Miriam took a deep breath. ‘Do girls really talk like this?’ she asked.
Melitta shrugged. ‘I don’t usually have much time for women, aside from my spear-maidens,’ she said. ‘All the girls I know talk like this. Sakje girls wager on men.’
‘I want to be a Sakje,’ Miriam said.
Melitta nodded. ‘Fine. When your shoulders are stronger. But only if I can have the musician.’
Satyrus could hear his sister laughing with Miriam, and he assumed that no good would come of it. And it made him uncomfortable, so he finished his repairs, gathered an escort and walked down to the harbour.
The Rhodians had worked night and day since the truce was declared, and they had eighteen triemiolas ready for sea, stores and water aboard down in the sand by the keel – minimum stores, as the city had little food to spare. The oars and running tackle were aboard, and the waterfront was full of oarsmen – men who had been serving as light-armed troops for months. Only Satyrus’ oarsmen from the wrecked Arete had armour.
Menedemos meant to take the Rhodian ships to sea himself. The town was running short on leaders.
Satyrus walked among the Rhodian oarsmen, wishing them luck and Poseidon’s speed. They wouldn’t sail until the truce had expired. Satyrus kept glancing beyond the ruined harbour tower, looking for Demetrios to challenge the ships going to sea, but there wasn’t a sign.
Menedemos saw him looking. ‘I don’t think he cares,’ the Rhodian said. ‘I think he wants us gone – fewer troops to man the walls.’
Satyrus sighed. ‘And more cases of fever this morning – as if a moment’s relaxation makes more people fall sick. I worry you will take the contagion to Leon’s squadrons.’
Menedemos nodded. ‘I’ll go to Samos first and spend a day or two there,’ he said. ‘I’ll know who’s sick by then.’ He looked around. ‘I’m more worried that you won’t have enough men to hold the walls.’
Satyrus raised an eyebrow. ‘Diokles brought us more men than you are taking away – and none of the new troops is sick. Get out there and win, Menedemos. We can’t win here – we can only survive. Just make damn sure that you tell Leon, and Ptolemy. We’re out of space to give up. The new south wall – the “bow” – is the last. Now we have to fight every sortie, every assault.’ He turned and met the Rhodian’s eyes. ‘They don’t have to be skilful, just lucky. Or Demetrios can throw everything at us.’
Menedemos nodded. ‘I know. How long? Two weeks?’
Satyrus shrugged. He raised his hands as if praying. ‘By Herakles my ancestor, we might last months – or fall tomorrow. But my best guess? And you’ve heard this before: Demetrios will come at the third wall as soon as the truce lifts. We’ll move back and he’ll occupy the ground – four days. Then we unleash the trap and retake the third wall. For a day or a week. And he’ll have to spend time rebuilding – call it another week.’ Satyrus shrugged again. ‘And then? We live from hour to hour.’
‘We’d best get to sea, then,’ Menedemos said.
‘May Poseidon guard you,’ Satyrus said.
‘And Apollo withhold his contagion from you,’ Menedemos said.
The truce expired with the sounding of trumpets in both camps, and the Rhodian squadrons put to sea unopposed. The sea was rough, ideal for the better sailors, and Plistias, Demetrios’ admiral, seemed content to let them go.
But Demetrios’ army didn’t stir. There was no hail of stones, no grand assault into the third wall.
Satyrus stood with Jubal on the third wall, just at twilight.
‘He smell the rat?’ Satyrus asked.
Jubal’s eyes widened and he scratched the top of his head. ‘Who know?’ he asked. ‘God, maybe.’ He paused. ‘Duck,’ he said, and dropped flat on the top of the wall.
Satyrus had the sense to emulate him.
With a wicked hiss, a par of shafts whistled over them to shatter below.
‘Somethin’ new,’ Jubal said, hurrying down the inside of the wall. Small parties of Rhodians – the ephebes were on duty – were active in the trench behind the wall, and Cretan archers shot over the wall from time to time. It was vital to Satyrus that the enemy not know how eager he was to abandon the third wall.
Jubal picked up an arrow – the oddest arrow Satyrus had seen. It was solid, like the bolts thrown by ballistae, but short – much shorter than the engines on a ship threw, for instance.
