Tyrant: King of the Bosporus (34 page)

H
erakles stood naked except for his lion skin, towering over Satyrus’s supine form. At a distance, Satyrus regretted his own death, and his spirit hung over the room, watching the hero-god standing beside his body.

Thanatos entered from the floor, striding into the room as if climbing invisible steps from Hades below.

‘Mine,’ he said.

‘No,’ Herakles said.

‘Mine!’ Death hissed, and his voice was the voice of every creature of the underworld, and the stench of death and the flat smell of old earth accompanied him. His garments were of rotted linen, and his crown was gold so long buried as to have a patina.

Herakles stood between Death and the bed. ‘No,’ he said, and crossed his mighty arms.

‘Ten times over!’ Death hissed. ‘Am I some demi-mortal, to be treated so?’

‘Begone,’ Herakles said.

Thanatos was no coward. ‘Bah,’ he spat, and sand dribbled from his mouth. ‘Let me see how much of you remains mortal, little godling.’

Herakles shrugged. ‘I have tried your strength, Uncle.’

Thanatos struck suddenly, with a sword shaped like a sickle, the kepesh of Aegypt. Herakles caught the wrist of the hand that held the sword and lifted the god and his sword clear of the floor and walked out of the room, on to the balcony over the sea.

‘Cool your head in the kingdom of your brother, Poseidon,’ Herakles said.

‘I took your father in his moment of triumph, boy! And I’ll do the same to you!’ Thanatos said, and his dreadful eyes crossed with Satyrus’s and he knew that was meant for him.

And then Herakles turned and threw the god of death over the balcony.

There was no splash.

And in the way of dreams, Herakles led him along the river many parasangs, until they came to a temple, and Herakles led him to the altar – but it was no altar, and an old man, supported by two brawny apprentices, was forging iron on an anvil, and the scene was lit in the red of the forge, and as Satyrus watched, the bent blade was quenched, and Satyrus smiled in his dream, and then he was being pulled by the hand through the tangled ways of the night market, passing whores and rag-pickers and basket-weavers, passing a baker who did his business at night for the greater profit, and a man who sold stolen goods, and a woman who claimed her mother was Moira, goddess of fate, and that she could see the future. Herakles walked past them all, and none of them saw him, except the daughter of Moira, who raised her eyes from a fraudulent fortune and drew her stole over her head in terror.

They entered a tavern, and men moved out of the way of the god of heroes without knowing that they did so, stepping aside at a movement in the corner of the eye, and Satyrus moved in his wake. He could smell the sour wine, and smell also the tang of the poppy juice that the innkeeper kept in a glass bottle – real temple glass, worth its weight in gold. He almost lost the god in his sudden flood of desire to possess that wretched stuff, to change this dream of sordid reality for the colours that spoke like gods.

He balanced between two steps, one of which would lead him, invisible and wraithlike, to the bottle, the other of which would follow his god. And then he followed Herakles through a curtain of soiled leather, and then through a wall of dry stone chinked with mud, to a filthy room that might once have been whitewashed and now stank of old wine and rotten food.

He knew the man at the table instantly. It was Sophokles, the Athenian doctor-assassin, and he had four men crouching on the dirt floor and a fifth person, a woman, standing by the door, her arms crossed over her breasts. They all turned their heads as the god stepped among them, and Sophokles stood suddenly, took a breath and looked around him.

‘Something – has come,’ he said. ‘Damn Aegypt and her walking spirits!’

Herakles didn’t speak, but pointed mutely at the woman by the door.

Satyrus knew her, and he . . .

Awoke. He was covered in sweat, and weak – so weak that he couldn’t raise his arm to wipe the sweat from his face.

Nearchus sat by him. ‘You are awake?’ he asked.

Satyrus willed his arm to move, and it was as if his paralysis lifted even as he forced that first movement – and a sharp pain shot through his arm, a cramp like the ones that a poorly massaged athlete can get after pushing himself too hard. An experience that Satyrus had had many times.

Another cramp hit him and he rolled on his side and retched. Nearchus held a basin for him, but nothing came out but a thin stream of bile.

