Tyrant: Destroyer of Cities

by Christian Cameron

  ‘Just tell me, lad,’ One-Eye said gruffly.

  ‘The Rhodians and the Euxine prince have routed Dekas, lord.’ The runner bowed. It was never good to deliver bad news. On the other hand, the Antigonids were professionals, not petty tyrants.

  Demetrios smiled, touched the runner’s face with his right hand. ‘What regiment?’ he asked.

  ‘Spears of Isis,’ the young man replied.

  ‘You run well,’ Demetrios said, to put the young man at ease.

  Antigonus shrugged very slightly, giving nothing away to the crowd. ‘Come, my son,’ he said. ‘Let us become kings together.’

  He took his golden son’s hand in his and raised it over his head like a man winning an athletic contest, and the crowd roared its approval. Flower petals fell thickly, sweet poppies and roses.

  ‘Fuck Rhodes, and fuck Satyrus of Tanais,’ Antigonus said under his breath. ‘I’ll see them destroyed.’

  Pater didn’t like to have his plans thwarted. But for Demetrios, it would be all the sweeter that he, and not the useless Dekas, would go to defeat Satyrus.

  BOOK TWO

  AEGYPT

  11

  The moment they were aboard, Satyrus and Neiron got the wind under their stern and the bow pointed south, and virtually the entire crew of the Falcon, with the exception of the deck crew, went to sleep as quickly as if Circe herself had ensorcelled them. Satyrus slept so long that when he awakened the ship was dark and still – and empty – and he was utterly disorientated for a long moment until he realised that the keel must be fast in the sand.

  Charmides was asleep by his back, and the new man – did he really call himself Ax, or was that just his sense of humour? – sat on the helmsman’s bench, strumming empty air with his fingers as if he had an instrument in them.

  ‘You are awake,’ Ax said quietly.

  ‘I am,’ Satyrus said. He felt like going back to sleep.

  Ax grinned. ‘Your Neiron conned the ship ashore at the edge of day, and they left you to sleep.’

  Satyrus managed to climb over the stern, drop to the beach and find his tent. Then he fell on a pile of skins and went straight back to sleep.

  Dawn, and Charmides was forcing him awake, and they were away over the wine-dark sea again, sailing south and a little east into the deep blue, as sailors called it. There were no islands now between them and Cyprus, home of foam-born Aphrodite. No islands and no refuge.

  But the weather was spectacular; high golden clouds in the morning, and by mid-afternoon a sky of such dazzling, brilliant blue that it might have seemed as if they had sailed across the very top of the world. Satyrus sacrificed the only animal aboard (except for the cat), a rooster, to Poseidon and to Aphrodite for the day and the sailing, and they cooked the rooster over the fire pot, a big clay pot that ships used to carry fire from one beach to another.

  Down the wind they flew, and no hand touched an oar from dawn to dark.

  They raised Cyprus well before darkness fell, and sailed into a harbour on the west coast – a harbour that had seen its share of pirates, for the only lights were on the mountain, six stades and more away in the clear evening air. But fishermen – a brave lot in any land – came in an hour to sell them lobsters and snapper and mullet, and they made big fires from driftwood and cooked, and Satyrus was asleep again.

  But in the morning, the oarsmen had to earn their keep. Now the wind was from the east and east along the coast was where they had to go, and rowing into the eye of the wind was miserable work, the more so as no man aboard was fully recovered from three days of fighting without sleep.

  Satyrus passed the day learning the convolutions of Anaxagoras’ mind. He was strangely humoured – a man who seemed utterly unafraid of causing offence, for whom a jest was more important than meat or drink. His great-grandfather had been the famous philosopher and opponent of Socrates, and he had many anecdotes about the philosophers of Athens that Satyrus had never heard.

  He had been born to an old family, and he’d held one of the priesthoods of Nemesis as a boy and fallen in love with singing and music. And dance. ‘I danced in armour at two Panathenaic Games,’ he said with pride. ‘And I was a chariot runner at a third.’

  Satyrus smiled. It all seemed a little fantastical to him. ‘Chariot runner?’

  ‘In Athens – you have been to Athens?’

  ‘I’m a citizen. My father was Kineas of Athens.’ Satyrus sat back against the shrine of the sea god, which in between sacrifices made a fine backrest for the helmsman.

