‘Alarm! Alarm!’ someone was yelling.
His shield gave a great thud as a weapon crashed into it, and a hollow boom as a second one hit the rim. But he had his feet under him, and his sword, and his right hand shot out in a stop-thrust, almost without his volition.
He raised his eyes.
At least three of them — maybe more, but trapped like him in the shallow trench that had been the third defensive line. The trench walls were loose scree on both sides, difficult to climb. One man — with a pick — was above him, trying to get in behind.
Satyrus backed like a crab, praying to Herakles that he wouldn’t catch his foot on a stone.
Two men had spears, and they attacked, confident now that he was retreating.
Five men. Satyrus knew that no one man can take five, so he backed away, watching the man on the edge of the trench-
The man went down, and in falling he fell into the trench, fouling his mates — Satyrus lunged immediately, missed his footing, swung wildly, hit a shield and was toe to toe with an opponent. Both of them swung, their hilts locked a moment, and then the man’s eyes glazed over, something warm sprayed across Satyrus’ shins and the man slumped to the ground, all the fingers of his sword hand severed in a poor parry.
Satyrus stepped back, because the trench behind the wounded man was suddenly full of men in Thracian helmets — ten, fifteen-
‘Herakles!’ Satyrus roared, and charged.
‘That’s fighting,’ Anaxagoras said uselessly.
‘Follow me,’ Melitta said, and ran down the wall of rubble. She didn’t pick her way with risky sobriety — she ran, and left the men behind her with little choice but to follow. She could see men moving beyond the next rise, men like black ants on sand. She made the bottom of the rubble-rampart without falling, pulled her bow from her gorytos, got an arrow on the bow and narrowly stopped herself from shooting the black man with the sword — she knew him from the party, but they came face to face and she could tell he’d come as close as she.
‘My brother!’ she said.
Herakles! She heard — close. She ran.
The men in the Thracian helmets were surprised, their night raid caught in their own trench area, and they had the natural reaction of raiders — retreat. It took them long seconds to realise that they were under attack from one man.
Satyrus’ head rang like his shield under the assault of their spears, but he downed the first man with a thrust over his shield into the man’s eyes — thrusts are more deadly in the dark, as there is less lateral movement to betray the blow — and then he pushed forward over the dying man and got his shield against the next man’s shield and struck him in the moment of impact. Philokles’ trick, as most men brace, even unconsciously, against the pain of the moment where the shields meet. Satyrus’ sword wrapped around unerringly and found the neck between the helmet’s tail and the top of the cuirass, and the man went down without a groan.
But that was the end of luck and mastery, and three blows on, Satyrus was again on his back, head ringing again where a blow had shot his shield rim into his forehead, and he pulled under his shield — again. Got his back to a downed timber, pushed against it, got a knee under him-
He knew it was Anaxagoras as soon as he got to his feet. The man had his shield cocked to one side to let Satyrus rise, and then the two of them filled the trench. Anaxagoras had a spear, and he used it brutally, slamming it into the enemy shields as hard as his massive physique allowed, rocking the smaller men back and punching the needle point of his spear through their shield faces, stabbing arms and shoulders.
And behind the men fighting Anaxagoras and Satyrus, there were screams, and the familiar sound of Sakje arrows buzzing like wasps and hitting home in flesh like an axe hitting a gourd.
Above them, the round, full moon beamed down upon the earth.
Satyrus got his feet set, his head at least clear enough to support his friend. When Anaxagoras killed a man, they stepped forward together.
Satyrus knew Helios was behind him when the spear licked over his shoulder, riding on the smooth bronze scales of his shoulder armour, exactly as Helios did when he was tired, in practice. And the point, thrust expertly, one-handed, went into the enemy helmet and came out red.
They heard more buzzing wasps — the crash of armour hitting rock — screams.
‘Let’s get out of here!’ Helios said, tugging his cloak; the remnants of his cloak.
But Jubal had other ideas. ‘No!’ he said. ‘Lord! Into they trench — fin’ the fucking mine!’
Anaxagoras whirled. ‘What are you talking about? This is insanity!’
Satyrus got it. ‘A mine — they’re mining under our new wall before they even storm the old one — right?’
