Tyrant: Destroyer of Cities

by Christian Cameron

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, and they murmured their greetings.

  ‘We’re ready,’ Abraham said.

  Satyrus shook his head. ‘I’ve called you together to prevent just such a misunderstanding,’ Satyrus said. ‘I expect no trouble from the boule. But they may act against me – indeed, they may arrest me. They may even feel that they have to arrest me, against their own desires.’ Satyrus raised his arms and indicated his finery. ‘I’m trying to dress to remind them who I am – but I may fail. If they take me, gentlemen, you are to submit absolutely to their instructions.’

  That got a reaction. Idomeneus spat. ‘Like fuck!’ the Cretan said.

  ‘Listen, friends,’ Satyrus said. ‘We’re here to do a job. I’ve said this from the start – I’m King of the Bosporus, not King of Rhodes. If you quarrel with these men, the town will fall. We win – as a team – when Demetrios sails away from these walls, and our grain warehouses and all the merchants who deal with us are safe. We win if we beat Demetrios here, because by winning here, we assure he will never come to our homes in the Euxine. Arrest me, put me on trial – if you continue to fight on, if Jubal springs his lovely trap—’

  ‘Jubal has a trap?’ Neiron asked.

  ‘I’ve avoided talking about it until Nicanor was . . . put down.’ Satyrus shrugged. ‘Obey me, friends. Just this once – no heroics, no running amok.’

  Idomeneus was the first to embrace him. ‘I’ll obey,’ he said, ‘but what you’re really saying is that the stupid wide-arses intend to arrest you!’

  Satyrus was mobbed by his friends, which he enjoyed thoroughly. It helped wipe some of the blood from his hands. ‘Yes,’ he said ruefully.

  Neiron embraced him last. ‘We’ve had our differences,’ he said.

  Satyrus had to smile. ‘Better to say, “there have been times we’ve agreed”.’

  ‘But you were right to kill him. You’re a tyrannicide, not a tyrant. And many here feel as I do.’ There were tears in the man’s eyes.

  Beyond Neiron was Abraham. ‘They’re fools,’ he said. He and Satyrus embraced.

  And outside the courtyard was Miriam, hollow-eyed with fatigue.

  Satyrus’ heart rose when he saw her. She didn’t shirk meeting his eye, and he felt that he had to say something.

  ‘I had to do it,’ he said. It sounded lame, put like that.

  She stepped up to him and kissed him, causing her brother to go white with shock. ‘Someone had to do it,’ she said. ‘As usual, you did it yourself.’

  ‘You are the very mistress of ambiguity,’ he said. Her chaste kiss felt like a new bruise. He wanted to lick his lips. Or hers.

  She smiled from under her eyelashes, and then he was walking away, as if nothing had happened.

  The boule did not arrest him, or order him to trial, or to be executed.

  They appointed him polemarch, the war commander of the city.

  28

  DAY SIXTY AND FOLLOWING

  The seventy-fifth day of the siege, Diokles slipped out of a long line of storm clouds with four captured Athenian grain ships – great ships, the height of four men – and ran them into the outer harbour before any of Demetrios’ ships dared leave the beach. Diokles’ former helmsmen had time to embrace him once, wave at the soldiers piling ashore and laugh.

  ‘We’re killing Demetrios at sea,’ he said. ‘And Leon snapped up a whole Athenian relief squadron. Do you need us to get you out of here?’

  Satyrus shook his head. ‘I’m the commander,’ he said.

  Diokles laughed. ‘I should have known. If there’s smoke, there you are, fanning it. Leon says to tell Panther to send all the rest of their fleet to sea – we have Syme and two other ports, and we’re getting ready to challenge the bugger before winter sets in. We’ve got six thousand Aegyptians ready to land, and your impetuous sister is up at Timaea with Nikephorus and Coenus and all your mercenaries.’

  Satyrus nodded. ‘Superb – but only if you can keep us fed.’

  ‘You must need more men!’ Diokles said.

  Satyrus nodded. ‘I need men. I need archers – every archer is worth ten men. But food is the sticking point, and soon, very soon, Apollo will start to shoot his poisoned shafts into the town. There’s people in the Neodamodeis camp who look . . . well, like sick people.’

  Diokles winced. ‘I’ll tell Leon. You tell Panther.’

  ‘Panther’s dead,’ Satyrus said.

