Satyrus smiled at the compliment and inclined his head in return. ‘Sir, I am on my way to Athens, where, I, too, am a citizen. Perhaps we might have a bout at the Lyceum?’
‘Polycrates, son of Lysander,’ the Athenian said, and they clasped hands. ‘We are keeping the hierophant waiting.’
The hierophant nodded. ‘It seems to me that this meeting was the reason the god brought you here. This may have been the only moment that the god required.’ He nodded at their confusion. ‘It is often thus. Brasidas met the King of the Thracians here. He was coming to ask, “By what means may I defeat the Athenians in Thrace?” I understand that he never even had to ask the question.’
He led Satyrus by the hand to the sacred lake, and prayed aloud to Apollo – a very old prayer in the old Ionian style, with his arms spread wide. Satyrus assumed the same pose and waited.
‘Ask your question,’ the high priest said.
‘Do not go to Athens! ’ called a hoarse, low voice in the distance. And there was laughter. Satyrus turned his head and saw a group of retainers – possibly Polycrates’ men – playing by the side of the temple.
The omen was clear to Satyrus. He looked at the priest, who looked back at him, arms outstretched. ‘Were you contemplating a trip to Athens?’ he asked mildly enough.
‘I have a fleet of grain ships, fully laden, en route to Athens. The woman … that is, my best friend is a hostage there. My grain ships are the guarantee of my good behaviour. I must go to Athens.’
The priest nodded curtly. ‘I wish that I had a drachma for every time a supplicant has received a direct order from the god and then informed me, and my lord Apollo, that he cannot possibly obey,’ he said. ‘I would be a rich man.’
Satyrus had meant to ask something grand – to ask how he might best serve his people, or something equally vague. Delos was, he thought, best at vague questions. But now he went with the divine inspiration. ‘Lord Apollo, Lord of the Silver Bow, God of the Lyre, what must I do to survive Athens?’
The hoarse voice down in the temple yard floated across the temple lake: ‘Guest … friendship is still sacred… even in Athens.’ as clear as if the priest had spoken it himself. In the distance, men laughed. Many conversations merged into the voice of the god.
Satyrus considered running outside to find the men – to ask what they were discussing, what joke was being told, what ribald story gave rise to these pronouncements, so like the voice of the god. But only to see the mechanism of the god’s breath. For Satyrus was as sure as anything he’d ever known that he’d heard the voice of the god floating over the sacred lake.
‘You are very close to the gods,’ the hierophant said.
Satyrus raised an eyebrow. ‘I have been told so,’ he said.
‘I know men who would kill for an answer as clear as that,’ he said. ‘Come.’
Together they walked back to the anteroom on the temple porch. The Athenian was moving his feet in just the way that Satyrus had been. He grinned, also like a much younger man caught in some secret sin.
‘I see it,’ he said. ‘A very small movement of the hips can be as powerful as a much larger movement.’
Satyrus shrugged. ‘Perhaps not as powerful,’ he said. ‘But good enough in a confined space, or a real fight.’
Polycrates nodded. ‘May I hold you to our bout at the Lyceum?’
Satyrus narrowed his eyes. ‘Allow me to go one better, sir. Let us swear a guest friendship here, and I’ll give you a ride back to Athens. We can fight on every beach from here to there.’
Polycrates’ eyes sparkled. ‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure,’ he said. ‘The more especially as it would allow me to dispense with a particularly annoying pup of a trierarch who has made my life a misery. Now I can send him on his way to Corinth. You are no friend to Demetrios, as I remember?’
Satyrus bowed. ‘We are not at war, he and I,’ he answered carefully.
Polycrates nodded. ‘Well – best you know – I am his friend. Perhaps his greatest supporter in Athens. Will you still carry me home?’
Satyrus extended his hand.
Polycrates took it. ‘Let us go before the god.’
Arm in arm, with the hierophant behind them, obviously pleased, they walked into the divine presence, where the flame burned. They made their gestures to the god, and then, with the hierophant leading them, they swore guest friendship. Satyrus undertook it as King of the Bosporus, with full solemnity, and Polycrates answered him in kind, as high priest of Herakles in Athens.
