‘Welcome home,’ Nihmu said. She smiled sleepily.

Diodorus came through the adjoining house door with a sword in his hand. ‘In the name of all the gods,’ he said, and then he lowered the sword.

Coenus was right behind him. ‘Satyrus!’ He grinned. Then, carefully, like a man who fears to speak a bad thing lest it become true, ‘Is my - is everyone well?’

‘Xenophon is standing in the courtyard with a file of marines. And one of Stratokles’ people, wrapped in a rug.’ Satyrus grinned. He couldn’t help it. Then, sobered, he nodded to Leon. ‘Peleus is dead.’

Leon threw a chlamys over his naked shoulders while Sappho ordered torches and lamps lit. ‘I don’t suppose you could have warned us you were coming? And you’re still under exile, young man.’ He gave Satyrus a hug. ‘So - you’ve taken a ship on the sea and lost me the best helmsman on Poseidon’s blue waters. I assume there’s a story?’

Philokles appeared from the darkness of the doorway. ‘Coenus, your son is outside with a rug on his shoulder,’ he said.

Satyrus smiled at Philokles and then looked at the man again. The change was profound, for having been gone just a month. The Spartan had lost weight. He moved differently. He stepped up and put his arms around Satyrus. ‘I missed you, boy,’ he said.

Theron came in from Diodorus’s house, pulling a chiton over his head. ‘I should have known that it was you,’ he said by way of greeting. ‘Do you know what hour it is?’ But he, too, had to give Satyrus a crushing hug.

All together, they went out into Leon’s broad courtyard, where six marines stood easily with their shields resting on the ground and their spears planted, butt-spike first, in the gravel. When they saw Leon they all stood straighter.

Xenophon put his burden carefully on the ground and bowed. ‘Sir?’ he said.

Leon crossed his arms. ‘Let’s hear the story,’ he said.

Satyrus started telling it. Servants brought wine while he talked, and he was on his second cup by the time he got to the fight off Syria and the long night of the storm. ‘The next morning, Demetrios could have had us with ten children and a sling,’ he said. He shrugged and handed the wine cup to Xenophon, who took a slug and gave a belch. ‘We slept late and all the guards went to sleep - three hundred of us in a cave, with the ships out on the beach like a signal.’ He shrugged. ‘But the gods protected us, or Demetrios is a fool.’ He motioned at the rug. ‘None of the prisoners know much - they worked for this Athenian mercenary; they had orders to find us and take us. This one seemed to be in command. Kalos hit him hard, and he’s been comatose for days. He needs a doctor.’

Philokles motioned to Xenophon. ‘Rolling an injured man in a rug is not actually a way to heal him. Let’s see him.’

Xeno placed his burden on the ground. ‘He was a fine fighter. I’d like him to live.’ Together with Philokles, he unrolled the rug.

Philokles gazed at the unconscious man in the torchlight for a long moment. ‘Well, well,’ he said.

Diodorus stooped over the man and then stood up. ‘Look what the cat dragged in,’ he said.

‘I thought he was dead,’ Coenus added. ‘Hera protect us all. Put him in my room.’

‘We need a doctor,’ Philokles said. ‘This is beyond me.’

Leon looked puzzled. ‘I don’t know him.’ He turned to his steward. ‘Fetch us—’

Diodorus shook his head. ‘Wait. Clear the courtyard.’ He turned around. ‘Trust me. Get everyone out of here. Marines - to the kitchens. Get yourself some wine.’ He looked back at Leon and made a sign. ‘Friends only,’ he said.

‘Xeno can stay,’ Coenus said.

‘And the twins,’ Sappho said.

Satyrus thought that he was on the edge of some great secret. All his life he’d seen them act like this - as if some sacred bond called them all together.

‘Demetrios is in Nabataea,’ Melitta said, out of the air, ‘and none of his ship commanders had the balls to come out after us.’ She reached out and took the wine cup from Xenophon. They glanced at each other for a moment - too long a moment, as far as Satyrus was concerned. What in Hades? Then she looked at Diodorus. ‘Who is he?’

‘Nabataea?’ Leon asked. He was standing like a man about to run a race. ‘Let me make sure I understand this. Demetrios son of One-Eye is on the beaches of Syria with two hundred ships, and his army is in Nabataea - and you can prove these things?’

Melitta was being embraced by all of her uncles, and she was in Sappho’s embrace when she said, ‘Prove it? We have two hundred witnesses, if Leon’s oarsmen can be trusted.’

Leon and Philokles could be seen to exchange a long look.

Philokles shook his head in answer to some unvoiced question from Leon. ‘We need to go to Ptolemy right now. Every heartbeat counts.’

‘What about the Athenian?’ Leon asked. He was rubbing his beard. ‘Who is he?’

‘He’s Leosthenes,’ Philokles replied in a low voice. ‘He led the revolt of the mercenaries against Alexander. And helped beat Antipater in the Lamian War.’

‘He’s dead!’ Leon said. Then, in a whisper, ‘Is he one of us?’

Philokles shook his head.

Diodorus disagreed. ‘He was too political to take the oath - but he was a friend of Kineas. A fickle man - I heard that he survived the Lamian War and changed his name, but I’m still surprised.’

‘What the hell was he doing working for Stratokles?’ Coenus asked.

Diodorus shook his head. ‘I can only guess that when Cassander took Athens five years back, Leosthenes went with what he thought was the lesser of the evils. Say what you like about Stratokles, gentlemen - he’s a loyal Athenian.’

