And then Miriam paused in her turn. And her eyes went through him – she was looking nowhere else, and the quarter-smile on her face was for him, her hands on her hips were his hands, and she leaped—
‘Are you in love with my sister?’ Abraham asked.
‘Yes,’ Satyrus said, with a sigh.
‘God!’ Abraham said. ‘Job did not have a trial like Miriam. You too?’ He shook his head. ‘I make a joke – I always make a joke. In truth, my friend, I am – angry.’
Satyrus watched her long legs and her smile a quarter of the way around the circle. ‘Someone should free the Keltoi girl,’ he said.
Abraham nodded. ‘The Keltoi girl is not my problem. My sister is. You can’t marry her. What do you mean to do – keep her as a mistress? Hide her away?’
Satyrus sighed again. ‘Friend, I have no idea. None. But I’ll offer this – why shouldn’t I marry her?’
Abraham turned to look him in the eye. ‘Oh – you will become a Jew?’
Satyrus frowned. ‘Don’t be foolish.’
Abraham glared at him. ‘Foolish, is it?’
Satyrus raised a hand. ‘Let’s be sure of our arguments, shall we? I have nothing but respect for the God of the Jews. But my god is Herakles.’
Abraham shook his head. ‘Herakles is a silly myth for children. Gods do not personify themselves – they do not come to earth and make love to mortals and all that foolishness. Or perhaps he’s merely the memory of a great man – a warrior. You claim him as an ancestor, do you not?’
‘And the God of the Jews has done so well for your people – the “chosen”. You rule the world, do you not? You Jews?’ Satyrus had never said such a thing out loud, and he was none too proud he’d done it. He put his hand out. ‘Sorry – that was uncalled for.’
Abraham was red, but at Satyrus’ touch he shook his head. ‘Don’t think I haven’t thought it. Sometimes it all seems a sham. What god would allow this?’ Abraham looked up.
‘What, a party?’ Satyrus quipped.
‘War. This siege. Nicanor. Demetrios.’ He shrugged.
Satyrus frowned. ‘The world exists so that we may compete, and by competing, show the gods our worth.’ He shrugged.
Abraham narrowed his eyes. ‘Those slaves out there, puking their lives away with fever – what are they competing for?’
Satyrus shrugged. ‘No idea.’
‘You are no empty-head. Don’t you care?’ Abraham asked. ‘When you killed Nicanor, what did you feel?’
‘You sound like Philokles, brother. No, I don’t care. I care for them – when I meet them – one at a time. As a mass – slaves – I can’t care. I can care for my men, for my city, for myself. I can work to make a better city on the Euxine, to make my farmers richer, to make my soldiers triumphant. I can’t feed the slaves, much less free them. When Nicanor betrays his city, he is less than worthless – I cut him down as I would kill a mad dog. And he won’t haunt my dreams.’
The women had stopped dancing. They were looking expectantly at the men, who were mostly applauding like mad, except for Abraham and Satyrus. Abraham stared off as if he didn’t even know women existed. After a pause, he said, ‘My sister loathed her husband. He was a good man. A merchant. A quiet, honourable man.’ He rolled his shoulders. ‘And when he died, she rejoiced.’ He spat the word. ‘And now she shares her favours between Hellenes. You know that she makes cow eyes at Anaxagoras as well? Eh?’
Satyrus laughed. ‘How could I not know?’ he said, and looked at Anaxagoras.
The musician was wrapped up only in his lyre.
Abraham spat.
Satyrus laughed. ‘You, my friend, are suffering from an excess of bile. And the women want us to dance. I know that you know the dance of Ares.’
Abraham rose to his feet. ‘Of all your Greek gods, Ares is the one I understand.’
Satyrus took his hand to lead him out. ‘You understand Ares?’
‘Hateful Ares? The brash, boastful coward, fomenter of strife, god of slaughter, ruin and mindless combat?’ Abraham spoke with so much vehemence that spittle flew. ‘I see him made manifest every day. How could I pretend he doesn’t exist? Perhaps his mean and spiteful mind rules the world. Perhaps he is the only god.’
Satyrus was struck dumb, and he put a hand to his mouth.
