Destroyer of Cities t-5

by Christian Cameron

  The citizen hoplites with the old-fashioned aspis were at an advantage, now — bigger shields kept men alive in the closest press. The marines, too: Apollodorus, howling like a lion loose in a pen of sheep, killed two men. He demanded that the marines push, and they responded. Draco killed a man an arm’s length from Satyrus, and blood sprayed from his severed neck — the Antigonids around him flinched, and Draco was into them like a wolf into a flock of sheep, slaying to right and left, his spear ripping their shades from their mouths and sending them shrieking to Hades.

  Draco died there, roaring into the ranks of the Antigonids alone, exposed, outpacing the rest of the marines, but he created a hole — a flaw like a tear in the fabric of the enemy formation right at the top of the wall, and it collapsed in. Satyrus knocked a man unconscious with the butt of his broken spear — no idea when it had broken — and stepped into the gap. Apollodorus downed his man and Abraham, armed only with a sword, roared at his citizen hoplites and jabbed so fast that Satyrus couldn’t follow his actions — brilliant — and his men shoved forward. And there, in those heartbeats, the attack was broken.

  Satyrus looked down and realised that the man he had just smashed to the ground was the man in the gold and silver armour. He grabbed the man’s ankles and pulled. Other hands reached to help him.

  He let go of the wounded officer, raised his head and saw the enemy rushing to their machines as the broken attack began to filter back. The enemy weren’t smashed — officers and phylarchs were reforming down in the rubble — but Satyrus suspected that they were done for the day.

  ‘Off the wall!’ he called.

  Two marines were lifting Draco. Satyrus had seen him fall — known who he had to be.

  Other men had Helios, and other wounded and dead men. Satyrus saw blue and white plumes — the anchor.

  Neiron: his white Athenian armour covered in blood.

  ‘Back!’ Satyrus roared. ‘Off the wall!’

  Slowly, stubbornly, the citizen hoplites and the ephebes and the oarsmen came down the back of the wall, and behind them, the enemy machines opened up.

  ‘All the way back!’ Satyrus called. He made himself look away — Neiron was looking at him. ‘All the way back!’ he yelled, and ran down the line. The ephebes were slow — too damned proud. He ran up to their leaders and demanded they run.

  ‘We have no need to run, polemarch!’ a phylarch called.

  A stone from the enemy engines crushed him, showering his age-mates with blood and bone.

  ‘Run, damn you!’ Satyrus called.

  He went up the face of the new wall — the last wall, the ‘bow’, and looked back.

  The third wall was lost under a deluge of stone and shot. Some shots were going over — enough to kill more men in a few heartbeats than the whole desperate fight at the top of the wall had killed in minutes.

  I had to, he told himself. Helios? Neiron? Draco? Idomeneus?

  I had to. If I didn’t hold it as long as I could, Demetrios would smell a rat.

  If he’s already smelled it, I have just lost those men for nothing.

  The new wall had the revetments that they had spent the night building on the forward wall — heavy pylons like squat columns full of rubble and dirt, and the archers were already occupying them.

  ‘Well done,’ Melitta said. She had a graze across one cheek, but otherwise looked calm and clean. ‘Looked real enough to me.’

  ‘Helios is down,’ Satyrus said.

  Melitta raised an eyebrow. ‘Helios is dead, brother. Neiron too. He asked for you. And you did what you had to do.’ She put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Everyone lost somebody today. Don’t show it. You won. You must appear to have won. Philokles would say the same.’

  Satyrus took a deep breath. Helios! he thought. But he schooled his face.

  ‘Reform!’ he called.

  Demetrios didn’t move forward until just after nightfall. The night assault rolled over the rubble, sprinting across ground thick with corpses, and took the unoccupied wall in one rush — and shouted their triumph, and relief, into the night.

  Jubal smiled. ‘Now he move his engines fo’wards.’

  Satyrus awoke to pain. His body hurt, his legs hurt — one of his ankles was swollen, and he’d ripped his shield arm on the plates of his cuirass and that hurt. He sat up, cursed the darkness and managed to swing his legs over the edge of the bed and put his feet on the floor.

  He made noise, deliberately, so that Helios would know he was up.

  Helios was dead.

  He found a chiton and put it on, got to the door of the tent and found Jacob sitting on a chair.

  ‘Lord?’ he said, raising red eyes.

