Tyrant: Destroyer of Cities

by Christian Cameron

  Helios tried to ignore Diokles. ‘Lord, you need to hear what these men have to say.’

  Satyrus nodded. ‘Bring them.’

  Charmides prodded two pirates up to the officers. ‘Tell the king what you told us,’ he said.

  One of the pirates had pissed himself, and he stank. The other simply sank to the sand in the kind of abject exhaustion that Satyrus could understand all too well.

  Satyrus stood straight and walked over to the two of them. ‘I swear before the gods that both of you shall live and go free. Speak and know no fear.’

  The exhausted man nodded. ‘Poseidon’s blessing on you. You’d be King Satyrus, then.’

  Satyrus nodded.

  ‘Your marines want us to tell you that Dekas is dead, lord. Our captain, Spartes, killed him last night for being a fuckwit. No one made any protest, lord.’ The man shrugged. ‘And now it appears that Spartes was no better, eh?’

  ‘Tell the king the other thing,’ Charmides prompted.

  ‘Spartes told us all last night to make for Cyprus,’ the man said. He shrugged. ‘I am – was – a helmsman. Thus he told us.’

  Satyrus looked at Diokles. ‘Cyprus – to join Antigonus One-Eye.’

  The man shrugged. ‘Name I heard was Plistias of Cos.’

  Neiron spoke up. ‘Demetrios’ admiral.’

  Charmides prodded the man with his spear point, hard enough to start a trickle of blood on the man’s naked hip. ‘And the rest.’

  The man looked at his filthy companion. ‘Poke him. I’ve said everything.’

  The other man wept. ‘They’ll kill us,’ he said.

  Satyrus shrugged. ‘I could kill you right now.’

  The man sobbed. ‘There’s six more ships in the harbour at Duria, and more down the coast – a fisherman told us last night.’

  Neiron groaned. ‘You can’t. We can’t.’

  Satyrus forced his shoulders back, feeling the weight of every scale on his breastplate. ‘We must. Ten more ships – even scum like this – could be the end of Menelaeus. We have to make for Cyprus.’

  Diokles looked up the beach at the prisoners. ‘And them?’ he asked. ‘Not the slaves – we can free them, or even use them to make up for our dead. I mean, the wide-arsed pirates.’

  The words kill them actually formed in Satyrus’ gullet. He could taste them on his lips like sour wine. Half a thousand pirates – two days’ work to row across to Rhodes. Useless offal of humanity – men hardened to evil; rapists, murderers.

  He could taste the words, the ease of disposing of them – twenty minutes’ bloody work, like a big temple sacrifice, and it would be done. His men would do it – they were his this morning the way his other victories, hard fought and bloody, had not always made them his. Today he was like a god. He could order the pirates killed. And then he’d be free to sail to Cyprus. Every minute might count.

  At his side, as clear as the sun in the sky, stood Philokles. ‘Be true,’ he said, and was gone.

  Satyrus found that his hands were shaking. He spat the taste out of his mouth.

  ‘Take Oinoe to Rhodos and get some of our grain ships, empty, and any soldiers that Abraham can spare. Leave your marines as guards. And then get them back to Rhodes.’ Satyrus spat again.

  Diokles raised an eyebrow. ‘Killing them would be faster, and then we could stay together.’ He shrugged. ‘Look, I know it’s wrong. But these aren’t men. These are animals.’

  Satyrus found the energy to smile. ‘I agree. But sometimes arete makes its own demands, Diokles. If we know we’re right and our enemies are wrong—’ Suddenly he was confident in the rightness of his decision. ‘Being right means being right. We are the better men. We must behave accordingly.’

  Diokles snorted. ‘You can be a pious prick, lord.’ Then he stepped back. ‘I could get it done if you walked down the beach.’

  Satyrus shook his head. ‘You have your orders,’ he said, and his own doubts made his voice colder than he wanted it to be.

  Diokles did a sort of skip to keep his balance and threw an arm around Helios. He was drunk, even by his forgiving standards of the sea. ‘You’ll go off in one ship and die. And we love you! Kill the fucking pirates and let us stay with you.’ He looked around. ‘Go up the beach and see the captives. See the girl who’s been raped so many times she can’t talk. See the farmer who watched his whole family killed for sport. Talk to them. They’ll convince you.’

