Funeral Games t-3

by Christian Cameron

  The taxeis responded like one man, the spears flashing as the ranks lifted their weapons and put them in position – as if the mass of an elephant wouldn’t snap the shafts like kindling.

  Just beyond the reach of his spear, he saw the nearest behemoth turn slightly and race into the opening between Abraham’s file and Xeno’s, two pike-lengths away. The beast was already slowing, but it ran into the lane as if the driver had given the order.

  Satyrus couldn’t see any of the other beasts, but he could see the vermilion paint on the flank of the beast that had gone by and smell its strange stink. He could all but hear Philokles telling him that sometimes the leader had to show the way.

  He shivered with fear, and filled his lungs, and even over the stink of the great monsters he smelled the wet-cat smell of the god at his shoulder. ‘Herakles!’ he trumpeted. He raised his spear and turned, stepping out of the ranks – suicide in an infantry fight, but now he was two files away from the elephant, and fear or no fear, this was something he had to lead.

  He raced across the empty ground of the front and turned down the alley of the missing files, coming up on the beast from behind, its ridiculous tail swaying as it walked. The men on its back were terrified – their terror steadied him – both were thrusting pikes down at the Aegyptian phalangites, most of whom thrust back hesitantly.

  ‘Herakles!’ Satyrus called. He was within reach of the thing’s leg. His spear was plenty long enough. He ran alongside the beast for three paces, pivoted on his left foot and punched up with his spear, right into the mahout’s side. The man turned, too late, and his scream was lost in the thunder of the elephants and the phalanx roared as he fell from his perch.

  The beast stopped. It made a sound – a horrible sound, the same sound that Satyrus would have liked to have made when he saw the blood pouring out of Philokles, rage and sorrow and mourning compounded.

  Abraham’s spear plucked the Macedonian pikeman from the beast’s back and the man fell into the phalanx, screaming as he died on a dozen spears. The Aegyptian taxeis turned into a mob tearing at the men on the elephants, and in some palaces the beasts rioted, killing a dozen men in a few seconds. One animal threw an Alexandrian Jew so high in the air that his fall injured as many men as the elephant’s rage had. Another animal pinned a man under one huge foot and used her trunk to pull the dead man apart, but everywhere the crews were being butchered at close quarters. The files who had retreated to form the gaps came charging back down the alleys without orders, without any intention but to join their comrades and kill, and even the horrors of the death wreaked by the monsters couldn’t slow the inevitable conclusion as a thousand men fought ten elephants.

  The elephant closest to Satyrus gave another hideous cry and then slumped, almost unmoving.

  All around him, the sounds of fighting died away. Most of the elephants had broken free of the phalanx, and now, their crews gone, they ran away over the plain, but three of the elephants were trapped in the press of bodies and they simply stood, waiting for their fates.

  Abraham caught at Satyrus’s spear arm as he prepared to kill the beast. ‘Stop!’

  Satyrus turned his helmeted head. ‘What?’

  ‘Stop!’ Abraham said. He pulled his helmet off, his long hair falling in a sweat-caked mass. ‘They’re ours! We’ve captured them!’

  In seconds his cry was taken up, and as long as Satyrus lived, he would remember that cry, and the thousands of Alexandrian hands reaching out, not to kill, but just to touch the great beasts.

  ‘The elephants are ours!’

  The Exiles went through the crowds at the gate like a scythe through the stalks of wheat on an autumn day when the wheat is dry and the stalks are brittle. Then they passed under the great gate of the camp and into the narrow streets behind the gate.

  Melitta followed Diodorus as they entered the town. There was no real defence, just panicked men running from horsemen who seldom stopped to cut them down. Then they were through the town and into the tented camp, and Melitta could see the enemy horsemen and many of the infantry already streaming away from the back of the camp – a complete rout, the enemy already abandoning their own camp, their wives, their treasure.

  ‘Follow me!’ Diodorus roared. He pointed his charger’s head at the complex of tents in the centre, like a palace built of canvas, with a magnificent central structure of Tyrian purple. ‘Exiles, follow me!’

  Melitta had been all but born to the saddle but she still found Diodorus difficult to follow. He rode over obstacles, jumping tent ropes like a centaur, his officer’s cloak streaming away behind him. Melitta rode around obstacles that Diodorus jumped, but she stayed with him, and Crax and Eumenes and both of their troops followed, their faded blue cloaks marking them as friends.

  So far, they had the camp to themselves.

  ‘Ares and Aphrodite!’ Diodorus shouted as he rode under the gate of the command area. It had its own temple to Nike, its own fountains. Behind him, the handful of guards surrendered to the Exiles. More poured in behind him.