When the cramps released their hold of his muscles he relaxed and a slave wiped his chin with a cloth. He breathed in, then let the breath out, testing his gag reflex.

‘Was I dead?’ he asked.

Nearchus shook his head. ‘Not at all. You did quite well, young man. Although, to be honest, the habit was scarcely ingrained – a mere matter of weeks. My brother, for instance . . .’ Nearchus shook his head.

‘Where is Phiale?’ Satyrus asked.

‘She visits often, I believe,’ Nearchus said. ‘Young master, I cannot imagine that you fancy her services in your current state.’

‘On . . . contrary, doctor. Song . . . Phiale . . .’ He took a breath and managed to speak clearly. ‘Will do as much to restore my health as—’ A cramp hit his stomach, and he rolled into a ball. When he could breathe, he continued, ‘. . . all your ministrations.’ He gave a ghost of a smile. ‘I . . . do not mean it. You – how can I bless you enough?’

Nearchus rolled his shoulders. ‘I am a family retainer. I do my duty. I must allow that I have always enjoyed serving Master Leon.’

The next two days saw Satyrus recover and retch by turns, his muscles refusing their duty in the middle of the simplest actions. He spent the daylight hours lying in the pale winter sun on his balcony. Sometimes he imagined that he could see the incorporeal image of his god standing over him, and other times he shook his head at the curious effects of his illness on his mind. Nearchus had found him a boy-slave, Helios, a native of Amphipolis enslaved when his parents took him on a sea voyage, and the boy waited on him with a solicitousness seldom found in a slave.

Satyrus sat in the sun, a scroll of Herodotus in his hands. He
couldn’t get through the words, even the words that dealt with the stand of the Hellenes at Plataea, the climax of Herodotus’s great work.

‘How long have you been a slave?’ Satyrus asked.

The boy considered. ‘Four years,’ he said. ‘I was taken in the spring of the year that Cassander killed the queen.’

Satyrus smiled, because even in his current state, he knew that the boy meant Olympias, the witch-queen of Macedon. An enemy. One enemy fewer.

‘Were you – ill-used?’ he asked. ‘By the pirates?’ ‘Not by the pirates,’ Helios said in a matter-of-fact voice. ‘But they killed my parents.’

Satyrus nodded. ‘Do you know the name of the pirate who took you?’ Satyrus asked.

‘Oh, yes,’ the boy said. ‘We were taken by Demostrate. His crew killed my parents because they fought. He apologized to me.’ The boy gave a steady smile.

Nearchus and Sappho were sending him a message. His brain took this in through the fog of pain and wretchedness – this boy was their vote of disapproval of his alliance with the pirate king.

‘Would you care to come to sea with me, boy?’ he asked.

Helios beamed like his namesake, the sun, and his Thracian-blond hair glowed in the sun. ‘Oh, yes!’ he said.

Satyrus lay back, exhausted by the exchange. ‘If I take you to sea, and teach you to fight, will you serve me for four years?’

Helios shrugged. ‘I’m a slave,’ he said. But then he smiled. ‘I’d love to go to sea,’ he said.

Satyrus realized that he’d left the important part of the offer unsaid. He tried to formulate it in his mind, but it was slipping away. ‘Never mind,’ he said, and fell asleep.

The next time he was awake, Nearchus sat by his bed and fed him soup – wonderful goat stew, with spices and dumplings.

Then he threw it all up.

Helios cleaned him.

Then he threw up again.

Helios cleaned him again, patiently getting every fleck of his disgusting vomit out of his long hair, his eyelashes, his pubic hair.

Satyrus drank water and went to sleep.

Later he awoke and it was dark. He moved on his couch, and he
heard an answering movement and felt the boy’s body move against him. ‘I’m sorry,’ Helios said. ‘You were shivering.’

Satyrus stretched – and was not hit by a muscle spasm. ‘Helios,’ he whispered, ‘do you think we could try a little soup?’

Lamps were lit all over the house before ten minutes had elapsed on the water clock. Nearchus came in, wearing a Persian robe. He put a hand on Satyrus’s forehead, and then on his stomach. ‘By Hermes and all the gods,’ he said.

