Tyrant: Destroyer of Cities

by Christian Cameron

  ‘Lord,’ Charmides tugged at Satyrus’ chiton. ‘Lord – a messenger.’

  ‘Summons to a command meeting,’ Satyrus noted. ‘Send a boat ashore for me, Neiron. Charmides – on me, no arms. We may have to swim.’ Satyrus leaped up onto the handrail and caught the ropes of a trailing ladder, swung out and dropped to the beach. ‘Why couldn’t we have our meeting before I had my ship afloat?’ he asked the gods, and ran off down the beach, Charmides at his heels.

  Amyntas – one of hundreds of Amyntases who served in the various Macedonian armies of the world, and known as Amyntas of Alexandria to his subordinates – stood at a table in Ptolemy’s tent with a chart of the bay of Cyprian Salamis. He had a pair of dividers in his hand – a tool Satyrus had seen only in the hands of architects.

  ‘Three bodies – three commands. All of our heavy ships in the centre, to match their heaviest – Demetrios apparently came in the night and he has an eighter. An octareme. May Poseidon roll the cursed thing in the surf – it’s larger than any ship we have, and twice as heavy as our heaviest sixer. One of our lord’s spies says it mounts twenty engines of war.’

  Ptolemy spoke up from his golden chair. ‘Amyntas, you’re here to command us, not to demoralise us.’

  Amyntas shrugged. ‘This isn’t the time for horse shit, either, lord. Very well. All our heavy ships in the centre – you too, Lord Satyrus. Sorry to split you from the rest of your ships, but I can’t afford to put a single heavy ship on the flanks. Very well, the fastest ships with the best crews – Meleager’s, and young Satyrus’ triremes, and all the old fleet ships with professional crews – in the right wing. And when we link up with your brother, lord – with Menelaeus, then he’ll form our left wing, closest to the beach. Our tactics must be simple, and antique. Ship for ship, our enemies have heavier ships, more marines, more towers and more engines. So we must fight the Rhodian way – the Athenian way. With rams and oar rakes and rapid flight. No closing. Once we start locking up with grapples, we’re lost.’

  Satyrus was not happy – was, in fact, deeply unhappy – with being split away from the rest of his ships. In effect, his beautiful Arete was being sent to live or die at the whim of strangers. But he had to admit that in every other way, Amyntas, a man he had never liked, was giving a sound plan based on a rational appraisal of the enemy.

  Satyrus raised his hand.

  Amyntas ignored him for a moment, but when no one else had a question, he nodded.

  ‘How do we stay away?’ Satyrus asked. ‘We have to go at them, if only to pick up Menelaeus.’

  Amyntas tapped his dividers on the table. ‘That part will be touch and go – especially if Plistias tries to keep us apart.’ He shrugged. ‘Watch the king’s ship for signals. We’ll back water when we get close to them – perhaps draw them off the land.’

  Satyrus wanted to ask if all of them were well enough trained to back water for an hour. Only a few years before he’d watched Eumenes, his enemy, lose all cohesion – and his crown – because his ships could not back water together. But it wouldn’t do to speak out.

  Ptolemy leaned forward. He looked older, all of a sudden. ‘How do we form? In columns?’

  Amyntas shook his head. ‘Too unwieldy; too big a fleet. I wager that Plistias does the same – forms lines off the beach. I’ll have Phillip Croseus form our right with the fast ships, and command it, while I arrange the centre. I’ve written out the order of ships, from beach to open sea. Check the list and take your places, gentlemen.’

  Satyrus found that his warships – Marathon, Troy and Black Falcon, had been given positions at the very rightmost, or seaward, edge of the line. It was flattering – Amyntas was no fan of Leon, nor of Satyrus, but he was admitting that their crews were the best.

  Satyrus himself was right in the centre, four hulls to beachward of Ptolemy himself, in a fine, enormous sixer. He had a great red cloth flapping from a pole on the stern, marking the flagship – another recent innovation.

  Satyrus found Neiron holding Arete just off the beach. Satyrus stripped his chiton over his head and swam out, grabbed the ladder and climbed aboard. Charmides went below and returned with towels.

  Satyrus grinned at Neiron. ‘That felt good.’

  Neiron shook his head. ‘Pray it’s the only swim we have today. What’s our station?’

