Destroyer of Cities t-5

by Christian Cameron

  Melitta rode in close. She reined in her horse just two horse lengths from him.

  ‘What do you offer me for your life?’ she asked.

  ‘Fuck you!’ he roared.

  She shot him contemptuously, so that her arrow tore into his groin and he fell to the ground screaming.

  ‘Goodbye, Parni,’ she yelled. ‘Don’t come across my river again.’

  She and the bodyguard and all the Greeks galloped away, out of the bloodstained snow and the fire-stained camp and into the darkness.

  On the high ridge above the camp of the Parni, she met the other bands — Tuarn with his Crows, bundled like children in the cold air, and Listra with her warriors, and behind her, the snow was black with horses.

  ‘How will we ever get them all home?’ Tuarn laughed.

  ‘Let’s find out,’ Melitta said. ‘The Parni will not lie down and take this. In the morning, they will count their dead and find our tracks and they will be on us.’

  Scopasis shook his head. ‘They will count the horse herd gone, and they will despair. And the horses will cover our tracks so that they will never know how few we are.’

  A deep male voice spoke in the dark. ‘Why not take the short road home, lady?’

  Diodorus rode out of the darkness, and Melitta embraced him.

  Scopasis made a face behind him.

  ‘He’d already rescued himself,’ Scopasis said, and spat. ‘All I did was escort him.’

  Diodorus shook his head. ‘No — I count this as rescue,’ he said. ‘Seleucus will love you for this, Melitta. The Parni have been a threat to him for two years — invincible. Now they won’t seem like such a tough nut.’ Diodorus shivered. ‘May I suggest you ride south? We can be out of Bactria in two days.’

  ‘South will put no horses on my grass,’ Melitta said.

  ‘Sell them to Seleucus and sail home,’ Diodorus said. ‘You’ve come five hundred parasangs. Why go home that way?’

  ‘He has a point,’ Coenus said.

  Her tribal leaders looked troubled, but no sooner was the press of combat off her breast than she wanted to be home. Months in the saddle for a night of fire — it was time to leave.

  ‘How long to Persopolis?’ she asked.

  ‘Thirty days?’ Diodorus suggested. ‘I took fifty getting here.’

  She nodded, and they rode south and west.

  South and west was like riding into spring, so that after just four days of riding down the passes out of Bactria, they had grass for the horse herd and no snow. The ground was soft and muddy, and they lost the smaller horses.

  The third night out of Ganax’s camp, Scopasis caught a pair of Parni scouts and killed them and left their bodies in the muddy tide left by the passage of so many horses. Every man had many horses now, and the Assagetae and the Greeks moved like the wind, riding and changing horses every hour; the likelihood of traps or pursuit began to look remote.

  Tuarn rode up beside her on the fourth day.

  ‘This will live for ever in the memory of the people,’ he said. ‘But I do not want to ride to Persopolis. Many visits make long delays. We should come on the Kaspian Sea from the south — just ten days’ ride. We can be in the high ground of Colchis by the first moon of summer.’ He grinned. ‘And keep this horse herd. And lady — I speak not as a Ghan but as a man — when you bring these horses home, no clan will ever question you again. Do not sell them to the Seleucids. They have more value on the hoof — they show the length of your reach.’

  An hour later, Scopasis rode up beside her and said nearly the very same.

  So on the fiftieth day, she embraced Diodorus and sent him on his way south with a hundred horses and all the goods he had rescued and most of Nikephorus’ men — all perfectly happy to accept extra land grants to get back to civilisation all the faster. Alexander of Phokis led them, and he saluted his captain and the Lady of the Assagetae, and then they rode away into a light rain.

  And Melitta turned her column north and west, towards Hyrkania, Colchis and home.

  23

  Herakles, massive muscles rolling at the strain, locked in a straight pull — with Apollo, Lord of the Golden Bow. Apollo’s physique is slimmer: he is the eternal naioi, the eternal ephebe, the image of strong youth, while Herakles is the warrior’s epitome. They are well matched.

  Between them, a tripod, wrought in bronze — the sacred tripod that supports the priestess at Delphi, the very symbol of potent and accurate prophecy. Both strain to hold the tripod, to wrest it from the other.