  ‘Of course. Have you seen the games?’ Anaxagoras asked.

  Satyrus shook his head. ‘I was too young to attend, and then—’ He smiled. ‘And then I was an exile, a soldier and then a king.’

  Anaxagoras’ face darkened. ‘Kings are all the rage, at Athens.’ Then his face cleared. ‘At any rate, I was a chariot runner. That means that, dressed in full armour, you leap on and off a chariot moving at speed.’

  Satyrus smiled. ‘Sounds dangerous.’ He paused. ‘Have you ever . . . fought? Hand to hand?’

  Anaxagoras shook his head, deflated. ‘No. When the wide-arsed pirates took us, I was asleep, and then I was a captive. I’ve never faced a man across the spear points.’

  Satyrus raised an eyebrow. Charmides smiled at the Athenian. ‘I have – twice! Terrifying . . . beautiful, sir. You will enjoy it.’

  Satyrus held out his horn cup to Charmides for a refill. ‘No one – and I mean no one I know – has ever called combat beautiful.’

  Satyrus accepted that Anaxagoras was god-sent. He bore the mark of Apollo, the golden hair of the god, and he was a musician. What more could Satyrus want? And Satyrus had rescued him from pirates, as his father had rescued Philokles from the sea.

  ‘Sometimes things are simple,’ Satyrus said, after he had drunk some more wine.

  ‘Almost never,’ Anaxagoras replied.

  ‘My father rescued Philokles from the sea, and they were friends for life,’ Satyrus said, as the rowers under his feet cursed his need for speed.

  ‘I would wager that there was much more to it than that,’ Anaxagoras said. ‘Some basic similarity, some appreciation and some shared experience – perhaps shared immediately after the rescue. Let’s face it, rescued men rarely love their rescuers.’ He winked at Charmides.

  Charmides had been listening with rapt attention. ‘Why? How ungracious!’

  ‘Perhaps, but human.’ Ax laughed. ‘Listen, lad, nothing spoils a man’s image of himself than being in debt for his life. The myths are full of such stuff.’

  ‘But Philokles was a great man,’ Charmides said.

  Satyrus looked at the Lesvian boy. ‘How do you know that?’ Satyrus asked. ‘I mean, you have heard the older men speak of him?’

  Charmides shook his head. He looked away, and then looked back, and he was blushing. ‘He fought for some time on Lesvos.’

  Satyrus nodded. ‘Yes, of course. That’s where he was before Pater met him. Mythymna.’

  ‘If this Philokles overcame self-love to love his rescuer, he was a noble man indeed. Are we talking of Philokles the philosopher? Of Alexandria?’ Ax looked interested.

  ‘My tutor. And one of the noblest men who ever lived. But you, sir – are you ungracious? I rescued you, and you seem to take it in good part.’ Satyrus smiled. It was a pleasure to have someone to tease.

  ‘I think it only shows how very noble I am,’ Anaxagoras said with a slow smile.

  ‘I think you spent half an hour setting me up for that line,’ Satyrus said.

  ‘Yes,’ Ax said, and grinned.

  A day of rain, and they rowed east along the coast, still into a headwind, and made less than two hundred stades. Satyrus was tempted to go ashore and take a horse, he was so impatient to get to Menelaeus of Alexandria.

  But off Lampasdis, where the shrine of Aphrodite towers over the sea, he found two ships moored for the night – his own Marathon, and Troy. And there was better to come; Sandakes, the Ionian mercenary who had Mara
thon, twirled his oiled moustache and pointed east.

  ‘Arete is in the next bay with Plataea,’ he said.

  Satyrus went to bed easier at heart, and awoke to command a squadron of powerful ships. He moved all his officers back to Arete in the morning, and dark-visaged Aekes, the current navarch of Black Falcon, pretended to be angered by the exchange.

  ‘All those tall decks!’ said the short man. ‘I could walk in the oar lofts without bending over!’

  But the way his eye passed over the Falcon, he was clearly happy to return to his own ship, and to be free of the responsibility for his very expensive temporary command.

  Laertes, Apollodorus’ second, had exercised the heavy engines every day they’d been apart, firing wooden billets to save the iron bolts.

  ‘How’d they beat us here?’ Satyrus asked Neiron.

  ‘Aekes guessed we’d go for Cyprus,’ Neiron said. ‘He’s a good man.’

