‘But?’ Satyrus smiled.
‘You know that the men now know who he is, eh?’ Anaxagoras asked.
‘Who he claims to be,’ Satyrus added.
Stratokles shrugged. ‘It was bound to happen,’ he said.
‘Draco and some of the Apobatai are … emotional about it.’ Anaxagoras shook his head. ‘If he’s Alexander’s son, should we be sending him on cavalry patrols?’
‘Let them show their worship of him by keeping him alive,’ Satyrus said. He wondered whose voice uttered those words in such a tone of hard finality.
Anaxagoras clearly wondered, too. He met Satyrus’s eyes and held them. ‘Have a care,’ he said. ‘I think a music lesson is required.’
‘After the cavalry raid. Charmides, fetch me Scopasis: my compliments, and would he meet me at my pavilion.’
Satyrus’s pavilion was another topic of contention. They all used it – Anaxagoras, Charmides, Nikephorus and Stratokles all sat and drank wine and used the stores of cedar oil that Phoibos had against mosquitoes, and the lavender soap and whetstones and … everything. The man thought of everything.
But somehow, with the red oiled-silk pavilion and the slaves – now more than fifteen – who attended it, he gave Satyrus the air of a potentate, of a king. Satyrus understood better than some of his men understood – that he had always lived like one of them on campaign, and consequently, the appearance of his pavilion set him apart in a way he had never been set apart before.
The pavilion offended Anaxagoras and Charmides and Draco, but not Nikephorus, who simply wanted one of his own, nor Scopasis, who never seemed to notice it, as long as a cup of wine was put in his hand as soon as he dismounted.
Satyrus understood their discontent, which was really about him. And the change he was experiencing – from captain to king. From leader of a few to leader of an army. He seldom had time to talk about philosophy with Charmides, to play his lyre with Anaxagoras, or even to discuss Miriam. He longed to discuss Miriam, but his sense of justice made him hold his tongue. Anaxagoras had his own troubles, and didn’t need to talk about a woman who had, in effect, left them both.
Scopasis was waiting at the pavilion, long legs stretched before him as he leaned against a tent wall, a cup of wine in his hand.
‘I greet you,’ he said, formally.
Satyrus slipped down from his gelding, passed the reins to a slave, and smiled at Scopasis. ‘I greet you, hipparch.’
Scopasis smiled at the Greek word. ‘When did you last love a horse?’ Scopasis asked.
‘I was just thinking the same,’ Satyrus said, and nodded. ‘Too long. They die. Like flies.’
Scopasis folded his legs under him and rose to his feet. ‘Let me show you something I have for you, then,’ he said.
Behind the tent was a Nisean – grey like a storm at sea, with a small, high head and a pale mane and tail.
‘Is Antigonus dead?’ Satyrus asked. ‘Where did this horse come from?’ The stallion – his status was obvious – had red leather tack decorated in bronze, and a polished bronze bit in the Persian, and thus the Sakje, style, and a high-backed saddle like the Sauromatae used.
Scopasis shrugged. ‘I found him wandering the plain to the south, a broken hobble on his fetlock,’ he said. ‘My mare wanted him.’
‘He is magnificent,’ Satyrus said. Indeed, he was the tallest horse Satyrus had ever seen, or close enough. Melitta had a pair of war-Niseans, and they were of a size. ‘You should have him.’
Scopasis shook his head. ‘Too finicky. He needs five slaves and a constant supply of grain. But in a fight … by the gods, Satyrus, that is a fighting horse. My gift.’
Satyrus gave the Sakje a hug. Scopasis thumped his back.
‘The gods must have sent that horse,’ Satyrus said. ‘Because I was just thinking about how poor my horses are – and about leading a cavalry raid. I want all the Sakje – all your cavalrymen. We’ll have fifty Getae and another fifty Bithynians and at least fifty Greek cavalry. I plan to strike south around the lake – a long scout into the rear of his army.’
Scopasis nodded. ‘High time. I will come, of course, and all my men.’
