Tyrant: King of the Bosporus

by Christian Cameron

  He walked Satyrus to the gate, and Satyrus felt better than he’d expected. He smiled at the older man, who tugged his own beard and laughed.

  ‘How long will you be here?’ Ben Zion asked. ‘Surely all your busy schemes need you?’

  Satyrus looked up at the exedra and saw movement behind a curtain. He looked back at Ben Zion, moved somehow to simple honesty.

  ‘I took poppy for a wound and I’ve had too much of it. My physician is going to take it out of me. This will take more than a week.’ He smiled ruefully.

  ‘God be with you, then,’ Ben Zion said. ‘It is no small matter.’ The older man took his elbow. ‘You are looking for my daughter, I think.’

  Satyrus nodded. ‘I liked her.’

  Ben Zion shook his head. ‘She is married now. You have enough of my family already.’ He guided Satyrus out of the gate.

  Miriam married. Well, he scarcely knew her really, and that only to be annoyed at her. ‘And how is the machine?’ Satyrus asked.

  Ben Zion tugged his beard again. But the smile that came to his lips was unforced. ‘Magnificent. Lord Ptolemy has been here – to my house! To see it function. He wants one for his library. The tyrant of Athens has sent me a letter about it.’ Ben Zion shook his head. ‘I am one of the greatest grain merchants in the world, and no one knows my name outside the trade. But now that I have financed this machine – now men know me. What is the Greek word I am looking for?’

  ‘Irony?’ Satyrus asked.

  ‘You have it, young man. The irony threatens to overwhelm me.’ Ben Zion nodded to himself. ‘There is a lesson there somewhere. Perhaps about the futility of human striving.’ He studied the ground and then, raising his eyes, he seemed to study Satyrus. ‘Two of the philosophers who worked on the machine are coming to Alexandria – indeed, I expect them any day. They come from Syracusa – students of Pythagoras and Archimedes. Would you like to meet such men? Or are their mathematics too academic for an adventurer such as yourself ?’

  Satyrus clasped the older man’s hand. ‘I would be delighted. It will give me something I can look forward to – while I lie on a bed and curse the poppy.’

  ‘Good. I will send word to Leon’s house. You will rescue him?’ Ben Zion asked suddenly.

  ‘Yes,’ Satyrus said.

  ‘Good. For that, I loan you my son. Leon and I are partners – it is fitting that my son help his nephew.’ Ben Zion squeezed his arm and went back through his gate, leaving Satyrus wondering whether Ben Zion was speaking to himself or to Satyrus.

  The next day, Nearchus pronounced Satyrus fit.

  Satyrus lay on his bed with a bucket of scrolls.

  ‘Read while you can,’ Nearchus said.

  And so it began.

  NORTH OF OLBIA, WINTER, 311–310 BC

  Melitta’s first debate, first council and first absolute commands as lady of the Assagatje involved sending her allies home to their yurts. The irony was not lost on her.

  The presence of Parshtaevalt and Urvara had exactly the effect she had anticipated. They treated her like a particularly wise child – they spoke carefully, they laid out their plans and expected her immediate approval. They, and their people, camped a few stades from the field of the Ford of the River God, and tribesmen began to join them. Just as Ataelus, Urvara and Parshtaevalt wanted. By their very inaction, they were gathering an army.

  On the third day after the sacrifices, Melitta arose from her pallet of furs determined to take command of her own people – and her destiny. She dressed carefully and went to Nihmu, who now openly shared a lodge with Coenus. She brushed new snow from the flap and opened it, holding the stick carefully so that it did not dump more snow on the carpets inside.

  ‘I desire to summon all of the leaders in camp,’ she said.

  Coenus was boiling water in a small bronze pot balanced on a tripod. He was naked from the waist up, the grey hair of his abdomen criss-crossed with scars. She had seldom seen a body so scarred.

  He was unembarrassed. ‘Lady,’ he said. He inclined his head. He, at least, treated her as an adult – and as his commander.

  Nihmu was wearing only a wool shirt. She came and knelt by Melitta and gave her a cup of warm cider from the fire. ‘Lady?’ she said. ‘I am neither a commander nor your baqca.’ She shrugged. ‘How would I summon your council?’

  ‘Stand outside and yell?’ Melitta asked. ‘I don’t know. But if you won’t summon them, I’ll stand in the snow and yell. Yesterday’s council was summoned by Ataelus. I was invited. Today, I’ll do the inviting.’

