‘Fuck,’ he said. Without meaning to, he thought of his mother and the warmth of her infrequent embraces. And then he thought about the Sauromatae girl crying for her mother as she lay dying. His hands shook.
He backed into a corner, his brain running like a chariot drawn by maddened horses. He thought about the city and the stables and about his mother. He thought about his father, the demi-god. He thought about his sister. About Kallista. What kind of life did she lead? Would she die? Was it his fault?
Slowly, his breathing slowed. His hands stopped shaking, and he realized that he had his sword in his hand, and he was huddled in the corner of his room.
‘I’m losing my wits,’ he said aloud. He sheathed the sword and wiped his face and then poured water over his head and rubbed his face, hard.
‘Draco?’ he called out. Voice fairly steady. Of course, the man had heard him. No privacy anywhere.
‘My lord?’ the soldier asked.
‘I’d like to go down to my sister’s room,’ Satyrus said.
‘Prince Satyrus moving!’ Draco called. ‘Go ahead, my lord.’
Satyrus stepped out into the evening air and moved along the gallery to Melitta’s room. When he passed the soldier, the Macedonian turned to look at him.
‘Another few minutes and this’ll be over,’ he said in a whisper.
‘Thanks,’ Satyrus said. ‘Lita?’ he called.
‘Come in!’ she said, and he ducked through the curtain.
Melitta was sitting on a chair by Kallista, who was lying on the bed. She was deeply unconscious. Melitta gave a bright and entirely fake smile.
‘Hello, brother,’ she said.
‘You all right?’ he asked.
The corners of her mouth quivered a little, but her smile remained in place. ‘No,’ she said. ‘People are trying to kill me. Us. It’s different from a fight. It’s horrible, Satyrus! I like people!’
Satyrus put his arms around her, happy to comfort somebody. Especially his sister, who usually comforted him. ‘It’s not everybody, sis. It’s just a couple of idiots. If I’d been quicker on my feet, we’d be safe.’
‘What are you, Achilles? Is it all on you? Are you the centre of the world? Stop all this assumption-of-responsibility crap! It’s the product of too much Plato!’ She put her cheek on his shoulder and squeezed. The weight of her head was grinding one of his best gold fibulae into his shoulder, but that was an occupational hazard of being a brother.
‘I didn’t get him, and that Macedonian made me come back here. I should have stayed at it! It makes me feel like shit.’ Satyrus felt better just for saying the words out loud.
She looked up, her eyes red, and shook her head. ‘Slavery doesn’t make them weak, you daft weasel. Slavery makes them desperate. Promise me that when we’re king and queen, we’ll have no slaves.’
‘Done!’ he said. ‘I swear it by Zeus and all the gods.’
They stood there, embracing, for some time. The shadows got longer. Kallista continued to breathe.
‘I’m better,’ Melitta said. ‘Thanks.’ She stepped away and started to rearrange her hair.
‘Hey?’ he said. ‘What if I’m not better?’
She made a rude noise. ‘Can I tell you something?’ she said, her back to him.
‘Probably,’ he said. He was watching Kallista. In his head, he was comparing her blotched face, swollen lips, burn marks and stressed flesh to the image of beauty she had presented the first night in the rose garden. The comparison was full of lessons.
‘When I thought you were dying, I was going to kill myself,’ she said evenly. ‘I don’t think I’d want to live without you, brother.’ She put a pin into her hair.
He rubbed his hand through his hair in embarrassment. ‘Yeah,’ he said. Another of his excellent responses.
‘My lord?’ Draco asked from the other side of the curtain.
‘That’s Draco, our sentry. Come in!’ Satyrus called.
The Macedonian pushed his head through. ‘We’re out of here, my lord. The Medje have your man, and the dinner is on – our tyrant won’t be cowed by a slave. So you’re to dress.’ His eyes flicked over to where Melitta sat. ‘My pardon, m’lady.’
