They crossed the plain south of the city, riding through long rows of farms kept by Mariandynoi helots. The farmers watched them from their fields, and once a woman sitting on a bench in front of her hovel spat as they rode by. Their guides were Mariandynoi. Satyrus wondered if either of the pair - Glaucus or Locris - felt the same way.

They crossed the Kales River around noon and immediately they were climbing into the mountains of Bithynia. The guides were stunned at their speed and began to join in complaints about the pace from Sophokles and Kallista. By the time the sun had begun to set, even the soldiers were complaining.

Melitta teased them. ‘You conquered Persia?’ she asked, riding up close. ‘You must have walked.’

That kept them going another hour. They camped on a feeder stream of the Kales, with the whole valley of the river at their feet and the sea just on the edge of the horizon in the distance.

Philokles made the entire ride in silence. He dismounted without a word, took out an amphora of wine with some ceremony and emptied it while Theron glowered at him. Then he fell asleep.

The twins watched, hurt but unable to express themselves. After a while, ignored by the soldiers, they made up a bed, put Kallista into it and fell asleep themselves.

The next morning they were a mass of stiffness, aches and pains. Kallista was awake, and complaining, but Theron got them all in the saddle an hour after sunrise.

‘Do you understand that if we’re caught, we’ll all be killed?’ he said. ‘Everyone get that through your skull - or your hangover,’ he added with a glare for Philokles.

‘No one could keep that pace you set yesterday,’ Draco grumbled. ‘Give us a rest.’

‘Stay behind if you need rest,’ Theron shot back. ‘Leave the litter and ride. We have to move faster!’

They rode an hour before Kallista began puking. She lost her breakfast and proclaimed that she couldn’t ride another stade. ‘My thighs are bleeding!’ she cried.

Theron rode up to her and pulled her off her horse. He put her across his saddle. ‘Ride!’ he ordered.

At the noontime halt, Draco offered Satyrus a bite of garlic sausage. ‘Your tutor intends to ride at this pace all the way to Eumenes?’ he asked.

Satyrus gave the Macedonian a tired grin, happy that the man had decided not to stay mad. ‘My sister and I can keep this up for days. This is how we ride, on the sea of grass.’

Philip shook his head. ‘I’d rather die,’ he said. He shrugged. ‘But I won’t. Just you watch. I won’t die.’

Kallista lay on the patchy mountain grass and sobbed. At the end of the halt, Theron picked her up like a sack of grain and put her across his lap to ride.

‘Fucking hills is full of thieves,’ Draco said, watching the hillsides around them as they rode.

‘We’re going too fast for thieves,’ Philip said. He nodded at Theron. ‘Athlete knows his business. At this speed, any bandit what sees us gets left in our dust.’

‘We need a watch tonight,’ Draco said. He drew his knees together, favouring his thighs and trying to sit back on his horse’s haunches. ‘Prince, you willing to take a trick? I hear how you’re a swordsman.’

Satyrus looked away, unsure - as he always was with these men - whether he was being mocked or praised. ‘I’ll take a watch,’ he said.

Draco pushed his gelding up next to Theron. ‘Three watches? You and the Spartan, me and the boy, and Philip and the guides?’ He looked at the Athenian doctor with thinly disguised contempt. ‘And you, Sophokles? Can you fight?’

‘I’d rather not,’ the doctor said.

‘That’s fucking helpful. You helots - what about you?’

The guides, Locris and Glaucus, looked at each other. ‘We’re not allowed weapons, lord,’ Locris said.

‘Can you throw a javelin?’ Draco asked.

Both men nodded, after some looking around.

‘Sling?’ Philokles asked. It was his first sensible word in a day.

Again, both helots looked at each other for some time. After a minute, Locris nodded. ‘We can sling,’ he said.

Draco and Philokles shared a look. Draco nodded back. ‘Why don’t you two boys make yourselves slings at dinner?’ he said. ‘And I’ll give each of you a javelin and my warrant that you can carry it.’

‘Thank you, lord,’ Locris said to the Macedonian. Everyone was a lord to the helots.

At dinner, the two of them sat by the fire, unweaving a net bag for the twine and then making slings. They wove the fibres - braided them, really - so fast that Satyrus couldn’t follow their motions.

Philokles watched him watching. ‘In Sparta, a helot can make a weapon out of anything,’ he said. ‘The Spartiates keep disarming them, and the poor bastards never really give up.’ He stroked his beard. ‘Ten slingers will beat a hoplite every time.’

Satyrus wanted to say ‘You’re sober!’ but he knew that would be the wrong thing to say. ‘I haven’t had a lesson in weeks,’ he said, as if requesting a lesson from your tutor was an everyday thing.

Philokles gave him a tight smile. ‘The last three weeks have been nothing but lessons, boy.’

Sophokles, the doctor, produced a wineskin. ‘Here!’ he said, offering the skin to Philokles. ‘Have some wine!’

Philokles swatted the skin away. ‘Rat piss.’ He produced his own. ‘Want some?’ he asked. He looked dangerous; he thrust the skin at Satyrus like a swordsman.

Satyrus sat on his haunches, balancing his forearms on his knees. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t want any wine. And I’d rather you didn’t have any, either.’ His voice broke as he said it. Philokles scared him when he was this way. ‘Why do you have to be like this?’

‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’ Philokles said, and started drinking.

The doctor watched the Spartan, his face full of anger. Later he offered wine to Melitta, and she glared at him. ‘Keep your wine,’ she said. Sophokles stalked off.

Still later, when they were all in their blankets, Philokles started to sing. Satyrus didn’t know the tune, but it sounded martial, with a strong beat. The big man was by the fire, dancing, stomping his feet to the rhythm of the music that he sang. The postures of the dance looked like pankration, and then they looked like swordsmanship, and then they looked like marching. Philokles’ dancing was beautiful, and he danced on, singing as his own accompaniment.

‘Fucking Spartans,’ Philip said.

‘You people ought to do something about him,’ Sophokles said.

Later, just before the Dog Star set, the Spartan sat suddenly, like an olive shaken from the tree, and burst into tears.

It was a long night.

‘Thinking of Harmone’s golden sandals,’ he said. ‘She had four pairs. Now she’s been sold. She was the head of the tyrant’s wardrobe - a real job, doing something she liked. Where’ll she go?’

Draco laughed. ‘Any brothel will be happy to have her, lad. She loves the game.’

