Abraham laughed. ‘She’s a little over our heads, don’t you think?’ he asked.
Xeno beamed. He liked Phiale, and she didn’t make him uncomfortable the way the pornai and the flute girls did, an aspect of his friend that Satyrus understood perfectly.
Theo, on the other hand, pouted. ‘I want a flute girl to play my flute,’ he said. ‘Phiale drives them all away.’
Satyrus allowed a boy to take his sandals and his chlamys and he reclined, arranging his chiton as well as he could. He didn’t love Phiale – she was, after all, a hetaira – but he didn’t want to let her down. Or perhaps he really did seek to impress her. He sighed and arranged his chiton again.
He met Abraham’s raised eyebrow and laughed.
‘You Greeks,’ Abraham said. ‘She’s old enough to be your mother!’
‘I heard that, Samaritan!’ Phiale said. She was laughing, and she slapped Abraham on the shoulder and sat on the edge of his kline.
‘I’m no Samaritan-’ Abraham began, and then threw his head back and laughed. ‘You are the wonder of the city, madam! You even know how to tease a Jew!’
‘I can do more than tease a Jew,’ she said, leaning over him, somewhere between seduction and threat. ‘I can flirt with one!’
Abraham mimed panic and terror. ‘Ahh! Ahh!’ he cried, clearly delighted at the attention.
The other young men laughed. ‘Flirt with me!’ Theodorus pleaded.
‘No, no! You’re all bad boys. I’m with another party and I just came to visit the hero. You went three falls with Theron and came up in a draw? That must have been beautiful to watch, Satyrus?’
Just the way she used his name made him feel older, stronger and more handsome.
‘My party are all cursing that they missed the fight. One of them – a stranger – asked if you were by any chance from the north – from the Euxine? I said that I thought you were from Athens – dear me, Satyrus, I find myself shockingly under-informed about you,’ she said. She put a hand on the side of his face – a lovely touch, personal and intimate and warm. ‘And your uncle is home tonight,’ she asked.
‘We sacrificed for him,’ Theo said.
Satyrus winced a little at his friend’s adolescent self-importance. ‘We saw his ships from the temple, and we saw him standing with the helmsman on the Golden Lotus.’ It was the first time that Phiale had ever asked him a direct question, and her manner seemed – odd.
‘I will send him a basket of flowers with a note to Nihmu,’ Phiale said. Many wives would resent a basket of flowers from a hetaira, but Nihmu was different.
She stretched her long legs, flexing the toes, and then shot to her feet like an acrobat. ‘I really can’t stay.’
Satyrus was bold enough to place a hand lightly on her side – not possessively, not holding on, but not hesitant either. ‘Might you come back and sing for us?’
Phiale made an actor’s bow. ‘I might,’ she said, ‘if I don’t find a dozen flute girls already playing your instruments,’ and she winked at Theodorus, who blushed.
She walked off, drawing every eye in the garden, and was replaced by a pair of laughing wine attendants. ‘We’ll be invisible now,’ said the elder, a dark-haired Aegyptian with full breasts and a face that was nearly round. ‘Nobody wants to flirt with a wine girl after Phiale saunters by.’
‘Much less give us a tip,’ said the younger, a Cypriot who was as sylphlike as a Nereid. ‘How is a girl to buy her freedom?’ she asked rhetorically, sucking a fingertip. ‘Wine, anyone?’
The boys laughed, patted, drank wine and ogled as a troop of acrobats pirouetted, a pair of Africans did a war dance that impressed Satyrus, and a single olive-coloured girl danced alone with a spear in a way that caused all the young men to consider the green arbours at the back of the garden.
Theodorus winked at his companions. ‘I don’t want to offend Phiale’s delicate sensibility,’ he said, ‘so I’m going to oil my lamp-wick in private.’
Xeno blushed. Abraham laughed.
‘Was that good?’ Theo said, pausing. ‘Really? I got it off one of my father’s slaves.’
‘It’s not as dumb as some of the phrases I hear,’ Abraham said. ‘Go and find a sausage-eater!’
Theo nearly choked with laughter and hurried away.
A group of middle-aged men came in, stopped by Satyrus’s couch and paid their compliments. They were all men Satyrus knew – officers who served with Diodorus. Panion, a taxeis commander and a rising star, let his eyes wander over Satyrus’s body until the young man was uncomfortable.
‘Come and see the drill of the Foot Companions,’ Panion said. ‘I hear that Lord Ptolemy made much of you.’
Satyrus felt the heat rising on his face. Panion was the leader of the ‘Macedon’ faction – the men who felt that mere Greeks and Jews must be kept in their place. But he had never hidden his admiration for Satyrus.
Satyrus thanked all the men politely. As a younger man, he rose and attended them to their own couches before returning to his own, flushed with praise and the embarrassment of Panion’s obvious advances. Macedonians didn’t flirt – that was a flute-girl saying, but one with a great deal of truth to it.
Slaves appeared and dusted his kline, scraping away breadcrumbs and cheese.
‘I should go home,’ Satyrus said.
‘Not until I sing for you,’ Phiale said, appearing suddenly and dropping on his couch.
Satyrus immediately brightened. ‘I thought that you were – busy.’
‘Silly boy.’ She touched his face again. ‘You’re not really a boy, are you, Satyrus?’ Her hand stroked down his arm, her thumb following the line of his muscle, and his groin stirred.
‘Half and half,’ he admitted. Her eyes were as big as cups. Her lips had minute ridges and were so rich in colour that they were almost brown. Her nipples were the same – he could remember them.
Vividly.
‘May I sing something of my own?’ she asked.
The three young men all nodded.
She stood up and faced them, and then sang – no build-up with Phiale. Her arms spread as she sang, a simple, unaccompanied song of a girl whose love had gone off to Troy and who wanted to follow him or die.
When she was done, they were quiet a minute. The whole garden was quiet, and then all the circles of couches began to applaud, sometimes with men standing up by them.
‘You didn’t sing for us,’ a young man said. He didn’t sound angry, just bored. ‘Should I have paid more?’
Satyrus knew him. Everyone did. Gorgias was the youngest rich man with his own fortune in the city – the death of his father and uncle had left him a massive amount of wealth and no adult supervision. Philokles used him as an example of dissolution because he ran to fat and disdained philosophy. His friends were always older men who he used and was used by.
He had a soldier with him, a bigger man with a red line all down one side of his body from his jaw to his right knee, and another man that Satyrus couldn’t quite see though the crowd, a shorter man of perhaps forty years.
‘I might have paid for more than a song,’ said a barbarian voice, with an Athenian accent. The big man gave Phiale a wry smile. ‘I don’t pinch every obol, either.’ He laughed. ‘When a man is as old as I am, he prizes a song. And a singer.’
Satyrus couldn’t really see past Phiale’s hips from his couch, but he could see by the set of her back that she was unhappy.
‘In Alexandria,’ Phiale said, ‘we don’t discuss the prices a hetaira might charge. If you have to discuss them, you can’t afford her.’ She gave the men a hard smile. ‘But I owed my friend a song for his exploits, and I always pay my debts. Being, as you must understand, a free woman and capable of choosing my clients.’ She laughed lightly, but Satyrus thought that she was nervous. He’d never seen her like this. She also clapped her hands – a girl’s signal that she needed the house to intervene.
The big foreigner frowned, obviously offended. ‘All prostitutes like to be called hetairai,’ he said. ‘But the only difference is the price.’ He said the last in a tone of contempt, a man who was used to getting his way and didn’t like being mocked in public by a mere woman. ‘They both look the same when their lips are around my dick,’ he said, and several men nearby laughed.