‘We chose Ptolemy,’ Coenus said, nodding.

Sappho bent over the prone man. ‘We could ask him when he recovers. In the meantime, leaving him to lie on the stones of our courtyard is unlikely to save him.’

‘We almost had Stratokles on the docks,’ Satyrus said. He didn’t really understand who the unconscious man was, but he thought that they needed to know the whole story.

That took more explanation.

When they were done barking questions at him, Philokles rubbed his chin. ‘Stratokles will bolt,’ he said.

‘Into a hole,’ Diodorus said.

‘Regardless, this is the moment to crush his influence at court and sting the Macedonian faction into action,’ Leon said.

‘Except that we could be fighting Demetrios any moment,’ Coenus said.

‘Where’s the Lotus, lad?’ Leon asked Satyrus.

‘South coast of Crete. She ought to be homeward bound by now,’ Satyrus said. ‘I thought that I could surprise - well, everyone - if I came in the prize. And Peleus’s last wish was that the Rhodians be informed.’

Leon nodded. ‘Fair enough. I’ll order that Athenian trireme into the yards - not a bad hull, if a little knocked about - and get to sea myself in Hyacinth. I’m for the coast of Syria.’

‘I’ll come with you!’ Satyrus said.

Philokles shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I have work for you here.’

‘I’m in exile!’ Satyrus said.

‘We need to go to Ptolemy anyway,’ Philokles said.

‘Are we done plotting?’ Sappho asked. She waved at the slaves peering out of the door. ‘Come along, my dears. Gently with the poor man.’

‘We have to keep him a secret!’ Diodorus hissed.

Nihmu gave him a raised eyebrow, and his wife poked him in the side as she went by. ‘Keep who a secret, dear?’ she asked.

‘We need to go to Ptolemy now,’ Philokles said. ‘Or it’s all rumour in the morning. Tonight we’ll have his whole attention.’

‘Grumpy attention,’ Diodorus put in.

Philokles frowned, his face like an actor’s mask in the torchlight. ‘We’ve heard about all this for a month, but no firm evidence, and always Stratokles whispering to Ptolemy that it’s all a feint.’ He raised an eyebrow and looked at Satyrus. ‘We have even started training the new phalanx.’

‘Satyrus is still in exile,’ Leon muttered, as if just remembering the fact.

‘Now,’ Philokles said. ‘We have to go now.’

Leon shuffled. Satyrus had never seen his uncle so nervous, and it suddenly struck him that this was no easy triumph. If Leon was frightened, then there was something about which Satyrus should be frightened.

The ruler of Aegypt was wearing a chiton of transparent wool that showed far too much of his ageing body. He had a garland of drooping grape leaves around his head. But his gaze was steady. ‘You, boy?’ he asked, looking straight at Satyrus. ‘Gentlemen, I thought that we had an agreement.’

Philokles stood forward. ‘I think you had best hear this story yourself. Then judge us.’

Ptolemy nodded. ‘On your head be it. Who tells the tale?’

Leon shuffled, and Satyrus started forward, but Philokles held his ground. ‘We sent Satyrus to sea. Stratokles of Athens sent ships to follow him.’ Philokles was a trained orator, and his arm came up and his stance changed subtly, and his diction became slower and clearer. He dropped his voice, and the hall became quieter, and men leaned forward to hear him speak. ‘Satyrus took the Golden Lotus to Cyprus, and Stratokles’ ships followed him there. He fled to Rhodos, and the pirates followed him. Rhodos is under blockade by One-Eye’s fleet. That’s news - but what follows is worse. Satyrus saw the fleet of young Demetrios on the beaches of Syria. Two hundred ships of war and as many transports.’

Even the guards behind the throne made a noise.

‘Silence!’ Ptolemy roared. He had been standing. Now he sat on the pear wood and ivory chair that he used for informal receptions. He held out his hand and a slave put a silver goblet into it. ‘How do you know that these ships belonged to the Athenian ambassador?’ Ptolemy asked. ‘For a month many voices have told me that One-Eye was coming here - always the same voices, I’ll add. Now you have found hard evidence?’

Satyrus didn’t want to be stopped. ‘Lord, we fought and took the Athenian’s galley. Anyone in this room will know it in the harbour. If that is not evidence enough, we have his sailing master and his marines and his oarsmen, too.’ Since the room was still silent, he said, ‘Everywhere my ship went, he followed me.’

Ptolemy’s eyes widened. He nodded. ‘You wouldn’t lie to me, boy?’ he asked with deep cynicism.

‘I swear it on my father’s grave and on - on the lion skin of Herakles, my patron.’ Satyrus wondered what had moved him to say that - the god at his shoulder, he hoped.

Ptolemy turned to his guards. ‘Get me the Athenian,’ he said. ‘Let’s see what he has to say for himself.’

Diodorus stood forth. ‘I’ll bet you a silver owl to an obol that he’s gone - bag and baggage and slaves.’

Philokles began to fidget, and Leon grimaced and stood his ground.

It was a long half-hour. Diodorus yawned, over and over.

‘Stop that!’ Ptolemy insisted, yawning himself. He laughed when he said it, and the tension dropped a little.

A pair of guards came back into the megaron and whispered to Gabines, who whispered in Ptolemy’s ear.

