Tyrant: King of the Bosporus

by Christian Cameron

  Abraham nodded. ‘It has to be man to man,’ he said, ‘if you want these criminals to follow you.’

  ‘I see that,’ Satyrus said, betraying his impatience. ‘Although I won’t hide from you that this Manes scares me, too. He’s the sort to walk down your spear and kill you when he’s dead himself.’

  Diokles was nodding to himself. ‘I don’t know about any of that,’ he said, ‘but Manes is claiming that you’re actually a prisoner held for ransom, not a free captain.’

  Theron scratched under his beard.

  ‘So he’d have to prevent Satyrus from leaving,’ he said slowly.

  Satyrus agreed immediately. ‘Neat. So our next action will precipitate his. How do we trap him?’

  ‘He doesn’t look very bright,’ Kalos grunted.

  ‘Takes one to know one,’ Diokles quipped.

  ‘Pipe down, you two,’ Satyrus said. ‘He’s got the largest contingent after Demostrate. He can’t be a fool.’

  ‘Fear has its own courage. Perhaps it also has its own intelligence,’ Theron said.

  ‘I have an idea,’ Kleitos said quietly. ‘Listen – you’ll need to build new crews. Yes?’

  Satyrus nodded.

  ‘Here’s what we could do,’ Kleitos began.

  The next day, Satyrus promoted Kalos to trierarch aboard Golden Lotus and then promoted all the other officers to fill the gaps in his flotilla. Neiron was to be helmsman on the Lotus. Kleitos received the Hornet under Abraham, and Diokles became helmsman on the Falcon – helmsman and trierarch together. Theron went back to his Labours of Herakles, which hadn’t taken the casualties of the other ships and had all her standing officers intact – Antiphon of Rhodos was his helmsman, a steady man who disliked Byzantium and the pirates so thoroughly that he only came ashore to buy supplies.

  The promotions were private, but the men in question made sacrifices at the Temple of Poseidon – except Diokles, who made sacrifice at the Temple of Zeus Casios, the conqueror of the oceans. The sacrifices were public knowledge and led to a certain amount of gossip – more, when they began laying in stores of amphorae and purchasing supplies – and cargoes.

  Byzantium was glutted with grain – the result of the repeated seizure of cargoes coming down the Euxine from Olbia, Pantecapaeum and the northern grain fields. War galleys make poor cargo ships, but the Golden Lotus with her three and a half oar decks and deeper draught was designed to fight and carry cargo, and he at least could take a respectable amount of grain.

  The other crews mocked Neiron as he loaded the Lotus. Most of his men were former captives, and they did not bear the taunting well, lacking the discipline of the old crew. There were fights.

  There were worse than fights, as it turned out that some of the grain was rotten, or rat’s dung, and Neiron felt that he’d been taken. He remonstrated with a merchant, who laughed in his face and snapped his fingers. ‘You bought it,’ the merchant said.

  Another day and one of Neiron’s senior rowers was killed – gutted in the agora by one of Manes’ men.

  Satyrus complained to Demostrate, who told him that he should look to his own.

  Manes’ men began to prowl close to the warehouse, smashing the Lotus’s boats when they were left on the beach and beating any oarsmen from the Lotus that they caught alone.

  The new crew of the Lotus grew more and more resentful – first, that they were treated so, and second, that their enemies received no punishment. By contrast, Manes’ men grew louder and more determined.

  A careful observer might have noticed that neither Abraham nor any of the veteran crewmen of the original Black Falcon were anywhere to be seen, on the streets or in the wine shops. They played no role in the fighting and they suffered no indignities.

  Four days after the new captains made their sacrifices, Satyrus attended another symposium – this one considerably less colourful than the last. He lay on the same couch as Daedalus. The Halicarnassian seemed surprised to find him there.

  ‘I heard that you were lading your ships,’ he said. He was more than a little distant.

  Satyrus ate a grape. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘tomorrow there will be some trouble. I’m keeping you clear of it. After tomorrow, I’d like to invite you to return to my table – and my council.’

  ‘After the trouble? This isn’t a bid for my aid against Manes?’ Daedalus asked, clearly incredulous. ‘He’s out for your blood, lad. Your uncle would have my arse if I didn’t help you.’ He shook his head. ‘I’ve expected a message from you for a week.’

