Funeral Games

17

T wo hundred miles north-north-east of Alexandria, and the helmsman, Peleus, had made a perfect landfall at Salamis of Cyprus, the island’s beaches just a heat shimmer while the headland temple to Aphrodite Lophos shone in the sun.

‘Peleus, you are the very prince of navigators,’ Satyrus said. He had the steering oar under his arm.

Peleus was not looking ahead at all, but watching the wake. The Golden Lotus was a triemiolia, a three-and-a-half-er that carried an extra half bank of oars and a permanent sail deck and the crew to manage her sails even in a fight. Pirates loved the smaller version, the hemiolia and so did the Rhodians, the best sailors in the world. Golden Lotus was Rhodian-built, and Peleus was Rhodian-born, a seaman from the age of six. His current age was unknown, but his beard was white and every sailor in Alexandria treated him with respect.

‘When you talk, there’s a notch in the wake,’ the helmsman said.

With the grim determination of youth, Satyrus gripped the steering oar.

‘Never had a boy your age train to be a helmsman,’ Peleus said. But he had half a smile when he said it, and the curl of his lips suggested that maybe – just maybe – Satyrus was the exception. ‘If I tell you to steer north by east, what’s the first headland you’ll see?’

Satyrus looked back at the wake. ‘Open sea until we see Mount Olympus of Cyprus rising on the port oar bank,’ he said.

Peleus nodded. ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘It’s the right answer. But what’s wrong with the order?’

Satyrus hated questions like this. He stared out at the blinding white of the distant temple. ‘I don’t know,’ he said after a gut-wrenching interval.

‘That’s a fair-enough answer and no mistake,’ Peleus answered. ‘It’s true, boy – you don’t know, and you can’t. Here’s the answer – we’re too far in with the land to keep the sea breeze, so our lads would have to row every inch of the way.’ He was watching the land. ‘I aim to make for Thronoi for the night – the beach there is soft white sand and the villagers will bring us food for a little cash. I used to have a boy there.’ He gave a smile that creased the long scar down his face.

‘What happened?’ Satyrus asked. He was in love, and so wanted to hear about the loves of others.

‘He grew up and got married to some girl,’ Peleus said gruffly. ‘Mind your helm, boy. There’s a notch in the wake.’ He looked behind him, across the water and almost straight into the sun. ‘We have companions. ’

Satyrus looked back until he saw the dark smudges, right on the edge of the horizon and almost invisible in the sun dazzle. ‘I see them,’ he said.

Peleus grunted.

Thronoi stood well back from the sea – no unwalled village could afford to be too close to the water – and the first men to approach carried spears and javelins, but they knew Golden Lotus and they knew Peleus, and before the sun became a red ball in the west, the crew was cooking goats and lobsters on the beach, drinking local wine and discussing their chances with the navarch’s beautiful sister, who excited comment even wrapped from head to toe in a chlamys big enough for Philokles. She had pleaded to be allowed to ship as an archer, but Peleus had put his foot down, and she was merely a Greek lady of means with her maid. The oarsmen couldn’t see her as anything but a beautiful mascot. They competed for her glance, and Peleus had told Satyrus that he’d never seen such powerful rowing in all his days at sea.

‘Every ship needs a beautiful woman,’ Peleus allowed, standing at Satyrus’s elbow. Like every other man on the beach, he was watching Melitta. She was standing apart, watching some archers shoot at a mark. Satyrus knew she had her bow in her baggage, and he also knew she could outshoot most of these men. Her posture was defiant. Her maid stood behind her, muttering. Dorcus was the middle-aged free-woman Leon had sent in place of Kallista, whose sea-sickness was as legendary as her beauty. Dorcus’s beauty lay in her practical application of the back of her hand.

‘That friend of yours is going to break his face staring at her,’ Peleus said, pointing at Xeno. Coenus’s son was stripping off his cuirass, but his eyes were on Melitta.

Satyrus shook his head. ‘What do I do?’ he asked.

Peleus pursed his lips. ‘She’s Artemis’s avatar, boy,’ Peleus said with a pious glance towards the temple of Artemis’s heavenly rival, Aphrodite. ‘Nothing you can do but hope that she doesn’t tear anyone apart.’

They slept in watches. They did everything in watches, because all the major states hired pirates to pad out their navies, and piracy was the biggest business in the Aegean that summer. Satyrus slept alone, because he was the navarch, technically in command, with a tent of his own. Melitta slept on the other side of the tent with Dorcus.

He awoke with the sun, noted that his sister was absent from her bed, cursed the stiffness in his shoulders from sleeping on sand and threw himself into the ocean as the sun rose and swam down the beach and back. From the water he couldn’t see the sentries, but he could see his sister swimming on the other side of the headland.

‘I thought I saw the flash of oars,’ she called out to him.

Naked, he climbed out of the water and climbed the cool rocks of the headland to the sentry post.

Both of the sentries were sound asleep. It was understandable, as they’d had three days at sea and too much rowing, but it was unforgivable too. Dawn was the time that pirates attacked.

Satyrus looked off into the rising sun with his hand up to shade his eyes while he was still considering how to waken the two offenders. He saw the flash of low sun on oar blades to the north beyond the headland at Korkish. Twenty stades at the most.

His heart rate surged.

‘Alarm!’ he called. Melitta took up the cry and ran down the line of sleeping oarsmen, ignoring her own nudity to kick each man and shrill the alarm as she ran. ‘Alarm!’

Peleus was out of his sheepskins and bounding up the rocks like a much younger man. Satyrus watched the distant flash of oars – afraid that he had it wrong, and equally afraid that he was correct.

The beach was full of movement. This was a veteran, and well-paid, crew. The oars were already going back aboard. The marines were forming on the beach, led by their captain, Karpos. He watched Melitta run by with an appreciative glance while checking his men’s readiness. Xeno stood in the front rank, his aspis on his shoulder and a pair of heavy javelins in his hand.

Behind the marines, the archers formed. There were only half a dozen of them, with Scythian bows and quivers that held two dozen arrows and some surprises, as well.

Peleus kicked one of the half-asleep sentries in the crotch. ‘Fear the evening, Agathon!’ he spat at the other one. ‘I’ll have the hide off you, you whore’s cunt-washing.’ He looked under his hand and turned back. ‘Dead right, boy. Coming out of the eye of the wind at dawn – no honest sailorman would do such a thing.’ He looked at the beach. ‘Fight or run?’

Satyrus wasn’t sure his opinion was even being asked, but curiosity got the better of him. ‘Surely we could just wait for them on the beach. The men of the town would stand with us.’

Peleus nodded. ‘Yes – but we’d lose the Lotus. If we were lucky they’d just beak her and leave her to sink. More likely they’d board her over the bow and row her away. Hard to hold a boat on a beach. Not impossible.’ He shrugged. ‘Thanks to you, we’ve got the jump on ’em. I think we should run.’

‘Run?’ Satyrus asked. ‘Can’t we take them?’

Peleus curled the corners of his lips down. ‘Listen, Navarch – this is your call. Your uncle put you in charge of the Lotus and that makes it your decision. But we’re merchants. We have a full cargo and your sister, too. And fighting pirates is soldiers’ work.’ The old helmsman pointed at the beach. ‘How many of them are you ready to lose so that you can have a hack at some pirates? And what happens to your sister if we lose?’ The man frowned. ‘Or you, for that matter.’

‘Point taken, helmsman. We’ll run.’ Was it cowardice that Satyrus felt better already?

