Destroyer of Cities t-5

by Christian Cameron

  From the doorway of the tent, Lucius the Latin chuckled and farted.

  Stratokles was too angry for reason. ‘You are a group of aged idiots,’ he said.

  That got him silence, at least. ‘You must go before Demetrios the Golden as supplicants — as very beggars, because that’s what we are! And we needn’t care if Holy Athens is under siege! May Athena blast me if I speak a lie — I have watched six months of siege here. You gentlemen have no idea what Rhodes has survived — but you do not want this war to come to Athens. You do not want your maidens ravished, your lands burned, the Acropolis pulled down around your ears or torched the way the Persians torched it. Save yourselves — let me help you. Go to Demetrios with halters around your necks and beg him to break the siege here and send troops to Athens before it is too late.’

  Stunned silence greeted his tirade. For a moment — just a moment — he thought that he’d carried them.

  ‘You are full of passion,’ Democrates said. ‘But you have little idea how great nations do business.’

  For a moment, Stratokles considered killing the man. For ten years he had served Athens — served in secret, hidden in shadows, gathering information and money and mercenaries. He had served with Cassander and the Tyrant, Demetrios of Phaleron, with Dionysus of Heraklea, with Antigonus One-Eye, with Ptolemy and with Demetrios the Golden, shifting sides as a breeze turns on a cloudy day at sea, all for the best interests of Athens.

  And these old fools were going to throw it all away.

  He was blind with rage for a long moment — perhaps fifty heartbeats.

  The chorus babbled.

  Democrates said something that was lost in his rage.

  When he was able to see them, they were cowering away from him in the edges of the tent, and he had a sword in his hand. He took a deep breath. And said the words Athena whispered in his ears.

  ‘No matter how beautiful a woman may be,’ he said, ‘she wins no suitors sitting at home. You, gentlemen, are fools. Sit in this tent, if you like. I will endeavour to save our city without you.’

  Straight from the chorus of useless old men to the tent of his mistress, Stratokles entered without announcing himself and walking past her maids, who shrieked. He found her sitting on a stool, reading.

  ‘Pack, Despoina,’ he said. ‘You must leave — soon.’

  She sat up. Raised an eyebrow. ‘I had not expected this level of impertinence from you-’ she began.

  Stratokles struck her. It was not a hard blow, open-handed, a mere tap — but across her face. The shock of it knocked her to the floor and she squealed.

  ‘Wake up, Despoina.’ Stratokles was ashamed of hitting her, but he’d done worse things. ‘Demetrios is going down. Now — soon — a year from now — perhaps five years. He gambled here, and he has lost badly and you are dallying. We need to cut our losses, save your best soldiers and sail away — and put some new pieces on the board.’

  She lay on the floor, staring at him with enormous, hurt-filled eyes. ‘You hit me.’

  ‘You needed the blow.’ Stratokles’ voice was hard, and his face closed. ‘I have served you well, as well as I am able, and I have to leave you soon. I will see you clear of the wreck. I guessed wrong, Despoina. Demetrios will either lose here, or win with such losses that he will destroy his father’s best army. You have options. It is time to employ them.’

  ‘You would leave me?’ she asked.

  ‘My city is threatened, Despoina. I have never hidden my first loyalty from you. Indeed, I intend to use you to save my city, and use my city to save you, all in one roll of the dice. Now, please cease your struggles and obey.’

  She got to her feet. ‘I have never seen you like this. I might like it.’

  Stratokles shook his head. ‘I apologise for the blow. And I have no interest in being your master, Despoina — I am in haste. Pack. Now.’

  ‘I will,’ she said. There was wonder in her voice. ‘Should I leave-’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Leave everything that is not gold.’

  He nodded curtly and turned to leave.

  She met his smile with a brave smile of her own. ‘I’ll get on with it. Is it so bad? Can we save me? And your city?’

  He nodded. ‘If the gods will it.’

  Stratokles met Lysander in the great red tent where men waited to be received by Demetrios the Golden. The Spartan took his arm as he entered.

  ‘Satyrus son of Kineas told me to send you his greetings,’ he said.

  Every head in the tent turned, despite Lysander’s attempt to speak quietly. The name carried its own force.

  Stratokles nodded. ‘You saw him,’ he said.

