Tyrant: Destroyer of Cities

by Christian Cameron

  Satyrus looked around the fire. The stars had wheeled away past the middle watch, and every man who could walk was in armour – and some of the women as well. Every officer was here, in the middle of the agora, at the biggest bonfire they could build – not really all that big. Carrying wood was hard work, and starving men are easily tired. And the wood was mostly gone with the grain and the oil. The beached ships were already consumed.

  Satyrus looked at them in the firelight. It was a kind, ruddy light, and it gave Charmides and Miriam back their beauty, three months gone; gave Melitta back her youth, lost in the valleys of the Tanais, and Anaxagoras looked like a god.

  ‘Listen to me,’ Lysander barked, long before Satyrus was ready to stop drinking them in. One last time.

  They were instantly silent. It took a year’s siege to turn Greeks into disciplined men and women – but they were. The only sound was the hymn-singing, led by Leosthenes, out along the south wall.

  Satyrus nodded. ‘So,’ he said. He smiled. Looked from face to face. It was almost funny, the way they expected him to provide a magical spell of victory. ‘So. Friends.’ He hung his head, embarrassed by their trust in him. And then he raised his head. ‘Listen. There is no trick to save us, now. I don’t have a fancy plan. When we raise the paean to Athena, we go over the south wall and go for the monster.’ He shrugged. ‘First man there is King of Misrule.’

  Anaxagoras sighed. ‘That’s it?’ he asked.

  Satyrus nodded. ‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘Kill everyone who gets in your way. It’ll be dark. That can’t hurt us.’

  Abraham raised an eyebrow – for a moment, his old self. ‘And when the sun rises?’ he asked.

  Satyrus locked eyes with Miriam. ‘Die well,’ he said. Then he walked from man to man and embraced them all. He hugged Aspasia. He hugged his sister, and she shook her head.

  ‘This is not what I came for,’ she said.

  ‘Then escape!’ he murmured into her hair.

  ‘No. No – I couldn’t face Mother in the spirit world, if I left you.’ She hugged him closer. ‘You kill a thousand, I kill a thousand – Abraham’s good for five hundred, Charmides looks capable – and we wipe them out.’

  And last, he embraced Miriam. ‘I would have married you,’ he said.

  ‘I would have accepted,’ she said. She kissed him.

  And then he led them to the foot of the wall, and the morning star rose, and four thousand voices started on the hymn to Athena.

  Once, visiting Athens, Satyrus had watched a desperate older man beat a much better younger man at pankration, on the palaestra of the Lyceum outside the walls of the city. Hundreds of men had watched as the older fellow – a plain-spoken country man, trained well enough but no champion, stubbornly refuse to raise a hand in surrender, for the simple reason that the young champion had been rude in his challenge. And when he was groggy from blows to the head, the younger man mocked him as a drunkard, a satyr, a shepherd.

  Satyrus had watched the older man’s face absorb the insult. Watched as the man stopped, readied himself and threw everything he had left into a stupid roundhouse blow, the sort of big, long, easy-to-dodge blow that untrained men use. The younger man saw it coming. But somehow – through indecision or poor training, or, as Satyrus saw it, the punishment of the gods – the champion stood as if rooted to the spot in amazement as the other man’s twinned fists slammed into the side of his head, and he slumped to the ground, completely unconscious.

  On that night, the remnants of the Rhodian garrison swept over the south wall like a black sea and rolled over the remnants of the second wall and the first wall, crushing the sentries and the reserve, and raced across the plain like a well-ordered tide across a salt flat when the moon is full.

  Like the young champion, the Macedonian taxeis awaited the garrison with confidence.

  Satyrus kept the oarsmen to an easy jog once they made the good ground. They were keeping up with the ephebes and the town mercenaries, but the city hoplites were lagging behind and there was nothing Satyrus could do about it. So he led them at a jog across the open ground, and saw the enemy phalanx form with plenty of time to achieve close order.

  Satyrus slowed his oarsmen three hundred paces from the glittering enemy line. Dawn was already a pale line in the east, and there were trumpets everywhere.

