Tyrant: Force of Kings

by Christian Cameron

  ‘Herakles, how can a man live, being so ugly? You have met him, Mithridates?’ Cassander’s eyes were moving rapidly around the room. ‘What did he have to say to you, my dear?’

  Mithridates bowed. ‘I have met him. My lord, I must make my introductions to Philip of Babylon. Phiale, you are the most beautiful woman in the room.’ His eyes lay on hers for a moment, and she sighed at the unexpected compliment. Mithridates stepped away into the throng, and Cassander pulled her wrist until they were beside a pillar – the closest to privacy a king could manage at the edge of a great wedding.

  ‘What did he say to you?’ Cassander hissed.

  ‘You know him, my lord?’ Phiale asked.

  ‘I know him, my dear. I have – hmm – made use of him in my day.’ Cassander smiled, a handsome, charming man at the height of his powers. ‘You are no friend of his, I take it?’

  Phiale smiled brilliantly at Seleucus’s brother, causing the younger man to spill some wine. ‘I hate him. He used me – ill.’

  ‘Then you’ll be pleased to know that he’s living his last hour,’ Cassander said. He gave her a thin smile. ‘He is a dangerous man who has outlived his usefulness. He arranged this wedding, and Lysimachos wants him gone. Lysimachos wants this city and its trade and its back door into Asia to lie like a woman, ready to his will – not to have ideas of its own. Stratokles must go. He is too good.’ Cassander sighed. ‘So good that I will miss him. Even when he fails, he owns up. Few of my tools are so apt to the hand as he.’

  Phiale gave Cassander a brief look. ‘And Satyrus of Tanais?’ she asked.

  Cassander laughed. The Priestess of Hera was at the head of her procession, visible just across the temple portico, and the ceremony was ready. His laugh carried easily over the temple, and heads turned. ‘Lysimachos will settle him,’ Cassander said.

  ‘If I told you that I could rid you of him – with no repercussions?’ she asked.

  Cassander kissed her. ‘Then I would love you more, if possible, than I do now.’

  She smiled. ‘After the wedding, I will require a fast ship for Athens.’

  ‘After the wedding I had other plans for us, my dear.’ He ran a finger under her chin.

  ‘Does Socrates not say that the pleasures of revenge are more beautiful than the pleasures of love?’ Phiale asked.

  ‘Not that I’m aware of,’ Cassander said.

  ‘He should have,’ Phiale answered.

  ‘Well?’ Lucius asked. ‘Do you have a brilliant plan?’

  Stratokles didn’t have the energy to laugh. He was angry, and under the anger was the start of a bleak depression. How could Amastris have betrayed him? He wanted to confront her – but that was madness. If he was wrong, she would be very angry, and if he was right, she would kill him.

  ‘No brilliant plan. Just start walking. Come on.’ He began to walk with a purposeful stride towards the inner temple. He was careful to keep his head down, as if he was listening attentively to Lucius.

  ‘They won’t just let us walk away,’ Lucius said.

  ‘They may,’ Stratokles opined. ‘Listen – the procession of priests is at the portico. Custom holds men rigid – better than chains. No one will interrupt the ceremony. Keep walking.’

  A few steps from the inner temple – almost safe – he saw the flicker of a cloak and his peripheral vision caught a nose, an eyebrow shape.

  ‘Zeus Meilichios,’ Stratokles said. ‘It’s the doctor.’

  Leon paused for a moment, savouring the weight of the white stones in his hand. He examined the board carefully, and then chose to make his capture rather than move. He took another white stone off the board and rattled them in his hand.

  Ptolemy laughed his gruff, farmer’s laugh. ‘You know,’ he said, rolling his knucklebones, ‘I have courtiers who know enough to lose to me.’

  Leon watched the king roll a four. ‘You should play with them, then,’ he said.

  Ptolemy moved two stones and removed one of Leon’s black stones. He hesitated a long time over his fourth move, and finally, with enormous hesitation, he advanced a single stone. ‘It’s different,’ he said.

  Leon rolled his knucklebone without a moment’s hesitation. It came up a six. As the king of Aegypt groaned, he moved his forces swiftly, isolating Ptolemy’s latest, hesitant attack, capturing two white stones, and leaving the result of the game in no doubt.

  Ptolemy shook his head. ‘More wine?’

