Nicanor had more dignity in defeat and anger than he did in victory. ‘No. I will serve on the walls, but I will not lead. I resign my seat. Good day to you.’ He turned and walked through the door. Two of the younger oligarchs rose to follow him – Hellenos and Socrates – but they paused.
Damophilus intercepted them at the door and spoke to them, and they returned to their couches.
The boulechose Panther to command the defence. And then the bouleelected Satyrus of the Euxine to be a member. No one present was more surprised than Satyrus.
He was led to a couch, and Menedemos, the young aristocrat, but a democrat, came and lay by him. ‘You are an aristocrat like us,’ he said fiercely. ‘We play kithara with your friend Anaxagoras and we know you are one of us – Nicanor is blind with grief.’
Satyrus shrugged. ‘I’m a king,’ he said. ‘And my people were aristocrats in Athens and Plataea since the time of the gods.’
Menedemos nodded. ‘Exactly. And you are friends with Panther – and with Damophilus. The three of you will unite the parties.’
‘I am a foreigner,’ Satyrus whispered.
Menedemos laughed aloud. ‘You are a king, and all the foreigners know you. There are a thousand metics in this city. Many are worthy men: Abraham the Jew—’
‘Is a citizen now, but I agree he’s a worthy man.’ Satyrus looked at the other man – who was his own age, or even a little older. ‘Where is this going?’
Menedemos pointed at Panther. The navarch rose.
‘I move that the bouleappoint me three strategoi for the conduct of the siege,’ he said. ‘I request Damophilus son of Menander, Menedemos son of Menedemos and Satyrus son of Kineas.’
Satyrus lay back and laughed. ‘Now I see,’ he said.
DAYS ELEVEN TO EIGHTEEN
Satyrus stood on the sand of the gymnasium’s palaestra – still smooth under his feet, but a breeze blew across the sand where the whole front wall had been removed, quarried for stone.
He was naked, holding a wooden sword, his left arm wrapped in his chlamys. Anaxagoras faced him. The musician had never been trained as a swordsman, and wished for lessons. Korus stood by them with a heavy staff. Satyrus was covered in sweat, and Anaxagoras gleamed only with oil, having just arrived.
‘Again,’ Korus growled.
Satyrus moved forward in the guard position, left leg advanced and left arm steady and high, the trailing folds of the cloak covering his side and leg, the cloak weights in the embroidered border holding the edge down. His sword arm was well back, so that his opponent could not easily get control of the sword – his right elbow was cocked back, almost like a boxer ready to throw a punch – the tip of the blade was high, pointing at his opponent’s neck.
Anaxagoras smiled. ‘I’m not convinced that a man can learn anything from a “sword master”,’ he said. ‘Does Xenophon not say that holding a blade is natural to every boy?’
Satyrus nodded across the wooden blades. ‘I’m not sure I’m strong enough to demonstrate the superiority of art over ignorance. But ask yourself, music teacher: how well does that same boy do at playing the kithara – with his natural skill?
Anaxagoras stood square on to Satyrus, sword well out, cloak held close to his body.
He grinned. ‘I certainly cede the point intellectually. Well hit.’
Satyrus found it hard to dislike the musician, even when he had seen him standing at the entry to the women’s quarters, exchanging witticisms with Miriam in the early-morning light while she coached her women on their weaving.
He smiled, and his cloak arm moved a fraction – he slid forward half a step, and his cloak arm shot out, pinned Anaxagoras’ sword and his own sword tapped his opponent on the throat – hard enough to make the musician stumble back in pain.
Very satisfying, really.
When Anaxagoras came back on guard, his face was flushed. ‘Trick,’ he growled, and sprang forward, his sword swinging in vicious arcs. Satyrus ducked, parried with his sword and rolled his wrist, clipping Anaxagoras on the side of the head – a blow which he carefully pulled.
The big musician didn’t pause, but cut back.
Satyrus blocked that blow, using the heaviest part of his wooden sword closest to his hand, and the two swords locked for a moment and Anaxagoras, even at a mechanical disadvantage, easily pushed Satyrus down and away – but Satyrus sprang back, substituting training for strength, and extended his sword, which Anaxagoras ran on – too late: he swung his sword, failing the parry and smacking Satyrus’ right arm so hard that he dropped his weapon.
