Tyrant: Force of Kings

by Christian Cameron

  Grumbles and mutters. Farewells.

  ‘Where is my master?’ Jason asked, from outside the basket.

  ‘Dead,’ Satyrus managed.

  The top came off the basket. ‘I had to make sure that they were gone. I’m making this up as I go. Who killed him?’

  Satyrus got his head out of the basket and drank in some better air. ‘I don’t know. A courtesan, Phiale – she was the agent, I think.’ He shook his head.

  Jason helped Satyrus to a sitting position. ‘Who was behind her? There’s men searching everywhere for you, lord. I paid men to find my master – my informers run across them everywhere. I guessed … well, I guessed that they killed Master and you got away. It was a possibility that fitted the facts. They’re looking for a “man from Olbia”.’

  Satyrus nodded. ‘I was taken. I … escaped.’

  Jason looked at him. ‘I heard from Master you are a famous fighter. Listen – please. I have found you, and I will get you to Master’s house. Yes? Then I beg you to do something for me.’

  Satyrus nodded. ‘Anything I can, boy.’

  ‘Take me with you,’ Jason said. ‘Master kept me safe. From some things. I want free of them.’

  Satyrus wondered how desperate the world of slaves and freedmen was. Constant bargaining. And how tempted Alex or Aella would be when they learned what he was worth to Demetrios.

  ‘I’ll free you,’ Satyrus said. He meant it, but he also knew that it was an offer that would trump most offers of money.

  Jason smiled. Satyrus hadn’t seen him smile. It made him look much younger.

  ‘I want more than that,’ Jason said. ‘I want to be a citizen. Not here – too much baggage here.’

  Satyrus, naked, and almost unable to walk, had to smile. ‘I can make you a citizen of Olbia or Tanais of Pantecapaeaum just by saying that you are,’ he said.

  Jason nodded. ‘I know you can, lord. My master is dead. I can serve you.’

  Satyrus took a deep breath. ‘You have not told me anything of your troubles – or your master’s plots,’ he said. ‘Get me clear of this, and I’ll see you have your freedom. I cannot promise more than that.’

  Jason nodded. ‘Lean on me. Let’s go.’

  They went through a farm gate, along a stone wall, through an olive grove, up a hill and down through another grove, and this time they had to endure the barking of dogs and the angry stares of a herd of sheep.

  They came down a low ridge to a great house, and by then Satyrus was hobbling, but he felt better, not worse, as if stretching his muscles healed them.

  ‘Can you ride, lord?’ Jason asked.

  Satyrus nodded. His breath was short.

  Into the yard of the great house, where there were four men – big men, all wearing swords. Satyrus wanted to shy away, but Jason merely gave them a nod. ‘Usual rates,’ he said.

  The biggest man chuckled. ‘We love working for you, Jas.’

  Jason turned to Satyrus. ‘I had to arrange this on the fly. This is Achilles, and his friends Ajax, Memnon, and Odysseus. Gentlemen, this man needs your protection. Take him somewhere, and tell me where when you can. I have some loose ends to tidy up. He can pay – and he can be a good friend. Lord, just do as they say.’

  Satyrus shrugged. ‘I would like clothes and a sword,’ he said. Achilles was tall and might have been handsome, if he didn’t have a rip a finger broad across his face that left his mouth in a permanent leer. Even with the big scar, he had carriage – dignity. Ajax was taller and heavier, with a paunch, and legs as big as a small man’s chest – and a disarming grin. Memnon was African, thin and hard, and Odysseus had a mouthful of gold teeth and a wispy beard, and looked altogether more like a lout than the other three, who might easily have passed for gentlemen.

  Achilles looked him over. ‘You may have mine, lord, if you insist, but right now, you don’t look like you’re worth spit in a fight.’

  Satyrus had to agree with that.

  Jason broke in. ‘I can get him a couple of chitons and a chlamys,’ he said. ‘I doubt there’s a sword in the house.’

  He vanished inside.

  Memnon gave him a long look. ‘Who’s hunting you? And why do we have to call you “lord”?’

  Satyrus sat heavily on a farm bench. ‘You don’t have to call me lord. Jason seems to do it too easily.’

  Jason came back with a basket, a leather satchel, and a bundle. ‘No sandals – but good boots. Put your legs out, lord.’ Satyrus stretched his legs out, and Jason laced the boots on, and they fitted well enough – tall Boeotian boots, well tooled.

