Destroyer of Cities t-5

by Christian Cameron

‘You should see my sister fight,’ Satyrus said. ‘And I was pulling my attacks, you idiots.’

  Korus spat on the sand. ‘The music-maker doesn’t want to admit how easily you hit him. You don’t want to admit that you have no strength in your hand. You’re a pair of liars.’ He shrugged. ‘Tomorrow, in armour.’

  Three days of respite — Demetrios never left his camp.

  Three days of fighting on the sand of the palaestra, while the gymnasium itself vanished around them.

  The fourth day, Demetrios’ fleet moved forward. The Rhodians stood to. Satyrus ran from the sands of the palaestra, already armoured, when the alarm sounded from the Temple of Poseidon, Anaxagoras at his side. They went up the ladders together, onto the roof of Abraham’s house.

  ‘Get the marines formed — four streets back, and well spread out, so no one rock can kill them all,’ Satyrus barked at Apollodorus. ‘You are the reserve for this sector. Any questions?’

  Apollodorus got his chinstrap tied and nodded. ‘I hate this,’ he said. ‘I want to hit something.’

  Out in the harbour, a pair of light boats were manned. They were fire boats, directed by Menedemos. He intended to burn another engine-ship if he could.

  But Demetrios was on to a different tactic. His fleet came up to the seaward edge of the main harbour, but they stayed outside the mole, beyond the headlands that marked the small harbour. Five engine ships crept slowly across the mouth of the small harbour, and four dropped anchor just off the large harbour’s southern headland.

  In minutes, their lever arms were swinging and their stones began to fly — over the moles, over the harbour. They only had range to hit the northern and southern ends of town by the port, and about one hundred and fifty paces of wall at either end of the harbour.

  Just as quickly, refugees were pouring out of the threatened parts of the town. They fled to the temples, which were out of range of the current bombardment.

  At dark, the ships withdrew. The sea wall didn’t exist anywhere that the engine-ships could reach: from the harbour entrance, north and south, almost three hundred paces of wall had been reduced to pulverised clay, broken concrete and smashed stone. Dozens more were dead, and fires had started where panicked householders had abandoned homes while lamps were lit in household shrines.

  The northern quarter burned for two days. Panther ordered that the town’s reserve simply destroy two rows of houses to isolate the fire, and return to their duty.

  At the height of the fire, Demetrios sent ships into the harbour — thirty ships crammed with soldiers. But they had trouble navigating the wrecks, and there were dozens of Rhodian ships anchored, empty, in the shallow water by the beach under the sea wall, and despite damage, most of them had survived to impede navigation.

  Not a single enemy soldier got ashore, and Panther’s ruthlessness in abandoning the northern quarter to fire was proven sound.

  Four enemy triremes were caught and destroyed.

  On the seventeenth night of the siege, Panther, Damophilus and Menedemos each manned light guard ships in the dark, rowed silently out of the small harbour entrance and attacked the engine-ships with fire. Satyrus stood on the roof, unable to settle to sleep. The engine up there hadn’t fired in days — the enemy didn’t come within range — but the roof was the highest in the neighbourhood of the temples and Satyrus could see a long way.

  Anaxagoras came up the ladder while Satyrus sat. The attack was secret — so secret that Satyrus hadn’t even told Abraham — but everyone knew something was up.

  ‘Am I welcome here?’ Anaxagoras asked.

  Satyrus grunted. He was standing on top of the left-hand ballista for the added eight, watching the sea.

  ‘I brought wine,’ he said.

  Satyrus grinned in the dark. ‘Well, in that case. .’

  Anaxagoras handed up a metal cup and then clambered onto the other machine. ‘Night attack?’ he asked.

  Satyrus drank the wine in a single gulp. He was nervous, and angry — angry at his body for not being ready.

  ‘All of the commanders,’ he said. ‘All except me are out there on the water.’

  Anaxagoras nodded. ‘They’re amateurs,’ he said.

  Satyrus looked at him, but the musician was impossible to read in the moonless gloom.

  ‘I’m no soldier, but I’m a professional singer,’ Anaxagoras said. ‘I know how to plan and execute a big commission. A huge party, a temple entertainment — fifty musicians, ten pieces of music, a chorus, a sex act and a fighting act and a pair of famous lyre players — how to keep them all happy and together so that the client is happy.’

