Force of Kings

17

‘This is the safer option,’ Satyrus said.

He was lying in the light of a small campfire, with Anaxagoras’s travelling lyre in his hands. He’d played his best piece, and no one was very impressed.

‘Safer than what? Suicide?’ Anaxagoras asked.

‘We can’t sail back through the Dardanelles,’ Satyrus said.

‘Agreed,’ Apollodorus said. ‘Lunatic to try the first time.’

Jubal nodded, took a bite of apple, and winked.

‘It will be two months before Lysimachos gets the army down to Sardis,’ Satyrus said.

‘So, naturally, we should ride to meet Seleucus,’ Charmides added.

They all laughed.

Charmides’ light young voice rose over the laughter. ‘It’s like one of Plato’s arguments; where only one side is properly argued.’

‘We know the terrain and he doesn’t,’ Satyrus said, insistently. ‘If Antigonus goes for him he’ll be isolated in the mountains east of Magnesia.’

‘Admit it — Miriam dared you,’ Anaxagoras said.

They all laughed until Satyrus picked up a handful of sand and threw it across the fire at Anaxagoras.

Apollodorus finished the wineskin, rose, and wandered off. ‘I have to find a rock that needs a libation,’ he said.

Charmides ambled down their small valley, and Satyrus could see him, gathering sticks by the dying light of the sun. Jubal went to help him. They had no slaves, no servants, and no hypaspists. They’d decided it on Rhodes.

‘Why, really?’ Anaxagoras asked.

‘The risk isn’t bad. And the truth is, there were two poisonings this winter at Tanais. Another try at Olbia — one of Eumeles’s own slaves. Stratokles told me to stay away from Heraklea.’

‘He would know,’ Anaxagoras said. Alone of Satyrus’s inner circle, Anaxagoras liked the Athenian.

Satyrus’s newly purchased chestnut mare snorted, and Satyrus rolled to his feet, dumping his wine from his horn cup as he stood.

‘Herakles,’ he said quietly.

He could see his mare, and she was tossing her head and pulling at her picket. She was new to him; he’d left all his good horses with his sister, to travel with the horse herd. But this was some kind of signal. Unfortunately, with a horse he didn’t know, it could mean anything from a pain in her gut to a desire for food to a fear of dogs or wolves.

‘Hush, girl,’ he said, walking towards her. He got a hand on her bridle and she froze, head up, lips off her teeth, breathing hard.

Bow. He heard the voice as clearly as if the god stood with him at the edge of the firelight. His bow hung in his gorytos from a tree where his mare was picketed. He stepped to it — never question the god — and buckled the waist-belt as he crouched.

Anaxagoras was standing in the firelight.

‘Down,’ Satyrus said.

Anaxagoras dropped.

Satyrus had an arrow on his bow, the horn nock smoothly fitted on the string.

Something moved in the almost-dark.

As he raised his bow, Satyrus remembered that Apollodorus was out there.

Sloppy.

He went back to watching.

He heard Jubal and Charmides laughing.

Satyrus wasn’t sure whether he should call a warning or remain hidden. But as the waiting lengthened, his resolve weakened.

‘Alarm!’ he roared.

The results were spectacular.

Just the other side of the horses, a man rose to his feet with a bow. He was at full draw but by luck or fate, the tree that had held Satyrus’s gorytos was partially between them, and he paused, trying to make his shot count.

Anaxagoras rose from the rocks to Satyrus’s left. He was armed only with a rock, but his throw was sure.

The archer twisted to avoid the rock, which hit his shoulder as he loosed — his arrow went wide. Satyrus shot him in the side — the range was so short he could hardly miss — and the man’s attempt to dodge Anaxagoras revealed him from crotch to shoulders.

The next arrow came from well to Satyrus’s left — from beyond Anaxagoras, who was back behind his rocks — and it hit Satyrus’s bow case, penetrated the bronze and two layers of leather, cut an arrow in half, and punched into Satyrus’s thigh.

He got another arrow on his bow but he couldn’t even see the new archer. ‘Alarm!’ he bellowed.

He reached up for his javelin case, pulled out two hunting javelins, and threw them carefully — without exposing himself — towards the rocks where Anaxagoras was hiding.

He saw one of them picked up. Then he saw that there was another man right in among the horses. The last red glow of the sun threw confusing light, but something gleamed.

