He walked back up the main stair in a glow of well-being, eudaimonia, and he walked straight into his sister’s room. ‘How is she?’ he asked.
‘Goodness, you glow like a god,’ Melitta said. ‘She’s breathing better. ’
‘Do you know that when they put oil on you in the baths, they offer sex acts? Do they do that in the women’s baths?’
Melitta giggled. ‘Yes and no,’ she said. ‘Let’s not go into details.’ She turned bright red, and they laughed.
The laughter went on.
‘Go and put some clothes on, brother,’ she said. ‘There’s a slave waiting in your room.’ She made a motion with her hand. ‘We’re suddenly at the age where people will talk if we’re together naked.’
Satyrus turned a bright red. ‘Zeus Soter!’ he said. ‘That’s disgusting! ’
Melitta shrugged. ‘The Macedonians do it all the time. Ask your soldier friend Draco.’ Melitta gave a wicked smile – a smile that most twelve-year-old girls couldn’t manage. ‘Your guard friends think that’s what we’re doing in here.’
Satyrus vowed never to be naked around his sister again and headed off to his room.
Satyrus found the wardrobe slave waiting for him.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ he said.
She continued to look at the floor, but she gave a small smile. ‘That’s polite. I had a nice rest, and I tacked the side seams. Put it on. Good – you’re not dripping oil. Smudges the fabric.’
She held out a chiton, which was light wool, woven beautifully, but with a double row of purple decoration woven in. ‘Himself will never wear it,’ she said. ‘Came with the tribute and it wouldn’t go around his head, much less his body.’ She smiled. ‘Thank him for it when you make your bow, just so I’m covered.’
‘Hestia, goddess of the hearth, watch over you. What’s your name?’ he asked.
‘Harmone, my lord. There – you look like a prince. You need gold sandals.’
‘I’ve never had such a thing,’ Satyrus said.
Harmone laughed. ‘I’m a slave, and I have four pairs,’ she said. ‘The world’s a funny place and no mistake.’ She waited at the doorway.
Waiting for a tip. Satyrus cast around the room, saw all of his kit where the slaves had dumped it – was it really just that afternoon?
‘It’s going to take me some time to find my purse,’ he said.
‘I’ll wait,’ she said. ‘I knew you was a gent.’
Satyrus wondered what he had in his purse. ‘Harmone?’ he asked, as he pulled his sleeping roll off the pile. ‘What’s a fair tip? This isn’t how I live every day.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Ten gold darics’d do me fine,’ she said, and giggled. ‘You’re a rare ’un. An obol or two is fair for any extra service a slave does, except fucking. That’s more, unless offered free.’
Satyrus’s hand stopped over his satchel. He looked at her. She smiled.
She was a good ten years older than him and he wasn’t sure she was offering, and the world was a very confusing place. He had to look away – she was licking her lips – and his downturned eye caught a needle sticking point-first out of the flap of his satchel, just a few finger-breadths from his hand. The point of the needle was dark with something stuck to it – wax.
Or poison.
‘Hades,’ Satyrus breathed. He’d heard of poisoned needles. ‘Harmone. I’ll tip you later. Get Nestor!’
She caught the seriousness in his voice.
Satyrus didn’t move. The discovery of the reality of poisoned needles had frozen him in place. He felt very vulnerable indeed. He tried not to think. He didn’t panic, especially – he just crouched by his pack until Philokles and Theron came. Then Nestor arrived with a file of soldiers. They told him not to move while they sent for more soldiers in heavy gear.
His sister stood in the doorway, dressed for dinner, with her hair piled on top of her head in silver pins, and chewed on her fist.
Men in heavy felt mittens pulled his gear apart. Men in heavy military sandals came in and literally carried him out of the room. He leaned his forehead against the cool smoothness of a pillar and breathed for a while as his hands and knees shook. Then he went to the door.
‘Someone hand me out my sword?’ he asked. Good voice. He did that well – touch of irony.
Melitta smiled.
Philokles looked stricken. And a little drunk.
‘This is all my fault,’ he said thickly.
‘We need to get out of here,’ Satyrus said. ‘If Kallista can travel in a litter, I suggest we leave tonight.’
The doctor came up behind Philokles. ‘That ankle of yours needs a couple of days,’ he said.
‘I could be dead in a couple of days,’ Satyrus said. He managed to hide the bitterness.
Philokles turned to Nestor. ‘I’d like to send a messenger to the smith to see if his caravan is still going. It has probably left – or been cancelled. If it has left, I’d like an escort until we catch it.’
Theron pushed in. ‘I’ll go,’ he said.
‘No, Philokles said. ‘From now on, we all stay together all the time. Nestor leaves a guard on Kallista until we come back from dinner, and then we sleep in Melitta’s room, and in the morning we pack our beasts at first light and ride.’
Nestor nodded. ‘Pending the tyrant’s permission, of course.’
Philokles nodded back. ‘Of course,’ he said.
Sophokles glanced at Nestor. ‘I’ll go with them,’ he said. ‘They all need medical care.’
Nestor was surprised. ‘You were just hired as the tyrant’s physician,’ he said.
Sophokles shrugged. ‘I feel responsible,’ he said.
Satyrus looked at the Athenian, trying to read his soul.
‘Let’s go to dinner,’ Melitta said.
Satyrus was struck again by the sheer bulk of Dionysius of Heraklea as he entered the man’s hall. The tyrant filled the dais, and his couch was three times the width of every other couch, and he lay alone. He was grotesque, and his bristle of short blond hair made his head seem all the smaller. He looked like an ogre come to life.
He held the eye nonetheless, his white chiton immaculate, the gold wreath on his head brilliant in its Helios- like spray of leaves and tendrils that flickered like fire in the lamplight. Satyrus and Melitta led the way to the dais, arm in arm and walking with their heads high, and Satyrus was aware, even as he stared at the tyrant, that every other eye in the hall was on him or his sister.
The couches of the principal diners were drawn up in a circle. Where women had been invited, they sat in chairs beside their companions. The dinner was not an orgy but a feast, and when Satyrus managed to tear his eyes away from the tyrant, he saw that the couches of the inner circle were full of serious-looking men attended by women their own age – not hetairai.
Before they approached the circle, Satyrus turned to Philokles. ‘Any special etiquette for tyrants?’ he asked.
‘Be polite,’ Philokles answered. ‘Don’t make speeches about the freedom of the assembly.’
Theron choked a laugh, and then they were passing an empty couch and entering the clear space before the dais.
‘Greetings, Prince Satyrus and Princess Melitta!’ The tyrant raised himself on an elbow. ‘Nestor, offer me a libation on the altar for the safety of our twins.’
Satyrus hadn’t noticed that Nestor had somehow beaten them to the dining hall. The black man was seated behind the tyrant, and he rose, took a libation bowl and poured wine on a small altar set into the wall, with a statue of Dionysius in gold and ivory in a niche over the altar.
The tyrant nodded. ‘The blessings of Dionysus stay with you. May the strength of our patron Herakles defend you.’ He smiled, and it was a hard, dangerous grin for such a fat man. ‘You are still wearing your sword, young man.’
Satyrus bowed deeply. ‘I rejoice in your – your favour, Dionysius. I thank you for your hospitality, for the healing of your doctor, the safety of your roof and for your generosity. Even the clothes on my back I owe to you.’ He bowed again, and his voice rose as his nerves betrayed him. ‘But-’ Too squeaky. ‘But – twice, men have tried to
