‘All right, I’m with you, lady. Looting is not for gentlemen.’ Coenus raised an eyebrow. ‘Besides, I’m done.’
The elephants were running, and a handful of terrified but elated volunteers were ‘guarding’ their three captures, led by Namastis – now a phylarch.
Satyrus was reforming his taxeis. The White Shields were streaming away to the north, all discipline gone – having survived the elephants, they were hunting fugitives. The Aegyptians were different, unsure of what to do with their victory.
Satyrus formed them, his stomach roiling at the losses and the gaps. Where was Xenophon? Where was Dionysius? Where was Diokles? There were so many holes in the front ranks that he had to use every one of the young men he’d recruited as a phylarch, and then he had to promote a dozen of Leon’s marines.
He rallied them facing the enemy camp. To his left, there was still fighting – scattered bands of cavalry, enemy and friendly, appeared out of the battle haze. It was past noon. Satyrus drank water and tried to find someone to give him orders.
On his right, the Foot Companions rallied. The elephants had hurt them. Satyrus could look to his right and see familiar faces – Amyntas was now in the front rank, just a few men away. Satyrus waved and Amyntas waved back.
The motion seemed to embolden the Foot Companions’ left phylarch. He turned on his heel and saluted. ‘Any orders, Polemarch?’ he asked.
Satyrus made a choking noise. He turned and spat. ‘What did you ask?’ he choked out.
The Macedonian shrugged despite his bronze breastplate. ‘Quite a few officers failed to survive first contact,’ the man said. He pulled off his helmet and offered his arm to clasp. ‘Philip, son of Philip.’
‘Satyrus, son of Kineas,’ Satyrus said. ‘I have no idea what to do now.’
Philip laughed. ‘Fuck, are you sure you’re an officer?’ he asked.
Hoof beats.
Purple cloaks and dun cloaks moving in the dust to his front.
‘Cavalry on our flank!’ came the shouts from the left. Satyrus had to see for himself. He stepped out of the ranks. ‘Philip, hold this line,’ he ordered. ‘Abraham! Take command of the right file! Rafik, on me!’
The Nabataean followed him out of the ranks and he ran, the rubbing of his greaves tearing at the blood-caked sores on his ankles as he ran across the front of his taxeis.
‘Cavalry!’ his comrades shouted. Theron wasn’t there to command the left, but Apollodorus, one of Leon’s marines, had ordered the flank files to face to their shields and down spears, covering the flank of the taxeis – a smart man. Satyrus stopped level with him.
‘There they are,’ Apollodorus said. He pointed into the haze of dust where Satyrus could just see movement.
Satyrus reached up and tilted his silver helmet back on his head. The cheekpieces hinged up, and he could breathe – and see.
The enemy cavalry was coming forward cautiously. They offered him no threat at all – his files were steady and Apollodorus had already made them secure. ‘Well done, marine,’ Satyrus said.
‘Thank you, sir!’ the marine answered woodenly. As if he were a real officer. ‘Looks to me like they crushed our right while we crushed theirs,’ he added.
The leader of the enemy cavalry was encased in golden armour, and he had a golden helmet. He rode forward slowly, and then a trumpet sounded and his men halted.
Behind him and to the left, another trumpet sounded. Men pointed.
Satyrus flexed his back under his scale corslet and fought exhaustion. The man in the golden armour had to be Demetrios.
Gold Helm rode forward boldly. In a few heartbeats he covered the ground, and he pulled up just short of Satyrus.
‘That’s my helmet,’ he said.
‘Come and take it,’ Satyrus said. Not his best line ever, but not bad. He managed a smile.
‘I thought that you might be my infantry,’ Demetrios said, conversationally. ‘I seem to have lost.’
‘We destroyed your infantry,’ Satyrus said.
Demetrios nodded. ‘Shall we fight? Single combat? You look like a hero to me.’
Satyrus’s tired smile flashed into a grin. Demetrios’s charm was like a force of nature. For just a heartbeat, he wanted to fight the magnificent enemy in hand-to-hand combat.