‘So,’ Ptolemy said. He rubbed his chin. ‘He’s gone. Just as you predicted - unless you did him in yourself. Don’t tell me you ain’t capable of it, Odysseus.’ Ptolemy was looking at Diodorus, who nodded.

‘I am,’ Diodorus said. ‘But I haven’t.’

‘Fuck,’ Ptolemy said. It wasn’t very regal. He looked around the room. ‘Clear the room,’ he said to Gabines. ‘They stay, and you, and Seleucus.’

‘Seleucus?’ Satyrus whispered to Leon.

‘Another player in Alexander’s funeral games,’ Leon whispered. ‘He lost his army at Babylon fighting Antigonus, and he came here and offered his sword to Ptolemy.’

The man called Seleucus went and stood on the raised platform by Ptolemy’s chair. A pair of the Cavalry Companions - the Hetairoi, Ptolemy’s most trusted troops - came in from the barracks and stood by the chair. Satyrus knew both of them - men Diodorus liked.

‘So,’ Ptolemy said. He looked around. ‘Demetrios is coming. Gentlemen, we’re not in good shape.’

No one said anything to deny this assertion.

‘Gabines, how reliable are my Macedonian troops?’ Ptolemy asked.

‘I wouldn’t risk a field battle,’ Gabines replied. ‘Although - if I may be so bold, lord - it is Demetrios, an unknown youth, not old One-Eye in person. He would be a far greater threat, both as a general and as a figurehead.’

Seleucus nodded. He was a short man with the legs of a cavalryman and the speech of a Macedonian noble. ‘One-Eye has the king - that is, young Herakles - and Cassander has the other, unless he’s murdered him. Most of your Macedonians wouldn’t face Herakles or Alexander IV in battle - but young Demetrios has neither of the kings.

‘How many troops will Demetrios have?’ Ptolemy asked.

‘Twenty thousand infantry, forty elephants,’ Seleucus answered. ‘Good cavalry.’

‘So if we could make our infantry fight, we could outmatch him,’ Ptolemy said. He looked at Diodorus. ‘You’re awfully quiet, for you.’

Diodorus yawned again. ‘I’m just old, Ptolemy. But it seems to me that if we launch our army at Demetrios, we roll the dice. If we sit here in Alexandria, he rolls the dice.’

Seleucus nodded. ‘I agree.’

‘The disappearance of Stratokles will panic the extremists in the Macedonian faction,’ Gabines said. ‘Expect defections.’

Ptolemy shook his head as if to clear it. ‘Cassander was double-dealing me? I still find that hard to stomach. If I go down, Antigonus and his golden child get Aegypt. How on earth can that profit Cassander?’

Seleucus shrugged. ‘I don’t waste time worrying too much what a man like Cassander thinks,’ he said. ‘Demetrios is here, now. If we can keep your army together, he may make a mistake. How do we keep the army together?’

Diodorus looked at Philokles. ‘By pretending nothing has happened, except the news that Demetrios is marching here. That by itself should drown all other noise in the agora.’

‘Where is Leon?’ Ptolemy asked.

‘Putting to sea to keep watch on Demetrios’s fleet,’ Philokles said.

Ptolemy nodded sharply, and stood. ‘You, boy,’ he said, pointing at Satyrus. ‘Keep your head down. Understand me, boy?’

‘I have work for him, with the phalanx,’ Philokles said.

Ptolemy nodded. ‘I can accept that.’ He looked around. ‘No talk of this, anyone. If Stratokles surfaces, we deal with it. Otherwise, let the plotters plot, eh? When any of them is ready to defect, I wish to know.’

Gabines nodded.

Ptolemy looked around. ‘Well then. I suppose we’ll try to fight this golden boy and his forty elephants. Athena of the victories, be with us!’ He turned to Seleucus. ‘Ready to march in ten days. Pass the word. And see how they react.’

Diodorus saluted, as did Coenus.

His sister came and went. She babbled about riding and said something about Xeno, as if her infatuation for his best friend needed to be discussed. He listened to her without hearing a word, said what he hoped were the right things in return and she went away.

The third morning, he felt no better. So he drank some wine and that seemed to help. He just kept reliving his decisions - when to turn the ship, when to fight. He saw too many ways he could have done it. Spur-of-the-moment improvization was revealed as boyish bravado.

His sister came and he listened to her, and then drank more wine, and that helped too. Kallista came, closed the curtain at his door and kissed him.

He stiffened immediately, and she caught his erection with a practised hand. ‘Have your attention?’ she asked.

‘Mmm?’ he answered. She was not melting into his arms.

‘Philokles has been around several times asking for you, and everyone in this house is girding for war, and you are sulking like Achilles.’ She relinquished her hold on his body and he pawed at her, and she shrugged him off with a laugh and walked out through his curtain, leaving him feeling like a boy.

He sat on the floor, depressed and ashamed of all his many weaknesses, and then he found another amphora of wine.

And then Philokles came.

‘Stand up,’ Philokles said. He was taller than usual, at least viewed from the floor. He’d added muscle to his chest and his paunch was almost gone.

Satyrus obeyed. ‘I’m a little drunk,’ he slurred. ‘You’ll understan’, I’m sure.’

‘There’s work to be done,’ Philokles said. His voice was kind.

Satyrus couldn’t meet Philokles’ eye. ‘I - am - sorry.’

