‘You’d be more impressed if you were with Eumeles,’ Satyrus said.
Draco grunted. ‘No, lad. I’m impressed with you. But I’ll bite – how many ships does he have?’
Neiron didn’t take his eyes off the bow. ‘Eighty-five. And perhaps more if the Athenian ships serve with him.’
Draco nodded. ‘Aye, that’s what the lads are saying.’
Satyrus was always impressed with the accuracy of soldiers’ gossip. ‘And what do they say our chances are?’ he asked.
Draco laughed. ‘Oh, the odds don’t make no never mind, lad. Everyone knows you’re Tyche’s darling. Fortune’s favourite, eh? Luck’s better than numbers any day.’
Satyrus’s stomach told a different tale. ‘Luck can slip away,’ he said.
Draco nodded, pursing his lips in approval. ‘Aye. That it can, and no mistake.’ He smiled. ‘But anyone can see you still have yours.’
Satyrus had to admit that it was hard to remain worried when you could watch the four solid columns of triremes form up and sail away on a favourable breeze with stripped merchantmen as horse transports in between the columns.
Draco watched the coast and the citadel of Heraklea. ‘But I’d swear we’re going east,’ he said.
‘You may make a sailor yet.’ Neiron grinned.
‘Pantecapaeum is north!’ Draco said.
‘Too much of a risk. More than a thousand stades. With a wind like this, we might make it in a day – but more likely we’d spend the night at sea.’ Neiron was the navarch’s helmsman. He’d made the course.
Draco shrugged. ‘So? We spend a night at sea.’
Satyrus cut in, ‘Draco, a night at sea is no laughing matter. First, storms come up on the Euxine without any warning. A storm almost killed my father when he first came here, and we could get our fleet scattered in an hour – could lose half our ships. We only need to lose about ten and we’ve lost.’
Neiron nodded. ‘Aye – and we can’t cook at sea.’
Draco grinned. ‘Of course. I’m a fool.’
‘Most Macedonians are,’ Neiron said, but his smile took the sting out. ‘Tonight we’ll be on the beach at Sinope. That’s the end of any surprise we ever had – and the dog among the chickens, too. I’ll wager a gold daric against a silver owl that every merchant in the port runs when they see us coming.’
Draco shrugged. ‘So?’
Satyrus cut in again. ‘Until we land at Sinope, we’re fairly secret. Heraklea and Pantecapaeum aren’t exactly friends. We don’t think Eumeles knows how many ships we have, or their power.’ He rolled his hand back and forth. ‘Once we touch at Sinope, everyone knows what we have and we have to go for the jugular.’
‘Sinope to the entrance to the Bay of Salmon is eight hundred stades,’ Neiron said. ‘One good day’s sail. If the weather holds – we’ll land by the Bay of Salmon, rest the night, and eat.’
‘And the day after tomorrow, we’ll row up towards Pantecapaeum with full bellies,’ Satyrus said. His hands shook just saying the words.
Draco looked back and forth between them. ‘Two days?’ he asked.
‘At the soonest,’ Satyrus said.
Draco sat down on the helmsman’s bench and started to unbuckle his thorax. ‘I’ll just catch a nap, then,’ he said.
The sun was still high in the sky when they raised Sinope. Satyrus watched the sea-marks come up and then he turned to Helios. ‘Get the shield,’ he said.
Neiron was stretching his right leg. He’d wrestled two falls with Draco and done better than Satyrus had expected, and now the two men were talking while they stretched in the late-afternoon light. ‘What do you have in mind, Navarch?’ he called.
Satyrus walked to Stesagoras, who had the helm. ‘I’m going to order battle formation,’ he said.
Stesagoras nodded. ‘Philaeus!’ he called. ‘Look alive! Get your brutes in their harness.’
There was the thunder of bare feet on smooth wood as the oarsmen, who had been enjoying a day of relative peace, sailing calmly along the south coast of the Euxine, were ordered to their stations.
‘Signal “Man your benches”.’ Satyrus waved at Diokles, who had Black Falcon just astern.
Helios got up on the stern bench and took the cover off his shield. He flashed it.
Satyrus clambered up next to him. ‘Gods, we need work,’ he said. ‘Send it again.’