Satyrus shook his head with adolescent vehemence. ‘She’ll be a whore!’

‘Aphrodite’s tits, boy! Begging your sister’s pardon, of course. But are you in love with her? She’ll land on her feet.’

‘Or her back,’ Philip said with a leer.

‘I think what my brother is saying,’ Melitta said primly, ‘is that she might just possibly want more out of life than sweating under the likes of you.’

That reduced the two Macedonians to silence for twenty stades.

The Athenian doctor laughed, later. ‘They’ve never considered the possibility that women might be human,’ he said. ‘Good for you!’

‘Why does he applaud every time we fight among ourselves?’ Satyrus asked his sister.

She laughed. ‘You’ve been to Athens?’ she asked.

Satyrus made a show of receiving a blow. ‘Of course!’ he said.

Just after the noon halt, they met a caravan coming the other way. Two Heraklean merchants with salt and alum and a consignment of lapis lazuli on forty donkeys made up the convoy, with ten paid guards, two of them wounded.

Theron stopped their group at a wide point in the twisting mountain trail and pulled them all to one side so that the donkeys could pass in single file.

‘Have a fight?’ Philokles called.

One of the merchants rode over. ‘The next pass but one is full of bandits - old soldiers.’ He looked at the group, and the two girls. ‘Best ride back with us. They’ll kill you for the women.’

Philokles loosened his sword in his scabbard. ‘Have any wine to sell?’ he asked aggressively.

The man shrank back a bit from this display. ‘I might find you a skin,’ he said. He thought that he was being threatened - it was obvious from the way he looked up at the hillsides.

Theron glared at Philokles. Philokles paid no attention. He paid a silver owl for a skin of wine, an unheard-of amount, and the merchant beamed with friendship. ‘Drink it in good health!’ he called.

Theron drew his sword while Philokles’ attention was on the merchant, and cut the skin right out of Philokles hand, leaving him holding the neck. The wine made a gurgling noise as it poured out into the dust.

‘Get down and lick it, if that’s what you want,’ Theron said.

There was no warning. Philokles launched himself from the back of his mare on to the back of Theron’s mare, and the two of them went down on the far side of the horses in a tangle of limbs. Philokles landed on top and got in two vicious blows at Theron’s head, breaking his nose so that blood fountained and Satyrus’s nose hurt in sympathy.

Satyrus edged his horse closer, but a Macedonian arm blocked him. ‘Let ’em fight,’ Draco said. ‘The Spartan bastard has it coming. Besides, I want to see this.’

Theron, broken nose and all, gripped Philokles’ arms and began to force the man off his chest. He managed to raise his own hips, an amazing feat of strength, and then he rolled and tumbled and suddenly he was free. Dust flew as if they were dogs fighting, and Satyrus saw Theron get a fist in Philokles’ hair, and then there was a sickening thud as Philokles landed a heavy blow on the Corinthian’s head.

‘Ten gold darics on the Spartan,’ Philip said.

‘Shouldn’t somebody stop this?’ Sophokles asked. The doctor was amused.

The Macedonians ignored him. ‘Done. You’re an idiot.’ Draco turned to Satyrus. ‘Here - you’re a prince. You hold the money.’

Theron was on his feet with the Spartan’s hair in one hand. He’d taken three heavy blows and his face registered pain, but now he stepped in, grabbed a hand and suddenly, as if by magic, he had Philokles kneeling in the dust, one arm behind his back.

‘Submit!’ he ordered.

‘Fuck yourself!’ the Spartan spat.

‘I’ll break your arm,’ Theron said, and put some pressure on the joint.

Philokles roared with rage and kicked back with his right foot. For all that he was off balance and in pain, it was a shrewd blow, but Theron had not competed at the Olympics for nothing - he loosed his hold, rotated his hip and avoided the blow and then replaced his hold, all as if giving a lesson. This time he jerked the Spartan’s head up and his right arm down.

‘Submit,’ he said.

‘Or what?’ Philokles said. Despite the pain in his arm socket, he managed to roll his own hip and land an elbow in Theron’s gut. He broke the hold and rolled away. When he rose, he could barely raise his right arm.

Melitta slipped off her horse. ‘If you two don’t stop, one of you will be too injured to fight bandits.’ She planted her hands on her hips.

‘If he will not submit, his drunken foolishness will kill all of us,’ Theron said. ‘Act like a man, Spartan. I’m not going all out, you fool of a Spartan. I could pull your arm right out. Shall I? Or do you have to pretend that you can take me?’

‘All I hear is talk,’ Philokles spat, and came forward.

There was a flash and a sound like a tree branch snapping in the wind, and then only Theron was standing. He was shaking his right hand back and forth. ‘Apollo, lord of games!’ he said. ‘Fucking Spartans!’

Philokles lay unconscious in the dust. Sophokles dismounted in weary disgust and went to look at him, glaring at Theron all the while.

Locris and Glaucus had eyes as round as kraters.

The last guards from the caravan hurried away, exchanging money as they went and laughing nervously. Satyrus handed Draco all the money he had put in his hat.

It took both Macedonians and Theron to get the Spartan over his horse, and they made poor time until Philokles recovered consciousness. Satyrus watched him, and met his eye, and smiled.

Philokles winked.

Satyrus suppressed his urge to say something. Instead, after ten minutes had gone by, he raised a hand. ‘Halt!’ he said. He slipped down from his horse and, with some help from Philip, they got Philokles on his feet. He walked his horse for some time, without speaking, and then he climbed painfully on to the beast’s back without using his right arm, and then he rode with his face in his horse’s mane.

They were a silent crew until they made camp.

‘Can you manage a watch?’ Theron asked Philokles. Every head in the camp turned.

‘Why don’t you stand it with me?’ Philokles asked.

‘I will,’ Theron responded.

Philokles looked around. ‘I want the doctor on my watch,’ he said. His tone said that he was looking for trouble.

‘I don’t stand watches,’ Sophokles said. ‘I need a clear head.’

‘Fine,’ Philokles said. ‘I’ll just kick you every few minutes.’

Satyrus wondered why Theron did nothing to interfere, but he didn’t.

‘I want to say something,’ Satyrus said to his sister.

She shook her head emphatically. ‘Theron has some idea of what he’s doing. Let him do it.’ She rubbed her chin. ‘There’s something going on - Philokles and Theron. And the doctor. I don’t get it.’