  ‘Poseidon!’ Diokles said. ‘Hades. I loved that man.’ He looked around. ‘This place looks as if it has been crushed under Zeus’ heel. Can you hold another month?’

  Satyrus nodded. ‘We hold this town one day at a time,’ he said.

  The disease started in the slave camps. Too many of them had not been freed – at least, in Satyrus’ opinion. The ones left enslaved were prey to despair. And poor diet and despair were the breeding grounds of disease. Satyrus was a pious man, but he had no trouble noting that hungry men got sick faster than full men.

  Women were next. And when they were sick, their men got sick.

  Three weeks after his confident assertion that he had all the men he needed, Satyrus was guarding the walls with fewer than a thousand men. Apollo was stalking his own city, and his poisoned shafts were reaping a rich harvest.

  Satyrus fought off a probing assault on the latest south curtain wall with his own marines and the ephebes. The rest of the garrison was sick. Or dead. Apollodorus’ marines were curiously immune. Charmides, who was by then madly in love with Aspasia’s daughter Nike, went from sick bed to sick bed, reckless of the disease, and it never touched him.

  Miriam did the same, and Satyrus got a hint of the fear he might cause in those who loved him – she went from sick tent to sick tent, and he shuddered for her. Had Miriam not been a Jew, the town would have offered to make her Aspasia’s deputy priestess – she went everywhere that the older woman went, to rich and poor, and neither of them had sickened.

  So far.

  On the eighty-eighth day of the siege, with the first breath of autumn weather off the harbour, heavy mist rising from the warm water on a brisk morning, Diokles appeared with a pair of ships – Tanais merchant ships, loaded to the gunwales with grain, wine, oil and archers.

  Sakje archers.

  Bundles of arrows – long, heavy cedar shafts for the Cretans. Cane arrows and stiff pine shafts for the Sakje.

  The Sakje came off the ships in a mob, and the sound of their rough voices and the smell of their coats made him smile. He smiled even more when he saw men he knew – and women, too. Scopasis, and Thyrsis, both carrying heavy woolsacks.

  ‘No horses here!’ Satyrus quipped at Scopasis.

  The former bandit with the scarred face squinted, and his scars made a smile that made most men blanch. ‘Lady says come. We come.’ He clasped hands with Satyrus.

  ‘How is she?’ Satyrus asked. ‘Gods, I miss her!’

  ‘Good!’ Melitta said. She was wearing a pale caribou-hide coat worked in blue – their mother’s, he thought. She was . . . stronger-looking than ever. She looked like an intelligent hawk – small, fierce and ready to eat anything she didn’t like. She had a line of white in her blue-black hair. ‘I missed you too. And since you couldn’t be bothered to come home and rule your own kingdom, I’ve come here to fetch you back.’

  She hugged him, and he hugged her.

  They walked up through the town, hand in hand.

  ‘Smells like death,’ she said.

  ‘That’s your war name, not mine,’ he said.

  ‘This town smells like death. Like shit.’ She shook her head. ‘Why are you here?’

  Satyrus stopped. ‘They need me. And this is our grain centre.’

  Melitta grinned. ‘Save it for people who don’t know you.’

  ‘I’m in love,’ Satyrus said.

  ‘That’s more like it. So – can I kill Amastris?’ Melitta waved at Demetrios’ camp.

  Satyrus hugged her. ‘I’ve missed you.’

  ‘I’ve missed
you, too. Where is this paragon? Have you married her?’ She asked.

  Satyrus paused. ‘She – she may love someone else.’

  Melitta raised an eyebrow. ‘Let me get this right. You are squandering our kingdom’s riches for a town where there’s a woman you love who you don’t know, for certain sure, loves you?’

  Satyrus found himself smiling.

  ‘Sister, it’s the siege of Troy.’ He shrugged. ‘Wait until you meet her!’

  ‘Gods, you are doomed.’ She laughed. ‘Any handsome young princes?’

  ‘Eh? What of Scopasis?’ he asked.

  Melitta saw Abraham in the distance, and waved. Abraham waved back. ‘I can’t go around sleeping with my officers. It’s bad for discipline,’ she said.

  ‘Doesn’t seem to hurt the Spartans,’ Satyrus quipped.

  ‘Are you joking?’ she asked. ‘Did you listen when Philokles described the inequities of the king’s justice?’

  ‘It was a joke, Melitta,’ Satyrus managed. ‘Abraham – you remember my sister?’

  Abraham got a crushing embrace. ‘How could I forget – the very Queen of the Amazons?’

