Tyrant: Destroyer of Cities

by Christian Cameron

  Amastris picked up a fine pnyx of Aegyptian alabaster, looked at it for three full heartbeats and slammed it into the wall by her head. It shattered into a thousand shards, which a pair of slaves leaped to clear away before she stepped on them and had the pair beaten for their failure.

  Stratokles watched her, and he winced – his persistent fondness for the woman was often jarred by the blinding selfishness of her rages. The way she weighed an item before destroying it . . . In other rages he’d watched her pick up an item she actually liked, weigh it, and then place it back on her side table. She never seemed to destroy anything that she truly valued.

  ‘He is not dead,’ she shrieked. ‘I will not believe it!’

  Stratokles was careful to keep any expression off his face. ‘There is always some small chance, my dear. But he was on Rhodes, facing Demetrios. He chose to support the doomed city – against our interests, may I remind you. And now he’s paid the price. You may be as angry as you please with the fates – rage against the Moirai if you will – but it is time we faced facts. You weren’t going to marry him anyway . . . were you?’

  He hadn’t meant to say it; it was a nasty truth, the sort of thing that a careful politician like Stratokles kept between his teeth, the sort of knowledge that could constitute power if used carefully. But sometimes her selfish, pretended devotion annoyed him, and this time it got the better of him.

  ‘I – love – Satyrus,’ she spat at him. Her favourite maid – the Keltoi girl – was on her hands and knees, picking up bits of the destroyed pnyx as fast as she could. Amastris emphasised her love by kicking at the girl viciously to clear her path across the floor. ‘How dare you, you Athenian scum, pretend you have no finer feelings. Get out of my sight!’

  Stratokles leaned back in his chair. ‘No,’ he said. He was having one of those moments when he rebelled – he often deplored the results, but he couldn’t resist the opportunity to show her to herself. ‘Stop abusing your slaves and pay attention to me, young lady. Antigonus and his golden son have risked everything – everything – to take Rhodes. By all accounts, they are winning. Your father had a close alliance with them – we must have a closer. And Satyrus is dead. His sister has vanished into the east and if we’re lucky, she’s dead, too. This is our moment. Get a hold of yourself, get some warships together and send your father’s bodyguard in those ships to aid Demetrios – a public avowal. He’s going to need ships and men – a siege like this one will eat men like a pig eats cabbage. Get his alliance – his approval – and then move on Tanais. It can be ours by the end of the summer. There’s no one to stop us – their fleet is all away. Probably destroyed.’

  Amastris threw herself on the curtained bed. She sobbed inconsolably, for several minutes and then, like a child, she sat up. ‘Who do you see me marrying?’ she asked.

  Stratokles nodded. This was the princess he loved. It often took time to reach her, but the trip was always worthwhile in the end. ‘I see several possibilities,’ he said. ‘If you are willing to be queen to the Emperor of the World, I think you could do worse than Demetrios. He’s beautiful, he’s going to own the whole of the ocean sea—’

  Amastris shook her head. ‘I never want to be second,’ she said. ‘Although he is beautiful, and I remember that he has this delicious belief that he is more than mortal – it’s the most gorgeous thing about him. Perhaps I can . . . befriend him, before I wed.’

  Stratokles laughed. ‘Or after, dear.’ Amastris had seldom gone a month without a lover, and he didn’t expect that the future would be any different.

  ‘So, if not the great man himself, you might take any number of local men and make them your consort. Melitta’s mercenary commander – he’ll need to be bought anyway – he’s handsome and he’s nobody.’ Stratokles laughed. ‘Once we have Tanais, we can always make him go away.’

  ‘Anyone else?’ she asked, dangling her feet over her head as she lay on her stomach. She danced constantly, with a dedication that belied her apparent sloth – she had the body of a temple dancer, and in fact she often led the religious dances in person. She was remarkably flexible, and Stratokles had to look away. She did it on purpose: he knew it, she knew it. And yet she could tie him in knots.

  She smiled, her eyes already losing their red rims. ‘What about young Herakles?’ she asked. Banugul’s son – the last surviving child of Alexander’s body. Not born within wedlock, of course. But Stratokles had him, and his mother . . . hidden away, he wouldn’t tell anyone where.

