Tyrant: King of the Bosporus (39 page)
Neiron nodded. ‘So I’ve heard,’ he answered. ‘Isn’t once enough?’ Most ships stayed on the coast, sailing from the point of Cyprus north to the coast of Asia Minor and then crawling west from haven to haven.
‘If this wind holds for twelve hours, we’ll raise Rhodos before the stars show in the sky,’ Satyrus said.
‘If the wind drops, we’ll be adrift on the great green and praying for Poseidon’s mercy.’ Neiron shrugged. ‘But you are the navarch. I just hope that when Tyche deserts you, I’m already dead.’
Satyrus smiled, but his hands remained clenched and his stomach did back-flips until he made his landfall that evening. The crew cheered when the lookout sighted the promontory at Panos, and again when they glided down the mirror-flat water of the city’s inner harbour, past the Temple of Poseidon. Satyrus didn’t hide the libation he offered to the waters of the harbour.
‘All that to save a day?’ Neiron asked.
Satyrus finished pouring the wine into the sea and stood up. ‘My gut tells me that every day matters,’ he said.
‘Do you think they’ll accept your offer?’ Neiron asked.
Satyrus pointed at the beach under the temple, where a full dozen Rhodian triemioliai lay on the beach. ‘Can you think of any other reason they’d prepare a squadron in midwinter?’ he asked.
Neiron smiled. ‘The gods love you,’ he said. He nodded grimly. ‘Use it while it lasts.’
‘A
nd how is our august prisoner?’ Eumeles was in rare good humour. He sat on his iron stool and looked out over the battlements of his citadel at the Euxine sparkling in the late winter sun. Or was it the early spring? The weather was mild, and the sun shone.
Idomenes had a list of important issues, and Leon, the prisoner, was not one of them. ‘He’s alive. Do you really need to know more?’
Eumeles shrugged. ‘I wonder how young Melitta will feel if I send her a hand or an eye?’
Idomenes shut his eyes for a moment and then opened them slowly. ‘I wouldn’t recommend it, lord. She has our farmers in her hands already.’
‘If that fool Marthax had come to me . . .’ Eumeles shook his head. ‘But she has no fleet, and the only infantry she’ll get are those mutinous dogs from Olbia. Our army will eat her – and while we’re at it, we’ll make Olbia loyal. Once and for all.’ Eumeles smiled. ‘That’s a campaign I really look forward to. No more two steps forward and three steps back. When Olbia is crushed, I will actually be king.’
Idomenes nodded. ‘Yes, lord,’ he said automatically. ‘In the meantime, the Athenians want their grain quotas filled or they threaten to withdraw our loans.’
‘Where, exactly, do they expect this grain to come from?’ Eumeles shook his head. ‘How can they expect to fill their ships twice a year, where they used to fill them once?’
‘You sold them the second cargo last autumn, lord.’ Idomenes shouldn’t have said that – he’d allowed his actual views to colour his voice, and his master whirled on him, his pale eyes murderous.
‘I’m sorry,’ Eumeles said, his voice just above a whisper, ‘I must be mistaken. I think I just heard you offering to
criticize my policies
.’
Idomenes opened his tablets and ran his stylus down the list of action items. ‘Lord, the fact is that the Athenians demand more grain immediately. And if they are not satisfied, your mercenaries will not be shipped – and we will have nothing to pay the men we have. On the same subject, Nikephoros requests audience. He intends, I assume, to demand payment. His men are three months in arrears.’
Nikephoros was Eumeles’ exceptionally competent strategos. He was both loyal and intelligent, a remarkable combination.
Eumeles nodded. ‘Let’s see him, then.’
‘You understand that we have no money?’ Idomenes asked.
Eumeles looked at him and laughed. ‘You have a hard life, Idomenes. Criticize the tyrant and live in fear. Fail to advise him and if he falls, you fall.’ Eumeles shook his head. ‘Listen – I was riding this tiger when you were a pup. My father was tyrant here. Have a little faith. Things have turned for the better this winter. I can feel the end of the worst part. These money matters are never that difficult to solve. And once the barbarians on the sea of grass are in their place – then we will see power. Real power. I don’t think Lysimachos and Antigonus and all the busy Diadochoi actually understand how rich we are up here.’ Eumeles smiled. ‘I intend to be very strong indeed before I let them discover that I can buy and sell the lords of the Inner Sea.’ He looked at Idomenes’ tablets and sighed. ‘I just have to get through the usual sordid details to reach the good part.’
