You don’t even have to stand in the line! Your so-called polemarch demanded that you stand in the battle line. Run along home, now, Gyptos!’
The Phalanx of Aegypt shuffled. Panion laughed contemptuously. ‘Dogs pretending to be men,’ he said.
‘Turn and face me,’ Philokles said.
Panion turned.
‘Listen, Macedonians!’ Philokles roared, and his voice carried a stade. ‘I am a man of Sparta. When we charge the enemy, see who flinches. No man in our ranks has a friend across the lines, Macedonians. No man there will offer a single one of our men mercy.’ He walked up to Panion, and stood a half a hand taller. ‘Foot Companions! Your officer is bought and paid for by the enemy.’ Philokles pulled his cloak back off his shoulder.
‘You lie-’ Panion began, and he raised his spear.
‘Let the gods say who lies!’ Philokles roared. Panion struck, but Philokles’ arm moved as fast as a thunderbolt and his spear slammed into Panion’s helmet and the man went down.
Philokles laughed.
Satyrus was an arm’s length from the nearest Macedonian file. They were roiling with fury.
‘Macedonians!’ came a roar from behind Satyrus. He turned to see Ptolemy and Seleucus on horseback, brilliantly armoured and surrounded by Hetairoi. ‘Macedonians! The enemy is Demetrios, who we will destroy in a few hours. The enemy is not next to you in line. The next man who speaks against another is a traitor – mark my words.’ He looked down at Panion, who was rising from the dust.
‘Fucker-’ Panion said, with something incomprehensible.
‘Prove the charge unfounded on the field,’ said the lord of Aegypt. He pointed at the commander of his foot- guards. ‘Myself,’ he said, just loudly enough that the front rank of both taxeis could hear. ‘Myself, I think you probably are a fucking traitor, Panion. Die well and I’ll see to your widow. Try to screw me, and I’ll put my mercenaries right into your shieldless flank and you will all die whether I win or not.’ The lord of Aegypt waved his arm at ranks and ranks of Diodorus’s Exiles, who stood by their horses on the flank of the Foot Companions.
Then the lord of Aegypt waved, and most men cheered – not the Foot Companions – and Philokles stood and faced them. He clasped hands with Philokles and rode away, leaving Panion in the sand.
Behind him, the elephants were closing on the toxotai.
‘Men of Alexandria,’ Philokles said. He paused, and even Panion’s men fell silent. ‘Yesterday, or two weeks ago, or a year ago, you were different men. You lived a different life. Some of you are rich men, and some are poor. Some of you stole, and others drank wine. Somewhere in these ranks is a man who killed for money. Another carried bricks. Some of you are Greek, and some are Aegyptian. A few of you are even Macedonian.’ He paused, and men laughed.
‘Today, no one cares how you lived. All that men will ever say of you is how you fought here, and how you died. Are you in debt? Desperate? The gods hate you?’ His voice rose to fill the air, as if a god was speaking – the voice of Ares come to earth. ‘Stand your ground today and die if you must, and all men will ever say of you is that you served the city. You will go with the heroes – your name will adorn a shrine. Be better than you were. Serve the city. Stand in your ranks and push when I call you. Remember that you will have no mercy at the hands of the men across the sand. Not a one of you will be spared.’
He raised his spear over his head. ‘When I call, every man must push forward one more step. Understand?’
‘Yes!’ they roared.
‘Remember, every one of you! There is nothing but this day and this hour. Show your gods who you really are.’ He lowered his spear and walked to his place in the line, pulling his helmet down and fastening the cheekpieces.
‘Not your usual take on philosophy,’ Satyrus said, when his tutor took his place.
Philokles stood straight. ‘Wisdom has a different look from the front rank,’ he said to Satyrus, with a smile that showed under his cheekpieces. ‘Prepare to march!’ he roared.
