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-