‘Good lad. You may yet make a sailor.’ Peleus sprang off the rocks like a man in his prime and started bellowing at the oarsmen.

Xenophon already had his armour on, and Melitta had her gorytos out of her deck baggage and an Aegyptian corslet of white quilted linen and a small Pylos helmet on her hair. ‘Pirates?’ she asked, her eyes gleaming.

‘Put that away!’ Satyrus said.

Xenophon’s grin was just the same. ‘Let her fight!’ he said from the ranks. ‘She’s a better shot than Timoleon!’

‘We’re running,’ Satyrus said.

‘We’re what?’ Melitta asked. ‘Are you joking?’ She went from elated to angry in a heartbeat.

‘Running.’ Satyrus shrugged. ‘We’re merchants, Lita. We’re running. ’

He hated the looks on his sister’s face and on Xenophon’s.

‘This is Amastris’s noble warrior?’ Melitta asked him. ‘How will you tell this story to her? Eh, brother?’

‘Lita, mind your manners.’ Satyrus turned away, because Peleus was calling to him.

Melitta wouldn’t let up. She followed him down the beach. ‘Peleus told you that you couldn’t risk me, right? Fuck that, brother. Let’s get ’em! Think about the ones they’ve sold into slavery – think about whoever they catch tomorrow – all on our heads.’ She glared at him. ‘You’re afraid I’ll be raped? Fuck that. You’re as pretty as I am.’

‘No!’ Satyrus said, a little too loudly.

‘Are you afraid, brother?’ she shot back, and she said it so loud that every man left on the beach could hear her.

‘Fuck off, sister. We’re running!’ Satyrus was up the plank in three long strides.

Peleus pulled Melitta up behind him and then kept her hand pinned in his. ‘If you were a man, I’d beat your fucking head against the steering post,’ he said. His face was red. ‘Dare to question the officers?’ he asked with murderous quiet.

Angry men did not intimidate Melitta. ‘Only when they make bad decisions, Peleus. Those are pirates. We should kill them.’

‘You may yet get your wish,’ Peleus said. ‘If you want to impress me, you’re going about it the wrong way, girl. Now get to your station. Not with the archers, missy!’ She went sullenly to the amidships awning with Dorcus, glaring at every man in sight.

‘You should discipline her,’ Peleus said.

‘You first,’ Satyrus said, and drew a quick half-smile. And then the half-deckers and the sailing crew were pushing on the stern and the Lotus hissed down the last of the shingle and her stern bumped the beach again, causing a little restrained chaos among the rowers for two strokes, and then they were clear of the beach, and Lotus’s bow was cutting the breakers, the bow-ram showing copper-red on the rise in the red morning sun.

‘Left one of the cauldrons’ the sailing master said, pointing at the beach.

‘We’ll get it next time. If we live. Poseidon, stand with us,’ Peleus said, and he tipped a phiale of red wine into the sea.

The pirates came around the last point – two black ships crammed with men. Both were the size of the Golden Lotus, one a trireme of the old Athenian pattern and the other a heavy Phoenician, and as soon as they saw their prey afloat they sprang forward, their oar masters calling for the fighting stroke and getting it with a speed that showed that these crews knew their business.

‘Nope,’ Peleus said, looking astern. ‘We don’t want a piece of that, boy. Steady on that tiller. We’re heavier with our cargo, and they’ve got weed and those hulls haven’t seen a drying shed in years. This’ll be close.’

‘Should you be at the tiller, helmsman?’ Satyrus asked.

Peleus shook his head with his half-smile. ‘No. You can handle it.’ The old man rubbed his beard for several breaths and then pointed aloft. ‘Get me the boatsail, you bastards,’ he called, and the deck crew sprang to their stations – they already had the sail spread on the deck. Satyrus couldn’t help but notice that Agathon had led the men in putting the sail out – trying to make up for his lapse.

Satyrus felt the change under his hand before they had the whole sail aloft – Lotus’s stern rose as the boatsail pressed her ram-bow deeper in the waves, but she also sprang forward. Steering became easier as speed increased – a big ship like Lotus went straight very easily at speed.

They’d cleared the beach with just the lower bank manned, but now Peleus ordered all the banks manned, and they pulled easily, supporting the sailing speed and adding to it. Then the helmsman came back to the stern and stood with his thumb covering the enemy.

‘Just even,’ he said. ‘Just want to tell you, Navarch – if we dump the hides, we’ll run away from them in an hour.’

Satyrus shook his head. ‘Would you?’

Peleus scratched his beard. ‘Probably not. Not yet, anyway.’

‘Fair enough,’ Satyrus said. ‘No, we’ll-’

There was a crash from aft and a spear the size of a boatsail mast shot by the stern. Satyrus ducked – he couldn’t help himself.

‘Shit,’ Peleus said. ‘One of those new-fangled engines. Where the fuck do a pair of Cypriot bum-boys get an Ares engine?’

They lost ground because the rowers were as confused as Satyrus. The black ships gained steadily, and then the engine fired again. This time, Satyrus had the time to see the whole flight of the lance – it vanished in the waves well to starboard of the stern.

‘Now I’d dump the hides,’ Peleus said. ‘If he gets a bargepole into our rowers, we’re dead.’ He was watching the sea. ‘Good time for a chance Rhodian patrol,’ he said under his breath. ‘Usually a ship out this way. Or off the beach round the point. It was my station, once.’

Satyrus felt curiously light. He shook his head. ‘Poseidon stand with us,’ he said. ‘We can do it.’ Akrotirion promontory was close, just a dozen stades away on the starboard bow, and Satyrus knew that the moment they weathered the point they’d have deep water in the bay and a wind change.

One of the engines fired with a wooden crash that was audible over the water and the lance flew true, straight on for the Lotus but aimed too high, so that the whole shaft passed down the main deck, missed the mast and vanished ahead of them.

‘Get me Timoleon,’ Peleus called. In seconds, the archer-captain was standing with them. Peleus waved astern. ‘Can you hit the men on the engine?’

Timoleon shook his head. ‘Only if Apollo draws my bow,’ he said, but without any further complaints, he took a shaft from his belt and drew it until the bronze head was on his fingers before he loosed.

Satyrus lost the flight in the rising sun, but Peleus shook his head. ‘Well short.’

The engine in the bow of the Phoenician fired, but the bolt went short, fired at the wrong moment as the bow swung with the waves. They were coming in with the shore at a rapid pace as both sides tried to weather the point as close as possible.

‘Put the starboard oars right in the surf, boy!’ Peleus said. ‘There’s more water there than you think. Shave it close!’ To the archer, he said, ‘Try again.’

This time, Timoleon waited for the height of the rise of the waves under the stern and he drew so far that the head almost dropped off his thumb before he loosed. Again, Satyrus couldn’t follow the flight of the arrow.

‘Better,’ Peleus said.

‘Shoot these,’ Melitta said. She ignored Peleus’s look of anger. ‘Sakje flight arrows. Cane shafts. Allow for the wind – they don’t weigh anything and they’ll blow around.’

Timoleon picked one up – a hand-breadth longer than his longest arrow, made of swamp cane with iron needle points. ‘Nasty,’ he said. He grinned at Melitta. ‘Thanks, despoina.’

Melitta smiled at him. ‘Poison,’ she said.

Timoleon’s hand froze in the process of reaching for the point. ‘Fucking Scythians,’ he said respectfully and drew the shaft across his thumb. He pulled the shaft to the head and loosed at the top of the roll.

