Tyrant: Destroyer of Cities (46 page)

‘I may need him dead one of these days,’ Stratokles said.

‘Kill him yourself, boss,’ Lucius said. ‘My sense is that that one will take a lot of killing.’

Stratokles had to laugh. ‘I don’t need you to tell me that. And can I tell you a secret, Lucius? I rather like him.’

‘Me too,’ said Lucius. He shrugged in his Italianate way. ‘I’ve had to kill men I liked and I’ve never fancied it. So I won’t do Nestor. OK?’

Stratokles nodded. ‘Fair enough. We’ll die like autumn flies in this siege, anyway. You’ve been a soldier more often than me.’ Stratokles nodded at the camp walls. ‘How is our golden hero doing?’

Lucius gathered his cloak around himself. It was late spring, and the water temperature was still cold, and the breath of wind off the ocean was not warm. ‘He was badly beaten the other night, before we came in. He lost two thousand men – that’s two thousand men
dead
– trying to storm the harbour defences. I talked to a handful of survivors who swam out – the Rhodians built a hidden wall a stone’s throw behind the harbour wall. Fucking clever, if you ask me. Never seen it done in Italy. Heard it talked about, but these bastards went and did it – a stade of it.’

‘Two thousand men,’ Stratokles was dismayed. He’d expected to find Rhodes on the verge of falling.

Lucius shrugged. ‘He’s got men to burn – not many as good as ours, but he has a fair number – he has some of his father’s men, and some good Macedonians, and some Argyraspides that his father probably
wants
him to kill off, if only to save their pay.’ He shrugged again. ‘He’ll win – never fear. But I think this siege has a month left in it. Especially since he seems to be getting ready to have another go at the harbour.’

Hours later, walking on the sand, trailing after his mistress as she walked arm in arm with the Golden King, he heard Demetrios.

‘Is it not like Troy?’ Demetrios asked. He waved a bronze-clad arm at the line of ships. ‘A thousand ships have their sterns in the sand, my dear. A thousand ships. And we are the noble Achaeans, come to take lofty Ilion – not so lofty, but damned strong.’

Amastris laughed at him. ‘It is a little like posturing, Great King. Windy Ilion took ten years and more to fall. And none of your attacks has taken any ground yet.’

Demetrios paused and looked at her – a long look, a look that went on to the point where everyone stopped, all the courtiers and guards, all the attendants, all the slaves.

‘A lesser man would explode in rage that you should doubt him,’ Demetrios said. ‘But lesser men are … lesser. They lack confidence, and they choose rage when what they truly express is fear. I am not like them. I will take Rhodes because I am the best man – indeed, because I am like a god. I have a great army, a great fleet, superb engineers – and over all of it, my own commanding will. They have none of these things – but they have a strong wall, and they are brave. In a way, I love them for it. This is the contest of my life, Amastris. If they were unworthy, I would lose as much as they lose. If this siege takes ten years, let them be years of greatness.’

Amastris looked into his remarkable eyes with her own. Stratokles was close enough to hear her. She made him proud. ‘You speak like a god, my lord. Next you will compare me to Helen.’

Demetrios grinned, not like a god but like a boy. ‘That would be foolish, lady. If you were Helen, you would be in the city, wretched at your betrayal of your husband and your infidelity.’

He didn’t see how his words, meant to flatter, narrowed her eyes instead.

He went on, oblivious. ‘You are outside the city,’ he said.

‘Oh,’ she shot at him. ‘Am I Briseis, then, or another spear-won trull?’

Demetrios laughed his golden laugh. ‘Do not mistake me for a fool, lady, and I will not mistake you for a mortal woman. You are no Helen. You are Aphrodite incarnate, come to see the siege. And I am Ares. Tonight I will assault the city again. Will you come and watch?’

‘Nothing would give me more pleasure,’ she said. ‘And perhaps you would like to use some of my men in this assault?’

Stratokles winced.

‘Ah,’ Demetrios nodded. ‘The sport is always sweeter when you have a team on the field, is it not?’

22

M
elitta sat on her riding horse, watching the smooth steppe roll away to the east broken only by tall clumps of thistle and lappa. She was munching an apple so dry it was almost inedible. Her horse’s breath rose in clouds of steam.

‘Well?’ she said to Coenus.

‘Wait for the scouts,’ Coenus advised her.