Satyrus felt hot and cold by turns, but the eudaimonia was on him, and he drew his next barbed point until the fletching touched his cheek, leaned out until he fell on his back, and shot through the legs of the horses. A horse thrashed, wrenching its picket pin from the ground … and a man screamed, shot through the leg just above his ankle.

Satyrus had to contort himself to get at another arrow. It took a long time, and what little light there was was fading. The downed man kept screaming.

Satyrus knew he had to sit up to have any more shots. And he knew that when he sat up, he’d be revealed to anyone above him on the hillside. He scraped along on his back, the gravel cutting into him, trying to get his shoulders behind the tree. Darkness was falling like a curtain — he could no longer see the next ridge, six stades away. Somewhere, he could hear sheep bells.

Now his back was on pine needles. He must be close to the tree.

Movement — way up the hillside — scrabbling and roaring, like a pack of wild dogs — and then the sound of falling rocks.

And closer to hand, a movement just beyond his tree.

The man he’d shot screamed again.

The arrow between his fingers felt wrong. Too heavy. But he didn’t dare move his eyes.

He sat up — the assassin in the bush turned and shot — he shot — there was a scream and his mare let out a long snarl and Anaxagoras’s spear flew across the horses and then there was silence.

As he fumbled for another arrow, Satyrus realised that the first scream had been his arrow. He’d shot a whistle-arrow.

Artemis must be laughing.

He heard moving, rolled against his tree cursing the growing pain in his left leg, and Anaxagoras appeared out of the dark, a second javelin in his fist.

‘I missed. Who are they?’ asked the musician.

‘Bandits? Who knows?’ Satyrus rubbed his thigh and cursed. There was a lot of blood. ‘I’m hit.’

The bushes moved twice in the next hour. The feeling gradually left Satyrus’s left leg; he was lying on it, and the pins and needles feeling told him to move, but he didn’t dare.

‘If they get the horses, we’re cooked,’ Satyrus whispered.

Anaxagoras bent down. ‘I’m going to get the arrow out.’

‘No, you aren’t.’ Satyrus was cold, and in pain, but his wits were sharp. ‘That takes both of us out.’

Long silence. The man with the arrow in his legs wasn’t screaming any more.

Satyrus took to watching his mare. She was cropping grass.

‘I think they’re gone,’ he said.

‘Jubal?’ called Anaxagoras.

‘Right here,’ he replied. He was down by the fire, where the weapons were.

‘Charmides?’ he called.

‘Here!’ came the younger voice. Also by the fire.

‘Apollodorus?’

Silence.

‘Apollodorus?’ Anaxagoras called.

‘Right here,’ said the marine. He emerged from the horses. Even in the dark he looked bad: blood flowing down his face, all the knuckles split on both hands.

Charmides went on watch, and Anaxagoras opened his leather bag and salved Apollodorus’s wounds — two long cuts on his arms — while Jubal washed the blood off him and oiled him.

Then Anaxagoras built up the fire while Jubal and Charmides went out into the dark beyond the horses to give them a zone of safety. They swept all the way around the camp and came up with three corpses: a man battered to death with a rock, a man with his throat slit and an arrow through both legs, and a man with an arrow through his side.

Apollodorus agreed with the count. ‘Bastard came at me while I was … busy,’ he said. ‘I heard the alarm shout — he cut me.’ He shook his head. ‘He was fucking strong.’ Shrugged, a figure of blood in the firelight. ‘I was stronger.’

Anaxagoras gave him more wine. ‘You, sir, will hurt like the devil in the morning. Don’t add a hangover. I have poppy …’

Apollodorus shook his head. ‘Had too much. Just like Satyrus.’

Anaxagoras threw two pine bows on the fire. Now it was too hot where Satyrus lay, and the clearing was as bright as day.

Anaxagoras made a clucking sound.

‘Poison,’ he said. ‘I fear.’

He had an odd little tool — a wicked-looking thing like a folding spoon. ‘This is going to hurt a great deal,’ he said. ‘This is an arrow spoon. I have to put it into the wound to extract the arrow, because it is barbed. And then I have to try and get the poison out. You understand?’

Satyrus looked at his friend. ‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Good,’ Anaxagoras said. ‘I’ve never actually done this before,’ he added, and those were the last words Satyrus heard.

Pain came, and he was gone.