They went a long way. Satyrus had time to get thirsty, to feel the need to urinate, to get cool as the evening air came on his naked skin. Fighting on the deck of a warship was much better than this helplessness.
An hour passed, at least. Or so it seemed.
‘Zeus Panhellenios, where are we going?’
‘What are we getting for this, boss?’
‘Four drachma a man. Don’t be such a crew of faggots.’ Voice change. ‘Sir? Young sir? Are we close?’
‘Right here,’ Jason said. ‘My farm wagon will be along any time now. Thanks. Here’s your money. Here you go.’ Clink of coins. ‘And here you go.’ More coins.
Grumbles and mutters. Farewells.
‘Where is my master?’ Jason asked, from outside the basket.
‘Dead,’ Satyrus managed.
The top came off the basket. ‘I had to make sure that they were gone. I’m making this up as I go. Who killed him?’
Satyrus got his head out of the basket and drank in some better air. ‘I don’t know. A courtesan, Phiale — she was the agent, I think.’ He shook his head.
Jason helped Satyrus to a sitting position. ‘Who was behind her? There’s men searching everywhere for you, lord. I paid men to find my master — my informers run across them everywhere. I guessed … well, I guessed that they killed Master and you got away. It was a possibility that fitted the facts. They’re looking for a “man from Olbia”.’
Satyrus nodded. ‘I was taken. I … escaped.’
Jason looked at him. ‘I heard from Master you are a famous fighter. Listen — please. I have found you, and I will get you to Master’s house. Yes? Then I beg you to do something for me.’
Satyrus nodded. ‘Anything I can, boy.’
‘Take me with you,’ Jason said. ‘Master kept me safe. From some things. I want free of them.’
Satyrus wondered how desperate the world of slaves and freedmen was. Constant bargaining. And how tempted Alex or Aella would be when they learned what he was worth to Demetrios.
‘I’ll free you,’ Satyrus said. He meant it, but he also knew that it was an offer that would trump most offers of money.
Jason smiled. Satyrus hadn’t seen him smile. It made him look much younger.
‘I want more than that,’ Jason said. ‘I want to be a citizen. Not here — too much baggage here.’
Satyrus, naked, and almost unable to walk, had to smile. ‘I can make you a citizen of Olbia or Tanais of Pantecapaeaum just by saying that you are,’ he said.
Jason nodded. ‘I know you can, lord. My master is dead. I can serve you.’
Satyrus took a deep breath. ‘You have not told me anything of your troubles — or your master’s plots,’ he said. ‘Get me clear of this, and I’ll see you have your freedom. I cannot promise more than that.’
Jason nodded. ‘Lean on me. Let’s go.’
They went through a farm gate, along a stone wall, through an olive grove, up a hill and down through another grove, and this time they had to endure the barking of dogs and the angry stares of a herd of sheep.
They came down a low ridge to a great house, and by then Satyrus was hobbling, but he felt better, not worse, as if stretching his muscles healed them.
‘Can you ride, lord?’ Jason asked.
Satyrus nodded. His breath was short.
Into the yard of the great house, where there were four men — big men, all wearing swords. Satyrus wanted to shy away, but Jason merely gave them a nod. ‘Usual rates,’ he said.
The biggest man chuckled. ‘We love working for you, Jas.’
Jason turned to Satyrus. ‘I had to arrange this on the fly. This is Achilles, and his friends Ajax, Memnon, and Odysseus. Gentlemen, this man needs your protection. Take him somewhere, and tell me where when you can. I have some loose ends to tidy up. He can pay — and he can be a good friend. Lord, just do as they say.’
Satyrus shrugged. ‘I would like clothes and a sword,’ he said. Achilles was tall and might have been handsome, if he didn’t have a rip a finger broad across his face that left his mouth in a permanent leer. Even with the big scar, he had carriage — dignity. Ajax was taller and heavier, with a paunch, and legs as big as a small man’s chest — and a disarming grin. Memnon was African, thin and hard, and Odysseus had a mouthful of gold teeth and a wispy beard, and looked altogether more like a lout than the other three, who might easily have passed for gentlemen.