  Coenus nodded. ‘I’ll do it, lady,’ he said. ‘I am friends with all, and yet your man. I will go from yurt to yurt and invite them to come – where?’

  ‘To my yurt,’ Melitta said. ‘Now. I want Ataelus and Samahe, Urvara and Eumenes, Tameax, and Parshtaevalt – and his tanist, if he has one. That handsome boy he had at his tail yesterday? His son?’

  Nihmu shook her head. ‘Sister’s son,’ she said. ‘Gaweint, by name.’ She smiled. ‘He is handsome,’ she said, more to Coenus than to Melitta.

  Coenus shrugged. ‘If you say so, my beauty.’

  Melitta was – outraged was too strong, but surprised, even shocked, that they should flirt openly in front of her. ‘Nihmu!’ she said, before her political mind could stop her. ‘You have a husband!’

  Nihmu smiled a cat’s smile. ‘So I do. He is a prisoner with the enemy, and I bend my efforts to his rescue.’

  Melitta flicked a glance at Coenus, who was equally unperturbed at this almost open accusation of adultery. ‘If she thinks ill of us—’ Coenus began.

  ‘Ill?’ Melitta asked.

  There was silence in the tent.

  ‘I wish Sappho were here,’ Coenus said.

  Melitta looked at both of them. They looked back at her. Melitta knew enough about emotion and body language to know that they were neither embarrassed nor defensive – an attitude which enraged her.

  ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘Summon my leaders.’ She turned on her heel and then scrambled to get out of the tent flap with dignity. What are they doing? Their actions will reflect on me! she thought, and then decided that was unfair. Most Sakje didn’t know anything about Nihmu’s husband – and fewer would care. Sakje women did as they pleased. Sex was seldom the driving force among the nomads that it was in the cities.

  She went back to her yurt and sat, waiting for them to come. The time stretched on and on – in some ways, the longest wait of her life. Early on, she began to wonder what she would do if they did not come.

  But a yurt’s walls are thin, and even as she fed her anger with thoughts of their disobedience, her ears told her that they were coming – Parshtaevalt shouted for his clean fur tunic, and sent another rider to find Gaweint, who was hunting.

  And then they came, all together, which led her to believe that they had met somewhere else. Urvara entered first. She bowed – a rare gesture – and when bid, seated herself at the fire. One by one, the other senior chiefs entered and sat.

  Melitta smiled and offered them wine. Coenus slipped in – Coenus, the Megaran aristocrat – and he served them each in horn cups that held the heat. Nihmu came and sat at the fire, and Melitta allowed her, although she was not sure what Nihmu’s role was, nor what her arrival presaged.

  ‘Let me speak to the point,’ Melitta said when they were seated. ‘It was never my desire to gather an army. You are gathering an army. Send them home.’

  Ataelus nodded. ‘We do it for you.’

  Melitta kept her voice even. ‘Send them home.’

  Urvara smiled. ‘Melitta, we understand that—’

  Melitta cut her off ruthlessly. ‘I care nothing for your understanding. Send them home, or I will ride away and you can rot in the snow. Either I am to be the lady of the Assagatje or I am not. My name draws these riders. My name alone will bind the Assagatje.’ She looked around, pushed down her nerves and her quickened heartbeat and forced herself to sound calm. ‘I do not intend to be saskar – a tyran
t. But in this first thing, I will be obeyed, or we will part our ways.’

  Ataelus shook his head. ‘Marthax will not bow his head to a girl.’

  Melitta shrugged. ‘Then I will kill him in combat, one to one.’

  ‘Why should he agree to such a combat?’ Urvara asked.

  ‘Is he a fool?’ Melitta asked. ‘Really? This camp – in winter, in the open – proves that my name will gather an army. His name will not. He knows this as well as I. Let us give him dignity – to acknowledge me if he will, or to die under my knife if he will not.’

  Parshtaevalt stood up. ‘Lady, he was – and remains – the deadliest lance on the plains. Marthax will kill you – and that is the end of our hopes.’

  Melitta shrugged. ‘No,’ she said. ‘He will not kill me.’