Even Satyrus saw the eddy of disturbance in the bow of the pirate. ‘Good shot!’ he shouted.

Timoleon beamed. ‘Apollo held my hand,’ he said. ‘Never shot so far in all my life.’ He nodded to Melitta. ‘Thanks, despoina. Care to have a go?’

She shrugged. ‘I could never get an arrow that far,’ she admitted.

The lighter of the pirates now thrust ahead, but they didn’t fire their engine. As the promontory grew to fill the horizon, their own archers fired, and with the sea breeze behind them, their arrows carried easily. One oarsmen was pinked, the broad bronze head of the arrow slicing his back.

Timoleon returned fire, but he used up Melitta’s supply of cane arrows without scoring another hit, each arrow blown to the right or left as if made of feathers. Melitta watched with a look Satyrus knew well – a look that said that she could have done better.

‘Let me have a shot,’ she said, when Timoleon was down to her last cane arrow.

‘Be my guest,’ he said.

She got up on the very tip of the stern platform, balanced a moment, lifted her bow, drew and shot in one fluid motion.

Her arrow vanished into the nearer trireme’s rowers, a little high to get the crew of the Ares engine, but she was rewarded with a thin scream, and then a rising shriek.

She clapped her hands in delight. Timoleon slapped her on the back.

The Phoenician’s engine fired, the bolt ripping along the port oar banks with a noise like tearing linen. It hit several oar shafts, bounded about inside the loom of oars and then fell into the sea without breaking anything.

Satyrus’s hand on the steering oar was like iron. He didn’t feel fatigue, and he was not particularly aware of the missile exchange. He watched his wake and adjusted his course, cheating the bow towards the open sea and allowing the incoming waves to push his hull a little further towards the promontory.

Just so, he thought, and held his course. He was in another place in his mind – a place where being the helmsman drove out room for any other fear.

Melitta slipped down the stem, followed by Timoleon. Peleus watched her with pursed lips, but when she was gone amidships, he said, ‘She bought us a ship’s length there.’

They weathered Akrotirion promontory as close as they dared, the starboard oars in the surf, with the black hulls half a dozen stades behind. Every pair of eyes on the Lotus that were above deck level strained for the Bay of Kition in hopes of seeing a couple of Rhodian warships riding at anchor.

The pirates lost a stade because the big Phoenician wouldn’t come in as close to the beach. They made a dog-leg out to sea and Satyrus breathed a little easier, almost sure that he could beat them in a dead sprint.

And then all that careful helm work was by the board, because sure enough, there was a Rhodian three-er riding high, her crew still at breakfast on the beach. Rhodos was a free port, independent of the wars of Alexander’s successors, but she protected Ptolemy’s trade because that suited her own interests, and the three-er in the harbour deterred the pirates instantly. Even as the Rhodian crews raced aboard, the pirates were already running for the open sea, their Ares engines silent.

The rowers on board the Golden Lotus cheered.

The Rhodian skipper came aboard with his trierarch and his helmsman, and Peleus hugged him, a handsome man with skin like old leather and hair so blond as to be almost white. His trierarch was like a reverse image of his captain, pale skin and black hair, and the helmsman was as black as a Nubian – an exotic trio, from the most famous navy in the world.

‘Peleus, I knew the Lotus as soon as she rounded the point. And Juba here says she’s moving mighty fast, eh? And I watched your rowers,’ he pointed at the tired men on the benches, ‘and we all yelled alarm together!’

‘And we were still too late, by Poseidon!’ the pale man said. He was the youngest of the three, and his face was burned red and he wore a purple chiton like a king’s.

‘This is my navarch. He’s Satyrus.’ Peleus motioned, and Satyrus stepped forward on the deck and smiled. ‘Leon’s nephew.’

‘Any ward of Leon is a friend of Rhodos,’ the Nubian said. He offered his hand, and Satyrus clasped it. ‘I’m Juba. The boy who can’t stand the touch of Helios is Orestes, and our fearless leader is Actis. Aren’t you a little young for a navarch?’

Peleus pursed his lips. ‘He was at the helm as we came around the point,’ he said.

Juba gave Satyrus a long look. ‘Not bad, old man. Is he serious, or another aristocrat?’

Peleus shrugged. ‘I don’t know yet,’ he said.

They shared dinner with the Rhodians, and breakfast, and then they were away, rowing hard along the south coast of Cyprus until the wind was fair for Rhodos. They touched at Xanthos, and all the news was bad – Antigonus One-Eye had his fleet at Miletus, and Rhodos was all but closed. The Rhodian navy was bold, but it was small.

Peleus sat across from Satyrus at a benched table in a wine shop on the waterfront in Xanthos, so close to the Lotus that her standing rigging cast a net of shadows in the setting sun. A slave rose on her toes to light the oil lamps along the back of the wine shop. Peleus watched her without interest.

‘The wind is fair for Rhodos,’ he said. ‘If it doesn’t change, I’d say we crew her at the first blush of dawn and have a go. Lotus will be faster than anything they have at sea.’ As he spoke, he touched the wood of the table and then made a sign to avert ill luck.

Melitta came down the board from the ship wearing a decent woman’s chiton. The wine shop slave shook her head. ‘No women!’ she said.

Melitta raised an eyebrow and went and sat with her brother.

The slave followed her over. ‘Please, mistress! No women. It is the law of the town. Only slave women in the brothels and wine shops. The watch will arrest us both.’

Melitta sighed. She and Satyrus exchanged a look, and Melitta rose and walked back up the plank to the stern of the Lotus and vanished into the hull. She reappeared as a somewhat androgynous archer in a Pylos cap, and the slave submitted for a few bronze obols.

‘I hate Asia,’ Melitta said.

Peleus raised an eyebrow. ‘Athens would be worse, despoina,’ he said.

‘What’s the verdict?’ Melitta asked.

‘Peleus thinks we should try for Rhodos,’ Satyrus said.

Melitta drank some of his wine. ‘I knew you weren’t a coward,’ she said. The comment was tossed off, not meant to wound, but Satyrus felt his temper flare. He turned away.

Peleus sighed. ‘Ladybird, fleeing pirates is not cowardice, and frankly your whoring after a little glory is going to get people killed. You act like a boy – a particularly stupid boy. This is the sea. We have different rules here. We follow Poseidon, not Athena and not Ares. The sea can kill you any time it wants. You think a battle is a wonderful thing? A test of your courage? Try a storm at sea, despoina. I’ve seen a hundred – aye, and another hundred fights.’

Melitta nodded. ‘So much of your store of courage is used up,’ she said with half a smile. ‘Mine isn’t.’

Peleus’s face drained of blood. ‘You risk angering me,’ he said slowly.

‘That’s a risk I can stand,’ Melitta said.

Satyrus sighed. ‘Shut up, Melitta. You’re being a fool. Last time I looked, it’s me who’s the young man – I should be the hothead and you should be the voice of reason.’ He made her smile, and turned to Peleus. ‘Ignore her – my sister has to be braver than Achilles all the time. It’s the problem of having to represent all of the female half of the race.’

Xenophon appeared at the bow and sprang ashore in a fresh chiton and a light chlamys. ‘Well?’ he asked.

‘Rhodos,’ Satyrus said. ‘First light. Any objection?’

‘You’re touchy tonight,’ Xenophon said and shook his head. ‘May I sit next to your sister?’

‘You mean that archer there? Be my guest. Give him a good hard shove as you sit down. That’s from me.’ Xenophon obeyed, Melitta yelped and Satyrus laughed.

