Destroyer of Cities t-5

by Christian Cameron

  Then their engines began to range the sea wall. They were shooting blind, into the smoke — but they had engineers who had been trained by philosophers and mathematicians, and they had the range from other forays into the harbour. The deadly hail crushed the sea wall in three places, opening breaches as wide as a small ship was long. Two hours into the action, as the waves lapped over the waterline of the blackened Arete and she sank in the shallow water, extinguishing the last fire in the harbour, and the air cleared, the whole force moved in, undeterred by the defender’s desperate counter-barrage. The harbour was filled with enemy ships. The two rooftop ballistae shot as fast as bolts could be provided — a few red hot from the kitchens, most cold and straight.

  In the harbour, enemy ships caught fire, enemy captains fell, enemy oarsmen died, but still the fleet pressed forward — and now the great engine-ships raised their aim points. Their big stones ceased to fall on the sea wall. They shot a hundred paces further inland, creating a line of destruction far behind the wall.

  ‘He’s cutting the beach off from the town,’ Satyrus said. He shook his head. ‘He’s good. I hadn’t thought of using the big engines to keep men away.’

  Anaxagoras ducked as a stone whistled past close by and crushed the rubble of the house behind Abraham’s — again.

  ‘Here they come,’ Satyrus said. ‘Now we see.’ He turned to Helios. ‘Get Abraham.’

  In moments, his friend was beside him in the street. Satyrus took him aside, into the courtyard. He motioned to Anaxagoras to join them.

  ‘Abraham,’ he said. ‘The town may fall in the next hour.’

  ‘I know,’ Abraham said.

  ‘If you agree, I will leave Helios here to kill. . your sister.’ Satyrus shrugged. ‘Anaxagoras, am I wrong?’

  The musician shook his head. ‘No.’

  But Abraham shook his head. ‘It is taken care of,’ he said. ‘I thank you for your. . thought. But she has her own way.’

  Satyrus nodded. ‘Good, then. Let’s be to work.’

  He saw Miriam at the window of her weaving room. He waved.

  She didn’t wave back.

  The streets were grim. The air was full of smoke and dust, and splinters and shards of rock had hurt many people, so that slaves and injured children drifted listlessly, or ran screaming.

  Satyrus moved forward through the rubble. The closer he got to the sea wall, the worse the destruction was. Many of the stones had missed, and fallen on the town. The worse for his plan.

  By the time he reached the sea wall — or the rubble of the sea wall; a continuous breach for four hundred paces, now — the enemy was beaching thirty light ships, all packed with soldiers. Two were already on fire — one had taken a ballista bolt right into the packed phalangites — but the others came on, and the men leaped into the shallow water and came up the beach screaming.

  Picked men, all volunteers. Veterans of fifty actions, hard Macedonians, Greeks and Asians who had faced cavalry and elephants and fire and sword for twenty years, they came up the beach into arrows so thick they seemed the embodiment of wind. Men fell, and more pressed behind them. Dozens died. Dozens fell wounded, and more than a few cowered in the bilges of their light assault boats and refused to press ashore — but two thousand men set foot on the beach and most of them crossed the shingle to the foot of the breach.

  It was darkly comic, like Menander’s best work, that Demetrios had forty thousand soldiers and yet his assaults were limited by the number of men he could fit into ships and cram through the small harbour entrance. If he’d been able to fill the beach with men — even four thousand men — the town would have fallen in minutes.

  Satyrus waited in his defences. Two weeks of work by his sailors and the town slaves. Was he right? Did Demetrios suspect?

  The town’s half-finished, badly mauled sea wall didn’t even slow the Macedonian professionals, and they were into the streets.

  ‘Stay together!’ an officer called. ‘No looting until the garrison’s dead!’

  They cheered like madmen. They were in the town, their ships dominating the harbour-

  Satyrus watched them come.

  The lead men were dying under renewed archery volleys — stronger, if anything, than before. And now the Macedonian officers began to raise their heads and see.

  A city block behind the sea wall was another wall, disguised among the houses. It was built of rubble and the stones of the Temple of Apollo and the gymnasium. It was only twice the height of a man, and instead of towers, the biggest houses had been crudely reinforced and loop-holed. Every archer in the town was in the houses, and they shot into the packed Macedonians like hunters killing a herd of netted deer.

