His right leg was red to the knee.
Demetrios pushed through his cordon of guards and threw his arms around Satyrus. ‘I feared you were dead. By the gods, I’d have killed the lot of these cowards if you had fallen. Say the word, and I will.’
Satyrus didn’t know what to do with Demetrios’s embrace – he returned the pressure for a moment, and then stepped back. Another man offered a wineskin, and Satyrus took a long drink and handed it to the man who had stood at his left shoulder.
‘Satyrus of Tanais,’ he said.
‘Kleon Alexander’s son of Amphilopolis,’ the man answered, pressing his hand. ‘An honour, lord. If I live, I’ll tell my sons I stood with you in a breach.’
‘He stood? At the breach, when they carried me down the hill?’ Demetrios said. ‘You are a phylarch. Give your name to my military secretary.’
‘All these men stood,’ Satyrus said, his sense of justice piqued. ‘And if I may – they have orders to protect you at all costs, I suspect. So they did. When you exposed yourself, they assumed the worst.’
‘I saved your life!’ Demetrios said. ‘It was worth it.’ He grinned. ‘I didn’t expect to take the suburbs today.’
Satyrus shrugged. The attack had been dangerous and demanding and had come within a moment of success – the golden king was rationalising defeat, a surprisingly human thing for him to do.
‘As you say, lord,’ he said. ‘And may the gods stand by your shoulder as you stood by mine,’ he added, because it was good manners – and true enough. Satyrus wasn’t too exhausted to recall the unwavering spear point of the small man, calmly waiting his moment to kill him. That close. That man had been a killer – Satyrus had seen it in his eyes. Tyche had cheated him of his moment of glory, and saved Satyrus’s life.
He was having trouble breathing, and the world was shrinking, somehow.
Achilles put his hand on his shoulder. ‘You need to get those wounds looked at,’ he said. ‘You’re making a puddle.’
Satyrus glanced down and saw that Achilles was literally speaking truth.
The sight of so much blood shook him, and he stumbled.
Fell.
He awoke to the thought that it would have been stupid to die fighting for Demetrios, and he was a fool for taking part, and then he was awake, his eyes gummy and his throat sandy, his mouth feeling as if he’d eaten glue – or spent a long night drinking with good companions.
‘You with us?’ a strange voice asked.
Satyrus had trouble focusing his eyes for a moment, and the other man’s face swam and then steadied.
‘Sort of,’ he muttered.
‘How many fingers?’ the doctor asked.
‘Three?’ Satyrus answered.
‘Close enough,’ the doctor answered. ‘Don’t be in a hurry to raise your head. You lost blood – I had to burn your thigh, but I think you’ll be fine if you don’t pick up a contagion.’
Even as the man spoke, the pain in his thigh began to push through a hundred other scrapes and pains.
‘No poppy,’ he said.
‘You’ve already had some,’ the doctor said.
‘No more,’ Satyrus said.
‘Fair enough. You’ve had too much? Fairly common soldier’s complaint.’ He nodded again. ‘I’m Apollonaris of Tyre – I’m Demetrios’s physician.’
The world was coming into focus, and Satyrus would have thought that he was in a palace, or even a temple complex, except for the odd light filling the structure. A tent then. A tent hung in tapestries and decorated with a heavy, hanging gold lamp.
‘How long will I be on my back?’ Satyrus asked. He had a thought of Miriam – a sharp pang of longing. What am I doing here? he asked himself.
‘Two days, or perhaps three, unless your wounds infect.’ Apollonaris grinned. ‘In which case, you’ll soon be dead.’
Satyrus cursed. ‘This is how you talk to the golden king?’
Apollonaris laughed. He had a rich laugh. ‘Yes. He likes my banter. Don’t fret, lord, I won’t let you infect. Apollo and I are old friends.’
‘That sounds like hubris,’ Satyrus said.
The doctor smiled, and while Satyrus slipped away into sleep.
Each successive sleep caused him to awake better and more restless, and there was food – mutton soup, and then ever more solid things – delicious, rich foods straight from the golden king’s table, and twice Demetrios came in person.
After his third long sleep, he awoke to find Achilles at his bedside, and he grinned at the man.
