Tyrant: Destroyer of Cities

by Christian Cameron

  The loot of four campaigns and the tribute of the northern Euxine cities had rebuilt Tanais with dramatic speed. But it still had the air more of a rich colony than a real city. Many of the citizens were farmers who tilled the land themselves, and hundreds of the local Maeotae had been admitted to citizenship to balance the mercenaries who received land grants in lieu of payment for services.

  Besides Greeks and Maeotae, the Valley of the Tanais had a third group of citizens, if they might be so styled. Melitta, Satyrus’ sister, was Queen of all the Assagetae – in truth, the leader of the horse nomads from the edge of distant Hyrkania in the east to the far western lands of Thrace and the Getae. She too ruled from Tanais, when she wasn’t out on the steppes, ruling from the saddle. As it was spring and the grass was fresh, she was getting ready to escape the confinement of the city and ride free, away to the north, for the yearly gathering in of all the Assagetae when the census, such as it was, was taken. But the Assagetae were as much a part of the kingdom as the Greeks or the Maeotae.

  Satyrus left his horse in the ‘royal’ stable just inside the main gate of the city. The building of stone walls – not just stone in the socle, or foundation courses, but stone all the way to the rampart’s top, like the richest cities of the world – had been the twins’ first priority. The main gate was flanked by two recessed towers, each three storeys tall and holding three levels of heavy artillery – big torsion engines capable of firing a bolt of iron two yards long. A permanent garrison manned the engines in every tower, and the city had twenty-six towers. Standing as it did on a low bluff over the mouth of the Tanais as it flowed out into the shallow Bay of Salmon, Tanais was as impregnable as the hand of man and the expenditure of gold could make it.

  The towers alone had cost the equivalent of a year’s revenue from the whole kingdom. That’s how Satyrus had begun to see everything in his kingdom – as a price tag. The street from the main gate ran past the royal stables (seventy minas of silver, needed a tile roof) along the wide Street of Heroes with statues of Satyrus’ ancestors and some of Kineas’ friends (Philokles’ statue was due any day from Athens, bronze with silver and gilt, four talents of silver, delivered and already waiting in a pile of wood shavings, along with a statue of his most famous heroised ancestor, Arimnestos of Plataea in bronze, silver and gold), past the gates of the citadel, whose defensive artillery covered the road and gate (four hundred and seventy talents of silver, complete) to the sea gate (five hundred and ninety talents) beyond which stood the masts and standing rigging of Satyrus’ fleet, the strongest in the Euxine. Without straining himself, the young king of the Bosporus could count twenty-two trieres, or triremes, whose hulls, repair, sails, rigging, sailors’ wages, rowers and marines cost him eighteen talents of silver a year in wages. Each. With his six hemiolas, or sailing triremes (twenty-four talents a year) and his four penteres or ‘fivers’ at a little more than thirty talents a year, his docks and ship sheds to protect the hulls from Euxine winters, and the fortified mole which protected his fleet and its maintenance, his naval expenditure topped seven hundred talents a year – a noticeable amount even in the revenues of the leading grain producer in the world.

  And that was without his magnificent new ship, the Arete. New built from stem to stern, and all to his specification. He could see the towering mainyard above the sea gate. She was cubits taller than any other ship in the harbour, and broader in the beam, with room for two men sitting on every bench – a hexeres, or ‘sixer’. He longed for his wide deck the way he longed for a girl – any girl – in his bed. The way he longed for Amastris, except that he didn’t always think of her when he wanted a woman. Amastris, whose birthday gift, a golden dolphin, had cost two talents of pure gold.

  Satyrus sighed, tried to forget the price of everything and walked towards the agora, trailing Helios and Crax and Coenus and two dozen guards. No one bowed. Men did run to him, demanding his attention concerning their lawsuits, or seeking his approval for their wares, or for merchant ventures.

  It took him the better part of the afternoon to cross the agora.

  Finally he freed himself from the last anxious citizen – a farmer complaining about the moving of his boundary stones – and walked under the gate to the citadel where he was, at last, on his own ground. And this was Tanais – next to Olbia the easiest of his cities to administrate. In Pantecapaeaum, it might have taken him all day to get across the agora and he’d have needed the soldiers at his back. There were still many men who hated him in Pantecapaeaum.

  ‘My lord?’ purred Idomenes. Idomenes was the Steward of the Household – the man who made sure that the king was fed and clothed and had a place to sit. He was also the Royal Secretary. He’d held both of these jobs for the former occupant of the throne, and Satyrus suspected he’d do the same for the next.

  ‘Dinner – just friends.’ Satyrus dropped his chlamys on the tiled floor of his own apartments. A dozen servants came forward to lay out his clothes for dinner.

  ‘Bath?’ Karlus asked, a giant German who served as Satyrus’ personal guard and often worked as his manservant, as well. The big German was getting white in his hair, and his body was criss-crossed with scars earned in thirty years of near-constant fighting.

  ‘Yes, Karlus. Thanks,’ Satyrus said. The living areas of the palace had hypocausts – heated floors – and a central furnace that kept water hot all day. Satyrus slipped into the water, swam around his little pool for a few minutes and climbed out to be greeted by a pair of attendants with towels.

  Massaged, oiled and clean, Satyrus lay down on his couch for dinner as the sun set in red splendour over the valley of the Tanais River. Satyrus rose only to say the prayer to Artemis and pour the libation of the day, and then he led the singing of a hymn to Herakles, his ancestor, before he reclined alone.

  On the next couch, Coenus raised a wine cup. ‘You did well, lad,’ he said.

  Satyrus made a face. ‘Posturing. Philokles would laugh. I had a spat with Melitta, and took my aggression out on the Macedonians.’

  Coenus shook his head. ‘Philokles would say that it was well done. He was the very master of deceit when he needed to be, lord. You should have seen him fool the Tyrant of Olbia with spies—’

  Satyrus nodded and cut off the impending story. ‘I did see him fool Sophokles, the assassin of Athens,’ he said.

  Coenus laughed. ‘I’m getting old, lord. You did, right enough.’

  Satyrus shook his head. ‘Never say old.’

  Crax scratched his head. ‘I’m just a dumb barbarian,’ he said. ‘Why exactly do we have to do this dance?’

  Satyrus exchanged a long glance with Coenus. ‘To keep Antigonus off balance until our grain fleets are safely in Rhodes and Athens,’ Satyrus said. ‘We’re at sea in what, two weeks? Antigonus has more than two hundred hulls in the water, and he could pick our merchants off like a hawk takes doves.’

  ‘So we offended his ambassador?’ asked Hama. Hama was another barbarian – a Keltoi from the far north, who had served Satyrus’ family for twenty years as a bodyguard and war captain. ‘How does that help?’

  Coenus gave a half-grin. ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘It’s not simple. We offended the ambassador to make him believe what he saw and heard here. If we’d been nice to him, he’d have wondered what was up – after all, we’ve never exactly been friends. The truce between Antigonus and Ptolemy is a dead letter, now. It’s war, across the Ionian Sea, and our people have to sail through the middle of it.’

  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, ge
ntlemen. 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 came 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 alw
ays 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.’