Force of Kings

3

Attika appeared first out of the sea haze; a haze so fine and so thin that a landsman would not even have noticed how restricted was his visibility. Satyrus saw the mountains, but the coast was still lost.

‘I have a favour to ask,’ Polycrates murmured, suddenly at his side.

Satyrus was standing at the rail. His helmsman, Thrassos, had the steering oars, the length of a sword thrust away.

He turned to the Athenian priest. ‘We are guest friends,’ Satyrus said. ‘Whatever I can do for you, I will.’

Polycrates flushed. ‘I am in your debt, then. I need you to land my slave at the Temple of Poseidon. At Sounion. It is a religious matter — the matter that took me to Delos. And he is … very good at running messages.’

Satyrus had barely noticed the young man, a gangly youth with a face full of spots and pimples. He was, now that Satyrus looked at him, well-muscled for such slim bones. His hair was black. He was older than he seemed at first glance.

‘He looks like a Greek,’ Satyrus said. He nodded to the man. He liked the look of him, despite the pimples.

‘Theban mother and father.’ Polycrates took his turn to look out over the rail. ‘Friends of mine, really. What Alexander did there — brutal. Horrible. Jason is not really a slave, but I protect him. And he serves me.’ Polycrates looked around. ‘He serves me in political ways. If you take my meaning.’

Satyrus thought that it was remarkable how little information the man had just conveyed, given that he had lowered his voice to a pitch that was virtually inaudible.

He smiled at the young man — Charmides’ age or a little younger, he stood straight, but with that indefinable air of slavery about him. His demeanour caused Satyrus to look at Polycrates in a new way.

You can judge a man by his dogs. Or his slaves. Satyrus hoped that none of his own slaves ever looked like this young man. I am looking for reasons to dislike Polycrates, he thought. Because he can beat me at my best game.

‘It will be our pleasure to land him at Sounion.’ Satyrus turned to Thrassos. ‘Tell me when you can see the Temple of Poseidon clear,’ he said.

Thrassos raised an eyebrow. Satyrus wanted to ask the gods why all helmsmen were self-important argumentative arrogant pricks — but he knew the answer. ‘Mind your wake,’ he said, with no justice.

I am surly this morning, he thought.

Satyrus had his Medea lead the way into the cove below the temple. He flashed his shield at the other ships, raised and showed a red flag at the stern, and hoped that they understood; his war captains knew most of the signals, but not as well as the men who’d served in the seas off Aegypt the year before, like Aekes — and the merchant captains didn’t know them well at all.

Medea raced in towards the beach under oars, and Polycrates was in the bow with young Jason, whispering to him urgently.

‘He’s a fucking spy,’ Thrassos said, pointing with his chin at Polycrates.

Charmides nodded agreement. ‘He is not a good man, for all his skill at pankration.’

‘Spoken by the very paragon of Greek manhood,’ Satyrus said.

Charmides blushed and looked away.

‘Fucking spy,’ Thrassos said again.

‘Apollo himself told me to make him my guest friend,’ Satyrus said.

‘Never been a big follower of the Lord of Light, myself,’ Thrassos put in. ‘Not exactly a god for men.’

Anaxagoras was just completing his exercises. He executed a snap kick — a shin attack — with his left foot, punched with his right, and turned his head slightly.

‘Who’s not a god for men, Thrassos? And who healed you when you had a certain, hmm, complaint?’ he asked.

Thrassos turned bright red — a flame of colour from the middle of his chest to his fire-red hair, making his dark tattoos stand out like brands. ‘Meant no disrespect,’ he said. ‘Just not my favourite.’

Anaxagoras raised an eyebrow. ‘You, my barbarian friend, worship a storm god who isn’t even included in most civilised pantheons and you believe that the amulet around your neck will protect you from drowning better than learning to swim would protect you. Eh? Have some respect for our gods.’

‘Someone’s in a mood today,’ Thrassos muttered.

‘You weren’t exactly respectful of his beliefs,’ Satyrus said. In the bow, Jason had received his instructions.

‘We won’t run up the beach,’ Satyrus said. ‘We’ll heave to as soon as you can see the sand under the water.’