Three more repetitions got the benches manned, although Satyrus assumed that most of the pirates had accomplished this by emulating the ships closest to them rather than by reading the signals. In addition, it became clear that some of the pirates were well out of formation.
Panther sent a long signal. The whole signals system was Rhodian, and Satyrus had enough trouble understanding a long signal to pity the captains who’d never seen such a thing.
Helios had no such issues. ‘“Better than I expected,”’ he translated. ‘Letter for letter,’ he added.
‘Signal “Form Bull”,’ Satyrus said, and Helios flashed the order.
It was just as well that Eumeles’ fleet was not waiting in ambush off the coast of Sinope. The sun was well down in the west and it seemed possible that the rowers were going to miss their meals when Satyrus gave up, cancelled the order to form the Bull and sent the ships into the beach. Every merchant ship had long since fled, many of them heading north.
‘The dog is among the chickens,’ Neiron said when they had a fire lit and food in their bellies. ‘The eagles have flown at the pigeons. Chaos is come again.’ He laughed. ‘That was the worst manoeuvre I’ve ever seen.’
‘Wasn’t totally wasted,’ Satyrus said.
‘How so, lord?’ asked Panther, who had come up with his captains.
‘None of the pirates chased the merchant ships,’ Satyrus said.
Panther looked at him with new respect. ‘Navarch, you have a point. What’s for tomorrow?’
Satyrus raised his hand to forestall Neiron. ‘Along the coast east, under oars,’ he said.
Neiron shook his head. ‘The weather’s perfect,’ he said. ‘We can be off Pantecapaeum in two days.’
Demostrate was there, too. ‘Yes, but should we? I’m with you, lad. Let’s row along the coast and get the lard off their backs.’
Satyrus smiled. ‘Next one of you who calls me lad will have the privilege of a little pankration, man to man.’ He made himself grin. ‘That display out there was so pitiful that I have to expect that Eumeles will hear about it in roughly twelve hours and make his adjustments accordingly.’ He walked a few steps and turned. ‘The playing-off of pirates and Rhodians is over now. You are all my captains, and I expect you to spend the next week learning the signal book and the tactics we’ll use when we find Eumeles at sea.’
Demostrate shook his head. ‘That’s not for my boys, lad—’ He stopped.
Satyrus walked over. ‘Strip,’ he said.
Demostrate narrowed his eyes. ‘If I sail away, you have no fleet,’ he said.
‘I have no fleet anyway,’ Satyrus said. ‘Your precious pirates proved it just now, when they couldn’t form a line of battle. Strip.’
Demostrate shook his head. ‘I’ll apologize,’ he said softly. ‘But if you make me fight, you’ll have to kill me. Lord.’
Satyrus nodded curtly. ‘Apologize then.’
Demostrate nodded. ‘I apologize, lord,’ he said. ‘I’ll not slip again.’
‘Fuck him,’ Manes said. ‘Fuck him and fuck all this pansy shit. I say we kill the Rhodians and sack Sinope and stop playing at kings.’
Satyrus had been so busy plotting the rise of his kingship that he had all but forgotten Manes.
A foolish mistake. The sort of mistake that could cost you your kingdom.
Time to correct that right now. He took a deep breath, crossed the circle of officers as fast as the ripple of comments spread and stood in front of Manes.
‘Get a sword and a shield. We fight. Now. And when you are dead, I claim all your ships and men as mine.’ Satyrus was so an
gry he had no trouble meeting the bestial glare. ‘You heard me – or are you the same chicken-shit who ducked fighting me in Byzantium?’
Manes bellowed.
Satyrus turned his back and walked towards Helios – watching his squire for a sign. Helios gave him his aspis and his sword. Satyrus fitted the shield snugly on his arm, gripped the antilabe in his left hand and drew his father’s long kopis so that the blue blade glittered in the last sunlight. Then he turned.
‘Ready?’ he asked and began walking across the now silent circle of officers towards Manes.
Manes turned to Ganymede, who handed him his shield. His sword was immense – longer and broader than a Keltoi cavalry sword.
Crax stepped in front of Satyrus, with Carlus at his shoulder. ‘Let one of us do this,’ he said. ‘Carlus could put him down in a heartbeat.’
Satyrus shook his head. ‘This is for me, friend. I need the pirates to fight. I need them to drill and cooperate. When I kill him,’ he pointed the tip of the kopis at Manes, ‘they’re mine.’