  Satyrus refused to be offended. ‘Diokles – get moving. I’ll be fine. And you have your orders.’

  But some perverse sense of duty made him walk down the sand, past the long lines of captive pirates. Charmides came with him, and Helios. He knew what he would find – he’d seen war, he’d seen cities sacked and he’d lived with pirates, when he needed them. He didn’t much like where that thought led.

  Charmides said, ‘Lord, I didn’t know there really were men like you.’

  Satyrus said, ‘Charmides, shut up.’ He wondered if Diokles were, at some level, right. But Philokles – he’d been right there.

  Still he walked towards the former captives – two hundred men and some women who had been taken as rowers or sex slaves or cooks – or all three. Satyrus stopped in the midst of them and motioned to them for silence.

  ‘I’m King Satyrus of Tanais. All of you are free. Would you rather be freed right here, or on Rhodes?’ He looked around. Many of these people were broken – but not all. He saw hope and care and despair and rage in as many faces.

  No one answered him – or rather, everyone did.

  ‘Silence!’ he roared in his storm voice. ‘I must sail away before the sun is a handspan higher. There will be Rhodians here in a few hours. My marines will see that every one of you has’ – Satyrus looked at Helios and mouthed twenty drachma, and Helios shook his head slightly – ‘ten drachma to travel home. You must decide for yourselves whether you plan to go to Rhodes, or you will travel from this beach.’

  One young woman with a baby at her breast fell to her knees weeping. Other people had other reactions – joy, terror.

  Some simply stared at him blankly. One haggard woman patted his cloak in a way that scared him more than the angry men would ever have scared him. Her wits were gone, taken by the gods. Apollo, she wasn’t even old. Just broken.

  Diokles had followed him across the beach and stood at his shoulder. He pointed at the weeping girl on her knees. ‘Pirates did this. And this thing used to be a gentlewoman of Lesbos. And this man was a farmer. Just kill the fucking pirates.’

  Satyrus met his eyes. ‘By that logic I’d be best to kill her, too,’ he said. ‘And the baby – no man’s brat. What choice of life has he? But I am not a god. Neither are you. I am, however, your king. You are making this something that is between you and me. Obey me.’

  Diokles smiled, not as drunk as he had been. ‘Had to try, lord. I really think you are doing the wrong thing. But I will obey. If, on the other hand, you go and get killed away from me, I will personally come to the underworld and pour dung on your shade.’ He reached out his arms, and Satyrus embraced him.

  And then he turned back to the people on the beach. ‘Can anyone speak for the others?’ he asked.

  A man, a man with a spark in his eye and the accent of education and command, spoke up.

  ‘I was a captive, not a slave,’ he said carefully, ‘but I did what I could for some of them, and they all know me. I think – if you mean what you say – that they would like to stay together.’

  Satyrus looked around. ‘Together?’ he asked.

  One of the men nodded.

  The girl with the baby spat in the sand. Through her tears, she said, ‘Lord, you think I should go back to my village?’

  At his shoulder, Helios said, ‘Tanais could take them, lord, and they’d be no worse. Maybe better.’

  ‘Apollo,’ Satyrus said. ‘A ship to Tanais? That’d cost.’

  Helios held out his new gold cup. ‘I’ll pay, lord. I was one of them, once. Lord – you h
ave no idea. The shame . . . the terror.’ Helios’ eyes filled with tears. ‘None of us could ever go home, lord. That world is gone. Who will wed her? Who will take this man in his forge, or on his farm? What of the ones who saw their families killed? Who will understand them?’ Helios stood straight.

  ‘Surely people know that the gods love us when we take care—’ Satyrus paused. That was what Pythagoreans believed.

  Helios cut in – perhaps the first time he had ever cut off his master. ‘Lord, you may live like that, and the men who are your companions. But peasants would say that she is unlucky. That he is cursed. He lived with pirates – he’s a pirate. She’s a whore.’

  Satyrus looked at the educated man who had made himself their orator. ‘Is this . . . true?’ he asked.

  The man nodded. ‘Your hypaspist speaks for them better than I could, lord. If you find it in your heart to send them somewhere together, it would be best. Some will die anyway, but some might make new lives. And any who disagree can simply walk away.’

  Satyrus felt as if his brain was filled with glue, but he managed to make the wheels turn over a few times.

  ‘Helios, you will see to it that all these people go to Rhodes – in a different ship from the captives. Yes?’ He smiled at his hypaspist.

