Tyrant: Force of Kings (18 page)

He didn’t complain.

The moon rose and the sky went from dark blue to black, and the stars came out, and still they rode. They crossed two small rivers, and swung more south than west, and when Satyrus had almost fallen asleep in the saddle, Achilles called a halt, and they all dismounted and onion sausage was handed out by Odysseus.

Satyrus had his bearings. ‘Headed for the Eleusian Way,’ he said.

‘Got it in one,’ Odysseus replied.

They all relieved themselves, drank water, and got mounted, riding more quickly. Achilles and Ajax, the two biggest men, changed horses.

They began to climb steeply, and hills, heavy with rock, loomed on either side, even in moonlight. Twice they passed villages – not a light to be seen – and then, well after moon rise, when Satyrus didn’t feel that his discomfort could be greater, they entered a third village. This one had a big inn, and the yard gate opened when Achilles spoke a phrase from the mysteries.

Slaves took their horses – cursing, surly slaves called from their pallets.

‘Yer late,’ said a shrewish voice.

Achilles made a bow, like a priest before his god. ‘Despoina, Tyche affects all men, even heroes.’

Satyrus couldn’t see her, whoever she was. Since Odysseus was holding his arm lightly, and had cast the hem of his chlamys over his head, he assumed they didn’t want the woman to see him.

‘The room over the stable – just as you requested. Let’s see the shine of some silver.’ He heard the clink of coins, saw the shape bite one. ‘World is full of thieves,’ she said. ‘That’s full payment, boys. Thankee. Sleep well. There’s bread and opson and a nice piece of venison waiting for you.’

Up steep, narrow steps with no handholds, and there was a low trestle table. Satyrus sat down, and a small clay cup of wine was pressed into his hands. Downstairs, Achilles was still talking to the woman – the the woman who owned the taverna, he assumed. The wine was wonderful – full of flavour, dark as blood in the lamplight.

Ajax ate quietly, quickly, efficiently, while Memnon watched from the barred window and Odysseus curried the horses and fed them – quite an efficient team. As soon as Ajax had eaten, he took Memnon’s spot and the black man ate the same way – pushing food into his mouth, chewing quickly, every motion efficient. The only sign of enjoyment of the excellent venison came when Memnon finished his and had his first gulp of wine.

‘Lessa’s a good hostess,’ he said. He gave Satyrus a nod, and walked down the steep steps.

Achilles came back up. He went to a chest in the corner, a big enough box for a body, and opened it. From it he fetched a Sakje bow, a Greek quiver, and a Spartan sword.

‘All I have,’ he said, handing the long knife to Satyrus. ‘But you know how to use it, right?’

Satyrus put the cord of the scabbard over his shoulder. At worst, now, he could see to it that he wasn’t taken alive. He nodded. ‘Thanks,’ he said.

‘Don’t thank me till you pay,’ Achilles said. ‘We need to get some things straight. There’s a mort of people lookin’ for you. Right?’

Satyrus nodded.

‘Now, Odysseus says you’re the King of the Bosporons. That right?’ he asked.

Satyrus nodded.

Achilles nodded a few times back, and winked at Ajax.

‘I can retire on a farm in Attika right now – all four of us can – for selling you on.’ Achilles sat back, arms crossed.

‘So everyone tells me,’ Satyrus said. ‘Until I get back to my people, I have nothing to offer you.’

‘And when you get back to your people?’ Achilles asked. ‘Then what? Make us an offer.’

Satyrus shook his head. ‘You gave me the knife,’ he said. ‘And you already have a deal with Jason. Why should I make a new deal?’

Achilles nodded. ‘I’m a fair man. I won’t sell you straight – but me and mine, we might just ride away. Jason said this was escort work. But we know who you are, and the old witch who keeps this place says the roads are full of men looking for you.’

‘Whose men?’ Satyrus said.

‘Demetrios’s men,’ Achilles said.

‘Soldiers?’ Satyrus asked.

‘Exactly.’ Achilles said. ‘So?’

‘A silver talent each?’ Satyrus said.

‘Zeus Panhellenios!’ Ajax said. ‘We’d get you out of Tartarus for that.’

‘Shush, you.’ Achilles laughed. ‘No head for negotiating. But fine. For that fee, we’ll see you clear of Attika and put you up in one of our hidey holes for a week, until the excitement dies down. It always does.’

Satyrus nodded.

Six days on the road, as his muscle tone returned, and they climbed out of Attika, over the shoulder of Mount Kimeron, past Eleutherai, to Plataea.

