Force of Kings

11

Aslave woke Satyrus when the sun was fully above the rim of the world. He rose with the feeling of impending doom, and said prayers in the household alcove with Apollodorus and two slaves — the only others up to greet the sun.

‘Garrison’s in the citadel,’ Apollodorus said tersely. ‘I left Draco in command.’

‘I told you to take command,’ Satyrus said.

‘You aren’t allowed out without a keeper,’ Apollodorus said. ‘Your sister’s orders.’

‘Where is she?’ Satyrus asked.

Apollodorus pointed. Out in the bay, one of the squadrons was just getting clear of the beach.

‘Diokles is to stay to keep you clear of Antigonid ships,’ Apollodorus said. ‘Melitta is taking the main fleet back to the Propontus.’

‘So she told me last night,’ Satyrus said. ‘I see Scopasis.’

‘He told her she was wrong and stayed to help you. He brought another forty Sakje — ten ships’ worth of archers.’ Apollodorus shook his head. ‘She made quite a scene. You slept through it.’

‘Poor Melitta,’ he said. Scopasis was a big man, and his eyes were blank. He had been an outlaw. And he looked it.

‘You had other things on your mind last night,’ Anaxagoras said, emerging from the courtyard. ‘Melitta said she’d try to talk sense into you.’

‘Hmm. If you agree with her, why didn’t you go with her?’ Satyrus asked.

Anaxagoras raised an eyebrow. ‘Did I say that I agreed? I simply said that I would abide by your decision. Look, here I am. You know that she took Miriam?’

Satyrus had intended to try and remonstrate with Miriam one more time — and there she was, sailing away. ‘I knew last night.’

‘She left you all the fighting trierarchs and all her marines. She’ll leave a squadron in the Propontus.’ He grinned. ‘Just for the record, I think she’s wrong. I think we have to do this.’

Now he was being ushered out the door by his staff, who were working efficiently and who were, he could tell, all too aware of his feelings. That alone made him angry — that and the feeling of being cosseted.

The butler stood in the doorway, wearing a plain linen chiton and holding a staff. He bowed deeply.

Satyrus nodded to him. ‘You like it here?’ he asked.

The man raised an eyebrow — a very expressive eyebrow, which suggested that no man, no matter how comfortable, could ‘like’ slavery.

‘If you will come and run my military household, I’ll free you on the spot. Today. I’ll leave your price for Demetrios.’ Satyrus thought that this might be the way to propitiate the gods. Or simply to do something worthy. This morning, death seemed very near.

The man bowed. ‘Lord, I am your man,’ he said.

Satyrus nodded to Charmides. ‘See to it. Install him as my butler and have him arrange for a tent and military equipage. A dozen slaves to do the work. I expect this to be a long campaign, friends. Get what you need here.’

Charmides nodded. ‘As you say, lord.’

Satyrus nodded at the young man. Charmides reminded him of someone — especially when he was grave and dignified like this. Satyrus stared at him a moment, and took a steadying breath. He was in an odd mood this morning.

Out in the street there were a dozen horses — excellent horses. Expensive Persian horses.

Achilles was mounted on one.

Satyrus put aside his emotional confusion at the look on Achilles’ face. The schooled emptiness. He went up and took his hand. ‘You don’t have to come,’ he said.

Achilles shrugged. ‘Do we have a contract, or not?’ he said, his voice dead.

Satyrus flinched at the voice, but he nodded.

Stratokles was the last officer to join them. He looked old.

‘Too much wine?’ Satyrus asked.

Stratokles swung onto his mare’s back with easy agility. ‘Or not enough,’ he said.

Outside the gates, they picked up an escort — twenty-four of Apollodorus’s marines who could ride, each with his infantry equipment hung from his back, with a pair of javelins and a spear. Satyrus, reared to the standards of the Sakje, thought they might just be the worst troop of cavalry he’d ever seen — at least one man had no notion of how to handle a trot, and when they took their first rest, forty stades from the city, most of the men slid from their horses and walked like porne after a night at a wild symposium. Nor did most of them have any sense of horse management; Satyrus had to catch a young mare himself, and then he found himself giving one of the phylarchs — Lykaeaus, from Olbia — a lesson in how to set a picket line and how to hobble a horse.

