Tyrant: King of the Bosporus Read Free

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