  Even as he watches, the tripod goes through a transfiguration — it lengthens and changes and becomes richer, fuller, the gleam of the bronze becomes a different highlight, and suddenly it is a woman caught between two men, one holding each arm, pulling, and she-

  The mathematics of Pythagoras, made incarnate in colour and shape, perfect circles falling from the sky, one at a time, first slowly and then faster, and now Apollo’s hands are on his lyre and Herakles dances the Pyrriche with heavy feet, the rhythm of his right foot like the beating of his heart, and the circles of white burst as they touch the lyre in a riot of colour — colour that leaps away in waves that are themselves the embodiment of another mathematics. More and more — the circles, the waves, the lyre of Apollo and the great god dancing-

  The notes leaped from the strings to fall through the air — no, Satyrus thought, the notes rolled through the air like wind rolls through tall barley.

  ‘You’re awake,’ Anaxagoras said. He put his kithara down on the table next to him, laying the instrument reverentially on a cloth. ‘How’s your head?’

  Satyrus took a deep breath. He hurt everywhere. His lungs seemed to hurt, and his arms had bruises and lacerations — deep cuts up on the biceps.

  ‘Herakles, stand by me,’ he said. He raised his head, and a smith’s hammer of pain hit him right between the eyes, and he fell back onto his pillow.

  ‘I — what happened?’ Satyrus asked.

  ‘You tried to fight in the front rank while you were forty pounds underweight,’ Anaxagoras said. ‘Or that’s what Apollodorus muttered.’

  ‘Herakles!’ Satyrus murmured.

  ‘You went down fast — and then we all fought over your body. It was Homeric, I promise you.’ Anaxagoras laughed. ‘But we held. Apollodorus came with the marines. By then there was a pile of corpses filling the street — you were under most of them. We charged over the pile, and then were pushed back onto it. I went down somewhere there, but Apollodorus and Neiron cleared them out — all the way to the beach.’ Anaxagoras shrugged. ‘I need to learn more about fighting.’

  Satyrus rolled on his side, spat blood into a pot and drank some water. ‘I need forty pounds,’ he said.

  He ate as soon as his head had cleared — a whole day wasted — and watched from the roof as a dozen heavy triremes sailed in to reinforce Demetrios.

  ‘So many things I’d like to know,’ he said to Abraham and Neiron, standing at his shoulders as if to hold him up if he fell. He was tired of being an invalid. He wanted his body back.

  ‘Try me,’ Abraham said.

  ‘Are those ships part of the squadron he sent away last week, or are they new ships?’ Satyrus asked.

  Something passed between Neiron and Abraham, and Satyrus noted it. Something was being kept from him, something he guessed was personal: Leon’s death? They’d be idiots to keep that from him. Someone else? Sappho might be dead — or Amastris.

  Odd, that he thought so little of Amastris these days. Of course, there was little to think of beyond fighting and preparing to fight. He sent a thought of love like a prayer to distant Amastris, and went back to watching Demetrios’ camp in the distance.

  ‘We should review the whole circuit of the walls,’ he said.

  They had to walk. Every horse in the town was already meat. Satyrus took his professionals — Apollodorus, Draco, Amyntas and Neiron, and he added the priest, Leosthenes, and Charmides, because the boy had to learn. His own head still hurt, a tiny
twinge at every step, a vague pain when his eyes went too close to the sun.

  ‘You will not lead from in front again,’ Apollodorus said, out of nowhere. ‘Not until you have the body of a man. Ares, lord, I’m small — my pater said I was too small to stand the shock of war. You are too thin. And men died, lord — Gorgias fell over you, and young Necho.’

  ‘Ah,’ Satyrus said. He said it the way a man exclaims when he bangs his shin on his bed — an unaccustomed pain. ‘Necho?’ He could barely remember Gorgias. But Necho-

  ‘He and Helios and Anaxagoras stemmed the rush when you fell, or so I hear it.’ Apollodorus turned along the Street of Temples, which now ran close to the once secret wall.

  Satyrus noted that behind him, Neiron was busy extolling the virtues of the hidden wall to the others — a loud dissertation clearly planned to cover the dressing-down of the king by his subordinate.

  Satyrus felt his spirits plummet. It was like a black cloud settling on his head — like the hand of chance pressing him into the earth. ‘Herakles,’ he moaned.

