‘Cavalry on our flank!’ came the shouts from the left. Satyrus had to see for himself. He stepped out of the ranks. ‘Philip, hold this line,’ he ordered. ‘Abraham! Take command of the right file! Rafik, on me!’
The Nabataean followed him out of the ranks and he ran, the rubbing of his greaves tearing at the blood- caked sores on his ankles as he ran across the front of his taxeis.
‘Cavalry!’ his comrades shouted. Theron wasn’t there to command the left, but Apollodorus, one of Leon’s marines, had ordered the flank files to face to their shields and down spears, covering the flank of the taxeis – a smart man. Satyrus stopped level with him.
‘There they are,’ Apollodorus said. He pointed into the haze of dust where Satyrus could just see movement.
Satyrus reached up and tilted his silver helmet back on his head. The cheekpieces hinged up, and he could breathe – and see.
The enemy cavalry was coming forward cautiously. They offered him no threat at all – his files were steady and Apollodorus had already made them secure. ‘Well done, marine,’ Satyrus said.
‘Thank you, sir!’ the marine answered woodenly. As if he were a real officer. ‘Looks to me like they crushed our right while we crushed theirs,’ he added.
The leader of the enemy cavalry was encased in golden armour, and he had a golden helmet. He rode forward slowly, and then a trumpet sounded and his men halted.
Behind him and to the left, another trumpet sounded. Men pointed.
Satyrus flexed his back under his scale corslet and fought exhaustion. The man in the golden armour had to be Demetrios.
Gold Helm rode forward boldly. In a few heartbeats he covered the ground, and he pulled up just short of Satyrus.
‘That’s my helmet,’ he said.
‘Come and take it,’ Satyrus said. Not his best line ever, but not bad. He managed a smile.
‘I thought that you might be my infantry,’ Demetrios said, conversationally. ‘I seem to have lost.’
‘We destroyed your infantry,’ Satyrus said.
Demetrios nodded. ‘Shall we fight? Single combat? You look like a hero to me.’
Satyrus’s tired smile flashed into a grin. Demetrios’s charm was like a force of nature. For just a heartbeat, he wanted to fight the magnificent enemy in hand-to-hand combat.
‘Delighted,’ Satyrus said. ‘If you’ll dismount?’
There were trumpets sounding behind the left flank, and Demetrios’s troopers were starting to shuffle.
‘No, I don’t think I’d better,’ Demetrios said. He smiled, as if Satyrus had scored a point. ‘Pity – I think we might be a match, and I’d like to have something to show for today.’
Satyrus stepped out of the ranks so that he wouldn’t seem afraid. ‘Another time, perhaps?’ he shouted. Men in the ranks were calling out.
Demetrios reared his charger and saluted – the Olympic salute. ‘Next time then, hero.’ He turned his horse and rode away.
‘Hero?’ Satyrus said.
Apollodorus was grinning.
He was still grinning when Ptolemy rode through the dust. ‘Young Satyrus,’ he said. ‘I think we’ve won. Why are your men so far from your place in the line? What news?’
Satyrus shook his head. ‘We’ve won, lord.’
Ptolemy grinned, his ugly face transformed. ‘I thought we might have, at that. Seleucus saved my arse in the dust, and things seemed to get better. So – the boys stayed loyal!’
‘All the ones who matter,’ Satyrus said, and there was a thin cheer.
As official news of victory spread, the men of the Aegyptian taxeis collapsed like curtains cut from their rods. Men knelt in the dust, or even lay down. And then someone began a hymn – the Aegyptian hymn to Osiris. Most of the men knew it, even the Greeks – and the haunting melody was taken up.
‘Zeus Soter, boy,’ Ptolemy said. There were tears on his cheeks, and he slid from his mount.
Drawn by the singing, more men rode out of the haze. The dust cloud itself began to thin.
‘Ares!’ Seleucus shouted. ‘The right-flank cavalry is already in their camp!’ He seemed to see the infantrymen for the first time. ‘Well fought, soldiers! No one will call this a cavalry battle.’