‘Delighted,’ Satyrus said. ‘If you’ll dismount?’
There were trumpets sounding behind the left flank, and Demetrios’s troopers were starting to shuffle.
‘No, I don’t think I’d better,’ Demetrios said. He smiled, as if Satyrus had scored a point. ‘Pity – I think we might be a match, and I’d like to have something to show for today.’
Satyrus stepped out of the ranks so that he wouldn’t seem afraid. ‘Another time, perhaps?’ he shouted. Men in the ranks were calling out.
Demetrios reared his charger and saluted – the Olympic salute. ‘Next time then, hero.’ He turned his horse and rode away.
‘Hero?’ Satyrus said.
Apollodorus was grinning.
He was still grinning when Ptolemy rode through the dust. ‘Young Satyrus,’ he said. ‘I think we’ve won. Why are your men so far from your place in the line? What news?’
Satyrus shook his head. ‘We’ve won, lord.’
Ptolemy grinned, his ugly face transformed. ‘I thought we might have, at that. Seleucus saved my arse in the dust, and things seemed to get better. So – the boys stayed loyal!’
‘All the ones who matter,’ Satyrus said, and there was a thin cheer.
As official news of victory spread, the men of the Aegyptian taxeis collapsed like curtains cut from their rods. Men knelt in the dust, or even lay down. And then someone began a hymn – the Aegyptian hymn to Osiris. Most of the men knew it, even the Greeks – and the haunting melody was taken up.
‘Zeus Soter, boy,’ Ptolemy said. There were tears on his cheeks, and he slid from his mount.
Drawn by the singing, more men rode out of the haze. The dust cloud itself began to thin.
‘Ares!’ Seleucus shouted. ‘The right-flank cavalry is already in their camp!’ He seemed to see the infantrymen for the first time. ‘Well fought, soldiers! No one will call this a cavalry battle.’
Ptolemy clasped Satyrus’s hand. ‘Where’s your tutor, boy? Your polemarch?’
Satyrus’s heart seemed to stop, because he hadn’t given Philokles a thought in what seemed like hours. ‘Down, sir,’ he said. ‘I’m in command. ’
Ptolemy’s grip tightened. ‘Good man,’ he said. He embraced Satyrus. ‘I knew you were a young man of talent.’ Then he looked up at Seleucus. ‘Round up anyone who can still ride. We’re going to press the pursuit.’
Seleucus laughed. ‘No, lord. We’re going to loot the camp. The men have already made that decision. But I’ll offer a reward for the elephants.’
‘We have half a dozen,’ Satyrus said. He bowed to Ptolemy, and when the great man had remounted and ridden away, he felt as if he had to lie down in the sand. He felt like collapsing, but instead he turned and walked back to Abraham. ‘Take the men back to camp. Do not let them join in the looting. I’m going to find Philokles.’ Satyrus looked at his men, who looked more like a defeated army than a victorious one. The Foot Companions weren’t much different. ‘Get men to bury the dead. And find our wounded. Send for the shield-bearers.’
Abraham nodded.
Satyrus walked off, alone.
As they rode out of the cordon, the scene turned to one of debauched violence that made the night market appear to be safe and orderly and the looting of the Exiles a model of decorum. Men drank anything they could find and behaved like animals for no reason or every reason, and Melitta stayed close to her own, riding behind Coenus as he kept to the centre of the great avenues of the tent camp. Twice, Hama and Carlus killed other men from their own army.
‘This is horrible,’ Melitta said.
‘This is the river in which we swim,’ Coenus said. He spat. ‘Most men are little better than animals.’ As if to make his point, an orange glow lit them. Behind them, the town had caught fire. It burned, and Melitta heard the screams of the trapped villagers. Ptolemy’s army laughed as they screamed, and butchered those who ran. Macedonians from Ptolemy’s army killed the Macedonian wounded of Demetrios’s army.