  ‘I was his prisoner for a day and a night,’ Lysander responded.

  Stratokles nodded again. ‘He is well?’ he asked.

  ‘He has six thousand hoplites.’ Lysander shook his head. ‘He has less disease than we have. How could he have so many men? He started the siege with six thousand.’ The Spartan stared at the ground. ‘I asked that you be present when I tell the king, because you know this man.’

  Stratokles nodded a third time. A courtier was approaching. ‘Well, thanks for the warning,’ he said.

  Demetrios was sitting in an alcove of a Tyrian purple tent of linen and wool, with hangings on every wall — scenes from the siege of Troy, worked by the needle and by loom, shot with gold and silver threads. He sat on an ivory throne set on a floor of lion skins, and he was wearing his golden armour over a spotless white wool chiton. Plistias of Cos stood at his right shoulder. The Ionian bowed — sardonically, it seemed to Satyrus.

  ‘Stratokles of Athens,’ Demetrios said, with a nod.

  ‘Lord King,’ Stratokles returned with a bow.

  ‘Tell me of this delegation from Athens, Stratokles.’ Demetrios did not look like a man who had just lost two thousand elite soldiers. He looked like a temple statue in ivory and gold.

  ‘Old fools, lord. Men that Pericles would have called idiotes, devotees of faction.’ Stratokles spread his arms. ‘Just my opinion,’ he said, to draw the king’s laughter.

  He got it. ‘Please, Athenian, tell me what you really think.’ The king chuckled.

  But Stratokles refused to play the clown. ‘I will tell you, Lord King. I think that Cassander threatens Athens closely. I think that you stand to lose Greece — Attica and the Peloponnese — unless you or your father can act swiftly. Cassander is at the gates of Athens, lord.’

  Demetrios nodded. ‘So I hear, Stratokles. But sieges take time — who would know that better than me, eh?’ he laughed. ‘Athens will keep, and in my way, I am delighted to know where crooked-minded Cassander is. If he is penned in in Attica, laying siege to Athens, then he is not harming me elsewhere.’ Demetrios smiled. ‘Greece is the past, Athenian. The future is Asia and Aegypt.’

  The focus of the king’s regard lifted from the Athenian and settled like the aegis on the shoulders of Lysander. ‘You were a prisoner with the Rhodians,’ he said. His voice was mild, and it made Stratokles tremble.

  He had been dismissed — both he and his city.

  ‘Yes, lord,’ Lysander said.

  ‘And?’ Demetrios asked.

  ‘Satyrus son of Kineas sends his greetings,’ Lysander said. ‘He offers you a truce of three days to collect your dead. He says he will raise no trophy to goad you. And that he asks that you name terms, that this siege may be brought to an end.’

  Demetrios had an ivory wand, tipped with gold — the kind of staff Hermes often carried, and that Hephaestos had made for Atreus. He toyed with it. ‘He is gracious, my Hektor. What do you think, young Spartan?’

  Lysander shook his head. ‘May I tell you a tale, lord?’

  ‘As you will,’ Demetrios said.

  ‘Lord, their council met yesterday, after their victory. And one of the councillors demanded that the town’s statues of you and your father be pulled down — turned to rubble — and used to fill fortifications. But Satyrus,’ the Spartan paused, ‘said that they were b
eing short-sighted. And the statues were cleaned and honoured.’

  Demetrios smiled. ‘You are too subtle for me, my Spartan friend.’

  ‘They want peace,’ Lysander said. ‘They will fight to avoid extinction, but they will accept any honourable terms. They have the same disease in the town that we have in our camp. They are as thin as rails. Given any kind of terms, and they will surrender.’

  Demetrios looked at them. He smiled — a young god.

  ‘Terms,’ he said pensively. ‘Terms. An agreement. Negotiated. Men sitting around a table, bickering.’ He shook his head. ‘How many hoplites has my Hektor got left?’

  ‘I saw six thousand,’ Lysander said.

  ‘Lord Ares, so many?’ Demetrios smiled. ‘I love him for his resilience — six months, and more!’ He smiled again, and Stratokles, who had known Cassander and Antigonus, could not help but shudder.

  ‘We have thirty thousand,’ Plistias said. ‘Arming our oarsmen would double that.’