  Satyrus tried to get wine out of an empty cup. ‘Do you have more wine?’

  ‘Yes. Catch,’ Anaxagoras said, and threw something.

  Satyrus caught it — a wineskin — balanced on the main slide of the ballista, and was proud of the body he was rebuilding. He poured more wine. ‘You have the right of it,’ he said. ‘They don’t see the whole siege, just pieces of it. Demetrios will assault the harbour, perhaps tomorrow. But he’s been moving men around the city for days, and he’ll have a go at the land walls — another attempt at surprise, I expect. And the men of the city are as brave as lions, but they aren’t looking ahead and they won’t listen to me. They’re thinking in days. This siege will last a year. That is, if we are lucky enough to survive tomorrow.’

  Anaxagoras shuffled around in the dark. ‘A year?’

  Satyrus shrugged, not that the motion communicated anything. So he spoke. ‘At least. All Demetrios needs to do is realise that if he kills one of us for every fifteen of his men, he’ll win — and then we’ll be finished. So far, he has disdained such tactics.’

  Suddenly, there was fire on the water. One fire sprang up, and then another, and suddenly, as fast as Satyrus could take a breath, the fires leaped into pillars, the roar like the distant hum of bees.

  ‘Poseidon,’ Satyrus said. ‘Herakles, stand with us.’

  The flames grew until the whole area outside of the harbour was illuminated as if by daylight. The three Rhodian ships could be seen clearly, and a dozen enemy ships launching from the beach and a pair of guard ships already moving at ramming speed.

  One of the Rhodian ships got fire into a third target at the price of being rammed — hard.

  Satyrus writhed, his body moving to and fro as he tried to fight the battle himself.

  ‘You drinking all the wine?’ Anaxagoras asked.

  Satyrus threw the wineskin back, and the musician caught it. ‘Your arms are getting stronger,’ he said.

  Satyrus smiled to himself. ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘We’re not so different,’ Anaxagoras said.

  ‘No?’ Satyrus asked, his eyes glued to the fight beyond the harbour. There were four enemy ships around one Rhodian. The other two Rhodian ships had made their escape.

  ‘No. You’d rather be fighting — even at the risk of your life: you, a king, a rich man — than watching.’ Anaxagoras snorted.

  Satyrus saw that the third Rhodian ship had set herself on fire. That was courage. ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘I hate to watch, too. I have to play — whatever everyone else plays. Music. Games. Sword work.’ Anaxagoras snorted.

  Satyrus joined him. ‘It’s true,’ he laughed, although his heart was in his throat. Who had just died?

  ‘And we’re in love with the same woman,’ Anaxagoras went on. ‘I’m sorry about that.’

  Satyrus all but fell from the ballista. ‘What?’ he asked.

  ‘You want Miriam. So do I. I see how you look at her — Hades, I look at her the same way. I’d like to eat her raw, too.’ Anaxagoras laughed. It was not a happy laugh. ‘The thing is — you, the king — what can you offer her? I can give her music, and a good name. I would marry her, if Abraham would have me.’

  Now more ships were burning — the three enemies grappled to the Rhodian ships, dying in the fatal embrace. Someone had made a noble sacrifice. Who was it?

  ‘I’m doin
g this badly, lord. You have other things on your mind.’ Anaxagoras made a noise like a man choking.

  Satyrus jumped down from his ballista without another word, and then climbed down the ladder closest to him, ignoring Anaxagoras. He wasn’t ready to consider the validity of Anaxagoras’ claim — and he thought that he’d seen men going over the side of the distant burning ships.

  ‘Apollodorus!’ he called. ‘Marines!’

  He gathered the first dozen, with Idomeneus and some archers, and ran for the harbour mouth — slow going when they came to the edge of the southern quarter, where the buildings had been crushed as if by the hand of a god. They climbed across the rubble that covered the streets — whole houses collapsed, or walls that had fallen straight outward, dreadful footing — but the distance was short, and then they were on the breakwater of the small harbour. Satyrus led the marines and archers along.

  ‘Look for men swimming!’ he called.

