Funeral Games (32 page)

‘Eumenes,’ Philokles said. He was on his feet. Philokles gave a salute in the Spartan fashion.

‘By all the gods, a Spartan. You have the better of me, sir.’ Eumenes extended an arm, leaning down from the saddle.

Philokles took his hand and clasped it. ‘Philokles - a friend of your strategos Diodorus, and of Kineas, whom you fought in Bactria. These are his children.’

Eumenes grimaced. ‘You could put them in with Herakles. We could start a nursery for orphans of great generals!’ He looked down at them, imperious in purple and silver. ‘What do you think, boy?’

‘I think that you’re hiding your elephants in that dust cloud,’ Melitta said. ‘And you’re going to break the enemy in the centre.’

‘I think Uncle Diodorus’s flank extends well beyond his opponent’s,’ Satyrus piped up. ‘And they’re already scared.’

‘Not bad,’ Eumenes said, looking like a man who had all day to discuss his tactics with children. ‘Not bad at all. But here’s the question, boys and girls. He has more cavalry than I do. Yet - his battle line is shorter.
Where is the rest of the cavalry?
That is what I rode up here to see.’

Satyrus and Melitta exchanged a glance.

Eumenes went on, speaking mostly to himself. ‘Battles happen because both generals think that they are in a superior position, and one of them is always wrong,’ he said. ‘Or because one of them is desperate. I’m not desperate. My phalanx is better and I have more elephants. One-Eye has more cavalry. It is his only advantage, beside the fact that he’s a Macedonian and I’m a Greek.’ He took a linen towel from his satchel and wiped his brow. ‘So where the fuck is it?’ he went on. ‘If he’s sent it out on the flanks - well, I may have crushed his centre before they arrive. No dust cloud. I guess they could be coming behind that range of hills to the west, but that’s twenty stades.’

He pushed his towel back in his satchel. ‘Well, Spartan, enjoy your view. Children, consider this a lesson.’ Without another word, he waved at his entourage and galloped down the face of the bluff, raising a cloud of dust that took ten minutes to dispel and obscured their view of the battlefield.

Theron opened a basket and served a late breakfast of figs and dates. All of them enjoyed the rich fruits, and they were quite sticky before the dust cleared.

‘So that was Eumenes the Cardian,’ Satyrus said.

‘In the life,’ Philokles answered.

‘What do you think he meant about this being a lesson?’ Satyrus asked.

Philokles got the look that both twins associated with lessons. ‘What did Eumenes say was the key to battle? Why do battles happen?’

Satyrus nodded seriously. ‘Battles happen because both generals believe they are superior, and one of them is wrong,’ he said.

Melitta jabbed him with an elbow.

‘In this case, I believe that Eumenes has decided that his opponent is staking his battle on a flank march. Eumenes is staking his on his elephants.’ Philokles pointed out at the field, where the curtain of dust was slowly subsiding. ‘One of them is wrong.’

‘Who?’ Melitta asked.

‘Ask Zeus,’ Theron said. ‘Look!’

Out on the plain, Eumenes’ whole line had started forward. The apparent confusion of his left was now revealed as a ruse, with the whole force of his elephants guarding the left of his phalanx and walking boldly forward a stade or so behind the main line. On the right, Diodorus’s cavalry was already well down the field and pressing on.

‘But—’ Satyrus was hopping up and down. ‘But - nothing was happening! ’

Philokles’ voice sounded strange, almost as if he were drunk. ‘Once a battle starts,’ he said, ‘it moves fairly fast.’

As they watched, both sides manoeuvred, pushing the last units into line or trying to straighten the more ragged divisions, but both sides had some forces in motion and any form of uniformity was shredded, except in the centres, where the phalanxes marched forward in order. They appeared about equal in size, and they were getting closer to each other - less than a stade apart now.

‘This is the worst part for the men in the ranks,’ Philokles said. ‘When you can see that wall of spear points coming at you, you feel naked. Nothing but honour - and fear of the contempt of the gods and your friends - can keep your feet moving forward. Your heart races as if you’re about to die. Perhaps you are.’ He looked away. ‘Poor bastards. May the gods stand with every one of them.’

‘Look! Our men are winning!’ Melitta cried. She was watching the cavalry on the right, where Diodorus was stationed.

‘Ares!’ Theron said. ‘That was fast.’

Philokles shook his head. ‘Either One-Eye has set a trap and Philip has fallen for it, or One-Eye has made an error.’

Satyrus caught the flash of sun on weapons to the far right. ‘It
is
a trap. Oh, Uncle Diodorus!’

Even as the whole line - the rather thin line - in front of Diodorus buckled and fled, his prodromoi were struck in the flank by lancers coming over the low ridge to the east. But the contest was by no means one-sided, and just before the battle haze hid the action on the right from them, they saw a whole regiment of Diodorus’s cavalry come out of the distant dust and fall on the ambushers, who were in turn the ambushed, while his main force continued straight on.

‘What happened?’ Satyrus asked.

Philokles stroked his beard for several minutes. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Cavalry fights are fast and confusing. It’s like watching a pair of dogs go for the throat - until one lies dead, it is hard to guess who will win. But Diodorus has been at this for longer than you’ve been alive. I’d guess he walked into that with his eyes open.’

As Philokles spoke, the phalanxes in the centre moved so close to each other as to look like a single mass. And then both seemed to stop moving forward, but they both kept moving from the back. As a child, Satyrus had once watched two caterpillars collide on a narrow branch, their heads locked together while their rear legs kept moving, and the phalanxes were much the same. And then the noise carried to them, a strain of a paean and the crash as the two great bodies met.

‘They both stood,’ Philokles said.

‘They were both moving,’ Theron countered.

‘That’s not what I mean,’ Philokles said testily. ‘What I should have said is that neither broke before contact. It often happens that way, although no one likes to speak of it later.’

‘Look!’ Melitta said, grabbing her brother’s shoulder and pulling at it.

Satyrus tore his eyes from the death struggle in the centre and the elephants marching stolidly up from the second line. Eumenes’ left, the part with his elite cavalry, closest to camp, was about to be struck in the flank by a tidal wave of cavalry. Satyrus had missed their appearance. ‘Where did they come from?’ he asked.

Melitta shook her head. She was chewing her lips. ‘They’re going to sweep right over our cavalry,’ she said.

‘Right into the flank of the phalanx,’ Theron said.

‘It’s not unlike watching the climax of a race,’ Philokles said. ‘Except that the contestants are dying.’

‘Diodorus needs to turn into the flank of the enemy phalanx,’ Satyrus added, after a tense silence.

Eumenes’ elite cavalry were outnumbered, and their dislike of their employer showed in the haste of their 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.

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.