Theron nodded. ‘Where would we put the tannery?’ he asked.
‘Up the coast. There’s that black stream up by Askam – flows all year round. Stinks already.’ Idomenes was making a catalogue of all the terrain in the kingdom, and he knew every landmark within five days’ ride. He raised his eyes, found no disagreement and wrote a note on his wax tablet.
‘If we all die, let’s leave the kingdom to Idomenes,’ Satyrus said.
Idomenes’ head came up. The other men were all smiling. He flinched.
‘Hey!’ Satyrus said. ‘I’m not Eumeles!’ He leaned back and held out his cup for cider, which a servant poured for him.
‘Lord, such a comment . . . scares me.’ Idomenes had served the old tyrant, a ruthless man who taxed and killed without meaning or warning, bent on making himself a major player in the game of succession to Alexander.
‘I merely meant that you seem to do this better than the rest of us,’ Satyrus said.
‘I’ll just write my notes up and make a smooth tablet, shall I, my lord?’ Idomenes clutched his tablets to him as if to protect him from wrath, and slipped out.
Theron shook his head. ‘He’s not even slimy. He’s a good man. Why does he act like a snake?’
Satyrus shrugged.
Coenus pursed his lips, rubbed his beard and took a drink. ‘He lived too long with snakes, I think. Never mind – he’ll get used to us.’ He took a stylus from behind his ear and made a note in his own tablet. ‘Where do you think Diodorus is, anyway?’
Theron shrugged. ‘Idomenes has the latest letter – but you’ve seen it.’
‘I haven’t,’ said Satyrus. He turned to his hypaspist, who stood by the wall. ‘Helios, fetch Idomenes back and ask him to bring the latest letter from Diodorus.’
Helios bowed and vanished through the door.
‘You’re spending a fortune on your fleet,’ Coenus remarked, looking at a list.
‘Yes,’ Satyrus said. He was tempted to add it’s mine to spend, but he bit it back. The ‘conspiracy of the old’ made him react like a callow youth, but he wasn’t so callow any more.
Coenus shrugged. ‘Well – it’s yours to spend.’ He looked up when Satyrus made a choking sound. ‘Artillery?’
‘We were already getting weapons for the towers,’ Satyrus said.
‘Draco and Amyntas are installing the new pieces today,’ Theron put in. ‘I saw Draco on the wharf, covered in shavings.’
Satyrus glanced around. ‘I want to see that!’ Then he sat back and fiddled with his belt of gold links. ‘When we’ve finished here, of course.’
The two older men laughed. They were still laughing when Idomenes came back with a sheepskin bladder of scrolls. ‘Letters from Babylon?’ he asked.
‘Latest from Diodorus?’ Satyrus asked.
‘Came yesterday. My apologies, lord – I read it out for Theron while you were playing with the ambassadors.’
To Satyrus, King of the Bosporus, and Melitta, the Lady of the Assagetae, and the rest of you: greetings.
We appear to be in for another summer without fighting – a mercenary’s dream. Demetrios seems to be in Greece, facing Cassander and ‘liberating’ Athens. It occurs to me that if Demetrios really does take Athens, Stratokles will suddenly be tempted too – and Heraklea could be a dangerous ally. But I’m an old and very suspicious man.
‘Lord, it would appear that Demetrios has entered Athens.’ Idomenes raised his eyes from the scroll. ‘We have that news from several sources.’
Coenus nodded. ‘All the more reason for you to hurry down to Heraklea.’
Antigonus is rumoured to be building up his fleet and preparing to have a go at Aegypt. If so, Ptolemy is more than ready for him – he declined a contract with us, saying that we cost too much! So he must be confident, the old skinflint. But Antigonus is serious, and he’s busy buying the alliance of all the pirates in Cilicia and Ionia. Rumour in Alexandria before I left suggested that your old friend Demostrate declined his offer.
Demostrate was the king of the pirates of the Chersonese, and had long been an ally. His ships had been instrumental in taking Tanais from its former tyrant. ‘Thanks the gods for that,’ Coenus said. ‘Demostrate going over to Antigonus would be the end of our shipping.’
Satyrus shuddered at the thought of the golden horn being closed to his merchant ships.