‘Because you slobbered at Kallista? Or because you got Peleus killed?’ Philokles was clean and sober. ‘Most men would grab Kallista’s tits if they could, and any man worth his stones would have to think hard after he ordered men to their deaths. That’s good. However, your time for such thoughts is over. Stop wallowing. Get up. The world’s going to hell and we have work to do.’

‘You’re the philosopher, Philokles! And the hoplomachos, the best spear in Alexandria. And I’m just a boy.’ There, it was said. He felt better, and took a little wine.

Philokles went and sat on the bed. He had military sandals on and a chitoniskos, the undergarment to armour. He was dressed for war. He rubbed his chin and then nodded. ‘I’m here to get you moving and bring you out of this. It’s tempting to tell you a couple of lies and get your heart beating again.’ He shrugged and raised an eyebrow. ‘But you’re a man, not a child.’

‘Twenty men died. Peleus and nineteen others. I want—’ Satyrus bit his lip. ‘I did not do much of the fighting,’ he said.

‘You want to be forgiven?’ Philokles’ face was the mask of Ares. ‘There is no forgiveness, Satyrus. None. Just the next task. You are as brave as you need to be and your fears about your courage are foolish,’ Philokles said. ‘But you can prove yourself brave, if you like. Come and stand your ground with me in the phalanx. Beside me. In the front rank.’

Satyrus nodded. ‘Yes!’ he said, willing to try. He drew a breath. ‘Very well,’ he said. It came out pretty well. ‘So that’s the next task?’

‘I took that for granted, as you don’t appear an ingrate and you are a citizen. It will mean that you won’t ride with the hippeis. Frankly, you’re not a trained cavalryman. And it will help me keep you hidden. I believe that Stratokles will hunt you. And the factions - it’ll be open fighting soon, anyway. But you have friends - dozens of friends. Young men who go to the gymnasium, fight on the palaestra, run the races. I want them.’

‘You want them? Are you the commander?’ Satyrus thought that Philokles would make a very good commander.

‘Hmm. I am the real commander, alongside a dozen old mercenaries. Right now, some of the Macedonian faction have managed to put a man over me. I need your friends. I need two ranks of spirited, brave, athletic young men. You have a week.’ Philokles smiled. ‘Some of them will die,’ he said.

Satyrus took a deep breath. ‘How many?’

Philokles sneered. ‘How many will die? Ask a prophet.’

‘How many do you need?’ Satyrus shot back.

Philokles rubbed his chin and deflated. ‘A hundred, more or less.’

Satyrus laughed. ‘That’s every prosperous Hellene in Alexandria. The whole young set at Cimon’s!’

Philokles nodded. ‘I rather expected you to start at the gymnasium.’

Satyrus took a deep breath. ‘Leon’s marines?’

Philokles nodded. ‘Ours as soon as they return. They’re watching the approaches at sea. That’s where I expect to get my file-closers.’

Satyrus, interested, reached into a cedar trunk for his own chitoniskos. ‘Sailors?’

Philokles scratched his cheek. He didn’t look at all like the mask of Ares. ‘What are you, some kind of democrat?’

‘You have Aegyptians, right?’ Satyrus took a sponge from a basin and tried to clean himself. He was still partly drunk, but he felt that if he stopped moving he would fall back into the pit.

Philokles shrugged. ‘Some sailors. But right now, every ship with a fighting ram is at sea, watching for One-Eye or his son.’

Satyrus brushed his hair roughly, forcing the horsehair brush through his own as if to punish his transgressions. He put on short Thracian boots and a cloak, put a straw hat on his head and picked up a hunting spear.

‘First,’ he said, ‘I need to apologize to Kallista.’

Philokles nodded. ‘That might be a virtuous act,’ he said. ‘We drill all day at the sea wall. Not that we accomplish much. The Aegyptians have had all the war spirit beaten from them. They go through the motions like slaves.’ Philokles came and suddenly embraced Satyrus. Then he stepped back with his hands on the younger man’s shoulders. ‘Fighting in the phalanx is messy,’ he said. ‘Everything depends on the first two ranks. Everything.’

Satyrus nodded. ‘I’ll be there?’

‘Right next to me. Can you keep my spear side safe?’ Philokles stepped away.

‘You trained me, Spartan.’ Satyrus grinned. The expression used muscles in his face he hadn’t used in days.

‘See you don’t embarrass me, then,’ the Spartan said.

Satyrus walked into his sister’s rooms, announced by Dorcus. He embraced his sister and apologized all at once. ‘I didn’t listen to a word you said,’ he pronounced. She looked terrible - pale and worried - but she smiled for him.

‘I’m your sister, stupid. I don’t need apologies.’ She hugged him nonetheless.

Satyrus kissed her, and they leaned their foreheads against each other for a moment. ‘Thanks to the gods,’ Melitta said. ‘I really thought you were gone. The veritable black pit of despair.’

‘Part of me is still there,’ he said quietly. ‘But Philokles gave me something to do. Acting is so much easier than thinking.’ He hoped that didn’t sound too bitter.

‘Actions have consequences,’ she said. Her eyes flicked away.

‘I keep learning that,’ he said. She was hurting, too - he could see it, but he couldn’t imagine what it was about. ‘I’m off to Cimon’s to recruit an army.’

‘A drunk, lecherous army?’ she said, brightly. ‘Nice of Philokles to find something for you. I’ll just sit here and weave or something.’

‘You’re not a lot better off than I am,’ Satyrus said.

‘No, I’m not,’ Melitta said. ‘And now that you’re back from the land of the dead, I may just go there. Come and talk to me? Promise?’

