‘What is he like?’ Philokles asked.
‘He’s the fattest man you’ll ever meet,’ Kinon said. ‘And perhaps the most brilliant and ruthless. Some say he is the soul of Dionysius of Syracusa come again. He’s his brother’s heir and no mistake. And he is not afraid of anything.’
Theron drank his wine down. ‘For all that, he’s a tyrant,’ he said. ‘I’m a man of Corinth. Timoleon overthrew that Dionysius of Syracusa.’
Kinon looked around. ‘We do not say such things in Heraklea.’
Theron shrugged. ‘You may not say such things,’ he said. ‘I am a man of Corinth, the city of tyrant-slayers.’
Philokles glared at the athlete. ‘Perhaps we should call it the city of poor guests, mmm? Think again, Theron. This man has given us gifts we cannot repay, and how do we return them? With rudeness?’
Instead of becoming angry, Theron winced. ‘My apologies, host. Philokles is correct.’
They spoke more about politics, and Satyrus watched Kallista as she sat by her master.
‘We should go to bed, if we have to be princes for the tyrant in the morning,’ Melitta said.
Satyrus nodded and yawned, eager to be an adult and without the strength to be one. ‘Bed,’ he said. Kallista smiled at him, and he smiled back. He would never see her again – it all seemed so unfair. But he rose and said his good-nights, and thanked Kinon with his sister for his spotless hospitality, which made the man smile.
He stumbled on the smooth marble of the colonnade, and he didn’t even undo the brooches on his chiton, but merely peeled it over his head and handed it to yet another slave and slipped on to his sleeping couch. The spring air had a touch of chill and he pulled his Thracian cloak – carefully cleaned by the staff – over himself, and he was asleep.
7
Satyrus woke instantly to a sound in his room. The room was dark, with the doorway illuminated by the light coming from the courtyard and filtering down the colonnade. Something moved across the doorway and Satyrus was alert, his heart beating hard.
‘It’s just me,’ Kallista said from the middle of the room.
Satyrus’s heart didn’t beat any the slower, although for different reasons.
She slid on to his couch, found the Thracian cloak and wriggled under it, and her breasts brushed against his chest. She giggled, put a hand between his legs and put her mouth unerringly over his.
He was caught between fear, excitement and an odd anger – this was not the way he wanted Kallista. If he wanted her at all. And yet, he did – as his erection testified.
She put a hand on his chest and pinched one of his nipples hard, the way his nurse had done when she was angry, but while the pressure was the same, the result was different. She took one of his hands and placed it on her breast – ahhh – a smoothness and softness that was almost unbelievable, a sort of Olympian perfection. His cock leaped to attention under her smooth hand. She laughed.
In the courtyard, a man screamed ‘Alarm!’ and there was a crash, like a log hitting a wall. The whole building shook.
‘Aaaagghh!’ the same voice screamed. Satyrus knew that scream – a man with death in his guts. His erection vanished and his mind moved fast and he was off the couch in the dark, hand sweeping the wall until he found his sword hanging on its baldric from a peg. He put the belt over his head and grabbed the cloak off the bed.
‘What in Hades are you doing?’ Kallista said.
‘Aaaagh-’ The next scream was cut off suddenly, and then there was another crash and a cheer – a terrible sound, and then running feet. Satyrus threw the cloak over his arm and went to the doorway, brushing the curtain aside.
There was a man in the colonnade with a weapon. He wore a helmet that glinted in the distant light of the garden, and he was less than an arm-length away, a big shadow against the stygian dark of the corridor.
‘Get some light in here!’ the man shouted, his voice filling the corridor. ‘Follow me!’
Satyrus wanted to hesitate, but before the fear could catch him he cut low, just as Philokles had shown him again and again, his left hand stretched forward with the wrapped cloak to block a counter-blow. And the man caught his movement and his weapon came down into the wool cloak, numbing his arm, but his sword went behind the man’s greave and as Satyrus recovered he pressed the cut, ripping the tendon at the back of the leg just as he’d been taught.
The man went down in a tangle of bronze and limbs and Satyrus stepped clear just as the man voiced his pain. ‘Aiyyee! Ares! Gods, I’m cut! Aiyyyeee! Ah ah ah!’
They’re wearing armour, Satyrus thought, and then the fear caught him and he stood paralysed. He tried to open his mouth, tried to call.
‘Satyrus!’ his sister shouted. ‘Wake up! We’re under attack!’
His limbs loosed and he almost fell and then he moved clumsily, stumbling like a drunkard. ‘I’m here!’ he called.
‘There they are!’ a man’s voice shouted, and there were torches in the colonnade, light flickering off the thrashing man on the floor. Satyrus got past him, abandoning Kallista, and he was beside his sister.
‘Run,’ he said.
‘Where?’ she asked him. Their portion of the colonnade led to a blank wall at the corner of the property. In light, there was a mural of more pillars painted there to give the suggestion of space.
‘Ares,’ he cursed. ‘Athena aid us!’
The men with torches came to their comrade and there was commotion and cursing. ‘Hamstrung!’ one voice said. ‘I’ll kill the bastard! Kleon will never walk again!’
‘Just kill everwud you fide,’ another voice said. He ripped open the curtain to the room where Satyrus had slept.
Satyrus was frozen with indecision – the right thing to do was to attack them, make a futile effort to save Kallista. He would die. But it was the virtuous thing.
He didn’t want to die. He was an ungracious animal.
There was a crash in the dark and half the light went out. Satyrus crouched and pushed his sister behind him.
In the fitful torchlight, Satyrus watched Theron and Philokles, side by side, with shields on their shoulders, rip into the armoured men in the doorway. The men turned quickly – too late for the torch-bearer, who went down like a sacrifice and didn’t even moan. His torch lit the scene from the ground, sputtering and burning fitfully.
The attackers fought back silently. They had swords and they knew how to use them. Philokles gave a cry and stepped back, and one of the adversaries bellowed, stepped forward and died on Philokles’ sword, tricked in the dark into believing he’d hit his opponent.
Satyrus got his limbs in motion and came up behind them. Again he went low, cutting at the tendons of Theron’s opponent. The man screamed like a horse and went back, straight into the boy, and Theron’s back cut with his kopis took off the top of the man’s head and he collapsed on Satyrus, pumping gore, so that Satyrus was trapped against the wall.
‘Shit,’ the last man fighting said, and died.
‘There must be more of them,’ Philokles panted. ‘Boy? Are you all right?’
Philokles was looking into his sleeping chamber. Satyrus was trying not to puke at the warm spongy stuff all over his face. ‘I’m right here,’ he managed in a squeak.
Theron caught up the torch and thrust it in his face. ‘I thought that man went down too fast,’ he said. ‘Well cut, little hoplite. Now get up. Where’s your sister?’
‘Watching your backs,’ she said. ‘There’s more of them, in the other wing, and more yet in the slave quarters. I can hear them.’
The screams from the slave quarters were harrowing – several people, cries from nightmare. The other wing had the sound of rushing feet.
Theron and Philokles had time to turn around before they were hit by the rush.