Tyrant: Force of Kings

by Christian Cameron

  Satyrus turned. ‘Lykaeaus – back to Ephesus. The whole army – now. Nikephorus in command, the full phalanx – everything we have. Leave a hundred marines in the citadel.’

  ‘Antigonus has at least forty thousand men,’ Stratokles said.

  ‘And I have four thousand. I’m not planning to go down onto the plains. I’m planning to extricate Lysimachos.’ He pointed at the dust cloud in the centre of the valley, off toward Magnesia. ‘That must be him.’

  ‘He may surrender,’ Apollodorus said,

  Stratokles looked at Satyrus, and his face showed his thoughts. ‘Lucius?’ he asked. The Latin turned his horse. They walked a few steps aside and had a hurried conversation.

  Satyrus was watching the Antigonid officer. He was pointing out something to his prodromoi.

  ‘How many bows, Apollodorus?’ he asked.

  ‘Six,’ Apollodorus said.

  ‘No time like the present,’ Satyrus said. ‘See if you can blunt him and kill some horses.’ He turned back to Anaxagoras and Stratokles. ‘The moment is now. I should have brought the whole army. Either we extricate Lysimachos … or board the ships and leave. That’s what it comes down to. I plan to save the bastard.’

  The six archers jogged forward a few horse lengths and began to shoot.

  Their first arrows had no effect. As they overshot the enemy scouts, it seemed possible that the prodromoi never saw the shafts fall. But somewhere around the fourth or fifth arrow, a barbed point went deep into the rump of a horse, which immediately threw its rider, and by luck of the will of the gods, the seventh arrow fell into the shoulder of the enemy officer. He fell like a sack of sand, and suddenly his command dissolved, men trying to rescue him, a phylarch yelling for them to rally …

  ‘If I had a troop of real cavalry, I could end this fight right now,’ Satyrus said.

  ‘Since you’ve been bold enough to commit your army,’ Stratokles said, ‘I feel I must do the same. As soon as we can, Lucius and I will ride for Lysimachos. To tell him to push this way.’ He hesitated. ‘If you trust me to do it.’

  Satyrus was watching the enemy. ‘I guess I have to,’ he said. His scale corselet was weighing on him and the day was hot and his horse was too small for a long fight. He rather fancied the look of the enemy commander’s horse, currently cropping grass by its prone master. He turned and gave Stratokles a smile and his hand. ‘May the gods go with you, Stratokles. If you’ve planned all this … well, you are more cunning than Athena.’

  Stratokles laughed. ‘I wish,’ he said. ‘Will you flank them?’

  Satyrus caught Achilles’ eye. The big man was still mounted, watching the developing fight carefully. ‘We’ll all go right together. If you can ride clear, just keep going.’

  Satyrus noted that a phylarch had at least half of the enemy troopers in hand and moving forward. His archers were shooting cautiously. At this range, and now that they were warned, the enemy cavalrymen could watch the shafts coming in, and avoid them. Mostly. As he watched, another man fell from his saddle.

  ‘Half done!’ shouted the lead archer, indicating his quiver.

  Satyrus trotted to Apollodorus. ‘When they charge, we’ll go hard right,’ he said. ‘Try and split them.’

  Apollodorus nodded. ‘Why don’t you just ride clear?’

  Satyrus frowned. ‘Because I will not leave my men.’

  Apollodorus shook his head. ‘There’s some illogic there.’

  Anaxagoras spat. ‘At least I have my feet under me,’ he said.

  ‘Here they come!’ called a hoplite, and then all of the archers were sprinting for the line of spears. Every man in the line had a shield – the smaller Macedonian aspis. The line was only two deep, but with a deep pile of rocks – the result of an avalanche – on their left, they were solid enough.

  Satyrus rode back to Achilles, Lucius and Stratokles. ‘Ready? Follow me.’ He rode off to the right, cantering around a copse of old oaks that briefly hid them from the Antigonid cavalry.

  The enemy made a simple mistake – they were cautious when boldness would have saved them time and casualties. Their cavalry came on slowly, trotting from cover to cover. Satyrus thought that they were almost certainly mercenaries, and perhaps hadn’t been paid recently. Despite overwhelming numbers, they were casualty-averse to a surprising degree.

