Force of Kings

12

‘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.