The Blood Star (68 page)

“My vengeance is satisfied, but that of the
gods is like the dry sand that will drink tears forever and know no
end.”

“Then at least might I be allowed to see the
prince’s corpse, that his father may know the manner of his
death?”

“Of course.”

I had already ordered the funeral pyre built,
at a spot not far from a gully that was being used as the camp’s
refuse pit—a fact which was not lost on the king’s emissary. The
dead prince, stripped down to his loincloth, lay on a bed of logs,
ready to receive the torch. His belly was still bathed in blood,
and the wound under his rib cage was large enough that a man might
have slipped three fingers into it.

“An hour after sunset,” I said, “I will light
the fire with my own hand. Then Ducerius will never know if the
dust the sightless wind blows in his face might not have mixed in
it the ashes of his own son.”

“Is there no way then my master can reclaim
the Lord Volesus’ corpse?”

The old man’s voice was full of tears—the
gods knew what wrath he faced when he returned—and I pitied him.
Yet one to whom the lives of many have been entrusted must learn a
certain shamelessness.

“There is one.”

We could still see the walls of Ducerius’
citadel from where we stood, and as I glanced up at them I found
myself wondering if the king might not even now be watching us from
his battlements. I found the idea strangely distasteful.

It was almost with relief that I turned back
to his emissary.

“As I have said, I will stay my torch through
this day. The Lord Ducerius has that long to win back his son’s
corpse by the might of his hand.”

As I watched the old man ride back to report
to his master all that I had said, I thought, It is decided. He
cannot refuse now, or he will be shamed forever. Before the sun
sets, the deathless gods will have chosen between us.

It was three hours before sunset as we ranged
for battle across the empty plain. Every man knew what we risked on
this one throw of the lots. Save for the wind, whispering through
the dry grass like the voice of prophecy, there was hardly a
sound.

The horses seemed aware that something was
about to happen. They snorted tensely and changed their footing,
making the chariot rock back and forth, back and forth, so that I
had to hold them in check with the reins. We all waited, men and
animals alike.

And then, at last, the great gate to the
citadel opened out and columns of men began to file through and
down the road to the plain. Very quickly we could see that this was
not a patrol in force but an army. Ducerius had taken the bait.

They came down in rows of four abreast, and
the first had almost reached the plain before we saw the end. At
the very least four hundred men, about fifty of them mounted and
the rest on foot. In his determination to crush us, the king held
nothing back.

There is little enough that one can tell from
the mere appearance of soldiers, and a commander watching his enemy
must always beware of seeing only what he most wishes or fears to
see. I saw an army of seasoned men, confident, even arrogant,
expecting to make quick work of us and to be back in their barracks
for supper. This might be good or bad, depending on how the Greeks
stood the first shock of battle.

They carried few spears but trusted to their
short swords, for combat to them was but a series of personal
duels. Their arms were of bronze and thus we had the advantage of
them in weaponry, yet a man can die upon the point of a wooden
stake if he lacks either skill or luck. I did not think that iron
or bronze would make the difference.

And they had no chariots, this being a style
of warfare unknown to them. We had one, of indifferent
construction, driven by a pair of horses that until the day before
had never pulled together. It was a questionable asset.

If the Greeks held, how much blood would
these Sicels be willing to spill to contest the field? How badly
did they wish to triumph?

The whole art of war is the application of
strength against an opponent’s weakness—what was their weakness? I
had little enough time to discover it.

I wheeled the chariot out in front of the
five battle squares into which the Greek militia was arranged. Back
and forth I rode, back and forth, encouraging them while we waited
for Ducerius’ army to draw up into ranks.

“Hold it in your minds that this army has but
one neck—we have only to hack it through and we will triumph, no
matter how many soldiers they field. Drive for the center. Break
them without being broken. Only have the bowels to conquer and by
sunset their women will be howling like beaten dogs. Ducerius the
king thinks he will make a meal of us, but so did the bandit
Collatinus and we brought his head home in a leather bag. Be
stubborn—take them by the throat and do not let go until your jaws
close.”