  As was so often the case in war, their caution cost them. The archers began to shoot again, the range closed, and they were loosing flat. The shafts aimed with care – and horses began to fall.

  Twenty horse lengths out, and every arrow seemed to take its toll.

  Satyrus had both succeeded and failed, in that his inexperienced opponent hadn’t even noticed his flanking motion – four men weren’t enough – but now they were coming in unopposed, and Satyrus, at least, had a bow and a lifetime of training in its use. He cantered along, riding downhill, diagonal to the enemy approach, and his small mare responded well to his knees, and he began to shoot. Five arrows caught at least two targets, and still they hadn’t noticed him. He pushed in closer, changed direction so that he was riding with them, and when their flank group paused in the cover of the oaks, he reined in and shot at point-blank – emptied two saddles, and then they realised that he was not on their side.

  Achilles cut a man from the saddle when he tried to flank Satyrus.

  Satyrus rose on his horse’s back and put an arrow in yet another man. There was yelling from the line ahead, and at least a dozen of the enemy cavalrymen were turning towards the two of them.

  Satyrus assumed that Stratokles had already ridden clear, and he turned his horse’s head and ran for the next patch of oaks, turning in his seat to flip an arrow over his shoulder like a true Sakje. His shaft was over-hasty, but it gave pause to the man behind him.

  Satyrus felt his horse stumble – he reacted on rider’s instinct; sliding from the stricken animal before he fully understood that the little mare had a javelin in her side. He hit the ground well enough, but his quiver caught between his legs and he was down, bow thrown from his hand, arrows everywhere.

  He rolled, avoiding the lance that he had to expect in the next heartbeat, and he heard the hooves, rolled again and stumbled to his feet, but his pursuer was lying in a pool of his own blood with Stratokles’ javelin in his guts, and the Athenian was riding beautifully, galloping clear after a good throw. Even as Satyrus watched, he collected the horse of a downed enemy and came back towards Satyrus.

  Achilles and Lucius were holding their own, splitting half a dozen enemies and dispatching them as if they practised together every day. Satyrus had the time to reverse the gorytos where it had tangled, get it out from between his legs, gather a fistful of arrows and drop them in the top, and find his bow – an aeon of time in a fight. He placed a shaft in a young man hanging back from the mounted fight, and Stratokles raced by the back of the fight, threw a javelin; he threw flat and hard, and Satyrus had seldom seen a man throw mounted with such accuracy.

  Then he ran for the horse Stratokles had dropped off. This horse was a big gelding with odd spots – almost like a wild pony made into warhorse size. He got a hand on the reins before the gelding shied, and he almost lost his new mount right then, but he got a hand on its nose and began to murmur, and then, before the big horse had time to think about it, he had a leg over and he was up, blessing the long practice he and his sister had of riding strange horses at all hours, and he was away across the grass, headed downhill to where Achilles, Stratokles and Lucius were facing four men, sword to sword and javelin to javelin.

  Lucius was down – unwounded, but his horse was running free.

  Satyrus punched into the back of the knot of mounted men, and his sword licked out and caught the man whose spear was about to finish Lucius, and they broke.

  Satyrus had no notion of how his bodyguard and friends were doing – the oak woods hid the main action, and he pursued
his broken opponents downhill, away from the fighting.

  He didn’t go far – these men weren’t coming back. He turned his horse the big gelding was a natural warhorse, and wanted no part of turning. Satyrus used the reins, hard the bit was soft, leather or bone, like a Sakje bit, and the gelding didn’t feel a lot of need to respond. They plunged downhill.

  Satyrus was carried a stade or more before he got the gelding’s head turned. Achilles was right at his shoulder.

  ‘Are you insane?’ the big man asked.

  Satyrus shook his head. ‘This big idiot is,’ he said. He started uphill, and Achilles stuck with him.

  The line still stood. Satyrus could see them now, standing at the top of the pass. There was a hummock of dead cavalrymen and horses in front of them, and the rest of the enemy cavalry were spread across the pass.

  Satyrus pointed them out. ‘As long as they don’t have bows,’ he said quietly. He and Achilles rode up the centre of the deep valley, unimpeded, for two stades.