  He smiled. It was too late. For these men.

  ‘Files!’ he called, and the oarsmen doubled to the front, a Spartan manoeuvre that left every front-rank shield firmly overlapped – the synaspis.

  His men hadn’t stopped moving. A year of continuous action allows a unit to achieve a degree of drill that borders on beyond human. Half-files merely slowed a half a pace, waited while the new file leaders marched into the intervals at a jog, and then, as the shields locked, gave a low shout – just the file leaders.

  ‘Spears!’ Satyrus called. Two hundred paces. And the Macedonians weren’t moving. It was getting late for them to start forward – he could see their spears moving – but it was hard to read them in the dark, and Satyrus didn’t really care very much what they did.

  Behind and alongside him, the front three ranks levelled their spears, and the back seven ranks pressed forward tighter, still at a fast walk.

  ‘Paean!’ Satyrus called.

  Apollodorus raised his head.

  A wall of sound leaped out from the oarsmen, and the Macedonians reacted as if they’d been hit by arrows – they recoiled, and into their confusion came the marines, and the moment of impact was like a thousand bronzesmiths beating on a thousand cauldrons across the sky, and the Macedonian phalanx burst asunder at the impact, and was destroyed.

  It shouldn’t have happened.

  Because it did, the first relief taxeis on the road was caught in the disaster, with routers and tent-mates bursting through their ranks, and the ephebes and the slightly late city hoplites crashed into the disordered second phalanx and drove it back.

  And then the fighting lost any kind of order. The attack of the city hoplites was the last moment in the action when Satyrus could see anything, or tell his friends from his foes – or claim to be in command.

  The marines were cheering all around him, and the women in the rear ranks ran forward with fire pots and in heartbeats the timbers of the leviathan were aflame. Assembled war engines around the great wheels were shoved together, and the flames began to light the sky, and Satyrus tasted victory.

  But he knew the taste was false. He had two thousand men, and Demetrios, however surprised, had thirty thousand.

  Demetrios’ counter-attack fell like a hammer on the victorious Rhodians.

  The marines were still together – Charmides was close to his back and Apollodorus was on one side and Anaxagoras on his other, with Abraham’s skeletal figure at his back, when the counter-attack smashed into them. Satyrus took a shield against his own shield, abandoned any thought of command and was a hoplite – shield to shield, his spear sliding off his enemy’s shield as his enemy’s spear probed for his eyes and rang against his helmet, pressed so close that he could smell the cardamom on the other man’s breath. So close that he hooked the man’s shield with his own and punched with his rim – larger shield, stronger arm – and the man went down, and Satyrus was in his place. ‘On me, marines!’ Satyrus called, as if it was a ship fight.

  Charmides got his next opponent, through luck or precision; the man was down before he could set his hips, a spear point in his eye. The enemy phalangites were silhouetted against the burning machines, and they paid.

  Apollodorus downed his man and stepped forward and fouled a spear – Anaxagoras pushed with his shoulder, and the man facing Satyrus flinched, fear rising in his eyes as he saw the whole rank in front of him die, and he backed away. Satyrus pushed into him, slamming shield to shield and stabbing under the shield rush – sword into something soft, and he pushed, and a blow rang off his helmet. He managed a guard with his sword, stepped forward – right in front of left, rotated his hips and swung his swor
d like a meat cleaver into the next aspis rim and split the badly made shield clear through, breaking the owner’s arm with a shriek that Charmides ended. Not just luck, then – the boy was a master spearman.

  The men in front of him started to blur, and Satyrus gave and received blows – a heavy blow to his right side under his arm when he pushed forward too fast, a cut to his left leg from a spearman who was fast and bold. Darkness favoured aggression and teamwork, and Charmides saved him ten times and Anaxagoras another ten – and he saved them, parrying high with his sword to keep blows off Anaxagoras, killing Apollodorus’ opponent with a wrap blow to the back of the man’s neck. Abraham’s weak spear thrusts were precise.

  The enemy died.

  Satyrus lost track of opponents and blows. He was alive – and then another moment, and he was alive. Alive.

