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.
12
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.’
‘Eumenes,’ Philokles said. He was on his feet. Philokles gave a salute in the Spartan fashion.
‘By all the gods, a Spartan. You have the better of me, sir.’ Eumenes extended an arm, leaning down from the saddle.
Philokles took his hand and clasped it. ‘Philokles – a friend of your strategos Diodorus, and of Kineas, whom you fought in Bactria. These are his children.’
Eumenes grimaced. ‘You could put them in with Herakles. We could start a nursery for orphans of great generals!’ He looked down at them, imperious in purple and silver. ‘What do you think, boy?’
‘I think that you’re hiding your elephants in that dust cloud,’ Melitta said. ‘And you’re going to break the enemy in the centre.’
‘I think Uncle Diodorus’s flank extends well beyond his opponent’s,’ Satyrus piped up. ‘And they’re already scared.’
‘Not bad,’ Eumenes said, looking like a man who had all day to discuss his tactics with children. ‘Not bad at all. But here’s the question, boys and girls. He has more cavalry than I do. Yet – his battle line is shorter. Where is the rest of the cavalry? That is what I rode up here to see.’
Satyrus and Melitta exchanged a glance.
Eumenes went on, speaking mostly to himself. ‘Battles happen because both generals think that they are in a superior position, and one of them is always wrong,’ he said. ‘Or because one of them is desperate. I’m not desperate. My phalanx is better and I have more elephants. One-Eye has more cavalry. It is his only advantage, beside the fact that he’s a Macedonian and I’m a Greek.’ He took a linen towel from his satchel and wiped his brow. ‘So where the fuck is it?’ he went on. ‘If he’s sent it out on the flanks – well, I may have crushed his centre before they arrive. No dust cloud. I guess they could be coming behind that range of hills to the west, but that’s twenty stades.’
He pushed his towel back in his satchel. ‘Well, Spartan, enjoy your view. Children, consider this a lesson.’ Without another word, he waved at his entourage and galloped down the face of the bluff, raising a cloud of dust that took ten minutes to dispel and obscured their view of the battlefield.
Theron opened a basket and served a late breakfast of figs and dates. All of them enjoyed the rich fruits, and they were quite sticky before the dust cleared.
‘So that was Eumenes the Cardian,’ Satyrus said.
‘In the life,’ Philokles answered.
‘What do you think he meant about this being a lesson?’ Satyrus asked.
Philokles got the look that both twins associated with lessons. ‘What did Eumenes say was the key to battle? Why do battles happen?’
Satyrus nodded seriously. ‘Battles happen because both generals believe they are superior, and one of them is wrong,’ he said.
Melitta jabbed him with an elbow.
‘In this case, I believe that Eumenes has decided that his opponent is staking his battle on a flank march. Eumenes is staking his on his elephants.’ Philokles pointed out at the field, where the curtain of dust was slowly subsiding. ‘One of them is wrong.’
‘Who?’ Melitta asked.
‘Ask Zeus,’ Theron said. ‘Look!’
Out on the plain, Eumenes’ whole line had started forward. The apparent confusion of his left was now revealed as a ruse, with the whole force of his elephants guarding the left of his phalanx and walking boldly forward a stade or so behind the main line. On the right, Diodorus’s cavalry was already well down the field and pressing on.
‘But-’ Satyrus was hopping up and down. ‘But – nothing was happening! ’
Philokles’ voice sounded strange, almost as if he were drunk. ‘Once a battle starts,’ he said, ‘it moves fairly fast.’
As they watched, both sides manoeuvred, pushing the last units into line or trying to straighten the more ragged divisions, but both sides had some forces in motion and any form of uniformity was shredded, except in the centres, where the phalanxes marched forward in order. They appeared about equal in size, and they were getting closer to each other – less than a stade apart now.
‘This is the worst part for the men in the ranks,’ Philokles said. ‘When you can see that wall of spear points coming at you, you feel naked. Nothing but honour – and fear of the contempt of the gods and your friends – can keep your feet moving forward. Your heart races as if you’re about to die. Perhaps you are.’ He looked away. ‘Poor bastards. May the gods stand with every one of them.’
‘Look! Our men are winning!’ Melitta cried. She was watching the cavalry on the right, where Diodorus was stationed.
‘Ares!’ Theron said. ‘That was fast.’
Philokles shook his head. ‘Either One-Eye has set a trap and Philip has fallen for it, or One-Eye has made an error.’
Satyrus caught the flash of sun on weapons to the far right. ‘It is a trap. Oh, Uncle Diodorus!’