‘Aye, aye. Sand line it is.’ Thrassos sent a boy forward to call the depth under the ram-bow.

Polycrates came aft. ‘May I thank you again for this, my lord? Your whole fleet delayed — this is guest friendship, indeed. But my boy can swim. He’s ready.’

Satyrus saw that the young man was naked in the bow, all his clothes in a leather bag. He gave a salute, like an athlete beginning a contest — a gesture that raised him in Satyrus’s estimation — and leapt into the water, straight off the rail of the marine box, vanishing under the water for a long time, a truly surprising amount of time, enough time that Satyrus began to scan the sea, wondering where the dark head had come up, and then began to fear for the boy.

‘He’s a wonderful swimmer,’ Polycrates said. ‘And a good fighter. A good man in every respect. I really couldn’t live without him.’ He sighed.

The young man surfaced way in, further than Satyrus would have thought to look, halfway to the beach.

‘Ready about,’ Satyrus said.

Thrassos grinned. They had already started their turn.

‘Fine, know-it-all. Lay me alongside Miranda.’ To Polycrates, he said, ‘Your Jason reminds me that I meant to buy a body slave on Delos.’

‘I’ll be happy to loan you one from my house,’ Polycrates said. ‘If you fancy him, you can buy him. What kind of body do you fancy?’

Satyrus laughed. ‘Not that kind of body slave, friend. I mean a servant — a man to watch my clothes and braid my hair and clean my weapons and stand at my shoulder in a fight.’

Polycrates shook his head. ‘A slave? In a fight?’

‘Oh, I’d free him if he suited me.’ Satyrus found that some acerbity had crept into his tone.

That seemed to silence Polycrates, which was unfortunate, as they had some hours of sailing left. The rowers were hard at work today, and Satyrus walked down the waist of the Medea, talking to his upper deck men, making sure that they knew he’d be away — and that he was going to be back.

He felt the change as the ship came out of a tight turn, and he was up the forward ladder from the thranites deck in no time. He picked up his sea bag from under the helmsman’s bench, embraced Thrassos, and waved to Anaxagoras and Charmides.

‘Don’t get yourself killed,’ Anaxagoras said. ‘And take your lyre. Nothing like a spot of time in a cell to practise.’

‘Fuck off,’ Satyrus said, but he took the lyre and he embraced this man — this outspoken bastard who had become his friend. Then he embraced Charmides and Apollodorus.

‘I think you should have me with you,’ Apollodorus said. ‘Me, at the very least.’

‘You are all laying far too much emphasis on this,’ Satyrus said. ‘And Apollodorus, you are my designated commander. I need you with the fleet.’

He embraced the smaller man, picked up his bags, and made the leap from the rail of the Medea up onto the waist of the much higher-sided Miranda. Polycrates followed him, and then Philaeus, his oar master, threw Polycrates’ bags aboard, his muscles powering the bags high into the air before they came down with a smack on the smooth planks of the merchant ship.

And then his friends were just a ship length away for another two hours as they ran up the coast of Attika, Anaxagoras clearly visible as he played his lyre in the bow, and then his kithara, and then sang for the rowers. During the entire time he made music, the oars worked flawlessly — the timing was precise, and Anaxagoras’s emphasis on rhythm and meter in playing had a visible effect on the working of the oars. And he heard Charmides singing — taking lessons from Anaxagoras. And Thrassos laugh, and Apollodorus’s voice, punishing a marine for what he called ‘wilfulness’, a crime that could be manipulated by Apollodorus to suit any occasion.

‘I don’t usually find it suits — freeing slaves,’ Polycrates said, eventually. ‘But I can tell that you are of the opposite view, and I am not seeking a quarrel.’

Satyrus found the working of the merchant ship interesting enough. They had twenty oars in the water, but they also manipulated the big, square mainsail on the standing mast with a good deal more delicacy — the mast came out of a bigger hull, and had many more brail ropes to it, allowing it to be brailed up to many different points, and allowing the massive yard which held it to be rotated through half a circle. No individual item of tackle was very different from its equivalent on a warship, but the total was easier to manipulate and allowed a slightly broader set of angles of sailing. Satyrus was attempting to measure just how a warship might be rigged the same way when Polycrates interrupted his thoughts.

