. ‘Send slaves for more water.’

In a few minutes, the whole complex was flooded with soldiers. Men of the guard were at every door and most of the windows, and when a slave moved, guards would call out so that the slave’s movements were watched and recorded somewhere. Every time the whistles blew, all the slaves would lie flat, their arms by their sides. It was efficient and scary.

Draco appeared at Satyrus’s side. ‘A man can’t even get laid without your enemies fucking it up,’ he said. But he gave Satyrus a grin. ‘Let’s go to your rooms, my lord. I’ve been ordered to go through them with you.’

He gave Satyrus a nod, and together they went out into the stoa, as another guardsman called out that they were moving. When they reached Satyrus’s portion of the wing, they went through all of the rooms on his side, opening every chest and looking under every chair and bed and behind every drape. His thoroughness was unsettling. Satyrus had never considered that men might be trained to search a room.

Slaves continued to bring pitchers of water. Satyrus turned to go back to his sister’s rooms.

‘No more traffic,’ Draco said. ‘You can wait here, my lord.’

‘You know me,’ Satyrus said.

‘Go to your room. Read the Iliad. Whatever. Just obey, understand?’ The Macedonian mercenary was all business.

Satyrus shrugged with adolescent annoyance and went to his room. He was alone. He went to the alcove and found the scroll bag he’d seen there the day before.

Sure enough, the Iliad.

Satyrus slumped on the floor and tried to read about Achilles’ rage, and tried not to think about the hourly process of assassination.

Achilles failed to illuminate his problem. No one in the Iliad faced enemies who crawled in the dark and used poison – well, except Odysseus. But the winged words had their own healing; he was lost soon enough, reading avidly.

There was shouting in the corridor, and a sound in the distance like a scream, and his head came up from his scroll. He was scared. He wondered if the next thing he’d see would be an assassin bursting through the door.

‘Fuck,’ he said. Without meaning to, he thought of his mother and the warmth of her infrequent embraces. And then he thought about the Sauromatae girl crying for her mother as she lay dying. His hands shook.

He backed into a corner, his brain running like a chariot drawn by maddened horses. He thought about the city and the stables and about his mother. He thought about his father, the demi-god. He thought about his sister. About Kallista. What kind of life did she lead? Would she die? Was it his fault?

Slowly, his breathing slowed. His hands stopped shaking, and he realized that he had his sword in his hand, and he was huddled in the corner of his room.

‘I’m losing my wits,’ he said aloud. He sheathed the sword and wiped his face and then poured water over his head and rubbed his face, hard.

‘Draco?’ he called out. Voice fairly steady. Of course, the man had heard him. No privacy anywhere.

‘My lord?’ the soldier asked.

‘I’d like to go down to my sister’s room,’ Satyrus said.

‘Prince Satyrus moving!’ Draco called. ‘Go ahead, my lord.’

Satyrus stepped out into the evening air and moved along the gallery to Melitta’s room. When he passed the soldier, the Macedonian turned to look at him.

‘Another few minutes and this’ll be over,’ he said in a whisper.

‘Thanks,’ Satyrus said. ‘Lita?’ he called.

‘Come in!’ she said, and he ducked through the curtain.

Melitta was sitting on a chair by Kallista, who was lying on the bed. She was deeply unconscious. Melitta gave a bright and entirely fake smile.

‘Hello, brother,’ she said.

‘You all right?’ he asked.

The corners of her mouth quivered a little, but her smile remained in place. ‘No,’ she said. ‘People are trying to kill me. Us. It’s different from a fight. It’s horrible, Satyrus! I like people!’

Satyrus put his arms around her, happy to comfort somebody. Especially his sister, who usually comforted him. ‘It’s not everybody, sis. It’s just a couple of idiots. If I’d been quicker on my feet, we’d be safe.’

‘What are you, Achilles? Is it all on you? Are you the centre of the world? Stop all this assumption-of-responsibility crap! It’s the product of too much Plato!’ She put her cheek on his shoulder and squeezed. The weight of her head was grinding one of his best gold fibulae into his shoulder, but that was an occupational hazard of being a brother.

‘I didn’t get him, and that Macedonian made me come back here. I should have stayed at it! It makes me feel like shit.’ Satyrus felt better just for saying the words out loud.

She looked up, her eyes red, and shook her head. ‘Slavery doesn’t make them weak, you daft weasel. Slavery makes them desperate. Promise me that when we’re king and queen, we’ll have no slaves.’

‘Done!’ he said. ‘I swear it by Zeus and all the gods.’

They stood there, embracing, for some time. The shadows got longer. Kallista continued to breathe.

‘I’m better,’ Melitta said. ‘Thanks.’ She stepped away and started to rearrange her hair.

‘Hey?’ he said. ‘What if I’m not better?’

She made a rude noise. ‘Can I tell you something?’ she said, her back to him.

‘Probably,’ he said. He was watching Kallista. In his head, he was comparing her blotched face, swollen lips, burn marks and stressed flesh to the image of beauty she had presented the first night in the rose garden. The comparison was full of lessons.

‘When I thought you were dying, I was going to kill myself,’ she said evenly. ‘I don’t think I’d want to live without you, brother.’ She put a pin into her hair.