“We will be dog soldiers,” someone called out
from the ranks, making everyone laugh.

“And, Tiglath, you thief, mind you take good
care of my horse,” I heard Callias shout after me. The men were in
high spirits—frightened, as was only reasonable, but cheerful. This
was a good sign.

All the time, as the Greeks bandied jests
with me and with each other, I had one eye for Ducerius’ army,
watching as they formed their lines for battle.

And that was all they were—merely lines, five
rows of men, one after the other, separated by eight or ten paces.
They thought they could overwhelm us with sheer numbers. We would
have to see.

It is not an easy thing to face so many men
across perhaps a hundred paces of empty plain. The waiting is what
makes it hard.

Then, quite suddenly, it began. As if
startled awake, the Sicel horsemen charged, screaming wildly as
they brandished their swords overhead. It was beautiful, in its
way.

My men had forgotten nothing since the
campaign against the brigands. When the enemy riders had crossed
half the distance to our lines, the five battle squares launched
their arrows, in five waves following one upon the other. I think
perhaps as many as twelve of the Sicels dropped lifeless from their
saddles or had their horses killed under them—of itself it was
almost enough to break their charge. A second volley, and then a
third, and no more than twenty of the enemy horsemen reached our
lines.

And of these, many perished on the spears of
our first line, but the rest, those who broke in on men who had not
fought on the Salito Plain, or had not learned its cruel lessons,
before they were driven off, those few brought a terrible slaughter
to the Greeks. In war men pay with their blood when they forget to
angle their spears properly, or suffer an instant of failing
courage, and many were crushed beneath the hooves of the Sicel
horses, even as those horses stumbled and died, spilling their guts
onto the parched ground.

Yet that one charge, bitter and costly though
it was, was the last Ducerius’ cavalry could mount against us. When
it had spent itself, the king’s horsemen could only mill aimlessly
about, hacking at a spearman here and there, reduced to a nuisance
rather than a threat.

From then on it was a foot soldier’s war.

And it was only after the cavalry charge that
the battle began for me. I had driven the chariot out, hoping to
distract the Sicels a little and to help blunt their attack, but
they seemed not to know what to make of me and, being more agile,
declined my challenge and kept away. But when Ducerius unleashed
the first two waves of his infantry, men who had only their own
legs to carry them, then my moment came.

There is nothing like a chariot for spreading
terror. And terror is the mother of confusion, whose child is
defeat. I cannot claim I killed so many Sicels that day, although
more than a few bodies were broken beneath my wheels, but I made
the king’s soldiers know that fear which burns on the tongue like
the taste of copper. They learned there was no safety in their
lines of attack and their short swords. I scattered them like the
dust.

When first they beheld me driving down upon
them, their mouths dropped open with astonishment. They seemed
unable to move, as if they could hardly believe that I actually
intended to ride over them. And at the last second they parted
before me—those who were quick enough—like standing grain before
the charge of a wild boar. As I passed I gave out death with a
generous hand, stabbing many with my javelin.

There is an excitement in battle that is like
no other. Men hacked at me with their swords. Arrows flew past me,
yet I heeded them no more than the buzzing of flies. I did not
think of danger. I felt as if my skin were gray iron that nothing
could pierce. I was not so much brave as, I think, a little
mad.

But I taught the Sicels fear. Their lines
weakened, they had no time to reform them, and when they charged
our battle squares they broke as does the sea against an
outcropping of rock.

And my valiant Greeks, how they fought!
Theirs was not the witless frenzy of war but the true, steady
courage of men who face death with cold hearts. And many did die,
for the Sicels were true soldiers and understood the arts of
killing. But the Greeks never faltered. They kept their squares
tight, and when a man in the first rank fell, another stood in his
place before his spear could touch the ground. Where the Sicels
each fought bravely, each one alone, the Greeks fought bravely
together, making of themselves an engine of slaughter.