They all ate dinner together: Satyrus and Scopasis, Charmides and Herakles, Nikephorus and Anaxagoras and Jubal and Orestes, his foreman, and two of the phylarchs, chosen by Phoibos; Naxes, an Athenian thetes risen to command, and Niceaos, an exiled aristocrat from Samos who looked like a Spartan from tip to toe. It was a good dinner – roebuck and rich bread and a plate of figs so good that the men ate them to the last fruit and sat on their stools, licking their fingers and laughing like boys.
‘Phoibos, you are a miracle worker,’ Satyrus said.
‘I endeavour to give satisfaction, lord,’ the man replied. ‘I must say, lord, that I find this – exhilarating. I might wish that I’d gone on campaign earlier. The challenges of maintaining the oikia in such circumstances – splendid. May I mention that our money supply is running low, lord?’
That brought Satyrus up short. ‘Low? I gave you a talent of silver.’
‘Yes, lord. I have a little more than a quarter of that left. You did insist that I pay for everything.’ He shrugged. ‘The figs were not cheap. Nor the roebuck, to be frank. The market here is very … expensive.’ The butler smiled ruefully.
Satyrus was taken aback. He was not used to thinking about money at all. But a talent of silver would pay a hundred mercenaries for the summer. ‘By Hephaestus, sir – how much did you pay for the figs?’
Phoibos shrugged. ‘A moment, if you please, lord?’ he said, and returned with a five-fold wax tablet. He flipped it open on his knee.
‘Ahh … here. Mykos did the shopping. A good pais with a head on his shoulders. Five silver owls of Athens.’ He nodded and snapped the tablets shut.
‘Five drachma? For figs?’ Satyrus turned to his assembled guests. ‘Please pardon me, gentlemen, but I need the figs back. We have soldiers to pay.’
Charmides fell off his stool he was laughing so hard.
Anaxagoras slapped his back. ‘That’s the first joke I’ve heard from you since Athens,’ he said.
‘Up until now, the food has been cheap,’ Satyrus said back. He turned back to Phoibos. ‘You are an excellent steward, and I recognise that you have the highest standards. I need them a little lower. A talent of silver has to last the entire campaign. And then some.’
Phoibos sniffed. ‘Ah. Very well, lord. I will economise.’
Scopasis held out his cup. ‘Do that thing tomorrow! For now, pour us more of the Chian!’
Satyrus shook his head. ‘A talent of silver is the value of twenty farms north of Olbia – the whole tax of a district.’
Phoibos nodded. ‘It is not cheap, to be a king,’ he answered gravely.
When they gathered, it was still dark. The Getae came in early – only thirty of them instead of fifty, under a young, blond nobleman who looked more like a Keltoi than a Getae. His Greek was excellent – he was called Calicles, and while he kept his distance from Scopasis, he was not ill at ease with the other officers.
His men all came with two horses apiece, or more.
Herakles had two dozen men, most of them older veterans. Most Macedonians could ride, and the infantry was full of Thessalian peasants who had been born to riding but couldn’t afford a horse or panoply. The young man looked more terrified than inflated by his first command.
‘Don’t fuss,’ Satyrus said. ‘Who’s your hyperetes?’
Draco came forward out of the murk. ‘I am, lord,’ he said. He was grinning from ear to ear.
‘I wondered where you were,’ Satyrus said.
I am so far from these men
, he thought. ‘You can be the hyperetes of the whole force. Get me a trumpet. Charmides, find me a trumpeter. Even if he’s a slave.’
Mithridates provided the trumpeter – a young boy, no more than twelve. His trumpet seemed as long as he was, and he rode a magnificent horse – almost as tall as Satyrus’s gelding, an enormous horse for a boy. ‘My great-uncle’s son, Artaxerxes,’ he said. ‘He’s lucky I haven’t executed him. If he doesn’t come back,’ Mithridates’ eyes grew hard, ‘I shall shed no tears.’ The new King of Bithynia looked troubled in the grey light of first dawn. ‘I should ride with you. If only to keep an eye on that one.’
