Tyrant: King of the Bosporus

by Christian Cameron

  Theron sighed. ‘So what will we do?’

  Satyrus put his forehead in his hands. ‘I don’t know. I don’t think there’s a prisoner in the world important enough that Eumeles would trade him. But it may be that Sappho or Nihmu have already received a ransom demand, and until we have been to Alexandria, I don’t wish to jump the wrong way.’

  Theron rested his heavy arms on the table. ‘I have no interest in going to Alexandria,’ he said.

  ‘Nor I,’ Abraham said. ‘Must you go?’

  Satyrus was watching the fire on the hearth. ‘I must. In fact, everything springs from Alexandria. First of all, money. If I raise a fleet, I will start spending money at a rate that will threaten even Uncle Leon’s treasure. Second, Melitta. Third, the rescue of Leon. Fourth, or perhaps first, Diodorus and the Exiles. If I have a fleet, I need them ready.’

  Theron nodded. ‘We can write to Diodorus from here,’ he said.

  Satyrus sat up. ‘Now that’s a good idea. I can send the letter myself and it will be with him in three weeks.’

  Theron nodded. ‘And he won’t know yet that Leon is taken.’

  Abraham nodded. ‘He can take your soldiers to Alexandria and wait for the fleet.’

  Satyrus was looking into the fire. Suddenly, he felt as if the god was at his shoulder, warming his hands at the fire, whispering in his ear – for in between two licks of flame, he saw his campaign unfold. ‘No,’ he said. His voice trembled.

  ‘No, what?’ Abraham asked.

  ‘No. He won’t march to Alexandria. That’s the wrong way.’ Satyrus sat up. ‘He’ll march to Heraklea. I’ve got it. I have most of it. Theron, trust me, I’ll find a way to rescue Leon. He was taken for me. I won’t forget.’

  ‘But you still need to go to Alexandria?’ Theron asked.

  ‘For all the reasons. I’ll go as soon as I’ve got Demostrate’s word on alliance.’ He nodded. He still felt the god at his shoulder. Despite his arm, he felt almost greater than human.

  ‘Pay my regards to my father,’ Abraham said. ‘I won’t be going home soon. As I say, he wouldn’t let me go again.’

  ‘I’m proposing a trip to the most exotic city in all the seas, our home and native land, or at least our collective adoptive polis, and you two plan to while away the winter in a town full of pirates,’ Satyrus said.

  Abraham smiled, and his earrings twinkled. ‘Wait until you attend their parties.’

  Satyrus met his smile. ‘I can imagine.’

  Abraham shook his head. ‘No. No, you can’t.’

  As soon as the officers were gathered, Satyrus composed his letter to Diodorus. He wrote it out on papyrus, and then he took a wax tablet and melted the wax from the frames. On the bare wood, he wrote his message.

  Dear Uncle

  Our scout of the Euxine ended in disaster. Uncle Leon was taken and we lost twelve ships. I have made a plan to win the Euxine back, and I will need you and every man you have – if Seleucus will spare you. I plan to be at Heraklea at the spring equinox. I ask – nay, Uncle, I beg – that you meet me there with all your force. I will have a fleet to transport you.

  Uncle Leon is in the hands of Eumeles. I have prevented Theron from going to his rescue by promising that we will all bend our every effort that way in the spring. I rely on you to support us in this.

  I will proceed immediately to Alexandria to speak to Melitta and to your lady wife concerning our plans. Please respond to me there, or at the Temple of Poseidon at Rhodos, or to Amastris, Princess of Heraklea, who I believe would be a reliable letter box.

  At the thought of Amastris, Satyrus smiled. Passionate, headstrong and perhaps a bit fickle – a mistress who could never be taken for granted. Satyrus loved her, even the fickle and the self-centred. She was a prize worth winning, and he meant to win her. And she would love to receive a secret letter.

  A symposium in a pirate town was a riotous affair, with twenty couches in a huge circle and women on half of them with their men, loud songs and louder laughter. A symposium in honour of the feast of Cypriot Aphrodite was several degrees further down a scale which ran from salacious to riot, and worse.

  ‘This is not like home,’ Abraham commented, as they walked through the streets of Byzantium. Every house had a goddess out front, most decorated with saffron, some with real gold. ‘These parties are scarier than battles.’ He waved at an Aphrodite who was obviously using her hands to pleasure herself. ‘This is not Alexandria.’

