‘Stay at sea,’ Satyrus said. ‘Light the stern lamps and press on.’
In the dark, the stars began to vanish overhead in the second watch, and Neiron woke Satyrus to take a turn at the steering oars. There was an oil lamp flickering fitfully in the sheltered space under the stern strakes, and otherwise it was as black as the cleft of Apollo.
‘Poseidon, stand by us,’ Satyrus whispered to the wind.
The wind stayed steady through his watch and the ship moved fast — perhaps too fast. But it had to be time to turn east and run between Syme and Chalke — hadn’t it?
Satyrus waited as long as he felt he could, and he worried — about the ships behind him, watching for his lights, and about the silence of the god at Delos, and his sister’s anger — and most of all, about Amastris. The middle of a night watch is a dark place, and all of his responsibilities came to him, the weight of every relationship, the numbers of his dead.
Then he leaned on his steering oars and his Arête turned east into a night as black as new-melted pitch. Behind him, he could see Diokles’ Black Falcon make the turn — or rather, he knew the Falcon well enough to know that that was the ship astern. After that, he counted lights — six, seven, eight — and then the gloom was too much. Some of his ships were astern. He wished that he had gone ashore at Cos. He wished he had beached at least for dinner and to remind his captains-
Most of whom were his elders, and had sailed these waters longer than he had been alive.
Then he leaned forward, looking for breakers, listening for a change in the sound of the sea. Twice he gave the steering oars to Helios, who huddled awake because his lord was awake, and went forward to check on his lookouts, but they were awake, as sharp-eyed and anxious as only men at sea on a dark night can be.
‘I’ll never keep a squadron at sea in the dark again,’ Satyrus said to Helios. The younger man sat with his back against Satyrus’ back, sharing warmth. The cool, damp wind sucked the heat right out of them, worse than a winter wind on the Sea of Grass.
Helios laughed. ‘So you say, lord,’ he said. ‘Don’t swear to it, or the gods will hear you!’
Satyrus nodded at the dark. Was that the first grey light of day? ‘I mean it,’ he said.
‘Oh, yes, lord. Until the next time it seems the best way,’ Helios said.
Dawn, and rain — first a light shower, and then heavier, with some wind behind it, so that Satyrus ordered the sails down. Visibility was the length of the ship and perhaps a little more
‘I don’t hear breakers,’ Neiron said, coming awake. ‘I gather we lived?’
Satyrus squatted by the helmsman. ‘Don’t count your drachma yet,’ he said. ‘The morning fog’s so thick I can’t see my nose.’
There was a loud crash astern and shouting, swearing — all of which sounded as if it was coming from their own ship.
Satyrus could hear Diokles shouting insults at someone.
‘Someone fouled the Falcon,’ Neiron said. ‘Not good.’
‘Men are hungry,’ Stesagoras said at his elbow. ‘We need to get ’em ashore soon.’
‘I know,’ Satyrus said. He reflected on the causes of fear — in daylight, if they were where he expected, his men would be quiet, respectful, eager for port. But in the fog of dawn, they were hag-ridden with worry.
‘Don’t pace,’ he said to Neiron.
Neiron stopped walking up and down the command deck. ‘Yes, lord.’
Satyrus lay down in the protected stern area behind the helmsman’s bench. ‘Wake me when the fog burns off and Rhodes is in sight,’ he said. He pulled his chlamys over his head and lay alone with his fears and apparently asleep, listening for the first presage of disaster.
But it had been a long night, and he fell asleep.
In his sleep, Herakles came to him and put a hand over his face. ‘If you had everything you desired,’ the god said, ‘you wouldn’t be much of a hero, would you?’
Then he was in the agora — the agora of the Tanais of his childhood. Men pressed around, and women too, Sakje and Greek and Maeotae.
And there was Ataelus, and there was Philokles. They stood together.
‘Not for having everything,’ Ataelus said with a shrug. ‘You must be for choosing.’
Philokles nodded. ‘When the time comes,’ he said slowly, ‘I suspect that the choice will be obvious.’ He smiled ruefully, a smile that Satyrus remembered so well that even in his dream his heart flooded. ‘Trust the musician, boy.’