Idomenes went to fetch Nikephoros. He preferred his master in the darker and more pragmatic moods. His ebullient moods were the most dangerous for his clarity.
‘How is he today?’ Nikephoros asked. He had a magnificent bronze and silver breastplate under his Tyrian crimson cloak.
‘At his best,’ Idomenes said.
Nikephoros raised an eyebrow. ‘You always say that. It is not always true.’ He shrugged. ‘I speak no treason. We need him at his best. I do not like the reports from the
georgoi
. We could lose the countryside to this witch.’
‘Farmers are notorious for their superstitions,’ Idomenes said.
Nikephoros stopped just short of the citadel doors. ‘Listen, steward. I pay you the courtesy of discussing matters of state with you like an equal, because I think that you are a man with your master’s best interests at heart. Do not mutter platitudes to me.’
‘I must take your sword, Strategos,’ the guard said. His voice was apologetic.
Nikephoros didn’t take his eyes off the steward as he handed his plain, straight sword to the guard.
‘The georgoi have reason to fear,’ Idomenes admitted.
‘Exactly.’ Nikephoros nodded. ‘Let’s go.’
He inclined his head to the tyrant, and no more. Eumeles returned this with a civil bow. ‘You’ve come for money?’ Eumeles began.
‘The lads are three months in arrears. You know that, so I won’t belabour it. If the new phalanx arrives and
they’ve
been paid, there’ll be a mutiny.’ Nikephoros crossed his arms. ‘Not why I came, though.’
‘Your men haven’t yet been called on to fight.’ Eumeles seemed to think that this was an important point. ‘They’re fed and warm. I’ll pay them when I need them.’
Nikephoros rolled his eyes. ‘Lord, save it for the assembly. My men expect to be paid. You tasked me to find you soldiers – real soldiers, not Ionian crap. I hired them away from Heraklea and even from Lysimachos, and now they want cash.’
Eumeles looked down his nose at his strategos. ‘Very well. I need them to find the means of their own pay. An elegant solution. Send the phalanx into the countryside and collect the grain – all of it. Anything these georgoi have in their barns. Send a taxeis to the Tanais back-country first – we’ll not pick on our own farmers until there’s nothing left on the Tanais.’
‘You want me to take their
seed
?’ Nikephoros asked.
Eumeles nodded. ‘Yes. Every grain of it.’
‘But—’ Idomenes began.
‘Do I look like a fool?’ Eumeles shouted, and rose to his feet. He was taller than most men, rail thin, and the hair was gone from the top of his head. He looked more like a bureaucrat than a terrifying tyrant, until he rose to his full height. ‘Take their
profits
,’ he said. ‘Take their means of supporting this petty princess, this Melitta. And take their means of farming, and they’ll
starve
.’
Idomenes shook his head. He caught Nikephoros’s eye, and they agreed, silently. ‘Master – lord, if we strip the farmers on the Tanais, we cast them into her arms.’
Eumeles nodded. ‘I see how you might think that. But frankly – and
let us not delude ourselves – these peasants are lost to us already. They are all traitors – why not take their goods?’
‘As soon as I withdraw the men from gathering this tax, the whole region will go up in flames,’ Nikephoros said.
Eumeles shook his head. ‘No. You are wrong. As soon as you gather this tax, they will become refugees, homeless men wandering, scrubbing for food. After I beat the barbarians, I will come back and give my soldiers grants of land – big ones, complete with an abject and starving population of serfs. I will have a loyal and stable population of soldiers, the soldiers will, overnight, become prosperous land owners and the fractious peasants will be reduced to slavery – as is best for them. And the only weapon I need use against them is hunger.’
Nikephoros scratched his chin. ‘It becomes a matter of timing then, lord.’
Eumeles laughed. ‘Yes – and the timing is all mine. Listen – this girl cannot rally the tribes in a matter of days. Before her “army” is formed, we will flood her with useless mouths – Sindi and Maeotae peasants, starving, desperate men. And their useless families. As soon as the money is in, we pay our men, our new troops arrive and we’re away after her. We crush her as soon as the ground is dry, and we’re done. The peasants have nowhere to turn – and we’ve changed the basis of landownership. The way it should have been from the first.’
Idomenes nodded. ‘It is – well thought out.’ He nodded again. ‘I acknowledge your – breadth of vision, lord.’
Nikephoros gave half a smile. ‘I have to admit that it will go over well with the lads. Gentlemen farmers? What Macedonian boy doesn’t fancy that? But I have two issues, lord. First, the kind of campaign you envision against the georgoi – that’s the death of discipline. Bad for ’em. Second, these ain’t Spartan helots. They have arms – bows, armour, big axes.’
