One of the sailors was Diokles. He attached himself to Satyrus as soon as he came on the parade square, displacing the Greek boy who stood in the second rank behind Satyrus with a polite nod and a gruff ‘On your way, then.’ The Greek, who’d been a little too shy of pushing forward for Satyrus, seemed happy to be moved to a place that was slightly less exposed.
Satyrus rammed his butt-spike into the sand and turned. ‘Good to see you, by all the gods!’ he said. He was surprised by the warmth of his own reaction.
So was Diokles, but he was visibly pleased. His hand clasp was firm. ‘Thought I’d try my hand at being a gent,’ he said with a smile. ‘Your uncle Leon asked me to look after you,’ he said.
‘Really!’ Satyrus said.
‘Fighting-wise,’ Diokles said. ‘What did you think?’
‘Shut up and listen!’ Philokles bellowed, and they were back to drill. They faced to their spear side and they faced to their shield side, they changed grips on their spears and raised and lowered their shields, they marched to the sound of pipes and halted to the shrill blasts of a whistle. In the afternoon, a man was killed when they practised a full-out charge and he got a butt-spike in the face from an incorrectly lowered pike. Anyone who was not sobered by that death was affected when the Spartan stood them in ranks in the setting sun and marched them past the corpse.
Even Satyrus, whose body was at the peak of training, was ready to drop.
‘We march the day after tomorrow!’ Philokles roared. His voice carried easily – one of the reasons men trained in the arts of rhetoric. ‘Phylarchs will attend me for instructions on what kit your men need to have. Water bottles! Hide or clay or bronze, I don’t give a shit, but every man must have a water bottle. A spare cloak! Understand? The Macedonians will have shield-bearers to carry their kit. Most of us won’t. That means we have to march light. Again – phylarchs will attend me. Very well – fall out by ranks and stack your sarissas. Carry on!’
Theron, who acted as Philokles’ second, began falling out the ranks. This process prevented the men from tangling the long pikes and becoming injured while being dismissed – a real difficulty. Philokles gathered the three hundred men who led files, closed files or led half-files – sixteen men to the file – and read off for them a list of basic equipment every man had to have: wool stockings, heavy sandals, a water bottle, a spare cloak, net bags for forage and a scrip or pack for gear, and other things.
Satyrus and Abraham and many of the other phylarchs carried hinged wax tablets for notes, and they pulled out their styluses and copied the lists, but not all the phylarchs could write.
‘I’ll post it at the temples,’ Satyrus said.
Theron, who had overseen the dismissal of the phalanx, shot him a grateful smile. ‘That’ll save a lot of crap, Satyrus, and no mistake. Make sure the priests know it, too – then men can ask for it.’
Abraham nodded. ‘I’ll take a copy for my father. He can see to it that a dozen copies go around the market.’
‘Some men in my file may be too poor to afford all this,’ one of the marines commented. ‘They seem like good lads, but half of them don’t even have sandals.’
Philokles shrugged. ‘I have to try,’ he said.
Abraham raised his hand. ‘Sir, I think that many of the merchants would help equip men – from pride – if they were asked.’
Philokles laughed. ‘Well, lad, you seem to have volunteered. Figure out a way to discover which men can’t pay, and get them kit. Pick four men to help you.’
Abraham shook his head at Satyrus. ‘Me and my big mouth,’ he said, but he looked more happy than chagrinned. ‘Busy?’
‘I have to cover the temples,’ Satyrus said.
Dionysius raised his hands in mock resignation. Then he smiled wickedly. ‘Cimon’s should donate!’ he said. ‘Perhaps we could have the words “House of a thousand blow jobs” embroidered on our armour.’
Abraham put a casual elbow in Dio’s side and then caught him. ‘That’s enough from you. You can write, I assume? You’re not just a pretty face?’
Dio made a moue. ‘All I ever wanted was to be a pretty face,’ he said. In fact, his face was red from sun and had the strange burn of a man who had been on parade all day in a helmet.
Satyrus took Diokles because the man was to hand and seemed determined to shadow him anyway. ‘Can you write?’ he asked.
Diokles nodded. ‘Sure – hey, maybe not my place, but Hades – ain’t we supposed to go straight back to your uncle’s?’
Satyrus shook his head. ‘Yes and no. Yes, we are – but this has to be done. Look, it’s just a run to the temples.’ He undid the wire that bound his tablets and handed a copy to Diokles. ‘Take this to every temple on the south side. Make sure it is copied fair and that you find some priest who has read it.’
‘You sound like a navarch I knew once,’ Diokles said. He looked at the Alexandrion suspiciously, but it was late afternoon and the streets were full of men and women of every stratum – hardly a threatening crowd. ‘All right, sir. Give it here. Where do I find you?’
‘Temple of Poseidon, last one before the sea wall. On the steps.’ Satyrus wanted to be off the street as much as Diokles wanted him off, so he put his head down and hurried through the errand, passing the list at every temple and watching as a clerk or an under-priest or an acolyte copied the list, bouncing up and down as he waited, watching the crowds from the relative invulnerability of many-stepped porticos.
The Temple of Poseidon was last, and he didn’t see Namastis, which made sense as the young priest had drilled all day. But the priest who copied the list was thorough and interested, able to memorize without effort, and Satyrus found himself standing on the steps watching the crowds. There was no sign of Diokles – and then he saw the man, well down the street, crossing from the Temple of Athena to the Temple of Demeter.
The shrine of Herakles beckoned to him from across the avenue. He had the time.
Satyrus crossed the street as quickly as possible and went up the steps, ignoring some acquaintance who called his name. He gave his list to an acolyte to be copied and then stepped into the precinct of the temple, searched his bag for a silver coin and found one, and made a hasty but exact sacrifice under the gilt statue of the master pankrationist, left arm stretched forward, right arm back and holding a sword, the lion skin of shining gold covering his back. He felt nothing untoward, except that the eyes of the statue seemed to be upon him, and he dedicated his sacrifice to the dead boy, Cyrus – Theo would have his own sacrifices. Satyrus thought of the young man’s eagerness to learn to sacrifice – it seemed as if that was so long ago, and he found that tears were running down his face.
Then he was back out of the precinct, and he went down the steps in a sombre mood.
‘Master Satyrus!’ called a voice, close at hand.
Satyrus felt that something was wrong. He felt as if the god had put a hand on his shoulder and turned him – indeed, he spun on the steps and stumbled when his right foot slipped off the marble step, and his side absorbed an impact – his ribs burned with fire. Only as the knife was withdrawn did he understand that he had been attacked.
‘Hades!’ a familiar voice cursed, and Satyrus got his hand on the attacker’s elbow. They struggled for the knife, and they exchanged blows – Satyrus took a blinding blow from the top of his opponent’s head and returned one with his fingers to his opponent’s eyes, and then the man broke his hold in exchange for the loss of the knife and bolted down the steps.
Satyrus was bleeding from his side. He put a hand to it, and it came away covered with blood, and he felt queasy.
Diokles appeared at his side. ‘I see him!’ he said.
Satyrus managed to get to his feet. ‘Follow him!’ he said. ‘See where he goes!’
Diokles hesitated. ‘But-’ he said.
‘I’ll be safe in the temple,’ Satyrus said. Suiting the action to the word, he dragged himself up the steps, leaving a trail of blood.