Tyrant: Force of Kings (12 page)

Stratokles ceased to plot, or even to plan, and the couch became, for a while, the circle of the world, her hair the edge of the universe.

‘If you take him away,’ she said, much later, after they’d surprised themselves by making love twice, like youths, ‘if you take him away, I’ll have nothing.’ She didn’t sob, or seduce. Her words had a chilling truth to them.

‘He needs to be in the world.’ Stratokles sighed.

‘No!’ she said, and rolled on top of him. ‘Aphrodite, I’ll be sore in the morning, and my cheeks are rubbed raw from your beard. But no – he does not need to be in the world. You need him in the world. You need him as a pawn in your revenge.’

Stratokles watched her in the lamplight – the kindest light to all women, young and old – and she was magnificent, and again he silently thanked the gods for this, for this woman, for a rest from his endless life of struggle. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It’s true. I want to spring him on Cassander and watch him sweat.’

She lay back down. ‘That’s better.’ She stretched languorously. ‘If we could manage a third time, I would feel quite young, I think.’

He rubbed a knowledgeable thumb around her nipple and licked the side of her ear. ‘You’ll be the one doing all the work,’ he said. ‘The last time I made love three times in a night, I was here. And ten years younger.’

She laughed – and her laugh alone took him halfway to arousal. ‘I do believe that was the nicest compliment you’ve ever paid me.’

‘What, better than “she’s not half as beautiful as you”?’ Stratokles laughed into her neck, and they wrestled for a moment, he seeking to pin her with his legs and she seeking to roll atop him – and then he lay still as she began to stroke him with her hands, bit his shoulder.

‘Well, well,’ he said quietly into the storm cloud of her hair.

‘Why didn’t you tell me she was your woman!’ Lucius said bitterly. They were exercising in the yard. Stratokles showed the marks of his night, nor had he any interest in hiding them. In fact, he felt twenty years younger.

Stratokles blocked the wooden sword with his cloaked arm, stepped to the left, and rocked back, ready to kick. Lucius changed his guard. They sparred together so often that most of what they did was to show each other their guards – they’d long since run out of surprises, like an old married couple with their fights.

‘She is not my woman. She is very much her own woman,’ Stratokles said. ‘And if she had wanted it, she would have been in your bed last night, nor would I have been allowed to protest in the slightest.’

‘She is a harlot?’ Lucius asked.

‘She is the queen of this little country. She is the daughter of a great Persian nobleman – she was Alexander’s mistress, and perhaps Antigonus’s as well. She has survived when all about her, her family and friends have died. Her son is the last get of Alexander on the circle of the world, and he is only alive because she and I are both brilliant plotters – and because Antigonus thinks the boy is no threat.’ Stratokles shrugged. ‘Besides, I thought you knew that we … were friends.’

‘Damn me, you are a close one, Athenian.’ Lucius shrugged. ‘She is remarkable. Like a great lady in my country – very like them. You are not jealous?’

‘Who could be jealous of sharing the sun?’ Stratokles said. ‘The heat warms us both, and cares as much for our desires.’

‘Well put!’ Banugul said. She clapped. ‘You are both so
elegant
naked.’

Lucius made a face, and whirled, but when he caught her eye he was hers, and no amount of discomfort could hide his feelings. Still, his flush went from the middle of his stomach to his hair.

Stratokles feinted and tapped his man on the head. ‘Pay attention, Lucius,’ he said.

‘Fuck you,’ Lucius said, quietly. But then he stepped back and saluted. ‘I’m getting old,’ he said. ‘And you’ve found some sort of youth potion.’

‘Perhaps,’ Stratokles agreed, with a grin. And hit him again.

A week later, Stratokles rode west, with ten men-at-arms furnished by the queen, all Macedonians, as well as Lucius and Herakles. The young man rode out with armour on his back, a fine sword at his side, a beautiful gilt helmet with a pair of eagle wings at his saddle bow, and four servants to attend him. Behind him, his mother waved once from the gate, saw his raised hand in answer, and then went calmly inside to see to the business of her little kingdom. She was too proud to cry in public.

Stratokles didn’t try to kiss her in public, but they’d already exchanged words. She was angry, and he understood, but took her son anyway.

But cry she did, night after night. Nor was she weeping for the loss of her lover. He did this – he rode away to conquer the world, and came back when he was beaten, and rode away again. What she loved best in him was that she could heal him.

