Tyrant: Force of Kings

by Christian Cameron

Satyrus had no intention of telling anyone about Miriam. The complications of their relationship would only grow with sharing. And for a political animal like Polycrates – guest oath notwithstanding – such knowledge would give him immense power … and a hold over Satyrus.

  Yet again it occurred to him that what he was doing was foolish. If he did manage to see her, it would not be private. It would not be easy. And it would be all too apparent to an observer that he had come to see her.

  The safest thing would be not to see her, of course.

  Satyrus smiled. He was not going to do the safe thing. Since Rhodos, he had become familiar with his own mortality. Life was, in fact, likely to be short.

  I want her now, he thought. There may not be a tomorrow.

  ‘Piraeus,’ Polycrates said. ‘Athens.’

  And there was the port, and the Parthenons gleaming in the sun, far away atop the acropolis, one of the noblest sights in the world.

  Miranda was the last ship to come in – Kleosthenes, her captain, was the senior merchant officer from Olbia, and he wanted to see all the cargoes safe before she landed, which raised him in Satyrus’s estimation. The warships were gone – lost in the haze off Aegina – and Satyrus knew that, by now, Apollodorus and all the trierarchs were paying the oarsmen, and soon they’d be drinking, rutting, or, just possibly, visiting family ashore. He knew that Aegina provided a good few oarsmen.

  Piraeus had more piers than any other city in the world except perhaps Alexandria, and the grain fleet was expected – announced by every fishing craft who had seen them in the early morning. Two piers were cleared end to end, and all was ready – two hundred city slaves waiting in squads to help the longshoremen unload the vases of grain, wagons, donkeys – and almost at Satyrus’s feet as the Miranda pulled alongside stood Leo’s factor in Athens, Harmonius, a freed man from Alexandria. Satyrus had known him from boyhood. He was neither tall nor physically imposing, but he had a head for figures unmatched in Leon’s counting house and he had designed many of the ciphers that Leon and his men used throughout their trade. He had dark brown skin like polished leather – good expensive leather – and curly dark hair, and despite an early life of slavery – or perhaps because he’d been freed – he wore a perpetual smile that made him easy to talk to and easy to learn from; Satyrus had had his geometry from Harmonius in Tanais and Athens, before Philokles came back from campaigning with Diodorus to be his tutor.

  Satyrus waved, and Harmonius waved back, pointed Satyrus out to another man.

  ‘Wait where you are, my lord!’ he called.

  Satyrus wanted to laugh. Harmonius had flayed his backside with a stick for inattention – being called ‘my lord’ had a certain wrongness to it.

  The man with him was wearing armour. He came up the gangplank, and he and Harmonius bowed respectfully to Satyrus. ‘Lord, let me present an officer from the citadel: Lysander, son of Nicomedes of Athens. He is in charge of collecting the ship tax on foreign ships. I have explained that we owe no tax, and that this was guaranteed by Demetrios himself – and I have a letter to that effect.’

  Satyrus shrugged. ‘What seems to be the problem, Lysander? This is my grain, and I am a citizen of Athens. And you can see for yourself that half these ships are Athenian hulls with Athenian crews.’

  The young man took his helmet off and wiped his brow. Satyrus got a good look at him, and he was not as young as he had expected. He had a broad scar running across the bridge of his nose – almost like the wound Stratokles had. It was an odd, random thought.

  ‘I’m sorry, my lord, but orders are orders. The law has changed – or my captain has made an error. But we are ordered to collect the ship tax from you.’ He shrugged by way of apology.

  Satyrus felt his brow furrowing and he fought the expression, struggling to remain calm and cheerful. ‘Lad, with all the good will in the world, please tell your captain that if he persists, Harmonius here will see him in court. I’m not a difficult man, but neither am I a petty merchant, that the citadel can summon me.’ Satyrus looked at Polycrates, who nodded.

  ‘Perhaps I can help,’ Polycrates said, stepping forward for the first time. ‘You know me, sir?’

  The soldier shook his head. ‘Can’t say that I do, sir.’

  Polycrates raised an eyebrow. ‘You do go to assembly, don’t you? Very well. I’m Polycrates – priest of Herakles. I will stand surety for these cargoes until such time as Lord Demetrios can be contacted.’