He rubbed his hand through his hair in embarrassment. ‘Yeah,’ he said. Another of his excellent responses.

‘My lord?’ Draco asked from the other side of the curtain.

‘That’s Draco, our sentry. Come in!’ Satyrus called.

The Macedonian pushed his head through. ‘We’re out of here, my lord. The Medje have your man, and the dinner is on – our tyrant won’t be cowed by a slave. So you’re to dress.’ His eyes flicked over to where Melitta sat. ‘My pardon, m’lady.’

‘Hold on,’ Satyrus said, slipping through the curtain. ‘Thanks.’

Draco grinned from under his Thracian helmet. ‘No problem, m’lord.’

‘What happened to “Satyrus” or “boy”?’

‘Orders. You two is to be treated as visiting royals.’ Draco grinned. ‘Most visiting royals don’t help us loot a house, o’ course.’

‘Can I ask a favour, Draco?’

‘Sure. Ask away. I’m back off duty as soon as I get this thorax off.’ He slung his shield around on his back.

‘Can you find me a chiton? A nice one?’ He pointed to the long streak of black vomit on his fine flame-decorated garment.

Draco grinned. ‘That’s easy. Hey!’ he said, turning. ‘Hey, Philotas! Where’s that squeeze of yours?’

Another armoured man emerged from the columns on the other side of the guests’ courtyard. ‘She’s right here, you whoreson.’

‘Send her over here. The prince needs some clothes.’ Draco chortled.

‘So does she!’ Philotas laughed. ‘It might be a minute.’

Draco shrugged. ‘He’s a pig-dog, our Philotas. Girls love him. His cock’s longer than a girl’s foot.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘His girl is one of the wardrobe slaves. His current girl.’

Satyrus tried to be a man of the world. ‘My mother says “no slave girls”.’

‘Aphrodite! Why’s that?’ Draco seemed shocked.

‘Because they can’t decide for themselves. They aren’t in control of their bodies.’ Satyrus managed to deliver the line well, without primness, as if he really knew what he was talking about.

Draco laughed. ‘Ares, who cares?’ he said. ‘Willing? Unwilling?’ He looked at Satyrus. ‘Oh, balls. I’m sorry, boy. Don’t take it like that – I’m no monster. Your mum’s just a little strict for me.’

The slave girl came up, her eyes averted and her ionic chiton neat and graceful. ‘Master?’ she asked.

‘The prince would like to know if he might get a chiton from the wardrobe,’ Draco asked in an official voice. ‘His best got ruined in the poison attempt.’

The slave raised her eyes and looked at his chiton. She fingered the stain. ‘Never come all the way out,’ she said. She brightened. ‘But I have a little bitch who it’ll do good to try. Can we move about, Draco?’

‘Free as friggin’ birds, honey,’ Draco answered. ‘My lord, I leave you in good hands.’

‘Give me the cloth, m’lord.’ She all but snapped her fingers, and Satyrus pulled it off over his head.

‘Get the brooches, m’lord,’ Draco said. ‘Or you’ll never see ’em again.’

‘Don’t you have somewhere you ought to be, guardsman?’ the woman said to Draco. Her nimble fingers plucked the fibulae off the shoulders. ‘No one in this wing would steal, m’lord. Draco is from Macedon – they’re the thieves.’

Draco gave him a look that said he’d stand by his statement, and Satyrus was left standing naked with a pair of gold brooches in his hand and a sword strap over his shoulder.

Life with slaves and guards was so alien that he almost laughed aloud.

Philokles came up behind him. ‘Planning to go to the dinner naked, boy?’ he asked. ‘The sword is a nice touch. You could be young Herakles.’

Satyrus blushed and hurried back to his room. As quickly as he could, he wriggled into a chiton.

‘Best bathe. I can smell the vomit on you,’ Philokles called after him, leaning in past the curtain.

‘Will you go, sir?’ Satyrus asked.

‘I will, too. We can just squeeze it in.’ Satyrus felt his tutor’s hand on his shoulder, and they walked off down the gallery to the stairs.

Philokles didn’t know the palace like Satyrus did now. ‘This way,’ he said, heading down the slaves’ stair. ‘It’s faster!’

‘No, boy,’ the Spartan said. He pulled Satyrus past the slaves’ stair. ‘Not fair to them. You didn’t grow up with slaves, but I did. They need their own places where the likes of us don’t interfere. Just like soldiers. Officers don’t go into soldiers’ parts of camp. Bad manners.’

‘Oh,’ Satyrus said. They went down the public stair together. The baths were crowded because everyone had either been on duty or locked down for the afternoon. The men in the steam fell silent when Satyrus entered.

‘Welcome, prince,’ Nestor called out.

Satyrus blushed. He blushed more when he saw the murals on the walls. He got in the steam, and then he plunged into a cold bath deep enough to dive and swim, with a beautiful bronze woman with a fish tail at the bottom, as if swimming for the surface. When he emerged, he took a warmer bath and then went into the towel room.

‘Massage?’ a bored slave asked. ‘You’re the foreign prince, eh? In there,’ he said.