When they were done, Satyrus nodded to his new friend. ‘So you are the priest of Herakles,’ he said.
‘And you are his descendant, are you not?’ asked Polycrates. ‘As are we – Heraklidae all.’
The grain fleet might have made Athens in two long, hard days, but Satyrus allowed three – he was suddenly in less of a hurry, and more determined to know Polycrates, and to gather what news he could from fishermen. The most likely threat came from Demetrios – it seemed obvious, when he thought of it, lying on the sand at Syros watching the wheel of the stars over his head, that Demetrios meant to take him and hold him. No surer way of preventing his re-entering the war when the truce sworn at the end of the siege of Rhodes expired.
Besides, Polycrates was a wonderful close-in fighter, and Satyrus found that the man had things to teach him. He had a technique for fighting from the ground – a technique that Satyrus had seen Theron use, but had never been taught. Polycrates could lever himself up on his shoulders and neck and grasp with his legs like a pair of blacksmith’s tongs, seizing his opponent and pulling him to a ground grapple which Polycrates, built like a large rock, would inevitably win.
Charmides was annoyed by the technique. ‘What is to keep me from walking away as soon as you go to ground?’ he asked the older Athenian.
Satyrus shook his head. ‘We do not always fight by choice, Charmides. What if circumstance or Tyche places you on the ground? What if you are attacked after being knocked down? We do not always fight from a position of advantage.’
‘In fact,’ Apollodorus said with a quick smile, ‘we never seem to fight from a position of advantage. No one attacks you because you are ready to be attacked, young man.’
Charmides was abashed, and blushed. ‘Of course not. I should have held my tongue.’
In fact, there was quite a crowd to spar with the big Athenian man. He was courteous, careful, and very good.
So good that he won the first night against Satyrus, three throws to two. Satyrus lay watching the stars. It was a long time since anyone had beaten him. He could console himself that he had not used all of his skill – but neither had the other man, he was sure. No one would, in a friendly grapple on the beach. And it was a long time since he had lost, and he was trying to bear it with good grace.
After lying awake an hour, he rolled off his cloak and his two furs and walked up the beach to where his kit lay under his aspis, and took out his canteen. It was full of wine. He sat with his back against the stern, and said some poetry to himself, and then he fetched his travelling lyre and went around the headland and played it for half an hour.
He fell into the playing – some of the best he had ever done. When he had finished with his practices and his hymn to Apollo, he was sleepy, so he went back to his cloak and fell immediately asleep.
‘Am I growing more arrogant?’ Satyrus asked.
He was between the steering oars of his Medea, an hour off the beach at Syros, driving along over the choppy sea with the wind dead astern, all the rowers enjoying being passengers while the deck crew worked like ants to keep the mainsail and the boatsail trimmed and drawing in a tricky wind.
Anaxagoras grinned. ‘I’m sorry – how would I know? I mean, if one throws pitch on a black statue—’
Satyrus swatted him with an open hand. ‘I’m serious,’ he said.
Anaxag
oras frowned. ‘Are you? All the tragedies seem to have this moment held in them, brother. And have you ever known a woman to ask you if she was gaining weight, and to want a genuine answer?’
Satyrus looked away in consternation. ‘So the answer is – yes.’
Anaxagoras shrugged. ‘Yes. That is, the siege hardened something in you. You used to be somewhat hesitant about giving some opinions – now you take for granted that your opinion is necessary in all situations.’ He held up a hand to forestall Satyrus’s explanations. ‘Now, to be sure, philos, you are a king, and you are a commander. But since you asked, may I say by way of allegory that I am a famous musician, and that I find that this does not particularly increase my ability to pronounce on how this ship sails?’
Satyrus tried to laugh – he got a smile to his face, at least. ‘Whereas I feel that my expertise as king justifies voicing my opinion on all subjects?’ he asked.
Anaxagoras shook his head. ‘See? You don’t really fancy my opinion.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘I expect I’ll be executed.’
Satyrus looked at the horizon. ‘Fuck off,’ he said. ‘I asked. I was hoping for a less adamant answer.’