Satyrus found that his preoccupation with his escort had a positive side — he crested the ridge of the Paktyes Mountains behind Ephesus and found that he hadn’t thought about Miriam or Lysimachos in hours.

He found that he was quite angry at Melitta. Nor did he want to discuss his anger — rather, he wanted to treasure it, almost as if he enjoyed it. Upon examination, that seemed an unworthy approach.

And Miriam.

Lots to be angry at, really.

How could she refuse him? He didn’t think her feelings for him were abated by the width of a knife’s edge. So why? Because her father was dead? Because Abraham would disapprove? Because she was a Jew?

Satyrus made a note to himself to learn more about the beliefs of the Jews.

‘Cavalry in the next gully — sixty or more,’ said Lucius, trotting back. ‘Unless they’re complete ninnies, they saw us crest the ridge.’

Satyrus snapped out of his blackness. ‘I’d rather not get in a fight right now,’ he said, flicking his eyes over their escort.

Lucius grinned. ‘That’s both of us, lord.’

Satyrus glanced back at Anaxagoras, who was riding better than he usually did — but not much better. ‘My sister might at least have left us all of her Sakje,’ he called.

Anaxagoras reined in and sat back with a groan. ‘I can’t dismount. I might not ever get up again.’

‘Here come a pair of them,’ Lucius said.

Satyrus pointed at Lykaeaus, who could ride well enough, and Lucius. ‘Be careful, Lucius,’ he said. ‘They’ll be afraid and desperate.’

As Lucius trotted toward the two riders, Stratokles pulled up beside him. ‘My man,’ he said. He smiled, but his eyes were hard. ‘Mine! Hands off.’

Satyrus grinned, happy for once to have annoyed the informer. ‘Of course,’ he said, in a tone calculated to mean the opposite. ‘Although you seem free enough in giving orders to my men.’

Stratokles shrugged. ‘You have so many. I have one.’

Satyrus was watching Lucius under his hand. He was backing his horse carefully, talking and pointing, but refusing to let his mount close enough to the other two for a javelin throw.

‘He’s a good one, though,’ Satyrus said.

‘You don’t know the half,’ Stratokles said.

Satyrus laughed. ‘You know, if you don’t watch yourself, I could start liking you, too,’ he said.

Stratokles loosened the sword in his sheath. The wordplay ended as the situation worsened. ‘I don’t like this.’

Lucius whirled his horse and cantered for them, Lykaeaus at his heels.

‘Form up,’ Apollodorus ordered.

Apollodorus had drilled his men, and they surprised Satyrus by dismounting and forming on foot, with four men told off as horse holders. Bows appeared.

Satyrus nodded to Stratokles. ‘Going to stay mounted?’

Stratokles agreed with a jut of the chin. ‘If they come at us?’

Satyrus swung up to get a better view, clamping his mare’s back with his knees, and made a motion with his hand. ‘We go right.’

Lucius arrived in a local cloud of dust, and Lykaeaus dismounted and threw his reins to his horse holder.

‘Not Lysimachos’s men. Those are Antigonus’s men.’ He spat.

Apollodorus trotted over. ‘Lord?’

Satyrus regretted a number of things, and one of them was not bringing a hundred marines. He looked at Stratokles, who shrugged. ‘Yesterday, we were in contact. Today, the noose is closed.’

‘I need to see … by Herakles, I need to get through these men. Will they charge us?’ he asked.

Lucius nodded. ‘There’s fifty or more of them. They think we’re beaten.’

Satyrus turned. ‘Lykaeaus — back to Ephesus. The whole army — now. Nikephorus in command, the full phalanx — everything we have. Leave a hundred marines in the citadel.’

‘Antigonus has at least forty thousand men,’ Stratokles said.

‘And I have four thousand. I’m not planning to go down onto the plains. I’m planning to extricate Lysimachos.’ He pointed at the dust cloud in the centre of the valley, off toward Magnesia. ‘That must be him.’

‘He may surrender,’ Apollodorus said,

Stratokles looked at Satyrus, and his face showed his thoughts. ‘Lucius?’ he asked. The Latin turned his horse. They walked a few steps aside and had a hurried conversation.

Satyrus was watching the Antigonid officer. He was pointing out something to his prodromoi.

‘How many bows, Apollodorus?’ he asked.

