they want us to take ship so that they can catch us out on the sea.’ He looked at Satyrus. ‘That’s a firm “no” on the subject of going to Isokles.’
Satyrus ground away at the green-brown patina on the helmet he was cleaning for the time it took to think his way through the whole hymn to Athena. Then he said, ‘How long will they hunt us?’
Philokles grunted. ‘For ever,’ he said. ‘Until you go back and kill them and make yourself king. That’s the way of it.’ His eyes met Satyrus’s, and Satyrus felt as if he was being asked a particularly hard philosophical question.
Satyrus looked away. Philokles seemed to be accusing him of something. Of being afraid – afraid to stand up for his rights. Or something. ‘I’m tired of worrying,’ he said.
Theron shook his head. ‘Satyrus, the worrying has just begun.’ He looked as if he meant to say more, but Zosimos came through the gate. He made his way through the armour and stood between the twins. He gave them a showy bow.
‘Master Eutropios sends you these,’ he said. He held out a small bundle wrapped in linen. ‘He apologizes that they do not have scabbards.’
Inside the bundle were the two heavy knives, or very small swords, that they had seen the whitesmiths polishing the day before. Now they gleamed like water, and had hilts of steel and bone.
Philokles reached out. ‘May I?’ he asked.
Melitta handed him hers. ‘Please,’ she said, although she loved hers from the first touch.
‘Very nice,’ he said. ‘Somewhere between an eating knife and a short sword.’ He handed it back. ‘Zosimos, would you be kind enough to take them around to the leather-working fellow?’
Satyrus stood. ‘Can you carry my deep thanks and those of my sister to the smith?’
Zosimos smiled. ‘Sure.’ He grinned again.
There were now two armed slaves on the courtyard gate all the time. They opened the gate for Zosimos to go out, and Tenedos came in. He glared at them and went off towards the slave quarters.
‘I thought he was buying us remounts?’ Theron asked, after the man was gone.
‘I think he disapproves of us,’ Philokles said.
By late afternoon, the twins were barely able to keep polishing for sheer fatigue. Theron had given both of them a workout in the garden, and Philokles had given them a lesson in swordplay on the hard earth of the yard – basic stuff, and so much like pankration that all the footwork was the same, and most of the attacks – and then they’d been put back to work. But Satyrus raised his head to see Zosimos come into the yard past the armed slaves.
‘The smith is delighted that you are so pleased,’ he said. ‘But you can give your compliments in person. The caravan will form up at the factory. We will leave in two days. So you should come out tomorrow evening and spend the night.’
‘Thanks for your help, Zosimos,’ Philokles said.
Zosimos nodded. ‘I’ll be coming with you. I’m to accompany the caravan out and back, and then I’m free.’ He grinned. ‘Except for all the legal parts.’
‘Then what?’ Theron asked.
‘I think I’ll try being a smith,’ the young man said. ‘Master Eutropios has been offering to train me for years. Well, since my shoulders got big, anyway.’ He went away smiling.
The equipment in the courtyard was finished to Philokles’ exacting requirements – the edged weapons polished and sharp, the wood shafts of the spears oiled, the heads ground and the butt-spikes gleaming like gold. He packed the helmets in leather bags, put covers on the shields and pulled the cross belt of his sword over his head. Theron did the same. They fitted, and the scabbards were careful work, leather over wood with bronze fittings. The twins’ knives had the same mounts, and they put them on proudly.
‘I suspect you’re the only Greek woman in Heraklea with her own xiphos,’ Theron said. ‘Hail to you, grey-eyed goddess!’ He put a helmet on her head.
‘Stop clowning around,’ Philokles said. ‘I wish we could ride out to the factory right now.’
‘And miss another dinner with Kinon?’ Theron said, somewhat waspishly, Satyrus thought.
Philokles gave him a long look. ‘You are a man of virtue, Theron.’
Theron blushed.
‘Because you are a man of virtue, I have to say that some of your insinuations are womanish and unbecoming.’ Philokles, when sober, was quite imposing.
Theron frowned. ‘Philokles, you too are a man of virtue. But you drink too much, and lose that authority which would be yours by right. The authority to tell me that I’m womanish, for instance.’
The two men were standing.
‘How much I drink is between me and the gods, Corinthian. Keep your views to yourself.’ Philokles’ hands bunched into fists.
‘Fine words from you, Spartan. But then Spartans were always better at dishing it out than at taking it.’ The Corinthian stepped up to Philokles.
Philokles moved forward, eye to eye with the athlete.
‘Stop it!’ Melitta said. ‘Stop it! Have you forgotten that there are people in this city who seek to kill us?’ She rose to her feet and looked around. ‘I’m going to have a bath,’ she said. ‘I recommend that you men do the same.’
She marched out of the courtyard like a queen.
Satyrus busied himself with the last spot of verdigris on his own small helmet and wished that he was as brave and regal as his sister.
Theron glanced at Philokles. ‘She told us, eh?’
Philokles nodded. ‘You’ve heard of Kineas?’
Theron nodded.
‘Now you’ve met him. That was him. In his daughter.’
Philokles poured a cup of rough wine from a skin that hung on the wall and spilled a libation on the ground.
‘Here’s to the shade of Kineas, and to his children. And to friendship with you, Theron.’ Philokles drank.
Theron took the horn cup. He looked at Satyrus. ‘Is it hard, having a hero and a demi-god as a father?’ He gave the boy a smile. ‘My father was a fisherman. Sometimes that is the easier path.’ He raised the cup to Philokles, poured another libation and took an orator’s stance. ‘To the shade of Kineas, who sits with heroes – Arimnestos and Dion and Timoleon, Ajax and Achilles and all the men who shed their blood at windy Ilion. And to your friendship, Spartan, which means a great deal to me, whatever I say in anger. And to the twins.’ He spilled wine at each pronouncement and drank in turn. Then he offered it to Satyrus.
Satyrus accepted it, wishing he could think of something noble to say. Finally he spilled a libation and said, ‘I wish I was more like my father. May he be with the immortals, feasting. May you two be friends.’ He took a sip, smiled self-consciously and handed it back.
The solemn moment was broken by the shouts of Melitta in the bath. She was throwing water at someone, and that someone shrieked and giggled.
They were all bathed for dinner. Kinon returned from his business just a few minutes before the couches were set.
‘Tuna!’ Melitta pronounced as she came in. She was beautifully dressed in an ionic chiton with silver deer as brooches – Sakje deer, made out on the sea of grass by a silversmith. She lay down on the same couch as her brother. ‘Kallista says we’re to have tuna, as it is our last night.’
Satyrus looked like a prince himself, in a wool chiton of white with red-orange flames rising from the hem and falling from the shoulder in a repeat pattern that baffled the eye, his garment pinned with gold at each shoulder.
‘You found it on your bed?’ he asked his sister.
‘No, Kallista brought it to me when I finished my bath.’ Melitta was unused to reclining, and she reached under her hip to smooth her dress.
Kinon grinned. ‘I wanted both of you to have something beautiful to wear. Dionysius has agreed to receive you tomorrow, in public. After that, you will be safe. Indeed, I would hesitate to leave with the caravan – you will be safer here.’