‘Philokles is up to something, and Theron is in on it,’ Satyrus said. He didn’t get it, either, and he went to sleep thinking about it.

It was Philokles who woke Satyrus for his watch. His blankets were warm, and his sister had been pressed comfortably against his back, and the mountain air, even in summer, had a bite to it. But he rose, took the offered spear and sat by the fire with Draco.

Draco nodded. ‘You’ve done this before, lad?’ he said.

‘My mother made us stand watches on the sea of grass,’ he said. ‘I’ll go and look at the horses.’

‘Good lad,’ the Macedonian said.

Three or four similar exchanges passed the whole of the watch, and then Satyrus was in his cloaks again, and asleep.

The next day they awoke to find that both of the guides were gone - fled or deserted, it was hard to know. They’d taken the javelins they’d been given and nothing else.

The two Macedonians were for riding after them. Philokles shook his head.

‘How would we find them?’ he asked. ‘They were our guides. They’ll know the tracks and the hillsides. We’ll stick to the path.’

They rode down and down into a deep valley, where they halted for lunch. The two Macedonians were hyper alert, but nothing came at them. They ate standing by their horses, and after they had all switched to fresh, they rode on. Kallista moaned quietly. She was on her own pony now, and she looked so miserable that no one would mistake her for a beauty. The doctor watched the hillsides endlessly.

An hour from the valley, Draco rode up past Satyrus and pushed his horse close to Theron’s. ‘I just saw the flash of metal on the hillside,’ he said. ‘Right up above us.’

‘I saw it too,’ Philokles said. He turned to Theron. ‘Since you’re in charge, Corinthian, you can tell us - what are we doing?’

Theron looked at them. ‘We’re four competent fighting men and a boy who knows which end of the blade to hold - and a girl who can kill if she has to. If they’re foolish enough to attack us, we kill them. Bandits are all cowards.’

Draco grunted. ‘Not here they ain’t, athlete. Here, they’re like as not veterans of Arbela and Issus, or the fight between Athens and Macedon.’

‘The one Macedon lost?’ Sophokles asked. ‘We call it the Lamian War.’

Even Melitta, who didn’t like the doctor, was surprised by the venom in his voice.

Philokles tried to rotate his right arm in its socket and his face clouded with pain. ‘Any more good ideas, Corinthian?’

Theron smiled at him. ‘Since you’re sober, why don’t you tell us how to proceed, Philokles?’

Philokles was still. He held Theron’s eye steadily, and after a pause that went on too long, he said, ‘I would rather not.’

Theron looked around. ‘I’ll go first. As soon as they start shooting, we ride for it. We have fresh beasts and we can outdistance pursuit. If the twins would care to give us some archery, we’d be the better for it.’

Melitta grinned. ‘I thought that you’d forgotten me.’ She took her bow out of her gorytos.

‘Put that away,’ Philokles said. ‘Don’t let them know we’re on to them. Draw when they come for us, not before. And Melitta - don’t let yourself be taken. Understand? I’ve been pig-headed - I should have turned us back when we met the caravan.’ He looked at the ground and then at Theron. ‘Don’t let the children be taken.’

‘Speak for yourself,’ Philip said. He sat straighter. ‘Let’s see how many we can put in the earth, eh?’

Draco nodded, but his lips were pursed.

Theron shook his head. ‘If we go back, we’re certain to die,’ he said. ‘If we get through the bandits—’

The doctor spoke up. His face was white. ‘I don’t think that this is well thought. What if there are very many of them? Let us go back. We can still take ship from Heraklea—’

Theron didn’t even turn his head. ‘We’re not going back.’

‘This is foolishness!’ the Athenian said. ‘Are you insane? We can ride back up the trail a day and go down the Gordian passes with a real caravan! Just turn back!’ Spittle flew when he spoke.

‘Enough talk.’ Philokles looked at Theron.

Satyrus was sure that there was some exchange in that look.

Then the Spartan tucked his heels into his girth and prodded his gelding forward. ‘I’ll go first. My arm isn’t worth a crap and I might as well eat the first spear.’ He had the set look of a man committed to a course of action.

‘We have armour,’ Satyrus said.

Draco was dismissive. ‘If we put it on they’ll know we know they’re there.’

Satyrus shook his head. ‘We stop, and Melitta sneaks away to have a piss - in a way that can be seen from above. Get your cuirass on under your chlamys while you pretend to have a dump.’

Philip laughed and looked at Satyrus as if reappraising him. ‘You may make a general yet, boy.’ He ruffled Satyrus’s hair.

Theron nodded. ‘Halt!’ he said. He turned to Melitta. A little too loudly, he said, ‘Very well, princess. Go and relieve yourself.’

With a credible imitation of a shame-faced girl, Melitta climbed behind a rock to their left and they could hear her muttering to herself as she fumbled with her multiple chitons.

Satyrus had a small thorax of scales from the armour shop. He got off his horse on the downhill side, his heart pounding, and got to his pack animal with a minimum of fuss. His thorax was wrapped in goatskin. He unrolled it on the ground, put the skin back in the basket and pulled the thorax on. He laced it up the side himself, annoyed at the sound he made. Then he slipped his sword belt over the whole and pulled his cloak over it.

‘This is insanity, boy.’ Sophokles scrambled up. ‘Call your sister over and we’ll slip away. That Spartan is going to his death and taking us all with him.’

Satyrus shrugged twice under his armour, trying to get the chest to fit. It felt tight. He unwound one of the laces and redid it. He didn’t know what to say to the older man, so he ignored him. He was afraid enough without help.

The man walked away.

The two Macedonians made a pretty good show of wagering on which of them could piss the farthest. Then they complained about how long women took, and then they argued over their wager until Philip threatened to piss on his partner.

Satyrus’s brain finally realized that they were going to fight. It hit him between breaths, and his chest grew tighter, as if the armour was still laced too hard.

He met Philokles’ eye.

‘Scared, boy?’ Philokles asked.

Satyrus chose nodding, as being better than squeaking.

‘Me too,’ Philokles said. He flashed a grin. ‘Still, I won’t kill anyone this way.’ He winced as he got his left arm into the armour he had picked up. ‘Pull it tight, boy,’ he asked.

‘That doctor is scared worse than me,’ Satyrus said.

‘Hmm,’ Philokles answered.

