Melitta rode straight past him. She knew she could find Stratokles. Amastris wasn’t her real goal any more – although images of the rape of the woman in the camp filled her head when she thought of her friend. She rode faster, pressing past frightened camp followers and wounded soldiers. At her shoulder rode a dozen of her father’s best men – and no one turned to face them.
Philokles lay wrapped in his cloak, his head in Theron’s lap. He had Theron’s chiton wrapped around his groin, and Theron’s chiton was Spartan red. Theron was weeping.
Satyrus ran the last few strides with a sob and threw himself on the ground. ‘Philokles!’ he said.
His tutor’s eyes met his, and he grasped the man’s hand. ‘You broke them!’ he said.
Theron’s voice was thick and hoarse. ‘He doesn’t care about that!’ he choked.
‘I tried to be a moral man,’ Philokles said softly. ‘But I died killing other men.’
‘You are a hero!’ Satyrus said through his tears. ‘You are too hard on yourself!’
‘I love you,’ Philokles said so softly that Satyrus had to put his head down to listen. ‘Tell Melitta I loved her.’
Satyrus nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said, suddenly ashamed. ‘We love you. All the time.’
Philokles made a noise in his throat. ‘Just so,’ he whispered. He took a deep breath. ‘Examine your life. Love your sister. Be true.’ He looked at Theron for a moment, and then he slumped a little, tried to move his hips and gave a short scream.
Blood poured over the ground so fast that Satyrus’s feet were drowned in it.
‘Kineas!’ Philokles said. His eyes went to the sky.
And there, on the edge of dark, Melitta saw the satyr’s profile by the light of the burning town – Stratokles. He was wearing a cloak, mounted on a fine mare, and his cut nose revealed him. Even in the dark, Melitta could see that he had Amastris mounted in front of him.
She grabbed at Coenus. ‘Stratokles!’ she called. ‘There he is!’
Coenus turned his horse. It took him a long moment to see what she saw, and then he was riding at the Athenian.
Stratokles heard the hoof beats and turned his horse. He had his guards, and they turned with him.
‘Stratokles!’ Coenus called.
Melitta put an arrow on her bow.
The Athenian actually smiled. He lowered his sword. ‘Gods, my luck has held! Listen! I surrender!’ His grin broadened. ‘A man of honour, in all this rout!’
Coenus slowed his mount to a walk and his men moved to surround the Athenian’s companions. ‘Drop your sword,’ Coenus said.
Stratokles shook his head. ‘Let’s have an understanding,’ he said, exchanging a look with one of his companions. ‘I have someone very valuable here. And I know things – things very important to your Ptolemy. Understand?’
‘I understand you killed my mother,’ Melitta shouted.
Stratokles turned his head. ‘Like fuck I did, honey. One of Eumeles’ guardsmen did that – after she cut off my nose.’ He shook his head, annoyed. ‘Nothing personal about it, girl. Just politics.’ Stratokles whispered something to his captive and she squirmed. ‘Give me a safe conduct and I’ll give you the girl,’ he said.
Melitta found that it wasn’t that hard, even after a long day, to keep her bow at full draw, but Amastris’s movements were spoiling her aim. ‘Look at me, Stratokles,’ she said.
He didn’t look at her. He touched his booted heels to his horse’s sides, and the mare backed up. ‘I don’t think you’ll shoot through the tyrant’s daughter to get me,’ he said. To Coenus, he added, ‘I’m perfectly willing to surrender, just not to be murdered.’
‘No need to surrender,’ Lucius said in his low voice from behind them. ‘Sorry I’m late, boss.’
‘I have your life in my hand, Stratokles,’ Melitta said.
Lucius had a blade at Hama’s throat. ‘Lady, look around you. I have ten men to your six.’ He shook his head. ‘And you can’t keep that arrow drawn all night.’
Coenus laughed grimly. ‘You don’t know her. Stratokles, call off your dog and I’ll call off mine.’
Stratokles nodded. ‘Done. Amastris is going with you. Lucius, did you get the other one?’
Lucius grunted. ‘Of course.’
Stratokles laughed. Around them, there was fighting, and the sound of a camel screaming filled the night. ‘Time we all went our separate ways.’
Coenus glared at Melitta. ‘Put up!’ he said.
‘He killed my mother!’ Melitta said. ‘I want him dead. You are all fools if you think that my life is worth my oath and my revenge. I don’t mind dying!’
Coenus’s arm touched hers and she lowered her arrow. She saw Stratokles motion at his man, and the big Italian let his sword fall away from Hama’s throat.
Stratokles tipped the princess on to the sand. ‘See? I keep my part of the bargain,’ he said. He bowed from the saddle. ‘Princess? I hope we meet again.’
Amastris picked herself up. ‘I’ve learned a great deal from you, sir,’ she said.
Stratokles laughed. ‘I won’t even charge you for it.’