‘I killed you twice, you ignorant fuck,’ Satyrus said angrily.
‘You never touched me!’ Anaxagoras laughed. ‘Just as I thought – you dance around and I hit you anyway.’
‘I hit you on the head and I just poked you in the gut,’ Satyrus said.
‘Not hard enough to do any damage,’ Anaxagoras said. ‘Don’t be a poor loser. Is this something about being a king? If I knew I had to lose, I’d have been better prepared.’
Satyrus felt the blood rush to his face. For a moment, he actually saw red. Then he counted – ten, nine, eight – slowly down to one. At the end, he took three deep breaths and set himself to guard. He was covered in sweat and his arms hurt, and he was naked. In armour – even light armour – he would already be exhausted.
‘Ready,’ he said.
This time, Anaxagoras put his cloak well out in front and ran at him, sword swinging.
Satyrus didn’t move. Choosing his moment precisely, he punched with his cloak and swung his sword the same way. Even through his wrapped cloak, Anaxagoras’ blow stung his arm. But Satyrus’ blade caught the musician’s out-thrust shin and the man went down like a sacrificial ram.
‘Gods curse you, arse-cunt!’ Anaxagoras said angrily. He rolled to his feet and thrust at Satyrus, who stepped back. Anaxagoras lunged forward, off balance, his sword held clumsily across his body, and Satyrus stepped forward, shoved the sword into the out-thrust cloak and put his wooden blade into his opponent’s armpit. ‘Don’t be ruled by anger, musician,’ he said.
Anaxagoras didn’t pause: he cut overarm, a wild Harmodius blow, one, two, three, as fast as he could, heavy blows that jarred Satyrus’ arm and made his jaw ache.
Satyrus punched his opponent in the gut with his cloak hand. Once, it would have been a stout blow, even for a left-handed jab. Now it was merely a poke. But Anaxagoras flinched away from it, and Satyrus rolled his blade off the other man’s clumsy attempt to stop-cut and jabbed the blade where the punch had gone.
Anaxagoras didn’t stop coming. But Satyrus was used to his rage now – he spun back, ducked, and caught the blow on his cloak and it stung.
There was a crack, and Anaxagoras stopped, stunned.
Korus had hit him with his staff. ‘Stop, now,’ he said.
Anaxagoras stopped. He was bleeding in three places: one was his head, where Satyrus’ second blow had caught him. He was breathing hard. The fire died away from his eyes, and he dropped his oak sword.
‘Oh, lord, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘The fire comes on me . . . fuck. You hurt me. I’m an arsehole.’
Satyrus hadn’t seen the musician like this – angry, or remorseful.
‘You scared me, Anaxagoras,’ he said.
‘Me too,’ Korus said. ‘You kill him, I lose my freedom.’ The trainer grinned.
Anaxagoras hung his head. ‘Sorry,’ he said.
Satyrus dropped his cloak. The welt on his cloak arm was red and livid and already raised in a long ridge. ‘You hit hard.’
Anaxagoras nodded. ‘I find that it works, in combat.’
Satyrus had to smile.
Korus nodded. ‘You hit like a girl,’ he said to the king of the Euxine.
‘You should see my sister fight,’ Satyrus said. ‘And I was pulling my attacks, you idiots.’
Korus spat on the sand. ‘The music-maker doesn’t want to admit how easily you hit him. You don’t want to admit that you have no strength in
your hand. You’re a pair of liars.’ He shrugged. ‘Tomorrow, in armour.’
Three days of respite – Demetrios never left his camp.
Three days of fighting on the sand of the palaestra, while the gymnasium itself vanished around them.
The fourth day, Demetrios’ fleet moved forward. The Rhodians stood to. Satyrus ran from the sands of the palaestra, already armoured, when the alarm sounded from the Temple of Poseidon, Anaxagoras at his side. They went up the ladders together, onto the roof of Abraham’s house.
‘Get the marines formed – four streets back, and well spread out, so no one rock can kill them all,’ Satyrus barked at Apollodorus. ‘You are the reserve for this sector. Any questions?’
Apollodorus got his chinstrap tied and nodded. ‘I hate this,’ he said. ‘I want to hit something.’