  The Macedonians screamed in fear and in rage, and they didn’t break. They went up the narrow streets between the loop-holed houses. They were veterans. They took the casualties to get them to the wall, because they knew to a man that the only way out was forward.

  Satyrus had seen second-rate Macedonians at Gaza. But he had never seen the ferocity of the best of them: the old farmers of Pella, the men whose courage had made Alexander master of Asia. They roared like the lion roars when trapped in the barnyard by the herdsmen, trying to attack the cattle in the barn on a cold winter’s night and now, cornered, too angry to run. They bellowed, and they climbed their own dead to get over the walls.

  They gained the top of the wall in three places. In two, local counter-attacks cleared them — later, Satyrus learned that Idomeneus, the finest archer he knew aside from his sister, had led his unarmoured Cretans out of their houses into the flanks of a breakthrough.

  But that was later. Right in the centre, where they received some supporting fire from the engines on their ships, the Macedonians went up the wall three times, and on the third attempt, climbing a hundred corpses to reach with heavy hands for the lives of the defenders, they crossed the wall, gave a great cheer and roared into the town.

  Satyrus turned to Charmides. ‘Get Apollodorus,’ he said. ‘Don’t die on the way.’

  He had Anaxagoras and Helios, Abraham and a dozen half-armoured sailors.

  Neiron’s hand closed like a vice on his shoulder. ‘Not you, lord.’

  Satyrus shook his head. ‘Every man. I have armour.’

  Neiron shook his head. ‘You are rash.’

  Satyrus caught their eyes, tied his cheek-plates down and hefted his spear. His shield threatened to drag him down. He ignored his fatigue. ‘Ready?’

  The men around him growled. Sailors were pouring off the roof of Abraham’s house. The street was full: from side to side it wasn’t much wider than a chariot, and thirty men filled it six deep.

  Anaxagoras looked at him, huge and ferocious in a leering bronze helmet — a Thracian with a wicked faceplate. ‘At least stand in the second rank,’ he said.

  ‘Never,’ Satyrus said. He could see Miriam on the roof, watching. At some remove, he knew that he was a fool, a rash boy, but Miriam was standing right there and he was the King of the Bosporus, not some shirking second-ranker.

  The Macedonians paused at the edge of the street, cheered and charged.

  ‘Charge!’ Satyrus roared.

  They pounded down the street at the enemy, sandals slapping. A Macedonian caught his foot on rubble and fell — the enemy charge faltered, but the men were trained and they flowed around the fallen man and came on.

  Satyrus wished that he was stronger, and then the daemon came to him, and he ran-

  Both sides slowed as shields came together. Neither side had sarissas — the huge long pikes that Macedonians carried in open warfare. They were too long for siege work, and the enemy phalangites had javelins and longche, the sort of spear that Greek cavalrymen and hunters carried. They had the smaller round shields as well, and Satyrus and his companions had the advantage at contact. Satyrus put his shoulder down, and his shield face slammed into an enemy-

  And he was knocked flat, the man stepped on him and died, his blood all over Satyrus’ face as he tried
to rise, and a blow rang off his helmet and he was down again, something heavy on his legs. Another man stepped on his shield and his shoulder shrieked with pain. For a moment he was twelve years old, fighting in the dark beneath Philokles’ feet when assassins attacked their house in Heraklea. He let go of his spear, got the sword out of his scabbard under his armpit and hurt himself as someone kicked his out-thrust right elbow — lost the sword, took a blow to his helmet.

  It was tempting to give up and lie flat, but his city was dying. He got his shield arm out of the porpax of his shield, fought the wave of pain and put his left hand under himself, pulled at his legs and began to drag them free — there were dead men on his legs and hips — a shield slammed into his head and he went down again, and he was on his chest now, eyes full of stars and a forest of legs and hips above him, the star of Macedon on the shields. Satyrus found his sword hilt under his hand and he cut up with his xiphos and the blow had little strength, but the edge and point went into a man’s groin and the man screamed and folded, falling right onto Satyrus’ outstretched sword arm; he lost his grip on the sword. Another blow to his back and he was down, and the weight on his back was so great that he wondered if he was to be crushed alive. Men died above him, and now he was imprisoned, someone was screaming curses inside his helmet-

  Darkness.