Then, suddenly, there were two horses in a paddock. Both were fine — a black and a pale cream horse with a pale mane.
Stratokles came up, wearing the red felt hat of a Sakje horse-trader. ‘Whichever you keep, I’ll take the other one,’ he said, with a leer.
‘She bites,’ Ataelus said, pointing at the pale mare.
‘Touch that head and you’ll land in-’ Stratokles began, but the words ‘head’ and ‘land’ did something in the dream, and Satyrus was awake. Men were cheering.
‘The headland of Rhodes!’ Neiron called from the bow.
Satyrus smiled and waved, and lay at the edge of tears, so moved was he by the memory of Philokles and Ataelus. He wished himself back to sleep, but if he dreamed, he didn’t remember it.
The sun was at its apogee when they passed the headland for the harbour of Rhodes.
Neiron pointed at the walls. ‘Will you look at that?’ he asked.
‘By the spear of Ares,’ Stesagoras said. His sailors were all over the main deck, preparing to lower the mainsail and then the mainmast. He stood with his feet planed well apart, amazed. ‘They’re building a sea wall.’
Work crews were labouring so hard that the walls of Rhodes seemed to be rising before their very eyes. At the north end of the harbour, men were raising a tower of heavy stone blocks with a giant crane powered by men in a treadmill — slaves, no doubt. Even as they watched, the crane raised a block the size of Satyrus’ chest, held in a sling of heavy hide, and deposited it where a foreman straddled the growing tower wall. Under his shouted directions, the block settled, meshing neatly with the rest of its brothers and sisters in the course.
At the south end of the great bend of the harbour, a second mighty tower was rising, and at its feet, a mole — or perhaps a long wharf — was already built in timber, and rubble-fill was being dumped between the standing uprights. Enough of the wharf was complete that ships were already tied up by the finished side.
For as long as Satyrus had known the harbour of Rhodes, it had been undefended, the unstated claim being that Rhodes’ great navy was the bulwark against invasion from the sea. The last time Satyrus had sailed into this port, he’d been able to see the great Temple of Apollo at the centre of the curve of the bay, the Temple of Poseidon next to it and the gilded bronze rose that was the city’s device sparkling in the distance towards the agora. Now there was a wall rising all along the waterfront, pierced with gates and crenellated with towers.
The landward side was getting its share of new fortifications, as well. To the south, Satyrus could see that an enormous tower had just reached its third storey. It appeared to be a quarter of a stade on one side — the length of twenty horses tied nose to tail.
The part of his head that could calculate the value of any new construction in Tanais was running like a colt on a spring day, and Satyrus couldn’t believe the amount of money he was seeing being spent.
‘By the Silver Bow of Lord Apollo,’ he said. ‘There’s the value of our city in that wall alone.’
Neiron shook his head. ‘They must be scared shitless,’ he said. He pointed towards the new mole. ‘There’s some good news.’
Satyrus hadn’t noticed Leon’s ships gathered around the new wharf — they were built almost exactly on the pattern of the Rhodian cruisers, and they were berthed alongside the Rhodian navy, so that they vanished among the long rows of carefully anchored warships.
‘I count one hundred and sixteen hulls, with Leon’s ships included,’ Neiron added.
‘We won’t be as fast or as handy,’ Neiron noted. ‘But if we can get the time to try these new-fangled engines, we might show my cousins a thing or two.’ He looked back over the stern at the long line of warships and merchantmen coming in behind.
‘Best close in the arrowhead,’ Satyrus said, and waved to Helios, who raised his master’s gold-faced aspis and flashed it several times. They were still missing six ships, but a long night at sea and a foggy morning were bound to cause some vessels to wander off course. The rest of them had gathered back to the arrowhead formation while Satyrus napped, and now he put them in a column astern to pass the arms of the Rhodes harbour.
Ashore, men stopped working to watch. Many raised their arms and cheered.
‘Good to be popular,’ Satyrus said, to no one in particular. Heads came up all along the deck — the perfect rhythm of the oars faltered as men gazed at the shore. Sailors swung up on to the rails to get a better look, and the ship heeled a strake as the sailors all gathered on the landward side.
Helios smiled and looked at Charmides, who blushed.
Neiron frowned at everyone on the command deck. ‘This is a working ship,’ he barked.