Jubal walked back, poked his head up over the ramparts and fell back instantly, his face bleeding from a dozen cuts.
He lay on his back and screamed. Ephebes came running and got water on his face – he had two bad cuts where another bolt had hit a rock, inches from his face and split, the shattered shaft flaying his skin.
Satyrus helped other men carry him back to his tent, and Aspasia gave him poppy.
He found Melitta and gave her one of the bolts. ‘Tell your archers to beware,’ he said. ‘They have an engine – a small one, I assume. Very powerful.’
By the next day, one of her maiden archers was dead, shot through the head as she rose to shoot, and another had her bow hand broken by a tumbling shaft that had hit a stone. Others were hit, as well – two ephebes shot dead; a citizen hoplite screaming his guts out in the makeshift hospital.
Satyrus ordered a makeshift tower raised just south of the agora, on the foundations of the boule’s tholos. Idomeneus and Melitta used the tower to watch the enemy lines as soon as it went up.
Idomeneus came down almost immediately. ‘Troops massing behind their engines,’ he said.
Satyrus sounded the alarm and the town’s whole garrison stood to – manning every inch of wall, with the marines and town hoplites in reserve in the city’s agora. They stood to all night, men sleeping on their feet in their armour.
And nothing happened.
The next day, Jubal was back, the wounds on his face livid, giving him an angry look that ill suited his open nature. He climbed the tower, came back down and shook his head.
‘You know why I don’ buil’ no tower?’ he asked Satyrus.
Satyrus shook his head. ‘No – I guess I assumed that you hadn’t thought of it.’
His makeshift siege engineer spat. ‘Don’ wan’ them,’ Jubal pointed at Demetrios’ camp, ‘to buil’ no tower. Buil’ they a tower, see over our wall, see my lil’ surprise.’
Two stades away, Lucius looked under his hand at the distant city. ‘Arse-cunts built a tower,’ he said to Stratokles. ‘Now they can see everything Golden Boy does – so much for the surprise assault.’ He laughed. ‘Now, why didn’t we think of building a tower?’
Stratokles took a healthy swig of wine and spat it out after rinsing his mouth – just in case he had to fight.
‘Because so many of our slaves are sick with the fever that we can’t repair our engines and build a tower,’ he said. ‘Plistias wants a tower. So does King Demetrios. But we’re a little short on manpower right now.’
Lucius barked a laugh. ‘Make the useless phalangites do the work. They’re not worth a crap in an assault – they ought to dig.’
Stratokles cuffed his man. ‘Don’t let anyone hear you say that,’ he said.
Lucius was uncowed. ‘If I had half this number of Latins, I’d show them how to dig. And fight.’
Two more days of inaction. Tense, desperate inaction.
And the fevers began to creep into the ranks of the ephebes. First one, then ten men went down, puking their guts out, skin sallow.
Satyrus ran into Miriam and Aspasia at the northern edge of the agora, where the slaves lived, arms full of blankets. Miriam looked as if she was forty. Or fifty. Her eyes were hollow, red as if from weeping.
Satyrus hadn’t spent five minutes in her presence since he had kissed her. He went to salute her.
‘Stay away, polemarch!’ Aspasia commanded. She’d been a priestess and a physician all her life, and her voice carried commands as effectively as Satyrus’ own. He stepped back. He smiled at Miriam, eager to establish some contact, and she looked at hi
m the way a veteran looks as a green stripling.
‘What do they need?’ Satyrus asked the two women. ‘More blankets? Greater food supplies?’
‘Hope,’ Miriam said.
‘I think Demetrios has the fever in his camp,’ Damophilus said. ‘It’s the only explanation Jubal and I can arrive at for his hesitation. His engines still aren’t firing – at least, fewer than half of them.’
‘I’m sure you can all see the irony,’ Satyrus said. ‘Demetrios is held back by the sickness of his slaves – and so our trap is going to fail.’ He shook his head. ‘Zeus Sator, we need a little luck.’
Neiron nodded. All the men of the boule – now meeting in the open air, as the stones of their elegant meeting place now formed the centre of the hidden wall, Jubal’s ‘bow’ – nodded. Their eyes were hollow, and their bellies, as well. The squadrons had sailed, and nothing had come back, and the granaries were reaching desperate levels.
