21
Theo knew the richest boys. Dio knew the
handsomest boys and the athletes and musicians. Abraham knew the
Jews, and some of the Nabataean metics and other Arabs. They went
as a group of four from door to door, portico to portico, palace to
warehouse.
They gathered a hundred and forty more young men,
one and two at a time. It took days, precious days, and every
armourer in Alexandria had orders for the finest armour, the
lightest corslets with the best iron and bronze scales.
It was curious work that left Satyrus exhausted at
the end of the day, full of minor triumphs and equally minor snubs
and rebuffs - doors closed to him that he’d always imagined opened,
a share of curses, but worst of all, the bored refusal of the rich
- men who mocked him for his recruiting campaign, and men who
questioned his sanity.
Croseus the Megaran, for instance, waited only to
be told the magnitude of the threat before ordering his best things
packed and taking one of his own ships for Corinth. ‘I owe this
city nothing,’ he said. ‘Neither do you. Stop being foolish - you
will not get my son to stand in the ranks. That’s for slaves and
fools - poor men who have to do such things. Men like us don’t
fight. Leon won’t be in your precious phalanx, I’ll wager.’
‘No, sir,’ Satyrus said.
‘See? Childhood fantasies. Myths. Like thinking
that Alexander was actually a god.’ Croseus shook his head.
‘Master Leon will serve with the cavalry,’ Satyrus
said.
‘Take your foolery and your rudeness and get out of
my warehouse,’ Croseus said.
Again, he found his Macedonian friends vanishing
like startled gazelles in a hunt down the Delta. Not all of them -
Theo’s father was delighted to see his son in the ranks - but
others spoke, quietly or openly, with derision, of the city and of
Ptolemy. It was one of these meetings that showed that the war of
the factions had reached explosive proportions.
Sitalkes was a young man that Satyrus knew from
pankration. His father was an officer in the Foot Companions, a
captain of ten files, who shared the name Alexander with most of
the Macedonian men of his generation. Sitalkes stood in his own
courtyard, enthusiastically nodding as Dionysius and Satyrus gave
him the whole recruiting speech - and then his father came through
the courtyard gates.
‘Well, well,’ he drawled. ‘Boy, are these your
friends? Please introduce me, unless we don’t use such polite
conventions any more.’
Sitalkes bowed. ‘Pater, this is Abraham, son of
Isaac Ben Zion. This is Satyrus, son of Kineas of Athens.
Dionysius, son of Eteocles; Theo, son of Apollion. All of
them—’
Whatever all of them did together was not something
in which his father took much interest.
‘You’re Satyrus? The famous Satyrus?’
The Macedonian officer nodded. He made a motion. Then he stopped
and swallowed. ‘Well!’ He looked around his courtyard. ‘Hold on a
minute, boys. I’m eager to hear Satyrus’s proposals, as is every
citizen, I’m sure.’ The man’s heavy teasing had the same smell as
his breath - red wine and garlic. He snapped his fingers and wine
was brought, and he sent the wine slave away, but Satyrus noticed
that the slave went and spoke to one of the Macedonian soldiers who
loitered around the gate. The soldier put his shield against the
wall and sprinted off down the street.
‘Wine?’ the officer asked.
Sitalkes appeared stricken. He tried to speak and
then shook his head.
‘No wine? Perhaps you are too young to have a head
for it. I hear you are a pankrationist. Go inside, boy,’ Alexander
ordered his son.
‘No wine, thank you,’ Satyrus said. ‘I’m trying to
convince Sitalkes to join the Phalanx of Aegypt.’
Alexander smiled - a false smile that made
Satyrus’s guts roll over. ‘We’ll consider it,’ he said.
Abraham was already by the gate. Theo was on his
feet, having caught on that something was not right. Dionysius
sneered. ‘Macedonian debates must be like Macedonian
flirting.’
‘Come away, Dio,’ Satyrus said.
‘No, stay,’ the officer said. ‘I love punishing
unruly children.’ And when Satyrus dragged Dionysius away, the
officer roared, ‘Close the gate!’
Abraham was ahead of the Macedonian gate guard all
the way - he got his back against the gate, and he was bigger. And
when the man went to grapple, Abraham gave him an elbow in the
temple and down he went.
The officer thrust Dionysius from behind. ‘Go,
then,’ he said. ‘Get your foreign arse out of my house and
don’t come here again.’ Then he laughed, and even the laugh was
surly. ‘I imagine you’ll get all the chastisement you have coming
to you, Greek.’
Satyrus swept up the Macedonian shield by the gate
and got it on his arm. ‘Run!’ he shouted.
Cyrus, his slave, needed no further admonition.
Theo bolted through the gate, and Dionysius, seeing the gate guard
put his hand on his sword, hesitated, and Abraham shoved him.
The gate guard tried to knock Theo down and Satyrus
caught the man’s shoulder on the shield and turned it, then kicked
out under the shield and knocked the man sprawling, and he was out
of the gate.
‘What in all Tartarus does that madman think he’s
doing?’ Dionysius asked when they stopped at the next corner.
‘He sent a man,’ Abraham said between gulps of air.
They began to walk as they all gasped for breath and then Theo
laughed. ‘What an idiot!’ he said. ‘Our fathers will bury him in
court.’
Abraham shook his head. ‘He didn’t seem very
worried about court. Listen - he sent a man!’
‘I saw it,’ Satyrus said. He was trying to think
ahead. ‘We should go home by a different route, then we—’
‘My father will order him arrested,’ Dionysius
insisted.
‘I don’t think . . .’ Abraham said, and then Cyrus,
who was walking next to Satyrus, leaned forward to point at
something on a roof and took an arrow in the neck. The boy dropped
like a sack of flour, the main artery in his neck severed, his
blood splashing like a badly sacrificed bull’s.
Satyrus looked around. ‘Cover,’ he yelled, and
jumped under the overhang of the exedra of the nearest
building.
Abraham copied him and Dionysius had the reactions
of an athlete, but Theo had never been in real danger before and he
froze in the middle of the street. There was the rush of feet
behind them, and Theo cried out and went down. Satyrus saw the man
who killed him - a mangy footpad who carefully put his sword in
Theo’s eye as the boy thrashed on the ground.
‘Herakles!’ Satyrus yelled. Even as he shouted the
god’s name as a war cry, he knew that Theo was dead. He threw
himself forward at Theo’s killer in a muddle of conflicting
thoughts - terror and a desire for revenge, expiation, some vague
thought that with a shield he could cover everyone’s retreat. That
was his thought as he got his feet on either side of his friend’s
corpse and punched the bronze rim of his shield into the mangy
footpad’s face. The man had no shield - all he could do was step
back.
One. Two.
Just as he was taught, Satyrus stepped forward and
drew his sword, then cut the man down with the back cut, the edge
of his sword right in the man’s neck, and then Satyrus spun, ready
for the next man, as an arrow thudded into the shield where his
back had been seconds before.
The other two murderers ran.
Satyrus could see the archer up on the roof of the
nearest house. The man wore Persian clothes, all in the dullest of
colours, and he had a Sakje bow. He aimed carefully - the oddest
feeling, Satyrus thought, to be so carefully singled out for death
- and shot.
Satyrus moved the shield and ducked, and the arrow
clanged against the rim. With a full-size aspis, he’d have been
immune. With the smaller Macedonian shield, he had to react like a
snake.
The man raised his bow again. Abraham was calling
for help, shouting at the top of his lungs for the watch, and Theo
was still dead between his feet.
Thump. The man was shooting for his head.
Relentlessly. Satyrus felt an irrational desire to stand his ground
and not flee back to the exedra - after all, fleeing the first time
had killed Theo. And perhaps dying would solve it all - all the
endless complexity.
Thump. He just barely caught that one - shot
for his knees. His shield arm had no interest in death.
There were calls from the watch - a dozen armoured
men running full tilt down the Alexandrion.
The archer shook his head in frustration, cursed
and vanished across the roof line.
Listless, angry at himself and the world, Satyrus
was interrogated by the officer of the watch - a Macedonian, of
course - and then again by Theron when his coach arrived to take
him from the clutches of the law, and again by Sappho when he
arrived at home.
‘You’re lucky the watch officer was an honest man,’
Sappho said. ‘Or you’d be dead.’
Satyrus sat looking at his hands. He had blood
under his nails. Theo was still dead.
‘They fucking killed him,’ Satyrus whispered.
Diodorus came in, resplendent in a bronze
breastplate and a gilt helmet with a white horsehair crest and a
pair of exotic blue plumes on either side of his head like ram’s
horns. He had a dark blue cloak embroidered in gold laurel leaves,
and the hilt of his long kopis was solid gold. He looked like a
king, or a very great man. ‘Satyrus, there’s no time for revenge.
How did Theo die?’
Satyrus was aware that somewhere, four troops of
elite cavalry were training without their hipparch. He shook his
head, and the anger choked him. ‘Thugs. Two-obol thugs. One of them
got him, thinking he was me.’ He all but spat in disgust.
‘Ares and Aphrodite!’ Diodorus said, pulling off
his helmet. ‘His father is going to wreck what’s left of the
pro-Ptolemy faction.’
Sappho rose gracefully, put a hand on her husband’s
golden armour and shoved. ‘Get out of my rooms,’ she said softly.
‘Come back when you have the temper for it. He’s been through a
great deal, Dio - you are not helping.’
Diodorus grew as red as a piece of Tyrian wool -
but he walked out through the door.
Satyrus ran after him. ‘No - I can do this,’ he
said. ‘They were thugs - an assassination attempt, organized on the
fly. We visited Sitalkes - a friend of mine from the gymnasium. I
could tell his father was - turned. Already a traitor. Call it what
you will. He wanted to kill us himself.’
Diodorus put a hand on his shoulder. ‘It’s not your
fault.’
‘I know it’s not my fucking fault!’ Satyrus
shouted. ‘I want this done! Over! Before they get you or Melitta or
Sappho or the lot of us!’
A slave handed him a cold cloth without being
asked, and Satyrus put the cloth to his face. With his eyes closed,
he could see Cyrus’s body lying half in and half out of the gutter,
the blood running out of his neck and swirling away with the bilge
water and the urine and the faeces - and Theo’s blood creeping
along behind. And then another stream from the almost-severed neck
of the man he’d killed.
Theron came back with Philokles and Diodorus, now
out of his armour and with an ancient mastos cup full of
wine. ‘Sorry, lad,’ he said. ‘And you, wife. My apologies.’
Sappho nodded. ‘Very well.’
‘We need to know what happened, lad,’ Philokles
said.