  ‘Bah — he was a good lad, and he died a hero. Tonight we’ll burn his corpse the old way, and that’s that. If you hadn’t been there, we’d have lost the town and that’s no mistake. Them Macedonian fucks were hard as bronze nails.’

  ‘I make a great many mistakes,’ Satyrus said bitterly.

  ‘Aye, Neiron said you’d go off on one about your failings — so spare me. We’re doing well enough, and you know it. But if you die — lord, if you die, we’re fucked. You do good work as a commander, and men love you, and you have a name. Apollodorus the Marine is not going to get this town through three more months of siege, eh? So stay alive, lord, and more of us’ll stay alive. And let’s not have a lot of crap about your failings. You have lots of failings. Petty, arrogant, tyrannical-’ Apollodorus laughed aloud, because he’d got Satyrus to smile.

  ‘We have a lot in common, then,’ Satyrus said.

  ‘Takes one to know one,’ Apollodorus laughed aloud again.

  ‘This is supposed to make me feel better?’ Satyrus asked.

  ‘Pep talk over. Back to work,’ Apollodorus said, and slapped his commander on the back.

  The circuit of the walls was more than a dozen stades, and took them from the harbour, where they were intimate with every foot of the defences, both old and new, south to where the great tower was complete, rising a hundred feet above the stone-based, mud-brick wall of the main battlements — the most modern defensive structure in the world, with three levels of war machines and a new killer on the roof: a counterweight engine that Neiron and Jubal had built from the washed-ashore wreckage of the engine-ship destroyed in the harbour. With the iron fittings in hand, Jubal had rigged the engine in just four days.

  Satyrus hadn’t seen the black man in weeks — Jubal had reinvented himself as an engineer, where his skills as a sailor were most helpful to the city. Today, he led a dozen carpenters in building a second counterweight engine.

  ‘We was out of wood,’ he said after he clasped hands with his king. ‘But since Golden Boy keeps knocking people’s houses down, we took to lifting the roof timbers. I want to put four of these things up here, but all the smiths in the city are making armour and spears and arrowheads — and I need fittings.’

  Satyrus looked at the carefully built wooden models of elbow joints, a pivot bearing, a dozen binding plates. ‘I’ll take it up with the war council,’ he said. ‘We could certainly do with these at the harbour.’

  Jubal nodded. ‘Nah, you’re wrong.’ He smiled.

  Apollodorus grew purple-red. Neiron laughed aloud. ‘Jubal, we try not to tell the king straight out like that when he’s wrong.’

  Jubal nodded. ‘Aye — but he’s in a hurry. Lord, look here. Golden Boy has forty of these engines, and he’s building more today. See?’

  Sure enough, Jubal’s sharp eyes had seen what the dozen incoming triremes had brought — heavy timber. Demetrios’ engineers were making up their losses in engines. Satyrus watched them work for a minute, his eyes watering and his head pounding.

  ‘I see that,’ Satyrus said, his heart falling flat again.

  ‘If we put five engines at the harbour, Demetrios knows we have them and his engines pound them to splinters.’ Jubal shrugged. ‘Put ’em here first — I can hit his camp, I think. Not that I want to let him know. But this is one tall-arsed tower.’

  Neiron was leaning out of the east rather than the south face of the tower. ‘Storm coming,’ he said. ‘Hadn’t noticed it. Look at the sky.’

  Long lines of dark clouds raced along the eastern horizon.

  Satyrus nodded, but his thoughts were elsewhere. ‘Strong enough to bear the weapons firing?’

  Jubal grinned. ‘Neiron asked the same. I don’t know, and that’s a fact.’

  Satyrus made a face. ‘All right. But we shouldn’t be building these a few at a time. We should have forty of them that we can shift wherever we need them.’

  Jubal smiled. ‘Have to knock down every house in the city,’ he said. He looked rueful. ‘And you understand — I haven’t even loaded one yet. We’ve fired them empty, but I can’t afford to have Golden Boy see what we’re up to. I don’t intend to shoot until he’s come close.’

  Satyrus rubbed the back of his head and then the spot between his eyes where the pain came from. ‘That may happen,’ he said.