Satyrus found himself on a slab between Nestor and Philokles. They were like a pair of matching statues as they reclined, waiting for masseurs – Nestor in black and Philokles in white. Philokles was not at his best – years as a tutor in a backwater had not forced him to maintain his fighting trim – but he was not fat, either. Nestor’s musculature was perfect, and he would have adorned any gymnasium in Greece.

‘Boy or girl?’ the towel boy asked.

‘Surprise me,’ Nestor said.

A heavyset man came in and set to work on Philokles. ‘Soldier, sir?’ he asked. ‘I can always tell from the shoulders.’

Nestor laughed. ‘He’s a Spartan!’ he said.

The masseur grunted. ‘You’ve pulled some muscles here, sir. Best take some light exercise.’

‘I’ll keep that in mind,’ Philokles said.

‘Where’s Theron?’ Satyrus asked, as another man started to pummel his shoulders. Then a huge thumb was thrust roughly under his shoulder blade and it hurt. ‘Ares!’ he squeaked.

‘Be nice, Glaukis – probably the first real massage the boy’s ever had.’ Nestor hissed between his teeth. ‘They all hurt, m’lord.’

Satyrus’s masseur grunted and rotated his arm as if forcing his head down in pankration.

‘Oww!’ Satyrus said.

The two big men laughed.

Eventually, it was over. There was a point where it started to feel good, and another point where he started to feel the glow he got from a long exercise bout.

‘Oil, m’lord?’ the masseur asked.

‘Just a little,’ Satyrus said.

The masseur helped him off the slab. ‘Second curtain, m’lord.’

Satyrus headed down a corridor, barely able to walk with the absolute relaxation of his muscles. Erotic scenes involving various combinations of partners adorned the walls. Satyrus wasn’t prudish and he certainly knew how it all worked – there was even less privacy in Tanais than in Heraklea – but he blushed anyway.

The second curtain gave way to a small room with a small dark-haired girl not much older than he. She helped him up on to a stool. ‘Scented?’ she asked. ‘Cedar or lavender?’

‘No scent, thanks,’ he said.

She began to apply oil, her hands light but efficient. ‘Anything else, master?’ she asked as she began to massage the oil into his penis.

‘No, thank you,’ he said. No squeak at all – he was quite proud of his lack of shock.

‘There you go, then,’ she said with an utter indifference that made him feel he’d made the right choice.

He walked back up the main stair in a glow of well-being, eudaimonia, and he walked straight into his sister’s room. ‘How is she?’ he asked.

‘Goodness, you glow like a god,’ Melitta said. ‘She’s breathing better. ’

‘Do you know that when they put oil on you in the baths, they offer sex acts? Do they do that in the women’s baths?’

Melitta giggled. ‘Yes and no,’ she said. ‘Let’s not go into details.’ She turned bright red, and they laughed.

The laughter went on.

‘Go and put some clothes on, brother,’ she said. ‘There’s a slave waiting in your room.’ She made a motion with her hand. ‘We’re suddenly at the age where people will talk if we’re together naked.’

Satyrus turned a bright red. ‘Zeus Soter!’ he said. ‘That’s disgusting! ’

Melitta shrugged. ‘The Macedonians do it all the time. Ask your soldier friend Draco.’ Melitta gave a wicked smile – a smile that most twelve-year-old girls couldn’t manage. ‘Your guard friends think that’s what we’re doing in here.’

Satyrus vowed never to be naked around his sister again and headed off to his room.

Satyrus found the wardrobe slave waiting for him.

‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ he said.

She continued to look at the floor, but she gave a small smile. ‘That’s polite. I had a nice rest, and I tacked the side seams. Put it on. Good – you’re not dripping oil. Smudges the fabric.’

She held out a chiton, which was light wool, woven beautifully, but with a double row of purple decoration woven in. ‘Himself will never wear it,’ she said. ‘Came with the tribute and it wouldn’t go around his head, much less his body.’ She smiled. ‘Thank him for it when you make your bow, just so I’m covered.’

‘Hestia, goddess of the hearth, watch over you. What’s your name?’ he asked.

‘Harmone, my lord. There – you look like a prince. You need gold sandals.’

‘I’ve never had such a thing,’ Satyrus said.

Harmone laughed. ‘I’m a slave, and I have four pairs,’ she said. ‘The world’s a funny place and no mistake.’ She waited at the doorway.

Waiting for a tip. Satyrus cast around the room, saw all of his kit where the slaves had dumped it – was it really just that afternoon?

‘It’s going to take me some time to find my purse,’ he said.

‘I’ll wait,’ she said. ‘I knew you was a gent.’

Satyrus wondered what he had in his purse. ‘Harmone?’ he asked, as he pulled his sleeping roll off the pile. ‘What’s a fair tip? This isn’t how I live every day.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Ten gold darics’d do me fine,’ she said, and giggled. ‘You’re a rare ’un. An obol or two is fair for any extra service a slave does, except fucking. That’s more, unless offered free.’

Satyrus’s hand stopped over his satchel. He looked at her. She smiled.

She was a good ten years older than him and he wasn’t sure she was offering, and the world was a very confusing place. He had to look away – she was licking her lips – and his downturned eye caught a needle sticking point-first out of the flap of his satchel, just a few finger-breadths from his hand. The point of the needle was dark with something stuck to it – wax.