  Jason then helped him into a chitoniskos – the wool was well-washed, and soft, but raising his arms over his head made him grunt.

  ‘Those is some amazing bruises, boss,’ Odysseus said. ‘I used to fight barehand in taverns – never got me no bruise like yon.’ He was pointing to the mark of a heavy oak staff on Satyrus’s left bicep – still purple after more than two weeks, a deep bruise indeed.

  ‘You win or lose?’ Ajax asked.

  ‘Lost,’ Satyrus said.

  All four of them nodded.

  ‘Let me see your hands,’ Odysseus said.

  Satyrus stuck out his hands.

  ‘I need you to get moving,’ Jason said. ‘Those porters will be easy to trace.’

  Achilles held up his hand. ‘A moment, Jas. We don’t call this brute Odysseus for nothing.’

  The gold-toothed man felt Satyrus’s palms. ‘Hard enough. Swordsman? Hoplite fighter?’

  ‘Yes,’ Satyrus said.

  ‘Can you talk low and act – like us?’ Odysseus asked.

  ‘Hopeless,’ Ajax said. ‘Look at him. Fucking gymnasiums every day. Manners.’

  Satyrus grinned, spat to one side the way he remembered Neiron doing, and bobbed his head. ‘Fuck off,’ he said.

  Odysseus smiled. ‘Not bad. Don’t talk much, and try not to keep your back straight all the time. Ride by me. We’re sell-swords looking for work with Demetrios, and you’ve known all of us since …’

  ‘Rhodos,’ Satyrus said.

  ‘We weren’t at Rhodos, sorry. We don’t get out of Attika much.’ Achilles smiled, and his scar moved. ‘Never mind. Just spit and look angry and injured. Let’s get moving.’

  Memnon brought six horses out of the barns and Jason helped Satyrus mount.

  He felt better on a horse. ‘You didn’t ask me if I could ride,’ he said to Odysseus.

  The man’s teeth winked in the last of the midsummer sun. ‘Didn’t need to,’ he said. ‘We know who you are.’ He pulled at his reins as Jason came up to them.

  ‘Leave word for me in the usual way,’ he said. ‘I don’t expect to be a public man after today.’

  Achilles nodded. ‘So it’s true? Polycrates is dead? Who got him?’

  Jason shook his head. ‘Still trying to find out. Likely need you lot to sort that out, too.’

  Satyrus was amused to note that his rescue – if indeed he was being rescued – was not centre stage. Polycrates’ death was centre stage.

  ‘You are Polycrates’ men?’ Satyrus asked.

  ‘Hmm,’ Achilles answered. ‘Hmm. Some would say we was, and some would say we wasn’t, like.’

  Odysseus nodded. ‘We’re our own men. Polycrates pays – paid, I guess – well, and he’d stand up when we asked ’im to.’

  ‘Not like fucking Demetrios of Phaleron,’ Memnon muttered.

  They began to ride – first downhill, through a wheat field, and then along a donkey path through a vineyard, through a gate in a high stone wall, and out to a road.

  Satyrus didn’t know Athens really well, but he could see the Parthenon as clear as the moon – the last of the sun was shining on the roof, eight or ten stades to the south. They rode west, into a red sky, and they rode as fast as he could handle. No part of him was badly h
urt any more – but he was tired and his hips hurt.

  He didn’t complain.

  The moon rose and the sky went from dark blue to black, and the stars came out, and still they rode. They crossed two small rivers, and swung more south than west, and when Satyrus had almost fallen asleep in the saddle, Achilles called a halt, and they all dismounted and onion sausage was handed out by Odysseus.

  Satyrus had his bearings. ‘Headed for the Eleusian Way,’ he said.

  ‘Got it in one,’ Odysseus replied.

  They all relieved themselves, drank water, and got mounted, riding more quickly. Achilles and Ajax, the two biggest men, changed horses.

  They began to climb steeply, and hills, heavy with rock, loomed on either side, even in moonlight. Twice they passed villages – not a light to be seen – and then, well after moon rise, when Satyrus didn’t feel that his discomfort could be greater, they entered a third village. This one had a big inn, and the yard gate opened when Achilles spoke a phrase from the mysteries.

