Tyrant: King of the Bosporus (55 page)

Both sides were tired, and neither side formed quickly. Nikephoros’s men marched to the right and then back to the left, and the phalanx of Olbia shadowed them, moving east and west along the riverbank.

‘Should we worry that our backs are to the river?’ Melitta asked her brother.

‘Yes,’ he said. Then he shot her a grin. ‘You scared the
shit
out of Eumeles.’

She nodded. ‘I’ve been to some dark places.’ She retied the sash at her waist for the thirtieth time. ‘But I’m glad they taught me something useful.’

Satyrus nodded. ‘Me, too.’ He took her hand again, raised it and called to the men and women around them. ‘If I fall,’ he said, ‘I name Melitta’s son Kineas my heir.’

No one cheered, but people nodded. It was good to know that there was continuity. A man who saw him fall might keep fighting if he thought that Satyrus’s death didn’t mean defeat.

‘We aren’t making a speech?’ Melitta asked.

‘If they take any longer forming up, we’ll be fighting tomorrow,’ Satyrus said. He looked for Coenus, who was at his shoulder. None of his companions – Helios, Abraham, Neiron, Diokles – were horsemen. But Satyrus was fighting mounted in the middle of the aristocrats of Olbia because that was where the king had to be. Melitta had all of her guard to back them up, and Satyrus had Coenus.

Coenus pushed his big mare forward.

‘Should I be making a speech?’ Satyrus asked.

Coenus pointed across to where Upazan was trying to get his flank to refuse so that he wouldn’t lose more men to the javelins and arrows coming from the sailors. Even as Satyrus watched, he saw the Cretan Idomeneus stand up on the pilings of the camp and shoot one of Upazan’s knights out of his saddle at two hundred paces. The whole of the Sauromatae line
moved
.

Satyrus turned to Melitta. ‘You, or me?’

Melitta touched Gryphon’s side. ‘Together. You talk. I’ll wave.’

They rode the line from one end to the other. At the eastern end were the farmers – almost three thousand of them, facing Nikephoros’s few peltasts and open fields beyond. They were eager. They began to cheer. Satyrus raised his sword and Melitta took off her helmet and shook out her hair so that it streamed behind her, and they rode.

After the farmers were the hoplites of Olbia and the taxeis of Draco’s veterans. The Olbians cheered hard enough, and the Macedonians stood their ground – resigned to another day fighting for foreigners. Satyrus reined in to the front of Amyntas.

‘Macedonians!’ he said. ‘If we triumph today, every one of you will be a farmer on the Euxine tomorrow!’

That
got a cheer, and they were off again, crossing the centre. There, Satyrus waved. ‘Do you remember my father?’ he called to the Olbians, and they roared. ‘Say
Kineas
!’ and they roared it out, and he was away, Melitta at his heels, riding across the front of the Sakje. Satyrus reined up, but it was Melitta who spoke. She reared Gryphon and pointed at her brother.

‘I promised Eumenes, and he is here. I promised Satyrus, and he is here. I promised one last battle, and it is here. Avenge my mother! Avenge my father! Avenge your own dead! Today!’

And they cheered – men and women who had been in action for seven days, but they cheered. Some of Ataelus’s Sakje had fewer than twenty arrows in their quivers, but they cheered.

‘He’s got to come or he’s done,’ Satyrus said, pointing at Upazan’s golden helmet. ‘The sailors are hurting him. Either he charges or he rides away.’ He put his heels to his horse and rode towards the camp, where Abraham was standing on the wall with Demostrate and Panther and Diokles. Satyrus reined in under the wall.

‘Anything you can do,’ he said. ‘Just the archery is helping.’

Panther nodded. ‘We’ll do what we can,’ he said.

Abraham had his armour on and a shield on his arm. ‘I have two hundred marines,’ he said. ‘If I can, we’ll come into their flank. Right now, we cover the archers.’

Satyrus snapped a salute and Melitta blew Abraham a kiss. He turned as red as blood over his beard, and men laughed at him.

And then they saw Upazan’s line start forward.

‘Back where we belong!’ Melitta called, and they rode like the wind.

