Satyrus had, in fact, got the drift. He raised his cup. ‘I drink to the virtue of ugliness, lord,’ he said, turning a pretty phrase. He’d held it in his mind since the tyrant had used the stock phrase Kalos kalon.
Dionysius sat up, and his couch protested. ‘Nestor, did you hear that? The boy just paid me a genuine compliment!’
Nestor chuckled.
‘Virtue of ugliness, indeed. Well said, young man. I think we may indeed be friends. Tell me what you want.’ Dionysius snapped his fingers, and the second course was served. He watched the servers with much the same pride as Kinon had shown, and then a messenger distracted him.
‘Lord, I want to – that is-’ Satyrus stared at the tyrant. What do I want? he thought. Since the man was distracted, he looked around, and his eyes found Melitta’s, sitting on an ivory-decorated chair to his right. Sitting next to her, with her face almost touching his sister’s, was the Nereid from the other night, her black curls framing her face. She was telling his sister a story, and they were both laughing. Melitta caught his eye, and the other girl saw her attention waver and turned her head to look at him, and their eyes met.
Hers were green. All thought left his head. So green. A slave bent over his dining table.
The slave was holding out a solid silver ewer, and he should have asked if Satyrus wanted more wine. Instead, he opened his mouth, and the buzz of the diners, the ebb and flow of conversation, the drone of flies and the sound of the sea spoke like the voice of the god from his mouth.
‘That girl is what you want,’ said the slave. He raised the ewer.
‘What did you say?’ Satyrus asked.
‘More wine, master?’ the slave squeaked.
When Satyrus looked back, his sister and the Nereid were laughing together again. He looked at the slave. The boy was terrified. Well, slaves were often scared. He was learning a great deal about slaves.
He held up his wine cup. The boy raised the pitcher and poured, and Satyrus noted that the pitcher was nearly empty.
The boy spilled wine when his hands shook, just a few drops that fell harmlessly on the couch’s cover.
‘Never mind,’ Satyrus said kindly. He dismissed the boy with a wave. He turned back to the tyrant. ‘What I want, lord, is revenge,’ he said. ‘And the restoration of my city.’
‘Revenge is utterly worthless, young man.’ Dionysius sipped his wine. ‘I hope you haven’t already had a surfeit of tunny. The run this year is superb.’
The giant fish was carried past him by four sweating slaves, all grown men. When Satyrus glanced around, he realized that the boy who had just served him was the only young slave in the hall.
He was nowhere to be seen. ‘I have a mind to make myself king of the Bosporus,’ Satyrus said, and raised the wine cup to his lips. ‘I had no such intention, but Eumeles – Heron – has forced this on me.’
Dionysius narrowed his eyes.
Satyrus put his wine cup down untasted. He’d just made the connections. ‘Lord, I think this wine is poisoned.’
Dionysius flinched as if struck. ‘That is quite an accusation.’ He motioned to Nestor, who came up.
‘Take this cup and test it on someone. The boy thinks that it is poison.’ The tyrant motioned him away. He turned back to Satyrus as if nothing untoward had happened. ‘It is all very well, planning to be a king. That will require riches and armies. What do you want from me?’ Dionysius’s voice made it clear that neither riches nor armies would be forthcoming.
‘I would like permission to leave, and an escort. I wish to reach my friend Diodorus the Athenian.’ Satyrus watched Nestor until he vanished. He had a pounding headache, and he wondered if he had absently already had a sip of the wine. Or been poisoned earlier. He felt queasy.
‘Done,’ the tyrant said.
Silence fell over the hall. Nestor came in by another entrance with a file of soldiers. One of them was carrying a dead dog. Soldiers took station at every entrance.
Slaves suddenly moved like lightning, herded by other soldiers.
Nestor moved to the foot of the dais. He bent his head down and spoke to the tyrant, and the man started. Then he spoke rapidly.
‘I apologize for the inconvenience,’ Nestor announced. ‘This dinner is ended and you are all guests of the tyrant for the night. Soldiers will escort you to rooms. When you are cleared, you will be escorted home. Again, we apologize for any inconvenience. Those responsible will be punished,’ Nestor glanced around, ‘with the utmost rigour.’
Diners looked pale. A woman burst into tears. Soldiers moved up to every couch and took the diners away. Satyrus saw two soldiers escort Theron from the hall, and another pair taking Philokles.
‘Your wine was poisoned, young man. And there’s a boy with his throat cut in the kitchen.’ The tyrant shook his head. ‘I hate that this has happened here. It makes me feel weak. It makes me look weak.’ He shrugged, moving the whole mass of his flesh. ‘Escort them to their rooms. Young man, you have brought me a great deal of trouble – but you have also identified for me a serious threat, and for that you have my thanks.’ He gestured with his hand. Nestor moved to Satyrus’s couch.
‘My lord?’ he said.
Satyrus rolled to his feet. Melitta came up next to him and together they bowed to the tyrant, who responded with a civil inclination of his head. ‘You are excellent children,’ he said. ‘I hope that you live.’
Satyrus met the ogre’s eye. ‘I hope that I will always remember that beauty is not the only good,’ he said.
He started to turn away, but he caught the smile that flashed over the tyrant’s face. ‘When you are ready to be a king, come to me,’ Dionysius the tyrant said. ‘I think I would be happy to be your ally.’ With that, despite his bulk, he moved quickly, vanishing into his guards.
‘Not bad,’ Melitta said. ‘I think you’re starting to play the prince.’
‘I’ll have to live long enough to grow into the part,’ he shot back, but then he grinned at her. ‘Watch out, Lita. I could grow to like it.’
Nestor escorted them to the door. ‘Draco!’ he called out. Many of the diners were gathered outside, being searched with brusque efficiency by the tyrant’s guard. There was a fair amount of silent outrage.
Draco ran up and saluted. ‘Captain?’
‘Take these two back to their rooms,’ he said. ‘I will make arrangements on your behalf. Be ready.’ He spoke tersely and turned away.
Satyrus glanced at Melitta. She shook her head. ‘He means, don’t go to sleep,’ she whispered.
‘Right this way, lady,’ the soldier said. When they were clear of the guests and the other soldiers, he led them by the servants’ ways and the slaves’ stair to their rooms. There were soldiers at every junction in the palace.
‘This happens a little too often for me,’ he said. ‘Word to the wise – the guards saw a man going up the slaves’ stairs about twenty minutes back. They shouted – should have just charged the fucker – and he got away.’ The Macedonian shrugged. ‘More poison? Going to bag that slave girl? Who the fuck knows? I’ve never seen the like of this, except at court at home.’
Satyrus paused at the door of his room, suddenly overwhelmed with an irrational – or perhaps wholly rational – fear of a dark room. ‘Would you have someone search my room?’ he asked.
Draco sighed. ‘I’m not even on duty. Can the search of your room wait until morning?’
Satyrus whirled. ‘No, it cannot. Listen – someone just tried to poison me. Earlier, someone had a go at my sister and managed to poison Kallista – er, her slave. My mother is probably dead in Pantecapaeum, I’m cut off from my friends and my patrimony, and I’m at the end of my tether and I want you to get your arse into that room and check it out, or get someone who will. Understand me?’ His voice was shrill, and his tone was murderous, and he regretted the whole speech the moment it was out of his mouth.