Two stades away, Lucius looked under his hand at the distant city. ‘Arse-cunts built a tower,’ he said to Stratokles. ‘Now they can see everything Golden Boy does — so much for the surprise assault.’ He laughed. ‘Now, why didn’t we think of building a tower?’
Stratokles took a healthy swig of wine and spat it out after rinsing his mouth — just in case he had to fight.
‘Because so many of our slaves are sick with the fever that we can’t repair our engines and build a tower,’ he said. ‘Plistias wants a tower. So does King Demetrios. But we’re a little short on manpower right now.’
Lucius barked a laugh. ‘Make the useless phalangites do the work. They’re not worth a crap in an assault — they ought to dig.’
Stratokles cuffed his man. ‘Don’t let anyone hear you say that,’ he said.
Lucius was uncowed. ‘If I had half this number of Latins, I’d show them how to dig. And fight.’
Two more days of inaction. Tense, desperate inaction.
And the fevers began to creep into the ranks of the ephebes. First one, then ten men went down, puking their guts out, skin sallow.
Satyrus ran into Miriam and Aspasia at the northern edge of the agora, where the slaves lived, arms full of blankets. Miriam looked as if she was forty. Or fifty. Her eyes were hollow, red as if from weeping.
Satyrus hadn’t spent five minutes in her presence since he had kissed her. He went to salute her.
‘Stay away, polemarch!’ Aspasia commanded. She’d been a priestess and a physician all her life, and her voice carried commands as effectively as Satyrus’ own. He stepped back. He smiled at Miriam, eager to establish some contact, and she looked at him the way a veteran looks as a green stripling.
‘What do they need?’ Satyrus asked the two women. ‘More blankets? Greater food supplies?’
‘Hope,’ Miriam said.
‘I think Demetrios has the fever in his camp,’ Damophilus said. ‘It’s the only explanation Jubal and I can arrive at for his hesitation. His engines still aren’t firing — at least, fewer than half of them.’
‘I’m sure you can all see the irony,’ Satyrus said. ‘Demetrios is held back by the sickness of his slaves — and so our trap is going to fail.’ He shook his head. ‘Zeus Sator, we need a little luck.’
Neiron nodded. All the men of the boule — now meeting in the open air, as the stones of their elegant meeting place now formed the centre of the hidden wall, Jubal’s ‘bow’ — nodded. Their eyes were hollow, and their bellies, as well. The squadrons had sailed, and nothing had come back, and the granaries were reaching desperate levels.
‘We have to cut the grain ration,’ Hellenos said. He made a face and raised his hands. ‘Don’t kill the messenger!’
Memnon shook his head. ‘If we cut the grain ration, someone will surrender the city,’ he said. ‘That’s how I see it.’
Neiron grunted. ‘There’s more than one irony at work here. What you’re saying is that inaction allows people to think of how desperate they are.’
Satyrus nodded. ‘I saw that days ago, Old Neiron. Demetrios does us more damage waiting than striking.’
Damophilus raised an eyebrow. ‘Then what — attack him? Before all our hoplites are sick?’
Satyrus shook his head. ‘Suicide. His entrenchments are sound — in fact, in yet another irony, we’ve taught him to build better entrenchments by our constant raids.’
Jubal nodded. ‘An’ they heavy blows’s killin’ us.’
Two days of further observation showed that the enemy had a mechanical bow. Old soldiers like Draco knew them as soon as they saw them — Alexander had favoured the weapon for sieges — the gastraphetes. The crossbow.
‘It’s not that it outranges the Sakje, or even my lads,’ Idomeneus said. ‘It’s that they can shoot it from cover. No need to pull it — no need to kneel or stand. And once they cock it, they can watch for a whole cycle of the sun for a man to show his head.’
Satyrus looked around at his officers. ‘Anyone have a suggestion?’ he asked, looking at Jubal.
Jubal nodded. ‘Do. Do, do. Seen women making baskets — seen men fill ’em with earth, building walls.’
There was no news there. ‘So?’ Satyrus asked.
‘Weave big-arse baskets, an’ mount ’em on the walls at night,’ Jubal said. ‘Fill ’em with earth. Now archers can stan’ to shoot — behin’ the baskets.’
‘Until they concentrate engine fire on the baskets’ position,’ Satyrus said.
‘An’ so we need fifty,’ Jubal said. ‘Make that twice fifty. Best do the new wall at the same time, eh?’
Satyrus scratched his beard. He was pretty sure that he had lice. Everyone did, all of a sudden. ‘Let’s try it,’ he said.
‘And how exactly are we going to get the slaves to dig for us?’ Damophilus asked. ‘Most of them are either sick or faking it.’
Satyrus didn’t think many were shamming. It was a charge aristocrats had levelled since the first cases of fever. ‘I think it is time to free all of the slaves,’ he said.
Not a single voice was raised against him.
Satyrus found Korus with a line of women, all of them lifting rocks in the shade of the remaining olive trees at the western end of the agora. The women didn’t look away in maidenly modesty, but glared at him for interrupting their exercise.
‘I need you,’ Satyrus said to Korus.
‘You look strong enough to me,’ Korus said. Some of the women laughed.
‘I’m serious,’ Satyrus said.
‘So are we,’ Miriam offered, coming forward. The lines in her face were even more pronounced, today — she looked stern, more like a teacher or a head cook than a gentlewoman of leisure. ‘We’re learning to be archers. You sister says we need stronger arms.’
Satyrus bit back a number of retorts. His sister was behind this — and she was right. And these women were participating, which was good for morale. He took a deep breath — lately he’d begun to think that the art of command was in not saying things — and smiled gravely.
‘That’s excellent,’ he said. ‘Korus, when you are finished, I need you to be my spokesman.’
Korus nodded. ‘What do you want? The slaves, I assume?’
‘I’m going to free them. All.’ Satyrus looked at the former slave for a reaction.
Korus’ smile was small, but it was there. ‘Then what?’ he asked.
‘Then I’m going to ask every citizen to work. Tonight. On the south wall.’ Satyrus smiled.
Korus smiled back. ‘I think the new citizens might do that,’ he allowed.
A new moon, and darkness. Like a wave of spectres, the chosen work parties went up the third wall — still, despite Satyrus’ best efforts to give it up, the defensive position of the defenders — and planted enormous baskets all along the top. And then, like ants, the citizens of the town, with shovels and smaller baskets and metal buckets and every tool at their disposal, began to fill the giant baskets — fifty-two of them. With thirty or more citizens to every basket.
The enemy was taken by surprise. It took half a watch for them to get their engines manned, and the moon was down before the first rocks flew — and bolts from various ballistae, large and small.
Men died. Women died.
The defenders died. The survivors went on digging, carrying the fill up the wall and dumping it into the baskets. The lucky ones worked on the new wall — the ‘bow’. They were covered. The unlucky worked on the third wall.
Like a squall at sea, the first shower of missiles died away.
‘Shot away their reserve of arrows and stones,’ Satyrus said to Abraham. ‘Now they have to send to the rear for more.’
‘Where are you going?’ he asked. The King of the Bosporus was stripping out of his bronze cuirass.
‘You command the reserve,’ Satyrus said. ‘You used to be my best captain. You’re a citizen. I need you to take command.’