‘If we both die,’ Satyrus said, ‘feel free to run the place yourself.’ He grinned. ‘You already do!’
Coenus grunted. ‘This is not the retirement I had planned,’ he said.
Three days, and Satyrus did not summon his concubine — bought in secret and enjoyed with considerable guilt even before Melitta discovered her. He and Melitta were correct with each other, and no more, and neither offered any form of apology.
But on the fourth day, Satyrus sent the horse. It had started over the horse, a descendant of his father’s wonderful warhorse and a fine prospect for a three-year-old, with heavy haunches and a lively spirit — the same slate-grey, silvery hide, the same black mane and tail. A fine horse, and perhaps more. . Thanatos had been a great horse.
Both of them wanted this new horse, and they had wagered him on an archery contest — itself foolish, because Satyrus knew that he was never his sister’s match with a bow.
But he conceded defeat and sent her the horse, and then watched from his balcony as a groom took the horse to her in the courtyard, where her people were loading her wagons for her expedition to the Sea of Grass.
He wasn’t going to let her leave until they were friends again.
She looked up from a tally-stick, eyed the young stallion greedily and ran a hand over his flanks. Then she shook her head and went back to her packing.
‘Look up!’ Satyrus said quietly.
But she didn’t.
That night, he invited her to share dinner, as it was her last night before leaving.
She declined.
Satyrus went downstairs to the nursery, where his three-year-old nephew was playing with his nurses.
‘Hello,’ said Kineas. He had bright blue eyes.
‘Bow to the king, lad,’ said the older nurse. She was Sauromatae, tall and probably as dangerous as most of the bodyguards. She flashed Satyrus a grin.
Kineas bowed. ‘Will I be king someday?’ he asked.
Satyrus shrugged. ‘If I don’t get a move on.’
‘What does that mean?’ Kineas asked.
Satyrus shook his head. He often made the mistake of answering his sister’s son as if he were an adult — or as if he were too young to understand the complexities of his position. Kineas was three, and already wise.
‘Would you like to go riding tomorrow?’ Satyrus asked.
‘Only after I watch my mother ride. . away.’ The fractional pause told Satyrus too much — and made him angry.
He played with the boy until the sun began to set, romping on the carpets and helping him shoot his toy war engine, a tiny ballista that the sailors had made for the boy. It was really quite dangerous, as Satyrus discovered when one of his shots stuck a finger’s-span deep in a shield on the wall.
‘Oh!’ he said. He’d given the boy the ballista himself. ‘Kineas, I have to take this away.’
The boy looked at him a moment and his jaw worked silently.
He was trying not to cry. ‘I didn’t- I am careful!’ he said. He grabbed his uncle’s knee and raised his small face. His eyes were already looking red around the edges. ‘Please? I am careful.’
Satyrus took a deep breath. Someone had to take care- ‘No,’ he said. ‘That is, yes- Oh, don’t cry! Listen, lad. This is a little too powerful for a boy your age. I didn’t know. We can play with it together, but I can’t let you play with it by yourself.’
The sun had fully set before Kineas was content. He wasn’t a spoiled boy, or a bad one — he was merely a bright lad who spent most of his day with a pair of nurses. He deserved better.
Satyrus got a big hug before he left, and found that his anger was fresh and new. He stood at the entrance to the wing that led to his sister’s quarters for as long as it took his heart to beat twenty times, and then, common sense winning out over rage, he walked away.
He went into his own wing, closed the door to his apartments and picked up a cup of wine.
‘Lord?’ asked Helios.
‘Send for Hyacinth,’ Satyrus said.
And instantly regretted it. Anger at his sister did not justify excess.
But in Hyacinth’s embrace, he lost his anger. It was replaced by sadness. Satyrus had made love often enough to know the difference. He made little effort to please Hyacinth. She, on the other hand, made a dedicated effort to please him.
She was, after all, a slave.
2
Melitta’s column rode out through the landward gates of Tanais the next morning, and Satyrus stood with his three-year-old nephew’s hand clutched in his own and watched the procession.
She stopped her horse when she came up to them and dismounted with an easy grace. She leaned down and kissed her son. ‘I’ll be back soon,’ she said. ‘I love you.’
‘I love you!’ Kineas said, and threw his arms around her neck and clutched her as if he was drowning.
‘Kineas,’ she said, after a pause. ‘Kineas.’
The boy relinquished his hold and put his arms by his sides. ‘Sorry.’
‘Thank you.’ Melitta looked at her brother. ‘Take good care of him,’ she said.
‘I always do,’ he answered, and wished the words unsaid as soon as they had crossed his lips.
She was mounted and gone before he could think of anything more to say.
Satyrus waited for his ships to sail with the eagerness of a child anticipating a feast, or a holiday from school. But unlike a child, he had plenty to fill his days. He sat with Theron, Coenus and Idomenes for hours, going over long lists of items — of luxury and necessity — that they needed from Alexandria and Rhodes.
‘We need more smiths,’ Theron insisted.
‘Temerix is probably the finest smith in the wheel of the world!’ Satyrus said.
‘That may be, but men now wait years for him to make a blade.’ Coenus shook his head. ‘His very excellence has blinded us all to the scarcity of other smiths.’
‘He has apprentices,’ Satyrus put in.
‘He has twenty apprentices. We need twenty smiths — just in the Tanais countryside. And bronzesmiths, and more goldsmiths.’ Theron shook his head. ‘We need to have the ability to manufacture our own armour.’
‘We need tanners,’ Idomenes said quietly.
‘Tanners?’ Satyrus asked.
‘Tanais is growing as a place where animals are slaughtered and hides are gathered,’ Idomenes said. He held up a bundle of tally-sticks. ‘Last month alone, from the Feast of Demeter to the Feast of Apollo, we gathered in six hundred and forty hides of bulls and big cows. If we had a tanner, we’d make ten times the profit on them.’
‘Tanner means a tannery and a lot of stink,’ Coenus said. He rubbed his beard and his eye met Satyrus’, and both of them smiled.
‘Beats the hell out of being an exile in Alexandria, doesn’t it?’ Coenus asked him, and Satyrus chuckled.
‘It does, at that. But somehow I never thought that being a king would involve quite so much maths.’ He laughed. ‘Very well, Idomenes. Your point is excellent. We need a master tanner, some slave tanners and some silver to build a tannery.’
‘Slaves?’ Idomenes asked.
‘I’ll buy ’em as slaves and free them here,’ Satyrus said. ‘Good way to start.’ He looked around, grinned and said, ‘Basically, you want me to buy everything on the skilled-labour market.’
Theron nodded. ‘Where would we put the tannery?’ he asked.
‘Up the coast. There’s that black stream up by Askam — flows all year round. Stinks already.’ Idomenes was making a catalogue of all the terrain in the kingdom, and he knew every landmark within five days’ ride. He raised his eyes, found no disagreement and wrote a note on his wax tablet.
‘If we all die, let’s leave the kingdom to Idomenes,’ Satyrus said.
Idomenes’ head came up. The other men were all smiling. He flinched.
‘Hey!’ Satyrus said. ‘I’m not Eumeles!’ He leaned back and held out his cup for cider, which a servant poured for him.
‘Lord, such a comment. . scares me.’ Idomenes had served the old tyrant, a ruthless man who taxed and killed without meaning or warning, bent on making himself a major player in the game of succession to Alexander.