Satyrus waited, looking for a signal, a wave, an invitation – anything to suggest that his uncle had a plan. Next to him, on his own deck, Abraham Ben Zion shook his head. ‘Where did a pissant tyrant like Eumeles get so many ships?’ Satyrus didn’t turn his head. He was still waiting for the signal. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. His dreams of being king of the Bosporus this autumn were fading rapidly, rowed into froth by the sixty or seventy triremes that Eumeles of Pantecapaeum, his mother’s murderer, had somehow mustered. Leon had stopped talking to his helmsman. He came to his rail and put his hands to his mouth. ‘Lay alongside me!’ he called. Satyrus turned and nodded to his own helmsman, Diokles, a burly man whose curling dark hair showed more Phoenician than Greek. ‘Alongside the Lotus,’ Satyrus said. Diokles nodded. ‘Alongside it is, sir.’ Satyrus owned only one ship, and that by the laws of war. The year before, he had taken the Black Falcon in a sea fight off the coast of the Levant in a rising storm.
What do You think about Tyrant: King Of The Bosporus?