Even as the whole line – the rather thin line – in front of Diodorus buckled and fled, his prodromoi were struck in the flank by lancers coming over the low ridge to the east. But the contest was by no means one-sided, and just before the battle haze hid the action on the right from them, they saw a whole regiment of Diodorus’s cavalry come out of the distant dust and fall on the ambushers, who were in turn the ambushed, while his main force continued straight on.
‘What happened?’ Satyrus asked.
Philokles stroked his beard for several minutes. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Cavalry fights are fast and confusing. It’s like watching a pair of dogs go for the throat – until one lies dead, it is hard to guess who will win. But Diodorus has been at this for longer than you’ve been alive. I’d guess he walked into that with his eyes open.’
As Philokles spoke, the phalanxes in the centre moved so close to each other as to look like a single mass. And then both seemed to stop moving forward, but they both kept moving from the back. As a child, Satyrus had once watched two caterpillars collide on a narrow branch, their heads locked together while their rear legs kept moving, and the phalanxes were much the same. And then the noise carried to them, a strain of a paean and the crash as the two great bodies met.
‘They both stood,’ Philokles said.
‘They were both moving,’ Theron countered.
‘That’s not what I mean,’ Philokles said testily. ‘What I should have said is that neither broke before contact. It often happens that way, although no one likes to speak of it later.’
‘Look!’ Melitta said, grabbing her brother’s shoulder and pulling at it.
Satyrus tore his eyes from the death struggle in the centre and the elephants marching stolidly up from the second line. Eumenes’ left, the part with his elite cavalry, closest to camp, was about to be struck in the flank by a tidal wave of cavalry. Satyrus had missed their appearance. ‘Where did they come from?’ he asked.
Melitta shook her head. She was chewing her lips. ‘They’re going to sweep right over our cavalry,’ she said.
‘Right into the flank of the phalanx,’ Theron said.
‘It’s not unlike watching the climax of a race,’ Philokles said. ‘Except that the contestants are dying.’
‘Diodorus needs to turn into the flank of the enemy phalanx,’ Satyrus added, after a tense silence.
Eumenes’ elite cavalry were outnumbered, and their dislike of their employer showed in the haste of their retreat, so that his left wing collapsed in mere minutes. Bactrians and Medes surged forward, many units penetrating the line without having engaged at all.
Melitta was on her feet. ‘They can’t see the elephants!’ she said.
Satyrus stood up with her. It was like cheering contestants at an athletic event. Thousands of enemy cavalrymen were pouring into the void left by the flight of Eumenes’ left wing, but instead of hitting the flank
of the phalanx, they were about to plunge over a very low ridge into Eumenes’ elephant force. The low ridge was scarcely visible – Melitta was guessing that it must be there, because the Bactrians galloped straight at the elephants.
And on the farthest left, they could see a body of their own cavalry launch their own charge into the now-open flank of the enemy’s Bactrians. Satyrus thought that it was remarkably like boxing – punch and counter-punch. The brave man who was leading the charge right in front of them was throwing a fairly feeble left, but in order to deal with it, the mass of Bactrians and Saka would have to change front and they would lose all the advantage of their position.
‘See how the Medes are avoiding a second fight? When men have triumphed in battle, they are often just as finished with violence as men who have lost. So the Medes hesitate and look around for easier meat.’
Satyrus found that he’d eaten another fig without a memory of picking the fruit from the basket. Dust now hid everything all along the line. He put his cloak on the ground behind him and sat on it. He washed his hands from his canteen.
Nothing seemed to be happening, although the sounds of combat were now clearly audible, carried on a fresh breeze from the east. The Medes and Bactrians had vanished into the towering salt-dust clouds, and the battle line was hidden from end to end.
And then the Bactrians came bursting out of the edge of the cloud closest to the camp.
13
P hilokles watched them for a long heartbeat, and then he grabbed the runner. ‘Go to your mistress, as fast as you can run. Tell her that five thousand Asiatic cavalry are about to hit the camp. She may have ten minutes. She’ll know what to do. Go!’
The young man was off down the hillside, his tanned limbs flashing in rhythm as he ran.
Philokles watched the Medes for ten more heartbeats. Then he turned to Theron and the twins.
‘Eumenes’ left is broken beyond saving, but the men who broke it have chosen to loot the camp rather than face the elephants.’ He nodded. ‘Very wise of them, actually. But in effect, it nullifies One-Eye’s victory. Unless I miss my guess, that man down there – follow my hand – is Eumenes. He’s trying to stem the rout.’
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