Satyrus had the force of will to make himself
recover, to avoid the indulgence in passions that marked a weak man
- or marked him any further. He didn’t sob. He told his story as
best he could - again.
‘Theo’s father has two other sons, but he’s ready
to go to war personally on this matter. He’s got a reward out for
this Persian archer.’ Diodorus shook his head. ‘This is a bad time
for Leon to be away.’
Philokles was interested in other matters. ‘You did
not kill Theo, Satyrus. Listen to me, lad. Your illogic is
overwhelming and very much a piece with your age. The assassins
intended his death. It was their actions—’
‘Don’t treat me like a child !’ Satyrus
said. ‘The assassins intended my death. I failed to read the
signals - clear as trumpets on a summer day! And then, when the
attack started, I didn’t help Theo - the youngest of us, and the
least trained. And what of Cyrus? Doesn’t Leon teach us that slaves
are men, too? Cyrus is just as dead as Theo - and his blood was
just the same colour. Come to think of it, Theo’s killer bled the
same - when I put him down. I’m sick of it. I’m no good at it and
it goes on and on and the bodies just pile up. How many of my
friends will die? Some fighting Stratokles, some fighting One-Eye -
more to make me king of the Bosporus, perhaps! Fuck it! It’s just
violence, on and on, bloody slaughter to the end of the
world!’
Silence greeted his outburst. Theron winced.
Diodorus shrugged and turned away, anger obvious on his face.
Sappho wore an odd and somewhat enigmatic look.
Philokles actually smiled. ‘You are growing up,’ he
said. ‘Some men never do. We tell children nice tales so they’ll
learn - lies that often have truth in them. Fables. Some men cling
to those lies all their lives, Satyrus. Lies about how one nation
or city or race is better than another that justify killing, death,
war.’ He sat straight. ‘Nothing makes killing right. If you
wish to live a life of pure righteousness, I think you must turn
your back on killing - on violence. On raising your voice when
angry, on hurting others to accomplish a goal.’
Satyrus made a noise, and Philokles raised a hand,
forestalling him. ‘Killing is always wrong. But many other things
are also wrong - oppression, theft, tyranny, arson, rapine, on and
on, the catalogue of human wrongs. When you turn your back on
killing and violence, you also surrender the ability to prevent
wrongs to others, because in this world, we stop oppression when we
stand firm in our ranks with the bronze.’ He gave an odd smile.
‘You know what amuses me, Satyrus? What I just told you is what the
elders taught in Sparta. I have spent a lifetime reading and
listening and studying and hating war, and what it makes me become
- and all I can say is that life is a choice, an endless series of
choices. Men can choose to think or not to think. They can choose
to lead or to follow. To trust or not to trust. You may choose not
to take life - even not to fight. That choice is not
cowardice. But that choice has consequences. Or you can choose
to kill - and that choice, too, has consequences. When the blood
fills your lungs and the darkness comes down, all you have is what
you did - who you were, what you stood for.’
‘So what’s the answer?’ Satyrus asked. ‘How
do I . . . ?’ He couldn’t even enunciate his question. How can I
stop seeing the corpses? How do I avoid the consequences?
‘Shall I just give you an answer, lad?’ Philokles
got to his feet. ‘Or can you take the truth like a man? There is
no answer. You do what you can, and sometimes what you have to.
So - if I am to be your judge, putting your steel in that
man-killer was no sin before gods or men. Nor can any man hold you
responsible for young Theo - not even his father, whose grief is
formidable.’ Philokles put his hand on Satyrus’s shoulder, and
Satyrus didn’t shake it off, and Theron, who had been silent
because Philokles had said everything he had to say, came over and
embraced Satyrus.
Diodorus grunted. ‘I’m glad to know that my life is
immoral, Spartan. What a fine thing philosophy must be!’ He
shrugged. ‘But the immediate problem is that Stratokles, or
somebody like him, is out there trying to kill the twins. Satyrus -
no leaving the house, except with one of us. Understand?’
‘No,’ Satyrus said. He looked around at these men -
these heroes. ‘No. If I’m a man - I can do this. You can’t
nursemaid me. I can stay alive. I think I proved it today.’
Philokles nodded. ‘He has a point,’ he
conceded.
The evening breeze whispered through the palm
trees and the Mediterranean surf hissed against the gravel of the
beach behind the main wing of Leon’s house, and the north wind
carried the smell of the sea - rotting fish and kelp and salt, a
smell that could sink to a miasma or rise to a wonderful scent of
openness, blue waves and freedom.
Satyrus had a porch off his rooms that opened on
the sea, and tonight he felt the need of it. He took a cup of wine
from a slave and walked out into the breeze. Out here, in the dark,
the sound of the sea was much louder.
‘When we first came here, I used to sit just like
this and listen to the sea,’ Melitta said from a chair. ‘I used to
imagine that the water coming up the beach was the same water that
had passed out of the Tanais.’
Satyrus sipped some wine. ‘I still think the same
thing,’ he said. ‘All the time.’
Melitta got out of her chair. ‘After the sea fight
off Syria, I lay with Xenophon. It’s not his fault, it’s mine. I’m
sorry. I told Sappho - I didn’t want you to hear it
second-hand.’
Satyrus digested this in silence.
‘Say something!’ Melitta said.
‘Theo is dead,’ he said. ‘Killed by men sent to
kill me. I left him standing in the street. I didn’t do it - I
just let it happen.’
‘It’s not all about you,’ Melitta said.
‘No,’ Satyrus agreed, and drank more wine. ‘I’m
learning that.’
‘I’m sorry about Theo. What did his father say?’
Melitta asked.
‘Nothing. He was frightened. Frightened!
What is this city coming to?’ Satyrus took a breath and drank more
wine. ‘Why Xenophon, though? I mean, he’s my best friend, you’ve
spent my whole adult life teasing him and telling me about his
shortcomings, and he’s enough of a gentleman to feel - things. You
won’t marry him, I assume?’ Satyrus wished he sounded a little more
adult.
Melitta was silent. Then she said, ‘I don’t plan to
marry anyone among the Hellenes, Satyrus.’
‘Going to go to the sea of grass without me, Lita?’
Satyrus knew that he’d had too much wine.
‘If I have to,’ Melitta said. ‘I want to be a
queen, not a girl.’
Satyrus shook his head. ‘That’s just where we
differ, sister. I’d like very much not to be a king.’
‘You wallow a lot, you know that? It’s not all
about you! You didn’t kill Theo. You didn’t kill your precious
Peleus. Sometimes you make me want to punch you.’ Melitta shook her
head. ‘You get everything I want - and you don’t even like
it!’
‘After this campaign—’ Satyrus began, but Melitta
cut in savagely.
‘After this campaign? After we sail to Rhodos?
After we make war on Antigonus One-Eye? How long do I have to
wait?’ Now they were shouting at each other.
Satyrus raised his hands, spilling some wine in his
frustration. ‘What’s so bad?’
‘What’s so bad? How did you spend the day?
Recruiting? To save the city from Demetrios and his one-eyed
father? Was it frustrating? Did useless merchants turn you down?
Fighting for your life against assassins? Lost a friend?’ She was
shouting now. ‘I sat at home and wove some wool.’
He was silent.
‘In my spare time I worried that I was pregnant,’
she muttered. ‘I want to go and fight Demetrios. I want to ride
free, or be a helmsman, or recruit young men to fight. But most of
all I want the attention of the men and women worth a conversation.
Tonight, I confessed my transgression to Sappho. Do you know what
she said? Best not tell Satyrus until the battle is fought.
Philokles treats me like a girl. Why? Because I have breasts
and my body can make a baby! Why doesn’t somebody recruit me?
Demetrios is going to have forty elephants and we don’t even have
one, and by Apollo, I may be the best archer in this city.
What are we doing about raising a corps of archers?’
‘Maiden archers?’ Satyrus said, looking to win a
smile and failing utterly.
‘Is the loss of my virginity painful to you,
brother? Was our family honour strapped between my thighs?’ Melitta
swelled with rage.
Satyrus shook his head. ‘Stupid joke. Sorry, Lita.’
He made himself reach for her, refusing to be cowed by her anger
and believe that she really aimed her darts at him, and she was in
his arms, her head on his shoulder, and at the speed of their
embrace they stopped being at odds.
Melitta rocked back and forth for a little while,
and Satyrus watched the stars behind her head blur with his own
unshed tears and then return to normal.
She stepped back. ‘I know it’s not your fault. But
suddenly everyone in this house is treating you like a man.
Whereas I get to be a perpetual child.’
‘I can’t get you a corps of archers, maiden or
not,’ Satyrus said. ‘But when Leon lands his marines, I know a ship
that could easily land one more archer. But Lita - this isn’t a
fair battle. We’re the trapped dogs - Demetrios has everything his
way.’
Melitta raised her chin. ‘I was there when we took
two pirate galleys,’ she said.
‘True enough,’ Satyrus said, and kissed the top of
her head. ‘Why Xenophon? He’s so nice - he’s going to follow you
like a dog for the rest of your life.’
She shrugged. ‘Hard to describe, really. He knew
that I had saved his life - thanked me for it. Comrade to comrade,
even though he had fought like Achilles and I was a mere girl.’ She
shrugged again. ‘And I saw - things. The same things - gods, you
know as well as I. I was dead when your spear put that man
down. I felt dead. And then - I was alive.’ She hung her
head. ‘I don’t care a fig for my virginity, brother. But I agree
that actions have consequences, and I insist that Xeno should not
pay the price - the bride price or any other price.’
Satyrus slugged back his wine. When they were
children, they had fought - and then one big hug and it was over.
Tonight, he felt the loss of that simplicity, because she was
closed to him on some level, and because no, he had not
really forgiven her. But his failure to forgive her weighed on him,
like a failed sacrifice.
She felt his hesitation. She stared at him.
He stared back. Once, they had been eye to eye. Now
he was half a head taller.
‘Will you really help me get away?’ she
asked.
‘Yes,’ he said. He imagined her lying dead,
trampled by an elephant as he had seen back in the great battle on
the salt plains. He shook his head - too much wine. ‘Fuck it, Lita.
Yes, you have as much right to lie with a man as I do to lie with a
woman. I, too, have spent too much time with Hellenes.’ He smiled
bitterly. ‘It’s going to be hard to talk to Xeno.’
‘Imagine how I feel,’ Melitta said. She rose on her
toes and kissed his cheek. ‘Thanks,’ she said, and went back
inside. She turned back and smiled. ‘I have a rendezvous for you.