‘We have to cut the grain ration,’ Hellenos said. He made a face and raised his hands. ‘Don’t kill the messenger!’
Memnon shook his head. ‘If we cut the grain ration, someone will surrender the city,’ he said. ‘That’s how I see it.’
Neiron grunted. ‘There’s more than one irony at work here. What you’re saying is that inaction allows people to think of how desperate they are.’
Satyrus nodded. ‘I saw that days ago, Old Neiron. Demetrios does us more damage waiting than striking.’
Damophilus raised an eyebrow. ‘Then what – attack him? Before all our hoplites are sick?’
Satyrus shook his head. ‘Suicide. His entrenchments are sound – in fact, in yet another irony, we’ve taught him to build better entrenchments by our constant raids.’
Jubal nodded. ‘An’ they heavy blows’s killin’ us.’
Two days of further observation showed that the enemy had a mechanical bow. Old soldiers like Draco knew them as soon as they saw them – Alexander had favoured the weapon for sieges – the gastraphetes. The crossbow.
‘It’s not that it outranges the Sakje, or even my lads,’ Idomeneus said. ‘It’s that they can shoot it from cover. No need to pull it – no need to kneel or stand. And once they cock it, they can watch for a whole cycle of the sun for a man to show his head.’
Satyrus looked around at his officers. ‘Anyone have a suggestion?’ he asked, looking at Jubal.
Jubal nodded. ‘Do. Do, do. Seen women making baskets – seen men fill ’em with earth, building walls.’
There was no news there. ‘So?’ Satyrus asked.
‘Weave big-arse baskets, an’ mount ’em on the walls at night,’ Jubal said. ‘Fill ’em with earth. Now archers can stan’ to shoot – behin’ the baskets.’
‘Until they concentrate engine fire on the baskets’ position,’ Satyrus said.
‘An’ so we need fifty,’ Jubal said. ‘Make that twice fifty. Best do the new wall at the same time, eh?’
Satyrus scratched his beard. He was pretty sure that he had lice. Everyone did, all of a sudden. ‘Let’s try it,’ he said.
‘And how exactly are we going to get the slaves to dig for us?’ Damophilus asked. ‘Most of them are either sick or faking it.’
Satyrus didn’t think many were shamming. It was a charge aristocrats had levelled since the first cases of fever. ‘I think it is time to free all of the slaves,’ he said.
Not a single voice was raised against him.
Satyrus found Korus with a line of women, all of them lifting rocks in the shade of the remaining olive trees at the western end of the agora. The women didn’t look away in maidenly modesty, but glared at him for interrupting their exercise.
‘I need you,’ Satyrus said to Korus.
‘You look strong enough to me,’ Korus said. Some of the women laughed.
‘I’m serious,’ Satyrus said.
‘So are we,’ Miriam offered, coming forward. The lines in her face were even more pronounced, today – she looked stern, more like a teacher or a head cook than a gentlewoman of leisure. ‘We’re learning to be archers. You sister says we need stronger arms.’
Satyrus bit back a number of retorts. His sister was behind this – and she was right. And these women were participating, which was good for morale. He took a deep breath – lately he’d begun to think that the art of command was in not saying things – and smiled gravely.
‘That’s excellent,’ he said. ‘Korus, when you are finished, I need you to be my spokesman.’
Korus nodded. ‘What do you want? The slaves, I assume?’
‘I’m going to free them. All.’ Satyrus looked at the former slave for a reaction.
Korus’ smile was small, but it was there. ‘Then what?’ he asked.
‘Then I’m going to ask every citizen to work. Tonight. On the south wall.’ Satyrus smiled.
Korus smiled back. ‘I think the new citizens might do that,’ he allowed.
A new moon, and darkness. Like a wave of spectres, the chosen work parties went up the third wall – still, despite Satyrus’ best efforts to give it up, the defensive position of the defenders – and planted enormous baskets all along the top. And then, like ants, the citizens of the town, with shovels and smaller baskets and metal buckets and every tool at their disposal, began to fill the giant baskets – fifty-two of them. With thirty or more citizens to every basket.
The enemy was taken by surprise. It took half a watch for them to get their engines manned, and the moon was down before the first rocks flew – and bolts from various ballistae, large and small.
