Tyrant: Force of Kings (34 page)
A stade from his own camp, his rout slowed where the old man had a phalanx out on the open ground in good order, pikes braced. They stood their ground and the enemy declined the engagement, the barbarians slipping away, the enemy peltasts, if that’s what they were, forming at the edge of sight and slipping away.
Philip pulled his helmet off in disgust and rode over to the old man. ‘My apologies, lord,’ he said tersely.
Antigonus handed him a canteen. ‘We gave them too much time. Let them go.’
Philip shook his head. ‘It should have worked.’
Antigonus grunted. ‘No. It shouldn’t.’ He slapped Philip on the back. ‘I’m an old bastard and I need sleep. But next time I tell you something, just take my word for it. Eh?’
Philip took a long drink of sour wine, and spat.
Two stades away, Satyrus leaned on his remaining spear. At his side stood the Satrap of Thrace, Lysimachos.
‘I owe you,’ Lysimachos said. ‘Gods, that was almost worth the last three days.’
Satyrus nodded, almost invisible in the dark. ‘So … can you take some straight talk? Ally?’
Lysimachos nodded, grunted. ‘I like to think I’m famous for it.’
Satyrus opened his canteen, drank the vinegar, honey and water, and handed it to the Satrap of Thrace. ‘No advance north of Heraklea. No dicking about at Sinope. No troops in the Sakje hinterland – and I’ll know in hours, won’t I? No more playing at assassination. You and me – we’ll be allies. My sister will watch you like a hawk, and if I die, she’ll make you a bad enemy.’
Lysimachos coughed. ‘It was Cassander wanted you dead. He thought that if you and Stratokles joined forces …’ They turned, as if by common consent, and began walking back towards the pass. ‘I understand the joke. You
did
join forces, and the result was my rescue.’ He shrugged. ‘It was never personal.’
Satyrus’s voice was hard. ‘It’ll be fairly personal if you have me killed now. I’m just hoping you understand that. If the western Assagetae went into the Getae and Bastarnae, you’d lose all of Thrace – at least as long as the tribal fighting went on. To say nothing of what the fleet would do to your shipping.’
‘What do you want me to say?’ Lysimachos said. ‘I’m in the wrong. And you’ve saved my arse anyway.’
It occurred to Satyrus – sent by the gods, or perhaps something worse – that they were alone in the dark, and that he was almost certainly fresher and a better hand-to hand fighter. That he could put Lysimachos down, and probably take his army. Perhaps take Thrace.
‘When we reach Ephesus, I would like you to swear to Artemis to be my ally. I will swear, as well.’ Satyrus paused.
‘That’s it?’ Lysimachos said.
Satyrus was tempted to explain. But then he shook his head, covered by the darkness. Lysimachos was another kind of man, more like Stratokles than like Satyrus, and there was little ground between them.
‘That’s it,’ he said.
‘We can’t hold Ephesus,’ Satyrus admitted. They’d fallen back on the city, with Satyrus’s fresh troops as the rearguard. Antigonus hadn’t even followed them over the pass.
Lysimachos stared out to sea. ‘I thought that you had a fleet,’ he said.
‘I never had enough of a fleet to transport your army,’ Satyrus said. ‘Antigonus is going to march back to Magnesia and north over the high passes to cut us off from Phrygia and Heraklea.’
Nikephorus pointed at the hastily drawn chart on the table with a meat skewer. ‘South to Ptolemy,’ he said.
Diokles shook his head. ‘The word I have is that Ptolemy is almost back to Aegypt,’ he said.
Satyrus nodded. ‘That’s what Melitta said, and I have a message from Leon to the same effect.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s as if both sides are under a curse, never to get the accumulation of strength they need to break the deadlock.’ He looked at Lysimachos. ‘I fear that we are about to join you in retreat.’
‘Ares,’ Lysimachos said, and shook his head. ‘If he cuts north from Magnesia, he’s on the hub of the wheel, and we’re on the rim. We’ll have further to go.’
Nikephorus nodded. ‘Luckily, his cavalry isn’t worth spit in the mountains. They won’t even be faster.’
Lysimachos narrowed his eyes. ‘If he gets to Sardis first …’
Anaxagoras, who had spent the conversation working a haze of red rust from his spearhead, got up, wiped his hands on a towel held by a slave, and admired his work. ‘If he gets to Sardis first, we’ll be glad that we hold Ephesus,’ he said.
‘And you are?’ Lysimachos asked. His intention – rudeness – was plain.