  Still alive.

  He lost his sword in a dying man, and as if gifted by Herakles his right fist closed on his next opponent’s spear and tore it from his grasp as if he’d danced a move in the Pyrriche. Satyrus killed that man with the saurauter of his own weapon, reversed the blade and slammed it into the next man. And on.

  Still alive.

  Usually in combat, men fall back after a fight – a hundred heartbeats of chaos and horror is all most men, even the bravest, can stand. Men will flinch from combat if they can – stand at spear’s length and shout insults.

  But in the darkness, men slammed unheeding into each other, and died. The fire in the mammoth tower threw enough light to make survival possible.

  Satyrus parried with his spear, a sweep across his body, and slammed the shaft back into the man’s helmet, knocking him to the ground, where Charmides finished him.

  Still alive.

  New armour – more bronze, less dirt. Satyrus saw this when he got a lucky hit – his right hand was so tired he could barely grasp the spear, but he got the point into the other man’s eye-slit on his next attack and the man went down.

  Still alive.

  The sun was rising. Men were backing away from them. Apollodorus spat in contempt and pushed his short spear through an opponent’s armour and into his groin, right over the man’s shield. Charmides caught a man turning away and slit him over the kidney where he had no armour. Anaxagoras was toe to toe with a man as big as he, and they swapped blows like dogs fighting, and their swords threw sparks and then Anaxagoras hammered his pommel into the other man’s teeth and Abraham’s timed thrust went into his helmet and his head seemed to explode and he went down—

  Still alive.

  The five of them had put so many men into the earth that the enemy flinched away and the marines were able to survive, wheeling from a defeated flank, secure while their king and his companions bought them room to breathe.

  The enemy had recaptured the tower. Thousands of them were dousing the fires – the engines were black with men in the new sun, like ants covering food left outside.

  Again the enemy flinched back, and Satyrus, in his turn, retired a step to link his shield with Anaxagoras. He coughed.

  Still. Alive.

  Satyrus breathed. He looked right and left, and saw that most of his marines were still alive, too.

  He got his canteen to his mouth. Drank it, never taking his eyes off the enemy. They were a well-armoured mob, and a man in gold armour pushed through the front rank and gleamed like fire in the rising sun.

  ‘Your men have done a fair job against my Aegema,’ Demetrios said. ‘You still wear that helmet.’

  Satyrus spat water and blood. He smelled the wet cat fur, and he knew he was where he needed to be.

  Demetrios was magnificent in gold and leopard skin, fresh and neat and strong, with the physique of a statue of Herakles. ‘It is fitting that we finish this – Achilles and Hektor. Would you care to run a few times around the walls?’

  ‘Let me have him,’ Anaxagoras said.

  Apollodorus snorted. ‘Give me a drink and I’ll fight him. Only if I can keep the armour.’

  Charmides tapped Satyrus. ‘If allowed, I would be delighted—’

  Satyrus laughed. He stepped forward out of the ranks and saluted Demetrios. Demetrios’ Aegema – his companions – had made a space by retreating. Satyrus pulled his canteen strap over his head and handed it to Apollodorus. Almost as an aside, he said, ‘Demetrios, you must confess – your men flinch from me, and my men long to fight you. Ask yourself who is Achilles, and who is just another mortal man in golden armour.’

  Demetrios raised his spear. ‘I think we should fight, instead of talking.’

  Satyrus grunted. ‘You want this to be the Iliad, not me.’

  Demetrios rushed at him, a simple shield rush, and then his spear licked out – once, twice, three times, as fast as a man could think – high, middle, low, a brilliant combination.

  Satyrus blocked, blocked and blocked without shifting a finger’s width, and as their shields rang together, he pushed.

  Demetrios landed on his back.

  ‘I am Satyrus, son of Kineas,’ Satyrus said to the wind. ‘My father was hipparch of Olbia and founder of a great city. Get up.’

  Demetrios rose to his feet. ‘Well struck,’ he said.