  Slaves took their horses – cursing, surly slaves called from their pallets.

  ‘Yer late,’ said a shrewish voice.

  Achilles made a bow, like a priest before his god. ‘Despoina, Tyche affects all men, even heroes.’

  Satyrus couldn’t see her, whoever she was. Since Odysseus was holding his arm lightly, and had cast the hem of his chlamys over his head, he assumed they didn’t want the woman to see him.

  ‘The room over the stable – just as you requested. Let’s see the shine of some silver.’ He heard the clink of coins, saw the shape bite one. ‘World is full of thieves,’ she said. ‘That’s full payment, boys. Thankee. Sleep well. There’s bread and opson and a nice piece of venison waiting for you.’

  Up steep, narrow steps with no handholds, and there was a low trestle table. Satyrus sat down, and a small clay cup of wine was pressed into his hands. Downstairs, Achilles was still talking to the woman – the the woman who owned the taverna, he assumed. The wine was wonderful – full of flavour, dark as blood in the lamplight.

  Ajax ate quietly, quickly, efficiently, while Memnon watched from the barred window and Odysseus curried the horses and fed them – quite an efficient team. As soon as Ajax had eaten, he took Memnon’s spot and the black man ate the same way – pushing food into his mouth, chewing quickly, every motion efficient. The only sign of enjoyment of the excellent venison came when Memnon finished his and had his first gulp of wine.

  ‘Lessa’s a good hostess,’ he said. He gave Satyrus a nod, and walked down the steep steps.

  Achilles came back up. He went to a chest in the corner, a big enough box for a body, and opened it. From it he fetched a Sakje bow, a Greek quiver, and a Spartan sword.

  ‘All I have,’ he said, handing the long knife to Satyrus. ‘But you know how to use it, right?’

  Satyrus put the cord of the scabbard over his shoulder. At worst, now, he could see to it that he wasn’t taken alive. He nodded. ‘Thanks,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t thank me till you pay,’ Achilles said. ‘We need to get some things straight. There’s a mort of people lookin’ for you. Right?’

  Satyrus nodded.

  ‘Now, Odysseus says you’re the King of the Bosporons. That right?’ he asked.

  Satyrus nodded.

  Achilles nodded a few times back, and winked at Ajax.

  ‘I can retire on a farm in Attika right now – all four of us can – for selling you on.’ Achilles sat back, arms crossed.

  ‘So everyone tells me,’ Satyrus said. ‘Until I get back to my people, I have nothing to offer you.’

  ‘And when you get back to your people?’ Achilles asked. ‘Then what? Make us an offer.’

  Satyrus shook his head. ‘You gave me the knife,’ he said. ‘And you already have a deal with Jason. Why should I make a new deal?’

  Achilles nodded. ‘I’m a fair man. I won’t sell you straight – but me and mine, we might just ride away. Jason said this was escort work. But we know who you are, and the old witch who keeps this place says the roads are full of men looking for you.’

  ‘Whose men?’ Satyrus said.

  ‘Demetrios’s men,’ Achilles said.

  ‘Soldiers?’ Satyrus asked.

  ‘Exactly.’ Achilles said. ‘So?’

  ‘A silver talent each?’ Satyrus said.

  ‘Zeus Panhellenios!’ Ajax said. ‘We’d get you out of Tartarus for that.’

  ‘Shush, you.’ Achilles laughed. ‘No head for negotiating. But fine. For that fee, we’ll see you clear of Attika and put you up in one of our hidey holes for a week, until the excitement dies down. It always does.’

  Satyrus nodded.

  Six days on the road, as his muscle tone returned, and they climbed out of Attika, over the shoulder of Mount Kimeron, past Eleutherai, to Plataea.

  Boeotia was beautiful at high summer, the dance floor of Ares stretching away, a patchwork of fields in gold and green, like a tilled version of the Sea of Grass. Plataea sat high on the shoulders of Kimeron, looking out over the valley, down to the Asopus – the walls were new, and shone in the sun. The Spartans and the Thebans together had destroyed the town twice, and Alexander of Macedon had ordered it rebuilt at considerable expense – fair recompense for the men and women who had fought among the hardest to preserve Greek liberty, or so Alexander said.

  ‘Land here was cheap as dirt when we were new to the business,’ Odysseus said as they rode along Asopus and started up a low ridge. ‘We had a little windfall early on – bought us this farm.’ He grinned.

