Tyrant: Force of Kings

by Christian Cameron

  ‘I’ll drink to that,’ Daedelus said.

  Stratokles arrived in Heraklea like a priest going to a festival. It was, in every way, the high point of his life, the culmination of his work, and the discovery that Banugul of Hyrkania was living in the house of Leon’s factor added to its savour. And the money she had, of course.

  Her arrival pointed up something he had believed all his life, jumping from web to web across the plots of lesser men. That if you planned well, worked hard, and did your very best, the gods would grant you luck. He had never planned on Banugul. But the cash she brought made his job easy.

  Cassander came to Heraklea, a broken reed, but still strong. He had raised a new army in Europe, and a small fleet. Lysimachos was there, with Amastris; now undisputed lord of Mysia and the Troad, with thirty thousand professional soldiers, twenty elephants, and a fleet of heavy ships.

  Aiax Seleucus, the King of Babylon’s nephew, was there, representing fifty thousand men and a hundred elephants, already said to be marching across Asia up the Royal Road to Sardis.

  No one spoke for Ptolemy, but Stratokles had his letter in his scroll bag, telling of two hundred ships gathering in the harbour of Rhodes to open the Dardanelles when the summer winds began to blow.

  Mithridates of Bithynia was there, lord of ten thousand cavalrymen, master of the gates of Asia, and now their firm ally.

  It made Stratokles laugh, as he lay by Banugul in a house he had once stormed to kill Satyrus and Melitta of Tanais – where he was now an honoured guest. He stroked her side and thought of how, a year before, these same ‘allies’ had elected to murder him. And now, as the captain general of Satyrus and Melitta, his money and his acumen and their soldiers were the porpax of the alliance – the handle by which all the other rivals grasped the shield.

  ‘I have never seen you so happy,’ Banugul murmured.

  ‘Nor I, you,’ he said into her ear.

  ‘My son is a better man,’ she said. ‘And more important – he is alive.’

  ‘He is a fine man, and one who has, I think, found that he does not want to be Alexander’s son. He wants to be his own man – perhaps King of Hyrkania.’ Stratokles smiled.

  ‘Meaning you no longer need him,’ she said.

  Stratokles rolled over, kissed her, reached across her and took the wine cup from the table by the bed, sharing it with her. ‘I cannot help who I am,’ he said. ‘I have plots, and plots, and plots. Some succeed, and some fail. And my greatest flaw is that I hedge my own bets, and some of my plots are rivals to other of my plots.’ He lay back and grinned into the lamplit darkness. ‘I had planned to use your son to drive Cassander mad. As it is, Cassander has placed himself in my hands, and your son doesn’t want to be a tool. So I have become wise enough not to struggle.’

  ‘I have put money into a rumour,’ Banugul said. ‘That he is the son of Eumenes of Kardia.’

  Stratokles laughed. ‘Well played, lady. No Macedonian would cross the street to serve a bastard son of Eumenes.’ He reached for her shoulders. ‘But he is Alexander’s son.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ she allowed. ‘Are you really friends with Kineas’s son? Will this alliance last?’

  He chuckled, and gave her no answer, and they passed the time with other things.

  But in the morning, with Lucius at his back, Stratokles walked up to the Temple of Hera.

  He was dressed in his very best – a chiton with flames of Tyrian red licking up the shining white wool from the hems, themselves so thick with embroidery that the gold pins that held it together were difficult to push through the cloth. Over his shoulder hung a chlamys of pure red-purple, embroidered in gold, and on his brow sat a diadem of gold and red-purple amethysts, worth the value of a heavy penteres all by itself, without reckoning the other accoutrements he wore – gold sandals with gold buckles, gold mountings on the dagger under his armpit, gold rings on his fingers. It had cost him extra time and effort to reassemble the costume, but the effect was worth it. For his chiton and his diadem proclaimed to all of them: You tried to kill me, and here I am, and I hold the reins of this chariot.

  It was no longer about Athens. Stratokles had loved Athens all of his life but Demetrios was sucking the marrow from Athens’s bones. And when he fell – if Cassander could be destroyed with him – Athens would be free. Or as free as a city could be in the world of monsters that Alexander had created.