  ‘He’s a little younger than you,’ Stratokles said, rubbing his beard. ‘And to be honest, his time is not yet. My instincts tell me that Antigonus will make a mistake – and then it will be time for my boy.’ Stratokles looked at her. ‘You’re both young. Time to wed the mercenary, ride him for a year or two and then see what’s on the horizon.’

  ‘Queen of the Euxine. Queen of the Bosporus.’ Amastris smiled. ‘Girl, what are you doing on the floor?’

  The slave flinched, but Amastris merely smiled. To Stratokles she said, ‘And what of Lysimachos?’

  ‘Lysimachos and Cassander must be at their wits’ end,’ Stratokles said. ‘Lysimachos can only prosper if Asia and Europe are at war and he controls the middle ground. Cassander will lose Greece as soon as Antigonus had dealt with Rhodes and Aegypt. The handwriting is on the wall, dear. But – let us not jump too fast. You have a great deal to offer, and the time is at hand to increase your flocks. Make Demetrios your ally and then take Tanais, Olbia and Pantecapaeaum. We’ll need more troops – perhaps Demetrios will rent them to us when Rhodes falls.’

  She made a moue, then smiled. ‘You have it all thought out, as usual.’

  Stratokles raised an eyebrow. ‘If you agree, you must send ships for Demetrios. And we need to deal with your father’s captain, Nestor. He doesn’t approve of you.’

  Amastris smiled in a way that showed her teeth, like a predator, without reaching her eyes. ‘I think that mostly he disapproves of you, dear advisor.’

  Stratokles returned the smile, tooth for tooth. ‘I think that in this situation our interests run in harness like a chariot team.’

  Amastris watched her maids on the floor for a hundred heartbeats. ‘What do you have in mind? I could send him with Uncle’s men to Rhodes.’

  Stratokles shrugged. ‘That’s a short-term solution.’

  ‘And you can go in command,’ she said.

  BOOK FOUR

  DEMETRIOS’ CAMP, ISLE OF RHODES, LATE SPRING, 305 BC

  Stratokles watched his mistress flirt with Demetrios with all the unease of a father watching his daughter flirt with a pimp.

  He was forced to admit that at some level, they belonged together. He had seldom seen two such perfect bodies, each with the same blaze of golden hair, and they seemed to recognise something in each other – something that allowed self-love to be interpreted as love.

  And she was coy with the golden man, in a way she was seldom coy. Five days in his camp, and his hands had yet to touch her body. Stratokles had to give her full marks for discipline, in this instance. She was not Banugul. She had other strings to her bow, other arrows in her quiver.

  ‘I take it that you have brought me here to see me die?’ Nestor asked him. The black giant was standing at his shoulder.

  Stratokles had many faults, but cowardice was not among them. So he didn’t flinch, even in his heart. ‘We’re not exactly friends, are we, Nestor?’

  Nestor shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘I expect you could organise my death as easily as I could organise yours,’ Stratokles said. He nodded to his lieutenant, Lucius, who had arranged to stand very close to Nestor. The Italian was the deadliest man Stratokles had ever known, and Stratokles was a veteran fighter himself.

  Nestor was as unperturbed as Stratokles had been. ‘Perhaps,’ Nestor said. ‘Although not all men are vipers.’

  ‘Shall we have a truce, Nestor? I have to lead these men – our mistress will expect nothing less. I will not work your demi
se if you will not work mine.’ He looked into Nestor’s eyes. The warrior was absolutely honest: if he meant to deceive, Stratokles would know instantly.

  Nestor smiled. ‘Will you swear an oath, Athenian?’

  Stratokles nodded. ‘Of course.’

  Nestor smiled. ‘What oath would I accept?’ he asked.

  Stratokles stood up to the other man. ‘I keep my word,’ he said angrily.

  ‘Really?’ Nestor asked. ‘I ask all the gods to witness, then. By the River Styx, on which the gods themselves swear. By Zeus, who hears all oaths. By the furies, who haunt the oath-breaker. I swear that, as long as I serve my mistress Amastris, I will take no action by thought or word or deed to harm you, Stratokles.’ He laughed. ‘Will you swear the same?’