Satyrus got Philokles into his armour while Kallista complained about her thighs, horses and the world. Satyrus didn’t think it was an act. The doctor sat on his gelding, glaring around him as if every rock could vomit bandits.

And then Theron yelled at Melitta for being a weak-livered bitch, and she came out from behind her rock, and they were up and moving.

Satyrus could scarcely breathe. He tried to keep his right hand off his sword hilt and his left hand off his bow. The trail was steeper here and the sharp bends were so numerous that sightlines were less than a stade on each turn. There were no trees at all, just scrub and rock and summer meadow grass and more rock.

‘Any time now,’ Philip said, about one breath before an arrow hit Philokles between the shoulders.

The arrow didn’t penetrate the bronze scale, and Philokles gave a shout and pressed his gelding into rapid motion.

Behind Satyrus, the doctor’s horse panicked and he tried to turn the beast on the narrow road, blocking the track.

Satyrus looked all around him, saw an arrow coming in and flinched away, drawing his own bow. His horse leaped forward and he gave it its head, and the beast pushed right past Philokles and he was in the lead - not a position he wanted. Two arrows hit his horse - thump-crump - and the beast’s legs collapsed, spilling Satyrus on to the scree of the trail so that he rolled clear of his dying horse and fell over the edge. He fell the length of his own body and all the wind was driven from his lungs as he hit. His head rang.

Time passed as he tried to focus his eyes. He could hear shouts on the trail above him, and then a clash of iron, or bronze. And then he had control of his lungs - and then, a few seconds later, control of his limbs. He was lying on a rock shelf a little wider than his body. He got to his feet and started collecting arrow shafts, as his fall had dumped the contents of his quiver. He grabbed ten or twelve and thrust them back into his gorytos, feeling the press of the fighting above him.

Melitta shouted something and he heard the buzz of an arrow.

He went to the end of the shelf and got a foot up on a projecting boulder, his head throbbing. As soon as he could look over the trail, he saw Theron standing over Philokles. He had his cloak over his arm and his sword in his fist, and a man lay in the trail. Philokles was clutching his knee in the gravel. Draco and Philip were back to back down the trail, with a knot of men around them, and Melitta sat between them, still mounted, shooting arrows.

Satyrus didn’t think anyone had seen him. He pushed himself over the edge of the trail and stood up, just a few horse-lengths from Theron. Then he nocked an arrow, forcing himself to go slowly, to get the nock on the string. He breathed in deeply, raised his bow, only then letting himself look at the desperate fight twenty feet away.

He chose one of Theron’s opponents. The men were in armour, but Satyrus had all the time in the world to aim at the back of the man’s thigh - an easy shot at twenty feet. The man’s leg went out from under him immediately, and he rolled and fell.

They all had armour - Satyrus was just taking that in when Theron, freed from one opponent, feinted a cut and kicked his other opponent in the shield, so that the man went over backwards. Theron kicked the man between the legs and then finished him with a short thrust to his neck, already looking around.

Theron’s other opponent made the mistake of thinking that Philokles was out of action. When he stepped across the Spartan to attack Theron’s rear, Philokles’ left hand locked on his ankle like a vice and Philokles scissored his feet up and grabbed the man’s waist and pulled him down. Theron stepped back over the Spartan as if they had designed the whole move as a dance and cut the man’s throat.

Satyrus had another arrow on his string. His sister shot and missed - an archer standing on the hillside. He ducked. But he didn’t see Satyrus, and Satyrus could still see him. He shot on instinct, a little high, a little wide to the right for the breeze.

He watched his arrow fly, thrilled as it arced and vanished into the bandit’s side. Satyrus saw it all, but he didn’t see the archer who shot him. There was a blast of pain, like falling into cold water, and then he was out.

Satyrus had a bruise on his side as big as his head, and the centre of it was livid and leaked pus where the scale armour had deflected the arrow’s point - mostly. His ears still rang from time to time and twice he put down his heavy load to vomit, and the guards hit him with their canes and laughed at his feeble attempts to puke.

Melitta wanted to kill them - both of them. She was carrying the heaviest load of her life, a basket full of grain purchased with threats in a village lower down the pass. It was, in fact, about half the food that their little caravan had. And the water was running out. Springs were zealously guarded in these steep defiles, and the petty lords and bandit kings who ruled from their eyries charged heavily for each beaker of water.

But their new owner apparently had a soft heart. He stopped to get them water and a night’s sleep, and bought a quantity of food. Then he offered his whole parcel for sale - Satyrus and Melitta, brother and sister, right on the edge of adulthood, and both startlingly attractive, both virgins - to a pair of Greek merchants. They also offered the other girl - also a beauty, you could tell, despite her pale face and her complaining. Satyrus was naked and had a bad bruise on his side and the girls were clothed, and men in the crowd shouted for both of the girls to be stripped. One of the soldiers in the caravan’s escort used the stock of his riding whip to knock a heckler unconscious, and that was the end of the salacious catcalls.

Men bid - some bid high, for the twins - but the Greek merchants had cash and a seal from some great power down in the green valleys, and the men of the town glared lustfully at the girls - and the boy - as they were shackled and led away.

One of the two merchants was a Spartan by his way of talking. He was the worse for wine, even at the height of the sun, and he probably paid too much for the children, for his partner, a Boeotian, glared at him until their little cavalcade rode off down the south fork. No one thought to ask how the Greeks had happened to have so many horses, or why the merchant’s caravan guards went with the Greeks.

Theron was still calming Kallista. At some point she had gone from his enemy to his lover, and she had shared his blankets almost every night on the road since the fight with the bandits. She seemed as infatuated with him as he was with her - but even the pretence of a slave auction had driven her into a state not far from madness.

‘Theron is not listening,’ Satyrus said. His skin was burned a deep brown from days of riding and days of walking naked in a pack of slaves. His feet were harder than they’d ever been before, but the first day had been agony for him, and he still had an angry red mark on his left arm where the arrow had gone right through his bicep, and the wound in his side, while not life-threatening, hurt when he breathed heavily.

The soldiers had cooperated to make his journey as easy as possible, but the charade as slaves had been necessary to pass the town. He’d had to carry a load like a slave, and that had inflamed his side and put knots of pain deep into his back. The load had been as light as possible, but he couldn’t be empty-handed without appearing different and negating the whole disguise.