Ptolemy clasped Satyrus’s hand. ‘Where’s your tutor, boy? Your polemarch?’
Satyrus’s heart seemed to stop, because he hadn’t given Philokles a thought in what seemed like hours. ‘Down, sir,’ he said. ‘I’m in command. ’
Ptolemy’s grip tightened. ‘Good man,’ he said. He embraced Satyrus. ‘I knew you were a young man of talent.’ Then he looked up at Seleucus. ‘Round up anyone who can still ride. We’re going to press the pursuit.’
Seleucus laughed. ‘No, lord. We’re going to loot the camp. The men have already made that decision. But I’ll offer a reward for the elephants.’
‘We have half a dozen,’ Satyrus said. He bowed to Ptolemy, and when the great man had remounted and ridden away, he felt as if he had to lie down in the sand. He felt like collapsing, but instead he turned and walked back to Abraham. ‘Take the men back to camp. Do not let them join in the looting. I’m going to find Philokles.’ Satyrus looked at his men, who looked more like a defeated army than a victorious one. The Foot Companions weren’t much different. ‘Get men to bury the dead. And find our wounded. Send for the shield-bearers.’
Abraham nodded.
Satyrus walked off, alone.
As they rode out of the cordon, the scene turned to one of debauched violence that made the night market appear to be safe and orderly and the looting of the Exiles a model of decorum. Men drank anything they could find and behaved like animals for no reason or every reason, and Melitta stayed close to her own, riding behind Coenus as he kept to the centre of the great avenues of the tent camp. Twice, Hama and Carlus killed other men from their own army.
‘This is horrible,’ Melitta said.
‘This is the river in which we swim,’ Coenus said. He spat. ‘Most men are little better than animals.’ As if to make his point, an orange glow lit them. Behind them, the town had caught fire. It burned, and Melitta heard the screams of the trapped villagers. Ptolemy’s army laughed as they screamed, and butchered those who ran. Macedonians from Ptolemy’s army killed the Macedonian wounded of Demetrios’s army.
They rode clear of the camp, past the horse herds and into the tail of the enemy rout.
Coenus reined in. ‘This is insane, girl!’
Melitta rode straight past him. She knew she could find Stratokles. Amastris wasn’t her real goal any more – although images of the rape of the woman in the camp filled her head when she thought of her friend. She rode faster, pressing past frightened camp followers and wounded soldiers. At her shoulder rode a dozen of her father’s best men – and no one turned to face them.
Philokles lay wrapped in his cloak, his head in Theron’s lap. He had Theron’s chiton wrapped around his groin, and Theron’s chiton was Spartan red. Theron was weeping.
Satyrus ran the last few strides with a sob and threw himself on the ground. ‘Philokles!’ he said.
His tutor’s eyes met his, and he grasped the man’s hand. ‘You broke them!’ he said.
Theron’s voice was thick and hoarse. ‘He doesn’t care about that!’ he choked.
‘I tried to be a moral man,’ Philokles said softly. ‘But I died killing other men.’
‘You are a hero!’ Satyrus said through his tears. ‘You are too hard on yourself!’
‘I love you,’ Philokles said so softly that Satyrus had to put his head down to listen. ‘Tell Melitta I loved her.’
Satyrus nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said, suddenly ashamed. ‘We love you. All the time.’
Philokles made a noise in his throat. ‘Just so,’ he whispered. He took a deep breath. ‘Examine your life. Love your sister. Be true.’ He looked at Theron for a moment, and then he slumped a little, tried to move his hips and gave a short scream.
Blood poured over the ground so fast that Satyrus’s feet were drowned in it.
‘Kineas!’ Philokles said. His eyes went to the sky.
And there, on the edge of dark, Melitta saw the satyr’s profile by the light of the burning town – Stratokles. He was wearing a cloak, mounted on a fine mare, and his cut nose revealed him. Even in the dark, Melitta could see
