Tyrant: Destroyer of Cities

by Christian Cameron

  Men started fires.

  Men cooked food.

  The sea was empty. By noon the sun emerged and the wind, the killer west wind that had sent a thousand men and more to crawl the sea bottom with Amphitrite, lungs full of water, finally died away, and the sea was the deep blue of innocence: it was as empty as a drunkard’s purse.

  Satyrus walked off by himself, sat on a rock and wept.

  Neiron came up.

  Satyrus looked up, uncertain.

  ‘Well?’ Neiron asked. ‘Was it worth it? Because you lost them all.’

  The older man turned on his heel and walked away.

  GAZA, PALESTINE

  Antigonus One-Eye didn’t need an ivory stool to look important. He was sitting on an iron stool with a pair of fleeces on it, and his shoulders were as square as those of a man of fifty. Or thirty. He was eighty.

  His son came in. He did not look himself: his hair was pale and dry, not the flame of gold it usually seemed. He had circles under his eyes like bruises, and his skin looked more like a waxen image than the skin of an active man.

  ‘A chair for the King of Aegypt,’ Antigonus said to a slave.

  Demetrios laughed. ‘Ptolemy is the King of Aegypt, Pater.’ A slave put a cup of wine in his hand and he drank the whole cup.

  ‘May the gods curse him!’ Antigonus shouted. ‘What have I done to be treated so by Tyche?’ He looked like an outraged falcon, and Demetrios rose and embraced his father.

  ‘Pater – it’s the will of the gods.’ He wrapped his arms around the old man.

  ‘I spit on the gods!’ Antigonus shouted. ‘Whores and bastards! Two years of work lost in a storm! A storm! Aegypt was lying naked, waiting for me to plough her!’

  Demetrios wondered if his pater was losing his wits. He hugged the old man harder. ‘Pater – Pater. No hubris.’

  ‘This, from you? Who claims to be a god incarnate?’ The old man hadn’t lost his wits. He managed a laugh. He stroked his son’s hair, then pushed him away. ‘A curse on the lot of them, then. We must start again. If I don’t order the retreat tonight, I’ll lose good men – Macedonians – in a few days. The swamp here is putrid – the miasma is from Tartarus, and men are sickening already. Wait until you’ve spent a night here – the mosquitoes are worse than Parthians. Worse than the cursed Sakje.’

  Demetrios drank a second cup of wine. ‘No reproof? It was me, Pater, who said I could supply you from the sea.’

  ‘Bah,’ Antigonus said. ‘You gathered the ships you promised. Even that harlot, Athens, did her part. And you beat Ptolemy at Cyprus – I gather Menelaeus surrendered, that arse-cunt.’

  ‘As soon as his brother’s ships were over the horizon,’ Demetrios said. ‘My only success of the summer, I fear.’

  ‘How many ships have we left?’ Antigonus asked.

  ‘At least one hundred. All the big ones – they weathered the storms best. Perhaps more – in truth, the biggest mistake I made was to give a different rendezvous from Plistias. I don’t really know what I have left. Neither does he. They will be spread from Syracuse to Tyre now.’

  ‘And Ptolemy?’ Antigonus asked.

  ‘Fewer.’ Demetrios lay back on the bed. ‘You know who actually worked to defeat us, Pater?’

  ‘Poseidon?’ Antigonus asked.

  ‘Satyrus of Tanais. He almost had me at Cyprus.’ Demetrios grinned. ‘I like him. I want to kill him in single combat.’

  ‘Son, sometimes when men tell me that you are mad, I’m tempted to believe them. We do not fight in single combat. We win empires.’ Antigonus snapped his fingers for more wine. ‘I’d wish I could trade Satyrus for one of our useless allies, though. Why do we get Heraklea when Ptolemy gets Tanais? Eh? I can’t trust Dionysus of Heraklea as far as I can throw him. And as he’s fatter than Milos, that’s not far.’ The old man spat.

  ‘We’ll have the winter to rally the fleet,’ Demetrios said. He was staring at the silk tapestry hanging from the ceiling of the tent.