  ‘After the trouble,’ Satyrus said. ‘I’ll explain tomorrow. For the moment, it would be enough if you’d give me a good, sharp shove off the kline.’

  ‘Are you a fool? I’m most of what is standing between you and Manes ripping your guts out!’

  Satyrus had to smile – Daedalus, the mercenary, was living up to his high reputation as a man who, once bought, stayed bought. ‘I know that,’ Satyrus said. ‘Believe me, you don’t want to be involved,’ he said.

  Daedalus shook his head. ‘But after tomorrow, you’ll explain?’

  ‘By this time tomorrow, it’ll all be clear as a new day at sea,’ Satyrus said.

  Daedalus shook his head. And put his elbow into Satyrus’s gut, shoving him brutally to the floor, so that Satyrus’s chiton was fouled with old wine and worse.

  ‘Keep your juvenile plotting,’ the mercenary growled.

  Satyrus hoped that he was acting. He got up, rubbing his ribs – that was real enough – and slunk back to his own couch. On the way, Manes glared at him with his bestial glare, and Satyrus avoided his eye.

  ‘Look,’ Manes growled. ‘It’s the prisoner! Buying grain for a long captivity, boy?’ he asked, and his own adherents laughed.

  Satyrus stepped back, putting more distance between Manes and himself. ‘I’m no man’s prisoner,’ he said. His voice wasn’t as firm as the other pirates would have liked to hear, and there was some mockery.

  ‘We’ll see in the morning,’ Manes said. He laughed. ‘What a ransom you’ll fetch!’

  ‘I’m a captain, not a prisoner. Talk to Demostrate if you doubt my word,’ Satyrus said.

  ‘Your word is worthless here, captive.’ Manes looked around. ‘And Demostrate is a captain among captains. If he spurns your ransom, the more fool he.’ Manes laughed, a hard sound for most men to hear.

  Satyrus appeared to force himself to stand firm. ‘Prove it,’ he said mildly. ‘Fight me.’

  Manes sat up. ‘Fuck you, boy. I may bugger you in the street, if I want.’

  ‘Afraid of me?’ Satyrus asked, conversationally. Now, the tide was turning. Men didn’t mock Manes, and this was too rich.

  Manes swung his feet off his couch. ‘I fear nothing. Not you, not Demostrate, not Rhodos. I am the terror of the coasts, the lord of the sea.’

  Satyrus gave him a mocking bow. ‘Really? So – you’ll fight!’

  Manes reached for his sword and Satyrus’s fingers ached for his own hilt. Manes was terrifying and his arms were long. If he drew first . . .

  Ganymede reached out and touched his master’s arm and whispered in his ear.

  Manes stopped, and breathed deeply. ‘I do not need to fight you, boy.’

  Satyrus gave the beast a mocking smile. ‘I think you’ll find that you’d have done better to fight me,’ he said.

  Manes growled, and the hair stood up on Satyrus’s neck.

  Demostrate was watching, but he took no action. Again Ganymede took his master’s arm, and this time he whispered furiously in his master’s ear. Manes shook him off, but then he turned his back on Satyrus and stomped off, head high.

  ‘Coward,’ Satyrus said, loud and clear.

  Manes paused, his foot actually in the air, and then took the next step. He walked from the symposium, accompanied by a roar of comment.

  Satyrus grinned at the other drinkers, and then headed after him. He didn’t follow Manes all the way to the outside door – he was quite sure what reception would greet him
there. Instead, he walked down the slave stairs and through the kitchen, emerging from the slave entrance straight into the midst of Apollodorus’s marines, who ran him through the streets to Abraham’s. They battened down the hatches.

  Despite all of Satyrus’s precautions, Manes made no provocative move during the night.

  ‘By Apollo, that man scares me,’ Satyrus said, as he sipped hot wine. The sun was still under the lip of the world, but the warehouse was lit from end to end as the sailors prepared to man the Lotus.

  ‘He is one of those men who seem to be greater, or less, than human,’ Theron said.

  Satyrus nodded. ‘He must die. When he goes down at my hand, there will be no more tests – no more humiliations, and no more slave girls on my couch.’

  Theron shook his head. ‘Lad, you are about to try to kill a monster to avoid having to make love to beautiful women. I don’t have to be Philokles to point out the fallacy of your position.’