‘We’ve waited three days,’ Melitta said. She finished the apple and tossed the wrinkled core on the snow.

‘Thyrsis and Scopasis are not likely to fail,’ Coenus said.

Melitta didn’t want to admit that it was failure she feared – failure, and her own roil of emotions when it came to that pair. Scopasis, the former outlaw and her long-standing bedmate. Thyrsis, the Achilles of the Sakje.

‘They could be dead, now, or captives,’ she said pettishly. ‘Why on earth did we do this?’

This constituted a twelve-hundred-parasang journey into the east. The Tanais high ground lay far behind – they had ridden north around the bird-filled marshes at the north end of the Kaspian Sea where their horses shied at storks and geese, and then south again along the eastern shore, where they’d hunted the abundant game; they ate saiga every night for three weeks and left the entrails for the birds and dried the extra meat under their saddles; killed endless numbers of bustards, and ate them every conceivable way. Despite good hunting, they took the time to purchase supplies in Hyrkania. Twice they’d fought bandits, and twice they’d spent a fortnight with other Sakje or Sauromatae tribesmen, trading for fresh horses and food, and once they’d lain two days under hides, horses pulled tight against them, while a tide of locusts rolled over the plains – and then they’d eaten all they could catch, in fresh honey.

Everyone east of Hyrkania had been raided by the Parni – the new tribe, fresh from the deserts beneath the high walls of the Qu’in. Distant cousins of the Parsi and the Parthi, or so men said. But no one seemed to know where they were.

Until, after thirty weeks of riding, they had crossed the salt lake and camped on the outskirts of Marakanda, where Alexander had camped and where her father had fought. And there they’d met rumours of the Parni, and how they were moving into the lands of Bactria, lands emptied by a generation of war by Alexander and his satraps. Alexander had not conquered Bactria cleanly – but none of the Bactrians who had resisted him had lived to tell the tale, and their forts were as empty as the beds of their wives.

And the Parni had ridden south from the steppe to occupy some of the richest grazing land in all the known world.

Sitting in the agora – the souq – of Marakanda, Coenus had tried to convince his charge to turn back.

‘If the Parni have moved into Bactria,’ he said, ‘they’re no business of ours. They’ll never trouble us again. They came west, all the way to Hyrkania. Now they’ve turned south. You’ve shown your power – you’ve ridden across the steppe the way your mother did, and shown that the Assagetae still have a long arm. Let us ride home. There are other predators besides the Parni.’

Melitta shook her head. ‘I will show the length of my arm with my arm,’ she said.

And so, fifteen days later, east along the Polytimeros, and then south with the first break in the weather, losing horses to climb the high passes of eastern Sogdiana – the same passes that Leon and Ataelus and Temerix had crossed twenty years before. Now their knowledge, transferred through their sons and daughters and friends, was more precious than gold, and the Assagetae and their Tanais cavalry allies descended into northern Bactria through the back door of the Dushanbe Valley, where they bought musty grain and warm food. And information.

The people of Bactria had no great love for their new overlords.

Melitta had sent her best to find the right target. And then she had tried to sit back and relax and stay warm. In Bactria, it was still winter – high, howling winter, and the passage of the Sogdian Mountains seemed impossibly rash in retrospect.

‘Why did we do this?’ she asked again. But she could tell that Coenus was avoiding telling her the truth – that she’d made every choice that had brought them here.

An hour later a snow squall hit from the south, the snow blowing in their faces, and Melitta retreated to her warm felt tent, where the other leaders might look at her and where she had to wear the armoured mask of impassive command.

But when the snow squall cleared, Scopasis pushed into the lodge, brushing snow from his long leather coat, grinning like a boy with his first horse. Behind him was Thyrsis. They didn’t look like rivals for her love – they looked like brothers.

‘Lady,’ Scopasis said, and when she waved, he sat. Coenus brought him a cup of wine, and another for Thyrsis. Nikephorus made room at the brazier for the two men, and Listra grinned at Thyrsis.

Melitta writhed at that grin. Jealousy was not an acceptable trait among the Sakje – and showing jealousy to a peer over a man you don’t bed yourself was not just unacceptable but beyond the imagining of the Sakje. So Melitta had watched her beautiful Thyrsis grow closer and closer to the Grass Cats leader all summer. Now they openly shared their furs – Melitta had lain awake, listening to them quietly make love.

There is no privacy in a winter yurt. And Melitta was alone.

