speak.
Some of the men in the ranks looked inattentive, bored or even angry to be addressed by the priest – but a great many more listened as if receiving the words of the great gods themselves, and some fell to their knees until the priest was done speaking. One by one, five priests addressed them in Aegyptian. Then all five gave a benediction in Greek and in Aegyptian, and they went off to the side, where a stand of date palms offered some shade.
The priests of the Greek gods also offered benedictions, but when they were done, Namastis clapped his hands and slaves brought them shields and linen armour like the Aegyptians wore, and good Greek Pylos helmets straight from the forges.
Philokles looked around. ‘Harmless,’ he said. He rolled his shoulders as if taking the weight of his responsibility back. ‘Might even do some good.’
It had done some good. If the natives had ever intended mutiny – and none of the Hellenes knew them or their language well enough to know – they meant no mutiny now. Most of them began to drill with something like enthusiasm, and despite the fact that they were a thousand men short of their required size since the day before, Philokles led them through exercise after exercise with something like enthusiasm himself, and Dionysius shook his head in admiration at their first successful wheel all the way through a circle – a difficult manoeuvre even for professionals. Of course it was easier with half the men, but the spirit of the whole was different – profoundly different.
When the sun touched the horizon, Satyrus sought out the priest of Poseidon. ‘What did you do?’ he said.
Namastis shook his head. ‘I did very little. It had already been discussed – but meeting you last night stiffened my spine.’
‘What did the priest of Osiris say? It was like magic!’ Satyrus said.
‘Yes!’ Namastis replied. He glanced at Philokles. ‘He told them to act like men. That the eyes of the entire lower kingdom were on them. That they, and they alone, stood between the old gods and destruction.’
Satyrus shook his head. ‘Well, he’s a fine old fellow.’
‘Don’t patronize me, Greek.’ Namastis looked far more imposing in a linen corslet and a helmet than in his robes. ‘And don’t patronize him.’
Satyrus bit back an adolescent retort and nodded. ‘I won’t.’
Namastis shook his head. ‘It’s hard not to be touchy when you are half-caste. Listen – he also told them that Philokles is the very avatar of the war god – at least for now.’
‘My tutor?’ Satyrus laughed, but then he stopped. A great many scenes passed before his eyes in a few heartbeats. ‘That’s not altogether far from the mark,’ he said.
Namastis glanced over Satyrus’s shoulder to where a knot of fashionable young men waited for their friend but were too polite to break in on the two of them – or too disdainful of the Gypto. ‘You Hellenes are great fools,’ Namastis said. ‘He wasn’t speaking in allegory, Satyrus. He meant that Philokles is the very avatar of the god of war. Here. Now.’ The priest picked up his spear and swung it carefully erect. The full length of the pike made any sudden movement perilous.
A prickle at the back of Satyrus’s neck, and then the smell of a wet lion skin, and then nothing – a sort of absence of sense.
‘You are god-touched,’ Namastis said reverently. ‘I forget Hellenes are not all fools. My apologies, lord.’
‘Satyrus, not lord,’ Satyrus said, offering his hand.
Namastis took it, and clenched it hard – too hard, but a good try. ‘Men are hunting you,’ he said suddenly.
‘I know,’ Satyrus said. He actually smiled, like the hero in an epic, although his smile was more self-mockery than dismissal of danger.
‘No Aegyptian will help them,’ Namastis said. ‘That much I guarantee you. But the Macedonian faction intends your death. They have hired men. That is all we know.’
Satyrus favoured the hand all the way back to Leon’s villa by the sea.
No more oyster shells came, and no fights with his sister, who was gone – visiting Amastris herself, or so Dorcus claimed. Satyrus went to sleep picturing elements of the drill.
And in the morning, the ranks were full. Two thousand Aegyptians, half-castes and Hellenes stood together in the ranks. Their armour was a patchwork, and their spears and sarissas were four different lengths, and most men had neither body armour nor cloaks – but the ranks were full.
Philokles asked the priest of Osiris and the priest of Zeus to address the men. Each offered a brief prayer. And then, when the priest of Zeus had intoned the hymn to the rise of day, Philokles gestured to Abraham.
‘We have no priest of your god, son of Ben Zion,’ Philokles said. ‘Can you sing a hymn or some such? This taxeis will use every shred of divinity on offer.’
Abraham nodded. He was in the front rank, beyond Dionysius whose beauty included the kind of fitness that caused Philokles to put him in the front. He shuffled forward past Dionysius – no easy task with an aspis – and stood in front. In a deep voice he began a hymn – Hebrew, of course. Fifty voices picked it up. Some sang softly, as if embarrassed, and some carefully, as if forcing the words from their memories. But they sounded well enough, and they smiled self-consciously when finished – just as the Aegyptians and the Hellenes had done.
‘If all the gods are satisfied, we need to do a great deal of work,’ Philokles shouted.
For the first time, his words were greeted with the sort of spontaneous cheer he expected from good troops.
At supper, back at Leon’s, Philokles shook his head. ‘We were down,’ he said. ‘Now? I see a glimmer of that fickle creature, hope.’
Theron grunted and ate another helping of quail. ‘When do we march?’ he asked. ‘And will we carry the baggage?’
Philokles shrugged. ‘I can’t believe the delays. Ptolemy hasn’t even decided on a strategy yet – he vacillates, so I’m told, between offence and defence, and he has twelve thousand slaves rebuilding the forts along the coast. And six thousand being gathered to support the army. We won’t carry the baggage – but if we have a defensive campaign, these men will melt away, priests or no priests. And if the campaign flares into sudden battle before marching makes them hard – again, I dread it.’ But after these words, he brightened. ‘But I tell you, gentlemen – philosopher that I am, something changed today. I felt it. I, too, will go to my task with a lighter heart.’ Philokles looked at Diodorus. ‘When do we march, Strategos?’
Diodorus was lying with Sappho. He looked up. ‘When Ptolemy is ready. When the storm breaks. When the Macedonian faction makes their move.’ He spread his hands. ‘Or the day after tomorrow. Is your taxeis worthy to stand in the line?’
‘No,’ Philokles said. ‘But give me twenty days of marching, and I might speak otherwise.’
Diodorus shook his head. ‘Ptolemy has all but given up. If Leon returned, we might act. All day long, Panion and the Macedonians of his ilk pour poison in his ears. I’m not sure that we’re any better off for Stratokles being off the board.’
‘If he is off the board,’ Philokles said. ‘The attack on Satyrus-’
‘Might just have been the work of the Macedonians,’ Diodorus said.
‘Too well planned. Footpads. Stratokles.’ Philokles flexed his muscles, reassured that they were returning. ‘Trust me, Diodorus. I know what the man does. I did the same once.’
‘For my part,’ Satyrus said, ‘I’d rather go and fight Demetrios than be afraid of going out of this house.’
‘Ptolemy is afraid they’ll sell him,’ Diodorus said. ‘Like Eumenes.’ He finished his wine and lay on his back next to Sappho, shaking his head. ‘Macedonians.’
A slave came in and whispered to Sappho, and she rolled over.
‘Coenus sends that our guest is awake,’ she said.
It took a moment for that information to penetrate the gloom of the dining hall.
‘Gods,’ Philokles said. And headed for the door.
Leosthenes returned to full consciousness without transition, Apollo having granted him life, or so it seemed to Satyrus. The scarred man lay on Coenus’s spare couch and smiled at the men in the room.
‘Friends,’ he said.
Coenus held his hand. ‘How did you come to serve that scum?’