‘Hmm?’ he asked.

‘You think that I should free Jason,’ Polycrates said.

Satyrus made a face. ‘Not my business,’ he said.

‘It was plain enough. And your helmsman took the time to inform me that you free almost all the slaves you buy.’ The Athenian had his shoulders square like a man preparing for a fight.

‘I do, at that. When we were children, my sister and I swore to have as few slaves as ever we might. I’m aware that no society can live without them but it seems like a piece of arete to improve their lot if I may.’ Satyrus could see Aegina now, clear on the port bow. He turned his head — indeed, Medea was already signalling, and the line of warships was reacting. It was prettily done — the column of ships all turned together, and suddenly they were a fighting line, their oars flashing in the sun.

‘Apollodorus is giving us a demonstration,’ Satyrus said.

‘Your men fear you’ll be taken in Athens.’ It wasn’t a question.

Satyrus shrugged. ‘Yes,’ he answered.

Polycrates shook his head. ‘I can’t imagine it,’ he said. ‘Demetrios thinks as highly of you as he does of any man in the circle of the world.’

Satyrus smiled. ‘I can’t tell you how much you put me at my ease,’ he said. In his heart he wondered, suddenly, if this was all a put-up job — the priest, Delos, the whole prepared to lure him …

Foolishness. No one but the gods knew he was going to Delos. And as he was headed for Athens either way — as in his heart he knew that it was Miriam, and only Miriam, that brought him in person to Athens — no plot could have been laid. He needed no lure. And no one could know the power of his attraction to Miriam, unless …

‘Why don’t you stay with me, guest friend?’ Polycrates asked. ‘You need have no fears in my house — I have guards and men and all that, and besides, everyone knows me.’

‘I’d be delighted,’ Satyrus said. ‘But I am a citizen — I have my own house.’

Polycrates nodded, a distant look in his eye. ‘I had forgotten. But I must add — you are welcome. Perhaps until you can settle in, engage staff?’

Satyrus laughed. ‘I only plan to be here for three days — and now that I consider it, it would be foolish to sleep in a musty farmhouse outside the walls when I could be snug in a well-appointed house of a friend. So yes — I’ll accept your offer.’

‘You have business beyond merely landing your grain? I’m sure that King Demetrios would be delighted if you would visit him but I suspect that he is off at Corinth. He has the Acrocorinth under siege.’

Satyrus hadn’t known that. The most impregnable place in Greece. You didn’t take Rhodos, so you’re having a go here. Rather the way I had to win with the sword what I lost at pankration.

‘I don’t think I have time this trip,’ he said. ‘Besides — my allies would probably not take the message correctly if I were to pay Demetrios a social call.’

Polycrates nodded. ‘I had wondered.’

‘Wondered?’ Satyrus asked.

‘Hmm.’ Polycrates gave a small smile. ‘All this about having business in Athens. I had wondered what you were about.’ The Athenian raised his hand. ‘Please — I’m not asking for your secrets. But people will talk.’

Satyrus shook his head. ‘Personal business. My friend Abraham Ben Zion — a citizen of Rhodes — is here as a hostage. I need to see him.’

Polycrates’ smile remained in place. ‘Of course,’ he said, in a tone of voice that suggested that he didn’t believe a word.

Satyrus had no intention of telling anyone about Miriam. The complications of their relationship would only grow with sharing. And for a political animal like Polycrates — guest oath notwithstanding — such knowledge would give him immense power … and a hold over Satyrus.

Yet again it occurred to him that what he was doing was foolish. If he did manage to see her, it would not be private. It would not be easy. And it would be all too apparent to an observer that he had come to see her.

The safest thing would be not to see her, of course.

Satyrus smiled. He was not going to do the safe thing. Since Rhodos, he had become familiar with his own mortality. Life was, in fact, likely to be short.

I want her now, he thought. There may not be a tomorrow.

‘Piraeus,’ Polycrates said. ‘Athens.’

And there was the port, and the Parthenons gleaming in the sun, far away atop the acropolis, one of the noblest sights in the world.