I will not go back to Scopasis
, she thought. So she slept next to Coenus, curled in his arms, or alone in extra furs as her mood took her.

And Listra was … observant. And not insensitive.

Except now. Her eyes devoured him, and he all but caressed her openly.

Melitta cleared her throat.

Scopasis drank his warm wine. ‘That was brutal,’ he said. His grin didn’t belie his words. It just made him look like the tough bastard he was.

‘And?’ she asked.

‘The Parni are a big concern,’ Scopasis said. ‘Twelve thousand warriors, give or take a thousand. They’d have more, but they don’t let their women fight.’ He grinned. ‘They’ve moved in here like an avalanche falling.’

Coenus muttered, ‘Tell us something we don’t know.’

‘They have Diodorus as a prisoner,’ Scopasis said, flat as the crack of a big tree in heavy ice.

Coenus sat up. ‘That’s it!’ he said. ‘Oh, the fading mind of the old. Diodorus is here on an embassy!’

‘And now the Parni are keeping him against Seleucus’ good behaviour.’ Seleucus was another of the rivals of Antigonus One-Eye and Demetrios – a strong ally of Ptolemy of Aegypt, and he held the mercenary contracts of Kineas’ father’s friends, the Exiles. ‘And something about tribute.’ Thyrsis smiled at Listra, and then back at his queen. ‘Lady, we talked to Diodorus. He’s well. He said he could run any time he wanted.’

‘Where was all this?’ Coenus asked.

‘Down in Alexandria of Bactria,’ Scopasis said. ‘Three days’ ride. In the summer.’ He smiled a hard smile. ‘Listen: the new Khan of Bactria has his horse lines there – ten thousand horses, all his wives, a palace of yurts and buildings, too. Alexander’s old camp – Ganax of the Parni has taken it for himself.’

‘Guards? Warriors?’ Coenus asked.

Scopasis grinned, and this time it was genuine mirth.

‘The Parni are desert people,’ he pronounced.

‘So?’ Tuarn of the Hungry Crows was soft-spoken.

‘So they don’t ride in winter,’ Scopasis said. ‘And they can’t imagine anyone else doing it, either.’

Melitta’s people scouted Alexandria of Bactria four times. She herself rode through the horse herds, wearing a plain fleece coat. She saw a sentry, and heard the man complain of the misery of standing winter guard. She rode across the souq unchallenged. She counted the guards around the palace of yurts.

Listra went with Philokles of Olbia and Thyrsis. Tuarn went with Scopasis and Nikephorus and Coenus.

Then they built a model of the town in the snow outside Melitta’s yurt.

Then they slept, sharpened their arrows and their swords, and two nights later, in a snow squall, they attacked.

Melitta chose to ride with the Greeks. They had heavy armour and good discipline, and she put all the Olbians together with the men of Tanais and the mounted mercenaries under Coenus and Nikephorus. The snow squall was fortuitous, but not entirely so, and they lost their way twice in the darkness before a lucky glimpse of a watch fire put them back on course.

In fact, getting to the main gate of the complex of yurts, wagons and outbuildings was the hardest part, and the part that made her stomach turn. She prayed to her gods that no bow would shatter in the cold, the sinew or the horn giving way. Most of them rode the last hour with their bows under their legs. But when they came into the clearing before the gate, her fears fell away and her numb fingers clamped an arrow to her string.

And then there was no more time for worry, and they were riding easily over the tramped snow in front of the gate, and the sentries died without a cry.

The gate was a joke – in Alexander’s time there had been a ditch and palisade, but it hadn’t been maintained and five feet of snow made a mockery of it. Nor was the gate closed. Melitta rode over the corpse of the first sentry, his blood impossibly red on the snow, and passed under the gate into the heart of the tent palace. Philokles of Olbia took a squadron north inside the gate, and Nikephorus took another squadron south. They paused only to kindle fire in their cold hands, and then they were away – screaming. And men began to emerge from the tents, yurts, wagons and lodges – angry men – and Melitta and her warriors killed them in the streets, riding them down, shooting them with arrows at point-blank range.

The night was full of screams and fire, and her only fear now was accident – to her men or to Diodorus, who might rush into the street unwarned and perish. But such things were in the hands of the gods, and even while she chewed on the ends of her worry, she shot a beautifully dressed man in the back as he ran from her pony’s hooves, and when he attempted to rise she shot him again.