Out in the harbour, a pair of light boats were manned. They were fire boats, directed by Menedemos. He intended to burn another engine-ship if he could.
But Demetrios was on to a different tactic. His fleet came up to the seaward edge of the main harbour, but they stayed outside the mole, beyond the headlands that marked the small harbour. Five engine ships crept slowly across the mouth of the small harbour, and four dropped anchor just off the large harbour’s southern headland.
In minutes, their lever arms were swinging and their stones began to fly – over the moles, over the harbour. They only had range to hit the northern and southern ends of town by the port, and about one hundred and fifty paces of wall at either end of the harbour.
Just as quickly, refugees were pouring out of the threatened parts of the town. They fled to the temples, which were out of range of the current bombardment.
At dark, the ships withdrew. The sea wall didn’t exist anywhere that the engine-ships could reach: from the harbour entrance, north and south, almost three hundred paces of wall had been reduced to pulverised clay, broken concrete and smashed stone. Dozens more were dead, and fires had started where panicked householders had abandoned homes while lamps were lit in household shrines.
The northern quarter burned for two days. Panther ordered that the town’s reserve simply destroy two rows of houses to isolate the fire, and return to their duty.
At the height of the fire, Demetrios sent ships into the harbour – thirty ships crammed with soldiers. But they had trouble navigating the wrecks, and there were dozens of Rhodian ships anchored, empty, in the shallow water by the beach under the sea wall, and despite damage, most of them had survived to impede navigation.
Not a single enemy soldier got ashore, and Panther’s ruthlessness in abandoning the northern quarter to fire was proven sound.
Four enemy triremes were caught and destroyed.
On the seventeenth night of the siege, Panther, Damophilus and Menedemos each manned light guard ships in the dark, rowed silently out of the small harbour entrance and attacked the engine-ships with fire. Satyrus stood on the roof, unable to settle to sleep. The engine up there hadn’t fired in days – the enemy didn’t come within range – but the roof was the highest in the neighbourhood of the temples and Satyrus could see a long way.
Anaxagoras came up the ladder while Satyrus sat. The attack was secret – so secret that Satyrus hadn’t even told Abraham – but everyone knew something was up.
‘Am I welcome here?’ Anaxagoras asked.
Satyrus grunted. He was standing on top of the left-hand ballista for the added eight, watching the sea.
‘I brought wine,’ he said.
Satyrus grinned in the dark. ‘Well, in that case . . .’
Anaxagoras handed up a metal cup and then clambered onto the other machine. ‘Night attack?’ he asked.
Satyrus drank the wine in a single gulp. He was nervous, and angry – angry at his body for not being ready.
‘All of the commanders,’ he said. ‘All except me are out there on the water.’
Anaxagoras nodded. ‘They’re amateurs,’ he said.
Satyrus looked at him, but the musician was impossible to read in the moonless gloom.
‘I’m no soldier, but I’m a professional singer,’ Anaxagoras said. ‘I know how to plan and execute a big commission. A huge party, a temple entertainment – fifty musicians, ten pieces of music, a chorus, a sex act and a fighting act and a pair of famous lyre players – how to keep them all happy and together so that the client is happy.’
Satyrus tried to get wine out of an empty cup. ‘Do you have more wine?’
‘Yes. Catch,’ Anaxagoras said, and threw something.
Satyrus caught it – a wineskin – balanced on the main slide of the ballista, and was proud of the body he was rebuilding. He poured more wine. ‘You have the right of it,’ he said. ‘They don’t see the whole siege, just pieces of it. Demetrios will assault the harbour, perhaps tomorrow. But he’s been moving men around the city for days, and he’ll have a go at the land walls – another attempt at surprise, I expect. And the men of the city are as brave as lions, but they aren’t looking ahead and they won’t listen to me. They’re thinking in days. This siege will last a year. That is, if we are lucky enough to survive tomorrow.’
Anaxagoras shuffled around in the dark. ‘A year?’
Satyrus shrugged, not that the motion communicated anything. So he spoke. ‘At least. All Demetrios needs to do is realise that if he kills one of us for every fifteen of his men, he’ll win – and then we’ll be finished. So far, he has disdained such tactics.’