  Nihmu leaned forward. ‘All here love you, honey bee. You must listen—’

  ‘No,’ Melitta said. ‘No. I will not listen any more. Each of you may keep twenty-five knights. That is all. We will ride for Marthax’s camp in the morning, and if I am not obeyed, I will ride for the coast.’

  One by one, they shuffled out – anger written on every face. Who likes to be given orders by a younger woman? she thought. But she kept her face impassive.

  When they were all gone, Coenus cleaned her wine-heating pot with a coarse linen rag. He looked at her, waiting for her to speak. When she did not, he finally put the pot on the pile of her dishes and stood up.

  ‘It had to be done,’ he said.

  ‘Are you the only one truly my man?’ she asked.

  Coenus smiled. ‘Far from it, lady. I have known you every day of your life – they know you only from afar. So they will worship you, where I already know what you will do. As does Nihmu. And none of us offers you anything but respect.’ He gave her his lopsided grin. ‘But – it had to be done. Even parents must eventually relinquish control of children.’

  She smiled back. ‘Is this, too, something about which your Xenophon wrote?’

  He shook his head. ‘He never wrote on the magic of command,’ Coenus said. ‘I learned those lessons from your father, and I have little to teach you. Why are you so certain that you can put Marthax down? Is it the prophecy?’

  Melitta sat on her furs. ‘Yes and no. I know it.’

  Coenus came and sat next to her. ‘They don’t know it.’

  ‘They must trust me,’ Melitta said.

  Coenus stared at the coals of her fire. ‘Lady, they know that in a trial of arms, their faction – your faction – will triumph. Any other method has elements of risk. Their logic is almost Greek – their way will not fail.’

  ‘Listen to me, Coenus,’ Melitta said, in Greek. She spoke fast, the way Philokles taught when making an argument. ‘That logic is false. In a trial of arms, we would win for a day. Marthax would lose a battle, or refuse it, and ride away to the north, unbeaten, to gather tribesmen and be a thorn in my side. And my people and his people would fight for a generation – perhaps more – while the Sauromatae creep into our eastern door and the Cruel Hands and the Grass Cats settle in the rich river valleys and become Sindi. His people and my people – raid and counter-raid – and never would we be one people as we were in Satrax’s day. But if I succeed, in a month, I am queen of the Assagatje. And when the ground is hard, all our horses will go east against the Sauromatae.’

  ‘Your mother followed the very strategy that you say Marthax would adopt,’ Coenus said. ‘She rode away and formed her own alliances.’

  ‘I know it,’ she answered. ‘I grew up with it. I have thought about it all my adult life. I think that she did what she did for my father. For him it was right. For the war against Alexander, it was right. But – for the Assagatje, it was wrong. And I will remedy that.’

  Coenus got up. ‘You think deeply. I don’t know which party has the right of it, but I will help to see that they obey you – if only because that is the way it must be, or your role has no meaning.’ He reached out, and they clasped hands.

  At the tent door, she stopped him. ‘You have never held a major command,’ she said. ‘And yet my father loved you, and you are the best of warriors.’

  ‘I dislike ordering men to do things I do not do myself,’ Coenus said.

  Melitta raised an eyebrow. ‘You are an aristocrat. You give orders with every breath.’

  ‘I will order a cup of wine from a slave. I will not order the slave to face a cavalry charge.’ Coenus smiled. ‘I’m not even a good phylarch. I end up pitching the tents and cooking the food – myself.’

  ‘I would give you a command,’ she said. ‘I would form a group of my own knights, and have you as my commander.’

  Coenus nodded. ‘For a time,’ he said. ‘For this summer, I would be honoured. But when you are victorious, I will take my horses and go and rebuild my shrine to Artemis. I will tend my wife’s grave, hunt animals and die content. I am tired of war.’

  She smiled. ‘I must be content, too. From the warriors now in the camp, find me a trumpeter and five knights – just five.’

  Coenus nodded. ‘As you command, lady.’

  She frowned. ‘And Nihmu?’ she asked.

  ‘Nihmu struggles,’ Coenus said.

  Melitta crossed her arms. ‘I was not asking about her . . . spirit.’

  Coenus shook his head. ‘If you are asking about our sleeping arrange ments, I can only suggest that it is none of your business. Lady.’ He held her eye effortlessly. ‘And it is not your business.’

  Melitta actually shook with the repressed urge to stomp her foot. ‘Very well,’ she said archly. ‘You are dismissed.’

