said.
Melitta glanced from her beloved Philokles to the dust. ‘So?’ she asked.
Satyrus watched the dust, which seemed to be stuck in his mouth as well as his eyes. ‘Off the griddle and into the fire,’ he said quietly.
11
E umenes’ camp sprawled across several stades of scrub and red dirt, and the smell hit them while they were still a stade away – raw excrement, human and animal, from forty thousand people and twenty thousand animals, a hundred of them elephants. Tents of linen and hide stretched away in disorderly rows, intermixed with hasty shelters made from branches. Every tree on the plain was gone, cut by thousands of foragers from both sides to fuel thousands of fires. The smoke from the fires rose with the stench.
‘That’s the smell of war,’ Diodorus said. ‘Welcome to war, lad.’
‘Antigonus’s camp looks bigger,’ Satyrus said.
‘He has a bigger army. He has every Mede cavalryman in the east. Asia must be empty – he’s got Bactrians! And Saka!’ Diodorus watched the enemy camp. ‘See the patrol going out? Those are Saka, with some Macedonians for stiffening.’
The enemy camp was so close that Satyrus could see the flash of gold from the Saka horses.
‘Why are the Massagetae fighting for my enemies?’ Melitta asked. ‘Someone should speak to them.’
Diodorus shook his head. ‘You are your mother’s daughter, lass. Why don’t you just ride over there – whoa! That was what passes for humour around here.’ He had a hand across her chest. ‘Honey bee, I’m taking you to my wife, and she’s going to look after you. Greek maidens don’t belong in army camps.’
‘I am not a Greek maiden,’ Melitta said. ‘I am a Sakje maiden.’
Diodorus took a deep breath and looked at Philokles.
‘They’re growing up,’ Philokles said. He spread his hands. ‘I couldn’t stop them.’
Diodorus gave his friend a look that indicated that he held the Spartan responsible. ‘Let me get you children under cover,’ he said.
Philokles rode up next to Diodorus. ‘They’ve both killed,’ he said. ‘They’ve fought and stood their ground.’
Satyrus felt as if he might swell from the praise.
‘They aren’t children,’ Philokles said.
Diodorus let out another breath. ‘Very well. Satyrus, would you care to come with me?’
Satyrus nodded politely, and the cavalcade rode on.
They passed through two rings of sentries to enter the camp. The outer ring was cavalry, small groups of them spread wide apart, a few mounted and the rest standing by their horses. Closer in, spearmen stood in clumps where there was shade. Eumenes was being careful.
‘Where are the elephants?’ Satyrus asked.
‘The opposite side of the camp from the enemy,’ Diodorus replied. ‘Antigonus made a grab for them last year – nasty trick. We only just stopped it. We can’t put them with the horses – horses spook. So they have their own camp where it’s safest.’
‘May I see them later?’ Satyrus asked.
‘I’ll take him, lord,’ Hama said.
Diodorus nodded. ‘Listen, twins. I’m a strategos here – a man of consequence. I love you both, but we’re a day or two from the largest battle since Arbela and I won’t have much time for you. Understand?’
‘What’s the battle about?’ Satyrus asked.
Diodorus looked at him. ‘You really want to know?’
Satyrus nodded. ‘I know that Eumenes is one of the contenders for Alexander’s empire, and Antigonus One- Eye is another. I know that Ptolemy is backing Eumenes because Antigonus is a bigger danger to Aegypt.’
‘Then you know more than most of my cavalrymen,’ Diodorus said. ‘We’re fighting for the treasury at Persepolis and the allegiance of the Persian nobles – winner take all. This is the Olympics, boy – the winner of this battle should be able to reconquer all Alexander took. Unless-’
‘Unless?’ Melitta asked.
‘What am I, your war tutor? Unless the price is too high, and the battle wrecks both armies.’ Diodorus squinted south, into the dust. ‘Eumenes and Antigonus have each beaten the other. Eumenes is a superb general, but he forgets he’s not a Homeric hero. Antigonus is not a superb general, but he tends to get the job done and his preparations are always excellent. Now – is that enough? I have several thousand men to see to.’
‘Of course!’ Melitta shot back. ‘Do you think we’re foolish?’
‘I’ll see to them,’ a handsome blond man said. He made a barbarian bow from his saddle. He had a pair of gold lion fibulae and gold embroidery on his cloak and a sword that seemed to be made from a sheet of beaten gold. He was covered in dust.
‘Crax!’ Philokles said. ‘It has been a long time!’
Crax bowed again, a broad smile dimpling his round Getae face.
‘You look prosperous,’ Philokles said.
‘I like gold,’ Crax said. He drew his sword and presented the hilt to Melitta. ‘I was sword-sworn to your mother. Now I will swear to you – both of you.’
‘That is a beautiful sword,’ Satyrus said.
‘You like it, lord? It is yours,’ Crax said.
Philokles laid a hand on Satyrus’s shoulder. ‘Gift it back to him,’ he whispered. ‘If you are his lord, he must give you anything you ask.’
Melitta put her hands on either side of the sword hilt. ‘You are our man and our knight,’ she said, using the Sakje words.
Satyrus reversed the sword and handed it back. ‘It pleases me for you to have this,’ he said. ‘It is one of the finest swords I’ve seen. As fine as Papa’s.’
Crax took the sword back with pleasure. He turned to Diodorus. ‘We waited all night, Strategos. We were not discovered – neither did the gods give us a challenge. We collected a dozen prisoners and returned by the secret way.’
Diodorus nodded. ‘Get some rest. Crax commands my scouts.’
Melitta leaned forward. ‘May I ask a question, Uncle?’
Diodorus nodded, although there were other men waiting for him under the awning of a striped tent. ‘Go ahead,’ he said.
‘Where is Ataelus?’ she asked.
‘Off with Leon, searching the oceans for lost money. Perhaps in the Hesperides fetching golden apples. Not here, where I need him.’ Diodorus slipped off his big charger, and a swarm of slaves took his horse and began to take off the tack. As soon as his feet hit the ground, men fighting for his attention surrounded him.
‘Take them to Sappho,’ Diodorus ordered. Then he was lost in his staff.
Crax kept them mounted with the wave of a hand. ‘This is his command tent,’ he said. ‘He sleeps in our camp. Come!’
They rode off, unnoticed in the masses of soldiers, servants and slaves who filled the camp. They passed wide streets and narrow streets, stalls selling produce and wine and a hide-covered brothel whose occupants were as noisy as the animals in the street outside, much to Satyrus’s embarrassment and his sister’s amusement.
The camp was larger – and better populated – than most of the towns that passed for cities on the Euxine. Satyrus tried not to stare as they rode, although there was more to contemplate than you’d ever see in a town – there were no walls and no courtyards, so that every business was plied in the open. Boys squatted in front of tents, polishing bronze helmets or putting white clay on leather corslets to make them whiter. A sword-sharpener hawked his talents to a pair of Argyraspids, men in their fifties with shields faced in solid silver and inlaid with amber and ivory. Phrygian infantrymen stood in groups having just left an inspection, and a squadron of Lydian lancers cantered by, shouting and laughing. Their officer wore a garland of roses and he bowed to Melitta and then
