‘Oh,’ Satyrus said. They went down the public stair together. The baths were crowded because everyone had either been on duty or locked down for the afternoon. The men in the steam fell silent when Satyrus entered.
‘Welcome, prince,’ Nestor called out.
Satyrus blushed. He blushed more when he saw the murals on the walls. He got in the steam, and then he plunged into a cold bath deep enough to dive and swim, with a beautiful bronze woman with a fish tail at the bottom, as if swimming for the surface. When he emerged, he took a warmer bath and then went into the towel room.
‘Massage?’ a bored slave asked. ‘You’re the foreign prince, eh? In there,’ he said.
Satyrus found himself on a slab between Nestor and Philokles. They were like a pair of matching statues as they reclined, waiting for masseurs – Nestor in black and Philokles in white. Philokles was not at his best – years as a tutor in a backwater had not forced him to maintain his fighting trim – but he was not fat, either. Nestor’s musculature was perfect, and he would have adorned any gymnasium in Greece.
‘Boy or girl?’ the towel boy asked.
‘Surprise me,’ Nestor said.
A heavyset man came in and set to work on Philokles. ‘Soldier, sir?’ he asked. ‘I can always tell from the shoulders.’
Nestor laughed. ‘He’s a Spartan!’ he said.
The masseur grunted. ‘You’ve pulled some muscles here, sir. Best take some light exercise.’
‘I’ll keep that in mind,’ Philokles said.
‘Where’s Theron?’ Satyrus asked, as another man started to pummel his shoulders. Then a huge thumb was thrust roughly under his shoulder blade and it hurt. ‘Ares!’ he squeaked.
‘Be nice, Glaukis – probably the first real massage the boy’s ever had.’ Nestor hissed between his teeth. ‘They all hurt, m’lord.’
Satyrus’s masseur grunted and rotated his arm as if forcing his head down in pankration.
‘Oww!’ Satyrus said.
The two big men laughed.
Eventually, it was over. There was a point where it started to feel good, and another point where he started to feel the glow he got from a long exercise bout.
‘Oil, m’lord?’ the masseur asked.
‘Just a little,’ Satyrus said.
The masseur helped him off the slab. ‘Second curtain, m’lord.’
Satyrus headed down a corridor, barely able to walk with the absolute relaxation of his muscles. Erotic scenes involving various combinations of partners adorned the walls. Satyrus wasn’t prudish and he certainly knew how it all worked – there was even less privacy in Tanais than in Heraklea – but he blushed anyway.
The second curtain gave way to a small room with a small dark-haired girl not much older than he. She helped him up on to a stool. ‘Scented?’ she asked. ‘Cedar or lavender?’
‘No scent, thanks,’ he said.
She began to apply oil, her hands light but efficient. ‘Anything else, master?’ she asked as she began to massage the oil into his penis.
‘No, thank you,’ he said. No squeak at all – he was quite proud of his lack of shock.
‘There you go, then,’ she said with an utter indifference that made him feel he’d made the right choice.
He walked back up the main stair in a glow of well-being, eudaimonia, and he walked straight into his sister’s room. ‘How is she?’ he asked.
‘Goodness, you glow like a god,’ Melitta said. ‘She’s breathing better. ’
‘Do you know that when they put oil on you in the baths, they offer sex acts? Do they do that in the women’s baths?’
Melitta giggled. ‘Yes and no,’ she said. ‘Let’s not go into details.’ She turned bright red, and they laughed.
The laughter went on.
‘Go and put some clothes on, brother,’ she said. ‘There’s a slave waiting in your room.’ She made a motion with her hand. ‘We’re suddenly at the age where people will talk if we’re together naked.’
Satyrus turned a bright red. ‘Zeus Soter!’ he said. ‘That’s disgusting! ’
Melitta shrugged. ‘The Macedonians do it all the time. Ask your soldier friend Draco.’ Melitta gave a wicked smile – a smile that most twelve-year-old girls couldn’t manage. ‘Your guard friends think that’s what we’re doing in here.’
Satyrus vowed never to be naked around his sister again and headed off to his room.
Satyrus found the wardrobe slave waiting for him.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ he said.
She continued to look at the floor, but she gave a small smile. ‘That’s polite. I had a nice rest, and I tacked the side seams. Put it on. Good – you’re not dripping oil. Smudges the fabric.’
She held out a chiton, which was light wool, woven beautifully, but with a double row of purple decoration woven in. ‘Himself will never wear it,’ she said. ‘Came with the tribute and it wouldn’t go around his head, much less his body.’ She smiled. ‘Thank him for it when you make your bow, just so I’m covered.’
‘Hestia, goddess of the hearth, watch over you. What’s your name?’ he asked.
‘Harmone, my lord. There – you look like a prince. You need gold sandals.’
‘I’ve never had such a thing,’ Satyrus said.
Harmone laughed. ‘I’m a slave, and I have four pairs,’ she said. ‘The world’s a funny place and no mistake.’ She waited at the doorway.
Waiting for a tip. Satyrus cast around the room, saw all of his kit where the slaves had dumped it – was it really just that afternoon?
‘It’s going to take me some time to find my purse,’ he said.
‘I’ll wait,’ she said. ‘I knew you was a gent.’
Satyrus wondered what he had in his purse. ‘Harmone?’ he asked, as he pulled his sleeping roll off the pile. ‘What’s a fair tip? This isn’t how I live every day.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Ten gold darics’d do me fine,’ she said, and giggled. ‘You’re a rare ’un. An obol or two is fair for any extra service a slave does, except fucking. That’s more, unless offered free.’
Satyrus’s hand stopped over his satchel. He looked at her. She smiled.
She was a good ten years older than him and he wasn’t sure she was offering, and the world was a very confusing place. He had to look away – she was licking her lips – and his downturned eye caught a needle sticking point-first out of the flap of his satchel, just a few finger-breadths from his hand. The point of the needle was dark with something stuck to it – wax.
Or poison.
‘Hades,’ Satyrus breathed. He’d heard of poisoned needles. ‘Harmone. I’ll tip you later. Get Nestor!’
She caught the seriousness in his voice.
Satyrus didn’t move. The discovery of the reality of poisoned needles had frozen him in place. He felt very vulnerable indeed. He tried not to think. He didn’t panic, especially – he just crouched by his pack until Philokles and Theron came. Then Nestor arrived with a file of soldiers. They told him not to move while they sent for more soldiers in heavy gear.
His sister stood in the doorway, dressed for dinner, with her hair piled on top of her head in silver pins, and chewed on her fist.
Men in heavy felt mittens pulled his gear apart. Men in heavy military sandals came in and literally carried him out of the room. He leaned his forehead against the cool smoothness of a pillar and breathed for a while as his hands and knees shook. Then he went to the door.
‘Someone hand me out my sword?’ he asked. Good voice. He did that well – touch of irony.
Melitta smiled.
Philokles looked stricken. And a little drunk.
‘This is all my fault,’ he said thickly.
‘We need to get out of here,’ Satyrus said. ‘If Kallista can travel in a litter, I suggest we leave tonight.’
The doctor came up behind Philokles. ‘That ankle of yours needs a couple of days,’ he said.
‘I could be dead in a couple of days,’ Satyrus said. He managed to hide the bitterness.
Philokles turned to Nestor. ‘I’d like to send a messenger to the smith to see if his caravan is still going. It has probably left – or been cancelled. If it has left, I’d like an escort until we catch it.’