Funeral Games (75 page)

No prisoners were taken. The archers slaughtered the crews in a paroxysm of fear and rage, and then the beasts began to turn away, the masses of sharp shafts and the point-blank shots beginning to scare them, and suddenly they were running -
away
.

 

‘Halt!’ sang the trumpets.

‘Halt!’ echoed the officers.

The phalanx ground to a halt. All along the line, officers raced up and down ordering the line to dress. The front was disordered everywhere, and the Foot Companions were almost a full phalanx-depth to the rear.

‘If they hit us now, we’re wrecked,’ Philokles said to Satyrus. ‘Gods!’ He ran off along the front of the phalanx, ordering men to dress the line.

The White Shields took up the cry first, and in a heartbeat, all discipline was forgotten. ‘The elephants run!’ men shouted, and the front ranks, the men who would have had to face the brutes first, all but danced.

Philokles roared for silence. Ptolemy appeared from the right and rode down the front rank. ‘Look at that, boys!’ he called. ‘Every man of you owes our light troops a cup of the best! By Herakles!’ Ptolemy halted in the centre of the White Shields. He seemed to be addressing the whole line. ‘Ours to win, boys! Right here! Right now!
Remember who you are!
’

The White Shields roared, and so did the Phalanx of Aegypt, but Satyrus thought that the other cheers were muted. He hoped it was just his fears.

Philokles reached past Namastis. ‘Don’t point,’ he said. ‘It’s not all good.’

Over to the left, the cavalry fight wasn’t going well for anyone - but suddenly, in a flaw in the battle haze, the whole line of the phalanx could see forty more elephants waiting.

‘Ares,’ Satyrus cursed. His heart sank. Again. So he made himself turn his head. ‘Drink water,’ he yelled.

Philokles was nodding. ‘We have to break the phalanx in front of us before Demetrios throws those elephants into us,’ he said. ‘That just became the battle.’ He drank and spat. ‘When I fall, you take command. ’

‘When you fall?’ Satyrus asked.

Philokles gave him a brilliant smile - the kind of smile his tutor scarcely ever smiled. Then the Spartan ran out of the ranks towards Ptolemy. He grabbed at his bridle, and they could see Ptolemy nod and signal to the trumpeters, and the signal for the advance rang out before Philokles was back in the ranks.

Ptolemy turned his horse and rode away towards the cavalry fight on the left. Way off to the right, Satyrus saw Diodorus. He wasn’t eating sausage any more, but he hadn’t moved.

The Foot Companions were
still
not in their place.

Philokles jumped out of the front rank, held his spear across their chests and roared ‘Dress the line’ so loudly that Satyrus flinched, helmet and all.

‘Prepare to execute the marine drill!’ he called. He ran along the front rank, heedless of the javelins that were starting to fall, until he reached Theron, and then he sprinted back, fast as an athlete despite age and wine and armour.

‘Spears - up!’ came the order. They were less than a stade from the enemy. A handful of brave or stupid psiloi still stood between the two mighty phalanxes, but they were scattering, running for the flanks. Satyrus watched the last of their own archers running off to the right to get around the killing ground.

Now that he could see the enemy phalanx, he could see that it looked bad - there were ripples and gaps where he assumed the elephants had burst back through, and officers were dressing the ranks.

Half a stade, and he could see the enemy move - they had their ranks dressed - they shivered as if the phalanx was a single, living organism and the whole thing leaned forward as the enemy began their advance, and suddenly everything happened at twice the speed.

The length of a sprint - he could see the emblems on their shields.

‘Spears - down!’ came the command - by trumpet, repeated by word of mouth. And the sarissas came down. In the Phalanx of Aegypt, the men in front had the shorter spears, and they lifted them over their heads in unison - a sight that literally banished fear, as training took over and Satyrus got his shoulder firmly under the rim of his aspis.

‘Sing the Paean!’ Philokles called, and the Alexandrians started the call to Apollo. The song carried him forward a hundred paces - literally buoyed him up - but at its end, in step and facing the foe, he still had ten horse-lengths of terror to face.

Ten horse-lengths, and he was confronted by a wall of spears that filled his mind as Amastris’s body had filled it, so that nothing and no one could take his eyes away from the lethal glitter of twelve thousand pike points.