The Aegyptian peltastai stood their ground longer than Melitta had expected. Just in front of her pit, they closed their ranks and counter-charged the enemy psiloi, running the bronze-shielded men back among their elephants. Then they lost their nerve and retreated, and their officers couldn’t hold them after a man was caught by an elephant and spitted on her sword-tipped tusks. The animal shook the dying man and he split open.
The peltastai ran back half a stade. Melitta stopped watching them. She had targets.
She loosed a dozen arrows at the leading elephants before she knew that her shafts were having no effect. The lead elephant had so many arrows sticking out of her back that it looked as if she’d sprouted some scraggly feathers, but the beast continued her leisurely stroll forward, still tossing the remnants of the peltastes on the twin swords around her mouth.
None of the other archers were doing any better.
‘We’re fucked,’ she muttered, drawing and loosing again.
Their arrows had cleared the last of the enemy psiloi, so that the monsters strode down the field in a long line with no infantry covering them, but that seemed to be a very minor flaw as the line plodded across the sand towards her pit.
If they go through us, they go into the face of the phalanx, she thought. And we lose.
Next to her, a pair of Greek archers called to each other as they lofted arrows high. ‘Their skin must be thinner somewhere,’ called Laertes, the oldest man among the toxotai.
The beasts were now so close that the archers could try to aim for softer parts – also close enough for flight to seem like an option. She drew to her eyebrow and loosed – to see her bronze-headed barb bounce off the lead elephant’s head.
For the first time she realized that there were men on the backs of the behemoths. Without thinking, she shot one – the range was just a few horse-lengths – and for the first time in fifteen shafts she saw a target go down, the man clutching his armpit as he fell from the beast’s back.
She thought of the elephants in Eumenes the Cardian’s army, and how their mahout said that they were only deadly as long as there were men on their backs.
The lead cow elephant turned her head, as if curious as to what had happened.
Melitta shot two arrows as fast as she’d ever shot in her life. The first missed – right over the top of the cow, who was so close that Melitta was shooting up to aim at all. The second hit the other spearman on the elephant’s back, sticking in his shield but not, apparently, doing any harm.
She looked around her and realized that the toxotai were running. She was the last archer shooting. She turned and ran herself.
Satyrus pulled his helmet down and tied the chinstrap one-handed even as they marched forward. Flute players sounded the step, and Satyrus glanced right and left, his heart filled by the sight. As far as his eye could see, their ranks were moving. The centre was slow, and the mass of the phalanx bowed, but he could see now that the line of his own phalanx – all the army of Aegypt together – was longer than the enemy line.
Off to the right, the cavalry was moving. Off to the left, just a stade away, Satyrus could see Diodorus sitting alone on his charger at the head of the Exiles. He seemed to be eating a sausage.
Right in front of him, the elephants had broken the line of peltastai and toxotai. His gut clenched, his chest muscles trembled and he had to make himself stand taller. Elephants.
Melitta ran twenty paces and stopped – in part, because Idomeneus was standing there, putting an arrow to his bow, and in part because she had to see what happened when the monsters hit the pits.
‘Stop running!’ Idomeneus yelled. ‘There’s nowhere to go!’ He shot.
Forty paces away, the lead cow shuddered as her front feet slid out from under her. In seconds she had slipped most of the way into the hole – head first, and her head cap of bronze pushed the stake flat and it did her no harm. She bellowed, gathered her hindquarters and scrabbled out of the pit, shaking her head.
Too shallow. Melitta shot. Her arrow struck in a great fore-foot.
But something was wrong with the beast, because she stopped. She rolled her head, looking right and left, as arrows pricked her. Her snake-like trunk touched the prone form of the man who’d come off her head when she’d stepped into the pit – he didn’t move. Melitta almost had pity as the great beast tried to move her driver.
Her driver. Her driver.
‘Shoot the drivers!’ Melitta shouted. Her voice broke – it was the most feminine shout on the field – but it carried, and she didn’t care. ‘Shoot the drivers!’
