Hama sat up on his couch. ‘I see it!’ he said. ‘By appearing to offend One-Eye, it seems possible that Satyrus is. . available.’
‘Or mad,’ Coenus said. ‘Niocles can report it either way, and Antigonus might choose to keep his distance from our merchantmen this summer.’
‘Ares,’ Crax spat. ‘What do we do next summer?’
Satyrus raised his cup and slopped a libation. ‘Next summer is in the hands of a different Moira,’ he said. ‘Let us remember the Fates and Fortunes, gentlemen. This summer will be tough enough.’
‘You are determined to accompany the fleet?’ Coenus asked, for the fifth time.
Satyrus shrugged.
It was morning — a glorious spring morning. From the height of the palace towers, he could see men ploughing in their fields beyond the walls, and far off to the east, an Assagetae horse-trader riding briskly west towards the city with a string of stout ponies raising the dust behind him. Closer to hand, a gaggle of girls went to the public fountain in the middle of the agora (sixty talents for the fountain of marble and bronze, a hundred and seventy for the well, the piping and the engineer and the workmen to dig down into the rock and make a channel so that the waterworks would provide water all year round).
Satyrus watched them draw water; watched the shape of them as they leaned out over the water to draw it, watched as one young woman drank from the pool provided for the purpose and then washed her legs.
Why can’t I just summon her? What a fool I am — as if my sister actually cares. And who am I harming? Hyacinth takes no harm from me.
Because I know perfectly well it’s wrong, of course. I’m not avoiding my slave-mistress to please my sister. I’m doing it because it is right.
I think.
‘I don’t think I have your attention,’ Coenus said from a very great distance.
‘You do, of course,’ Satyrus said. He forced his eyes back over the parapet and onto his father’s friend. ‘But I do request you say that last bit again.’
‘I thought that you were going to take an embassage to Heraklea this spring,’ Coenus said.
‘And so I shall,’ said the king.
‘You mean, you’ll cut a more dashing figure with a war fleet than with some ambassadors,’ Coenus said. ‘Your prospective father-in-law — now, I’ll note, the “king” of Heraklea — may not see it that way.’
Satyrus disliked having his mind read. He disliked it all the more when he felt that he was being mocked — as all of his father’s friends tended to do, all the time. His sister Melitta called it the ‘conspiracy of the old’. In fact, Coenus was exactly right. Satyrus wanted to see Amastris with twenty ships at his back and resplendent in armour — perhaps fresh from a victory or two.
‘Coenus, with what we spend on the fleet, we might as well get some use from it,’ Satyrus said.
Coenus grunted. ‘You’ve got me there, lord.’
‘And I’m the best navarch, if it comes to a fight,’ Satyrus said. ‘You’ve said so yourself.’
‘If you get into a fight with Antigonus One-Eye’s fleet, all the skill in the world won’t be worth a fuck,’ Coenus said. Then he shrugged. ‘I’m sorry, lad. I’m not myself. You are the fittest navarch. I dislike the both of you gone at the same time — you at sea and your sister out on the Sea of Grass. And neither of you with an heir old enough to rule.’
‘If we both die,’ Satyrus said, ‘feel free to run the place yourself.’ He grinned. ‘You already do!’
Coenus grunted. ‘This is not the retirement I had planned,’ he said.
Three days, and Satyrus did not summon his concubine — bought in secret and enjoyed with considerable guilt even before Melitta discovered her. He and Melitta were correct with each other, and no more, and neither offered any form of apology.
But on the fourth day, Satyrus sent the horse. It had started over the horse, a descendant of his father’s wonderful warhorse and a fine prospect for a three-year-old, with heavy haunches and a lively spirit — the same slate-grey, silvery hide, the same black mane and tail. A fine horse, and perhaps more. . Thanatos had been a great horse.
Both of them wanted this new horse, and they had wagered him on an archery contest — itself foolish, because Satyrus knew that he was never his sister’s match with a bow.
But he conceded defeat and sent her the horse, and then watched from his balcony as a groom took the horse to her in the courtyard, where her people were loading her wagons for her expedition to the Sea of Grass.
He wasn’t going to let her leave until they were friends again.
