Destroyer of Cities t-5

by Christian Cameron

  Friendship won. ‘I know,’ he said. Under the circumstances, he was proud of the laconic reply.

  ‘When our boys roll up that breach, they’re already afraid. How many have the arse-cunts killed? And they just got reinforcements, eh? Our boys are already whipped. And the Rhodians are singing hymns.’ Lucius got what he was after, stared at his toothpick for a moment and put it away. ‘If they win this thing, people will remember them for ever. Like the fucking Trojans.’

  ‘The Trojans lost, Lucius,’ Stratokles said.

  ‘My point exactly.’ Lucius spat. ‘An’ they didn’t lose. Aeneas brought the survivors to Rome. Ask anyone.’

  Stratokles decided to pass on this point of regional belligerence. ‘The problem is — Athens.’

  ‘Always is, with you. Boss.’ Lucius laughed. ‘Mind you, it’s why I stick with you. You ain’t one of these godless cunts. You are a proper city man. Athens first and always. Eh?’

  Stratokles smiled. In the doomed city, there was cheering and laughter. ‘Athens is about to be besieged by Cassander,’ he said. ‘Because Demetrios is here with all his father’s best troops.’

  ‘Well, make me strategos, then, ’cause I can solve that in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.’ Lucius was flat on his back, watching the stars. ‘Demetrios has overcommitted.’

  Stratokles laughed. ‘Oh, thanks. I had no idea.’ He laughed again.

  Lucius rolled onto his elbow. ‘You got a plan?’

  Stratokles rubbed his eyes. ‘Yes. But the question — no really, friend, I seek your advice — the question is this. Do I help Golden Boy take the city? Or do I help the Athenian delegation that’s on its way to convince him to drop the siege? Either way, I’m helping my city. And I, too, am. . how did you say it? Pious. I heard the hymn.’

  Lucius nodded. ‘Like that.’ He stared off into the night. He rubbed his beard, spat and turned back to Stratokles. ‘Well, nice to be asked, boss. Yes. Here’s how I see it. War’s chancy, and nothing chancier than a siege, eh? No matter what you do for Golden Boy, he could lose here. My professional opinion? His odds is no better than one in two, now. But if he walks away — well, Zeus Saviour, then he has the largest army in Europe and he can be at Athens in five days.’ Lucius paused. ‘Didn’t you tell me that if he failed here, he an’ his pater were done for?’

  Stratokles had picked up a straw and started to chew on it. ‘Yes. It’ll take a few years. But they must win here.’

  Both men stared at the distant city.

  ‘Well,’ Lucius said after a time, ‘I have a plan of my own to put into effect, tonight.’ He got up and dusted his chiton with his hands.

  Stratokles was startled. ‘A raid?’ he asked.

  ‘Only on Aphrodite, boss. A deep-penetration raid,’ he said with a lewd chuckle.

  The party was on the eighth bowl. It was hard to keep count by Greek standards, because the darkness was full of people and wine now, and there was more wine circulating than could possibly have come off the ships with Diokles — rich men much have broached their stores, or poorer men looted it from ruined cellars. Anything was possible — but Satyrus couldn’t help noticing that his people were drunk. Very, very drunk.

  He hoped that the ephebes were in their places on the walls, because Apollodorus — just as an example — wasn’t going to be able to fight off an assault of kittens. The marine captain was locked in a passionate embrace with his girl — whoever she was, she was so wrapped in his cloak that he looked as if he was being attacked by the garment.

  Charmides sat among three girls, all beautiful, dishevelled and determined to be last in the field. By sheer persistence, if not by charm or beauty. But he had eyes only for Nike, who sat with her mother, trying to be demure and failing in a most charming way. Satyrus wondered if any woman had ever looked at him with the same longing.

  Jubal didn’t bother to cloak himself, lacking Apollodorus’ careful gentleman’s education. But he was engaged in the same activity, and the slave-girl’s red hair was almost as good as a cloak.

  Satyrus tried not to let this evening’s good humour be poisoned by the fact that Anaxagoras was missing, as was Miriam. He had accomplished a miracle in improved morale — and Melitta was here. Somewhere. Satyrus could see Scopasis — who was not alone — and a pair of Sakje spear-maidens who had seized two young aristocrats.