The White Shields were
slowing down
. Ares—

‘Eyes front!’ Philokles roared. ‘Ready, Alexandria!’

The taxeis growled.

Five horse-lengths. The thicket of steel was pointed right at his throat - his head - too thick to penetrate. Thick enough to walk on.

It was
impossible
that a man could face so much iron and live.

His legs carried him forward.

‘Charge!’ Philokles’ voice and Rafik’s trumpet sounded together, and the front rank responded like trained beasts - left shoulder
down
, spear
down
, head
down
.

Spears rang against his aspis, reaching for his guts, again and again, and he bulled forward, legs pushing, blow to his helmet,
step
forward, another blow and another with enough weight to shift him sideways so that he stumbled, but he pushed,
he pushed
, nothing but the power of his legs and the weight of a dozen spear shafts on his aspis tilted almost flat like a table, and he
pushed
- Diokles’ shield pushing him forward - through! UP and PUSH and he rammed his spear straight ahead, felt the weight of Diokles pushing him another half pace forward. THROUGH!

To this right, Philokles roared like a bull and his spear hit a man’s helmet just over the nasal and burst it in a spray of blood and the man fell back and Philokles pushed—

Suddenly, as if his wits had been restored, Satyrus saw the fight for what it was, and in one smooth motion he killed a phalangite - not the man in front of him, but the man in front of Abraham whose shield was open, and then he placed his big shield against the enemy’s and
pushed
and Abraham pushed forward into the new space, on his own or carried forward by his file, and now he took the file-follower by surprise and simply knocked him down, and Satyrus rammed his spear over his shield, once, twice, three times - connected with something - again and again. Glance at Philokles, cover his shoulder - and then his opponent was
down
and Satyrus was forward a step. Rafik’s man was uncovered to his right, and his spear was there, scoring a clean hit on the man’s helmet. His point didn’t penetrate but the man’s head snapped back and he stumbled and Rafik stepped on the man and went forward and Rafik’s file-follower put his butt-spike through the man’s chest. Satyrus’s opponent roared, pushed his shield and Diokles killed him over Satyrus’s shoulder and Satyrus leaped forward to cover Philokles, who had put another man down and was moving forward again. The men behind the man facing Philokles were flinching away.

Now Satyrus was chest to chest with another man. His opponent dropped his sarissa and ripped his sword from the scabbard and Satyrus felt the wash of the man’s onion breath on his face and
he
was pushed back and the ranks locked - Abraham grunting, and Namastis shouting in Aegyptian.

Satyrus’s spear broke in his hands, trapped against a shield. He swung the butt-spike like a mace and scored against the tip of the big Macedonian’s shoulder where his shield didn’t cover it, and then his body moved as if he was making a sacrifice - hand up, grab the hilt under his armpit, sword drawn, down, over, the feint - back cut. The Macedonian missed his parry, his kopis over-committed, and his wrist bones parted as Satyrus’s blade cut through his arm and glanced off the faceplate on the other man’s Thracian helmet. The blood from his severed hand sprayed and blinded Satyrus, and he flinched, stumbled - but forward, because Diokles shoved him and then stabbed at his next opponent over his head, saving his life. A sword scraped along Satyrus’s helmet and he lost a piece of his left ear, although he didn’t feel it.

‘One more step!’ the voice of the war god said. ‘Now!’

The whole Phalanx of Aegypt planted and
pushed
. The Macedonian phalanx shuddered, and then, as if, having given one step, they could give another, they fell back.

And now the Aegyptians caught fire. Maybe they’d never believed. Or maybe they’d just hoped - but in those seconds, those heartbeats, the same message went out to every man in the taxeis.

‘Alexandria!’ Namastis called. He was the first, Satyrus thought, but then everyone was shouting.

Then there was no battle cry that any one man could discern but a roar, a roar of rage and triumph and fear - the bronze-lunged voice of Ares - and the enemy phalanx gave another step, another. Something had broken at the back and the spears were dropping, and suddenly there was—

Nothing. Scattered men stood confused in front of Satyrus, the enemies too foolish to have broken, and Satyrus killed one without thinking, stepping up to the man and cutting - one, two, three, as fast as thought.

