Destroyer of Cities

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 own 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.

And then Miriam paused in her turn. And her eyes went through him — she was looking nowhere else, and the quarter-smile on her face was for him, her hands on her hips were his hands, and she leaped-

‘Are you in love with my sister?’ Abraham asked.

‘Yes,’ Satyrus said, with a sigh.

‘God!’ Abraham said. ‘Job did not have a trial like Miriam. You too?’ He shook his head. ‘I make a joke — I always make a joke. In truth, my friend, I am — angry.’

Satyrus watched her long legs and her smile a quarter of the way around the circle. ‘Someone should free the Keltoi girl,’ he said.

Abraham nodded. ‘The Keltoi girl is not my problem. My sister is. You can’t marry her. What do you mean to do — keep her as a mistress? Hide her away?’

Satyrus sighed again. ‘Friend, I have no idea. None. But I’ll offer this — why shouldn’t I marry her?’

Abraham turned to look him in the eye. ‘Oh — you will become a Jew?’

Satyrus frowned. ‘Don’t be foolish.’

Abraham glared at him. ‘Foolish, is it?’

Satyrus raised a hand. ‘Let’s be sure of our arguments, shall we? I have nothing but respect for the God of the Jews. But my god is Herakles.’

Abraham shook his head. ‘Herakles is a silly myth for children. Gods do not personify themselves — they do not come to earth and make love to mortals and all that foolishness. Or perhaps he’s merely the memory of a great man — a warrior. You claim him as an ancestor, do you not?’

‘And the God of the Jews has done so well for your people — the “chosen”. You rule the world, do you not? You Jews?’ Satyrus had never said such a thing out loud, and he was none too proud he’d done it. He put his hand out. ‘Sorry — that was uncalled for.’

Abraham was red, but at Satyrus’ touch he shook his head. ‘Don’t think I haven’t thought it. Sometimes it all seems a sham. What god would allow this?’ Abraham looked up.

‘What, a party?’ Satyrus quipped.

‘War. This siege. Nicanor. Demetrios.’ He shrugged.

Satyrus frowned. ‘The world exists so that we may compete, and by competing, show the gods our worth.’ He shrugged.

Abraham narrowed his eyes. ‘Those slaves out there, puking their lives away with fever — what are they competing for?’

Satyrus shrugged. ‘No idea.’

‘You are no empty-head. Don’t you care?’ Abraham asked. ‘When you killed Nicanor, what did you feel?’

‘You sound like Philokles, brother. No, I don’t care. I care for them — when I meet them — one at a time. As a mass — slaves — I can’t care. I can care for my men, for my city, for myself. I can work to make a better city on the Euxine, to make my farmers richer, to make my soldiers triumphant. I can’t feed the slaves, much less free them. When Nicanor betrays his city, he is less than worthless — I cut him down as I would kill a mad dog. And he won’t haunt my dreams.’

The women had stopped dancing. They were looking expectantly at the men, who were mostly applauding like mad, except for Abraham and Satyrus. Abraham stared off as if he didn’t even know women existed. After a pause, he said, ‘My sister loathed her husband. He was a good man. A merchant. A quiet, honourable man.’ He rolled his shoulders. ‘And when he died, she rejoiced.’ He spat the word. ‘And now she shares her favours between Hellenes. You know that she makes cow eyes at Anaxagoras as well? Eh?’

Satyrus laughed. ‘How could I not know?’ he said, and looked at Anaxagoras.

The musician was wrapped up only in his lyre.

Abraham spat.

Satyrus laughed. ‘You, my friend, are suffering from an excess of bile. And the women want us to dance. I know that you know the dance of Ares.’

Abraham rose to his feet. ‘Of all your Greek gods, Ares is the one I understand.’

Satyrus took his hand to lead him out. ‘You understand Ares?’

‘Hateful Ares? The brash, boastful coward, fomenter of strife, god of slaughter, ruin and mindless combat?’ Abraham spoke with so much vehemence that spittle flew. ‘I see him made manifest every day. How could I pretend he doesn’t exist? Perhaps his mean and spiteful mind rules the world. Perhaps he is the only god.’

Satyrus was struck dumb, and he put a hand to his mouth.

Abraham picked up a cup, drank some wine and spat.

‘Jews are great ones for blasphemy,’ he said, and managed a smile. ‘Let’s dance.’

The men chose to dance the Pyrriche. It was no hardship — every man present had a spear and a shield, and months of incessant warfare made them so confident that no one even proposed that they bate their spears.

Because many of them were men of Tanais, they danced it the Euxine way, and the first two verses were a vicious tangle — Satyrus had a cut on his right bicep where Menedemos forgot the new steps. But they were all dancers — almost every warrior present had competed in the Pyrriche — and they learned fast, and by the time the third verse of the hymn rose to the heavens, the Euxine men’s knees and the Rhodian men’s knees all rose together, kicked, spun, leaped-

The first roar of the crowd, already growing.

Anaxagoras played — first the hymn to Ares, and then, subtly, he changed the tune, and he whispered to Miriam as he played, and she picked up her kithara and Aspasia joined in with a small lyre. Note by note they moved the tune from the brash striving of Ares to the military wisdom of Athens, the hymn to Athena.

And the men, in four lines, stood forth, brandished spears, fell back through ranks, turned, thrust, leaped, and parried all together, and if steps were missed, they were lost in the flood of eudaimonia.