‘I’d be happy to help,’ Satyrus said in a whisper, and then louder, ‘Where’s Kallista?’ He already smelled her perfume.

‘Right here,’ said the avatar of Aphrodite. Dressed in white and perfumed, she was almost too much to look at. She offered him an embrace, but he took one of her hands, pressed it to his forehead and bowed.

‘My apologies, Kallista. I was weak. And behaved badly.’

‘Hah!’ Kallista drew him into an embrace. ‘Men!’ She smiled and gave him a very unsisterly kiss. ‘One of these days, young man.’

He flushed. But she embraced him again, and then gently pushed him away. He found that he had an oyster shell in his hand.

‘I should go,’ he said hurriedly, fooling no one.

‘Go then,’ his sister said. Something going on there - she looked caged, almost desperate, and he owed her. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.

‘Nothing!’ she said. ‘Get out of my rooms before you burst!’

Relieved, he went. Only when he was outside in the courtyard did he think of her look at Xeno and how close the two of them had become on board ship. But then his whole mind went to the oyster shell in his hand.

The message inside the shell said, Lord Ptolemy speaks highly of you and your sister, and I will soon be moved to invite her to visit. The man who brings her might receive a reward.

He went out of the courtyard singing a hymn to Aphrodite.

Every rumbling of her stomach frightened her. Every itch, every feeling in her genitals, every change in her skin. A chance comment in the market - your hair is richer today, my lady - sent her into depression.

Her lover - Xeno - was worse than useless, vacillating between fear and wonder at what he had done and a strong desire to do it again. And she had a hard time recapturing any of the feeling of the ship about him. In Alexandria, he seemed a strong boy with a tan, and she feared that his obvious looks would give them away, and that the consequences would rule their lives.

She wasn’t going to marry Xeno. She was going to be queen of the Assagatje.

While her brother was still drinking himself into courage after coming back - such a fuss for so little - Xeno went away again when the Hyacinth went to sea to watch for the enemy fleet, and she was left in peace, until her brother walked out with a foolish oyster shell in his fist and Kallista turned to her.

‘Are you pregnant?’ she asked in a mater-of-fact voice. She did wait until Dorcus was clear of the room.

In a matter of minutes, she told everything. She wept in Kallista’s arms until the hetaira made clucking noises.

‘Not the lover I’d have chosen for you, but Hades, at least he’s clean and your own age. By your own will?’

Melitta had to smile at that. ‘I did all the work,’ she said.

Kallista shook her head. ‘I can imagine. Boys - all the same. Was it fun?’

Melitta shrugged. ‘Yes - no. Yes. It was. Didn’t hurt at all. None of that. But so little for so much worry!’

Kallista made a face. ‘Don’t say too much of that, honey bee. Men hate that.’ She frowned. ‘I wish I could tell you that you were safe, but I don’t know. How many days?’

‘Seventeen,’ Melitta said promptly - the whole scroll of her fears rolled into that one number.

Kallista nodded. ‘We course at the same time, so that means nothing. You should see blood in a week - Aphrodite, you did this at the wrong time, girl. Did I teach you nothing? Early or late in the month and you can make mistakes.’

‘And if I don’t?’ Melitta asked. She had hoped - hoped against hope - that when she told Kallista, the hetaira would know and calm all her fears.

‘Then you have a baby. There’s no need to borrow trouble by discussing all that now. That’s for a month from now - maybe more. Girls miss their courses - I still do, sometimes. Late, early, nothing - it’s like philosophy, honey - it never has the answer you need.’

‘I’m afraid.’

Kallista smiled. ‘Nothing to fear. Are you some streetwalker, or a slave in a rough house? Go and tell Sappho and Nihmu. Today. Get it done. People here love you. You understand me, girl? They even love me, and it took me time to get that - but you are the lady of this house.’

‘Sappho will throw me out,’ Melitta cried.

‘Sappho was a hetaira!’ Kallista said. ‘And she’s been a better mother to me than my mother ever was. Get your head out of your arse - or wherever it is - and tell Sappho. Do you love him?’

‘No,’ Melitta said in a small voice.

Kallista laughed. ‘That’s a mercy.’

His stomach turned over, and he was standing in a public street, the intersection of two great avenues constructed by the conqueror to allow the breezes to move freely through his chosen city. He leaned against a building.

‘Master?’ asked the slave who’d come out with him. Young, smooth-faced and useless.

‘What’s your name, lad?’ Satyrus asked.

‘Cyrus,’ the boy said, sullenly. Again, Satyrus thought that he wanted a servant he could trust. Someone of his own. ‘It’s nothing,’ Satyrus said. He rubbed his brow. Then he turned on to the Alexandrion and walked along it, passing the temples and the near-palaces of the Macedonian upper class. Many of them were poorer than Uncle Leon, and few of them had the political or military power of Uncle Diodorus, but they lived lives of the most reckless ostentation, because (apparently) that is how they lived in Macedon. Then past the Posideion, with its merchant houses and their public and private wharves. More and more of Abraham’s fellow Hebrews were moving into the Posideion, which had a certain logic to it, as two-thirds of the lots were empty and most of the new arrivals from Palestine were merchants.

Ben Zion had one of the larger houses, a utilitarian building on the Greek pattern with little outward decoration. Like the man himself. Ben Zion tolerated Leon, but the man was reputed to be a Hebrew zealot and he dressed in the plainest of tunics and always wore elements of his Canaanish or Israelite tribal clothing, as if disdaining the Hellenic world in which he lived.

