Destroyer of Cities t-5

by Christian Cameron

  ‘By Hephaestos!’ Neiron said. He ran to one of the engines, and

  Satyrus to the other.

  Down in the courtyard, the slave-women had heated a pair of bolts — too much heat, in one case, so that the barbed point was deformed.

  ‘No matter,’ Satyrus said. ‘Load!’

  Men got the thing into the firing channel — already charred in places where hurried men had made mistakes — and winched the heavy cord back. Men were standing straighter, taking their time, making fewer mistakes — there were no stones falling. And, of course, Miriam and her women were on the roof, passing out bread — no marine wanted to be seen by a woman to flinch.

  ‘Ready!’ Necho said. Satyrus waved — the marines had practised all winter while he had lain helpless, and he wasn’t taking charge of a weapon now when there were men better fitted to shoot, but it galled him. He wanted to participate.

  He leaned over the roof, caught the eyes of the head woman and waved. ‘More missiles — four more, red hot, as fast as you can!’

  The woman all but saluted. She was enormously fat, and as strong as an ox, and she had mastered the heating of the heads without crisping the heavy shafts better and faster than any other person.

  ‘Hit!’ roared Neiron, and he turned but couldn’t see a thing. Neiron wore an unaccustomed grin, and he waved his absurd Boeotian hat at the enemy.

  Necho’s machine fired, and then they were raising the next pair of red-hot shafts, hurrying to avoid the moment when the shaft caught fire from the head. Satyrus could no longer see the principal target. But Helios could, and he leaned over to help Necho.

  After a pause, both machines let fly together with a crash that shook the roof.

  Far off, across the harbour, a tongue of flame leaped to the sky like a sacrifice to the gods.

  Satyrus joined the cheer, and even as they whooped the vast double-hulled leviathan caught — a single sheet of fire, and then two.

  But that was not the end, because now the burning ships were acting as a barrier to the escape of their other ships. Satyrus’ crews could no longer see anything for the smoke, but other machines on the other side of the harbour could, and they shot and shot again into the helpless enemy ships. It was over an hour before a handful escaped.

  Nineteen enemy ships burned in the harbour mouth, and the engine-ship’s double hulls were visible just above the surface of the water at low tide. Eight engine-ships slunk away, and Satyrus doubted that there was celebration in Demetrios’ tent that night.

  He sank onto his own bed, exhausted. He slept the afternoon away, dreamed of his father again, rose and dressed without help — little things were becoming easy again, and he was to begin pankration and swordsmanship again the next day. The thought cheered him.

  He awoke clear-headed — and with the memory of a dream of Herakles and a firm notion of his next step. He leaped from his bed, put on yesterday’s chiton without repinning it, buckled on a belt and was pleased to see that it was tight. He was so excited, he almost forgot sandals.

  He found Miriam outside his door — each as surprised as the other — and she froze like a deer caught by a stealthy hunter who does not use dogs.

  ‘I was-’ she said.

  ‘I’m awake,’ he said. ‘I have to talk to the boule.’

  She flushed. ‘Of course,’ she breathed.

  She smiled, and walked away down the hall. ‘Don’t be late,’ she called over her shoulder.

  Satyrus shook his head and walked down the steps without feeling light-headed — a matter of some pride — and then into Abraham’s receiving room, now one of the command stations of the defence.

  There were a dozen messengers waiting, and Panther, in full armour, seemed to be in charge.

  Satyrus shook his hand. ‘I wanted a word,’ he said. ‘With the whole boule, if I can manage it. Even as he said the words, it struck him. What was she doing outside my room? Was she about to come in? And then?

  His heart beat as if he was in combat.

  Panther put a hand on his shoulder. ‘You doing all right, lad?’

  Satyrus smiled. ‘The boule?’ he managed.

  Panther nodded. He wrapped his salt-stained military cloak around his shoulders, summoned a pair of ephebes as bodyguards and messengers and led Satyrus out of Abraham’s house. Together they walked up the street to the row of statues outside the Temple of Poseidon, and then left up the steepest of the hills to the agora. Everywhere they walked, there were dead and wounded people — men, women and children — the dead laid out on the street, many already wrapped in linen according to the Ionian custom, the wounded screaming or silent. A small boy lay with both of his feet crushed and amputated, his eyes huge, his mouth open and flies everywhere about him. A woman lay on a bier, the side of her head crushed so that her hair and the shards of her skull were a single grotesque shape — but she was alive. Alive, and lying on her funeral bier.