At some point, the women began to sing, and more men and women were drawn out of the darkness by the fire and the music, so rare in a city under siege. Men sat on the crumpled ruins of houses they had once owned and raised their voices together, and women pushed forward until they could see the men dance, faster and faster.

Satyrus could see them at the edge of the old foundations, hundreds of people singing the paean to Athena — possibly thousands — and he was lifted out of himself to leap the higher, snap faster from posture to posture, as if Theron and Philokles were there to watch his every move-

He spun to clash his spear against a shield and there was Charmides, his beauty like a blaze of light, and the younger man leaped so high that Satyrus was able to sweep his spear shaft under the man’s feet. Charmides landed, his smile so broad that it threatened to swallow his face, and his counter-thrust went over Satyrus’ head as the polemarch stretched along the ground, front leg out-thrust, rear leg nearly flat, head ducked. The people nearest to them cheered, roared and pointed and Satyrus dared to roll forward, tucking his shield, and stood behind Charmides — the other dancers exchanged less extreme postures, but Satyrus was, for this one figure, the lead, and Charmides answered by flipping backward over his shield, a feat Satyrus had never seen done. The crowd by them erupted and the hymn drove on inexorably to the end, two thousand voices now-

Come, Athena, now if ever!

Let us now thy Glory see!

Now, O Maid and Queen, we pray thee,

Give thy servants victory!

Satyrus found himself weeping, and Apollodorus was weeping, and Charmides and Abraham. And Melitta took his hand and kissed him, and smiled boldly at Charmides. ‘Our father’s war song,’ she said.

Then she kissed the boy. ‘You are a very handsome lad,’ she said. And walked off to congratulate the musicians.

Two stades away, wrapped in a cloak on the edge of the abatis that protected the Antigonid sentry wall, Lucius listened with Stratokles. Even two stades away, the hymn to Athena was loud enough to hinder conversation.

Lucius sighed. ‘Can I tell you something, boss?’ he asked.

Stratokles found that he was so choked up he couldn’t speak, so there was a long pause. ‘When do you not say whatever you like?’ he managed, with tear-filled eyes.

‘We’re on the wrong fucking side, boss.’ Lucius took out a gold toothpick. ‘I’m a pious man, boss. Demetrios is — ah, cunt, I don’t know what he is. We don’t invoke the gods. The priests in this camp are lickspittles. The Macedonians just go through the motions — Hades, Stratokles, they worship demons and spirits! Fucking barbarians, if you ask me. Worse than Etruscans.’ Lucius picked his teeth. ‘You heard that hymn, right? Fuckin’ arse-cunts had what — a thousand singing?’ He looked at Stratokles, who was struggling between a desire unburden to the closest thing he had to a friend and the desire to discipline the closest thing he had to a subordinate.

Friendship won. ‘I know,’ he said. Under the circumstances, he was proud of the laconic reply.

‘When our boys roll up that breach, they’re already afraid. How many have the arse-cunts killed? And they just got reinforcements, eh? Our boys are already whipped. And the Rhodians are singing hymns.’ Lucius got what he was after, stared at his toothpick for a moment and put it away. ‘If they win this thing, people will remember them for ever. Like the fucking Trojans.’

‘The Trojans lost, Lucius,’ Stratokles said.

‘My point exactly.’ Lucius spat. ‘An’ they didn’t lose. Aeneas brought the survivors to Rome. Ask anyone.’

Stratokles decided to pass on this point of regional belligerence. ‘The problem is — Athens.’

‘Always is, with you. Boss.’ Lucius laughed. ‘Mind you, it’s why I stick with you. You ain’t one of these godless cunts. You are a proper city man. Athens first and always. Eh?’

Stratokles smiled. In the doomed city, there was cheering and laughter. ‘Athens is about to be besieged by Cassander,’ he said. ‘Because Demetrios is here with all his father’s best troops.’

‘Well, make me strategos, then, ’cause I can solve that in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.’ Lucius was flat on his back, watching the stars. ‘Demetrios has overcommitted.’

Stratokles laughed. ‘Oh, thanks. I had no idea.’ He laughed again.

Lucius rolled onto his elbow. ‘You got a plan?’

Stratokles rubbed his eyes. ‘Yes. But the question — no really, friend, I seek your advice — the question is this. Do I help Golden Boy take the city? Or do I help the Athenian delegation that’s on its way to convince him to drop the siege? Either way, I’m helping my city. And I, too, am. . how did you say it? Pious. I heard the hymn.’

Lucius nodded. ‘Like that.’ He stared off into the night. He rubbed his beard, spat and turned back to Stratokles. ‘Well, nice to be asked, boss. Yes. Here’s how I see it. War’s chancy, and nothing chancier than a siege, eh? No matter what you do for Golden Boy, he could lose here. My professional opinion? His odds is no better than one in two, now. But if he walks away — well, Zeus Saviour, then he has the largest army in Europe and he can be at Athens in five days.’ Lucius paused. ‘Didn’t you tell me that if he failed here, he an’ his pater were done for?’

Stratokles had picked up a straw and started to chew on it. ‘Yes. It’ll take a few years. But they must win here.’

Both men stared at the distant city.

‘Well,’ Lucius said after a time, ‘I have a plan of my own to put into effect, tonight.’ He got up and dusted his chiton with his hands.

Stratokles was startled. ‘A raid?’ he asked.