  ‘Jacob?’ Satyrus asked.

  ‘Master has the fever,’ Jacob said. ‘We’re all going to die here.’

  Satyrus shot past the man into the adjoining tent.

  ‘Is that you, Jacob?’ Abraham said. Then he said something in another language — Hebrew or Aramaic. Satyrus shook his head.

  ‘I hear you are sick,’ he said.

  ‘Stay back, Satyrus. Stay out. Damn you!’ This last when Satyrus barged in. ‘It’s a fever, not some poisoned arrows of your strange god of light and disease.’

  ‘I know what disease is, brother. You seem very much yourself.’ Satyrus put a hand on Abraham’s forehead. He was burning hot, and his eyes were as bright as newly minted coins. ‘I take it all back. You are sick. Has Aspasia seen you?’

  ‘And my sister — at the break of day. I was told to sleep as much as I can. I’m already bored, and this takes a week.’ Abraham managed a smile.

  ‘If you are lucky,’ Satyrus said. ‘It could be months,’ he added.

  ‘I could die,’ Abraham said. He laughed. ‘I might as well have gone down yesterday, covered in glory, like Neiron or Helios.’

  Satyrus poured himself some juice and poured more for Abraham, and brought it to him. ‘You are covered in glory. I saw you break their line. I will see to it that you receive a wreath of olive. And you’re young and strong,’ he said. ‘We lost too many men yesterday.’

  Abraham nodded. ‘I assume you know what you are doing. I saw no reason for the third fight — but Jubal does.’

  Satyrus managed a smile. ‘Jubal is, in effect, commanding the siege.’ He waved his hands. ‘Who knew that I had a genius as my sailing master?’

  ‘You’ll miss Neiron,’ Abraham said. ‘He wasn’t afraid to tell you what he thought.’

  Satyrus swallowed heavily. ‘I miss them all. Go to sleep.’

  ‘If I die, I want to be burned,’ Abraham said, ‘in my armour. It’s not against my religion.’

  ‘Like a hero at Troy?’ Satyrus said.

  ‘Yes,’ Abraham answered.

  Outside, Satyrus found Apollodorus waiting patiently at the entrance to his tent.

  ‘Looking for me?’ Satyrus asked.

  ‘Demeter, Lord.’ Apollodorus shook his head. ‘Helios is dead, and no one knows how to find you.’

  ‘I’ll need a new Helios.’ Satyrus winced at the callousness of it. But there it was — if he died, they’d need a new polemarch, too.

  ‘Hyperetes or hypaspist?’ Apollodorus asked. He looked in Abraham’s tent. ‘He sick? That’s not good. He’s one of the best.’

  ‘Both.’ Satyrus led the smaller man into his tent, found the amphora of pomegranate juice and poured two cups.

  ‘When this is gone, I have no idea where to find more.’ Satyrus looked at the amphora — Attic black work, a hundred years old. Probably from Abraham’s house.

  ‘I haven’t had juice in a month.’ Apollodorus drank down his cup. ‘You took a prisoner yesterday.’

  ‘I did, too.’ Satyrus nodded.

  ‘He’s one of Plistias’ officers. One of the siege engineers. He wanted to see our rubble walls first hand.’ Apollodorus scratched under his beard.

  Satyrus made a face. ‘How are the oarsmen?’

  ‘I’m keeping them and the marines separate. The city hoplite
s have it bad — two out of three men are down. The ephebes are almost as bad. It’s as if yesterday fuelled it — suddenly men are down everywhere. And this officer — Lysander — has seen some of it. I think we should kill him. We certainly don’t want Demetrios to know how many sick we have.’

  Satyrus drank his juice. ‘I know why you asked, but we won’t kill our prisoners, even if they storm us. We are better, Apollodorus — never forget that. To be better, one must consistently be better.’

  Apollodorus managed a smile. ‘I knew I’d get the “better” lecture. Very well — what do we do with him?’

  ‘Give him an escort and let him wander about.’ Satyrus nodded. ‘Save your protests — I want to trick him, but first we must give a reasonably good facsimile of allowing him to go where he will. Is Demetrios moving his engines forward?’

  ‘About a third of them. The rest are on rollers, ready to move. Jubal thinks from what he’s seeing that the fever is as bad in the enemy camp as it is here, and that Demetrios has severe manpower problems.’

