Tyrant: Destroyer of Cities

by Christian Cameron

  Even in a haze of frustration, rage, pain and fear, Satyrus was glad.

  The joy of the defenders at saving their town from the attempted escalade was tempered by finding the King of the Bosporus lying in the street outside the house of Abraham the Jew, cursing his own weakness. Many men carried him back to his bed, and Aspasia, looking like a fury with her iron hair flying in all ways around her head castigated him like a boy and humiliated him far more thoroughly than Korus ever had.

  ‘You thought perhaps to take a sword and shield? To help the city in its defence? You are a fool, King Satyrus. Did we save you so that you could risk your life like an idiot?’

  And Neiron stared at him. ‘It is like a sickness, this rashness. Listen, King. You killed half a thousand men in your hubris in the storm – and you almost killed yourself last night. This city needs you – who was it who made the preparations to repulse the surprise attack? And you are still such a lackwit as to go yourself?’

  Satyrus lay on the bed while Aspasia and Miriam cleaned him and put him on clean bedclothes. Both of them were clearly so angry they couldn’t speak. Miriam handled him roughly – again he had the feeling of being a small boy, this time one who had displeased his mother and aunt.

  But in himself, he felt unaccountably better.

  With dawn, any residual anger at Satyrus was burned away by the new sun. Spring was fully on the ocean and the water was as blue as new-cut lapis, and the sun was a red-gold dish in a shining bronze sky. The day was as beautiful as all of the memories of youth of all the people watching from their windows, from the walls, from the hills above the town and from the smoke-blackened harbour where Apollodorus had sprung his trap, destroyed the assault and burned their boats.

  The beauty of the day was lost on all of them, as was the fleeting triumph of the night before. For the sea to the north, which stretched away in unshadowed blue, was crowded almost black with ships. A thousand ships. An invincible horde of ships.

  19

  DAY ONE

  Satyrus was almost instantly asleep, despite the obvious disapproval of his caretakers. He was awakened by Miriam, with a cup of hot soup. The sun was high in the sky. Miriam’s dignity seemed, at first, a further reproach for his rashness of the night before, but Satyrus had spent enough time with her, asleep and awake, over the last month and a half of recovery to know her.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked. Very unGreek. Greeks never admitted weakness.

  ‘You behaved like a boy last night,’ she said bitterly. ‘A rash boy. A foolish boy who must always try himself against every obstacle.’

  Satyrus managed a smile. ‘I was just such a boy,’ he said.

  ‘Why? Why waste all the effort of so many people? Did you think your puny arm would save us all?’ She looked at him, but her eyes kept straying to the window.

  Satyrus drank his soup. ‘I do not like being an invalid,’ he said.

  ‘Do you think it is pleasant, lying here while the town is threatened? Sending my friends to fight while I lie in bed?’ He shrugged. ‘May I tell you something, Miriam?’

  Her eyes were out on the sea. ‘I have washed your body and listened to you rave. I don’t think there are any secrets that you have from me.’ She meant it to sting, and it did.

  ‘I might have a secret or two, yet,’ he said, trying not to rise to her. She was angry. He thought that he knew why, and he wanted to help her, but her armour was thick.

  She tore her eyes away from the window, turned herself with visible effort to face him on the bed. ‘Surprise me, then.’

  ‘I’m a coward,’ he said.

  She laughed. But that was an automatic reaction, the woman’s response to the man. It was false laughter.

  ‘No – it’s true. I think it is true of many men, and I’m just bitten worse than others by the snake of fear. I am afraid of so many things: death, betrayal, the loss of those close to me. But most of all, I am afraid of showing fear. Even to myself. I throw myself at things that scare me, and sometimes,’ he said with a smile, ‘they hit back.’

  She narrowed her eyes. ‘Nicely put. But somehow, you have succeeded in sounding more noble rather than more like a small boy.’

  He started to rise from the bed.

  ‘Satyrus, put those feet back in that bed this instant.’ She spoke at him, like an officer giving orders. Like a nurse giving directions to small children. ‘You must stop it, Satyrus. Neiron despairs of you. Abraham is sure you’ll die. And Satyrus, you don’t know it, but this town is already hanging by a thread. For myself, I would like to live – free, unraped, in my own house until I grow old, and you, sir, are my chief hope of surviving this – the famous soldier-king of the North. If you die in the streets fighting, your name may well be remembered for a generation, but my chances of ending my life in a brothel are greatly enhanced.’