  Satyrus spat over the side. ‘We’re with the king,’ he said. ‘A place of honour, no doubt, but Akes and the rest are four stades off at the top of the line.’

  Neiron nodded. ‘Lucky them. We’re with the king?’ he asked. His face grew very still. ‘In the centre – where the fighting will be hardest.’

  Satyrus looked around. He had no wish to dishearten his men. ‘Amyntas is backing water after we’re close to the enemy,’ he said.

  ‘With this lot?’ Neiron asked quietly.

  Satyrus shrugged. ‘Let’s not wish ourselves ill. Our fleet is made up mostly of Alexandrian professionals and a handful of mercenaries. We all speak the same language, and many of them – many of us – have sailed together before.’

  Neiron nodded. ‘Aye, lord, and Plistias has a horde of Asiatics and Cilicians and Phoenicians. But he has some big ships. And if he keeps it simple, it’ll be hard for us to win.’

  Satyrus shrugged again. ‘Plistias is not an innovator. He’ll form up in two lines and come for us, and try the contest with the gods. If we can back water and if Menelaeus comes out on time, we’ll do well. Remember, Neiron – for all our griping. We don’t have to win. We don’t even have to stay even. Plistias has to score a sweeping victory.’ Satyrus grinned.

  Anaxagoras, who had remained silent throughout, spoke up. ‘Why? Pardon me – I’m a novice at war. But a victory is a victory, surely.’

  Satyrus shook his head, and so did Neiron – so exactly simultaneously that other men on deck laughed aloud.

  ‘No. Look at the bigger picture. Antigonus is on the attack. He has risked a great deal to build this enormous fleet. Now he must destroy our fleet – and our ability to resist him at sea. Unless we’re wrecked, he can’t proceed against either of his two main objects – Alexandria or Rhodes.’

  Neiron smiled – a rare enough expression for the man. ‘And since we defeated the pirates, it is worse for them.’

  Anaxagoras said, ‘But this is as complex as a dance! Why worse?’

  Satyrus turned aside and issued a string of orders as Arete passed along the rear of the first line and behind the royal flagship with her great red banner, and he began to count hulls. The line was forming well – there was none of the chaos he had feared. In fact, the Alexandrian fleet, for all of Ptolemy’s legendary parsimony, was well trained, and his rowers appeared well fed, fully paid and in good spirits. Satyrus felt his own spirits rise. His experience – not as wide as Neiron’s or Diokles’, but he had a few years behind him, now – was that a fleet that formed well would fight well.

  Behind his shoulder, Neiron explained.

  ‘Worse for them because the pirate fleet effectively functioned to keep Rhodes out of the war,’ the older man said. ‘Antigonus is a subtle bastard. He uses the pirates to isolate Rhodes, and he uses diplomacy and the Rhodians’ own conservatism to threaten them into staying clear of joining Ptolemy’s alliance outright. But with the pirates scattered, or better, the Rhodians may decide to come in, with sixty ships – ships better, frankly, than anything either side here has to offer.’

  Anaxagoras grinned. ‘It’s like the plot of one of Meleager’s comedies,’ he said.

  ‘It’s only a comedy if we win,’ Satyrus said.

  The Alexandrian fleet formed first. Satyrus had the Arete in line early – and with lots of time to wait. He walked up and down the decks, looking at the stacks of bolts for the machines, the spare oars in racks, the full water jars. He walked down onto the oar decks, chatting with his rowers – he’d drunk wine, by this point, with many of them, and they were no longer a sea of alien faces in the murk of the thranite hold but men he knew – funny, sad, outr
ageous, lewd, or plain. His number two thranite, hard against the bow, was called Kronos, as he was old enough to remember the birth of the gods and still hale enough to row.

  ‘Good morning, Grandfather,’ he said, and got a laugh from all the men.

  Rowers had to be nervous, going into action, especially down here on the bottom benches, where the first they’d know of defeat was the water running in to cover their faces. They rowed right at the water line – down in the farts, as the old-timers liked to say. They received the lowest pay, on most ships – although like the Rhodians, Leon and Satyrus paid their thranites the same as the other oarsmen. A ram that penetrated the hull would kill the thranites instantly, and more would drown, whether the ship survived or not. The other rowing decks were not so dangerous. Many captains used slaves in the lowest rowing deck.