  HERAKLEA, SPRING, 305 BC

  ‘Satyrus of the Bosporus is dead.’

  It was said in the agora and in the barracks, in the private houses where merchants lived, in bedchambers and in andron. Some said it with conviction, and some said it with hesitation.

  In the citadel of the city, high above all the other whispers, Stratokles of Athens sat on an ebony chair in his mistress’s presence, a bag of scrolls by his side. He lifted another scroll — his third of this stormy meeting — cracked the seal and read the long, florid salutation aloud.

  ‘To the Divine Amastris, light-bringer, herald of beauty, beloved of Aphrodite and Athena, this humble supplicant sends greetings, beseeching your Divine Majesty for your continued protection and favour.’ Stratokles looked up and raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m so glad we don’t pay by the word. However, Phiale is an old and trusted agent — ha, although the mere use of the word old will probably cause her pain from here. And there it is, Despoina — Satyrus is dead. Died of some sort of poisoned wound, or perhaps a fever, oh, a month ago or more.’

  Amastris picked up a fine pnyx of Aegyptian alabaster, looked at it for three full heartbeats and slammed it into the wall by her head. It shattered into a thousand shards, which a pair of slaves leaped to clear away before she stepped on them and had the pair beaten for their failure.

  Stratokles watched her, and he winced — his persistent fondness for the woman was often jarred by the blinding selfishness of her rages. The way she weighed an item before destroying it. . In other rages he’d watched her pick up an item she actually liked, weigh it, and then place it back on her side table. She never seemed to destroy anything that she truly valued.

  ‘He is not dead,’ she shrieked. ‘I will not believe it!’

  Stratokles was careful to keep any expression off his face. ‘There is always some small chance, my dear. But he was on Rhodes, facing Demetrios. He chose to support the doomed city — against our interests, may I remind you. And now he’s paid the price. You may be as angry as you please with the fates — rage against the Moirai if you will — but it is time we faced facts. You weren’t going to marry him anyway. . were you?’

  He hadn’t meant to say it; it was a nasty truth, the sort of thing that a careful politician like Stratokles kept between his teeth, the sort of knowledge that could constitute power if used carefully. But sometimes her selfish, pretended devotion annoyed him, and this time it got the better of him.

  ‘I — love — Satyrus,’ she spat at him. Her favourite maid — the Keltoi girl — was on her hands and knees, picking up bits of the destroyed pnyx as fast as she could. Amastris emphasised her love by kicking at the girl viciously to clear her path across the floor. ‘How dare you, you Athenian scum, pretend you have no finer feelings. Get out of my sight!’

  Stratokles leaned back in his chair. ‘No,’ he said. He was having one of those moments when he rebelled — he often deplored the results, but he couldn’t resist the opportunity to show her to herself. ‘Stop abusing your slaves and pay attention to me, young lady. Antigonus and his golden son have risked everything — everything — to take Rhodes. By all accounts, they are winning. Your father had a close alliance with them — we must have a closer. And Satyrus is dead. His sister has vanished into the east and if we’re lucky, she’s dead, too. This is our moment. Get a hold of yourself, get some warships together and send your father’s bodyguard in those ships to aid Demetrios — a public avowal. He’s going to need ships and men — a siege like this one will eat men like a pig eats cabbage. Get his alliance — his approval — and then move on Tanais. It can be ours by the end of the summer. There’s no one to stop us — their fleet is all away. Probably destroyed.’

  Amastris threw herself on the curtained bed. She sobbed inconsolably, for several minutes and then, like a child, she sat up. ‘Who do you see me marrying?’ she asked.

  Stratokles nodded. This was the princess he loved. It often took time to reach her, but the trip was always worthwhile in the end. ‘I see several possibilities,’ he said. ‘If you are willing to be queen to the Emperor of the World, I think you could do worse than Demetrios. He’s beautiful, he’s going to own the whole of the ocean sea-’

  Amastris shook her head. ‘I never want to be second,’ she said. ‘Although he is beautiful, and I remember that he has this delicious belief that he is more than mortal — it’s the most gorgeous thing about him. Perhaps I can. . befriend him, before I wed.’