  Rows of gilded bronze statues decorated every entryway, and a bath of silver stood in the middle of the court. Diodorus let his horse drink from it.

  ‘What an idiot,’ Diodorus said. ‘Eumenes! File-leaders at the door of every tent. Four files in the gate and every fucking coin gets shared. Understand, lads?’

  Eumenes’ men didn’t wait for orders – they were off their horses and moving to protect their posts as soon as they heard the hipparch. Eumenes took more files out of the gate to surround the tent complex.

  ‘Take it all!’ Diodorus bellowed. The Exiles roared. To Melitta, he said, ‘This beats glory any time.’

  ‘We have to find Amastris!’ Melitta shouted.

  But Amastris was one woman, and here was reward for years of fighting – here was the treasure of an enemy army, and most men knew that this was the hoard that would pay for their return.

  Leon rode into the courtyard. He saluted Diodorus. ‘Third troop is sweeping the officers’ lines and fourth is off to cull the horse herd.’ He nodded. ‘I see that we’re the first ones here.’

  Uncle Leon had a line of blood along his lip. ‘You’re hurt!’ Melitta said.

  ‘Look who it is!’ Leon said. He didn’t smile.

  ‘We need to find Amastris. Everyone is looting!’ Melitta shouted at her uncles. Behind Leon, Coenus was directing a crowd of eager men with crowbars.

  Melitta shrank away.

  ‘Ptolemy’s flank was getting the worst of it, last I saw,’ Leon said to Diodorus over her head. ‘Won’t do us any good if the Farm Boy dies while we’re looting.’

  Diodorus shook his head. ‘Demetrios was over there with all his best cavalry,’ he said. He pulled off his helmet. ‘Ptolemy can handle it. If he can’t win with both his left and his centre victorious, we were doomed from the first.’

  ‘Eumenes looted the enemy camp at Gabiene, and you still lost.’ Leon was watching the dust to the east. ‘Let me take the mercenaries-’

  ‘You think that you could get them out of an enemy camp once the looting starts?’ Diodorus looked around. ‘Ptolemy’s good, Leon. Coenus, forget the marble! Apollo’s golden balls, that man will stop to look at art.’

  Leon looked around. ‘If you’re sure, there may be some items amidst all this vulgarity that I want.’

  Melitta looked back and forth. ‘We need to find Amastris!’ she shouted.

  ‘Look sharp there!’ Diodorus yelled when a knot of mercenaries tried to push past one of his files. ‘This is ours, comrade. Push off!’

  Leon saluted. ‘On your head be it, brother,’ he said. He ignored Melitta, clasped hands with Diodorus and rode off.

  It was ugly, and there were things that Melitta didn’t want to watch – rape, brutal killing without mercy – but not as much as she would have seen if the camp had been defended. The Exiles hadn’t lost a man, and their blood wasn’t up – and their discipline held. They found the treasury, took prisoners who seemed to be
worth ransom and formed caravans of their loot before the rest of the army was in the camp.

  Melitta watched it, sickened, and she watched the remnants of the beaten army flood away over the back gates and the back walls and on to the sand.

  Just beyond the cordon of Exiles, she watched a line of men raping a woman – the victim didn’t even scream. Tanu, the Thracian in her file, caught her eye and shook his head. ‘Don’t watch, lass,’ he said.

  ‘We should clear ’em out,’ Carlus said.

  ‘Ain’t harming us none,’ Tanu said. He shrugged. ‘I could use a piece of that,’ he said.

  Melitta straightened her spine. ‘My friend is out in that somewhere,’ she said. ‘I need some men who will watch my back while I find her.’ She kneed her horse forward, until she was in front of the pickets. ‘Who will follow me?’

  ‘Lord Eumenes put us here,’ Tanu said.

  ‘Making trouble, girl?’ Coenus said. ‘You – Hama! And Carlus. And Tanu, damn your black heart. Get your arse in the saddle.’ He looked up at Melitta. ‘Well?’

  Melitta moved her gorytos and put the hilt of her akinakes in easy reach. ‘Stratokles is no fool,’ she said. ‘Diodorus is too busy looting to care, and Uncle Leon is too angry to listen to me.’

  Coenus nodded. ‘I wonder why, girl?’

  Melitta dismissed Leon with a flick of her hand. ‘But Stratokles would have run as soon as he knew the battle was lost. He’s gone and he’s got Amastris with him – I know it.’

  It wasn’t her best rhetoric – Satyrus would have been better at this – but something in her tone went home, both to the men like Carlus who knew her and to Coenus. He nodded and waved at the man holding his charger.

  ‘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.

  They rode clear of the camp, past the horse herds and into the tail of the enemy rout.

  Coenus reined in. ‘This is insane, girl!’