She lay there, until she felt that she had received an answer.
Artaxata, in Media Atropatene, eight days south and west of Hyrkania, travelling more than ten parasanges a day. Artaxata, where Stratokles’ route finally cut the old Royal Road, and they could make better time.
‘When do we rest?’ Herakles whined. ‘By the gods, Stratokles, give me a rest!’
‘Rest when you are king of the western world,’ Stratokles said. ‘We’ve been slowed by mountains, fog and bad luck, and now I want to move. With a little luck, we can be on the coast and raising mercenaries before any word of us gets out.’
Lucius shook his head. ‘Even for you, this is a desperate throw. This boy is not ready to play Alexander for you.’
Stratokles shook his head. ‘I can feel it. Come!’ he said, and they galloped off up the Royal Road.
Antigonus and Seleucus sparred constantly for the possession of the northern satrapies, so the posting houses were not all in order — but many of them were, and for as long as they were, Stratokles squandered money on horses and speed. His beautiful clothes from the wedding — his diadem and jewelled belt — vanished like spring mist under a summer sun.
Every evening, no matter how tired their prince claimed to be, Lucius and Stratokles took turns teaching him — swordsmanship and pankration, mostly. He was unwilling, even defiant, at first. Later, simply truculent, until Lucius punched him hard enough to knock him down.
‘Good looks and good birth will not overcome a single enemy,’ Lucius said to the angry young man, ‘and if you burst into tears in front of your Macedonians, you can count on their deserting you. There’s no amount of gold darics that will make a Macedonian stand for a cry-baby. In that, at least, they are like Romans.’
If he wept, he did it in secret.
And after ten days on the road, his back was straighter, and he had ceased to whine.
On the eleventh day, he was almost killed. He was bursting to try his newly learned combat arts, and when a wrangler spat on him — haughty airs win no friends on the Royal Road — he whirled, drew his sword, and cut at the man. Lucius had to admit later that he had drawn and cut with skill.
But Herakles had the bad luck to choose a Persian nobleman fallen on hard times — an older man who had been fighting for thirty years — who sprang back, his whip shooting out and disarming the eager prince, and then his sword was free.
Herakles froze.
Luckily, Lucius had seen the whole thing coming. He was behind the Persian — armlock, disarm, trip — and he had his sword against the other man’s neck.
Stratokles stood aloof, shaking his head. He’d come within a few heartbeats of losing his new master. And the boy tried to hide it, but he wept in mortification at being disarmed. They were a quiet party as they rode away.
East of Sardis, Stratokles heard a rumour that Antigonus was marching, and that Demetrios was at the point of taking Corinth.
He shook his head that night, over the camp fire. ‘If Ptolemy and Seleucus don’t act soon, Cassander’s going to be caught between the hammer and anvil.’
Lucius laughed. ‘You sound unhappy. You want Cassander dead.’
Stratokles frowned. ‘I’d like him punished, but only at my own hand. I’ve miscalculated — I thought that after the failure of the siege of Rhodos, Demetrios would fold like a house of cards, but he’s rebuilt himself.’
‘Lysimachos?’ asked Lucius.
‘The best of the lot, even if he’s the one who sold me down the river — or demanded my head. I should have seen that coming. He’s wily and he’s a good diplomat, but he hasn’t the generalship to stop Antigonus — nor does he have the troops. He’ll be besieged in Heraklea before the year is out. Trapped, unless something can end the truce Demetrios has with Rhodes and bring the Rhodians back into the war.’
‘So what are we doing?’ asked Herakles. He had recovered — the best thing you could say about him is that he didn’t stay beaten long.
Stratokles shook his head and rubbed his nose. ‘I don’t know yet. Ask me at Sardis.’
Sardis — and all memory of the comforts of Banugul’s bed were lost in the dust of twenty-five days on the road.
‘Swordsmith in the agora says Satyrus of Tanais was murdered in Athens by Demetrios,’ Lucius reported after a scouting trip inside the gates. They’d been on the road long enough now that Stratokles was taking every precaution — including watching his young prince’s bodyguards for defection.
‘Satyrus has been reported dead more times than a porne plays flutes at a symposium,’ Stratokles quipped, pushing a sausage down on a stick. ‘But if Demetrios attacked him — kidnapped him? Whichever — he’s made a bad mistake.’ He hunkered down and started to cook the sausage, and Lucius handed him a wineskin full of drinkable wine. ‘I hate it when the big players make stupid mistakes,’ Stratokles complained. ‘I can’t plan for other men to behave like children.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Herakles said. He didn’t whine when he said it, though.
‘Nor should you, lad. Satyrus of Tanais helped break the siege of Rhodos. He’s part of the truce that came out of the end of the siege — he swore to the gods not to attack Demetrios. And he has a powerful fleet. If Demetrios killed him, he’s voided the truce, and Melitta will go for his jugular.’ Stratokles shook his head. ‘If she acts quickly, she’ll retake the Bosporus, or simply allow Lysimachos and Cassander to move freely. Why on earth would Demetrios do such a fool thing?’ He rubbed the bridge of his nose.
Herakles pursed his lips. ‘Perhaps,’ he said slowly, clearly afraid to be ridiculed, ‘perhaps it wasn’t Demetrios who did it?’
He flushed with pleasure — his fair skin showed the flush even by firelight — when Lucius and Stratokles both looked at him with new attention.
‘Ahh!’ said Stratokles. He sat back on his haunches, and took a bite of sausage. Then a drink of wine. He passed the wineskin to Herakles, who took it with pleasure. ‘Not bad, young man.’
Lucius smiled. ‘The wine, or the notion?’
Stratokles nodded. ‘Either. Both. If Cassander arranged it — ah, master-stroke. Revenge for an old failure, all suspicion on Demetrios, and Melitta coming over to his side even though my Amastris just jilted her brother.’ He rubbed his nose, belched, and held out a hand for the wineskin. ‘I wonder if a word of it is true, though.’
Five days to the coast. They came down to Miletus, no longer a major port since her roadstead began to silt up, but the citadel was still strong, and the commander, an Antigonid captain of forty years’ experience, was an old friend — or at least, an occasional ally. Miletus was the third largest entrepôt for the hiring of mercenaries. Antigonus allowed it because it was better than having them go somewhere else.
Stratokles was preparing to introduce his charge when the older man, yet another Philip (Philip, son of Alexander), raised an eyebrow. ‘You planning to stay long?’
‘I was planning to see what I could hire here,’ Stratokles said vaguely.
‘Not much right now. You heard that Satyrus of Tanais was taken by Demetrios?’ Philip asked.
‘I heard he was dead,’ Stratokles said.
‘Aye, taken or dead, or soon to be dead.’ Philip shrugged. ‘Odd — I thought young Demetrios and Satyrus were friends — they looked it last year, believe me. But his navarch has the young king’s fleet right across the water — Lesbos. Mytilene. He’s hiring all the men. Above my pay grade, but if Golden Boy did this, he’ll rue it. That Apollodorus is no fool. With a few thousand of the best and twenty ships, he can make a lot of trouble.’
‘Why don’t you stop him?’ Stratokles asked. ‘You are one of One-Eye’s men, aren’t you?’
The older Macedonian gave him a level stare. ‘Antigonus won’t last the winter. You know it as well as I. And his son — well, he’s brave. But he’s not much for the likes of me. There’s a rumour that Lysimachos is across the Euxine with some men — not many — but that he’s marching this way.’ He let the rest dangle.