  Helios nodded.

  ‘See to it that they are lodged by Abraham at my expense, and add them to my freedmen who will be going as colonists to Tanais. See to all that, and then rejoin Amyntas as a marine aboard Oinoe and await my return.’ Satyrus smiled. ‘Think of this as a way to reintroduce them to life.’

  Helios grinned. ‘But who will see to you, lord?’

  Satyrus raised an eyebrow. ‘I lived before I had you, boy. Besides, Charmides never does any work—’

  He straightened his shoulders, heartened. Feeling morally good. A rare feeling for a soldier.

  ‘You go to pursue the rest of the pirates?’ asked the man who’d been a captive.

  Satyrus nodded.

  ‘May I come aboard as a volunteer?’ the man asked. ‘I’m a capable spearman. And I would dearly love to put iron in a few bellies. And I play the lyre – I’m a musician. I could play for your oarsmen—’

  ‘Do you believe in the gods?’ Satyrus asked suddenly.

  ‘Only a fool does not,’ the man said.

  ‘Welcome, then. Have you ever taught the lyre?’ Satyrus asked. He could see that both Black Falcon and Oinoe were almost loaded, the loot crowding the gunwales, the prisoners herded together under the watchful eye of Amyntas the Macedonian, who had a spear in one hand and a golden cup full of wine in the other.

  ‘Alexander never gave me a gold cup,’ he shouted. ‘I drink to you, lord king!’

  This must be what it is like to be a god, Satyrus thought.

  ‘Lyre and kithara, too. Some dancing, and some sword work, yes. I teach rich men’s sons. Anaxagoras of Athens. Friends call me Ax.’

  Satyrus held out his arm, and they clasped. ‘Most of my friends are dead,’ Satyrus said. ‘Most men call me “lord”.’ He hadn’t meant to sound so bitter.

  Anaxagoras nodded. ‘That’s natural, and I’m an obsequious bastard myself. Shall I call you “godlike Achilles”? or perhaps “Alexander come again”?’

  Satyrus laughed. ‘And the pirates didn’t gut you?’ he said. ‘I mean, you talked like this and lived?’

  Anaxagoras shrugged. ‘Some people find me entertaining.’

  MILETUS, HEADQUARTERS OF ANTIGONUS ONE-EYE, THE TEMPLE OF POSEIDON

  Antigonus One-Eye was seventy-eight years old, a shambling monster of a man, still strong, still quick, possessed of so much energy that men spoke of it in a hush and made signs against the supernatural. His hair was the colour of old steel – the steel of a good sword, carefully maintained. His shoulders were still broad, the sinews that knit his arms to his neck still thick like rope. Men gathered to watch him exercise in the gymnasium.

  His son Demetrios had all the godlike grace and beauty that his bestial father lacked: golden curls, a perfect, slim physique. Not for nothing did men call him ‘the Golden’. But when his temper flared and his annoyance rose, men died.

  The procession had just reached the steps up to the Acropolis of the city. The Temple of Poseidon rose above the steep hill, the largest temple in Miletus and, some said, in all the world. Twelve thousand men and women crowded the steps, restrained in their enthusiasm by another four thousand of Antigonus’ soldiers, elite silver shields who had served Alexander. They were old men now themselves, those veterans of Arabella and Issus, Jaxartes and India; the youngest of them was nearly half a century old, and the oldest well beyond that – their shields and hair were silver, but their bodies were iron hard.

  The priests – Antigonus had demanded the attendance of every priest in the city – were late. At the top of the steps, Demetrios could see the priestess of Artemis – coldly beautiful, a distant and arrogant figure. Demetrios fancied her instantly and began to wonder what he’d have to do to win her – even for an hour. It was a pleasant enough fantasy, and it passed the time.

  ‘You think this is foolish, don’t you, boy?’ growled the old man.

  Demetrios smiled beatifically. ‘Pater, you are rarely foolish. And you have been right so many times when I was wrong—’ the golden god shrugged. ‘If you wish us to be kings, let us be kings.’

  ‘Symbols matter, boy. Ptolemy stole a march on us when he had himself crowned. Helped solidify the very loyalties we’ve worked so hard to break.’ The old man coughed into his hand. ‘Let us be kings.’ He looked back at the procession and the crowds. ‘From soldiers to kings. A long climb. Like these endless fucking steps.’