Everyone went back to work.
The landing was smooth enough, especially as the pilot vessel that met them cheered and waved them away from the stony beach and alongside the new wharf. As if to make amends for their moment of inattention, the rowers were as sharp as a blade approaching the stone and wood, and the starboard-side oars shot in as if pushed by a god’s hand, and the ship settled against the leather-padded pilings like a seabird onto water.
The first man to meet them ashore was Panther, Lord Admiral of the Navy of Rhodes, and the second was Leon. Satyrus hadn’t seen the Numidian in more than a year, and his dark skin contrasted sharply with his white hair.
There were crowds — anxious crowds, Satyrus guessed — and they poured out of the side streets onto the main wharf and cheered. Panther had forty Rhodian marines — mercenaries, mostly, and a hard-looking crew — all around him. Leon had eight of his own men, four black men from Africa and four blond barbarians from the far north, yet all were matched like brothers, wearing identical muscled bronze cuirasses and fitted Attic helmets with red and white plumes. They were eight of the largest men Satyrus had ever seen. He opened his mouth to say something complimentary, but Leon spoke first. Then Panther shouted.
Whatever both of them said was drowned out by the sound of the crowd.
Satyrus pushed forward and tried to hear.
‘I don’t want to hear about how white my hair is,’ Leon shouted, and grinned. He took Satyrus’ hand and they embraced.
‘It’s a little scary,’ Satyrus said. ‘Do we need all these guards?’
‘Wait until it’s on your head,’ Leon said. Then he laughed. ‘I thought you meant the white hair. Guards? Yes. The people here are not happy.’
‘White hair isn’t so bad,’ Satyrus said.
‘Better than none at all,’ Panther added. The top of his head glistened in the sun like a well-polished helmet.
Satyrus waved at all the activity on the walls.
‘Is Rhodes in such imminent peril?’ he asked. People were pressing close, calling out to him.
Behind him, Helios called for Apollodorus. Satyrus was forced to notice that Helios had grown powerful lungs.
Panther shook his head. ‘This is not the place,’ he said. ‘When you have settled yourself, I’ll come.’ He looked at Satyrus’ squadron — the last ships were just clearing the northern headland, and in the distance, the masts of another pair could be seen. Or at least, Satyrus hoped they were his. The rest were being guided to moorings by Rhodian harbour officials.
‘You didn’t have any trouble?’ Leon asked.
Satyrus spoke just loudly enough to be heard. ‘I took Timaea from the pirates,’ he said. ‘I took fifteen warships and destroyed as many again.’
Panther smiled. ‘I knew you were a good ally,’ he said. He looked around, located his phylarch and spoke to the man.
‘Make a lane, there!’ shouted the phylarch. ‘Admiral Panther will speak! Step back, there!’
Panther stepped up onto a bale of cloth. ‘Listen, citizens! Satyrus, King of the Bosporus, has landed with twenty warships and forty more ships laden with grain from the north. There will be no bread shortages! Further, he has defeated the pirates and taken one of their bases! I will see to it that all this news is posted in detail in the agora! Now please go back to your tasks!’
‘And Dekas?’ Leon asked, while Panther was speaking to the crowd.
‘No idea. Last intelligence — courtesy of the Tyrant of Mythymna — is that he’s waiting for me off Chios.’ Satyrus shrugged. ‘I went round. I had all my grain ships to think of.’ He looked at the people. There seemed to be more slaves and women than citizens.
‘You did well,’ Leon said. Panther stepped down off his bale of cloth and Leon nodded to him. ‘That should help, for a while, at least.’ Leon waved at Arete. ‘If Dekas is still at Chios,’ he said quietly, ‘we could have a go at him.’
‘With the whole fleet?’ Panther shook his head. ‘I can’t chance it.’ He shook his head. ‘The boule — the little assembly — is meeting. I have to be there.’
‘Lord Ptolemy-’
‘Tell me tomorrow,’ Panther said. ‘Lord Satyrus, you have done well — very well — to bring your grain fleet here. We will reward you and your captains as heroes. Until tomorrow?’
Satyrus embraced him, and the Rhodian admiral gathered his friends, his marines and his courtiers and set off up the street, through a gate so new that the plaster over the bricks wasn’t dry, and men were sketching on it with charcoal anyway.