‘Only on Aphrodite, boss. A deep-penetration raid,’ he said with a lewd chuckle.

The party was on the eighth bowl. It was hard to keep count by Greek standards, because the darkness was full of people and wine now, and there was more wine circulating than could possibly have come off the ships with Diokles — rich men much have broached their stores, or poorer men looted it from ruined cellars. Anything was possible — but Satyrus couldn’t help noticing that his people were drunk. Very, very drunk.

He hoped that the ephebes were in their places on the walls, because Apollodorus — just as an example — wasn’t going to be able to fight off an assault of kittens. The marine captain was locked in a passionate embrace with his girl — whoever she was, she was so wrapped in his cloak that he looked as if he was being attacked by the garment.

Charmides sat among three girls, all beautiful, dishevelled and determined to be last in the field. By sheer persistence, if not by charm or beauty. But he had eyes only for Nike, who sat with her mother, trying to be demure and failing in a most charming way. Satyrus wondered if any woman had ever looked at him with the same longing.

Jubal didn’t bother to cloak himself, lacking Apollodorus’ careful gentleman’s education. But he was engaged in the same activity, and the slave-girl’s red hair was almost as good as a cloak.

Satyrus tried not to let this evening’s good humour be poisoned by the fact that Anaxagoras was missing, as was Miriam. He had accomplished a miracle in improved morale — and Melitta was here. Somewhere. Satyrus could see Scopasis — who was not alone — and a pair of Sakje spear-maidens who had seized two young aristocrats.

Satyrus locked hard on his jealousy. It was unworthy. What was unfair, he felt, was that he should be alone while all of them had someone. Aphrodite was heavy on the air, and he-

Self-pity is among the ugliest of the emotions, Philokles seemed to say in his ear.

Abraham was standing in the middle, near the hearth, like Dionysus — a vaguely Aramaic Dionysus in a long robe, a garland of olive on his head, a wine cup in each hand.

‘People keep handing them to me,’ he said. ‘Have one, brother.’

Satyrus took one and kissed his friend on the cheek. ‘You should go to bed,’ he said.

‘Want to play feed the flute girl!’ Abraham said with drunken assertiveness. ‘Want to live.’

‘Not the right party, brother,’ Satyrus said.

‘I love you, brother,’ Abraham said.

Even through the wine, Abraham’s good will beamed and Satyrus embraced him.

‘You too, comrade.’ He got an arm around his friend, lifted him, wine cup sloshing, and walked him along the street.

‘Even when I dress like a Jew?’ Abraham asked. ‘I am a Jew, you know,’ he said, ‘even when I dress like a Greek.’

‘Always,’ Satyrus said.

‘You love my sister always, I can see that much,’ Abraham pronounced, as if giving the law. ‘My pater is going to kill all of us, you know that? You, me, her, Anaxagoras — dead, brother. Please tell me you haven’t. . you know. .’ And Abraham stumbled, caught himself, put his hands on Satyrus’ shoulders. ‘Please?’

Satyrus could tell that the man was earnest — deadly earnest.

He took Abraham’s shoulders. ‘Never,’ he said. ‘My solemn oath — on my ancestors.’

‘Ah!’ Abraham said. He nodded happily. ‘Knew it,’ he said, unconvincingly. ‘Please don’t. Listen — siege is wrecking everything — don’t. Please? Promise?’

Satyrus, painfully aware that Miriam had been off in the dark with Anaxagoras for more than an hour, felt his face go hot. But he was too much of a gentleman to tell his friend that he had the wrong suitor.

‘I swear,’ he said.

‘On that ancestor — the old one — the hero?’ Abraham asked.

‘Arimnestos?’ Satyrus smiled. ‘I will swear by him. I swear on my heroised ancestor I will not debauch your sister.’

Abraham nodded. ‘That’s good,’ he said.

Satyrus managed to lead Abraham across the agora — not that far, usually, but quite far with a loud, drunk man on your shoulder — and to his tent, where Jacob, Abraham’s steward, was sitting outside the tent on a stool.

Satyrus shuffled to a stop. ‘Some help here, please?’

Jacob got up heavily, placed his own wine cup on the ground with exaggerated care and got a shoulder under his master’s arm. ‘At your service, lord king!’ he said with careful enunciation. Together, they lowered Abraham onto a pile of furs and blankets, and Jacob threw a heavy wool cloak over him. ‘Good for him,’ he said. ‘Looks like he’s had a good night.’ Jacob, who was usually an invisible shadow, was jocund with wine. ‘Not everyone did,’ he said.

Satyrus had no idea what the man was on about, so he slapped him on the back in a meaningless gesture — the affections of one drunk to another — and stumbled out through the tent flap, feeling drunker by the moment, as if the exertion of getting Abraham to bed had accelerated the fumes of wine to his head. He paused, aware that he should walk the circuit of the walls — and be sure. Sure that they were safe. Was that drunk thinking?

And aware that he should be a lot more sober, and have a guard. He took a deep breath, and smelled jasmine — just time to flinch away, to think-

‘It is you,’ Miriam said.

‘Mostly, it’s your brother,’ Satyrus said. He was confused — delighted — to find her here. Delighted, unless that was Anaxagoras in the darkness behind her.

She laughed. ‘Aphrodite fills this night. Oh, I’m a poor Jew,’ she said, stepped in and put her arms around his neck, and kissed him.

