Tyrant: Destroyer of Cities

by Christian Cameron

  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.’ Satyrus 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 t
ried 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.

  ‘He only wants truce to build engines,’ Jubal said without preamble.

  Satyrus raised an eyebrow and let Helios sink his head into the water.

  ‘I’m going to teach Miriam to shoot,’ Melitta announced. ‘Is this truce real?’

  Satyrus, upside down, managed to laugh. ‘It’s good to have you around,’ he said to his sister. ‘Yes, we’ll accept his truce – won’t we, Neiron? Menedemos?’

  The Rhodian commander sat heavily on a stool that Helios unfolded for him, cradled his head in his hands and shook it. ‘I need a truce to recover from drinking,’ he said.

  Apollodorus groaned. ‘Out of practice,’ he said.

  Satyrus was upright again. ‘What practical advantage would we derive from refusing the truce?’ he asked Jubal.

  Jubal rubbed his chin and then the top of his head. ‘None,’ he admitted. ‘Not much we can do. We wan’ him to attack, eh?’

  Satyrus nodded. ‘He wants to rebuild his engines for the bombardment. We want him to assault the wall. And we don’t want him to discover we’ve already effectively abandoned the third wall – is that right? So during the truce, we can man it heavily and show all kinds of troops up there.’

  Neiron nodded.

  ‘And we can man the rest of the ships in the harbour and get them to sea the moment the truce expires.’ This to Menedemos, who also nodded.

  ‘That could turn the balance at sea,’ he said.

  ‘And we get two days’ rest,’ Satyrus added. ‘What have we got to lose?’

  Anaxagoras shook his head. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Makes you wonder why he’s asking for a truce.’

  29

  DAY NINETY AND FOLLOWING

  The Rhodians spent the two truce days making and mending equipment, and keeping the enemy from seeing their preparations. Parties of enemy troops repeatedly attempted to climb the south walls under various pretences, and Satyrus quickly understood that this scouting function was the reason that the Antigonids had asked for a truce. When Satyrus set up a trophy in the blasted ground between the lines, Demetrios sent men to tear it down, and made a formal protest.

  The herald, beautifully dressed in fine wool from India, a cloak of shimmering silk and a golden fillet on his brow, was brought before Satyrus where he sat with his hetairoi in the agora, mending sandals. Satyrus had his entire panoply laid out in the dusty grass, and while Helios buffed the bronze and silver, Satyrus was busy with a needle and heavy linen thread, sewing the long flaps that covered his lower belly and groin where sword cuts had all but severed two of them. Anaxagoras was watching Apollodorus work – the marine captain was an expert with leather, and he was refitting the musician’s military sandals, putting a leather sock inside, a trick the marines had developed to keep the grit of the siege out of their feet. Charmides was working with the intense concentration of the neophyte while his girl, Nike, mocked his efforts. Melitta was chewing sinew and spitting while explaining to Miriam the superiorities of sinew over linen thread. Across the agora, marines, ephebes and citizen soldiers, hoplites, mercenaries and Cretan archers had their kit laid out in the sun while they made the repairs that could mean life or death – a scale replaced, a bronze plate adjusted, a helmet strap tightened or loosened.

  The herald stared at the activity as if he’d never seen soldiers at work before. ‘My king bids me say—’ he began.

  He was addressing Anaxagoras. Anaxagoras raised his head from watching Apollodorus and winked at the herald. ‘I’m not the polemarch, boy,’ he said.

  The word boy, with its implications of immaturity – and slavery – made the man flush. He whirled. His eyes found Menedemos, where he sat having the straps on his greaves reset by a bronzesmith.

  ‘Which one of you is the King of the Bosporus?’ he asked belligerently.

  Satyrus bit off his thread amid the general laughter. ‘I am,’ he said.

  The young man walked over to him. ‘My lord, the king demands that you remove the trophy that you have erected on the south wall.’

  ‘Or what?’ Satyrus asked. His men fell silent.

  ‘It is an effrontery that you have erected a trophy over such a small thing,’ the herald continued.

  ‘Your master asked us for a truce,’ Satyrus said. ‘He requested two days to bury his dead,’ he continued.

  Apollodorus spoke up. ‘The law of arms lets us raise a trophy,’ he said. ‘Your master ought to know that, boy.’

  Abraham laughed. ‘I’m a Jew, boy, and I know you get a trophy when your enemy asks for a truce.’

  ‘I am not a boy, and my king is not my master.’ The young man was obviously Macedonian.

  Satyrus nodded. ‘Listen, lad. You go back to Demetrios and tell him that if he wants the trophy taken down, he should come and do it himself. When the truce is over. Until then, the trophy stands.’ He stood up. ‘Your audience is at an end. Blindfold him and take him back – west gate. Who has my wax?’