  The soldier didn’t budge. ‘That would be – at least sixty talents of silver,’ he said.

  Polycrates shrugged, now openly dismissive. ‘See my steward, then. He’ll show it to you. And that’s as close as you’ll get to it until I’ve seen some people.’

  The soldier shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, but I am not going to allow this. You must stop unloading.’

  Polycrates shook his head. ‘Your pardon, son, but you are an idiot. These are important men – this grain is important to the city. Go tell your captain – that’s my friend Isokles, yes? Go tell Isokles he has the wrong end of the stick, and if he comes up to my house tonight for a cup of good wine, he can thrash it through with us. Got that, lad?’

  ‘People don’t call me “lad”,’ the man said.

  ‘I do.’ Polycrates stood his ground. ‘Who the fuck are you, and where do you get this attitude?’

  Satyrus stepped between them. ‘Clearly there’s some misunderstanding. Go back and check with your captain. I’ll wait.’

  The soldier turned on his heel and walked away, the hobnails on his sandals crackling against the gangplank.

  ‘City soldiers – ephebes and washed up mercenaries. I apologise on behalf of the city,’ Polycrates said.

  Satyrus turned to Harmonius and embraced him. ‘Old teacher – your hair’s all white!’

  Harmonius laughed. Then he looked at the soldier, now well up the pier, with his squad. ‘Even when Athens was technically at war with Alexandria, I never had this kind of trouble with cargoes.’ He shook his head. ‘I keep up on changes in the law but I’m only a metic and he wouldn’t listen to me.’

  Satyrus smiled. ‘Not to worry. As Polycrates says – some mercenary feeling a little power. Let’s get our things ashore. Then I’ll practise my lyre while I wait for him.’

  ‘You can’t be serious,’ Polycrates said. ‘We shan’t wait a moment. I know his captain – by Herakles our common ancestor, I know every man in this town. No need for the King of the Bosporus to cool his heels like a merchant! We’ll ride up to my house, and if Isokles needs you, he can come calling. You are a king!’

  Satyrus gave a wry smile in return. ‘Here in Athens, I’m just another citizen,’ he said. Then he nodded. ‘But thanks. You are right. Let us go.’

  They rented a small cart drawn by a donkey, and two horses – average beasts by the standards of a cavalryman, but fine animals to an Athenian. Their owner was right on the pier, anxious to serve and delighted to be paid full price.

  ‘You must allow me!’ Polycrates said. ‘But you are too polite. I’m sorry you didn’t bring Charmides or Anaxagoras – fine men.’

  Satyrus looked up the pier through eyes narrowed in the bright sun. ‘I had to take some precautions.’

  ‘You should have opened your mind to me,’ Polycrates said. ‘I’d have set you at ease.’

  Satyrus mounted, his body switching from aquatic to equine in that one motion, and despite the horse’s tendency to shy to the right, he found that she was responsive – a decent mount for a beast rented on the dock.

  He paid the farmer to deliver his bags to Polycrates’ house, and the two of them rode easily up the wharf, picking their way among the longshoremen.

  The soldiers on the wall gave them a hard look, and Polycrates dismounted to talk to the phylarch at the gate. When they were through, he shrugged.

  ‘They know who you are, and they didn�
�t know anything about Isokles demanding ship tax,’ he said. ‘It is the damnedest thing, Satyrus. If Isokles is so hot to talk to you, why weren’t we stopped at the gate?’

  Satyrus shook his head. ‘No idea,’ he said. The two of them trotted along, passing carts – a dozen carts, already loaded with vases of Euxine grain.

  ‘Is there someone here who would try to steal my grain?’ Satyrus asked.

  Polycrates shook his head. ‘Anyone who attacked you would have to be insane,’ he said. ‘Demetrios would exact such a revenge.’

  They rode on – the summer was just gilding the grass, and there were flowers everywhere, so that the earth seemed particularly alive to a man who had been at sea for weeks. Satyrus was just smiling at a clump of jasmine when Polycrates gave a cry and fell from his horse.

  It took far too long for Satyrus to register that his guest friend had just taken a slung stone to the head, and was clutching his brow, blood flowing around his fingers, mouth opening and closing like a fish. A dozen men surrounded him. And two of them grabbed his bridle – they all had swords and some had spears.

