Theron leaned in. ‘For now, the first three ranks can use their hoplite equipment – all the Hellene ephebes have them, and even the Jews came with heavy spears.’
Philokles agreed. ‘Shorter spears in front is not a way to build the confidence of your front ranks, lad. Do you know what it is like to face a Macedonian taxeis? Unless they’re disordered, every file has six or eight spearheads sticking out in front. They move, just from the natural movement of the men carrying them – like the ripple of grass in the wind. Hard to face. Terrifying.’
‘You told me yourself that with an aspis and discipline, you had no problem penetrating the wall of spears.’ Satyrus had heard the tale of the fight at the fords of the Borysthenes a dozen times or more, from different men. He knew that Philokles and the elite men of two Euxine cities had held, and then beaten, a Macedonian phalanx.
Philokles made a face. ‘Veterans should know better than to tell such tales. We were lucky – and brave. There were good men in that taxeis – hard men, and men in the very peak of athletic training. I had ten Olympians.’ He looked out to sea, his spear-butt making a rhythm as he tapped it on the paving stones. ‘I was a younger man myself. Look at me! It has taken me six weeks just to get the lard off my stomach. Fifteen years ago, I’d have had muscles like your cuirass – like you have, wrestler.’ He pointed at Theron, who wore his chitoniskos off one shoulder, showing the near-perfect musculature of his torso.
‘We have Theron. He’s an Olympian.’ Satyrus was interested by the fact that he was now cheering up Philokles, a complete reversal from the day before.
‘Ahh, Theron,’ Philokles said. They were at Diodorus’s gate, which was the closer of the two properties to the drill field. ‘Three days until we march. Where are you heading, young man?’
‘A nap,’ Satyrus said. ‘I have this magnificent physique to maintain. ’
Theron slapped him on the back.
‘Don’t forget to appear at the gymnasium,’ Philokles said. ‘Read something before bed. I have never had a child of my own, lad, but when you speak of having a nap, I suspect that you have somewhere to go tonight. Hmm?’
Blushing, Satyrus hung his head, a complex rush of embarrassments flooding him.
‘Remember what Diodorus said. I do not, note, order you to obey his stricture – only to understand that disobedience will have consequences, for you and for others. Understand me?’
Satyrus wasn’t sure that he did understand, but he nodded anyway, gave a ridiculous smile and then bowed and retreated to his room, where he spent half an hour inspecting his tutor’s comment from any number of angles.
Moonlight would have helped both his mood and the physical difficulty of moving around, but the moon was dark and the stars weren’t much help as a thin haze made the night as black as a priest’s cloak. Satyrus clutched his chlamys tighter and moved carefully back and forth at the base of the steps to the Temple of Poseidon. Deep in the temple precincts there was light – and the soft sound of voices – but out at the edge of the steps there was just a vague glow and the voices sounded like a haunting, and he was afraid. It was foolish for him to have come. He saw assassins in every movement.
Satyrus was beginning to feel a fool. He walked back and forth again, listening for any sign of another person – above him, or perhaps a boat out in the harbour? But he heard nothing but the cry of a late-night gull and somewhere, far off down the curve of the bay, two voices raised in angry confrontation.
He looked at the sky. If there had been stars – the right stars – he could have told the time. The dark sky mocked his ignorance, and the night seemed to move along far more slowly. Satyrus sat on a step, feeling some lingering warmth from the heat of the day. For the thousandth time he thought of Amastris, and then of Melitta, and then of the marvellous machine in Abraham’s house – not that these thoughts were connected, but only that one followed another, and served to keep other thoughts at bay – just thinking that unlocked them like Pandora’s cursed box, and then he was seeing Theo with the dirk in his eye, and then the Sauromatae girl he had killed, and then he shivered.
Why would Amastris leave him waiting? He rose to his feet and walked over to the sea wall. The two voices down the coast were gone. He could hear a kithara playing.
‘My lord?’ came a voice from the top of the steps.
Satyrus jumped. ‘Yes?’ he answered.
‘I have a message, I think,’ the voice said.
Satyrus couldn’t see anything – the god might have been addressing him directly. That seemed unlikely, so Satyrus climbed the steps. He was careful, and he found that he had drawn his sword without thinking.
‘I am here,’ Namastis said. Closer, Satyrus could recognize the Greco-Aegyptian by the sound of his consonants.
‘So am I,’ Satyrus said. Now he could see the priest outlined by the pale luminescence of the white marble portico and the brightly coloured statues that glittered with gold even on the darkest night. ‘Good evening, Master Namastis.’
‘So!’ Namastis said. He sounded amused, a far cry from his daytime subservience. ‘I am asked to perform a task for the palace by a priest of Hathor, and look – I’m running an errand for a Greek.’ He reached out and placed an oyster shell in Satyrus’s hand.
‘I can’t very well read it in the dark,’ Satyrus said.
Namastis made a tapping noise and then a scuffing, as if he was carrying a staff and tapping his sandals. ‘I can light a torch in the outer sanctuary,’ he said. ‘Come.’
Satyrus climbed up to the portico behind the blackness that was the priest’s cloak against the white of the steps, and then he paused in the incense-redolent interior. He didn’t know his way and the priest vanished.
He wondered if this was an ambush. He was behaving like an idiot – in more ways than one. And Namastis – was it just coincidence? How would Amastris know of their connection? Satyrus grasped the hilt of his sword, and just then he heard a strong grunt as the Aegyptian blew hard on a spark, and in seconds a resin-impregnated torch burst into flame, with the heady smell of burning pitch.
The scenes of the temple interior sprang to life in the flickering light of one torch, but Satyrus glanced around, his head turning like a falcon’s or a hunting owl’s.
He sheathed his sword and his hand fell away from the hilt. He was, quite literally, starting at shadows.
He went over to the priest and stood with the torchlight at his right shoulder while he opened the shell and read the note.
Apologies.
Satyrus shrugged. ‘Let that be a lesson to me,’ he said.
The priest shook his head, saying nothing. Then he paused. ‘I could offer you a cup of wine,’ he said. ‘We’re not supposed to,’ he added, in a tone that suggested that this rule was not widely obeyed.
Satyrus shook his head. ‘No, thanks,’ he said. ‘I have been enough of a foolish boy for ten nights. I need to get some sleep before Philokles has me on the drill field in the morning.’
Namastis peered at him as if his eyes were weak. ‘You are with the Spartan? In the Phalanx of Aegypt?’ he asked. ‘I hear news of you every day.’ He smiled hesitantly.
Satyrus shrugged. ‘If it is still there in the morning,’ he answered.
Namastis nodded. ‘Yes. The Macedonians didn’t want to arm any mere native and now they seek to drive them all away.’
Satyrus had to laugh. ‘I don’t think it’s an organized plot, friend,’ he said. ‘Macedonian arrogance is sufficient. Panion came today and in one speech undid four weeks of Philokles’ work. And your countrymen aren’t the world’s best soldiers, either. Lots of obedience and not much spirit.’
Namastis rubbed his bare chin. ‘Would a priest of Poseidon be welcome in your phalanx, lord?’ he asked. ‘Satyrus?’ he said.