Boeotia was beautiful at high summer, the dance floor of Ares stretching away, a patchwork of fields in gold and green, like a tilled version of the Sea of Grass. Plataea sat high on the shoulders of Kimeron, looking out over the valley, down to the Asopus – the walls were new, and shone in the sun. The Spartans and the Thebans together had destroyed the town twice, and Alexander of Macedon had ordered it rebuilt at considerable expense – fair recompense for the men and women who had fought among the hardest to preserve Greek liberty, or so Alexander said.

‘Land here was cheap as dirt when we were new to the business,’ Odysseus said as they rode along Asopus and started up a low ridge. ‘We had a little windfall early on – bought us this farm.’ He grinned.

The farm was on a hilltop, with a low stone tower and an old forge building, a fine vineyard and some scraggly apple trees. Several slave families lived in a hamlet behind the main house.

‘Here, we’re like lords,’ Achilles admitted. ‘Hey, Tegara! We’re home.’

Women came out of the tower – some attractive, and some looking as hard as bronze, and two of them older than the rest. Two boys emerged from the shed and took all six horses.

‘This one is a guest,’ Achilles said to the gathered women. ‘See to it he has a pleasant stay. He’s a paying customer.’

From this, Satyrus gathered that not all visitors were welcome, or voluntary.

The next morning, Odysseus was gone.

‘Other business,’ Achilles said with a casual wave. ‘But he’ll put us in touch with Jason, if the boy’s still alive.’

Satyrus slept in a bed and took some exercise the next day, shooting arrows with Achilles and Memnon outside the walls of the courtyard. It fatigued him more than it should have, and he took a nap under the old olive trees. Tegara, the older of the women, brought them olives and cheese. She sat down by him, gathering her chiton under her hips as she sat, a very ladylike gesture.

‘Who are you, really?’ she asked. She had a beautiful, husky voice, far richer than her farm-matron appearance.

‘No one important, despoina,’ he said.

She smiled at him, her eyes bold. ‘I beg leave to doubt that. You look exotic, to me.’ Without another word, she shifted behind him and started to massage his back and shoulders – not an erotic job, but a workmanlike job, the kind of thing a man might expect at a gymnasium.

Achilles rumbled a laugh. ‘You’ve made an odd convert, there, lord. Tegara never likes anyone!’

Satyrus slept better that night, and the next morning he met Achilles in the courtyard with Tegara pouring water over his head. She winked at Satyrus, who winked back. There was something about the woman that transcended age or sex – she was easy to like, untrammelled, somehow, by convention.

‘Swords?’ Satyrus asked Achilles while he bathed himself.

Achilles grinned. ‘I have a few.’

‘Practice?’ Satyrus asked. A bucket of cold water hit him from the side – Tegara tittered. He spluttered.

‘Happy to – but I’d like to see you work through some exercises first.’ He nodded.

Satyrus understood – no man wants to play at wooden swords with a stranger, who may not pull his blows or behave with decency. He nodded. After he bathed, and took oil from Achilles’ aryballos and anointed himself, he picked up a stick and began his own exercises – the six cuts and the two thrusts, the legwork from pankration, the arm blocks and the sword blocks – up and down in front of the well, until Achilles slapped his thigh.

‘So you’re a hoplomachos, eh? That’s what I get for asking, I guess.’ He shook his head. ‘Promise you won’t humiliate an old mercenary, eh?’

Satyrus caught an odd look on Tegara’s face. Her impish grin was late to her face when she caught his eye, leaving her looking oddly false.

‘I had good teachers,’ he said, as much to her as to Achilles.

‘You
are
an aristocrat,’ she said, without much kindness. Her implied comment was
I thought you were a man
.

She stalked off, head high.

‘And she’s taken agin’ ye as fast as she was for ye,’ Memnon said, coming down from the exedra. He shrugged. ‘Don’ be angry wi’ she. She’s the real owner here. She’s not had an easy life, like enow.’

Achilles nodded at Satyrus. ‘Our guest wants to play at the sword.’

Memnon looked surprised. ‘Well, well,’ he said.

The three of them walked out of the courtyard with half a dozen wooden swords under their arms, and two small Macedonian-style shields. Once they got to a handsome dell of turf below the olive orchard, Memnon dropped the gear he was carrying and sat down.

Satyrus chose a wooden sword he liked – shorter and a bit heavier than most of the rest, and wrapped his chlamys carefully around his arm.

