Stratokles stifled the wave of resentment that threatened to escape his throat and take voice. The political daimon that ruled his thoughts – the spirit of expediency, he called his daimon – told him that Herons come and go.
The things I do for Athens, Stratokles thought. ‘Introduce me to your navarch,’ he said.
5
T he factor’s steward said that Leon was not there, and his factor, when summoned at Philokles’ insistence, was none too pleased to speak with them. He was a middle-aged Heraklean merchant named Kinon, and he viewed the four mounted travellers outside his palatial house with distress and suspicion. Kinon was as wide as he was tall, and not all with fat. He wore a fortune in jewellery on his person, with a jewelled girdle and gilt sandals. Two armed slaves stood behind him, and the heavily studded gate was only opened wide enough for the three of them to stand abreast.
Kinon spoke brusquely. ‘I do not expect Leon for some weeks. Indeed, I do not know if Heraklea is on his summer sailing itinerary at all. Good day to you.’
Philokles slipped down from his horse and stood in the gateway so that it was difficult to close the gate politely. ‘We’ll accept your hospitality anyway,’ he said.
‘I haven’t offered my hospitality,’ Kinon said.
‘Leon is my guest-friend. I need the shelter of a roof, as do these children and their trainer. Are you turning me away?’ Philokles seemed bigger and far more noble than usual.
Kinon looked at them. ‘What proof do you bring that you are the guest-friend of my employer? Get you gone before I send for the tyrant’s guard.’
Philokles shrugged. ‘I helped free your master from slavery,’ he said. ‘He was the slave to Nicomedes of Olbia. Kineas of Athens and I-’
‘Kineas? You are that Philokles, the Spartan?’ Kinon took a step forward, slapping his head. Satyrus, watching, couldn’t decide whether it was a theatrical gesture or a real one, or perhaps both together.
‘I am Philokles, of Olbia and Tanais. These children are the children of Kineas, and a curse on you for making me say that on a public street.’ Philokles didn’t seem so drunk.
‘Keep your curses for those who mean you harm,’ Kinon said, but he turned red. ‘A thousand apologies. Come in. What are such noble guests doing here with so little ceremony? Now I know that Leon would require me to show every courtesy. Could you not just have said, or sent a note?’
The armed slaves helped bring the horses into the house’s business yard. The house steward was already raising his hands to heaven.
‘Where shall I stable so many horses?’ he asked the gods. And Melitta didn’t like how his eyes lingered on her.
Kinon dismissed his worries with a wave of the hand. ‘Guests are from the gods,’ he said. ‘So are their beasts.’
‘I could not send a note because I did not wish it to be known that we were here,’ Philokles said. ‘My charges are in a dangerous position. Tell me the news. What is the tyrant’s relationship with Pantecapaeum?’
‘Eumeles, who used to be called Heron?’ Kinon was pleased to be master of the situation, and pleased, now that he had guests, to show off his possessions. Two more slaves came out of the slave quarters at the back of the business yard. They took over the animals while a young girl brought wine mixed with mineral water, fizzing on the tongue. It made Satyrus think of the bath at the temple of Herakles.
‘He’s the one,’ Philokles said. He tasted his wine and bowed, indicating his pleasure. Troops of slaves, it seemed, emerged from their quarters to take the baggage off the horses and march it into the house.
The steward reappeared. ‘I have prepared rooms for them, master,’ he said.
Kinon nodded, his lips pursed, until another girl appeared from the arch that led to the garden-courtyard, this one beautiful like a young Aphrodite, with wide eyes above a narrow, arched nose and lips that seemed too lush to be real. Satyrus looked at her, and her fleeting glance – slaves rarely raised their eyes – caught his in a flash of green. She smiled a little. She had a garland in her hair and five more in her arms. With her eyes down, she gave Satyrus a garland. ‘My master welcomes you,’ she said, and her eyes touched his again.
Satyrus blushed and took the garland. He could see every contour of her body under her simple linen chiton. All women, and all men, were naked under their garments, and almost no one except the sick wore undergarments, but this seemed to be the first time that Satyrus had ever noticed such a thing. He dropped his eyes and missed her flash of a smile.
Theron didn’t. He took his wreath and grinned. ‘That, sir, is a beautiful girl.’