Satyrus had only met him twice - both on errands to fetch Abraham from his lair. Like this one.

Avoiding a man lying dead in the central gutter, and fastidiously wrinkling his nose as a specialist butcher disposed of the unclean parts of an animal, watched by a Hebrew priest, into the very same gutter, Satyrus moved past them, smiled at a knife sharpener because the man was doing such a careful job, and caught a glimpse of a pair of eyes looking out from behind a curtain in the exedra of Ben Zion’s house.

Satyrus smiled to himself, because for all the black clouds in his mood, he was still moved by those eyes - a pair of eyes he was quite sure he would never attach to a voice or a body. Hebrew women lived in even more seclusion than Greek women.

The street door to the courtyard was open, and labourers - a mix of races - were standing with their backs against the courtyard wall, panting. There was a heavy crate on the marble-chipped ground, and Ben Zion stood with his hands on his hips, a heavy wool robe over his vaguely Hellenic tunic.

‘No visiting during working hours,’ Ben Zion barked, catching sight of him.

Satyrus recoiled; then, forcing a smile, he stepped forward. ‘I need your son, sir. Public business.’

Ben Zion had a heavy beard like many older Greek men, and he ran his fingers through it, both hands - a foreign gesture. ‘Public business?’ he asked.

‘You are a citizen?’ Satyrus asked in his best helmsman voice.

Ben Zion actually smiled. Recognition lit his dour face. ‘Yes, young nephew of my partner Leon. I am a citizen.’

Satyrus bowed. ‘Your son is a citizen?’

Ben Zion nodded.

‘I call on your son to serve in the phalanx, with panoply and arms, against the common foe, in defence of the city.’ Satyrus ground the butt of his hunting spear against the marble chips.

‘I hope you’ll have better spears than that,’ Ben Zion said. ‘Leon said you would come. So. And so. Benjamin - fetch my son.’ He motioned at one of the labourers. ‘May I show you a wonder, young warrior? Or do thoughts of armour fill your head to the exclusion of everything?’

Satyrus didn’t know why people didn’t like Ben Zion. He was, in some Hebrew way, just like Diodorus and Leon. ‘I’d be delighted,’ Satyrus said.

Seeing the wonder seemed to involve stripping his chlamys and helping the labourers raise the crate off the marble chips - ‘God send it not be damaged. Fools!’ - and carrying it, the heaviest load Satyrus had ever put his shoulder to, around the corner and deeper into the house.

‘Ahh! Softly! God witness that I have done all I can to get this precious thing into my house! You there, Master Satyrus, you have strong arms - see to it that you have a light touch, as well! Mind the loom!’

A thousand imprecations, some in Greek, and many others in a language that Satyrus didn’t understand, except that it had to be Hebrew. Past a kitchen, whose smells made Satyrus want to eat. He was now carrying the crate with the help of one other man, passing through arched doorways too narrow to admit more hands, and he was unable to do more than walk and carry. He was sweating like an Olympic athlete in the final stade, and the wooden supports by which the heavy thing was carried were beginning to creak and bend.

‘Just on top of this - here - hold it up! Up! Now down - slowly - perfect, my children, perfect!’ Ben Zion actually clapped his hands. ‘Get the crate off, you lot. Master Satyrus, you are ever welcome in my house - you are as strong as my strongest servant, and I might not have got this done without you.’

Satyrus stood up, for the first time seeing where he was - a handsome round room, quite large, with the feeling of a temple. Scrolls in pigeonholes as far as the eye could see, and the crate now rested on an elegant dark stone plinth against a tiled wall. Satyrus rubbed his back, looking around - the ceiling was like the vault of heaven, the first mosaic he’d ever seen. ‘When did my uncle say I was coming?’ he asked, to indicate that he was not altogether foolish.

‘Ah. Today, of course. What can I say, young master? When one has the repute of a famous Hellenic athlete, a poor trader must make what use can be made, yes?’ Ben Zion handed him a steaming cup. ‘Qua-veh. An acquired taste. Nabataean. I have sent a note to your uncle that my sources from Nabataea say that One-Eye’s son invaded them, looking for tribute money, and suffered for it.’

Satyrus nodded at his carrying partner, an enormous man who wore the same tribal marks as Ben Zion. The man nodded back - comrades in fatigue and accomplishment. Then he sipped from the cup and almost spat - the stuff was bitter.

‘Put some honey in it,’ Abraham said from behind him. ‘I see my father got his money’s worth out of your visit.’ He sounded a little contemptuous. It was a tone that Satyrus would never have taken with Leon, but Ben Zion merely smiled.

‘Honey is Abraham’s answer to everything - eh? Greeks will love Jews if only we add a little honey?’ Ben Zion shrugged. Nonetheless, he helped Satyrus himself, using a heavy horn spoon to add honey. A woman appeared with a tray - an attractive young woman, unveiled, who smiled right into Satyrus’s eyes as if they were old friends.

‘Miriam! Up the stairs this instant and no more of your sluttish ways!’ Ben Zion was angry. ‘How dare you?’

‘That’s my sister,’ Abraham murmured. ‘Drink your qua-veh and look imperturbable.’

