Destroyer of Cities t-5

by Christian Cameron

  Satyrus found himself smiling.

  ‘Sister, it’s the siege of Troy.’ He shrugged. ‘Wait until you meet her!’

  ‘Gods, you are doomed.’ She laughed. ‘Any handsome young princes?’

  ‘Eh? What of Scopasis?’ he asked.

  Melitta saw Abraham in the distance, and waved. Abraham waved back. ‘I can’t go around sleeping with my officers. It’s bad for discipline,’ she said.

  ‘Doesn’t seem to hurt the Spartans,’ Satyrus quipped.

  ‘Are you joking?’ she asked. ‘Did you listen when Philokles described the inequities of the king’s justice?’

  ‘It was a joke, Melitta,’ Satyrus managed. ‘Abraham — you remember my sister?’

  Abraham got a crushing embrace. ‘How could I forget — the very Queen of the Amazons?’

  He smiled, and she smiled, and then he turned. ‘You remember my sister, Miriam?’ he said.

  Miriam stepped forward — Satyrus knew her well enough now to see that her motion was very tentative. She was unsure of herself with Melitta.

  Melitta had, when Miriam last saw her, been a Greek woman with good clothes, beautiful hair and a philosophical education that Miriam envied deeply. Now she was a scarred woman with enormous, shockingly blank blue eyes and an armoured shirt over a barbarian coat and trousers.

  Miriam saw a woman with a mob of brown hair and long, naked legs.

  Satyrus could only marvel at how much similarity he saw between them.

  ‘Well,’ Melitta said. She kissed Miriam. ‘I must say, that style suits you.’

  Miriam laughed. ‘We call it the “Great Siege of Rhodes” style.’

  Melitta grinned. ‘Ever do any archery, Miriam?’

  That night, in honour of his sister’s arrival, Satyrus gave a party. A symposium. The recent loss of the third line of the south wall had placed the southern fringe of the agora within the long range of Demetrios’ engines, so Satyrus got his marines and sailors to clear the tiled floor of what had been Abraham’s dining room — they needed the rubble anyway, for the fourth south wall — and then he moved pithoi of wine, fresh from the ships, and fresh-baked bread and some olive oil and cheese — riches in a town under siege — to the excavated floor.

  The invitees brought cushions if they had them, and all lay on cloaks, and there was a fire in the hearth, as the evening held an autumnal chill. As polemarch, Satyrus had arranged to issue every man and woman in the town with some wine, some oil and some bread — the symposiasts weren’t getting anything that any other citizen didn’t have.

  Six months of lessons had not made Satyrus a master lyricist, but he managed the first fifty lines of the Iliad and received the applause due a swordsman who has learned the harp — that is, there was some jeering and some good-natured mockery.

  Anaxagoras played with Miriam, and they played Sappho’s ode to Aphrodite.

  Apollodorus was, at that moment, sharing Satyrus’ cloak. ‘That’s a dangerous song to play at a symposium,’ he said.

  Satyrus shrugged. ‘They play beautifully.’

  Melitta took Apollodorus’ place. She was warmer, but she wriggled and wriggled under the cloak like an eel in a trap. ‘You are sharing Abraham’s sister with that beautiful man?’ she asked. ‘Does he fight?’

  ‘Like a young god,’ Satyrus said happily. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good, then,’ Melitta said. ‘I approve of her indecision, and I approve of your choice. Worth ten of Amastris.’

  She lay still. The wine bowl came by and he rose out of his cloak, drank and noticed that she had shed her Sakje clothes under the cloak and emerged as a Greek woman in a very short chiton. He choked.

  ‘If Miriam can play Artemis, I certainly can,’ Melitta said. ‘I have good legs, and the moon is full. Here, have some wine.’ He took back the cup, and his sister slipped away.

  Other men rose to play. Damophilus played the kithara. Memnon and Apollodorus sang together, and Charmides played a few halting tunes. Helios sang.

  Melitta and Miriam were hardly the only women. Aspasia lay with her husband, Memnon, and her daughter Nike did not — quite — share Charmides’ cloak, although she sat very near. As the drinking moved on to the third bowl, Satyrus noted that women — and some men — came out of the darkness to sit or lie by their partners — Plestias the ephebe and his sister, whose name Satyrus didn’t know, but who he realised he had seen near his tent — near Helios’ tent, now that he gave it a moment’s thought. A slave-girl with brilliant red hair — he’d certainly seen her — looked utterly out of place until Jubal scooped her off her feet and carried her to his couch.