Satyrus got a new horse – his was already blown – but Gryphon was still as strong as an ox, and Melitta stayed with him. She had forty arrows. She loosened her akinakes in her scabbard and watched her brother check his weapons.

‘Long time since I fought mounted,’ he said.

And then Eumeles raised his arm a stade away, and the whole enemy line came forward.

Satyrus looked at the sky. ‘Already late,’ he said. He drew his sword – Kineas’s sword – and just the sight of it caused men among the Olbians to shout.

‘Nike!’ he cried.

Eumenes’ trumpeter sounded the call, and they went forward.

Satyrus went from the walk to the trot with the front line and let himself obey like a trooper. He saw Melitta’s set face – she was aiming for Eumeles.

So was he.

He angled to cover her flank, and saw Scopasis, her guard commander, do the same on the other side.

Ten horse-lengths from the enemy, and they were a wave of riders, their mouths open, the horses as wild-looking as the men. Eumeles was a rank or more back, not in the front.

Both sides shot their arrows, but the Sakje bows were dry and strong, and the Sauromatae arrows reaped half the shades that the Sakje arrows took.

Satyrus felt a blow as an arrow hit his chest and all the breath went out of his body. He tried to get his arm up but something hit his head and he almost lost his seat. As his horse burst through the first line of enemy riders he was struggling to breathe but he managed to get his sword up and parry a cut from a man going by.

Coenus was there, and his arm moved as fast as a striking cat’s paw.
A Sauromatae knight went down, armour clattering even over the rage of battle, and
that fast
the air was full of dust.

Satyrus finally ripped some air into his lungs and the pain almost made him vomit, then he put his bridle hand to his gut, glanced down—

The arrow was point-deep in the muscle of his stomach. He pulled at it. The barbs ripped his flesh and the leather lining of his thorax – caught. Growing fear and pain powered his arm until he tore the head free and blood coursed out, but he could
breathe
and he was not dead.

He dropped the arrow. The fight was all around him. He put his knees to his mount, sawed the reins and caught a long cut from a Sauromatae knight. He pushed forward and cut the man from the saddle, the sword easily penetrating his leather armour. He was deep in their formation now – no fault of his own – but the men around him seemed uninterested in fighting him. He cut down two more, riding in close and stabbing, and saw Coenus’s blue plume. He leaned and his horse obeyed his change of seat, turning sharply. He parried a cut and got his charger in close to Coenus.

And there was Melitta. He watched her shoot a man out of the saddle. She used her bow the way another fighter would use a lance – close in. Even as he watched, she put the point of an arrow almost against a man’s chest and released as she rode by, so that he exploded backwards over the tail of his horse.

And then he saw Eumeles. The tall man was fighting with a mace, a long-handled weapon with a head of solid gold. Whatever his failing, he was no coward.

If Satyrus had had a javelin, he could have killed the man easily.

Nothing worth doing is ever easy.

Satyrus pushed his borrowed horse forward and slammed into Eumeles’ horse, head to flank, so that the other horse stumbled – a magnificent white charger, probably a Nisaean.

Eumeles turned and swung the mace, catching Satyrus’s horse a glancing blow on the head – and then their eyes locked.

‘Here’s where we settle the battle,’ Eumeles said.

Satyrus’s horse was hurt – it bucked, rose on its haunches and shook. Satyrus struggled to keep his seat and Eumeles swung at him with the mace, catching his left hand on the reins.

Satyrus rammed his heels into his horse to no effect. He cut at
Eumeles, but the taller man had a better horse and managed to stay just out of his reach. He flicked the mace and Satyrus only just avoided losing his sword.

‘I kill you, and the rest is easy,’ Eumeles said.

Satyrus couldn’t control his mount, and Coenus was locked spear to spear with another man. Satyrus’s thoughts flashed to Sappho:
Eumeles could say the same of your mother! He killed her because he feared her!

Satyrus’s horse was shuddering. The mace blow had hurt it – there was blood in one ear.

‘Kill me, and you will
still
lose this battle.’ Satyrus had to shout, but Eumeles heard. ‘
And
your kingdom. You are a fool, Eumeles.’

