Stratokles rolled over, kissed her, reached across her and took the wine cup from the table by the bed, sharing it with her. ‘I cannot help who I am,’ he said. ‘I have plots, and plots, and plots. Some succeed, and some fail. And my greatest flaw is that I hedge my own bets, and some of my plots are rivals to other of my plots.’ He lay back and grinned into the lamplit darkness. ‘I had planned to use your son to drive Cassander mad. As it is, Cassander has placed himself in my hands, and your son doesn’t want to be a tool. So I have become wise enough not to struggle.’
‘I have put money into a rumour,’ Banugul said. ‘That he is the son of Eumenes of Kardia.’
Stratokles laughed. ‘Well played, lady. No Macedonian would cross the street to serve a bastard son of Eumenes.’ He reached for her shoulders. ‘But he is Alexander’s son.’
‘Perhaps,’ she allowed. ‘Are you really friends with Kineas’s son? Will this alliance last?’
He chuckled, and gave her no answer, and they passed the time with other things.
But in the morning, with Lucius at his back, Stratokles walked up to the Temple of Hera.
He was dressed in his very best — a chiton with flames of Tyrian red licking up the shining white wool from the hems, themselves so thick with embroidery that the gold pins that held it together were difficult to push through the cloth. Over his shoulder hung a chlamys of pure red-purple, embroidered in gold, and on his brow sat a diadem of gold and red-purple amethysts, worth the value of a heavy penteres all by itself, without reckoning the other accoutrements he wore — gold sandals with gold buckles, gold mountings on the dagger under his armpit, gold rings on his fingers. It had cost him extra time and effort to reassemble the costume, but the effect was worth it. For his chiton and his diadem proclaimed to all of them: You tried to kill me, and here I am, and I hold the reins of this chariot.
It was no longer about Athens. Stratokles had loved Athens all of his life but Demetrios was sucking the marrow from Athens’s bones. And when he fell — if Cassander could be destroyed with him — Athens would be free. Or as free as a city could be in the world of monsters that Alexander had created.
So he walked up the steps. Nodded to Lysimachos, bowed to Amastris, smiled at Phiale, and laughed at Cassander, whose eyes flashed with venom.
Once, this man called me a viper.
They mouthed pious nothings.
‘And where is your new master?’ Phiale asked.
‘Satyrus of Tanais?’ he asked, as if unsure who she meant. ‘Elsewhere, engaged in more important business.’
The shock that this statement engendered was worth all the torments of the last year.
‘His sister?’ Lysimachos asked.
‘On the Sea of Grass,’ Stratokles said. ‘They send their regrets.’
‘Ares!’ Lysimachos said. ‘They have deserted the alliance?’
Stratokles smiled. He had all the time in the world. ‘I have their instructions,’ he said.
‘This is intolerable!’ Cassander said.
Stratokles smiled, swirled his wine, and contemplated an excellent image of the goddess — imperious, matronly, and yet beautiful. Not his favourite goddess — and yet, and yet.
‘Allies,’ Stratokles said. They all looked at him. He bowed to the priestess of Hera. ‘My instructions are that we all swear an oath in the names of our principles, to support the alliance until Antigonus is defeated — and for one year after. I have taken the liberty of drawing up copies in advance.’
‘I do not take orders from a petty king, nor from his petty minister,’ Cassander said. His face was puffy, and his fingers under their rings were bloated, like those of a corpse left in the water.
Stratokles didn’t need the doctor to tell him — Cassander had oedema. He wasn’t fat, he was bloated with water.
Oh, the gods do what a man cannot, Stratokles thought.
‘These are not orders,’ Stratokles said. ‘We are here as allies — as peers.’
‘I am the King of Macedon, and you are a paid informant.’ Cassander had once been the handsomest of mortals. Now he was hideous, and he seemed unaware of the change in his physique; speeches that had once seemed imperious now seemed pathetic.
Stratokles turned to the other kings. ‘I had no intention of offending. It was our intention to plan a campaign — we had assumed that all were in favour of it.’
The younger Seleucid nodded. ‘Stratokles of Athens, it is my brother’s intention to march west with his elephants and his cavalry. But if Cassander will not come …’
‘I am the King of Macedon,’ Cassander said again. ‘I am the head of this alliance.’
Lysimachos took the man by the elbow. Stratokles saw the King of Macedon wince in pain at the touch.
Lysimachos spoke quickly, his voice low, and when Phiale attempted to step in close to her lord, Lysimachos straight-armed her away — almost a blow. She turned on her heel and walked away down the steps of the temple.
If only I had thought to have assassins waiting for her. Stratokles watched her, and then looked back at Cassander, who was nodding. He looked at Lucius, and Lucius gave the smallest nod towards Phiale, and Stratokles blinked once. That was all. Lucius was gone in the swirl of his chlamys, away down the steps, apparently in the opposite direction from Phiale.
The King of Macedon brushed his cloak, bowed to the priestess of Hera, and walked carefully to Stratokles.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m in pain in the mornings, and I get pettish. We all know’ — the words seemed to come out of him like gallstones from a surgeon’s patient — ‘how much you’ve done for the alliance.’
Damn, that was good, Stratokles thought. I could die now.
Cassander lowered his voice. ‘I will not forget this,’ he said.
Stratokles met his eyes. ‘You mean, you will not forget that despite your best attempts to have me killed, I continue to serve your interests? I forget nothing, sir. I would have to offend you for years before I would hold myself avenged. But,’ he said mildly, ‘I am not master in this house. The object of this alliance is the destruction of Antigonus. Are we agreed?’
It took four days. But it turned out, in the end, that they had this in common — they hated Antigonus more than they hated each other.
Phiale broke every cup in her borrowed house. She went to the slave quarters and started on their pottery.
‘Satyrus isn’t even here!’ she roared.
Isokles shrugged. ‘He’ll have to come. Then I kill him.’
‘He isn’t coming!’ Phiale said. ‘Aphrodite, he must be guided by the gods. Or you have a spy in this house.’
Isokles crossed his arms. ‘Despoina, shut up. Listen. This is the heart of the alliance. This port receives their soldiers — this is their supply base. Ares’ rock-hard dick, he will come here in time, and I’ll have him. I have people in every warehouse, every pier, on the beaches, gate guards … this town is mine.’ He grinned. ‘He will sail in here, or march in here, and I’ll have him.’
Phiale threw another pot — a heavy water jug. The smash was satisfying.
‘What if he never comes here?’ she asked.
The Latin returned with a cut on his arm. ‘It’s like kicking a beehive,’ he said. ‘The killer she hired in Athens? I saw him. He’s got twenty soldiers and some local thugs.’
Stratokles made the same face that an armourer makes when looking at another craftsman’s shoddy work. ‘Amastris is getting sloppy,’ he said.
That evening he had a long talk with Banugul, one professional to another.
‘I need you to befriend Amastris,’ he said. ‘As one queen to another. She could be a useful ally, and she’s been infiltrated. Cassander — or Phiale — or maybe even Demetrios’s Neron. I’m not sure who they’re all working for but this town is full of bribes and traitors. And we need this town.’
Banugul smiled. ‘I admire your version of love talk.’ She nodded. ‘Heraklea would make me a good ally. Will you introduce us?’