‘No indeed. Follow me.’ Lydis ushered us all out onto the street. ‘This way.’
Tur was staggering and Sarkuk looked fit to drop. I grabbed the young fool’s hand and draped his arm over my shoulder. Relieved of his burden, Sarkuk fared better and we hurried after the slave.
A few twists and turns took us into the narrower alleys tucked behind this district’s fine houses. Lydis used a latch lifter to open the gate into a small courtyard ringed by separate rooms. A cluster of stools surrounded a central brazier. I guessed this was accommodation for Aristarchos’s most favoured slaves.
‘Please, tell your master I am sorry for bringing such trouble to his door,’ I said to Lydis.
‘We will be on our way as soon as possible,’ Sarkuk assured him, painfully anxious.
The gate opened behind us. I was halfway to my feet before I realised the newcomers were a handful of slaves looking to Lydis for instructions. One girl carried a heavy jug and another had a bundle of well-worn linen rags. Two men had brought kindling and charcoal, along with some embers in a hollow fennel stalk. They quickly lit a fire in the brazier and one of the girls set a pot on the flames to heat up some water.
The last slave was an older woman with a basket of small pots and vials. As she opened one, I caught the aroma of familiar herbs. It smelled like my mother’s salve for everyday cuts and scratches, made with the leaves she harvests on her forays outside the city walls, and pounded into the lanolin from her brothers’ sheep. The scent was unexpectedly comforting.
Lydis was giving further instructions to the men who’d brought the firewood. ‘Keep a lookout for strangers. Tell the maids to keep their ears open for anyone asking nosy questions. Watch for some stranger hanging around with no real reason to be in this neighbourhood.’ He turned to one of the girls, gesturing at my ripped, filthy tunic. ‘Find them some clean clothes.’
Sarkuk stood up, tense. ‘I must get back to my father, at our lodging. He will be wondering what has become of us.’
‘Aristarchos will make certain he’s safe.’ I looked expectantly at Lydis. ‘Your master will want to hear what he has to say, I am sure of it.’
‘I will see that he’s brought here.’ The slave nodded as he ushered the other slaves out and left us in the courtyard with one remaining girl and the older woman.
‘Clean yourself up before your father arrives.’ I dampened a clean scrap of soft linen and handed it to Sarkuk. ‘The more normal you look, the less distressed he will be.’
Scrubbing the blood and dirt from my hands stung ferociously, but the slave woman’s salve worked wonders. There wasn’t anything to be done for my bruises, but a clean tunic would cover the worst. I drew a cautious breath and was relieved to feel only a dull ache in my side, not the stabbing pain of a broken rib.
Sarkuk hissed with pain as he cleaned a deep gash between his knuckles. His hands had suffered badly. Thankfully his face was unmarked. Hide those swollen, bruised fists inside a cloak and no one outside on the street should look at him twice.
Tur was another matter entirely. He sat dumbly on a stool as the slave woman tended his hurts, with the younger girl standing ready to swap soiled rags for clean ones. She threw the gory scraps onto the brazier, where they hissed on the coals.
Blood matted the young Carian’s hair and beard, and his broken nose was as bad as any injury I’d seen among wrestlers at the gymnasium. Both of his eyes were closed tight. One was so nastily swollen that I feared for his sight, though I didn’t ask the nurse what she thought. There would be time enough for such worries later.
Sarkuk murmured something fond and reassuring in their Carian tongue. Tur managed a nod, clenching his jaw against the pain. I saw his lips were quivering like Nymenios’s little son Hestaios after he’s taken a bruising tumble. The nurse stroked the young man’s dirty hair and he leaned his forehead against her comforting belly, broad shoulders shaking.
Sarkuk heaved a sigh. ‘Whose house is this? What are we doing here?’
‘This property, these people, they belong to Aristarchos Phytalid.’
Sarkuk’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why are Pargasa’s affairs this rich man’s concern?’
‘He was concerned when I told him you expected your tribute to be reassessed at this festival. He knows that you have been lied to. If someone’s out to make trouble by convincing our allies they’ll see some relief when, truly, there’s no chance of that happening this year, it concerns all honest Athenians. Aristarchos Phytalid is a man with the authority to convince the magistrates that you have been duped by this Archilochos. The city’s authorities will definitely want to know what he has to say for himself.’
Tur managed to squint at me now that the nurse had wiped away the blood sticking his less-injured eye shut. ‘Will we see justice for Xandyberis?’ he mumbled indistinctly.
‘Let’s all ask the gods for that,’ I said grimly.
Judging by the boy’s grunt, he’d prefer more direct action to prayer.
‘I’ve brought some honeyed wine.’ Lydis returned with a jug, which he set on the brazier as a young boy followed with a bundle of clothing.
The older slave woman was examining the gash in Tur’s eyebrow. ‘This needs to be closed with a stitch,’ she said briskly. ‘Wait here while I fetch—’
‘We must get back to Grandfather.’ Tur stood up and swayed.
‘Sit down.’ The slave woman was easily able to force him back onto his stool before she bustled off through the gate where a thick-necked man stood watch. I recognised him as Aristarchos’s personal bodyguard.
‘Tur?’ I looked at the lad, wondering uneasily just how hard