Miranda was the last ship to come in — Kleosthenes, her captain, was the senior merchant officer from Olbia, and he wanted to see all the cargoes safe before she landed, which raised him in Satyrus’s estimation. The warships were gone — lost in the haze off Aegina — and Satyrus knew that, by now, Apollodorus and all the trierarchs were paying the oarsmen, and soon they’d be drinking, rutting, or, just possibly, visiting family ashore. He knew that Aegina provided a good few oarsmen.

Piraeus had more piers than any other city in the world except perhaps Alexandria, and the grain fleet was expected — announced by every fishing craft who had seen them in the early morning. Two piers were cleared end to end, and all was ready — two hundred city slaves waiting in squads to help the longshoremen unload the vases of grain, wagons, donkeys — and almost at Satyrus’s feet as the Miranda pulled alongside stood Leo’s factor in Athens, Harmonius, a freed man from Alexandria. Satyrus had known him from boyhood. He was neither tall nor physically imposing, but he had a head for figures unmatched in Leon’s counting house and he had designed many of the ciphers that Leon and his men used throughout their trade. He had dark brown skin like polished leather — good expensive leather — and curly dark hair, and despite an early life of slavery — or perhaps because he’d been freed — he wore a perpetual smile that made him easy to talk to and easy to learn from; Satyrus had had his geometry from Harmonius in Tanais and Athens, before Philokles came back from campaigning with Diodorus to be his tutor.

Satyrus waved, and Harmonius waved back, pointed Satyrus out to another man.

‘Wait where you are, my lord!’ he called.

Satyrus wanted to laugh. Harmonius had flayed his backside with a stick for inattention — being called ‘my lord’ had a certain wrongness to it.

The man with him was wearing armour. He came up the gangplank, and he and Harmonius bowed respectfully to Satyrus. ‘Lord, let me present an officer from the citadel: Lysander, son of Nicomedes of Athens. He is in charge of collecting the ship tax on foreign ships. I have explained that we owe no tax, and that this was guaranteed by Demetrios himself — and I have a letter to that effect.’

Satyrus shrugged. ‘What seems to be the problem, Lysander? This is my grain, and I am a citizen of Athens. And you can see for yourself that half these ships are Athenian hulls with Athenian crews.’

The young man took his helmet off and wiped his brow. Satyrus got a good look at him, and he was not as young as he had expected. He had a broad scar running across the bridge of his nose — almost like the wound Stratokles had. It was an odd, random thought.

‘I’m sorry, my lord, but orders are orders. The law has changed — or my captain has made an error. But we are ordered to collect the ship tax from you.’ He shrugged by way of apology.

Satyrus felt his brow furrowing and he fought the expression, struggling to remain calm and cheerful. ‘Lad, with all the good will in the world, please tell your captain that if he persists, Harmonius here will see him in court. I’m not a difficult man, but neither am I a petty merchant, that the citadel can summon me.’ Satyrus looked at Polycrates, who nodded.

‘Perhaps I can help,’ Polycrates said, stepping forward for the first time. ‘You know me, sir?’

The soldier shook his head. ‘Can’t say that I do, sir.’

Polycrates raised an eyebrow. ‘You do go to assembly, don’t you? Very well. I’m Polycrates — priest of Herakles. I will stand surety for these cargoes until such time as Lord Demetrios can be contacted.’

The soldier didn’t budge. ‘That would be — at least sixty talents of silver,’ he said.

Polycrates shrugged, now openly dismissive. ‘See my steward, then. He’ll show it to you. And that’s as close as you’ll get to it until I’ve seen some people.’

The soldier shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, but I am not going to allow this. You must stop unloading.’

Polycrates shook his head. ‘Your pardon, son, but you are an idiot. These are important men — this grain is important to the city. Go tell your captain — that’s my friend Isokles, yes? Go tell Isokles he has the wrong end of the stick, and if he comes up to my house tonight for a cup of good wine, he can thrash it through with us. Got that, lad?’

‘People don’t call me “lad”,’ the man said.

‘I do.’ Polycrates stood his ground. ‘Who the fuck are you, and where do you get this attitude?’

