Tyrant: Force of Kings

by Christian Cameron

  ‘Better,’ Satyrus said.

  ‘Good for you, sweetie. I have some bread and honey for you, and some dates. What the doctor said to try.’ She came in, and she was naked. Satyrus smiled.

  ‘I will certainly try to make you both rich,’ he said. He had to get their loyalty, right away – before they sold him to someone else. Demetrios.

  Aella grinned. ‘Do you know how many men have promised to make me rich, honey?’ she said. ‘But the only purse they want to deposit in never seems to hold any cash. Eh?’ she laughed.

  Alex rolled his eyes.

  ‘I need to go to bed,’ Aella said. ‘Alex will go and find your friend Polycrates tomorrow, won’t you, Alex?’

  ‘Day off, after a party,’ Alex said. He shrugged. ‘A bad party.’

  ‘Oh, honey,’ Aella said – the first actual empathy she’d shown, Satyrus thought.

  Alex shrugged. ‘I was well oiled – Sappho took care of me. But none of them wanted her and all of them wanted me, and some of them were bastards.’ He shrugged. ‘Let’s get to bed.’

  They left the narrow room. Satyrus, who would have ignored them, scarcely even seen them as human under other circumstances, missed them instantly. He was bored and lonely, and afraid. He lay and thought about these things. Eventually, instead of passing out, he fell asleep, craving opium.

  He awoke to a quiet brothel. From the angle of the sun, he knew it was morning – late morning, and the beds were quiet. He lay and listened, and all he heard was some distant laughter and the cry of a baby. Two babies.

  He thought about young Alexander. About how bad a bad party might be – bad enough when you were a guest. He’d seen how a group of Macedonian officers could behave; to each other, to any man they might use. Worse if you were a porne. Probably much worse.

  The swelling in his cheek was down. The pus was crusted over.

  Alex or Aella had put more water in his jug, and he drank some. He made it to the amphora unaided. It hadn’t been emptied.

  He was just back on the bed when the doctor came in.

  ‘Up and about, are we? Excellent.’ He opened his bag and took out a small alabaster jar.

  ‘No more poppy, thanks,’ Satyrus said.

  ‘Really? Don’t tell me you’re a miser.’ The doctor put the jar away, rolled in a piece of soft leather.

  ‘I’ve had quite a lot of it,’ Satyrus said. ‘Too much, for one life.’

  ‘Soldier?’ asked the doctor.

  ‘Something like that,’ Satyrus said.

  The doctor nodded. ‘Well. You’d know best. But when I take that bandage off, it’s going to hurt like Hades.’

  He was right. It did.

  He didn’t pass out, but the pain was remarkable. He cried out – not once but twice. Then he was wrapped up again.

  ‘Somebody really doesn’t like you,’ the doctor said.

  Satyrus nodded.

  The doctor grinned. ‘Well. Hope you make the whores rich, lad. You can keep this bandage wrapped, I assume, and if you don’t want poppy … well, your cheek wound is clean and dry, and you’ll hurt for weeks – but I’m done with you. I’ve crotches to look at.’

  Satyrus offered his hand, but the man vanished through the curtain.

  Satyrus began to think that he could tell the difference between different sex acts by the sounds. He was appalled – sometimes amused – by the frankness of the vulgarity and the customers. Men asked for the crudest things – some in sing-song, little boy voices, some in harsh demands. Aella came in to check on him, and stayed to chat while washing and rubbing olive oil into her vagina, an act she performed without the least coyness or shame.

  ‘No girl can make enough juice to last a whole night – not during the feast of Aphrodite,’ she said. ‘That’s my bell!’ And she was off out the curtain.

  Feast of Aphrodite! Satyrus thought. I’ve been here two weeks.

  Afternoons were slow. The boys and girls talked, or bathed, sulked, read, debated – they were Athenians, and Satyrus had to laugh at how very Athenian they were: debating political matters, arguing the relative merits of Cassander and Lysimachos, Ptolemy and Antigonus. Aella was a confirmed supporter of Demetrios, who she had seen in person.

  ‘He’s like one of the gods,’ he heard her say as she walked down the hall. ‘His father has captured Mithridates – not the good one. The bad one. The one who’s against us.’ She laughed like the supporter of a winning sports team. No one disagreed.

