Destroyer of Cities

EPILOGUE

The end, which should have been climactic, was merely terrifying.

Ptolemy’s fleet covered a dozen huge merchantmen all the way into the harbour, with fifty thousand mythemnoi of grain from Aegypt and a letter from Ptolemy promising relief in a week.

And did it again, two days later, while Satyrus writhed in pain from his wounds and watched Miriam’s colour return. Food. Food was hope made concrete.

Off Asia, Ptolemy’s fleet caught the remnants of the pirates and exterminated them.

The entire grain supply sent by Athens to reinforce Demetrios, was taken by Diokles.

Lysimachos of Thrace sent aid to the city, and forty thousand mythemnoi of wheat — Cassander, who had no reason to love Rhodes, sent ten thousand measures of barley and five hundred Cretan archers.

They heard that, in the absence of Amastris, her half-brothers Clearchus and Oxathras seized the city of Heraklea. They immediately allied with Cassander against Demetrios.

And finally, two weeks later, Ptolemy’s fleet landed — led in by Leon, reinforced by every ship that could be spared by Ptolemy’s allies. Three thousand fresh mercenary hoplites were landed on the mole in three hours. Thousands and thousands of mythemnoi of grain flowed into the city, along with herds of pigs and legions of cattle.

Ptolemy’s reinforcements included the Macedonian, Antigonus of Pella. He had served with Alexander — indeed, like Phillip of Mythymna, he wore the old dun and purple cloak of the hetairoi. He swaggered when he walked. He looked at the sea wall; he paraded the city hoplites and the oarsmen.

He came and visited Satyrus in his tent.

‘How’d you do it?’ he asked. ‘Don’t get up.’ The Macedonian extended his hand.

Satyrus, taken unawares, managed to swing his legs over the edge of his low bed and winced. He felt the cold wetness that meant the wound on his hip was open again. ‘Do what?’ he asked.

Antigonus shook his head. ‘You held Demetrios.’

Satyrus shrugged. ‘We all held Demetrios. Menedemos is polemarch now, I think. Go and talk to him.’ But he laughed. ‘But we did hold, didn’t we? So why doesn’t he sail away?’

Antigonus shook his head. ‘He’ll try one more attack. With everything.’

They chatted amicably enough for an hour — about the war, about the last year. ‘I remember your father,’ Antigonus said. ‘Fine cavalry officer. As good as a Thessalian.’

Satyrus smiled. ‘I’ll be up in a few days,’ he said. ‘I’ll show you the walls, and make sure you know all the tricks.’ He grinned at the older man. ‘Is it hard, being called Antigonus? When Demetrios’ father One-Eye is the arch enemy?’

The Macedonian officer shrugged. ‘Half my phalanx is called Antigonus,’ he said. ‘I suppose it was the “in” name that year.’

Two days later, while Satyrus lay on his bed and Miriam held his hand, Demetrios’ grand assault took place. He did it in broad daylight. The magnificent Argyraspides penetrated to the theatre. Then they were driven out. Again. The rest of the assaults were half-hearted. The fresh hoplites sent by Ptolemy had never been ill fed and had never had the fever, and Demetrios’ men were broken by a year of defeat. They ran.

That was the last attack, and Satyrus lay on his bed. And held Miriam’s hand as if it were his hope of salvation.

And then there were weeks of negotiations. But for all those weeks, the food poured in, so that the pithoi under the old temple floor filled with grain again. And as soon as the negotiations started, something changed in every man and woman. Although there was wine to drink, no one was drunk.

Miriam wore the full robes of a woman, and put off the boy’s tunic she had worn for months. When she did, so did the other women who had fought to the last.

The newly enfranchised citizens were assigned homes.

No one kissed in the streets. But the law courts returned to their function.

The stone of the third wall was retrieved to reface the theatre.

Before the ink was dry on the papyrus, the city had begun rebuilding.

And then, one morning more than a year after he had landed, Demetrios, the remnants of his army and his fleet, packed and sailed away for Greece. They left six thousand wretched slaves, who were immediately fed by the city and put to work.

That evening, Satyrus and Abraham, Miriam and Charmides, Anaxagoras and Melitta and Jubal, Thyrsis and Scopasis and a half-dozen others sat comfortably on stools in the cool autumn breeze with members of the boule and Antigonus, the new commander of mercenaries. Demetrios’ fleet was still visible, their sails like knife cuts in the edge of a parchment.

‘He’ll be back,’ said Abraham, raising a wine cup.

Satyrus shook his head. ‘Never. He and Antigonus One-Eye are finished.’

Anaxagoras was gently strumming his lyre. He looked up. ‘Were we finished? At any point?’ he asked softly. ‘They are, in their way, great men. They will find more warm bodies to carry their spears and pull their oars, and the world will have no peace until they are hacked to pieces.’ He began to play the hymn to Ares very softly.

Miriam sat back and stretched like a cat. ‘I hate them,’ she said. ‘I hate them all. None of them is great. They are all little men trying to be that great monster, Alexander. I spit on his shade. They posture and kill and torture and inflict catastrophe — why? To be more like a man who died drunk and alone at thirty-three!’

Antigonus of Pella looked at her for a moment, and bit his lips. ‘Alexander was a god,’ he said very carefully, through his teeth.

For a moment, she looked at him, her face impassive.

And then Miriam laughed. And her laughter — the ancient derision of women for the foolish games of men — rolled out over the sea, and followed Demetrios.