Ducerius released wave after wave of his
soldiers, but as the Sicel attack began to weaken, the five battle
squares began to advance. The middle square pushed ahead of the
others so that the whole was like a wedge, splitting the enemy in
two, and those unlucky enough to be caught between our formations
were ground as under a millstone.

It was a time of great carnage, and many men
died on both sides. I tore back and forth across the field until at
last my chariot lost a wheel and I had to cut the horses free and
fight my way back to the Greek lines, killing four men before I
reached them.

No one even greeted me as I took my place in
the front line—there was no time. We were all covered with sweat
and bloody dirt. There was no glory now, only the hard, hazardous
work of war as we fought to live and conquer.

I caught a glimpse of Ducerius only at the
end. I saw him riding away on his fine gray stallion, back up to
his citadel, followed by a group of officers. It was a clear sign
he knew the day was lost.

I was not the only one who witnessed
Ducerius’ flight, and men will not fight when they have been
deserted by their leaders. Defeat spread among the king’s soldiers
like a contagion. Just as they had made war as individuals, as
individuals, first one and then another, they decided they were
beaten. As with one who suddenly realizes that his hand is in the
bear’s mouth, they started to pull back, and soon they were running
away in a mob. Theirs was not a withdrawal, but a rout.

What followed was little less than a
massacre. With a wave of my hand I called in our horsemen, who had
been waiting until that moment, and they swooped down upon the
scattering army like hawks after mice. In their panicked flight the
Sicels left behind them a wide trail of corpses.

At last, exhausted, we gave up our pursuit.
Ducerius’ army was in full retreat, streaming back toward his
citadel, leaving fully two thirds of his men dead or dying on the
field. We looked about us, feeling like butchers. None of us had
any more taste for killing.

The sun was already on the horizon. In a
quarter of an hour it would be dark. As the battle ended, the Greek
women took possession of the field their men had won. Some looted
corpses, the rest tended the wounded and the dying.

But most of us walked away from this battle.
We looked about us, a little astonished to be alive, none more so
than Kephalos, who had sustained a cut about three fingers wide
just above the elbow. It was bleeding copiously but did not look
dangerous—indeed, he seemed very pleased with it.

“We won,” he exclaimed, so breathless that
the words were hardly more than a murmur. “Master, we have
conquered.”

His eyes were wet, whether from joy or simple
fatigue it was impossible to say, but he was a happy man.

“Yes—now all debts are paid.”

“Yes.” He nodded, several times, as if the
significance of the fact were only just beginning to sink in. “Yes,
now all debts are paid.”

“Have that wound cleaned out,” I told him.
“Have one of the women. . .”

“I shall see to it myself, Lord,” he said,
taking his hand away to examine the blood on his fingers. “I am,
after all, a physician, and the pain is nothing.”

I watched him trudge back to our camp, weary
but satisfied. He would be all right now. There would be a limit to
his grief, for he had avenged Ganymedes and was at peace with
himself. And he would have a fine scar to prove it. That was all,
just a scar.

Not everyone, however, had been so
fortunate.

“Tiglath?”

I heard a weak voice and glanced down. It was
Diocles, lying on the ground, half covered by his shield and with a
sword cut in his side—the hand that held it together was caked with
blood. I knelt down beside him. He smiled.

“We won,” he murmured. His joy was the same
as Kephalos’, as that of all the others, a mixture of astonishment
and relief. It did not seem to matter that he had sacrificed his
life to achieve it.

“By the Mouse God’s. . .”

And then death darkened his eyes.

I rose to my feet, black anger welling up in
me once more, as if this battle were still to be fought.

Perhaps not all debts had been paid.

But we had won. Diocles had at least seen us
victorious, although his life was only one of many this victory had
cost us. In all, some thirty-two Greeks perished on the Plain of
Clonios, a heavy toll in a force of less than two hundred men, yet
our own losses were small compared to the enemy’s. The next
morning, when it was light enough to survey the field, we counted
over three hundred Sicel corpses. The army of Ducerius had been
bled white.