‘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 s
ame, 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.’
Aspasia surprised them all by nodding. ‘I agree. I support the empirical approach to medicine. Hippocrates says many of the same things – simple observation has to augment our science. Let’s face it – the people closest to the latrines have the worst fever except the oarsmen.’
Satyrus rubbed his chin. ‘Fill the latrines? So people will have to walk to the port side to shit? That’s not going to make me popular.’
Apollodorus nodded. ‘And it won’t – pardon my crude speech – be worth a shit unless you enforce it so that the wide-arse who tries to use the agora gets caught and punished.’
Satyrus looked around. ‘Friends – this is the sort of thing that can destroy morale.’
Apollodorus was insistent. ‘It works.’
Jubal leaned in. ‘It do. Listen to he. Any sailor know it, too.’
Memnon shrugged. ‘I don’t, and I’ve been at sea all my life.’
Satyrus looked at Aspasia. ‘I trust Apollodorus with my life, but you are the priestess of Asclepius and the best doctor in Rhodes.’
Damophilus nodded. ‘And people will see that we are doing something about the fever.’
Satyrus glared at him. ‘Until it fails, and then comes the backlash. People are not fools, gentlemen. It’s a poor politician who makes bad laws merely to appear to take action.’
Memnon smiled. ‘You don’t know very many politicians,’ he said.
That got a laugh.
Into the lightened atmosphere, Aspasia spoke up. ‘I say do it,’ she said. ‘I will take some auguries and cast another horoscope – I will ask some friends for help. And I think we would do well to propitiate Apollo and Asclepius publicly. And then move the latrines.’
Satyrus nodded. ‘Who is now Priest of Apollo?’ he asked.
Young Socrates stepped forward. ‘I am. And I would be delighted – devoted – to support Despoina Aspasia.’
Satyrus rubbed his chin. ‘Make it so. We move the latrines tomorrow night – every citizen must participate. There will be no exceptions.’
‘Lot of work,’ Memnon said.
‘We should have a few days off,’ Satyrus said.
That got a buzz of excitement. Satyrus shook his head. ‘No – I won’t say anything. But I want to see Aspasia and Miriam after this, and Jubal. Kleitos – all the sailors tonight, yes?’
Kleitos grinned.
Jubal grinned.
Damophilus stepped forward. ‘You must tell us, polemarch. People need to have hope. These men are grinning. Why?’
Satyrus kept his face impassive. ‘Damophilus, I value you and I hope that we are friends. But yesterday, I sacrificed men – good men. My friends. They are dead so that I could keep a certain secret, and by all the gods, that secret will be kept.’
Damophilus was angry. ‘We are the town council! What’s left of the boule!’
Satyrus shook his head.
‘Are you a tyrant?’ Damophilus said in sudden heat.
Memnon grabbed his arm. ‘Come, lad. Uncalled for.’
Satyrus crossed his arms. ‘You may remove me from command,’ he said. ‘That’s harder with a tyrant. But in this, I will not be moved.’
Damophilus submitted with an ill grace.
Satyrus looked around. ‘I’m sorry for my tone. But I will not speak of this. However, I have other military matters to discuss. I need all the armour in the town gathered. I’d like every taxeis to collect its own, paint a number inside the harness and on every other item and lay them out here in the olive groves – the cleanest air, in case the miasma is in the armour. I need this to be done immediately.’
Damophilus’ blood was up. ‘Armour is a man’s private property,’ he said.
‘So were the slaves. The rules are different, now.’ Satyrus looked around. No one else demurred. ‘I need that armour, as soon as can be.’
‘We’ll see,’ Damophilus said, belligerently.
Satyrus stared him down, waited for him to walk away and collected the women and Jubal, and they walked with Korus and Kleitos to the far end of the sacred precinct.
‘It is tonight?’ Kleitos asked.
Jubal nodded. ‘He is moving engines right now,’ he said.
‘Why are we here?’ Miriam asked. ‘Is it about the fever?’
‘No,’ Satyrus said. ‘I need every woman – at least, the biggest five hundred – to put on armour. Late this afternoon. And to stand in it all night – and to ask no questions.’
Jubal grinned. ‘I get it. You one sub-tile bastard.’
Satyrus punched the black man in the arm. ‘This, from you?’
Jubal thrust out his chin and laughed. ‘Take one to know one, eh?’
The shadows were long on the agora when the alarm sounded. Men moved with purpose – alarms were part of every day, and most citizens no longer even felt a rush of the daemon of war when they heard the trumpets.
Satyrus was in armour already. He’d had to lie down on the floor of the tent to get into his cuirass unaided, but he didn’t have a new hypaspist yet, and wasn’t sure where to find one in the middle of a siege.