I’m going to accompany an embassy to the Parni, as our squadrons have more Sakje speakers than anyone else in Babylon. I will be out of contact for several months, but I’ll see more of the world. Darius sends his greetings, as do Sitalkes and a dozen others. Keep well – I plan to retire there, lad!
Of all of them, only Diodorus – the commander of his father’s former mercenary company, the ‘Exiles’ – and Coenus and his father’s other friends still called him ‘lad’. He laughed. The letter was like having Diodorus present in the room, if only for a few lines.
‘Who are the Parni?’ Satyrus asked.
‘No idea,’ Theron answered, and even Idomenes shook his head.
Two hours on the grain tax, and more on warehouse space in Olbia – he really needed to visit Olbia, and soon. Eumenes the archon was an old family friend, but he was a gentleman farmer, not a merchant, and the town merchants were none too happy. The warehouse space for the grain tax was so damp and rat-infested that they were losing money.
A farewell meal was given for Antigonus’ ambassador. Satyrus was pleasant, and Theron was the picture of a gentleman and former Olympic athlete. Niocles was charmed and annoyed by turns.
‘You intend to send your grain to Rhodes this year, my lord?’ he asked, as the roast duck was served and the tuna steaks were removed.
Satyrus had hoped to avoid serious talk, and he saw his precious artillery slipping away. All the frames would be installed before he even got to the wharf.
Satyrus shrugged with well-feigned nonchalance. ‘Wherever we get the best price,’ he replied. ‘A matter for merchants,’ he said, hoping to chill the topic.
‘My lord would prefer if your grain bypassed Rhodes. And Alexandria.’ Niocles drank some wine. ‘Your cook is to be praised. The tuna was better than anything I had in Athens.’
‘You were in Athens, with Demetrios?’ Satyrus asked. Theron grinned and turned his head.
Niocles looked around. ‘Yes – yes, I was. It is not widely known yet that my lord has taken Athens.’
‘Perhaps not known by those who lack the proper conduits of information,’ Satyrus said with a smile. ‘So: you have Athens. And Athens needs grain.’ He nodded. ‘Take it up with my merchants,’ he said firmly.
‘Athens needs grain. As do many other cities.’ Niocles nodded. ‘I’m sure that your merchants would find it worth their while to turn west when they pass the Dardanelles.’
Satyrus shook his head. ‘My ships go where they will,’ he said. ‘Most of our cargoes go on foreign hulls anyway. Athens, for instance, buys most of Olbia’s grain.’ His voice carried the clear message – this subject is closed.
‘But you have grain of your own, lord. You are dissembling, but there are fifteen ships in the mole, all loading grain from your warehouses.’ Niocles leaned back, sure he’d scored a point.
‘You sound more like a spy than an ambassador,’ Satyrus said. He was bored, annoyed that he was missing the installation of his artillery and even more annoyed that Antigonus’ ambassador continued to make all these demands. ‘I declare your embassage over. This instant. Begone.’ Satyrus rolled off his couch. Helios stepped to his side and handed him his sword, and he put it on over his head, donned his chlamys of royal purple and turned back. ‘If he’s not on his ship in an hour, kill him,’ Satyrus said to Hama. Hama nodded.
‘You’re insane!’ Niocles said. ‘Lord, I meant no – that is – ambassadors!’
Whatever he was going to say was lost as Satyrus walked in through the doors of his private apartments.
He changed into a plain natural wool chiton and a fine dark red chlamys with
plain silver pins and a hat to hide his face. He put on boots.
Theron came in as he got the left boot laced.
‘That was a little precipitate,’ Theron said.
‘Was it really?’ Satyrus asked. ‘He’s a fool. And he doesn’t seem to care whether he offends me or not.’
Theron nodded. ‘Well, you have a point. And I suppose it can’t hurt. After yesterday. As you said this morning, either you are mad, or very strong, and either way it should give his master some hesitation.’ Theron had been Satyrus’ athletic coach and tutor. He had special rights in terms of criticism. ‘Besides,’ he said, ‘now you have a free hour to look at your ships.’
Satyrus laughed. ‘Am I so transparent?’ he asked.
The sun pounded down on the wharf, and on the naked backs of the work party that was installing the artillery aboard Satyrus’ new-built flagship. Arete was going to be the most powerful ship in the Euxine – a Rhodian-built penteres with a hemiolas deck.