  Satyrus lay and wondered about how easily men could be labelled ‘good’ and ‘bad’ because of their beliefs, or which side in a civil war they backed. It was … fathomless. He philosophised on it until he heard the proprietress inspecting the girls.

  The proprietress was an older woman, with wide-set, large eyes and hair dyed jet black. In some lights she could be quite hideous, with a large nose and bad teeth – but when evening came, she was lovely, attractive the way an older matron is attractive, with a sense of dignity that Satyrus would never have associated with this world of porne and sex. Her name – frequently called out – was Lysistrada.

  He knew her by voice and by glimpses through his curtain, but that afternoon she entered his cubicle.

  ‘Medea!’ she called – the voice of command, or of a mother.

  A young woman came in. Her Sakje blood was obvious – her cheekbones were high, and besides, she had tribal scars on her right shoulder and down her arms. She had a strong face, not a pretty one. ‘Yes, despoina?’ she asked. She was meek, and her eyes were downcast.

  ‘Empty this pot. It stinks. The smell of urine is not an aphrodisiac, young lady.’

  ‘Yes, despoina.’ The Sakje girl flicked her eyes at Satyrus.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ Satyrus said, in Assagetae.

  She started, eyes wide. Then she fled, carrying the broken amphora full of waste. In moments, she could he heard sobbing in the hall.

  ‘That was a fine trick to play me, sir, and my house footing your bills.’ Lysistrada glared at him. ‘I came to see to your well-being, and – what did you say to her?’

  ‘I gave her good afternoon, in the language of her folk.’ Satyrus suddenly felt exposed. Traders from Alexandria don’t know Sakje languages.

  ‘She’s the worst slave imaginable,’ she sniffed. ‘She’s injured two gentlemen. I should sell her as a nurse but some of those households are … well, worse than brothels.’ Lysistrada smiled. ‘And it took me for ever to break her to our ways. I’ll make my investment back – and you, sir. I will make my investment back on you, as well. I understand from my young people that you have a connection with our Polycrates.’

  Satyrus nodded.

  She crossed her arms. ‘Only, dear, there’s another rumour on the street that someone is offering a very large sum of money in cash for the location of a man from Olbia or Pantecapaeaum. A man with a cut on his cheek like an alpha, and tall.’ She smiled.

  Satyrus knew he was taken. She’d sent the Sakje girl in on purpose. His brain ran on – he was fit enough to grab her. Perhaps … use her as a hostage?

  No. Phiale would care nothing for that. He had to run. Immediately. He was naked on the stained sheets of a cot in a brothel – no clothes, no money …

  ‘What is it worth to you – in cash, not promises – for me to continue to hide you? Sir?’ she asked.

  Satyrus struggled for a calm he really didn’t have. He took a breath, as if squaring off on the palaestra. ‘Polycrates will pay for me,’ he said, more to buy time than anything. The most likely result was that she would sell him to Phiale and to Polycrates. Except that Polycrates was dead, and unless he managed to meet with, and talk to, a family member, they’d have no reason to help him.

  Two weeks! His grain ships would be gone. Leon’s factor would have the grain money – plenty to ransom a king or two.

  A bold front was
the essence of the thing. He managed a smile. ‘There is a woman seeking to have me killed,’ he said, succinctly. ‘If she succeeds, and your house is blamed …’ Satyrus left the threat unspoken. ‘Whereas, if I make it to my friends, I would expect that you might receive a great deal of money, and perhaps something more.’

  ‘Empty threats and promises I might receive from any agora ruffler,’ she said – but she was interested.

  Satyrus had seen Leon and Diodorus do this – had watched Philokles do it a thousand times, using a person’s cupidity and greed against their better judgement. But Philokles, sometime spy and spymaster, had spoken against it for a king. ‘Manipulation is the poorest form of management,’ he was wont to say.

  Satyrus had no options. ‘My promises are not empty. You be the judge – do I look to you like a man of worth?’

  ‘Give me a name,’ she said.

  ‘I have. Polycrates. Bring me a member of his family.’ Satyrus paused – this woman was intelligent, and he didn’t want to give away his weaknesses. ‘Or the man himself, and I will see you paid – an enormous amount. A shocking amount.’

