Tyrant: King of the Bosporus (20 page)

‘Muster the men,’ he said.

It took only minutes – the captured rowers had their own fires, watched by tired oarsmen in captured armour.

‘At least they’re all fed,’ Satyrus said to Diokles.

‘Your friend did us proud,’ Diokles said. He was chewing on a pork bone.

‘Do these men have to die?’ Satyrus asked.

‘Zeus Soter, Navarch! They rose in mutiny against you, tried to kill Theron and tried to take one of our ships.’ Diokles looked at Satyrus from under his black eyebrows and spat gristle in the sand. ‘You plan to be a king? I’m no tutor, like your Spartan, nor an athlete, like Theron. Bless ’em both – fine men.
Good
men. But – if you plan to be a king, people are going to die. And you are going to kill ’em. Get me? Maybe you need to lesson yourself on it. Or maybe . . .’ The Tyrian didn’t meet Satyrus’s eye. ‘Maybe you oughtn’t to do it. At all.’

Satyrus stopped walking and stared at his helmsman. ‘Philokles told me once that he thought that good men – truly good men – neither made war nor took life.’ He sighed. ‘And then he said that it looked different from the front rank of the phalanx – both good and evil.’

‘Aye,’ Diokles said, nodding. ‘I hear that.’ He gave a pained smile and took another bite of pork.

‘We’d have done the same to them,’ Satyrus said. ‘If we were taken, we’d do our best to fight back.’

‘And I’d not squirm when the sword bit my neck, eh, Navarch?’ Diokles shrugged. The contempt in his voice wasn’t strong, but it was there. ‘Let Apollodorus do it, if you have to.’

Satyrus shook his head, watching Theron, wondering how much of the man’s good opinion he was going to forfeit. ‘No,’ he said. He loosened his sword in the scabbard and walked forward, where the marines had dragged the prisoner oarsmen to kneel in the sand.

He felt as if his feet were loud on the sand. He could feel the Furies gather.

Satyrus walked up their ranks. Several were boys. The rest were long-armed, hunch-backed rowing professionals, with massive necks and heavy muscle. A few raised their heads to look at him. None of them looked like evil come to earth, or like servants of dark gods, or any comforting, easy, evil thing he could name. They looked like beaten men, cold and empty of hope, kneeling on a beach, waiting to die.

The whole beach was silent, as the fires crackled, dry oak and beech and birch driftwood from the north. Satyrus could smell the birch, the smell of his childhood fires.

If it was not just one Penelope, but a generation of them? Not just one Teax, but a thousand?

A few steps from the end of the line of prisoners, he drew and killed one like a sacrifice, an older man with a cut on his forearm, and then the younger man next to him, blade sweeping across his throat on the back stroke from the first cut so that the two dead men fell almost together. Satyrus stepped clear of the flow of blood. He cleaned his sword on a scrap of linen from his
doros
and continued to walk towards the crowd of enemy sailors.

‘Don’t be fools,’ he said. They were so quiet that he didn’t need to raise his voice. ‘I am taking these ships to Lysimachos, just around the horn of the Propontis – Amphipolis in Thrace. I’ll leave you all ashore there. No Rhodian navy to try you. No one else has to die.’

There was a buzz, and he raised his voice. ‘The men at Tomis wanted to butcher the lot of you. I could still do it.’ His voice was hard, as hard as a man who has just killed in cold blood – who might do it again, just for the pleasure of the power. ‘Row me round to Lysimachos and I’ll put you ashore with silver in your hands. Trifle with me again . . .’ He paused, took a deep breath and raised his voice to a storm-roar, ‘And I’ll kill the lot of you and burn the bodies in the extra ships. Clear?’

The utter silence that followed his last words was its own testament.

‘Excellent,’ Satyrus said. He walked off into the darkness.

Theron held his hair while he threw up. The big Corinthian didn’t say anything. And Satyrus put it away, with Teax and Penelope and the dead girl by the Tanais River. Now he had a name for it.

The price of kingship.

That night, he took a dose of poppy juice in secret, and he felt better.

*

The next day, they raised the Thracian Bosporus with dark clouds gathering in the north. Far off, they saw the nick of a white sail on the horizon, and as the
Golden Lotus
entered the still waters of the Bosporus itself, they passed close to a fifty-oared pentekonter hull, turtled in the water and covered in weed – weeks old.