With Amastris. I was going to throw it in your face if you played
high and mighty with me.’ She shook her head. ‘Which you didn’t. So
I feel like a fool.’ She reached in her bosom and pulled out an
oyster shell. ‘Tomorrow night,’ she said.
The slip of papyrus leaf had two lines from
Menander, and Satyrus smiled, because the lines named the hour to
anyone who had seen the play.
‘By the steps of the Temple of Poseidon,’ Melitta
said. ‘Do you love her?’
Satyrus looked at his sandals. ‘Yes,’ he mumbled.
And yet . . .
‘Don’t be foolish, brother. Don’t get caught. I
don’t think - I shouldn’t say this! I don’t think you’re Amastris’s
first boy, man, what have you.’ She shrugged, clearly unhappy at
having said what she had said.
‘What?’ Satyrus asked. ‘But—’
‘I’m sure it is different for men,’ Melitta said.
‘Listen - don’t go. It’s not worth the risk.’
‘This from my sister who wants me to smuggle her
into the archer corps to fight elephants?’ he said.
She smiled. ‘That’s a hit and no mistake, brother.
Very well - go if you must. But she won’t show. Not the first time.
The first time will just be a test of your devotion, I’m her friend
- I know these things.’ She turned and slipped away, leaving him
with an oyster shell and a feeling of confusion.
The next morning, the wind still carried the sting
of the sea in its tail, and it blew hard enough to cool the sweat
on two thousand backs and breasts as they drilled without shade.
Panion, the commander of the Foot Companions, stood at the head of
the taxeis with Philokles and Theron and half a dozen Macedonian
officers.
‘They’re absurd,’ Panion said, loudly enough to
carry into the first three ranks. ‘Children and slaves. One-Eye’s
veterans will go through them the way his elephants will push
through our cavalry.’
His Macedonian officers laughed ruefully or
disdainfully, depending on their faction. Philokles said something
softly, and Panion shrugged. ‘Work as hard as you like, Spartan.
I’ll put them in the second line, or somewhere where their flight
won’t cost us much. Perhaps we can use them to carry baggage?’ He
laughed, and the six Macedonians laughed again.
Philokles fingered his beard. ‘I need more
sarissas,’ he said. ‘We don’t have enough.’
‘Ptolemy sent too much equipment off to Cassander,’
Panion said with a shrug. ‘Make do with what you have. After all,’
he said cheerfully, ‘if Ptolemy’s kingdom relies on this lot, we’re
doomed.’
Philokles said something quiet, and Panion shook
his head. ‘I think you forget your place. I am a Macedonian.
Your people once had a certain reputation for war, I’ll allow. But
I assure you, sir, that no amount of drill will make these slaves
into soldiers, and that I don’t give a flying fuck for their
morale.’ Panion looked around him and spat in contempt.
Later, he and his staff reappeared as Philokles
forced the phalanx through another wheeling movement - badly
executed, like every wheel.
This time, the Macedonian went along the first two
ranks. He called every Macedonian out of the ranks. He stopped at
Satyrus.
‘You?’ he said. Then, when he’d recovered his
confusion, he gave Satyrus a smile. ‘You don’t belong here, with
this rabble,’ he said. ‘Come with me.’
Satyrus could see Amyntas shuffling nervously among
the young Macedonians. ‘What rabble?’ Satyrus said.
‘Aegyptians.’ Panion shrugged. ‘Good for farm
work.’
‘Seems to work to train Macedonians,’ Satyrus
said.
‘Yes,’ Panion said. ‘But they’re men, not slaves.
These boys are Macedonians.’
Satyrus wiped the sweat from his eyes. ‘Not a one
of them was born in Macedon, sir,’ he said, meeting the commander’s
eyes. ‘I recruited them here in Alexandria. For this
phalanx.’
Panion narrowed his eyes. ‘Another uppity Greek,’
he said. ‘Very well - swelter on, boy. Revel in your remaining
hours.’ Then, louder, ‘You Macedonians, come with me.’
When Panion was gone, Philokles continued to drill
the men, and as the shadows lengthened, he tried to provide the
physical training that would allow Aegyptians to go up against men
in the peak of fitness. They weren’t weak - many of them had fine
bodies and heavy muscles from labour - but Philokles walked around,
urging them to lift greater weights or run farther.
The men were listless - worse than usual - and when
the sun touched the rim of the world, Philokles dismissed them,
obviously keeping his temper in check. Satyrus fell in next to the
Spartan as they walked back in the last light of evening.
‘Half of them won’t come back,’ Philokles said
after they had walked a stade. ‘That fool, that posturing ninny. I
should have put my sword up his arse on the spot.’
‘Philokles!’ Satyrus said. ‘Master, I have never
heard you speak in this manner.’ He managed a grin, his first since
Theo died. It had occurred to him that Panion might have had
something to do with that death. ‘You are not always a
philosopher.’
‘Do you know what the Macedonian officers discuss?’
Philokles said. ‘Putting on a good show. Fighting long enough to
get the best possible terms from Demetrios. Remember what happened
to Eumenes? When part of his precious Macedonians decided not to
fight. It’s happening here, lad. Another week or two and our taxeis
would be worth something, too. They shape well - better than many
Greeks. Strong backs, these Aegyptians. But Panion just told them
that they are slaves to him.’ Philokles spat. ‘Six weeks’ work, for
nothing. And he took half of the cream of your boys. Every one of
those Macedonian boys knew which end of a spear to wield.’
‘We still have the Greeks and the Jews,’ Satyrus
said.
Philokles gave half a smile and put a hand on his
former student’s shoulder. ‘So we do,’ he said. ‘I don’t think
they’re enough, and I think that we need ranks and ranks of strong,
faithful and courageous Aegyptians behind us, or it won’t matter.
But I should swallow my own medicine and deal with these troubles
when they present themselves. What do we do for sarissas?’
Theron leaned in. ‘For now, the first three ranks
can use their hoplite equipment - all the Hellene ephebes have
them, and even the Jews came with heavy spears.’
Philokles agreed. ‘Shorter spears in front is not a
way to build the confidence of your front ranks, lad. Do you know
what it is like to face a Macedonian taxeis? Unless they’re
disordered, every file has six or eight spearheads sticking out in
front. They move, just from the natural movement of the men
carrying them - like the ripple of grass in the wind. Hard to face.
Terrifying.’
‘You told me yourself that with an aspis and
discipline, you had no problem penetrating the wall of spears.’
Satyrus had heard the tale of the fight at the fords of the
Borysthenes a dozen times or more, from different men. He knew that
Philokles and the elite men of two Euxine cities had held, and then
beaten, a Macedonian phalanx.
Philokles made a face. ‘Veterans should know better
than to tell such tales. We were lucky - and brave. There were good
men in that taxeis - hard men, and men in the very peak of athletic
training. I had ten Olympians.’ He looked out to sea, his
spear-butt making a rhythm as he tapped it on the paving stones. ‘I
was a younger man myself. Look at me! It has taken me six weeks
just to get the lard off my stomach. Fifteen years ago, I’d have
had muscles like your cuirass - like you have, wrestler.’ He
pointed at Theron, who wore his chitoniskos off one shoulder,
showing the near-perfect musculature of his torso.
‘We have Theron. He’s an Olympian.’ Satyrus was
interested by the fact that he was now cheering up Philokles, a
complete reversal from the day before.
‘Ahh, Theron,’ Philokles said. They were at
Diodorus’s gate, which was the closer of the two properties to the
drill field. ‘Three days until we march. Where are you heading,
young man?’
‘A nap,’ Satyrus said. ‘I have this magnificent
physique to maintain. ’
Theron slapped him on the back.
‘Don’t forget to appear at the gymnasium,’
Philokles said. ‘Read something before bed. I have never had a
child of my own, lad, but when you speak of having a nap, I suspect
that you have somewhere to go tonight. Hmm?’
Blushing, Satyrus hung his head, a complex rush of
embarrassments flooding him.
‘Remember what Diodorus said. I do not, note, order
you to obey his stricture - only to understand that disobedience
will have consequences, for you and for others. Understand
me?’
Satyrus wasn’t sure that he did understand, but he
nodded anyway, gave a ridiculous smile and then bowed and retreated
to his room, where he spent half an hour inspecting his tutor’s
comment from any number of angles.
Moonlight would have helped both his mood and the
physical difficulty of moving around, but the moon was dark and the
stars weren’t much help as a thin haze made the night as black as a
priest’s cloak. Satyrus clutched his chlamys tighter and moved
carefully back and forth at the base of the steps to the Temple of
Poseidon. Deep in the temple precincts there was light - and the
soft sound of voices - but out at the edge of the steps there was
just a vague glow and the voices sounded like a haunting, and he
was afraid. It was foolish for him to have come. He saw assassins
in every movement.
Satyrus was beginning to feel a fool. He walked
back and forth again, listening for any sign of another person -
above him, or perhaps a boat out in the harbour? But he heard
nothing but the cry of a late-night gull and somewhere, far off
down the curve of the bay, two voices raised in angry
confrontation.
He looked at the sky. If there had been stars - the
right stars - he could have told the time. The dark sky mocked his
ignorance, and the night seemed to move along far more slowly.
Satyrus sat on a step, feeling some lingering warmth from the heat
of the day. For the thousandth time he thought of Amastris, and
then of Melitta, and then of the marvellous machine in Abraham’s
house - not that these thoughts were connected, but only that one
followed another, and served to keep other thoughts at bay - just
thinking that unlocked them like Pandora’s cursed box, and then he
was seeing Theo with the dirk in his eye, and then the Sauromatae
girl he had killed, and then he shivered.
Why would Amastris leave him waiting? He rose to
his feet and walked over to the sea wall. The two voices down the
coast were gone. He could hear a kithara playing.
‘My lord?’ came a voice from the top of the
steps.
Satyrus jumped. ‘Yes?’ he answered.
‘I have a message, I think,’ the voice said.
Satyrus couldn’t see anything - the god might have
been addressing him directly. That seemed unlikely, so Satyrus
climbed the steps. He was careful, and he found that he had drawn
his sword without thinking.
‘I am here,’ Namastis said. Closer, Satyrus could
recognize the Greco-Aegyptian by the sound of his consonants.
‘So am I,’ Satyrus said. Now he could see the
priest outlined by the pale luminescence of the white marble
portico and the brightly coloured statues that glittered with gold
even on the darkest night. ‘Good evening, Master Namastis.’
‘So!’ Namastis said. He sounded amused, a far cry
from his daytime subservience. ‘I am asked to perform a task for
the palace by a priest of Hathor, and look - I’m running an errand
for a Greek.’ He reached out and placed an oyster shell in
Satyrus’s hand.