But her feelings for her son were fifty times as strong, or a hundred times. And after her fifth night of sleepless tears, she dragged herself to her shrine to Aphrodite, and threw herself on the floor – a full prokinesis –and swore to the goddess.

‘Blessed Lady of the Cyprian Shore, foam born, goddess of lovers – may my son live, and thrive, out there in the world! And if Stratokles the Athenian leads him out to his death, may he, in turn, die, and all those who caused his death – my curse on them, and him! And if he lives, may he go from glory to glory – but first, Lady, let him live!’ She wept, and crawled to the foot of the goddess’s statue. ‘Let him live! Let him have his glory and live!’

She lay there, until she felt that she had received an answer.

Artaxata, in Media Atropatene, eight days south and west of Hyrkania, travelling more than ten parasanges a day. Artaxata, where Stratokles’ route finally cut the old Royal Road, and they could make better time.

‘When do we rest?’ Herakles whined. ‘By the gods, Stratokles, give me a rest!’

‘Rest when you are king of the western world,’ Stratokles said. ‘We’ve been slowed by mountains, fog and bad luck, and now I want to move. With a little luck, we can be on the coast and raising mercenaries before any word of us gets out.’

Lucius shook his head. ‘Even for you, this is a desperate throw. This boy is not ready to play Alexander for you.’

Stratokles shook his head. ‘I can feel it. Come!’ he said, and they galloped off up the Royal Road.

Antigonus and Seleucus sparred constantly for the possession of the northern satrapies, so the posting houses were not all in order – but many of them were, and for as long as they were, Stratokles squandered money on horses and speed. His beautiful clothes from the wedding – his diadem and jewelled belt – vanished like spring mist under a summer sun.

Every evening, no matter how tired their prince claimed to be, Lucius and Stratokles took turns teaching him – swordsmanship and pankration, mostly. He was unwilling, even defiant, at first. Later, simply truculent, until Lucius punched him hard enough to knock him down.

‘Good looks and good birth will not overcome a single enemy,’ Lucius said to the angry young man, ‘and if you burst into tears in front of your Macedonians, you can count on their deserting you. There’s no amount of gold darics that will make a Macedonian stand for a cry-baby. In that, at least, they are like Romans.’

If he wept, he did it in secret.

And after ten days on the road, his back was straighter, and he had ceased to whine.

On the eleventh day, he was almost killed. He was bursting to try his newly learned combat arts, and when a wrangler spat on him – haughty airs win no friends on the Royal Road – he whirled, drew his sword, and cut at the man. Lucius had to admit later that he had drawn and cut with skill.

But Herakles had the bad luck to choose a Persian nobleman fallen on hard times – an older man who had been fighting for thirty years – who sprang back, his whip shooting out and disarming the eager prince, and then
his
sword was free.

Herakles froze.

Luckily, Lucius had seen the whole thing coming. He was behind the Persian – armlock, disarm, trip – and he had his sword against the other man’s neck.

Stratokles stood aloof, shaking his head. He’d come within a few heartbeats of losing his new master. And the boy tried to hide it, but he wept in mortification at being disarmed. They were a quiet party as they rode away.

East of Sardis, Stratokles heard a rumour that Antigonus was marching, and that Demetrios was at the point of taking Corinth.

He shook his head that night, over the camp fire. ‘If Ptolemy and Seleucus don’t act soon, Cassander’s going to be caught between the hammer and anvil.’

Lucius laughed. ‘You sound unhappy. You want Cassander dead.’

Stratokles frowned. ‘I’d like him punished, but only at my own hand. I’ve miscalculated – I thought that after the failure of the siege of Rhodos, Demetrios would fold like a house of cards, but he’s rebuilt himself.’

‘Lysimachos?’ asked Lucius.

‘The best of the lot, even if he’s the one who sold me down the river – or demanded my head. I should have seen that coming. He’s wily and he’s a good diplomat, but he hasn’t the generalship to stop Antigonus – nor does he have the troops. He’ll be besieged in Heraklea before the year is out. Trapped, unless something can end the truce Demetrios has with Rhodes and bring the Rhodians back into the war.’

‘So what are
we
doing?’ asked Herakles. He had recovered – the best thing you could say about him is that he didn’t stay beaten long.

Stratokles shook his head and rubbed his nose. ‘I don’t know yet. Ask me at Sardis.’

Sardis – and all memory of the comforts of Banugul’s bed were lost in the dust of twenty-five days on the road.