  ‘We’re in the middle of the line, near the King of Aegypt,’ Satyrus shouted into the gloom. ‘We’ll go forward for a while, and then we’ll back water. That’s the most important manoeuvre in the whole battle – and not a reason for any man down here to worry. We’re fighting the Athenian way. For those of you younger than Kronos, here, that means we try to hit and run.’ He nodded at the silence. He always found it better to tell his men – on land or sea – what to expect. ‘Remember that all of our lives are bound together. I won’t abandon you. You, in turn – keep rowing. If your hearts are good, we’ll drink together on the beach and count more silver in our caps. Understood?’

  He gave the same speech on the second deck and the top rowing deck, too. It was just as spontaneous each time – he’d had good tutors – and every time he got a growl of approval from his rowers.

  On the main deck, he found Anaxagoras playing an odd lyre for the top-deck rowers. It was a heavy instrument, the base made of wood but covered like a drum or tambour in sheepskin, so that the notes resounded. It had a harsh, military sound, and the Athenian was playing the hymn to Nike over and over, and men were singing.

  ‘Hail, Orpheus!’ Satyrus said.

  Anaxagoras smiled and kept playing.

  As Satyrus stopped to listen, Stesagoras came aft from the bow. ‘Lord?’ He seemed unusually hesitant.

  ‘Speak your mind,’ Satyrus said.

  Stesagoras fingered his beard. ‘Neither Neiron nor I think much of the weather, lord. And . . . I do not seek to anger you, but we’re in the centre. If all does not go well – We’re lost.’

  Satyrus managed a smile. ‘Tell me news, Sailing Master.’

  Stesagoras sighed. ‘I’d like to run heavy ropes to the foremast head. Big ropes – like anchor cables.’

  Satyrus stepped away from the lyre player and looked up. ‘Why?’ he asked.

  Stesagoras looked around for support. ‘I think – that is, Neiron and I both think – it’ll keep the mast stable if we have to ram. Or if we are rammed. Even if we have the sail up.’

  ‘Aha!’ Satyrus could see it. ‘Especially if two of the ropes run right aft along the sides. You’ll have to be careful to keep clear of the engines. But yes – and another stay made fast forward to the ram. Make it so, Stesagoras.’ He was still looking up. ‘And while you are at it – sling a basket from the masthead, like the Rhodians do. With the new cables, the mast will surely support the weight. And put an archer or two in the basket.’

  Stesagoras smiled. ‘There’s a thought.’

  ‘Who knows?’ Satyrus asked the gods. ‘A lookout might tell us something good.’

  Another hour, and still the Antigonids’ second line was struggling to form. Stesagoras had had the foremast down on deck, laid down the middle of the top deck, and the whole of the deck crew had been employed pounding iron staples into the crown of the mast and then running cables round and round. The fire pot was brought out – carefully – and a pair of bronze loggerheads heated red hot, to put hot pitch over the newly roped masthead.

  Anaxagoras played for them – songs of horse races and symposia, until they were ready to raise the mast, and then he played an old Spartan marching song with a heavy beat and the mast went up as if Apollo himself had lifted the new cap between his great fingers.

  ‘That’d be why Orpheus was so popular with the Argonauts,’ Neiron growled.

  Satyrus had seldom seen any unit – on land or sea – with so little in the way of jitters before a fight. He himself got nerves that came in waves – he’d be deep in the process of pulling a rope, or helping lace heavy leather to the basket so that the two archers there had some protection from their rivals – and then he’d look over the side and his heart would beat faster and his mouth would go dry.

  But the music would carry him out of it, either because of the natural tendency to sing along, or because the man’s playing was so good.

  ‘He’s god-sent,’ Satyrus said.

  Neiron nodded. ‘I agree,’ he said. ‘And how often do I say that?’

  They shared a laugh while the mast went up, and then the new ropes were pulled taut by forty sailors and all the marines, taut as bowstrings, and lashed to the heavy posts that held the fighting rail. It looked ugly as dung on a dancer, but the mast appeared as solid as if it had been planted like a seed, and the leather and tar-coated basket rose on pulleys into the masthead without the heavy oak pole giving so much as a creak.

  ‘Your lyre is the best new weapon on this ship,’ Satyrus was just saying to Anaxagoras, and the man was beaming in response, when the masthead called.

  ‘Lord Satyrus!’ called the men in the basket. Even thirty feet above the deck, you could see that they were excited.