She looked up from a tally-stick, eyed the young stallion greedily and ran a hand over his flanks. Then she shook her head and went back to her packing.
‘Look up!’ Satyrus said quietly.
But she didn’t.
That night, he invited her to share dinner, as it was her last night before leaving.
She declined.
Satyrus went downstairs to the nursery, where his three-year-old nephew was playing with his nurses.
‘Hello,’ said Kineas. He had bright blue eyes.
‘Bow to the king, lad,’ said the older nurse. She was Sauromatae, tall and probably as dangerous as most of the bodyguards. She flashed Satyrus a grin.
Kineas bowed. ‘Will I be king someday?’ he asked.
Satyrus shrugged. ‘If I don’t get a move on.’
‘What does that mean?’ Kineas asked.
Satyrus shook his head. He often made the mistake of answering his sister’s son as if he were an adult — or as if he were too young to understand the complexities of his position. Kineas was three, and already wise.
‘Would you like to go riding tomorrow?’ Satyrus asked.
‘Only after I watch my mother ride. . away.’ The fractional pause told Satyrus too much — and made him angry.
He played with the boy until the sun began to set, romping on the carpets and helping him shoot his toy war engine, a tiny ballista that the sailors had made for the boy. It was really quite dangerous, as Satyrus discovered when one of his shots stuck a finger’s-span deep in a shield on the wall.
‘Oh!’ he said. He’d given the boy the ballista himself. ‘Kineas, I have to take this away.’
The boy looked at him a moment and his jaw worked silently.
He was trying not to cry. ‘I didn’t- I am careful!’ he said. He grabbed his uncle’s knee and raised his small face. His eyes were already looking red around the edges. ‘Please? I am careful.’
Satyrus took a deep breath. Someone had to take care- ‘No,’ he said. ‘That is, yes- Oh, don’t cry! Listen, lad. This is a little too powerful for a boy your age. I didn’t know. We can play with it together, but I can’t let you play with it by yourself.’
The sun had fully set before Kineas was content. He wasn’t a spoiled boy, or a bad one — he was merely a bright lad who spent most of his day with a pair of nurses. He deserved better.
Satyrus got a big hug before he left, and found that his anger was fresh and new. He stood at the entrance to the wing that led to his sister’s quarters for as long as it took his heart to beat twenty times, and then, common sense winning out over rage, he walked away.
He went into his own wing, closed the door to his apartments and picked up a cup of wine.
‘Lord?’ asked Helios.
‘Send for Hyacinth,’ Satyrus said.
And instantly regretted it. Anger at his sister did not justify excess.
But in Hyacinth’s embrace, he lost his anger. It was replaced by sadness. Satyrus had made love often enough to know the difference. He made little effort to please Hyacinth. She, on the other hand, made a dedicated effort to please him.
She was, after all, a slave.
2
Melitta’s column rode out through the landward gates of Tanais the next morning, and Satyrus stood with his three-year-old nephew’s hand clutched in his own and watched the procession.
She stopped her horse when she c
ame up to them and dismounted with an easy grace. She leaned down and kissed her son. ‘I’ll be back soon,’ she said. ‘I love you.’
‘I love you!’ Kineas said, and threw his arms around her neck and clutched her as if he was drowning.
‘Kineas,’ she said, after a pause. ‘Kineas.’
The boy relinquished his hold and put his arms by his sides. ‘Sorry.’
‘Thank you.’ Melitta looked at her brother. ‘Take good care of him,’ she said.
‘I always do,’ he answered, and wished the words unsaid as soon as they had crossed his lips.
She was mounted and gone before he could think of anything more to say.
Satyrus waited for his ships to sail with the eagerness of a child anticipating a feast, or a holiday from school. But unlike a child, he had plenty to fill his days. He sat with Theron, Coenus and Idomenes for hours, going over long lists of items — of luxury and necessity — that they needed from Alexandria and Rhodes.
‘We need more smiths,’ Theron insisted.
‘Temerix is probably the finest smith in the wheel of the world!’ Satyrus said.
‘That may be, but men now wait years for him to make a blade.’ Coenus shook his head. ‘His very excellence has blinded us all to the scarcity of other smiths.’