  By then, Apollodorus’s men were gathering their javelins and cutting the throats of the wounded, or dragging them to shelter. Apollodorus had a Syrian man over his shoulder when Satyrus rode up, and he grunted, put the man in the shade, and began to give him water.

  They had six prisoners, all of them wounded.

  ‘Lydians,’ Apollodorus said, when Satyrus had dismounted. ‘Mercenary officers, all militia from the towns.’

  Satyrus nodded. ‘Thank the gods,’ he said.

  ‘Almost had us anyway,’ Apollodorus said.

  Satyrus was looking for friends. Anaxagoras was giving water to a wounded marine.

  ‘Two dead,’ Apollodorus said. ‘And an archer wounded. It’s the next attack I’m afraid of.’

  Satyrus walked around, collecting wineskins and water bottles. ‘Achilles, over the ridge there’s the pretty little waterfall. Fill them all, please.’

  ‘Bodyguard,’ Achilles grunted.

  ‘I won’t be dead when you return,’ Satyrus said.

  Achilles grunted again, but he took the bottles and rode away.

  Satyrus got back on his gelding and rode up to the top of the pass, where it was narrowest. From the top, he could see movement down on the valley floor, towards Magnesia, and more on the valley’s flanks – twenty stades or more.

  He rode back to Apollodorus and Anaxagoras. ‘Get everyone up to the top – under the big tree. Pile up rocks – we’ll cut the tree when an attack comes.’

  ‘Why not now?’ Anaxagoras said.

  ‘Shade,’ Apollodorus and Satyrus said together.

  Two hours, and the sun was high, stark, and hot. Satyrus and his twenty men were huddled in the shade. There was a good breeze, and all of them had drunk their fill of water.

  A loose stone wall covered most of the road over the pass. There were shallow pits on the flanks, but the ground was so stony that none of them had managed to get any of their carefully sharpened stakes to sit in the holes, and when they put them in the ground in front of their wall, Satyrus could knock them down with the flat of his hand.

  Satyrus looked at the rocks above them – the flanks of the ridge, which towered over his head by a stade, at least. ‘We can hold a casual attempt,’ he said. ‘If they put archers or slingers up there, we’re done.’

  ‘I feel like a child playing soldier,’ Anaxagoras said. ‘We’ve built our fort and we have a pile of rocks to throw – didn’t my father forbid this?’ He chuckled.

  ‘Your father forbid this? Mine beat us if we didn’t come home with blood under our nails,’ Apollodorus said.

  ‘I can see our troops,’ Anaxagoras said, and sure enough, there they were – a hundred marines, all mounted on donkeys, and another hundred archers.

  The Antigonid cavalry arrived an hour later, and they didn’t even try the wall, being dissuaded by the first volley of arrows. The archers rose from cover, but these cavalrymen were professionals, and they’d smelled a rat.

  Satyrus watched them under his hand. ‘Real troops,’ he said.

  Achilles nodded. ‘Aegema,’ he said. ‘Or Companions. One of the elite regiments,’ he continued. ‘Look at their armour.’

  Satyrus wasn’t minded to allow them to block the pass, either. An hour after their arrival, he estimated there were about two hundred of them. He formed a neat line across the pass -– his men in open order, archers in front, ready to form close at a trumpet blast – and moved swiftly down the top of the valley.

  The Antigonid officer had never been attacked by infantry, and he hesitated … and lost men as the archers found their range. But he didn’t waste any more testing Satyrus’s skirmish line – that much he understood. Satyrus reoccupied his initial position without the loss of a man.

  Satyrus had his men collect the enemy wounded and all their horses.

  Another hour and the Apobatai, Nikephoros’s elite, came over the top of the pass, jogging, and came down to form behind his line. Nikephoros was with them, and Delios, their commander.

  ‘You made good time,’ Satyrus said. He embraced the mercenary. ‘Good thinking, with the donkeys.’

  ‘Eh? That was Charmides,’ Nikephoros said. ‘I made him stay with the garrison, though.’ He looked down the valley. ‘Ah, the Aegema. That’s old Coenus, ain’t it? He’s got no chance with us now.’

  ‘I’m going to push them right down past the trees,’ Satyrus said. ‘But I thought your boys needed a breather first.’