Or poison.

‘Hades,’ Satyrus breathed. He’d heard of poisoned needles. ‘Harmone. I’ll tip you later. Get Nestor!’

She caught the seriousness in his voice.

Satyrus didn’t move. The discovery of the reality of poisoned needles had frozen him in place. He felt very vulnerable indeed. He tried not to think. He didn’t panic, especially – he just crouched by his pack until Philokles and Theron came. Then Nestor arrived with a file of soldiers. They told him not to move while they sent for more soldiers in heavy gear.

His sister stood in the doorway, dressed for dinner, with her hair piled on top of her head in silver pins, and chewed on her fist.

Men in heavy felt mittens pulled his gear apart. Men in heavy military sandals came in and literally carried him out of the room. He leaned his forehead against the cool smoothness of a pillar and breathed for a while as his hands and knees shook. Then he went to the door.

‘Someone hand me out my sword?’ he asked. Good voice. He did that well – touch of irony.

Melitta smiled.

Philokles looked stricken. And a little drunk.

‘This is all my fault,’ he said thickly.

‘We need to get out of here,’ Satyrus said. ‘If Kallista can travel in a litter, I suggest we leave tonight.’

The doctor came up behind Philokles. ‘That ankle of yours needs a couple of days,’ he said.

‘I could be dead in a couple of days,’ Satyrus said. He managed to hide the bitterness.

Philokles turned to Nestor. ‘I’d like to send a messenger to the smith to see if his caravan is still going. It has probably left – or been cancelled. If it has left, I’d like an escort until we catch it.’

Theron pushed in. ‘I’ll go,’ he said.

‘No, Philokles said. ‘From now on, we all stay together all the time. Nestor leaves a guard on Kallista until we come back from dinner, and then we sleep in Melitta’s room, and in the morning we pack our beasts at first light and ride.’

Nestor nodded. ‘Pending the tyrant’s permission, of course.’

Philokles nodded back. ‘Of course,’ he said.

Sophokles glanced at Nestor. ‘I’ll go with them,’ he said. ‘They all need medical care.’

Nestor was surprised. ‘You were just hired as the tyrant’s physician,’ he said.

Sophokles shrugged. ‘I feel responsible,’ he said.

Satyrus looked at the Athenian, trying to read his soul.

‘Let’s go to dinner,’ Melitta said.

Satyrus was struck again by the sheer bulk of Dionysius of Heraklea as he entered the man’s hall. The tyrant filled the dais, and his couch was three times the width of every other couch, and he lay alone. He was grotesque, and his bristle of short blond hair made his head seem all the smaller. He looked like an ogre come to life.

He held the eye nonetheless, his white chiton immaculate, the gold wreath on his head brilliant in its Helios-like spray of leaves and tendrils that flickered like fire in the lamplight. Satyrus and Melitta led the way to the dais, arm in arm and walking with their heads high, and Satyrus was aware, even as he stared at the tyrant, that every other eye in the hall was on him or his sister.

The couches of the principal diners were drawn up in a circle. Where women had been invited, they sat in chairs beside their companions. The dinner was not an orgy but a feast, and when Satyrus managed to tear his eyes away from the tyrant, he saw that the couches of the inner circle were full of serious-looking men attended by women their own age – not hetairai.

Before they approached the circle, Satyrus turned to Philokles. ‘Any special etiquette for tyrants?’ he asked.

‘Be polite,’ Philokles answered. ‘Don’t make speeches about the freedom of the assembly.’

Theron choked a laugh, and then they were passing an empty couch and entering the clear space before the dais.

‘Greetings, Prince Satyrus and Princess Melitta!’ The tyrant raised himself on an elbow. ‘Nestor, offer me a libation on the altar for the safety of our twins.’

Satyrus hadn’t noticed that Nestor had somehow beaten them to the dining hall. The black man was seated behind the tyrant, and he rose, took a libation bowl and poured wine on a small altar set into the wall, with a statue of Dionysius in gold and ivory in a niche over the altar.

The tyrant nodded. ‘The blessings of Dionysus stay with you. May the strength of our patron Herakles defend you.’ He smiled, and it was a hard, dangerous grin for such a fat man. ‘You are still wearing your sword, young man.’

Satyrus bowed deeply. ‘I rejoice in your – your favour, Dionysius. I thank you for your hospitality, for the healing of your doctor, the safety of your roof and for your generosity. Even the clothes on my back I owe to you.’ He bowed again, and his voice rose as his nerves betrayed him. ‘But-’ Too squeaky. ‘But – twice, men have tried to kill us under your roof. I beg your forgiveness and your permission to wear this sword.’

‘I missed the last part of that,’ Dionysius said. He rolled heavily and the legs of his couch creaked. ‘Nestor, what does the boy say?’

Nestor leaned down by the tyrant and whispered in his ear.

Dionysius nodded heavily. ‘So be it. I am deeply sorry that these criminals have so abused my hospitality. Now sit and eat dinner. How is the slave girl?’ He asked the last with a sudden quickening of his eyes.

‘She will live,’ Melitta said. ‘She may be – marred.’