  The next day he pushed them as hard as he could, still into the wind, but he was nearing the seat of war, and the requirement to keep his rowers in shape to fight prevented an all-out effort to reach the anchorage at Cyprian Salamis, where all the fishermen and the rumours agreed the two enemy fleets were anchored – that of Ptolemy, to help his brother who was laying siege to the city, and that of Antigonus One-Eye, who was trying to save the city or at least trap a portion of Ptolemy’s ships.

  That afternoon they spotted a merchantman – which proved to be the last of three vessels, a trireme and two big grain ships. Satyrus thought for a moment and decided that his need of information outweighed his need to arrive, and he gave chase.

  The trireme fled as soon as she saw them, making no attempt to protect her consorts, and Aekes vanished over the horizon in pursuit. Marathon and Troy picked up the grain ships – they couldn’t sail against the wind, and the Bosporans were downwind and they never had a chance. They were Asian ships from Tyre, laden for Antigonus’ fleet, and Satyrus took them with private glee – big grain ships were worth a fortune in the Euxine, if he could get them home.

  The next dawn brought Black Falcon with her foe under her stern, a small trireme, pretty with new paint and decoration and a shrine to Ba’al in the stern galley. Satyrus put a skeleton crew of rowers aboard out of the mighty Arete, and led the way around the long point of Cyprus and south again to Salamis.

  They raised the headland, with the largest temple of Aphrodite on the island, just a little after the sun crossed the top of the sky, and Satyrus breathed a deep chestful of air in relief to see the black hulls drawn up in three places – sixty ships of Menelaeus under the walls of the town; further west at the camp of Antigonus at least a hundred hulls, and some great ships, and still further west in the fortified camp of Ptolemy Sator, the King of Aegypt.

  Three fleets. Hundreds of ships. He was not too late.

  He was not too late, but as soon as he saw the might of the armament against them, he felt as if a piece of cold bronze had been pressed against his back.

  ‘I count—’ Satyrus said. He paused. They were well out from the shore, and Plistias of Cos seemed not to feel they were worth his trouble. Not a single ship left his anchorage. ‘I count two hundred and sixteen hulls. Nineteen penteres. And something that looks bigger yet.’

  Neiron had Thrasos at the steering oars while he counted. ‘Two hundred and eleven, by my count. But aye, lad – yon’s a monster, and no mistake.’

  They stood in shared and silent contemplation of the vastness of Antigonus’ preparations, and then they were racing along the beaches held by Ptolemy. Ptolemy had fewer ships, even with his brother’s force in the town, and smaller ships, too.

  ‘I wish now we had Oinoe,’ Satyrus allowed himself to say. The big fourer was almost as powerful as Arete, and Ptolemy was clearly short on capital vessels.

  ‘Where is the rest of the Aegyptian fleet?’ Satyrus asked.

  ‘Where in all the seas did Antigonus get so many ships?’ Neiron asked.

  ‘Rhodes should be here,’ Satyrus said. ‘Fifty ships of Rhodes would break Antigonus for ever.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Neiron said. ‘If we win. Not a risk Rhodes would want to take, I think.’

  ‘If Ptolemy wins, there will never be a siege of Rhodes,’ Satyrus said. ‘By the gods, Neiron, we’ve shattered the pirate fleet and now, with the favour of the gods and a little luck, and some sea room, we’ll see Ptolemy do the same. And then we can go home!’

  ‘Aye, perhaps,’ Neiron said.

  Ptolemy looked older. He had just a fringe of hair on an otherwise polished head, almost like Panther of Rhodes. His lips still curled automatically in a sneer (which belied his pleasant disposition) and he had liver spots on his hands – and wore a diadem.

  ‘I suppose we’re all kings, now,’ he said in greeting. ‘It seems just a few summers ago that I sat in Alexander’s tomb and told you the story of his life. And now you are a king.’

  ‘Well,’ Satyrus said, kneeling, ‘I’m king over some horses and sheep. I can bow to you without shame, mighty lord of Aegypt.’

  Ptolemy rose and embraced him. ‘I never really thought you’d take the bloody place, boy. But you did. The only victory for my side in this gods-cursed war, in four years. I hear a rumour that you have fought the pirates this summer.’

  Satyrus provided a précis of his squadron’s activity.