Satyrus stepped between them. ‘Clearly there’s some misunderstanding. Go back and check with your captain. I’ll wait.’

The soldier turned on his heel and walked away, the hobnails on his sandals crackling against the gangplank.

‘City soldiers — ephebes and washed up mercenaries. I apologise on behalf of the city,’ Polycrates said.

Satyrus turned to Harmonius and embraced him. ‘Old teacher — your hair’s all white!’

Harmonius laughed. Then he looked at the soldier, now well up the pier, with his squad. ‘Even when Athens was technically at war with Alexandria, I never had this kind of trouble with cargoes.’ He shook his head. ‘I keep up on changes in the law but I’m only a metic and he wouldn’t listen to me.’

Satyrus smiled. ‘Not to worry. As Polycrates says — some mercenary feeling a little power. Let’s get our things ashore. Then I’ll practise my lyre while I wait for him.’

‘You can’t be serious,’ Polycrates said. ‘We shan’t wait a moment. I know his captain — by Herakles our common ancestor, I know every man in this town. No need for the King of the Bosporus to cool his heels like a merchant! We’ll ride up to my house, and if Isokles needs you, he can come calling. You are a king!’

Satyrus gave a wry smile in return. ‘Here in Athens, I’m just another citizen,’ he said. Then he nodded. ‘But thanks. You are right. Let us go.’

They rented a small cart drawn by a donkey, and two horses — average beasts by the standards of a cavalryman, but fine animals to an Athenian. Their owner was right on the pier, anxious to serve and delighted to be paid full price.

‘You must allow me!’ Polycrates said. ‘But you are too polite. I’m sorry you didn’t bring Charmides or Anaxagoras — fine men.’

Satyrus looked up the pier through eyes narrowed in the bright sun. ‘I had to take some precautions.’

‘You should have opened your mind to me,’ Polycrates said. ‘I’d have set you at ease.’

Satyrus mounted, his body switching from aquatic to equine in that one motion, and despite the horse’s tendency to shy to the right, he found that she was responsive — a decent mount for a beast rented on the dock.

He paid the farmer to deliver his bags to Polycrates’ house, and the two of them rode easily up the wharf, picking their way among the longshoremen.

The soldiers on the wall gave them a hard look, and Polycrates dismounted to talk to the phylarch at the gate. When they were through, he shrugged.

‘They know who you are, and they didn’t know anything about Isokles demanding ship tax,’ he said. ‘It is the damnedest thing, Satyrus. If Isokles is so hot to talk to you, why weren’t we stopped at the gate?’

Satyrus shook his head. ‘No idea,’ he said. The two of them trotted along, passing carts — a dozen carts, already loaded with vases of Euxine grain.

‘Is there someone here who would try to steal my grain?’ Satyrus asked.

Polycrates shook his head. ‘Anyone who attacked you would have to be insane,’ he said. ‘Demetrios would exact such a revenge.’

They rode on — the summer was just gilding the grass, and there were flowers everywhere, so that the earth seemed particularly alive to a man who had been at sea for weeks. Satyrus was just smiling at a clump of jasmine when Polycrates gave a cry and fell from his horse.

It took far too long for Satyrus to register that his guest friend had just taken a slung stone to the head, and was clutching his brow, blood flowing around his fingers, mouth opening and closing like a fish. A dozen men surrounded him. And two of them grabbed his bridle — they all had swords and some had spears.

One man kicked Polycrates viciously. ‘That’ll teach you to backtalk me, arse-cunt,’ said the man with the scar on his face. He kicked Polycrates again.

Satyrus held up his hands. ‘Whatever you want, you are killing an important man.’ He looked around. ‘Stop at once!’

Such was the power of his voice that all the soldiers stepped back — even the scarred man. But then he sneered. ‘Fuck you,’ he spat, and rammed his spear into Polycrates’ heart.

Satyrus froze — the world seemed to stop, just for a moment. Then he slipped off his horse, as much because he wanted to think he might save the man, his sworn guest friend.

He was beyond saving.

Satyrus whirled. ‘You have killed a friend of Demetrios. How stupid are you?’

But the spell was broken. Scarface stepped forward. ‘Stop where you are,’ he said.