Anaxagoras shook his head. ‘You knew the answer before you asked.’
Satyrus sighed. ‘I’m not taking the losses at pankration at all well.’
Anaxagoras grinned. ‘There, I can put your mind at rest. I think that you are bearing them splendidly, in that you haven’t cursed or shouted out loud. When did you last lose?’
‘Lose outright?’ Satyrus thought. ‘Three or four years, anyway.’
Anaxagoras nodded. ‘Well, it’s good for you. Builds character.’
‘My tutor, Philokles, used to say that.’ Satyrus nodded. He was stung, and trying very hard not to show it.
‘All tutors say that,’ Anaxagoras said. He put a hand on Satyrus’s shoulder. ‘May I say – at the risk of hurting you further – that it’s brave of you to ask? And that you can remedy this simply by being silent on occasion?’
Satyrus looked away, and a variety of responses occurred to him. But again, he managed a smile. ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he said.
Polycrates came back from the bow, where he’d gone to catch the breeze. ‘What a perfect morning!’ he said. He nodded to Anaxagoras. ‘My lord, you keep very good company – good men, with good manners and real excellence. That Charmides …’
Satyrus raised both eyebrows.
Anaxagoras smiled. ‘Everyone loves Charmides,’ he said.
‘Where is he from?’ asked Polycrates. ‘Is he of a good family?’
Apollodorus appeared on deck in armour. ‘Very good,’ he said curtly. ‘Swords, Satyrus?’
It was days since Satyrus had practised in armour. Charmides came forward and assisted him in putting on his thorax of bronze, and he and Apollodorus began to move up and down the central gangway.
Satyrus fought with restraint, fighting the temptation to work too hard to vindicate the loss of the night before. And in a few hits, he was too deep in the moment to worry about such stuff. Apollodorus had always stretched him to his limit, and today was no different – if anything, the smaller man was better than usual, leaping high in the air, stepping up off an oarsman’s bench to land a cunning blow along the back of Satyrus’s neck.
But Satyrus, after a slow start, rose to his level. He fought so well that when the two of them came to a stop, they were on the amidships fighting platform, neither man having pushed the other to the bow or stern. Each landed a simple blow, and almost as one they removed their helmets, panting hard, and laughed.
‘Well fought,’ Apollodorus said. ‘You’ve winded me.’
Satyrus had to use his will to keep from bending double to take bigger breaths. He didn’t risk talking, but merely laughed and slapped his marine captain on the back.
Polycrates clapped his hands together. ‘May I?’ he asked. ‘I don’t have armour …’
Satyrus felt much better. He grinned. ‘You may have mine if you don’t mind the sweat.’
Polycrates sent his body slave for a chitoniskos. ‘I should say something nice about the sweat of a king,’ he said, taking the thorax, ‘but you have about soaked the thing through.’
‘You go that long against Apollodorus,’ Satyrus said. In fact, he meant no rivalry by it – Apollodorus was the best fighter and the fittest man.
‘Ah,’ Polycrates said. ‘Then I should wait until tomorrow, when he’s fresh.’
Apollodorus bridled – perhaps at being discussed in the third person. ‘I’m fresh enough right now, Athenian,’ he said. ‘Let’s see what you have.’
Polycrates wasn’t sure he liked that response – it showed in his face – and Satyrus had a moment to see what a powerful man looked like when he was displeased. He looked pompous and silly – and Satyrus knew that he had looked the same the night before when he had lost at pankration. He nodded to no one in particular. He was a day from Athens, with all the danger of the prophecy combined with his anxiety on seeing Miriam – it seems a good time to honour the gods and work on excellence.
Polycrates’ slave brought him a linen chitoniskos, a fine one with a red stripe. The Athenian stripped and put it on, and then Satyrus helped him into his scale thorax, which fitted him well enough, if a little small in the chest. Satyrus tied the cords a full two fingers looser than he would on himself – when he tied it, the rings touched.
Polycrates picked up Satyrus’s practice aspis, and moved it around. ‘Heavy,’ he said, sounding human.
‘I practise with a heavier shield …’ Satyrus began.
