The guardsman shook his head. ‘Look, lad – we’re protecting you. Let us fucking protect you.’ He grinned.
Half a dozen archers appeared, big black men with ostrich plumes in their hair.
‘Assassin. In one of the slave rooms.’ He pointed his spear.
‘Take him alive!’ Satyrus shouted.
The lead archer turned. ‘Perhaps,’ he said with a wicked smile.
‘Back to your room, my lord,’ the Macedonian said. Behind him, three of the archers nocked arrows while the other three drew wicked-looking iron knives.
‘Medje,’ the Macedonian said. ‘Your steward is doomed. Wait until they get their fucking monkeys. They can smell a man a stade away.’
Satyrus did not want to leave the chase, and he wanted to learn more about the Medje – he’d seldom seen a group of men who gave such an impression of competence. ‘How will they know him?’
‘If he isn’t lying on the floor in the position of submission.. .’ The Macedonian shook his head. ‘And if he is, he won’t have a slave disk. Now move.’
Satyrus put his sword back in the scabbard and snatched up the pitcher as he passed the fountain house, angry with himself, and ran for the slave stairs.
‘I saw Tenedos,’ he said as he put the pitcher into Melitta’s hands. It didn’t seem as if anyone in the room had moved. ‘He was in the working courtyard. I think he saw me watching him.’
‘Did he escape?’ Philokles asked. ‘Why didn’t you run him down?’
Satyrus thought that was unfair. ‘The palace guard are after him. One of our guards made me come back.’
Nestor nodded. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘That’s a man who knows his busi ness.’
‘What on earth were you thinking, boy?’ Philokles asked. ‘Nestor, will you search the palace?’
Nestor grunted. ‘I’m sure it is being done. And the boy did right – as did my man. Your prince has no business chasing assassins. He’s the target.’ He leaned out into the corridor and began to shout orders. Then he turned back to the room.
‘You two will know him?’ he said to Philokles. ‘You and Theron come with me. I’ll make up two parties. I must attend the tyrant – he’ll lock the palace down.’
‘We don’t need the palace locked down,’ Philokles said.
Nestor shook his head. ‘We do. This may all be aimed at the tyrant.’
Frustrated, Satyrus glared at Philokles in the middle of the room. Melitta took the pitcher. ‘Don’t mope,’ she said. ‘Send slaves for more water.’
In a few minutes, the whole complex was flooded with soldiers. Men of the guard were at every door and most of the windows, and when a slave moved, guards would call out so that the slave’s movements were watched and recorded somewhere. Every time the whistles blew, all the slaves would lie flat, their arms by their sides. It was efficient and scary.
Draco appeared at Satyrus’s side. ‘A man can’t even get laid without your enemies fucking it up,’ he said. But he gave Satyrus a grin. ‘Let’s go to your rooms, my lord. I’ve been ordered to go through them with you.’
He gave Satyrus a nod, and together they went out into the stoa, as another guardsman called out that they were moving. When they reached Satyrus’s portion of the wing, they went through all of the rooms on his side, opening every chest and looking under every chair and bed and behind every drape. His thoroughness was unsettling. Satyrus had never considered that men might be trained to search a room.
Slaves continued to bring pitchers of water. Satyrus turned to go back to his sister’s rooms.
‘No more traffic,’ Draco said. ‘You can wait here, my lord.’
‘You know me,’ Satyrus said.
‘Go to your room. Read the Iliad. Whatever. Just obey, understand?’ The Macedonian mercenary was all business.
Satyrus shrugged with adolescent annoyance and went to his room. He was alone. He went to the alcove and found the scroll bag he’d seen there the day before.
Sure enough, the Iliad.
Satyrus slumped on the floor and tried to read about Achilles’ rage, and tried not to think about the hourly process of assassination.
Achilles failed to illuminate his problem. No one in the Iliad faced enemies who crawled in the dark and used poison – well, except Odysseus. But the winged words had their own healing; he was lost soon enough, reading avidly.
There was shouting in the corridor, and a sound in the distance like a scream, and his head came up from his scroll. He was scared. He wondered if the next thing he’d see would be an assassin bursting through the door.
‘Fuck,’ he said. Without meaning to, he thought of his mother and the warmth of her infrequent embraces. And then he thought about the Sauromatae girl crying for her mother as she lay dying. His hands shook.
He backed into a corner, his brain running like a chariot drawn by maddened horses. He thought about the city and the stables and about his mother. He thought about his father, the demi-god. He thought about his sister. About Kallista. What kind of life did she lead? Would she die? Was it his fault?
Slowly, his breathing slowed. His hands stopped shaking, and he realized that he had his sword in his hand, and he was huddled in the corner of his room.
‘I’m losing my wits,’ he said aloud. He sheathed the sword and wiped his face and then poured water over his head and rubbed his face, hard.
‘Draco?’ he called out. Voice fairly steady. Of course, the man had heard him. No privacy anywhere.
‘My lord?’ the soldier asked.
‘I’d like to go down to my sister’s room,’ Satyrus said.
‘Prince Satyrus moving!’ Draco called. ‘Go ahead, my lord.’
Satyrus stepped out into the evening air and moved along the gallery to Melitta’s room. When he passed the soldier, the Macedonian turned to look at him.
‘Another few minutes and this’ll be over,’ he said in a whisper.
‘Thanks,’ Satyrus said. ‘Lita?’ he called.
‘Come in!’ she said, and he ducked through the curtain.
Melitta was sitting on a chair by Kallista, who was lying on the bed. She was deeply unconscious. Melitta gave a bright and entirely fake smile.
‘Hello, brother,’ she said.
‘You all right?’ he asked.
The corners of her mouth quivered a little, but her smile remained in place. ‘No,’ she said. ‘People are trying to kill me. Us. It’s different from a fight. It’s horrible, Satyrus! I like people!’
Satyrus put his arms around her, happy to comfort somebody. Especially his sister, who usually comforted him. ‘It’s not everybody, sis. It’s just a couple of idiots. If I’d been quicker on my feet, we’d be safe.’
‘What are you, Achilles? Is it all on you? Are you the centre of the world? Stop all this assumption-of- responsibility crap! It’s the product of too much Plato!’ She put her cheek on his shoulder and squeezed. The weight of her head was grinding one of his best gold fibulae into his shoulder, but that was an occupational hazard of being a brother.
‘I didn’t get him, and that Macedonian made me come back here. I should have stayed at it! It makes me feel like shit.’ Satyrus felt better just for saying the words out loud.
She looked up, her eyes red, and shook her head. ‘Slavery doesn’t make them weak, you daft weasel. Slavery makes them desperate. Promise me that when we’re king and queen, we’ll have no slaves.’
‘Done!’ he said. ‘I swear it by Zeus and all the gods.’
They stood there, embracing, for some time. The shadows got longer. Kallista continued to breathe.
‘I’m better,’ Melitta said. ‘Thanks.’ She stepped away and started to rearrange her hair.
‘Hey?’ he said. ‘What if I’m not better?’
She made a rude noise. ‘Can I tell you something?’ she said, her back to him.
‘Probably,’ he said. He was watching Kallista. In his head, he was comparing her blotched face, swollen lips, burn marks and stressed flesh to the image of beauty she had presented the first night in the rose garden. The comparison was full of lessons.