‘Anaxagoras of Corinth, musician and philosopher,’ he said. ‘And you?’
Apollodorus laughed, and Lysimachos’s face grew hot. ‘I am the King of Thrace,’ he said.
‘Splendid. A pleasure to meet you. Shouldn’t we be marching?’ Anaxagoras asked.
Satyrus left Apollodorus as the garrison commander of the citadel with all of his marines – the cream of his infantry, and his best commander. But Apollodorus had clear orders: to hold the city only against the lightest of opposition, and otherwise to board Diokles’ ships and sail away.
‘If you lose the city, try to operate out of Lesbos – Mytilene or Mythymna will be opposite our operations,’ he said.
Diokles laughed. ‘I can
take
Lesbos with twenty-five ships and the marines,’ he said. ‘I could install Abraham as governor,’ he said wickedly. Abraham had looted the countryside around Mytilene years before, in another campaign. Diokles looked at Abraham, who didn’t really deserve his reputation as a ruthless pirate.
Abraham smiled. ‘Whatever you ask,’ he said. He looked ten years younger in chiton and chlamys and armour.
‘Don’t take Lesbos,’ Satyrus said. He clasped hands with his navarch and his best friend and Apollodorus, and mounted his horse. He was training his own cavalry escort – Charmides and twenty picked marines – chosen by Apollodorus.
‘Don’t go playing foot-slogger,’ Apollodorus warned.
Satyrus smiled. ‘I’ll try and be a king,’ he said.
Apollodorus flicked his eyes to where the King of Thrace stood with a mounted Thracian bodyguard. ‘Not like yon,’ he said.
Satyrus smiled, backed his horse a few steps, and turned away with a wave. But he felt a hand on his leg, and reined in, and there was Abraham.
‘You are making me ask, and that’s not the act of a friend,’ Abraham said.
Satyrus shook his head. ‘You must already know. Why rub salt in the wound?’ He looked around to see who was in earshot, but Apollodorus – with the look of a man who’s been warned off – was taking Diokles up the steps of the citadel.
‘I want you to tell me to my face. You think I’m just going to
accept
this?’ he asked. He growled through the last few words – very much the terror of the seas he’d been five years before.
Satyrus finally understood that there was a misunderstanding. ‘She told me
no
.’ He shrugged. ‘I offered to marry her.’
Abraham looked as if he’d been kicked. ‘She told you
no
?’ he said. ‘But she’s gone!’ He looked around somewhat wildly. ‘I assumed … that is, I feared … Oh, fuck it, Satyrus, I thought she’d gone to live in your tent. She’s threatened it to me often enough.’
Satyrus had to laugh, although there was no comedy to the moment. ‘I don’t have her, brother of my heart if not by birth. She threw my religion in my face and asked me to leave her. I did. I said things that I regret – I told her I could find another, and I lied. I won’t find another.’ He looked around – Nikephorus was holding a messenger by the arm, restraining him physically, and the world was running on. This was too public, and neither he nor Abraham could say … everything.
Abraham slammed his fist into his hand. ‘That explains your silence, right enough,’ he said. ‘Where is she?’
Satyrus sighed. ‘With Melitta. They were always friends back when they were children.’
Abraham shook his head. ‘No note?’ he asked.
Satyrus shrugged. ‘Brother, I’m as far at sea as you.’ He laughed bitterly. ‘I guess that was for the best, eh?’
Abraham narrowed his eyes. ‘You have it that bad?’ he asked.
Satyrus snorted. ‘Of course.’
Abraham straightened his shoulders. ‘The lord does these things for a purpose,’ he said. ‘Perhaps there is a purpose to all this.’
Satyrus raised an eyebrow. ‘Don’t let Diokles and Apollodorus fight,’ he said. ‘Find us more mercenaries if you can. I have to keep Lysimachos from undoing himself.’ He smiled. ‘And teach Charmides to ride.’
Abraham looked past his friend at Satyrus’s escort. ‘Good luck with that,’ he said.
His escort was tired by the second day, and hard by the fourth. Their riding improved, too, although it was almost a pleasure to watch beautiful, athletic Charmides fail at something. He was not a gifted rider, and he didn’t love horses.
Lysimachos’s Thracian nobles were excellent cavalrymen, as tough as Sakje – half of them were Getae, the hereditary enemies of the Western Assagetae. They were in the saddle from dawn to dusk, and aside from the handful who acted as bodyguard and couriers, the rest scoured the dusty hills to the north and east.