  Leon shook his, too. ‘No. I have all my accounts to review tomorrow, and ships in the yard to inspect.’ He rose. ‘I could tell you how to play better,’ he said.

  ‘Bah, you could no doubt tell me how to run my kingdom better,’ Ptolemy said. ‘I recommend you don’t.’ He took a drink of wine while slaves rushed about – some getting Leon’s sandals, others his mantle.

  Leon paused for a moment. ‘Did you ever think, when you were fighting in the Kush with Alexander, that someday you’d have all this?’

  Ptolemy grinned. ‘Remember when Kineas took me prisoner? I didn’t know you then – were you there?’

  Leon nodded. ‘I was at the fire when Philokles brought you in.’

  ‘There was a fine man,’ Ptolemy said.

  ‘The best,’ Leon agreed.

  ‘I think of it often. When I was taken – after the skirmish – I was sure I was for it. The locals always tortured prisoners to death – we’d find them staked out on the roads. I thought that I was a dead man – dead for nothing, in a lost campaign, in a particularly nasty way. Then Philokles picked me up, and he was a Greek, and I knew I was going to live.’ The king took a long drink of wine. ‘But if I’d been taken by your Sakje – well, it would have been pretty ugly, eh?’

  Leon shrugged. ‘Hard to tell. But yes – especially young people. They like to see what they can do.’

  Ptolemy swirled the wine in his golden cup. ‘I think of it often. Because – when things look bad, I think, Thank the gods, I could be old bones at Marakanda now.’

  ‘Very Pythagorean of you,’ Leon said.

  Ptolemy shrugged. ‘I do more thinking about … about things. Old age, I guess. How’s your nephew?’

  Leon’s ‘nephew’ was Satyrus of Tanais. They weren’t related in any real way, but Leon had been part of Satyrus’s father’s household, and Leon had taken Satyrus into his own household, and all the world called them uncle and nephew.

  ‘Thriving, since the siege. He’s up in the Euxine, seeing to his own people.’ Leon smiled. ‘I’ll change my mind to the tune of half a cup of wine.’

  Instantly, a slave placed a cup in his hand.

  He tasted it – good Chian wine, but nothing fancy.

  ‘He’s not,’ Ptolemy said. ‘Galon told me this morning. He’s headed back to Rhodes – probably there now.’

  Leon, whose intelligence service was one of the finest in the world, was surprised. ‘He’s got the grain fleet? So early? Whatever for?’

  Ptolemy nodded. ‘That’s just what I’m asking you. It’s not that I distrust the boy, he’s served me as if he was a subject – more loyal than half my captains. But the last time his grain fleet sailed, he landed three thousand soldiers and seized control of the Propontus for a year. Zeus – he must have made a fortune on tolls.’

  Leon smiled. ‘He did. I have reason to know.’

  ‘So,’ Ptolemy said. ‘What’s the game this time?’

  Leon stared at his wine. ‘He hasn’t told me,’ he said, and there was anger in his voice. ‘How many ships, have you heard?’ he asked mildly.

  ‘Forty grain ships from Tanais and Pantecapaeaum, another ten from Olbia, and fifteen more from Heraklea. The word is that he’ll take half of his grain to Rhodes and sell the other half in Athens.’ Ptolemy sat back, having delivered his thunderbolt.

  ‘Athens?’ Leon asked. ‘We don’t do business there now. Demetrios holds Athen
s.’

  ‘Precisely,’ Ptolemy said. ‘He’s not … contemplating a change?’

  Leon sipped his wine. Ptolemy was the best dissimulator he knew – the king had played two games merely to put him at ease for this moment.

  ‘Poseidon,’ Leon swore, ‘I would never believe it of him.’

  Ptolemy nodded. ‘Good – good. That’s what I needed to hear. Galon had a theory – I’ll tell you as one suspicious bastard to another – that when Amastris jilted him, Satyrus had to go running to the other side. She’s marrying Lysimachos – you know that.’

