Satyrus rode up the ridge to see Tasda, a Tanais-Kelt he’d known all his life, greeting him from the picket.
‘Tasda!’ he called, and his voice cracked. He clasped hands with the man, who removed his helmet.
‘Your sister will rejoice,’ Tasda said soberly. ‘Keep going over the ridge. We have a laager.’
‘Is Antigonus here?’ Satyrus asked.
‘And Eumenes – our Eumenes, that is. We’re all that’s left of our cavalry,’ Tasda said soberly.
Satyrus grinned through his fatigue. ‘Diodorus and the rest are right behind me!’ he said, and all the pickets turned their heads, and Dercorix, another childhood acquaintance, came trotting over.
‘The strategos lives?’ he called.
‘I’ll be back,’ Satyrus said, and turned his horse down the hill.
In a quarter of an hour, they were all together. The officers strained their voices and their authority to keep men from embracing their women and their comrades, and despite the trials of the day, the hippeis got enough eudaimonia from the discovery of their missing comrades to get their horses groomed and their tack stowed before they collapsed to lie sprawled on the ground and be fed by their equally exhausted slaves and followers.
Satyrus and Melitta embraced while Theron berated them.
They ignored him. ‘I rescued this prince Herakles,’ Melitta said proudly, indicating a blond boy smaller than Satyrus who stood behind her. ‘The son of Iskander, no less!’
Satyrus grinned and hugged her again. ‘I didn’t manage anything so heroic,’ he said. ‘But I got to ride in a cavalry charge!’ He looked around. ‘Where’s Philokles?’
Theron spat. ‘Sitting with the women, basking in admiration,’ he said. ‘You are all insane.’
Satyrus couldn’t stop smiling, although he found that he was sitting and couldn’t get up. ‘You came with us of your own free will,’ he said.
Theron shook his head. ‘So I did,’ he said.
Melitta tugged his arm. ‘Come and meet Herakles,’ she said. ‘I like him.’
Just for a moment, Satyrus was jealous. He had never heard his sister like anyone with such fervour. ‘He can’t be much if you had to rescue him,’ Satyrus said.
Melitta gave him a look that indicated that he didn’t know much. ‘He was as smart as you,’ she said. ‘He didn’t lose his head.’
Satyrus was mollified by the comparison. He hugged his sister again. ‘Zeus, that was stupid, sister. What possessed us?’
‘The oath, silly,’ she replied. ‘We swore, right? So every time we have the ability, we have to fight.’
They came to Herakles, standing alone and self-conscious. He was a tall boy, blond like his father, but gawky, his features too sharp and his shoulders too narrow to be the child of a god. Some of the Olbian veterans were watching him, a few staring openly. He was, after all, Alexander’s son.
‘I hate being stared at by common people,’ Herakles said.
Satyrus felt an immediate contrariness for this awkward boy – an unfair dislike. He succumbed to it anyway, as he was tired and beginning to lose the daimon of war and to feel the collapse that followed. ‘No common people here,’ he said. ‘That big man staring at you is Carlus. He was my father’s bodyguard when he defeated your father at the Jaxartes River.’
‘My father was never defeated,’ Herakles responded hotly.
‘Have you ever met anyone who was there?’ Satyrus asked with lazy contempt. ‘Shall we ask Diodorus? Hama?’ He put a hand on the boy’s shoulder.
‘My father is a god!’ Herakles said. ‘You are just a decadent Greek.’
Something about the boy’s defiance made Satyrus smile. ‘Hey – Herakles. It’s okay. We’re alive and a lot of people aren’t. Assassins didn’t get us. Relax!’
Herakles looked around. ‘Why won’t my mother let me in the tent?’ he asked. ‘I hate it when she does this.’
Melitta rolled her eyes behind her new friend’s back, and Satyrus shook his head. ‘Let’s go and get some kykeon,’ he said, taking the boy by the shoulder and leading him away. Melitta shot him a look of thanks, and he shook his head.