  Demetrios nodded, eyes glittering. ‘Let us not brag. It offends the gods. But we have soldiers. And the rump of the pirates — they are still some thousands strong.’

  ‘They are the hardest hit by the fever,’ Plistias admitted. ‘And they lack discipline.’

  ‘But I suspect that they can each be used as an arrow shield at least once,’ Demetrios said lightly.

  ‘My lord,’ Plistias protested.

  ‘Surely it suits everyone if we exterminate the pirates?’ Demetrios asked mildly. ‘Surely that is a moral act?’

  Plistias hesitated. ‘They came as allies.’

  ‘We can bury them as allies. How about supplies, navarch? Do we have supplies?’ Demetrios was mocking.

  ‘We do. Food for another six months, if required. Although we’re losing ships.’ Plistias spoke hesitantly. No one liked to give Demetrios bad news.

  ‘We have a new shipment of timber from the mainland. We have the ships we can pull to pieces for timber. We have iron and bronze and gold and silver, for that matter, and most importantly, we have my will.’ Demetrios rose to his feet. ‘Your Rhodians want peace. Terms. They may have the same terms Troy had. They will know peace when the dogs are finished with their corpses.’

  Lysander swallowed. ‘Yes, lord.’

  ‘Go and tell them, from me.’ Demetrios flashed the man a smile.

  ‘Yes, lord.’ The mercenary bowed.

  ‘Don’t come back. If you are so fond of them, you may die with them.’ Demetrios nodded, dismissing the man.

  Lysander was a Spartan. He walked out with a straight back.

  Demetrios’ eyes went to Stratokles. ‘And you?’ he asked.

  Stratokles sneered. ‘Well, I certainly don’t want to join the doomed,’ he said with precise honesty. ‘Nor am I any kind of friend to Satyrus son of Kineas.’

  Demetrios nodded. ‘Your honesty always refreshes me, Athenian. If you were less ugly, you might stand at my right hand.’

  Stratokles had once winced at such remarks. But age brings reality. ‘If I were prettier, lord, I might.’

  ‘Shall I crave your advice?’ Demetrios asked.

  ‘You know my advice, lord. Get the best terms you can, load your army on your fleet, crush Ptolemy’s fleet at Cos or Lesvos and fall on Cassander like a bolt from heaven.’

  Demetrios locked eyes with Stratokles.

  Few men could hold his gaze longer than it takes a man to draw a long breath.

  Stratokles didn’t so much as blink.

  ‘You have a strong will, Athenian,’ Demetrios said, but his eyes didn’t move.

  ‘I’m a stubborn man,’ Stratokles said. He would have to avert his eyes, because to do otherwise would challenge the king, and the man was mad — at least, just now. But he didn’t want to. He wanted — just once — to tell the powerful of the world to fuck themselves.

  But his political sense rose above his rage — a rage that seemed to be simmering along, just under the surface. Perhaps it was just the waste of it all.

  He blinked.

  Demetrios chuckled in victory.

  ‘I wish to crave a boon,’ Stratokles said.

  Demetrios pursed his lips and nodded. ‘Within reason, anything.’

  Stratokles scratched his beard. ‘I want to arm a trireme and look into their harbour. I think they’ve shifted their engines — all of them — to the south wall. You need a good captain, and a crew he trusts.’

  Plistias looked at Stratokles with a new respect. ‘You would do this?’

  Demetrios laughed. ‘Plistias thinks you are a coward who abandoned the third wall. I am not such a fool. I ought to reward you for saving so many — old Cleitas was senile. Lost in the glories of the past. You seek to prove yourself to me?’

  Stratokles smiled. ‘Yes. You will see exactly who I am.’

  Demetrios nodded. ‘Choose any ship you like.’

  Dawn, of the siege’s one hundred and ninety-third day. Autumn, a cold, hard sky with high clouds that threatened a heavy wind, a red morning that might force sailors to take shelter.

  A single black hull slipped off the beach and crept down the shore in the first light, oars muffled. Demetrios strode past the building area, where fifty new engines and a massive framework were under construction. Behind him, framing his head, a wooden wheel the size of an elephant towered, shot in iron. A hundred blacksmiths were already awake, pounding out plates. Demetrios smiled at the work.

  ‘When they see you,’ he said to the air, ‘they will know my power.’

