Stratokles shrugged. ‘I missed them, though.’
Heron nodded, his long nose seeming to mock the stub that Stratokles had. ‘The ship they’re on is a coaster bound for Heraklea,’ he said. ‘I can give you this ship and the marines on board. Go and kill them.’
Stratokles took a deep breath. ‘I have business in Heraklea, and an agent or two,’ he said. ‘On the other hand, this is getting beyond my remit. I’m not your man, Heron. I’m Cassander’s. And killing those children can’t become an end in itself. What damage can they do you?’›
Heron looked out at the ship, and shrugged. ‘Just do as you are told. Or tell Cassander and your precious Athenian tyrant that unless those children die, I’m no part of his alliance and he can whistle for the grain he wants.’ The tall man gave Stratokles a slight smile – more like a mockery of a smile. ‘I dare say he’ll find that he can spare you for a few weeks.’
Stratokles stifled the wave of resentment that threatened to escape his throat and take voice. The political daimon that ruled his thoughts – the spirit of expediency, he called his daimon – told him that Herons come and go.
The things I do for Athens, Stratokles thought. ‘Introduce me to your navarch,’ he said.
5
T he factor’s steward said that Leon was not there, and his factor, when summoned at Philokles’ insistence, was none too pleased to speak with them. He was a middle-aged Heraklean merchant named Kinon, and he viewed the four mounted travellers outside his palatial house with distress and suspicion. Kinon was as wide as he was tall, and not all with fat. He wore a fortune in jewellery on his person, with a jewelled girdle and gilt sandals. Two armed slaves stood behind him, and the heavily studded gate was only opened wide enough for the three of them to stand abreast.
Kinon spoke brusquely. ‘I do not expect Leon for some weeks. Indeed, I do not know if Heraklea is on his summer sailing itinerary at all. Good day to you.’
Philokles slipped down from his horse and stood in the gateway so that it was difficult to close the gate politely. ‘We’ll accept your hospitality anyway,’ he said.
‘I haven’t offered my hospitality,’ Kinon said.
‘Leon is my guest-friend. I need the shelter of a roof, as do these children and their trainer. Are you turning me away?’ Philokles seemed bigger and far more noble than usual.
Kinon looked at them. ‘What proof do you bring that you are the guest-friend of my employer? Get you gone before I send for the tyrant’s guard.’
Philokles shrugged. ‘I helped free your master from slavery,’ he said. ‘He was the slave to Nicomedes of Olbia. Kineas of Athens and I-’
‘Kineas? You are that Philokles, the Spartan?’ Kinon took a step forward, slapping his head. Satyrus, watching, couldn’t decide whether it was a theatrical gesture or a real one, or perhaps both together.
‘I am Philokles, of Olbia and Tanais. These children are the children of Kineas, and a curse on you for making me say that on a public street.’ Philokles didn’t seem so drunk.
‘Keep your curses for those who mean you harm,’ Kinon said, but he turned red. ‘A thousand apologies. Come in. What are such noble guests doing here with so little ceremony? Now I know that Leon would require me to show every courtesy. Could you not just have said, or sent a note?’
The armed slaves helped bring the horses into the house’s business yard. The house steward was already raising his hands to heaven.
‘Where shall I stable so many horses?’ he asked the gods. And Melitta didn’t like how his eyes lingered on her.
Kinon dismissed his worries with a wave of the hand. ‘Guests are from the gods,’ he said. ‘So are their beasts.’
‘I could not send a note because I did not wish it to be known that we were here,’ Philokles said. ‘My charges are in a dangerous position. Tell me the news. What is the tyrant’s relationship with Pantecapaeum?’
‘Eumeles, who used to be called Heron?’ Kinon was pleased to be master of the situation, and pleased, now that he had guests, to show off his possessions. Two more slaves came out of the slave quarters at the back of the business yard. They took over the animals while a young girl brought wine mixed with mineral water, fizzing on the tongue. It made Satyrus think of the bath at the temple of Herakles.
