him, although it made his stomach hurt with anticipation just to think of the morrow and everything he had riding on it. He took Abraham, whom everyone loved, and Diokles, and they left the fire where the commanders drank wine, and the three of them went from fire to fire down the beach. Satyrus shared a sip of wine and a libation at every fire he joined – at some, he was greeted like a demi-god, and at others, usually the fires of the pirate crews, he was feared like a leper. He watched their reactions, and tried not to show his own feelings.
Between two fires of pirate oarsmen, Satyrus made a face, spat in the sand and stopped. 'Some of them hate me,' he said.
'And you want them to love you?' Abraham nodded. 'You make them fight. Not all of them want to. Not all are brave, and very few are good. You expect to be cheered as a hero by your rowers? Sufficient that you are prepared to pay them.'
Satyrus looked at his friend. 'When did you become such a sophist?' he asked.
Diokles tugged his beard. 'They won't love you, lord. Best be used to it. The Macedonians probably cursed bloody Alexander, and he was half a god.' He jutted a thumb at Abraham. 'He's got more sense.'
Abraham shrugged. 'I learned a great deal in Byzantium,' he said.
'Your father wanted me to send you home. And yet – he's very proud of you.' Satyrus had meant to say this earlier, but there was never time. That was the greatest lesson of command – there was never either privacy or time.
Diokles gave a little wave and walked away a few steps, granting the two of them the illusion of privacy.
'Really?' Abraham grinned, his teeth glinting in the fire-lit dark. 'You're not just fashioning words to please me?'
'I swear by Herakles,' Satyrus said.
'I'll go home when this is over,' Abraham said. 'Unless I'm dead.'
'Don't even say such a thing,' Satyrus said, making a peasant sign of aversion.
Abraham laughed, and it was a grim laugh. 'Not all of us are born the darling of a god, to restore a kingdom and shine with the light of battle. I was born to count coins and raise my family fortunes.' He looked away. 'If I die tomorrow, I'll curse the pain of it – but by my god, it will have been worthwhile. To be lord and to have command – to live at the break of the wave.' He laughed. 'I'm a fool. Or I've tasted too much wine. Listen, Satyrus – I sound like some awful stock character in a play. But I love this life. Every instant, I have to pinch myself to see if I'm awake – walking on the beach with you, waiting for the day of battle, with my own ship, my armour, my sword by my side!' Abraham laughed, and now it was a genuine laugh. 'My jealous old god will probably take my life tomorrow, if only to show me who's boss.' He walked over to Diokles and slapped him on the back. 'You sailors have better manners than most of the merchants I know, but I don't need privacy. To hell with that!' He pulled his wineskin over his shoulder, took a drink and handed it to Diokles.
'Night before a battle, a man should drink,' Diokles said.
Abraham took the skin back and held it expertly, so that a dark stream curved, glinting in the distant firelight, and fell into the open darkness of his mouth. 'Oh, I've learned all kinds of things in my year at sea,' he said.
Diokles shook his head in mock sorrow. 'And never a flute girl around when you need one,' he mourned.
Satyrus shook his head, squeezed their hands and led them on to the next fire. 'We'll win tomorrow,' he said. And he meant it. They rose with the last watch and the rowers filed aboard before the bronze shield rim of the sun ascended above the edge of the world. And as fast as the ships came off the beach, bow first, dragging their sterns clear of the sand and mud and rowing shallow so that the gentle surf was turned to muddy froth, they formed in columns and turned north, so that they were in formation while the scent of their cooking fires was still wafting over the sea. Wood smoke and sea-wrack.
But Aulus, Eumeles' navarch, was no fool, and he had not served thirty years at sea to be caught in the morning. His men must have risen just as early, whether or not they knew how close Satyrus was. The smoke of their fires still rose to the heavens just twenty stades north of the bay where Satyrus had camped, but the ships were gone.
It was noon by the time they raised the masts and sails of Eumeles' squadron, but the moment the lookout screamed that he could see the top yards of ten sail, the mood of the Lotus's command platform changed.
'Fifteen!' the lookout shouted. 'Dead on the bow!'
Satyrus looked at the sky and at the sun. 'Is it too late?'
Theron ran his hand though his hair. 'Don't mistake me for a sailor, lad. But no. Now we find out if the gods love you, or whether they've lured you to madness.'
Satyrus grinned. They were overhauling the enemy squadrons so quickly that he could already see nicks in the horizon. His eyes met Neiron's. Neiron nodded, and he had a smile like a death's head.
'Now or never,' Neiron said.
'Helios!' Satyrus shouted, and the boy came running, already pulling the cover off his gilt-bronze shield.
'Signal 'General chase',' Satyrus called.
Helios flashed the signal – one, two, three, four.
And the rowers roared back from every ship.
Satyrus's heart began to beat so fast that it seemed to interfere with his speech. Carefully, he said, 'Don't push them so hard that we can't fight.'
Neiron shook his head. 'All or nothing now. You made that call. Now let it happen.'
Amidships, Philaeus called the new stroke – the fastest sustainable stroke – and he began to beat the tempo on the deck with his staff.
The rowers growled and the ship sounded like a live thing. Satyrus felt the increase in speed in his legs and hips. The thumping of the oar master's staff seemed to be the living heart of the ship, pumping blood like the heart of an Olympic runner.
Satyrus tried not to watch the horizon. Even now, Eumeles' captains would be ordering an increase in speed. It all came down to fitness and training – a long stern chase, rower against rower into a gentle wind so close to bow-on that no one could raise a sail. Man to man.
His carefully ordered columns shredded immediately, as the fastest ships passed the slowest and the whole fleet raced. Golden Lotus was in the forefront, neck and neck with Panther's Rose and Aekes' Hyacinth. Behind them came the pirates, lighter, lower vessels with heavy crews who might be slow to manoeuvre but whose crews lived for this very function – to chase down a fleeing vessel and catch him.
An hour, by the sun, and the coast of the Euxine was racing by to the right, stade after stade, and they didn't seem to gain a finger's breadth on the enemy. Some of his least-trained vessels – the half-squadron provided by Lysimachos, for instance – began to lose ground, and they were left behind, as were two of the Aegyptian ships, Troy and Marathon. Throughout the fleet, the slowest ships struggled.
Satyrus watched helplessly as his fleet began to disintegrate.
'Keep your wits,' Neiron said.
'Too late to change your mind,' Theron said. 'You went for the hold. Keep your arm at his throat until you black out.'
Satyrus nodded. He knew they were right. But it hurt to watch ships fall out of the columns, their rowers already spent, or just too slow – ill-built or trailing weed.
If Eumeles has his second squadron at Tanais – if they are oared up and ready…
The second hour of afternoon crawled by. Satyrus took a turn at an oar, as did Theron. Neiron clung to the steering oar. Men were taking turns – sailors, even the most willing of the marines. On the Lotus, they had practised this, and even at such a fast pull, a man knew he'd get a break.
Satyrus rowed a full hour by the sand-glass. The men around him smiled at him, and he loved every one of them for their eagerness.
'We'll catch the bastard, right enow!' called his mate across the aisle, as they lulled together. 'Never you moind, sir. Never you moind it.'
He grinned back, his heart raised by this pronouncement by a man who had to know far less about the chances of the day than he did himself, and then he went forward, the fear sweated out.
By now half of his own fleet was gone behind him, lost over the edge of the world.
'Two hours to the Tanais at this rate,' Neiron said. He was nodding, as if he could hear music. The staff still thumped the deck, a fast but steady heartbeat. 'Still six hours of light.'