Satyrus walked down the wharf with Helios at his back, doing his best to be a private gentleman and not the king, but sailors and oarsmen stopped whatever they were doing to smile, wave, bow, or simply stare.
‘She’s huge!’ Helios said.
Satyrus knew there were bigger ships on the seas, but Arete towered over the rest of his small fleet – taller and broader than his triremes and slightly longer as well, like a warhorse in a stable of racehorses.
‘Permission to come aboard?’ Satyrus called up the companionway.
The marine on duty nodded.
Neiron, his helmsman – technically the trierarch of the Arete – met him on the central command deck. Unlike a small trireme, the mighty penteres had a deck that went from gunwale to gunwale the whole length of the deck – armouring the rowers against archery but condemning them to airless sweat wherever they rowed. However, with the after half-deck for the sailors to work the permanent mainmast, the ship had the deck space to carry a huge marine complement – thirty or forty men, if he wished it. More important, the deck had room to support outboard sponsons – small decks – with the new artillery pieces. Arete was built to hold six ballistae – three to each side – and a seventh over the ram.
It was the weapon over the ram that Draco was installing as Satyrus came up the companionway, and he seemed to ignore the king, lying full length and squinting at the deck. The frame of the ballista lay across the bow, and there was a hole bored through the deck and into the main timber that supported the top of the ram – a timber of Euxine oak as big around as Satyrus’ leg. Two shipwrights stood by, one with a brace and bit, and the other with a saw.
Satyrus crouched by the Macedonian. ‘You’ve done this before,’ he said.
‘Nope,’ Draco said. ‘Diokles! You asleep?’
‘Didn’t go through the beam,’ came a voice from below.
Draco shook his head. ‘Needs some kind of collar, I think. Look – we put a pin in the base of the main frame, so the piece can rotate.’
‘Excellent!’ Satyrus said, celebrating his freedom from the finances of his polis.
The ballista over the bow was the heaviest piece on the ship – in fact, in the whole fleet. It could shoot an iron bar out over two stades. Allowing the piece to rotate would more than double its effectiveness.
‘The pin goes deep into the oak of the frame – and deep into the beam below.’ Draco shook his head. ‘But the thing weighs fifty talents. When it looses it could kick like a mule. Shear the pin – crack the beam – break the frame.’ He shrugged.
‘We won’t know until we try,’ Satyrus said.
‘I’d prefer bronze. A nice bronze base – cast. And a matching piece on the frame, to hold the pin.’ Neiron shrugged.
‘What’s to stop it from rotating?’ Satyrus asked suddenly.
‘What?’ asked Draco. His tone indicated that he was taking the criticism personally.
‘When there’s a sea running, won’t it just swing around like a mad thing, useless as tits on a boar?’ Neiron asked, his eyes on Satyrus. He shrugged. ‘I’m just an old man. I don’t like all this innovation. What next – we’ll all forget how to ram, and just sit back and pound our opponents to flinders with these things? Not exactly glorious, if you ask me.’
Satyrus slapped his helmsman on the back. ‘I’ll remind you of that sometime. But Draco – he’s got a point, eh?’
‘More reason for a bronze base plate. With stops, or catches, or releases. I’m not a sodding engineer, am I? Just a Macedonian who’s actually loosed one of these.’ Draco knelt back down by the hole bored in the deck, still mumbling to himself.
Satyrus expected someone to step forward, but they were all deferring to him. ‘Well?’ he asked.
Neiron raised an eyebrow.
‘Do we have a bronzesmith who can cast a base plate?’ Satyrus asked. But he knew the answer, and he was suddenly back in the realms of finance.
‘Not really,’ Neiron admitted. ‘We need one!’
‘Take a note,’ Satyrus said to Helios, who took a tablet from his leather sack and scribbled. Then he turned back to Draco. ‘Well? Rig the tackle and put it in. Let’s shoot it and see.’
Draco smiled. ‘Yes, lord.’
In a matter of moments, a dozen sailors swarmed up the mainmast, rerigged the yard to run fore and aft, belayed the aft end with a heavy rope and put a sling over the bow end with a system of hitches. Then they attached the frame of the forward ballista and used the contraption to raise the frame off the deck and lower it – swaying slightly in the very gentle motion of the Bay of Salmon – until the pin slid home into the deck and the beam below.