  Satyrus didn’t turn his head. ‘I will not be mocked about this.’

  Theron shrugged. ‘We go to dice with Moira,’ Theron said. ‘I won’t offend you more.’

  Satyrus nodded. ‘Good. Are we ready?’

  ‘We’re ready. You are sure he will attack us?’ Theron asked. He closed the last clasp on his breastplate.

  ‘Short of leading him on a rope, I’ve done all I can to provoke his attack. His minion spent the last minutes of the symposium reminding him that he was going to kill me in the morning, and there was no need to risk himself in the night. It must be now. We’ve all but advertised our sailing time.’ Satyrus shook his head.

  ‘Who are you reassuring?’ Theron asked.

  ‘Myself,’ Satyrus said. ‘He terrifies me. But this must be done.’

  ‘Would it make you feel better if I said you were like a force of nature yourself?’ Theron asked.

  Satyrus nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said, and smiled.

  Satyrus need not have worried. They were two streets from the beach when he saw the two-wheeled cart pushed across the narrow street and men with torches began to fill the space around his column of sailors.

  Satyrus was at the head of the column, with Theron and Neiron. He stopped. He was in full armour and had an aspis on his shoulder. His helmet was already closed over his face.

  ‘Satyrus!’ Manes roared. He stepped out from a side street. ‘Throw down your weapons. Or I’ll kill all your men.’

  Indeed, the whole crew of his four ships could be seen, every man of them carrying a torch and a club or a sword. They outnumbered the crew of the Falcon by two to one or more.

  ‘I doubt that you could,’ Satyrus said. He raised his aspis, expecting an arrow from the dark. ‘Why don’t you fight me, man to man?’

  Manes laughed again. ‘In the dark? Anything can happen in a fight in the dark. That’s what you want, isn’t it? I want something different.’ He laughed again. ‘Last chance. Throw down that toy shield and be a slave. The way you should have been from the moment you arrived.’

  Satyrus didn’t lower his aspis. ‘Last chance, Manes. Walk away.’ In a loud, clear voice, he bellowed, ‘Kill his archers!’

  Even inside his helmet, he heard the arrows coming. Several struck his shield, driving him back a step, and one rang off his helmet, and another stung him along the back of his knee. Behind him, a man screamed.

  That was not according to plan.

  Then, a little late, his own archers rose up from ambush in the darkness and shot – mostly at a range of a few feet. Manes’ men screamed as they died.

  Manes froze, a snarl on his face. He was a beast – but a cunning beast.

  ‘So,’ he spat.

  Satyrus’s shield arm hurt. He had a lot of poppy in him to keep himself steady, and he needed to get this over with. But even through the drug, Manes scared him.

  ‘Sword to sword, Manes. Right now.’ Satyrus stepped forward, swinging his aspis into line despite the pain in his arm.

  Manes backed away in the flickering light. ‘Just so your archers can shoot me in the back?’ he said. ‘No chance. Your day will come, little fucker. And then I’ll do you. Maybe I’ll use you for a while before I kill you – how’s that?’

  Satyrus pressed forward and raised his voice. ‘Sounds like a lot of talk from a man who won’t stand and fight.’

  Manes’ eyes were everywhere, and his paramour caught his sword hand and pulled him back, back again, into the wary circle of his men.

  ‘Fuck you, boy!’ he shouted at Satyrus.

  Satyrus shouted back, ‘Twice you’ve backed down, cur! Dog! Coward!’ He laughed. ‘And the other scum are afraid of you?’

  But Manes’ crews were backing away in the street, a strong shield wall facing Satyrus and another facing to where the crew of the Falcon had appeared on their flank.

  ‘Do it,’ Neiron said at his side.

  ‘No,’ Abraham said. His armour was so well polished that it reflected every pinpoint of light in the street. He looked like something superhuman. ‘No. If you start a battle here, we’ll lose men, and Manes will escape anyway. And the pirates will hate you. You have to get him to fight.’

  ‘Ares, I tried,’ Satyrus said.

  Abraham laughed. ‘We heard. He’ll be a long time living this down. Hurry back.’

  Satyrus frowned. ‘He’ll try for you,’ he said.