  ‘You’re safe enough, lads,’ Satyrus called. In fact, their basket swayed with every movement of the ship, but they were volunteers and had each been promised a ten-drachma reward.

  ‘Enemy’s all formed up!’ the lead archer called down. ‘And – there’s a big squadron rowing away.’

  ‘You should get into your armour,’ Charmides said at his shoulder. ‘Lord – the king is signalling the advance.’

  Satyrus stood for a second, paralysed – but surely the advance would be slow, and followed by backing water and retreat. Lots of time to get into his armour. ‘Put young Orpheus in armour, lad,’ he said, pointing to Anaxagoras. ‘I don’t want him going to this dance naked – he may find that his partner’s not as cooperative.’ Then Satyrus leaped for the stays that held the mast and started to climb, hand over hand, praising Poseidon that there’d been insufficient pitch to coat the new standing rigging and he wasn’t smearing himself black.

  He climbed to where he could hold the lashings of the mast and brace a foot on the archer’s basket, which made it rock a little.

  ‘Leto Mother of the Archer,’ Satyrus muttered.

  The apparent confusion of the Antigonid front line was a sham. Now he could see over the first line. In the second line, the gigantic turtle-ship held the very centre – his impression was that it was larger than an eighter – perhaps even a tenner, though he’d never heard of such a thing. But it was not the giant war machine that drew his attention, but a squadron – fifteen ships – rowing away from Plistias’ second line, headed north and west toward Menelaeus. They were all big ships. He counted fifteen – fifteen quadremes and penteres, all in a crisp line abreast.

  Menelaeus had sixty ships, but they were all smaller ships, in the old Athenian style, undecked triremes and such. He was just forming – late to the dance, as Neiron would say.

  ‘Good eyes, gentlemen,’ Satyrus said. ‘Listen – when we close, you two shoot down into the enemy command deck. Nowhere else. Don’t waste a shaft on sailors. Marines and officers.’

  ‘Wasn’t born yesterday, lord,’ the senior archer replied. ‘You could send up some more arrows, if you’d a mind, sir.’

  Satyrus wrapped his legs around the stay and slid – carefully – down the heavy rope, sparing a hand to keep his chiton off the rope where the fine stuff would be ripped to shreds. As soon as his feet hit the rail, he ran aft.

  ‘Another two hundred arrows to the top,’ he
ordered Apollodorus. ‘Then attend me on the command deck.’

  ‘Yes, lord,’ Apollodorus saluted.

  ‘He’s thinned his centre and sent his best, heaviest ships against Menelaeus,’ Satyrus said to Neiron, who had Thrasos at the oars. ‘What does that mean, old councillor?’

  Neiron rubbed his beard.

  ‘Enemy is advancing!’ came the call from the masthead.

  ‘That basket is the best new idea I’ve seen in ten years,’ Neiron said. ‘Rhodians think of everything.’

  Satyrus turned to Charmides. ‘Find the sailor with the biggest lungs and have him pass the word from our masthead to the ships of the centre – so the king gets the word. Enemy is advancing.’

  ‘Foam under their bows!’ from the masthead.

  ‘What’s that mean?’ Anaxagoras asked.

  ‘It means they’ve already gone to ramming speed.’ Neiron clapped his hands. ‘I’ll take the conn. Give me the oars.’

  Thrasos nodded, braced and Neiron put his hands on the oars. ‘You have the oars.’

  ‘I have the oars.’ Neiron ducked under the big Kelt’s arms and was in the helmsman’s place.

  Close by Satyrus’ ear, a mighty voice roared, ‘Enemy at ramming speed,’ at Hermeaus’ Poseidon, the next ship beachward from the Arete.

  Satyrus suddenly realised that the two fleets were closing at the combined speed of a pair of galloping horses and that he was unarmed and unarmoured.

  ‘Charmides!’ he called.

  The young man was at his elbow, arms full of bronze and iron.

  ‘Arm me!’ he said, his eyes still on the enemy line – what he could see of it. His own foresail blocked his view forward.

  ‘Foresail down,’ Neiron called, reading his thoughts. ‘But brailed up, ready for raising.’

  Sailors ran barefoot along the deck – the greatest advantage of the new full decking was the speed with which sailors could react to any part of the deck without climbing over rowers.

  Satyrus got his corselet around his waist, and Charmides tied the waist laces, then the chest ties.