‘Uncle Leon!’ he called, and his friends took up the cry. Their combined efforts got the black man’s attention, and Leon waved. Leon had been up the Aegean to the Euxine, seeing old friends and avoiding enemies. He had been all the way to Heraklea, or perhaps Sinope. Trade was hard – all the contestants in the Great War had fleets, and every side had authorized pirates to seize shipping in their names. Athens, Rhodos and Alexandria still tried to keep trade going – all three cities required trade to flourish.
Behind his uncle’s flagship came a dozen merchant ships and then the triangular sails of heavy triremes – six of them. Leon was rich, even by the standards of Alexandria, and when he put together a convoy, only a fleet could take his ships.
‘Look at that,’ Xeno said. ‘My father says that when I’m sixteen, I can go with Leon as a marine.’
Satyrus smiled. He had already gone as a marine and hoped to go again soon – as a helmsman. The thought was never far from his mind.
But there was a rumour in the villa that Leon was going to take them home. ‘I loved being a marine,’ Satyrus said. ‘I’d love to do it again to get to sea. Even as an oarsman.’
Abraham chuckled. ‘Rumour is that you, sir, are a prince. Lord Ptolemy isn’t likely to let you ship out again as a marine. Xeno here – well-born Geeks are an obol a dozen.’
Satyrus shrugged. ‘Not an obol a dozen – if they were, Ptolemy wouldn’t be so desperate to get settlers from Greece.’
Abraham tugged his beard. ‘Well argued,’ he said. One of his most endearing qualities was that he was open to reasoned argument and he conceded gracefully. The young Jewish man stopped at the edge of the temple precinct. ‘I’ll abide by Jehovah’s precepts and keep my body clear of your idolatry,’ he said. His smile took the sting from his words.
Satyrus nodded. Alexandria was home to twenty religions and hundreds of heresies, all of which fascinated his sister. Most citizens had learned to accept other religions, even if they were not entirely respected. Abraham’s people were monotheists, with a few exceptions and a complex set of beliefs about a feminine embodiment of wisdom – Sophia – and they didn’t hold with temples and statues. Not much difference from Socrates, Satyrus thought.
‘Enjoy the view,’ Satyrus said, and went inside, Xeno at his heels and Theodorus close behind. Just as they found a priest, Theodorus’s little slave caught up with him and handed him a purse.
‘Gentlemen, we’re in funds!’ Theodorus said. ‘Shall we have a ram?’
‘That would be noble,’ Xeno said with enthusiasm.
Satyrus reached into the breast of his chiton and extracted his purse. ‘I couldn’t cover my half,’ he said.
‘Don’t be foolish, Satyrus. My pater is paying.’ Theodorus turned to the priest and said, ‘We’d like to sacrifice a white ram for the safe return of Lord Leon. You can just see his Golden Lotus rounding the point.’
The young priest bowed. ‘Certainly, sir.’ The priesthoods at the new Temple of Poseidon were easy to acquire, and most of the priests were social climbers. This one was no different. He looked them all over and decided that Theodorus, the one with the purse and the silk chlamys, must be the one in charge. ‘Let me choose you a fitting animal.’ He bowed again.
Satyrus winced. ‘He represents the god. Surely he ought to have a little more spirit.’
Xeno nodded, and Theodorus laughed. ‘You two deserve each other. Listen, lads. If he was anybody he’d have been at the gymnasium. Do you know him? No. My money is that like all the other priests, his mother’s a local girl and he’s trying to make his way – by being as oily as possible. All the Gyptos are greasy.’
The priest came back leading a white ram – a very attractive animal. ‘My lord?’ he said to Theodorus.
‘My friend is actually making the sacrifice,’ Theodorus said dismissively. ‘I am merely attending.’
Satyrus took the halter of the animal and led it up to the altar. The ram began to buck and shake as he smelled the blood, but Satyrus’s arm was too strong for him, and Satyrus got the lead rope through the ring on the altar before the young animal could set his feet to pull. Satyrus wrapped the rope twice around his left arm, drew his sword – disdaining the offer of the priest’s dagger – and pulled hard on the rope, cinching the rein tight against the bolt so that the ram was stretched out almost on tiptoe. In one blur of movement he slashed the animal’s throat and then pivoted away from the gush of blood. The priest came up and put a bowl to catch it.