  ‘If you can keep the fucking Rhodians from putting more troops into Alexandria, we can be right back here in spring,’ the old man said. ‘A curse on all the gods. Fuck their mothers. I was right up into the forts on the river, you know that? And he’s all but lined the bank with artillery. One of his engines killed an elephant. If the storm hadn’t come up, you could have turned his flank at sea—’

  ‘If wishes were bread, beggars would never go hungry. Pater – let me take the fleet and go for Rhodes.’ Demetrios shot off the bed, suddenly filled with energy. ‘Rhodes is the key. Aegypt will stand or fall with Rhodes – and Rhodes is the easier nut to crack.’

  ‘Rhodes is a boil on our behind. Aegypt is the key to the world.’ Antigonus stared into his son’s blue eyes and wondered how he had ever fathered such a handsome boy.

  ‘Lance the boil,’ Demetrios said. ‘Lance the boil, and you’ll have the key.’

  Antigonus puffed up his cheeks and then blew out suddenly. ‘My gut aches and my insides turn to water,’ he said. ‘My legs hurt all the fucking time. Half my nights, my little Persian girl can’t get my rod stiff with a barrel of olive oil and the best breasts in the Eastern Ocean. I hate being old, and the only good thing about my age is that it is better than death.’ Antigonus looked at his golden, marvellous son. ‘You know what keeps me alive?’

  ‘Love for the gods?’ Demetrios asked.

  ‘You, and dominion. And gods-cursed Ptolemy. I hated him when he was Alexander’s butt-boy and I want him under my heel now. Before I’m dead. I want Aegypt.’

  ‘The road to Aegypt is through Rhodes,’ Demetrios said.

  Antigonus wrapped his son in his still strong arms. ‘Do it, then. Lance the boil. Get me the key, whatever image appeals to you, boy, but get it soon.’

  Demetrios smiled over his father’s shoulder, and in his head, the cogs and wheels that drove his planning began to whirl.

  ‘It will be incredible,’ he said.

  BOOK THREE

  THE SIEGE OF RHODES

  17

  Kineas of Athens, rendered in bronze, the whites of his eyes pure gold, the pupils lapis, stood in the dressing room of the gymnasium, a slim staff of vine in his hand. When he spoke, his teeth shone in shining silver inside his mouth against his bronze tongue.

  Satyrus was mesmerised by the effect. But the words his father spoke were clear and businesslike, heavy with import. Satyrus leaned forward, trying to listen, but the play of light on his father’s metal face distracted him again, and filled his eyes so that he soared away like a child avoiding his lessons, daydreaming of flight, of the sky, of clouds—

  Satyrus! Pay attention! Philokles’ voice: the sharp ‘I mean it’ voice of a sober, angry tutor. Satyrus cringed in expectation of the teacher’s rod across his shoulders and he sat straighter.

  He turned his head, and Philokles was standing behind him, also rendered in precious metals – the very statue that had just been delivered in Tanais, now animated. And sitting behind him, where Xenophon had always sat for lessons in Alexandria, was Stratokles the Informer, who looked every bit as terrified of Philokles as Xenophon had.

  There were other boys: he saw Demetrios the Golden off to his left, and could the round-headed boy be Panther of Rhodes? But now the stick struck him with all of Philokles’ accustomed force; pain leaped through his body, not from the back but from the lungs, and he had blood on his chest.

  Satyrus! Pay attention!

  Is he going to die? Srayanka asked. His mother was beautiful – her hair was carved from a black stone and it hung free, beautifully combed, as it did when he was a boy, on the rare occasions when she dressed as a Greek woman.

  I guarantee it! Philokles said with a snort. He’s mortal, is he not? And death is the required condition of all mortals, is it not? The tutor’s rod struck his back again, and more blood fountained from his mouth across his chest.

  Do you spend so much time with your father that you can ignore him when he speaks? Philokles asked.

 
Satyrus looked at his father, and was fascinated by the play of light on his father’s golden eyes. He forced himself to listen to the lecture, ignoring the host of questions that beat at the doors to his mind—

  How can my dead father be speaking in the gymnasium of Alexandria?

  How can a statue speak?