‘Ares,’ Philokles said. He sounded weak. ‘Satyrus! We’re
not done
. Rally them. Rafik, sound the rally!’

Satyrus looked back. He couldn’t see anything behind him but his own men, but to the side, there were still enemies - some so close that he could hear the orders their officers shouted.

The notes of the rally sounded. Philokles was leaning on his spear. Satyrus thought that he was just breathing hard, but then he saw that there was blood all down the Spartan’s legs - pouring away from under his bronze breastplate.

‘I’ll go for Theron,’ Satyrus said.

‘No time,’ Philokles said. His knees went, and he slid down his spear, but he didn’t turn his head. ‘Right into their flank -
now, boy, before they recover
.’ His arm shot out, pointing at the uncovered flank of the enemy phalanx, and Philokles fell just that way, his face to the enemy, his arm pointing the path to victory.

And Satyrus did not flinch. He stepped across Philokles, the same way he’d stepped across the deck of the
Golden Lotus
, as if he’d done it all his life - although the man he loved best in all the world lay in the sand at his feet.

Diokles snapped forward to fill his place.

‘We will wheel the taxeis to the left!’ Satyrus called. ‘On my command! ’

Through the cheekpieces of his helmet, it sounded remarkably like Philokles’ voice, right down to the Laconian drawl. ‘March!’ he roared.

The taxeis pivoted on Theron, the left-most man - unless he, too, was dead. This was the manoeuvre they had so often done wrong - this was where the centre of the line would fold, eager men going too fast, terrified men going too slow.

Halfway around. All the time to consider how much like sailing a trireme it was to command a phalanx. All the time to watch the men opposite him. They were turning, but men at the back were already giving way, running for their lives past their file-closers. There was no hope for a phalanx taken in the flank.

The taxeis of Alexandria pivoted well enough. The centre buckled at the end - someone tripped, a man got a butt-spike in the head and the spears were still down, not erect. Too close for that.

Too late to worry. ‘Three-step charge!’ Satyrus called.

Rafik sounded it.

Only half the files responded. The centre was a wreck, just from two men going down and the spears of their files flying in all directions. Theron’s end of the line never heard the command, or if they did they didn’t respond.

It didn’t matter. Because the fifty files that did respond covered the distance to the enemy at the run, and their shields deflected the handful of sarissas that opposed them, and then their spears were into the flank of the enemy, and the enemy regiment collapsed and ran like a herd of panicked cattle - two thousand men turned into a mob in a matter of heartbeats. Satyrus, the rightmost man of his line, never reached an enemy - by the time he’d crossed the space, they were gone.

They were gone, and the White Shields were unblocked. They had started to cheer. However late they had come into the fight, they were moving - wheeling to the left, just as the Alexandrians had done.

Philemon, the polemarch of the White Shields, was calling to Theron, and Theron came running across the face of the victorious Alexandrians. ‘Drink water!’ Satyrus called. No one left the ranks to pursue the fleeing Macedonians. Instead, a few men cheered, the rest simply stopped. Like exhausted runners at the end of a race.

‘Philokles?’ Theron asked. His nose was broken under his helmet, and blood covered his breastplate. He had blood on his hands.

‘Down,’ Satyrus said.

‘Philemon wants us to march to the right to make space for him,’ Theron said. ‘I’ll take your orders,’ he continued.

‘Good,’ Satyrus said. He stood straight. He wanted to laugh at the notion that the taxeis of half-soldiers from Alexandria were being asked to face to the right and advance by files - a hard enough manoeuvre on the parade square - on a battlefield.

He did what he’d seen Philokles do. He ran all the way down the front rank, repeating the command - again and again. He waited precious seconds, the polemarch of the White Shields yelling from further to the left. He ignored him, waiting for the phylarchs to pass the word back. Then he sprinted to Rafik, cursing his greaves. They were eating his ankles.

‘Face to the spear side!’ he ordered. ‘March!’

As one - almost as one, because he watched Dionysius face the shield side and then pivot on his heel - the Phalanx of Aegypt faced to the right and marched off - one hundred, two hundred paces deeper into the enemy lines.