‘Six,’ Apollodorus said.

‘No time like the present,’ Satyrus said. ‘See if you can blunt him and kill some horses.’ He turned back to Anaxagoras and Stratokles. ‘The moment is now. I should have brought the whole army. Either we extricate Lysimachos … or board the ships and leave. That’s what it comes down to. I plan to save the bastard.’

The six archers jogged forward a few horse lengths and began to shoot.

Their first arrows had no effect. As they overshot the enemy scouts, it seemed possible that the prodromoi never saw the shafts fall. But somewhere around the fourth or fifth arrow, a barbed point went deep into the rump of a horse, which immediately threw its rider, and by luck of the will of the gods, the seventh arrow fell into the shoulder of the enemy officer. He fell like a sack of sand, and suddenly his command dissolved, men trying to rescue him, a phylarch yelling for them to rally …

‘If I had a troop of real cavalry, I could end this fight right now,’ Satyrus said.

‘Since you’ve been bold enough to commit your army,’ Stratokles said, ‘I feel I must do the same. As soon as we can, Lucius and I will ride for Lysimachos. To tell him to push this way.’ He hesitated. ‘If you trust me to do it.’

Satyrus was watching the enemy. ‘I guess I have to,’ he said. His scale corselet was weighing on him and the day was hot and his horse was too small for a long fight. He rather fancied the look of the enemy commander’s horse, currently cropping grass by its prone master. He turned and gave Stratokles a smile and his hand. ‘May the gods go with you, Stratokles. If you’ve planned all this … well, you are more cunning than Athena.’

Stratokles laughed. ‘I wish,’ he said. ‘Will you flank them?’

Satyrus caught Achilles’ eye. The big man was still mounted, watching the developing fight carefully. ‘We’ll all go right together. If you can ride clear, just keep going.’

Satyrus noted that a phylarch had at least half of the enemy troopers in hand and moving forward. His archers were shooting cautiously. At this range, and now that they were warned, the enemy cavalrymen could watch the shafts coming in, and avoid them. Mostly. As he watched, another man fell from his saddle.

‘Half done!’ shouted the lead archer, indicating his quiver.

Satyrus trotted to Apollodorus. ‘When they charge, we’ll go hard right,’ he said. ‘Try and split them.’

Apollodorus nodded. ‘Why don’t you just ride clear?’

Satyrus frowned. ‘Because I will not leave my men.’

Apollodorus shook his head. ‘There’s some illogic there.’

Anaxagoras spat. ‘At least I have my feet under me,’ he said.

‘Here they come!’ called a hoplite, and then all of the archers were sprinting for the line of spears. Every man in the line had a shield — the smaller Macedonian aspis. The line was only two deep, but with a deep pile of rocks — the result of an avalanche — on their left, they were solid enough.

Satyrus rode back to Achilles, Lucius and Stratokles. ‘Ready? Follow me.’ He rode off to the right, cantering around a copse of old oaks that briefly hid them from the Antigonid cavalry.

The enemy made a simple mistake — they were cautious when boldness would have saved them time and casualties. Their cavalry came on slowly, trotting from cover to cover. Satyrus thought that they were almost certainly mercenaries, and perhaps hadn’t been paid recently. Despite overwhelming numbers, they were casualty-averse to a surprising degree.

As was so often the case in war, their caution cost them. The archers began to shoot again, the range closed, and they were loosing flat. The shafts aimed with care — and horses began to fall.

Twenty horse lengths out, and every arrow seemed to take its toll.

Satyrus had both succeeded and failed, in that his inexperienced opponent hadn’t even noticed his flanking motion — four men weren’t enough — but now they were coming in unopposed, and Satyrus, at least, had a bow and a lifetime of training in its use. He cantered along, riding downhill, diagonal to the enemy approach, and his small mare responded well to his knees, and he began to shoot. Five arrows caught at least two targets, and still they hadn’t noticed him. He pushed in closer, changed direction so that he was riding with them, and when their flank group paused in the cover of the oaks, he reined in and shot at point-blank — emptied two saddles, and then they realised that he was not on their side.

Achilles cut a man from the saddle when he tried to flank Satyrus.

Satyrus rose on his horse’s back and put an arrow in yet another man. There was yelling from the line ahead, and at least a dozen of the enemy cavalrymen were turning towards the two of them.

