‘Where are we going?’ Sarkuk demanded.
I forced myself upright. ‘There, to begin with.’ I gestured up the slope towards the gleaming white temple.
I wasn’t going anywhere near the prison today. Not with the three of us so obviously fleeing from this brawl. It was a fair bet the Scythians would take whoever they collared straight to the lock-up. Anyone fool enough to offer themselves up would get thrown in a cell. Most likely they’d be stuck there until the end of the Dionysia, when the magistrates reopened the courts.
‘Give your son your cloak,’ I told Sarkuk. ‘Keep the hood up, boy.’
A man going hooded in such fine weather would draw curious glances but that would be better than letting people see Tur’s battered face. He looked grim enough to set dogs barking.
Now we needed to get somewhere safe, and as quickly as possible. I gritted my teeth against the stabbing pain in my side as we scrambled up the scrub-covered slope towards Hephaistos’s new temple. It was still lacking a roof, its western pediment and most of its carved decoration, but it would be splendid when it was finished.
Was it being paid for with Carian coin? I saw Sarkuk’s lip curl as he gazed up at the Parian marble columns. Well, we could debate that later. As we reached the temple precinct I hurried onwards. Now we could lose ourselves in this crowd of people looking down, aghast, at the chaos in the agora.
I ushered Sarkuk and Tur through the temple and out the other side. Then I swiftly worked out a route to skirt around the agora to reach Aristarchos’s house. He’d told me to report back to him, once I’d spoken to the Carians, though I don’t suppose he imagined we’d turn up in quite such a battered state.
Mus answered my knock on the gate. The slave stared at my bloodied companions, appalled. ‘You can’t bring them in here.’
Chapter Eleven
‘This house is full of guests and the master’s family. The mistress won’t stand for admitting you and two strangers beaten bloody.’ Mus stood blocking our path, as immovable as Mount Olympos.
I looked down at my torn tunic, streaked with dirt where I’d slipped and fallen on the slope leading up from the agora to the Hephaisteon. I saw gory smears from my badly grazed knuckles and probably from people I’d punched. My hands ached as villainously as all my other bruises.
‘Then where can we go?’ I pleaded. ‘Ask Lydis. We have to get off the streets and we need water and rags.’
The slave was staring past me at Sarkuk and Tur, who were barely managing to hold each other up.
‘Mus!’ I said sharply. ‘Do you want the neighbours’ slaves gossiping about this when they’re filling tomorrow’s water jars? Leave us standing out here and it’ll be the talk of the neighbourhood fountain. Believe me, your master will want to help us. These men are Carians and loyal allies to Athens. They’ve been victims of deliberate malice and your master is trying to uncover who’s behind it.’
That goaded the granite-faced slave into action. ‘Come inside, but don’t leave the porch.’ He summoned a passing slave with a snap of his fingers. ‘You, watch the gate.’
‘Thank you.’ I hurried over the threshold. Then I realised the Carians were hesitating and had to turn around and pretty much drag them inside. Sarkuk looked horribly uneasy about intruding into such a wealthy Athenian household. It was hard to see any expression on Tur’s battered face.
Mus strode off as we sank onto the stone ledges that served as seats just inside the entrance. I heard music and laughter from the inner courtyard, and saw a bevy of slaves busy carrying food and wine to the feast within. My stomach growled as I realised I was ravenously hungry. This far into a Dionysia afternoon, I should be half-drunk and sprawled on a cushioned couch talking nonsense with my brothers, all of us stuffed like festival fowl.
Before I could decide how I was going to explain my absence, my bruises and my wrecked tunic to my mother, we heard voices outside in the street. As Mus’s deputy opened the gate, Aristarchos’s son Hipparchos sauntered in. He looked at us, bright-eyed with curiosity.
‘Good day to you all. Hermes!’ He took a step backwards as Tur lowered his hood. ‘What’s happened?’
‘We were attacked by street robbers,’ I said quickly, to forestall some angry response from the young Carian. Though I couldn’t have blamed Tur. It was a bloody stupid question, when the answer was as obvious as the smashed nose on the boy’s face.
‘Dear me.’ Hipparchos’s sympathy was no more than conventional courtesy. He went on his way, whistling loudly to attract a slave’s attention. When no one appeared, he called out, irritated. ‘Thraitta!’
Three girls appeared from different doorways, all dressed alike in clean white tunics.
‘You’ll do.’ Hipparchos pointed to one. ‘Bring me something to eat in my chamber.’ Dismissing her with a nod, he disappeared through a door on the far side of the courtyard.
As the other slaves returned to whatever they had been doing, Sarkuk looked at me, curious. ‘There are three girls here called Thraitta? Doesn’t that cause confusion?’
‘That’s what he calls them all,’ I explained awkwardly. ‘It’s his mother’s family’s custom, to save time apparently. They call all the male slaves Illyrios.’
As Sarkuk and his son exchanged a glance, I could see they found this as peculiar as I had when Mus had first explained. On subsequent visits I couldn’t help noticing that Aristarchos allowed his slaves the dignity of their own names, whatever his wife might do.
A moment later, Mus came back with Lydis. The little slave was appalled at the state of us.
‘There was trouble in the agora,’ I explained. ‘It was none of our making, I swear it, but we need to