Dionysius’s eyes roved over Melitta. ‘I have a daughter – Amastris – just your age. Would you sit with her?’

Melitta nodded her head gracefully. ‘I would be delighted.’

Nestor made a sign, and a chair was moved. Melitta followed the chair to sit beside another girl her own age.

‘You sit by me,’ Dionysius said to Satyrus. He pointed to the couch on his left hand.

Satyrus went and lay on it. Philokles and Theron were escorted to other couches in the second circle.

As soon as the Tanaisians were in their places, Nestor clapped his hands and dancers entered. They danced the rites of spring as village girls danced them throughout the Euxine, if with more grace, and while they moved beautifully through the familiar figures, the first course was served on three-legged tables next to each couch.

‘Nestor tells me you wish to abandon my hospitality,’ Dionysius said. He was enormous, and he was elevated by the height of a man’s lower leg. The combination made conversation awkward, as the tyrant’s head was four feet above Satyrus’s head.

‘Lord, you know that the slave – Tenedos, the steward of Kinon – was at large in your citadel?’ Satyrus craned his neck to see the tyrant’s eyes.

‘Young Satyrus, I know of every event in this castle. I know when a slave girl fucks – or does not fuck – a guest, and how much he tips her.’ He put a morsel of food in his mouth and winked. ‘Tenedos is now past worrying about, but he had many interesting points to make before he went to Hades.’

Satyrus nodded, the lesson going straight home to his heart. ‘Did he betray his master?’ he said carefully.

‘Yes and no, young man. That is, he admitted that he was turned by this Stratokles, but he claimed – while in enormous pain – that it was the slave girl, Kallista, who was the driving force. Not he, of course.’

‘Oh,’ Satyrus said.

‘Ahh, to be so young. A man will say anything under torture. Anything. It need not be the truth. Indeed, it seldom is.’ The tyrant took a whole quail and dropped it in his mouth.

‘What of the Athenian? If I may ask, lord?’ Satyrus took a quail for himself when the platter was offered.

‘Fled – days ago. By ship, I suspect. But he will have left other agents here, I have no doubt.’ The fat man spat bird bones into his hand and dropped them into a bowl on his couch.

‘How convenient for everyone,’ Satyrus said.

‘I regret that I must agree. In your place I would suspect that the tyrant Dionysius was complicit.’ He smiled.

Satyrus sipped his wine bowl. ‘The thought had crossed my mind,’ he said. He tried to sound like a man of the world, but instead he heard a scared boy.

‘But of course, if I wanted you dead, you’d be dead.’ Dionysius winked again. ‘Nestor could have gutted you both and had your meat served in a local shop at the crook of my finger. Or you could die of poison right now, from the wine in that cup. You didn’t have it tasted. You’d never know. Or I could have you strangled in your sleep by my slaves. Really, there’s no need to concern yourself with such things – you are so utterly in my power that it may be that I just can’t make up my mind how to dispose of you.’

Satyrus forced himself to take a bite of food. He had no idea what it tasted like. His mind was not moving.

‘The sword you wear is a nice conceit, but will it defend you from poison? Or even from a determined man with a sword? From my ill will, it offers no defence at all, and by wearing it, you accuse me of being a poor host. It is rude.’ The tyrant rolled over on his couch, and from his position under the huge man, Satyrus could see the length of the thongs that held the mattress and how stretched they were.

‘But you wished to make a statement. Perhaps you felt that you needed to get my attention. Boys do such things. They posture.’ The tyrant smiled again. ‘I posture too. When you are as old as I, and as fat, men will assume that as you are ugly, so you are evil. Don’t you? Kalos kalon? The beautiful is the good. Eh, boy? And since I’m so ugly, I must be evil. I must rape virgins every night, and perhaps bathe in blood. Eh?’ The man leaned over the edge of his couch. ‘So when they call me evil, I posture a little. Understand, boy? Stupid, violent men often mistake goodness for weakness and see evil as strength. You look smart. Do you know whereof I speak?’

Satyrus had, in fact, got the drift. He raised his cup. ‘I drink to the virtue of ugliness, lord,’ he said, turning a pretty phrase. He’d held it in his mind since the tyrant had used the stock phrase Kalos kalon.

Dionysius sat up, and his couch protested. ‘Nestor, did you hear that? The boy just paid me a genuine compliment!’

Nestor chuckled.

‘Virtue of ugliness, indeed. Well said, young man. I think we may indeed be friends. Tell me what you want.’ Dionysius snapped his fingers, and the second course was served. He watched the servers with much the same pride as Kinon had shown, and then a messenger distracted him.

‘Lord, I want to – that is-’ Satyrus stared at the tyrant. What do I want? he thought. Since the man was distracted, he looked around, and his eyes found Melitta’s, sitting on an ivory-decorated chair to his right. Sitting next to her, with her face almost touching his sister’s, was the Nereid from the other night, her black curls framing her face. She was telling his sister a story, and they were both laughing. Melitta caught his eye, and the other girl saw her attention waver and turned her head to look at him, and their eyes met.

Hers were green. All thought left his head. So green. A slave bent over his dining table.