  ‘My dear sir, your rival is offering a shocking amount. And you may even have multiple rivals.’ She laughed – a harridan’s laugh. ‘Maybe they will bid for you, like men bid for a beautiful slave.’

  He’d misjudged her. Somehow she was personifying in him all the men she disliked – all the men who had bought and sold her. Or perhaps that’s how she reacted to all men. ‘I can pay more,’ Satyrus said, with a confidence he didn’t feel. ‘And my death – you would feel it.’

  ‘I know every politician in this crooked city,’ she said. ‘I have most of them by the balls.’

  Satyrus shrugged. ‘It would be a pity to see you sold back to slavery,’ he said.

  She started, went white and then red. ‘Fuck you, you rich ponce.’ She was gone through the curtain before he could retract.

  The moment her cork sandal soles had gone down the steps, Aella appeared. ‘Bitch,’ she said. ‘She’s trying to cut me and Alex out of our money, ain’t she, sir?’

  Satyrus nodded. ‘Help me up.’

  Aella looked out in the hall. ‘She’s gone out.’

  ‘She’s gone for my enemies. Please – this is life and death.’

  Aella paused. ‘Swear!’ she said. ‘Swear by Styx that you’ll make me rich, and Alex too.’

  Satyrus raised his hand. ‘I swear on Styx, and on my father’s grave, and on all the gods, may the furies plague me, that I will raise you and your friend Alex, and make you rich.’

  She pursed her lips. ‘It’s a beating for me, or worse, if she catches me.’

  Satyrus smiled. ‘It’s death, for me.’ He took a breath – having failed miserably as a manipulator, he tried a different tack with Aella. ‘How long will you be able to live like this, honey? Before … before your skin coarsens and your breasts sag? What other chance do you have?’

  Outside, in the street, there was a stir.

  ‘Aella!’ came Alex’s voice.

  She ran out through the curtain.

  Satyrus got himself to his feet. If Phiale was close by, her people would be here any moment.

  He used the wall, moving as fast as he could, until he reached the curtain.

  ‘He looks rich enough, I suppose,’ he heard Aella say.

  ‘He’s Polycrates’ slave – his boy.’ Alex’s harsh whisper carried up the stairs. Satyrus was in the hall – a hall he knew only from sounds. Whitewashed, swept clean with tiles underfoot, it was narrow and ran the length of the second floor – probably had twenty small rooms.

  The rooms on the other side of the hall opened on the street – some of them had an exedra, or second storey balcony.

  ‘Fuck!’ Aella said. ‘She’s coming back. With thugs.’

  Alex made a noise of despair. Another voice spoke, urgently.

  ‘Try!’ Aella said. ‘Go – go before she sees us!’

  Now Satyrus was paralysed, standing at the head of the stairs. He didn’t even know if there was another access to this level. Exedras often had their own stairs, but in a brothel that seemed unlikely.

  Aella came pounding up the steps, her bare feet ringing on the stone flags. ‘By Aphrodite,’ she said. ‘You’re up! You look like shit. Here, come with me.’ She grabbed his hand, tugged him along he hall, and he stumbled, and almost fell.

  ‘Top of the stairs,’ Lysistrada said, outside. ‘Big man.’

  ‘Oh, I know him,’ said Arse-Cunt.

  Aella pulled him along the hall, past the only three cubicles that were occupied. Near the end of the hall was a door, where all the other rooms only had curtains.

  ‘Hers,’ Aella said. She took a breath. ‘I’m fucked if she catches me at this,’ she said.

  There were rapid steps on the stairs.

  She opened the door, and the two of them went through. Aella slammed the door back, but Satyrus caught it and closed it softly. There was a bar. He dropped it carefully.

  It was a fine room – a woman’s room, with an unused loom and two fine tapestries, a Persian rug, a scroll basket full of scrolls.

  ‘She lets us read here, when we’re in favour,’ Aella whispered.

  ‘Gone!’ roared Arse-Cunt. ‘Can’t be far. Search the rooms!’

  ‘Always wanted to search a brothel,’ said another voice. ‘Hey, open up!’

  The unmistakable sound of a sword pommel on a wall.

  Lysistrada was shrill. ‘You may not search where my customers are!’