Suddenly, there was fire on the water. One fire sprang up, and then another, and suddenly, as fast as Satyrus could take a breath, the fires leaped into pillars, the roar like the distant hum of bees.
‘Poseidon,’ Satyrus said. ‘Herakles, stand with us.’
The flames grew until the whole area outside of the harbour was illuminated as if by daylight. The three Rhodian ships could be seen clearly, and a dozen enemy ships launching from the beach and a pair of guard ships already moving at ramming speed.
One of the Rhodian ships got fire into a third target at the price of being rammed – hard.
Satyrus writhed, his body moving to and fro as he tried to fight the battle himself.
‘You drinking all the wine?’ Anaxagoras asked.
Satyrus threw the wineskin back, and the musician caught it. ‘Your arms are getting stronger,’ he said.
Satyrus smiled to himself. ‘Yes,’ he said.
‘We’re not so different,’ Anaxagoras said.
‘No?’ Satyrus asked, his eyes glued to the fight beyond the harbour. There were four enemy ships around one Rhodian. The other two Rhodian ships had made their escape.
‘No. You’d rather be fighting – even at the risk of your life: you, a king, a rich man – than watching.’ Anaxagoras snorted.
Satyrus saw that the third Rhodian ship had set herself on fire. That was courage. ‘Yes,’ he said.
‘I hate to watch, too. I have to play – whatever everyone else plays. Music. Games. Sword work.’ Anaxagoras snorted.
Satyrus joined him. ‘It’s true,’ he laughed, although his heart was in his throat. Who had just died?
‘And we’re in love with the same woman,’ Anaxagoras went on. ‘I’m sorry about that.’
Satyrus all but fell from the ballista. ‘What?’ he asked.
‘You want Miriam. So do I. I see how you look at her – Hades, I look at her the same way. I’d like to eat her raw, too.’ Anaxagoras laughed. It was not a happy laugh. ‘The thing is – you, the king – what can you offer her? I can give her music, and a good name. I would marry her, if Abraham would have me.’
Now more ships were burning – the three enemies grappled to the Rhodian ships, dying in the fatal embrace. Someone had made a noble sacrifice. Who was it?
‘I’m doing this badly, lord. You have other things on your mind.’ Anaxagoras made a noise like a man choking.
Satyrus jumped down from his ballista without another word, and then climbed down the ladder closest to him, ignoring Anaxagoras. He wasn�
�t ready to consider the validity of Anaxagoras’ claim – and he thought that he’d seen men going over the side of the distant burning ships.
‘Apollodorus!’ he called. ‘Marines!’
He gathered the first dozen, with Idomeneus and some archers, and ran for the harbour mouth – slow going when they came to the edge of the southern quarter, where the buildings had been crushed as if by the hand of a god. They climbed across the rubble that covered the streets – whole houses collapsed, or walls that had fallen straight outward, dreadful footing – but the distance was short, and then they were on the breakwater of the small harbour. Satyrus led the marines and archers along.
‘Look for men swimming!’ he called.
One of the enemy ships was looking for swimmers as well – a trireme. She came on strongly, her archers shooting down into the water, and Idomeneus began shooting at the archers. His men supported him, and the glare of the burning ships backlit the enemy, while Idomeneus and his archers were invisible in the darkness. In heartbeats, the enemy archers were shot silent.
‘I see men!’ Apollodorus called. ‘Spearmen, to me!’
Idomeneus glanced at Satyrus. The enemy trireme was coming right in – it was possible she intended to land her marines on the breakwater to cut off the swimmers.
‘See if you can clear her command station,’ Satyrus said.
‘Aim amidships,’ Idomeneus sang out. ‘All together. Loose!’
A dozen arrows flew, and then another dozen before the first had struck, and suddenly the enemy ship turned – not to port, away from the breakwater, but to starboard, and in two breaths she struck, at cruising speed, her ram hitting the piled stone of the ancient harbour mole from the time of Agamemnon and Achilles.
Then the night was full of fighting. The enemy crew, desperate, poured over the side into the deep water and came up the side of the breakwater. Satyrus had only a half-dozen marines, and they had to move up and down the stone road on top of the harbour works, killing the men climbing.
Tyrant: Destroyer of Cities Page 33
