‘And you remember how thin he was? And how, no matter what he ate, it hurt his guts like fire?’
‘Sure,’ Amyntas said. ‘He said he’d rather die than eat!’
‘And remember what happened when Antigonus got him healed? He stopped fighting like he was insane. He covered up like everybody else. Right? ’Cause of how he had a reason to live, right enough.’
‘What’s your point, you north-country bastard?’ Philip asked.
‘Huh. Maybe I don’t have a point. Maybe I just like the fucking sound of my own voice, eh? Whose little bum-boy is this? He’s a little long in the tooth, but I’ll be happy to keep him until his hair comes in.’ The newcomer pinched Satyrus’s cheek.
‘Kineas the Athenian’s son, as we saved in the fight the other night. Put two men down hisself.’ Amyntas walked over. ‘Not a bum-boy.’
‘Fuck me,’ the newcomer said. He gave a military salute. ‘Pardon me, boy. No harm meant.’
‘None taken,’ Satyrus said, stiffly. The barracks was like another world – scary and fun and dark and light.
‘Draco,’ the newcomer said, holding out his hand.
‘Satyrus,’ he said.
‘Now you’ve touched the hand that saved Alexander on the wall!’ Philip said. ‘Hah! You’ll go far, boy. Draco saved the king once, in India. Didn’t you, darling?’
‘I was just the poor sod who was next on the ladder. He farted on me all the way to the top,’ Draco agreed.
They all laughed.
Draco came with them later in the day when Satyrus accompanied Philokles to Kinon’s house. The bodies were there, laid in neat, orderly rows in the courtyard where they had eaten dinner, and it was all Satyrus could do to keep his gorge from rising. But he walked up and down the rows, and then came back to where Draco stood with Nestor.
‘That’s all of them?’ Satyrus asked.
Nestor nodded. ‘In this heat, if we’d missed one, we’d know.’
Satyrus shook his head. ‘Tenedos, the steward, is not there. Nor is Stratokles the Athenian, nor the first man I cut – I saw Stratokles dragging a wounded man when your lot rushed the gate.’ Talking steadied him. He took a breath, and the stench hit him again, and against his will his gorge rose and he threw up.
Draco stepped adroitly aside. ‘Poor lad. You’ll get over it, with time.’›
Draco gave him water from his canteen, and he rinsed his mouth in the street and then forced himself to confront the courtyard again. The smell was just as strong, and so were the flies. There was brown blood everywhere like a slaughterhouse or a sacrificial altar.
Satyrus had come to see the bodies, but he was also there to claim their goods before the tyrant seized what was left of the estate. Kinon had left no heirs and no will.
‘Take whatever you want,’ Nestor said. He turned to Draco. ‘When young Satyrus has secured his party’s goods, I want every one of these bodies on the wagon in the street. Do it yourselves. Then every man who was here when we stormed the place gets one pick from the man’s goods. Rest goes to the boss. Clear?’
Draco nodded and winked at Satyrus. ‘Sounds good to me, Captain.’
Satyrus’s sandals stuck to the floor every step as he approached his quarters, and there were flies everywhere. He breathed carefully as he turned the corner. The semi-dried blood was like a red-brown carpet in the sun, stretching away to the door of his room. He closed his eyes and took a breath, and he could feel the tickle of the copper in the old blood at the back of his throat even with his eyes closed.
Sure enough, there was a lamp outside. But when he bent to check it, he could see that the wick was new-cut. It had never been lit. Had she forgotten?
There were so many layers to the puzzle that it made him feel light-headed.
He could hear Draco laughing with another man around the corner. How do they get used to this? he thought.
His room was better – his cloaks were on the floor where he’d thrown them. He rolled them up, collected his bags and managed to get them and his sister’s gear and their new clothes and their jewellery packed and on to their horses without spewing again. His right ankle and shin now hurt with every movement, and he kept rubbing his nose like a fool, but he forced himself to walk down the far hall – where he had never gone – under some paintings of men having sex with other men, and into the receiving room. He was looking for something to take – something that would remind him of Kinon.
Draco was standing in front of a Persian wall-hanging. ‘What’d you take, boy?’ he asked.
‘Nothing yet,’ Satyrus said sheepishly.
‘You’ll never make a soldier if you can’t loot a house. What you looking for?’ the man asked.
‘He had a set of gold cups,’ Satyrus said. ‘He was proud of them. I thought I’d take one for each of us.’
‘I stand corrected, little prince. Looting comes naturally to you. Gold cups? How many?’ Draco winked.
‘Ought to be six,’ Satyrus said. ‘I’ll take five.’
Draco winked. ‘Glad to meet you,’ he said. ‘Let’s look.’
The gold cups were in the heavy chest in the pantry. It was sealed. Draco shrugged and smashed the seal, and there was a treasury of heavy plate, beautifully crafted drinking ware and wine equipment.
Draco counted out five gold cups. ‘Sure you don’t want the rest?’ he said.
Satyrus shook his head. ‘You keep it,’ he said.
Draco waved for another soldier. ‘Thanks, my lord.’ In seconds, the guardsmen were bundling the silver and gold into their cloaks.
Satyrus took the stack of cups – they nested – in the bosom of his chiton. He found Philokles loading the horses in the stable, and showed them to him.
‘One’s for you,’ Satyrus said. ‘One for Lita, one for Theron, and one for Kallista.’
‘That’s well thought, young man,’ Philokles said.
Satyrus put a hand on his arm. ‘Tenedos is not in the house,’ he said.
Philokles nodded. ‘I saw. Nor all the men I put down – just the marines, I’d say. It’s a mystery.’
‘Or this Stratokles has allies.’ Satyrus felt better for saying it. ‘We need to get free of this place.’
Philokles shrugged. ‘That convoy of armour? It won’t leave for days, now. Too many loose ends from the dead men.’ He turned to go back for another load. ‘I agree we need a way out of this,’ he added.
When he was alone in the stable, Satyrus wrapped the cups in a blood-soaked towel and put them in his shoulder bag.
They rode up to the back of the citadel, approaching by the military road that was used only by the guard and the palace servants, because only the guard kept horses. There was a jam at the lower gate, where a train of donkeys carried game – deer, mostly – for the evening’s feast.
His ankle was throbbing, and an odd depression had settled over him. There was a man right by the gate. His back was to Satyrus, and something about him was familiar.
‘We should go back to regular lessons tomorrow,’ Philokles said, out of nowhere.
‘Fine,’ Satyrus said. A black cloud of infinite dimensions had replaced the joy of being alive. Taking the gold cups made him feel like a thief.
Nestor was cursing the delay. ‘What’s going on at the gate? I’ll whip the fools.’ He turned back to them and his brow cleared. ‘You are the most militant tutor I’ve met, sir. What do you teach? The arts of war?’
The Spartan spat. ‘I’m no hoplomachos,’ he said derisively. ‘I teach philosophy. Politics.’
‘Swordsmanship,’ Satyrus said.
‘Well, you seem a good teacher to me,’ Nestor said. ‘Your student held his own in a fight against men in armour.’
Philokles gave Satyrus that look which he associated with his tutor’s gentle contempt.
‘All I did was lie on the floor,’ Satyrus said.
Nestor laughed. ‘Your sister has you pegged,’ he said.
Satyrus sat with his ankle throbbing for as long as it took to run a stade in armour, and then again. Somewhere in that time he had the nagging feeling that something had been forgotten. By the time the column finally shuffled forward, it had almost gone from his mind, and then, as he passed the gate, it hit him.