  ‘What need, since you are already bound?’ Stratokles laughed.

  Nestor returned his laugh. ‘What need to ask of me an oath, Athenian?’ he said. He grinned at Lucius. ‘Since we both know that I would only kill you face to face. You seek me to demand an oath that you would need from a man like you. But I am not a man like you – and if I were, my oath would not bind me. Isn’t it droll?’ he asked.

  He walked off. Stratokles looked at Lucius, who shrugged his massive shoulders. ‘Don’t look at me, boss,’ Lucius said.

  ‘I may need him dead one of these days,’ Stratokles said.

  ‘Kill him yourself, boss,’ Lucius said. ‘My sense is that that one will take a lot of killing.’

  Stratokles had to laugh. ‘I don’t need you to tell me that. And can I tell you a secret, Lucius? I rather like him.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Lucius. He shrugged in his Italianate way. ‘I’ve had to kill men I liked and I’ve never fancied it. So I won’t do Nestor. OK?’

  Stratokles nodded. ‘Fair enough. We’ll die like autumn flies in this siege, anyway. You’ve been a soldier more often than me.’ Stratokles nodded at the camp walls. ‘How is our golden hero doing?’

  Lucius gathered his cloak around himself. It was late spring, and the water temperature was still cold, and the breath of wind off the ocean was not warm. ‘He was badly beaten the other night, before we came in. He lost two thousand men – that’s two thousand men dead – trying to storm the harbour defences. I talked to a handful of survivors who swam out – the Rhodians built a hidden wall a stone’s throw behind the harbour wall. Fucking clever, if you ask me. Never seen it done in Italy. Heard it talked about, but these bastards went and did it – a stade of it.’

  ‘Two thousand men,’ Stratokles was dismayed. He’d expected to find Rhodes on the verge of falling.

  Lucius shrugged. ‘He’s got men to burn – not many as good as ours, but he has a fair number – he has some of his father’s men, and some good Macedonians, and some Argyraspides that his father probably wants him to kill off, if only to save their pay.’ He shrugged again. ‘He’ll win – never fear. But I think this siege has a month left in it. Especially since he seems to be getting ready to have another go at the harbour.’

  Hours later, walking on the sand, trailing after his mistress as she walked arm in arm with the Golden King, he heard Demetrios.

  ‘Is it not like Troy?’ Demetrios asked. He waved a bronze-clad arm at the line of ships. ‘A thousand ships have their sterns in the sand, my dear. A thousand ships. And we are the noble Achaeans, come to take lofty Ilion – not so lofty, but damned strong.’

  Amastris laughed at him. ‘It is a little like posturing, Great King. Windy Ilion took ten years and more to fall. And none of your attacks has taken any ground yet.’

  Demetrios paused and looked at her – a long look, a look that went on to the point where everyone stopped, all the courtiers and guards, all the attendants, all the slaves.

  ‘A lesser man would explode in rage that you should doubt him,’ Demetrios said. ‘But lesser men are . . . lesser. They lack confidence, and they choose rage when what they truly express is fear. I am not like them. I will take Rhodes because I am the best man – indeed, because I am like a god. I have a great army, a great fleet, superb engineers – and over all of it, my own commanding will. They have none of these things – but they have a strong wall, and they are brave. In a way, I love them for it. This is the contest of my life, Amastris. If they were unworthy, I would lose as much as they lose. If this siege takes ten years, let them be years of greatness.’

  Amastris looked into his remarkable eyes with her own. Stratokles was close enough to hear her. She made him proud. ‘You speak like a god, my lord. Next you will compare me to Helen.’

  Demetrios grinned, not like a god but like a boy. ‘That would be foolish, lady. If you were Helen, you would be in the city, wretched at your betrayal of your husband and your infidelity.’

  He didn’t see how his words, meant to flatter, narrowed her eyes instead.

  He went on, oblivious. ‘You are outside the city,’ he said.

  ‘Oh,’ she shot at him. ‘Am I Briseis, then, or another spear-won trull?’