  So he walked up the steps. Nodded to Lysimachos, bowed to Amastris, smiled at Phiale, and laughed at Cassander, whose eyes flashed with venom.

  Once, this man called me a viper.

  They mouthed pious nothings.

  ‘And where is your new master?’ Phiale asked.

  ‘Satyrus of Tanais?’ he asked, as if unsure who she meant. ‘Elsewhere, engaged in more important business.’

  The shock that this statement engendered was worth all the torments of the last year.

  ‘His sister?’ Lysimachos asked.

  ‘On the Sea of Grass,’ Stratokles said. ‘They send their regrets.’

  ‘Ares!’ Lysimachos said. ‘They have deserted the alliance?’

  Stratokles smiled. He had all the time in the world. ‘I have their instructions,’ he said.

  ‘This is intolerable!’ Cassander said.

  Stratokles smiled, swirled his wine, and contemplated an excellent image of the goddess – imperious, matronly, and yet beautiful. Not his favourite goddess – and yet, and yet.

  ‘Allies,’ Stratokles said. They all looked at him. He bowed to the priestess of Hera. ‘My instructions are that we all swear an oath in the names of our principles, to support the alliance until Antigonus is defeated – and for one year after. I have taken the liberty of drawing up copies in advance.’

  ‘I do not take orders from a petty king, nor from his petty minister,’ Cassander said. His face was puffy, and his fingers under their rings were bloated, like those of a corpse left in the water.

  Stratokles didn’t need the doctor to tell him – Cassander had oedema. He wasn’t fat, he was bloated with water.

  Oh, the gods do what a man cannot, Stratokles thought.

  ‘These are not orders,’ Stratokles said. ‘We are here as allies – as peers.’

  ‘I am the King of Macedon, and you are a paid informant.’ Cassander had once been the handsomest of mortals. Now he was hideous, and he seemed unaware of the change in his physique; speeches that had once seemed imperious now seemed pathetic.

  Stratokles turned to the other kings. ‘I had no intention of offending. It was our intention to plan a campaign – we had assumed that all were in favour of it.’

  The younger Seleucid nodded. ‘Stratokles of Athens, it is my brother’s intention to march west with his elephants and his cavalry. But if Cassander will not come …’

  ‘I am the King of Macedon,’ Cassander said again. ‘I am the head of this alliance.’

  Lysimachos took the man by the elbow. Stratokles saw the King of Macedon wince in pain at the touch.

  Lysimachos spoke quickly, his voice low, and when Phiale attempted to step in close to her lord, Lysimachos straight-armed her away – almost a blow. She turned on her heel and walked away down the steps of the temple.

  If only I had thought to have assassins waiting for her. Stratokles watched her, and then looked back at Cassander, who was nodding. He looked at Lucius, and Lucius gave the smallest nod towards Phiale, and Stratokles blinked once. That was all. Lucius was gone in the swirl of his chlamys, away down the steps, apparently in the opposite direction from Phiale.

  The King of Macedon brushed his cloak, bowed to the priestess of Hera, and walked carefully to Stratokles.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m in pain in the mornings, and I get pettish. We all know’ – the words seemed to come out of him like gallstones from a surgeon’s patient – ‘how much you’ve done for the alliance.’


  Damn, that was good, Stratokles thought. I could die now.

  Cassander lowered his voice. ‘I will not forget this,’ he said.

  Stratokles met his eyes. ‘You mean, you will not forget that despite your best attempts to have me killed, I continue to serve your interests? I forget nothing, sir. I would have to offend you for years before I would hold myself avenged. But,’ he said mildly, ‘I am not master in this house. The object of this alliance is the destruction of Antigonus. Are we agreed?’

  It took four days. But it turned out, in the end, that they had this in common – they hated Antigonus more than they hated each other.

  Phiale broke every cup in her borrowed house. She went to the slave quarters and started on their pottery.

  ‘Satyrus isn’t even here!’ she roared.

  Isokles shrugged. ‘He’ll have to come. Then I kill him.’

  ‘He isn’t coming!’ Phiale said. ‘Aphrodite, he must be guided by the gods. Or you have a spy in this house.’