Abraham picked up a cup, drank some wine and spat.
‘Jews are great ones for blasphemy,’ he said, and managed a smile. ‘Let’s dance.’
The men chose to dance the Pyrriche. It was no hardship – every man present had a spear and a shield, and months of incessant warfare made them so confident that no one even proposed that they bate their spears.
Because many of them were men of Tanais, they danced it the Euxine way, and the first two verses were a vicious tangle – Satyrus had a cut on his right bicep where Menedemos forgot the new steps. But they were all dancers – almost every warrior present had competed in the Pyrriche – and they learned fast, and by the time the third verse of the hymn rose to the heavens, the Euxine men’s knees and the Rhodian men’s knees all rose together, kicked, spun, leaped—
The first roar of the crowd, already growing.
Anaxagoras played – first the hymn to Ares, and then, subtly, he changed the tune, and he whispered to Miriam as he played, and she picked up her kithara and Aspasia joined in with a small lyre. Note by note they moved the tune from the brash striving of Ares to the military wisdom of Athens, the hymn to Athena.
And the men, in four lines, stood forth, brandished spears, fell back through ranks, turned, thrust, leaped, and parried all together, and if steps were missed, they were lost in the flood of eudaimonia.
At some point, the women began to sing, and more men and women were drawn out of the darkness by the fire and the music, so rare in a city under siege. Men sat on the crumpled ruins of houses they had once owned and raised their voices together, and women pushed forward until they could see the men dance, faster and faster.
Satyrus could see them at the edge of the old foundations, hundreds of people singing the paean to Athena – possibly thousands – and he was lifted out of himself to leap the higher, snap faster from posture to posture, as if Theron and Philokles were there to watch his every move—
He spun to clash his spear against a shield and there was Charmides, his beauty like a blaze of light, and the younger man leaped so high that Satyrus was able to sweep his spear shaft under the man’s feet. Charmides landed, his smile so broad that it threatened to swallow his face, and his counter-thrust went over Satyrus’ head as the polemarch stretched along the ground, front leg out-thrust, rear leg nearly flat, head ducked. The people nearest to them cheered, roared and pointed and Satyrus dared to roll forward, tucking his shield, and stood behind Charmides – the other dancers exchanged less extreme postures, but Satyrus was, for this one figure, the lead, and Charmides answered by flipping backward over his shield, a feat Satyrus had never seen done. The crowd by them erupted and the hymn drove on inexorably to the end, two thousand voices now—
Come, Athena, now if ever!
Let us now thy Glory see!
Now, O Maid and Queen, we pray thee,
Give thy servants victory!
Satyrus found himself weeping, and Apollodorus was weeping, and Charmides and Abraham. And Melitta took his hand and kissed him, and smiled boldly at Charmides. ‘Our father’s war song,’ she said.
Then she kissed the boy. ‘You are a very handsome lad,’ she said. And walked off to congratulate the musicians.
Two stades away, wrapped in a cloak on the edge of the abatis that protected the Antigonid sentry wall, Lucius listened with Stratokles. Even two stades away, the hymn to Athena was loud enough to hinder conversation.
Lucius sighed. ‘Can I tell you something, boss?’ he asked.
Stratokles found that he was so choked up he couldn’t speak, so there was a long pause. ‘When do you not say whatever you like?’ he managed, with tear-filled eyes.
‘We’re o
n the wrong fucking side, boss.’ Lucius took out a gold toothpick. ‘I’m a pious man, boss. Demetrios is – ah, cunt, I don’t know what he is. We don’t invoke the gods. The priests in this camp are lickspittles. The Macedonians just go through the motions – Hades, Stratokles, they worship demons and spirits! Fucking barbarians, if you ask me. Worse than Etruscans.’ Lucius picked his teeth. ‘You heard that hymn, right? Fuckin’ arse-cunts had what – a thousand singing?’ He looked at Stratokles, who was struggling between a desire unburden to the closest thing he had to a friend and the desire to discipline the closest thing he had to a subordinate.
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 invisib
le 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 think—
‘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.
Tyrant: Destroyer of Cities Page 46