He got to his feet, drank a cup of water which tasted fairly bad, and walked out with his shield on his shoulder and a spear in his hand.
Apollodorus was waiting, with the prisoner by his side. Lysander looked like a tough man, a veteran, in late middle age with grey at his temples and a major scar at the top of his left shoulder that ran in under his chiton.
He bowed to Satyrus. ‘My lord? I gather I have you to thank for my capture.’
Satyrus took his hand and clasped it. ‘I took you, yes.’
The man met him, eye to eye. ‘May I ask if I am to be ransomed? Or treated as a slave?’
Satyrus nodded to Apollodorus, who saluted and headed off towards the alarm.
‘You had a pleasant day?’ Satyrus asked.
Lysander made a face. ‘I was allowed to wander about. This scares me, lord. I do not wish to be a spy – or to be killed.’ He spread his hands. ‘I see that you have the fever here – not as bad as our camp, but bad enough. I offer this as proof that I am no spy. I cannot hide what I saw.’
Satyrus nodded. ‘Come with me, Lysander. You are a Spartan, I think?’
Lysander nodded. ‘No true Spartan, sir. My father was a Spartiate and my mother a well-born Theban lady – but they were never married. I was refused entry to a mess, and I have served abroad ever since.’
Satyrus stopped at the base of the ladder to his tower. ‘You may know a man I loved well – Philokles of Tanais?’
‘If he was Philokles of Molyvos,’ Lysander said with a smile, ‘I knew him for a while. We fought together – Zeus Sator, back when Archippos was archon of Athens. I was a great deal younger then.’ He laughed.
‘He was my tutor,’ Satyrus said.
‘I know,’ Lysander said. He shrugged. ‘I know who you are, lord. But it ill suits a man who must beg for his life to claim acquaintance.’
‘You really are a Spartan,’ Satyrus said. ‘Come.’
‘Why?’ Lysander said.
‘Because I wish to show you why Demetrios has no hope of taking this city,’ Satyrus said. ‘Come. I will release you in the morning. Alive. To tell what you have seen.’
Satyrus led the way up the ladder.
The shadows were long – indeed, the sun had dropped to the rim of the world, and the handful of standing trees visible from the towers threw shadows many times their own height.
‘Demetrios has almost completed moving his engines forward,’ Satyrus said. ‘Thirty-one engines, by my count.’
Lysander turned to h
im. ‘You cannot expect me to confirm that, lord.’
Satyrus shrugged. ‘Worth a try. How’s your eyesight?’
Lysander raised an eyebrow. ‘Not what it was when I was twenty.’
‘Take a look, anyway.’
Lysander looked out into the edge of night. At his feet lay the fourth south wall – what the Rhodians called the ‘bow’. It ran in a broad curve from the ruins of the great sea tower back almost to the edge of the agora, and then out like the arm of a bow to the original corner with the west wall, where a heavy, squat tower full of ballistae had never fallen to Demetrios. The new wall was the tallest of all of Jubal’s rubble walls, and the most complicated, and most of the town had dug for a month and laid weirs made from every house timber in the town to build the cradles to hold the rubble to make the wall.
Beyond the ‘bow’ ran the shallower curve of the third wall, with a loose cordon of pickets on it – most of them archers and crossbow snipers in covered positions. Their posts were obvious to a child from the height of the tower.
‘By the gods – that’s how you killed our snipers!’ Lysander said.
‘Yes,’ Satyrus said. ‘I’m showing you all of our secrets.’
‘Whatever for, lord?’ the Spartan asked. His accent made Satyrus pine for Philokles.
‘Because Demetrios needs to offer us terms we can accept, or we will defeat him and his empire will be at an end. You know this as well as I do, Lysander. You are a professional soldier. How long did you expect us to hold?’
Lysander nodded. ‘Ten days.’
‘So we are on the two-hundredth day – or so.’ Satyrus pointed at Demetrios’ camp. ‘Will this army ever fight again?’
Lysander shrugged. ‘I take your point.’
‘Good.’ Satyrus looked over the edge of his platform where he could see, half a stade away, a lone man standing at the south-east limit of the ‘bow,’ in the earthworks built from the rubble of the sea tower. He raised his shield and flashed it – once, twice, a third time.
Jubal flashed his shield back.
Satyrus turned back to the Spartan officer. ‘Kiss your engines goodbye,’ he said.
Stratokles stood on the rampart of the third wall at sunset, safe behind one of the basketwork embrasures that the Rhodians had constructed. Lucius was looking it over.
Tyrant: Destroyer of Cities Page 51