‘He’s the one,’ Philokles said. He tasted his wine and bowed, indicating his pleasure. Troops of slaves, it seemed, emerged from their quarters to take the baggage off the horses and march it into the house.
The steward reappeared. ‘I have prepared rooms for them, master,’ he said.
Kinon nodded, his lips pursed, until another girl appeared from the arch that led to the garden-courtyard, this one beautiful like a young Aphrodite, with wide eyes above a narrow, arched nose and lips that seemed too lush to be real. Satyrus looked at her, and her fleeting glance – slaves rarely raised their eyes – caught his in a flash of green. She smiled a little. She had a garland in her hair and five more in her arms. With her eyes down, she gave Satyrus a garland. ‘My master welcomes you,’ she said, and her eyes touched his again.
Satyrus blushed and took the garland. He could see every contour of her body under her simple linen chiton. All women, and all men, were naked under their garments, and almost no one except the sick wore undergarments, but this seemed to be the first time that Satyrus had ever noticed such a thing. He dropped his eyes and missed her flash of a smile.
Theron didn’t. He took his wreath and grinned. ‘That, sir, is a beautiful girl.’
Kinon patted her shoulder with unfeigned fondness. ‘Beautiful and modest. I bought her for a brothel, but I don’t think I’ll ever sell her.’ He gazed on her with a connoisseur’s appreciation. ‘There is more to life than profit.’
‘Your sentiment does you great credit,’ Theron said. ‘What is your name, girl?’
‘I am called Kallista,’ she breathed.
‘What could be more natural for her?’ Kinon said. ‘Now your Eumeles – you must know – our Dionysius hates him, as does his brother. It is very – personal. Yes?’
Philokles drank the rest of his cup of wine and handed it to a slave. ‘That is the best news that I have heard today, Master Kinon.’
‘There is no “Master” here,’ Kinon said with courtesy. ‘This is your house. May I engage you as guest-friends of my own account? The children of Kineas and Srayanka?’
Melitta’s eyes flickered at her brother – do it! – and he stepped forward. He imitated Philokles’ gesture, handing his wine cup to the air and assuming that a slave would appear to take it. It worked.
‘I am Satyrus, son of Kineas of the Corvaxae of Athens and Olbia. Herakles fathered my ancestors on the Nereid who dwelt on the slopes of Gagamia in Euboea. Arimnestos of the Corvaxae led the Plataeans at Marathon and won undying honour there. Kallikrates Eusebios Corvaxae led the exiles from Plataea. He and his son gave their lives for Athens.’ He reached out and took both of Kinon’s hands. ‘I ask your guest-friendship, Kinon of Heraklea, and I gift you with mine, and my children’s.’
Kinon clasped his hands. The merchant’s hands were soft and a little moist, but his grip was firm. ‘So might the heroes themselves have spoken. Indeed, for a youth, you sound more like a man of Gold than a man of Iron. I am honoured with your guest-friendship, Satyrus Eusebios of the Corvaxae.’ He took a wine krater and snapped his fingers, and one of the slaves who had been carrying a sword appeared with an offering bowl. Kinon poured a libation. ‘I swear to Hera, to Demeter who loves all guests, and to your ancestor Herakles that I will be your faithful host and guest.’
Satyrus pinched the libation bowl between his thumb and forefinger. ‘Grey-eyed Lady of Wisdom, and the strong-armed smith who works bronze and iron, keep this man and be my surety that I will be a faithful guest and friend.’
‘I feel as if I have Peleus’s son, Achilles, as a guest,’ Kinon said. ‘From an irritation, this has become a pleasure. Please follow me to a more comfortable situation.’ He led the way through the main arch, and they went from the businesslike courtyard with shed and slave quarters to a garden with roses and three colonnades. There was a fountain in the centre, and couches had been arranged on a clear space of gravel amidst the rose bushes. They were not quite in bloom, but the buds were formed.