‘Needs a cross brace,’ Neiron said, getting into the spirit of the thing. ‘Look here – something that comes out of the base and pins into the deck.’
In fact, the whole weapon rotated slowly back and forth on its pin – a two-fingers-thick rod of iron – swaying with the motion of the waves.
‘Never thought of the waves,’ Draco said.
Neiron made a sound of derision.
Satyrus moved the weapon back and forth with his hand. It was heavy, but well balanced. Then he got down on his hands and knees and looked at the place where the pin entered the deck.
‘Wearing against the deck boards already,’ he said. ‘Draco’s right. It has to have a bronze mounting plate. But let’s shoot it anyway.’
He walked over and looked at the port-side forward weapon, which was fixed in place. It could only be moved if a dozen men lifted the entire frame. Out beyond the mole, he could see a ship putting to sea – the Macedonian ambassador.
He walked back to see Diokles, his former helmsman and now captain of Oinoe, a heavy teteres, or ‘fourer’, emerge from below decks with a heavy iron spear.
‘Shooting away a couple of drachma every round,’ he said as he came up. ‘Like throwing money at the enemy.’
‘I’ll just have the new weapons stripped off Oinoe, then,’ Satyrus responded.
‘Not my money!’ Diokles laughed. ‘It’s yours!’ He gave Draco the spear.
Between them Draco and Neiron spun the winding handles on the weapon’s torsion mechanism. The gears made a curious noise, almost musical, as the handles turned. Satyrus and Helios took a turn.
‘Not exactly fast,’ Satyrus said.
‘That’s tight enough. Never overwind – that’s how you break a rope, and then you’re done for.’ He put a hand carefully on the string of the giant bow. Satyrus did the same.
The bowstring was as thick as rope, woven of horsehair. It was as hard as a tree branch under his hand.
‘Load!’ Draco called, and Neiron and Helios swung the iron spear up and onto the weapon’s loading trough. The nock slid effortlessly onto the string. ‘Ready!’
‘You want to do it, lord?’ Draco asked.
Satyrus didn’t pretend. ‘Yes!’ he said, and placed himself behind the frame, his hand on the releasing handle.
‘Stand a little clear, like this. Sometimes a string breaks, or
the winches give way. Either way, you don’t want to be right behind her, the bitch.’ Draco nodded.
Satyrus ignored him, to line up his shot. ‘Ready to shoot,’ he said.
Draco stood back.
Satyrus pulled the handle and the spear flashed away, so fast that none of them could trace its flight. The frame shook and twisted on its pin, and the deck groaned, and the arms of the heavy bow made a curious thwack as they hit the limit of their travel.
The spear vanished. It went far enough that none of them saw the fall of the shot, and they all stood around, disappointed.
Neiron shook his head. ‘Look at that,’ he said. He pushed against the weapon’s frame, and it tilted.
One shot had bent the pin on which it rotated.
‘Thetis’ glittering breasts!’ Draco said.
‘Best put it on a fixed frame until we can get ourselves a bronzesmith,’ Satyrus said. He was watching the ambassador’s ship. ‘How many men do we have who can use these things accurately?’
Neiron snorted.
‘Looks to me as if we need to have trained crews,’ Satyrus said. ‘And targets on the shore. And contests and prizes. We go to sea in two weeks. I’d like us to be able to hit something.’
Neiron nodded. ‘And what will one of these here spears do to a ship?’ he asked. ‘Anything?’
Draco nodded. ‘Marines?’
Satyrus and Neiron nodded. Diokles shook his head. ‘Better train some sailors, too.’
Satyrus left them debating where they should hold the drills. He was in a much better mood, although as usual, these days, part of his mind was calculating the cost of exercising the new weapons, with the spears at two and a half drachma each (a day’s wage for an oarsman).
He consoled himself that the price was far lower than the value of the loss of a merchant ship. And then he went back to worrying about warehouse space and which towns needed better water supplies.
Two weeks and I’ll be at sea, and will leave all this behind me, he thought.
Tyrant: Destroyer of Cities Page 4
