retreat, so that his left wing collapsed in mere minutes. Bactrians and Medes surged forward, many units penetrating the line without having engaged at all.
Melitta was on her feet. ‘They can’t see the elephants!’ she said.
Satyrus stood up with her. It was like cheering contestants at an athletic event. Thousands of enemy cavalrymen were pouring into the void left by the flight of Eumenes’ left wing, but instead of hitting the flank of the phalanx, they were about to plunge over a very low ridge into Eumenes’ elephant force. The low ridge was scarcely visible – Melitta was guessing that it must be there, because the Bactrians galloped straight at the elephants.
And on the farthest left, they could see a body of their own cavalry launch their own charge into the now- open flank of the enemy’s Bactrians. Satyrus thought that it was remarkably like boxing – punch and counter-punch. The brave man who was leading the charge right in front of them was throwing a fairly feeble left, but in order to deal with it, the mass of Bactrians and Saka would have to change front and they would lose all the advantage of their position.
‘See how the Medes are avoiding a second fight? When men have triumphed in battle, they are often just as finished with violence as men who have lost. So the Medes hesitate and look around for easier meat.’
Satyrus found that he’d eaten another fig without a memory of picking the fruit from the basket. Dust now hid everything all along the line. He put his cloak on the ground behind him and sat on it. He washed his hands from his canteen.
Nothing seemed to be happening, although the sounds of combat were now clearly audible, carried on a fresh breeze from the east. The Medes and Bactrians had vanished into the towering salt-dust clouds, and the battle line was hidden from end to end.
And then the Bactrians came bursting out of the edge of the cloud closest to the camp.
13
P hilokles watched them for a long heartbeat, and then he grabbed the runner. ‘Go to your mistress, as fast as you can run. Tell her that five thousand Asiatic cavalry are about to hit the camp. She may have ten minutes. She’ll know what to do. Go!’
The young man was off down the hillside, his tanned limbs flashing in rhythm as he ran.
Philokles watched the Medes for ten more heartbeats. Then he turned to Theron and the twins.
‘Eumenes’ left is broken beyond saving, but the men who broke it have chosen to loot the camp rather than face the elephants.’ He nodded. ‘Very wise of them, actually. But in effect, it nullifies One-Eye’s victory. Unless I miss my guess, that man down there – follow my hand – is Eumenes. He’s trying to stem the rout.’
‘Look at those cowards,’ Theron said. Indeed, the cream of Eumenes’ Macedonian cavalry were rallied off to the far left in an old river bed. Many of the units were formed up as if on parade, but they weren’t moving forward.
‘Difficult to tell the difference between cowardice and treason,’ Philokles said. ‘Is it our responsibility to tell Eumenes that his camp is attacked? Or even that his phalanx is still in the game?’
‘What of your friend Diodorus?’ Theron asked.
At their feet, a short column of horses and mules was already formed and moving south. ‘Diodorus planned against this,’ Philokles said. ‘As did Sappho.’ He shook his head. ‘Diodorus needs to know that this has happened. Will you go, Theron?’
Theron looked at the maelstrom of churning salt dust and bronze. ‘I don’t even know who I’d be looking for,’ he said. ‘No. Not my game.’
‘I’ll go,’ Satyrus said.
Philokles didn’t even look at his student. He was looking at the camp. ‘I need to repay an old debt. You stay with the children. Diodorus is a big boy.’
‘I’ll go,’ Satyrus said again.
Already, the word of the catastrophe was spreading and refugees were pouring out of the camp, heading south. To the north, the Bactrians were already in the horse lines, taking remounts. The Saka were riding to the east, coming around the tangle of tents that would impede their horses.
‘What old debt?’ Theron shouted. ‘Ares, man, you can’t go into that!’
‘Banugul,’ Philokles said quietly. The name didn’t mean much to either of the twins.
‘Mum used to talk about her,’ Melitta said. ‘You used her as an example once, of a woman of power.’
Philokles didn’t take his eyes off the onrushing enemy. ‘You really do listen to everything I say,’ he said.
‘Aunt Sappho said that she ought to be our ally,’ Satyrus said.
‘Your father saved her life once,’ Philokles said, his eyes on another fight, far away in time and place. He reached up under his arm and loosened his sword in its scabbard. ‘You children go with Theron. Down to the column and go to the rally point. I’m going to save a gilded harlot.’
The twins looked at each other. A message passed between them, but they mounted with Theron and started down the back of the bluff, both of them watching Philokles as he mounted and vanished over the camp-side crest.
‘Is he insane?’ Theron trotted ahead, muttering.
Satyrus turned to his sister. ‘I’ll ride to Eumenes,’ he said quietly. ‘And to Diodorus.’
She nodded. ‘Good. I’ll help Philokles.’ She looked at his borrowed dun gelding. ‘I wish you had a better horse.’
‘Me too,’ Satyrus said. They exchanged a smile, and he glanced at Theron and pulled his horse off to the left. On a dun horse, helmetless, with a dun-coloured cloak, Satyrus vanished in the dust as soon as he turned his horse. He was away, back up the slope of the bluff, until he had a view over the worst of the dust and down into the salt plain.
Eumenes’ silvered helmet was a flash of white light, just a stade or so to the north. Satyrus pointed his gelding’s head at the general and tapped his heels for speed, and they were away
Melitta watched her brother turn his horse. She reached down and checked her bow case. Theron turned in his saddle. ‘This way,’ he called.
Melitta followed obediently for another minute, and then, as they entered the dust of Sappho’s column, she shouted, ‘Where’s Satyrus?’
Theron turned in his saddle, retying his chlamys over his face against the dust. ‘Where’s he gone?’ Theron asked. ‘Ares!’
‘He was right there,’ Melitta said.
‘Go to Sappho,’ Theron said, turning his horse. ‘Satyrus!’ he bellowed.
Melitta didn’t answer – she just rode towards where Theron was pointing until the dust swirled around her. Then she slipped her Sakje tunic off her shoulder so that her right arm and shoulder were bare and pulled Bion around in a short turn. Dust didn’t bother her – she’d ridden in the drag position with the maidens and the boys on summer marches with the Assagatje. She wrapped a scarf over her mouth as she cantered back towards camp.
The dust was thick, and the Saka were close – she could see them shouting to each other just to the east. She waved her bow over her head at them and they shouted. Then they were gone in the dust.
She had a good idea where the enormous red and yellow tent stood, so she rode on instinct, trusting Bion to move carefully in a forest of tents and stakes and ropes. She didn’t ride fast, but she took the straightest line she could find.
She terrified a great many camp followers, emerging from the curtain of dust. She looked like a Massagetae. Under her mask of dust and her head scarf, she smiled wickedly, gave a shriek of joy and terrified them a little more. It would only move them faster. That might save their lives.
Twice, Bion stumbled, catching a leg on a tent stake or a rope, but both times they recovered without a fall. ‘Good boy,’ she said in Sakje, patting his flanks. She was speaking Sakje and thinking in Sakje, and the Greek of the terrified women around her was almost incomprehensible to her. She felt Bion’s weight change and she got up his neck for a jump – he was up and over, and she never knew what they’d just jumped. Then the gelding turned under her and she almost lost her seat, and they were cantering again.