‘They do!’ Jubal said. ‘Now — follow me!’
Satyrus whirled on his friend. ‘This could be the entire siege — right now. Win or lose. Follow him!’
Sieges make for a strange order of things: a king, a dozen aristocrats, some Sakje — following a sailor. But the sailor seemed to know where he was going, or so Satyrus assumed.
Up the slope of the last wall — half a dozen enemy fled before them. Now they were deep in the enemy area, a part of the walls that hadn’t been in Rhodian hands in a month. But Jubal moved fast, and Melitta was at his heels, and Satyrus swallowed bile and followed as fast as he could.
The enemy was sounding the alarm in all directions.
Satyrus hoped Jubal knew what he was doing. Demoted by Tyche from polemarch to hoplite, he ran heavily across the open ground in front of the old wall, across a tenth of a stade of rubble and up the inner face of the second wall — currently the leading edge of the Antigonid trenches.
At the top, well lit by moonlight, Melitta stopped and shot — once, twice. Scopasis joined her and the two maidens, and their arrows poured off their bows — Satyrus was breathing so hard he could scarcely run, but he made it up beside his sister. Jubal was down in the rubble gully of the enemy trench, and enemy blood was black in the moonlight.
Melitta leaped down beside the African, and her akinakes was in her hand. She finished a sentry with an arrow in his gut, looked at Anaxagoras and licked the point, smiling.
Anaxagoras stumbled on the rim of the trench, his head whipping around in a double take.
Satyrus wanted to laugh and cry. His sister was flirting, showing off like a young girl.
‘Here!’ Jubal called.
A trumpet sounded, near at hand, and was answered from far off — the enemy camp.
One of the men had a pick, and there were torches burning along the trench. Jubal took the pick and a torch and dived into the opening in the ground. Satyrus let him do it — Helios went with him.
‘I’ll go and cover him,’ Melitta said, sheathing her akinake. She took her archers forward.
He saw them rise to shoot.
Time passed. . heavy, terrifying time, and a rock fell out of the dark, far over their heads, and then a wave of them, pounding the ground where they weren’t, over by their own lines.
‘Better hurry,’ Melitta said.
Satyrus was listening to the enemy engines. They were close — close enough to rush.
He moved forward, listening to the grunts as the torsion drums were wound tight, the thud as the heavy arm impacted against the upright, the snap-crack as the sling on the end of the arm released its load and snapped against the frame.
Less than a stade away.
No.
Satyrus saw that men were looking expectantly at him. But this was not the time for further heroics, and taking a handful of men, even his best men, deep into enemy lines in search of their engines would be beyond reckless.
Smoke was pouring out of the entrance to the enemy mine, and within a dozen heartbeats Helios was scrambling out of the hole. Jubal was right behind him.
‘Run for it!’ Satyrus hissed.
Melitta loosed a shaft. ‘We’ll cover you,’ she said.
Other men hesitated �
�� leaving a half-dozen Sakje, most of them women, to cover the men’s retreat sat ill with the Greeks.
Satyrus grinned and grabbed Anaxagoras by the chlamys. ‘Come on, young hero. She’s got a bow. We have swords. Let’s go.’
Jubal shot him a fierce grin and headed off at top speed across the ruined, moonswept landscape, his leather-clad feet scarcely making a noise. The rest of them weren’t so quiet, and when they began to climb their own rubble wall, someone on the far side saw them and suddenly the night was full of projectiles, arrows and rocks from the smaller engines. The rapid hail may have assuaged the enemy’s need to strike back — but it had no other effect.
The men crouched in the cover of the reverse slope of their own rubble wall, listening to the enemy engines drop rocks.
‘Them needs new rope,’ Jubal said. ‘Torsion slipping — rocks landing short.’
‘They need new rope,’ Satyrus said.
‘What I say,’ Jubal shot back.
‘Where’s Melitta?’ Anaxagoras asked.
‘Out in the dark, killing Antigonids,’ Satyrus replied.
Before the enemy engines could reload, there was the soft sound of gravel sliding, a padding of moccasin-clad feet across stone and Melitta jumped down into the trench. She looked around until she found her brother.