  Nikephoros smiled. ‘It’s the young,’ he said. ‘Old men like me can run for ever – it’s tomorrow I’ll pay, and the next day.’

  Satyrus rode up and down his line, briefing his men. They were eager – there was something personal about war at this level that was like a tonic, and Satyrus could lead his men in person. He could tell that they liked to have him so close – he called out names, told individuals he was watching their prowess, slapped shoulders, and he fed in return on their admiration.

  Apollodorus gave him a sour smile and tipped his helmet back. ‘It’s fun when you’re winning, isn’t it?’ he asked.

  Then they were loping down the hill, the Apobatai all closed up in the centre, the rest of the marines spread across the hillside. This time the Aegema retired as soon as they saw movement. Like good cavalrymen, they stayed just a little more than a bowshot in front, but when they reached the valley floor, they made a dive for Satyrus’s flanks, splitting neatly and rolling outwards, only to find that he’d doubled his archers at the flanks and after they lost two men, they retired.

  Satyrus pressed them remorselessly after that. ‘I’d give anything for twenty Sakje,’ he said to Achilles. He remounted his escort – some of them on better horses – but they weren’t good enough horsemen to give him the advantage he needed to press his pursuit. The Aegema couldn’t close with his line, and he couldn’t break them.

  Early evening, and the sun ceased to be the enemy. They were ten stades down the road to Magnesia, now. The enemy cavalry had reinforcements, and they’d tried his flanks again, but the Apobatai trained against Sakje – practised charging cavalry, like Alexander’s hypaspists had – and they saw the Antigonid cavalry off with a flashing counter-charge.

  ‘If only war were like this all the time,’ Satyrus said. ‘It’s like a good day on the palaestra.’

  ‘Except for the dead men,’ Apollodorus said.

  Full evening, and the men ate olives and onions and cheese out of their bags and Satyrus watched the enemy command group, about two stades away. He could tell they were the command group – messengers rode in and out.

  His own phalanx was over the top of the pass, a dark mass moving down the road behind him. New messengers were coming in across the way, as well.

  Nikephorus had picked up a horse. ‘He’s got some satrapal cavalry, I’d guess – see the men in burnooses?’ he asked.

  ‘Persians,’ Ach
illes said. ‘Persian nobles. Look at how they ride.’

  Anaxagoras was exercising – not because he needed it, he had assured them, but to stretch his riding muscles. ‘We will face the Mede? How noble!’

  ‘Only if that man is a fool,’ Apollodorus allowed. ‘They can’t face us without some infantry. We have way too many archers, and as long as this ground is rocky and broken, our marines are their equals.’

  ‘More messengers,’ Satyrus said. A dozen men rode up – big men in armour – and suddenly, Satyrus knew he was looking at One-Eye himself.

  Antigonus One-Eye was smaller than a mountain, but not much smaller. His armour seemed solid silver, and his white hair flowed under his helmet.

  ‘Uh-oh,’ Satyrus said, and smiled. The Aegema commander was getting a piece of his master’s mind.

  ‘They’re going to break contact,’ Apollodorus said.

  ‘Going to attack, you mean,’ Anaxagoras said.

  Apollodorus nodded. ‘When you speak of music, or philosophy, you are the master,’ he said. ‘Watch those phylarchs. Which way are they looking?’

  Before the sun sank another finger’s breadth, a herald rode out from the enemy command group.

  Satyrus received him just as his phalanx came up, the men panting with the effort after weeks on ships.

  ‘The King of Asia requests your leave to collect his dead,’ he said. ‘He has some of your men he’ll happily trade for ours.’

  Satyrus looked at Apollodorus for confirmation. ‘We have … sixteen?’ he said.

  Apollodorus nodded.

  Antigonus turned his horse and cantered away in the distance.

  ‘I had hoped to meet your master,’ Satyrus said. ‘I am Satyrus of Tanais.’

  ‘So we surmised,’ the herald said. ‘May we assume that you have taken Ephesus? In defiance of the treaty, of gods and men?’

  Satyrus smiled. ‘I rather think I’ve taken it with the help of gods and men. But yes, the city and the citadel. In return, may I assume you are breaking contact because Lysimachos is right behind you?’

  The herald accepted a cup of water from Anaxagoras and nodded. ‘Blast you, yes. We were so close – we had him.’