Eumeles flushed with anger. Being smarter – cleverer – than other men was the measure of his life. The word ‘fool’ carried. It struck like a blow.

Satyrus followed it up as if it was part of a combination. Just for a moment, the gods gave him control of his horse. He thumped its sides like a boy on his first horse and it leaped forward, breast to breast with the big Nisaean. Satyrus let go of the reins and got his left hand on Eumeles’ elbow as he cocked back his mace for the final strike and pushed – the simplest of pankration moves. Then he smashed the pommel of his father’s sword into the open face of Eumeles’ helmet.

Satyrus’s horse stumbled but he managed to cut the tyrant across the thigh under his guard, then he caught at Eumeles and dragged him from the saddle as his own horse went down. The tyrant screamed, front teeth gone, and rolled clear. Satyrus grabbed his ankle and got a kick in the head from his free leg. Satyrus was on the ground but he cut overhand with the sword in his right hand and landed a blow on Eumeles’ breastplate. It held. Eumeles had his hand on his sword and he drew it and kicked Satyrus again. Satyrus rolled and parried. He locked his legs around the other man’s trunk and sat up. His side flared like fire, but he got his sword point in under Eumeles’ arm—

An arrow had appeared in Eumeles’ throat. Satyrus looked up and Melitta was leaning over, reaching for another arrow.

‘We got him!’ she shouted. ‘Now it’s our time!’

Satyrus sat still for long heartbeats, looking into the empty eyes of his enemy. There was, truly, nothing there.

‘You need a horse,’ Coenus said.

Satyrus forced himself to his feet, his gut throbbing. Coenus had the tyrant’s Nisaean. He looked taller than a mountain.

I get to try this once,
Satyrus thought.
And then I just won’t be able to.

He got up on an aspis and flung himself – fatigue, hurt gut, arm wound and all – at the saddle. He got his right knee over the horse’s back and clung – a pitful figure of a king, he assumed – for a long moment, and then his knees were locked against the tall horse’s sides and he had the reins in his hand. He pulled off his helmet and gulped air. No one was watching except Coenus, who looked concerned, and Satyrus managed a smile.

He looked around. Eumeles’ centre was going with his death. The Sauromatae in the middle had had enough, and they broke, and the Olbians and the best of the Sakje knights exploded through them, shredding their formation and then harrying the survivors. Satyrus let them go, pulling up in the dust to check his own wound. He felt weak. But he was
alive.

The blood from his gut ran all the way down his crotch, but it was slowing. Unless the tip had been poisoned . . .

The thought made him feel weak. And it hurt.

Coenus reined in at his side. ‘How bad, king?’

Satyrus had to smile. ‘You’ve never called anyone king, old man!’

Coenus pointed behind them. ‘Eumeles is dead. You are the king. I ought to get you off the field.’

Satyrus shook his head. ‘No king worth following would quit the field until it was won. Upazan’s still on the field,’ he said, ‘and Nikephoros. Find me that trumpeter and rally the Olbians. We need to help somebody. My money is on Ataelus.’

Coenus found the
hyperetes
, and the trumpet calls to rally rang out over the rout of the centre.

Melitta heard the calls and she slowed Gryphon. She was unwounded, and he was still as strong as he’d been when she mounted in the morning. She patted his neck and looked for Scopasis – right at her elbow.

Behind him, Laen and Agreint and Bareint and all the rest of her knights. No one seemed to be missing.

No brother.

‘Where’s my brother?’ she asked.

Scopasis shook his head. His full-faced Thracian helmet made him
look sinister, a monster with a beard of bronze. ‘I saw him remount,’ he said. ‘Coenus put him up on Eumeles’ horse.’ He shrugged. ‘You ride away. I follow you.’

The Sindi waved an axe. ‘We broke them!’ he shouted.

She wished she had her own trumpeter. The Olbian hyperetes was sounding a recall, but he was a stade behind her and half of the centre was with her, the rest far down the field.

‘We should go to the left,’ she said.

No one questioned her. So they turned their horses east, ignoring the call of the trumpet. Men formed on her household – many of them Sakje, like Parshtaevalt, who came and rode with her as they turned.