‘Philokles!’ he said. ‘I saw Tenedos! With the kitchen staff at the gate!’
‘Are you sure?’ Philokles asked.
Satyrus wished that his ankle didn’t hurt so much. ‘Pretty sure,’ he said.
‘Who is Tenedos?’ Nestor asked.
‘Kinon’s steward. The twins think he was involved in the attack.’ Philokles was giving Satyrus an appraising look.
‘Describe him,’ the black man demanded.
Satyrus did his best. ‘He’s balding, Thracian. I’d even say he was Getae – his head is round like that. He has a slight stoop and – wispy hair.’ How did I miss that? he asked himself.
‘There’s enough bald Thracian slaves in this building to glut the market,’ Nestor said. ‘I’ll put the word out.’
‘He can’t be operating alone,’ Philokles said. ‘No slave would do anything to endanger his skin.’
They went in under a fine marble arch and turned right across the courtyard for the stables. Satyrus rode in, but Philokles had to dismount to avoid hitting his head.
Satyrus looked at their train of animals. ‘Where do we put all this stuff? Will we still ride with the caravan?’
Philokles shook his head. ‘I don’t know, boy. I don’t know anything any more.’
Satyrus got up and gave his tutor a hug. Philokles stiffened for a moment and then squeezed back.
‘Sorry, boy. Things are – I need a drink. I don’t need a drink. I need to get on top of this, and I’m not.’
‘We need to get out of here,’ Satyrus said.
‘Agreed,’ Philokles said.
‘What if there’s somebody inside? Working with Stratokles?’ Satyrus said.
‘Then we ought to be dead already,’ Philokles said. He shook his head. ‘I thought that I’d left all this behind. I was good at this once.’
Satyrus hesitated. ‘What if there’s someone inside but waiting for orders?’
Philokles stopped moving and turned to Satyrus so sharply that the boy was afraid the Spartan meant to hit him. It had happened, at least in the distant past. But Philokles made an odd clucking noise instead. ‘That’s good thinking, lad,’ he said. ‘And now you’ve seen Tenedos, we need to be on our guard. All the time.’
Philokles hailed a soldier, who got them a file of slaves to carry their gear. It was odd to be bringing bags of armour into the palace, and the slaves didn’t like the weight of the loads.
Satyrus led the way, carrying his own pack and his satchel with the bloody towel full of gold cups. He was eager to give one to Melitta, and doubly eager to give one to Kallista. He climbed the steps from the working courtyard to the main floor and turned to the left, leaving the official precincts for the guest quarters and the tyrant’s family space. He led his caravan of slaves up the steps of the formal entrance to the palace and past a pair of sentries, one of whom shot him a wink. Satyrus grinned. Then he went in under the bust of Herakles and followed the colonnade towards his room. The scale of the citadel and the palace dwarfed anything in Pantecapaeum or Olbia, and was far larger than anything in little Tanais. He wondered what it would be like to live with this level of opulence. Just as an example, in Tanais, the only stables had been in the public hippodrome. The tyrant of Heraklea had his own stables for his private use, and they could accommodate more animals than Tanais’s public stables.
Satyrus tried to consider what this meant in terms of political power. It was the sort of thing that would please Philokles, and he began to compose a question – an intelligent question.
Then he heard his sister scream.
8
Satyrus dropped his pack and ran, despite the pain in his ankle, the shifting of his nose and the pounding of his heart. She screamed again.
He saw the Athenian doctor burst out of another curtain halfway around the courtyard and run towards his sister’s room.
He reached under his arm and drew his sword. The gesture was becoming natural.
His sister screamed again and called, ‘Help!’
He pushed through the curtain to her room. Melitta was full-length on the marble floor, trying to hold Kallista. Kallista was flopping on the floor, her face purple. Satyrus put his back against the wall and tried to cover every side of the room with his blade.
‘Poison!’ Melitta said.
Kallista was writhing as if she was in a pankration fight with an invisible opponent. The Athenian doctor burst in, followed by Philokles.
‘Ahhhhhgggg!’ Kallista bellowed. She had both hands at her throat. Her eyes were bulging like eggs.
The doctor cast around the room. ‘What did she drink?’ he barked.
Melitta pointed at a ewer of wine. ‘She tasted it for me. Oh, Hera, she tasted it for me.’
The doctor smelled it. Then he put a finger in, hesitated and tasted it. He wrinkled his lips like a horse and spat.
‘Fuck, she’s dead,’ he said bluntly. ‘Poisoned. Not much I can do.’
Philokles didn’t hesitate. He fell on the girl. Despite her violent struggles, he had her unable to move in seconds. Melitta rolled off. Theron came through the door with his head in a bandage.
‘Help me!’ Philokles growled. ‘Get her legs!’
‘What in Hades?’ the doctor asked.
Theron got his left arm under her knees, pinned her ankles together and wrapped one great hand around them and lifted her up. Philokles kept her arms pinned.
Philokles whirled. ‘You have hemp, doctor?’ he demanded.
The moment her head cleared the stone floor, Philokles yelled, ‘Keep her there!’ at Theron. ‘Hemp?’ he demanded again.
The doctor shrugged. ‘I’ll find some,’ he said, and walked out. ‘Just keep her there,’ he said over his shoulder.
The moment the doctor was out of the door, Philokles punched the slave girl in the stomach – a vicious blow with his whole weight behind it that made Theron stumble.
She responded with an explosive vomit all over Philokles. Some of the stuff spattered Theron and Satyrus got a gobbet in the face.
‘Now look what you’ve done!’ Melitta shouted. ‘Wait for the hemp!’
Satyrus grabbed a towel, sopped it in water and wiped his own face. Then he set to cleaning Philokles.
The Spartan punched the girl again. Upside down, she flinched, her guts heaving, and puked again, a thin stream of black-purple liquid. Satyrus caught it as it passed her mouth.
He tossed the towel in a corner and grabbed another, thanking Zeus that the girls had just bathed. He turned to Theron, who was straining under the continued weight of the girl held up high.
They heard footsteps, and Nestor came in with a clash of bronze.
‘Poison,’ Philokles said. He stuck his hand into Kallista’s mouth and made her gag.
‘Hermes, god of travellers,’ Nestor said, making a sign with his hand. ‘Seal off this corridor!’ he called outside.
‘Let the doctor in!’ Philokles cried, and moments later Sophokles returned. Behind him, a slave came with a brazier, a bronze bowl and a tripod.
‘How did you induce vomiting?’ the doctor asked. He shrugged. ‘One way or another, this is it. Apollo, god of healing, and all the gods be with me.’ He smiled at the slave. ‘Right here. Put the tripod here. Well done. You have some bellows?’
The slave produced bellows.
‘Make it hot!’ the doctor said.
Kallista opened her eyes and screamed.
Sophokles threw the herb on to the brazier and a pungent smoke arose. To Satyrus, it was the scent of the sea of grass. The Sakje made little hide tents and sat in them to enjoy the smoke.
The doctor used the bellows until the smoke was rich and thick, then reversed them, sucking the smoke into the small instrument. He put it in Kallista’s slack mouth and forced the smoke into her lungs. She coughed, choked and vomited again.
‘Not dead yet!’ Sophokles proclaimed grimly. ‘Apollo, stand at my shoulder and save her!’ He made more smoke and pushed the bellows deep in her throat before forcing in the smoke.