Kinon patted her shoulder with unfeigned fondness. ‘Beautiful and modest. I bought her for a brothel, but I don’t think I’ll ever sell her.’ He gazed on her with a connoisseur’s appreciation. ‘There is more to life than profit.’
‘Your sentiment does you great credit,’ Theron said. ‘What is your name, girl?’
‘I am called Kallista,’ she breathed.
‘What could be more natural for her?’ Kinon said. ‘Now your Eumeles – you must know – our Dionysius hates him, as does his brother. It is very – personal. Yes?’
Philokles drank the rest of his cup of wine and handed it to a slave. ‘That is the best news that I have heard today, Master Kinon.’
‘There is no “Master” here,’ Kinon said with courtesy. ‘This is your house. May I engage you as guest-friends of my own account? The children of Kineas and Srayanka?’
Melitta’s eyes flickered at her brother – do it! – and he stepped forward. He imitated Philokles’ gesture, handing his wine cup to the air and assuming that a slave would appear to take it. It worked.
‘I am Satyrus, son of Kineas of the Corvaxae of Athens and Olbia. Herakles fathered my ancestors on the Nereid who dwelt on the slopes of Gagamia in Euboea. Arimnestos of the Corvaxae led the Plataeans at Marathon and won undying honour there. Kallikrates Eusebios Corvaxae led the exiles from Plataea. He and his son gave their lives for Athens.’ He reached out and took both of Kinon’s hands. ‘I ask your guest-friendship, Kinon of Heraklea, and I gift you with mine, and my children’s.’
Kinon clasped his hands. The merchant’s hands were soft and a little moist, but his grip was firm. ‘So might the heroes themselves have spoken. Indeed, for a youth, you sound more like a man of Gold than a man of Iron. I am honoured with your guest-friendship, Satyrus Eusebios of the Corvaxae.’ He took a wine krater and snapped his fingers, and one of the slaves who had been carrying a sword appeared with an offering bowl. Kinon poured a libation. ‘I swear to Hera, to Demeter who loves all guests, and to your ancestor Herakles that I will be your faithful host and guest.’
Satyrus pinched the libation bowl between his thumb and forefinger. ‘Grey-eyed Lady of Wisdom, and the strong-armed smith who works bronze and iron, keep this man and be my surety that I will be a faithful guest and friend.’
‘I feel as if I have Peleus’s son, Achilles, as a guest,’ Kinon said. ‘From an irritation, this has become a pleasure. Please follow me to a more comfortable situation.’ He led the way through the main arch, and they went from the businesslike courtyard with shed and slave quarters to a garden with roses and three colonnades. There was a fountain in the centre, and couches had been arranged on a clear space of gravel amidst the rose bushes. They were not quite in bloom, but the buds were formed.
‘You are in luck,’ Kinon said, as they looked at his garden. ‘The roses will bloom tomorrow or the next day. How long will you stay?’
Having sworn the guest oath, Satyrus was now the centre of their host’s attention. He looked at Philokles, who made a small sign with his hands.
‘Just long enough to see the roses,’ Satyrus said with a smile.
Kinon smiled back, a little too warmly, and Satyrus wondered if he had sent the wrong message to the man.
‘I think we could all do with a bath,’ Philokles said.
‘Goddess!’ Kinon was genuinely shocked. ‘I’ve been remiss. Did you
ride all the way here?’
Theron spoke up. ‘We came on a merchantman from up the coast,’ he said.
Kinon exchanged a glance with his steward, and Satyrus wondered what it meant. ‘Is that Draco Short-Legs? From Sinope?’
Philokles nodded. ‘The very one. May I bore you with another question? I crave news.’
‘Speak to me, sir. May I call you Philokles?’
‘You may. If all your wine is as good as what you just served us, we’ll be great friends. Have you heard of our friend Diodorus?’
‘The captain of mercenaries? Who on the Euxine does not know the man? Indeed, I just sent him fifty new Boeotian helmets made to his order in our shops.’ Kinon nodded. ‘He’s more than just a soldier. He’s a good man of business. And his wife is a delight.’
Philokles laughed for the first time in days. ‘Sappho?’ He shook his head. ‘She is superb.’