  Isokles crossed his arms. ‘Despoina, shut up. Listen. This is the heart of the alliance. This port receives their soldiers – this is their supply base. Ares’ rock-hard dick, he will come here in time, and I’ll have him. I have people in every warehouse, every pier, on the beaches, gate guards … this town is mine.’ He grinned. ‘He will sail in here, or march in here, and I’ll have him.’

  Phiale threw another pot – a heavy water jug. The smash was satisfying.

  ‘What if he never comes here?’ she asked.

  The Latin returned with a cut on his arm. ‘It’s like kicking a beehive,’ he said. ‘The killer she hired in Athens? I saw him. He’s got twenty soldiers and some local thugs.’

  Stratokles made the same face that an armourer makes when looking at another craftsman’s shoddy work. ‘Amastris is getting sloppy,’ he said.

  That evening he had a long talk with Banugul, one professional to another.

  ‘I need you to befriend Amastris,’ he said. ‘As one queen to another. She could be a useful ally, and she’s been infiltrated. Cassander – or Phiale – or maybe even Demetrios’s Neron. I’m not sure who they’re all working for but this town is full of bribes and traitors. And we need this town.’

  Banugul smiled. ‘I admire your version of love talk.’ She nodded. ‘Heraklea would make me a good ally. Will you introduce us?’

  Stratokles grinned. ‘Best she not know that we share … anything.’

  ‘I still think you were her lover.’ Banugul flicked a finger into his side and made him jump.

  ‘She’s too young for me, and besides, not every woman can see through my ugliness to the worthy philosopher inside.’ He laughed.

  She tickled him. ‘You are a fool.’

  ‘Would you marry me, if we live through the year?’ Stratokles asked.

  Sophokles knew that Satyrus of Tanais was on Rhodes as soon as he landed. It wasn’t exactly a secret, but the news was new enough not to have made it across the straits to Miletus.

  He had gone to Alexandria on her orders and found no quarry at all. Her information was wrong. Sophokles, released from the spell of her presence, had a profound and abiding temptation to ride away into Asia and be shot of the whole thing. He had no interest whatsoever in killing the Jewish girl. No challenge – and as like as not, Phiale was wrong about the whole thing. She was – he allowed himself to think it – cursed. Perhaps mad.

  Sophokles also suspected that she was working for Neron, Demetrios’s spymaster. A double or even triple agent. And that made her tasks too dangerous even to contemplate, because he wouldn’t know the consequences.

  But Satyrus of Tanais – that was a worthy target. Beloved of the gods, or so men said. And as Phiale, Cassander, and Antigonus all offered substantial rewards for his death, he was the most valuable contract Sophokles had ever had. That anyone had ever had.

  Balanced against that, Sophokles had only failed a dozen times in his life, and most of them had involved Satyrus to one extent or another.

  The memory of the twelve-year-old boy’s searing contempt was burned into his head.

  Sophokles took rooms in a house that rented to merchants, and began to make his plans. He had four men, and he used them carefully – the agora, the warehouses. It took him three days to establish for a fact that Satyrus was living with Abraham the Jew. Was surrounded by well-armed friends. Was deeply in love with the Jew’s sister – no secret here on Rhodes.

  ‘Miriam?’ Satyrus came into the garden with three big men – big even by the standards of a tall woman with a tall warrior brother.

  She rose, and they touched hands. They had reached a stage where they couldn’t help but touch each other in public – the tension was a delight and a temptation and a deep frustration. Satyrus suspected that the slaves were laughing at them. He knew Anaxagoras was laughing.

  ‘These are friends of yours?’ Miriam asked. They were a frightful trio – like Titans come to life. Easily the grimmest men Miriam had ever been confronted with.

  ‘These three are Achilles, Odysseus and Ajax,’ Satyrus said, and grinned.

  Miriam smiled. ‘I can believe it,’ she said.

  ‘They have served me well. And deserve better than being dragged through a war.’ Satyrus shook his head – just being with her clouded his wits.

  Achilles laughed. ‘You two’re a picture, you know that, eh?’ He stuck out a great hand to Miriam. ‘Satyrus wants us to be your guards.’

  She looked at them. ‘I will be the envy of every matron in Rhodes.’

  Odysseus leered at her. ‘Yep,’ he said.

  Ajax stroked his beard, looking at the house. ‘I could learn to like it here.’