Arms grabbed Satyrus from behind. There was nothing he could do — not productively, not against a dozen men. He wasn’t even wearing a sword — not allowed in the confines of Athens. His sword was with his bags in the donkey cart, somewhere on the road behind them.

The officer was wearing a sword. He drew it, leaned down, and cut Polycrates’ throat. ‘Arse-cunt,’ he said. He giggled. ‘Now you, so-called king, you can just come along with-’

Satyrus lunged. He got a hand on someone’s elbow and he put his feet under him — struggled, and someone hit him, and he was stumbling, but free of one confining arm … free of the other, and training took over.

He got a man’s arm and broke it, the bone going with a dull crack like a green limb breaking on an olive tree. The man screamed, and Satyrus kicked him into two more men who stumbled back. Satyrus ducked — instinct alone — as a club tagged his shoulder instead of his head. Pain, but no permanent damage. He rolled to his right, ignoring another blow to his thigh, and kicked out as he changed stance — flexed the man’s knee right back so that his leg curved the wrong way, spun on his grounded foot — no time for close engagements or grappling — punched out: left, right, landed half of each blow by sheer speed.

Now he’d been free of them long enough to form a plan — which was to get back on a horse and ride. Men who didn’t live with horses didn’t know how quickly a Sakje-trained man could mount. He got a hand behind an adversary’s head, swung his hips and threw the man head first into the ground.

The officer, who Satyrus had christened ‘Arse-Cunt’, screamed at his men. ‘All together!’ he shouted.

His shout gave them pause, and while they paused, Satyrus put his palm into another man’s chin, breaking his jaw, and the crowd was getting thinner.

I can do this, he thought.

He put the crown of his forehead into another man’s nose, felt the satisfying crunch, took a hard blow across the shoulders, and stepped through his downed opponent, stepping hard on his crotch. He’d put quite a few of them down.

He got his back to his horse but the untrained animal shied away where a Sakje horse would have pressed in against his back — or even put a hoof into an attacker.

He stumbled, turned to mount, and a staff caught him in the side. He had no choice but to abandon his attempt to mount, and he rolled under the horse. No blow he’d taken yet was enough to stop him — he was a trained pankration fighter, after all — but the aggregate of the beating he was taking had begun to hang on him like a bull on his shoulders. He got to his feet but he was slow, and there was Arse-Cunt, who cut at him with the sword — quite competently. That limited his options. Satyrus stepped left, and by sheer bad luck his horse went the same way, snorting and backing, and he went down under its hooves — was up, but slowly, having been kicked, but now he had the horse between him and the sword.

Arse-Cunt killed the horse with one solid cut, his blade neatly severing the artery at the base of the horse’s neck — Satyrus saw the rising cut and the man’s hip-roll and knew that he was a trained fighter. The horse blood was everywhere.

The other horse bolted, and Satyrus’s options narrowed sharply.

He was panting, and the nearest opponent took it as a sign that he was done, and came in, club raised. Satyrus stepped into the blow, caught the man’s elbow, and rammed his thumb into the man’s left eye, killing him instantly.

There were only five of them still on their feet, but the horses were gone, and the five remaining were no doubt the best of the lot, and they moved to surround him. Satyrus made himself grin, because grinning opponents are scary, and he decided to go for Arse-Cunt, because if he could get the sword, he was reasonably sure he could kill the rest of them. He took a breath-

A club swished so close to his ear that he felt the breeze and the tug at his hair as he leapt forward — right foot, left foot, balance, set — hip feint, and he had his hand on Arse-Cunt’s wrist — turned him on his hips and stripped the sword out of his hands, but Arse-Cunt punched him in the gut instead of standing slack-jawed in surprise, and another unlucky blow from one of the other men caught the sword and spun it away.

And then the fight was lost. He had time to think of Herakles — to hope that he had honoured the god in his last fight — and to wonder, even as he went down, how Demetrios could ever have ordered this. But the third blow to his head took him down into the dark. It was odd: he didn’t go right away, but lingered, as if outside his body, while Arse-Cunt killed his own wounded.

I would like to have killed that man, he thought, and then he was gone.