  Demetrios laughed his golden laugh. ‘Do not mistake me for a fool, lady, and I will not mistake you for a mortal woman. You are no Helen. You are Aphrodite incarnate, come to see the siege. And I am Ares. Tonight I will assault the city again. Will you come and watch?’

  ‘Nothing would give me more pleasure,’ she said. ‘And perhaps you would like to use some of my men in this assault?’

  Stratokles winced.

  ‘Ah,’ Demetrios nodded. ‘The sport is always sweeter when you have a team on the field, is it not?’

  22

  Melitta sat on her riding horse, watching the smooth steppe roll away to the east broken only by tall clumps of thistle and lappa. She was munching an apple so dry it was almost inedible. Her horse’s breath rose in clouds of steam.

  ‘Well?’ she said to Coenus.

  ‘Wait for the scouts,’ Coenus advised her.

  ‘We’ve waited three days,’ Melitta said. She finished the apple and tossed the wrinkled core on the snow.

  ‘Thyrsis and Scopasis are not likely to fail,’ Coenus said.

  Melitta didn’t want to admit that it was failure she feared – failure, and her own roil of emotions when it came to that pair. Scopasis, the former outlaw and her long-standing bedmate. Thyrsis, the Achilles of the Sakje.

  ‘They could be dead, now, or captives,’ she said pettishly. ‘Why on earth did we do this?’

  This constituted a twelve-hundred-parasang journey into the east. The Tanais high ground lay far behind – they had ridden north around the bird-filled marshes at the north end of the Kaspian Sea where their horses shied at storks and geese, and then south again along the eastern shore, where they’d hunted the abundant game; they ate saiga every night for three weeks and left the entrails for the birds and dried the extra meat under their saddles; killed endless numbers of bustards, and ate them every conceivable way. Despite good hunting, they took the time to purchase supplies in Hyrkania. Twice they’d fought bandits, and twice they’d spent a fortnight with other Sakje or Sauromatae tribesmen, trading for fresh horses and food, and once they’d lain two days under hides, horses pulled tight against them, while a tide of locusts rolled over the plains – and then they’d eaten all they could catch, in fresh honey.

  Everyone east of Hyrkania had been raided by the Parni – the new tribe, fresh from the deserts beneath the high walls of the Qu’in. Distant cousins of the Parsi and the Parthi, or so men said. But no one seemed to know where they were.

  Until, after thirty weeks of riding, they had crossed the salt lake and camped on the outskirts of Marakanda, where Alexander had camped and where her father had fought. And there they’d met rumours of the Parni, and how they were moving into the lands of Bactria, lands emptied by a generation of war by Alexander and his satraps. Alexander had not conquered Bactria cleanly – but none of the Bactrians who had resisted him had lived to tell the tale, and their forts were as empty as the beds of their wives.

  And the Parni had ridden south from the steppe to occupy some
of the richest grazing land in all the known world.

  Sitting in the agora – the souq – of Marakanda, Coenus had tried to convince his charge to turn back.

  ‘If the Parni have moved into Bactria,’ he said, ‘they’re no business of ours. They’ll never trouble us again. They came west, all the way to Hyrkania. Now they’ve turned south. You’ve shown your power – you’ve ridden across the steppe the way your mother did, and shown that the Assagetae still have a long arm. Let us ride home. There are other predators besides the Parni.’

  Melitta shook her head. ‘I will show the length of my arm with my arm,’ she said.

  And so, fifteen days later, east along the Polytimeros, and then south with the first break in the weather, losing horses to climb the high passes of eastern Sogdiana – the same passes that Leon and Ataelus and Temerix had crossed twenty years before. Now their knowledge, transferred through their sons and daughters and friends, was more precious than gold, and the Assagetae and their Tanais cavalry allies descended into northern Bactria through the back door of the Dushanbe Valley, where they bought musty grain and warm food. And information.

  The people of Bactria had no great love for their new overlords.

  Melitta had sent her best to find the right target. And then she had tried to sit back and relax and stay warm. In Bactria, it was still winter – high, howling winter, and the passage of the Sogdian Mountains seemed impossibly rash in retrospect.

  ‘Why did we do this?’ she asked again. But she could tell that Coenus was avoiding telling her the truth – that she’d made every choice that had brought them here.