He had muscles in his shoulders that he’d never had working in the gymnasium, and his chest was broader.

‘I did not enjoy pretending to be a slave,’ Melitta said. ‘So - we’re free. Did you worry that we might not ever get free, brother?’

‘I worry about everything now,’ he said. ‘Yes, I wondered what would happen if bandits hit us again. We’d be slaves for ever.’

Philokles swayed on his horse. ‘To some extent,’ he said, ‘we’re all slaves.’

He had taken a cut in his leg in the fight and Theron had given him wine for the pain, and now he was drinking as hard or harder than before his fight with the Corinthian.

Satyrus was indignant. ‘I didn’t see you walking naked in the sun, tutor. I saw you drink wine in the shade, though!’

Their Athenian doctor laughed aloud, a nasty laugh. ‘Ditch him,’ he said. ‘He’s a drunk.’

That brought no reply, and they rode in silence while the sun sank.

There was an old Persian station house on the road just south of Geza, a tiny hamlet that had probably existed to serve the needs of the Great King’s messengers. But a Macedonian veteran and his local wife kept the station house, and they camped in the yard and the woman fed them on beans and bread.

‘We should fight,’ Theron said, after dinner. He drank some water from the well and handed the dipper to Satyrus. ‘You’re bigger and stronger.’

Satyrus shrugged. ‘Whatever,’ he said.

Theron hit him. Not hard, but hard enough to hurt. ‘That was the response of a child,’ he said. ‘I am your athletics coach. You are Satyrus of Tanais. Not a slave, and not an idiot. Act the part.’

Satyrus of Tanais sat for a moment in the mud by the well. He thought of thousands of replies - bitter, sarcastic, cutting, outrageous.

‘You’re right, of course,’ he said after a pause.

‘Good for you. Let’s go.’ They walked past some low scrub where the animal pens were, to a cropped lawn kept by goats, and stripped. Melitta followed them.

Satyrus hadn’t fought anyone since he took the wound in his arm. He took his guard carefully, and the bigger man circled him, and Satyrus found himself viewing the fight from a very different perspective than he had the first time the two of them had faced off on the sand in Tanais. Most of all, he couldn’t see it as a game any more. People could die in a fight. He knew that now.

Theron had a long reach, and he stepped in and grabbed with both hands. Satyrus blocked and kicked, and after a pair of exchanges, he was down in the grass, a recent contribution from the goats warm and liquid on his thigh, and his left side and shoulder screaming with pain.

‘Don’t be so cautious,’ Theron said. ‘Be confident.’

‘Easy for you to say,’ Satyrus grunted as he twisted around one of the Corinthian’s long legs.

Theron tipped him and put him down while he was trying to dodge all those kicks.

He got up and tried again. This time he moved in close, trying to get inside his coach’s reach. He tried to be confident and got a mouth full of grass for his efforts.

He got up and they began to circle again. He decided to go for a hold.

That ended quickly.

They went ten falls. Satyrus’s new muscles served him well, in that he could continue, and for a blow or two he could match the bigger man. But experience told every time, and weight, and reach. And pain. His shoulder wound hurt all the time.

‘Let’s just practise some holds,’ Theron said after the last fall. ‘You are tiring, and we are boring your sister.’

So they stood in a line and practised guards, and Theron moved back and forth between them, making simple attacks so that his hands and feet could be blocked. When all three of them were breathing hard, he picked up his canteen from his clothes and handed it around.

‘I never meant the two of you to remain on the road so long,’ he said. ‘But Draco was sure we were followed until we crossed the mountains. We should have gone south after Bithynia.’

Satyrus shrugged. ‘We’ll live,’ he said, and a little happiness began to grow in his heart. He turned to his sister. ‘We will live!’

They had barely spoken in days, and they shared a long embrace.

Melitta kissed him on the nose and turned to Theron. ‘We have to stop Philokles from drinking,’ she said. ‘For good.’

Theron hung his head. ‘He - he and I - it is hard to say this to a child. He thinks he failed you, and then - he feels I have spurned him for Kallista.’ He looked at both of them. ‘And there is more to this than meets your eyes. Trust me. And - trust Philokles.’

‘I do,’ Satyrus said.

‘I can see that you have a plan,’ Melitta said.

Theron wiped sweat off his face with his forearm. He paused a moment and said, ‘Perhaps I have, at that.’

Melitta turned on her brother. ‘Kallista wasn’t for you, anyway. Why not Theron? And Philokles drinks because he is cursed, not because of a silly girl with big eyes.’ She turned back to the Corinthian, and Satyrus thought that she was getting more and more like their mother.

‘Tomorrow, as soon as we have ridden over the pass,’ she said, ‘we will get off our horses all together, and search all the baggage, and destroy every drop of wine in the packs.’

‘That’s a start,’ Theron said. ‘Until we reach a place that will sell wine.’

‘One step at a time,’ Melitta said.

‘Sister, I love you extremely,’ Satyrus said. He felt as if he was putting on his former self, and the last days were a skin that was falling away.

She hugged him again. ‘I love it when you say things like that,’ she said. She was serious, so he used the embrace to pin her and tickle her ribs until she boxed his ears.

Neither of them saw Theron grin.

The Athenian sat on his horse and laughed his laugh at them. ‘He’s a wine-bibber!’ he said. ‘A cistern-ass! You’ll never get it all.’

Satyrus ignored him and went back to searching. He was appalled to find how many jars of wine were secreted in the packs. Almost every armour pack had something. But he watched the two Macedonian soldiers, again amazed at the skill with which they searched.

Philip had an amphora to his mouth. He took a long pull and handed it to Satyrus. ‘Last grape until we get the Spartan off the sauce,’ he said.

Satyrus drank some and passed it to Melitta, who drank a little and handed the jar to Theron, who took a long pull and gave it to Kallista, who finished it.

‘What about me?’ the Athenian asked.

‘You can have some when you start helping, doctor,’ Philip said.

They loaded all the panniers and baskets and bundles, tied everything down and rode on.

The fun started when they made camp. When Philokles began his search, he at least pretended discretion, but then he went on with increasing desperation.

‘It’s all gone,’ Melitta said. She walked up behind him, as he searched one of the armour baskets.

Philokles turned on her, his eyes wild.

‘All gone, tutor. Every drop. It’s two days’ travel back to the last town and ten days forward. We all love you and we’ll stand by you.’ She offered her hand to him.

