Still alive.
Usually in combat, men fall back after a fight – a hundred heartbeats of chaos and horror is all most men, even the bravest, can stand. Men will flinch from combat if they can – stand at spear’s length and shout insults.
But in the darkness, men slammed unheeding into each other, and died. The fire in the mammoth tower threw enough light to make survival possible.
Satyrus parried with his spear, a sweep across his body, and slammed the shaft back into the man’s helmet, knocking him to the ground, where Charmides finished him.
Still alive.
New armour – more bronze, less dirt. Satyrus saw this when he got a lucky hit – his right hand was so tired he could barely grasp the spear, but he got the point into the other man’s eye-slit on his next attack and the man went down.
Still alive.
The sun was rising. Men were backing away from them. Apollodorus spat in contempt and pushed his short spear through an opponent’s armour and into his groin, right over the man’s shield. Charmides caught a man turning away and slit him over the kidney where he had no armour. Anaxagoras was toe to toe with a man as big as he, and they swapped blows like dogs fighting, and their swords threw sparks and then Anaxagoras hammered his pommel into the other man’s teeth and Abraham’s timed thrust went into his helmet and his head seemed to explode and he went down—
Still alive.
The five of them had put so many men into the earth that the enemy flinched away and the marines were able to survive, wheeling from a defeated flank, secure while their king and his companions bought them room to breathe.
The enemy had recaptured the tower. Thousands of them were dousing the fires – the engines were black with men in the new sun, like ants covering food left outside.
Again the enemy flinched back, and Satyrus, in his turn, retired a step to link his shield with Anaxagoras. He coughed.
Still. Alive.
Satyrus breathed. He looked right and left, and saw that most of his marines were still alive, too.
He got his canteen to his mouth. Drank it, never taking his eyes off the enemy. They were a well-armoured mob, and a man in gold armour pushed through the front rank and gleamed like fire in the rising sun.
‘Your men have done a fair job against my Aegema,’ Demetrios said. ‘You still wear that helmet.’
Satyrus spat water and blood. He smelled the wet cat fur, and he knew he was where he needed to be.
Demetrios was magnificent in gold and leopard skin, fresh and neat and strong, with the physique of a statue of Herakles. ‘It is fitting that we finish this – Achilles and Hektor. Would you care to run a few times around the walls?’
‘Let me have him,’ Anaxagoras said.
Apollodorus snorted. ‘Give me a drink and I’ll fight him. Only if I can keep the armour.’
Charmides tapped Satyrus. ‘If allowed, I would be delighted—’
Satyrus laughed. He stepped forward out of the ranks and saluted Demetrios. Demetrios’ Aegema – his companions – had made a space by retreating. Satyrus pulled his canteen strap over his head and handed it to Apollodorus. Almost as an aside, he said, ‘Demetrios, you must confess – your men flinch from me, and my men long to fight
you
. Ask yourself who is Achilles, and who is just another mortal man in golden armour.’
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.
T
he 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.
Writing a novel – several novels, I hope – about the wars of the Diadochi, or Successors, is a difficult game for an amateur historian to play. There are many, many players, and many sides, and frankly, none of them are ‘good’. From the first, I had to make certain decisions, and most of them had to do with limiting the cast of characters to a size that the reader could assimilate without insulting anyone’s intelligence. Antigonus One-Eye and his older son Demetrios deserve novels of their own – as do Cassander, and Eumenes and Ptolemy and Seleucus – and Olympia and the rest. Every one of them could be portrayed as the ‘hero’ and the others as villains.