‘I can’t very well read it in the dark,’ Satyrus
said.
Namastis made a tapping noise and then a scuffing,
as if he was carrying a staff and tapping his sandals. ‘I can light
a torch in the outer sanctuary,’ he said. ‘Come.’
Satyrus climbed up to the portico behind the
blackness that was the priest’s cloak against the white of the
steps, and then he paused in the incense-redolent interior. He
didn’t know his way and the priest vanished.
He wondered if this was an ambush. He was behaving
like an idiot - in more ways than one. And Namastis - was it just
coincidence? How would Amastris know of their connection? Satyrus
grasped the hilt of his sword, and just then he heard a strong
grunt as the Aegyptian blew hard on a spark, and in seconds a
resin-impregnated torch burst into flame, with the heady smell of
burning pitch.
The scenes of the temple interior sprang to life in
the flickering light of one torch, but Satyrus glanced around, his
head turning like a falcon’s or a hunting owl’s.
He sheathed his sword and his hand fell away from
the hilt. He was, quite literally, starting at shadows.
He went over to the priest and stood with the
torchlight at his right shoulder while he opened the shell and read
the note.
Apologies.
Satyrus shrugged. ‘Let that be a lesson to me,’ he
said.
The priest shook his head, saying nothing. Then he
paused. ‘I could offer you a cup of wine,’ he said. ‘We’re not
supposed to,’ he added, in a tone that suggested that this rule was
not widely obeyed.
Satyrus shook his head. ‘No, thanks,’ he said. ‘I
have been enough of a foolish boy for ten nights. I need to get
some sleep before Philokles has me on the drill field in the
morning.’
Namastis peered at him as if his eyes were weak.
‘You are with the Spartan? In the Phalanx of Aegypt?’ he asked. ‘I
hear news of you every day.’ He smiled hesitantly.
Satyrus shrugged. ‘If it is still there in the
morning,’ he answered.
Namastis nodded. ‘Yes. The Macedonians didn’t want
to arm any mere native and now they seek to drive them all
away.’
Satyrus had to laugh. ‘I don’t think it’s an
organized plot, friend,’ he said. ‘Macedonian arrogance is
sufficient. Panion came today and in one speech undid four weeks of
Philokles’ work. And your countrymen aren’t the world’s best
soldiers, either. Lots of obedience and not much spirit.’
Namastis rubbed his bare chin. ‘Would a priest of
Poseidon be welcome in your phalanx, lord?’ he asked. ‘Satyrus?’ he
said.
Satyrus shrugged. ‘My father had priests in his
phalanx. In Greek cities, many priests serve in the ranks just like
other men.’ He made a face. ‘I have no idea what the tradition is
here.’
‘Then I will come tomorrow,’ Namastis said.
As Philokles had predicted, fewer than half of the
Aegyptians returned to the ranks the next day, and those that came
were surly and often stood immobile instead of exercising.
‘Why did you come, if not to work?’ Philokles asked
one. The man carefully grounded his pike and walked off.
‘Look at the bright side,’ Dionysius said. ‘Now we
have enough sarissas. ’ He shrugged. Dionysius was the least
affected by the death of Theo. He’d never liked the boy and didn’t
even pretend to mourn him.
Satyrus was working with the young men, practising
with the hoplite arms most of them had - heavy shields, a handspan
larger than the Macedonian shields and much deeper, so that they
protected the whole body; shorter spears with heavy heads and long
bronze butt-spikes, like those carried by Leon’s marines. They were
practising a marine tactic - one that Philokles admired - a short
burst of a charge from just three paces out from the enemy line. On
board ship, this was all the deck space any marine ever had
for a charge. On the battlefield, Satyrus reckoned, those three
paces represented the length of the enemy sarissas.
He had bargepoles affixed to two-wheel carts so
that the spears stood out two spans past the poles of the yokes. A
line of these carts represented the enemy, and again and again the
young men practised flinging themselves forward three steps,
stooping low and shields held at an acute, uncomfortable angle -
slam into the face of the carts, hopefully avoiding the tips
of the bargepoles. And pushing the carts back.
Every fourth or fifth time, they managed it, and
the carts rocked back. The other times, they tripped and fell, or
someone got a bargepole in the head or lost his grip or the pace -
ugly accidents, and reminders of what would happen when there were
veteran killers at the other end of the bargepoles.
It was after one such disaster, with Theron
berating a gaggle of Jews as if they were slaves and not the sons
of four of the city’s richest citizens, when Satyrus saw that all
the Aegyptians were standing still, refusing any further orders. It
was a curious form of rebellion - the phalanx was voluntary, and
any of them might have grounded their pikes like the first rebel
and walked away.
‘Uh-oh,’ Abraham muttered. He pushed the helmet
back on his head so that his arming cap showed white against his
tawny skin.
‘Why are we working so hard, if all the Gyptos are
going to quit?’ Dionysius asked. He took a pull from his elegant
black canteen and then handed it around. It had straight unwatered
wine.
Satyrus drank some anyway. ‘If Philokles were here,
he’d say that if they mutiny, that’s their decision and not ours
about defending our city.’
Dionysius looked far more capable than he usually
did. He raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s a nice argument for the
schoolroom, dear. But for a man who’s considering facing a line of
spears, it doesn’t seem to me to carry much weight.’
Philokles was standing with his hands on his hips.
His face was red, as if he was about to give way to anger. The
Aegyptians moved as if a breeze was passing over a field of their
own emmer, and a sigh escaped from their ranks, which were none too
even.
And then a file of men in dark cloaks came on to
the parade ground from the west, towards the temple district. Most
of them - but not all - were of mixed birth. A few were marked by
their features and their distinctive linen garments as Aegyptian
priests. There were more than twenty of them, and they came to a
dignified halt behind Philokles.
Namastis stepped out from the gaggle of priests.
‘Lord Philokles? The temple district sends its tithe of men who are
citizens to serve.’
Another sigh escaped from the men in the
ranks.
Philokles returned the priest’s bow. ‘Twenty
willing men delight me, but the favour of the gods would delight us
all.’
An older man wearing the curious long garment
favoured by servants of the older Aegyptian gods stepped forth. ‘I
may not serve under arms,’ he said. ‘But if I might address your
men, you might find them better soldiers.’
Philokles frowned, and then stepped out of the
command spot at the head of the square. ‘Be my guest, priest,’ he
said politely. He walked over to where Theron and Satyrus were
standing. ‘Can’t hurt us,’ he said with a shrug. ‘Perhaps he’ll
help. I know him - Temple of Osiris. A fine speaker.’
Theron shook his head. ‘Strange, like all
barbarians. Priests who won’t fight?’
Satyrus furrowed his brow. ‘You told me that in
Corinth the priests of Aphrodite didn’t fight, but pimped for their
priestesses who sold their bodies.’
Theron rubbed his nose and had the grace to look
embarrassed. ‘Um - that’s true.’
Philokles and Satyrus exchanged glances, even as
the older priest of Osiris raised his arms and began to
speak.
Some of the men in the ranks looked inattentive,
bored or even angry to be addressed by the priest - but a great
many more listened as if receiving the words of the great gods
themselves, and some fell to their knees until the priest was done
speaking. One by one, five priests addressed them in Aegyptian.
Then all five gave a benediction in Greek and in Aegyptian, and
they went off to the side, where a stand of date palms offered some
shade.
The priests of the Greek gods also offered
benedictions, but when they were done, Namastis clapped his hands
and slaves brought them shields and linen armour like the
Aegyptians wore, and good Greek Pylos helmets straight from the
forges.
Philokles looked around. ‘Harmless,’ he said. He
rolled his shoulders as if taking the weight of his responsibility
back. ‘Might even do some good.’
It had done some good. If the natives had ever
intended mutiny - and none of the Hellenes knew them or their
language well enough to know - they meant no mutiny now. Most of
them began to drill with something like enthusiasm, and despite the
fact that they were a thousand men short of their required size
since the day before, Philokles led them through exercise after
exercise with something like enthusiasm himself, and Dionysius
shook his head in admiration at their first successful wheel all
the way through a circle - a difficult manoeuvre even for
professionals. Of course it was easier with half the men, but the
spirit of the whole was different - profoundly
different.
When the sun touched the horizon, Satyrus sought
out the priest of Poseidon. ‘What did you do?’ he said.
Namastis shook his head. ‘I did very little. It had
already been discussed - but meeting you last night stiffened my
spine.’
‘What did the priest of Osiris say? It was like
magic!’ Satyrus said.
‘Yes!’ Namastis replied. He glanced at Philokles.
‘He told them to act like men. That the eyes of the entire lower
kingdom were on them. That they, and they alone, stood between the
old gods and destruction.’
Satyrus shook his head. ‘Well, he’s a fine old
fellow.’
‘Don’t patronize me, Greek.’ Namastis looked far
more imposing in a linen corslet and a helmet than in his robes.
‘And don’t patronize him.’
Satyrus bit back an adolescent retort and nodded.
‘I won’t.’
Namastis shook his head. ‘It’s hard not to be
touchy when you are half-caste. Listen - he also told them that
Philokles is the very avatar of the war god - at least for
now.’
‘My tutor?’ Satyrus laughed, but then he stopped. A
great many scenes passed before his eyes in a few heartbeats.
‘That’s not altogether far from the mark,’ he said.
Namastis glanced over Satyrus’s shoulder to where a
knot of fashionable young men waited for their friend but were too
polite to break in on the two of them - or too disdainful of the
Gypto. ‘You Hellenes are great fools,’ Namastis said. ‘He wasn’t
speaking in allegory, Satyrus. He meant that Philokles is the very
avatar of the god of war. Here. Now.’ The priest picked up his
spear and swung it carefully erect. The full length of the pike
made any sudden movement perilous.
A prickle at the back of Satyrus’s neck, and then
the smell of a wet lion skin, and then nothing - a sort of absence
of sense.
‘You are god-touched,’ Namastis said
reverently. ‘I forget Hellenes are not all fools. My apologies,
lord.’
‘Satyrus, not lord,’ Satyrus said, offering his
hand.
Namastis took it, and clenched it hard - too hard,
but a good try. ‘Men are hunting you,’ he said suddenly.
‘I know,’ Satyrus said. He actually smiled, like
the hero in an epic, although his smile was more self-mockery than
dismissal of danger.
‘No Aegyptian will help them,’ Namastis said. ‘That
much I guarantee you. But the Macedonian faction intends your
death. They have hired men. That is all we know.’
Satyrus favoured the hand all the way back to
Leon’s villa by the sea.