  Satyrus, his left arm wrapped tightly by a physician and a few drops of poppy in his veins, felt capable of anything. ‘Like Kinon’s at home?’

  Abraham shook his head. ‘No. Not at all like Kinon’s. Like – well, like what my father thinks goes on at Kinon’s. They play games . . .’

  Satyrus hugged his friend with his good arm. Abraham had always been something of a prude, by Hellenic standards. ‘I’m here to make a deal with Demostrate,’ he said. ‘I’ll survive some games.’

  Abraham coughed politely into his fist.

  Before the sun was fully set, Satyrus lay between Daedalus of Halicarnassus, living proof of how thin was the line between piracy and mercenary service, and Abraham, the eldest son of a Jewish merchant in Alexandria and yet already accepted in this world as a man of worth. The men were well dressed, oiled and in some cases perfumed like the gentry of any town of Hellenes, although they came in more skin colours than were normal in Athens or Miletus. Their common livelihood crossed the barriers of race or riches, in the form of scars and a certain complexion that could only be earned by years at sea, and gave the skin the look of old leather, whether that skin was ink-black or milk white. And every man present wore a sword strapped to his side, even on a kline at a symposium.

  Beyond Daedalus was Aeschinades, one of the most famous captains in the Aegean, and he lay with a beautiful woman with dark tan skin, her breasts under his hands, her back to him and her face towards Satyrus. Satyrus wasn’t sure whether he was actually copulating with her or not, but he didn’t look too closely. Her face was curiously blank – Satyrus looked twice, almost involuntarily, wondering why the woman did not even simulate pleasure.

  On the other side, beyond Abraham, lay Manes, the terror of the coast of Phrygia, a man who had gobbled up more shipping than Poseidon, or so he claimed with open hubris. He shared his couch with a veritable Ganymede, a boy so attractive and so openly, brazenly sexual that his expression made Satyrus uncomfortable, as if he sought by his antics to make up for the lack of emotion on the dark woman’s face.

  ‘I warned you,’ Abraham said from beside him.

  ‘I didn’t pay enough attention,’ Satyrus conceded. ‘I’ve never seen this kind of behaviour, even at Kinon’s. I confess my error.’

  Abraham grinned. ‘Wait until the wine goes around and the flute girls come out. Ever played “feed the flute girl”?’

  Satyrus felt himself blush. ‘I’ve heard—’

  ‘That’s what I mean. You won’t “hear”. I’ve been here four weeks – I’m used to it. To them.’ Abraham held out his cup for wine. ‘I have to admit, I like the bastards. They say what they mean, and they are afraid of nothing.’ He shook his head. ‘Actually, most of them are afraid of Demostrate, and of Manes. Other than that . . .’ He grinned. ‘But you are either with them or you aren’t.’

  ‘You fed a flute girl?’ Satyrus asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Abraham said. He blushed. ‘And I will again.’

  ‘They prey on the weak for money,’ Satyrus said. ‘All these women are chattel slaves.’

  ‘So do the Diadochoi,’ Abraham said. ‘And I say again – either you are with them or not. They will ask you to play – and if you will not, they will never deal with you.’

  Satyrus watched one of the captains further around the circle strike a slave sharply, a casual blow that knocked the slave flat. He breathed in and out slowly, as if preparing for combat.

  Abraham leaned over. ‘Many of these men have been slaves,’ he said. ‘This is not our world.’r />
  Dinner was excellent – young kid with saffron, a simple rabbit stew with beans that was nonetheless delicious, and oysters, thousands of them, brought in with a nude Aphrodite on a giant shell, and the whole carried by four big men.

  The captains began to stamp and cheer, even as they poured oysters down their throats.

  She was a beauty – not in the first blush of youth, but tall, strong and well-breasted. Her hair was dyed almost white-blonde, like the goddess, and her nipples were gilded. She held herself like a goddess, not a slave.

  The oysters went down noisily, and Satyrus found that Aphrodite intended to share his couch. ‘I come from Demostrate,’ she said in a deep, clear voice. Her Greek had no more accent than she had raiment.

  ‘Take her, lad!’ Demostrate shouted. ‘I’m too damn old!’

  ‘Feast of Aphrodite!’ Manes shouted. He waved his cup. ‘Do her honour!’