Satyrus watched with a lump in his throat. Theron and the Macedonians pretended to be doing something else. The doctor watched with the insolence of a man watching bad theatre.

Philokles made a grunting noise. After a few minutes it became sobbing. Then he was silent.

The silence lasted a day.

On the second night, Philokles got wine from somewhere, and he drank it. Then he was sick - violently sick. So sick that he puked his guts out.

The doctor looked him over, sprawled on his blankets. Fastidiously, he listened at the Spartan’s chest and felt his neck and wrist. He pursed his lips and shook his head. ‘Nothing I can do,’ he said. ‘When a man tries to kill himself with drink, he will.’

Theron glared at the Athenian and made Philokles drink salt water until he puked again. Then he sat with his arm around Philokles.

Nobody slept much.

The next day Philokles lay on the ground, barely breathing. The Macedonians walked around the camp, muttering, and Satyrus threw javelins and spent too much time squatting beside the Spartan.

‘Is he actually trying to kill himself?’ he asked Theron.

Kallista came and sat gracefully by them. ‘I tried to kill myself once,’ she said, in a matter-of-fact voice. She looked at the doctor. In an almost teasing voice, she said, ‘And I almost died of poison, once.’

Theron looked at both of them, as if considering something.

Melitta came and sat by the slave girl. ‘Where did he get wine?’ she asked.

Theron shrugged. ‘We missed something.’

Melitta looked at Satyrus, who shook his head. ‘Philip and Draco went through every basket,’ he said. ‘I watched them. They’ve been trained to search.’

Sophokles came up, laid the back of his hand on the Spartan’s cheek and shrugged. ‘You missed something. I told you that you would.’ Then he went and sat near Kallista. He laid two fingers lightly on her cheek, but she shook him off and he smiled at her.

Melitta watched Theron’s face as he caught the physical exchange. He was angry.

Satyrus watched the three of them. There was something between the girl and the doctor. Theron was now the girl’s lover. Satyrus rubbed his chin, and his wandering eyes found his sister’s. Somewhere in the contact there was a spark of illumination.

‘Of course,’ Satyrus said, his eyes and his sisters locked in silent communication, ‘we never searched your packs.’ He raised his eyes from Melitta’s and looked at Sophokles.

‘I’m not denying that I have some wine,’ Sophokles said. ‘It’s medicinal, and for my own consumption.’

Theron shot to his feet. When the Athenian attempted to move, one of Theron’s long arms pinned him. ‘Open his pack,’ he said.

‘I like the Spartan,’ Kallista said. She seemed to be speaking to the air.

‘I don’t care who you like, slave,’ the doctor said.

‘I don’t want him to die,’ she said. ‘Heal him.’

Satyrus opened the doctor’s bedroll. The outer layer was a pair of goatskins. Inside were two chlamyses, with a cup, a very elegant leather bag, and a pair of amphorae wrapped in wolf skin. The amphorae were themselves beautiful - black, with red and white figures dancing.

‘Keep your hands off those, boy!’ the doctor said.

‘Bring them here,’ Theron said in a voice of bronze.

Satyrus obeyed.

Kallista looked at Melitta for a long time. Melitta met her gaze. Satyrus watched the two of them while he walked back, and felt disoriented. He was surrounded by secrets - even his sister had them. They were staring at each other.

The doctor was staring at Kallista. Then he looked up. ‘Be careful with those,’ he said. ‘Chian wine - the best!’ His voice had an odd inflection.

‘Make him drink it,’ Kallista said. Her voice had a dreamy quality to it.

‘Shut up, slave girl,’ the Athenian spat. ‘This has gone far enough.’

Melitta shook her head. She had stopped staring at Kallista. ‘Have you chosen your side, girl?’ she asked.

The slave girl looked away.

‘Now or never,’ Melitta said.

Kallista looked at Satyrus. Satyrus understood it all in a moment of inspiration, as if Athena had whispered the whole plot in his ear. He drew his sword and stood by the slave girl. ‘We can protect you,’ he said.

Melitta gave him the look of a sister who is glad her brother has a brain. ‘Choose!’ she said imperiously.

Kallista hung her head so that her hair covered her face. ‘He’s no doctor. Not really.’

‘You’re a liar, whore,’ the Athenian shot back.

‘He kills for money.’ Kallista’s voice was calm.

‘I don’t have to listen to this filth,’ Sophokles said. He began to squirm in Theron’s grip.

‘Kallista has chosen her side, traitor,’ Melitta said. ‘You tried to poison us, and her, and now you’ve poisoned Philokles.’

Sophokles looked around. ‘Foolishness. You may be a princess, but you have the soft head of a woman. I saved her when she was poisoned, and—’

Theron tightened his grip, inspiration written on his face. ‘The Spartan saved her,’ he said carefully. ‘You put on a show. I didn’t see it at the time.’ He nodded at the recumbent Spartan. ‘He did. He saw through you, you bastard.’

‘How long have you known?’ Satyrus asked his sister.

‘About two minutes,’ she answered with a hard smile. ‘Kallista told me with her eyes when you got the wine.’

‘She’s in on it too, then,’ Draco said. He drew his sword.

‘Yes,’ Kallista said. She sighed. ‘They offered me money and freedom.’ She looked around.

‘I meet the offer,’ Melitta said proudly. ‘You’ll be free in days, Kallista.’

It was all too fast for Satyrus. He looked back and forth.

‘You have no proof,’ the doctor said. ‘This is insane.’

‘I don’t need proof,’ Draco said. ‘Fuck, he must have been planted on the court. Who sent you, you ass-cunt?’ His sword flashed as he hit the Athenian with the bronze hilt.

The doctor - if he was indeed a doctor - was unprepared for the leap to violence, and he went down clutching his head. Theron jumped him and pinned him again in a classic possession hold - head back, arm locked and near breaking.

‘Stop,’ Theron said. The doctor tried to struggle, and there was a burst of activity as he did something, but whatever his surge of wriggling meant, it failed to overcome Theron’s impassive grip.

Satyrus and Melitta exchanged another glance. Satyrus got up. ‘Would you like to live?’ he asked.

The doctor couldn’t even look up. ‘Of course,’ he said. If he was aiming for arrogance, he missed. He sounded worried - terrified.

Satyrus tried to look at Kallista. ‘Save Philokles and I will let you live. Betray your employer and I will let you go.’ He looked around. Theron nodded, and after a minute Draco shrugged.

