Satyrus swung his legs over the far side of his couch and stood up. In the same motion he reclaimed his sword from the peg where it hung from its cord. Now he could see the shorter man. He had only seen him two or three times, but he knew him in a glance. The Athenian. Stratokles.
‘This isn’t your fight, boy,’ the big foreigner said. He put a hand on Satyrus’s chest. ‘Just an uppity girl who needs-’
‘Watch it!’ Stratokles called. His attention had been divided between Xenophon and Phiale, and he hadn’t seen Satyrus past Phiale’s hips. He saw him now.
Satyrus put one hand on the mercenary’s shoulder, gently, as if ready to remonstrate, One of Theron’s lessons about fighting was that when your life was on the line, there were no rules, no manners and no requirement for announcing your intentions, and Satyrus’s adventures at the age of twelve had convinced him of the truth of the Corinthian’s assertions. So he didn’t posture or shout or work himself up like a young man. He reversed his hold and turned the scarred man under him, rotating his arm in the socket and making him scream with pain.
Even as he struck, body running on trained responses from the palaestra, Satyrus’s mind ran on like a philosopher’s automaton. Stratokles, he thought. What in Hades is he doing in Alexandria? Satyrus’s head was flooded by the daimon of combat, and he had to concentrate on the strength of the foreigner. He went down clutching Satyrus’s arm and growling, and Satyrus reckoned him tough enough that he paused to spend a full-weight kick to his head. That took him out of the fight. Then Satyrus drew his sword.
Stratokles was, for once in his life, caught unprepared. He leaped back, trying to get his chlamys off his shoulder and into his hand and producing a sword from under his arm. ‘Grown up quite a bit, haven’t you?’ he said. And then, ‘I didn’t recognize you. You planning to kill me in cold blood?’ he asked, backing away.
Satyrus stepped across the fallen soldier, undeterred. ‘Call the watch!’ he shouted at the patrons. ‘He’s a murderer!’ In the distance, Thrassylus was approaching with two big slaves, but he would be too late to save Stratokles. He started into a simple combination, a feint to the head, and suddenly Phiale caught at his arm. ‘Satyrus, stop!’ she said.
The Athenian used the pause as his opponent was pinned by the hetaira to cut at Satyrus’s legs. Satyrus, with nowhere to retreat, managed a clumsy parry that allowed the Athenian’s sword to clip his shin – and Phiale’s. She screamed and went down, her hands on her leg.
Clear of Phiale’s obstruction, Satyrus leaped to attack the Athenian. Their swords rang together – edge to edge – and sparks flew. Satyrus was stronger – but not faster. He almost lost fingers on the next exchange – only a clumsy, desperate parry with his cloak saved his hand.
Sword fighting without armour was merely pankration with a blade. It was something on which Satyrus prided himself. He growled and stepped forward. Stratokles changed his guard, raising his sword hand slightly, and Satyrus pounced, wrapping his cloak-clad hand around the Athenian’s sword in a carefully timed grab.
The Athenian stepped in and grabbed his sword.
Satyrus headbutted the other man, catching him under the chin and rocking him back.
At the same time, Stratokles swung back with his blow, minimizing it, and punched with his cloaked hand up between them, catching Satyrus’s shoulder and knocking him back. The Athenian fell.
Satyrus planted his feet on either side of the downed man and cut at Stratokles’ head, but despite the blow to his head, the Athenian wasn’t done yet. Their blades rang together, and Satyrus grabbed his opponent’s sword hand at the pommel – a dangerous move that Theron had made him practise a thousand times. He ripped the blade from the Athenian’s hand just at Stratokles landed a heavy left, this time to the side of his ankle, which made him stumble back. Stratokles gasped for air, grabbing at a couch and getting to his feet. Then Satyrus stepped in to finish him.
‘By Apollo! He’s unarmed!’ Abraham caught at his left hand.
Stratokles raised his hands. ‘Ho, young Herakles!’ he croaked, and stepped back again. ‘If you cut me down unarmed, even your bloody uncle can’t save you.’
The man’s grin was so offensive that Satyrus ripped himself free of Abraham’s restraint and punched the pommel of his sword into the man’s forehead, laying him flat in one blow, choking on the tiled floor.
Phiale’s cry – ‘He’s the Athenian ambassador!’ – stopped the descent of his back cut into the man’s neck.
Gorgias stood aside, and then slowly subsided on to a kline. ‘Oh, Zeus!’ he said. ‘All my guests are dead!’
‘Let’s get you out of here,’ Abraham said. ‘That was – ill-considered, my friend.’ He shrugged. ‘But spectacular to watch.’
As the soldier shook and mewled on the floor, Satyrus looked at Phiale, trying to discern if this had been – what had it been? An assassination attempt? They happened every day, in Alexandria.
She had tried to pin his arms.
‘He tried to kill me and my sister when we were children,’ Satyrus said. It sounded pretty weak, with two men bleeding on the tiles.
‘He’s the ambassador of Athens!’ Phiale said again. ‘He brought the king a message from Cassander! They are allies! Are you insane?’
Abraham had his arm. ‘Argue later,’ he said.
Xenophon already had their cloaks at the door. Fights were not uncommon at Cimon’s, but the two rich foreigners lying prostrate on the marble floor were attracting a great deal of attention.
Satyrus looked back again at Phiale, who was looking at the men on the floor and who then lifted her eyes.
What did he see there? Confusion? Or complicity?
‘Argue later,’ Abraham said again. ‘Come.’
The garden was starting to return to life – noisy, shouting life – as they hurried down the steps.
‘Let’s run,’ Abraham urged.
‘What are we running from?’ Satyrus asked. He was already moving at an easy lope.
‘I don’t know,’ Abraham said.
Satyrus ran in through the business gate, past the sailors and into the courtyard.
Uncle Leon was by the fountain, issuing unpacking orders to a phalanx of slaves and servants and retainers and some sailors who had carried his most precious cargoes up from the warehouses.
Theron had an armful of Serican silk hangings and looked as if he was afraid to move.
‘I just half-killed the new Athenian ambassador,’ Satyrus said. ‘Welcome home, Uncle Leon!’
Leon wasn’t tall, but he had piercing eyes of dark brown and his brown skin was perfectly tanned to an even leather colour. He looked like a dark-skinned god – a mature Apollo.
Abraham, coming in behind him, bowed his head respectfully to one of the city’s richest men, and Xeno looked sheepish.
‘I heard you were sacrificing for my return,’ Leon said. He took Satyrus in a hug. ‘We don’t usually sacrifice ambassadors.’ Then he caught sight of the other young men. ‘Is this serious?’ he said. ‘Every time I come home, you have something stupendous to announce, don’t you?’
‘It’s Stratokles!’ Satyrus panted. ‘Remember him? From Heraklea?’
‘Oh!’ Leon said.
‘Fuck,’ Theron said. He was still holding the silk. ‘Did you kill him?’
‘Kill who?’ Philokles asked. He pushed his way past the crowd of young men at the entrance to the garden courtyard, and Melitta came with him, ignoring Xeno’s sudden blushes of confusion as she rubbed against his back.
Satyrus filed that little scene away for further consideration.
‘The new Athenian ambassador to the court of Ptolemy is your former nemesis, Stratokles,’ Leon said, having taken in the whole sweep of the problem with his usual acuity. ‘Why didn’t anyone tell me?’ he asked, looking at his factor, Pasion.