It was odd, having a younger boy to support, because Satyrus’s feeling of disorientation vanished when he had to lead the boy. He walked straight up to Crax, who was surrounded by soldiers, and asked where he should put his blanket roll and whether he and the boy could get some food, and Crax dealt with him as if he was any other soldier.
‘Do I look like a hyperetes?’ Crax said. Then he scratched his dusty blond beard and relented. ‘Your baggage and your sister’s is in first troop’s row. There’s wine and salt-fish stew at the head of every street.’ He grinned. ‘Your Aunt Sappho did well for us.’
Satyrus walked down the rows of blanket rolls and packs that littered the ‘street’ (there were no tents) of his troop. He felt like a man. He found his sister’s red wool pack and then his own, opened his leather bag and removed the carefully wrapped gold cups. He also pulled out a wooden plate and a horn spoon.
‘Let’s eat,’ he said, walking back towards the head of the camp.
All around him, men were eating and then going straight to sleep in the evening sun. There was little talk and less laughter. Most men prayed, and many libations were poured in the white sand by men who had felt the hand of a god keeping them alive.
‘Why are they so quiet?’ Herakles asked suddenly. ‘Soldiers are usually so – boisterous.’
Satyrus looked at the other boy and felt old. ‘They fought a battle,’ he said. ‘You did too, or so my sister says.’ He looked at Melitta, who was walking with them, being silent and a little gawky – not herself at all. ‘Nobody feels like talking after a battle. Right?’
‘I do,’ Herakles said. ‘I never get to talk to anybody,’ he said. ‘And I didn’t get to do anything. Your sister rescued me.’
Melitta was starting to look uncomfortable. ‘You helped,’ she said. ‘You didn’t lose your nerve.’
‘My father would have killed them all and laughed,’ Herakles said miserably.
‘You need food,’ Satyrus said, trying to sound commanding. He scooped his wooden bowl full of kykeon, a rich porridge of soft cheese, barley meal and, in this case, wine. ‘Eat!’
Philokles walked up to the fire, filled his bowl and sat down. ‘Good evening,’ he said formally.
‘Good evening,’ Satyrus replied. He was a little shy of the Spartan, aware that he was guilty of gross disobedience.
‘The Lady Banugul is concerned for her son,’ Philokles said. ‘Herakles, you should go to her.’
‘She told me to leave the tent,’ Herakles said, between spoons of porridge.
‘She has just been made a widow,’ Philokles said. ‘Your stepfather-’
‘I have no stepfather. My father is Alexander, the God. My mother should never touch another man.’ Herakles spat the phrases as if he had learned them by rote.
Philokles took a deep breath. ‘Young man, you are not my pupil. But if you were,’ and he gave Satyrus a significant look, ‘I would tell you that your father’s godhood is neither here not there for you – that you are responsible only for your own acts, and need have no concern for your mother or your father. And condemning your mother to a life of celibacy is unfair.’
‘Easy for you to say – you just want to fuck her like every other man.’ Herakles turned his head away.
‘I assure you that I have no interest in sex with your mother. And if you were my pupil, I would now proceed to beat you to obedience.’ Philokles shot Satyrus a look, and Satyrus sighed.
‘Why did you rescue her then?’ Herakles asked. ‘Men only do things for her for one reason – she says it herself!’
Philokles smiled – a look that neither Satyrus nor Melitta had seen in a long time. ‘Once,’ he said, ‘your mother made a poor decision, and tried to kill Satyrus’s father – and me.’ He raised an eyebrow at Herakles. ‘This is an adult explanation. Are you prepared to be an adult, young man?’
Herakles looked around – at Melitta, most of all. ‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Your mother tried to kill us. Instead, we killed all her soldiers. Then, Satyrus’s father gave her an escort and let her go. I wanted her killed.’ Philokles sat back.
Herakles swallowed, hard.
‘When time had passed, I saw how Kineas’s – how Satyrus’s father’s mercy had been the right decision, for