Stratokles turned his horse, nimbler now with just one rider, and rode for it. His men followed him.
Melitta shook her head. ‘You have a lot to answer for,’ she said to Coenus.
Coenus shrugged. ‘You’ll thank me yet,’ he said.
One of Lucius’s men spat as they slowed. There was no pursuit.
‘All that loot and nothing to show for it,’ he complained.
Stratokles was tired, but the encounter in the sand had filled him with fire and he laughed again. ‘Nothing?’ he asked. ‘We have Alexander’s son.’ He pointed at the huddled figure of Herakles, bundled in Lucius’s arms.
Men whistled softly.
Stratokles led the way up the coast, riding like a conqueror.
29
‘I rather liked him,’ Amastris said.
Melitta didn’t answer. With Coenus and Hama, she and her escort trotted across the battlefield at the edge of night. There were beasts out already – vultures and worse creatures feasted on the dead. Melitta saw elephants being herded by frightened men, and hordes of Macedonian prisoners – thousands of captured pikemen from the shattered centre. She rode past them.
‘What are you thinking?’ Amastris asked.
Melitta said nothing, only pressed her charger harder. She had a feeling Moira was lying heavily on her. That feeling pressed harder the faster she rode, until she saw a circle of men standing in the last light. They were the only men on the battlefield who were not looting, except for some slaves already busy burying the dead.
They parted for her horse, and there was her brother.
Alive. She breathed in and out.
Philokles.
‘He’s dead,’ Satyrus said. He looked old, even in the ruddy light of the burning town. ‘He said goodbye to you.’
Melitta fell into her brother’s arms.
‘Xeno asked for you, but you weren’t here,’ Satyrus said.
‘Amastris needed to be rescued. I – failed to kill Stratokles.’ It was like telling Sappho how she had spent her day. Satyrus’s expression was wrong.
Behind her, Coenus choked and gave a great cry.
‘No!’ Melitta said. But she didn’t need to look at the cloak-wrapped body next to Philokles to know who it was. Xenophon’s death was stamped on her brother’s face for ever – the death of his youth. She could see it with the same inevitability that she could see that she carried the dead boy’s child.
‘We never-’ Satyrus said, and then he turned his face away. ‘It’s not about me,’ he said bitterly.
‘What are you all doing?’ Amastris asked. ‘Satyrus? Is that you?’
Satyrus stepped away from his sister and took his love in his arms. ‘Amastris!’ he said.
Amastris kissed him and looked around. ‘I’m sorry for them,’ Amastris said softly. ‘But Ptolemy won, love. You won.’
‘Not tonig
ht,’ Satyrus said. He looked up at the sound of hoof beats, and saw the Exiles coming with a baggage train of loot and captured slaves. And then Diodorus was there, and Leon, and other men who loved Philokles and Xenophon.
Epilogue
T he army of Aegypt gathered its heroic dead for return to Aegypt. Ptolemy collected his looters and his army and thrust north, scattering Demetrios but failing to catch him, and came back to Gaza rich in loot and plunder and leaving Palestine a flaming disaster behind him.
Satyrus and Melitta, like most of the survivors of the battle, spent a day unable to move, and then were pressed into duties – burying the dead. Hauling food.
There were never enough slaves, after a battle. And the danger of renewed conflict was, at first, very real. Demetrios saved most of his cavalry. His patrols began to prowl the shore north of Gaza.
Weeks passed. Ptolemy took his cavalry on a deep raid into Palestine, and cities opened their gates to him. Diodorus rode at his side, and the loot was legendary. But finally, Ptolemy turned for home, and the Phalanx of Aegypt led the march, fourteen hundred veterans. When they entered Alexandria, they sang the Paean, and the crowds cheered them as they cheered no other troops, and Namastis embraced Diokles and Amyntas and Satyrus and Abraham when they were dismissed as if they were all brothers.
And fathers and mothers wept for the dead.
But the war, and the world, marched on.
Alexander’s funeral games had cost a few thousand more lives. But there was still no shortage of contestants.
A week after they returned to Alexandria, Leon sent Satyrus to the slave market with twenty talents of pure gold and Diokles and Abraham as his lieutenants. ‘Buy the best of the Macedonian prisoners,’ Leon said.
‘What for?’ Melitta asked. Everything made her grumpy now – Sappho’s displeasure and Coenus’s too-careful attention.
‘They’ll be the core of our infantry,’ Leon said. ‘Next summer. When we sail for the Euxine.’
That made even Melitta smile, and she waved at Satyrus as he left for the slave pens, accompanied by his friends and some hired guards because of the money.
The captive phalangites looked terrible – underfed, hopeless. They didn’t look like soldiers. Most didn’t even raise their eyes as Satyrus walked among them, and they stank.
‘We want these?’ Satyrus asked Diokles, who still favoured his right shoulder and rubbed it a great deal.
