Tyrant: Force of Kings (17 page)

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 said. ‘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.

Grumbles and mutters. Farewells.

‘Where is my master?’ Jason asked, from outside the basket.

‘Dead,’ Satyrus managed.

The top came off the basket. ‘I had to make sure that they were gone. I’m making this up as I go. Who killed him?’

Satyrus got his head out of the basket and drank in some better air. ‘I don’t know. A courtesan, Phiale – she was the agent, I think.’ He shook his head.

Jason helped Satyrus to a sitting position. ‘Who was behind her? There’s men searching everywhere for you, lord. I paid men to find my master – my informers run across them everywhere. I guessed … well, I guessed that they killed Master and you got away. It was a possibility that fitted the facts. They’re looking for a “man from Olbia”.’

Satyrus nodded. ‘I was taken. I … escaped.’

Jason looked at him. ‘I heard from Master you are a famous fighter. Listen – please. I have found you, and I will get you to Master’s house. Yes? Then I beg you to do something for me.’

Satyrus nodded. ‘Anything I can, boy.’

‘Take me with you,’ Jason said. ‘Master kept me safe. From some things. I want free of them.’

Satyrus wondered how desperate the world of slaves and freedmen was. Constant bargaining. And how tempted Alex or Aella would be when they learned what he was worth to Demetrios.

‘I’ll free you,’ Satyrus said. He meant it, but he also knew that it was an offer that would trump most offers of money.

Jason smiled. Satyrus hadn’t seen him smile. It made him look much younger.

‘I want more than that,’ Jason said. ‘I want to be a citizen. Not here – too much baggage here.’

Satyrus, naked, and almost unable to walk, had to smile. ‘I can make you a citizen of Olbia or Tanais of Pantecapaeaum just by saying that you are,’ he said.

Jason nodded. ‘I know you can, lord. My master is dead. I can serve you.’

Satyrus took a deep breath. ‘You have not told me anything of your troubles – or your master’s plots,’ he said. ‘Get me clear of this, and I’ll see you have your freedom. I cannot promise more than that.’

Jason nodded. ‘Lean on me. Let’s go.’

They went through a farm gate, along a stone wall, through an olive grove, up a hill and down through another grove, and this time they had to endure the barking of dogs and the angry stares of a herd of sheep.

They came down a low ridge to a great house, and by then Satyrus was hobbling, but he felt better, not worse, as if stretching his muscles healed them.

‘Can you ride, lord?’ Jason asked.

Satyrus nodded. His breath was short.

Into the yard of the great house, where there were four men – big men, all wearing swords. Satyrus wanted to shy away, but Jason merely gave them a nod. ‘Usual rates,’ he said.

The biggest man chuckled. ‘We
love
working for you, Jas.’

Jason turned to Satyrus. ‘I had to arrange this on the fly. This is Achilles, and his friends Ajax, Memnon, and Odysseus. Gentlemen, this man needs your protection. Take him somewhere, and tell me where when you can. I have some loose ends to tidy up. He can pay – and he can be a good friend. Lord, just do as they say.’

Satyrus shrugged. ‘I would like clothes and a sword,’ he said. Achilles was tall and might have been handsome, if he didn’t have a rip a finger broad across his face that left his mouth in a permanent leer. Even with the big scar, he had carriage – dignity. Ajax was taller and heavier, with a paunch, and legs as big as a small man’s chest – and a disarming grin. Memnon was African, thin and hard, and Odysseus had a mouthful of gold teeth and a wispy beard, and looked altogether more like a lout than the other three, who might easily have passed for gentlemen.

Achilles looked him over. ‘You may have mine, lord, if you insist, but right now, you don’t look like you’re worth spit in a fight.’

Satyrus had to agree with that.

Jason broke in. ‘I can get him a couple of chitons and a chlamys,’ he said. ‘I doubt there’s a sword in the house.’

He vanished inside.

Memnon gave him a long look. ‘Who’s hunting you? And why do we have to call you “lord”?’

Satyrus sat heavily on a farm bench. ‘You don’t have to call me lord. Jason seems to do it too easily.’

Jason came back with a basket, a leather satchel, and a bundle. ‘No sandals – but good boots. Put your legs out, lord.’ Satyrus stretched his legs out, and Jason laced the boots on, and they fitted well enough – tall Boeotian boots, well tooled.

Jason then helped him into a chitoniskos – the wool was well-washed, and soft, but raising his arms over his head made him grunt.

‘Those is some amazing bruises, boss,’ Odysseus said. ‘I used to fight barehand in taverns – never got me no bruise like yon.’ He was pointing to the mark of a heavy oak staff on Satyrus’s left bicep – still purple after more than two weeks, a deep bruise indeed.

‘You win or lose?’ Ajax asked.

‘Lost,’ Satyrus said.

All four of them nodded.

‘Let me see your hands,’ Odysseus said.

Satyrus stuck out his hands.

‘I need you to get moving,’ Jason said. ‘Those porters will be easy to trace.’

Achilles held up his hand. ‘A moment, Jas. We don’t call this brute Odysseus for nothing.’

The gold-toothed man felt Satyrus’s palms. ‘Hard enough. Swordsman? Hoplite fighter?’

‘Yes,’ Satyrus said.

‘Can you talk low and act – like us?’ Odysseus asked.

‘Hopeless,’ Ajax said. ‘Look at him. Fucking gymnasiums every day. Manners.’

Satyrus grinned, spat to one side the way he remembered Neiron doing, and bobbed his head. ‘Fuck off,’ he said.

Odysseus smiled. ‘Not bad. Don’t talk much, and try
not
to keep your back straight all the time. Ride by me. We’re sell-swords looking for work with Demetrios, and you’ve known all of us since …’

‘Rhodos,’ Satyrus said.

‘We weren’t at Rhodos, sorry. We don’t get out of Attika much.’ Achilles smiled, and his scar moved. ‘Never mind. Just spit and look angry and injured. Let’s get moving.’

Memnon brought six horses out of the barns and Jason helped Satyrus mount.

He felt better on a horse. ‘You didn’t ask me if I could ride,’ he said to Odysseus.

The man’s teeth winked in the last of the midsummer sun. ‘Didn’t need to,’ he said. ‘We know who you are.’ He pulled at his reins as Jason came up to them.

‘Leave word for me in the usual way,’ he said. ‘I don’t expect to be a public man after today.’

Achilles nodded. ‘So it’s true? Polycrates is dead? Who got him?’

Jason shook his head. ‘Still trying to find out. Likely need you lot to sort that out, too.’

Satyrus was amused to note that his rescue – if indeed he was being rescued – was not centre stage. Polycrates’ death was centre stage.

‘You are Polycrates’ men?’ Satyrus asked.

‘Hmm,’ Achilles answered. ‘Hmm. Some would say we was, and some would say we wasn’t, like.’

Odysseus nodded. ‘We’re our own men. Polycrates pays – paid, I guess – well, and he’d stand up when we asked ’im to.’

‘Not like fucking Demetrios of Phaleron,’ Memnon muttered.

They began to ride – first downhill, through a wheat field, and then along a donkey path through a vineyard, through a gate in a high stone wall, and out to a road.

Satyrus didn’t know Athens really well, but he could see the Parthenon as clear as the moon – the last of the sun was shining on the roof, eight or ten stades to the south. They rode west, into a red sky, and they rode as fast as he could handle. No part of him was badly hurt any more – but he was tired and his hips hurt.