  One of the enemy ships was looking for swimmers as well — a trireme. She came on strongly, her archers shooting down into the water, and Idomeneus began shooting at the archers. His men supported him, and the glare of the burning ships backlit the enemy, while Idomeneus and his archers were invisible in the darkness. In heartbeats, the enemy archers were shot silent.

  ‘I see men!’ Apollodorus called. ‘Spearmen, to me!’

  Idomeneus glanced at Satyrus. The enemy trireme was coming right in — it was possible she intended to land her marines on the breakwater to cut off the swimmers.

  ‘See if you can clear her command station,’ Satyrus said.

  ‘Aim amidships,’ Idomeneus sang out. ‘All together. Loose!’

  A dozen arrows flew, and then another dozen before the first had struck, and suddenly the enemy ship turned — not to port, away from the breakwater, but to starboard, and in two breaths she struck, at cruising speed, her ram hitting the piled stone of the ancient harbour mole from the time of Agamemnon and Achilles.

  Then the night was full of fighting. The enemy crew, desperate, poured over the side into the deep water and came up the side of the breakwater. Satyrus had only a half-dozen marines, and they had to move up and down the stone road on top of the harbour works, killing the men climbing.

  And they had to be careful, because from the first, some of the climbing men were friends — swimmers from the burning Rhodian ship.

  Satyrus stood at the head of an iron ladder built into the breakwater, and his shield felt as if it was made of iron on his shoulder — he could not remember feeling so tired before a fight. Some enemy had made it up this ladder or another, and most were unarmed or poorly armed, but Tyche sent a rush at him — three men in armour, who had clambered straight from the dying trireme onto the wharf, and a dozen unarmed sailors behind them — and he was alone.

  He kicked another man on the ladder and the poor wretch retreated, and then Satyrus set his shoulder and the rush came in.

  There was nothing he could do but retreat — he could not have held the head of the ladder even in top shape. He managed two good blows, both of which struck home, but not with enough strength, and neither of his first opponents fell.

  Back and back and back again, cursing his weakness. A shape beside him in the dark, swinging wildly, and men fell back before them — and now a flicker of light, a burst of flame and Satyrus lunged, changing feet, and his point sank into a man’s eye-slit and he died.

  And then — suddenly — the breakwater was covered in men. Menedemos brought his ship in close on the inside of the breakwater and landed his marines and his deck crew, and they stemmed the rush. As soon as they pushed past Satyrus, he fell to his knees — a few seconds of wrestling with his helmet and he vomited from fatigue.

  Anaxagoras held his hair out of the vomit, and then passed him a rag, silent in the fitful light of the dying ships.

  Satyrus got to his feet. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I think you saved my life,’ he continued.

  Anaxagoras grinned. ‘I think you saved mine, back in the fight at Salamis.’ He shrugged. ‘Even?’

  Satyrus couldn’t raise his arms above his shoulders. ‘I can’t help myself,’ he said.

  Anaxagoras nodded. ‘Me neither.’

  The Rhodians cleared the mole, killing every enemy on it and offering no mercy. All of the Rhodian swimmers were rescued, including the three men supporting Panther, who was still in armour and had nonetheless made it across the harbour.

  ‘There’s a man more tired than I am myself,’ Satyrus said. He went and embraced the old navarch.

  ‘Now he’ll go away,’ Panther gasped.

  Satyrus shook his head. ‘Now he’ll get serious,’ he said.

  21

  DAYS NINETEEN, TWENTY AND TWENTY-ONE

  The next morning, Demetrios stayed in his camp and the defenders slept. There were now two thousand people, free, slave, citizen and foreigner mixed, sleeping in the agora and on the open ground in front of the Temple of Poseidon, and families were building shacks from blankets, old sails, baskets — anything they could find. Wood was at a premium: Satyrus’ sailors had taken every bit of wood that could be spared, and men were cutting down the olive trees that grew in gardens.

  The sortie had destroyed three more engine-ships, leaving Demetrios with six. His engineers and slaves spent the nineteenth day of the siege hard at work, and thirty triremes escorted a dozen merchant ships away to the north.

  ‘What do you think he’s up to?’ Anaxagoras asked between bouts. Korus was leaning on his stick. They were in Abraham’s garden — there was no longer a gymnasium to visit.

  ‘Getting wood to build more engines,’ Satyrus said.