Satyrus cast a smile at the retreating Miriam, who seemed unbowed by her father’s anger. A female voice was raised from the exedra - Miriam’s mother, Satyrus had no doubt. He didn’t understand a word of Hebrew, but he would have bet a dozen silver owls that the words ‘what will the neighbours think’ had just been shouted.

Ben Zion turned back with a shrug that seemed at odds with his display of rage - all an act? ‘My daughter. The apple of my eye. Beautiful - is she not? Come, be frank, Hellene. Esther, Ruth, Hannah - all fine girls. But Miriam is like Sophia incarnate.’

‘Except for the lack of wisdom,’ Abraham whispered.

‘Bah! I heard that. Listen, my atheist scapegrace, this Hellene has come to my poor shop to require your service in the phalanx of the city. Eh?’ He looked at Satyrus.

Abraham grinned like a fool. ‘Really? I thought I’d have to beg to join. Very humiliating, for our people. Asked to join? Totally different. I would be delighted to serve.’

‘Delighted enough to find ten more like you?’ Satyrus asked. ‘Who can furnish their own panoply to Philokles’ standards?’

‘Ah! Armourers will grow rich all over the city!’ Ben Zion said. Both hands tangled in his beard. ‘How lucky that Leon and I own most of them.’ He nodded. ‘It is as my son says, young master. We hate to beg - but invited? I doubt you’ll find fewer than fifty.’

‘Philokles in command? That’s a frightening thought.’ Abraham laughed.

Satyrus smiled, and then frowned. ‘You could die,’ he said suddenly, unsure how to approach the matter. ‘This is real.’

Ben Zion nodded curtly. ‘War causes death? In Greece, this may be news. In Israel, we already know what war does.’ He nodded to his son. ‘See to it that you do us honour.’

Abraham nodded. He bowed respectfully to his father. ‘I will.’

‘I know,’ Ben Zion said. He turned away suddenly. ‘Your Hellene friend should see this, since it is the triumph of our two peoples, working together.’ He had turned away to hide emotion, and Abraham busied himself with the cups, leaving an embarrassed Satyrus to fend for himself.

He and the giant Hebrew lifted the crate straight up, over their heads, and then carefully off the gleaming bronze that lay beneath. Before the box was clear of the thing, Satyrus had an idea what it was.

‘A machine!’ he said, in awe.

‘More than a machine,’ Ben Zion said. Indeed, it looked like two great tablets of bronze - but on the backs, there were hundreds of gears and cogs and several different handles that could be pulled. The sheer complexity of it boggled the mind.

‘What does it do?’ Satyrus asked.

Ben Zion shook his head. ‘It calculates all the festivals and holy days,’ he said. ‘See the stars? See the moon? Do you know your astronomy?’

‘Well enough to handle a boat,’ Satyrus said.

Ben Zion paid him the compliment of a glance of respect. ‘That is an accomplishment for a boy your age. You Greeks are not as ignorant as some peoples. So what star is that?’

‘I assume this is Orion’s Belt,’ Satyrus said, and then they were exchanging star positions and turning levers. A button was pressed, and the calculator whirred, gears moving inside gears, and then the dials moved.

‘By Zeus and all the gods,’ Satyrus said enthusiastically. ‘It’s more than just a festival calculator, isn’t it? It can predict where the stars will be. A great navigator—’

Ben Zion’s face darkened. ‘By the god, and only the god,’ he said softly. ‘This is a holy place.’

Satyrus bowed. ‘I mean no profanity, lord. Many Greeks, too, think there is but one god, of many aspects.’

‘And many Jews think their one god has at least two, or even three aspects,’ Abraham shot in, before his father could reply. ‘I think we should go and recruit more men, Satyrus. While you and my father are still friends.’

In the courtyard, Ben Zion bowed stiffly. ‘I meant no bad feeling to arise,’ he said.

Satyrus, still a little scared of the older Hebrew, bowed formally. ‘None has. I thank you for your hospitality. And the sheer marvels of your machine. Who built it?’

‘Many men - and a few women - had hands in it. Aristotle of Athens divined that the calendar wheels must needs have the same number of cogs as there were days in the calendar. A Pythagorean in Italy worked out the elliptical wheel.’

‘Elliptical wheel?’ Satyrus knew his geometry, but he had no idea what was being described.

‘Another time, Satyrus the curious. I find your company surprisingly erudite for a young barbarian idolater, and would welcome your return.’ Ben Zion bowed.

Satyrus returned the bow. ‘Everyone is someone’s barbarian idolater,’ he said. ‘And thanks for the qua-veh.’

‘I shall send a bag to your house. Have a care of my son. He’s the best of the lot.’ Ben Zion bowed again.

Abraham coloured as they went out of the gate, accompanied by Satyrus’s worthless slave. Ten courtyards further down the avenue, Abraham peeled off his wool robe and flung it to the slave, now another bearded Hellene to outward appearance. ‘That’s the best thing my father has ever said of me,’ he said, in wonder.

‘I liked him!’ Satyrus said.

‘You stood up to him. He likes that - right up until religion enters the picture. Then he doesn’t like it. But you did well. And I’m sorry for Miriam. There’s nothing sluttish about her, but she’s starved for life the way a drowning man starves for air. She claims she’ll go and serve as a hetaira to escape my mother, and sometimes, in her naivety, I fear she will.’ Abraham looked around. ‘Where are we going?’

‘Cimon’s.’ Satyrus wondered if he could do several people a favour at once. ‘Would your father let Miriam see my sister?’