‘Next time tell me when I’m bleeding – a little sooner.’ Satyrus took a deep breath, waited for the pain from his thigh. It was there, but definitely better. No fever.
Achilles smiled. ‘The rest of the boys have come in,’ he said. ‘And young Jason. Still a lot of people looking for you. Jason had a go at offing Phiale and didn’t pull it off – trying to avenge his master. He’s here for you – claims you said you’d take him on.’
Satyrus sighed. ‘So I did,’ he answered, wondering how many plots he’d be saddled with if he accepted the boy as his freedman.
‘Her people killed a lot of people in a brothel, and Jason brought a couple of survivors. I’m sure they can find work here,’ Achilles said, with a leer. ‘You planning to go into business?’
‘Too complicated for me,’ Satyrus said. ‘You run it.’
Achilles nodded. ‘I thought I might, with Memnon and the boys. That’s how you serve with an army – run a string of boys and girls, protect ’em, rake in the owls. We staying here for a week or two?’
Satyrus realised the man was serious. ‘I’m not going anywhere until I have Demetrios’s permission. And I need to be able to walk. But if you plan to stay in my service, you have to know that I’ll be out of here as soon as I recover – one way or another. Being wounded has its advantages – I’ve had time to think. This is a diversion. I have things I need to be doing.’
Achilles didn’t seem to have listened to a word after the first sentence. ‘Two weeks, you say?’ he answered. ‘That’s fine.’
When Achilles was gone, the doctor and a pair of slaves changed the bandages and salves on his arms and legs. Satyrus was amused to see how heavily bruised he was – the breastplate itself had done as much damage as enemy weapons. When he was settled, drinking iced wine and water with fruit juice, Demetrios came in. Slaves brought him an ivory folding stool and he sat, took some juice, and dismissed the slaves.
‘How are you doing?’ he asked. It was a curiously human opening for the golden king – he seemed tentative, uncertain.
‘I’m well enough,’ Satyrus said. ‘No infection. I’ll be ready to leave in a week or so. Will you be allowing me to leave?’
Demetrios looked away. Then he looked back. ‘I’d rather like you to stay,’ he said.
There it was. ‘No,’ Satyrus said. Relations with many people had taught him that in situations like this, where people’s emotions ran high, straight answers were better than prevarication. ‘No,’ he said again. ‘I want to be back with my own people.’
Demetrios’s face flushed. ‘Have I been less than hospitable?’ he asked. ‘Did I not give you the best I had?’
Satyrus smiled. ‘That sword is the finest I’ve ever held in my hand,’ he said. ‘Damn. I lost it, didn’t I?’
Demetrios shook his head. ‘No, I’ll have it back for you – Prepalaus is ready to surrender the citadel on terms if I allow him to withdraw into Achaea in good order. He may even be making the right decision, but he’s gutless. I wouldn’t give that citadel up until my men were eating the dead.’
‘The way we were at Rhodes?’ Satyrus asked.
‘Exactly!’ Demetrios said, uninterested in Satyrus’s tone, or perhaps unused to sarcasm. ‘The defence of Rhodes will always be my touchstone – that’s how a city should hold.’
>
Satyrus shrugged, and it hurt his ribs and side and all his bruises. ‘Prepalaus isn’t Corinthian.’
Demetrios shook his head. ‘No – but can’t a man love an ideal bigger than his city? He should fight as well for Cassander—’
Satyrus tried not to laugh – laughing had consequences – but he couldn’t stop himself. He wheezed a little. ‘Would you die for Cassander?’ he asked.
Demetrios looked puzzled. ‘Why on earth would I die for Cassander?’
Satyrus wheezed again, and thought, If I live, someday I’ll tell my children this story. ‘I mean, if you were merely a Macedonian spearman.’
Demetrios shook his head. ‘How would that happen?’ he asked. ‘Honestly, sometimes you make no sense.’
Satyrus nodded. ‘So you can’t put yourself in another man’s shoes?’
‘Whatever for?’ Demetrios asked. ‘I am myself. To pretend otherwise would be a lie – perhaps hubris.’
Satyrus shrugged, with attendant consequences, and winced. ‘Aristotle has a lot to answer for,’ he murmured.