  ‘I imagine everyone in the Mediterranean knows that now,’ Leon said. ‘But he – that is, my nephew – has known that she has other interests – well, for a year. Perhaps more. Before the siege, anyway.’ He paused. ‘You know that by the terms of the truce after the siege, my nephew cannot engage in open war against Demetrios for one full year.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Ptolemy. ‘My brother helped negotiate it. But at the end of the year, I need him – at my side, in spirit if not in the flesh.’ The king clapped him on the shoulder. ‘With Satyrus’s fleet, the fleet of Rhodos, and my fleet, we can keep Antigonus and Demetrios at arm’s length.’ He nodded. ‘If Satyrus were to go over to Demetrios …’

  Leon rose to his feet. ‘I’ll get you a firm answer, lord. But don’t accept gossip. Satyrus has never given you cause. You allow your captains to openly court Cassander and Antigonus – you allow companies of mercenaries to cross the lines when their contracts expire. By Artemis, you let your own brother flirt with Demetrios.’

  ‘My brother doesn’t have twenty brand-new triremes and a squadron of penteres building right here in my own port,’ the king said. ‘I’d be a lot more careful of him if he had the money and the power that young Satyrus controls now. And the name. Since the siege, your nephew has a name.’

  Leon nodded.

  ‘I’m not voicing these suspicions anywhere but this room. Herakles, Leon! I don’t want to distrust the boy. But these are bad times. I have to raise taxes this year. Seleucus and Lysimachos want me to invade Syria. The bastards want me to take the brunt of Antigonus’s forces while they whittle down his provinces. Cassander just wants us all to die. Sometimes I wonder if I’m on the wrong side. Am I the only king who doesn’t want anything more? I want to rule Aegypt. No one could rule the whole world – not me, not Antigonus, and not Alexander.’ The king combed his beard with his fingers and a slave poured him another cup of wine.

  Leon finished his wine and rose. ‘The fellahin can’t take much more taxation,’ he said. ‘Invading Syria would be a mistake. Although something might be done with the Jews. They love you – and hate Antigonus.’

  Ptolemy nodded. ‘I don’t want Syria. I don’t want to raise taxes. Do you know how much the expenses of war have climbed since Alexander died?’ He looked at Leon for a long moment and then laughed. ‘Of course you do.’

  Leon turned his cup over. ‘I’ll see what’s going on with Satyrus. I’m sure it is innocent.’

  Ptolemy nodded. ‘I pray it is. But who takes thirty warships to do something innocent? I dread one of those lightning strokes that changes the game. Satyrus wouldn’t see himself as a third side, would he?’

  Leon sighed. ‘I hope not,’ he said.

  ‘The doctor,’ Lucius said, drawing his blade. Two rows of columns hid them from the wedding, but the first sound of combat would break the spell, turn every head.

  Sophokles of Athens, a man who studied medicine at the Lyceum, a man who accepted money to kill – quite possibly the most dangerous man in the Hellenic world. He came to a stop and leaned against a pillar, his long, festive cloak covering him – and any weapons he bore – from head to foot.

  ‘Stratokles,’ he said.

  ‘Sophokles,’ the informer nodded. ‘The blessings of Lady Hera on you and your doings this day.’

  The doctor nodded. ‘And yours, my dear. Cassander has given you up – traded you like a prime slave to Lysimachos. Who has given me a good purse of gold to remove you from the game.’

  Lucius had already seen the men coming up the steps.

  Stratokles shrugged. ‘I won’t pretend that the whole matter doesn’t make me angry,’ he said. ‘On balance, I’ve served well.’

  Sophokles nodded. He looked at Lucius. ‘Steady on, there, sir. If you threaten them, we could have trouble. Put that blade away.’ To Stratokles, he said, ‘Cassander’s decision to dispense with you threatens all of us. On the other hand, I owe you for Alexandria. You abandoned me.’

  Stratokles shrugged. ‘You were in place, close to the king, and undetected. I had no way of knowing that Phiale would sell you to Satyrus and Leon. Besides, sir – this is ancient history. If you will kill me, then get it done.’

  ‘I don’t think that Phiale actually sold me,’ the doctor said. ‘But I wanted to hear your denial. I tried for Melitta – the girl. Satyrus of Tanais’s sister. I failed, but it was close. The very gods protect that pair.’

  Stratokles managed a smile, despite the circumstances. ‘The blood and gold I’ve wasted on them – Herakles holds them in the palm of his hand.’ He shook his head. ‘Satyrus is quite likeable.’

  ‘There remains an enormous price on his head,’ the doctor said.