Eumeles nodded. ‘Are those military problems?’ he asked.
Nikephoros nodded. ‘I suppose they are, at that.’
Eumeles sat down again and drank some wine. ‘Get me a military solution then. But I need that grain on the docks in a month. And no excuses.’
‘What of the brother?’ Nikephoros asked. ‘Satyrus?’
Eumeles raised an eyebrow at Idomenes. He flipped through his tablets. ‘Five weeks ago he was in Alexandria.’ Idomenes couldn’t help
but smile. ‘Being treated for dependence on the poppy.’ He snapped his tablets closed. ‘No more reports.’
‘It is winter,’ Eumeles said. ‘He may have the balls to try again in the spring. He may become a lotus-eater. It matters not. Either way, I’ll have crushed the girl in six weeks, and there’s nothing he can do to stop me.’ Eumeles raised his cup. ‘Here’s to an end of this petty crap. Here’s to the kingdom of the Bosporus.’
Idomenes poured wine for Nikephoros and for himself. They all drank, and only Nikephoros seemed to worry that no libation had been poured.
‘H
e’s seen us,’ Neiron said. He was looking into the late winter sun, and the sparkle on the wave-tops was enough to fool most eyes. ‘Coming about.’
Satyrus got a hand on the standing shroud and pulled himself up until he was standing on the rail. The speed of their passage – crisp west wind heeling them over – raised his chiton and he slapped it down.
Far off, almost to the horizon, the other ship’s masts were narrowing, coming together.
‘Yes,’ Satyrus said.
A week on Rhodos and ten days to Byzantium – a meal, a hug from Abraham and from Theron, an exchange of orders and off again, leaving Sandokes and Panther of Rhodos to bring the fleet along after the interval he had commanded. He had hoped to slip by the picket at the Bosporus – indeed, he’d counted on it.
Abraham and Theron had been successful – and that meant that he needed an anchorage in the Euxine – an anchorage to windward of Pantecapaeum. Lysimachos had contributed a mere three triremes and a hundred marines – but his alliance meant a great deal more than that. Theron had done well.
And Demostrate, the pirate king, was still in hand – thanks to Abraham, the old man clasped hands with a wary Panther, as if he had always been a friend of Rhodos. Satyrus had left them watching each other warily.
Manes had glowered, his eyes doing everything but glow red. But his ships had followed as well.
Satyrus had passed the Bosporus as fast as his rowers could manage and the gods favoured him with a perfect wind, so that the moment the
Lotus
’s bow had passed the rocks at the exit to the channel, he had spread both his sails and turned east, the wind astern. Everything had been perfect for a fast passage – except the warship to windward.
‘He’ll never catch us,’ Neiron said after the sand-glass was turned.
Satyrus shook his head. ‘He doesn’t have to catch us.’ He stamped his foot in pure annoyance. ‘Never, ever underestimate your opponent. I didn’t think Eumeles had the captains to keep the sea all winter. Listen, Neiron – we’re in the
Golden Lotus
. Every sailor in the Euxine knows this ship.’
Neiron nodded. ‘In other words . . .’ Neiron said, his eyes now rising to the sky and the weather.
‘In other words, we have to take
him
,’ Satyrus said.
An hour later, they had their pursuer dead astern, a heavy trireme or perhaps a decked penteres with extra rowers – hard to tell. Whichever warship he might be, he had a heavy crew and a deep draught for a galley, and carried his sail well.
Golden Lotus
might have had no trouble outrunning the heavier ship, if that had been his aim. Instead, Neiron had the mainsail badly brailed and the boatsail set nearly fore and aft, drawing as little wind as he could without attracting attention – and the big leather sea anchor was being dragged in the wake, which made Satyrus’s job at the helm far more difficult. The
Lotus
was labouring like a plough horse, and Satyrus’s arms were taking the whole weight of the struggle. He was out of shape – he was feeling the effects of weeks in bed. Wrestling sailors and eating like a bull were helping, but he’d lost muscle and he knew it.
Astern, their pursuer had his lower oar deck manned, and they were pulling like heroes racing for a prize – which, in fact, they were. The lower deck pushed the ship just a little faster and kept her stiff and upright.
‘That’s a right sailor,’ Neiron said approvingly. ‘Knows his business.’