  Satyrus made his way to his feet. Three bowls of wine, and he was light-headed — they were all out of practice.

  He stood. ‘I wanted everyone to have a lovely evening,’ he said.

  They fell silent a little at a time. He smiled around at them until they were still.

  ‘I want to welcome my sister,’ he said, raising the kylix, and there was a cheer.

  ‘And I want to tell you that we’re about to enter the very worst part of the siege,’ Satyrus said.

  Memnon said something to his wife — meant to be quiet, but quite loud, in the tension. ‘Here it comes,’ he said.

  There were giggles.

  Satyrus walked a few steps. ‘Jubal?’ he said, and handed the black man his kylix.

  Jubal rose, patting his girl’s haunch. ‘Not much to say. Maybe two days, maybe three — then Demetrios — he rush the fourth wall. They fall faster an’ faster,’ he said, and he grinned. He swept an arm through the air in an arc. ‘South wall used to be straight, like an arrow, eh?’ He nodded. ‘An’ now it bends, like a bow. Little by little, Golden Boy punches deeper.’ He looked around. ‘Nex’ punch, he go deep enough to hit th’ agora with his engines. Lord, yes.’ Jubal was grinning like a jackal.

  ‘Course, ’less he’s got lot smarter, he won’t notice that his engines are inside the bow, when he moves them.’ Jubal drank from the kylix.

  ‘And then what happens?’ Melitta asked.

  ‘Jus’ you wait an’ see, lady.’ Jubal’s grin rivalled the moon. ‘Got to be a surprise!’ He nodded. ‘But what Lor’ Satyrus wan’ me to say is this — this wall’s the las’ wall we lose. No more room to give groun’ — no more. This wall gotta stan’.’ He handed the kylix to Satyrus.

  Satyrus looked around. ‘You think we’re goners, friends. We’ve been here more than four months. Some of us have already been here a year. We’re getting regular supplies, and we’ve all heard there’s thousands more men ready to come to us, fifty ships at Syme and twenty more across the straits. Abraham says that the Greek cities are begging Demetrios to give up the siege. Athens will be under siege from Cassander this winter.’

  He nodded. ‘If we were facing One-Eye; if we were facing Lysimachos, or Ptolemy, or Seleucus — this siege would be over. We’re not. If we win here, the Antigonids will never be the same again. Demetrios’ notions of his own deity will never be the same again. Demetrios will very soon become desperate. Indeed, if Jubal’s trick works, it will be the last straw. And then-’ Satyrus took a deep breath, ‘and then he’ll stop fucking around and throw the whole of his fifty thousand men at the walls.’

  They gasped all the way around the fire circle.

  ‘And we have to hold. So drink. Relax. But remember — in three days, we start the last part. For good or ill.’ Satyrus went to Abraham, and sat on his cloak.

  ‘One way to help the party along,’ Abraham said.

  Anaxagoras played a marching song of Tyrtaeus, and then a drinking song of Alcaeus, and they sang. Indeed, more and more people came out of the dark, some with their own wine, and the singers sang. More and more voices were raised against the night.

  Scopasis came and lay with his back against Satyrus’ knees.

  ‘You still love her,’ Satyrus said.

  Scopasis shrugged. ‘How’s the fighting?’

  Satyrus looked out into the ring of faces. ‘Terrif
ying. The hardest I’ve ever known. The worst of it is that it is all the time — every day. There’s no rest, except this,’ and Satyrus raised his wine cup.

  Scopasis sneered. ‘You never outlaw. Outlaw fight every day.’ Scopasis paused. ‘No — not fight. Fear fight. Every day.’

  ‘Well,’ Satyrus said. He drank wine and stared at the embers on the hearth. ‘Yes. That’s what it’s like.’

  Scopasis nodded. ‘I brought plenty arrows,’ he said with professional satisfaction. ‘Love her till I die,’ he suddenly added. ‘Want to die old.’

  He walked off into the singing.

  Later, they danced. Satyrus was surprised — shocked, even — when Miriam started it. She rose to her feet, gathered an armful of brushwood — someone’s dead garden — and threw it on the hearth.

  ‘Let’s dance!’ she called with the gay abandon of a maenad or a bacchante. Other women gathered around her, slave and free, beautiful and plain, tall, thin and they pulled off their sandals — those fastidious enough to have them in the first place, and men hurried to sweep the tile floor clear with their cloaks. And Melitta was there, her hand in Miriam’s hand, and Aspasia, her hand in Melitta’s — the red-haired Keltoi slave, rich men’s daughters and poor men’s daughters, some with high heads and straight necks like the dancers on Athenian pottery, and some watching their feet, one young maiden with her tongue protruding between her teeth like a kitten, concentrating on the complexities of the dance, and around they went, with Anaxagoras playing the hymn to Demeter and then embellishing it.