Satyrus was not an inexperienced man, but a man may have sex many times without being kissed — kissed at length, kissed thoroughly, kissed as the release of many months of longing. Satyrus never thought that he was standing in the door of Abraham’s tent, or that Jacob had to be right there. In fact, Satyrus didn’t think of anything at all. It went on and on — was uncomfortable, was too long, was passionate, was perfect. Her mouth was the entire universe — a better universe.

Then she pushed him away — not ungently. ‘Please, just walk away,’ she said. ‘I went to bed — in my tent — to stop this.’ In the distant firelight, he could just see her half-smile; longing, self-derision, amusement, self-loathing all mixed. ‘And you brought him to bed.’

Satyrus caught her up, pressed her body against his. Dived into her again. But when her hands left his neck and pressed his chest, he stepped back.

‘Please walk away,’ she said.

‘I love you,’ he said, hopelessly.

‘Walk away,’ she said.

He did. In his head he heard Abraham’s plea. Please don’t. He shook his head, suddenly sober, aroused, his body heavy with energy and suppressed lust. He pushed into his own tent.

Helios was still up. He was lying blissfully with his girl, their faces beaming, their hair plastered against their heads with sweat. Satyrus felt guilty about interrupting. But before he could withdraw, Helios saw him and leaped to his feet. ‘Lord!’ he said.

‘I need you,’ Satyrus said. ‘I’m sorry, lad, but I need to make a circuit of the walls.’

Helios nodded. ‘Immediately, lord. I’ll send her away.’

Satyrus shook his head. ‘Tell her you’ll be back in an hour, and leave her to sleep.’ He put his shield on his shoulder.

Together, they walked along the waterfront, challenged by each of the ephebes in the makeshift towers as they passed. ‘Sounded like a great party,’ one young man was bold enough to assert. Satyrus smiled.

‘Your turn will come, young man,’ he said. Pomposity comes easily, with command.

Up the inner harbour, past the new false wall — Satyrus never let the slaves stop building. It was always possible that Demetrios would try another assault on the harbour. A long detour around the new construction where the harbour wall met the north wall, the sea wall that faced the open sea. Always neglected, because there was no real beach — or so it seemed until Memnon had shown him where smugglers landed routinely.

Past the construction, and along the north wall — only a handful of sentries, and Satyrus was surprised to find that most of them were his sister’s Sakje. Where the north wall met the west wall and the robust new fortifications with their modern ditches and towers began, he found Thyrsis, also making his rounds.

‘Who put you on duty?’ Satyrus asked.

‘Melitta,’ he answered.

Satyrus shrugged. ‘You missed quite a party,’ he said.

‘That’s why she sent me away,’ Thyrsis said. He shrugged.

‘Aphrodite, not you too!’ Satyrus said.

Thyrsis was rueful. ‘Oh, yes.’ He spat in the Sakje way, over the wall. ‘If she does not marry soon, we will follow her around in packs.’

‘She is very beautiful,’ Helios put in.

Satyrus got a glimpse of how Abraham no doubt felt. ‘You find her attractive? And her war name is Smells like Death.’

‘What could be more beautiful?’ Thyrsis said.

Helios nodded.

‘Oh, Abraham,’ Satyrus said.

Across the west wall. Satyrus didn’t expect Demetrios would ever try the west wall, but it was so strong that he spent extra time there, peering into the darkness, trying to shake the perception that he’d allowed a night of drunken riot and that Demetrios was going to use that against him. Scaling ladders, perhaps?

And down along the south wall, now a deep, deep bow, from the corner of the west wall where the original fortifications still stood, along the bow — the fourth wall that they had constructed, now really more of a mound of rubble in a long deep curve, with a hasty ditch in front and a shallow trench just behind, and deeper trenches and loop-holed ruined buildings behind that. The wall and ditch were the highest since the loss of the outer wall — after all, Jubal and Neiron had agreed that this one had to be held to the end.

Walking the south wall was hard — and sobering. Twice, Satyrus clambered over the ‘wall’ into what was now the debatable ground: once to listen to see if he could hear sounds of digging, and the second time-

‘Go and wake Jubal and get me twenty men,’ Satyrus said to Helios. ‘No questions, lad. Run!’

Satyrus stood perfectly still, tensed and completely sober, and waited. There it was again.

Chink. Tink.

And then nothing, for a long time.

Just when he wondered if he had torn Jubal from red-hair’s arms for nothing. .

Clink.

‘Here I am,’ Jubal said.

‘Shhh!’ Satyrus hushed him. He was on the ground in front of the wall — fifty feet in front of the rubble wall, out in no-man’s land.

A line of men were picking their way down the rubble slope. They made a lot of noise.

Over in the enemy lines, there was a shout.

‘Get back!’ Satyrus said, as low as he could. ‘Back!’

Charmides froze. He had heard his lord.

A slim figure barked a sharp command. The file turned and began to climb the slope. Melitta was leading his twenty men — probably all the soberest men — and they’d been spotted.

More shouting in the enemy lines.

‘Listen!’ Satyrus whispered.

Clink.

Jubal nodded sharply. ‘Got him,’ he said. He tore a strip off his cloak with his knife, walked a few paces, picked up a section of pike shaft and stuck the rag on the end. Then he lay flat. From his prone position, he said, ‘They mus’ be stopped, lord. If’n they get through-’

Satyrus understood immediately. He tore another strip off Jubal’s cloak as the man lay flat, and he used his sword to cut a second length of spear shaft.