Diodorus had defied convention and married a hetaira. The situation was more complicated than that – Sappho had started her life as a respectable woman of Thebes, and only when the city was sacked had she been sold into harlotry. Diodorus loved her, and made her his wife. In fact, he’d gone farther, taking her into society with the same boldness with which he led a cavalry charge. And Sappho herself was intelligent, direct and plain-spoken in a way that most women were not. Younger, she had been a beauty. Now she was a mother of two daughters and she could still turn heads at a symposium.
‘I think we’ll be good friends,’ Philokles said. ‘If only we might have a bath.’
An hour later, they were back in the rose garden. Satyrus was as clean as he’d been since the Temple of Herakles, and Melitta wore an Ionic chiton, long and flowing and pinned with a set of mother-of-pearl brooches cut like Nereids.
Kinon eyed her critically. ‘I purchased it for Kallista,’ he said. ‘But when I heard your brother speak of your ancestry, I though that you had to wear it.’
Melitta looked at him gravely. ‘Has anyone ever told you that you are very like Odysseus for wisdom?’ she said.
Kinon laughed. ‘Ah, flattery. How I love it. That was well said, mistress. ’ He waved at the couches. ‘Will you recline, mistress?’
Melitta shook her head. ‘A chair, I fear, host. I lack the experience to control my garments at a feast, and I would not stain Kallista’s dress for anything.’ She smiled at the slave girl.
‘Yours, now, mistress,’ Kinon said. ‘I would not lend a guest a garment. ’
Melitta blushed. The linen and the pins were worth more than everything she currently owned. ‘Thanks,’ she stammered.
Kinon arranged her chair himself and pulled Kallista by the hand. ‘Will you wait on the young mistress, my beauty?’ he asked, as if she were a member of the family. Raising his eyes to his guests, he said, ‘I do not treat her as a slave in the privacy of my garden.’
Theron shrugged. ‘I could rest my eyes on her for ever,’ he said.
Satyrus would have liked to have said that. He settled for a nod.
Philokles laughed. ‘This is the effect of Leon!’ he said, a little too loudly. He had been drinking for an hour.
Kinon settled on to the couch opposite the Spartan. ‘You understand? ’
Philokles smiled. ‘I am a Spartan bastard,’ he said. ‘I understand all too well.’
Theron took wine from a slave and leaned on his elbow. ‘I would like to understand,’ he said.
Kinon nodded. ‘Leon began as a free man and was made a slave. When he became free, he determined to free more men. And women. We call them our “families”.’ He grinned self-consciously. ‘I am not likely to have any other kind of family,’ he said. ‘I was a slave.’
‘Theban?’ Philokles asked.
‘Ahh. The Boeotian accent.’
Philokles nodded. ‘And your respect for Sappho.’
‘Yes, I knew her – before.’ Kinon shrugged. ‘Slavery is neither the beginning nor the end of life. But Leon made me free, and put me in a position to become as rich as I am.’ He shrugged. ‘I will give the same gift to Kallista, when she is old enough to find a husband and not a brothel.’
Philokles spilled a libation on the gravel. ‘To freedom!’ he said, and slipped the krater on to the back of his hand. He drank the bowl dry and flipped the leavings across the garden with a practised flick of the wrist, so that the drops of wine rang as they struck the bronze slops urn.
‘To freedom,’ echoed all the other diners. More drops of wine crossed the roses, but no one else hit the urn.
‘You’re good,’ Kinon said.
‘I spend a lot of time practising,’ Philokles said, his voice light.
Melitta leaned across her brother and whispered in his ear. ‘Kinon is flirting with Philokles,’ she said.
‘Hush,’ Satyrus said, shocked. He saw the slight smile on Kallista’s face, and he blushed – and she blushed. Their eyes were locked, and he had to make himself look away.
His sister glanced back and forth between her brother and the slave girl. She shook her head. ‘Brother,’ she hissed.
He hung his head. Their mother had strict rules about servant girls – and boys.
Theron and Philokles talked with Kinon long into the night. At some point, between wine and shared anecdotes, Philokles stopped hiding their situation, and Kinon expressed immediate sympathy. They began to map out how the twins could travel, either to Athens, where Satyrus owned property that was untouchable by Eumeles of Pantecapaeum, or to Diodorus, who was, it appeared, in the field with the army of Eumenes the Cardian.