‘I want to convince you to stay,’ Demetrios said.
Satyrus didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing. The golden king was pausing his day to woo him, and Satyrus decided that he could do worse than hear him out.
‘Can we agree that the current state of perpetual warfare is a curse to all men?’ Demetrios asked.
Satyrus raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m surprised to hear you say so,’ he said.
Demetrios frowned. ‘At any rate, my dear fellow king – will you concede that? Good. So I ask you: what is the quickest, most efficient way to avoid future wars? And the answer is obvious – a single, unified government. One king, one empire – the whole world. From one edge of the girdle of ocean to the other, the whole circle. One king, one empire, one law, one set of gods. Then men will be free.’
Satyrus absorbed this for a long moment. ‘Free of what?’ he asked.
‘Free of war,’ Demetrios answered. ‘And honestly – speak freely – who is more fit to rule them all than I?’
Satyrus frowned.
‘I have a good staff and I am myself both hard-working and brilliant. My goal is worthy, Satyrus; peace and prosperity, a universal standard – think of it. You are a king – a universal set of coins. Of weights and measures. One language – one art – one poetry to breed excellence in men.’
Satyrus shook his head. ‘This is going to make men free?’ he asked.
‘Free to build and live and raise their families,’ the golden king said.
‘According to your laws and the customs that you dictate.’ Satyrus met his eyes. ‘You would subject the Sakje to the same laws as the Greeks?’
Demetrios leaned forward. ‘Not initially, but eventually, by remorseless interchange. What would seem strange to them initially would grow more familiar with trade and contact, until they accepted it of their own will.’
Satyrus pursed his lips. ‘And if they did not?’
Demetrios shrugged. ‘There are always malcontents,’ he said.
‘In other words, a war of reprisal,’ Satyrus said.
‘If you must,’ Demetrios said.
‘And when your empire collapses?’ Satyrus asked.
‘What?’ Demetrios asked. He looked truly befuddled.
‘Empires fall,’ Satyrus said. ‘Babylon. Aegypt. Mycenae. Troy. Athens. Sparta.’
‘An empire based on the work of rational men and led by heroes and demi-gods?’ Demetrios said.
‘Faster than any,’ Satyrus answered with derision.
‘You are making me angry,’ Demetrios said. ‘I want you to stay. Many men follow me from self-interest or even love, but you … are my friend. I can talk to you. Even if you disagree, you understand what it is to be different. You are god-touched, too. I saw you fight, Satyrus. You are greater than mortal. So it is with me. Come – let us be friends. Counsel me, and we will be remembered until the sun falls from the sky and the sea of chaos sweeps over the last men.’
Satyrus didn’t feel that this was the time for astraight answer – but he thought it might be time for a straight question. ‘Demetrios, may I tell you something? A human thing, about myself, that is not godlike?’
Demetrios laughed. ‘I have spoken above myself and affrighted you.’
Satyrus shook his head. ‘No. I dream of Herakles, and I believe in the gods. I seek to be a hero – I won’t hide it. A hero. I pray that Herakles will stand by my shoulder.’ He nodded. ‘Why not aspire to be a hero?’ he asked. Smiled. ‘But listen. I love a woman – and she is your hostage.’
‘I took no hostages who were women,’ Demetrios said. ‘Who is she?’
Satyrus took the plunge. ‘Miriam, sister to my friend Abraham the Jew of Rhodes.’
Demetrios slapped his thigh. ‘You love a Jew?’ he asked. ‘Well, they’re a handsome race, I admit. Stiff-necked, too.’
Satyrus smiled at a memory. ‘Will you release her for me – and release her brother so that she will go free? And let me go to them?’
Demetrios looked puzzled. ‘Why?’ he asked.
Well, Satyrus thought, it was worth a try. ‘Because that is all I need for happiness,’ he said. ‘I don’t believe in your universal empire. And even if I did, I wouldn’t fight against my friends to help accomplish it.’
Demetrios’s puzzlement was turning to anger. ‘Your friends are arrogant fools who seek to limit me when I can make the world better.’
‘Quite possibly,’ Satyrus said. He shrugged. ‘But they are my friends. And I find that I no longer need dominion to make me happy.’
