She dug and dug. She thought of Argon and his too-shallow hole, and she dug more.
She was soaked in sweat by the time yet more slaves came with food, and she got out of her hole and ate, slurping cool water from a clay cup and then eating mutton soup so fast that barley streamed down her chiton. She regretted every minute that she’d stayed awake the night before, but she found, as the sun rose and the colour of the world changed, that she didn’t have to be worried about being pregnant.
That was for tomorrow.
Today, she had elephants.
Both armies threw out clouds of skirmishers first. Demetrios, with all of Asia in his father’s hip pocket, put out several thousand peasants with javelins and the occasional sling or bow.
Satyrus watched them. He had his shield on his foot and his spear in his hand, but most of his file was still donning armour or finishing a bowl of soup. Rafik stood with Philokles at the head of the parade, the trumpet still on his hip.
Food was not helping. Satyrus felt that if he let go a fart, his breakfast would stream down his legs with the last of his courage. He gritted his teeth.
Abraham came up, put his shield face-down on the ground and raised an arm. ‘Buckle my cuirass?’ he asked.
‘Sure?’ Satyrus said. ‘Where’s Basis?’
‘Praying,’ Abraham said.
Satyrus got the buckle done. ‘Hold my spear?’ he asked. ‘I have to piss, again.’ He ran off to the edge of the parade and ran back, still feeling as if his guts would leak out, picked up his shield, took his spear from Abraham and tried to stand tall.
Rafik blew the trumpet. Satyrus felt his knees lose their strength. He wondered how men who were condemned to death felt. He hated his weakness, but the weakness was real.
‘Priests!’ Philokles called.
One by one, the serving priests came to the head of the parade. All along the line, men sacrificed – a hundred animals died in as many seconds.
Satyrus was surprised – through the fog of his fear – to find that the Phalanx of Aegypt was next to the Foot Companions. The Macedonian foot-guards were just a few paces to the right of his file, silent except for the occasional order. The men in the ranks had their armour on, but their sarissas were being carried by servants.
Their priest cut the throat of a young heifer.
Out on the sand in front of them, men died – javelin men and archers and naked men throwing rocks, four stades from the line of priests. The battle had started.
The enemy light troops were terrible – like slaves driven forward with a whip. In fact, for all Melitta knew, they were driven forward with a whip. All of Idomeneus’s toxotai were together – a better-armoured band than they had been before the ambush – spread at two-pace intervals over several hundred paces of ground. Aegyptian peltastai with small shields and heavy javelins moved through them to face the hordes of Demetrios’s peasants, and the fighting – such as it was – didn’t last long before the peasants ran.
Idomeneus came by and offered her an apple. She smiled at him and took it.
‘I love apples,’ she said.
Another band of psiloi came out of the rising dust and hurled rocks at the peltastai, who charged and drove them off, but this time a few of the peltastai were left to bleed in the sand.
She could feel the earth pounding under her feet before she saw them. They were immense. Too big to be real. They moved with an un-horse-like gait, and they were slow – but they were coming.
Ahead of them came a fresh wave of psiloi – men with light armour and round bucklers who seemed to have some spirit.
‘Stand your ground!’ the Aegyptian officer yelled. His voice was not reassuring.
She found that she’d finished her apple. She dropped the core and kicked sand over it without thinking.
‘About to be our turn, I think,’ Idomeneus said. ‘Luck, Bion. Shoot straight.’
‘Same to you, pal,’ she said. And then she strung her bow.
Satyrus could see the light troops, as far as his eyes could see – several thousand men. Their movement raised a curtain of dust, but it was nothing like what it would be later in the day, and nothing like it had been at Gabiene. Just the thought of the fight on the salt flats made him take a sip from his canteen.
‘The army is going to move forward,’ Philokles called. ‘Be ready.’
This far out, there was no marching. When the trumpet sounded, men lifted their shields and trudged forward in open order, their servants still carrying canteens and food – some men in other taxeis were still making their servants carry their shields. The movement sounded like thunder and the ground moved as sixteen thousand pikemen and their servants and shield-bearers – almost thirty thousand men, and not a few women – walked forward. The polemarchs and the phylarchs watched attentively, and men at the flanks of formations roared at each other, because crowding or bowing at this point could disorder the whole line which had been formed so carefully.
Satyrus saw humps moving opposite him. Elephants. He stumbled and forced himself to stand upright. Ares. Ares, god of war, do not let me be a coward.
Curiously, the elephants had a steadying effect on Satyrus, most of all because he knew that his sister had to face them and he wanted her safe. Thinking of other people was a strange relief from fear, but it was real – as if fear was something selfish.
Aha.
Satyrus smiled. He turned and looked at the pale faces of his companions. Philokles was still ahead of the phalanx, as was Theron on the opposite flank.
‘Watch your spacing, Aegypt!’ Satyrus called. He forced a smile at the front rank. ‘They’re only elephants, gentlemen!’
Fifty paces forward, and then a hundred, and then another hundred. The elephants were two stades away – less – and he could feel it when they moved. In less than a minute, the great brown and grey creatures would be among the Ptolemaic skirmishers – and his sister would be facing the monsters.
‘Halt!’ the trumpets called.
‘Fall out the shield-bearers!’ Philokles called.
This is it.
Abraham reached over, shield and all, and they embraced. Satyrus reached past Abraham to clasp arms with Dionysius and then with Xeno. Xeno held on to his arm. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. Behind him, his boy flashed a shy smile and turned to leave the ranks.
Satyrus grinned and hugged him. ‘Tell me later!’ he said, and his grin wasn’t faked.
All around him, as the servants cleared the files, men clasped hands. Satyrus got a quick squeeze from Diokles and another from Namastis, a kiss from Dionysius, and then the files were clear.
‘Half files, close to the front!’ Philokles called. The same order could be heard from the Foot Companions, who were just to their right.
Namastis marched his half-file forward to fill the opening left by the shield-bearers. Now the phalanx was eight deep but much closer in order. Behind Satyrus, Diokles and the rest of the file shuffled forward to form the close-order battle formation.
Satyrus could see Panion, the commander of the Foot Companions, striding across the sand towards Philokles. His body betrayed rage.
‘You are crowding my files with your fucking slaves,’ Panion said. ‘Double your files again and give me room.’
‘Your men must have drifted on the march,’ Philokles said. ‘We’re matched with the White Shields on our left.’ He shrugged. ‘Open out to the right.’
Panion spat. ‘I’ve had enough of you, Greek. You and your corps of baggage-handlers don’t belong in the line. I told Ptolemy you’d lose him the battle. Now you’re on my flank. And you know what? You and your pack of dogs? Cowards!’
‘Go back to your taxeis,’ Philokles said. ‘We are in the same army. I do not question your courage – have the courtesy to do the same.’
Panion spat. ‘Listen to you!’ He turned to face the Phalanx of Aegypt. ‘Most of you will be dead in an hour!