  Abraham hugged him. ‘I can ride the lion,’ he said. ‘Go and do what you have to do. And give my regards to my father.’

  SEA OF GRASS, NORTH OF OLBIA, WINTER, 311–310 BC

  The wind flowed over the plains from the north, carrying the floating feathers of snow that so impressed Herodotus and cutting through any garment a Sakje could wear, so that warriors wore their armour over their fur jackets just to cut the wind.

  Melitta wore a new armour shirt: a pair of sheepskins, the inner quilted with wool, the outer covered in alternating bronze and iron scales that winked dully in the winter light. She wore the scale shirt over her fox-fur jacket and sheepskin trousers tucked into sheepskin boots, and her shapeless fur hat covered her whole head, and still she was cold. Between her legs, her temple hack, borrowed what seemed like a lifetime ago on the east coast of the Euxine, plodded tirelessly into the wind. Her opinion of the horse had risen during her flight north – nothing much to look at, and worthless in a fight, the stoop-backed horse had an indomitable spirit. She had come to trust him, and so he had a name – Turtle. The name made the other tribesmen laugh, but by now, two snowstorms into their trek across the sea of grass, they knew his merits. Slow, but sure.

  Behind her walked six Sakje ponies, most of them carrying her spare tack, her war gear, a small tent and all the goods she needed to make a camp. Samahe and Ataelus had outfitted her well, by Sakje standards, although many of her items were the plunder of the men she had killed, a palpable reminder – for her and for the others – of her skills. And at the back of her string of remounts walked Gryphon, one of the tallest warhorses among the Sakje.

  Ataelus interrupted her thoughts about her horses when he appeared from the snow and waved his whip. ‘Time to camp!’ he said with his usual ruthless cheerfulness. ‘Snow’s getting worse.’

  It took two hours to get the camp built. The biggest issue was wood for warmth and cooking. While one group of Sakje tramped the snow flat and raised yurts, another trudged north and south along the river bank, searching for trees that had succumbed to the spring floods and not yet been pillaged by other travellers.

  Melitta found a big tree toppled by what appeared to be the hand of the gods – the great ball of its roots still attached, so that the ground under them appeared to be a cave. Melitta walked along the trunk with her light bronze axe in her hand, tapping the wood as she went, but it was all sound, and the trunk rang when she tapped it as if it too was made of bronze.

  The big oak had grown at a bend in the river and its companions still stood – including a middle-aged willow that had been struck by lightning when young and had grown with a deep double
trunk. Melitta set to breaking smaller branches in the willow, hauling the heavier wood to the breaking cleft and throwing her whole weight against each branch.

  After she had built a considerable pile, Ataelus rode up. With him was the youngest of his warriors, a Standing Horse exile called Scopasis. He was young and sullen and bore a scar that ran across the bridge of his nose, which he was continually touching. He had been cast out of his clan for a murder, and Ataelus had sunk far enough to take him in, but never let him out of his sight.

  Ataelus descended on the great tree with all his usual energy and a heavy iron axe, product of a Sindi smith. Scopasis sat on his horse and watched.

  Melitta kept working as Ataelus brought her branches already trimmed, but eventually she had a considerable pile of branches too big for her to break.

  She waved at the hunched figure of the young man. ‘I need your strength,’ she said.

  He grunted and rolled off his horse.

  ‘Help me break those,’ she said.

  ‘Uh,’ he said. Moving with deliberate slowness, he picked up the smallest branch and broke it. Then he stopped and looked at her.

  Sighing at men everywhere and this one in particular, Melitta collected a heavier branch from the pile. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘I don’t bite.’

  Ataelus chuckled and kept cutting with the axe.

  Scopasis came and joined her. He pushed sharply against the butt and it didn’t break. He stumbled back.

  ‘Fuck!’ he said.

  ‘Push with me,’ Melitta said. ‘Come on.’

  ‘Fuck that,’ the boy said, and turned away.

  Melitta smiled to herself. She’d served as an archer in the army of Ptolemy, and she’d spent quite some time studying – and aping – the ways of young men. She cut patiently at her desired breaking point with her small bronze axe, put it in the fork of the tree and pushed. There was a crack, and she pushed again – a sharp sound, and she was lying in the snow.

  Scopasis laughed. Melitta laughed with him. ‘Come and lend me your strength,’ Melitta called.