  Satyrus sat with Abraham again, back to back on their cloaks, watching the women dance, their legs flashing — the trend to the briefest possible chitoniskos was even more daring when Persephone’s birth was celebrated and her trip to the underworld re-enacted in dance. Satyrus watched them all, and Melitta paused in front of him, raised her arms with the other dancers and grinned at him before her eyes went. . elsewhere.

  And then Miriam paused in her turn. And her eyes went through him — she was looking nowhere else, and the quarter-smile on her face was for him, her hands on her hips were his hands, and she leaped-

  ‘Are you in love with my sister?’ Abraham asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Satyrus said, with a sigh.

  ‘God!’ Abraham said. ‘Job did not have a trial like Miriam. You too?’ He shook his head. ‘I make a joke — I always make a joke. In truth, my friend, I am — angry.’

  Satyrus watched her long legs and her smile a quarter of the way around the circle. ‘Someone should free the Keltoi girl,’ he said.

  Abraham nodded. ‘The Keltoi girl is not my problem. My sister is. You can’t marry her. What do you mean to do — keep her as a mistress? Hide her away?’

  Satyrus sighed again. ‘Friend, I have no idea. None. But I’ll offer this — why shouldn’t I marry her?’

  Abraham turned to look him in the eye. ‘Oh — you will become a Jew?’

  Satyrus frowned. ‘Don’t be foolish.’

  Abraham glared at him. ‘Foolish, is it?’

  Satyrus raised a hand. ‘Let’s be sure of our arguments, shall we? I have nothing but respect for the God of the Jews. But my god is Herakles.’

  Abraham shook his head. ‘Herakles is a silly myth for children. Gods do not personify themselves — they do not come to earth and make love to mortals and all that foolishness. Or perhaps he’s merely the memory of a great man — a warrior. You claim him as an ancestor, do you not?’

  ‘And the God of the Jews has done so well for your people — the “chosen”. You rule the world, do you not? You Jews?’ Satyrus had never said such a thing out loud, and he was none too proud he’d done it. He put his hand out. ‘Sorry — that was uncalled for.’

  Abraham was red, but at Satyrus’ touch he shook his head. ‘Don’t think I haven’t thought it. Sometimes it all seems a sham. What god would allow this?’ Abraham looked up.

  ‘What, a party?’ Satyrus quipped.

  ‘War. This siege. Nicanor. Demetrios.’ He shrugged.

  Satyrus frowned. ‘The world exists so that we may compete, and by competing, show the gods our worth.’ He shrugged.

  Abraham narrowed his eyes. ‘Those slaves out there, puking their lives away with fever — what are they competing for?’

  Satyrus shrugged. ‘No idea.’

  ‘You are no empty-head. Don’t you care?’ Abraham asked. ‘When you killed Nicanor, what did you feel?’

  ‘You sound like Philokles, brother. No, I don’t care. I care for them — when I meet them — one at a time. As a mass — slaves — I can’t care. I can care for my men, for my city, for myself. I can work to make a better city on the Euxine, to make my farmers richer, to make my soldiers triumphant. I can’t feed the slaves, much less free them. When Nicanor betrays his city, he is less than worthless — I cut him down as I would kill a mad dog. And he won’t haunt my dreams.’

  The women had stopped dancing. They were looking expectantly at the men, who were mostly applauding like mad, except for Abraham and Satyrus. Abraham stared off as if he didn’t even know women existed. After a pause, he said, ‘My sister loathed her husband. He was a good man. A merchant. A quiet, honourable man.’ He rolled his shoulders. ‘And when he died, she rejoiced.’ He spat the word. ‘And now she shares her favours between Hellenes. You know that she makes cow eyes at Anaxagoras as well? Eh?’

  Satyrus laughed. ‘How could I not know?’ he said, and looked at Anaxagoras.

  The musician was wrapped up only in his lyre.

  Abraham spat.

  Satyrus laughed. ‘You, my friend, are suffering from an excess of bile. And the women want us to dance. I know that you know the dance of Ares.’

  Abraham rose to his feet. ‘Of all your Greek gods, Ares is the one I understand.’