Achilles looked him over. ‘You may have mine, lord, if you insist, but right now, you don’t look like you’re worth spit in a fight.’
Satyrus had to agree with that.
Jason broke in. ‘I can get him a couple of chitons and a chlamys,’ he said. ‘I doubt there’s a sword in the house.’
He vanished inside.
Memnon gave him a long look. ‘Who’s hunting you? And why do we have to call you “lord”?’
Satyrus sat heavily on a farm bench. ‘You don’t have to call me lord. Jason seems to do it too easily.’
Jason came back with a basket, a leather satchel, and a bundle. ‘No sandals — but good boots. Put your legs out, lord.’ Satyrus stretched his legs out, and Jason laced the boots on, and they fitted well enough — tall Boeotian boots, well tooled.
Jason then helped him into a chitoniskos — the wool was well-washed, and soft, but raising his arms over his head made him grunt.
‘Those is some amazing bruises, boss,’ Odysseus said. ‘I used to fight barehand in taverns — never got me no bruise like yon.’ He was pointing to the mark of a heavy oak staff on Satyrus’s left bicep — still purple after more than two weeks, a deep bruise indeed.
‘You win or lose?’ Ajax asked.
‘Lost,’ Satyrus said.
All four of them nodded.
‘Let me see your hands,’ Odysseus said.
Satyrus stuck out his hands.
‘I need you to get moving,’ Jason said. ‘Those porters will be easy to trace.’
Achilles held up his hand. ‘A moment, Jas. We don’t call this brute Odysseus for nothing.’
The gold-toothed man felt Satyrus’s palms. ‘Hard enough. Swordsman? Hoplite fighter?’
‘Yes,’ Satyrus said.
‘Can you talk low and act — like us?’ Odysseus asked.
‘Hopeless,’ Ajax said. ‘Look at him. Fucking gymnasiums every day. Manners.’
Satyrus grinned, spat to one side the way he remembered Neiron doing, and bobbed his head. ‘Fuck off,’ he said.
Odysseus smiled. ‘Not bad. Don’t talk much, and try not to keep your back straight all the time. Ride by me. We’re sell-swords looking for work with Demetrios, and you’ve known all of us since …’
‘Rhodos,’ Satyrus said.
‘We weren’t at Rhodos, sorry. We don’t get out of Attika much.’ Achilles smiled, and his scar moved. ‘Never mind. Just spit and look angry and injured. Let’s get moving.’
Memnon brought six horses out of the barns and Jason helped Satyrus mount.
He felt better on a horse. ‘You didn’t ask me if I could ride,’ he said to Odysseus.
The man’s teeth winked in the last of the midsummer sun. ‘Didn’t need to,’ he said. ‘We know who you are.’ He pulled at his reins as Jason came up to them.
‘Leave word for me in the usual way,’ he said. ‘I don’t expect to be a public man after today.’
Achilles nodded. ‘So it’s true? Polycrates is dead? Who got him?’
Jason shook his head. ‘Still trying to find out. Likely need you lot to sort that out, too.’
Satyrus was amused to note that his rescue — if indeed he was being rescued — was not centre stage. Polycrates’ death was centre stage.
‘You are Polycrates’ men?’ Satyrus asked.
‘Hmm,’ Achilles answered. ‘Hmm. Some would say we was, and some would say we wasn’t, like.’
Odysseus nodded. ‘We’re our own men. Polycrates pays — paid, I guess — well, and he’d stand up when we asked ’im to.’
‘Not like fucking Demetrios of Phaleron,’ Memnon muttered.
They began to ride — first downhill, through a wheat field, and then along a donkey path through a vineyard, through a gate in a high stone wall, and out to a road.
Satyrus didn’t know Athens really well, but he could see the Parthenon as clear as the moon — the last of the sun was shining on the roof, eight or ten stades to the south. They rode west, into a red sky, and they rode as fast as he could handle. No part of him was badly hurt any more — but he was tired and his hips hurt.