  Stratokles laughed. ‘Or after, dear.’ Amastris had seldom gone a month without a lover, and he didn’t expect that the future would be any different.

  ‘So, if not the great man himself, you might take any number of local men and make them your consort. Melitta’s mercenary commander — he’ll need to be bought anyway — he’s handsome and he’s nobody.’ Stratokles laughed. ‘Once we have Tanais, we can always make him go away.’

  ‘Anyone else?’ she asked, dangling her feet over her head as she lay on her stomach. She danced constantly, with a dedication that belied her apparent sloth — she had the body of a temple dancer, and in fact she often led the religious dances in person. She was remarkably flexible, and Stratokles had to look away. She did it on purpose: he knew it, she knew it. And yet she could tie him in knots.

  She smiled, her eyes already losing their red rims. ‘What about young Herakles?’ she asked. Banugul’s son — the last surviving child of Alexander’s body. Not born within wedlock, of course. But Stratokles had him, and his mother. . hidden away, he wouldn’t tell anyone where.

  ‘He’s a little younger than you,’ Stratokles said, rubbing his beard. ‘And to be honest, his time is not yet. My instincts tell me that Antigonus will make a mistake — and then it will be time for my boy.’ Stratokles looked at her. ‘You’re both young. Time to wed the mercenary, ride him for a year or two and then see what’s on the horizon.’

  ‘Queen of the Euxine. Queen of the Bosporus.’ Amastris smiled. ‘Girl, what are you doing on the floor?’

  The slave flinched, but Amastris merely smiled. To Stratokles she said, ‘And what of Lysimachos?’

  ‘Lysimachos and Cassander must be at their wits’ end,’ Stratokles said. ‘Lysimachos can only prosper if Asia and Europe are at war and he controls the middle ground. Cassander will lose Greece as soon as Antigonus had dealt with Rhodes and Aegypt. The handwriting is on the wall, dear. But — let us not jump too fast. You have a great deal to offer, and the time is at hand to increase your flocks. Make Demetrios your ally and then take Tanais, Olbia and Pantecapaeaum. We’ll need more troops — perhaps Demetrios will rent them to us when Rhodes falls.’

  She made a moue, then smiled.
‘You have it all thought out, as usual.’

  Stratokles raised an eyebrow. ‘If you agree, you must send ships for Demetrios. And we need to deal with your father’s captain, Nestor. He doesn’t approve of you.’

  Amastris smiled in a way that showed her teeth, like a predator, without reaching her eyes. ‘I think that mostly he disapproves of you, dear advisor.’

  Stratokles returned the smile, tooth for tooth. ‘I think that in this situation our interests run in harness like a chariot team.’

  Amastris watched her maids on the floor for a hundred heartbeats. ‘What do you have in mind? I could send him with Uncle’s men to Rhodes.’

  Stratokles shrugged. ‘That’s a short-term solution.’

  ‘And you can go in command,’ she said.

  BOOK FOUR

  DEMETRIOS’ CAMP, ISLE OF RHODES, LATE SPRING, 305 BC

  Stratokles watched his mistress flirt with Demetrios with all the unease of a father watching his daughter flirt with a pimp.

  He was forced to admit that at some level, they belonged together. He had seldom seen two such perfect bodies, each with the same blaze of golden hair, and they seemed to recognise something in each other — something that allowed self-love to be interpreted as love.

  And she was coy with the golden man, in a way she was seldom coy. Five days in his camp, and his hands had yet to touch her body. Stratokles had to give her full marks for discipline, in this instance. She was not Banugul. She had other strings to her bow, other arrows in her quiver.

  ‘I take it that you have brought me here to see me die?’ Nestor asked him. The black giant was standing at his shoulder.

  Stratokles had many faults, but cowardice was not among them. So he didn’t flinch, even in his heart. ‘We’re not exactly friends, are we, Nestor?’

  Nestor shook his head. ‘No.’