  Satyrus took his hand to lead him out. ‘You understand Ares?’

  ‘Hateful Ares? The brash, boastful coward, fomenter of strife, god of slaughter, ruin and mindless combat?’ Abraham spoke with so much vehemence that spittle flew. ‘I see him made manifest every day. How could I pretend he doesn’t exist? Perhaps his mean and spiteful mind rules the world. Perhaps he is the only god.’

  Satyrus was struck dumb, and he put a hand to his mouth.

  Abraham picked up a cup, drank some wine and spat.

  ‘Jews are great ones for blasphemy,’ he said, and managed a smile. ‘Let’s dance.’

  The men chose to dance the Pyrriche. It was no hardship — every man present had a spear and a shield, and months of incessant warfare made them so confident that no one even proposed that they bate their spears.

  Because many of them were men of Tanais, they danced it the Euxine way, and the first two verses were a vicious tangle — Satyrus had a cut on his right bicep where Menedemos forgot the new steps. But they were all dancers — almost every warrior present had competed in the Pyrriche — and they learned fast, and by the time the third verse of the hymn rose to the heavens, the Euxine men’s knees and the Rhodian men’s knees all rose together, kicked, spun, leaped-

  The first roar of the crowd, already growing.

  Anaxagoras played — first the hymn to Ares, and then, subtly, he changed the tune, and he whispered to Miriam as he played, and she picked up her kithara and Aspasia joined in with a small lyre. Note by note they moved the tune from the brash striving of Ares to the military wisdom of Athens, the hymn to Athena.

  And the men, in four lines, stood forth, brandished spears, fell back through ranks, turned, thrust, leaped, and parried all together, and if steps were missed, they were lost in the flood of eudaimonia.

  At some point, the women began to sing, and more men and women were drawn out of the darkness by the fire and the music, so rare in a city under siege. Men sat on the crumpled ruins of houses they had once owned and raised their voices together, and women pushed forward until they could see the men dance, faster and faster.

  Satyrus could see them at the edge of the old foundations, hundreds of people singing the
paean to Athena — possibly thousands — and he was lifted out of himself to leap the higher, snap faster from posture to posture, as if Theron and Philokles were there to watch his every move-

  He spun to clash his spear against a shield and there was Charmides, his beauty like a blaze of light, and the younger man leaped so high that Satyrus was able to sweep his spear shaft under the man’s feet. Charmides landed, his smile so broad that it threatened to swallow his face, and his counter-thrust went over Satyrus’ head as the polemarch stretched along the ground, front leg out-thrust, rear leg nearly flat, head ducked. The people nearest to them cheered, roared and pointed and Satyrus dared to roll forward, tucking his shield, and stood behind Charmides — the other dancers exchanged less extreme postures, but Satyrus was, for this one figure, the lead, and Charmides answered by flipping backward over his shield, a feat Satyrus had never seen done. The crowd by them erupted and the hymn drove on inexorably to the end, two thousand voices now-

  Come, Athena, now if ever!

  Let us now thy Glory see!

  Now, O Maid and Queen, we pray thee,

  Give thy servants victory!

  Satyrus found himself weeping, and Apollodorus was weeping, and Charmides and Abraham. And Melitta took his hand and kissed him, and smiled boldly at Charmides. ‘Our father’s war song,’ she said.

  Then she kissed the boy. ‘You are a very handsome lad,’ she said. And walked off to congratulate the musicians.

  Two stades away, wrapped in a cloak on the edge of the abatis that protected the Antigonid sentry wall, Lucius listened with Stratokles. Even two stades away, the hymn to Athena was loud enough to hinder conversation.

  Lucius sighed. ‘Can I tell you something, boss?’ he asked.

  Stratokles found that he was so choked up he couldn’t speak, so there was a long pause. ‘When do you not say whatever you like?’ he managed, with tear-filled eyes.

  ‘We’re on the wrong fucking side, boss.’ Lucius took out a gold toothpick. ‘I’m a pious man, boss. Demetrios is — ah, cunt, I don’t know what he is. We don’t invoke the gods. The priests in this camp are lickspittles. The Macedonians just go through the motions — Hades, Stratokles, they worship demons and spirits! Fucking barbarians, if you ask me. Worse than Etruscans.’ Lucius picked his teeth. ‘You heard that hymn, right? Fuckin’ arse-cunts had what — a thousand singing?’ He looked at Stratokles, who was struggling between a desire unburden to the closest thing he had to a friend and the desire to discipline the closest thing he had to a subordinate.