  The farm was on a hilltop, with a low stone tower and an old forge building, a fine vineyard and some scraggly apple trees. Several slave families lived in a hamlet behind the main house.

  ‘Here, we’re like lords,’ Achilles admitted. ‘Hey, Tegara! We’re home.’

  Women came out of the tower – some attractive, and some looking as hard as bronze, and two of them older than the rest. Two boys emerged from the shed and took all six horses.

  ‘This one is a guest,’ Achilles said to the gathered women. ‘See to it he has a pleasant stay. He’s a paying customer.’

  From this, Satyrus gathered that not all visitors were welcome, or voluntary.

  The next morning, Odysseus was gone.

  ‘Other business,’ Achilles said with a casual wave. ‘But he’ll put us in touch with Jason, if the boy’s still alive.’

  Satyrus slept in a bed and took some exercise the next day, shooting arrows with Achilles and Memnon outside the walls of the courtyard. It fatigued him more than it should have, and he took a nap under the old olive trees. Tegara, the older of the women, brought them olives and cheese. She sat down by him, gathering her chiton under her hips as she sat, a very ladylike gesture.

  ‘Who are you, really?’ she asked. She had a beautiful, husky voice, far richer than her farm-matron appearance.

  ‘No one important, despoina,’ he said.

  She smiled at him, her eyes bold. ‘I beg leave to doubt that. You look exotic, to me.’ Without another word, she shifted behind him and started to massage his back and shoulders – not an erotic job, but a workmanlike job, the kind of thing a man might expect at a gymnasium.

  Achilles rumbled a laugh. ‘You’ve made an odd convert, there, lord. Tegara never likes anyone!’

  Satyrus slept better that night, and the next morning he met Achilles in the courtyard with Tegara pouring water over his head. She winked at Satyrus, who winked back. There was something about the woman that transcended age or sex – she was easy to like, untrammelled, somehow, by convention.

  ‘Swords?’ Satyrus asked Achilles while he bathed himself.

  Achilles grinned. ‘I have a few.’

  ‘Practice?’ Satyrus asked. A bucket of cold water hit him from the side – Tegara tittered. He spluttered.

  ‘Happy to �
� but I’d like to see you work through some exercises first.’ He nodded.

  Satyrus understood – no man wants to play at wooden swords with a stranger, who may not pull his blows or behave with decency. He nodded. After he bathed, and took oil from Achilles’ aryballos and anointed himself, he picked up a stick and began his own exercises – the six cuts and the two thrusts, the legwork from pankration, the arm blocks and the sword blocks – up and down in front of the well, until Achilles slapped his thigh.

  ‘So you’re a hoplomachos, eh? That’s what I get for asking, I guess.’ He shook his head. ‘Promise you won’t humiliate an old mercenary, eh?’

  Satyrus caught an odd look on Tegara’s face. Her impish grin was late to her face when she caught his eye, leaving her looking oddly false.

  ‘I had good teachers,’ he said, as much to her as to Achilles.

  ‘You are an aristocrat,’ she said, without much kindness. Her implied comment was I thought you were a man.

  She stalked off, head high.

  ‘And she’s taken agin’ ye as fast as she was for ye,’ Memnon said, coming down from the exedra. He shrugged. ‘Don’ be angry wi’ she. She’s the real owner here. She’s not had an easy life, like enow.’

  Achilles nodded at Satyrus. ‘Our guest wants to play at the sword.’

  Memnon looked surprised. ‘Well, well,’ he said.

  The three of them walked out of the courtyard with half a dozen wooden swords under their arms, and two small Macedonian-style shields. Once they got to a handsome dell of turf below the olive orchard, Memnon dropped the gear he was carrying and sat down.

  Satyrus chose a wooden sword he liked – shorter and a bit heavier than most of the rest, and wrapped his chlamys carefully around his arm.

  Achilles nodded. ‘Let’s swear,’ he said. ‘No man will bear ill will into this ring of grass, nor take ill will out when he leaves, despite competition, error or injury. I swear this by Ares and by Athena, God and Goddess of War.’

  The words were old-fashioned – Ionic Greek, like the Iliad. The oath itself made Satyrus happy, as if he was living in elder days. He repeated it, trying to match Achilles’ diction and pronunciation.