Peleus wasn’t mollified. ‘I don’t like being made fun of by children,’ he said directly across the table to Melitta. ‘Leon says you ship with us – it’s a mistake. You have no discipline and no obedience and you’ll let us down. If I see you get a man killed, I’ll throw you over the side. Understood, girl?’ Then he turned back. ‘I’ll sleep aboard and have orders for the men to come aboard with the sun. Anything else?’

‘No, Peleus,’ Satyrus said. He rose with the Rhodian and followed him out of the wine shop into the dark. ‘She means no harm. She wants your respect.’

‘If she were a man – a boy – I’d have spanked her bloody, the ignorant pup.’ Peleus shrugged. ‘She’s a fine shot. That doesn’t make her special. Women have no business at sea. I’ll have a hold on my temper tomorrow. But I want her sent home from Rhodos. Not on my ship.’

He stomped off.

Satyrus sighed. He went back through the bead curtain to the wine shop, just in time to see Xenophon’s head jerk away from Melitta’s.

He jumped as if he’d been stung.

They both looked guilty – his sister’s skin was red as the setting sun. He sat across from them, framing his comment, but he wasn’t sure. Had they been kissing?

Was it his business?

Satyrus was used to his sister being the calm one, the steady one and the brave one. Something had changed – suddenly he was the calm one.

She leaned forward, eyes bright. ‘Well?’ she asked. Her tone was aggressive.

Satyrus made himself smile. ‘I’m for my cloak and whatever insects share it with me,’ he said. ‘At least I’m not lying by a smoky fire on an open beach. Peleus intends to sail with the first brush of dawn’s fingers.’

They’re holding hands under the table. Apollo, is this my buisness? Satyrus sat back, his head against the greasy wooden partition that separated this shack from the next one, and suddenly swung his sandalled foot up between his sister and his best friend, so that his foot caught – hands.

‘Melitta, go to your bed,’ he said.

She shrugged, her face suddenly splotchy with anger. ‘Why? You can’t make me.’

‘If I reveal you as a woman, I can have you held at a temple – for the rest of your life, you stupid fool. What’s got into you? And Xenophon – you going to marry my sister? Eh? Better talk to me about it, friend. Because if I see either of you touch the other again before Rhodos, blood will flow. My promise on it.’

‘I am not your chattel!’ Melitta spat.

Heads were turning.

Satyrus took a deep breath. ‘No,’ he said. ‘You are not. But neither am I yours, Lita. I have the responsibility – not you. For the ship, for the cargo and for your virginity. When you have the responsibility, do as you please. When you have taken charge, have I obeyed you?’

Xenophon sat silently while the siblings glared. Melitta put her hand in her mouth and bit her palm until it bled. It was an ugly thing to watch.

Then Melitta shook her head. ‘You obeyed,’ she said sullenly. Then she burst into tears and fled to the ship.

‘I’m sorry, Satyrus,’ Xeno said. ‘I – I love her. I think I always have.’

Satyrus shook his head. ‘Not on this boat, understand me? There is no love on this boat. She’s a passenger, and you are a marine.’

‘I’ll try.’ Xenophon’s tone carried no conviction.

Satyrus summoned up his best imitation of Philokles. ‘Don’t try,’ he said, rather enjoying using the line he dreaded most from his tutor. ‘Just do it.’

Then, alone, he sipped the last of his wine and watched the waterfront. His best friend, his helmsman and his sister were all equally angry.

Alone in the dark, he grinned and finished his wine.

When the red ball of the sun was fully above the eastern horizon, they were well out from Xanthos, running almost due west as if fleeing the chariot of Apollo. Sunset found them on the same heading, running straight into the sun. The headland of Rhodos, the city itself, shone like a beacon in the sun, and the head of the statue of Apollo on the headland burned as if the very god was crowned in sacred fire.

Behind them, in the gathering murk of evening, a pair of shadows were visible, hull-up and almost hidden by the coast of Asia, but revealed by their sails.

Peleus watched them under his hand. ‘Same two bastards,’ he said. ‘That’s not right. We’re not worth that much effort. That big fuck is down from Tyre – he ought to have stayed on the east coast of Cyprus.’

Satyrus was trying to keep the wake as straight as an arrow’s flight, so he answered with a grunt.

‘Ships on the port bow,’ came a cry from forward – a high-pitched cry. Melitta.

Peleus looked around and then ran down the central decking, ducked under the mainsail and vanished from Satyrus’s view. Satyrus saw a flash, and then another. The pirates were starting to row as the breeze lessoned. They’d be making distance.

Peleus came back, moving so fast that his bare feet slapped on the smooth deck. ‘Not Rhodian,’ he said tersely. ‘Give me the helm.’

‘I’m giving you the helm,’ Satyrus said formally, and he waited until Peleus’s hands were on the steering oar before he let go. ‘You have the helm.’

‘I have the helm,’ Peleus said.

‘There’s a Lesbian freighter just clear of the headland,’ Peleus said, swinging them a few points to the north. ‘I’m going to turn away from those ships I don’t know – who may be blockading Macedonians, or may not – and offer the pirates behind us, if they are pirates, a nice fat Lesbian merchant.’

Satyrus ran forward to watch. The ships off to the south and west were just a line of marks against the sea – black hulls and no sails – but the flash of their oars as they rowed was rhythmic and predatory. Four – five – six ships. A column of ships.

To the north, a big round-hulled merchant under sail made to cross their path, broad-reaching on the wind and trying to hold a course as far west of south as he could get out of his sails. Satyrus watched him for a moment and then ducked back under the mainsail and ran back along the deck.

‘Those are warships to the south,’ he said.

‘Aye,’ Peleus said. ‘That they are.’

The two dark shapes behind them began to gain in resolution as they rowed harder.

Peleus watched them as the distance closed. ‘Poseidon’s mighty dick, those are our friends with the machines,’ he said, his voice now certain. ‘How can that be?’

Satyrus didn’t have an answer for him. ‘What should I do?’ he asked.

Peleus swung his lips from side to side, pursed and unpursed them, and looked aft again. ‘Pray?’ he said. He smiled, and swung the tiller a fraction more. ‘Man the top-deck oars,’ he called.

The oar master sounded a bronze drum once, and then called ‘Ready!’ Most of the rowers were in position. On a ship with fewer than two hundred men, news travelled fast.

‘Ten stades and we’re safe,’ Peleus said out loud. He cheated his helm another fraction to the north. ‘Oar master, give us a touch of speed.’

The oar master started to call the beat, and the upper-deck oarsmen gave way with a will, rowing carefully so that the drag of their oars wouldn’t fight the last push of the breeze.

‘Sail down on my command,’ Satyrus sang out, and got a nod from Peleus, and the deck master had them all lined up, with Agathon handling a rope despite the stripes on his back – he’d been punished in Xanthos that morning, beaten with a rope.

The breeze was failing them as they came in with the land. It was a matter of judgment as to when the oars were of use, and then again when the sails became a liability – the sort of fine judgment that could make all the difference in the world.

‘Lower decks ready,’ the oar master called.

‘Mainsail down,’ Satyrus called at a nod from Peleus.

The deck crew released lines at the rail and the sail folded to the deck in a gleam of red. The pirates – if the dark hulls were pirates – were coming up fast. Their bows shone clear – the Phoenician had a pair of eyes painted above his ram.

Something flashed astern, out of the sun, and splashed into the sea well astern, and then there was the sound of a distant thud.