  ‘Don’t be shy,’ Arse-Cunt said. ‘I’ve fucked every girl here!’ He laughed. ‘They won’t care if my boys watch ’em a little.’

  ‘Back off, bastard. This is my house. Theo!’ she called. Her bouncer.

  ‘Fuck you, bitch,’ Arse-Cunt said. ‘Search all the rooms. Kill anyone who tries to stop you.’

  The sound of a heavy slap, and Lysistrada shrieked again, and then feet were pounding.

  ‘Is there another way out?’ Satyrus asked. His heart was hammering inside his chest.

  ‘Yes. Off the exedra. She has her own steps.’ Aella was having trouble breathing. ‘Go!’

  ‘You first,’ Satyrus ordered. He was just about able to hold himself up, but he wanted a weapon.

  He held himself up with his arms and moved from surface to surface, but there was nothing. Out in the hall there was the sound of fighting, and an angry customer was shouting at someone – chaos.

  Satyrus followed Aella out onto the exedra, which ran across the side of the house, overlooking an alley no wider than his shoulders.

  ‘Whose room is this?’ A whiny voice – not Arse-Cunt. One of his men.

  ‘That’s my room,’ Lysistrada said. ‘You stay out of it!’

  A mistake to have barred the door. Too late to regret. Satyrus got down the steps well enough. Aella was there, and Alex, and another man who looked familiar.

  ‘He’s in there!’ shrieked Lysistrada. ‘My door is locked. You bastard!’ Her voice sounded close. She must be on the other side of the door.

  ‘Follow me, lord,’ said the familiar-looking man. ‘Not far. Come.’

  The four of them moved as fast as Satyrus could manage. They went from alley to alley, with Aella scouting ahead and the two young men holding Satyrus up – after twenty steps, he needed a shoulder under each arm just to keep him upright.

  ‘Jason!’ Satyrus managed.

  ‘That’s right, lord.’ Jason was panting with the exertion of carrying half of a big man.

  Two alleys, and a cross street with pedestrian traffic and a donkey cart, and four men standing by an enormous breadbasket at the mouth of an alley. Jason led them into a donkey shed, and in moments – and not without pain – Satyrus was inside the breadbasket and the top was bound on.

  ‘You two go back to work,’ Jason s
aid. ‘You know where I live. Come tomorrow.’

  It was Jason – Polycrates’ body slave. He was well dressed, clean and neat and had silver pins in his chiton – the slave of a very rich man, or a well-off middle-class man himself.

  Aella sounded fierce. ‘He promised us gold.’

  Jason nodded to her. ‘And he will. But girl, if we don’t get him out of here soon, he’ll be dead.’

  ‘I’m no girl,’ she protested.

  ‘When do we get paid?’ Alex asked.

  ‘When I have him safe at my house,’ Jason said.

  ‘You’re a slave, ain’t you?’ Aella asked Jason.

  ‘I am,’ Jason answered. For the first time, he sounded less than confident.

  ‘Thought so. We’re not slaves, see? So if you fuck us, we’ll fuck you right back.’ She sniffed. ‘We’ll be by tomorrow. Better have some money for us.’

  Then silence – sounds in the street – and then many men, all together, and the basket was lifted.

  ‘Heaviest fucking bread I ever carried,’ said a porter.

  ‘It’s a body, idiot. That pretty boy ain’t no baker’s apprentice – silver pins in his chiton? This is politics. Just take the money, carry the basket, and wait and find out who was murdered. Tomorrow. When we’s safe.’

  Now they moved fast. Satyrus could feel the speed, and he could see a little bit through the basket – changes in light and shade, mostly, but sometimes, when the sun was at the right angle, he could see figures.

  They went a long way. Satyrus had time to get thirsty, to feel the need to urinate, to get cool as the evening air came on his naked skin. Fighting on the deck of a warship was much better than this helplessness.

  An hour passed, at least. Or so it seemed.

  ‘Zeus Panhellenios, where are we going?’

  ‘What are we getting for this, boss?’

  ‘Four drachma a man. Don’t be such a crew of faggots.’ Voice change. ‘Sir? Young sir? Are we close?’

  ‘Right here,’ Jason said. ‘My farm wagon will be along any time now. Thanks. Here’s your money. Here you go.’ Clink of coins. ‘And here you go.’ More coins.