‘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 Marathon, 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.
‘Lord,’ Charmides tugged at Satyrus’ chiton. ‘Lord — a messenger.’
‘Summons to a command meeting,’ Satyrus noted. ‘Send a boat ashore for me, Neiron. Charmides — on me, no arms. We may have to swim.’ Satyrus leaped up onto the handrail and caught the ropes of a trailing ladder, swung out and dropped to the beach. ‘Why couldn’t we have our meeting before I had my ship afloat?’ he asked the gods, and ran off down the beach, Charmides at his heels.
Amyntas — one of hundreds of Amyntases who served in the various Macedonian armies of the world, and known as Amyntas of Alexandria to his subordinates — stood at a table in Ptolemy’s tent with a chart of the bay of Cyprian Salamis. He had a pair of dividers in his hand — a tool Satyrus had seen only in the hands of architects.
‘Three bodies — three commands. All of our heavy ships in the centre, to match their heaviest — Demetrios apparently came in the night and he has an eighter. An octareme. May Poseidon roll the cursed thing in the surf — it’s larger than any ship we have, and twice as heavy as our heaviest sixer. One of our lord’s spies says it mounts twenty engines of war.’
Ptolemy spoke up from his golden chair. ‘Amyntas, you’re here to command us, not to demoralise us.’
Amyntas shrugged. ‘This isn’t the time for horse shit, either, lord. Very well. All our heavy ships in the centre — you too, Lord Satyrus. Sorry to split you from the rest of your ships, but I can’t afford to put a single heavy ship on the flanks. Very well, the fastest ships with the best crews — Meleager’s, and young Satyrus’ triremes, and all the old fleet ships with professional crews — in the right wing. And when we link up with your brother, lord — with Menelaeus, then he’ll form our left wing, closest to the beach. Our tactics must be simple, and antique. Ship for ship, our enemies have heavier ships, more marines, more towers and more engines. So we must fight the Rhodian way — the Athenian way. With rams and oar rakes and rapid flight. No closing. Once we start locking up with grapples, we’re lost.’
Satyrus was not happy — was, in fact, deeply unhappy — with being split away from the rest of his ships. In effect, his beautiful Arete was being sent to live or die at the whim of strangers. But he had to admit that in every other way, Amyntas, a man he had never liked, was giving a sound plan based on a rational appraisal of the enemy.
Satyrus raised his hand.
Amyntas ignored him for a moment, but when no one else had a question, he nodded.
‘How do we stay away?’ Satyrus asked. ‘We have to go at them, if only to pick up Menelaeus.’
Amyntas tapped his dividers on the table. ‘That part will be touch and go — especially if Plistias tries to keep us apart.’ He shrugged. ‘Watch the king’s ship for signals. We’ll back water when we get close to them — perhaps draw them off the land.’
Satyrus wanted to ask if all of them were well enough trained to back water for an hour. Only a few years before he’d watched Eumenes, his enemy, lose all cohesion — and his crown — because his ships could not back water together. But it wouldn’t do to speak out.
Ptolemy leaned forward. He looked older, all of a sudden. ‘How do we form? In columns?’
Amyntas shook his head. ‘Too unwieldy; too big a fleet. I wager that Plistias does the same — forms lines off the beach. I’ll have Phillip Croseus form our right with the fast ships, and command it, while I arrange the centre. I’ve written out the order of ships, from beach to open sea. Check the list and take your places, gentlemen.’
Satyrus found that his warships — Marathon, Troy and Black Falcon, had been given positions at the very rightmost, or seaward, edge of the line. It was flattering — Amyntas was no fan of Leon, nor of Satyrus, but he was admitting that their crews were the best.
Satyrus himself was right in the centre, four hulls to beachward of Ptolemy himself, in a fine, enormous sixer. He had a great red cloth flapping from a pole on the stern, marking the flagship — another recent innovation.