The slave was holding out a solid silver ewer, and he should have asked if Satyrus wanted more wine. Instead, he opened his mouth, and the buzz of the diners, the ebb and flow of conversation, the drone of flies and the sound of the sea spoke like the voice of the god from his mouth.

‘That girl is what you want,’ said the slave. He raised the ewer.

‘What did you say?’ Satyrus asked.

‘More wine, master?’ the slave squeaked.

When Satyrus looked back, his sister and the Nereid were laughing together again. He looked at the slave. The boy was terrified. Well, slaves were often scared. He was learning a great deal about slaves.

He held up his wine cup. The boy raised the pitcher and poured, and Satyrus noted that the pitcher was nearly empty.

The boy spilled wine when his hands shook, just a few drops that fell harmlessly on the couch’s cover.

‘Never mind,’ Satyrus said kindly. He dismissed the boy with a wave. He turned back to the tyrant. ‘What I want, lord, is revenge,’ he said. ‘And the restoration of my city.’

‘Revenge is utterly worthless, young man.’ Dionysius sipped his wine. ‘I hope you haven’t already had a surfeit of tunny. The run this year is superb.’

The giant fish was carried past him by four sweating slaves, all grown men. When Satyrus glanced around, he realized that the boy who had just served him was the only young slave in the hall.

He was nowhere to be seen. ‘I have a mind to make myself king of the Bosporus,’ Satyrus said, and raised the wine cup to his lips. ‘I had no such intention, but Eumeles – Heron – has forced this on me.’

Dionysius narrowed his eyes.

Satyrus put his wine cup down untasted. He’d just made the connections. ‘Lord, I think this wine is poisoned.’

Dionysius flinched as if struck. ‘That is quite an accusation.’ He motioned to Nestor, who came up.

‘Take this cup and test it on someone. The boy thinks that it is poison.’ The tyrant motioned him away. He turned back to Satyrus as if nothing untoward had happened. ‘It is all very well, planning to be a king. That will require riches and armies. What do you want from me?’ Dionysius’s voice made it clear that neither riches nor armies would be forthcoming.

‘I would like permission to leave, and an escort. I wish to reach my friend Diodorus the Athenian.’ Satyrus watched Nestor until he vanished. He had a pounding headache, and he wondered if he had absently already had a sip of the wine. Or been poisoned earlier. He felt queasy.

‘Done,’ the tyrant said.

Silence fell over the hall. Nestor came in by another entrance with a file of soldiers. One of them was carrying a dead dog. Soldiers took station at every entrance.

Slaves suddenly moved like lightning, herded by other soldiers.

Nestor moved to the foot of the dais. He bent his head down and spoke to the tyrant, and the man started. Then he spoke rapidly.

‘I apologize for the inconvenience,’ Nestor announced. ‘This dinner is ended and you are all guests of the tyrant for the night. Soldiers will escort you to rooms. When you are cleared, you will be escorted home. Again, we apologize for any inconvenience. Those responsible will be punished,’ Nestor glanced around, ‘with the utmost rigour.’

Diners looked pale. A woman burst into tears. Soldiers moved up to every couch and took the diners away. Satyrus saw two soldiers escort Theron from the hall, and another pair taking Philokles.

‘Your wine was poisoned, young man. And there’s a boy with his throat cut in the kitchen.’ The tyrant shook his head. ‘I hate that this has happened here. It makes me feel weak. It makes me look weak.’ He shrugged, moving the whole mass of his flesh. ‘Escort them to their rooms. Young man, you have brought me a great deal of trouble – but you have also identified for me a serious threat, and for that you have my thanks.’ He gestured with his hand. Nestor moved to Satyrus’s couch.

‘My lord?’ he said.

Satyrus rolled to his feet. Melitta came up next to him and together they bowed to the tyrant, who responded with a civil inclination of his head. ‘You are excellent children,’ he said. ‘I hope that you live.’

Satyrus met the ogre’s eye. ‘I hope that I will always remember that beauty is not the only good,’ he said.

He started to turn away, but he caught the smile that flashed over the tyrant’s face. ‘When you are ready to be a king, come to me,’ Dionysius the tyrant said. ‘I think I would be happy to be your ally.’ With that, despite his bulk, he moved quickly, vanishing into his guards.

‘Not bad,’ Melitta said. ‘I think you’re starting to play the prince.’

‘I’ll have to live long enough to grow into the part,’ he shot back, but then he grinned at her. ‘Watch out, Lita. I could grow to like it.’

Nestor escorted them to the door. ‘Draco!’ he called out. Many of the diners were gathered outside, being searched with brusque efficiency by the tyrant’s guard. There was a fair amount of silent outrage.

Draco ran up and saluted. ‘Captain?’

‘Take these two back to their rooms,’ he said. ‘I will make arrangements on your behalf. Be ready.’ He spoke tersely and turned away.

Satyrus glanced at Melitta. She shook her head. ‘He means, don’t go to sleep,’ she whispered.

‘Right this way, lady,’ the soldier said. When they were clear of the guests and the other soldiers, he led them by the servants’ ways and the slaves’ stair to their rooms. There were soldiers at every junction in the palace.