‘They’re not much for night actions,’ she said, pointing with her chin at the enemy lines. In the darkness and the moonlight, the scars on her face made her appear another creature entirely, and her attempt at a flirtatious glance at Anaxagoras appeared, at least to her brother, more demonic than enticing.
‘They’re afraid of us,’ Satyrus said.
There was a soft crump, and then another, and then a roar that filled the night and the bitter smell of burning oak and something darker-
Jubal punched his fist in the air. ‘Got him!’ he said.
Melitta, so in command of herself in the night raid, was cowering flat against the rubble.
Satyrus put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Jubal and Helios went down into the mine and set fire to the timber shoring,’ he said.
Jubal nodded at the young man. ‘Had to fight, down there,’ he said.
He clasped hands with Helios, the younger man beaming.
Jubal smiled at Melitta. ‘So when they timbers burn through, she go down — bang, crash. Whole tunnel collapse.’
Helios leaned close to Melitta. They’re like flies, Satyrus thought. Once again, he appreciated Abraham’s point of view.
Helios said, ‘If they drive the mine under our wall, they light off the timbers and when it collapses, the wall comes down. If we get it first, it wastes their work.’
Miriam shook her head. ‘This is a foolish way to make war,’ she said.
Later, she curled up against him on his bed. ‘It is nice to have my brother back,’ she said. ‘Someone to sleep with.’
Satyrus tried to wake up enough to listen to her. ‘You have friends,’ he said.
‘I have no friends,’ she said. ‘The Lady of the Assagetae has lovers and followers. I never thought I’d say this, brother, but playing at being a Greek girl tonight was the most relaxing thing I’ve done in a year.’
Satyrus thought back and frowned. ‘How’s your son?’ he asked.
‘Amazingly big. Growing like a weed. Talking.’ Melitta stretched. ‘Where’d Anaxagoras come from?’ she asked.
‘Out of a pirate,’ Satyrus said. ‘He’s in love with Miriam,’ Satyrus added, trying for just the right tone — not wanting to sound jealous, offended, or angry. Aiming for a certain man of the world quality.
Sisters have always been poor targets for false maturity. ‘He is, too. And you don’t like it. But he sees me. Heh, brother. I like that one. As pretty as a picture — long, gentle hands. But like Hektor of the nodding plume — I saw him in the trench tonight. Like a lion. I’ll take his thoughts from Miriam.’
Satyrus shook his head. ‘No — Melitta, you can’t just throw yourself at a man because-’
She laughed. ‘Go to sleep, brother.’
Day, and a hangover compounded by the two heavy blows he’d taken in the dark. Satyrus could barely raise his head off his rolled cloak, and there was blood in his hair and all down his side, and Melitta went to find Aspasia.
‘You really shouldn’t have been allowed to sleep last night,’ Aspasia said with asperity. ‘Sleeping after a heavy blow to the head — it’s not good.’
Satyrus shrugged.
She handed him a herbal concoction, which he drank — it was sweet and quite pleasant, especially when compared to some things she’d given him. She poured him another cup.
Melitta stripped off her Sakje clothes and began to bathe behind a screen. The screen hadn’t been there the night before. Satyrus lay back with his warm drink and considered that his whole tent had altered. It was larger-
‘You brought a felt tent!’ Satyrus said.
‘So observant, dear brother.’ Melitta laughed and emerged from the screen as a Greek girl — a Greek girl with two scarcely noticeable facial scars and a tangle of blue-black hair.
‘Warrior braids aren’t all that fashionable here in besieged Rhodes,’ Satyrus quipped. He already felt better.
The felt tent made him feel safe. It was remarkably like home, a vision of childhood. And Melitta was remarkably like his mother — he’d seldom seen her look so much like her.
‘Miriam’s going to dress my hair,’ Melitta said. ‘I’m out of the habit. Neiron’s waiting for you.’ She ducked out.
‘You need more pins!’ he shouted at her. The side of her chiton was open to the hip.
His head hurt.
Neiron leaned in the new tent. ‘If you’re awake enough to shout at your sister,’ he began.
Satyrus got to his feet, a little unsteady, and Helios came in with a water basin and a cup of warm juice.
‘Well done, last night,’ Satyrus said to Helios. ‘He and Jubal collapsed a mine.’
