‘He has six thousand hoplites.’ Lysander shook his head. ‘He has less disease than we have. How could he have so many men? He started the siege with six thousand.’ The Spartan stared at the ground. ‘I asked that you be present when I tell the king, because you know this man.’
Stratokles nodded a third time. A courtier was approaching. ‘Well, thanks for the warning,’ he said.
Demetrios was sitting in an alcove of a Tyrian purple tent of linen and wool, with hangings on every wall — scenes from the siege of Troy, worked by the needle and by loom, shot with gold and silver threads. He sat on an ivory throne set on a floor of lion skins, and he was wearing his golden armour over a spotless white wool chiton. Plistias of Cos stood at his right shoulder. The Ionian bowed — sardonically, it seemed to Satyrus.
‘Stratokles of Athens,’ Demetrios said, with a nod.
‘Lord King,’ Stratokles returned with a bow.
‘Tell me of this delegation from Athens, Stratokles.’ Demetrios did not look like a man who had just lost two thousand elite soldiers. He looked like a temple statue in ivory and gold.
‘Old fools, lord. Men that Pericles would have called idiotes, devotees of faction.’ Stratokles spread his arms. ‘Just my opinion,’ he said, to draw the king’s laughter.
He got it. ‘Please, Athenian, tell me what you really think.’ The king chuckled.
But Stratokles refused to play the clown. ‘I will tell you, Lord King. I think that Cassander threatens Athens closely. I think that you stand to lose Greece — Attica and the Peloponnese — unless you or your father can act swiftly. Cassander is at the gates of Athens, lord.’
Demetrios nodded. ‘So I hear, Stratokles. But sieges take time — who would know that better than me, eh?’ he laughed. ‘Athens will keep, and in my way, I am delighted to know where crooked-minded Cassander is. If he is penned in in Attica, laying siege to Athens, then he is not harming me elsewhere.’ Demetrios smiled. ‘Greece is the past, Athenian. The future is Asia and Aegypt.’
The focus of the king’s regard lifted from the Athenian and settled like the aegis on the shoulders of Lysander. ‘You were a prisoner with the Rhodians,’ he said. His voice was mild, and it made Stratokles tremble.
He had been dismissed — both he and his city.
‘Yes, lord,’ Lysander said.
‘And?’ Demetrios asked.
‘Satyrus son of Kineas sends his greetings,’ Lysander said. ‘He offers you a truce of three days to collect your dead. He says he will raise no trophy to goad you. And that he asks that you name terms, that this siege may be brought to an end.’
Demetrios had an ivory wand, tipped with gold — the kind of staff Hermes often carried, and that Hephaestos had made for Atreus. He toyed with it. ‘He is gracious, my Hektor. What do you think, young Spartan?’
Lysander shook his head. ‘May I tell you a tale, lord?’
‘As you will,’ Demetrios said.
‘Lord, their council met yesterday, after their victory. And one of the councillors demanded that the town’s statues of you and your father be pulled down — turned to rubble — and used to fill fortifications. But Satyrus,’ the Spartan paused, ‘said that they were being short-sighted. And the statues were cleaned and honoured.’
Demetrios smiled. ‘You are too subtle for me, my Spartan friend.’
‘They want peace,’ Lysander said. ‘They will fight to avoid extinction, but they will accept any honourable terms. They have the same disease in the town that we have in our camp. They are as thin as rails. Given any kind of terms, and they will surrender.’
Demetrios looked at them. He smiled — a young god.
‘Terms,’ he said pensively. ‘Terms. An agreement. Negotiated. Men sitting around a table, bickering.’ He shook his head. ‘How many hoplites has my Hektor got left?’
‘I saw six thousand,’ Lysander said.
‘Lord Ares, so many?’ Demetrios smiled. ‘I love him for his resilience — six months, and more!’ He smiled again, and Stratokles, who had known Cassander and Antigonus, could not help but shudder.
‘We have thirty thousand,’ Plistias said. ‘Arming our oarsmen would double that.’
Demetrios nodded, eyes glittering. ‘Let us not brag. It offends the gods. But we have soldiers. And the rump of the pirates — they are still some thousands strong.’
‘They are the hardest hit by the fever,’ Plistias admitted. ‘And they lack discipline.’
‘But I suspect that they can each be used as an arrow shield at least once,’ Demetrios said lightly.
‘My lord,’ Plistias protested.
‘Surely it suits everyone if we exterminate the pirates?’ Demetrios asked mildly. ‘Surely that is a moral act?’
Plistias hesitated. ‘They came as allies.’
‘We can bury them as allies. How about supplies, navarch? Do we have supplies?’ Demetrios was mocking.
‘We do. Food for another six months, if required. Although we’re losing ships.’ Plistias spoke hesitantly. No one liked to give Demetrios bad news.
‘We have a new shipment of timber from the mainland. We have the ships we can pull to pieces for timber. We have iron and bronze and gold and silver, for that matter, and most importantly, we have my will.’ Demetrios rose to his feet. ‘Your Rhodians want peace. Terms. They may have the same terms Troy had. They will know peace when the dogs are finished with their corpses.’
Lysander swallowed. ‘Yes, lord.’
‘Go and tell them, from me.’ Demetrios flashed the man a smile.
‘Yes, lord.’ The mercenary bowed.
‘Don’t come back. If you are so fond of them, you may die with them.’ Demetrios nodded, dismissing the man.
Lysander was a Spartan. He walked out with a straight back.
Demetrios’ eyes went to Stratokles. ‘And you?’ he asked.
Stratokles sneered. ‘Well, I certainly don’t want to join the doomed,’ he said with precise honesty. ‘Nor am I any kind of friend to Satyrus son of Kineas.’
Demetrios nodded. ‘Your honesty always refreshes me, Athenian. If you were less ugly, you might stand at my right hand.’
Stratokles had once winced at such remarks. But age brings reality. ‘If I were prettier, lord, I might.’
‘Shall I crave your advice?’ Demetrios asked.
‘You know my advice, lord. Get the best terms you can, load your army on your fleet, crush Ptolemy’s fleet at Cos or Lesvos and fall on Cassander like a bolt from heaven.’
Demetrios locked eyes with Stratokles.
Few men could hold his gaze longer than it takes a man to draw a long breath.
Stratokles didn’t so much as blink.
‘You have a strong will, Athenian,’ Demetrios said, but his eyes didn’t move.
‘I’m a stubborn man,’ Stratokles said. He would have to avert his eyes, because to do otherwise would challenge the king, and the man was mad — at least, just now. But he didn’t want to. He wanted — just once — to tell the powerful of the world to fuck themselves.
But his political sense rose above his rage — a rage that seemed to be simmering along, just under the surface. Perhaps it was just the waste of it all.
He blinked.
Demetrios chuckled in victory.
‘I wish to crave a boon,’ Stratokles said.
Demetrios pursed his lips and nodded. ‘Within reason, anything.’
Stratokles scratched his beard. ‘I want to arm a trireme and look into their harbour. I think they’ve shifted their engines — all of them — to the south wall. You need a good captain, and a crew he trusts.’
Plistias looked at Stratokles with a new respect. ‘You would do this?’
Demetrios laughed. ‘Plistias thinks you are a coward who abandoned the third wall. I am not such a fool. I ought to reward you for saving so many — old Cleitas was senile. Lost in the glories of the past. You seek to prove yourself to me?’
Stratokles smiled. ‘Yes. You will see exactly who I am.’