feet, heedless of the hooves flying around him.
‘Rally on me! Form a rhomboid! Phylarchs sound off!’ Diodorus shouted.
The trumpet rang out again, a long call. The horses around Satyrus were jostling for position, every man struggling to get his mount to the right place in a haze of dust and a crowd of animals. Satyrus was crushed between two horses, and he ducked to get under a belly and got kicked in the back of his head by a rider.
‘Hey!’ he said. ‘Hey, help!’ The last came out more like a squeak. He was that close to finding his uncle and he was going to be trampled or crushed.
A spear point glittered wickedly in front of his face. ‘Stand where you are,’ Hama said.
‘Hama, it’s me!’ he yelped back.
Hama reached out and grasped his wrist, sword and all, and hauled him up on his crupper. ‘Men die on foot when horses are this thick,’ the big Keltoi chief said. ‘Little lord, what for fucking gods are you here?’
Satyrus got his leg over Hama’s horse. ‘I will not cry,’ he said aloud. The relief was so great that his eyes filled and his throat hurt from more than salt dust.
The trumpet sounded again.
‘Anyone have a clue where the fuck we are? Phylarchs, sound off!’ Diodorus said.
‘File one! Two men missing!’
‘File two! All present!’
‘File three! One man dead!’
‘File four! Four men missing!’
‘File five! All present!’
Hama shouted, ‘File six! Two men missing! Lord Satyrus on my horse!’ He pushed his own horse forward and men made way for him.
Off to the left, file seven and eight reported. Hama got his horse next to the hyperetes. Diodorus glanced at Hama. Satyrus opened his mouth and his uncle’s hand came up like a blow, demanding silence.
‘File nine! All present!’
‘File ten! Three men missing!’
Diodorus nodded sharply. ‘Thirteen are missing out of a hundred. That’s bad.’ He looked around. ‘Anybody see Crax or Andronicus?’
‘No, sir,’ came a chorus of answers. The salt dust swirled.
‘Dion – take file one off to the right. Don’t go far – ten horse-lengths a man. Return on one trumpet blast. See if you can find anybody. Paches – take file ten and do the same to the left. Go!’
He turned to Hama and Antigonus. ‘Where the fuck are we?’ Without waiting for an answer, he turned on Satyrus. ‘What are you doing here, child?’
Satyrus took a breath and concentrated on having his voice level. ‘I came with a message,’ he said.
‘What message?’ Diodorus was all but kneeling on his horse’s back, trying to see over the dust.
‘But first, you are about five stades beyond the rightmost point of the enemy phalanx, Uncle. And all the peltastai have been driven off. I rode from there.’
Diodorus looked at him for a long breath. ‘You are sure? Men’s lives depend on this.’
Satyrus choked a little. ‘No,’ he said hesitantly. ‘I’m not sure.’
Hama steadied him with a hug. ‘But pretty sure, yes?’
Satyrus met his uncle’s eyes. ‘Pretty sure, Uncle.’
Diodorus nodded sharply. ‘If you’re right, I’ll never doubt you again. Hama – get Paches back in and put him in front – we feel our way along the path Satyrus indicated. One troop of horse behind our own phalanx would panic them in this crap. One more trumpet call, hyperetes.’ He took Satyrus from Hama. His hard grey eyes locked on Satyrus’s eyes. ‘Message?’ he said. He held out his hand and a canteen was put in it.
‘There are Saka and Bactrians in the camp,’ Satyrus said. His uncle’s beard was grey. It had once been red.
‘Ares’ balls, boy!’ Diodorus looked around. ‘I have a hundred men – less. What the fuck?’
A flash of gold, and Crax cantered out of the dust. ‘You called,’ he said, his armour flashing.
Diodorus laughed. ‘Tyche is smiling!’ he shouted, and there was an answering roar from the rank behind him. ‘You have fourth troop?’
‘Six missing,’ Crax said, with a salute. ‘I’ll get them lined up with you.’
‘Satyrus says we’re on the flank of the phalanx, and that it’s that way. What do you think, Crax?’ Diodorus handed the canteen to the Getae officer.
Crax took the flask, drank deeply and put the wooden stopper back. ‘Sounds right to me,’ Crax said with a wink at Satyrus – a wink that Satyrus appreciated. Suddenly there was a great weight on his shoulders – the burden of everyone’s lives.
Crax was gone into the salt and Diodorus shouted, ‘Remount! Anyone have a horse!’
A trooper that Satyrus didn’t know pushed forward. ‘Here, Strategos!’
Satyrus went straight from his uncle’s crupper to the back of a dark bay with a beautiful animal-skin saddlecloth and silver mounts on the bridle.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘You owe him for the horse, boy!’ Diodorus said. ‘And the tack!’ He gave a wicked smile. Then he got his horse under him and motioned to Satyrus. ‘Someone get him a spear and a helmet. Right up with me, boy. You’re the guide. If we fight, get your animal in behind mine and keep your Ares-addled head down. Put that toy sword away. Now, which way?’
Satyrus found, to his immense joy, that he could feel which direction the phalanxes were. ‘If they haven’t moved,’ he muttered. His heart raced and felt a very different fear from the fear of being torn to pieces by elephants. This was the fear of disappointing his friends – of being a child. He nudged his horse into motion. ‘This way,’ he said.
‘March – walk!’ Diodorus called, and the trumpet rang out.
Satyrus sat straighter. He was actually leading a troop of cavalry.
Men rode up to Diodorus and then rode away, and there were more trumpet calls and more orders. Satyrus, an arm-length from the man he called his uncle, understood that Diodorus was trying to get his two troops aligned while still searching the battlefield for his two missing troops.
‘You know what you’re doing, boy?’ Diodorus asked after a few minutes’ riding.
‘Listen!’ Satyrus said. He could hear a low roar to the front and right.
‘Halt!’ Diodorus shouted. ‘No trumpet! Paches – get out there and tell me what you find – go a stade or two, no more!’
They were halted in a vast, rolling cloud of white and grey. There were bodies under their hooves, and as Satyrus watched, a pair of Thracian peltastai emerged from the white dust. They were so shocked that they stopped.
‘Eumenes?’ one asked. He gestured at the chaplet of roses he wore over his fox-hide cap.
Satyrus nodded. ‘Eumenes!’ he called.
By his shoulder, Crax rattled away in a barbarian tongue, and the two Thracians turned and ran off into the salt.
‘I said we were about to charge,’ Crax said. ‘I’ve found some troopers from second troop, but they’re lost. Maybe ten men.’
Diodorus took his helmet off. ‘I fucking hate this. Somebody could smack us silly and we’d never know they were coming. This dust could hide anything.’
‘Canteen’s empty,’ Crax said. He spat. ‘Worst dust I’ve ever seen. Fucking salt.’
Paches came out of the swirl. ‘Boy’s dead on,’ he said, with a salute towards Satyrus, whose heart filled with joy. ‘Less than two stades – the back ranks of their phalanx. Nothing in our way,’ the man continued, his voice rising with excitement.
Diodorus looked around. ‘Well,’ he said, pulling his helmet back on and tying the cheekpieces, ‘This is where we all get to be heroes.’ He looked at Satyrus. ‘Get in the middle, boy, so I can get you home alive.’ He turned his horse. ‘Everyone get it? Into the shieldless flank. Don’t fuck around. Get in deep and cause panic. Stay with me till you hear the trumpet. When they break, let someone else kill them – go forward to our lines. Understand? If you lose me, rally on the ravine. The camp is gone. READY?’