  Satyrus moved – a long, leaning feint Philokles had taught him – and struck high, and his spearhead cut Demetrios across the arm above his shield where his guard was weak.

  ‘My grandfather was a hipparch of Athens. His father came to Athens from Plataea, where he held the wall alone for an hour against a hundred Spartans and killed ten. Athens made him a citizen, and raised him a statue as a hero,’ Satyrus said.

  Demetrios seemed puzzled by his roaring boasts and hung back, and Satyrus thrust with his spear, putting everything into this arm: love for Miriam, hate of waste, rage, terror, shame, pride. Sorrow. Pity. Hope. Everything.

  The spearhead punched through the gold face of the shield and through the bronze and two layers of rawhide and the willow-wood strapping, and bit into Demetrios’ shield arm and the king stepped back and swore, and there was blood on his golden cuirass.

  ‘His father Arimnestos led the Plataeans to victory at Marathon against the Medes, and he stood his ground when the Hellenes won the day at Plataea and he was voted best of the Hellenes.’ He feinted with his spear and kicked, a low trick that Theron fancied, catching Demetrios in the kneecap and sending him sprawling.

  He stood over the golden king, spear raised.

  ‘Arimnestos’ father was the Smith of Plataea, and he held the charge of the Spartans alone at Oinoe!’ Satyrus said. ‘Get up!’

  Demetrios stumbled back into the ranks of his bodyguard.

  Satyrus waited. Demetrios straightened himself. He set his feet.

  ‘His ancestor was Herakles, who is a god, and sits in high Olympus, watching men and judging them.’ Satyrus planted the saurauter of his borrowed spear in the sand. ‘Those are my ancestors, Demetrios the king. You came to fight heroes. These men were heroes.’

  Demetrios came forward and lunged, deliberately driving his spear into Satyrus’ shield – a powerful blow that rocked Satyrus back – and his point tore through the shield’s cover and cut right through the leather and wood.

  Satyrus left his spear standing in the sand, reached out his empty right hand and grasped the king’s shield rim and turned it the way a wheelwright turns a wheel. The sound of the king’s arm breaking echoed across the field like a ship’s mast breaking in a storm.

  And Demetrios screamed, rage and frustration coming together, and hacked with his spear at Satyrus.

  Then the Aegema pressed forward to rescue their king. But they were not eager to fight. Satyrus reached out and pulled his spear out of the ground, seeing the blood trickle down his arm. Demetrios had hit him. He could feel an earlier wound on his hip – he looked down, and there was blood by his left foot. And on his left greave.

  He stepped back into the ranks of his men and the shields locked, but the Antigonids were not as eager as their numbers should have made them. And Satyrus had l
ost the will to die. Step by step the marines backed away, until they were backing up the old south wall.

  Trumpet after trumpet of alarm sounded in the enemy camp, and the enemy king’s bodyguard hustled Demetrios the Golden off the field.

  Satyrus looked at Abraham. But Abraham was looking past him, over his shoulder. Satyrus raised his eyes, and there, to the east, was a line of sails – fifty sails and more, coming down the north wind from Syme.

  Marathon and Oinoe. Nike and Troy and Ephesian Artemis, and many more he knew at a glance. With a line of grain ships he knew from their towering masts and heavy sails.

  ‘Herakles!’ he called.

  The sky rumbled.

  EPILOGUE

  The end, which should have been climactic, was merely terrifying.

  Ptolemy’s fleet covered a dozen huge merchantmen all the way into the harbour, with fifty thousand mythemnoi of grain from Aegypt and a letter from Ptolemy promising relief in a week.

  And did it again, two days later, while Satyrus writhed in pain from his wounds and watched Miriam’s colour return. Food. Food was hope made concrete.

  Off Asia, Ptolemy’s fleet caught the remnants of the pirates and exterminated them.

  The entire grain supply sent by Athens to reinforce Demetrios, was taken by Diokles.

  Lysimachos of Thrace sent aid to the city, and forty thousand mythemnoi of wheat – Cassander, who had no reason to love Rhodes, sent ten thousand measures of barley and five hundred Cretan archers.