water, took a breath and skipped the fly.
The movement of the fish was so fast that only long afternoons spent at this pastime enabled the boy to pull the hook just right and he had a fish the length of his arm pulling at the end of his rod. He raised the rod and dropped the fish on the cropped grass behind the rock. ‘Will you take it off?’ he asked Theron, who wasn’t fishing but just watching.
The big man knelt in the grass and took the hook from the fish’s mouth. He bashed the fish on a rock, then pulled out a bronze knife and gutted the fish in two strokes.
‘You’ve done this before,’ Satyrus said accusingly.
Theron smiled. ‘I’ve never seen anyone use a fly like that,’ he said. ‘But my father had a fishing boat. Cleaning fish is the same everywhere, I’d wager.’
Satyrus held out his rod. ‘Want to try?’ he asked.
Theron rinsed his hands in a side pool and reached out for the rod. ‘I’d love to.’
‘Why don’t you like my sister?’ Satyrus asked as the Corinthian flicked his hook on to the water.
‘I don’t dislike your sister,’ the man answered. ‘Do you know that in Hellas, women do not go fishing with their brothers?’
Satyrus could see a rider across the stream. He was a couple of stades away and he was moving so fast that he raised dust.
‘I’ve been to Athens,’ Satyrus said proudly. ‘The girls all had to stay at home.’
‘Exactly,’ Theron said.
‘I thought it was stupid,’ Satyrus added. ‘I think that’s Coenus!’ he said, sliding back off the rock.
‘Who’s Coenus?’ Theron asked politely. A fish chose that moment to hit his lure, and despite his inexperience, he jerked the rod and he hooked his prey – a trout at least as long as his forearm.
‘Well done!’ Satyrus exclaimed with all the enthusiasm of his age. He reached out and unhooked the trout, a big male with a heavy jaw and some fat on his backbone. The big fish had swallowed the hook, and Satyrus pulled carefully at the horsehair line, trying to retrieve the hook – fish hooks were precious.
‘He’s riding hard,’ Theron said.
Satyrus got bloody fingers on the shaft of the hook and pulled, and the hook ripped free of the cartilage, and the big fish spasmed and vomited blood. Satyrus reversed his bronze knife and killed the fish with a practised blow. Then he laid it on the grass and gutted it. ‘Coenus was one of my father’s companions,’ he said as he worked. ‘He’s quite old – older than you. He married a Persian, and keeps the temple of Artemis down the valley. He’s a great hunter. His son is at school in Athens.’ The boy smiled. ‘Xeno is my best friend. Besides my sister, I mean. I wish he was here.’ More soberly, ‘Coenus says that a tutor is no substitute for Athens.’
‘He’s riding fast,’ Theron said, still perched on the fishing rock.
Satyrus raised his head as he dropped the two fish into the net bag he wore. ‘He is,’ he said. ‘Will you excuse me?’
‘There are other riders behind him,’ Theron said, rising to his feet. Something in the posture of the riders disturbed him.
‘Get the horses,’ Satyrus said. ‘I’m going down to the road. Get the horses and the others.’
Theron hesitated, and Satyrus looked back. ‘Move,’ he said. ‘Coenus is bleeding. Something is wrong.’
The Corinthian chose to obey. He jogged off up the trail along the stream.
2
S atyrus ran downstream until he came to where the big oak trees overhung the road. He climbed down into the road. He could hear the rhythm of Coenus’s gallop. He stood in the middle of the road.
‘Coenus!’ he shouted.
If Philokles and Theron were big men, Coenus was bigger, and middle age had not diminished his size. A life of constant exercise kept him fit. He was clutching his left side, and blood flowed freely down his belly.
‘What are you doing here, boy?’ he croaked. ‘By the light of my goddess’s eyes!’ He was holding his horse with his knees, despite the wound in his side.
Satyrus had his knife on a cord over his shoulder. He pulled it over his head, opened the brooch that held the shoulder of his chiton and stepped out of the garment. ‘Bandage your side,’ he said, tossing him the garment. ‘What happened?’
‘We’re attacked!’ Coenus said. He turned his head at the sound of hoof beats.
‘They’re well behind you,’ Satyrus said. He was suddenly afraid. ‘Attacked?’
‘Sauromatae,’ Coenus said. He used Satyrus’s chiton as a pad to staunch the blood, and Satyrus stood on tiptoes to help him tie it as tightly as possible. Satyrus found that his hands were trembling and his senses heightened, so that he could hear his sister calling out and Philokles answering.
‘Quick, boy,’ Coenus said. ‘Who is with you?’
‘Philokles, my sister and Theron,’ he answered. ‘The new athletics coach.’
Coenus looked over his shoulder. The rise of the bluff on their left blocked any sight of his pursuers. ‘We have to get to town,’ he said. He grabbed Satyrus’s hand. ‘Thanks, boy,’ he said gruffly.
Satyrus grinned, despite his nerves.
The hoof beats were getting closer.
‘Ares and Aphrodite,’ Coenus muttered. ‘They’re on us.’ He turned his horse and drew his sword one-handed, a crook-bladed kopis.
Two men on ponies cantered around the bend in the road. They were barbarians and their horses were painted red. One raised a bow and shot, despite the range. His arrow fell short. They pressed their horses into a gallop and both loosed arrows together.
Satyrus ran off the road into the trees. He was unarmed and nothing but a target, and he was scared. Coenus sat still in the middle of the road. He looked tired and angry. He glanced once at Satyrus, and then put his knees to his horse and she responded with a leap into a canter.
The next two arrows flew over his head.
Behind the screen of trees, Satyrus could see his sister on Bion, the Sakje horse flying along the broken ground at the edge of the water and then leaping the stream like a deer.
Philokles emerged from the cover of the oaks with their horses in his fist. ‘Satyrus!’ he called.
Satyrus ran out on to the road and sprinted for his tutor.
Coenus’s horse took an arrow and gave a shrill cry and then plunged into one of his attackers, and Coenus’s arm went up in the classic overarm cut and came down like an axe cutting wood, and the unarmoured man was literally cut from the saddle, the blade ripping from the curve of his neck all the way into his breast, but the blow was too strong and the horses were moving too fast and Coenus lost his blade. He tried to turn his horse, but the mare was spent from a long gallop and wounded, and she didn’t want to turn.
Coenus’s other assailant had troubles of his own, as he’d kept his bow to hand too long and had dropped an arrow in the road. He froze in indecision as Coenus flashed past him, and he never saw the arrow that took him in the belly.
Satyrus ignored Philokles and vaulted on to Thalassa’s back. His tutor was screaming at him to run. He ignored the Spartan and turned his horse down the road to where Coenus’s horse was in the process of collapse, exhaustion and wounds having done her in. His sister’s arrow had saved Coenus, and the Sauromatae warrior sat his horse in the middle of the road, both hands wrapped around the shaft of the arrow, screaming in agony and yet still mounted.
More Sauromatae came around the curve at the far end of the valley, drawn by the screams.
‘Satyrus, run!’ Philokles shouted again.
Satyrus had a secure seat. Thalassa moved under him, and he reached down and secured his gorytos and tied the girdle around his waist as he rode. He tried to ignore the shaking of his hands. He couldn’t hear anything but the beat of his horse’s hooves like the thudding of his heart, and he had a lump of bronze at the base of his throat. He was afraid.
Melitta was not afraid. She was on the road, fitting an arrow to her bow. She shot, and the men on the road
