Funeral Games (31 page)

‘Is it upon us?’ Sappho asked, as the roast kid was cleared away.

‘I’m sorry,’ Diodorus said. ‘I’m not happy with the arrangements for my wing. Excuse me for a moment.’

He rolled off his couch and went to the door of the tent and called one of his officers. They could all hear him speaking, and the brief replies, and then he was back. ‘That’s better,’ Diodorus said when he returned.

‘Will we fight tomorrow?’ Philokles asked.

‘Yes,’ Diodorus said. ‘Crax pulled in a dozen prisoners today, and Andronicus brought in as many yesterday. They all say the same thing. Antigonus will form his line of battle in the morning.’

Sappho bit her lip. But when she spoke, her voice was light. ‘Then we must get you to sleep early, my dear. You’ll be up in the dark.’

‘You are the best soldier’s wife in this army,’ Diodorus said fondly.

‘Faint praise indeed,’ she returned. ‘Considering that I’m the only wife around.’

‘What of the children?’ Philokles asked.

Diodorus shook his head. ‘They’ll stay in camp, of course. I expect that we’ll fight on the plain to the north. They’ll be safe enough here. Shall I find you a corslet, Philokles?’

‘No, thanks. I’ve never accustomed myself to the idea of fighting on horseback, and I don’t care to stand among strangers - Asiatic strangers, at that. I’ll stay in camp with the children.’

Theron nodded. ‘As will I, Strategos. Without offence, this is not my fight, and I have equipment only as a hoplite.’

Diodorus looked at the two of them and smiled. ‘I could base one hell of a
taxeis
on you two,’ he said. ‘Theron, you’re like a second Philokles. I’ll bet you’re a terror in the scrum.’

Theron shook his head. ‘I’ve never done it,’ he said. ‘I’ve drilled with the ephebes, and I’ve fought men, but I’ve never stood my ground like my father at Chaeronea.’

Philokles smiled grimly. ‘You haven’t missed a thing,’ he said.

Sappho’s steward came in and bowed deeply. ‘Master, there are more and more men waiting outside, asking for the strategos.’

Diodorus wiped his mouth. ‘Excellent meal, my love. I must go and listen to Eumenes’ fears and worries.’

‘I remember him as a first-rate commander,’ Philokles said.

‘He is. But the Macedonians hate him for not being Macedonian. One of the reasons he hired me is to have a Greek officer on whom he can rely - but even that has made trouble. The Macedonians dislike me - all of us, really.’ ‘They haven’t changed much, have they?’ Philokles asked.

He and Diodorus both smiled, sharing some memory. Satyrus thought that it was like dining with the gods, to hear such things. They discussed the great Eumenes the Cardian as if he were just someone they knew, like a playmate!

Theron sat up on his couch. ‘I heard some things I didn’t much like today,’ he said. ‘About Greeks. About Eumenes.’

Diodorus looked around and lowered his voice. ‘You notice that I came back to my own regiment to eat and sleep - that we have our own guards, and we’re a little separated from the rest of the army? It’s that bad, friends. If we lose tomorrow - if we even
look
as if we’re losing, this army will disintegrate. The idiots in the Argyraspids would rather kill Eumenes because he’s a Greek, than beat Antigonus who hates them.’

Sappho drank wine carefully, held her cup out to a slave to have it refilled and spoke slowly. ‘You have never spoken so directly, husband,’ she said. ‘Should I make preparations?’

Diodorus rubbed his beard. ‘It’s never been so bad. I suspect that One-Eye is putting bribes into the Argyraspids but I can’t figure out how he does it. I keep telling Eumenes to parade Banugul and her brat to quieten the hard-liners—’

‘That’s Banugul who claims to have been Alexander’s mistress, and Herakles her son,’ Sappho said, with a significant look at her husband. ‘He’s just your age, or a little younger, and the very image of Alexander.’ She smiled, but her eyes did not smile. ‘She herself is unchanged.’ To the twins, she said, ‘Banugul is the inveterate enemy of Olympias. Her son Herakles threatens everything Olympias aims at.’ She shrugged. ‘She should be your ally.’

Diodorus spoke over his wife as if she hadn’t made a sound. ‘But he won’t. Says that he’s not going to run his army through a child. Yes, Sappho. There’s going to be trouble. In fact, I’m pushing us into a battle to see if we can beat One-Eye before the Macedonians assassinate my employer.’ He shrugged. ‘All in a day’s work.’