No more oyster shells came, and no fights with his
sister, who was gone - visiting Amastris herself, or so Dorcus
claimed. Satyrus went to sleep picturing elements of the
drill.
And in the morning, the ranks were full. Two
thousand Aegyptians, half-castes and Hellenes stood together in the
ranks. Their armour was a patchwork, and their spears and sarissas
were four different lengths, and most men had neither body armour
nor cloaks - but the ranks were full.
Philokles asked the priest of Osiris and the priest
of Zeus to address the men. Each offered a brief prayer. And then,
when the priest of Zeus had intoned the hymn to the rise of day,
Philokles gestured to Abraham.
‘We have no priest of your god, son of Ben Zion,’
Philokles said. ‘Can you sing a hymn or some such? This taxeis will
use every shred of divinity on offer.’
Abraham nodded. He was in the front rank, beyond
Dionysius whose beauty included the kind of fitness that caused
Philokles to put him in the front. He shuffled forward past
Dionysius - no easy task with an aspis - and stood in front. In a
deep voice he began a hymn - Hebrew, of course. Fifty voices picked
it up. Some sang softly, as if embarrassed, and some carefully, as
if forcing the words from their memories. But they sounded well
enough, and they smiled self-consciously when finished - just as
the Aegyptians and the Hellenes had done.
‘If all the gods are satisfied, we need to do a
great deal of work,’ Philokles shouted.
For the first time, his words were greeted with the
sort of spontaneous cheer he expected from good troops.
At supper, back at Leon’s, Philokles shook his
head. ‘We were down,’ he said. ‘Now? I see a glimmer of that fickle
creature, hope.’
Theron grunted and ate another helping of quail.
‘When do we march?’ he asked. ‘And will we carry the
baggage?’
Philokles shrugged. ‘I can’t believe the delays.
Ptolemy hasn’t even decided on a strategy yet - he vacillates, so
I’m told, between offence and defence, and he has twelve thousand
slaves rebuilding the forts along the coast. And six thousand being
gathered to support the army. We won’t carry the baggage - but if
we have a defensive campaign, these men will melt away, priests or
no priests. And if the campaign flares into sudden battle before
marching makes them hard - again, I dread it.’ But after these
words, he brightened. ‘But I tell you, gentlemen - philosopher that
I am, something changed today. I felt it. I, too, will go to my
task with a lighter heart.’ Philokles looked at Diodorus. ‘When do
we march, Strategos?’
Diodorus was lying with Sappho. He looked up. ‘When
Ptolemy is ready. When the storm breaks. When the Macedonian
faction makes their move.’ He spread his hands. ‘Or the day after
tomorrow. Is your taxeis worthy to stand in the line?’
‘No,’ Philokles said. ‘But give me twenty days of
marching, and I might speak otherwise.’
Diodorus shook his head. ‘Ptolemy has all but given
up. If Leon returned, we might act. All day long, Panion and the
Macedonians of his ilk pour poison in his ears. I’m not sure that
we’re any better off for Stratokles being off the board.’
‘If he is off the board,’ Philokles said. ‘The
attack on Satyrus—’
‘Might just have been the work of the Macedonians,’
Diodorus said.
‘Too well planned. Footpads. Stratokles.’ Philokles
flexed his muscles, reassured that they were returning. ‘Trust me,
Diodorus. I know what the man does. I did the same once.’
‘For my part,’ Satyrus said, ‘I’d rather go
and fight Demetrios than be afraid of going out of this
house.’
‘Ptolemy is afraid they’ll sell him,’ Diodorus
said. ‘Like Eumenes.’ He finished his wine and lay on his back next
to Sappho, shaking his head. ‘Macedonians.’
A slave came in and whispered to Sappho, and she
rolled over.
‘Coenus sends that our guest is awake,’ she
said.
It took a moment for that information to penetrate
the gloom of the dining hall.
‘Gods,’ Philokles said. And headed for the
door.
Leosthenes returned to full consciousness without
transition, Apollo having granted him life, or so it seemed to
Satyrus. The scarred man lay on Coenus’s spare couch and smiled at
the men in the room.
‘Friends,’ he said.
Coenus held his hand. ‘How did you come to serve
that scum?’
Leosthenes shook his head. ‘Stratokles? For all his
failings, he is a patriot for Athens. I am an Athenian.’
Philokles shook his head. ‘No wonder the
Macedonians own us all, Leosthenes, if a man like you will serve a
man like Stratokles because he is a patriot. He is a traitor
twenty times over. And he’s trying to kill Satyrus - that’s
Kineas’s son.’
‘Save your breath,’ Leosthenes said. ‘I will not
defend him or Cassander either. I’m glad I have been taken by
friends. And I tried to kill Kineas once myself - don’t try that
argument on me. Nor will I betray the men who served with me,
either.’ He managed a thin smile and shook his head. ‘Stratokles
thinks he’s the smartest man in the world.’
Leosthenes was sinking again. Diodorus went and
bent over him. ‘Listen, Leosthenes - your precious Stratokles is
getting ready to betray Cassander, I can smell it. What does that
make him? We need to know where he is!’
Leosthenes shook his head. ‘Glad to be taken by
friends,’ he said, and subsided into unconsciousness.
‘Apollo!’ Diodorus swore. ‘Of all the useless fools
to follow - and a man like Leosthenes, too!’
‘It is because men like Stratokles can attract men
like Leosthenes that they are dangerous. Coenus, he must be
watched. We cannot have him go back to Stratokles now.’ Philokles
took a deep breath and met Diodorus’s eye.
‘If he went back, we could follow him,’ Diodorus
said.
Philokles shook his head. ‘There are limits to the
duplicity a man can practise and not be tainted,’ he said. ‘I have
been past those limits and I will never go past them again.’
Diodorus nodded. ‘I thought you’d say something
like that. Athena send we march before long - the sooner we’re out
of this city and doing some honest fighting, the better for
everyone.’
In the morning, Leon was back, and the house was
full of sailors, and Satyrus found that despite his sister’s
problems, he had no trouble embracing Xeno like a long-lost
brother.
‘Demetrios has his army in Syria,’ Leon said. ‘He’s
building up supplies in Palestine and then he’ll come for us. If he
hadn’t had his cavalry beaten up in Nabataea, he’d be here now and
we’d be wrecked. As it is, we’ve hope.’
In whispers, Xeno related how the Lotus had
ghosted up the Palestinian coast and seized a message boat.
‘I’m off for the palace,’ Leon said.
‘Diodorus?’
The hipparch drank off his morning beer. ‘I’m with
you, brother. Listen - I take it he’s coming by land?’
‘Best I can tell,’ Leon affirmed. ‘How’s
Ptolemy?’
‘Panicking,’ Diodorus said, and then their voices
vanished into the courtyard.
One hundred professional marines had a profound
effect on the Phalanx of Aegypt, as they provided file-closers for
every file and the drill smartened up immediately. And forty
sailors joined them, most of them upper-deck professionals who
owned some armour.
One of the sailors was Diokles. He attached himself
to Satyrus as soon as he came on the parade square, displacing the
Greek boy who stood in the second rank behind Satyrus with a polite
nod and a gruff ‘On your way, then.’ The Greek, who’d been a little
too shy of pushing forward for Satyrus, seemed happy to be moved to
a place that was slightly less exposed.
Satyrus rammed his butt-spike into the sand and
turned. ‘Good to see you, by all the gods!’ he said. He was
surprised by the warmth of his own reaction.
So was Diokles, but he was visibly pleased. His
hand clasp was firm. ‘Thought I’d try my hand at being a gent,’ he
said with a smile. ‘Your uncle Leon asked me to look after you,’ he
said.
‘Really!’ Satyrus said.
‘Fighting-wise,’ Diokles said. ‘What did you
think?’
‘Shut up and listen!’ Philokles bellowed, and they
were back to drill. They faced to their spear side and they faced
to their shield side, they changed grips on their spears and raised
and lowered their shields, they marched to the sound of pipes and
halted to the shrill blasts of a whistle. In the afternoon, a man
was killed when they practised a full-out charge and he got a
butt-spike in the face from an incorrectly lowered pike. Anyone who
was not sobered by that death was affected when the Spartan stood
them in ranks in the setting sun and marched them past the
corpse.
Even Satyrus, whose body was at the peak of
training, was ready to drop.
‘We march the day after tomorrow!’ Philokles
roared. His voice carried easily - one of the reasons men trained
in the arts of rhetoric. ‘Phylarchs will attend me for instructions
on what kit your men need to have. Water bottles! Hide or clay or
bronze, I don’t give a shit, but every man must have a water
bottle. A spare cloak! Understand? The Macedonians will have
shield-bearers to carry their kit. Most of us won’t. That
means we have to march light. Again - phylarchs will attend me.
Very well - fall out by ranks and stack your sarissas. Carry
on!’
Theron, who acted as Philokles’ second, began
falling out the ranks. This process prevented the men from tangling
the long pikes and becoming injured while being dismissed - a real
difficulty. Philokles gathered the three hundred men who led files,
closed files or led half-files - sixteen men to the file - and read
off for them a list of basic equipment every man had to have: wool
stockings, heavy sandals, a water bottle, a spare cloak, net bags
for forage and a scrip or pack for gear, and other things.
Satyrus and Abraham and many of the other phylarchs
carried hinged wax tablets for notes, and they pulled out their
styluses and copied the lists, but not all the phylarchs could
write.
‘I’ll post it at the temples,’ Satyrus said.
Theron, who had overseen the dismissal of the
phalanx, shot him a grateful smile. ‘That’ll save a lot of crap,
Satyrus, and no mistake. Make sure the priests know it, too - then
men can ask for it.’
Abraham nodded. ‘I’ll take a copy for my father. He
can see to it that a dozen copies go around the market.’
‘Some men in my file may be too poor to afford all
this,’ one of the marines commented. ‘They seem like good lads, but
half of them don’t even have sandals.’
Philokles shrugged. ‘I have to try,’ he said.
Abraham raised his hand. ‘Sir, I think that many of
the merchants would help equip men - from pride - if they were
asked.’
Philokles laughed. ‘Well, lad, you seem to have
volunteered. Figure out a way to discover which men can’t pay, and
get them kit. Pick four men to help you.’
Abraham shook his head at Satyrus. ‘Me and my big
mouth,’ he said, but he looked more happy than chagrinned.
‘Busy?’
‘I have to cover the temples,’ Satyrus said.
Dionysius raised his hands in mock resignation.
