Theron pushed in. ‘I’ll go,’ he said.
‘No, Philokles said. ‘From now on, we all stay together all the time. Nestor leaves a guard on Kallista until we come back from dinner, and then we sleep in Melitta’s room, and in the morning we pack our beasts at first light and ride.’
Nestor nodded. ‘Pending the tyrant’s permission, of course.’
Philokles nodded back. ‘Of course,’ he said.
Sophokles glanced at Nestor. ‘I’ll go with them,’ he said. ‘They all need medical care.’
Nestor was surprised. ‘You were just hired as the tyrant’s physician,’ he said.
Sophokles shrugged. ‘I feel responsible,’ he said.
Satyrus looked at the Athenian, trying to read his soul.
‘Let’s go to dinner,’ Melitta said.
Satyrus was struck again by the sheer bulk of Dionysius of Heraklea as he entered the man’s hall. The tyrant filled the dais, and his couch was three times the width of every other couch, and he lay alone. He was grotesque, and his bristle of short blond hair made his head seem all the smaller. He looked like an ogre come to life.
He held the eye nonetheless, his white chiton immaculate, the gold wreath on his head brilliant in its Helios-like spray of leaves and tendrils that flickered like fire in the lamplight. Satyrus and Melitta led the way to the dais, arm in arm and walking with their heads high, and Satyrus was aware, even as he stared at the tyrant, that every other eye in the hall was on him or his sister.
The couches of the principal diners were drawn up in a circle. Where women had been invited, they sat in chairs beside their companions. The dinner was not an orgy but a feast, and when Satyrus managed to tear his eyes away from the tyrant, he saw that the couches of the inner circle were full of serious-looking men attended by women their own age – not hetairai.
Before they approached the circle, Satyrus turned to Philokles. ‘Any special etiquette for tyrants?’ he asked.
‘Be polite,’ Philokles answered. ‘Don’t make speeches about the freedom of the assembly.’
Theron choked a laugh, and then they were passing an empty couch and entering the clear space before the dais.
‘Greetings, Prince Satyrus and Princess Melitta!’ The tyrant raised himself on an elbow. ‘Nestor, offer me a libation on the altar for the safety of our twins.’
Satyrus hadn’t noticed that Nestor had somehow beaten them to the dining hall. The black man was seated behind the tyrant, and he rose, took a libation bowl and poured wine on a small altar set into the wall, with a statue of Dionysius in gold and ivory in a niche over the altar.
The tyrant nodded. ‘The blessings of Dionysus stay with you. May the strength of our patron Herakles defend you.’ He smiled, and it was a hard, dangerous grin for such a fat man. ‘You are still wearing your sword, young man.’
Satyrus bowed deeply. ‘I rejoice in your – your favour, Dionysius. I thank you for your hospitality, for the healing of your doctor, the safety of your roof and for your generosity. Even the clothes on my back I owe to you.’ He bowed again, and his voice rose as his nerves betrayed him. ‘But-’ Too squeaky. ‘But – twice, men have tried to kill us under your roof. I beg your forgiveness and your permission to wear this sword.’
‘I missed the last part of that,’ Dionysius said. He rolled heavily and the legs of his couch creaked. ‘Nestor, what does the boy say?’
Nestor leaned down by the tyrant and whispered in his ear.
Dionysius nodded heavily. ‘So be it. I am deeply sorry that these criminals have so abused my hospitality. Now sit and eat dinner. How is the slave girl?’ He asked the last with a sudden quickening of his eyes.
‘She will live,’ Melitta said. ‘She may be – marred.’
Dionysius’s eyes roved over Melitta. ‘I have a daughter – Amastris – just your age. Would you sit with her?’
Melitta nodded her head gracefully. ‘I would be delighted.’
Nestor made a sign, and a chair was moved. Melitta followed the chair to sit beside another girl her own age.
‘You sit by me,’ Dionysius said to Satyrus. He pointed to the couch on his left hand.
Satyrus went and lay on it. Philokles and Theron were escorted to other couches in the second circle.
As soon as the Tanaisians were in their places, Nestor clapped his hands and dancers entered. They danced the rites of spring as village girls danced them throughout the Euxine, if with more grace, and while they moved beautifully through the familiar figures, the first course was served on three-legged tables next to each couch.
‘Nestor tells me you wish to abandon my hospitality,’ Dionysius said. He was enormous, and he was elevated by the height of a man’s lower leg. The combination made conversation awkward, as the tyrant’s head was four feet above Satyrus’s head.
‘Lord, you know that the slave – Tenedos, the steward of Kinon – was at large in your citadel?’ Satyrus craned his neck to see the tyrant’s eyes.
‘Young Satyrus, I know of every event in this castle. I know when a slave girl fucks – or does not fuck – a guest, and how much he tips her.’ He put a morsel of food in his mouth and winked. ‘Tenedos is now past worrying about, but he had many interesting points to make before he went to Hades.’
Satyrus nodded, the lesson going straight home to his heart. ‘Did he betray his master?’ he said carefully.
‘Yes and no, young man. That is, he admitted that he was turned by this Stratokles, but he claimed – while in enormous pain – that it was the slave girl, Kallista, who was the driving force. Not he, of course.’
‘Oh,’ Satyrus said.
‘Ahh, to be so young. A man will say anything under torture. Anything. It need not be the truth. Indeed, it seldom is.’ The tyrant took a whole quail and dropped it in his mouth.
‘What of the Athenian? If I may ask, lord?’ Satyrus took a quail for himself when the platter was offered.
‘Fled – days ago. By ship, I suspect. But he will have left other agents here, I have no doubt.’ The fat man spat bird bones into his hand and dropped them into a bowl on his couch.
‘How convenient for everyone,’ Satyrus said.
‘I regret that I must agree. In your place I would suspect that the tyrant Dionysius was complicit.’ He smiled.
Satyrus sipped his wine bowl. ‘The thought had crossed my mind,’ he said. He tried to sound like a man of the world, but instead he heard a scared boy.
‘But of course, if I wanted you dead, you’d be dead.’ Dionysius winked again. ‘Nestor could have gutted you both and had your meat served in a local shop at the crook of my finger. Or you could die of poison right now, from the wine in that cup. You didn’t have it tasted. You’d never know. Or I could have you strangled in your sleep by my slaves. Really, there’s no need to concern yourself with such things – you are so utterly in my power that it may be that I just can’t make up my mind how to dispose of you.’
Satyrus forced himself to take a bite of food. He had no idea what it tasted like. His mind was not moving.
‘The sword you wear is a nice conceit, but will it defend you from poison? Or even from a determined man with a sword? From my ill will, it offers no defence at all, and by wearing it, you accuse me of being a poor host. It is rude.’ The tyrant rolled over on his couch, and from his position under the huge man, Satyrus could see the length of the thongs that held the mattress and how stretched they were.
‘But you wished to make a statement. Perhaps you felt that you needed to get my attention. Boys do such things. They posture.’ The tyrant smiled again. ‘I posture too. When you are as old as I, and as fat, men will assume that as you are ugly, so you are evil. Don’t you? Kalos kalon? The beautiful is the good. Eh, boy? And since I’m so ugly, I must be evil. I must rape virgins every night, and perhaps bathe in blood. Eh?’ The man leaned over the edge of his couch. ‘So when they call me evil, I posture a little. Understand, boy? Stupid, violent men often mistake goodness for weakness and see evil as strength. You look smart. Do you know whereof I speak?’