King of the Bosphorus

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Eumeles sat at a plain table on a stool made of forged iron, his long back as straight as the legs on his stool and his stylus moving quickly over a clean tablet. He pursed his lips when he inscribed a sloppy sigma in the red wax, and he rubbed it out fastidiously and went back to writing his list of requirements.

Most of his requirements had to do with money.

'The farmers are not used to a direct tax,' Idomenes, his secretary, said.

Eumeles glared at him. 'They'd best get used to it. This fleet is costing me everything in the treasury.'

Idomenes was afraid of his master, but he set his hip as if he was wrestling. 'Many won't pay.'

'Put soldiers to collecting,' Eumeles said.

'Men will call you a tyrant.'

'Men already call me a tyrant. I am a tyrant. I need that money. See that it is collected. These small farmers need some of the independence crushed out of them. We would grow more grain if we pushed out the Maeotae and used big estates – like Aegypt.'

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