‘This happens a little too often for me,’ he said. ‘Word to the wise – the guards saw a man going up the slaves’ stairs about twenty minutes back. They shouted – should have just charged the fucker – and he got away.’ The Macedonian shrugged. ‘More poison? Going to bag that slave girl? Who the fuck knows? I’ve never seen the like of this, except at court at home.’

Satyrus paused at the door of his room, suddenly overwhelmed with an irrational – or perhaps wholly rational – fear of a dark room. ‘Would you have someone search my room?’ he asked.

Draco sighed. ‘I’m not even on duty. Can the search of your room wait until morning?’

Satyrus whirled. ‘No, it cannot. Listen – someone just tried to poison me. Earlier, someone had a go at my sister and managed to poison Kallista – er, her slave. My mother is probably dead in Pantecapaeum, I’m cut off from my friends and my patrimony, and I’m at the end of my tether and I want you to get your arse into that room and check it out, or get someone who will. Understand me?’ His voice was shrill, and his tone was murderous, and he regretted the whole speech the moment it was out of his mouth.

Draco stiffened. ‘Yes, my lord,’ he said, woodenly. He summoned two more guardsmen, had a whispered conversation and then, with lamps in hand, they searched the room, ripped the coverings off the couch and searched them for needles, and summoned a pair of slaves to remake it. Then they did the same for Melitta, moving the snoring Kallista.

When they were done, Satyrus tried to make amends. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

Draco shot him a look of contempt. ‘Just my job, my lord. I’ll be on my way.’

Satyrus paused. ‘Yes, it is, Draco. Sorry for the inconvenience, but it is your job.’

Draco stalked off.

Philokles and Theron joined them in Melitta’s room. They dropped their packs and sat on them. Then Philokles went with Satyrus to his room and they collected his gear and moved it to his sister’s room.

Before they could get it all arranged, there was the rattle of armed soldiers in the colonnade, and Nestor appeared through the curtain.

He entered, followed by a slim figure wrapped to the head in cloaks. ‘The tyrant himself is otherwise engaged,’ Nestor said.

‘He sent me to prove his determination on your behalf,’ Amastris said, emerging from her wraps. She smiled hesitantly. ‘And because I wanted to say goodbye. Nestor will escort you to the stables. Father wants you gone immediately – while he has the palace locked down and no one can speak of your flight. Then he intends to sell every slave in the palace. That boy – the one who served you – was one of ours.’ Her eyes met Satyrus’s, and she smiled at him. He had to lean against the wall. ‘He shouldn’t even have been in the room. He’s not a server – just a cook’s boy. But none of the slaves seem to know anything.’ Her shrug told a great deal. ‘So father is selling every one of them in the morning.’ ‘Ares!’ Philokles said. ‘Every slave in the palace?’

Nestor’s face hardened. ‘I’ll find the man responsible. And we’ll never get to the slaves while they’re still on the staff.’

‘The man responsible is the Athenian, Stratokles,’ Satyrus said. ‘And his agent, the slave Tenedos.’

Nestor shook his head. ‘Stratokles has fled the city, and is a citizen of Athens. We have the house watched, but there is not much more we can do. It now appears that this slave, Tenedos, may have been his messenger to someone inside the palace.’

‘Surely you can take action against him! Arrest him!’ Satyrus blurted.

‘Athens, young prince, does not take well to the prosecution of its ambassadors.’ Nestor snapped his fingers, and a pair of soldiers brought a cauldron of stew. ‘Or their murder. I have eaten from this pot. The wine is my own. Please eat.’

Satyrus didn’t hesitate. He took a loaf of bread from one of the soldiers, picked up a bowl and began to eat. Melitta did the same. Philokles and Theron joined in.

Amastris took a bowl and joined them. She shared the room’s only chair with Melitta, like sisters. ‘My father says, “I smell Olympias and her pet, Cassander.” Olympias serves dark powers. She loves poison.’ She glanced at Melitta. ‘We all fear Olympias. She has been a figure of fear to me since I was born.’

‘Many of your soldiers are from Macedon,’ Melitta said.

Nestor nodded. ‘It will be looked into. You need to be gone from here before someone gets you.’ He looked at Philokles. ‘How long have you been with the twins?’

‘All our lives,’ Satyrus answered. ‘He was my father’s friend. You cannot possibly accuse him.’

Nestor shook his head. ‘My lord, I accuse no one, but I must ask everyone. So you are the same man as figures in tales of Kineas? Good.’ Nestor nodded at Philokles and turned back to Satyrus. ‘I think that if he drank less, he’d be more trustworthy; but he seems a solid man.’

Philokles went red and then a blotched red and white.

Impervious to the Spartan’s rage, Nestor glanced at Theron. ‘How about this athlete? Theron?’ Nestor pointed at him. ‘How long have you known him?’

‘He has been with us from the attack at Tanais,’ Satyrus said. His voice was very low. He looked at Melitta.

‘He would never betray us,’ she said. ‘He’s had a hundred chances to kill us.’

‘Nestor, why are these things happening?’ Amastris spoke in a low voice, almost husky.