Men died. Women died.
The defenders died. The survivors went on digging, carrying the fill up the wall and dumping it into the baskets. The lucky ones worked on the new wall – the ‘bow’. They were covered. The unlucky worked on the third wall.
Like a squall at sea, the first shower of missiles died away.
‘Shot away their reserve of arrows and stones,’ Satyrus said to Abraham. ‘Now they have to send to the rear for more.’
‘Where are you going?’ he asked. The King of the Bosporus was stripping out of his bronze cuirass.
‘You command the reserve,’ Satyrus said. ‘You used to be my best captain. You’re a citizen. I need you to take command.’
Abraham nodded. ‘I accept.’
‘Good,’ Satyrus said. ‘Because I’m going to dig.’
The sun was a smear on the horizon, and no one had the energy to comment on the rosy fingers of dawn. The diggers lay like the dead, except for Aspasia, Miriam, Nike and a dozen other women, who were carrying the wounded to the rear. Men rose to help them – but not many.
Anaxagoras stepped out of the ranks of the hoplites, and a dusty ex-slave put his hand on the musician’s chest.
‘Back in the ranks, brother,’ Satyrus said.
‘But—’
‘If there’s an attack right now, you and the ephebes are all we have,’ Satyrus said. ‘The citizen hoplites worked all night.’
Memnon, who looked as much like a slave as the king, stopped next to him and leaned on a heavy shovel. ‘We lost a prime lot of weight, though,’ he joked.
And the Sakje and the Cretans, who had been kept back from the digging, manned the new embrasures with the dawn. Satyrus took a wineskin and climbed the tower.
It took almost an hour for there to be enough light to see – or shoot. But Satyrus watched the crossbow teams move forward, saw them scratch their heads, literally – at the change in the Rhodian south wall.
Satyrus and Jubal mapped out the positions of the crossbow teams and sent the information to Idomeneus via Helios. A Sakje was caught moving and was shot through both hips, and he died screaming.
‘I need to teach you to read and write,’ Satyrus said to Jubal.
‘Heh,’ Jubal said. ‘Why you think I can’ read?’
‘You may be the best siege engineer in the world, just now,’ Satyrus said. ‘And I need you to learn the maths. For all of us.’
‘I know maths,’ Jubal
said. ‘I read Pythagoras.’
A whistle sounded, and as one, the whole of Melitta’s Sakje force rose to their feet. Further east, the entire Cretan force did the same, standing up behind the great baskets. All together, they drew. Master archers called ranges and lofted their own bows, and the bone whistle sounded again, and all of them loosed – six hundred arrows.
Seconds later, they loosed again, and then again and again, until the arrow squall filled the air between the walls with a continuous flurry.
In the enemy forward positions, men were hit. The crossbow snipers suffered heavily, and the survivors of the first volley, shocked, hugged their cover.
Small groups of Sakje archers ran forward down the rubble wall and sprinted across no-man’s land, unopposed, as the fourth and fifth volleys ripped through the air.
The bone whistle sounded, and not a single arrow left a string. The last volley flew, whistling arrows shrieking to add to the terror, and the sprinters were across, clambering up through the stakes and sharpened tree branches of the enemy lines. The enemy snipers raised their heads too late: the Sakje were shooting point blank – and the enemy had no engines registered on their own lines.
Thyrsis returned in triumph, brandishing a captured gastraphetes.
Satyrus let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding.
Demetrios did not ponder long on the new development. Before the morning was old, the men on the tower could see his pikemen moving into assault positions.
‘Finally!’ Satyrus said.
There were thousands of them. They blackened the ground behind the enemy’s entrenchments – four taxeis and then a fifth stretched four deep across the rear.
‘Using his veterans to push the newer troops forward,’ Satyrus said. Abraham had joined him, and Hellenos, and they kept the younger men busy, up and down the ladders.
Jubal grinned. ‘Now – now he take the poison pill. Let he have it!’
Satyrus shook his head. ‘I’d love to,’ he said, ‘but if those men get onto the new wall, we’re done for. We have to make a fight of it, and then we have to withdraw in good order – without taking too many casualties.’ He spat. ‘Zeus Sator, stand by us. Herakles, guide my arm.’
Tyrant: Destroyer of Cities Page 49