  Satyrus nodded. ‘You are afraid, Miriam.’

  She narrowed her eyes. ‘Of course I’m afraid. Have you looked out there? Fine – get out of the bed. Be my guest. Look!’

  While every armed man in the town stood to the walls and watched, Demetrios’ vast armada sailed unopposed past the harbour and down the coast, to land at the next curve of beach beyond the next headland – a handful of elite ships full of Argyraspides first, and then a full taxeis of pikemen who formed on the dry ground above the shingle. Psiloi splashed ashore to cover them, and then a full squadron of cavalry, the horses pushed over the sides of the horse transports to swim ashore where their equally wet riders waited, rode off into the low hills and spread out in a long line of vedettes to cover the initial landings. It was all very professional.

  ‘Some say a squadron of cavalry, and some a phalanx of infantry, and some a squadron of ships is the most beautiful,’ Satyrus said. He leaned against the sill of the window, warm in the Mediterranean sun.

  She turned to look at him. She was suddenly very close – there was jasmine in her hair.

  Both of them knew the next line of the poem perfectly well.

  Satyrus made himself turn back to the window. ‘I can’t say that I’m happy to be in this town, or happy that any of my friends are here,’ he said. ‘We are Troy. Young Achilles there is determined to take us, and all of his father’s ambitions require our fall.’ He glanced at her. Her eyes were lowered – her cheeks had the faintest touch of pink, the way a new dawn brushes the grey sky at the break of day. He could feel the heat in his own face – and in other places, as well.

  Miriam had none of Amastris’ sensual marvels; no one would write poems to Miriam stating that she was Aphrodite fallen to earth. Her nose had too much shape; her hair rose from her head in a cloud of red-brown curls that could never be ruled by the hand of man or woman, and she seldom dressed herself to best advantage, a thing Amastris did every day. But in the erectness of her carriage she ceded Amastris nothing, and in her chin and in her eyes was character – strength of purpose, depth of spirit. She could be stern.

  All of this came at Satyrus rather like the band of Antigonid marines had the night before. He was helpless before a rush of observations, as he saw her all at once. And he felt the heat on his cheeks increase.

  ‘But,’ he managed, trying to keep his tone light, ‘for all that, with the gods, we’ll stand.’

  She turned to him, and suddenly she was very close indeed, and he was unsure which of them had bridged the last handspan but now, without touching, he was close enough to feel the heat of her hip and her breasts and her face—

  ‘Good morning, lord,’ Korus said from the doorway. ‘Despoina, good morning.’

  ‘I have work to do,’ Miriam said. She didn’t whirl away, which Satyrus rather admired – he had flinched when Korus spoke. Instead, she looked up into his face and smiled. ‘Heal fast,’ she said. And then she smiled at Korus, who was as surprised as anyone, and left the room at her usual dignified pace.

  ‘I hear you went out last night and tried to fight,’ Korus said. Satyrus nodded.

  ‘You fucked in the hea
d? Die like that, I’m still a fucking slave. You fight when I say.’ Korus shook his head. ‘Apollodorus says you were an athlete. That true?’

  Satyrus shook his head. ‘I never competed anywhere. But I had a trainer, and I fought pankration.’

  Korus grunted.

  ‘Something wrong with pankration, trainer?’ Satyrus asked. He was lifting the jumping weights already – Korus didn’t say anything unless he executed a movement incorrectly.

  ‘Fought in the game myself.’ Korus nodded. ‘Time to give you heavier weights.’ He pulled open a bag and took out two iron bars. ‘Let’s go down to the garden, lord. Time you let the sun kiss your skin.’

  An hour later, Satyrus was all sweat.

  ‘You know you’ll never be the same, lord,’ Korus said. He had the grace to sound sad.

  ‘I wondered, yes,’ Satyrus admitted, and what he felt in his heart was something like grief. Like the loss of a good horse, or a friend. His body – his physique – kept him alive in battle. And caused men to follow him, to look at him as something special.