Then he smiled wickedly. ‘Cimon’s should donate!’ he said. ‘Perhaps
we could have the words “House of a thousand blow jobs” embroidered
on our armour.’
Abraham put a casual elbow in Dio’s side and then
caught him. ‘That’s enough from you. You can write, I
assume? You’re not just a pretty face?’
Dio made a moue. ‘All I ever wanted was to
be a pretty face,’ he said. In fact, his face was red from sun and
had the strange burn of a man who had been on parade all day in a
helmet.
Satyrus took Diokles because the man was to hand
and seemed determined to shadow him anyway. ‘Can you write?’ he
asked.
Diokles nodded. ‘Sure - hey, maybe not my place,
but Hades - ain’t we supposed to go straight back to your
uncle’s?’
Satyrus shook his head. ‘Yes and no. Yes, we are -
but this has to be done. Look, it’s just a run to the temples.’ He
undid the wire that bound his tablets and handed a copy to Diokles.
‘Take this to every temple on the south side. Make sure it is
copied fair and that you find some priest who has read it.’
‘You sound like a navarch I knew once,’ Diokles
said. He looked at the Alexandrion suspiciously, but it was late
afternoon and the streets were full of men and women of every
stratum - hardly a threatening crowd. ‘All right, sir. Give it
here. Where do I find you?’
‘Temple of Poseidon, last one before the sea wall.
On the steps.’ Satyrus wanted to be off the street as much as
Diokles wanted him off, so he put his head down and hurried through
the errand, passing the list at every temple and watching as a
clerk or an under-priest or an acolyte copied the list, bouncing up
and down as he waited, watching the crowds from the relative
invulnerability of many-stepped porticos.
The Temple of Poseidon was last, and he didn’t see
Namastis, which made sense as the young priest had drilled all day.
But the priest who copied the list was thorough and interested,
able to memorize without effort, and Satyrus found himself standing
on the steps watching the crowds. There was no sign of Diokles -
and then he saw the man, well down the street, crossing from the
Temple of Athena to the Temple of Demeter.
The shrine of Herakles beckoned to him from across
the avenue. He had the time.
Satyrus crossed the street as quickly as possible
and went up the steps, ignoring some acquaintance who called his
name. He gave his list to an acolyte to be copied and then stepped
into the precinct of the temple, searched his bag for a silver coin
and found one, and made a hasty but exact sacrifice under the gilt
statue of the master pankrationist, left arm stretched forward,
right arm back and holding a sword, the lion skin of shining gold
covering his back. He felt nothing untoward, except that the eyes
of the statue seemed to be upon him, and he dedicated his sacrifice
to the dead boy, Cyrus - Theo would have his own sacrifices.
Satyrus thought of the young man’s eagerness to learn to sacrifice
- it seemed as if that was so long ago, and he found that tears
were running down his face.
Then he was back out of the precinct, and he went
down the steps in a sombre mood.
‘Master Satyrus!’ called a voice, close at
hand.
Satyrus felt that something was wrong. He
felt as if the god had put a hand on his shoulder and turned him -
indeed, he spun on the steps and stumbled when his right foot
slipped off the marble step, and his side absorbed an impact - his
ribs burned with fire. Only as the knife was withdrawn did he
understand that he had been attacked.
‘Hades!’ a familiar voice cursed, and Satyrus got
his hand on the attacker’s elbow. They struggled for the knife, and
they exchanged blows - Satyrus took a blinding blow from the top of
his opponent’s head and returned one with his fingers to his
opponent’s eyes, and then the man broke his hold in exchange for
the loss of the knife and bolted down the steps.
Satyrus was bleeding from his side. He put a hand
to it, and it came away covered with blood, and he felt
queasy.
Diokles appeared at his side. ‘I see him!’ he
said.
Satyrus managed to get to his feet. ‘Follow him!’
he said. ‘See where he goes!’
Diokles hesitated. ‘But—’ he said.
‘I’ll be safe in the temple,’ Satyrus said. Suiting
the action to the word, he dragged himself up the steps, leaving a
trail of blood.
Diokles hesitated another moment and then raced
away.
Satyrus was helped by many hands. In the end they
carried him into the precinct and laid him on a bench. His side
hurt, but the doctor who appeared in moments shook his head.
‘You’re a lucky lad,’ he said. ‘Skidded off your
ribs. It’ll hurt for some days, but the bruise’ll be worse than the
cut.’ He wrapped Satyrus in the temple’s linen, and Hama came with
four files of cavalry to escort him home.
Hama was silent all the way home. Satyrus assumed
that somehow he was going to be blamed, but he had drawn the wrong
conclusion.
‘You’re hurt!’ Sappho said, when he came into the
courtyard.
Diokles had managed to follow the would-be killer
into the tannery district before he lost the man, and he stood in
the middle of a dozen of Diodorus’s cavalrymen, describing the
district while Eumenes of Olbia wrote his directions on a
tablet.
‘I recognized his voice,’ Satyrus said. ‘Remember
Sophokles?’
Philokles smiled ruefully. ‘Who could forget?’ He
narrowed his eyes. ‘Really? Here?’
‘Yes,’ Satyrus said.
‘Don’t tell me!’ Sappho put a hand to her throat.
‘Where’s Melitta?’ She sent for Dorcus.
‘Speaking of armour,’ Diodorus said. He shrugged.
‘This was supposed to be a dramatic moment, but I think my thunder
has been stolen somewhat.’
Dorcus returned. ‘In the bath, my lady,’ she said,
grim-faced.
Sappho took a deep breath and let it out. Then
another.
Diodorus embraced his wife. ‘I think we have to let
Satyrus go his own way,’ he said.
Sappho raised her head. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘How
badly hurt are you, my dear? I assume that if you were dying,
someone would have told me.’
Satyrus managed a smile. ‘It shocked me when it
happened, but I assure you I’ve had worse in the palaestra.’
Eumenes stepped forward and saluted. ‘Strategos?
With fifty men, I think I could find him.’
‘Hold that thought,’ Diodorus said. ‘Stay by me. I
need to consult with Leon and with Philokles before I send a troop
of cavalry into the streets, even for Stratokles.’
Satyrus hadn’t seen Eumenes in weeks, and he shook
hands with the youngest of his father’s friends. ‘The gods keep you
well,’ he said.
Eumenes grinned. ‘The gods need some help with
you!’ he answered.
Diodorus stepped in. ‘I have a small surprise for
you, Satyrus.’ He shrugged. ‘I hope that you like it.’ He led them
all in from the courtyard.
In the main room there was an armour stand, and
atop it was the helmet of silver that Demetrios had given Satyrus
three years before. Now, under it, was a full-sized cuirass of
tawed leather and alternating rows of silver and gilt-bronze scales
- every scale a small disk, so that the whole looked like the
scales on a fish. There was a gilt and silver vambrace for the
sword arm and a pair of rich greaves.
‘I wish that Melitta had as good,’ Satyrus said.
‘Oh, that’s beautiful, Uncle. Who made it? Hephaistos?’
‘Much like,’ Diodorus agreed, pleased that his gift
was so well received.
Philokles came in, still in armour, and glanced at
the display. ‘Goodness, Achilles is going to fight right next to
me. Young man, see that you don’t blind me.’ He turned to Diodorus
and Eumenes. ‘So?’
‘Leon’s man followed the assassin,’ Diodorus
said.
‘I think I can find him,’ Eumenes said. ‘I need
fifty men.’
Philokles shook his head. ‘This whole city is right
on the edge of a violent explosion,’ he said. ‘The news isn’t
public, but two of our senior officers have fled to Demetrios -
this morning. And just now, Ptolemy announced that he will march.
We’ll set off tomorrow - the Phalanx of Aegypt at the rear.’ He
smiled grimly. ‘If we send ten files of cavalry into the market,
the war will start right here.’
Diodorus nodded. ‘I agree. What do we do?’
Philokles looked at Satyrus. ‘We ask our Aegyptian
friends to find them for us. The tannery district is almost
entirely native. The native populace is so disaffected with the
Macedonians tonight that they may rise against Ptolemy himself -
foolish as that would be, that’s where they are. Satyrus? Any
ideas?’
Satyrus was looking longingly at his new armour.
‘Namastis - the priest of Poseidon. He’ll help. I wish I knew where
to find him, but the temple is the place to start.’
Accompanied by Diokles and a dozen cavalry troopers
whose military gear was inadequately disguised by borrowed civilian
cloaks, Satyrus went to the Temple of Poseidon.
Namastis greeted him from the top of the steps, as
if they’d made an appointment. ‘I heard what happened!’ the
Aegyptian said.
‘That’s what I’m hoping you’ll help with,’ Satyrus
said. ‘Listen - my uncles say our city is on the edge of civil war
- Aegyptians against Macedonians.’
Namastis’s face closed. ‘I wouldn’t know anything
about that, lord.’
‘Satyrus! Call me Satyrus, by the gods! By Poseidon
Earth-shaker, priest, this is about our city! Your city and my
city! Men are manipulating the thetes. Alexandria cannot stand
without Lord Ptolemy. He is not the enemy. The enemy is
Antigonus One-Eye and his army - if they come here, they will
sack the city no matter what promises he makes.’
Namastis nodded. ‘I know that. But desperate men
make poor choices.’
Satyrus shook his head. ‘These men who attacked
me—’
‘Who are they? And why? No man of Aegypt would do
it. I have let it be known - that is to say, it is known that you
are a friend.’ Namastis looked deeply disturbed by his slip.
Satyrus ignored it. ‘They serve One-Eye.
Understand?’
The priest shook his head. ‘No, I do not
understand. Explain it to me.’
Satyrus had to smile. ‘To be honest, I’m not
positive that I understand myself. One-Eye is enemies with
Cassander, the regent of Macedon - yes? But it appears that they
have a secret agreement - to give Aegypt to One-Eye.’
‘Yes - that’s a common enough rumour. Why kill
you?’ Namastis asked.
Satyrus shrugged. ‘I’m an old enemy,’ he said. ‘My
father and mother left me a claim to be king of the
Bosporus.’
‘The king of the grain trade!’ Namastis nodded.
‘Ahh! But then, you are no more an Alexandrian than the
Macedonians!’
‘What - do I seem to you to be an ingrate? A
barbarian? I am a citizen. No matter what my birth. Don’t be
as bad as the Macedonians, priest. So what if I was born somewhere
else?’
Namastis grinned - the first honest display of
emotion that Satyrus had seen him show. ‘So,’ he said. ‘And so. How
can this poor and unworthy priest help you, King of the Grain
Trade?’
Satyrus explained it to him. The priest listened
carefully, and then nodded.
