Abraham smiled, and his earrings twinkled. 'Wait until you attend their parties.'
Satyrus met his smile. 'I can imagine.'
Abraham shook his head. 'No. No, you can't.' As soon as the officers were gathered, Satyrus composed his letter to Diodorus. He wrote it out on papyrus, and then he took a wax tablet and melted the wax from the frames. On the bare wood, he wrote his message. Dear Uncle Our scout of the Euxine ended in disaster. Uncle Leon was taken and we lost twelve ships. I have made a plan to win the Euxine back, and I will need you and every man you have – if Seleucus will spare you. I plan to be at Heraklea at the spring equinox. I ask – nay, Uncle, I beg – that you meet me there with all your force. I will have a fleet to transport you.
Uncle Leon is in the hands of Eumeles. I have prevented Theron from going to his rescue by promising that we will all bend our every effort that way in the spring. I rely on you to support us in this.
I will proceed immediately to Alexandria to speak to Melitta and to your lady wife concerning our plans. Please respond to me there, or at the Temple of Poseidon at Rhodos, or to Amastris, Princess of Heraklea, who I believe would be a reliable letter box. At the thought of Amastris, Satyrus smiled. Passionate, headstrong and perhaps a bit fickle – a mistress who could never be taken for granted. Satyrus loved her, even the fickle and the self-centred. She was a prize worth winning, and he meant to win her. And she would love to receive a secret letter. A symposium in a pirate town was a riotous affair, with twenty couches in a huge circle and women on half of them with their men, loud songs and louder laughter. A symposium in honour of the feast of Cypriot Aphrodite was several degrees further down a scale which ran from salacious to riot, and worse.
'This is not like home,' Abraham commented, as they walked through the streets of Byzantium. Every house had a goddess out front, most decorated with saffron, some with real gold. 'These parties are scarier than battles.' He waved at an Aphrodite who was obviously using her hands to pleasure herself. 'This is not Alexandria.'
Satyrus, his left arm wrapped tightly by a physician and a few drops of poppy in his veins, felt capable of anything. 'Like Kinon's at home?'
Abraham shook his head. 'No. Not at all like Kinon's. Like – well, like what my father thinks goes on at Kinon's. They play games…'
Satyrus hugged his friend with his good arm. Abraham had always been something of a prude, by Hellenic standards. 'I'm here to make a deal with Demostrate,' he said. 'I'll survive some games.'
Abraham coughed politely into his fist.
Before the sun was fully set, Satyrus lay between Daedalus of Halicarnassus, living proof of how thin was the line between piracy and mercenary service, and Abraham, the eldest son of a Jewish merchant in Alexandria and yet already accepted in this world as a man of worth. The men were well dressed, oiled and in some cases perfumed like the gentry of any town of Hellenes, although they came in more skin colours than were normal in Athens or Miletus. Their common livelihood crossed the barriers of race or riches, in the form of scars and a certain complexion that could only be earned by years at sea, and gave the skin the look of old leather, whether that skin was ink-black or milk white. And every man present wore a sword strapped to his side, even on a kline at a symposium.
Beyond Daedalus was Aeschinades, one of the most famous captains in the Aegean, and he lay with a beautiful woman with dark tan skin, her breasts under his hands, her back to him and her face towards Satyrus. Satyrus wasn't sure whether he was actually copulating with her or not, but he didn't look too closely. Her face was curiously blank – Satyrus looked twice, almost involuntarily, wondering why the woman did not even simulate pleasure.
On the other side, beyond Abraham, lay Manes, the terror of the coast of Phrygia, a man who had gobbled up more shipping than Poseidon, or so he claimed with open hubris. He shared his couch with a veritable Ganymede, a boy so attractive and so openly, brazenly sexual that his expression made Satyrus uncomfortable, as if he sought by his antics to make up for the lack of emotion on the dark woman's face.
'I warned you,' Abraham said from beside him.
'I didn't pay enough attention,' Satyrus conceded. 'I've never seen this kind of behaviour, even at Kinon's. I confess my error.'
Abraham grinned. 'Wait until the wine goes around and the flute girls come out. Ever played "feed the flute girl"?'
Satyrus felt himself blush. 'I've heard-'
'That's what I mean. You won't "hear". I've been here four weeks – I'm used to it. To them.' Abraham held out his cup for wine. 'I have to admit, I like the bastards. They say what they mean, and they are afraid of nothing.' He shook his head. 'Actually, most of them are afraid of Demostrate, and of Manes. Other than that…' He grinned. 'But you are either with them or you aren't.'
'You fed a flute girl?' Satyrus asked.
'Yes,' Abraham said. He blushed. 'And I will again.'
'They prey on the weak for money,' Satyrus said. 'All these women are chattel slaves.'
'So do the Diadochoi,' Abraham said. 'And I say again – either you are with them or not. They will ask you to play – and if you will not, they will never deal with you.'
Satyrus watched one of the captains further around the circle strike a slave sharply, a casual blow that knocked the slave flat. He breathed in and out slowly, as if preparing for combat.
Abraham leaned over. 'Many of these men have been slaves,' he said. 'This is not our world.'
Dinner was excellent – young kid with saffron, a simple rabbit stew with beans that was nonetheless delicious, and oysters, thousands of them, brought in with a nude Aphrodite on a giant shell, and the whole carried by four big men.
The captains began to stamp and cheer, even as they poured oysters down their throats.
She was a beauty – not in the first blush of youth, but tall, strong and well-breasted. Her hair was dyed almost white-blonde, like the goddess, and her nipples were gilded. She held herself like a goddess, not a slave.
The oysters went down noisily, and Satyrus found that Aphrodite intended to share his couch. 'I come from Demostrate,' she said in a deep, clear voice. Her Greek had no more accent than she had raiment.
'Take her, lad!' Demostrate shouted. 'I'm too damn old!'
'Feast of Aphrodite!' Manes shouted. He waved his cup. 'Do her honour!'
The other men shouted and the calls became louder. The singer gestured to her musicians and began to sing in a stronger voice – a hymn to Aphrodite. Sappho, in fact – a piece that Satyrus knew.
Abraham touched his shoulder while the rest of them shouted. 'I warned you,' he said.
Satyrus rolled back, and Aphrodite ran her hand up under his chiton, grabbed his penis and pulled it sharply. Satyrus was amazed to find that her fingers cut straight through the poppy in his blood and the pain in his arm.
'They mean for you to – copulate. With her. Now.' Abraham's face was carefully neutral. 'I warned you!'
Aphrodite flicked her thumb across the tip of his manhood and he was hard. Just like that.
'Relax,' she said. 'Would you prefer me on top or beneath you?' she asked, her right hand working his penis like raw dough.
Simple courtesy came to Satyrus's rescue. 'The goddess must be on top,' he said, and rolled under her. 'Please mind my arm.'
The other men roared to see her straddle him. She squatted and impaled herself on him, and then lay along his length. 'The longer this takes,' she said, 'the better they will like you, and the more luck you bring us.' She moved slowly up and down, and then bent her head so that her white-gold dyed hair covered his face. He could hear the roar of the captains, but he couldn't see them – he felt his response quicken.