  The other men shouted and the calls became louder. The singer gestured to her musicians and began to sing in a stronger voice – a hymn to Aphrodite. Sappho, in fact – a piece that Satyrus knew.

  Abraham touched his shoulder while the rest of them shouted. ‘I warned you,’ he said.

  Satyrus rolled back, and Aphrodite ran her hand up under his chiton, grabbed his penis and pulled it sharply. Satyrus was amazed to find that her fingers cut straight through the poppy in his blood and the pain in his arm.

  ‘They mean for you to – copulate. With her. Now.’ Abraham’s face was carefully neutral. ‘I warned you!’

  Aphrodite flicked her thumb across the tip of his manhood and he was hard. Just like that.

  ‘Relax,’ she said. ‘Would you prefer me on top or beneath you?’ she asked, her right hand working his penis like raw dough.

  Simple courtesy came to Satyrus’s rescue. ‘The goddess must be on top,’ he said, and rolled under her. ‘Please mind my arm.’

  The other men roared to see her straddle him. She squatted and impaled herself on him, and then lay along his length. ‘The longer this takes,’ she said, ‘the better they will like you, and the more luck you bring us.’ She moved slowly up and down, and then bent her head so that her white-gold dyed hair covered his face. He could hear the roar of the captains, but he couldn’t see them – he felt his response quicken.

  He noted that her gilded nipples left traces of gold across his chiton.

  ‘Unpin my chiton,’ he said up into her hair. ‘I don’t stand a chance of lasting—’

  She pressed a hand on his left arm, and pain welled up like water from a spring. ‘If you let me, I can make you last a long time,’ she said in his ear, her breasts moving along his chest.

  Outside the tent of her hair, they were pounding their couches, singing the hymn to Aphrodite, and Satyrus could hear Demostrate’s voice raised the loudest. The man was a fine singer.

  She had his chiton unpinned, and he used his right arm to strip it over his head – more distraction, and more pain in his left arm, and more cheering.

  ‘Second time!’ Demostrate shouted, and the hymn began again.

  ‘You are very beautiful,’ Satyrus said. ‘Are you a slave?’

  Aphrodite breathed out suddenly, raising her face from his. Her lips were so precisely formed that they looked as if they were sharp. ‘I am yours,’ she said. ‘Demostrate has given me to you.’ She sank along his length, rose up and gave a shout – simulated ecstasy, Satyrus suspected, having seen Phiale do the same – but brilliantly simulated. The room roared and the hymn rolled on.

  ‘Third time!’ Demostrate shouted, and the hymn began again.

  ‘Hurt me again,’ Satyrus said into her hair. The hair was saving him – he could see neither the lush provocation of her skin nor the leering faces of his dinner companions, and he kept it that way, confining himself to the privacy she made him.

  She rubbed her thumb with deadly accuracy along the line of the break on his forearm, and then her other hand rubbed up between his legs as the pain rolled through his body, compensating – what kind of a life gave a woman this sort of skill? Satyrus was no longer fully in the symposium, instead hovering in a separate world, a place that smelled of spice and perfume and sex, where wine and poppy filled his head, pain and pleasure ran together – he had no control over his body, and it made him afraid, more than battle, so that his manhood began to wilt, and she writhed against him and hissed, and his hips rolled in response to her, and he grabbed her head and his mouth closed on hers. She gasped, as if being kissed shocked her, and he reached down and ran his hand between them, and she gasped again into his kiss.

  ‘Fifth time!’ Demostrate yelled, and the room cheered as if they had just won a fight. Satyrus wondered where the fourth time had gone and suddenly passed the point of control and finished, his body arching into hers, his hands clenched in her flesh, and she shouted again, and this time he neither knew nor cared whether her pleasure was simulated.

  She moved to roll away, but his right arm crushed her to him. ‘Don’t move,’ he said.

  She rode him for part of another verse, laughing softly against him, and then he pulled his chiton – his best – from the floor and wiped both of them clean while the other guests hooted and cheered and the woman who had sung the hymn looked away in distaste. Satyrus got up, naked, and walked over to Demostrate, his member still tumescent, usually a social gaffe at a symposium.

  ‘That may have been the best gift of my life,’ Satyrus said. ‘But you still owe me a ram for Black Falcon.’