‘There are men who stand close to you all day,’ he
said. ‘And you don’t know their names, or where they live. But they
will spend the night searching on your behalf. Does that tell you
something?’
‘It tells me that I should learn their names,’
Satyrus said.
Namastis grunted. ‘That would be a start,’ he said.
He produced an oyster shell from under his robes. ‘I’m not sure
that I should give you this, given what you have told me. Except
that now I understand why the lady of Heraklea has to do with an
upstart Alexandrian gentle man.’
Satyrus snatched the oyster shell, the conflicting
emotions of the last one banished.
‘I am to say, tonight.’ Namastis raised an
eyebrow. ‘I won’t ask if you will go.’
Satyrus took a deep breath. ‘That’s right, friend,’
he said. ‘Don’t ask.’
At the base of the steps he looked out over the sea
wall and thought about his sister. Why can’t you be like this
all the time? she’d asked at sea. He nodded and made the sign
of Poseidon.
Eloping wasn’t as difficult as it might have been
for another girl. First, Melitta wasn’t afraid of the world outside
Sappho’s women’s quarters. She knew the streets and she had clothes
in which she did not look like a rich Greek girl. Second,
she had weapons and a strong desire to use them. Third, she had
somewhere to go. Xeno had offered to meet her and be her escort,
but that’s not what she wanted.
She dropped off her balcony on to the beach and
froze as she heard movement to her left. Barefoot in the sand, she
moved slowly and carefully back into the shadow of the house, at
the same time drawing her Sakje akinakes.
She saw her brother drop to the sand from his own
balcony and she almost laughed aloud - but she couldn’t be
sure that they were on the same side when it came to her
running away. She wondered where he was going, and then she caught
a glint of gold. He was well dressed. Amastris.
She gave the superior smile of the sister, crouched
down on her haunches and waited for him to vanish up the beach.
When he was gone, his footsteps lost in the noise of drunken
sailors, she picked up her armour and the leather wallet that held
the rest of her boy’s clothes, and ran off along the strand, past
the beached squadrons of Ptolemy’s fleet until she reached some
lower and thus less opulent houses, where she cut inland. She
leaned against a stable to clean her feet before pushing them into
Thracian boots. Other expeditions in boy’s clothes had taught her
that her hands and feet gave her away more than her breasts -
carefully bound and now almost flat under her Sakje jacket.
Just short of the northern agora, she stopped,
straightened her clothes and began to walk purposefully, like a man
in a hurry. Not like a girl running away.
The agora was busy, despite the darkness, and she
wanted to linger. There were torches everywhere and the heady odour
of burning pitch filled the air along with the reek of patchouli
and the smell of burning garlic and unwashed people. She wanted to
be part of everything.
The night market was a strange world where the
thieves and the pornai and the beggars ruled, where soldiers were
customers and slaves paid to be entertained. In some ways, it was
the daytime world stood on its head, as Menander had so rightly
observed. Menander was sometimes a denizen of the night market
himself, and his plays were full of night-market expressions.
She bought a skewer of meat - probably rats or mice
- from a girl no older than five, who took the money with the
concentration a young child gives to an adult task, while her
mother serviced a noisy soldier in the booth behind her.
‘I couldn’t - I had to come,’ Xeno said beside her,
and she looked up into his eyes.
‘You found me in the night market? You must be part
dog!’ she said. She ought to have been angry, but instead she
squeezed his hand.
They wandered from stall to stall, paid a blind
singer with a kithara for his songs and watched a troupe of slave
acrobats perform for free what their master charged heavily for
them to perform at a symposium or a private house.
‘The archer-captain is sitting over there with his
mates, drinking wine and telling lies,’ Xeno said with a smile. ‘I
told him a bit about you - not about you being a girl, of course.
About how you were small and you can shoot.’
She kissed him on the nose, as she had seen boys do
with their men, even in public. ‘I take back all those things I say
about you behind your back,’ she said.
Xeno winced. There was some fear in him, some
hesitation, and it annoyed her.
‘Let’s go and meet this captain,’ she said.
They wandered across the agora, avoiding a deadly
brawl so sudden and explosive that Xeno was splattered in blood and
Melitta found that she had her akinakes in her fist before she
thought to draw it.
‘This your little archer, Master Xenophon?’ asked a
deep voice, while Xeno was still wiping the blood off his face. He
was looking at the body as if he’d recognize the victim any moment,
but he turned.
‘Captain Idomeneus!’ he said. ‘My friend—’
‘Bion,’ Melitta said, offering her hand to clasp
the archer’s. He was a Cretan by his accent, and he looked like a
caricature of Hephaestos - his face was handsome enough, but he was
short and wide, with powerful arms and short legs. Indeed, he only
topped her by a couple of fingers.
She must have looked at him too long, because he
gave a fierce grin. ‘Like what you see, boy? My dick is short and
broad, too. Hah!’ He had a mastos cup in his hand, and he drank
wine from it. ‘No offence, boy. You can shoot?’
‘Anything,’ Melitta said. ‘I’ve been shooting since
I was four years old. I can hit a target seven times out of ten at
half a stade. I can—’
‘You can string a bow? Avoid bragging, boy, it’s
too fucking easy for me to test you tomorrow. What kind of bow do
you have? Let me see it.’ He didn’t seem drunk, but a whole life
spent with Philokles had taught her that some men could operate
efficiently through a haze of wine.
She took her bow from its gorytos and handed it
over.
He whistled. ‘Sakje? Maybe you ain’t so full of
shit, boy. It’s your size. Made for you?’
She nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said.
‘You Sakje, boy?’ he asked. ‘People going to come
looking for you?’ There was something in his tone that she liked -
a firmness that showed his command skills. So she told him the
truth.
‘I have family here,’ she said. ‘They might look
for me. Even if they find me, I doubt they’ll make a fuss.’
‘Rich kid?’ Idomeneus asked.
Melitta shrugged. ‘What do you think?’ she asked,
trying to roughen her voice and sound tough.
The Cretan grabbed her by the ear and pulled her
face close to a torch. She flinched, grabbed his hand in a
pankration hold and rotated his arm, using the hand as
purchase.
‘Whoa!’ the Cretan called. ‘Hold!’
She let him go. He rubbed his shoulder. ‘I think
you speak like a boy who had a tutor,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to
waste my time visiting magistrates and archons. And,’ he shrugged,
his eyes flashing in the torchlight, ‘if I didn’t know better, I
might wonder if you were a girl. Not that I particularly give a
shit, you understand. Just that if an outraged father or brother
kills me, I’ll haunt you. You as good as that bow says you
are?’
‘Yes,’ Melitta said.
The Cretan shrugged. ‘Okay. I’m desperate, which
this young animal has no doubt told you. We need archers the way a
man in the desert needs water. You’re on. If your father comes for
you, though, I’ll hand you over in a heartbeat. Understand me,
boy?’
Melitta stood straighter. ‘Yes, sir!’
‘Pluton, none of my boys call me “sir”.’ Idomeneus
grinned, his teeth glinting in the torchlight. ‘Can I buy you two a
cup of wine to seal the bargain?’
Melitta wanted to accept, but Xeno shook his head.
‘I thought I’d go to the slave auction,’ he said.
Melitta flinched. ‘You know how Uncle—’ She
reconsidered her sentence. ‘What do you want with a slave?’
she asked.
Idomeneus gave her a steady look. Xeno glanced
around nervously. ‘I want a shield-bearer,’ he said. ‘I have all my
share from the ship. All the rich boys have a shield-bearer.’
‘A fool and his money,’ the Cretan muttered.
‘Listen, boys - never buy anything at the night auction. Half those
poor bastards were just kidnapped off the street, and the other
half are shills who follow you home just to help their allies rob
your house.’
‘I can’t afford anything at the day market,’ Xeno
said. He was avoiding Melitta’s glares.
‘Go without,’ the archer-captain said, with all the
firmness of age and experience. ‘Oh, fine. I’ll go with you -
otherwise you’ll both end up on the block. Argon?’ he called, and
another Cretan stepped away from a big fire, downed the wine in a
cheap clay cup and handed it to another man.
‘With you, humpback. Who’s this boy?’ Argon was
taller and handsomer and didn’t look very bright.
‘Bion - just joined. We’re going to the night
auction. Come and cover my arse.’ Idomeneus grinned and the two men
slapped each other’s backs.
The four of them made their way to the auction,
where a deep throng of onlookers - many of them slaves themselves -
gathered to bid on the dregs of the dregs of the city of
Alexandria. Melitta was disgusted by the whole process - she shared
her uncle’s views on every aspect of the trade. Most of the people
on auction were hopeless - the kind you saw on the fringe of the
agora in the daytime, begging and stealing, many scarcely capable
of speech. They were scrawny, ill fed, most had few teeth and all
flinched whenever a free man came too close. The only healthy,
normal-looking specimens were children, and their version of
normality was abject terror at being sold. One boy sobbed
incessantly.
What kind of parent sells her child? Melitta
asked in her head, but the answer was plain before her, as two of
the children were auctioned off by a toothless bastard with an evil
smile. The two children he sold were bruised and silent, watching
the torch-lit crowd with all the interest of dead souls watching
the living.
Melitta found that her right thumb was rubbing the
hilt of her long knife. She wanted to kill the man.
The next lot was a single boy, the one who kept
sobbing. Under his dirt and his scrunched, unhappy face he was
healthy, blond and larger than most of the other children.
Xeno was shifting nervously, aware, like most
boyfriends, that he had annoyed his lover, and unable to think of a
way to make it right without giving up his precious project of
buying a slave.
Melitta could read him so easily that it hurt her -
hurt her opinion of him. But without weighing the morality of her
actions, she smiled up at him. ‘Buy that boy,’ she said. ‘He looks
strong enough.’
‘My aspis is taller than that kid!’ Xeno said, but
he looked at the boy again. ‘He’s whimpering.’
‘Zeus Soter, he’s big, and in a few years he’ll be
strong. Besides, he’s just the sort a certain uncle of ours tries
to rescue. Don’t be a git, Xeno.’ Melitta tried to whisper, but the
crowd was hooting for the next lot to be stripped - two whores
being sold for debt.
Idomeneus caught something of what she said,
because he leaned in. ‘That boy? He looks all right. I’ll go and
look him over.’ The Cretan shrugged. ‘Boy that size is like having
a kid, though. Have to teach him everything - but if he lives, a
good investment.’
The crowd was so anxious to see the pornai that the
hawker was having trouble getting bids on the blond child.
