Self-pity is among the ugliest of the emotions, Philokles seemed to say in his ear.
Abraham was standing in the middle, near the hearth, like Dionysus — a vaguely Aramaic Dionysus in a long robe, a garland of olive on his head, a wine cup in each hand.
‘People keep handing them to me,’ he said. ‘Have one, brother.’
Satyrus took one and kissed his friend on the cheek. ‘You should go to bed,’ he said.
‘Want to play feed the flute girl!’ Abraham said with drunken assertiveness. ‘Want to live.’
‘Not the right party, brother,’ Satyrus said.
‘I love you, brother,’ Abraham said.
Even through the wine, Abraham’s good will beamed and Satyrus embraced him.
‘You too, comrade.’ He got an arm around his friend, lifted him, wine cup sloshing, and walked him along the street.
‘Even when I dress like a Jew?’ Abraham asked. ‘I am a Jew, you know,’ he said, ‘even when I dress like a Greek.’
‘Always,’ Satyrus said.
‘You love my sister always, I can see that much,’ Abraham pronounced, as if giving the law. ‘My pater is going to kill all of us, you know that? You, me, her, Anaxagoras — dead, brother. Please tell me you haven’t. . you know. .’ And Abraham stumbled, caught himself, put his hands on Satyrus’ shoulders. ‘Please?’
Satyrus could tell that the man was earnest — deadly earnest.
He took Abraham’s shoulders. ‘Never,’ he said. ‘My solemn oath — on my ancestors.’
‘Ah!’ Abraham said. He nodded happily. ‘Knew it,’ he said, unconvincingly. ‘Please don’t. Listen — siege is wrecking everything — don’t. Please? Promise?’
Satyrus, painfully aware that Miriam had been off in the dark with Anaxagoras for more than an hour, felt his face go hot. But he was too much of a gentleman to tell his friend that he had the wrong suitor.
‘I swear,’ he said.
‘On that ancestor — the old one — the hero?’ Abraham asked.
‘Arimnestos?’ Satyrus smiled. ‘I will swear by him. I swear on my heroised ancestor I will not debauch your sister.’
Abraham nodded. ‘That’s good,’ he said.
Satyrus managed to lead Abraham across the agora — not that far, usually, but quite far with a loud, drunk man on your shoulder — and to his tent, where Jacob, Abraham’s steward, was sitting outside the tent on a stool.
Satyrus shuffled to a stop. ‘Some help here, please?’
Jacob got up heavily, placed his own wine cup on the ground with exaggerated care and got a shoulder under his master’s arm. ‘At your service, lord king!’ he said with careful enunciation. Together, they lowered Abraham onto a pile of furs and blankets, and Jacob threw a heavy wool cloak over him. ‘Good for him,’ he said. ‘Looks like he’s had a good night.’ Jacob, who was usually an invisible shadow, was jocund with wine. ‘Not everyone did,’ he said.
Satyrus had no idea what the man was on about, so he slapped him on the back in a meaningless gesture — the affections of one drunk to another — and stumbled out through the tent flap, feeling drunker by the moment, as if the exertion of getting Abraham to bed had accelerated the fumes of wine to his head. He paused, aware that he should walk the circuit of the walls — and be sure. Sure that they were safe. Was that drunk thinking?
And aware that he should be a lot more sober, and have a guard. He took a deep breath, and smelled jasmine — just time to flinch away, to think-
‘It is you,’ Miriam said.
‘Mostly, it’s your brother,’ Satyrus said. He was confused — delighted — to find her here. Delighted, unless that was Anaxagoras in the darkness behind her.
She laughed. ‘Aphrodite fills this night. Oh, I’m a poor Jew,’ she said, stepped in and put her arms around his neck, and kissed him.
Satyrus was not an inexperienced man, but a man may have sex many times without being kissed — kissed at length, kissed thoroughly, kissed as the release of many months of longing. Satyrus never thought that he was standing in the door of Abraham’s tent, or that Jacob had to be right there. In fact, Satyrus didn’t think of anything at all. It went on and on — was uncomfortable, was too long, was passionate, was perfect. Her mouth was the entire universe — a better universe.
Then she pushed him away — not ungently. ‘Please, just walk away,’ she said. ‘I went to bed — in my tent — to stop this.’ In the distant firelight, he could just see her half-smile; longing, self-derision, amusement, self-loathing all mixed. ‘And you brought him to bed.’
Satyrus caught her up, pressed her body against his. Dived into her again. But when her hands left his neck and pressed his chest, he stepped back.
‘Please walk away,’ she said.
‘I love you,’ he said, hopelessly.
‘Walk away,’ she said.
He did. In his head he heard Abraham’s plea. Please don’t. He shook his head, suddenly sober, aroused, his body heavy with energy and suppressed lust. He pushed into his own tent.
Helios was still up. He was lying blissfully with his girl, their faces beaming, their hair plastered against their heads with sweat. Satyrus felt guilty about interrupting. But before he could withdraw, Helios saw him and leaped to his feet. ‘Lord!’ he said.
‘I need you,’ Satyrus said. ‘I’m sorry, lad, but I need to make a circuit of the walls.’
Helios nodded. ‘Immediately, lord. I’ll send her away.’
Satyrus shook his head. ‘Tell her you’ll be back in an hour, and leave her to sleep.’ He put his shield on his shoulder.
Together, they walked along the waterfront, challenged by each of the ephebes in the makeshift towers as they passed. ‘Sounded like a great party,’ one young man was bold enough to assert. Satyrus smiled.
‘Your turn will come, young man,’ he said. Pomposity comes easily, with command.
Up the inner harbour, past the new false wall — Satyrus never let the slaves stop building. It was always possible that Demetrios would try another assault on the harbour. A long detour around the new construction where the harbour wall met the north wall, the sea wall that faced the open sea. Always neglected, because there was no real beach — or so it seemed until Memnon had shown him where smugglers landed routinely.
Past the construction, and along the north wall — only a handful of sentries, and Satyrus was surprised to find that most of them were his sister’s Sakje. Where the north wall met the west wall and the robust new fortifications with their modern ditches and towers began, he found Thyrsis, also making his rounds.
‘Who put you on duty?’ Satyrus asked.
‘Melitta,’ he answered.
Satyrus shrugged. ‘You missed quite a party,’ he said.
‘That’s why she sent me away,’ Thyrsis said. He shrugged.
‘Aphrodite, not you too!’ Satyrus said.
Thyrsis was rueful. ‘Oh, yes.’ He spat in the Sakje way, over the wall. ‘If she does not marry soon, we will follow her around in packs.’
‘She is very beautiful,’ Helios put in.
Satyrus got a glimpse of how Abraham no doubt felt. ‘You find her attractive? And her war name is Smells like Death.’
‘What could be more beautiful?’ Thyrsis said.
Helios nodded.
‘Oh, Abraham,’ Satyrus said.
Across the west wall. Satyrus didn’t expect Demetrios would ever try the west wall, but it was so strong that he spent extra time there, peering into the darkness, trying to shake the perception that he’d allowed a night of drunken riot and that Demetrios was going to use that against him. Scaling ladders, perhaps?
And down along the south wall, now a deep, deep bow, from the corner of the west wall where the original fortifications still stood, along the bow — the fourth wall that they had constructed, now really more of a mound of rubble in a long deep curve, with a hasty ditch in front and a shallow trench just behind, and deeper trenches and loop-holed ruined buildings behind that. The wall and ditch were the highest since the loss of the outer wall — after all, Jubal and Neiron had agreed that this one had to be held to the end.