‘There they are,’ Peleus said. ‘Same fucking ships.’ He pulled the steering oar a little farther to the north, so that their course lay opposite to that of the Lesbian merchantman on the southern tack.

‘All oars!’ he roared. ‘Best speed, boys!’

Off to the south, the warship squadron was at full speed now, but Peleus had fooled them by steering farther to the north of his course every stade. They were coming on in a column, led by the two heaviest ships, and despite having the advantage of the tide and fuller galleries of rowers, they weren’t gaining ground. But there they were, like breakers or a lee shore, a threat that couldn’t be ignored.

‘Macedonians. Some Corinthians, and maybe an Asiatic,’ Peleus said. ‘Antigonus’s fleet.’ He shook his head. ‘You can’t see it, but we’re already past them. They’ll give up in a minute – they’d better, or we’re in a lot more trouble.’

The bolt-thrower astern fired again, and the bolt skipped over the waves to pass them before it sank.

‘Poseidon, I hate those things,’ Peleus swore. ‘A new calf smoking on your altar, Wave-Treader, if you will see me safe into Rhodos.’

One more time, as they heard the protests of the Lesbian, Peleus moved the steering oar and pushed the bow north, so that they were now on the opposite tack to the merchant ship, almost at right angles to their initial course, and the two pirates astern had to fetch their wake to make distance. They were no longer losing the race, and the angry merchant ship, which had to turn south to avoid collision with the madmen aboard the Lotus, called insults as they shot by.

‘And will the pirates take the easy prey?’ Peleus asked. ‘And how dare they come so close to Rhodos?’

Satyrus shook his head.

Sure enough, away to the south and west, the military squadron had abandoned their chase. Dark was coming on, and they needed a beach.

‘Look at that!’ Peleus said.

Astern, the two pirates ignored the merchant ship, which actually passed between them with another chorus of insults.

‘They’ve been paid well,’ Peleus said. ‘Ready to take the helm?’

Satyrus walked over. ‘Ready to take the helm,’ he said, and took the oar into his hands. The living ship moved under his grip.

‘You have the helm,’ Peleus said.

‘I have the helm,’ Satyrus said.

‘On my word, we’re turning ninety degrees off our course and running for the harbour.’ Peleus left him and ran forward, calling to the oar master.

Satyrus grinned, suddenly understanding. Because the Macedonian squadron was pulling for its night beach, they’d opened a different road into the harbour – in effect, the Lotus would pursue them – and the pirates would once again have lost ground. Too much ground this time to overtake.

‘Everyone together – steering oar keep her steady, and the oar banks will turn us. Ready? All ready? On my command,’ Peleus shouted. Heads came up as all the bench leaders showed that they understood.

The ship rowed another stroke north. Peleus was watching the pirates. Satyrus didn’t even turn his head. That was Peleus’s job now.

‘Hard to port!’ Peleus roared.

Instantly, the oar master translated the order into rowing orders. In three heartbeats, the port oar banks were backing water, the steering oar bit deep, and every sailor and deckhand on the half-deck ran to the starboard side and threw themselves outboard, and forward the marines and archers did the same. Satyrus, eyes on the bow, saw his sister and Dorcus throw themselves on the outboard lines like deck-crewmen. Every bit would count.

The Lotus turned from north to west in twice her own length and raced on, her way virtually undiminished.

Aft, the predators couldn’t even get their engine to bear. They rowed on for precious seconds as their prey jigged like a rabbit chased by dogs, and then they took too long to make the turn – the heavier Phoenician trireme took so long to make the manoeuvre that she was almost a stade north of her prey and lost several stades in distance.

The big Phoenician chose to lose more ground and fire his machine again. It was his last throw – it cost more time and more manoeuvres.

‘Lie down!’ Peleus shouted, and got his back against the stem. He looked stricken as he realized that Satyrus was standing up with nowhere to hide – a long-stretched moment as Satyrus saw the bolt leap from the engine in the last of the sun, but it passed harmlessly off to the south, mistimed, and the older man straightened up with a wry look for his own worries.

As the last fingers of the sun reached across the wine-dark sea, Lotus shot past the headland at ramming speed and into the outer harbour, the pirates already turning away in their wake. Down on the beach below the Temple of Apollo, a small crowd of onlookers cheered them as Peleus ordered the rowers to crash-stop the ship, putting their oars into the water against her momentum.

Peleus rubbed his back and straightened. ‘All’s well that ends well,’ he said. He shook his head. ‘Too damned close for an old man.’

‘I never saw your trick coming – neither did the pirates!’ Satyrus said.

Peleus just shook his head. ‘Your sister’s right,’ he said. ‘My nerve ain’t what she used to be.’

They unloaded a hidden cargo of finer things – amulets, engraved seal stones and super-fine Aegyptian linen – and the real cargo, Aegyptian emmer wheat. Leon’s factor had already arranged buyers for every item, and Satyrus, as the navarch, received a small bundle of papyrus notations indicating the value of the cargo and the final sale. Not an obol changed hands – the money stayed on paper, where pirates couldn’t seize it.

‘Athenian tanned hides to Smyrna,’ Satyrus said.

‘Already loading,’ the factor said smugly. ‘Glad you know your business, boy, but we know ours. Nestor the Gaul is factor in Smyrna. Land him the hides and he’ll have a load of stuff for you to carry back to Aegypt. Wool and oil, that’s my guess.’ The short man smiled for the first time. ‘He must love you, boy. Trusted you with the Lotus.’

Satyrus smiled in confusion and let that comment go.

Peleus took him from the factor’s office to the Rhodian navy’s offices by the Temple of Poseidon, just above the ship sheds. ‘Every officer is supposed to report in,’ Peleus said. ‘If you plan to stay in this business, you’ll do well to be one of them.’

Satyrus went up the steps with Peleus. By the time they were abreast of the courtyard of the temple, a dozen scarred veterans had greeted Peleus with the utmost respect. They went in through a row of painted wooden columns and joined a dozen men in weather-worn chitons and oil-smeared cloaks gathered around a pair of older men on wooden stools.

‘Peleus!’ said the oldest, a gnarled man with a beard as white as the snow on Olympus. ‘I heard a report you were inbound.’

‘Here I am. This young scapegrace is Leon’s nephew, Satyrus. A passable excuse for a navarch. Satyrus, the two old men are Timaeus and Panther. They command the fleet this year.’ Peleus walked around, clasping hands with the men his own age.

‘That’s Satyrus, son of Kineas of Athens? Eh, boy?’ Panther looked like his namesake, with a shock of white-grey hair unthinned by age, fierce eyebrows and a mighty beard that failed to hide the furnace that burned behind his eyes. ‘When are you going to rid us of that poxed whore Eumeles? Eh, boy?’

Satyrus cleared his throat. ‘My sister would have killed him already,’ he said. ‘I’m giving it some thought.’

‘Lord of stallions, I can hear his balls clanking together from here!’ Panther said. He turned to Peleus. ‘We were just talking about your pirates. After you came in, guess what they did?’

Peleus shrugged. ‘Hauled their wind and rowed north?’

Satyrus smiled. ‘May I guess, sir?’

Panther growled. ‘Have a go, boy.’

‘They sailed south and coasted along, looking at Antigonus’s fleet,’ he said.

Timaeus narrowed his eyes. He looked at Panther, and Panther grunted.

Peleus smiled. ‘Smart lad,’ he said. ‘So, why?’

