Christian Cameron
Destroyer of Cities
PROLOGUE
HERAKLEA ON THE EUXINE, SPRING 306 BC
Stratokles the Athenian sat on an iron stool in his mistress’s receiving chamber, and crossed his legs comfortably.
‘Interesting times, Despoina,’ he said.
She was reading through her correspondence — he’d already read it, of course — and making notes. ‘Demetrios has taken Athens!’ she said. She snapped her fingers at a maid for more milk, and tapped her fingers impatiently until the maid had warmed the milk in a silver cup, mixed in honey and transferred the contents to a second cup, before presenting it with averted eyes.
Quietly, firmly, she spoke to her slave. ‘Listen, girl. I expect you to have this ready-mixed. Understand? Don’t wait for me to demand it. How long have you been with me?’ Amastris of Heraklea snapped her index finger against the maid’s forehead and the girl cried out. Then Amastris turned back to her Athenian. ‘Does this change your views on Antigonus One-Eye?’
Stratokles shrugged, wondering idly if, by comforting the slave-girl after his interview with her mistress, he might put himself between her legs. He allowed himself to catch her eyes, and she hesitated before looking away. Interesting. Slaves were always so lonely.
‘Are you attending to me, sir?’ Amastris asked sharply.
Stratokles was unflappable — at least, by his mistress. ‘It relieves me of any responsibilities towards Demetrius of Phaleron or Cassander,’ he said carefully. ‘I remain loyal to the city of Athens. Demetrios the Golden will pretend to be a democrat — everyone always does when they come to power in Athens. We shall see, after the first few months. But, for once, the news from Athens is not the most important. There’s more news — more immediate, if not more important. Look at the dispatch from Byzantium.’
Amastris shook her head, the blond ringlets staying crisp and perfect as her head went from side to side. She drank her honeyed milk absently. ‘When I finish this.’
Stratokles got up and poured himself a cup of wine.
‘Satyrus is coming here!’ Amastris said, eyes on the scroll, and her hand went to her hair as if she needed to preen a little.
‘Yes, Despoina,’ Stratokles laughed. He wished that he might affect her — or any woman — the way Satyrus of Tanais affected her. He shot a glance at the maid, who met it — and then dropped her eyes. Played this game before, have, you? he thought with satisfaction. ‘He’s coming with his fleet and his merchants, moving the grain south to Alexandria.’
‘As usual, not coming just to see me.’ She sat up. ‘Why does my uncle continue to forbid the match? I want to be wed.’ She read further. ‘He’s too devoted to that slut of a sister. He’d be well rid of her.’
‘Your father is about to crown himself king,’ Stratokles said with unfeigned distaste — distaste for kings, and distaste for his mistress’s obvious jealousy.
‘Melitta is Queen of the Assagetae in her own right,’ he said. ‘Your princely Satyrus needs her.’
Amastris snapped her fingers and another maid brought her a wrap, a costly piece of work imported from India. ‘I need him to need me,’ she said with a sweet smile. ‘And if my uncle wants to be a king, why must you sound so sour about it?’
Stratokles, whatever his faults, and he admitted that he had a phalanx of them, nonetheless saw himself as a true democrat in a world of aristocratic despots. ‘As King of Heraklea, he expects to marry you a little better than the King of Hyperborea.’
‘Satyrus is the King of the Bosporus,’ Amastis said with asperity. ‘He is as much a king as my father. And Stratokles — why is it that when you say the word “king” you render it like an insult?’
‘Despoina, if you don’t know by now, it is too late for me to teach you. I loathe tyrants.’ He shrugged.
‘And yet you serve me,’ she said.
‘You need me, Despoina. And Athens needs this city and her grain, and my eyes on the north. I have never pretended to love your uncle’s tyranny, nor your lover’s kingship.’ He rolled his shoulders, flexing his fighting muscles and wondering, in the way of middle-aged men, if he didn’t need to spend more time in the gymnasium.
‘You might give pretence some consideration, or Nestor will have your head.’ Nestor was the captain of the Tyrant’s bodyguard, and no friend of the Athenian’s.
Stratokles chose to ignore her. ‘Satyrus won’t just be an ally if he weds you,’ Stratokles said. I’ll be out of a job, he thought. ‘He’ll be master here. He has a fleet, an army and a core of professionals that we can’t really match. With Pantecapaeaum and Olbia behind him, surely you can see that we’re next.’
‘Hmm. I look forward to his being my master,’ Amastris said, and licked her lips. She laughed at his discomfiture. ‘Don’t be a prude. Satyrus isn’t half as bright as I am. Who’ll run whom, do you think? Heraklea won’t be the loser. Melitta might be, though,’ she said with a smile.
‘Your uncle is not interested in ruling through your womb,’ Stratokles said. ‘And you will need Melitta’s good will as much as Satyrus does, if you come to be his wife.’
‘Now that’s the sort of thing I employ you to say,’ Amastris nodded. ‘He’s old, though — my uncle, I mean.’
‘Don’t be rushing him to his grave, Despoina. Please read the dispatch from Byzantium.’ Stratokles wasn’t always perfectly pleased with his charge. She was past the first innocence of youth and she was becoming headstrong, just when he felt she most needed a rein. And with Demetrios in Athens. . The world was changing. Stratokles was beginning to wonder if he had lingered too long in Heraklea. Although he had other ideas-
She flipped through the scroll tubes. ‘Demostrate is dead?’ she asked.
‘Got it in one!’ Stratokles pounced like a cat taking a rat off a post.
‘By Aphrodite, lady of ladies!’ Amastris said, and shook her head. ‘The old pirate is dead? Who killed him?’
‘Who cares? The point is that a new man has Demostrate’s fleet — if he can hold it. They are pirates. And now Antigonus One-Eye will have a clear run at allying with them — the pirates — a fair shot at buying all of them.’ Stratokles swirled the wine in his cup.
‘But we’re no allies of old One-Eye. My uncle broke that chain.’ She drank off the last of her milk.
Stratokles swirled his wine again. ‘There are never just two sides in politics, my dear. Antigonus would like to be master here. So would Lysimachos and so would your Satyrus. By naming himself “king”, your uncle puts himself on the same level as all of them. He can only maintain that level by ceaseless vigilance and a willingness to play one against the other.’
‘And my beloved has just lost his guarantee of passing the straits unmolested,’ Amastris said. ‘Perhaps he’ll come here and stay awhile.’ She smiled.
‘He’s lost more than that, dear,’ Stratokles said. ‘He’s lost his immunity, and some of his status with the great powers. Now he’ll have to buy the pirates like the rest of us. And if Antigonus has Athens’ fleet, and the pirates,’ Stratokles shrugged, ‘well then, so much for Ptolemy.’ He leaned back and recrossed his legs. ‘Times are changing, dear.’
She looked at him from under her eyelashes. ‘You don’t love my Satyrus,’ she said.
‘I helped him achieve his kingdom,’ Stratokles said. ‘But no — he’s no friend of mine.’ He didn’t mention that in another dispatch — one he didn’t need to pass to her — he’d had news of Lysimachos. Lysimachos, the fourth contender for Alexander’s power. Lysimachos, whose Thracian wife had just died.
The perfect husband for his little princess. With Lysimachos and Amastris, Stratokles could guarantee Athens’ grain trade for fifty years, and to Hades with Satyrus of Tanais.
And why dream small? With the two of them, Stratokles could aim higher.