A rock whistled out of the darkness and struck the rubble wall, and gravel and shards of rock sprayed. Satyrus was hit in the back, but he wasn’t knocked down.

Then another rock fell.

‘They jus’ get better an’ better,’ Jubal said. ‘Got him.’ He reached out, and Satyrus put the second flag in his hand, and Jubal crawled a few feet and stuck the shaft between two rocks. ‘One more,’ he said.

Satyrus had to go quite a way to find another spear shaft. A rock came out of the dark — two rocks, he could tell from the impact. Too damned close. Now he had a cut on his cheek.

It occurred to him, lying scared and alone in the dark, at the very edge of the enemy zone, that he was the polemarch and that someone else could have done this. And it burst on him like a rapid sunrise that Miriam had kissed him.

He chuckled, and a hand closed on his mouth.

‘Got you,’ the man hissed.

Melitta waited in the dead ground beyond the rubble wall, her hip pressed — not without careful planning — against that of the musician. ‘What are they doing?’ she hissed.

‘No idea,’ Anaxagoras answered her. ‘He’s like this.’ Anaxagoras laughed silently, and Melitta felt it through their hips. ‘And I thought he’d gone off with Miriam.’

A rock hit the other face of the rubble, and chips sprayed like deadly mud from a child’s pebble, when children throw rocks into a pool after rain.

‘Ah — damn,’ Anaxagoras said.

‘Let me see,’ Melitta said. ‘Keep your head down — you — what’s your name?’

‘Hellenos, Despoina.’ The young aristocrat was relatively sober.

‘Tell the other men to be quiet. And get me Scopasis.’ She waved. ‘The barbarian — one of the other barbarians. Dressed like me.’

‘Yes, Despoina.’ If taking orders from a woman was a rare thing for Hellenos, he had the grace to do it well. He went back along the file of men and women — both aristocrats and their Sakje maiden archers, some marines — to Scopasis.

Melitta looked at the gash left by the rock chip on Anaxagoras’ neck, pulled off the scarf she wore to keep her cuirass from rubbing her own neck and wrapped it around his wound to staunch the blood. Another rock hit.

‘I can’t say I’m fond of this,’ Melitta said.

‘I think it’s very brave of you to come out at all,’ Anaxagoras said.

‘I mean the rocks. I adore a night raid — the taste of an enemy’s blood on my blade, the gleam of the moon-’ Laying it on a bit thick, she thought, but his male dominance annoyed her as much as his music and good looks appealed.

An ugly scream in the darkness; almost at their feet.

‘Raid,’ Anaxagoras said, and rolled to his feet.

The moment the hand clamped on his mouth, Satyrus reacted. It was, after all, something for which Theron and Philokles had trained him repeatedly. Before the hand was over his mouth, his mouth was open and he bit savagely, all but severing a finger — his right elbow shot back, he rolled his right shoulder down, fell heavily on the man on his back-

His assailant was screaming. Satyrus caught movement, ducked-

. . into the blow, so that the man’s hand punched his head instead of the sword cutting into it, and he snapped back, tripped over his first attacker and fell flat on his back — but he still had sword and shield. The aspis he pulled up, over his head and chest. He cowered, fighting for consciousness, trying to get a foot under him, blind.

‘Alarm! Alarm!’ someone was yelling.

His shield gave a great thud as a weapon crashed into it, and a hollow boom as a second one hit the rim. But he had his feet under him, and his sword, and his right hand shot out in a stop-thrust, almost without his volition.

He raised his eyes.

At least three of them — maybe more, but trapped like him in the shallow trench that had been the third defensive line. The trench walls were loose scree on both sides, difficult to climb. One man — with a pick — was above him, trying to get in behind.

Satyrus backed like a crab, praying to Herakles that he wouldn’t catch his foot on a stone.

Two men had spears, and they attacked, confident now that he was retreating.

Five men. Satyrus knew that no one man can take five, so he backed away, watching the man on the edge of the trench-

The man went down, and in falling he fell into the trench, fouling his mates — Satyrus lunged immediately, missed his footing, swung wildly, hit a shield and was toe to toe with an opponent. Both of them swung, their hilts locked a moment, and then the man’s eyes glazed over, something warm sprayed across Satyrus’ shins and the man slumped to the ground, all the fingers of his sword hand severed in a poor parry.

Satyrus stepped back, because the trench behind the wounded man was suddenly full of men in Thracian helmets — ten, fifteen-

‘Herakles!’ Satyrus roared, and charged.

‘That’s fighting,’ Anaxagoras said uselessly.

‘Follow me,’ Melitta said, and ran down the wall of rubble. She didn’t pick her way with risky sobriety — she ran, and left the men behind her with little choice but to follow. She could see men moving beyond the next rise, men like black ants on sand. She made the bottom of the rubble-rampart without falling, pulled her bow from her gorytos, got an arrow on the bow and narrowly stopped herself from shooting the black man with the sword — she knew him from the party, but they came face to face and she could tell he’d come as close as she.

‘My brother!’ she said.

Herakles! She heard — close. She ran.

The men in the Thracian helmets were surprised, their night raid caught in their own trench area, and they had the natural reaction of raiders — retreat. It took them long seconds to realise that they were under attack from one man.

