‘And misleading me to sow confusion among your enemies is too tempting?’ Satyrus asked.
Neron looked disappointed. ‘Amateurs play these pointless games. I’m sharing information.’
Demetrios nodded from across the table. Slaves brought him a chair and he sat. ‘Satyrus, listen to me. I aim to be king — absolute king — of the world. I need men — men like you — to trust me. If you catch Neron in a lie today, tell me, and I will have him killed, despite all his service to me, because if men like you won’t trust me, my cause is doomed. Understand? And my cause — to which I seek to win you — is the cause of justice, good government, a single empire from world edge to world edge, with courts and city states and philosophers, where a merchant or a scholar can travel from India to the Gates of Herakles without fear of pirates or robbers or tolls.’
Satyrus frowned — because Demetrios made a good argument. And because, unless Demetrios was a magnificent liar, he seemed utterly earnest — the way a man who wanted to be a god had to be. Single-minded to the point of … insanity, or godhood.
‘Ask your questions, and don’t be petty minded,’ Demetrios said.
Satyrus drank a whole cup of fruit juice. ‘Cassander and Lysimachos,’ he prompted.
Neron shook his head at Demetrios. ‘Suffice it to say that they discussed matters of strategy. My master makes no secret of his intention to drive Cassander first from mainland Greece, and then from Macedon. Cassander wants Lysimachos in Asia, against Antigonus. Lysimachos would prefer to stay in Thrace and tax his Thracians.’ Neron nodded. ‘For a minor player, Lysimachos is wise, cautious and able. He has survived two major military defeats — the mark of a truly able commander. He refused to allow your murder when Cassander proposed it — he said that he owed you for support in former years.’
‘While he married my Amastris,’ Satyrus said, with more bitterness than he had known he felt.
‘More an act of statecraft than lust, I suspect,’ Demetrios said. ‘But you understand, his possession of Heraklea — and he has possessed it, just as fully as he has no doubt possessed Amastris’s welcoming body — and your sister’s expulsion of my ships from the Pontus have placed me in an impossible position, as Lysimachos has moved almost half of his army across the Euxine into Asia, to the great discomfort of my father.’ Demetrios rose to his feet, resplendent in armour of gold. Behind his chair, the sun was ready to rise — Dawn was coming out of her bed over the ocean. ‘We have an assault to make. And afterwards — after we have swung our swords together — I hope that we can sit together as friends, and I can convince you that my side is the side of arete.’ He accepted a purple cloak from a slave and slung it around his shoulders.
Neron leaned over. ‘But Cassander insisted, and in the end Lysimachos accepted your death in exchange for naval support from Cassander, which he has not received, and a free hand in the Euxine, where he intends to be king after you. These, lord, are your allies.’
Satyrus raised an eyebrow. ‘You have given me much to think about while I kill men who have done nothing to offend me,’ he said. ‘Despite your protestations and those of the king, you’ll pardon me if I don’t automatically accept that my allies are hot to betray me.’
Neron bowed. ‘You would be both naive and inhuman if you thought otherwise,’ Neron said. ‘But I have told you the truth as I know it.’
Satyrus slung his sword over his shoulder and picked up the shield he’d chosen — not a real aspis, but a smaller Macedonian shield, a circle three spans and a little in diameter, with the star of Macedon in gold.
He and Demetrios walked out from the tent lines, crossing the horse pickets and walking past thousands of waiting men, slaves bringing water, men currying horses, women washing. The hypaspists closed around them when the crowds were thick, but otherwise Demetrios appeared to stroll through his army with the freedom of a philosopher walking through the Athenian agora. No man approached him — there appeared to be some sort of rule — but he would stop to address soldiers, even slaves, and their obedience was as immediate as their bows were profound.
It was all very un-Greek.
‘He’s very comfortable with slaves,’ Achilles murmured, at his shoulder.
Satyrus thought that it was a very astute observation.
Two long bowshots from the walls, the ramp to the outworks of the suburbs began. A battery of siege engines squatted behind elaborate mounds of earth, gravel, stone, and wood. Enormous wicker baskets, filled with loose stones and sand or earth, covered the batteries. Trenches were dug both in front of the walls and behind them. Newer works were narrow and low — older works were deep, with high walls and carefully terraced interiors reinforced with heavy wooden beams.
Thousands — possibly tens of thousands — of slaves laboured like ants on the works. Men dug earth, women carried baskets of earth on their heads, children wove baskets to carry more earth or to act as forms for engineering. Everywhere that Satyrus looked — everywhere — the siege was prosecuted with a massive labour force.
Demetrios smiled. ‘Have you ever seen the like?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ Satyrus said. ‘At Rhodes. Or had you forgotten?’
Demetrios was clearly put out. ‘Fine, then. But it’s different when you are the prime mover. Who could prosecute a siege like this and not feel like a god? I snap my fingers, and this happens. I could order the very mountain reduced — and it would be done.’
‘Hmm,’ Satyrus said. He had been given a long spear, a heavy dory, and he didn’t like it — liked it less and less as he carried it. Still, Demetrios had one, and he supposed it was the rule. On ship, he carried a pair of longche, heavy javelins.
The ramp stretched away in front of him, filling his vision, and his usual nerves had finally begun. His hands began to shake.
‘You are not impressed by my slave army?’ Demetrios asked.
Satyrus rammed the saurauter of his spear into the earth, took a handful of sand, rubbed his hands to get the sweat off, and drew his sword.
‘I thank you for the sword. It is excellent,’ Satyrus said.
Demetrios beamed. ‘Ahh! I can please you, then. Why do you like it?’
Satyrus shrugged, caught himself grinning at the weapon. ‘It is superb,’ he said. ‘Beautiful to look at, perfectly balanced, and not too gaudy.’
‘It was made for me,’ Demetrios said. ‘Brought by an embassage, I think. Wear it in health. Are you ready?’
Satyrus nodded.
Demetrios motioned to the hypaspist commander. Satyrus noticed then that the commander had been in conversation with Neron — and that Neron slipped away quickly.
The hypaspist officer walked over. At a sign from Demetrios, he signalled by raising his spear, and the engines began to launch their projectiles with a whip-crack as their casting arms struck the retaining beams and the long slings opened. They were five-talent engines, and Satyrus watched as they cast and saw their projectiles raise puffs of powdered stone when they struck the towers at the top of the breach. He had the strangest feeling, just for a moment — the feeling that this was predestined, that he had done this before or seen it in a dream, overlaid with the feeling that he was about to assault himself — that he would find himself standing with the defenders.
‘Lord?’ the hypaspist captain asked him. ‘Will you stand to the right of the king, and your man in the rank behind you?’
‘Breeze is perfect,’ Demetrios said.
Satyrus turned to look at him. ‘Perfect how?’ he asked.
‘A little something my engineers have come up with since Rhodes. I like to fancy that if we’d had it, I’ve have taken the city.’ He turned to a slave and took what appeared to be a scarf.