Christian Cameron - Destroyer of Cities

Demetrios raised his spear. ‘I think we should fight, instead of talking.’

Satyrus grunted. ‘You want this to be the Iliad , not me.’

Demetrios rushed at him, a simple shield rush, and then his spear licked out — once, twice, three times, as fast as a man could think — high, middle, low, a brilliant combination.

Satyrus blocked, blocked and blocked without shifting a finger’s width, and as their shields rang together, he pushed .

Demetrios landed on his back.

‘I am Satyrus, son of Kineas,’ Satyrus said to the wind. ‘My father was hipparch of Olbia and founder of a great city. Get up.’

Demetrios rose to his feet. ‘Well struck,’ he said.

Satyrus moved — a long, leaning feint Philokles had taught him — and struck high, and his spearhead cut Demetrios across the arm above his shield where his guard was weak.

‘My grandfather was a hipparch of Athens. His father came to Athens from Plataea, where he held the wall alone for an hour against a hundred Spartans and killed ten. Athens made him a citizen, and raised him a statue as a hero,’ Satyrus said.

Demetrios seemed puzzled by his roaring boasts and hung back, and Satyrus thrust with his spear, putting everything into this arm: love for Miriam, hate of waste, rage, terror, shame, pride. Sorrow. Pity. Hope. Everything .

The spearhead punched through the gold face of the shield and through the bronze and two layers of rawhide and the willow-wood strapping, and bit into Demetrios’ shield arm and the king stepped back and swore, and there was blood on his golden cuirass.

‘His father Arimnestos led the Plataeans to victory at Marathon against the Medes, and he stood his ground when the Hellenes won the day at Plataea and he was voted best of the Hellenes.’ He feinted with his spear and kicked , a low trick that Theron fancied, catching Demetrios in the kneecap and sending him sprawling.

He stood over the golden king, spear raised.

‘Arimnestos’ father was the Smith of Plataea, and he held the charge of the Spartans alone at Oinoe!’ Satyrus said. ‘Get up !’

Demetrios stumbled back into the ranks of his bodyguard.

Satyrus waited. Demetrios straightened himself. He set his feet.

‘His ancestor was Herakles, who is a god, and sits in high Olympus, watching men and judging them.’ Satyrus planted the saurauter of his borrowed spear in the sand. ‘Those are my ancestors, Demetrios the king. You came to fight heroes. These men were heroes.’

Demetrios came forward and lunged, deliberately driving his spear into Satyrus’ shield — a powerful blow that rocked Satyrus back — and his point tore through the shield’s cover and cut right through the leather and wood.

Satyrus left his spear standing in the sand, reached out his empty right hand and grasped the king’s shield rim and turned it the way a wheelwright turns a wheel. The sound of the king’s arm breaking echoed across the field like a ship’s mast breaking in a storm.

And Demetrios screamed, rage and frustration coming together, and hacked with his spear at Satyrus.

Then the Aegema pressed forward to rescue their king. But they were not eager to fight. Satyrus reached out and pulled his spear out of the ground, seeing the blood trickle down his arm. Demetrios had hit him. He could feel an earlier wound on his hip — he looked down, and there was blood by his left foot. And on his left greave.

He stepped back into the ranks of his men and the shields locked, but the Antigonids were not as eager as their numbers should have made them. And Satyrus had lost the will to die. Step by step the marines backed away, until they were backing up the old south wall.

Trumpet after trumpet of alarm sounded in the enemy camp, and the enemy king’s bodyguard hustled Demetrios the Golden off the field.

Satyrus looked at Abraham. But Abraham was looking past him, over his shoulder. Satyrus raised his eyes, and there, to the east, was a line of sails — fifty sails and more, coming down the north wind from Syme.

Marathon and Oinoe. Nike and Troy and Ephesian Artemis , and many more he knew at a glance. With a line of grain ships he knew from their towering masts and heavy sails.

‘Herakles!’ he called.

The sky rumbled.

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.