Awoke. He was covered in sweat, and weak – so weak that he couldn't raise his arm to wipe the sweat from his face.
Nearchus sat by him. 'You are awake?' he asked.
Satyrus willed his arm to move, and it was as if his paralysis lifted even as he forced that first movement – and a sharp pain shot through his arm, a cramp like the ones that a poorly massaged athlete can get after pushing himself too hard. An experience that Satyrus had had many times.
Another cramp hit him and he rolled on his side and retched. Nearchus held a basin for him, but nothing came out but a thin stream of bile.
When the cramps released their hold of his muscles he relaxed and a slave wiped his chin with a cloth. He breathed in, then let the breath out, testing his gag reflex.
'Was I dead?' he asked.
Nearchus shook his head. 'Not at all. You did quite well, young man. Although, to be honest, the habit was scarcely ingrained – a mere matter of weeks. My brother, for instance…' Nearchus shook his head.
'Where is Phiale?' Satyrus asked.
'She visits often, I believe,' Nearchus said. 'Young master, I cannot imagine that you fancy her services in your current state.'
'On… contrary, doctor. Song… Phiale…' He took a breath and managed to speak clearly. 'Will do as much to restore my health as-' A cramp hit his stomach, and he rolled into a ball. When he could breathe, he continued, '… all your ministrations.' He gave a ghost of a smile. 'I… do not mean it. You – how can I bless you enough?'
Nearchus rolled his shoulders. 'I am a family retainer. I do my duty. I must allow that I have always enjoyed serving Master Leon.'
The next two days saw Satyrus recover and retch by turns, his muscles refusing their duty in the middle of the simplest actions. He spent the daylight hours lying in the pale winter sun on his balcony. Sometimes he imagined that he could see the incorporeal image of his god standing over him, and other times he shook his head at the curious effects of his illness on his mind. Nearchus had found him a boy-slave, Helios, a native of Amphipolis enslaved when his parents took him on a sea voyage, and the boy waited on him with a solicitousness seldom found in a slave.
Satyrus sat in the sun, a scroll of Herodotus in his hands. He couldn't get through the words, even the words that dealt with the stand of the Hellenes at Plataea, the climax of Herodotus's great work.
'How long have you been a slave?' Satyrus asked.
The boy considered. 'Four years,' he said. 'I was taken in the spring of the year that Cassander killed the queen.'
Satyrus smiled, because even in his current state, he knew that the boy meant Olympias, the witch-queen of Macedon. An enemy. One enemy fewer.
'Were you – ill-used?' he asked. 'By the pirates?' 'Not by the pirates,' Helios said in a matter-of-fact voice. 'But they killed my parents.'
Satyrus nodded. 'Do you know the name of the pirate who took you?' Satyrus asked.
'Oh, yes,' the boy said. 'We were taken by Demostrate. His crew killed my parents because they fought. He apologized to me.' The boy gave a steady smile.
Nearchus and Sappho were sending him a message. His brain took this in through the fog of pain and wretchedness – this boy was their vote of disapproval of his alliance with the pirate king.
'Would you care to come to sea with me, boy?' he asked.
Helios beamed like his namesake, the sun, and his Thracian-blond hair glowed in the sun. 'Oh, yes!' he said.
Satyrus lay back, exhausted by the exchange. 'If I take you to sea, and teach you to fight, will you serve me for four years?'
Helios shrugged. 'I'm a slave,' he said. But then he smiled. 'I'd love to go to sea,' he said.
Satyrus realized that he'd left the important part of the offer unsaid. He tried to formulate it in his mind, but it was slipping away. 'Never mind,' he said, and fell asleep.
The next time he was awake, Nearchus sat by his bed and fed him soup – wonderful goat stew, with spices and dumplings.
Then he threw it all up.
Helios cleaned him.
Then he threw up again.
Helios cleaned him again, patiently getting every fleck of his disgusting vomit out of his long hair, his eyelashes, his pubic hair.
Satyrus drank water and went to sleep.
Later he awoke and it was dark. He moved on his couch, and he heard an answering movement and felt the boy's body move against him. 'I'm sorry,' Helios said. 'You were shivering.'
Satyrus stretched – and was not hit by a muscle spasm. 'Helios,' he whispered, 'do you think we could try a little soup?'
Lamps were lit all over the house before ten minutes had elapsed on the water clock. Nearchus came in, wearing a Persian robe. He put a hand on Satyrus's forehead, and then on his stomach. 'By Hermes and all the gods,' he said.
Helios came in from the kitchen with a bowl of soup. He sat on the bed and spooned it into his master.
Satyrus ate sparingly, although he wanted to drink the bowl and call for another, and he lay back on the bed consumed with hunger.
Half an hour passed, and the food was still in his stomach. Nearchus shrugged. 'I was off by a day,' he said. 'You'll recover quickly now.'
Helios brought a brazier and lit it to heat a copper pot with stew brought from the kitchen. Every half-hour he gave his master another twenty spoons of soup.
'Free you,' Satyrus said. 'If I – free you? And take you to sea? Four years? Need a servant,' he said.
Helios grinned. 'Of course,' he said. And more quietly, 'I knew what you meant,' he said. 'I just had to hear you say it.' He burst into tears. 'People make promises,' he said.
Satyrus found himself patting the boy's head. I hated it when Philokles did this to me, he thought.
Helios looked up. 'A man came – an Aegyptian man in the robes of a priest. He brought you a bundle.'
'Go and fetch it for me,' Satyrus said.
In moments it was unrolled, to reveal his father's sword – perhaps just a touch shorter, Satyrus thought, but it was superb, and the metal was now a bright blue, almost purple at the point, so that the blade glittered with icy malevolence.
'Run me an errand?' Satyrus said to Helios. 'Go to Sappho and get a mina of gold. Take Hama and two soldiers as an escort, and go to the Temple of Poseidon. Deliver the gold to Namastis, the priest. If he wants you to come, escort him wherever he leads you.'
Helios was staring at the sword. 'One day, I want a sword like that,' he said.
'One day, I'll get you one,' Satyrus allowed. 'Now run along.'
The next day, Nearchus sat on an iron stool in his room, grinding powders at his window. 'I use this room to make drugs when you are away,' he said. 'I hope you don't mind. You have the best light.'
Satyrus grinned. 'I'm not really in a position to resent anything you do, doctor.'
Nearchus nodded and kept grinding. 'So I assumed. Do you still want Phiale?'
Satyrus's grin fled. 'Yes,' he said grimly. 'Has anyone ever been convicted on the evidence of a dream, do you think?' he asked.
Nearchus shrugged. 'I would assume it happens,' he said. 'Dreams have power.'
Satyrus's eyes grew hard. 'I wish to investigate the course of a dream,' he said. 'Does Phiale still keep the same maidservant at her house?'
Nearchus looked up from his pestle and mortar. 'Yes,' he said.
'Same woman she had when I was – that is, when I was a client?' Satyrus asked.
Nearchus was back at his work. 'I wasn't in this household then,' he said. 'A small woman, dark hair, would be pretty if she did not look so hard?'
'Fair enough description of Alcaea,' Satyrus said. 'She's got a tattoo on her left wrist.'