  Neiron took him on a tour of their excavations under the wall. The city was built on rock — most houses had cellars cut out of the rock — and the progress of the tunnel was slow until they got free of the rise of rock that the first city had used for foundations. After the rock there was clay, and Satyrus stood with a reeking tallow torch in his hand, looking at a tunnel the height of a man and a little wider than his own shoulders that stretched away into the darkness. He felt as if the weight of the earth above was pressing on his shoulders, but he had to admit that his headache was less down here.

  ‘It stinks,’ he said.

  ‘Most men don’t go above to relieve themselves,’ Neiron said. ‘They’re sailors, after all.’

  ‘Getting a lot of complaints?’ Satyrus asked while he walked forward.

  ‘Did I mention they were sailors?’ Neiron quipped. ‘The bickering is constant.’

  The gallery was surprisingly long, shored up at intervals with timbers that looked remarkably like the stem of a heavy ship.

  ‘We salvaged Arete’s keel,’ Neiron said.

  ‘Where are we?’ Satyrus said. He was at the forward face of the shaft, and there were a half-dozen of his oarsmen, some cutting at the rock face with picks, some collecting the resulting rock and dirt and clay in baskets.

  ‘Just under the wall. If you go back — see here? We think that’s the lowest underpinning of the south wall, about a dozen horse lengths east of the great tower.’ Neiron shrugged.

  Satyrus shrugged back. ‘Keep digging. If we hold the sea wall, then I guess he’ll come here next. The north wall is impregnable and the west wall is like adamantine, all new construction and all stone.’

  ‘Jubal thinks he’ll go there anyway, to avoid Jubal’s precious tower. Boy loves that tower.’ Neiron smiled as they turned and started back out of the shaft.

  Satyrus got to the foot of the ladder. ‘Jubal’s as smart as a whip, but Demetrios won’t want to have the siege happen so far from his camp — and he’ll want to bring that tower down. And the way I see it, if he does go for the west wall, we’ll have plenty of time to prepare.’

  ‘You have a point there,’ Neiron admitted.

  ‘But let’s go and have a look at it anyway,’ Satyrus said.

  The west wall looked like what people imagined a city wall to look like. It was three times as tall as a man, stone sheathed on both sides with no mud-brick at all. In between the stone sheathing — whole cells of stone, in fact — there was heavy earth and gravel fill that would simply eat the shock of the largest engine’s strike. And the wall was crowned with heavy towers — squat, low towers just tw
ice the height of the wall, and the whole length was crenellated. There were four sally ports that passed under the wall, and behind the wall was a ditch and a low rampart, and in front of it was a wide, deep dry ditch.

  ‘If they’d done this to the whole city, we could whistle at Demetrios,’ Apollodorus said, and all the other officers made noises of agreement.

  ‘He’d be a fool to come at this,’ Neiron agreed. ‘Jubal’s putting lotus in his wine.’

  Satyrus looked at the west wall with a jaundiced eye. ‘But here, his engines are at much the same height as our own,’ he said. ‘Forty of those big killers out there — he could turn a few feet of wall into rubble in a day. The collapse of the wall would fill in the ditch. Jubal may have a point. If he’s patient-’

  ‘Messenger coming,’ Charmides called.

  Satyrus straightened. He’d been leaning out over the wall. He was already tired, and it was time for his workout. His head hurt and his every limb hurt — of course they did, men had walked on his arms, fought on them, died on them. He was lucky that they weren’t broken-

  ‘Demetrios is moving his fleet, lord. Panther sends to say it is in the harbour. Again.’ The messenger stood and panted — he’d run hard.

  ‘You are not fighting in the front rank,’ Apollodorus said.

  They ran across the city. Satyrus was already tired when he put his light armour on. Today he took a long spear from the rack Abraham had installed in the courtyard.

  Miriam was in the courtyard, too, arming Anaxagoras. Her hair was in a scarf, and her long chiton was kirtled up, showing her legs like a dancing girl.

  Abraham shouted something at her — something that sounded like mockery — and she snorted as she tied the laces under Anaxagoras’ arm, and Satyrus felt another stab of jealousy: it should have been him in the heavy armour. But he answered her smile and waved. She called something else in Hebrew, and Abraham looked serious as he hefted a spear.

  ‘What did she say?’ Satyrus asked his friend.

  ‘It is a feast day for us,’ Abraham said. ‘And I am going to fight. It is allowed — but I didn’t make any observance this morning, nor did I pray. It is as my father says: I can be a warrior, or I can be a Jew.’