‘Fair enough, prince. But I can get it out of him anyway.’ Draco smiled with just half his mouth. ‘Fucking traitor. Fucking Athenians, eh?’

‘Too right, mate,’ Philip said. He had a small, very elegant knife in his hand - steel, a slot of brilliant blue in the sun. ‘Give me a minute - just a minute - and I’ll see to it that we know all he has to tell.’ ‘Swear by Zeus Soter that you’ll let me go!’ Sophokles said.

‘I swear by Zeus Soter that I will do nothing to harm you, and that, if you betray your employer, I will let you go free,’ Satyrus said.

‘Make your friends swear!’ the Athenian said.

‘I swear that I will order that you not be harmed.’ He looked around. ‘For one day.’

‘I swear,’ Theron said.

‘I swear,’ Melitta said.

‘I swear by Zeus Soter that you deserve to die and I hope it comes to you soon,’ Kallista said. ‘But I swear not to harm you. Today!’

Philip and Draco shrugged at each other. ‘Listen, prince. This is a big thing. If he betrayed our tyrant, his life is forfeit. It’s not your place—’

Satyrus stood his ground. ‘I understand you. But I’m here, and Dionysius of Heraklea is far away. A day’s grace. That’s all I swear to. He can have a day.’

Philip looked at Draco. ‘I dunno—’

Draco nodded. ‘We swear by Zeus Soter not to harm him for one day.’

Philokles gave a snort.

‘There you have it, Athenian. Save him. Or die.’

The doctor took a ragged breath. ‘In the leather satchel. There’s a small black pot - that’s it. Give him some with water.’

Satyrus mixed it himself while Theron kept the Athenian pinned.

‘It won’t work for an hour,’ the doctor squawked. ‘You going to pin me the whole time?’ He shook his head. ‘This whole thing is messed up. He should be dead. You should all be dead.’

No one bothered to answer him. Draco heated water and Satyrus added the orange powder at the doctor’s directions. Then he spooned it into the Spartan’s mouth.

‘Now for your employer,’ Draco said.

The Athenian shrugged. ‘Stratokles - he hired me.’ The man looked around. ‘Now let me go.’

Melitta shook her head. ‘Draco, how long has this man been at the tyrant’s court?’

Draco shrugged. ‘Two months? Since the Feast of Herakles, anyway. ’

‘How long has Stratokles been in Heraklea?’ Satyrus asked, mostly just to show that he knew where his sister was going.

Philip glared. Draco glanced at the twins with open admiration. ‘You two are good at this,’ he said.

Sophokles looked disappointed. Satyrus almost had to admire his courage - he himself would be gibbering in terror at this point. But his hatred for the man grew. It was as if he was flaunting his contempt for them. ‘Stratokles hired me,’ he said, ‘long before either of us came to Heraklea.’

Melitta spat, as Sakje did when showing contempt. ‘You lie,’ she said.

‘You’ve all sworn your oaths,’ the man said. ‘So let me go. I’ve told you all that I have to tell.’

Satyrus tried to imitate Philokles’ delivery. ‘It’s a pretty piece of sophistry,’ he said, ‘to pretend that after weeks of betrayal and multiple murder attempts, we could be in the wrong by breaking your interpretation of our oaths.’ He shrugged. ‘I admire you for trying, though,’ he said.

‘Stratokles,’ the doctor insisted. ‘That’s all I know.’

‘He knows more than that,’ Kallista said.

‘You’re dead, you know that?’ Sophokles said. ‘You are fucking dead. All of you, really. Tyche preserved you this far - I’ve never been so unlucky in all my days as the last three weeks, and this drunk fuck on the ground somehow managed to keep me away from your food at every turn until I figured out that it wasn’t all luck. So fuck yourself, Kallista. I know you know how. In fact, I might tell them what you did for me. Does Theron know how many of us you service?’

Theron turned at her, and she hid her face.

‘Maybe that will serve you right, you faithless bitch,’ Sophokles spat.

‘He knows who employs him - us,’ Kallista said. She sighed. ‘I hate him. He scares me. I wish you would all kill him. But he knows.’ She looked around, as if she expected the little valley to sprout enemies. ‘He kills for Olympias. And yes - Theron, I’ve fucked him when he made me. I serviced them all, when ordered. I know.’

‘You’re dead,’ Sophokles said again. ‘I hope that you choke on the next dick you suck, harlot. Porne. Sperm bag.’

Theron was grunting with anger. His face was splotchy with rage, and his great hands clenched and unclenched.

Satyrus kicked the Athenian in the head. It was a hard kick, and he probably broke the man’s jaw.

‘That’s for sowing poison with your mouth, traitor.’ He stepped away. ‘A man like you demeans all men.’

‘Let’s just waste him,’ Draco said. He sounded happy to do it. His blue knife flashed.

Philip turned to Satyrus. ‘Listen, lad,’ he said. ‘You can’t play this game by the rules. Draco’s right. Let’s kill him.’

Sophokles suddenly realized that he’d gone too far. He could barely talk, but he managed. ‘No - you swore. Listen to me - she’s a fool! By saying that name, she’s written all your death warrants and probably mine as well. We don’t say that name. You swore. Let me go.’ His mask of contemptuous bravery was gone.

It was very instructive for Satyrus, at a certain level. He was learning something about the game of ruling, and something about what bravery was. And evil, if that was the word.

‘Don’t do it,’ Philokles whispered.

‘What?’ Satyrus asked. He looked at the Spartan, who was white as alum leather and whose eyes were rimmed in red. But they were open.

‘Oath - gods.’ Philokles’ head, which had only been raised a fraction, sank back on to his blanket.

Satyrus turned to his sister. ‘Lita?’ he asked.

‘Mama would gut him like a salmon,’ she said in Sakje.

‘Our father would let him go,’ he answered.

After a moment, she nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said.

Satyrus stepped up close to the traitor. ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘You think that you will have revenge on this girl, on me, on my sister.’ He could see the man’s rage, his helplessness, his intention to harm. The man had taken to killing because he was weak. Satyrus could see that.

It was very instructive.

Satyrus leaned close. ‘I say - let the gods decide who lives. I give you, a proven oath-breaker, and your foul mistress, to the Furies.’ He took a breath. His chest felt heavy, and there was something in the air. Moira. ‘Give him a horse,’ Satyrus said to the soldiers.