  Apollodorus looked sheepish. ‘I thought it was my wax,’ he said. And more quietly, ‘Isn’t it a bit of . . . hubris to have a trophy for so small an action?’

  ‘It’s a goad,’ Satyrus said. ‘We need him to attack that wall.’

  Miriam released another arrow into the straw bale. It flew well, if a little short, and once again the string caught her forearm, which was already red – angry red.

  ‘Damn it,’ she said, in Hebrew.

  Melitta shook her head. ‘Keep your wrist strong. Don’t relax it. Here – your left – hold the bow like this.’

  Miriam took a drink from the canteen next to them. ‘So you keep saying. You must have wrists like a smith, Melitta – I can’t hold the bow like that and release the arrow.’

  Melitta frowned. ‘A six-year-old Sakje child can do it, Miriam. Concentrate.’

  Miriam, angered, lifted the bow, took a deep breath, relaxed, made herself move the bow a finger’s breadth with her wrist and released. Her shot was weak, and flew short – but the string did not bite her arm.

  Melitta smiled. ‘There you go. You need to strengthen your arms and shoulders – I don’t have a bow light enough for you, so you’ll have to get stronger.’ She nodded. ‘Sakje maidens lift rocks and throw them. And shoot constantly.’

  Miriam smiled. ‘I’d be delighted to have shoulders like yours,’ she said.

  Melitta smiled back. ‘No – I’m all muscle. You have the beautiful curves. I look like a boy.’

  Miriam laughed. ‘No. Not at all like a boy. But you do walk like a boy. Fierce – determined. And always ready to fight.’

  Melitta nodded. ‘I am always ready to fight.’ She wiped her bow, retrieved her arrows.

  ‘You like him? Anaxagoras?’ Miriam asked.

  ‘He’s pretty and brave,’ Miriam said. ‘He looks at me the way I like to be looked at.’

  Miriam nodded. The silence lengthened.

  ‘You can’t have both of them,’ Melitta said.

  Miriam fiddled with her hair. She was blushing. ‘I can’t have either of them,’ she said.

  Melitta frowned. ‘Why not?’ she asked.

  Miriam met her eyes. ‘It’s fine for you – it always has been.’ She looked away, bit her lip and said no more.

  ‘What do you mean, Miriam? I’m no different to you. We grew up together!’ Melitta felt as if she were suddenly talking to a stranger.

  ‘You . . . you don’t play by the rules. How many lovers have you had, Melitta?’ Miriam blushed when she asked.

  Melitta laughed out loud. ‘Far fewer than you might think. Three. Just three. And the cost is . . . high.’ />
  Miriam’s hand went to her mouth. ‘Oh – I’m so sorry! I assumed—’ She blushed again.

  Melitta laughed. ‘Honey, if I weren’t the Lady of the Assagetae, I’d no doubt run up the score you think I have.’ She got to her feet. ‘I’m not offended, Miriam. Everyone thinks it – I hear what men say. I have a baby. I live out in the field with men. But men are fools, and if I seek to lead them, I cannot go from bed to bed. The petty jealousies alone would destroy my people.’ She stretched.

  ‘Oh,’ Miriam said.

  ‘On the other hand,’ Melitta went on, ‘since everyone already thinks you’re sleeping with both of them – why don’t you? You’ll never convince people you’re an innocent widow. And,’ she smiled, the same smile she made when she licked her knife, ‘it’d be good for you. Your marriage was unhappy?’

  Miriam looked away. ‘Nothing that’s worth a story.’

  ‘I’m not in a hurry,’ Melitta said. She sat back down on a sun-warmed stone.

  Miriam stared out to sea. ‘Do you think we’ll win, Melitta? I mean, here. In the end.’

  Melitta looked at the other woman. ‘Yes, of course. Why do you ask?’

  Miriam smiled – a surprisingly bitter smile, for her. ‘If we were all going to die, I’d pick one. And love him every night and every day and to hell with what people say. Except that something tells me that if I choose one, the other will die, and I could not abide that. It must be easy to die out there – a moment’s inattention. And when they compete for me, am I insane, or does it help keep them alive – give them an edge?’

  Melitta nodded. ‘I wondered if you were thinking that. And yes – oh, yes. I suppose someone might argue that they’ll be reckless – but I use my lovely eyes on warriors all the time. The aspiring lover is the deadliest of men. And has something to live for.’

  Miriam hugged her. ‘I have never said that out loud – even to myself. I feel like such a trull. And then, at the symposium, I watched that red-haired girl and I thought – oh, I thought things. So I went to bed. Before—’

  Melitta smiled, somewhere between a true smile and a sneer. ‘I tried to get Anaxagoras between my legs after you went to bed, but he isn’t there yet. Will you be angry when I win him?’