  He smiled, and she smiled, and then he turned. ‘You remember my sister, Miriam?’ he said.

  Miriam stepped forward – Satyrus knew her well enough now to see that her motion was very tentative. She was unsure of herself with Melitta.

  Melitta had, when Miriam last saw her, been a Greek woman with good clothes, beautiful hair and a philosophical education that Miriam envied deeply. Now she was a scarred woman with enormous, shockingly blank blue eyes and an armoured shirt over a barbarian coat and trousers.

  Miriam saw a woman with a mob of brown hair and long, naked legs.

  Satyrus could only marvel at how much similarity he saw between them.

  ‘Well,’ Melitta said. She kissed Miriam. ‘I must say, that style suits you.’

  Miriam laughed. ‘We call it the “Great Siege of Rhodes” style.’

  Melitta grinned. ‘Ever do any archery, Miriam?’

  That night, in honour of his sister’s arrival, Satyrus gave a party. A symposium. The recent loss of the third line of the south wall had placed the southern fringe of the agora within the long range of Demetrios’ engines, so Satyrus got his marines and sailors to clear the tiled floor of what had been Abraham’s dining room – they needed the rubble anyway, for the fourth south wall – and then he moved pithoi of wine, fresh from the ships, and fresh-baked bread and some olive oil and cheese – riches in a town under siege – to the excavated floor.

  The invitees brought cushions if they had them, and all lay on cloaks, and there was a fire in the hearth, as the evening held an autumnal chill. As polemarch, Satyrus had arranged to issue every man and woman in the town with some wine, some oil and some bread – the symposiasts weren’t getting anything that any other citizen didn’t have.

  Six months of lessons had not made Satyrus a master lyricist, but he managed the first fifty lines of the Iliad and received the applause due a swordsman who has learned the harp – that is, there was some jeering and some good-natured mockery.

  Anaxagoras played with Miriam, and they played Sappho’s ode to Aphrodite.

  Apollodorus was, at that moment, sharing Satyrus’ cloak. ‘That’s a dangerous song to play at a symposium,’ he said.

  Satyrus shrugged. ‘They play beautifully.’

  Melitta took Apollodorus’ place. She was warmer, but she wriggled and wriggled under the cloak like an eel in a trap. ‘You are sharing Abraham’s sister with that beautiful man?’ she asked. ‘Does he fight?’

  ‘Like a young god,’ Satyrus said happily. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good, then,’ Melitta said. ‘I approve of her indecision, and I approve of your choice. Worth ten of Amastris.’

  She lay still. The wine bowl came by and he rose out of his cloak, drank and noticed that she had shed her Sakje clothes under the cloak and emerged as a Greek woman in a very short chiton. He choked.

  ‘If Miriam can play Artemis, I certainly can,’ Melitta said. ‘I have good legs, and the moon is full. Here, have some wine.’ He took back the cup, and his sister slipped away.

  Other men rose to play. Damophilus played the kithara. Memnon and Apollodorus sang together, and Charmides played a few halting tunes. Helios sang.

  Melitta and Miriam were hardly the only women. Aspasia lay with her husband, Memnon, and her daughter Nike did not – quite – share Charmides’ cloak, although she sat very near. As the drinking moved on to the third bowl, Satyrus noted that women – and some men – came out of the darkness to sit or lie by their partners – Plestias the ephebe and his sister, whose name Satyrus didn’t know, but who he realised he had seen near his tent – near Helios’ tent, now that he gave it a moment’s thought. A slave-girl with brilliant red hair – he’d certainly seen her – looked utterly out of place until Jubal scooped her off her feet and carried her to his couch.

  Satyrus made his way to his feet. Three bowls of wine, and he was light-headed – they were all out of practice.

  He stood. ‘I wanted everyone to have a lovely evening,’ he said.

  They fell silent a little at a time. He smiled around at them until they were still.

  ‘I want to welcome my sister,’ he said, raising the kylix, and there was a cheer.

  ‘And I want to tell you that we’re about to enter the very worst part of the siege,’ Satyrus said.

  Memnon said something to his wife – meant to be quiet, but quite loud, in the tension. ‘Here it comes,’ he said.

  There were giggles.

  Satyrus walked a few steps. ‘Jubal?’ he said, and handed the black man his kylix.