Abraham raised an eyebrow. ‘Your sister is not exactly a byword for genteel behaviour,’ he said. ‘But she is the same age and she and Miriam would probably start their own phalanx together.’ He nodded. ‘I’ll try it on my mother. I should have thought of it myself. You liked her?’

‘I scarcely saw her,’ Satyrus said. Not quite the truth. He’d seldom seen anyone he so instantly liked. Like Amastris.

Queens and Jews, Satyrus thought to himself. I really have to find a nice Greek girl somewhere.

‘I can’t seat all these!’ he said. But he smiled, seeing a great evening and a pile of silver.

‘May I see Thrassylus?’ Satyrus asked the porter, and the great man was sent for and arrived in heartbeats.

‘Master Satyrus?’ he asked.

‘Thrassylus, Antigonus One-Eye and his golden son are coming with a mighty army to burn fair Alexandria to the ground,’ Satyrus declaimed. ‘I need to address your patrons from the stage.’

Thrassylus bowed. ‘Your uncle had already mentioned something of the sort,’ he said. ‘The stage awaits.’

Satyrus walked in, followed by two files of Jewish men, most of whom were quite familiar with Cimon’s. He walked straight up the steps to the wooden stage, where musicians and other performers were commonplace. He stood on the stage and drew his sword, and silence fell over the whole tiled room, punctuate by a buzz of gossip.

‘Demetrios the Golden is two weeks’ march away,’ he said. ‘Every man in this room is a citizen. Demetrios means to destroy all we have - all we hold dear. Our temples, our hearths, our homes. Demetrios will sell our women into slavery and we will be sent to foreign places - if we preserve our own freedom.’ Satyrus had thought his speech out carefully, like the orator he wanted to be. So now he pointed at Abraham and the men seated around him. ‘The Jews will fight. They know freedom - and they know slavery. Look at them - twenty of the richest boys in this town, and they will go to be the front rank of the new phalanx.’ Satyrus raised his sword. ‘Greeks? Macedonians? Hellenes? Are we the worse men? The greater cowards? I will go! I will go with the new phalanx. And you? Anyone out there?’

One young man had the courage to stand up. ‘But I’m a Macedonian!’ he said. He was Amyntas, son of Philip Enhedrion, household officer at the palace. What he meant was that if he was going to fight, his father would find him a place with the other pure-blood Macedonians. ‘And - aren’t you exiled?’

Satyrus shook his head, sword still held out. ‘Bullshit, Amyntas. You are no more Macedonian than Abraham. You, sir, are Alexandrian. Now, get off your arse and fight for our city!’ In his head, he considered that coming to Cimon’s perhaps wasn’t the best way to keep the low profile that Lord Ptolemy had required of him.

Theodorus was sharing his couch with a flute girl, and he suddenly rose up, a little drunk and flushed. ‘My father will kill me. Don’t we have an army to do this, Satyrus?’

Satyrus was still holding out the sword, steady, unwavering, like a male Athena. The sword said, symbolically, that he was judging them. And they were reacting as if they feared his judgment.

‘Defend yourself, Theo. This is our hour. This is when we stand up for the city that nurtured us. I’ve only been here three years, but this is my home, and when I see the foundations of the lighthouse from the deck of the Golden Lotus I know that this is the place that I will defend. Who will stand with me?’

Theo sneered. ‘Who commands this phalanx? Is this the foreign phalanx that my father laughs at on his way to the sea wall?’ Young men were stirring on their couches.

‘Foreign? If your Macedonian father means that the rank and file were born here, then he has the right of it. We will be the front rank of the Phalanx of Aegypt. Philokles the Spartan will lead us and train us. But you - every man here - you train at the gymnasium. You can afford the fullest panoply - better than any mercenary and better trained than some Pellan farm boy who has never wrestled a fall. Stand up! Flex those muscles! Show your elders that we aren’t soft!’ Satyrus spoke to the room in general, but his eyes were on Dionysius the Beautiful, who flirted with him and wrote verses about his sister’s breasts.

Theo stood up. He was swaying. ‘My father will kill me,’ he said. ‘Can I come and live at your house?’ But when his hands were steady, he said, ‘I will serve.’

‘Fuck, I’ll serve too,’ Amyntas said, and stood by his couch.

Dionysius, the handsomest young man in Alexandria, and one of the richest, smiled - and stood. ‘If I’m willing to put my body between Demetrios and this city,’ he said, ‘then the rest of you should be with me.’ He smiled wickedly. ‘You all have so much less to lose.’

Dionysius was the deciding vote, if it had been an assembly. Suddenly all the young men were standing, and the older ones - most of them already soldiers, looked around, muttering. Some applauded, but others looked angry. Satyrus did a quick count and found that he had eighty-six adherents.

He took them as a mob to the parade ground, the keener boys attempting to march and failing utterly. He handed them over to Philokles, who kept a straight face and made the Spartan salute.

‘I need Theo and Dio and Abraham,’ he said. ‘For recruiting.’

‘Carry on,’ said the voice of Ares. Then Philokles grabbed his shoulder. ‘I take it that every patron of Cimon’s saw you?’

‘Yes,’ Satyrus said, defiantly. ‘I told you I was going there.’

‘You are a man now, and not a boy. But if they saw you, they will start adding things together. Understand?’

Satyrus nodded. ‘I understand. I’m at risk.’

‘Good lad. Watch yourself. Your uncles are probably all starting at shadows.’