more smoke than flame, rising to heaven in the crisp morning air.
Coenus made a fire and they roasted the meat, burned the bones and the hide, and then, after Eumenes poured libations, Coenus handed cooked meat to every man and woman. 'Eat and drink,' he said. 'Remember those who died here, and those who stood their ground. Remember Satrax, king of the Assagatje, who died for his victory, and Kam Baqca, and remember Ajax and Nicomedes.'
The older Sakje cried, and so did the Greeks, while the younger ones looked on, wondering to see so many hard men and women weeping.
'I lost my father here,' Urvara said.
Tameax cleared his throat. 'As did Nihmu,' he said.
Nihmu was being held by Coenus.
'As did I,' Eumenes said. 'Although he fought on the other side.' He poured more wine in the snow. 'Gods, I beg forgiveness for the shade of my father.' And he wept as well.
They were gathered like that when they heard hoofbeats. Warriors scattered – no one had kept a watch, their emotions were so high – and knights ran for their warhorses like ants from a shattered anthill.
Urvara watched the oncoming riders without fear. 'It was wise to come here,' she said. 'This is sacred ground, and it reminds men of who you are.' She pointed at the riders coming over the river. 'That is Parshtaevalt, and his banner of the Cruel Hand.' She looked at Melitta. 'Whether you wanted us or not, lady, we'll all go together to see Marthax.'
And minutes later, Parshtaevalt embraced Melitta. Then he knelt, as Sakje never do, and placed his hands between hers. 'I am your man, for ever, as I was your mother's,' he said. He looked at the remnants of the sacrifice and shook his head. He looked at Coenus. 'Did you save any for me? I fought here, too.'
Coenus laughed. 'Do you still eat whole horses?' he asked.
The lord of the Cruel Hands laughed like a boy. 'This one taught me my Greek,' he said, pointing at Coenus, 'when Kineax was too busy making calf-eyes at your mother!'
Eumenes took meat from the altar and brought it to Parshtaevalt, and he ate it and drank some wine. Then he looked around at all of them, and his own knights. 'Can you feel the thing?' he asked, in Greek.
Eumenes was next to Melitta. 'I feel it,' he said.
Coenus embraced him. 'I feel it,' he said. 'If only Diodorus were here.'
'Crax,' Ataelus said. 'Sitalkes.'
'They will come,' Eumenes said.
Parshtaevalt nodded. 'All of us will come,' he said to Melitta. 'All of your father's men, and all of your mother's. And we will show these newcomers how war is made.'
13
Lemnos, Lesvos – a night in Methymna, and fresh lamb – and down the sea to Chios, past Samos to a day of fevered trading in Miletus while his arm throbbed as if his wound was new, and then down the Sporades to Rhodos. The wind didn't always serve, but they were in the most protected parts of the sea, and they could make a good anchorage and a town every night.
Satyrus needed a town every night – his arm was so bad that he began to wonder if it would have to be rebroken and reset, and he had a fever, which didn't seem possible from such an old wound. At Miletus, he went to the old Temple of Apollo and made a sacrifice, and only willpower kept them at sea past the sanctuary of Asclepius on Cos.
Byzantium had left other scars as well, and Satyrus could neither sleep nor rest without his mind running off along his various choices, the paths of his own choosing and the choices thrust upon him. He felt himself grow sullen. He regretted the lack of Theron, or even Diokles. Neiron was older, cautious, proud of his new rank and determined not to lose it. Where Diokles might have censured his acerbic comments, Neiron bore them with a patience that simply stung Satyrus to further annoyance.
The entrance to the harbour at Rhodos was framing the bow when he boiled over.
'Oars! Stand by, all tiers.' The oar master was Neiron's replacement. His voice didn't carry authority, and his sense of timing was poor. He was a master rower, and had sat the stroke bench in two triremes, and yet he wasn't good enough to make the next step. Satyrus was sorry for him – he was a good man, and a loyal one – Messus was his name, and he was Tyrian, like Diokles, although older and greyer.
'That man has no authority,' he said.
Neiron's eyes were on his landfall and the harbour entrance.
'I'm speaking to you,' he barked.
Neiron's eyes never moved. 'Sorry, sir. I'm conning the ship.'
That stung Satyrus. Feeling foolish – hurt, angry, off centre and foolish – he sat on the helmsman's bench and watched the Temple of Poseidon grow larger.
'All benches! Oars – in!' Messus called. His rhythm was no better than it had been in the other harbours, and the starboard oars were slow coming in, turning the ship slightly, so that Neiron had to compensate.
Messus hung his head. He turned red in the face and looked anywhere but the stern.
The Lotus was coasting, losing speed against the water but still moving quickly enough, and the beach under the Temple of Poseidon was crowded.
'We're going too fast,' Satyrus said.
Neiron was watching the beach.
Satyrus knew that he was angry, that his decision-making wasn't its best, but he was also an experienced trierarch now, and he knew when Lotus was going too fast. 'Reverse your benches!' he called. He ran forward, heedless of his arm. 'Reverse your benches!'
Messus shrank against the mast, clearly unsure what to do next.
Satyrus ignored him. He looked down at the thranitai, the upper-deck oarsmen, and the stroke oar nodded.
'Give way, all!' Satyrus called. The oars went up to the catch and down, and the blades bit the water. 'Mind your helm, Neiron. We'll birth between the two warships.'
Neiron's face grew dark, but he obeyed. The flush was still in his cheeks when Satyrus returned to the stern.
'I was intending a different landing,' Neiron said carefully. 'Among the merchants.'
Satyrus saw, suddenly, that Neiron had seen a berth – a distant berth that needed more momentum.
Neiron continued: 'I didn't know that we had the right to put in among their warships.' He was angry, but his anger showed only in the careful enunciation of his Greek.
Satyrus clutched his arm. 'My – apologies, helmsman. I see it now.'
Neiron shrugged. 'No matter,' he said.
'I feel like an idiot. I'll apologize in front of the men if you like.' Satyrus was miserable.
'No matter, I said.' Neiron slapped his oars to get the bow to move – threading the needle of the narrow space between a pair of Rhodian triemioliai, the same burthen and design as the Lotus, just as Messus called for the oars to come in, his voice tremulous.
Satyrus went ashore in the ship's boat, the throbbing in his arm just an echo of the throbbing in his head. He shook it to clear it. Rhodos was a beautiful town, cleaner and better tended than Alexandria, old in a way that lent dignity rather than squalor. Neiron followed him up the steps to the temple. Satyrus wanted to say something – wanted to clear the air – but Neiron's rebuff to his apology left him nowhere to go.
At the top of the steps, Timaeus of Rhodos waited, his broad hands tucked into a girdle made of hemp rope. At his side stood the other navarch for the year, Panther, son of Diomedes, a man who had killed more pirates than any other.
'There are few men in the circle of the world who would dare to sail direct from Demostrate to Rhodos and then berth in my harbour among my ships,' Timaeus said.
Satyrus was winded just from climbing the steps of the temple. He made himself stand straight.
Satyrus let himself breathe. 'I need a favour,' he said.