‘Too well,’ Satyrus said. He pointed to where a scarlet chiton could be seen standing on the enemy ship’s bow. ‘He’s looking at our wake. Stesagoras!’ Satyrus called to his new Alexandrian deck master. ‘Look alive, Stesagoras! Get ready to cut the sea anchor free. At my command, Philaeus! Prepare to go about – oars in the water.’ Philaeus was his new oar master, one of Leon’s professionals.
Philaeus could be heard relaying the commands and adding his own – reversing the port-side benches.
Lotus
had all his benches manned, despite the fact that his sides were closed. For now.
The pursuer was manning his upper benches. ‘He wants to surprise us when he turns away,’ Satyrus said.
‘He knows his business,’ Neiron said again.
‘Show them our oars,’ Satyrus called.
Philaeus had a beautiful voice – deep and melodious, like a priest. ‘Open the ports! In the leather! Ready, and steady, and oars!’
All together, like a peacock’s tail, the
Golden Lotus
showed her oars – all three decks at once.
‘Turn to port!’ Satyrus ordered.
The port oars on all three banks were already reversed. From the first stroke, he leaned on the steering oars.
Stesagoras severed the sea anchor himself with one shrewd blow of a fighting axe. The whole hull rang and the
Lotus
went from plough horse to racehorse in a single bound. Then the deck master ran down the central fighting deck. ‘Sails!’ he called. ‘Brail up tight and drop the yards. Look lively, lads!’
The wind on the sails pushed against the rowers for precious seconds, but then the yards came down – the advantage of a triemiolia was that his masts could stand even during a fight, allowing him to carry sail longer and drop it faster. The dropped yards covered the half-deck and not the oarsmen, who rowed on.
The sailors and the deckhands laboured to get the mass of flapping linen canvas under control – but the ram was already halfway around.
‘Poseidon!’ Neiron shouted.
‘Herakles,’ Satyrus said. He picked up a wineskin that the helmsman kept under the bench and flung it over the side full, without even pulling the plug. ‘We need all the help we can get,’ he said, but he laughed and felt the power on him.
Stesagoras waded into the mainsail, his long arms gathering material as he went, and suddenly there were ten men visible on the canvas, and then – just like that – the mainsail was half the size, a quarter, and then the heavy bundle was being lashed to the mast. The boatsail was already gone.
Their pursuer was just starting his turn, his oars out and rowing crisply, his port-side benches reversed – but the range was short and the larger ship was having his own troubles.
Satyrus’s archers shot a volley of arrows and received a volley in return. There were screams from forward.
‘Oar-rake and board,’ Satyrus said. ‘Neiron, take the helm.’
Neiron’s hands shot out and took the steering oars. ‘I have the helm,’ he shouted over the screams from the bow.
‘You have the helm,’ Satyrus said again and relinquished control. Helios had his breastplate in its bag out from under the bench and he pulled it on, somewhat surprised to see that despite the weather, the breastplate gleamed like gold and the helmet was as silver as the moon. His arming cap was damp and cold, but the breastplate was colder.
An arrow glanced off his backplate and stung his arm, scarring Helios along the thigh before vanishing over the side. He looked up from the buckles to the fight.
‘They’re shooting downwind,’ Neiron said. Another arrow passed so close that Helios ducked.
‘Archer captain’s down!’ Stesagoras passed from amidships.
‘Any time, Navarch!’ Neiron said.
‘Take him,’ Satyrus said. ‘I’m away.’ He turned to Helios, who was fully armed. ‘With me, lad,’ he said. He ran forward even as he heard Philaeus call for the ramming speed. The enemy galley, having passed from hunter to prey, was turning away towards the south coast of the Euxine, obviously intending to save himelf by beaching.
An arrow passed so close to Satyrus’s helmet that its passing sounded like the ripping of fine linen. The ship leaped forward between his feet – he could feel the change in motion – but the enemy ship was turning, faster. And faster. Satyrus ran forward as Philaeus bellowed for the starboard-side rowers to back water – a chancy manoeuvre, but one that was faster than actually reversing benches. The deck shifted under his feet.
Satyrus got forward and found his new archer captain dead with a Sakje shaft just over his nose and another under his arm. The archers were all down with their heads safe under the bulkheads. ‘They murdered us!’ one called.
Satyrus counted three dead – of eight archers. As he counted, a blow rocked his helmet and he saw stars and fell flat on the deck – but his helmet turned the arrow. Helios gave him a hand and he got to his feet. Then an arrow hit the boy and stuck in his quilted corslet. Helios
gave a whimper and then clamped down on it and crouched beneath the bulkhead, trying to get the arrow out of his side.