The army had food, and thanks to the citizens of Ephesus, who would never love them, they had baggage animals and carts, and the army’s baggage marched inside a tight square of Lysimachos’s most trustworthy phalangites. Satyrus kept his own troops together in one division – four thousand heavy infantry under Nikephorus, another thousand not as good under Stratokles and Herakles, and three hundred archers – armoured archers – under Scopasis, Melitta’s guard captain. Many of the archers – not all, but most – were Sakje or Persian, and while they had come as archers on warships, Satyrus found them horses around Ephesus and more horses in the valleys to the north, and every horse gave him another mounted archer; a far, far more valuable warrior. So far, Satyrus had sixty of them mounted.
Horses were rare in this part of Asia. More than that, though, was that mounted archers needed more than one horse per man. At home, on the Sea of Grass, the Assagetae counted a warrior poor if he had only four horses.
The fifth day of the retreat, and the process of breaking camp had become routine. Behind a screen of mounted men and an interior screen of formed infantry, the slaves and lower-class infantrymen struck the tents and the rude shelters that the poorer men built from whatever was to hand. The Thracians built huts – and burned them when they sauntered away.
Scopasis strolled up to Satyrus while he watched a dozen slaves – all his, at a remove – striking his small pavilion that his new butler had purchased – or had made – and loading his gear on a train of donkeys. The man was very good at his job, and freedom made him even better. Phoibos was his name – Apollo had sent him.
He’d paid cash for Satyrus’s baggage animals. They got the best. Most of the soldiers had simply taken the animals they needed.
‘Lord of the Marching Men,’ Scopasis began formally.
Satyrus grinned. The scarred Sakje was a former lover of his sister’s, a former outlaw, and one of the hardest men Satyrus had known – as hard as Apollodorus, or worse – and yet, his courtesy was somehow cautious and reticent. ‘Scopasis, how are you this morning?’
Scopasis bowed. ‘I wish to ask a favour, lord.’
Satyrus had seen that coming. It was written in every line of the man’s stance. ‘Ask away.’
‘I want to take my best – my own men – and leave the column.’ He took a breath. ‘For a few … days.’
Satyrus also took a deep breath, held it, counted to ten, and let it go. ‘Whatever for?’ he asked.
‘Horses,’ Scopasis said with a shrug. ‘Antigonus’s men have them. We need them. To be honest, lord, if we do not mount my people, some of them will walk back to the ships.’ He shrugged again. ‘We do not like to walk.’
Satyrus winced. But he knew that Scopasis wasn’t making this up.
‘What’s your plan?’ he asked.
Scopasis laughed.
Satyrus woke to hear the patter of rain on the roof of his tent. Most of Nikephorus’s pikemen would have no shelter but the Aeolian coast of Asia was not a damp climate, and he didn’t expect the rain to last. He turned over on his bed of fleeces and went back to sleep.
He awoke again to waves of rain – the slashes of water hit his pavilion roof like blows from a stick.
Charmides came in, his light wool chlamys wet through. ‘Zeus Hospites. Lord, Lysimachos says we must march.’
Satyrus rubbed his eyes. It was raining so hard that when a gust hit the roof of the pavilion, a fine haze of water appeared inside the tent. ‘I’m surprised the pegs didn’t pull,’ he said.
Charmides smiled. ‘There’s a dozen slaves standing in the rain holding your lines,’ he said.
Satyrus sighed. ‘Better the slave of a bad master,’ he quoted. ‘Need a dry chlamys?’
Charmides shook his head. ‘No point.’
‘Like that, is it?’ Satyrus asked.
An hour later, he was soaked to the skin, head down under a straw hat, riding like a farmer with his seat well back on his horse’s rump and his feet dangling. The water wasn’t cold, but it was
wet
. Shoots and falls of water decorated the steep hills on either side of the pass they were marching though, and the rocks were shining in the watery sun, and the sky was a pile of dark clouds, stacked one on another as thunderheads came in off the sea and raced inland.
That night, Phoibos shook his head. ‘It is
not
dry in there, lord,’ he said. He gestured at the pavilion, the lines taut as hawsers between fighting ships, the roof stretched tight. Sheets of rain flowed off it in waves of water. Inside, Phoibos had a smaller tent – almost certainly his own – set up. The inner tent protected Satyrus’s bedding.
‘I have some deer meat and a cup of wine, lord.’ He bowed his head.
‘Splendid,’ Satyrus said. ‘You are a miracle worker. Invite Charmides and Anaxagoras.’