Satyrus’ head rang like his shield under the assault of their spears, but he downed the first man with a thrust over his shield into the man’s eyes — thrusts are more deadly in the dark, as there is less lateral movement to betray the blow — and then he pushed forward over the dying man and got his shield against the next man’s shield and struck him in the moment of impact. Philokles’ trick, as most men brace, even unconsciously, against the pain of the moment where the shields meet. Satyrus’ sword wrapped around unerringly and found the neck between the helmet’s tail and the top of the cuirass, and the man went down without a groan.

But that was the end of luck and mastery, and three blows on, Satyrus was again on his back, head ringing again where a blow had shot his shield rim into his forehead, and he pulled under his shield — again. Got his back to a downed timber, pushed against it, got a knee under him-

He knew it was Anaxagoras as soon as he got to his feet. The man had his shield cocked to one side to let Satyrus rise, and then the two of them filled the trench. Anaxagoras had a spear, and he used it brutally, slamming it into the enemy shields as hard as his massive physique allowed, rocking the smaller men back and punching the needle point of his spear through their shield faces, stabbing arms and shoulders.

And behind the men fighting Anaxagoras and Satyrus, there were screams, and the familiar sound of Sakje arrows buzzing like wasps and hitting home in flesh like an axe hitting a gourd.

Above them, the round, full moon beamed down upon the earth.

Satyrus got his feet set, his head at least clear enough to support his friend. When Anaxagoras killed a man, they stepped forward together.

Satyrus knew Helios was behind him when the spear licked over his shoulder, riding on the smooth bronze scales of his shoulder armour, exactly as Helios did when he was tired, in practice. And the point, thrust expertly, one-handed, went into the enemy helmet and came out red.

They heard more buzzing wasps — the crash of armour hitting rock — screams.

‘Let’s get out of here!’ Helios said, tugging his cloak; the remnants of his cloak.

But Jubal had other ideas. ‘No!’ he said. ‘Lord! Into they trench — fin’ the fucking mine!’

Anaxagoras whirled. ‘What are you talking about? This is insanity!’

Satyrus got it. ‘A mine — they’re mining under our new wall before they even storm the old one — right?’

‘They do!’ Jubal said. ‘Now — follow me!’

Satyrus whirled on his friend. ‘This could be the entire siege — right now. Win or lose. Follow him!’

Sieges make for a strange order of things: a king, a dozen aristocrats, some Sakje — following a sailor. But the sailor seemed to know where he was going, or so Satyrus assumed.

Up the slope of the last wall — half a dozen enemy fled before them. Now they were deep in the enemy area, a part of the walls that hadn’t been in Rhodian hands in a month. But Jubal moved fast, and Melitta was at his heels, and Satyrus swallowed bile and followed as fast as he could.

The enemy was sounding the alarm in all directions.

Satyrus hoped Jubal knew what he was doing. Demoted by Tyche from polemarch to hoplite, he ran heavily across the open ground in front of the old wall, across a tenth of a stade of rubble and up the inner face of the second wall — currently the leading edge of the Antigonid trenches.

At the top, well lit by moonlight, Melitta stopped and shot — once, twice. Scopasis joined her and the two maidens, and their arrows poured off their bows — Satyrus was breathing so hard he could scarcely run, but he made it up beside his sister. Jubal was down in the rubble gully of the enemy trench, and enemy blood was black in the moonlight.

Melitta leaped down beside the African, and her akinakes was in her hand. She finished a sentry with an arrow in his gut, looked at Anaxagoras and licked the point, smiling.

Anaxagoras stumbled on the rim of the trench, his head whipping around in a double take.

Satyrus wanted to laugh and cry. His sister was flirting, showing off like a young girl.

‘Here!’ Jubal called.

A trumpet sounded, near at hand, and was answered from far off — the enemy camp.

One of the men had a pick, and there were torches burning along the trench. Jubal took the pick and a torch and dived into the opening in the ground. Satyrus let him do it — Helios went with him.

‘I’ll go and cover him,’ Melitta said, sheathing her akinake. She took her archers forward.

He saw them rise to shoot.

Time passed. . heavy, terrifying time, and a rock fell out of the dark, far over their heads, and then a wave of them, pounding the ground where they weren’t, over by their own lines.

‘Better hurry,’ Melitta said.

Satyrus was listening to the enemy engines. They were close — close enough to rush.

He moved forward, listening to the grunts as the torsion drums were wound tight, the thud as the heavy arm impacted against the upright, the snap-crack as the sling on the end of the arm released its load and snapped against the frame.

Less than a stade away.

No.

Satyrus saw that men were looking expectantly at him. But this was not the time for further heroics, and taking a handful of men, even his best men, deep into enemy lines in search of their engines would be beyond reckless.

Smoke was pouring out of the entrance to the enemy mine, and within a dozen heartbeats Helios was scrambling out of the hole. Jubal was right behind him.

‘Run for it!’ Satyrus hissed.

Melitta loosed a shaft. ‘We’ll cover you,’ she said.

Other men hesitated — leaving a half-dozen Sakje, most of them women, to cover the men’s retreat sat ill with the Greeks.

Satyrus grinned and grabbed Anaxagoras by the chlamys. ‘Come on, young hero. She’s got a bow. We have swords. Let’s go.’