Achilles nodded. ‘Let’s swear,’ he said. ‘No man will bear ill will into this ring of grass, nor take ill will out when he leaves, despite competition, error or injury. I swear this by Ares and by Athena, God and Goddess of War.’

The words were old-fashioned – Ionic Greek, like the
Iliad
. The oath itself made Satyrus happy, as if he was living in elder days. He repeated it, trying to match Achilles’ diction and pronunciation.

Achilles didn’t salute. Instead, he simply crouched. ‘Ready,’ he said.

Up close, he was big – too big for many of Satyrus’s tactics of domination. Satyrus was used to being bigger than most men in a fight, and Achilles topped him by a hand. Ajax, absent in the house, was bigger by a head.

‘Ready,’ Satyrus said.

He had expected a trick – an immediate leap, a lunge, some palaestra trick – but Achilles seemed to relax. He began to circle the dell, his footwork careful but not the trained dance steps of the gymnasium-trained man.

Satyrus didn’t react at first, deliberately facing Achilles’ initial orientation, allowing the other man to circle him …

Achilles launched a blow from his left – a high cut.

Satyrus stepped back out of range, and Achilles was already back on his guard. He took another circle step, and Satyrus changed his front in a single turning step, a fluid reorientation from front to back that placed Achilles in easy sword-reach, and Satyrus feinted at his cloak-arm, rolled his wrist, and cut low, but as he had expected, Achilles was a well-trained man, and he ignored the cut at his protected side and parried the real cut at the opening line.

They both smiled. It had been a short exchange with no real contact but Achilles now knew how precisely Satyrus could pull his blows, and Satyrus could feel how good Achilles’ balance was in close, and they both sidestepped diagonally left, opening the range.

There was more circling. The sun came through the trees only at one point, and Satyrus considered trying to orient his opponent into it, but it seemed pointless.

Achilles made some internal decision and chose to attack. He pivoted quickly and started a sword-foot forward attack, and Satyrus stepped
into
it, a tough call against a bigger man, isolated the attacker’s elbow with his cloak arm and kicked Achilles lightly just above the knee while keeping his sword ready to the real cut that came, as he expected, under his cloak – he pivoted on his own left foot, put his knee into the oncoming cut, and tapped Achilles on the head with his sword.

Achilles stepped back.

Satyrus fell into his guard, and saluted. ‘Hit to the knee,’ he said.

‘Ah, well,’ Achilles said. ‘Myself, I’m dead.’ He grinned. ‘To tell the truth, I expect you’d ha’ broken my knee with that kick, eh?’

Satyrus shrugged.

Achilles nodded. ‘I heard you fought the pankration, but it’s another thing to see it.’

Satyrus nodded. ‘Kicking in combat is dangerous – your leg is out where you can’t defend it. When men are in armour, with swords and spears – not much use, really, unless you are right inside.’

Achilles nodded.

They set again, and both men called ‘ready’.

Satyrus felt that it was only fair that he launch the next attack, and he launched a simple one, a rising snap cut that appeared to target the lower shield leg, rolled over into a high cut, and became a thrust to the (hopefully) open chest. It was one of his favourite moves, a routine he had practised for ten years.

Achilles baffled his feint and his whole intention by taking a long step back, out of range, as Satyrus tried to engage, and then the big man moved quickly forward and right, forcing Satyrus to turn and parry with his arm. Achilles played for his sword, trying for a grapple, and Satyrus responded with a strong, stiff arm, backed and cut; the other man caught his cut neatly on his arm and stabbed low, Satyrus blocked the low stab lower and tried to rotate his hips to isolate the sword for a disarm, and got a light smack in the side of his mouth, as Achilles’ fist just tapped him.

Satyrus stepped back, and nodded. ‘Good blow.’

Achilles looked happy. ‘Thanks,’ he said, amicably. ‘Ready?’

Satyrus nodded, and this time, Achilles was on him before he could draw breath, a flurry of blows, high, middle, and low.

Satyrus backed, and backed again, and then, his wits gathered, he struck out – cloak arm and then right foot kick. The moment he broke the other man’s rhythm, he lunged, a powerful step forward with his sword foot, a lightning transition from back foot to forefoot, from long-range cuts to being almost face to face, and his sword point was four inches above the other man’s groin.

Achilles jumped back, and he wasn’t grinning. ‘Hit,’ he said.

‘Got your measure,’ Memnon said.

Achilles came at him with another flurry of blows, this time faster – and stronger.