  Plistias, and the two mathematicians who had done the calculations on the new machines, followed him across the sand. ‘When they see it,’ said Ctesibius, greatly daring, ‘they will surrender.’

  Demetrios was watching the black ship moving down the beach. ‘I don’t want them to surrender,’ he said. ‘Troy did not surrender. I want them to die.’

  The ship began to gather speed.

  ‘Send a boy for the lovely Amastris of Heraklea,’ Demetrios said. ‘She will want to watch her hideous champion in action.’

  ‘He can certainly handle a ship,’ Plistias said.

  A slave went running across the sand.

  ‘How tall will it be?’ Demetrios asked, looking at the scantlings — great oak beams from Epiros.

  ‘Taller than the pyramid of Chios,’ Ctesibius said.

  Demetrios beamed. ‘I like that.’ He listened to the sound of a hundred hammers falling on a hundred anvils. ‘I like that.’

  The slave returned and spoke to a staff officer, who spoke to Phillip the Macedonian, who looked around wildly.

  ‘Well?’ Demetrios asked. He had an eye for weakness.

  ‘My lord, Amastris is not in her tent. Nor are her maids.’ Phillip took a breath. ‘And her soldiers are not in their tents.’

  Stratokles’ black-hulled ship raced along the mole and turned like the great drum of a war machine, as if guided by cogs and pulleys, into the harbour.

  He ran down the mole — and the bolts began to fly. Not many, but enough to resound like huge hammers against a great drum when a brace of them hit his ship.

  He turned again, his port-side rowers pulling their oars aboard just as his port side scraped along the hulks moored to cover the sea wall. Many of them had been burned, but the inner harbour had ships intact — and now they were covering his movement across the harbour.

  The Rhodians hadn’t had time to heat any bolts, and many of their engines must have been moved — but Stratokles’ ship was hit, and hit hard. It shuddered, slowed and was hit again but the rowers kept their wits, and now Stratokles turned for the harbour opening.

  ‘Well done,’ Plistias said grudgingly.

  The black ship shot out of the harbour entrance.

  Stratokles was white-faced in the stern, his hands on the oars, a jagged splinter of white oak all the way through his left thigh so that his blood poured and pooled under him on the deck. There were men lying dead all along the deck, and more dead below in the oar decks, where the bolts h
ad punched right through the fragile timbers.

  But the ship was intact, and he was fifteen minutes’ row upwind of Demetrios’ fleet, and most of his deck crew were still alive. Amastris, brave as a lion, had refused to go below, and now she had a splinter right through her left hand, despite which she stood laconic, awaiting events, the blood running down her chiton while her maids screamed.

  ‘Shut them up,’ Stratokles said curtly.

  ‘Pull it!’ she said to her red-haired maid.

  The Keltoi woman wasn’t screaming. She pulled the splinter out in one smooth movement. Amastris shrieked once, fell to the deck and then put her back to the mainmast.

  ‘Foresail,’ Stratokles called down the deck, and Lucius passed the order to the acting sailing master. The sail was brailed on its yard — two men cut the brails and it swung free and the wind caught it immediately.

  A maid screamed. Amastris cuffed her. ‘Shut up, all of you. You,’ she said to the Keltoi girl.

  ‘Yes, Despoina,’ she said.

  ‘You are free,’ Amastris said. ‘You are too brave to be a slave. And you never heat my milk properly, anyway.’

  One last shot came from the defences — a long shot, a light bolt that skipped on the wave tops and passed the ship as he heeled with the wind, pressing down the bow.

  Rhodes was falling away under the stern.

  ‘We are all free,’ Stratokles said. ‘Goodbye, Golden King.’

  Amastris kissed him. Lucius slapped his back. ‘Pretty smooth,’ he said. ‘Now lie down and let me save your leg.’

  Stratokles was suddenly aware of great pain, and a rushing noise in his ears-

  And he was gone.

  30

  DAY ONE HUNDRED AND NINETY AND FOLLOWING

  The sag in morale when it became clear that Demetrios had no intention of abandoning the siege was so great that Satyrus thought the city might fall to any determined assault.

  The weather grew colder, and it was too late to expect relief from the sea — and starvation began to stalk the garrison. There was no more oil to be found; wine was a drachma a sip, and the grain ration was cut — three-quarters of a measure, and then half, for all citizens.