‘Hold on,’ Satyrus said, slipping through the curtain. ‘Thanks.’
Draco grinned from under his Thracian helmet. ‘No problem, m’lord.’
‘What happened to “Satyrus” or “boy”?’
‘Orders. You two is to be treated as visiting royals.’ Draco grinned. ‘Most visiting royals don’t help us loot a house, o’ course.’
‘Can I ask a favour, Draco?’
‘Sure. Ask away. I’m back off duty as soon as I get this thorax off.’ He slung his shield around on his back.
‘Can you find me a chiton? A nice one?’ He pointed to the long streak of black vomit on his fine flame-decorated garment.
Draco grinned. ‘That’s easy. Hey!’ he said, turning. ‘Hey, Philotas! Where’s that squeeze of yours?’
Another armoured man emerged from the columns on the other side of the guests’ courtyard. ‘She’s right here, you whoreson.’
‘Send her over here. The prince needs some clothes.’ Draco chortled.
‘So does she!’ Philotas laughed. ‘It might be a minute.’
Draco shrugged. ‘He’s a pig-dog, our Philotas. Girls love him. His cock’s longer than a girl’s foot.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘His girl is one of the wardrobe slaves. His current girl.’
Satyrus tried to be a man of the world. ‘My mother says “no slave girls”.’
‘Aphrodite! Why’s that?’ Draco seemed shocked.
‘Because they can’t decide for themselves. They aren’t in control of their bodies.’ Satyrus managed to deliver the line well, without primness, as if he really knew what he was talking about.
Draco laughed. ‘Ares, who cares?’ he said. ‘Willing? Unwilling?’ He looked at Satyrus. ‘Oh, balls. I’m sorry, boy. Don’t take it like that – I’m no monster. Your mum’s just a little strict for me.’
The slave girl came up, her eyes averted and her ionic chiton neat and graceful. ‘Master?’ she asked.
‘The prince would like to know if he might get a chiton from the wardrobe,’ Draco asked in an official voice. ‘His best got ruined in the poison attempt.’
The slave raised her eyes and looked at his chiton. She fingered the stain. ‘Never come all the way out,’ she said. She brightened. ‘But I have a little bitch who it’ll do good to try. Can we move about, Draco?’
‘Free as friggin’ birds, honey,’ Draco answered. ‘My lord, I leave you in good hands.’
‘Give me the cloth, m’lord.’ She all but snapped her fingers, and Satyrus pulled it off over his head.
‘Get the brooches, m’lord,’ Draco said. ‘Or you’ll never see ’em again.’
‘Don’t you have somewhere you ought to be, guardsman?’ the woman said to Draco. Her nimble fingers plucked the fibulae off the shoulders. ‘No one in this wing would steal, m’lord. Draco is from Macedon – they’re the thieves.’
Draco gave him a look that said he’d stand by his statement, and Satyrus was left standing naked with a pair of gold brooches in his hand and a sword strap over his shoulder.
Life with slaves and guards was so alien that he almost laughed aloud.
Philokles came up behind him. ‘Planning to go to the dinner naked, boy?’ he asked. ‘The sword is a nice touch. You could be young Herakles.’
Satyrus blushed and hurried back to his room. As quickly as he could, he wriggled into a chiton.
‘Best bathe. I can smell the vomit on you,’ Philokles called after him, leaning in past the curtain.
‘Will you go, sir?’ Satyrus asked.
‘I will, too. We can just squeeze it in.’ Satyrus felt his tutor’s hand on his shoulder, and they walked off down the gallery to the stairs.
Philokles didn’t know the palace like Satyrus did now. ‘This way,’ he said, heading down the slaves’ stair. ‘It’s faster!’
‘No, boy,’ the Spartan said. He pulled Satyrus past the slaves’ stair. ‘Not fair to them. You didn’t grow up with slaves, but I did. They need their own places where the likes of us don’t interfere. Just like soldiers. Officers don’t go into soldiers’ parts of camp. Bad manners.’