Into the lightened atmosphere, Aspasia spoke up. ‘I say do it,’ she said. ‘I will take some auguries and cast another horoscope — I will ask some friends for help. And I think we would do well to propitiate Apollo and Asclepius publicly. And then move the latrines.’
Satyrus nodded. ‘Who is now Priest of Apollo?’ he asked.
Young Socrates stepped forward. ‘I am. And I would be delighted — devoted — to support Despoina Aspasia.’
Satyrus rubbed his chin. ‘Make it so. We move the latrines tomorrow night — every citizen must participate. There will be no exceptions.’
‘Lot of work,’ Memnon said.
‘We should have a few days off,’ Satyrus said.
That got a buzz of excitement. Satyrus shook his head. ‘No — I won’t say anything. But I want to see Aspasia and Miriam after this, and Jubal. Kleitos — all the sailors tonight, yes?’
Kleitos grinned.
Jubal grinned.
Damophilus stepped forward. ‘You must tell us, polemarch. People need to have hope. These men are grinning. Why?’
Satyrus kept his face impassive. ‘Damophilus, I value you and I hope that we are friends. But yesterday, I sacrificed men — good men. My friends. They are dead so that I could keep a certain secret, and by all the gods, that secret will be kept.’
Damophilus was angry. ‘We are the town council! What’s left of the boule!’
Satyrus shook his head.
‘Are you a tyrant?’ Damophilus said in sudden heat.
Memnon grabbed his arm. ‘Come, lad. Uncalled for.’
Satyrus crossed his arms. ‘You may remove me from command,’ he said. ‘That’s harder with a tyrant. But in this, I will not be moved.’
Damophilus submitted with an ill grace.
Satyrus looked around. ‘I’m sorry for my tone. But I will not speak of this. However, I have other military matters to discuss. I need all the armour in the town gathered. I’d like every taxeis to collect its own, paint a number inside the harness and on every other item and lay them out here in the olive groves — the cleanest air, in case the miasma is in the armour. I need this to be done immediately.’
Damophilus’ blood was up. ‘Armour is a man’s private property,’ he said.
‘So were the slaves. The rules are different, now.’ Satyrus looked around. No one else demurred. ‘I need that armour, as soon as can be.’
‘We’ll see,’ Damophilus said, belligerently.
Satyrus stared him down, waited for him to walk away and collected the women and Jubal, and they walked with Korus and Kleitos to the far end of the sacred precinct.
‘It is tonight?’ Kleitos asked.
Jubal nodded. ‘He is moving engines right now,’ he said.
‘Why are we here?’ Miriam asked. ‘Is it about the fever?’
‘No,’ Satyrus said. ‘I need every woman — at least, the biggest five hundred — to put on armour. Late this afternoon. And to stand in it all night — and to ask no questions.’
Jubal grinned. ‘I get it. You one sub-tile bastard.’
Satyrus punched the black man in the arm. ‘This, from you?’
Jubal thrust out his chin and laughed. ‘Take one to know one, eh?’
The shadows were long on the agora when the alarm sounded. Men moved with purpose — alarms were part of every day, and most citizens no longer even felt a rush of the daemon of war when they heard the trumpets.
Satyrus was in armour already. He’d had to lie down on the floor of the tent to get into his cuirass unaided, but he didn’t have a new hypaspist yet, and wasn’t sure where to find one in the middle of a siege.
He got to his feet, drank a cup of water which tasted fairly bad, and walked out with his shield on his shoulder and a spear in his hand.
Apollodorus was waiting, with the prisoner by his side. Lysander looked like a tough man, a veteran, in late middle age with grey at his temples and a major scar at the top of his left shoulder that ran in under his chiton.
He bowed to Satyrus. ‘My lord? I gather I have you to thank for my capture.’
Satyrus took his hand and clasped it. ‘I took you, yes.’
The man met him, eye to eye. ‘May I ask if I am to be ransomed? Or treated as a slave?’
Satyrus nodded to Apollodorus, who saluted and headed off towards the alarm.
‘You had a pleasant day?’ Satyrus asked.
Lysander made a face. ‘I was allowed to wander about. This scares me, lord. I do not wish to be a spy — or to be killed.’ He spread his hands. ‘I see that you have the fever here — not as bad as our camp, but bad enough. I offer this as proof that I am no spy. I cannot hide what I saw.’
Satyrus nodded. ‘Come with me, Lysander. You are a Spartan, I think?’
Lysander nodded. ‘No true Spartan, sir. My father was a Spartiate and my mother a well-born Theban lady — but they were never married. I was refused entry to a mess, and I have served abroad ever since.’
Satyrus stopped at the base of the ladder to his tower. ‘You may know a man I loved well — Philokles of Tanais?’
‘If he was Philokles of Molyvos,’ Lysander said with a smile, ‘I knew him for a while. We fought together — Zeus Sator, back when Archippos was archon of Athens. I was a great deal younger then.’ He laughed.
‘He was my tutor,’ Satyrus said.
‘I know,’ Lysander said. He shrugged. ‘I know who you are, lord. But it ill suits a man who must beg for his life to claim acquaintance.’
‘You really are a Spartan,’ Satyrus said. ‘Come.’
‘Why?’ Lysander said.
‘Because I wish to show you why Demetrios has no hope of taking this city,’ Satyrus said. ‘Come. I will release you in the morning. Alive. To tell what you have seen.’
Satyrus led the way up the ladder.
The shadows were long — indeed, the sun had dropped to the rim of the world, and the handful of standing trees visible from the towers threw shadows many times their own height.
‘Demetrios has almost completed moving his engines forward,’ Satyrus said. ‘Thirty-one engines, by my count.’
Lysander turned to him. ‘You cannot expect me to confirm that, lord.’
Satyrus shrugged. ‘Worth a try. How’s your eyesight?’
Lysander raised an eyebrow. ‘Not what it was when I was twenty.’
‘Take a look, anyway.’
Lysander looked out into the edge of night. At his feet lay the fourth south wall — what the Rhodians called the ‘bow’. It ran in a broad curve from the ruins of the great sea tower back almost to the edge of the agora, and then out like the arm of a bow to the original corner with the west wall, where a heavy, squat tower full of ballistae had never fallen to Demetrios. The new wall was the tallest of all of Jubal’s rubble walls, and the most complicated, and most of the town had dug for a month and laid weirs made from every house timber in the town to build the cradles to hold the rubble to make the wall.
Beyond the ‘bow’ ran the shallower curve of the third wall, with a loose cordon of pickets on it — most of them archers and crossbow snipers in covered positions. Their posts were obvious to a child from the height of the tower.
‘By the gods — that’s how you killed our snipers!’ Lysander said.
‘Yes,’ Satyrus said. ‘I’m showing you all of our secrets.’
‘Whatever for, lord?’ the Spartan asked. His accent made Satyrus pine for Philokles.
‘Because Demetrios needs to offer us terms we can accept, or we will defeat him and his empire will be at an end. You know this as well as I do, Lysander. You are a professional soldier. How long did you expect us to hold?’
Lysander nodded. ‘Ten days.’
‘So we are on the two-hundredth day — or so.’ Satyrus pointed at Demetrios’ camp. ‘Will this army ever fight again?’
Lysander shrugged. ‘I take your point.’
‘Good.’ Satyrus looked over the edge of his platform where he could see, half a stade away, a lone man standing at the south-east limit of the ‘bow,’ in the earthworks built from the rubble of the sea tower. He raised his shield and flashed it — once, twice, a third time.