  Satyrus locked hard on his jealousy. It was unworthy. What was unfair, he felt, was that he should be alone while all of them had someone. Aphrodite was heavy on the air, and he-

  Self-pity is among the ugliest of the emotions, Philokles seemed to say in his ear.

  Abraham was standing in the middle, near the hearth, like Dionysus — a vaguely Aramaic Dionysus in a long robe, a garland of olive on his head, a wine cup in each hand.

  ‘People keep handing them to me,’ he said. ‘Have one, brother.’

  Satyrus took one and kissed his friend on the cheek. ‘You should go to bed,’ he said.

  ‘Want to play feed the flute girl!’ Abraham said with drunken assertiveness. ‘Want to live.’

  ‘Not the right party, brother,’ Satyrus said.

  ‘I love you, brother,’ Abraham said.

  Even through the wine, Abraham’s good will beamed and Satyrus embraced him.

  ‘You too, comrade.’ He got an arm around his friend, lifted him, wine cup sloshing, and walked him along the street.

  ‘Even when I dress like a Jew?’ Abraham asked. ‘I am a Jew, you know,’ he said, ‘even when I dress like a Greek.’

  ‘Always,’ Satyrus said.

  ‘You love my sister always, I can see that much,’ Abraham pronounced, as if giving the law. ‘My pater is going to kill all of us, you know that? You, me, her, Anaxagoras — dead, brother. Please tell me you haven’t. . you know. .’ And Abraham stumbled, caught himself, put his hands on Satyrus’ shoulders. ‘Please?’

  Satyrus could tell that the man was earnest — deadly earnest.

  He took Abraham’s shoulders. ‘Never,’ he said. ‘My solemn oath — on my ancestors.’

  ‘Ah!’ Abraham said. He nodded happily. ‘Knew it,’ he said, unconvincingly. ‘Please don’t. Listen — siege is wrecking everything — don’t. Please? Promise?’

  Satyrus, painfully aware that Miriam had been off in the dark with Anaxagoras for more than an hour, felt his face go hot. But he was too much of a gentleman to tell his friend that he had the wrong suitor.

  ‘I swear,’ he said.

  ‘On that ancestor — the old one — the hero?’ Abraham asked.

  ‘Arimnestos?’ Satyrus smiled. ‘I will swear by him. I swear on my heroised ancestor I will not debauch your sister.’

  Abraham nodded. ‘That’s good,’ he said.

  Satyrus managed to lead Abraham across the agora — not that far, usually, but quite far with a loud, drunk man on your shoulder — and to his tent, where Jacob, Abraham’s steward, was sitting outside the tent on a stool.

  Satyrus shuffled to a stop. ‘Some help here, please?’

  Jacob got up heavily, placed his own wine cup on the ground with exaggerated care and got a shoulder under his master’s arm. ‘At your service, lord king!’ he said with careful enunciation. Together, they lowered Abraham onto a pile of furs and blankets, and Jacob threw a heavy wool cloak over him. ‘Good for him,’ he said. ‘Looks like he’s had a good night.’ Jacob, who was usually an invisible shadow, was jocund with wine. ‘Not everyone did,’ he said.

  Satyrus had no idea what the man was on about, so he slapped him on the back in a meaningless gesture — the affections of one drunk to another — and stumbled out through the tent flap, feeling drunker by the moment, as if the exertion of getting Abraham to bed had accelerated the fumes of wine to his head. He paused, aware that he should walk the circuit of the walls — and be sure. Sure that they were safe. Was that drunk thinking?

  And aware that he should be a lot more sober, and have a guard. He took a deep breath, and smelled jasmine — just time to flinch away, to t
hink-

  ‘It is you,’ Miriam said.

  ‘Mostly, it’s your brother,’ Satyrus said. He was confused — delighted — to find her here. Delighted, unless that was Anaxagoras in the darkness behind her.

  She laughed. ‘Aphrodite fills this night. Oh, I’m a poor Jew,’ she said, stepped in and put her arms around his neck, and kissed him.

  Satyrus was not an inexperienced man, but a man may have sex many times without being kissed — kissed at length, kissed thoroughly, kissed as the release of many months of longing. Satyrus never thought that he was standing in the door of Abraham’s tent, or that Jacob had to be right there. In fact, Satyrus didn’t think of anything at all. It went on and on — was uncomfortable, was too long, was passionate, was perfect. Her mouth was the entire universe — a better universe.

