Christian Cameron: King of the Bosphorus

'Black Falcon,' Telemon sang. 'Stratokles' ship. I'll know him,' he said.

Satyrus leaned against the rail of the Black Falcon and watched his uncle, Leon the Numidian, arguing with his helmsman, just a boat's length away. Satyrus waited, looking for a signal, a wave, an invitation – anything to suggest that his uncle had a plan.

Next to him, on his own deck, Abraham Ben Zion shook his head.

'Where did a pissant tyrant like Eumeles get so many ships?'

Satyrus didn't turn his head. He was still waiting for the signal. 'I don't know,' he said. His dreams of being king of the Bosporus this autumn were fading rapidly, rowed into froth by the sixty or seventy triremes that Eumeles of Pantecapaeum, his mother's murderer, had somehow mustered.

Leon had stopped talking to his helmsman. He came to his rail and put his hands to his mouth. 'Lay alongside me!' he called.

Satyrus turned and nodded to his own helmsman, Diokles, a burly man whose curling dark hair showed more Phoenician than Greek.

'Alongside the Lotus,' Satyrus said.

Diokles nodded. 'Alongside it is, sir.'

Satyrus owned only one ship, and that by the laws of war. The year before, he had taken the Black Falcon in a sea fight off the coast of the Levant in a rising storm. Falcon was lighter and smaller and far less robust than Leon's Golden Lotus or the other four triemioliai of Leon's squadron – all his own ships, for Leon the Numidian was one of the richest men in Alexandria, one of the richest cities on the curve of the world.

Falcon was a small, old-style trireme, built light and fast the Athenian way. He had good points and bad points, but Satyrus loved him fiercely – all the more as he suspected he was about to lose the ship.

Falcon turned to port and 'folded his wings', all the oars coming inboard together to the call of Neiron, the oar master amidships, so that he slowed into a long curve. Diokles' broad face was a study in concentration, a hard frown creasing the corners of his mouth as he leaned on his oars.

Lotus closed on the reciprocal course. The two ships had been side by side, each leading a column of ten warships eastward along the north coast of the Euxine. They didn't have far to close, and the rowers on both ships pulled their oars in well before their blades might foul, and the helmsmen steered small, guiding the hulls together as they coasted along.

Leon stepped up on the rail, holding one of the white-linen shrouds that held the mast. He leaned out, and just before the sides of the ships touched, he leaped – easily crossing the distance between ships, his left foot on the Falcon's rail, his right foot stepping down on to the deck of Satyrus's ship just forward of where the bulwark rose in the sharp curve of the stem.

'We'll have to fight through them,' Leon said, as soon as he was aboard. He nodded to the statue of Poseidon on the mast. 'No other choice, I'm afraid – unless you want to beach and burn the ships. And I don't think we'll survive that.'

'Twenty ships should have been enough,' Satyrus said.

'Somebody gave Eumeles plenty of warning,' Leon said. 'Listen up, lad. I'm going to put my ships in line and you'll form line behind me. My ships will bite into his line and you punch straight through. Don't stop to fight. Just keep going.'

Leon's plan was practical – if the goal was to save Satyrus's life. Eumeles would execute him without a thought – or worse.

'Don't be a fool, boy!' Leon said. 'If I fall, you avenge me another time.' His dark skin glowed with vitality, and it didn't seem possible that Leon could speak so blithely of his own death. 'If Eumeles captures me, he'll ransom me. I'm worth too much to kill. You – you'd be dead by nightfall. Don't be a fool. Do as I order.'

Abraham nodded soberly. 'He is correct, Satyrus. You can try again next year. Dead, we have all lost our wagers, eh?'

Satyrus bowed his head. 'Very well. We will form the second line and go straight through.'

Leon put his arms around his adoptive nephew, and they hugged, their armour grinding and preventing the embrace from carrying any real warmth. 'See you in Alexandria,' he said.

'In Olbia!' Satyrus said, his voice full of tears. The Alexandrians formed their two lines as they advanced. They had practised formations all the way out from Rhodos, three weeks of sailing and rowing, and their rowers were in top shape. Leon's ships in the first line were as good as Rhodians – highly trained, with professional helmsmen and standing officers who had been at sea their whole lives – indeed, many of them were Rhodians, because Leon paid the best wages in the east.

Satyrus had the mercenaries. They weren't bad – again, they were professional seamen. Few of them had the quality of ships that Leon had, although Daedalus of Halicarnassus had a mighty penteres, a 'five-er' that stood a man's height further out of the water than a trireme and mounted a pair of heavy scorpions. The Glory of Demeter was in the centre of the second line.

None of Leon's captains needed special orders. They could all see the direction of the wind and the might of the opposing armament. The choices were narrow and they were professionals.

Satyrus was on the right of the line, and the next ship over was a former Alexandrian naval vessel, hastily built and hastily sold after last year's campaign, called Fennel Stalk, with his flamboyant friend Dionysius in command. 'Bit off more than we can chew, eh?' he called across the water.

'Break through, get your sail up and head for home,' Satyrus called back.

The enemy fleet was just a couple of stades ahead, the eyes painted above the beaks of their rams clear in the golden light. Despite everything, the fact that Leon's ships were coming straight at them seemed to have thrown them into confusion.

'Ten more ships,' Satyrus said.

Diokles nodded, but Abraham shook his head. 'What?'

'He means that they look so bad that if we had ten more ships we could take them – or make a fight of it.' Diokles spat over the side, apparently unconcerned by the odds.

Satyrus ran down the centre catwalk. 'Kalos! Deck master, there! Any man who has a helmet needs to get it on. Oar master, relieve the benches in shifts.' If they actually broke the enemy line, their whole length would be vulnerable to enemy archers. He went back and put a hand on the steering oars. 'That means you, Diokles. Armour up.'

'You have the helm,' Diokles said.

'I have the helm,' Satyrus replied, and the dark-haired man ran off down the deck.

The Alexandrians were closing under a steady stroke, saving energy. The enemy columns – all six of them – were still deploying. The two centre columns had fallen afoul of each other and were delaying the formation, but the consequence was that as the centre fell behind, the flanks reached well out on either side – the worst thing that could happen to the smaller fleet, whether by intention or by accident.

'Leon's signalling,' Abraham called. He had his helmet on, and his voice had a strange resonance.

Satyrus had his own helmet in his hand, but he swung up on a shroud to watch the bright bronze shield flash aboard Golden Lotus.

'Arrowhead,' he said. But the flashes went on, and on.

'By the hidden name!' Abraham muttered.

Diokles came back, buckling his scale breastplate. 'Of course, wearing this fucker, I drown if I go over the side.' He looked up. 'Poseidon's watery dick, that's a long signal.'

Satyrus saw that it was in repeat and jumped down from the rail.

'Arrowhead – we're to be the point of the second line. He's not going to engage the centre – he's going to go for the southern edge of the line. At least, I think that's what he means. Prepare to turn to starboard!' Satyrus called the last in a command voice.