He wasn’t even decently nervous.
He picked up a magnificent sword, Chalkidian, with beautifully back-swept edges from a wicked, and very prosaic, armour-piercing point. The grip was ivory, the fittings gold-embellished bronze, and the scabbard would buy an inn in Attika, or a farm in Plataea. It was sharp as a barber’s razor, the lobes of the leaf thin and vicious, with a heavy spine that ran down into the point.
Even through his lack of interest, the sword was good. It fitted his hand — the balance was better than his father’s long machaira, and that had always seemed to him the best sword he’d ever handled.
He shrugged, pulled the sword belt over his right shoulder and drew the sword, wincing when his too-small armour pinched at his right bicep on the cross-draw. ‘Where’s the slave?’ he asked Achilles, who went out of their tent — an enormous tent of red linen, and Satyrus had to wonder what Macedonian officer was sleeping under his cloak and bitter about it — and Satyrus heard his voice.
Two Persian slaves came in and bowed low.
‘I have chosen weapons,’ Satyrus said. He raised his arms. ‘All of the armour is too small. I need a bigger thorax, even if it is plain leather or undecorated linen.’
The slaves helped him out of his armour. The older slave bowed again. ‘A thousand apologies, lord. We will return with better armour.’
Achilles grinned and raised his arms, too. ‘I like this game. I want mine larger around, with a smaller yoke, and covered in gold. With jewels.’
The Persian bowed. ‘Lord, it shall be as you wish.’ He looked weary. Who wouldn’t, in the semi-dark before dawn?
Slaves came with torches, and set them in holders all around the portico in front of the tent, and more slaves came with a table, and they set it with gold and silver vessels — cups, ewers, plates, a huge platter. Wine appeared, and fruit, and good bread, fresh from the ovens, and olive oil, honey and milk and small onion sausages, and fresh grilled anchovies.
The Persians returned, each like Thetis bringing the armour of Achilles from Hephaeston in their eagerness to satisfy him.
Achilles laughed. ‘I think that Demetrios fancies you,’ he said.
Satyrus chose an unadorned bronze thorax and tried it on. The fit was close — perhaps a little tight, but the armholes were large enough and he could move his arms freely. He raised his shoulders, thrust with his legs. His ribs hurt, but he could fight.
‘I’ll take this,’ he said.
Achilles was a larger man yet, but they fitted him on the third try.
‘Had I known the kind of party I was going to, I’d have brought the right clothes,’ he said.
Satyrus dipped fresh bread in olive oil and took a bite. He was finding it surprisingly easy to eat.
‘I’m usually far more … worried … before a fight,’ he confessed. ‘I feel odd. Unconcerned.’
‘You want to watch that,’ Achilles said. ‘Fear is what keeps a man alive.’
Satyrus nodded. It was lighter outside, and a large body of men was moving through the half-light just beyond the ropes of his enormous tent. He walked around the end to get a better look, and found himself face to face with a file of heavily armoured men.
‘Make way for the king!’ one of the men said. When Satyrus did not hurry to obey, the man raised his spear and shoved …
At air. Satyrus backed, swung aside on one foot, caught the spearhead, and pulled, disarming the man.
‘Stop!’ Demetrios ordered. ‘Satyrus — I’ve come to share your breakfast.’
The soldier glared at Satyrus.
Satyrus handed him his spear. ‘That sort of thing may work in Asia,’ he said, ‘but in Greece, someone might use your skin to keep crows off their crops.’
Demetrios nodded. ‘I tell them all the time. I want the Greeks to love me, and my hypaspists want them to hate me.’
‘We protect you, lord!’ the man protested.
Slaves appeared behind the king, bearing braziers on which they cooked more fish, there was fresher bread, and fruit juice.
Satyrus ate a plate of anchovies and drank pomegranate juice, a luxury even by the standards of the King of the Bosporons. ‘I envy you this,’ he said.
‘I might be facile, and suggest that if we were allies you could share it every day,’ Demetrios said.
‘Is this how you wooed Amastris?’ Satyrus asked, only half joking.
Demetrios shook his head. ‘A very attractive woman with a very attractive sea-port.’ He took a mouthful of olive paste. ‘I didn’t seduce her. Not for lack of trying. It was her damned spymaster — he apparently counselled her to keep me at arm’s length. Excellent advice. A very, very dangerous man.’
Satyrus smiled. ‘Stratokles of Athens? Very dangerous indeed, lord. On that, we can agree.’
Demetrios snapped his fingers. ‘Neron?’ he said.
A tall, thin Syrian came forward. He was well-enough formed, but his limbs were long and they gave him a vaguely simian look. He had a bushy black beard and bleak eyes.
Neron bowed. ‘Satyrus of Tanais,’ he said. ‘It is a great pleasure to see you in the flesh, after reading so many reports about you. My master here delights in stories about you. You keep me busy.’
Against his inclinations, Satyrus liked the man — his wit spoke well for his mind. ‘A pleasure, sir,’ Satyrus said, taking his hand.
‘Does everyone like you, Satyrus?’ Demetrios asked. ‘How wearying it must be for your friends.’
Satyrus didn’t have an answer for that. He shrugged.
‘Ask Neron your questions,’ Demetrios asked.
‘What difference will that make?’ Satyrus asked. ‘You might have told him to tell me anything.’
Demetrios rolled his eyes and went on eating.
‘Who paid to have me taken at Athens?’ Satyrus asked.
Neron bowed to Demetrios. ‘May I eat as well, lord?’ he asked, and when Demetrios inclined his head impatiently, the spy took a cup of wine and began to pile a silver plate with fresh fish.
‘You know Phiale of Alexandria?’ Neron asked.
‘Very well,’ Satyrus answered.
Neron smiled unpleasantly. ‘Many do, to their regret.’ He shrugged. ‘Women who sell their bodies are seldom nice or comfortable people to know — and always bad agents.’
Satyrus raised an eyebrow. ‘How very Socratean of you. But I knew that Phiale was an agent in my taking — I spoke to her.’
‘Ahh!’ Neron said. He glanced at his master with a certain weary tolerance. ‘Sometimes the most difficult source of information I have is my own lord, who does not always share everything he should.’
Satyrus nodded.
‘Amastris of Heraklea was wedded some weeks ago,’ Neron said. ‘At her wedding, to the best of my information, Cassander arranged the murder of Stratokles of Athens. You know him? A gifted man in my line.’
‘Your rival, perhaps?’ Satyrus asked.
‘Hmm. Not, I think, a player at my level, my lord, but only because of his ridiculous loyalty to Athens — to an Athens which hasn’t existed for a hundred years. Perhaps I offend you with my frankness?’ Neron sipped his wine, added more water.
‘Far from it. And yet, I assume you are similarly loyal to your master?’ Satyrus asked. The discourse was barbed — he wanted to show his own teeth.
‘Loyal enough, in these dark times,’ Neron answered. ‘At any rate, the murder of Stratokles was botched.’
‘I am surprised at myself, but I’m glad to hear it.’ Satyrus had to laugh.
Neron answered him with a gleam of teeth. ‘How remarkable, my lord, that those are my exact feelings. Stratokles has been a great help to me and a desperate enemy, and the world would seem emptier if he were to be swept from the board.’ He looked around. ‘So far, everything I’ve said is available information to any merchant. This is not. Lysimachos, Cassander, and envoys from Seleucus and Ptolemy met. They discussed things. Lysimachos met Cassander privately, as well. They discussed different things.’ Neron shrugged. ‘My master, as you call him, has told me to be direct with you, and I will be, as far as our interests converge — but you will pardon me if I note that you are not really our friend, and your friends are most definitely our enemies?’