Satyrus assumed that Stratokles had already ridden clear, and he turned his horse’s head and ran for the next patch of oaks, turning in his seat to flip an arrow over his shoulder like a true Sakje. His shaft was over-hasty, but it gave pause to the man behind him.

Satyrus felt his horse stumble — he reacted on rider’s instinct; sliding from the stricken animal before he fully understood that the little mare had a javelin in her side. He hit the ground well enough, but his quiver caught between his legs and he was down, bow thrown from his hand, arrows everywhere.

He rolled, avoiding the lance that he had to expect in the next heartbeat, and he heard the hooves, rolled again and stumbled to his feet, but his pursuer was lying in a pool of his own blood with Stratokles’ javelin in his guts, and the Athenian was riding beautifully, galloping clear after a good throw. Even as Satyrus watched, he collected the horse of a downed enemy and came back towards Satyrus.

Achilles and Lucius were holding their own, splitting half a dozen enemies and dispatching them as if they practised together every day. Satyrus had the time to reverse the gorytos where it had tangled, get it out from between his legs, gather a fistful of arrows and drop them in the top, and find his bow — an aeon of time in a fight. He placed a shaft in a young man hanging back from the mounted fight, and Stratokles raced by the back of the fight, threw a javelin; he threw flat and hard, and Satyrus had seldom seen a man throw mounted with such accuracy.

Then he ran for the horse Stratokles had dropped off. This horse was a big gelding with odd spots — almost like a wild pony made into warhorse size. He got a hand on the reins before the gelding shied, and he almost lost his new mount right then, but he got a hand on its nose and began to murmur, and then, before the big horse had time to think about it, he had a leg over and he was up, blessing the long practice he and his sister had of riding strange horses at all hours, and he was away across the grass, headed downhill to where Achilles, Stratokles and Lucius were facing four men, sword to sword and javelin to javelin.

Lucius was down — unwounded, but his horse was running free.

Satyrus punched into the back of the knot of mounted men, and his sword licked out and caught the man whose spear was about to finish Lucius, and they broke.

Satyrus had no notion of how his bodyguard and friends were doing — the oak woods hid the main action, and he pursued his broken opponents downhill, away from the fighting.

He didn’t go far — these men weren’t coming back. He turned his horse the big gelding was a natural warhorse, and wanted no part of turning. Satyrus used the reins, hard the bit was soft, leather or bone, like a Sakje bit, and the gelding didn’t feel a lot of need to respond. They plunged downhill.

Satyrus was carried a stade or more before he got the gelding’s head turned. Achilles was right at his shoulder.

‘Are you insane?’ the big man asked.

Satyrus shook his head. ‘This big idiot is,’ he said. He started uphill, and Achilles stuck with him.

The line still stood. Satyrus could see them now, standing at the top of the pass. There was a hummock of dead cavalrymen and horses in front of them, and the rest of the enemy cavalry were spread across the pass.

Satyrus pointed them out. ‘As long as they don’t have bows,’ he said quietly. He and Achilles rode up the centre of the deep valley, unimpeded, for two stades.

By then, Apollodorus’s men were gathering their javelins and cutting the throats of the wounded, or dragging them to shelter. Apollodorus had a Syrian man over his shoulder when Satyrus rode up, and he grunted, put the man in the shade, and began to give him water.

They had six prisoners, all of them wounded.

‘Lydians,’ Apollodorus said, when Satyrus had dismounted. ‘Mercenary officers, all militia from the towns.’

Satyrus nodded. ‘Thank the gods,’ he said.

‘Almost had us anyway,’ Apollodorus said.

Satyrus was looking for friends. Anaxagoras was giving water to a wounded marine.

‘Two dead,’ Apollodorus said. ‘And an archer wounded. It’s the next attack I’m afraid of.’

Satyrus walked around, collecting wineskins and water bottles. ‘Achilles, over the ridge there’s the pretty little waterfall. Fill them all, please.’

‘Bodyguard,’ Achilles grunted.

‘I won’t be dead when you return,’ Satyrus said.

Achilles grunted again, but he took the bottles and rode away.

Satyrus got back on his gelding and rode up to the top of the pass, where it was narrowest. From the top, he could see movement down on the valley floor, towards Magnesia, and more on the valley’s flanks — twenty stades or more.