‘They aren’t pirates,’ Satyrus said. ‘Or rather, they aren’t just pirates. They’re out to get Melitta and me – for Stratokles and Athens. Maybe as part of a wider deal.’ He shrugged. ‘Stratokles the Informer is just the sort of man to have a safe-conduct from his own opponents. And to want to spy on them.’ He shrugged. ‘Give the man his due – he’s good at what he does.’

‘Athens has no great love for Cassander, and that’s a fact.’ Panther looked around. To Peleus he said, ‘When Antigonus comes at us, will Ptolemy back us?’

Peleus nodded. ‘He has to. He’s building a fleet. It’s not a fleet the way you or I would have a fleet, but it’s better than nothing.’

Timaeus grunted. ‘Part of One-Eye’s fleet is on our beaches, blockading us.’ He rubbed his chin, eyes on the floor.

Satyrus looked down and realized that he was standing on a chart of the Inner Sea. His sandals were on the coast of Rhodos, with Helios’s rays detailed in gold, and Smyrna was two steps away. ‘The rest have vanished,’ Panther said, pointing vaguely at the coast of Asia.

‘For all I know, Demetrios took them straight into Alexandria to burn the place. He’s a bold one.’ Timaeus shook his head. ‘We put all our cruisers to sea to avoid blockade, and then they made their move, and we’re blind.’

‘Our harbour is empty, if you didn’t notice. We don’t have any more ships to send as scouts. Your lading says you are bound for Smyrna. Will you scout the coast of Palestine on your way back?’ Panther spoke urgently to Peleus. ‘Our need is great.’

Peleus looked at Satyrus. ‘It’s his call to make, gentlemen. Palestine is well off our course. And we couldn’t get the news back here.’

‘You could get word to our station on Cyprus. Peleus, we’re hard-pressed. And we’re on the same side.’ Timaeus rose from his chair.

Peleus shrugged. ‘I’m as Rhodian as the rose, Timaeus. But I serve an Alexandrian and I’m an honest servant. Last year you sent ships to serve Antigonus One-Eye.’

Panther shrugged. ‘It was expedient. You know who we prefer.’

‘Welcome to the Olympic Games of politics, boy,’ Peleus said to Satyrus.

Satyrus stepped forward. ‘Will you find a merchant to take Lord Leon’s hides across to Smyrna?’

Timaeus nodded. ‘We can do that.’ He shrugged. ‘Eventually.’

‘So we’ll pick up some luxuries to pay the oarsmen and ship empty for the Palestinian coast,’ Satyrus said.

Peleus nodded. ‘And we’ll fly.’

‘That pair of wolves will be on you as soon as you leave harbour,’ Panther said.

Peleus nodded. ‘They almost caught us when we were fully laden,’ he said. ‘Unless the gods will our doom, empty, we’ll be over the horizon before they can get in range with their infernal engines.’

Satyrus took a deep breath. ‘We need three days,’ he said. ‘The crew needs a rest.’

‘Fair enough,’ Timaeus said. ‘Perhaps one of our cruisers will come in and we won’t need you at all.’

Satyrus turned to Peleus. ‘And my sister stays aboard,’ he said.

Peleus shrugged. ‘Done,’ he said.

A day of debauch and a day of rest, and the Golden Lotus’s crew mustered on the beach, surly or smiling depending on their natures. Many of them had acquired companions, most of them temporary, and a few of them had gained or lost possessions – Satyrus could see a younger oarsman with what appeared to be a cloth-of-gold chlamys wrapped around his shoulders, standing next to an older man with his head between his knees who appeared to be completely naked. But none were late, or absent, and every man of them had his rowing cushion, whatever the state of his dress.

Peleus stood up, wearing a bronze breastplate and carrying a helmet. ‘This is a war voyage,’ he shouted. ‘Anyone want to sit it out? I have a pair of javelins for every man and I’ll add an owl to everyone’s pay. But we won’t ship much of a cargo and that means no shares.’

Kyros, the oar captain, spoke up. ‘What about captures?’

Peleus nodded. ‘Right enough. But we’re scouting an enemy coast, boys. Not much time to make a capture. If we do, shares by the custom of Rhodos.’

Kyros nodded and went back to squatting on his haunches.

Peleus turned to Satyrus. ‘That’s what passes for a council among men who use the sea,’ he said. ‘We’ve got the tide.’

Satyrus nodded. ‘Let’s use it then.’

The two wolves were aware as soon as the Golden Lotus passed the Temple of Apollo and left the inner harbour. Peleus watched them under his hand as they threw their oars aboard and then pushed their sterns down the beach. But they didn’t have the wind and their rowers were slow to respond and the Lotus drew away effortlessly.

‘Good riddance,’ Peleus said, staring under his hand. ‘Heavy metal in their bows and no mistake. I won’t be sorry to see the last of them.’

The last they saw of them were their masts slipping away under the horizon as the coast of Asia came up on the port bow.

Satyrus could see the first of the tell-tale headlands that would lead him into Xanthos. ‘I guess we’re not going into Xanthos,’ he said.

Peleus shook his head. ‘Beautiful day, crew hard as old wood. Let’s use this fine west wind while it blows and see if we can make the beaches of Pamphylia. If the weather holds,’ he said, and made a horn sign with his hand, ‘we might coast into Paphos on Cyprus, and we’ll never see those cocksuckers again.’

Kyros took a dipper of water from the butt amidships and raised an eyebrow at the helmsman. ‘I won’t mention that to the boys, I guess.’

Peleus barked a harsh laugh. ‘Maybe when the moon rises.’ He glanced at Satyrus. ‘It’d be something to tell your grandchildren, that you went from Rhodos to Paphos in a day’s rowing.’ He came and stood by Satyrus for ten strokes of the oars, and then they felt the true west wind at their backs.

Peleus gave one of his rare smiles. He turned to the deck master. ‘Hoist the mainmast, Kalos. Get the cloth on her.’

‘Mainmast and mainsail, aye,’ Kalos answered. Short, hairy and scarred, his name spoke for what he was not – beautiful. He was perhaps the ugliest man Satyrus had ever seen, Stratokles included, but he had a sense of humour, and often claimed that he had been an avatar of Aphrodite in a former life and was paying the price now.

Of course, he was also a highly skilled seaman. In less time than it took to pull an oar a hundred times, the mainmast was up and roped home, and the mainsail was drawing, taut as a board and round as a cheese.

‘Navarch,’ Peleus said gruffly, ‘if you’ll have my advice, I’d say that we could make the run to Paphos.’

Satyrus nodded a few times, considering. ‘Then carry on,’ Satyrus said.

‘It’s only that it is open water all the way. No landfalls and no refuge.’ Peleus raised a shaggy eyebrow.

‘For one day? Are we sailors or not?’ Satyrus asked rhetorically. ‘What’s the heading?’

‘Years since I did it.’ Peleus squinted at the sun and the sky. ‘South and east. No – more south. I like that. Hold that course.’ He looked at the wake for long enough that Satyrus thought he might have changed his mind. ‘Deep-water sailing is where we find out if you can mind your helm or not,’ he said. ‘No landmarks. No seamarks. Your wake is straight, or he ain’t. Hear me, lad?’

Satyrus was growing weary of a life that seemed to consist of nothing but an endless series of tests – but he bit back on his first answer and managed a grin. ‘Do my best,’ he said.

‘Notch in your wake when you talk,’ Peleus said.

When the sun was high in the sky, Melitta walked down the raised deck between the rowers. Most of them were sitting comfortably, and a dozen of them were busy rigging a long awning on the port side against the sun, while the sailors did the climbing.