Jubal shot him a fierce grin and headed off at top speed across the ruined, moonswept landscape, his leather-clad feet scarcely making a noise. The rest of them weren’t so quiet, and when they began to climb their own rubble wall, someone on the far side saw them and suddenly the night was full of projectiles, arrows and rocks from the smaller engines. The rapid hail may have assuaged the enemy’s need to strike back — but it had no other effect.

The men crouched in the cover of the reverse slope of their own rubble wall, listening to the enemy engines drop rocks.

‘Them needs new rope,’ Jubal said. ‘Torsion slipping — rocks landing short.’

‘They need new rope,’ Satyrus said.

‘What I say,’ Jubal shot back.

‘Where’s Melitta?’ Anaxagoras asked.

‘Out in the dark, killing Antigonids,’ Satyrus replied.

Before the enemy engines could reload, there was the soft sound of gravel sliding, a padding of moccasin-clad feet across stone and Melitta jumped down into the trench. She looked around until she found her brother.

‘They’re not much for night actions,’ she said, pointing with her chin at the enemy lines. In the darkness and the moonlight, the scars on her face made her appear another creature entirely, and her attempt at a flirtatious glance at Anaxagoras appeared, at least to her brother, more demonic than enticing.

‘They’re afraid of us,’ Satyrus said.

There was a soft crump, and then another, and then a roar that filled the night and the bitter smell of burning oak and something darker-

Jubal punched his fist in the air. ‘Got him!’ he said.

Melitta, so in command of herself in the night raid, was cowering flat against the rubble.

Satyrus put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Jubal and Helios went down into the mine and set fire to the timber shoring,’ he said.

Jubal nodded at the young man. ‘Had to fight, down there,’ he said.

He clasped hands with Helios, the younger man beaming.

Jubal smiled at Melitta. ‘So when they timbers burn through, she go down — bang, crash. Whole tunnel collapse.’

Helios leaned close to Melitta. They’re like flies, Satyrus thought. Once again, he appreciated Abraham’s point of view.

Helios said, ‘If they drive the mine under our wall, they light off the timbers and when it collapses, the wall comes down. If we get it first, it wastes their work.’

Miriam shook her head. ‘This is a foolish way to make war,’ she said.

Later, she curled up against him on his bed. ‘It is nice to have my brother back,’ she said. ‘Someone to sleep with.’

Satyrus tried to wake up enough to listen to her. ‘You have friends,’ he said.

‘I have no friends,’ she said. ‘The Lady of the Assagetae has lovers and followers. I never thought I’d say this, brother, but playing at being a Greek girl tonight was the most relaxing thing I’ve done in a year.’

Satyrus thought back and frowned. ‘How’s your son?’ he asked.

‘Amazingly big. Growing like a weed. Talking.’ Melitta stretched. ‘Where’d Anaxagoras come from?’ she asked.

‘Out of a pirate,’ Satyrus said. ‘He’s in love with Miriam,’ Satyrus added, trying for just the right tone — not wanting to sound jealous, offended, or angry. Aiming for a certain man of the world quality.

Sisters have always been poor targets for false maturity. ‘He is, too. And you don’t like it. But he sees me. Heh, brother. I like that one. As pretty as a picture — long, gentle hands. But like Hektor of the nodding plume — I saw him in the trench tonight. Like a lion. I’ll take his thoughts from Miriam.’

Satyrus shook his head. ‘No — Melitta, you can’t just throw yourself at a man because-’

She laughed. ‘Go to sleep, brother.’

Day, and a hangover compounded by the two heavy blows he’d taken in the dark. Satyrus could barely raise his head off his rolled cloak, and there was blood in his hair and all down his side, and Melitta went to find Aspasia.

‘You really shouldn’t have been allowed to sleep last night,’ Aspasia said with asperity. ‘Sleeping after a heavy blow to the head — it’s not good.’

Satyrus shrugged.

She handed him a herbal concoction, which he drank — it was sweet and quite pleasant, especially when compared to some things she’d given him. She poured him another cup.

Melitta stripped off her Sakje clothes and began to bathe behind a screen. The screen hadn’t been there the night before. Satyrus lay back with his warm drink and considered that his whole tent had altered. It was larger-

‘You brought a felt tent!’ Satyrus said.

‘So observant, dear brother.’ Melitta laughed and emerged from the screen as a Greek girl — a Greek girl with two scarcely noticeable facial scars and a tangle of blue-black hair.

‘Warrior braids aren’t all that fashionable here in besieged Rhodes,’ Satyrus quipped. He already felt better.

The felt tent made him feel safe. It was remarkably like home, a vision of childhood. And Melitta was remarkably like his mother — he’d seldom seen her look so much like her.

‘Miriam’s going to dress my hair,’ Melitta said. ‘I’m out of the habit. Neiron’s waiting for you.’ She ducked out.

‘You need more pins!’ he shouted at her. The side of her chiton was open to the hip.

His head hurt.

Neiron leaned in the new tent. ‘If you’re awake enough to shout at your sister,’ he began.

Satyrus got to his feet, a little unsteady, and Helios came in with a water basin and a cup of warm juice.

‘Well done, last night,’ Satyrus said to Helios. ‘He and Jubal collapsed a mine.’

‘I’ve heard — it’s the talk of the army.’ Neiron smiled. ‘And not a man lost — that’s a raid.’

Satyrus didn’t like the judgement in Neiron’s tone. ‘That’s luck,’ he said. ‘Lots of wine.’