He rode back to Apollodorus and Anaxagoras. ‘Get everyone up to the top — under the big tree. Pile up rocks — we’ll cut the tree when an attack comes.’

‘Why not now?’ Anaxagoras said.

‘Shade,’ Apollodorus and Satyrus said together.

Two hours, and the sun was high, stark, and hot. Satyrus and his twenty men were huddled in the shade. There was a good breeze, and all of them had drunk their fill of water.

A loose stone wall covered most of the road over the pass. There were shallow pits on the flanks, but the ground was so stony that none of them had managed to get any of their carefully sharpened stakes to sit in the holes, and when they put them in the ground in front of their wall, Satyrus could knock them down with the flat of his hand.

Satyrus looked at the rocks above them — the flanks of the ridge, which towered over his head by a stade, at least. ‘We can hold a casual attempt,’ he said. ‘If they put archers or slingers up there, we’re done.’

‘I feel like a child playing soldier,’ Anaxagoras said. ‘We’ve built our fort and we have a pile of rocks to throw — didn’t my father forbid this?’ He chuckled.

‘Your father forbid this? Mine beat us if we didn’t come home with blood under our nails,’ Apollodorus said.

‘I can see our troops,’ Anaxagoras said, and sure enough, there they were — a hundred marines, all mounted on donkeys, and another hundred archers.

The Antigonid cavalry arrived an hour later, and they didn’t even try the wall, being dissuaded by the first volley of arrows. The archers rose from cover, but these cavalrymen were professionals, and they’d smelled a rat.

Satyrus watched them under his hand. ‘Real troops,’ he said.

Achilles nodded. ‘Aegema,’ he said. ‘Or Companions. One of the elite regiments,’ he continued. ‘Look at their armour.’

Satyrus wasn’t minded to allow them to block the pass, either. An hour after their arrival, he estimated there were about two hundred of them. He formed a neat line across the pass — his men in open order, archers in front, ready to form close at a trumpet blast — and moved swiftly down the top of the valley.

The Antigonid officer had never been attacked by infantry, and he hesitated … and lost men as the archers found their range. But he didn’t waste any more testing Satyrus’s skirmish line — that much he understood. Satyrus reoccupied his initial position without the loss of a man.

Satyrus had his men collect the enemy wounded and all their horses.

Another hour and the Apobatai, Nikephoros’s elite, came over the top of the pass, jogging, and came down to form behind his line. Nikephoros was with them, and Delios, their commander.

‘You made good time,’ Satyrus said. He embraced the mercenary. ‘Good thinking, with the donkeys.’

‘Eh? That was Charmides,’ Nikephoros said. ‘I made him stay with the garrison, though.’ He looked down the valley. ‘Ah, the Aegema. That’s old Coenus, ain’t it? He’s got no chance with us now.’

‘I’m going to push them right down past the trees,’ Satyrus said. ‘But I thought your boys needed a breather first.’

Nikephoros smiled. ‘It’s the young,’ he said. ‘Old men like me can run for ever — it’s tomorrow I’ll pay, and the next day.’

Satyrus rode up and down his line, briefing his men. They were eager — there was something personal about war at this level that was like a tonic, and Satyrus could lead his men in person. He could tell that they liked to have him so close — he called out names, told individuals he was watching their prowess, slapped shoulders, and he fed in return on their admiration.

Apollodorus gave him a sour smile and tipped his helmet back. ‘It’s fun when you’re winning, isn’t it?’ he asked.

Then they were loping down the hill, the Apobatai all closed up in the centre, the rest of the marines spread across the hillside. This time the Aegema retired as soon as they saw movement. Like good cavalrymen, they stayed just a little more than a bowshot in front, but when they reached the valley floor, they made a dive for Satyrus’s flanks, splitting neatly and rolling outwards, only to find that he’d doubled his archers at the flanks and after they lost two men, they retired.

Satyrus pressed them remorselessly after that. ‘I’d give anything for twenty Sakje,’ he said to Achilles. He remounted his escort — some of them on better horses — but they weren’t good enough horsemen to give him the advantage he needed to press his pursuit. The Aegema couldn’t close with his line, and he couldn’t break them.