  One man kicked Polycrates viciously. ‘That’ll teach you to backtalk me, arse-cunt,’ said the man with the scar on his face. He kicked Polycrates again.

  Satyrus held up his hands. ‘Whatever you want, you are killing an important man.’ He looked around. ‘Stop at once!’

  Such was the power of his voice that all the soldiers stepped back – even the scarred man. But then he sneered. ‘Fuck you,’ he spat, and rammed his spear into Polycrates’ heart.

  Satyrus froze – the world seemed to stop, just for a moment. Then he slipped off his horse, as much because he wanted to think he might save the man, his sworn guest friend.

  He was beyond saving.

  Satyrus whirled. ‘You have killed a friend of Demetrios. How stupid are you?’

  But the spell was broken. Scarface stepped forward. ‘Stop where you are,’ he said.

  Arms grabbed Satyrus from behind. There was nothing he could do – not productively, not against a dozen men. He wasn’t even wearing a sword – not allowed in the confines of Athens. His sword was with his bags in the donkey cart, somewhere on the road behind them.

  The officer was wearing a sword. He drew it, leaned down, and cut Polycrates’ throat. ‘Arse-cunt,’ he said. He giggled. ‘Now you, so-called king, you can just come along with—’

  Satyrus lunged. He got a hand on someone’s elbow and he put his feet under him – struggled, and someone hit him, and he was stumbling, but free of one confining arm … free of the other, and training took over.

  He got a man’s arm and broke it, the bone going with a dull crack like a green limb breaking on an olive tree. The man screamed, and Satyrus kicked him into two more men who stumbled back. Satyrus ducked – instinct alone – as a club tagged his shoulder instead of his head. Pain, but no permanent damage. He rolled to his right, ignoring another blow to his thigh, and kicked out as he changed stance – flexed the man’s knee right back so that his leg curved the wrong way, spun on his grounded foot – no time for close engagements or grappling – punched out: left, right, landed half of each blow by sheer speed.

  Now he’d been free of them long enough to form a plan – which was to get back on a horse and ride. Men who didn’t live with horses didn’t know how quickly a Sakje-trained man could mount. He got a hand behind an adversary’s head, swung his hips and threw the man head first into the ground.

  The officer, who Satyrus had christened ‘Arse-Cunt’, screamed at his men. ‘All together!’ he shouted.

  His shout gave them pause, and while they paused, Satyrus put his palm into another man’s chin, breaking his jaw, and the crowd was getting thinner.

  I can do this, he thought.

  He put the crown of his forehead into another man’s nose, felt the satisfying crunch, took a hard blow across the shoulders, and stepped through his downed opponent, stepping hard on his crotch. He’d put quite a few of them down.

  He got his back to his horse but the untrained animal shied away where a Sakje horse would have pressed in against his back – or even put a hoof into an attacker.

  He stumbled, turned to mount, and a staff caught him in the side. He had no choice but to abandon his attempt to mount, and he rolled under the horse. No blow he’d taken yet was enough to stop him – he was a trained pankration fighter, after all – but the aggregate of the beating he was taking had begun to hang on him like a bull on his shoulders. He got to his feet but he was slow, and there was Arse-Cunt, who cut at him with the sword – quite competently. That limited his options. Satyrus stepped left, and by sheer bad luck his horse went the same way, snorting and backing, and he went down under its hooves – was up, but slowly, having been kicked, but now he had the horse between him and the sword.

  Arse-Cunt killed the horse with one solid cut, his blade neatly severing the artery at the base of the horse’s neck – Satyrus saw the rising cut and the man’s hip-roll and knew that he was a trained fighter. The horse blood was everywhere.

  The other horse bolted, and Satyrus’s options narrowed sharply.

  He was panting, and the nearest opponent took it as a sign that he was done, and came in, club raised. Satyrus stepped into the blow, caught the man’s elbow, and rammed his thumb into the man’s left eye, killing him instantly.