Wherever she walked, silence followed, and stares, and some quiet comments. Life on shipboard had brought home to Melitta how very stupid men were. Her body was capable of ending argument, discussion, religious affirmation – really, it was a wonder that men managed to do any work at all.

Whereas, by contrast, there were naked men all around her, and none of them moved her by so much as an iota. Some had fine bodies – her brother, for instance, or old Peleus, in his way. Xenophon, if you ignored the pimples on his face, had the physique of Herakles. The marine captain was exercising naked, gleaming with oil and obviously trying to attract her attention. It was a fine body, but, as Melitta had already commented to Dorcus, there wasn’t much inside it.

She swept her Ionic chiton under her with one arm and gathered her chlamys with the other before sinking on to a bale of sheepskins that acted as the stern-seat for the helmsman’s visitors.

‘I’m tired of being stared at,’ Melitta said to her brother.

‘I’m tired of being tested. Trade you!’ Satyrus said with a wry smile.

‘Deal!’ she said, and spat in her hand. They shook without his unwrapping his arms from the steering oar.

‘Now you’ve put a notch in my wake,’ he said.

She laughed. ‘You’re pretending to be a sailor while I pretend to be a Greek woman,’ she said. ‘When do we get to stop pretending?’

Satyrus watched the horizon over the stern for a long minute. ‘I remember when I thought that you were so much older than me,’ he said. ‘Now I think maybe I’ve passed you – for a while. Because I learned something last year, and I learned it again after I kissed Amastris.’

‘You kissed Amastris? Not some slave girl in her clothes?’ Melitta leaned forward.

‘Was she chewing cinnamon just before she summoned me?’ Satyrus asked.

Melitta gave an enigmatic smile. ‘So – you kissed her. Was it beautiful? ’

Satyrus sighed. ‘It was beautiful, Lita. That’s what I mean. It wasn’t like kissing Phiale at all. Kissing Phiale made my member stiff. Kissing Amastris made me soften.’

‘You’re killing me. My brother has a poetic soul? While I’m left with all this chaff?’ She waved around her at the men on deck. Then, seeing that Peleus was coming up the central deck, she leaned close. ‘Tell me what you learned.’

‘We’re always pretending.’ He looked at her, eye to eye, so close that he could see the flecks of colour in her iris, and she could see her own reflection in his. She could feel his breath on her face. ‘I pretend to be brave when I’m afraid. I pretend to be interested in sex when I’m interested in impressing my peers, I pretend to be religious when I go to temple. I pretend to be obedient when I steer the ship.’

She cast a glance at Peleus and he grabbed her arm. ‘Listen, Melitta. Because that’s what every ephebe knows. But what I know is that the pretending becomes the reality.’

Melitta looked at him as if she’d never seen him before. ‘But-’ She made a face. ‘Satyrus, why can’t you be like this all the time?’

Satyrus furrowed his eyebrows. ‘What?’

Melitta raised her arms as if supplicating the gods. ‘At sea, you are – as wise as Philokles. As subtle as Diodorus. On land, you’re often – well, my not-quite-a-man brother.’

‘Thanks. I think,’ Satyrus said. After a second, he shrugged. ‘I don’t know. At sea I’m in command – at least this trip. Command – well, it’s like a dose of cold water when you’re asleep. And I keep seeing people do things I know that I do. Xeno does stuff that makes me tremble, and so help me-’ He laughed, and Melitta joined him.

‘If you two was sailors, I’d expect a mutiny,’ Peleus said. He spared Melitta a smile. ‘May I offer the despoina an apology for my rude ways when we was running from pirates?’

Melitta gave him the full weight of her smile – eyes flashing, teeth, a hand sweeping back her hair. If these were all the weapons she had to use as a ‘Greek’ woman, she’d wield them ruthlessly. ‘Were you rude, helmsman? I thought that you were doing your duty.’ She swept by him down the deck, heading for her own awning with Dorcus under the boatsail mast.

She heard his grunt as she moved away, and smiled again in satisfaction. They weren’t her weapons of choice, but they did cut.

Well past midday, and the sea rose, blue and blue, out to the rim of the horizon’s bowl. The sun rode the sky above them, heading west, and the handful of fleecy clouds were more ornament than threat.

‘Nothing more frightening except a storm,’ Kalos muttered. He squatted in the stern, out of the wind. He kept his eyes forward, as if he didn’t want to see the empty rim of the bowl, unmarked by even the hint of land in any direction.

‘Don’t be a woman,’ Peleus said. ‘The boys do as you do.’

‘I hate not seeing a coast,’ Kalos said. He got to his feet, stretched like a big, ugly cat and glided forward, light on his feet and unaffected by the roll.

‘I hate it too,’ Peleus said. He gave Satyrus his secret smile. ‘But cutting across the empty sea is what makes us better sailors, lad. And you have to look like you know your way – like there’s a path of gold hammered into the surface of the water for you and only you.’

Satyrus thought of his advice to his sister. ‘I pretend I’m not afraid all the time,’ he said.

‘We have a name for that, lad,’ Peleus said, slapping his shoulder. ‘We call that courage.’

‘Do you know where we are?’ Satyrus asked.

Peleus looked around. ‘No,’ he said. ‘But give or take a thousand stades, we’re west of Cyprus. I draw some hope from that bank of low cloud that just came up under the bow. See it?’

Satyrus stretched his neck to see under the mainsail. ‘I think I do.’

‘I’ll go forward and look – slowly, so it doesn’t look bad. Notch in your wake, lad.’ Peleus went forward, adjusting sheets and cursing the oarsmen, most of whom hadn’t touched an oar since mid-morning and were so much human cargo.

Satyrus watched him go and stood looking at his sister and thinking of Amastris. Thinking that, like the flower of the lotus, Amastris was probably something that would be bad for him in the long run. What if he endangered their chance at revenge? At having their own kingdom? In his mind’s eye he could see Ataelus – just to name one man – the small Sakje had been with his mother when she died. He’d escaped to raise his clan in revolt, and he had worked tirelessly at rallying the former coalition of the Eastern Assagatje to fight against the Sauromatae and against Eumeles, supported by Leon. Or Lykeles, who spoke against Heron every day in the assembly in Olbia.

What if he incurred her father’s real displeasure? Or Ptolemy’s?

He watched his wake. Life, he thought, is too complicated. He enjoyed being a helmsman. He enjoyed the simple, yet endless, task – he enjoyed the trust and the responsibility and the palpable success at the end of the day. If you piloted a ship well, it came to port. Task complete. Kingship seemed to be much worse.

His thoughts wandered off to the moment when she slipped into his arms, the surrender of her mouth, the quickness of her tongue ‘Planning to sail back to Rhodos, lad?’ Peleus said. He pointed at the long curve of the wake.

‘Oh – ugh!’ Satyrus brought the ship back on course with a perceptible turn that made heads come up all along the deck. He was irrationally angry – at himself, at Peleus – at always being tested. Again.

‘Girl?’ Peleus asked.

‘Yes,’ Satyrus answered, almost inaudibly.

‘Don’t think about any of that when you’re at the helm. Mind you, you’ve been at it without relief for a watch and a half. I’ll take the helm.’

‘I’m fine,’ Satyrus said.

‘No, you ain’t. I’ll take the helm, navarch. If you please.’ Peleus was suddenly very formal.

Satyrus stood straight and managed to get the oar into the helmsman’s hand, despite the shame of his burning face. ‘You have the helm.’