‘Pirates?’ Satyrus asked.

‘Poseidon,’ muttered the harsh voice of his helmsman.

They swept south. Now the oarsmen had to labour, the wind veering around in minutes so that it pushed right in their faces and the sea rising behind them, even with the narrow channel and protected water.

Lotus
had a third of her benches empty and more only half-filled, and her crew had to struggle to keep the big ship head up to the growing wind and moving steadily down the channel.

The other ships had captured oarsmen but nearly full crews, and whatever the men had taken from Satyrus’s brutal display, they rowed well, so that the squadron moved in a crisp line-ahead,
Lotus
followed by
Falcon
followed by
Hornet
and then the two smaller triremes.

Stades passed, and the oarsmen of the
Lotus
laboured on. Satyrus walked amidships.

‘Friends,’ he called, ‘we’ve a storm behind us and forty stades into Byzantium and safe harbour. I’ll row with you, but row we must – all the way down the gullet.’

He sat on a half-manned bench and took the oar as it came over the top. Thrassos sat opposite him and did the same.

Good rowers – and Uncle Leon took only the best – have their own rhythm, and don’t need a timoneer unless they lose the stroke. Satyrus rowed until his palms bled, and then he rowed further – penance, at the very least. But the men on the benches around smiled at him, and the great loom of the
Golden Lotus
’s oars wove on and on and the stades flowed by. Above, the deck crew took every scrap of canvas off the masts – the wind was head-on. And then the deck crew joined the rowers.

Satyrus’s left arm throbbed, and then it burned, and then he sobbed with pain. He took a nip of the poppy juice from his little perfume flask and was instantly better. The pain still filled his head, but he floated on it instead of swimming in it. He wasn’t actually doing
much rowing any more; mostly his hands just went around with the oar. The three-week-old break was too raw, and the pain too much, for his muscles to have much purchase, but he kept the oar going.

One of the deck-crewmen – Delos, a snub-nosed man who had a reputation for impudence – came and lifted him away from his oar. ‘Need you to steer,’ the man said. He gave Satyrus a tired smile that was worth all the courtly courtesy in the world. Then he sank on to the bench where Satyrus had been and took the oar at the top of its swing.

Satyrus stood at the rail and heaved for some time. When the red haze left his vision, he was looking at the walls of a city rising over the bow of his ship.

‘Herakles and Poseidon and all the gods,’ he breathed. He picked up the wineskin that sat under the helmsman’s bench in the stern and poured all the contents over the side into the sea.

The oarsmen cheered, and even after thirty stades into the wind, their cheer carried and they came down the last of the channel in fine shape, the bow cutting into the wind as they began to round the harbour point.

Satyrus turned the ship with the steering oar, his left arm throbbing so that he choked, and only then did he see that the beach was packed with ships – fifty warships, and ten more anchored out.

‘Poseidon,’ he said. He slumped.

But right at the edge of the beach, he could see
Labours of Herakles
drawn up, his bronze prow gleaming in the winter rain.

He looked at the rest of the fleet for ten laboured breaths, and then his heart beat again. He didn’t know them. Except for
Herakles
and a penteres that might be the
Fennel Stalk
, they were someone else’s ships.

He didn’t know them.
Whoever’s fleet that was, it wasn’t the fleet of Eumeles of Pantecapaeum.

‘Hard to find a place to drop our anchor,’ Satyrus managed to quip. He hoped that he sounded confident.

He needn’t have worried. Sailors swarmed out of the town to help his men anchor out – there wasn’t a spot on the beach, but the tavern emptied to help, and his ships were moored fore and aft, often moored right against the other ships, so that their anchors shared the load. It was only as the first gusts of hail-tipped storm wind bit into them that Satyrus raised his voice to ask where all these ships were from.

‘Hah!’ laughed a big black sailor in a fancy chiton and wearing a one-hundred-drachma sword. ‘We serve no man!’

Satyrus sat down on his steering bench and laughed. He had moored to a pirate fleet.

The first man to meet him ashore was Abraham, lean and bronzed, his long hair in wet ringlets. The man threw his arms around Satyrus and they embraced for a long time – long enough for sailors to call and make salacious comments.