  Then she pushed him away — not ungently. ‘Please, just walk away,’ she said. ‘I went to bed — in my tent — to stop this.’ In the distant firelight, he could just see her half-smile; longing, self-derision, amusement, self-loathing all mixed. ‘And you brought him to bed.’

  Satyrus caught her up, pressed her body against his. Dived into her again. But when her hands left his neck and pressed his chest, he stepped back.

  ‘Please walk away,’ she said.

  ‘I love you,’ he said, hopelessly.

  ‘Walk away,’ she said.

  He did. In his head he heard Abraham’s plea. Please don’t. He shook his head, suddenly sober, aroused, his body heavy with energy and suppressed lust. He pushed into his own tent.

  Helios was still up. He was lying blissfully with his girl, their faces beaming, their hair plastered against their heads with sweat. Satyrus felt guilty about interrupting. But before he could withdraw, Helios saw him and leaped to his feet. ‘Lord!’ he said.

  ‘I need you,’ Satyrus said. ‘I’m sorry, lad, but I need to make a circuit of the walls.’

  Helios nodded. ‘Immediately, lord. I’ll send her away.’

  Satyrus shook his head. ‘Tell her you’ll be back in an hour, and leave her to sleep.’ He put his shield on his shoulder.

  Together, they walked along the waterfront, challenged by each of the ephebes in the makeshift towers as they passed. ‘Sounded like a great party,’ one young man was bold enough to assert. Satyrus smiled.

  ‘Your turn will come, young man,’ he said. Pomposity comes easily, with command.

  Up the inner harbour, past the new false wall — Satyrus never let the slaves stop building. It was always possible that Demetrios would try another assault on the harbour. A long detour around the new construction where the harbour wall met the north wall, the sea wall that faced the open sea. Always neglected, because there was no real beach — or so it seemed until Memnon had shown him where smugglers landed routinely.

  Past the construction, and along the north wall — only a handful of sentries, and Satyrus was surprised to find that most of them were his sister’s Sakje. Where the north wall met the west wall and the robust new fortifications with their modern ditches and towers began, he found Thyrsis, also making his rounds.

  ‘Who put you on duty?’ Satyrus asked.

  ‘Melitta,’ he answered.

  Satyrus shrugged. ‘You missed quite a party,’ he said.

  ‘That’s why she sent me away,’ Thyrsis said. He shrugged.

  ‘Aphrodite, not you too!’ Satyrus said.

  Thyrsis was rueful. ‘Oh, yes.’ He spat in the Sakje way, over the wall. ‘If she does not marry soon, we will follow her around in packs.’

  ‘She is very beautiful,’ Helios put in.

  Satyrus got a glimpse of how Abraham no doubt felt. ‘You find her attractive? And her war name is Smells like Death.’

  ‘What could be more beautiful?’ Thyrsis said.

  Helios nodded.

  ‘Oh, Abraham,’ Satyrus said.

  Across the west wall. Satyrus didn’t expect Demetrios would ever try the west wall, but it was so strong that he spent extra time there, peering into the darkness, trying to shake the perception that he’d allowed a night of drunken riot and that Demetrios was going to use that against him. Scaling ladders, perhaps?

  And down along the south wall, now a deep, deep bow, from the corner of the west wall where the original fortifications still stood, along the bow — the fourth wall that they had constructed, now really more of a mound of rubble in a long deep curve, with a hasty ditch in front and a shallow trench just behind, and deeper trenches and loop-holed ruined buildings behind that. The wall and ditch were the highest since the loss of the outer wall — after all, Jubal and Neiron had agreed that this one had to be held to the end.

  Walking the south wall was hard — and sobering. Twice, Satyrus clambered over the ‘wall’ into what was now the debatable ground: once to listen to see if he could hear sounds of digging, and the second time-

  ‘Go and wake Jubal and get me twenty men,’ Satyrus said to Helios. ‘No questions, lad. Run!’

  Satyrus stood perfectly still, tensed and completely sober, and waited. There it was again.

  Chink. Tink.

  And then nothing, for a long time.

  Just when he wondered if he had torn Jubal from red-hair’s arms for nothing. .

  Clink.

  ‘Here I am,’ Jubal said.