‘And if you die?’ Crax asked quietly.
‘Then kill him, take the fleet and make Melitta queen of the Bosporus.’
Crax shook his head and stepped back.
Manes stepped out from the circle.
Satyrus lowered his shield and charged him.
Around him, he heard the crowd roar, but then all he heard was his own footsteps on the sand. Manes stood rooted to the spot for too long, clearly unable to believe that a smaller man was charging him.
Satyrus didn’t hesitate. He ran right in and slammed his aspis against the face of Manes’ shield even as the man bellowed like a bull, hoping to frighten him. Then Satyrus rolled to the right, using the centre of his shield against the rim of Manes’ shield. He cut under with the kopis, and the long blade scored immediately on Manes’ leg.
Satyrus stepped back, so that Manes’ counter-blow swished through the air without even cutting his shield.
Satyrus saw that he’d cut the pirate chief deeply. He wanted to let him bleed and he backed a step. Manes took this for weakness, leaped forward and struck fast, landing two more blows on his shield. They were powerful blows that took chunks from the face of Satyrus’s shield and hurt his arm, and Satyrus realized with a sudden prickle of fear that his arm couldn’t take many more like that. He retreated and Manes advanced, bellowing, striking out again with the great sword like the claw of a giant lobster – Slam! Slam! – into the face of his shield, no effort at swordsmanship at all, just simple, overwhelming strength.
Satyrus struggled with his own fear of the man – a fear now reinforced by feeling his physical power.
He had to stop retreating.
Manes stumbled, a reminder that he, too, was hurt – that Satyrus had cut his leg. Satyrus shook his head and the giant blade slammed into the face of his shield again – Bam! Bam! – and he felt a scream of pain that shot up his arm and through his body, and he went forward into the pain, his arm barely able to support the shield slammed into Manes’ chest. Satyrus was a hand’s breadth shorter than the pirate, and his shield rush was a puny thing, except that his sword arm shot out in a long overhand cut – past Manes’ blade raised in desperate parry – then rolled and snapped, so that the blade of the Aegyptian sword cut back into the base of Manes’ skull. It was a perfect cut, and the unsharpened back edge of the kopis smashed into the heavy muscles at the base of the pirate’s neck and his left arm dropped nerveless, his shield falling off his arm.
Manes roared with pain and stumbled back.
Satyrus had moments – only moments – before the tide of pain from his arm killed his ability to fight. He changed feet, lunging forward with his right leg and cutting down, so that his blade severed Manes’ right hand at the wrist.
‘ArrGGH!’ the beast screamed, and suddenly they were down on the sand together, and Manes’ blood was everywhere, and the man was kicking, hammering his mangled right arm and his uninjured left at Satyrus – his own wounded arm as loud in his head as the pirate’s rage, even as his helmeted head was snapped back by a blow from the blunt end of Manes’ maimed limb and his helmet filled with Manes’ blood.
Satyrus had not fought pankration for eight years without learning to channel pain – and to grapple, even injured, even covered in blood and badly hurt. He dropped his sword, got his thighs locked on the other man’s waist and rose over him, even as that right arm clubbed him again – but his helmet held the blow and he was on Manes like a rider on an unbroken stallion. Even a flailing blow into his arm didn’t end his bid – his body was running through the winning moves of a domination hold without him, and he seemed to be watching from a distance as his thighs clamped the bleeding pirate’s body, pinning him so that he could do less harm. Then Satyrus’s swordless right hand slammed down, breaking his adversary’s nose and slamming the broken bone into his head – and still Manes fought him, his spasming arms somehow inflicting pain.
Then Satyrus felt Philokles, the Spartan, take control of his hand in the forbidden strikes that the Spartans taught and that were forbidden in the games. His strong right hand reversed and he drove his thumb into Manes’ left eye, the soft matter exploding outward.
Satyrus never quite lost consciousness. He rose shakily, with no sense of how much time might have passed since Manes’ body ceased moving. His shield slipped off his right arm, which was bent at a bad angle, and rang as it hit a stone.
Theron was there. He put a hand on Satyrus’s shoulder.
‘I killed him three times,’ Satyrus breathed.