Early evening, and the sun ceased to be the enemy. They were ten stades down the road to Magnesia, now. The enemy cavalry had reinforcements, and they’d tried his flanks again, but the Apobatai trained against Sakje — practised charging cavalry, like Alexander’s hypaspists had — and they saw the Antigonid cavalry off with a flashing counter-charge.

‘If only war were like this all the time,’ Satyrus said. ‘It’s like a good day on the palaestra.’

‘Except for the dead men,’ Apollodorus said.

Full evening, and the men ate olives and onions and cheese out of their bags and Satyrus watched the enemy command group, about two stades away. He could tell they were the command group — messengers rode in and out.

His own phalanx was over the top of the pass, a dark mass moving down the road behind him. New messengers were coming in across the way, as well.

Nikephorus had picked up a horse. ‘He’s got some satrapal cavalry, I’d guess — see the men in burnooses?’ he asked.

‘Persians,’ Achilles said. ‘Persian nobles. Look at how they ride.’

Anaxagoras was exercising — not because he needed it, he had assured them, but to stretch his riding muscles. ‘We will face the Mede? How noble!’

‘Only if that man is a fool,’ Apollodorus allowed. ‘They can’t face us without some infantry. We have way too many archers, and as long as this ground is rocky and broken, our marines are their equals.’

‘More messengers,’ Satyrus said. A dozen men rode up — big men in armour — and suddenly, Satyrus knew he was looking at One-Eye himself.

Antigonus One-Eye was smaller than a mountain, but not much smaller. His armour seemed solid silver, and his white hair flowed under his helmet.

‘Uh-oh,’ Satyrus said, and smiled. The Aegema commander was getting a piece of his master’s mind.

‘They’re going to break contact,’ Apollodorus said.

‘Going to attack, you mean,’ Anaxagoras said.

Apollodorus nodded. ‘When you speak of music, or philosophy, you are the master,’ he said. ‘Watch those phylarchs. Which way are they looking?’

Before the sun sank another finger’s breadth, a herald rode out from the enemy command group.

Satyrus received him just as his phalanx came up, the men panting with the effort after weeks on ships.

‘The King of Asia requests your leave to collect his dead,’ he said. ‘He has some of your men he’ll happily trade for ours.’

Satyrus looked at Apollodorus for confirmation. ‘We have … sixteen?’ he said.

Apollodorus nodded.

Antigonus turned his horse and cantered away in the distance.

‘I had hoped to meet your master,’ Satyrus said. ‘I am Satyrus of Tanais.’

‘So we surmised,’ the herald said. ‘May we assume that you have taken Ephesus? In defiance of the treaty, of gods and men?’

Satyrus smiled. ‘I rather think I’ve taken it with the help of gods and men. But yes, the city and the citadel. In return, may I assume you are breaking contact because Lysimachos is right behind you?’

The herald accepted a cup of water from Anaxagoras and nodded. ‘Blast you, yes. We were so close — we had him.’

‘Well, now you don’t. Nor Ephesus nor a fleet.’ Satyrus looked away from the herald to watch Antigonus cantering away. ‘I reckon that the King of Asia will find it a whole new war now.’

Antigonus handed a cup of wine to the phylarch. The man had two wounds — in the thigh and neck — so there was no question but that the man had done his job.

‘We were never close to breaking them,’ the phylarch said. ‘Their king was with them, all day — right in the front. They fought like heroes.’

Antigonus nodded. ‘That’s the way to do it,’ he said. ‘I thought Lysimachos tried to kill him? And my son was making this man his friend?’ He shrugged. ‘We were close. You may go — see to it your dressings are changed, young man. Narses, give him a horse — his choice. I need men who will fight with a wound in them.’

When the young man was gone, Antigonus groaned. ‘Ephesus lost?’

‘He may be lying,’ Philip, his chief of staff, murmured.

‘Really, Philip? And how exactly would he get five thousand men up that pass if he didn’t have Ephesus? If Plistias was behind him?’ He shook his head. ‘One day. One arse-cunt of a day, and we’d have had fucking Lysimachos and the war would be over.’

Philip looked down the valley — twenty stades separated them from Satyrus of Tanais’s forces. Lysimachos’s routed men were still flowing by. Only his rearguard — led by the man in person — held together. ‘Night attack?’ he asked.