  Who has allowed my mother, a woman, into the gymnasium? Is she, too, not dead?

  Why is Stratokles here? Where is Xenophon? He is dead. He should be here. But I am here – am I dead?

  Is this death?

  The rod struck him again, forcing him forward, coughing and coughing, and with every cough more blood flowed out of his mouth – gouts of it. Finally, exhausted, he fell backwards.

  Xenophon caught him, as he had so often done at lessons.

  You should listen, Satyrus!

  Satyrus lay back with his head on his friend’s legs and watched his father, the statue.

  His father looked down at him and smiled.

  So glad I finally have your attention, lad.

  It was as if he could see himself. Zeus Sator, he looked bad – blood all over his bedclothes, eyes rolling – Apollo! His eyes were as yellow as the golden eyes of the statues!

  He was in a room that looked familiar, and the room was full of people who looked familiar, but just at that moment, Satyrus couldn’t put names to the actors or to the place, and he just floated, watching as the dark-haired woman washed the blood off his chest, as the old woman forced something down his throat, as two young men stood by, watching with the helpless eagerness of men who don’t know how to do anything useful.

  The old woman completed her task and shook her head.

  ‘He’s going,’ she said. The woman paused and rolled her head, flexed the muscles in her shoulders. ‘I said he’s going, child. Let him go. Leave the washing of the body for the corpse-cleaners.’

  The dark-haired woman kept washing, her hands moving with a fierce determination. Satyrus, even from so far away, could read that this woman intended to wash him clean – clean of death, if only she could.

  Satyrus winced to see his body, which was so thin – where was his muscle? Where was his strength? His arms were like sticks, his legs like a woman’s legs. He wished his eyes would close and hide the hideous yellow.

  ‘He is not dead yet,’ said the younger woman.

  The old woman looked at the men. ‘Get us some water – as cold and fresh as may be.’ They hurried from the room, and the young woman’s eyes widened.

  ‘You have thought of something?’ she asked. To say that her eyes glimmered with hope would be to suggest too much. Perhaps, thought Satyrus, this is what the hope of a hope looked like.

  He wished that he could remember this woman’s name, as she was very devoted to him, and he wished that he could reward that devotion. For himself, he wouldn’t have touched that body with a sword.

  I am a ruin, he thought. Let me die – I would never wish to live like that.

  The old woman shrugged. ‘No, dear. I just wanted them out of the room. I am going to give him poppy juice.’

  ‘But—’ The younger woman shook her head. ‘You said—’

  And the older woman managed a smile. ‘You are a good girl. Two months ago, when we were fighting the disease with a strong body, I feared to take him back to – to his addiction. Now, I seek only to let him die easy. There will be no addiction for him where he is going.’

  The girl turned on the old woman, and Satyrus could see that she was not a girl, but a grown woman. And not his sister. He had rather hoped that she was his sister. He loved his sister – and that feeling, that love, the loss of Melitta, wherever she was, rolled over him like a wave and snuffed him out like a lamp.

  The siege is the deadliest form of war for both the soldier and the citizen. The siege is the only battle where women and slaves are soldiers; the only battlefield where men, not the gods, create the terrain; only in the siege can a man be forced to fight all day, sleep, rise and fight again. Armies that undertake long sieges are often ruined and never useful as an army again. Cities that survive a siege may die of exhaustion; cities that are taken in a siege are sacked – the laws of war that protect the captive and the ransomed are as nothing because an army that lays siege to a city must take risks, gambles and hideous casualties to accomplish their goal, and as a consequence, when that army is victorious, they take their revenge. Every man is killed – free or slave, noble or thetis. Temples are looted and burned, and it is reckoned no impiety. Women are raped – not once, but again until their minds are broken, and then they are sold as slaves, to work another’s loom and another’s bed until they die.

  And yet, by the same remorseless laws that dictate that the victorious besiegers will act like animals and sack the town, the town itself will use any device, any stratagem, any tactic no matter how reckless to avoid the sack. They will bribe, coerce, seduce; squander their citizens in sorties to burn the enemy camp, turn the slaves from the town and watch them starve beneath the walls, old family retainers and all. They will sacrifice citizens like the priests sacrifice goats, and count the cost light. Because defeat means extinction, degradation, horror and death.