Demetrios seemed to ignore him. ‘Ptolemy? He’s no hero – a fat old man with no dreams left in his head, who wants nothing but to rule Aegypt and enjoy its revenues.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘Leon is a merchant – he has no honour, merely money.’
Satyrus shook his head. ‘You are wrong there, lord, but let us not quarrel.’
Demetrios got a sly look on his face. ‘I have it,’ he said. ‘Your allies tried to kill you. I told you before – Cassander ordered your assassination.’
Satyrus shrugged. ‘Not the first time. Cassander has never been a friend of my family.’
‘If you stay with me, together we can destroy him,’ Demetrios said.
Satyrus shrugged. ‘I want Abraham and Miriam, and I will go back to Pantecapaeaum and interfere no more in the affairs of the Middle Sea,’ he said. ‘The truth is that I have been a dreadful king, swanning about with my warships, helping this place and that, and spending my revenues on war when I could have built roads and strong places and granaries and lyceums. Time for me to stop playing king and expecting one of my friends to do the work.’ He nodded, aware that he was speaking to himself, and determined in his conviction. No more time-wasting. ‘I should thank you. Through you, I have seen my errors.’
Demetrios shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. He got to his feet. ‘You will remain here with me. I would think less of you if you didn’t try to recover the hostages – why not? And when I give you the one who matters to you – then you will make war on me. Your sister has already closed the Pontus against me. I would be within my rights to execute the Rhodian hostages.’
Satyrus felt anger blaze up within him. ‘If you execute them, I will die fighting you and your father and your cursed universal empire.’
Demetrios nodded. ‘It’s good that we understand each other.’
Satyrus chose his next words carefully. ‘Am I to understand that you don’t intend to release the hostages on time, as according to the agreement?’ he asked.
Demetrios shook his head. ‘No one could possibly expect me to. If I release the hostages, Rhodes will be free to act against me – as will you. And then, I expect that your combined fleets would destroy mine, and then I might fail. So, much as it pains me, I’ll just keep them unt
il Lysimachos and Cassander have been neutralised. Two years – three at most. You want this woman so much? Speed their fall. Tell your sister to open the Pontus to me and close it to Lysimachos.’ He nodded. ‘In the meantime, you are my friend and will remain my guest.’
Angry denunciations crowded Satyrus’s mouth, but he spat them out. He was awake enough and wise enough to know that an open break with Demetrios would serve no purpose. ‘I will think on it,’ he said.
Demetrios rose to his feet. ‘That’s the spirit,’ he said. ‘Swear allegiance to me, and I’ll have this Hebrew maid brought here to you – and more. I felt the power that we would have together – did you not? In the breach? Oh, it makes my heart beat faster to think what we might accomplish.’
Satyrus thought: We failed. We didn’t even storm the breach.
But he smiled. ‘I’ll think on it,’ he said again.
Demetrios smiled again. ‘I’m sure you will,’ he said.
8
Three more days of dusty inaction, and Prepalaus surrendered the citadel on terms and marched the garrison away across the isthmus, headed north and west for Achaia. Satyrus didn’t see Demetrios, and on the third day, as the palace tents were packed, Satyrus’s bed was moved to a tent of his own – the tent he’d had the first day.
‘We’ll follow my lord when you are a little better,’ Apollonaris noted, measuring a dose of syrup. ‘Try this – it’s what I give men who can’t take poppy. Not as effective but not bad.’
‘What is it?’ Satyrus said. He put effort into his act – to seem worse than he was.
‘Hmm. A concoction of roots.’ Apollonaris smiled. ‘Professional secret.’
‘Odd taste,’ Satyrus allowed.
‘Your tents sound like a brothel,’ the doctor said, after some grunts had been heard through the walls.
Satyrus shrugged. ‘I think my mercenaries have gone into business.’
The doctor laughed. ‘Well, I’ll pitch my tent a little further away.’
The next morning, Satyrus got up immediately after the doctor had left him and began to exercise. Achilles came in, with Jason, and Jason oiled him and massaged him thoroughly, and he began to feel better. He tired too easily to contemplate immediate action, but he was better.
Tyrant: Force of Kings Page 19