  ‘You spent your whole life building that body,’ Korus said, handing him a rock as effortlessly as he handed over leather straps. ‘It’s gone, and now I have a few weeks to rebuild it. It won’t be the same, lord. And when we start fighting – and that’s soon – you need to learn to fight differently. I’m going to wager you was one of the strong ones – kicked the shit out of weaker men by hammering the sword home until it kills. Now you need to fight smart.’

  Satyrus nodded. ‘I think you may be surprised,’ he said. ‘But I take your point.’ The rock – about four mythemnoi in weight – fell to the ground by his hip, crunching the gravel.

  ‘Herakles,’ Satyrus said. The muscles in his left arm had simply stopped working.

  ‘Don’t let that happen again, lord. When you reach the point of failure you must stop. Understand? Tell me, and I’ll take the fucking rock.’

  Satyrus nodded, extended a hand and Korus pulled him to his feet. ‘Get a rub-down and a nap, lord. I’ll send you up a meal. This afternoon, we go again.’

  Satyrus could barely stand his muscles were so tired, but he was as hungry as a horse – the first time he could remember in months that he’d been burning to eat.

  ‘I could eat a lion,’ he said.

  Korus gave a fraction of a smile. ‘About time.’

  Afternoon, and he ran – up and down the street. Every citizen he saw was in armour, and while many laughed to see his emaciated figure running, more called out greetings. When he stopped to lean on his thighs and pant, a dozen men with Memnon, Aspasia’s husband, came up, shook his hand and thanked him.

  ‘Your man, Apollodorus, he saved the town. We all know who to thank – he told us you warned him. Zeus, lord, we have few enough soldiers in this town.’ The speaker was an older man, with grey in his hair but big and well proportioned, like an athlete.

  ‘Damophilus,’ Memnon said. ‘I don’t think you two have met. One of our best trierarchs.’

  ‘A pleasure, sir,’ Satyrus said, shaking the man’s hand again. ‘As far as I can say, every man in this town and most of the metics are well-armed, well-trained soldiers. I know that my friend Abraham the Jew has served – quite gallantly – at Gaza, and elsewhere. With me.’

  Damophilus nodded. ‘Abraham we know. And yes – we’ve all seen service, Satyrus. But few of us have commanded in battle on land, or even seen a siege. I suspect that every man in this city has now read Aeneas Tacticus – but what’s written down—’

  ‘What’s written down is better than no advice at all. And it will be some time before I can stand in a breach and fight.’ Satyrus shook his head. ‘But I am a citizen here, even if only an honorary one – and I will serve. I’ll help in any way I can.’

  ‘Good man,’ Damophilus said. ‘So, what’s next?’

  Satyrus was as confused as if Damophilus had struck him. ‘Next?’ he panted. Korus was leaning in a doorway, watching – his disapproval obvious.

  ‘You guessed that they would try an escalade,’ Damophilus said.

  Satyrus stood up straight. ‘Anyone could have guessed that. But you have to ask yourself – what’s the weakest point in the circuit of the walls?’

  Memnon nodded – the whole group nodded. ‘The curtain by the great tower on the landward side,’ they all chorused, although in different ways.

  Satyrus scratched his chin. ‘I don’t agree,’ he said.

  They all looked at him as if he was mad. Memnon raised an eyebrow. ‘Flat ground, almost no ditch—’

  ‘And a great tower full of artillery and Cretan archers within bow-shot – a tower that renders the curtain almost superfluous.’ Satyrus shrugged. ‘I’ve been sick, gentlemen, but I do look out from my bedroom and see things. My window’s right there,’ he raised his hand. ‘I can see out over the harbour. From the second floor. Because,’ he said dramatically, ‘the sea wall is unfinished. A man can climb it in a dozen places that I can see from my window.’

  ‘Nicanor is an idiote,’ Memnon said. ‘He’s blocking the inner council from spending any money on the sea wall. He says we need the money for grain.’

  Satyrus laughed. ‘You have to be alive to eat,’ he said. ‘Look to the sea wall.’

  The men all shook his hand again. It raised Satyrus’ spirits, to be accepted as one of them. To see that they were ready to resist; to be able to contribute.