  And this contest is conducted with every science that men have ever developed, with all the passion that the gods gave to men for better things, with the ruthlessness that men ought to save to fight beasts. Well might old Plato say that to see the worst that men might make of themselves, you need only watch the siege of a city.

  But today we will discuss how it is best to take a city, and how it is best to defend a city. I have done both. And to aid you in this consideration, I will use what Philokles has taught you of the body, and I will ask you to use the body as a model of the city – I am hardly original in this, as Plato and Aristotle are both there before me.

  How does illness attack the body? I will argue that it can attack in two ways, just like a besieger. It can come forward by stealth. After carefully scouting the body, it can attempt to seize the body by a sudden assault on the gates – taking a side gate of a postern, perhaps, in a brilliant rush at the break of dawn while the body’s sentries are asleep. And in rushes the contagion, and the body’s defences never have a chance to respond before the healer can pray to the gods or administer the least medicine; before a bath can be prepared to wash, the citadel has fallen to the deadly swift disease and the man is a cooling corpse. Have we not seen this?

  But the swift onset of the secret force will seldom triumph in the taking of a city. As a besieger, it must be tried – even at the cost of losing the picked men of your army, the savings in blood and gold of such an attempt is almost incalculable. Never, when you are commanders, allow yourself to count the loss of such a picked group against the possibility of success. If a city must fall – if that is the objective of your campaign – there is no personal price you should not be willing to pay short of impiety or immorality in the taking of the city.

  I lost my hyperetes – my oldest friend, as well – in the taking of a citadel. I mourned him but I counted the cost as light.

  Likewise, if you find yourself defending a city, you must be prepared from the outset for a swift assault on your gates by secret forces. You must assume that every suggestion of parley cloaks an attack. From the first suggestion that a siege may be undertaken, you must change the guards on the gates regularly, and also change the officers who hold towers, assuming, always, that every man can be bribed. This is a caustic way to deal with your fellow citizens, but everything about a siege is caustic. Many will die, and many things and ideas will die that we hold dear – love dies of hunger as much as of disease, and honour is all too frequently sacrificed or lost, because the siege is not a one-day battle that shows the best in the best men, but an endless contest that gives every mind the opportunity to show its darkest excess.

  But let us consider what happens when the secret force has failed. In an attack on the body, the disease now settles down to a siege of the citadel. Already, the disease has a
lodgement – has hold of some part of the body. A wound, perhaps, that becomes enflamed, or the fever that sprouts from bad air or miasma. This sort of disease cannot win the citadel in a single attack – the human is much too strong, unless already eroded by bad food, little sleep, no exercise, age, infirmity, or other diseases – just like a city that survives the initial assault will last a long time, unless already weakened by internal strife, military defeat, weak governance, starvation and the like. So the disease must work carefully. It must undermine the walls of health by wrecking the body’s sleep; by fatiguing the muscles while stifling exercise; by raising and lowering the temperature of the body to simulate an adverse climate, stimulating dreams that wreck the moral fibre and destroy the will of the body to resist, exactly as the besieger will seek to send spies and spread false reports.

  And when the body is sufficiently weak, it will fall. Or it should fall. Sometimes the body comes with an exceptional defender – the will. And the will can command the defences like a tyrant commands his bodyguard. Tyrants are poor rulers, in many cases, but they are often the toughest nut to crack in a siege because they have the will to resist to the very end. If the mind has this singleness of purpose, it may resist the disease to the point where the disease itself dies. Likewise, a city that does not lose its wits, that remembers the cost of failure, that has the will of a tyrant even if the city is a democracy, may endure, and break the besieger.

  Another day I will speak more on tactics – on how to reinforce a gate, on how to construct a tower, on how to use hot sand or molten lead, on how to construct a secret tunnel. But I have spoken enough for today – there are some among you who are ready to sleep.

  Satyrus, I say this to you. If you wish to live, then live.

  With those words ringing in his ears, Satyrus awoke.