Satyrus waved, and Harmonius waved back, pointed Satyrus out to another man.
‘Wait where you are, my lord!’ he called.
Satyrus wanted to laugh. Harmonius had flayed his backside with a stick for inattention — being called ‘my lord’ had a certain wrongness to it.
The man with him was wearing armour. He came up the gangplank, and he and Harmonius bowed respectfully to Satyrus. ‘Lord, let me present an officer from the citadeclass="underline" Lysander, son of Nicomedes of Athens. He is in charge of collecting the ship tax on foreign ships. I have explained that we owe no tax, and that this was guaranteed by Demetrios himself — and I have a letter to that effect.’
Satyrus shrugged. ‘What seems to be the problem, Lysander? This is my grain, and I am a citizen of Athens. And you can see for yourself that half these ships are Athenian hulls with Athenian crews.’
The young man took his helmet off and wiped his brow. Satyrus got a good look at him, and he was not as young as he had expected. He had a broad scar running across the bridge of his nose — almost like the wound Stratokles had. It was an odd, random thought.
‘I’m sorry, my lord, but orders are orders. The law has changed — or my captain has made an error. But we are ordered to collect the ship tax from you.’ He shrugged by way of apology.
Satyrus felt his brow furrowing and he fought the expression, struggling to remain calm and cheerful. ‘Lad, with all the good will in the world, please tell your captain that if he persists, Harmonius here will see him in court. I’m not a difficult man, but neither am I a petty merchant, that the citadel can summon me.’ Satyrus looked at Polycrates, who nodded.
‘Perhaps I can help,’ Polycrates said, stepping forward for the first time. ‘You know me, sir?’
The soldier shook his head. ‘Can’t say that I do, sir.’
Polycrates raised an eyebrow. ‘You do go to assembly, don’t you? Very well. I’m Polycrates — priest of Herakles. I will stand surety for these cargoes until such time as Lord Demetrios can be contacted.’
The soldier didn’t budge. ‘That would be — at least sixty talents of silver,’ he said.
Polycrates shrugged, now openly dismissive. ‘See my steward, then. He’ll show it to you. And that’s as close as you’ll get to it until I’ve seen some people.’
The soldier shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, but I am not going to allow this. You must stop unloading.’
Polycrates shook his head. ‘Your pardon, son, but you are an idiot. These are important men — this grain is important to the city. Go tell your captain — that’s my friend Isokles, yes? Go tell Isokles he has the wrong end of the stick, and if he comes up to my house tonight for a cup of good wine, he can thrash it through with us. Got that, lad?’
‘People don’t call me “lad”,’ the man said.
‘I do.’ Polycrates stood his ground. ‘Who the fuck are you, and where do you get this attitude?’
Satyrus stepped between them. ‘Clearly there’s some misunderstanding. Go back and check with your captain. I’ll wait.’
The soldier turned on his heel and walked away, the hobnails on his sandals crackling against the gangplank.
‘City soldiers — ephebes and washed up mercenaries. I apologise on behalf of the city,’ Polycrates said.
Satyrus turned to Harmonius and embraced him. ‘Old teacher — your hair’s all white!’
Harmonius laughed. Then he looked at the soldier, now well up the pier, with his squad. ‘Even when Athens was technically at war with Alexandria, I never had this kind of trouble with cargoes.’ He shook his head. ‘I keep up on changes in the law but I’m only a metic and he wouldn’t listen to me.’
Satyrus smiled. ‘Not to worry. As Polycrates says — some mercenary feeling a little power. Let’s get our things ashore. Then I’ll practise my lyre while I wait for him.’
‘You can’t be serious,’ Polycrates said. ‘We shan’t wait a moment. I know his captain — by Herakles our common ancestor, I know every man in this town. No need for the King of the Bosporus to cool his heels like a merchant! We’ll ride up to my house, and if Isokles needs you, he can come calling. You are a king!’
Satyrus gave a wry smile in return. ‘Here in Athens, I’m just another citizen,’ he said. Then he nodded. ‘But thanks. You are right. Let us go.’
They rented a small cart drawn by a donkey, and two horses — average beasts by the standards of a cavalryman, but fine animals to an Athenian. Their owner was right on the pier, anxious to serve and delighted to be paid full price.
‘You must allow me!’ Polycrates said. ‘But you are too polite. I’m sorry you didn’t bring Charmides or Anaxagoras — fine men.’
Satyrus looked up the pier through eyes narrowed in the bright sun. ‘I had to take some precautions.’
‘You should have opened your mind to me,’ Polycrates said. ‘I’d have set you at ease.’
Satyrus mounted, his body switching from aquatic to equine in that one motion, and despite the horse’s tendency to shy to the right, he found that she was responsive — a decent mount for a beast rented on the dock.
He paid the farmer to deliver his bags to Polycrates’ house, and the two of them rode easily up the wharf, picking their way among the longshoremen.
The soldiers on the wall gave them a hard look, and Polycrates dismounted to talk to the phylarch at the gate. When they were through, he shrugged.
‘They know who you are, and they didn’t know anything about Isokles demanding ship tax,’ he said. ‘It is the damnedest thing, Satyrus. If Isokles is so hot to talk to you, why weren’t we stopped at the gate?’
Satyrus shook his head. ‘No idea,’ he said. The two of them trotted along, passing carts — a dozen carts, already loaded with vases of Euxine grain.
‘Is there someone here who would try to steal my grain?’ Satyrus asked.
Polycrates shook his head. ‘Anyone who attacked you would have to be insane,’ he said. ‘Demetrios would exact such a revenge.’
They rode on — the summer was just gilding the grass, and there were flowers everywhere, so that the earth seemed particularly alive to a man who had been at sea for weeks. Satyrus was just smiling at a clump of jasmine when Polycrates gave a cry and fell from his horse.
It took far too long for Satyrus to register that his guest friend had just taken a slung stone to the head, and was clutching his brow, blood flowing around his fingers, mouth opening and closing like a fish. A dozen men surrounded him. And two of them grabbed his bridle — they all had swords and some had spears.
One man kicked Polycrates viciously. ‘That’ll teach you to backtalk me, arse-cunt,’ said the man with the scar on his face. He kicked Polycrates again.
Satyrus held up his hands. ‘Whatever you want, you are killing an important man.’ He looked around. ‘Stop at once!’
Such was the power of his voice that all the soldiers stepped back — even the scarred man. But then he sneered. ‘Fuck you,’ he spat, and rammed his spear into Polycrates’ heart.
Satyrus froze — the world seemed to stop, just for a moment. Then he slipped off his horse, as much because he wanted to think he might save the man, his sworn guest friend.
He was beyond saving.
Satyrus whirled. ‘You have killed a friend of Demetrios. How stupid are you?’
But the spell was broken. Scarface stepped forward. ‘Stop where you are,’ he said.
Arms grabbed Satyrus from behind. There was nothing he could do — not productively, not against a dozen men. He wasn’t even wearing a sword — not allowed in the confines of Athens. His sword was with his bags in the donkey cart, somewhere on the road behind them.