  ‘Shhh!’ Satyrus hushed him. He was on the ground in front of the wall — fifty feet in front of the rubble wall, out in no-man’s land.

  A line of men were picking their way down the rubble slope. They made a lot of noise.

  Over in the enemy lines, there was a shout.

  ‘Get back!’ Satyrus said, as low as he could. ‘Back!’

  Charmides froze. He had heard his lord.

  A slim figure barked a sharp command. The file turned and began to climb the slope. Melitta was leading his twenty men — probably all the soberest men — and they’d been spotted.

  More shouting in the enemy lines.

  ‘Listen!’ Satyrus whispered.

  Clink.

  Jubal nodded sharply. ‘Got him,’ he said. He tore a strip off his cloak with his knife, walked a few paces, picked up a section of pike shaft and stuck the rag on the end. Then he lay flat. From his prone position, he said, ‘They mus’ be stopped, lord. If’n they get through-’

  Satyrus understood immediately. He tore another strip off Jubal’s cloak as the man lay flat, and he used his sword to cut a second length of spear shaft.

  A rock whistled out of the darkness and struck the rubble wall, and gravel and shards of rock sprayed. Satyrus was hit in the back, but he wasn’t knocked down.

  Then another rock fell.

  ‘They jus’ get better an’ better,’ Jubal said. ‘Got him.’ He reached out, and Satyrus put the second flag in his hand, and Jubal crawled a few feet and stuck the shaft between two rocks. ‘One more,’ he said.

  Satyrus had to go quite a way to find another spear shaft. A rock came out of the dark — two rocks, he could tell from the impact. Too damned close. Now he had a cut on his cheek.

  It occurred to him, lying scared and alone in the dark, at the very edge of the enemy zone, that he was the polemarch and that someone else could have done this. And it burst on him like a rapid sunrise that Miriam had kissed him.

  He chuckled, and a hand closed on his mouth.

  ‘Got you,’ the man hissed.

  Melitta waited in the dead ground beyond the rubble wall, her hip pressed — not without careful planning — against that of the musician. ‘What are they doing?’ she hissed.

  ‘No idea,’ Anaxagoras answered her. ‘He’s like this.’ Anaxagoras laughed silently, and Melitta felt it through their hips. ‘And I thought he’d gone off with Miriam.’

  A rock hit the other face of the rubble, and chips sprayed like deadly mud from a child’s pebble, when children throw rocks into a pool after rain.

  ‘Ah — damn,’ Anaxagoras said.

  ‘Let me see,’ Melitta said. ‘Keep your head down — you — what’s you
r name?’

  ‘Hellenos, Despoina.’ The young aristocrat was relatively sober.

  ‘Tell the other men to be quiet. And get me Scopasis.’ She waved. ‘The barbarian — one of the other barbarians. Dressed like me.’

  ‘Yes, Despoina.’ If taking orders from a woman was a rare thing for Hellenos, he had the grace to do it well. He went back along the file of men and women — both aristocrats and their Sakje maiden archers, some marines — to Scopasis.

  Melitta looked at the gash left by the rock chip on Anaxagoras’ neck, pulled off the scarf she wore to keep her cuirass from rubbing her own neck and wrapped it around his wound to staunch the blood. Another rock hit.

  ‘I can’t say I’m fond of this,’ Melitta said.

  ‘I think it’s very brave of you to come out at all,’ Anaxagoras said.

  ‘I mean the rocks. I adore a night raid — the taste of an enemy’s blood on my blade, the gleam of the moon-’ Laying it on a bit thick, she thought, but his male dominance annoyed her as much as his music and good looks appealed.

  An ugly scream in the darkness; almost at their feet.

  ‘Raid,’ Anaxagoras said, and rolled to his feet.

  The moment the hand clamped on his mouth, Satyrus reacted. It was, after all, something for which Theron and Philokles had trained him repeatedly. Before the hand was over his mouth, his mouth was open and he bit savagely, all but severing a finger — his right elbow shot back, he rolled his right shoulder down, fell heavily on the man on his back-

  His assailant was screaming. Satyrus caught movement, ducked-

  . . into the blow, so that the man’s hand punched his head instead of the sword cutting into it, and he snapped back, tripped over his first attacker and fell flat on his back — but he still had sword and shield. The aspis he pulled up, over his head and chest. He cowered, fighting for consciousness, trying to get a foot under him, blind.