‘I have the helm. Go and lie down and dream of your girl, boy. You earned a rest – don’t fret.’

Despite this last admonition, Satyrus knew that he’d made an error – a bad error, one that in a normal young man would have been punished by a blow or worse. He walked to the awning in silence, and the deck crew made way for him as if he was injured. Sailors were very perceptive to social ills – they had to be, living so close – and he’d seen before how a man who had been punished was treated with consideration that verged on tenderness.

Now that same blanket surrounded him, and he hated that he had failed them. He collapsed on a cushion of straw next to his sister. ‘Don’t say anything,’ he said.

She raised an eyebrow but said nothing, and after a long bout of recrimination, he managed to fall asleep.

Evening came – a beautiful evening. Satyrus woke to find his head pillowed in his sister’s lap, with the first star – Aphrodite – just rising above the ship’s side. ‘You were tired,’ his sister said.

‘Hermes! I’ve slept for hours!’ Satyrus bounced up and found that his whole body was sore, and that his mouth was dry and he was cold.

Kyros came aft and passed him a water skin. ‘Drink,’ he said. ‘You got too much sun today. Old bastard left you too long at the oar. He’s got no skin left to burn – just hide.’

The water skin no sooner touched his lips than he drained it right down to the evil-tasting swill in the bottom, where the resin and the goat hair and the water made a disgusting brew. He spat over the side and Kyros laughed.

‘Get some more, navarch. You’re sun-sick and no mistake. Cold yet?’ he asked.

Satyrus nodded guiltily.

‘Wrap up. You’ll be colder tonight. Glad you slept. Good pillow, I expect,’ he said with a sidelong glance at Melitta.

Satyrus climbed down past the oarsmen in the bilge, which stank of piss and worse, where amphorae of clean water stood point down in the sand of the ballast. He lifted the open one clear of the bilge and filled the leather bucket and then refilled the oar master’s skin, punishing himself with the task. With the bucket he refilled the butt on deck so other men could drink, and then he passed the skin back to the oar master. Only when the whole smelly job was done did he present himself to the helmsman.

‘Sun-sick, I hear,’ Peleus said.

‘Yes, sir,’ Satyrus answered.

‘You don’t call me sir, lad. You’re the navarch. I left you too long at the oar, and that’s no mistake. I’m a fool. Mind you, you stood there like a fool without asking to be relieved.’ He shrugged. ‘You’ll live. I can smell the land – can ye smell it?’

Satyrus took a deep breath. ‘No, but I see the gulls.’

‘Right you are, and land birds before the sun sets. Now comes the hard part – where on Poseidon’s liquid plain are we, eh? Because we’ll want a beach as soon as we can get one – fresh water, and a place to cook in the morning. The boys can only slurp kykeon so many times before they rise up and murder me.’ He nodded, as if talking with a third party.

‘You want me to take the helm?’ Satyrus asked.

‘No. Into the bow and watch the horizon. Landfall any time, now. Bring me word.’

‘I could climb the mainmast,’ Satyrus asked. He was gushing in his eagerness to be forgiven.

‘Only in an emergency,’ Peleus said. ‘Makes the whole ship lean. A nice trick on a merchantman – not on a trireme, eh? Into the bow.’

‘Aye!’ Satyrus headed forward, scooping his heavier Thracian cloak as he went past his sister. Most of the men on deck were naked, but Satyrus was chilled to the bone, and yet the last rays of the sun seemed to flay him when he emerged under the mainsail into the bow.

Behind him, he heard Peleus order Kyros to begin clearing away the oar decks, as the wind that had carried them all day was now dying away to a breeze. In the bow, the low clouds of mid-afternoon were now well up in the sky and catching the sun in a wall of pink and red.

Satyrus had to look at them and away twice before he was sure. Then he ran back along the central deck between the top-deck rowers, dropping his cloak in his rush aft. ‘Land! Right on the bow, no points off.’

Peleus took the news as if he had never known a moment’s doubt. He nodded. ‘Ready to take the helm, Navarch?’ he asked.

Satyrus put a hand on the oar. ‘I have the helm.’

‘You have the helm,’ Peleus said, and slipped from the stern to move forward. He vanished under the sail. Kyros came up with Kalos in tow. Satyrus nodded. ‘Land,’ he said.

Both men looked relieved. Kalos stopped when Kyros turned away. ‘Sorry to be so scared,’ he said. ‘Your first time at the steering oar across the blue water – we could end in Hades, understand?’ Then he slapped Satyrus’s bare back, making him cringe and notching the wake. ‘But you didn’t!’ he said, and went back to organizing the lowering of the mainmast.

Melitta brought him his cloak while Peleus watched forward. He pulled it on gratefully, feeling more like an old man on a winter night than was fair. ‘Everyone says I have sun-sickness,’ he said.

‘You’re as red as Tyrean wool,’ she answered. ‘You mind your oar and Dorcus will rub some oil into your skin.’

Together, she and her maid rubbed a mixture of olive oil and wool oil into his skin and he felt better – warmer, and less as if his skin would be flayed off by morning. ‘Thanks, sister,’ he said.

‘Now who’s all grown up?’ she asked. ‘I have the sense to stay out of the sun. He was testing you.’

‘I failed,’ Satyrus said bitterly.

‘You’re an idiot,’ Melitta answered fondly. She stood with him in companionable silence until Peleus joined them, and then she slipped away.

‘The Rock of Akkamas is just under our ram,’ Peleus said, appearing from under the mainsail. ‘Your course may be as erratic as a newborn lamb, but you are Poseidon’s son, lad. We’re bang on course – so fine that we’ll weather the headland to the north and have the north coast and the west wind tomorrow.’ Louder, he turned and addressed the sailors and oarsmen in the waist of the ship. ‘Perfect landfall. Thirty stades of light rowing and the white sands of Likkia will be under our stern.’

With a quiet cheer, the oarsmen settled into their benches with a will. Before the moon was full on the swell, they were turning the ship just off the beach, the long hull broadside-on to the whispering surf, and then the rowers reversed their directions and the Lotus backed up the beach until the curving stern kissed the shining sand and they were safe.

Satyrus slept late the next morning, and hid his face from the sun as they set out, and Dorcus rubbed him down twice that day as the west wind carried them down the north coast of Cyprus, with Peleus pointing out the promontories and the best beaches, where a helmsman could slip ashore for an unlicensed cargo of copper, where the food was cheap. They landed for the night at Ourannia with a rested crew and Peleus paid for meat. The oarsmen had a feast.

‘Tomorrow we cross over to the coast of Lebanon,’ Peleus said. ‘Pirates everywhere, Privateers, rovers, so-called merchants, and maybe, just maybe, advance squadrons of One-Eye’s fleet. I want our lads in peak shape. You want them in peak shape.’

‘I didn’t see a ship today,’ Satyrus said.

‘You were asleep all afternoon, lad. And I was glad to see it. Sun-sick is a hard way to go. But you missed the three big Phoenicians – deep laden – heading west. With an escort.’

Satyrus thought it over for a moment. ‘So anyone chasing us-’

‘Will get a nice little report. That’s right. And the Rhodian cruiser wasn’t on his station off Makaria. That’s not good.’ Peleus rubbed his nose. ‘We’re cruising a sea that’s too empty by half.’ He shrugged. ‘Anyway, we’ll sleep late again and have the last of the west wind across to the shore of Asia. Then the weather will change.’ He rubbed his beard.