Antigonus shook his head. ‘I’ve made two mistakes today,’ he said gruffly. ‘I underestimated a deadly accurate scouting report this morning, telling me that there were fresh forces moving up the pass. And then I bet everything on breaking those forces instead of caving in the flanks of Lysimachos’s rearguard.’ He shook his head again. ‘Philip, sometimes you have to know when Tyche is not at your shoulder. All our cavalry is tired. Lysimachos is a wreck. Let him go.’

Philip shook his head. ‘You’re wrong — now or never. If we’re tired, Lysimachos is ten times more tired. He can’t stand a concerted attack — and he’s still ten stades from these fresh troops.’

Antigonus was tired, and he felt old, and he didn’t trust Philip the way he trusted his son — didn’t like the man’s hectoring tone. He’d been in the saddle since dawn, and he couldn’t see leading a night attack from a litter.

‘No,’ he said.

‘I’ll lead it myself,’ Philip said.

‘Give me a cup of wine,’ Antigonus said.

‘He’s just barely keeping it together,’ Stratokles said, as soon as he rode up. He looked as if he’d been beaten with rods: tired, with bags under his eyes and his shoulders slumped. ‘He asks — begs, really — that you come with some men — just to put heart into his men.’

Apollodorus put a hand on his bridle. ‘No,’ he said. ‘That would be an insane risk.’

Satyrus looked at the last light. ‘How far?’

‘Ten stades,’ Stratokles said.

‘Let’s see if the Apobatai can live up to their name,’ Satyrus said.

‘Foolish!’ Apollodorus said.

‘Shush, now,’ Satyrus said. ‘I can do this. And I must. I’d appreciate it if you’d trust that I have a strategy.’

Apollodorus shook his head. ‘You’re haring off after glory,’ he said.

Satyrus reined in his temper. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m gaining myself an ally. For life.’ He looked around his friends and officers. ‘This is not vainglory. This is politics. I wish to save Lysimachos myself. Understand?’

Apollodorus shrugged. ‘I understand that I promised your sister — we all did — that we’d keep you from excess.’

Satyrus had to laugh. ‘Then she should have stayed to help. Nikephorus?’

The mercenary nodded. ‘If we mount all the riders we have sixty men and we can put the rest on the mules. We’re wrecked if attacked, though.’

‘In the dark?’ Anaxagoras asked.

‘Want to come?’ Satyrus asked, cheerfully.

Philip carried his point by enough to be allowed to mount a night attack on Lysimachos. Antigonus would not allow him to cross the valley against Satyrus.

‘That bastard is snug behind a rock wall,’ Antigonus said. ‘You’ll lose me a hundred troopers — just from horses with broken legs. No. But a stab at Lysimachos — have a go.’

The attack started badly, when his flanking Persian cavalry vanished in the darkness. But his Greek cavalry did better, following a line of withies laid out by an enterprising officer and they burst into Lysimachos’s rearguard like furies, slaying right and left. Philip rallied the Greek cavalry and the troop of the Companions he’d committed, and paused to send prodromoi to learn where the next line was — if there was a next line.

Then a band of barbarians charged his Companions — they emerged screaming from the dark, undaunted by the cavalry, with tattoos and enormous two-handed swords, and the whole fight went bad. When he fell back and sounded the rally trumpet, all of his cavalrymen retreated. Suddenly they’d abandoned the enemy camp — and they ran onto enemy forces moving in the dark, and his satrapal levies panicked and broke.

‘Damn it, you fools, we’re winning!’ he screamed at their backs.

Moments later and the barbarians were dead or in flight — Thracians, he thought. But he’d lost control, always fragile in the dark, and he was a canny old hound and he knew when a night attack was a lost cause.

‘There’s Greek regulars out there by the olive trees,’ said a scout. ‘They ran off the Medes, and now they’re working around our flank.’

Philip sent the scout back, sent a half-dozen Aegema with him, and waited, blowing the rally.

After a few minutes, it suddenly occurred to him that his trumpet call was giving the enemy a focus.

His prodromoi officer came back with an arrow in his side. ‘They’re coming,’ he said. ‘Hundreds of them.’

Philip didn’t catch another word — the shrill eleuelaieleuelai of Greeks came over the broken ground, and his cavalry cantered away, stung with javelins and with their flanks threatened by Thracians.

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.