Theron didn’t answer. In a quick motion, he wrenched the arm – putting it back in its socket – and Satyrus was gone.
When he came to, he was on the sand.
‘He’s still dead,’ Theron said, following Satyrus’s eyes.
‘Zeus Soter,’ Satyrus said. ‘I’ll never fear a man that much again. I killed him three times.’
‘Your men were watching,’ Theron said. ‘That was a fight they will long remember.’
‘Get me up,’ Satyrus said. ‘And – get Manes’ head.’
‘His head?’ Theron asked.
‘I’ll do it,’ Abraham said. ‘By all that is holy, sir, that was the most – amazing – fight.’ His voice was hoarse.
Sir. Abraham called me sir. Satyrus wanted to laugh, but lacked the ability. ‘Get me up,’ he said.
He heard the meaty sound as Abraham’s sword bit into Manes’ neck, and he had to watch – worried, at some animal level, that the man would yet rise up and fight him.
He did not.
Satyrus got to his feet. He picked up his father’s sword and cleaned it on Manes’ tunic, wiping carefully. Then he took Manes’ head from Abraham and held it by the perfumed hair as he raised his eyes and looked around the circle.
‘Tomorrow, everyone will drill at sea. Manes’ ships are mine. See to it that their crews are dispersed among my squadron. All of his officers who care to swear faith to me may do so. The others may walk home.’ He had no trouble keeping his voice steady, although he was talking too fast. He had done it. In his head, he thought, I wonder if I’ll ever be afraid again?
The circle was silent.
Satyrus bowed to Demostrate. ‘I apologize for my poor temper. Tomorrow, as we row, your men will drill.’
Demostrate smiled. ‘Very well.’
Behind Satyrus, he heard the sound of dozens of swords and knives slipping back into sheaths.
‘Listen!’ he shouted. He looked around. The wind – the precious wind that blew straight for his target, that he was about to misuse – blew hard enough to make torches snap and hiss. He raised his voice. ‘Listen! Eumeles has more ships, bigger ships, and he’s had a winter to drill them. We have better marines and better captains – better men.’
That got a grumble of appreciation.
‘Better men work harder. So we’ll row for a few days to harden our muscles, and every officer can take his turn rowing. We’ll practise the manoeuvres – we’ll mak
e the Bull, we’ll form two lines, we’ll practise diekplous until we can do it asleep. There won’t be a second chance at this!’ He wanted to yell at them, tell them what children they were, how they’d squandered their time at Heraklea instead of practising, listening to a fool like Manes when they could have a kingdom, but there was no point. None at all. ‘Work now, and you’ll find winning the battle easy. Easy means fewer dead. Or – squabble among yourselves, and die.’
He caught the eye of Manes’ senior captain, standing behind Ganymede, who was weeping. The man flinched.
‘Understand?’ Satyrus asked. He looked around. He’d shocked them silent, and the silence had quite another quality. Satyrus dropped Manes’ head in Ganymede’s lap and dusted his hands together, the universal sign of a craftsman satisfied with his work. ‘Excellent. We will row away at dawn. Watch for the shield.’
He turned and walked up the beach.
Four days of rowing along the coast and they had begun to resemble a fleet. He rowed all day, regardless of the wind, and the men were too tired to quarrel in the evening. He practised the formations even as they travelled, so that they often made less than thirty stades an hour, sometimes as little as six or seven. They emptied his store ships, one after another, all the way up the coast.
The day of his appointed meeting off Pantecapaeum came and went. There was nothing he could do about it. Until his fleet was ready to fight, there was no point in trying – none at all. At first he felt like blaming his officers for not telling him how bad they all were – but then it came to him that it was his failure. He was in command. They trusted him. The pirates expected to win by numbers and courage and luck. The Rhodians, Satyrus guessed, had never expected to win at all. They were here to see that the pirates didn’t survive.
He rowed through a day of south wind and rain, and another that was cold enough to count as winter. Five days saw them off Phasis, where the fleet formed the Bull to his satisfaction in a time that was not too humiliating. The Bull was his favourite formation, because it allowed his elite vessels to form on the flanks where they could actually manoeuvre, while his heavier units and all the pirates formed the loins in the centre, two deep, where their heavier crews and boarding tactics stood the best chance of success.
Tyrant: King of the Bosporus Page 35