Draco looked uncomfortable. ‘But—’

Theron nodded. His hands were trembling, but his voice was steady. ‘Give him a horse. None of his kit.’

Minutes later, the Athenian galloped away.

‘You’re close to Eumenes,’ Draco said as he mounted. ‘I can smell his Greek breath from here.’ He reached down and clasped hands with Theron, and then Satyrus. ‘You’ll go far, boy - if the gods do as they ought.’

‘In which case, we’ll kill that Athenian bastard before tomorrow night,’ Philip added. ‘Travel well!’

The two Macedonians cantered away into the afternoon, and left the party poorer by a great deal of foul language and humour. Satyrus missed them immediately. But Philokles was better, if very quiet.

The next morning, Philokles was pale, but he could rise from his blankets, and after some sweating he managed to mount his horse. Two days later they were descending the mountains towards the great plains of the south. On the third day, the twins cornered Philokles while he loaded his packs in the morning.

‘We’ve come to thank you,’ Melitta said.

‘And to beg you to stay with us,’ Satyrus said. ‘We’re sorry we took so long to figure out what you were doing with the doctor.’

‘I had to be sure,’ Philokles said. He shook his head. ‘I used to be very good at that game, children. I thought I could catch him and turn him, or catch him and use him to spot other trouble. We outsmarted each other.’ He looked down. ‘Wine doesn’t help. I drank when I should have been sober, and I almost lost - everything.’

‘Crap,’ Melitta said. ‘You saved us! Let’s not have any sudden drama, master. Without you, we’d be poisoned.’

‘I have humiliated myself. I am no use to you and I cannot possibly teach you after my - my—’ The Spartan’s voice cracked. Something like a sob escaped from him.

‘Get on your horse and ride at my side,’ Melitta said. ‘I am Srayanka’s daughter and Kineas’s, and you swore to protect me. Please continue to do just that. No excuses.’

‘That is just what I mean,’ Philokles said, in something like his normal voice. ‘You can order me like that because I have failed you so often. I cannot teach you ethics. I can only teach weakness.’

‘I smell horseshit,’ Melitta said. ‘You protected us from the doctor.’

‘Bah!’ Philokles said, turning away. ‘Drunkard’s luck. I’m a fool. I cannot play this game any longer.’

‘Stop!’ Melitta called. ‘Listen, Philokles. You have saved our lives fifty times. We owe you more than we can repay.’ She shook her head. ‘Get us to Diodorus and you may have your release, if you demand it.’

Philokles stood with his back to them. ‘Very well,’ he growled.

Satyrus looked at his sister as if he’d seen a ghost. ‘You sure you know what you’re doing?’ he asked.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m doing what I think Mum would do.’ She put her head on his shoulder. ‘What’s wrong with people? Aphrodite and Ares, brother. Kallista acts as if fucking is the only way she can talk, Philokles drinks to forget things he had to do for us, Theron thinks that he’s a failure because he didn’t win the Olympics - the only ones who acted like adults were the soldiers, and they’re a smug pair of thugs.’

Well put, sister. ‘I think being an adult is harder than it looks,’ Satyrus said.

Melitta stifled a giggle.

‘Mind you,’ Satyrus said, ‘the hardest part still seems to be staying alive, and I think we’ve got that part licked.’

Melitta shook her head. ‘Don’t tempt the fates,’ she said.

‘Aren’t you kids a little far from home?’ the officer asked. He had a red and grey beard sticking out from under a silver-mounted Thracian helmet, and a tiger-skin saddlecloth.

‘Diodorus!’ Melitta screeched. She flung her arms around his heavily armoured torso.

He flipped his cheekpieces open and tilted the helmet back on his head. ‘What’s happened?’ he asked.

‘Home’s gone,’ Satyrus said. ‘Heron killed Mum.’ Even now, two months on, his voice choked when he said it. ‘Upazan took the valley.’

Diodorus looked as if he’d been punched, and after a moment, he wept. And the word spread among his patrol, and they heard shouts of rage, and men rode up to embrace the twins. A big blond man, almost as old as Diodorus, dismounted and drew his sword. He knelt in the dust and held the hilt out to Satyrus. ‘Take my oath, lord,’ he said.

Melitta dried her eyes on the back of her hand. ‘Don’t be silly, Hama. Diodorus is your captain.’

‘Kineas was my chief,’ Hama said. ‘And then Srayanka. Now you.’

Andronicus the Gaul, grey at the temples and still lean, came and crushed her in an embrace, and Antigonus, still big and blond, gave her a Gaulish bow. He was Diodorus’s hyperetes, and he had a fortune in gilded bronze armour on his back and rode a heavy Nisaean charger.

All of the dozens of other men she knew who came up and knelt, or grasped their knees, or touched their hands, looked prosperous. Carlus, the biggest man either of them had ever seen, slipped off his charger and came to kneel beside Hama. He, too presented his sword. The sword was hilted in silver and had a pommel of crystal. War had been kind to the hippeis of Tanais.

They weren’t just weeping for Srayanka, either. Most of these men had had wives and children - even small fortunes - in Tanais, and now they were gone.

Diodorus shook his head. ‘This won’t be good for morale,’ he said. ‘Hades, twins, I wish I’d known you were coming with this sort of news.’ He shook his head. ‘I know it seems paltry beside the loss of your mother, but we have a battle - today, tomorrow, soon.’ He pointed across the plain, where a dust cloud rolled north. ‘Antigonus One-Eye, with Alexander’s army.’ Then he saw Philokles, sitting quietly with the baggage animals. He went over and embraced the Spartan. ‘I missed you,’ he said.

‘I broke my oath,’ Philokles said. ‘I have killed.’

Diodorus shook his head, the stamp of his tears still plain on his face. ‘You worry about the strangest things, brother.’ He put his arms around the Spartan again, and unaccountably, Philokles began to weep, for the first time in days - weeks, even.

Melitta rode up close to her brother. ‘It will all be better now,’ she said. ‘Just watch.’

Satyrus shook his head. He was looking at the dust to the north. ‘This is going to be a big battle,’ he said.

Melitta glanced from her beloved Philokles to the dust. ‘So?’ she asked.

Satyrus watched the dust, which seemed to be stuck in his mouth as well as his eyes. ‘Off the griddle and into the fire,’ he said quietly.