Sappho summoned her steward. ‘Eleutherius? Collect a string of horses and pack animals and have us packed and ready to move by first light. Leave the tents standing and all their contents. Just pack the clothes and bedding and what we’d need to live, eat and move fast.’

Diodorus got off his couch, leaned over his wife and kissed her. It was embarrassing for the other men in the room, because it was a lustful kiss, and it went on for too long. When he broke off, she slapped him lightly. ‘I’m not a flute girl,’ she said.

Diodorus kissed her again. ‘No, you are the best staff officer in this camp. You just come with certain other benefits. I’m off. I may join you later and I may be up all night.’ He glanced around the tent and lowered his voice. ‘I’ve given the boys a rally point - in case of the worst. It’s a stade behind the gully - the gully that’s south of here. Philokles, you should get with Crax and see that you know the spot. May I rely on you to get the hippeis women and children there, if it all goes bad?’

Philokles was eyeing a wine cup. He rubbed his chin. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That’s a big responsibility.’

‘You’ve handled bigger,’ Diodorus said. He took a purple and dust-coloured Thracian cloak from a slave and swung it on to his shoulders.

‘Go with the gods,’ Philokles said.

Diodorus gave a sketchy salute and went out of the dining tent.

Sappho rolled off her couch. ‘Bed - right now, children. We’ll be up before the cock crows and in sensible clothes for riding.’

Satyrus looked at his sister. ‘We’re good at riding,’ he said.

Melitta looked triumphant. ‘I know it’s wrong to hope we lose!’ she said. ‘But - I’m already stifled. I don’t want to be a good Greek maiden. A
kore
.’

A few minutes later they were on their sleeping couches, listening to the bustle of a dozen slaves packing all around them. Each of them thought it would be hard to get to sleep, and then they did.

S
atyrus saw the sunrise, already dressed and in boots, with his corslet under his cloak and a broad straw hat tossed back over his shoulder. It was a spectacular sunrise, pink and grey and red and gold, and he kept glancing at it while he helped Theron pack the two baggage mules they had brought all the way from Heraklea.

All around them in the semi-dark were men moving into the battle line about eight stades from the camp. The deployment was carefully organized, although Satyrus watched it critically, thinking how it might be done better. Men gathered at the heads of their camp streets by group, and then the groups were formed up in taxeis and moved off. The better-trained groups marched, with flute players playing and shield-bearers stepping as proudly as the phalangites in the ranks, but many - the Phrygians, the many Thracians and Lydians and Karians - simply wandered off after an officer or a nobleman that they knew. Staff officers, resplendent in bronze and iron, with big plumes of dyed horsehair, rode up and down the mobs of moving men, calling constantly. ‘Artabarzes? Karian javelins? No! No! You’re on the right wing, in the rough ground! No, sir, you must march this way!’ and ‘Philip? White Shields? Yes, sir. Centre of the line, with the Silver Shields on your right. Yes sir!’

When the baggage animals were ready and Sappho had ordered them all moved to the rear of the camp, the twins walked up to the head of their street to watch the grand parade of the army. They were just in time to watch the elephants come past, sixty enormous beasts that seemed to personify the power of war, each one festooned with red and gold blankets, with gold bands and bronze breastplates or headplates, their mahouts often as well armoured as generals.

‘That’s Tavi!’ Satyrus cried, and began waving like mad.

The India-man, now looking like a brown Achilles in a purple chiton and a scale corslet with alternating rows of gold and silver scales, raised his prod - itself a weapon - and saluted them. Behind him, a pair of Macedonians with long sarissas waved at the children.

On their street, the fourth troop of Diodorus’s mercenaries - all the men who had had a night watch or other duties - were collecting and mounting, and as the elephants passed every man sprang to hold his horse’s head. Their horses stamped and fidgeted until the last elephant walked slowly past.

Then Crax vaulted into the saddle and bellowed for the troop to mount. He looked down through the swirling dust at the twins. ‘Stay safe,’ he said. ‘If it all goes to shit, rally behind the gully. Right?’

Satyrus nodded, and Crax gave a salute with his fist and the troop swung into line on the road, moving slowly at first, then faster, until they vanished into the rising cloud of dust. Every trooper saluted the twins as they rode past, and many of the Keltoi reached out and touched Melitta for luck.

‘I want to watch the battle!’ Satyrus said to Philokles.

‘Me too!’ Melitta said.