  There were only five of them still on their feet, but the horses were gone, and the five remaining were no doubt the best of the lot, and they moved to surround him. Satyrus made himself grin, because grinning opponents are scary, and he decided to go for Arse-Cunt, because if he could get the sword, he was reasonably sure he could kill the rest of them. He took a breath—

  A club swished so close to his ear that he felt the breeze and the tug at his hair as he leapt forward – right foot, left foot, balance, set – hip feint, and he had his hand on Arse-Cunt’s wrist – turned him on his hips and stripped the sword out of his hands, but Arse-Cunt punched him in the gut instead of standing slack-jawed in surprise, and another unlucky blow from one of the other men caught the sword and spun it away.

  And then the fight was lost. He had time to think of Herakles – to hope that he had honoured the god in his last fight – and to wonder, even as he went down, how Demetrios could ever have ordered this. But the third blow to his head took him down into the dark. It was odd: he didn’t go right away, but lingered, as if outside his body, while Arse-Cunt killed his own wounded.

  I would like to have killed that man, he thought, and then he was gone.

  4

  Stratokles had meant to ride all the way to Hyrkania, but events conspired to ease his passage, and he arrived at the settlement at Namastae on a fishing boat that carried him, Lucius, and their horses – six of them – crammed so tight that Stratokles slept with his head on his horse’s rump.

  But the wind was fair and the sea calm, and he was riding up the hill to the citadel just eleven days after fleeing Heraklea. His purse was almost empty. It would have been as flat as salt-bread if he and Lucius hadn’t had the good luck to be attacked by bandits who were richer and better mounted than they. Their horses and their darics had solved most of their travel problems.

  ‘You haven’t said much about what we’re doing here,’ Lucius said, as they rode up the hill to the stone citadel on the height.

  ‘Kineas of Olbia stormed this,’ Stratokles said. ‘Perhaps he was a god, at that. How in the name of all the gods did he storm this?’

  Lucius looked up the steep slope, and shrugged. ‘Crap defenders, superb attackers – the usual story. Like most, I expect he won the fight back when he was training his legion, not here while they were fighting.’

  Stratokles smiled. ‘You are not just a pretty face,’ he said.

  Lucius shook his head. ‘If we could drop all this back-stabbing and fight a war, you and I might prosper,’ he said.
>
  Stratokles nodded. ‘My thoughts exactly. The question is, which side? And the answer – let’s start our own.’

  Banugul was no longer young. Unlike many beautiful women, she didn’t trouble to hide her age. She did not redden her lips or apply too much kohl or other cosmetics to smooth out the tiny wrinkles or hide the years.

  In fact, despite – or even because of – the crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes and lips, the skin at the top of her chin, the infinitely slight sign of a jowl under her jaw, she was still Banugul, from the top of her fine light head to the base of her slim, arched feet; feet that wore slight golden sandals because the wearer was not afraid to emphasise rather than hide. Under her Greek matron’s chiton, her body was hard and muscled, her breasts swelled in proportion to her hips and shoulders, and when she moved, all the temple dancers in Heraklea could not have competed with her.

  ‘Stratokles,’ she said, rising from her carved chair to take his hand.

  ‘My lady,’ he said formally.

  ‘And who is your beautiful friend?’ she asked.

  Stratokles bowed. ‘This is Lucius, a Latin from far-off Italia. He has served me for some years – indeed, he was with me when we rescued your son.’

  Banugul smiled, and her smile decorated the room. Even from the side, Stratokles caught its force, but Lucius, who was the intended recipient, all but staggered.

  She stepped down off her dais and caught his hands. ‘I understand that Stratokles – and you, sir – no doubt took my son for your own ends. And yet as a mother I know that your actions saved his life. Demetrios would have executed him – or Cassander would have, or Ptolemy.’ She turned the smile on Stratokles, like the beam of a lamp turned on a moth, and Stratokles found himself grinning like a fool.

  ‘I’ve come to talk about your son,’ Stratokles said.

  ‘The answer is “no”.’ She smiled a very different smile. ‘You want him for some scheme. I am done with schemes, Stratokles. Once, in this very room, Kineas of Olbia told me to be satisfied with what I had. And now have again. And you know? I have built a life here, my dear. I have killed most of my enemies and I rule a goodly piece of the coast, and the satrap and I are old friends, and Antigonus and Seleucus both court me.’