Philokles was sober enough when it came to politics, but Theron, who had drunk less, finally shook his head.
‘I think I need to hear all that again,’ he said, pleasantly enough.
Kinon looked at Theron as if he was a fool. Satyrus sat forward. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘I, too, would like to understand.’
‘It’s all been the same since the Conqueror died,’ Kinon said bitterly. ‘Alexander conquered, well, damn near everything!’ He took a drink, tried to hit the bronze urn with his dregs and failed. Theron took the bowl.
Kinon shrugged at his own failure. ‘When Alexander died, he left chaos. In Macedon, Antipater was regent – for Alexander, yes? And throughout the old Persian empire – Darius’s empire – Alexander had left satraps. Petty kings who ruled over wide areas. Some were the old Persian satraps. Some were Greeks, or Macedonians. The system depended on a strong hand on the reins, and Alexander’s hand was very strong.’
Theron took the bowl and drank the whole of it, rolled it on his wrist and his flick caught Kallista on the top of her hair. She leaped from her couch and tossed water back at him, and they all laughed. It took time to settle down again. Satyrus couldn’t help but notice how transparent her linen was when wet.
‘Shall I go on?’ Kinon asked.
‘Please,’ Satyrus said. It was his turn with the bowl. He sipped carefully.
‘So the army met in council – all the spearmen, and all the cavalry, and all the officers – and none of the Persians or auxiliaries. Trust me, that will make trouble in time. At any rate, Alexander left no heir – no one who could run his empire. He has two children – one by Roxane, and another by-blow by a Persian noblewoman – some say she’s a common harlot, others that she is a princess.’ Kinon looked around, because Philokles was smiling. ‘You know her?’
‘Nothing common about her,’ Philokles said with a smile. ‘She’s – remarkable.’
‘At any rate, the army vote to hand the empire to Alexander’s brother, the halfwit. But he can’t rule himself, much less the world. And there are rumours – still – that Antipater was about to revolt anyway, that Eumenes and Seleucus were about to divide up the world – anyway, there are ten thousand rumours. The fact is, Alexander died and there was no one in charge. So all of his generals decided to fight over the empire. Perdikkas had the army – he had been Alexander’s top soldier at the moment of the conqueror’s death. But Antipater had the Macedonian army, the a
rmy that had been kept home.’ ‘The army that defeated the Spartans,’ Philokles said. ‘Only needed odds of five to one. Useless fucks.’
Satyrus was done drinking. He’d been careful, and consumed the whole cup without spilling a drop. He laid the cup along his arm as Philokles did, and he snapped it forward – and the handle broke. The cup smashed on the marble floor. His sister gave him the look reserved for siblings who behave like idiots, and Kallista burst out laughing.
Slaves hurried to clean up the mess.
Philokles roared. ‘Good shot, boy! Only, next time, hold the rim, not the handle.’
Kinon laughed like a good host. ‘Another cup, Pais!’ he called to the slave nearest the door.
‘Bring a metal one,’ Theron added.
Satyrus squirmed. Melitta decided to rescue him. ‘So Antipater had an army, and Perdikkas had an army.’
Kinon nodded. ‘A sober young lady. Antipater had Macedon, and Perdikkas had the rest – so it appeared. But one of Alexander’s generals-’
‘The best of them,’ Philokles put in.
‘I must agree,’ Kinon said with a civil inclination of his head. A new cup appeared and was handed to Philokles. ‘Ptolemy had taken Aegypt as his satrapy. He had a large Macedonian garrison and he began to recruit mercenaries.’›
‘Like Uncle Diodorus!’ Satyrus said.
‘Just like.’ Philokles nodded and sipped wine.
‘So Perdikkas decided to defeat Ptolemy first and take Aegypt to provide money and grain for his army. Which had been Alexander’s army.’ Kinon looked at Satyrus. ‘Still with me?’
‘Of course,’ Satyrus said. ‘And Perdikkas failed, got beaten and was murdered by his officers.’
‘No one ever called Macedonians civilized,’ Philokles said.
‘Now Antigonus has the army that used to belong to Perdikkas – except for the part that Eumenes the Cardian has. Antigonus means to unseat Ptolemy. Ptolemy! The least harmful of the lot! And a good friend to Heraklea!’
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