‘They are too cautious,’ Leon said. ‘And Ptolemy is too rash. I fear-’ He looked around. ‘Well, not all the news is bad. I have your friend here — young Abraham.’
‘His father let him come?’ Satyrus asked.
‘His father made him come,’ Leon said. ‘Ben Zion moved much of his business to Rhodes in the last two years. Abraham is here to — well, to run it. I leased part of his house for you.’
Satyrus laughed. ‘I feel more like a mercenary than a king,’ he said. ‘No palace?’ He looked around at the wall of Leon’s marines — and his own. Helios had led the whole contingent off the Arete. Apollodorus frowned at him from the rear files, still tying his cheekpieces. Beyond the soldiers, the crowd was calm and orderly, but hands kept reaching out to touch him. Satyrus found this disconcerting. ‘Do we take an escort wherever we go?’
Leon smiled. ‘You have been away from civilisation a long time, my boy,’ he said. ‘Even in Alexandria, I go nowhere without a dozen swords. May I say without offence that you are. . so grown-up now.’
Satyrus laughed, the mood of foreignness broken. ‘Why, thank you, uncle of my youth.’ He stopped and put an arm around Leon. ‘I had a dream about Philokles,’ he said, ‘and Ataelus. It made me cry.’
‘Were they trying to tell you something?’ Leon asked.
‘I think so,’ Satyrus said. But he couldn’t remember what it was. ‘Is Nihmu here?’ he asked.
‘Alexandria,’ Leon said. Something unpleasant passed over his face.
If I am grown-up now, you are feeling old, Satyrus thought.
8
Leon’s encroaching old age wasn’t visible as he sprang up the streets of the city. He walked fast, talking all the time — scribes followed him, copying letters as they walked on tablets of wood and wax suspended from their necks.
No, Satyrus noted — not as they walked, but whenever they stopped. And talking to Leon was quite frustrating, because whenever a scribe finished a document, Leon took it and read it.
‘Your big penteres is magnificent. And you have six of the new engines aboard!’ Leon nodded approvingly, then went back to a bill of lading. ‘Have you decided on a price for your grain?’ he asked.
‘We
haven’t practised with them-’ Satyrus began.
But Leon’s attention was on a letter quickly thrust into his hands — the scribe flashed Satyrus an apologetic smile, as if to say you may be a king, but if I don’t do this he’ll have my head. The letter was on a wax tablet, which Leon held close to his eyes to read. ‘Paideuo is a bad verb to use when we speak of instructing a peer, Epiktetos. Paideuo means, ‘I will teach you as if you were a child’. Leon winked at Satyrus. ‘Which in fact is the case, but let’s not say so out loud. Perhaps didasko.’ Leon paused, watched his scribe until he saw the stylus scratch away the old word and replace it with the new in the wax, and then looked back at Satyrus. ‘You haven’t trained with the new weapons?’
‘We’ve been a little busy,’ Satyrus said. Leon made him feel like a child, sometimes, without meaning to.
‘You stung Dekas, and that’s something.’ Leon’s dark eyes caught his. ‘Have you set a price for your grain?’ he repeated.
Satyrus nodded. ‘I know what my farmers need,’ he said, a little more sharply than he had intended.
Leon nodded, eyes on another tablet. ‘They’ll take your grain if you aren’t careful. That’s what I came down to warn you of. They’re desperate — far more desperate than the situation requires.’
Satyrus found the press of people threatening. ‘This is worse than being a popular kithara player in Alexandria,’ he said.
Leon nodded. ‘You are a famous man. I am a famous man. You just brought this city ninety days of grain. Maybe twice that. All in all, you are cause for celebration, and the two of us together are enough for a riot of celebrity. Ah — here we are.’ He paused. ‘Send a runner to your ships and tell your captains to moor and keep their crews aboard,’ he said.
His escort began to pass into a walled courtyard through a high gate. To the right was a synagogue — Satyrus knew the signs over the door in Aramaic and Greek.
Abraham was just inside the gate. Satyrus’ eyes passed over him for a moment because he expected a tall, athletic navarch, and what he saw was a heavily bearded Jew dressed in long robes.
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