  Amyntas, Ptolemy’s admiral, nodded along. ‘You beat them – but how many did you destroy?’

  Satyrus counted aloud. ‘Sank four. I took five more myself, and sank another pair over the next few days. I can only hope that Leon and Panther took more.’

  Amyntas nodded. ‘I hope so, too. But you must admit that it is possible that another thirty ships could join Plistias over the next few days.’

  Satyrus shrugged. ‘It could be so. But equally, the rest of my squadron could come in. Diokles will rally any ships he found at Rhodes. He should only be a day behind me – two at most – and he may not have met the cursed headwind that pushed against us all the way along the coast of Cyprus.’

  ‘My lord, with all due respect, I must deal with the war as it is set before me. With your four ships – your beautiful penteres – we are closer to even than we have been yet. One hundred and ninety-four to two-hundred and seven ships that will stand in the line of battle.’

  Amyntas raised his arms to Ptolemy of Aegypt. ‘I do not feel that we can risk waiting for more of Lord Satyrus’ ships. We could just as easily see thirty pirate ships sail in to join Plistias tomorrow noon.’

  Satyrus couldn’t argue the odds. ‘My crews are tired,’ he said.

  Ptolemy grinned ruefully. ‘Offer them hard cash,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow, we throw the knucklebones.’

  12

  ‘Hulls are wet,’ Neiron complained as they got aboard Arete, the new-minted sun a red disc on the horizon.

  ‘Pardon?’ asked Satyrus.

  ‘All of Ptolemy’s hulls are dry. Light. We’ve been in the water four weeks straight – heavy. We should have a day or two to dry the hulls.’ Neiron shrugged.

  Satyrus watched his oarsmen pushing the heavy hull into the water, one step at a time, as the oar master tapped out their pushes on a small drum, very like the tambours that temple priestesses used.

  ‘I don’t much like the look of the weather to the west,’ Neiron said. He scratched his beard. ‘Lord, I have a very bad foreboding about today.’

  ‘How about not sharing that with the rest of the crew?’ Satyrus said. ‘We’re outnumbered, but not badly. Ptolemy got a messenger to his brother in the night, so all we have to do is rendezvous off the breakwater and our numbers are nearly even – holy Demeter Mother of Grain, what’s that?’ he said aloud, running to the leeward side.

  There were new ships on the beach, over where Plistias of Cos had his camp. Fifteen or more new ships, all beached together, hulls glistening in the new sun, black with tar, and among them a giant hull like a vast wooden tortoise.

  ‘Thetis’ shining tits, that thing is
enormous.’ Neiron whistled. ‘Quarter of a stade. More. Zeus Sator, stand by us.’

  Satyrus watched them launch it. Men crawled over the hull like ants, and long lines of men pushed with poles.

  ‘Herakles,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve never seen a ship so large,’ Neiron said.

  Underfoot, their own ship was suddenly free of the land and took on a life of its own, and men began to pile aboard up the rope ladders trailing the hull on either side, climbing in disciplined rows and racing for their oars. Launching and landing were the hardest manoeuvres for big ships, and the custom was increasingly for such ships to moor off the beach and not to land.

  Anaxagoras came up the ladder and sprang down into the helmsman’s station. ‘Good morning, lord king. And Neiron, great councillor, tamer of horses.’

  Neiron, whose love for the Iliad Anaxagoras had discovered, swatted him with his free hand, but Satyrus smiled. ‘Are you the old horseman, Nestor?’ he asked.

  ‘Wait until you are my age and younger men mock you,’ Neiron said.

  ‘Zeus Saviour!’ Anaxagoras said, as Charmides came up the side. ‘Please tell me that leviathan over there is on our side!’

  Satyrus shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not. My guess is she’s Demetrios’ flagship. I assume the golden boy sailed in during the night, meaning that we are now outnumbered,’ he paused to calculate, ‘somewhere around two hundred and twenty against one hundred and ninety-five.’

  Anaxagoras looked at the enemy beach from under his hands. ‘Is that bad?’ he asked.

  ‘Be still for a bit, sir,’ Charmides said. Neiron and Satyrus were rattling orders at the deck crew. Almost alone of all the ships launching, the Arete had her foremast up and rigged, and Satyrus called to Stesagoras to hoist the foresail.

  Under the stern, a runner was shouting.