‘And judgement.’ Neiron nodded. ‘Good judgement. Now Demetrios has asked for a truce.’

Satyrus shot around so fast he tipped over the bowl of hot water Helios was using to bathe the blood from his hair. ‘What?’

Neiron nodded. ‘About ten minutes ago, a herald came. Two days’ truce to bury his dead.’ He paused. ‘Jubal says it is a ruse to change the torsion ropes on his engines and build more to replace the ones we’re destroying.’

Satyrus raised his hand. ‘Get me Jubal, and Menedemos, and any other officers you come across. I’ll get the blood out of my hair.’

Helios wiped his hands on a towel. ‘Yes, lord,’ he said, and went out.

‘Have a seat. Pomegranate juice?’ he asked. When Neiron had a cup, Satyrus knelt down and lowered the whole of the top of his head into the deep bowl. The warm water burned at his scalp. He began to probe the wound with his fingers — the dried blood was thick and flaked away gradually.

‘Quite a party,’ Neiron continued.

‘Have fun?’ Satyrus asked. It was hard to sound lordly when you are bending over far enough to have your head upside down in a basin.

‘Yes,’ Neiron said. ‘But this stunt last night,’ he began.

The bowl was red. Satyrus caught his hair, wrung it out, wincing at the pain, and sat up. He could see Abraham’s Jacob outside. ‘Hey!’ he called, and Jacob put his head in.

‘Can you get a boy to fetch me some more hot water?’ Satyrus asked, and Jacob vanished with the bowl. Turning back to Neiron, Satyrus shook water out of his hair.

‘There was no stunt, Neiron. We found an active mine and we launched a raid to destroy it. It had to be done. If their mine found our mine?’

‘Gods keep us!’ Neiron paused. ‘Were they close?’

‘Too blasted close.’ Satyrus winced. The wound felt as if fire had caught in his hair.

‘You managed to be caught, alone, by an enemy patrol. I’ve heard it all already. Lord — you must stop.’ He shook his head, stared at his pomegranate juice and frowned. ‘You must stop running off like a hero from Homer.’

Satyrus shrugged impatiently. ‘I was there.’

‘Call for others and leave, next time,’ he said.

‘There were no others,’ Satyrus shot back. ‘Damn it, old man, I was there. I didn’t make some drunk-arse decision to launch a trench raid.’

‘Huh,’ Neiron said, in obvious disagreement. ‘If you need an officer to make a circuit of the walls, wake me. Wake Apollodorus.’

‘Apollodorus was too drunk to move his feet.’ Satyrus shook his head. ‘What do you want, Neiron?’

‘I want you to act like a king and a commander, not like some young pup out to bloody his sword. Lead from the back. No one — no one — could question your prowess or your courage. Give it a rest. If the girl doesn’t want you, she won’t want you any more with your sword all bloody.’ Neiron glared, looking more like an outraged cat than was quite right.

‘The girl has nothing to do with it,’ Satyrus barked. And was mortified when Melitta came in, Miriam at her heels. Satyrus was naked, with his hair half washed out and a sheen of blood-red water over him.

Melitta laughed. ‘Miriam, my brother is naked,’ she called over her shoulder — far too late.

Satyrus had no towel and nowhere to go.

Jacob came in with another cauldron of water.

Neiron got to his feet. ‘I’m sorry, lord. We just seem to have the same disagreement again and again. And I feel like a nagging uncle in Menander.’ Quite casually, he tossed his chlamys to Satyrus.

Satyrus tried not to hurry as he cast the chlamys over his shoulder. The girls were paying no attention.

Satyrus smiled at Jacob. ‘Thanks,’ he said.

‘Think nothing of it, lord,’ he said.

Neiron stood. ‘I should-’

Helios came in with Jubal and Anaxagoras and Apollodorus, the last-named walking as if he, not Satyrus, had been hit repeatedly in the head. Menedemos looked about the same.

‘He only wants truce to build engines,’ Jubal said without preamble.

Satyrus raised an eyebrow and let Helios sink his head into the water.

‘I’m going to teach Miriam to shoot,’ Melitta announced. ‘Is this truce real?’

Satyrus, upside down, managed to laugh. ‘It’s good to have you around,’ he said to his sister. ‘Yes, we’ll accept his truce — won’t we, Neiron? Menedemos?’

The Rhodian commander sat heavily on a stool that Helios unfolded for him, cradled his head in his hands and shook it. ‘I need a truce to recover from drinking,’ he said.

Apollodorus groaned. ‘Out of practice,’ he said.

Satyrus was upright again. ‘What practical advantage would we derive from refusing the truce?’ he asked Jubal.

Jubal rubbed his chin and then the top of his head. ‘None,’ he admitted. ‘Not much we can do. We wan’ him to attack, eh?’

Satyrus nodded. ‘He wants to rebuild his engines for the bombardment. We want him to assault the wall. And we don’t want him to discover we’ve already effectively abandoned the third wall — is that right? So during the truce, we can man it heavily and show all kinds of troops up there.’

Neiron nodded.

‘And we can man the rest of the ships in the harbour and get them to sea the moment the truce expires.’ This to Menedemos, who also nodded.

‘That could turn the balance at sea,’ he said.

‘And we get two days’ rest,’ Satyrus added. ‘What have we got to lose?’

Anaxagoras shook his head. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Makes you wonder why he’s asking for a truce.’