‘I fucking hate seeing kids sold,’ Argon
said. He spat at the man who had sold the two children, now
standing at arm’s length from them counting his silver coins. The
man felt the moisture and whirled in anger.
Argon didn’t move. ‘Fuck yourself, clod.’
The clod flinched and backed away. Argon was a big
man.
Melitta nodded. ‘I wanted to kill him,’ she
said.
‘Really?’ Argon asked. ‘Want to?’
Melitta realized then that she was in a different
world - that Argon meant just what he said.
‘Three silver owls,’ Idomeneus said. ‘Argon, don’t
make trouble. Bion, did you stir him up, the stupid lout? Argon,
take a deep breath and back off.’ The Cretan shook his head.
‘He’s the kind of man who makes other people call us
Cretans.’
Xeno handed the officer three big silver coins, and
Idomeneus made them vanish. ‘Never flourish money like that at
night,’ he said. ‘You boys should get some training in real life.
Anyway, boy’s yours.’ He reached out and took a leash from the
hawker. Xeno took it and pulled, but the boy didn’t move, and the
crowd was howling for the prostitutes to be stripped.
Melitta put her arm around the boy’s shoulder.
‘Come on, boy,’ she said.
He sobbed and hunkered down.
Idomeneus picked him up as if he was made of
feathers. ‘Let’s go somewhere bright and quiet and look at what you
bought,’ he said. ‘Camp.’
Satyrus dropped from his balcony to the beach with
a minimum of fuss, except for the pain in his side over his ribs,
which burned anew as he hung from his fingers for a moment. Then he
gathered the bundle he’d thrown from the balcony moments before and
sprinted off down the beach, the sound of his feet covered by the
shouts of the men and women on the beach.
The Golden Lotus was stern-first on the
beach between the Hyacinth and the Bow of Apollo, her
bow awash, ready for action in minutes, and her crew were drinking
and enjoying the company of hundreds of Alexandria’s waterfront
whores, who had turned the beach into an outdoor market, with wine
and food and other delights for the thousands of oarsmen from
Ptolemy’s fleet.
Satyrus had no difficulty slipping through them in
a plain cloak, ignoring a few offers of companionship and his own
sense of what he ought to be doing, and seizing hold of the
rope that led to the ship’s boat, moored alongside the oar box. He
pulled off his boots and climbed aboard, loosed the rope and rowed
away.
Satyrus rowed across the harbour in the light of a
new moon, the upside-down crescent that the Sakje and the
Aegyptians both called the ‘maiden with her legs spread’. Whatever
powers Sophokles and Stratokles possessed, Satyrus didn’t think
they could track him across the harbour.
He rowed right past the guard post at the palace
without a challenge - not the first time - and coasted silently
into the tiny harbour, scarcely larger than a courtyard, where
Ptolemy’s own barge loaded and unloaded. What he was doing was
insane, but he was smiling, for the first time in days.
Her directions were specific - he was to come to
the gate. Amastris had no way of knowing that the front gate full
of Macedonian guards was the last place he wanted to be. He moored
his boat at the trade dock and climbed the ladder to the pier,
which was empty. Ptolemy had problems of his own - he was not going
to fill his palace full of Foot Companions the night before he
marched. Satyrus had bet on it, and his bet was coming up.
At the top of the ladder, he stripped off his
chiton and pulled on the dun chlamys of a palace slave. Slaves
seldom wore a chiton. He looked longingly at his sword, and then
tossed it on top of his chiton. One thing no slave ever had was a
weapon. Barefoot like a slave, he stole into the palace.
No one challenged him. There were slaves in every
corridor, but they ignored him, although he got enough glances to
see that many of them knew he was not one of them. Neither,
however, did they seem inclined to betray him.
He passed through the court and the megaron,
carrying a wine pitcher he found on a chest, and then he went out
of the main entry under the wall painting of Zeus. He left the wine
pitcher in the entryway and walked with his head bowed across the
great courtyard towards the main gate.
The gate guard tonight were Cavalry Companions -
the ruler’s own Hetairoi, and thus men he could have trusted. Many
of them were friends of Diodorus, and although most were
Macedonians, their fates were so tied to the house of Ptolemy that
they would never betray him - or, by extension, Satyrus. He sighed
for all his extra effort, and in between the beginning and end of
that sigh, he spotted a slender shadow amidst the pillars and
scaffolding of the new gate.
A man on guard laughed bitterly.
‘Or we’ll all die,’ he said, and his words carried
clearly across the night.
Satyrus moved as quietly as if he were hunting ibex
in the south, or deer on the Tanais. Twice, his bare feet touched
gravel and he had to move yet more carefully - and then we was in
the shadow of the new portico. In crawling under the edge of the
scaffold, he managed to get sand under his bandage.
Nonetheless, he was able to come up to the pillars
without being discovered, and he reached out just as she
turned.
‘Don’t scream,’ he said.
She opened her mouth, put a hand on his chest and
then put her mouth up to his. ‘You came!’ she breathed.
Her kiss was everything he remembered, and
nothing,no shred of conscious thought, entered his head for many
heartbeats. She kissed him for so long that he breathed the air
from her lungs, and she took it back from him, and then she leaned
back against the pillar as if all the strength was gone from her
legs.
‘You are naked,’ she said.
‘I am pretending to be a slave,’ he answered.
‘Besides, my nudity shows my physique, and my physique shows that I
am ready to do my duty as a citizen.’ Gods - he was parroting
Philokles in the middle of kissing Amastris.
‘It shows more than that,’ she said. She ran a
finger down his chest. ‘How did you get here?’ she asked, but her
tongue didn’t let him answer, and her hand closed over his manhood,
and she laughed into his kiss, a low laugh full of promise. Then,
before things got out of her control, she took him by the hand and
led him back, away from the gate, screened by the line of
scaffolding, until they slipped by a pair of torch-bearers and
under the columns of the main wing of the palace.
‘This is where you first kissed me,’ she said. That
seemed to demand certain actions, and then they were moving again.
Just the sight of her gold-sandalled feet seemed the most erotic
thing he’d ever seen, and he followed her in a daze until they
emerged from the line of pillars.
‘The gardens,’ she said, as they passed between the
gateposts of entwined roses.
An odd, observant part of his mind noted that she
knew the gardens very well, as she led him past the maze to an
arbour adorned with a statue of a nymph - possibly Thetis of the
glistening breasts.
‘I never thought that you would actually come,’ she
said into his ear, and then licked it.
Satyrus picked her up and carried her to the
bench.
‘Put me down!’ she said, but her voice was
soft.
Satyrus pulled the golden pin that held the
shoulder of her dress and began to kiss down her neck, over her
shoulder, and without pause up the curve of her breast, even as he
sat carefully on the bench. Training was good for many
things.
‘Oh!’ she said. ‘Satyrus - no. Oh, I never thought
that you would come.’
‘No?’ he asked, raising his head.
Her eyes sparkled in the near dark, reflecting
distant torchlight like a thousand stars. ‘No,’ she breathed. ‘Not
that sort of no. Or perhaps - I don’t know. Oh, my dear.’
He straightened.
She drew him down for a kiss, and wriggled off his
lap on to the bench. ‘Where’s my pin?’ she asked.
He produced it, and she carefully thrust it through
her gown without repinning her shoulder, and then she turned back
to him. ‘I don’t want to lose anything,’ she said, her eyes as big
and deep as night itself. Then she unpinned the other shoulder and
put the pin in the same place, and turned to him with a smile that
took his breath away. ‘Now,’ she said. ‘Gold pins do not grow on
trees.’
The sun streaked the horizon as he rowed back, his
mind buzzing, his shoulders curiously tired.
‘Make it possible for Ptolemy to give us to each
other,’ Amastris had said. That phrase filled his head, and he
rowed across the harbour at a speed that might have won a
race.
The beach was silent, except for the snores of the
oarsmen and their companions. A pair of women bathed in the sea as
he rowed up, and one of them rose out of the water. ‘Aphrodite,’
she called. ‘Coming out of the sea just for you!’
Satyrus laughed. ‘I have nothing left to give that
lovely goddess,’ he said, and both the girls laughed. ‘Nor have
we,’ they called.
His good humour lasted until he climbed into his
room, where Philokles sat by his empty bed.
‘Where the fuck have you been?’ the Spartan
asked. And without listening to an explanation, Philokles said, ‘We
were attacked last night.’ He shrugged. ‘I thought you were taken.
Dead.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Satyrus said.
‘Dorcus is dead. Nihmu has a knife wound in her
shoulder. Three men - in through the women’s quarters.’ The Spartan
shook his head. ‘Gods - so you were gone all night - and Melitta
too, unless her note is forged. She says she has eloped with the
god of war, so Stratokles failed by the will of the gods.’
Satyrus ducked out of his room and down the hall,
scattering servants. He went into Sappho’s wing, past the guard.
‘Auntie?’ he called.
Sappho emerged in a Persian robe, slapped him and
then embraced him. ‘You were with a girl!’ she said. ‘Is this what
we taught you? You smell of sex. You little fool !’ she
said, but she hugged him all the tighter.
Satyrus wondered why he ever thought that he could
get away with anything.
‘That’s quite the expensive scent,’ Kallista said
from behind Sappho. ‘Were you with Phiale, by any chance? Why
didn’t we think of that?’
He shook his head. ‘I’m so sorry!’ he said.
‘Now, if we could recover your sister, I could stop
worrying,’ Sappho said.
Melitta lay under the stars, her two men’s cloaks
crossed over her and her legs entwined with Xeno’s. His new boy lay
on the other side, full of soup, asleep.
The boy was a sadder case than Melitta had guessed
- mother dead, father dead - killed by their own owner.
Melitta thought about the boy’s story, trying to piece together a
six-year-old’s account of his life. Something rang - something was
trying to fit with the rest of her head, like a piece in a
mosaic.
Xeno was too adoring, and in some ways his
adoration was more difficult than anything, but she had shot ten
bullseyes out of ten at fifty paces by torchlight, and even the
archer-captain of the toxotai was impressed with her - him.
She had a place among the archers who were training to face
Demetrios’s elephants. Xeno’s adoration seemed a small price to
pay.
Melitta wondered what her brother was doing. In her
rush to get free of the smothering confines of Leon’s house, she
hadn’t thought about what it would be like to be separated from
him, despite his many failings. He was, after all, her twin. Where
had he gone?
Xeno was already snoring. She smiled at him - the
bulk of him so familiar and so unfamiliar - and smiled at the
thought that none of the other soldiers considered that there was
anything remarkable in their sharing blankets and cloaks. She
wondered how long she could keep up her role as a man.
As long as she could.