Philokles shook his head. ‘Of course,’ he said. He pointed at the bluff from where they had first seen the camp. He and Theron collected horses, and the four of them mounted.

‘Where are you going?’ Sappho asked. She was dressed in Persian trousers and a Sakje jacket, and her hair hung in braids.

‘Please, Aunt, we want to see the battle!’ Melitta said. ‘Philokles will go up on the bluff with us.’

Sappho considered for a moment. ‘I’m sending a slave with you. Targis! Go with Master Philokles and the children. Bring me word if anything untoward should happen.’ She walked aside with Philokles. They spoke in low voices for a minute, and then Sappho was in Philokles’ arms, weeping. Satyrus saw it, but he wasn’t sure he’d really seen it, because a moment later she was issuing orders, the only sign of her tears a certain redness around her eyes. Philokles came back to them.

‘Targis?’ Philokles said politely. He was always polite to slaves. ‘Come with us, please.’

Targis was a pale blond man with long legs. He looked like a runner. He nodded to his mistress and followed the group.

‘I wonder what happened to Philip and Draco,’ Satyrus asked.

Philokles raised an eyebrow. ‘I doubt they could come to any harm,’ he said.

‘I miss them,’ Satyrus said.

‘You’re starting to see that there’s a world beyond yourself,’ Philokles said.

They rode up the bluff at a trot, with Targis running hard behind them. The blond man ran easily, his arms pumping away. Theron admired his form. ‘He’s trained in a gymnasium,’ Theron said.

When they stopped, Theron waved at the slave. ‘You were an athlete?’ he asked.

The slave averted his eyes. ‘I was not born a slave,’ he said.

‘No one is born a slave,’ Melitta said. ‘Men make each other slaves.’

Philokles glanced at the girl. ‘You show signs of real wisdom, girl! Where did you learn such things?’

Melitta blushed. ‘From you, master,’ she said.

‘Bah!’ Philokles said. ‘I’ve never said anything as well put.’

Satyrus barely heard them. His attention was already fixed on the broad stretch of flat plain to the north and west, where both armies were forming, and he ignored the movement of men and horses on the bluff to focus on the armies beneath his feet.

At the bottom of the broad salt plain of the valley, there were skirmishers,
psiloi
and
peltastai
. None of them were visible as individuals, but the movement of so many men, even spread well apart, raised a salt dust that looked like dandelion fluff.

Behind the screen of his skirmishers, Eumenes’ army was about half-formed, with the phalanx in the centre ready for action, their spears erect and the points glittering in the sun above the dust. The right-flank cavalry - where Diodorus had his command, subordinate to Philip, a Macedonian - were almost formed, and Satyrus could see that there were
prodromoi -
the scouts - well out on the flank and armoured cavalry closer in to the phalanx.

On the left, however, closest to the camp, there was nothing short of chaos. A heavy curtain of sand rose high in the air, hiding Eumenes’ best cavalry and his peltastai, who were forming to cover the flank of the phalanx where it would pass the rough ground of the valley floor, where heavy brush and an olive orchard interrupted the flat fields.

Across the valley, Antigonus One-Eye formed his best cavalry on his right, facing Eumenes’ best cavalry, and they were already formed. His centre was wrecked, the phalanx in disarray and his left was in flux, lost in obscuring clouds. His far left - the part of his army that faced Diodorus - was reacting to the very visible fact that Diodorus’s flank extended farther than his opponent’s, and they were vulnerable.

Nothing seemed to happen quickly. At this distance they couldn’t see individuals, and they couldn’t hear anything but a vague roar, like a distant stream running over rocks.

‘Why do they wait for each other to form?’ Satyrus asked. ‘Surely the first to form has a clear advantage?’

‘Not a bad question, for a pup,’ a harsh voice barked. Just to their right, almost unnoticed in their excitement at the panorama of war, a cavalcade had mounted the bluff. A swarthy man in a silvered breastplate and a matching helmet rode over. ‘Neither commander will attack until he’s sure of his own dispositions, and the longer we keep our men in line, the more shit we’ll think of to fix. It can go on all day. War is nothing but a contest of mistakes, boy. The fewer you make, the more likely you are to win. I’ve failed to get my right wing in line, and I don’t have my peltastai where I wanted them. And my opponent has fucked up the disposition of his elephants - he committed them to the line. Now’s he’s seen the error of his ways - I suspect his son had something to do with it.’