  Demostrate laughed. ‘Was that five times, or six?’ he asked. ‘Good luck either way. You are a cunning one, lad. I saw you!’ He laughed and pulled Satyrus down on to his couch. In a whisper, he said, ‘You think we’re fucking barbarians, lad. And maybe you’re right. But now we all know that you are, too.’ He sat up. ‘Can you get us a port on the Euxine?’ he asked. Sitting on the edge of his kline, he took a heavy silver mastos cup two hundred years old, dipped it in a krater held by two slaves and drank it off.

  ‘Yes,’ Satyrus said.

  Demostrate handed him the cup.

  Satyrus drank all of it, every drop, and turned it, licked the nipple and rattled the bead, and men cheered him.

  ‘Then let’s go and fuck Eumeles as hard as you fucked the goddess, lad. I think the boys fancy you.’

  Satyrus couldn’t stop the bitter smile that crossed his lips. ‘The feeling is not mutual,’ Satyrus said.

  Demostrate had his diadem on his head, the jewels winking in the firelight. He grabbed Satyrus and pulled him close, so that their naked shoulders rubbed against each other. The pirate king’s skin was a loom of scars, a far cry from the cream and doeskin of Aphrodite, and an odd contrast to Satyrus, whose mind was running too fast. The old man thrust his face into Satyrus’s face.

  ‘Good,’ Demostrate said. ‘They’re scum. Never forget it – they’re all circling, ready for me to die.’ He laughed. ‘And not one of them could keep all this together.’ His breath wasn’t foul. It smelled of cloves and wine. ‘You could command them, in a few years.’

  Satyrus shook his head. ‘No,’ he said.

  Demostrate leaned close. ‘When you have a chance, kill Manes.’

  Satyrus looked at the old pirate, as shocked as when the goddess’s thumb had flicked his penis. The effect of his words was physical.

  Demostrate laughed. ‘Welcome to Tartarus, lad. If you want us to fight for you, you’ll have to do more than make love at a symposium. Manes needs to die, lad. And if you kill him, the others – well, many of them are sheep, for all they’re the terror of the seas.’ He laughed.

  ‘Now go back to your own couch before the others decide that you have to die.’

  Satyrus rose. Demostrate kissed him – a man’s kiss, no different from any kiss that any guest would get at a symposium, but it chilled Satyrus. And as he began to walk back across the tiled floor, he happened to look at Manes, where he lay entwined with his seductive Ganymede. The man looked back at him like a beast in a cage. Satyrus looked
away – made himself look around, as if amused at the whole scene, and then back into Manes’ animal eyes.

  He had no trouble seeing why all these hard men feared Manes.

  He walked back to his couch. Aphrodite rolled off, but he grabbed her hand. ‘Honour my couch, Goddess,’ he said.

  She smiled. ‘If you ask,’ she said. ‘My, you have nice manners.’

  ‘I’m from Alexandria,’ he said. Then he set himself to talk to her, because her tent of hair had kept him sane.

  Hours later he walked home naked under his chlamys, cold and damp, and halfway home he stripped the cloak over his head and stood in the marketplace with the icy rain running over his skin.

  Abraham stood by him, and when he felt that he had punished himself sufficiently, he followed Abraham, and they walked home together, with Aphrodite following them, her belongings balanced on her head. She followed Satyrus into the house.

  Theron was surprised by his nudity, but not for long. ‘Looks like quite the party,’ he said. He looked at Aphrodite. ‘You were a party favour?’ Theron asked. ‘Wish I’d been invited.’

  Satyrus threw himself into one of Abraham’s comfortable chairs – heavy wooden ones, like the Nabataeans used. ‘You’re free. And you have my thanks. You played your role beautifully.’

  Aphrodite smiled. ‘Free? Are you serious?’

  Satyrus couldn’t help but smile at her joy – so much more real than her gasps in his arms. ‘Who would tease a slave that way? Yes, of course.’

  She stood, her eyes downcast. She was as old as Satyrus – perhaps nineteen. Quite old, for a sex slave. Her body was superb, muscled, fit and well-kept, but her face was showing signs of her profession.

  Theron raised her chin. ‘You are Corinthian!’ he said.

  She smiled. ‘Yes,’ she said.

  He laughed. ‘You actually are a priestess of Aphrodite,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I was. I ran away. The goddess followed me.’ She looked down again, her cheeks red.