‘Of course you do – you fight for real.’ Polycrates flexed his knees, picked up the wooden sword, and saluted Apollodorus. ‘At your service. And I meant no slight, sir, when I said I’d wait for you to be fresh. I feel very much at a disadvantage here – you are professional soldiers, athletes, men who live like heroes from Homer, and I am a rich politician from Athens. If I spoke badly, please accept my apologies.’
Apollodorus hooked his cheek-plates down. ‘Not necessary,’ he said simply, and turned to walk down the command catwalk to the amidships command platform.
Satyrus caught a glance from the Athenian which suggested that he felt he’d been rebuffed.
‘It was a handsome apology,’ Anaxagoras said.
‘He can be a prick, though,’ Satyrus said.
Anaxagoras pursed his lips. ‘If you were alone on his ship, surrounded by killers …’
Satyrus rocked his head from side to side. ‘Good point. Hadn’t seen it that way.’
After a few moments of staring, the two contestants came together – two cautious blows, one each, both easily turned on the shield rim, and they were apart.
They batted at each other for as long as it took for the ship to sail the length of a tiny islet, and then Polycrates closed.
Or rather, he attempted to close, pushing forward with his back leg and levering his hips to shield-slam his opponent.
Apollodorus met him, but his shield was angled to the impact, and his sword arm shot out, past the Athenian’s head, and then the bigger man was on the deck, the point of Apollodorus’s wooden sword at his throat.
Polycrates slapped the deck in surrender and got smoothly to his feet – a fine display of muscle for an older man. He rubbed his hip where it had hit the wood planking.
But he was on his guard in heartbeats, and they came together again, and the next time Apollodorus tried a simple throw, the Athenian blocked it and stepped back. Each of them landed some hits – a few more to Apollodorus – and then Polycrates hit Apollodorus in the forearm, hard enough to draw blood.
In the time it takes a man to say a single word, he had his helmet off and was apologising.
‘Too damn hard – I’m sorry, comrade. You’re beating me easily and I’m trying too hard.’ He shook his head.
A
pollodorus smiled. ‘I’d be a poor man if I couldn’t take the cut of a wooden sword, Polycrates. But I think I’m done for the day.’
They embraced, though, and Polycrates was more human, and better received, after the fighting on the deck.
That night they fought again on the beach – pankration again – and this time Polycrates won three straight bouts. Other men were waiting for a turn with him, and Satyrus didn’t feel he could ask for a fourth. It wasn’t just a matter of size, although the man’s reach was impressive – so was Theron’s, and Satyrus could hold Theron to a draw.
‘You are very good,’ Polycrates said, reaching to embrace him.
Something about the compliment angered Satyrus, but he accepted the embrace and went off to his lyre. He sang Sappho’s songs to the waves and the sunset, and thought of Miriam, and wondered what surprise was waiting for him in Athens.
In the morning, he called all his fighting captains together, and walked them around the headland to where the merchant ships were gathered off the beach. ‘Apollo told me that Athens will be a danger to me,’ he said. ‘I’ve given this a certain amount of thought, and if I have understood the god’s words, then Demetrios will seek to take me in Athens,’ he said.
If he expected consternation, he was disappointed. His captains knew the gossip, had heard more about his visit to Delos than might have made him comfortable.
‘We’ll be right there behind you,’ Apollodorus said.
Satyrus shook his head, seeing in his mind the punishment Demetrios might mete out on the hostages if Satyrus landed armed marines in Athens. ‘No. I don’t want to seem a threat at all. So the fighting fleet will not enter the harbour. In fact, I want to see all the warships drop off when we have Piraeus in sight. I’ll signal with my shield – all of you sail for Aegina. If all is well, I’ll meet you there in three days. If all is not well, Apollodorus has the command and must do as he sees fit. No rescues – even if Demetrios takes me, it will only be as a prelude to further negotiation.’ He looked around. ‘Let me say that again, friends: if Demetrios takes me, it is not an act of war. No seizing Athenian shipping, no striking at his fleet up at Corinth. You hear me, friends?’
Tyrant: Force of Kings Page 6