  ‘Some people will do anything to avoid their workout,’ Korus said.

  ‘You live here too,’ Satyrus said.

  ‘I’m a slave,’ Korus said. ‘When I’m free, it may seem different. Right now, it’s all the same to me whether the town falls or not.’

  Satyrus looked at the man. ‘Korus, I understand, and better than you can imagine, coming from a king to a slave. But you are wrong. If this city falls, you’ll die. No man escapes the sack of a city like this. Slave or free.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll just slip over the wall,’ Korus said.

  Satyrus knew immediately that anger was not the right response. He ran another sprint, came back and spat. ‘Trading one kind of slavery for another,’ he said.

  ‘What’s that?’ Korus asked.

  ‘Slipping over the wall. And you’ll be building siege machines and digging trenches for Demetrios until you die, or until he takes the city. And then you’ll be sold.’

  Korus smiled. It was the first smile Satyrus had seen on the man, and it wasn’t a pleasant smile. ‘You think I’m stupid,’ the man said.

  ‘No—’ Satyrus began, but the trainer interrupted him.

  ‘You think I’m stupid. You think I don’t know that Demetrios is no better – maybe worse? Fuck you, lord. I know. But when you’re a man like me, and they’ve made you a slave, you get to the point where any change is better – and when maybe seeing all the fucks who made you a slave die, in a sack, seems like a reward in itself. Lord.’ Korus stopped, and had the grace to look frightened for a moment – frightened that he had said so much.

  Satyrus was too tired to argue. ‘They made you a slave? Here? What were you before – a pirate?’

  Satyrus looked at the man. ‘You were a pirate, Korus? Oarsman? Marine?’

  Korus spat. ‘Maybe,’ he grunted.

  Korus glowered at him from under his heavy brows. ‘I’m a trainer. I was took off Sicily. I thought it was better to pull a fucking oar than to die.’ He shrugged. ‘It wasn’t a bad life.’ He shrugged again. ‘But the high-and-mighty Rhodians took us, and we was all sold as slaves.’

  Satyrus felt as if his thighs and shoulders were about to refuse to support his bones. ‘And in a few weeks, you’ll be free. I need a trainer. Why not take what the gods offer? I can make you free – and comfortable. I’m a good friend to those who stand by me.’

  Korus laughed. ‘Is that what they tell you?’ he said. ‘What I hear is that everyone who stands close to you dies.’

  DAY TWO

  When Satyrus awoke, every muscle in his body hurt. But for th
e first time in months, he awoke to the sun on his own time, without interruption, and he felt like rising. He threw off his blankets and rose, stretched, rubbed his shoulders and walked across to the windows that gave on to the harbour.

  He could see right down the coast to the south. He could see fires flickering in the distance, towards Afandhi, and there were columns of smoke across the horizon. Satyrus walked out onto his balcony to have a better view, and then, thinking better of it, he climbed the ladder – not without pain – to the roof of his room, from which he had a panoramic view of the city.

  Demetrios had already begun to fortify his camp. He was a very active commander – Satyrus already knew that, but if he’d needed more evidence, it was provided by the fact that in the first light of dawn, Demetrios’ whole cavalry force was in the field, well forward, almost within bowshot of the city, and behind them, covered by the armoured cavalry. Bands of men were cutting down every olive grove on the north end of the island, piling the trees and sending them by sledge to the camp, where other work parties were sharpening the branches and making them into a giant abatises, a sort of bramble entanglement that would surround the camp as a first line of defence. Within the abatises, as tiny as ants, more men dug into the loose soil and the rock under it with picks, and still more men wove giant baskets to hold the sand and soil, and yet more men filled those baskets with shovels, so that a line of earthworks reinforced by baskets made of olive rose over the ditch inside the felled trees.

  The pace of the work, man for man, was agonisingly slow, as the soil was virtually non-existent over the rock. But taken as a whole, the pace was staggering – Demetrios must have enslaved the entire farm population of the island overnight, and his work parties would have his ships enclosed in a wall in two or three days.

  But despite the activity of the men around the camp – the thousands of men around the camp – what drew Satyrus’ professional eye was the activity on the distant beach. He looked and looked, and couldn’t decide what he was seeing.