  Satyrus nodded. ‘Whatever happens, this Lysander must not escape tonight. Tomorrow night will be something else again.’

  ‘You have a plan?’ Apollodorus asked.

  ‘It will depend on a few things. Let’s meet under the olive trees at noon. All of the officers, and let’s have some Neodamodeis and some women, as well.’

  Exercise — alone, without Helios. Anaxagoras came up while he was shadow-fighting with a sword.

  ‘Wrestle?’ he asked.

  They stripped and fought, and even with so many sick, people gathered to watch, cheered and wagered.

  ‘You have recovered your muscle,’ Anaxagoras said. ‘I cannot pin you.’

  ‘I have trained since I was a boy,’ Satyrus laughed. ‘It would be a strange thing if you could. Shall we play?’

  In the shade of the olive trees, Anaxagoras was the master and Satyrus the merest pupil, but they played scales, up and down the lyre.

  ‘It is exactly like swordsmanship, or spear-fighting,’ Anaxagoras said. ‘You must do everything until you can do it without any conscious thought. A good musician can play while talking, play while reciting poetry, play while drinking. Your sister is. . very different to Greek women.’

  Satyrus laughed. ‘She is very different.’

  ‘I saw her in the trench — killing. Killing from the joy of battle, like a man. Is she really an Amazon?’

  ‘Alexander called our mother the Queen of the Amazons,’ Satyrus said. He tended to bite his tongue when he had to bridge his fingers in the scale.

  ‘You see? That was your best scale. You must not think — only play. Your sister is taking your part with Miriam, I think.’ Anaxagoras laughed. ‘Although I flatter myself that she likes me.’

  ‘I had a cat once in Alexandria. When she liked a visitor, she killed a dockside rat and brought it, all bloody, warm and damp, and dropped it on the person she fancied. Most people screamed.’ Satyrus smiled.

  ‘Point taken.’ Anaxagoras reached out. ‘No need for your elbows to stick out while you play. No need to force the strings. Relax.’

  ‘She thinks you the handsomest man in Rhodes,’ Satyrus said.

  ‘The competition’s not much, is it?’ Anaxagoras laughed. ‘She’s a beauty, your sister. I didn’t see it at first, mind you — I saw scars and barbarian clothes. It’s in her. . daemon. When she smiles; when she moves.’

  ‘Careful there,’ Satyrus said. ‘My sister. You know. Mind you, I’m not a protective brother. My sister does not require me to protect her.’

  ‘She certainly has a way with opposition.’ Anaxagoras shrugged. ‘You are probably the wrong one for me to discuss this with. But no woman has ever pursued me like this before. I find it. . disconcerting. I’m used to the kind of pursuit that Charmides disdains — all smiles and blushes and smouldering looks. Your sister is — not like that.’

  Satyrus laughed aloud.

  ‘Nor am I ready to cede Miriam, although-’ Anaxagoras showed actual confusion, and his hands fell away from the strings.

  ‘As far as I’m concerned, to hesitate is to concede,’ Satyrus said. ‘I want to marry her. Make her queen.’

  Anaxagoras smiled — a broad smile. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Now we really are competitors. I’ve already offered.’

  Satyrus was surprised. ‘Offered? To Abraham?’

  ‘Dowry stipulations, land, assets and everything.’ He shrugged. ‘I have not been answered. Nor does my. . curiosity about your sister end my suit. I think that the Lady of the Assagetae is a bit beyond me, to be honest.’

  That’s what you think, Satyrus thought.

  Leosthenes poured a libation to Poseidon and made a small sacrifice to Apollo — a ram, and a ram that no temple would ever have accepted in better times. But the animal died well, with its head up, and Leosthenes proclaimed its liver clear of inflammation or disease — in itself a good omen.

  Panther had been the Rhodian high priest of Apollo, but he was dead. Nicanor had been the second priest, and Menedemos was the third. It had taken them an hour to decide to allow Leosthenes to perform the rituals on behalf of the city, and they had confirmed his citizenship and taken him to the ruined altar of Poseidon for some secret ceremony that left his forehead decorated with ashes.

  There was one altar among the olive trees — initially an altar to Apollo, and now to every god, because the temples were either destroyed or dismantled, and the open-air altar was the lone sacred space left to the survivors. Satyrus stood in front of the altar once the sacrifice was made.