‘Swordsmith in the agora says Satyrus of Tanais was murdered in Athens by Demetrios,’ Lucius reported after a scouting trip inside the gates. They’d been on the road long enough now that Stratokles was taking every precaution – including watching his young prince’s bodyguards for defection.

‘Satyrus has been reported dead more times than a porne plays flutes at a symposium,’ Stratokles quipped, pushing a sausage down on a stick. ‘But if Demetrios attacked him – kidnapped him? Whichever – he’s made a bad mistake.’ He hunkered down and started to cook the sausage, and Lucius handed him a wineskin full of drinkable wine. ‘I hate it when the big players make stupid mistakes,’ Stratokles complained. ‘I can’t plan for other men to behave like children.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Herakles said. He didn’t whine when he said it, though.

‘Nor should you, lad. Satyrus of Tanais helped break the siege of Rhodos. He’s part of the truce that came out of the end of the siege – he swore to the gods not to attack Demetrios. And he has a powerful fleet. If Demetrios killed him, he’s voided the truce, and Melitta will go for his jugular.’ Stratokles shook his head. ‘If she acts quickly, she’ll retake the Bosporus, or simply allow Lysimachos and Cassander to move freely. Why on earth would Demetrios do such a fool thing?’ He rubbed the bridge of his nose.

Herakles pursed his lips. ‘Perhaps,’ he said slowly, clearly afraid to be ridiculed, ‘perhaps it wasn’t Demetrios who did it?’

He flushed with pleasure – his fair skin showed the flush even by firelight – when Lucius and Stratokles both looked at him with new attention.

‘Ahh!’ said Stratokles. He sat back on his haunches, and took a bite of sausage. Then a drink of wine. He passed the wineskin to Herakles, who took it with pleasure. ‘Not bad, young man.’

Lucius smiled. ‘The wine, or the notion?’

Stratokles nodded. ‘Either. Both. If Cassander arranged it – ah, master-stroke. Revenge for an old failure, all suspicion on Demetrios, and Melitta coming over to his side even though my Amastris just jilted her brother.’ He rubbed his nose, belched, and held out a hand for the wineskin. ‘I wonder if a word of it is true, though.’

Five days to the coast. They came down to Miletus, no longer a major port since her roadstead began to silt up, but the citadel was still strong, and the commander, an Antigonid captain of forty years’ experience, was an old friend – or at least, an occasional ally. Miletus was the third largest entrepôt for the hiring of mercenaries. Antigonus allowed it because it was better than having them go somewhere else.

Stratokles was preparing to introduce his charge when the older man, yet another Philip (Philip, son of Alexander), raised an eyebrow. ‘You planning to stay long?’

‘I was planning to see what I could hire here,’ Stratokles said vaguely.

‘Not much right now. You heard that Satyrus of Tanais was taken by Demetrios?’ Philip asked.

‘I heard he was dead,’ Stratokles said.

‘Aye, taken or dead, or soon to be dead.’ Philip shrugged. ‘Odd – I thought young Demetrios and Satyrus were friends – they looked it last year, believe me. But his navarch has the young king’s fleet right across the water – Lesbos. Mytilene. He’s hiring all the men. Above my pay grade, but if Golden Boy did this, he’ll rue it. That Apollodorus is no fool. With a few thousand of the best and twenty ships, he can make a lot of trouble.’

‘Why don’t you stop him?’ Stratokles asked. ‘You are one of One-Eye’s men, aren’t you?’

The older Macedonian gave him a level stare. ‘Antigonus won’t last the winter. You know it as well as I. And his son – well, he’s brave. But he’s not much for the likes of me. There’s a rumour that Lysimachos is across the Euxine with some men – not many – but that he’s marching this way.’ He let the rest dangle.

It was almost comic. Two months before, Stratokles would have bought this man’s loyalty on the spot – for Lysimachos.
You fool
, he thought. But he hadn’t suspected how rotten the inside of Antigonus’s system really was.

‘Well,’ he said. ‘If the mercenaries are all in Mytilene, I guess that’s where I’m bound.’

Mytilene was the same small city he remembered – a pleasant town with beautiful women, handsome men, and good wine. Superb olives. ‘I could retire here,’ Stratokles said.

‘You’ll retire with two feet of steel in your thorax,’ Lucius said.

‘Hah! Too true,’ Stratokles said. ‘But until then, I can daydream.’