‘There’s a sight for sore eyes,’ said a familiar voice.
Satyrus turned his head, and there was Draco, and Philip his partner.
Satyrus grabbed the slave factor. ‘I’ll take that pair,’ he said.
‘That’s our boy,’ Draco said. He managed a smile. ‘Zeus Soter, lad. I thought we were dead men, and no mistake.’
‘Dead and dead,’ Philip managed. He looked as if he was dead.
Despite their filth, Satyrus hugged them.
‘What’s the game, then?’ Philip asked, eyeing the gold.
‘I want two thousand of the best,’ Satyrus said. ‘Help me choose them.’
‘What for?’ Draco asked. ‘Ares’ dick, lad, that’s more gold than I’ve ever seen except Persepolis.’
‘I’m raising an army.’ Satyrus grinned. ‘With my sister.’
‘Well, lad, the best are mostly dead,’ Draco said. ‘At Arbela and Jaxartes and Gabiene and a dozen other fields across the world.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Free men? You’ll buy us free?’
‘Of course,’ Satyrus said.
‘All right then,’ Draco said, and the fire returned to his voice. Just like that. He straightened up, and began to point at men who were lying in their own filth. ‘Party is over, boys,’ he shouted. ‘We’re going to be free. This here is Satyrus, and he’s our strategos.’
The Macedonians shuffled to their feet.
Satyrus watched, and was afraid. ‘Philokles used to call war the ultimate tyrant,’ he said.
Abraham nodded. ‘Tyrant indeed.’
HISTORICAL NOTE
Writing a novel – several novels, I hope – about the wars of the Diadochi, or Successors, is a difficult game for an amateur historian to play. There are many, many players, and many sides, and frankly, none of them are ‘good’. From the first, I had to make certain decisions, and most of them had to do with limiting the cast of characters to a size that the reader could assimilate without insulting anyone’s intelligence. Antigonus One-Eye and his older son Demetrios deserve novels of their own – as do Cassander, and Eumenes and Ptolemy and Seleucus – and Olympia and the rest. Every one of them could be portrayed as the ‘hero’ and the others as villains.
If you feel that you need a scorecard, consider visiting my website at www.hippeis.com where you can at least review the biographies of some of the main players. Wikipedia has full biographies on most of the players in the period, as well.
From a standpoint of purely military history, I’ve made some decisions that knowledgeable readers may find odd. For example, I no longer believe in the ‘linothorax’ or linen breastplate, and I’ve written it out of the novels. Nor do I believe that the Macedonian pike system – the sarissa armed phalanx – was really any ‘better’ than the old Greek hoplite system. In fact, I suspect it was worse – as the experience of early modern warfare suggests that the longer your pikes are, the less you trust your troops. Macedonian farm boys were not hoplites – they lacked the whole societal and cultural support system that created the hoplite. They were decisive in their day – but as to whether they were ‘better’ than the earlier system – well, as with much of military change, it was a cultural change, not really a technological one. Or so it seems to me.
Elephants were not tanks, nor were they a magical victory tool. They could be very effective, or utterly ineffective. I’ve tried to show both situations.
The same can be said of horse-archery. On open ground, with endless remounts and a limitless arrow supply, a horse-archer army must have been a nightmare. But a few hundred horse-archers on the vast expanse of a Successor battlefield might only have been a nuisance.
Ultimately, though, I don’t believe in ‘military’ history. War is about economics, religion, art, society – war is inseparable from culture. You could not – in this period – train an Egyptian peasant to be a horse-archer without changing his way of life and his economy, his social status, perhaps his religion. Questions about military technology – ‘Why didn’t Alexander create an army of [insert technological wonder here]?’ – ignore the constraints imposed by the realities of the day – the culture of Macedon, which carried, it seems to me, the seeds of its own destruction from the first.
And then there is the problem of sources. In as much as we know anything about the world of the Diadochi, we owe that knowledge to a few authors, none of whom is actually contemporary. I used Diodorus Siculus throughout the writing of the Tyrant books – in most cases I prefer him to Arrian or Polybius, and in many cases he’s the sole source. I also admit to using (joyously!) any material that Plutarch could provide, even though I fully realize his moralizing ways.
For anyone who wants to get a quick lesson in the difficulties of the sources for the period, I recommend visiting the website www.livius.org. The articles on the sources will, I hope, go a long way to demonstrating how little we know about Alexander and his successors.
Of course, as I’m a novelist and not an historian, sometimes the loopholes in the evidence – or even the vast gaps – are the very space in which my characters operate. Sometimes, a lack of knowledge is what creates the appeal. Either way, I hope that I have created a believable version of the world after Alexander’s death. I hope that you enjoy this book, and the three – or four – to follow.
And as usual, I’m always happy to hear your comments – and even your criticisms – at the Online Agora on www.hippeis.com. See you there, I hope!
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Funeral Games t-3 Page 60