  All of the officers were gathered under the olive trees. Melitta stood with Miriam and Aspasia, the only women present. They stood well clear of the altar: despite his plethora of daughters and female servants and wives, the sea god was not one for feminine participation in mystery. Apollodorus stood at Satyrus’ right hand, next to the altar, and Charmides, injured in the ankle by yesterday’s fighting, sat on a stool. Damophilus, Socrates and Memnon stood together in front of the altar on Satyrus’ left. Jubal stood farther back, with Philaeus, formerly Satyrus’ oar master and now, with Apollodorus, an officer in the phalanx.

  The Neodamodeis were represented by Korus and by Kleitos, the red-haired barbarian who was Abraham’s helmsman: a freed slave himself, he was now commander of their taxeis.

  Satyrus glanced at Jacob, who had brought with him a stack of wax tablets and a stylus. ‘Get all this down, eh?’ he asked.

  Jacob nodded.

  ‘First, the numbers. Casualties from yesterday?’ Satyrus waited, apparently impassive.

  Apollodorus indicated Anaxagoras, already acting as adjutant for the oarsmen.

  Anaxagoras nodded. ‘For the oarsmen — four hundred and sixty-two fit for duty, and two hundred and twelve marines, for a total of six hundred and seventy-four. Thirty-six wounded from yesterday, eleven dead or expected to die. All front-rank men.’

  ‘Helios, Draco and Neiron,’ Satyrus said.

  Damophilus nodded. ‘Three of the best. We will, of course, bury them as full citizens.’

  Leosthenes sang the hymn to Ares.

  Satyrus waited for him to finish, and turned to Kleitos.

  ‘Neodamodeis,’ Kleitos said. ‘Eight hundred and thirty fit for duty. More with fever than I can count — let’s say another six hundred. Only lost four dead yesterday and another nine wounded. All expected to recover. ’Less they get fever, of course.’

  Men looked aside at the fever numbers. Freed slaves were now the bulk of the citizen manpower — and they were sick.

  Melitta stepped forward into the circle of men, as was her right. ‘I speak here for the town mercenaries,’ she said. ‘Idomeneus died on the wall. He served me five years, and I will put up a statue to him in Tanais, if we live.’ She bowed her head. ‘Cretan archers, two hundred and six fit for duty. Over ninety sick with fever. Twenty-one dead, no wounded, from yesterday. They tried to get his corpse back. And succeeded.’

  Satyrus nodded.


  ‘Idomeneus of Crete will receive full citizen honours,’ Damophilus said.

  Melitta nodded. ‘Of other mercenaries, the city garrison can, this morning, muster three hundred and fourteen hoplites. Another hundred, at least, have the fever. Fifteen or more are already dead.’

  Memnon nodded and stepped forward. ‘City hoplites — around six hundred. We lost seven dead and sixty wounded yesterday, but men have been falling like flies since sunrise, with fever. Maybe two hundred already sick.’ He looked around. ‘Abraham is sick. And my daughter, Nike.’

  ‘So is your number with sick, or without?’ Satyrus asked. He felt callous.

  ‘Without.’ Memnon nodded.

  ‘Ephebes,’ Satyrus said.

  Socrates spoke up. ‘One hundred and sixteen fit for service,’ he said.

  ‘Apollo’s light!’ Memnon said. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Fever,’ Socrates said. ‘We lost but two men yesterday, and four wounded. All four of whom have the fever now.’

  Satyrus looked around. ‘The oarsmen and my marines seem immune from this fever.’

  Aspasia stepped into the circle of officers. ‘Miriam and I have discussed that. But your oarsmen camp right next to the Neodamodeis, who have the highest disease rate.’

  Apollodorus asked, ‘Is it the same fever we had after Aegypt?’

  Aspasia shook her head. ‘I don’t know. It seems to show an excess of bile — like your fever — but none of the men seems to turn yellow. And both of you did. As did many of the oarsmen.’

  Satyrus nodded. ‘I remember.’

  ‘But the bile is much the same, and the sluggishness of the blood,’ Aspasia said. ‘I have cast horoscopes and I get no one answer. It is not the wrath of Apollo — that much I would feel bold to say.’

  Apollodorus clearly questioned all this scientific talk. ‘We should fill in the latrines,’ he said, ‘and make people use new ones in the ruins, down by the port. Dug deep. I’ve seen this fighting in Syria — same fever, same conditions.’