  ‘If your people want to surrender,’ Satyrus said, ‘tonight is the night.’

  ‘What?’ Panther asked. ‘This, from you?’

  Satyrus followed the Rhodian navarch into the agora — already, slaves were stripping the facade from the gymnasium to get at the big stones underneath the marble. But the round tholos of the boule was untouched, and they walked into the cool, shaded interior, which cut off the sounds from outside — the sounds of people dying.

  Panther led him into the main chamber, where thirty men — most in armour — sat on benches or lay on kline. There were charts, chalk drawings of parts of the walls and baskets of scrolls — every book in the city on the art of war was being devoured at speed by the government.

  ‘Satyrus of the Euxine would speak to us on matters that affect the city.’ Panther looked around. ‘I move that we allow him to speak.’

  Nicanor rose, red-eyed, from his couch. ‘He is a king and a tyrant. I stand against your motion.’

  But when the men present were summoned to vote, Panther’s motion carried easily.

  Panther spoke quietly to Satyrus. ‘I should have told you on the way, but your thoughts put my head in a whirl. Nicanor’s sons — two of them — died in the collapse of the tower.’

  Satyrus nodded. Then he stood in the centre of the floor.

  ‘Demetrios will be as mad as Ares tonight, but he’s had his first taste of defeat. Look — this is my opinion, nothing more — but in some ways, Nicanor has a point. We do think much the same, Demetrios and I — we are kings, we are used to getting our way. And surrender — a surrender that keeps the city intact and your families alive — gentlemen, I’ll fight as long as it takes, but let’s not kid ourselves. You’ve seen what just half an hour of bombardment does. Just imagine — imagine that we survive the harbour attack. And I think that we will. Then — then he builds more of those engines, and goes after the land wall — and there’s nothing to sink. My mathematics says he can concentrate a hundred engines on fifty paces of wall. We won’t even be able to hit back. Every day he’ll clear another fifty paces of wall. A breach a day.’ Satyrus shrugged.

  ‘You are in favour of surrender?’ Nicanor asked. ‘Surely this is a sudden reversal?’

  Satyrus bit his lip. ‘No. First, I doubt he’ll accept. Second, he’s as likely to butcher us after we surrender as anything. He respects nothingbut his father’s will. But if the boule is still set on this course, the time will never be better.’

  Panther nodded. ‘I am still against it,’ he said.

  Nicanor made a face. ‘I have only one son left to me. People died today. We lost almost a twelfth of the total citizenship of military age in one day. I am surprised that Satyrus the Tyrant has come around to my way of thinking — but I move that we take his advice and send a deputation.’

  Satyrus gave the man a wry smile. ‘Who will lead this deputation? He has the bodies of your last ambassadors crucified on his camp walls.’

  Damophilus rose. ‘I think that Satyrus seeks only to show us all the possible paths. And I, for one, would not trust
Demetrios to count the coins in a warehouse. I say we fight. I will go farther, gentlemen. I say we need a centralised command. I move that we appoint Panther as polemarch — as war archon. And three strategoi, as in former times, to command the city.’

  Nicanor rose. ‘This is the first breath of tyranny. Let this city be governed as she has always been governed — worthily governed by men of worth.’ Nicanor looked around. ‘And who are these strategoi? Yourself, Damophilus?’

  Panther rose and thumped the floor with a spear. ‘We are not barbarians. Vote the items as moved, one at a time. For the creation of an embassy of surrender?’

  Almost five hundred citizen soldiers had already perished. Many had been in the tower when it collapsed — the Rhodians had thought it impregnable. More were in their homes, or on the sea wall, or simply unlucky. And citizen women, children, slaves — the casualties from the initial bombardment were staggering.

  A twelfth of the citizen population was already dead. By the twists of bright Tyche, six of the dead were oligarchs — and members of the boule. And not one of the Demos party or the Navarch party had died yet.

  So, by luck, the domination of the boule by the oligarchs had been broken in the first hail of the besieger’s engines.

  The vote to surrender failed by three votes.