Helios came in from the kitchen with a bowl of soup. He sat on the bed and spooned it into his master.

Satyrus ate sparingly, although he wanted to drink the bowl and call for another, and he lay back on the bed consumed with hunger.

Half an hour passed, and the food was still in his stomach. Nearchus shrugged. ‘I was off by a day,’ he said. ‘You’ll recover quickly now.’

Helios brought a brazier and lit it to heat a copper pot with stew brought from the kitchen. Every half-hour he gave his master another twenty spoons of soup.

‘Free you,’ Satyrus said. ‘If I – free you? And take you to sea? Four years? Need a servant,’ he said.

Helios grinned. ‘Of course,’ he said. And more quietly, ‘I knew what you meant,’ he said. ‘I just had to hear you say it.’ He burst into tears. ‘People make promises,’ he said.

Satyrus found himself patting the boy’s head.
I hated it when Philokles did this to me,
he thought.

Helios looked up. ‘A man came – an Aegyptian man in the robes of a priest. He brought you a bundle.’

‘Go and fetch it for me,’ Satyrus said.

In moments it was unrolled, to reveal his father’s sword – perhaps just a touch shorter, Satyrus thought, but it was superb, and the metal was now a bright blue, almost purple at the point, so that the blade glittered with icy malevolence.

‘Run me an errand?’ Satyrus said to Helios. ‘Go to Sappho and get a mina of gold. Take Hama and two soldiers as an escort, and go to the Temple of Poseidon. Deliver the gold to Namastis, the priest. If he wants you to come, escort him wherever he leads you.’

Helios was staring at the sword. ‘One day, I want a sword like that,’ he said.

‘One day, I’ll get you one,’ Satyrus allowed. ‘Now run along.’

The next day, Nearchus sat on an iron stool in his room, grinding powders at his window. ‘I use this room to make drugs when you are away,’ he said. ‘I hope you don’t mind. You have the best light.’

Satyrus grinned. ‘I’m not really in a position to resent anything you do, doctor.’

Nearchus nodded and kept grinding. ‘So I assumed. Do you still want Phiale?’

Satyrus’s grin fled. ‘Yes,’ he said grimly. ‘Has anyone ever been convicted on the evidence of a dream, do you think?’ he asked.

Nearchus shrugged. ‘I would assume it happens,’ he said. ‘Dreams have power.’

Satyrus’s eyes grew hard. ‘I wish to investigate the course of a dream,’ he said. ‘Does Phiale still keep the same maidservant at her house?’

Nearchus looked up from his pestle and mortar. ‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Same woman she had when I was – that is, when I was a client?’ Satyrus asked.

Nearchus was back at his work. ‘I wasn’t in this household then,’ he said. ‘A small woman, dark hair, would be pretty if she did not look so hard?’

‘Fair enough description of Alcaea,’ Satyrus said. ‘She’s got a tattoo on her left wrist.’

Nearchus shrugged while working. ‘I’ve never examined her wrists.’

Satyrus waved to Helios, who was sitting against the wall. ‘Can you read and write, boy?’ he asked.

Helios nodded. ‘Well enough,’ he said. ‘Greek and a little of the temple script, as well.’

‘Really?’ Satyrus asked. ‘How nice. You are full of surprises. I need you to run me an errand.’

Helios nodded. He stood.

‘Go and find Alcaea. She works for the hetaira Phiale. See if you can get to know her a little. Then see if you can find out where she was, hmm, perhaps two nights ago.’

Nearchus raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s a tall order for a slave.’

Satyrus lay back. ‘I’ve promised him his freedom,’ he said. ‘Let him earn it.’

He ate more soup, and Nearchus changed him – yet another
humili ating small service the man performed for him. Satyrus thought that he himself would make a poor doctor. He hated touching people, hated the foulness of his own excrement, the bile from his stomach, the thousand details of illness. ‘How do you stand it?’ Satyrus asked, when he was clean.

‘Hmm?’ Nearchus asked. ‘I’m sorry, what did you say?’ He was looking out of the window.