Christian Cameron: Force of Kings

‘No need to be in a hurry, Laertes,’ the doctor said. His voice carried a sibilant warning, and the man — Laertes — flinched. It was the first sign Stratokles had seen that the doctor was still the monster he’d always been.

‘Just go watch the temple,’ the doctor said quietly.

‘Yes, sir,’ Laertes answered.

‘I appreciate the professional courtesy, but I’m going to shit myself soon. Just get it done.’ Stratokles stood straight, pulled his light chlamys off his shoulders and swirled it over his head.

The doctor had stepped back two steps.

‘Not going to fight back,’ Stratokles said with satisfaction. He’d made the man flinch. He dropped the chlamys.

The doctor nodded. ‘Somehow I feel that killing you will only weaken me. He’s going to kill me eventually, too.’

Stratokles nodded. ‘So he is. Isn’t that my line — when I plead for my life? I tell you that you’re next? You do it anyway? Let me make a different suggestion. Take the money for killing me and run. Babylon — no one there has ever heard of you. Live out your life.’

Now the doctor smiled. ‘Would you? What would you do if I let you walk away?’

Stratokles shrugged. ‘You are a cruel bastard, Sophokles. You haven’t the least intention of letting me walk away.’

‘I’m giving you another minute of life, ingrate. Humour me.’ The doctor gestured with his sword.

‘Remember Banugul?’ Stratokles said.

‘I’ve heard of her.’ Sophokles shrugged, looked around at some fancied noise.

‘I have her. Or rather, I know where she is, and her son. Her son by Alexander.’ He laughed.

‘This sounds like a way of buying your life, doesn’t it?’ Sophokles nodded. ‘I know this tune. You offer me something of great value. And I confess: a son of Alexander, even a bastard, is of great value.’

‘Well, he’s not for you. The management that would be required to propel that young man into the arena — to bring him to the moment where he could unseat Cassander — I don’t know if it could be done.’ Stratokles shrugged. ‘I’m not even sure that I want to do it. He and his mother live far away — off the stage, out of the game. For all I know, the boy’s dead, or deformed.’

‘He must be, what, twenty-three? Twenty-four?’ Sophokles looked over his shoulder. ‘Are you by any chance double-dealing me, Stratokles?’

Stratokles frowned. ‘I’m standing here ready to die, you’re the one talking — and you think I’m betraying you?’

‘Laertes?’ the doctor asked.

‘Dead as a fucking sacrificial lamb,’ Lucius said, emerging from the trees. His sword was red in his left hand, and he had a javelin in his right hand, cocked and ready on the throwing cord. His gaze flicked over Stratokles. ‘Thanks for saving my life. But I don’t run. I ran once — that was enough for my whole life.’

‘You killed my whole group?’ the doctor asked. ‘I’m very impressed.’

Lucius spat. ‘Don’t be. They weren’t worth sheep-shit.’

The doctor nodded. ‘They were more for colour than for muscle, anyway.’

Stratokles felt the tension draining from his shoulders.

‘Walk away, Sophokles,’ he said. The doctor was getting ready to spring; his feet were angled oddly, his limbs formed in a crouch. ‘If you come for me, we all fight. People die — most likely you and me both.’

The doctor didn’t slacken his physical stance. ‘I’m listening.’

‘We all back away. A step at a time.’ Sophokles risked a look at Lucius.

‘He has a distance weapon and I do not,’ the doctor said. ‘Distance only aids you, and taking you as a hostage is my only viable response.’

Stratokles took a deep breath. ‘You didn’t want to kill me anyway, Sophokles. I guarantee your life. You have my oath on it before the furies. Walk away, and consider this a fair return for my error of judgment in Alexandria.’

No one could call Sophokles of Athens indecisive. ‘I accept,’ he said, and stood up straight. He turned his back and walked away. He took a dozen steps, then sheathed his sword after a small flourish at Lucius, who spat again. He bowed to Stratokles. Then he turned and sprinted away.

Stratokles watched him until he was out of sight.

‘Well,’ said Stratokles. He turned away and struggled with the urge to vomit. It was all he could do to speak.

Lucius waited for him and held out a canteen of wine. ‘I thought I was too late,’ he said.

‘He didn’t want to do it. He’s a strange man.’ Stratokles shook his head.

‘You offered your life to save me,’ Lucius said. ‘I never would have expected that.’

‘I’m getting old,’ Stratokles said.

‘Where to?’ Lucius said. ‘I have a pair of horses — and we should get moving.’

Stratokles spat the sour wine. ‘Hyrkania. We can be there in ten days.’

Lucius raised an eyebrow.

Stratokles shrugged. ‘I’m going to throw another piece on the game board. If I accomplish nothing but to give fucking Cassander some bad nights — that will be enough for me.’

The blade rested, cool as a stone in her father’s cellar, against Miriam’s throat.

‘Not a word, now,’ the marine said. His voice was steady, almost apologetic. ‘Trierarch says, if you say anything, I’m to off the pair of you. Sorry, despoina. Orders.’

Abraham lay perfectly still, and Miriam lay next to him. Over the silence, they could hear gulls, the rush of feet on the catwalk of the main oar deck, and the helmsman over their heads. The steering oars creaked, and then creaked again. The navarch spoke — the decking muffled his words.

‘… right there,’ the helmsman said.

‘Like they own the whole world,’ the navarch said. ‘Wave like we’re friends.’

Miriam tried to keep from shaking — tried to keep her mind from racing off into the abyss.

‘Ten days out of Athens!’ roared the helmsman over their heads. He was shouting to another ship — that much penetrated her terror and her anger.

‘Where bound?’ carried to her from the other ship, clear as a new day. The sound of the voice went through her like hot soup on a cold day. She felt her brother’s hand close on hers like a vice, saw the marine’s eyes glitter.

‘Ephesus!’ the helmsman replied.

‘Safe voyage, then!’ called Satyrus of Tanais from his own command deck.

And helpless in their cage, Abraham and Miriam held each other and lay in silence as they were rowed further and further away.

‘By Herakles! This little worthless instrument will not defeat me!’ Satyrus growled.

‘Put your fingers on the strings again, and stop trying to be perfect,’ Anaxagoras insisted.

‘I promised Miriam that I would learn to play this before I saw her,’ Satyrus said. He was sitting on a folding stool just forward of the helmsman’s station, and Anaxagoras was sitting with his back to the light aft-mast that they had mounted to catch the light airs of late summer. They were an hour off their breakfast beach, cruising south of Lesbos en route to Rhodos.

‘Your promise won’t be worth the spit you put in it if you don’t allow yourself to be human,’ Anaxagoras said. He played the first measures flawlessly. ‘It comes with practice. Like fighting with the sword, or pankration.’

Satyrus’s eyes went back to the Antigonid penteres, now just a nick on the horizon.

‘I thought that they behaved oddly. Too damned cheerful. There ought to have been catcalls and curses.’

Anaxagoras nodded. ‘Perhaps. But you have thirty merchant ships and half as many warships in your tail, brother, and I dare say they were daunted by the sight.’

Satyrus laughed. ‘I’ll keep the truce — they have half my friends as hostages.’