‘When I thought you were dying, I was going to kill myself,’ she said evenly. ‘I don’t think I’d want to live without you, brother.’ She put a pin into her hair.
He rubbed his hand through his hair in embarrassment. ‘Yeah,’ he said. Another of his excellent responses.
‘My lord?’ Draco asked from the other side of the curtain.
‘That’s Draco, our sentry. Come in!’ Satyrus called.
The Macedonian pushed his head through. ‘We’re out of here, my lord. The Medje have your man, and the dinner is on – our tyrant won’t be cowed by a slave. So you’re to dress.’ His eyes flicked over to where Melitta sat. ‘My pardon, m’lady.’
‘Hold on,’ Satyrus said, slipping through the curtain. ‘Thanks.’
Draco grinned from under his Thracian helmet. ‘No problem, m’lord.’
‘What happened to “Satyrus” or “boy”?’
‘Orders. You two is to be treated as visiting royals.’ Draco grinned. ‘Most visiting royals don’t help us loot a house, o’ course.’
‘Can I ask a favour, Draco?’
‘Sure. Ask away. I’m back off duty as soon as I get this thorax off.’ He slung his shield around on his back.
‘Can you find me a chiton? A nice one?’ He pointed to the long streak of black vomit on his fine flame- decorated garment.
Draco grinned. ‘That’s easy. Hey!’ he said, turning. ‘Hey, Philotas! Where’s that squeeze of yours?’
Another armoured man emerged from the columns on the other side of the guests’ courtyard. ‘She’s right here, you whoreson.’
‘Send her over here. The prince needs some clothes.’ Draco chortled.
‘So does she!’ Philotas laughed. ‘It might be a minute.’
Draco shrugged. ‘He’s a pig-dog, our Philotas. Girls love him. His cock’s longer than a girl’s foot.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘His girl is one of the wardrobe slaves. His current girl.’
Satyrus tried to be a man of the world. ‘My mother says “no slave girls”.’
‘Aphrodite! Why’s that?’ Draco seemed shocked.
‘Because they can’t decide for themselves. They aren’t in control of their bodies.’ Satyrus managed to deliver the line well, without primness, as if he really knew what he was talking about.
Draco laughed. ‘Ares, who cares?’ he said. ‘Willing? Unwilling?’ He looked at Satyrus. ‘Oh, balls. I’m sorry, boy. Don’t take it like that – I’m no monster. Your mum’s just a little strict for me.’
The slave girl came up, her eyes averted and her ionic chiton neat and graceful. ‘Master?’ she asked.
‘The prince would like to know if he might get a chiton from the wardrobe,’ Draco asked in an official voice. ‘His best got ruined in the poison attempt.’
The slave raised her eyes and looked at his chiton. She fingered the stain. ‘Never come all the way out,’ she said. She brightened. ‘But I have a little bitch who it’ll do good to try. Can we move about, Draco?’
‘Free as friggin’ birds, honey,’ Draco answered. ‘My lord, I leave you in good hands.’
‘Give me the cloth, m’lord.’ She all but snapped her fingers, and Satyrus pulled it off over his head.
‘Get the brooches, m’lord,’ Draco said. ‘Or you’ll never see ’em again.’
‘Don’t you have somewhere you ought to be, guardsman?’ the woman said to Draco. Her nimble fingers plucked the fibulae off the shoulders. ‘No one in this wing would steal, m’lord. Draco is from Macedon – they’re the thieves.’
Draco gave him a look that said he’d stand by his statement, and Satyrus was left standing naked with a pair of gold brooches in his hand and a sword strap over his shoulder.
Life with slaves and guards was so alien that he almost laughed aloud.
Philokles came up behind him. ‘Planning to go to the dinner naked, boy?’ he asked. ‘The sword is a nice touch. You could be young Herakles.’
Satyrus blushed and hurried back to his room. As quickly as he could, he wriggled into a chiton.
‘Best bathe. I can smell the vomit on you,’ Philokles called after him, leaning in past the curtain.
‘Will you go, sir?’ Satyrus asked.
‘I will, too. We can just squeeze it in.’ Satyrus felt his tutor’s hand on his shoulder, and they walked off down the gallery to the stairs.
Philokles didn’t know the palace like Satyrus did now. ‘This way,’ he said, heading down the slaves’ stair. ‘It’s faster!’
‘No, boy,’ the Spartan said. He pulled Satyrus past the slaves’ stair. ‘Not fair to them. You didn’t grow up with slaves, but I did. They need their own places where the likes of us don’t interfere. Just like soldiers. Officers don’t go into soldiers’ parts of camp. Bad manners.’
‘Oh,’ Satyrus said. They went down the public stair together. The baths were crowded because everyone had either been on duty or locked down for the afternoon. The men in the steam fell silent when Satyrus entered.
‘Welcome, prince,’ Nestor called out.
Satyrus blushed. He blushed more when he saw the murals on the walls. He got in the steam, and then he plunged into a cold bath deep enough to dive and swim, with a beautiful bronze woman with a fish tail at the bottom, as if swimming for the surface. When he emerged, he took a warmer bath and then went into the towel room.
‘Massage?’ a bored slave asked. ‘You’re the foreign prince, eh? In there,’ he said.
Satyrus found himself on a slab between Nestor and Philokles. They were like a pair of matching statues as they reclined, waiting for masseurs – Nestor in black and Philokles in white. Philokles was not at his best – years as a tutor in a backwater had not forced him to maintain his fighting trim – but he was not fat, either. Nestor’s musculature was perfect, and he would have adorned any gymnasium in Greece.
‘Boy or girl?’ the towel boy asked.
‘Surprise me,’ Nestor said.
A heavyset man came in and set to work on Philokles. ‘Soldier, sir?’ he asked. ‘I can always tell from the shoulders.’
Nestor laughed. ‘He’s a Spartan!’ he said.
The masseur grunted. ‘You’ve pulled some muscles here, sir. Best take some light exercise.’
‘I’ll keep that in mind,’ Philokles said.
‘Where’s Theron?’ Satyrus asked, as another man started to pummel his shoulders. Then a huge thumb was thrust roughly under his shoulder blade and it hurt. ‘Ares!’ he squeaked.
‘Be nice, Glaukis – probably the first real massage the boy’s ever had.’ Nestor hissed between his teeth. ‘They all hurt, m’lord.’
Satyrus’s masseur grunted and rotated his arm as if forcing his head down in pankration.
‘Oww!’ Satyrus said.
The two big men laughed.
Eventually, it was over. There was a point where it started to feel good, and another point where he started to feel the glow he got from a long exercise bout.
‘Oil, m’lord?’ the masseur asked.
‘Just a little,’ Satyrus said.
The masseur helped him off the slab. ‘Second curtain, m’lord.’
Satyrus headed down a corridor, barely able to walk with the absolute relaxation of his muscles. Erotic scenes involving various combinations of partners adorned the walls. Satyrus wasn’t prudish and he certainly knew how it all worked – there was even less privacy in Tanais than in Heraklea – but he blushed anyway.
The second curtain gave way to a small room with a small dark-haired girl not much older than he. She helped him up on to a stool. ‘Scented?’ she asked. ‘Cedar or lavender?’
‘No scent, thanks,’ he said.
She began to apply oil, her hands light but efficient. ‘Anything else, master?’ she asked as she began to massage the oil into his penis.
‘No, thank you,’ he said. No squeak at all – he was quite proud of his lack of shock.
‘There you go, then,’ she said with an utter indifference that made him feel he’d made the right choice.