  Achilles looked at Satyrus. ‘No strings? This is it – look after this woman?’ He nodded. ‘I’d think you’d done right by us, and more.’

  ‘Until the horde of barbarians attacks,’ Ajax said.

  Miriam put her hands on her hips. ‘You know what I see? Three agora toughs who are going to make all my slaves pregnant and drink all my wine. Why do I need guards?’

  Anaxagoras came in with her brother. He saluted her on the cheek, clasped hands with Achilles. ‘Ask that again, despoina?’

  ‘Why do I need guards?’ Miriam asked.

  ‘Satyrus is here because we convinced him that there were so many different people trying to kill him that he should evade the net, do something unexpected, and vanish.’ Anaxagoras put a hand on Satyrus’s shoulder. ‘Satyrus thinks that everyone in the world knows … well, that you and he are close.’

  Miriam flushed.

  Abraham raised an eyebrow. ‘Everyone on Rhodes, anyway.’

  Anaxagoras nodded. ‘My point exactly. So Satyrus has brought these three fine men, ‘ he aimed a little bow at Achilles, who grinned, ‘to protect you.’

  Miriam raised an eyebrow. ‘And you? Are leaving?’ The slightest tremor touched her voice.

  Satyrus shook his head. ‘I’m a fool, Miriam. I should have started with this. Yes – I won’t wait for Leon, much as I want to see him. I’m going by sea to Aigai, then overland to Seleucus. I have the plan of the summer campaign. And I’ll deliver it in person. It seems unlikely to me that anyone will manage to assassinate me on the Euphrates – indeed, no one will even know who I am.’ He took a breath. ‘But you will be a target. And if you are not then these three n’er-do-wells will have a place to have a well-earned rest.’

  ‘Well,’ Miriam said. ‘I see. No need for me to complain, then.’

  Satyrus, it turned out, was a hero of epic proportions to the Rhodians.

  Sophokles hadn’t lived so long in his business by being a fool. No murder on Rhodes – an island – would be survivable. The Rhodians would torture the man who killed their hero. He could see ways to make the kill and escape but the risk was enormous.

  Worse, the Jew girl sudd
enly had three very dangerous-looking bodyguards – huge, showy men who had the eyes of the real thing. Sophokles saw those eyes in the mirror. He knew the type.

  His men were scared of the new bodyguards.

  Best, he thought, to bide his time.

  Sophokles liked Rhodes, and he was in no hurry. He felt as if he was at the hub of the world. He lay on his hard linen mattress and listened to the world turn. All news came to Rhodes; that Seleucus had marched from Babylon, that Antigonus was marching to meet him. That the allies had signed a compact at Heraklea, and that Stratokles had directed it. Sophokles raised a cup of wine to his former … comrade? Co-contractor? The man had turned the tables on Cassander – widely held the wiliest of the Diadochoi.

  Demetrios had an army and a fleet in the Dardanelles, and was marching east to oppose Lysimachos. His fleet was waiting at Abydos to face the combined fleets of Rhodes, Aegypt, and Cassander.

  And Satyrus of Tanais was lying on a couch on Rhodes, apparently taking no part.

  Sophokles took a week to develop his informants. Abraham’s house was virtually impossible to penetrate, he found; instead of slaves, the man had Jews, and they were immune to bribes. Or rather, as Sophokles found to his cost, they took the bribes and reported them.

  The next thing he knew, one of his local thugs was bleeding to death in the street, and one of the big bodyguards was pounding on the door of his rooming house, and the other two were watching the back of the building.

  Sophokles had not stayed alive by being a fool. He was off across the roofs in a moment. In an hour, he was back on a ship for Miletus, a step ahead of the men who had started watching him.

  He was sitting in a wine shop on the old harbour in Miletus, watching fish rise to his breadcrumbs and considering, once again, the possibility of giving up the whole thing and riding away, when he saw a triakonter come into the harbour like a racing boat – oars flowing like the legs on a water bug, flashing in the watery spring sun. And then the boat turned end for end, slowed in the chops of its own turn, and backed stern first onto the beach, almost at Sophokles’ feet. The men took a meal, and hired a pilot for the Cilician coast. And Satyrus of Tanais leaped into the shallow surf. Several of his friends leaped after him, calling for wine.