‘He has apprentices,’ Satyrus put in.
‘He has twenty apprentices. We need twenty smiths — just in the Tanais countryside. And bronzesmiths, and more goldsmiths.’ Theron shook his head. ‘We need to have the ability to manufacture our own armour.’
‘We need tanners,’ Idomenes said quietly.
‘Tanners?’ Satyrus asked.
‘Tanais is growing as a place where animals are slaughtered and hides are gathered,’ Idomenes said. He held up a bundle of tally-sticks. ‘Last month alone, from the Feast of Demeter to the Feast of Apollo, we gathered in six hundred and forty hides of bulls and big cows. If we had a tanner, we’d make ten times the profit on them.’
‘Tanner means a tannery and a lot of stink,’ Coenus said. He rubbed his beard and his eye met Satyrus’, and both of them smiled.
‘Beats the hell out of being an exile in Alexandria, doesn’t it?’ Coenus asked him, and Satyrus chuckled.
‘It does, at that. But somehow I never thought that being a king would involve quite so much maths.’ He laughed. ‘Very well, Idomenes. Your point is excellent. We need a master tanner, some slave tanners and some silver to build a tannery.’
‘Slaves?’ Idomenes asked.
‘I’ll buy ’em as slaves and free them here,’ Satyrus said. ‘Good way to start.’ He looked around, grinned and said, ‘Basically, you want me to buy everything on the skilled-labour market.’
Theron nodded. ‘Where would we put the tannery?’ he asked.
‘Up the coast. There’s that black stream up by Askam — flows all year round. Stinks already.’ Idomenes was making a catalogue of all the terrain in the kingdom, and he knew every landmark within five days’ ride. He raised his eyes, found no disagreement and wrote a note on his wax tablet.
‘If we all die, let’s leave the kingdom to Idomenes,’ Satyrus said.
Idomenes’ head came up. The other men were all smiling. He flinched.
‘Hey!’ Satyrus said. ‘I’m not Eumeles!’ He leaned back and held out his cup for cider, which a servant poured for him.
‘Lord, such a comment. . scares me.’ Idomenes had served the old tyrant, a ruthless man who taxed and killed without meaning or warning, bent on making himself a major player in the game of succession to Alexander.
‘I merely meant that you seem to do this better than the rest of us,’ Satyrus said.
‘I’ll just write my notes up and make a smooth tablet, shall I, my lord?’ Idomenes clutched his tablets to him as if to protect him from wrath, and slipped out.
Theron shook his head. ‘He’s not even slimy. He’s a good man. Why does he act like a snake?’
Satyrus shrugged.
Coenus pursed his lips, rubbed his beard and took a drink. ‘He lived too long with snakes, I think. Never mind — he’ll get used to us.’ He took a stylus from behind his ear and made a note in his own tablet. ‘Where do you think Diodorus is, anyway?’
Theron shrugged. ‘Idomenes has the latest letter — but you’ve seen it.’
‘I haven’t,’ said Satyrus. He turned to his hypaspist, who stood by the wall. ‘Helios, fetch Idomenes back and ask him to bring the latest letter from Diodorus.’
Helios bowed and vanished through the door.
‘You’re spending a fortune on your fleet,’ Coenus remarked, looking at a list.
‘Yes,’ Satyrus said. He was tempted to add it’s mine to spend, but he bit it back. The ‘conspiracy of the old’ made him react like a callow youth, but he wasn’t so callow any more.
Coenus shrugged. ‘Well — it’s yours to spend.’ He looked up when Satyrus made a choking sound. ‘Artillery?’
‘We were already getting weapons for the towers,’ Satyrus said.
‘Draco and Amyntas are installing the new pieces today,’ Theron put in. ‘I saw Draco on the wharf, covered in shavings.’
Satyrus glanced around. ‘I want to see that!’ Then he sat back and fiddled with his belt of gold links. ‘When we’ve finished here, of course.’
The two older men laughed. They were still laughing when Idomenes came back with a sheepskin bladder of scrolls. ‘Letters from Babylon?’ he asked.
‘Latest from Diodorus?’ Satyrus asked.