  Fighting in Abraham’s garden meant fighting where all the marines and sailors could watch. And Miriam, of course, who smiled at both men. And raised the intensity of the mock fighting enormously.

  Both of them were limping when they finished. Miriam had watched all of their bouts, and now, as Charmides went forward to fight Helios, she watched them, as well. Other marines were pairing up.

  ‘Have time for me?’ Abraham asked.

  He was wearing armour.

  Satyrus grinned. He took the practice sword from Anaxagoras’ hand.

  ‘Brother!’ he said, and they set to.

  Abraham was in good condition, but his technique was rusty and Satyrus drove him down the garden and then got a thrust to the abdomen.

  ‘I deserved that!’ Satyrus laughed.

  ‘I enjoyed it,’ Abraham said.

  He managed two more good bouts before fatigue crushed him, and he saw that Abraham was pulling his attacks, and raised his hand. ‘That’s it for me,’ he said, and the two embraced. ‘Good to see you in armour,’ he said. He went to stand with Apollodorus, watching the marines. He didn’t mean to stand where he could overhear Anaxagoras talk to Miriam. It just happened.

  ‘How odd men are,’ Miriam said to Anaxagoras. ‘My brother is here every day — but when he dons armour to be a killer, Satyrus loves him more.’

  Anaxagoras shook his head. ‘Nay, Despoina,’ he said. ‘It is far more complicated than that — as I think you know. War made them brothers. When Abraham is dressed as a Jew — I mean no offence — Satyrus doesn’t know what to make of him. But the king is courteous, and he loves your brother. But when your brother puts his armour on and shows his legs — why, that’s the man he knows; knows to the centre of his heart.’

  Miriam wasn’t visible to Satyrus. He wished he could see her face — she made an odd sound, almost like a moan. And he thought, Anaxagoras, you bastard — you’re right. And Abraham deserves better, however he’s dressed.

  And then they ate, and slept, and Demetrios launched his largest attack yet.

  Satyrus was caught by surprise — he’d expected Demetrios to be patient, get more wood from the mainland and continue his careful bombardment. It was, after all, a crushing strategy.

  Instead, at dawn on the twenty-first day, all six engine-ships came on, covered by a hundred triremes an
d two dozen penteres.

  The Rhodians scrambled for their defences. They got to their stations, and Satyrus had time, no matter how fast the enemy rowed, to alter his local dispositions. His was the responsibility for the centre of the sea wall. His work crews had laboured in secret for fifteen days. His sailors and marines manned some of the walls. His beloved Arete lay moored in front of the weakest wall section.

  ‘Apollodorus?’

  ‘Lord?’

  ‘All the marines into the reserve. The sailors have been training on the engines — let them take over. I want every armoured man ready to stem a breach — well back, all the way to the agora. I won’t lose one of you to bombardment — and my reading is that he’s going to bring the engines in close.’ Satyrus slapped him on his armoured shoulder. ‘Go.’

  ‘Yes, lord!’ Apollodorus saluted.

  Demetrios’ fleet formed off the small harbour and the large — and at a trumpet blast, a dozen triremes dashed into each harbour to be met by a hail of ballista bolts, fire arrows and spears.

  But it is difficult to sink a determined ship with bolts. The trireme’s oarsmen were brave, and they had been promised rich rewards for success. They drove their ships beak first into the moored defensive line — the wooden wall of ships defending the sea wall — and it burst into flame.

  ‘Shit,’ Satyrus said. One of the first ships to catch was Arete. And all he could do from his rooftop perch was to watch his beloved burn. It was like looking on at the death of a friend — a lover. A best-beloved. For three years of peace he had poured his desire for action, for a life outside the Euxine, into Arete. And she burned so fast — his dreams of freedom, his secret desire to sail away and leave Tanais to rot, never to attend a council of farmers, or count drachma when ordering statues — she burned, and he couldn’t tear his eyes from her, as she seemed to achieve some final perfection, as if the ship itself was summoned to Olympus and went through an apotheosis of fire.

  Demetrios had chosen his men well and planned carefully, and the whole line of the wooden wall caught fire and the sea wind pushed the smoke ashore, into the faces of the defenders. And while their eyes streamed and they choked on the smoke, the heavier ships entered the harbours, and the engine-ships behind them.