‘That was well done,’ Theodorus said. ‘Would you teach me? My father…’
Satyrus grinned, although both of his shoulder joints hurt from the fight. He turned to the priest and handed him a silver coin. ‘A second sacrifice is never amiss, is it?’ He winked, and the young priest bowed.
‘A goat, lord?’
‘Yes,’ Satyrus said. He stepped off with the young priest. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.
‘Namastis,’ the man said. He was a couple of years older than Satyrus, and his beard was wispy. ‘Namastis, lord.’
‘Listen, Namastis,’ Satyrus said. His sister was better at his sort of thing, but he could hear Theodorus’s comments playing over and over in his head. ‘You’re as good a man as any of us – and the priest of a great god. Greek men never call each other my lord. Priests are famous for their disdain.’ Satyrus smiled. ‘I appreciate your lack of disdain, but you should never call us lords.’
Namastis narrowed his eyes, unsure if he was being mocked.
Satyrus met his eye and held it.
‘Very well,’ Namastis said. ‘I’ll find you a goat, shall I?’
‘Exactly!’ Satyrus said. ‘I’m Satyrus,’ he said, extending his hand.
The other man took it. He tried a cautious smile. His hand was limp.
‘Now squeeze,’ Satyrus said. Egyptians never got the Greek hand clasp.
The squeeze was cautious, but Satyrus smiled and nodded.
‘Zeus Pater, Satyrus, must you make friends with every half-caste in the city? Is your house full of stray cats?’ Theodorus asked.
Satyrus grinned at him. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Now, do you want to learn this, or not?’
Namastis came back with a goat – a healthy specimen with a plain brown coat. Then he set to work with his knife, butchering the first sacrifice. ‘Will you take the meat?’ he asked.
After a glance at Theodorus, Satyrus shook his head. ‘No. Keep it.’ He looked back at Theodorus. ‘It’s all in your left hand, Theo. The animals know what happens at the altar. They can smell it, right?’
‘Too right,’ Theodorus said, shaking his head. ‘At the feast of Apollo, I had to sacrifice a heifer for my family. I fucked it up. Completely. My father’s still not really speaking to me.’
‘A heifer is tough,’ Satyrus said in sympathy. ‘And a little more upper-arm strength wouldn’t kill you. Can you carry the weight of a shield?’
‘Who cares?’ Theodorus asked. ‘Pater has people to do that for us.’
Satyrus raised an eyebrow but said nothing. ‘Very well. Here’s my trick. I pass the lead through the ringbolt with my right hand. Then I take it with my left and draw my sword with my right – all one move – and pull and cut.’ He pulled the goat’s head hard against the ringbolt but only tapped the animal with his hilt.
‘That’s how my father taught me,’ Xenophon added. ‘Always use your own weapon. It adds dignity to the animal’s death and keeps your quick draw in training.’
Theodorus shook his head. ‘It’s like hanging out with Achilles and Patroclus,’ he said. He stepped up and made to take the lead from Satyrus, but Satyrus stripped the lead out of the ringbolt. He stepped away, dragging the goat. Well clear of the altar, he pulled his sword belt over his head. ‘Try this. See how it hangs.’
Xeno shot him a look as Theodorus pulled the belt on. It was clear that the rich young man had never worn a sword.
Satyrus stepped up behind him and tugged the hilt until it was under Theodorus’s arm, right under his armpit. ‘Draw it,’ he said.
Satyrus still carried the short blade he’d got in the Gabiene campaign, and Theodorus drew it easily, but Satyrus caught his wrist.
‘Tip the scabbard up, so that the hilt is down and then pull. See? That will work no matter what size sword you carry.’ Satyrus released the other young man’s wrist.
Theodorus shook his head. ‘You take all this as seriously as my father,’ he said. ‘If I started wearing a sword, Dionysius would mock me.’
Satyrus considered a number of responses. While he was thinking, Xenophon beat him to it. ‘So only wear a sword on feast days,’ he said. ‘Practise in private.’