‘Came yesterday. My apologies, lord — I read it out for Theron while you were playing with the ambassadors.’
To Satyrus, King of the Bosporus, and Melitta, the Lady of the Assagetae, and the rest of you: greetings.
We appear to be in for another summer without fighting — a mercenary’s dream. Demetrios seems to be in Greece, facing Cassander and ‘liberating’ Athens. It occurs to me that if Demetrios really does take Athens, Stratokles will suddenly be tempted too — and Heraklea could be a dangerous ally. But I’m an old and very suspicious man.
‘Lord, it would appear that Demetrios has entered Athens.’ Idomenes raised his eyes from the scroll. ‘We have that news from several sources.’
Coenus nodded. ‘All the more reason for you to hurry down to Heraklea.’
Antigonus is rumoured to be building up his fleet and preparing to have a go at Aegypt. If so, Ptolemy is more than ready for him — he declined a contract with us, saying that we cost too much! So he must be confident, the old skinflint. But Antigonus is serious, and he’s busy buying the alliance of all the pirates in Cilicia and Ionia. Rumour in Alexandria before I left suggested that your old friend Demostrate declined his offer.
Demostrate was the king of the pirates of the Chersonese, and had long been an ally. His ships had been instrumental in taking Tanais from its former tyrant. ‘Thanks the gods for that,’ Coenus said. ‘Demostrate going over to Antigonus would be the end of our shipping.’
Satyrus shuddered at the thought of the golden horn being closed to his merchant ships.
I’m going to accompany an embassy to the Parni, as our squadrons have more Sakje speakers than anyone else in Babylon. I will be out of contact for several months, but I’ll see more of the world. Darius sends his greetings, as do Sitalkes and a dozen others. Keep well — I plan to retire there, lad!
Of all of them, only Diodorus — the commander of his father’s former mercenary company, the ‘Exiles’ — and Coenus and his father’s other friends still called him ‘lad’. He laughed. The letter was like having Diodorus present in the room, if only for a few lines.
‘Who are the Parni?’ Satyrus asked.
‘No idea,’ Theron answered, and even Idomenes shook his head.
Two hours on the grain tax, and more on warehouse space in Olbia — he really needed to visit Olbia, and soon. Eumenes the archon was an old family friend, but he was a gentleman farmer, not a merchant, and the town merchants were none too happy. The warehouse space for
the grain tax was so damp and rat-infested that they were losing money.
A farewell meal was given for Antigonus’ ambassador. Satyrus was pleasant, and Theron was the picture of a gentleman and former Olympic athlete. Niocles was charmed and annoyed by turns.
‘You intend to send your grain to Rhodes this year, my lord?’ he asked, as the roast duck was served and the tuna steaks were removed.
Satyrus had hoped to avoid serious talk, and he saw his precious artillery slipping away. All the frames would be installed before he even got to the wharf.
Satyrus shrugged with well-feigned nonchalance. ‘Wherever we get the best price,’ he replied. ‘A matter for merchants,’ he said, hoping to chill the topic.
‘My lord would prefer if your grain bypassed Rhodes. And Alexandria.’ Niocles drank some wine. ‘Your cook is to be praised. The tuna was better than anything I had in Athens.’
‘You were in Athens, with Demetrios?’ Satyrus asked. Theron grinned and turned his head.
Niocles looked around. ‘Yes — yes, I was. It is not widely known yet that my lord has taken Athens.’
‘Perhaps not known by those who lack the proper conduits of information,’ Satyrus said with a smile. ‘So: you have Athens. And Athens needs grain.’ He nodded. ‘Take it up with my merchants,’ he said firmly.
‘Athens needs grain. As do many other cities.’ Niocles nodded. ‘I’m sure that your merchants would find it worth their while to turn west when they pass the Dardanelles.’
Satyrus shook his head. ‘My ships go where they will,’ he said. ‘Most of our cargoes go on foreign hulls anyway. Athens, for instance, buys most of Olbia’s grain.’ His voice carried the clear message — this subject is closed.
‘But you have grain of your own, lord. You are dissembling, but there are fifteen ships in the mole, all loading grain from your warehouses.’ Niocles leaned back, sure he’d scored a point.
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