  Only then did Panther and his allies realise that they had the boule. Nicanor was a proud man — and a mournful one. He rose, pulled his himation about him and stared at them all.

  ‘Now you will order everything your own way — and you will fail. Democrats can never govern — the so-called people lack the arete to succeed. When the conquerors are riding your daughters like whores, do not look to me.’ He turned to go.

  Panther raised his arm. ‘Nicanor — you are grieving, and any mortal man would do the same. Stay, and help us choose our strategoi. It is in my mind that you should be one of them. Why not? You are a worthy man, a good spear-fighter and you lead a party that is of account. Let us not count every vote. Let us act together for the good of the city.’

  Nicanor paused in the doorway. ‘You seek only to catch me in the toils of your own failure.’

  Panther made a dismissive noise. ‘Nicanor, I am a sailor. When the storm blows, I do not ask the oarsmen for advice. Nor do drowning men criticise me if I’m wrong. If we fail, there will be no politics in this city, because we’ll all be dead.’

  Nicanor had more dignity in defeat and anger than he did in victory. ‘No. I will serve on the walls, but I will not lead. I resign my seat. Good day to you.’ He turned and walked through the door. Two of the younger oligarchs rose to follow him — Hellenos and Socrates — but they paused.

  Damophilus intercepted them at the door and spoke to them, and they returned to their couches.

  The boulechose Panther to command the defence. And then the bouleelected Satyrus of the Euxine to be a member. No one present was more surprised than Satyrus.

  He was led to a couch, and Menedemos, the young aristocrat, but a democrat, came and lay by him. ‘You are an aristocrat like us,’ he said fiercely. ‘We play kithara with your friend Anaxagoras and we know you are one of us — Nicanor is blind with grief.’

  Satyrus shrugged. ‘I’m a king,’ he said. ‘And my people were aristocrats in Athens and Plataea since the time of the gods.’

  Menedemos nodded. ‘Exactly. And you are friends with Panther — and with Damophilus. The three of you will unite the parties.’

  ‘I am a foreigner,’ Satyrus whispered.

  Menedemos laughed aloud. ‘You are a king, and all the foreigners know you. There are a thousand metics in this city. Many are worthy men: Abraham the Jew-’

  ‘Is a citizen now, but I agree he’s a worthy man.’ Satyrus looked at the other man — who was his own age, or even a little older. ‘Where is this going?’

  Menedemos pointed at Panther. The navarch rose.

  ‘I move that the bouleappoint me three strategoi for the conduct of the siege,’ he said. ‘I request Damophilus son of Menander, Menedemos son of Menedemos and Satyrus son of Kineas.’

  Satyrus lay back and laughed. ‘Now I see,’ he said.

  DAYS ELEVEN TO EIGHTEEN

  Satyrus stood on the sand of the gymnasium’s palaestra — still smooth under his feet, but a breeze blew across the sand where the whole front wall had been removed, quarried for stone.

  He was naked, holding a wooden sword, his left arm wrapped in his chlamys. Anaxagoras faced him. The musician had never been trained as a swordsman, and wished for lessons. Korus stood by them with a heavy staff. Satyrus was covered in sweat, and Anaxagoras gleamed only with oil, having just arrived.

  ‘Again,’ Korus growled.

  Satyrus moved forward in the guard position, left leg advanced and left arm steady and high, the trailing folds of the cloak covering his side and leg, the cloak weights in the embroidered border holding the edge down. His sword arm was well back, so that his opponent could not easily get control of the sword — his right elbow was cocked back, almost like a boxer ready to throw a punch — the tip of the blade was high, pointing at his opponent’s neck.

  Anaxagoras smiled. ‘I’m not convinced that a man can learn anything from a “sword master”,’ he said. ‘Does Xenophon not say that holding a blade is natural to every boy?’

  Satyrus nodded across the wooden blades. ‘I’m not sure I’m strong enough to demonstrate the superiority of art over ignorance. But ask yourself, music teacher: how well does that same boy do at playing the kithara — with his natural skill?

  Anaxagoras stood square on to Satyrus, sword well out, cloak held close to his body.

  He grinned. ‘I certainly cede the point intellectually. Well hit.’

  Satyrus found it hard to dislike the musician, even when he had seen him standing at the entry to the women’s quarters, exchanging witticisms with Miriam in the early-morning light while she coached her women on their weaving.