‘Why, my lady?’ Nestor shrugged. ‘People play games for power. Olympias and her friend Cassander play them for the love of playing. Olympias is like a cat – she likes to hurt her prey. And they want to own us – and Sinope and the north shore, as well.’ Nestor’s mouth was a hard line. ‘The last time Olympias stretched her talons out towards the north, your father cut them off,’ he said to Satyrus. ‘Zopryon was her lover.’ He chuckled. ‘Of course, everyone at the court of Macedon was her lover at one time or another,’ he continued.

Satyrus was gazing at Amastris, who looked even more like a Nereid. She was gazing back, the pressure of her green eyes on his almost too intense to bear, like strong sunlight on a sunburn.

Satyrus wanted to touch her curls and see what kept them bound so close to each other.

She smiled at him. ‘I like your sister,’ she said, as if she had been his friend for millennia, and as if the two of them were alone in the room.

‘Me too,’ Satyrus said. He ruined the line with some weak giggles.

Nestor put a possessive hand on Amastris’s shoulder. ‘Amastris will rule here one day. Amastris, this handsome boy is a penniless exile, and you will not pay him the slightest attention. You are going to Ptolemy to find a husband – a powerful husband with a fleet.’ He said these words with the amusement of a father.

‘I know, Captain,’ she replied. She smiled at Satyrus again.

‘Look all you like, young man,’ Nestor said. ‘She is our greatest asset in this game of thieves, and she is not for you.’

‘We’re looking for a middle-aged tyrant with a good fleet. Syracusa, perhaps,’ the Nereid said. ‘I’ve been raised to it. I can name the rowing positions. I think I’d make a decent navarch.’ She laughed and turned her grass-green gaze on Melitta. ‘If your brother ever restores his fortune, you’ll be in the same boat, Melitta. He’ll marry you off to secure his coast.’

‘Not if he wants to live through the night,’ Melitta said. She reached over and ruffled her brother’s hair and met Amastris’s eyes. ‘Your father is not what he appears,’ she said.

‘If he were what he appears,’ Nestor said, ‘he’d have eaten you for dinner tonight. But he regrets that someone has the power to show him weak. You two must be gone. The choices are by ship or by caravan. It is your life, young man – which will you choose?’

‘I may be a foolish boy,’ Satyrus said, ‘but I think that if I can make it safely to my father’s friend Diodorus, I will be safe. Many of the men I grew up with are among Diodorus’s mercenaries.’ Even as he spoke, Satyrus relived the last two weeks. He pursed his lips and looked at his sister.

‘Will we ever be safe?’ she asked, speaking the same thought that bounced around in his head.

Philokles was still silent with anger, hitting his wine cup hard.

Theron put a hand on the Spartan’s shoulder. ‘I think we’re safer by land.’

Philokles shrugged. ‘All I have chosen goes wrong,’ he said. ‘I’m just a drunk.’

Melitta went and stood in front of the Spartan. ‘Is that how it is going to be, Philokles?’ she asked. ‘If you won’t think, won’t help and keep drinking wine, I’d just as soon leave you here.’

Theron shook his head violently, out of the Spartan’s sight line.

Satyrus stepped in. ‘Philokles, please help us. You saved our lives again and again the last few weeks. Get us to Diodorus.’

‘Land,’ Philokles said thickly. ‘Let us ride.’

Satyrus turned to the captain of the guard. ‘We will go by land. Now, if you will help us. We’ll need a mule litter for the slave girl.’

Nestor nodded. ‘All is ready, my lord.’ He looked at Satyrus’s leg, and meaningfully at Kallista, who was still pale and could barely eat.

‘You are, all of you, injured,’ he said. ‘If my lord allows it, I think that you should take the doctor.’

Melitta shook her head. ‘I don’t like him.’

Philokles shrugged. ‘I take your point – drunkard that I am. You think that we need his skills.’

Melitta made a noise and Philokles cut her off. ‘Doctors do not grow on trees,’ he said.

‘May you be safe!’ Amastris prayed.

‘We will be safe when we have power,’ Satyrus said.

‘That is not the lesson that Philokles would teach, if he were sober.’ Melitta struggled for composure. She looked at her new friend. ‘Pardon me, Amastris. Sometimes, I remember that I have no home.’

The other girl gave her a quick hug.

When the hasty meal was over, Nestor summoned Amastris’s maids to take her to her own wing of the palace. She hugged Melitta. ‘Write to me in Alexandria,’ she said. ‘You have adventures! I marry some old man with a fleet.’ She smiled. Then she frowned. ‘Hestia protect you, I didn’t mean that you should have adventures. Stay safe! Hestia keep you safe, and Artemis, who protects virgin girls.’ She blushed, and hugged Melitta again. She was a year older than the twins, but Melitta was a head taller, and Satyrus was taller yet.

Satyrus reached out a hand to her – the bravest act of his life – and she took it. ‘You – be safe,’ she said, stammering a little, and blushing.

‘And you, my lady,’ Satyrus said. He kissed her hand, as he had seen Theron do with Kallista.

She giggled. ‘My father would kill you,’ she said, and followed her maids.

She left something hard in Satyrus’s hand – a ring. It was quite a ring, made of gold with garnets around a big red stone carved with a tiny, perfect representation of a man with a club and a lion skin – Herakles. He looked from it to her – he’d never held anything so precious.

‘Hermes protects travellers!’ she called from the doorway. ‘But Herakles triumphs!’