  ‘Have a care, lady,’ Coenus cautioned. ‘Sakje rulers do not “dismiss”. That is for Greek tyrants and Medes.’

  Melitta slumped. ‘Point taken.’

  Coenus nodded. ‘Good.’ He slipped through the flap, and was gone.

  Just after the golden rim of the sun crossed the horizon the next morning, they left the camp. Hundreds of tribesmen still milled about. More than a few mounted and rode alongside the column, but Melitta could see that they were not packed to travel, so she ignored them except to accept their good wishes. Urvara and Parshtaevalt had twenty-five knights each, and a few more riders as heralds and outriders – strictly speaking, neither had exactly obeyed.

  Ataelus had twenty-five riders, precisely, and he grinned at her and invited her to count. Instead, she embraced him on horseback.

  Coenus led six knights of his own choosing. The only one she knew was Scopasis, who wore a new scale shirt, a little big, but a beautiful piece, and a bronze Boeotian helmet that he hadn’t had the day before. All six of her knights could be identified by the crown of fir tree wrapped around their helmets, which gave them a curiously organic appearance – but made them appear as a unit. They fell in around her and rode at her side.

  ‘Introduce me,’ Melitta said to Coenus.

  Coenus nodded. ‘My phylarch is Scopasis. He is an outlaw, and has no other loyalty. He is your man. Besides,’ Coenus flashed a smile at the small man, ‘I like him.’

  Scopasis spoke up from under his new helmet. ‘I will follow you to death, lady.’

  Melitta grinned. ‘That’s not exactly my plan. But I, too, like Scopasis. And the others?’

  ‘Laen here is actually your cousin – the son of Srayanka’s half-sister Daan.’ Coenus pointed Laen out. He was a tall young man with a gilded-bronze muscle cuirass and an ancient, and beautiful, Attic helmet with silver mounts. ‘Nihmu chose him – they’re related. I could have had fifty men if you’d wanted so many. There was a disturbance!’ Coenus laughed. ‘Nearly a melee. I wish I could have held games. This young troublemaker with the blond moustache is Darax, and the one whose nose scrapes the sky is Bareint. The two hiding in Bareint’s mighty shadow are brothers from the Standing Horse tribe – Sindispharnax and Lanthespharnax, or so I understand their names. Sindi and Lanthe, to me. The lanky one with the extravagant moustache is Agreint.’

  Melitta’s head whirled at so many new na
mes. ‘Sindispharnax?

  ’ ‘Lady?’ the warrior asked. He pushed his horse forward.

  ‘Hardly a Sakje name?’ she asked.

  ‘My mother was a Persian captive,’ he said proudly. ‘She sits still with the elder matrons, and she gave us Parsae names.’ He leaned forward. ‘My father served yours on the Great Raid east, lady.’

  She nodded. To Coenus, she said, ‘So, how did you choose them?’

  ‘I asked any man who wanted to join your escort to meet me at my yurt with his best horse,’ he said. ‘I simply inspected the horses. I chose the six best. Their riders came along for the ride, so to speak.’

  She curled her mouth and made a face. ‘Perhaps we should be more attentive to men?’

  Coenus leaned close. ‘Am I the commander of your knights, lady?’

  ‘You are,’ she replied. And nodded. ‘Point taken. And my trumpeter?’ she asked.

  ‘Unless you take Urvara’s, there’s not a trumpet in the camp.’ Coenus flicked a Greek salute. ‘Take Marthax’s.’

  She nodded. ‘Good thought.’

  That night they made a cold camp, and Melitta regretted that she hadn’t a sleeping companion to keep her warm. She piled every fur and blanket she owned on a cleared place in the snow, and eventually, after walking until her feet were warm, she got to sleep.

  In the morning they rode on, into the north. It snowed twice, the first a matter of little moment, the second putting a fresh layer on the grass as deep as the hocks of a horse. None of the horses were struggling yet, but a few more inches on top of what had already fallen and travel would begin to become dangerous.

  Ataelus went out with scouts as soon as the sky was grey. His riders and Samahe’s came in all day, reporting on the distance to Marthax’s camp. At noon, when the sun was a pale silver disk in the sky, Ataelus came in himself.

  ‘Marthax awaits us on the Great Field,’ he said. ‘I saw him, and he saluted me. We did not speak. He and all his knights are armed.’