His sister screamed again and called, ‘Help!’
He pushed through the curtain to her room. Melitta was full-length on the marble floor, trying to hold Kallista. Kallista was flopping on the floor, her face purple. Satyrus put his back against the wall and tried to cover every side of the room with his blade.
‘Poison!’ Melitta said.
Kallista was writhing as if she was in a pankration fight with an invisible opponent. The Athenian doctor burst in, followed by Philokles.
‘Ahhhhhgggg!’ Kallista bellowed. She had both hands at her throat. Her eyes were bulging like eggs.
The doctor cast around the room. ‘What did she drink?’ he barked.
Melitta pointed at a ewer of wine. ‘She tasted it for me. Oh, Hera, she tasted it for me.’
The doctor smelled it. Then he put a finger in, hesitated and tasted it. He wrinkled his lips like a horse and spat.
‘Fuck, she’s dead,’ he said bluntly. ‘Poisoned. Not much I can do.’
Philokles didn’t hesitate. He fell on the girl. Despite her violent struggles, he had her unable to move in seconds. Melitta rolled off. Theron came through the door with his head in a bandage.
‘Help me!’ Philokles growled. ‘Get her legs!’
‘What in Hades?’ the doctor asked.
Theron got his left arm under her knees, pinned her ankles together and wrapped one great hand around them and lifted her up. Philokles kept her arms pinned.
Philokles whirled. ‘You have hemp, doctor?’ he demanded.
The moment her head cleared the stone floor, Philokles yelled, ‘Keep her there!’ at Theron. ‘Hemp?’ he demanded again.
The doctor shrugged. ‘I’ll find some,’ he said, and walked out. ‘Just keep her there,’ he said over his shoulder.
The moment the doctor was out of the door, Philokles punched the slave girl in the stomach – a vicious blow with his whole weight behind it that made Theron stumble.
She responded with an explosive vomit all over Philokles. Some of the stuff spattered Theron and Satyrus got a gobbet in the face.
‘Now look what you’ve done!’ Melitta shouted. ‘Wait for the hemp!’
Satyrus grabbed a towel, sopped it in water and wiped his own face. Then he set to cleaning Philokles.
The Spartan punched the girl again. Upside down, she flinched, her guts heaving, and puked again, a thin stream of black-purple liquid. Satyrus caught it as it passed her mouth.
He tossed the towel in a corner and grabbed another, thanking Zeus that the girls had just bathed. He turned to Theron, who was straining under the continued weight of the girl held up high.
They heard footsteps, and Nestor came in with a clash of bronze.
‘Poison,’ Philokles said. He stuck his hand into Kallista’s mouth and made her gag.
‘Hermes, god of travellers,’ Nestor said, making a sign with his hand. ‘Seal off this corridor!’ he called outside.
‘Let the doctor in!’ Philokles cried, and moments later Sophokles returned. Behind him, a slave came with a brazier, a bronze bowl and a tripod.
‘How did you induce vomiting?’ the doctor asked. He shrugged. ‘One way or another, this is it. Apollo, god of healing, and all the gods be with me.’ He smiled at the slave. ‘Right here. Put the tripod here. Well done. You have some bellows?’
The slave produced bellows.
‘Make it hot!’ the doctor said.
Kallista opened her eyes and screamed.
Sophokles threw the herb on to the brazier and a pungent smoke arose. To Satyrus, it was the scent of the sea of grass. The Sakje made little hide tents and sat in them to enjoy the smoke.
The doctor used the bellows until the smoke was rich and thick, then reversed them, sucking the smoke into the small instrument. He put it in Kallista’s slack mouth and forced the smoke into her lungs. She coughed, choked and vomited again.
‘Not dead yet!’ Sophokles proclaimed grimly. ‘Apollo, stand at my shoulder and save her!’ He made more smoke and pushed the bellows deep in her throat before forcing in the smoke.
She retched and coughed, but no more bile came up.
‘Let her down. The next time I need a patient held immobile, you two are my choice. Lay her on the couch. That’s right.’
Satyrus was light-headed in the smoke. He could see Kallista – in her full beauty, dressed for a party – hovering just over the crumpled and stained victim on the couch, like an allegory. She seemed to smile at him.
A draught of air pushed the smoke aside, and the vision of a healthy Kallista vanished like a rainbow.
Kallista drew a deep, shuddering breath. Her whole body twitched.
‘Make her drink water,’ Sophokles said.
Melitta handed her brother a pitcher. ‘Go to the well, draw it yourself and bring it back,’ she said imperiously.
Satyrus discovered he had the acidic vomit in his hair when he ran a hand through it. He wiped his hand on his chiton – damn, my best one, from Kinon – and ran for the courtyard.
One of the guardsmen came with him. Satyrus looked at the man under the helmet – one of the Macedonians from the barracks. ‘I’m going for water,’ he said, stepping aside.
The guardsman was burdened with a heavy spear and a shield. He was slow. Satyrus waited until he was moving and then ran down the stoa towards the stairs.
‘Hey!’ the man shouted. ‘Wait for me, lad!’
Satyrus ignored him, cut down the slaves’ stair to the main courtyard and stuck his pitcher into the water.
There were groups of slaves, mostly women, all around the fountain, chatting away. Most of them were looking at him. He looked back. When his jar was full, he got his feet under him and hoisted the jar clear of the fountain. All the slaves moved out of his way, clearing a path.
Tenedos the steward was trying to hide behind another man.
Satyrus froze. The guard had followed him down the stairs, but he was separated from Tenedos by the whole crowd of slaves. He thought that he could take the slave man to man – Tenedos was bigger and older, but it was unlikely that he had ever trained to fight. He could hear Theron saying, Any time you offer a test of strength to a man, he’ll beat you. But he was just a slave – and Satyrus had a blade.
Of course, Kallista needed the water.
Fuck, why is life so hard? he thought. He turned his back on the slaves and set his pitcher down on the stone. He took a deep breath, whirled around and started for the man.
Tenedos moved fast, shoving a young woman flat on the floor and pushing a bigger man against the rim of the fountain as he fled. Satyrus jumped over a downed stool and saw the Macedonian guard moving fast, despite his armour, across the back of the fountain room.
Tenedos slipped through a door and was gone. Satyrus rounded the corner at full speed and raced under the eaves of the slave quarters where the women’s quarters overhung the working courtyard, but there was no one there but two old slaves weaving linen chitons who shoved themselves flat against the wall as he raced past. The steward must have gone into one of the slaves’ rooms – or into the kitchens.
The guard came up, panting. ‘Well?’
‘That’s the steward from Kinon’s!’ Satyrus said. Seeing that his words meant nothing to the guard, he said, ‘The assassin!’
The guard nodded sharply, put a bone whistle to his lips and blew hard, over and over. Every slave in the area immediately lay flat on the ground, and the corridors around the courtyard were full of the sound of running feet.
‘We’ll get him,’ the man said. ‘As soon as I get a squad here, my lord, you’re going straight back to your chambers.’
Satyrus shook his head. ‘I can identify him. He’s in one of these rooms. Let’s-’