‘I thought you were dead,’ Abraham said. ‘But I hoped – and prayed. And I decided to wait here. Daedalus gave me hope – he came in a week after me and swore he’d seen you get free of the enemy line. But Dionysius said that he saw you sink.’

‘We sank another boat. Easy mistake to make.’ Satyrus let his friend lead him by the hand to a harbourfront wine shop – the kind of place that no Athenian gentleman would ever enter. The doorway was the stern gallery of a trireme, and the benches inside, worn smooth by a thousand thousand patrons, were oar benches, and the walls were covered in bits of wood, nailed to the wall with heavy copper nails. Satyrus slumped on to a bench and looked around.

‘I need you to meet someone,’ Abraham said quickly. ‘Then you can rest.’

The place was quiet, yet
packed
with men – two hundred in a place meant for thirty. ‘Zeus Soter!’ he said, looking around. ‘Is this a tribunal?’

‘We don’t swear by Zeus,’ a burly old man said. ‘Only Poseidon.’ He sat on the bench opposite Satyrus. His face was scarred and he’d lost an eye so long before that the pit of his lost eye was smooth, as if filled with wax. He wore his hair long, in iron-grey ringlets, as if he was a young aristocrat in the agora of Athens. His linen chiton was purple-edged, like a tyrant’s, and he wore a diadem of gold, studded with five magnificent jewels.

‘I’m Demostrate,’ he said. He nodded at Abraham. ‘This young reprobate told me that you’re Kineas’s son. And that you might be dead. But this afternoon, it turns out you’re alive. Eh?’

Satyrus tried not to nurse his arm. He waved at Diokles, who was pushing to get in. ‘That’s my helmsman. Get him a place,’ Satyrus said. His voice snapped with energy, despite his fatigue. He thought
that he had the measure of the place. ‘Demostrate. The pirate king.’ He looked at Abraham.

Abraham shrugged. ‘Not all merchants can afford a squadron of warships to escort their cargoes. My father pays his tenth to Demostrate.’

Satyrus shrugged, although it hurt his arm. ‘My uncle does not.’ He looked at Demostrate. ‘What can I do for you?’

Demostrate’s chin moved up and down – either with silent laughter or in silent affirmation. Perhaps both. ‘You have your father in you, and that’s for certain-sure. I gather you just got your arse handed to you by Eumeles’ shiny new fleet.’

Satyrus rubbed his new beard and managed a smile. ‘Well – they
did
outnumber us three to one.’

Demostrate nodded. ‘See, I thought that if Leon and Eumeles fought, I’d just sit and rub my hands in glee.’

Satyrus nodded, wondering if he was a prisoner now. It seemed to be a situation that called for some bluff. Satyrus didn’t feel as if he had any bluff in him. He looked around at the hundreds of eyes watching him in near perfect silence. The place reeked – tallow candles, oil lamps, hundreds of unwashed bodies and old, stale wine and beer. ‘But?’ Satyrus prompted.

‘But it turns out that I hate fucking Eumeles worse than I hate Leon. Leon’s just a man with goods I covet. He’s put some mates of mine under the waves, and I’ll repay him in time. But Eumeles used to be a creepy lad named Heron, and he had me exiled.’

Satyrus grinned and shot to his feet. ‘Zeus’s – that is, Poseidon’s balls! You’re Demostrate of Pantecapaeum!’

‘Aye, lad, that I am!’ the old man said. He had a pleasant voice, not at all the gravelly rasp that his face would lead a man to expect.

‘You were my father’s admiral!’ Satyrus said. His smile filled his face as he saw the possibilities – and the dangers. For this was a truly dangerous man – a man who’d refused alliance with any of the parties in the struggle of the Diadochoi, who preyed on all comers.

He sat down, his right hand automatically loosening his sword in its sheath, and rested his shoulders against the wall. His right hand cradled his injured left arm.

‘Not really.’ The old man shrugged. ‘Nah. Nothing so fancy. I covered the coast for him one summer while he made war on the Macedonians. And the next year I guarded his merchantmen while
they moved his army. To be honest, lad, it was dull, dull work for a sailorman, and damn little plunder.’ He shrugged, and the gold beads in his locks winked. He had heavy amber earrings. ‘So – how’d you come to get beaten?’