  Jubal rose, patting his girl’s haunch. ‘Not much to say. Maybe two days, maybe three – then Demetrios – he rush the fourth wall. They fall faster an’ faster,’ he said, and he grinned. He swept an arm through the air in an arc. ‘South wall used to be straight, like an arrow, eh?’ He nodded. ‘An’ now it bends, like a bow. Little by little, Golden Boy punches deeper.’ He looked around. ‘Nex’ punch, he go deep enough to hit th’ agora with his engines. Lord, yes.’ Jubal was grinning like a jackal.

  ‘Course, ’less he’s got lot smarter, he won’t notice that his engines are inside the bow, when he moves them.’ Jubal drank from the kylix.

  ‘And then what happens?’ Melitta asked.

  ‘Jus’ you wait an’ see, lady.’ Jubal’s grin rivalled the moon. ‘Got to be a surprise!’ He nodded. ‘But what Lor’ Satyrus wan’ me to say is this – this wall’s the las’ wall we lose. No more room to give groun’ – no more. This wall gotta stan’.’ He handed the kylix to Satyrus.

  Satyrus looked around. ‘You think we’re goners, friends. We’ve been here more than four months. Some of us have already been here a year. We’re getting regular supplies, and we’ve all heard there’s thousands more men ready to come to us, fifty ships at Syme and twenty more across the straits. Abraham says that the Greek cities are begging Demetrios to give up the siege. Athens will be under siege from Cassander this winter.’

  He nodded. ‘If we were facing One-Eye; if we were facing Lysimachos, or Ptolemy, or Seleucus – this siege would be over. We’re not. If we win here, the Antigonids will never be the same again. Demetrios’ notions of his own deity will never be the same again. Demetrios will very soon become desperate. Indeed, if Jubal’s trick works, it will be the last straw. And then—’ Satyrus took a deep breath, ‘and then he’ll stop fucking around and throw the whole of his fifty thousand men at the walls.’

  They gasped all the way around the fire circle.

  ‘And we have to hold. So drink. Relax. But remember – in three days, we start the last part. For good or ill.’ Satyrus went to Abraham, and sat on his cloak.

  ‘One way to help the party along,’ Abraham said.

  Anaxagoras played a marching song of Tyrtaeus, and then a drinking song of Alcaeus, and they sang. Indeed, more and more people came out of the dark, some with their o
wn wine, and the singers sang. More and more voices were raised against the night.

  Scopasis came and lay with his back against Satyrus’ knees.

  ‘You still love her,’ Satyrus said.

  Scopasis shrugged. ‘How’s the fighting?’

  Satyrus looked out into the ring of faces. ‘Terrifying. The hardest I’ve ever known. The worst of it is that it is all the time – every day. There’s no rest, except this,’ and Satyrus raised his wine cup.

  Scopasis sneered. ‘You never outlaw. Outlaw fight every day.’ Scopasis paused. ‘No – not fight. Fear fight. Every day.’

  ‘Well,’ Satyrus said. He drank wine and stared at the embers on the hearth. ‘Yes. That’s what it’s like.’

  Scopasis nodded. ‘I brought plenty arrows,’ he said with professional satisfaction. ‘Love her till I die,’ he suddenly added. ‘Want to die old.’

  He walked off into the singing.

  Later, they danced. Satyrus was surprised – shocked, even – when Miriam started it. She rose to her feet, gathered an armful of brushwood – someone’s dead garden – and threw it on the hearth.

  ‘Let’s dance!’ she called with the gay abandon of a maenad or a bacchante. Other women gathered around her, slave and free, beautiful and plain, tall, thin and they pulled off their sandals – those fastidious enough to have them in the first place, and men hurried to sweep the tile floor clear with their cloaks. And Melitta was there, her hand in Miriam’s hand, and Aspasia, her hand in Melitta’s – the red-haired Keltoi slave, rich men’s daughters and poor men’s daughters, some with high heads and straight necks like the dancers on Athenian pottery, and some watching their feet, one young maiden with her tongue protruding between her teeth like a kitten, concentrating on the complexities of the dance, and around they went, with Anaxagoras playing the hymn to Demeter and then embellishing it.

  Satyrus sat with Abraham again, back to back on their cloaks, watching the women dance, their legs flashing – the trend to the briefest possible chitoniskos was even more daring when Persephone’s birth was celebrated and her trip to the underworld re-enacted in dance. Satyrus watched them all, and Melitta paused in front of him, raised her arms with the other dancers and grinned at him before her eyes went . . . elsewhere.