‘I’ve heard — it’s the talk of the army.’ Neiron smiled. ‘And not a man lost — that’s a raid.’
Satyrus didn’t like the judgement in Neiron’s tone. ‘That’s luck,’ he said. ‘Lots of wine.’
‘And judgement.’ Neiron nodded. ‘Good judgement. Now Demetrios has asked for a truce.’
Satyrus shot around so fast he tipped over the bowl of hot water Helios was using to bathe the blood from his hair. ‘What?’
Neiron nodded. ‘About ten minutes ago, a herald came. Two days’ truce to bury his dead.’ He paused. ‘Jubal says it is a ruse to change the torsion ropes on his engines and build more to replace the ones we’re destroying.’
Satyrus raised his hand. ‘Get me Jubal, and Menedemos, and any other officers you come across. I’ll get the blood out of my hair.’
Helios wiped his hands on a towel. ‘Yes, lord,’ he said, and went out.
‘Have a seat. Pomegranate juice?’ he asked. When Neiron had a cup, Satyrus knelt down and lowered the whole of the top of his head into the deep bowl. The warm water burned at his scalp. He began to probe the wound with his fingers — the dried blood was thick and flaked away gradually.
‘Quite a party,’ Neiron continued.
‘Have fun?’ Satyrus asked. It was hard to sound lordly when you are bending over far enough to have your head upside down in a basin.
‘Yes,’ Neiron said. ‘But this stunt last night,’ he began.
The bowl was red. Satyrus caught his hair, wrung it out, wincing at the pain, and sat up. He could see Abraham’s Jacob outside. ‘Hey!’ he called, and Jacob put his head in.
‘Can you get a boy to fetch me some more hot water?’ Satyrus asked, and Jacob vanished with the bowl. Turning back to Neiron, Satyrus shook water out of his hair.
‘There was no stunt, Neiron. We found an active mine and we launched a raid to destroy it. It had to be done. If their mine found our mine?’
‘Gods keep us!’ Neiron paused. ‘Were they close?’
‘Too blasted close.’ Sat
yrus winced. The wound felt as if fire had caught in his hair.
‘You managed to be caught, alone, by an enemy patrol. I’ve heard it all already. Lord — you must stop.’ He shook his head, stared at his pomegranate juice and frowned. ‘You must stop running off like a hero from Homer.’
Satyrus shrugged impatiently. ‘I was there.’
‘Call for others and leave, next time,’ he said.
‘There were no others,’ Satyrus shot back. ‘Damn it, old man, I was there. I didn’t make some drunk-arse decision to launch a trench raid.’
‘Huh,’ Neiron said, in obvious disagreement. ‘If you need an officer to make a circuit of the walls, wake me. Wake Apollodorus.’
‘Apollodorus was too drunk to move his feet.’ Satyrus shook his head. ‘What do you want, Neiron?’
‘I want you to act like a king and a commander, not like some young pup out to bloody his sword. Lead from the back. No one — no one — could question your prowess or your courage. Give it a rest. If the girl doesn’t want you, she won’t want you any more with your sword all bloody.’ Neiron glared, looking more like an outraged cat than was quite right.
‘The girl has nothing to do with it,’ Satyrus barked. And was mortified when Melitta came in, Miriam at her heels. Satyrus was naked, with his hair half washed out and a sheen of blood-red water over him.
Melitta laughed. ‘Miriam, my brother is naked,’ she called over her shoulder — far too late.
Satyrus had no towel and nowhere to go.
Jacob came in with another cauldron of water.
Neiron got to his feet. ‘I’m sorry, lord. We just seem to have the same disagreement again and again. And I feel like a nagging uncle in Menander.’ Quite casually, he tossed his chlamys to Satyrus.
Satyrus tried not to hurry as he cast the chlamys over his shoulder. The girls were paying no attention.
Satyrus smiled at Jacob. ‘Thanks,’ he said.
‘Think nothing of it, lord,’ he said.
Neiron stood. ‘I should-’
Helios came in with Jubal and Anaxagoras and Apollodorus, the last-named walking as if he, not Satyrus, had been hit repeatedly in the head. Menedemos looked about the same.
Destroyer of Cities t-5 Page 47