  Below them, at the base of the long stoa of columns that ran away down the hill, the place where the richer townsmen congregated, all built and paid for by Antigonus, Demetrios could see a man in a military chiton, running.

  ‘When we finish all this, you take the fleet to Cyprus and I’ll get the main army in transports.’ Antigonus smiled at his golden son. Subtle as a snake, vengeful, mean, bestial, monstrous – Antigonus was called all of these things, but the one thing the world knew of him was that he loved his son.

  The smile that broke across Demetrios’ sun-like face suggested that Antigonus’ affection was not wasted. ‘At last! I hoped we were just waiting for this – that is to say, that’s fine, Pater. Cyprus?’

  Antigonus paused for a moment, savouring his words. Above them, the beautiful priestess of Artemis made a small motion with her hand, infinitely elegant, and a long line of trumpeters stepped up onto a temporary platform. The sound of their trumpets was the sound of elephants and the neighing of horses, and for a moment, Demetrios was in battle inside his head – battle, for which he lived, better than the sighs of women under him and the roar of acclamation from fifty thousand throats.

  The trumpets died away, and the echoes returned slowly from the cliffs east of the city, where the Persian siege engines had been placed two centuries before.

  Antigonus put a hand on his son’s shoulder. ‘Cyprus matters. I need you to win there. Scatter Ptolemy’s fleet. Because the target is Aegypt.’

  Demetrios, used to his father’s deep strategy and sudden changes of direction, was nevertheless taken aback. Heads turned – it looked as if the old monster and the young god were having a quarrel: big news at court.

  ‘But . . . we’ve already lost a quarter of the season. And we’re no better supplied than when I—’ Demetrios was seldom at a loss for words, but he was surprised.

  ‘I have the stores laid in. We supply ourselves from the sea – after you defeat Ptolemy. We use the sea to outflank his defences in Gaza. We move so fast that we’re in Alexandria before winter.’

  The procession began to move.

  ‘You are brilliant – or mad.’ Demetrios smiled, waved at the crowd. ‘So that’s why we aren’t being crowned at Athens.’

  The old man nodded to an equally old Silver-Shield – the nod of one veteran to another. ‘That’s
right, boy. I needed the spring to gather grain. When Dekas brings me the Euxine grain, I’m ready.’

  ‘Effeminate idiot,’ Demetrios said. He had no time for Dekas.

  Antigonus paused, his foot on the top step of the triumphal steps that rose ten times the height of a man from the streets below, a conscious effort to best the steps up Athens’ Acropolis. ‘Lad,’ he said, and turned his head so that the full weight of his mighty stare rested on his son. ‘Lad, you must rise above these “likes” and “dislikes”. Dekas is not, perhaps, an epic hero. You would not, perhaps, invite him to a select symposium hosted to reward your best men, your loyal friends. But he is our tool. His hatred of the Euxine upstart and Ptolemy is the break for which we have waited four summers. Loathe him if you want – but remember that he was sent us by the gods, and he is an instrument of the gods.’

  Demetrios hated it when his father spoke of the gods. Demetrios was a modern man – a rationalist. His father’s superstition annoyed him. And Dekas was loathsome. Whereas Satyrus of Tanais, the ‘Euxine upstart’, was a worthy adversary – the sort of man whose measure made you bigger. Hektor to my Achilles.

  Demetrios managed a small smile, because if he could believe that Satyrus was his Hektor, he was as superstitious as his pater. And Pater was no fool. ‘I will pay Dekas the respect he is due,’ Demetrios agreed. ‘The priests are waving to us, Pater. We should square our shoulders and move.’

  The runner in the plain military tunic had almost reached them, though. He was obviously a messenger, and this close it could be seen that he bore one of Antigonus’ personal messenger tubes – an iron scroll plated in solid gold, the only badge the runner needed.

  ‘This won’t be good,’ Antigonus said with a grin for the crowd. ‘No officer of mine would send a runner through the crowd with good news. Brace yourself, and don’t show it, whatever it is.’

  Pater thought of everything.

  Demetrios schooled his face and stood with his father. The runner didn’t slow for the steps, moving with a lithe grace that equalled that of the priestess of Artemis. He sprang up the steps, his pace unabated, until he arrived at the old strategos and extended the tube, his eyes cast down.