Satyrus found Neiron holding Arete just off the beach. Satyrus stripped his chiton over his head and swam out, grabbed the ladder and climbed aboard. Charmides went below and returned with towels.
Satyrus grinned at Neiron. ‘That felt good.’
Neiron shook his head. ‘Pray it’s the only swim we have today. What’s our station?’
Satyrus spat over the side. ‘We’re with the king,’ he said. ‘A place of honour, no doubt, but Akes and the rest are four stades off at the top of the line.’
Neiron nodded. ‘Lucky them. We’re with the king?’ he asked. His face grew very still. ‘In the centre — where the fighting will be hardest.’
Satyrus looked around. He had no wish to dishearten his men. ‘Amyntas is backing water after we’re close to the enemy,’ he said.
‘With this lot?’ Neiron asked quietly.
Satyrus shrugged. ‘Let’s not wish ourselves ill. Our fleet is made up mostly of Alexandrian professionals and a handful of mercenaries. We all speak the same language, and many of them — many of us — have sailed together before.’
Neiron nodded. ‘Aye, lord, and Plistias has a horde of Asiatics and Cilicians and Phoenicians. But he has some big ships. And if he keeps it simple, it’ll be hard for us to win.’
Satyrus shrugged again. ‘Plistias is not an innovator. He’ll form up in two lines and come for us, and try the contest with the gods. If we can back water and if Menelaeus comes out on time, we’ll do well. Remember, Neiron — for all our griping. We don’t have to win. We don’t even have to stay even. Plistias has to score a sweeping victory.’ Satyrus grinned.
Anaxago
ras, who had remained silent throughout, spoke up. ‘Why? Pardon me — I’m a novice at war. But a victory is a victory, surely.’
Satyrus shook his head, and so did Neiron — so exactly simultaneously that other men on deck laughed aloud.
‘No. Look at the bigger picture. Antigonus is on the attack. He has risked a great deal to build this enormous fleet. Now he must destroy our fleet — and our ability to resist him at sea. Unless we’re wrecked, he can’t proceed against either of his two main objects — Alexandria or Rhodes.’
Neiron smiled — a rare enough expression for the man. ‘And since we defeated the pirates, it is worse for them.’
Anaxagoras said, ‘But this is as complex as a dance! Why worse?’
Satyrus turned aside and issued a string of orders as Arete passed along the rear of the first line and behind the royal flagship with her great red banner, and he began to count hulls. The line was forming well — there was none of the chaos he had feared. In fact, the Alexandrian fleet, for all of Ptolemy’s legendary parsimony, was well trained, and his rowers appeared well fed, fully paid and in good spirits. Satyrus felt his own spirits rise. His experience — not as wide as Neiron’s or Diokles’, but he had a few years behind him, now — was that a fleet that formed well would fight well.
Behind his shoulder, Neiron explained.
‘Worse for them because the pirate fleet effectively functioned to keep Rhodes out of the war,’ the older man said. ‘Antigonus is a subtle bastard. He uses the pirates to isolate Rhodes, and he uses diplomacy and the Rhodians’ own conservatism to threaten them into staying clear of joining Ptolemy’s alliance outright. But with the pirates scattered, or better, the Rhodians may decide to come in, with sixty ships — ships better, frankly, than anything either side here has to offer.’
Anaxagoras grinned. ‘It’s like the plot of one of Meleager’s comedies,’ he said.
‘It’s only a comedy if we win,’ Satyrus said.
The Alexandrian fleet formed first. Satyrus had the Arete in line early — and with lots of time to wait. He walked up and down the decks, looking at the stacks of bolts for the machines, the spare oars in racks, the full water jars. He walked down onto the oar decks, chatting with his rowers — he’d drunk wine, by this point, with many of them, and they were no longer a sea of alien faces in the murk of the thranite hold but men he knew — funny, sad, outrageous, lewd, or plain. His number two thranite, hard against the bow, was called Kronos, as he was old enough to remember the birth of the gods and still hale enough to row.
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