  He smiled, and his cloak arm moved a fraction — he slid forward half a step, and his cloak arm shot out, pinned Anaxagoras’ sword and his own sword tapped his opponent on the throat — hard enough to make the musician stumble back in pain.

  Very satisfying, really.

  When Anaxagoras came back on guard, his face was flushed. ‘Trick,’ he growled, and sprang forward, his sword swinging in vicious arcs. Satyrus ducked, parried with his sword and rolled his wrist, clipping Anaxagoras on the side of the head — a blow which he carefully pulled.

  The big musician didn’t pause, but cut back.

  Satyrus blocked that blow, using the heaviest part of his wooden sword closest to his hand, and the two swords locked for a moment and Anaxagoras, even at a mechanical disadvantage, easily pushed Satyrus down and away — but Satyrus sprang back, substituting training for strength, and extended his sword, which Anaxagoras ran on — too late: he swung his sword, failing the parry and smacking Satyrus’ right arm so hard that he dropped his weapon.

  ‘I killed you twice, you ignorant fuck,’ Satyrus said angrily.

  ‘You never touched me!’ Anaxagoras laughed. ‘Just as I thought — you dance around and I hit you anyway.’

  ‘I hit you on the head and I just poked you in the gut,’ Satyrus said.

  ‘Not hard enough to do any damage,’ Anaxagoras said. ‘Don’t be a poor loser. Is this something about being a king? If I knew I had to lose, I’d have been better prepared.’

  Satyrus felt the blood rush to his face. For a moment, he actually saw red. Then he counted — ten, nine, eight — slowly down to one. At the end, he took three deep breaths and set himself to guard. He was covered in sweat and his arms hurt, and he was naked. In armour — even light armour — he would already be exhausted.

  ‘Ready,’ he said.

  This time, Anaxagoras put his cloak well out in front and ran at him, sword swinging.

  Satyrus didn’t move. Choosing his moment precisely, he punched with his cloak and swung his sword the same way. Even through his wrapped cloak, Anaxa
goras’ blow stung his arm. But Satyrus’ blade caught the musician’s out-thrust shin and the man went down like a sacrificial ram.

  ‘Gods curse you, arse-cunt!’ Anaxagoras said angrily. He rolled to his feet and thrust at Satyrus, who stepped back. Anaxagoras lunged forward, off balance, his sword held clumsily across his body, and Satyrus stepped forward, shoved the sword into the out-thrust cloak and put his wooden blade into his opponent’s armpit. ‘Don’t be ruled by anger, musician,’ he said.

  Anaxagoras didn’t pause: he cut overarm, a wild Harmodius blow, one, two, three, as fast as he could, heavy blows that jarred Satyrus’ arm and made his jaw ache.

  Satyrus punched his opponent in the gut with his cloak hand. Once, it would have been a stout blow, even for a left-handed jab. Now it was merely a poke. But Anaxagoras flinched away from it, and Satyrus rolled his blade off the other man’s clumsy attempt to stop-cut and jabbed the blade where the punch had gone.

  Anaxagoras didn’t stop coming. But Satyrus was used to his rage now — he spun back, ducked, and caught the blow on his cloak and it stung.

  There was a crack, and Anaxagoras stopped, stunned.

  Korus had hit him with his staff. ‘Stop, now,’ he said.

  Anaxagoras stopped. He was bleeding in three places: one was his head, where Satyrus’ second blow had caught him. He was breathing hard. The fire died away from his eyes, and he dropped his oak sword.

  ‘Oh, lord, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘The fire comes on me. . fuck. You hurt me. I’m an arsehole.’

  Satyrus hadn’t seen the musician like this — angry, or remorseful.

  ‘You scared me, Anaxagoras,’ he said.

  ‘Me too,’ Korus said. ‘You kill him, I lose my freedom.’ The trainer grinned.

  Anaxagoras hung his head. ‘Sorry,’ he said.

  Satyrus dropped his cloak. The welt on his cloak arm was red and livid and already raised in a long ridge. ‘You hit hard.’

  Anaxagoras nodded. ‘I find that it works, in combat.’

  Satyrus had to smile.

  Korus nodded. ‘You hit like a girl,’ he said to the king of the Euxine.