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.’
29
DAY NINETY AND FOLLOWING
The Rhodians spent the two truce days making and mending equipment, and keeping the enemy from seeing their preparations. Parties of enemy troops repeatedly attempted to climb the south walls under various pretences, and Satyrus quickly understood that this scouting function was the reason that the Antigonids had asked for a truce. When Satyrus set up a trophy in the blasted ground between the lines, Demetrios sent men to tear it down, and made a formal protest.
The herald, beautifully dressed in fine wool from India, a cloak of shimmering silk and a golden fillet on his brow, was brought before Satyrus where he sat with his hetairoi in the agora, mending sandals. Satyrus had his entire panoply laid out in the dusty grass, and while Helios buffed the bronze and silver, Satyrus was busy with a needle and heavy linen thread, sewing the long flaps that covered his lower belly and groin where sword cuts had all but severed two of them. Anaxagoras was watching Apollodorus work — the marine captain was an expert with leather, and he was refitting the musician’s military sandals, putting a leather sock inside, a trick the marines had developed to keep the grit of the siege out of their feet. Charmides was working with the intense concentration of the neophyte while his girl, Nike, mocked his efforts. Melitta was chewing sinew and spitting while explaining to Miriam the superiorities of sinew over linen thread. Across the agora, marines, ephebes and citizen soldiers, hoplites, mercenaries and Cretan archers had their kit laid out in the sun while they made the repairs that could mean life or death — a scale replaced, a bronze plate adjusted, a helmet strap tightened or loosened.
The herald stared at the activity as if he’d never seen soldiers at work before. ‘My king bids me say-’ he began.
He was addressing Anaxagoras. Anaxagoras raised his head from watching Apollodorus and winked at the herald. ‘I’m not the polemarch, boy,’ he said.
The word boy, with its implications of immaturity — and slavery — made the man flush. He whirled. His eyes found Menedemos, where he sat having the straps on his greaves reset by a bronzesmith.
‘Which one of you is the King of the Bosporus?’ he asked belligerently.
Satyrus bit off his thread amid the general laughter. ‘I am,’ he said.
The young man walked over to him. ‘My lord, the king demands that you remove the trophy that you have erected on the south wall.’
‘Or what?’ Satyrus asked. His men fell silent.
‘It is an effrontery that you have erected a trophy over such a small thing,’ the herald continued.
‘Your master asked us for a truce,’ Satyrus said. ‘He requested two days to bury his dead,’ he continued.
Apollodorus spoke up. ‘The law of arms lets us raise a trophy,’ he said. ‘Your master ought to know that, boy.’
Abraham laughed. ‘I’m a Jew, boy, and I know you get a trophy when your enemy asks for a truce.’
‘I am not a boy, and my king is not my master.’ The young man was obviously Macedonian.
Satyrus nodded. ‘Listen, lad. You go back to Demetrios and tell him that if he wants the trophy taken down, he should come and do it himself. When the truce is over. Until then, the trophy stands.’ He stood up. ‘Your audience is at an end. Blindfold him and take him back — west gate. Who has my wax?’
Apollodorus looked sheepish. ‘I thought it was my wax,’ he said. And more quietly, ‘Isn’t it a bit of. . hubris to have a trophy for so small an action?’
‘It’s a goad,’ Satyrus said. ‘We need him to attack that wall.’
Miriam released another arrow into the straw bale. It flew well, if a little short, and once again the string caught her forearm, which was already red — angry red.
‘Damn it,’ she said, in Hebrew.
Melitta shook her head. ‘Keep your wrist strong. Don’t relax it. Here — your left — hold the bow like this.’
Miriam took a drink from the canteen next to them. ‘So you keep saying. You must have wrists like a smith, Melitta — I can’t hold the bow like that and release the arrow.’
Melitta frowned. ‘A six-year-old Sakje child can do it, Miriam. Concentrate.’
Miriam, angered, lifted the bow, took a deep breath, relaxed, made herself move the bow a finger’s breadth with her wrist and released. Her shot was weak, and flew short — but the string did not bite her arm.
Melitta smiled. ‘There you go. You need to strengthen your arms and shoulders — I don’t have a bow light enough for you, so you’ll have to get stronger.’ She nodded. ‘Sakje maidens lift rocks and throw them. And shoot constantly.’
Miriam smiled. ‘I’d be delighted to have shoulders like yours,’ she said.
Melitta smiled back. ‘No — I’m all muscle. You have the beautiful curves. I look like a boy.’
Miriam laughed. ‘No. Not at all like a boy. But you do walk like a boy. Fierce — determined. And always ready to fight.’
Melitta nodded. ‘I am always ready to fight.’ She wiped her bow, retrieved her arrows.
‘You like him? Anaxagoras?’ Miriam asked.
‘He’s pretty and brave,’ Miriam said. ‘He looks at me the way I like to be looked at.’
Miriam nodded. The silence lengthened.
‘You can’t have both of them,’ Melitta said.
Miriam fiddled with her hair. She was blushing. ‘I can’t have either of them,’ she said.
Melitta frowned. ‘Why not?’ she asked.
Miriam met her eyes. ‘It’s fine for you — it always has been.’ She looked away, bit her lip and said no more.
‘What do you mean, Miriam? I’m no different to you. We grew up together!’ Melitta felt as if she were suddenly talking to a stranger.
‘You. . you don’t play by the rules. How many lovers have you had, Melitta?’ Miriam blushed when she asked.
Melitta laughed out loud. ‘Far fewer than you might think. Three. Just three. And the cost is. . high.’
Miriam’s hand went to her mouth. ‘Oh — I’m so sorry! I assumed-’ She blushed again.
Melitta laughed. ‘Honey, if I weren’t the Lady of the Assagetae, I’d no doubt run up the score you think I have.’ She got to her feet. ‘I’m not offended, Miriam. Everyone thinks it — I hear what men say. I have a baby. I live out in the field with men. But men are fools, and if I seek to lead them, I cannot go from bed to bed. The petty jealousies alone would destroy my people.’ She stretched.