  ‘Surely not? Eumeles is dead and rotted. At Satyrus’s hand, I believe.’ Stratokles was trying to calculate – did the doctor mean to kill him? This was a curiously long conversation, and even he would hesitate to kill him inside the sacred precincts.

  ‘Eumeles is not the customer. He was, but the contract now is far larger. I wondered if you would join me in taking it up.’ The doctor bowed his head, one peer to another. ‘You have resources that I lack. People will deal with you who will not deal with me.’

  ‘That’s a sad comment on one of us, doctor,’ Stratokles said. ‘I don’t suppose you’d like to give me time to consider?’

  The doctor glanced at the wedding. ‘No,’ he said.

  Stratokles nodded, more to himself than to the doctor. ‘Does your contract include young Lucius here?’ he asked.

  Sophokles nodded. ‘I’m afraid so.’

  Lucius looked around. ‘I’m right here, and I’m pretty sure I can do the lot of these rabble.’

  The doctor looked at Stratokles. ‘I’d really rather not have a demonstration either way.’

  Stratokles had made some terrible errors in the last weeks – he must have missed a thousand clues of the coming betrayal – but just at that moment he didn’t care. A life of dissimulation had brought him to this – death on the steps of a temple, at the hand of a former ally, at the behest of his own master.

  He shrugged, and mostly he was tired. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘I’d like to save Lucius. He’s been very loyal, and he is no part of our little ways – he’s a Latin. Let him go.’

  The doctor looked him over. ‘I’m proposing that we let you both go, and you join us,’ he said.

  Stratokles shook his head. It was impulsive, but by all the furies, he was done with that kind of life. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to kill young Satyrus for money.’

  The doctor nodded. ‘I could see you heading there,’ he said, ‘but I wouldn’t have believed it. You’ve lost your edge.’

  ‘So much so that I will stand here and let you kill me,’ Stratokles said, with a smile that he hoped was noble. ‘I’ll even walk down and cross over the boundary into those trees, without a struggle – if you let Lucius go. No impiety for you. No religious impurity over your heads.’

  The doctor looked him over. ‘You are a surprising man,’ he said. He glanced at Lucius. ‘Go,’ he said. ‘He has bought your life. Don’t indulge in some petty fake nobility. Run.’

  Lucius’s only farewell to his master of ten years was a raised eyebrow. Then he turned and walked away.

  Stratokles didn’t know what he felt. Relief, at h
aving accomplished something good? Or complete failure – he was to die. Die. Right now. It made his knees tremble, and he forced himself to think of all the other times he’d cheated death. Really, for a man of his profession, he’d done rather well. He squared his shoulders. ‘Let’s take a walk, doctor,’ he said.

  They strolled together, down the steps and across the open ground where all two hundred of the visiting dignitaries could watch them. The sight caused many different reactions that Stratokles couldn’t see – Phiale smiled in a way that made her ugly, and Amastris turned her face away, the joy of her day of triumph clouded, and a number of men Stratokles had made felt the churn of the stomach that tells a man he has done very, very wrong. But no one stirred a foot to save him.

  He crossed the boundary wall, and vanished.

  Miriam pulled the cloak tighter around her shoulders and raised an eyebrow at her brother. ‘Where in God’s name are we?’ she asked.

  They were looking out through a ruined rower’s port in the side of a damaged penteres that was moving slowly. They’d been put in a locked cabin, almost like a cage, too small for them to stand or sit, in the stern of the lowest rowing deck – really just a set of heavy boards nailed across the tiny space, sometimes called the aft-tabernacle. The helmsman’s feet were just over their heads.

  Abraham put his eye to the small opening again. ‘Asia, I’m sure of it. I don’t know the headland, but we’re close to Cos, or I’m a gentile – don’t ask me how I know, dear sister. I know.’

  Miriam was afraid – terrified, really – but she had long practice in not showing terror. ‘Are we to be sold as slaves?’ she asked.

  Abraham put an arm around her. ‘I don’t think so, Miriam. We’re citizens of Rhodes – and hostages. Killing us would be … well, it would be insane.’

  At the end of the siege of Rhodos, Demetrios had insisted on a hundred hostages, and he had chosen them from among Satyrus’s closest friends. He had demanded the payment of a tribute and, most importantly, the hostages were to guarantee that neither Rhodes nor the Euxine cities took an active role against him in the field or at sea.