‘Son of a bitch!’ Satyrus said. He picked up a fallen bow, raised his head and shot. He had no idea where his arrow went and immediately reached for another arrow.
He looked, shot – this time at a robed Sakje warrior just two horse-lengths away – and his breastplate turned
another
arrow and he sat down suddenly.
‘They’re too damned good!’ he joked to Apollodorus.
The marine captain didn’t answer. He was sitting against the bulkhead, leaning forward, and Satyrus realized suddenly that he was unconscious – or dead.
‘Marines!’ he called, and suddenly the ship turned again, and he was thrown into the gutter at the edge of the deck. He scraped his face on Apollodorus’s scale armour and came to rest against Helios, whose eyes were as big as copper coins. Philaeus was roaring for all rowers to back oars, and Satyrus forced himself to his feet and looked aft. Neiron was leaning hard on the steering oars, and forward the stern of the big penteres was passing down their side, just a ship’s length away and getting farther – and then the enemy ship seemed to pitch both of its masts over the side as if he’d been bitten by a sea monster.
‘What in the name of Hades?’ Satyrus rolled to his feet and ran to the command platform. The arrows had stopped coming.
Stesagoras had an arrow through his bicep. ‘Poseidon’s mercy, your honour. She was a monster and no mistake.’ One of his mates broke the arrow and the Alexandrian forced the shaft out of the entry wound and fell in a faint.
Satyrus looked over the side – and understood. The enemy ship was already breaking up, having run full tilt on to a rock in the shallow bay that their captain had taken for a beach. There was no beach – just a row of breakers and a cliff ten times the height of a man.
‘There he goes,’ Neiron said. ‘Poseidon, and all the sea nymphs.’ He waved. ‘The Thinyas rocks. Almost ran on ’em myself.’ He made the peasant sign to avert ill-fortune.
Satyrus looked at the sky and then astern. ‘Can we save their people?’ he asked.
Neiron grinned. ‘Now you’re talking.’ Then he sobered. ‘Mind you, they galled us hard.’
Satyrus shrugged. ‘Once they’re wet, a rower is a rower,’ he said, quoting an old proverb about the brotherhood of the sea. There were some men – Phoenicians, for the most part – who believed in letting drowning seamen die, to propitiate the sea. But Greeks tended to rescue men if it could be done.
‘Shall I put about, then?’ Neiron asked.
‘Marines!’ Satyrus yelled. He nodded. ‘On me!’
They rescued half a hundred men. Helios, in addition to his other talents, could swim, and he fearlessly leaped into the freezing sea and dragged men out – first a ship’s boy and then a small, wiry man.
After Satyrus watched him pull the second man to the side, Neiron got his attention and pointed at the shore. Satyrus saw twenty more men make it to shore and vanish over the cliff at the water’s edge.
‘Shall we hunt them down?’ one of his marines asked.
Satyrus shook his head. ‘I wonder how long they’ll take to get home?’ he mused.
They spent the night on an open beach, a hundred stades short of Heraklea. The night gave Satyrus time to daydream about his lady love, whom he hadn’t seen in almost a year. Amastris of Heraklea was beautiful – as well as being intelligent, rich and the only niece of the Euxine’s second most powerful man, Dionysius of Heraklea.
Satyrus sat alone on a lion skin – a present from Gabines when they sailed, straight from old Ptolemy, or so he said. He had a big black mug of soup and he was wrapped in his two warmest cloaks, and still the wind cut at him.
Neiron clambered up the rocks to him. ‘I’m too old to go looking for a sprite like you,’ he said.
‘That was a first-rate ship,’ Satyrus said. He took a swig of scalding soup. Down on the beach, the survivors of the
Winged Dolphin
– for so he proved to be named – huddled around a fire. ‘If all of Eumeles’ ships are that good, we’re in for a fight.’
‘Captain was from Samos. He got away. The rest was good sailors. All pirates.’ Neiron shrugged. ‘You need to eat. And, if I may say so, you need to walk around the men.’
Satyrus nodded. He got to his feet and drank more soup. ‘Tomorrow I roll the dice. I’m scared.’
Neiron said nothing.
‘Stesagoras and Philaeus are good men,’ Satyrus said. ‘So are you, Neiron.’ He held out his hand.
Neiron seemed surprised. But he clasped hands. ‘Why – thank you, Navarch.’
‘Call me Satyrus,’ he said.
Neiron smiled. ‘Well – never thought I’d see the day.’ He laughed. More soberly, he said, ‘We’ll need more marines, a new marine officer and a peck of archers. Those Sakje raped us.’