Satyrus looked at Darius Thrakes, the lord of the northern Bithynians, a man who looked more like a Getae nobleman than Calicles who led them. But the Thracians had been in Bithynia for generations. ‘We’ll keep an eye on him,’ Satyrus said, his eyes flicking to Stratokles.
Stratokles was tightening his girth. He was a hippeis class Athenian, and an expert cavalryman – one of the few Satyrus had. Lucius was a cavalry-class Latin – also a professional. The three of them had more professional cavalry experience than most of the rest of their Greek troopers combined.
Stratokles got his girth the way he wanted, played with the buckles on his Sakje-style bridle, and Lucius gave him a leg up into the saddle. The Athenian then turned his mare. ‘I’ll go make friends with him,’ he said.
The Bithynians were strong – almost a hundred cavalrymen, all with two mounts. They had a baggage wagon, as well.
Satyrus rode up to Lord Darius and clasped his hand. The hand was not offered with any great willingness. ‘Good morning. Fine-looking horseman, lord. Please leave your baggage wagons.’
Darius smiled. ‘No,’ he said.
Satyrus shrugged. He turned to Draco. ‘Burn them,’ he said.
Darius froze. ‘We will—’
Satyrus forced himself to smile. ‘You and your men will all die. Understand? War is not a game. You want those wagons so that you can ride away and leave us. That won’t be happening, my lord. If it does, we will hunt you down and kill you. Every man. Understand? You think you are a wily, dangerous man. The men sitting around you have been at war for their entire lives. Understand, lord?’
He saw it all in the other man’s eyes – fear, and hate, and acceptance. It made Satyrus tired.
Behind the Bithynian nobleman, Stratokles smiled mirthlessly.
By noon, they were well south of the lake, edging along the downslope behind the crest of the main ridge of the hills ringing the lake, so that they were hidden from Antigonus – unless his horsemen had beaten them to the ridge top. There were parties of Sakje and Getae all around them, and each of them had one Bithynian trooper as a scout and guide.
And Darius rode between Stratokles and Lucius, so obviously a hostage that his men understood and obeyed.
‘You’ve done this before?’ Satyrus asked Stratokles.
Stratokles grinned. ‘I’m an Athenian,’ he said. ‘Before the Macedonians, we had an empire that covered most of Thrace and all of the Asian coast. Unwilling allies – it’s an Athenian speciality. Don’t worry, when we’re done, the Bithynians will be as eager as Scopasis. More so.’
Lucius grimaced.
Herakles was cautious and careful of his men, and Draco had to drive him forward. Scopasis was too rash, and Satyrus had restrain him, finding a fine edge between speed and foolishness.
Anaxagoras rode at his shoulder and shared his canteen. ‘You play them like I play the kithara,’ he said. ‘Charmides is a first rate leader.’
‘But a poor rider,’ Satyrus said.
‘So you coach him on riding. Herakles is a good rider,’ Anaxagoras said.
‘But a nervous man with his first command, starting at shadows.’ Satyrus dug his knees into his gelding’s back and rose up, looking forward and then down the ridge to the left and south. He could see Sakje – red jacketed, most of them – away to the south on the next ridge, and well ahead, too. He longed to be on the back of his stallion, but he was saving the Nisean for the inevitable moment.
He spared a thought for his ancestor Herakles. He had dreamed of death the night before.
Anaxagoras turned to Artaxerxes. ‘Tell me about yourself, youngster. Who is your father?’
The young Mede coloured. ‘My father was Xerxes son of Artaphernes. He is dead. My mother is dead. My brothers and sisters are dead. I was a hostage in Mysia when they were killed, and now I am a prisoner of my great-uncle. May I have a sword?’
Anaxagoras shook his head. ‘They’re worse than Macedonians,’ he said. ‘You can have a sword when the king and I think you are worthy of it. Do you know how to use a sword?’
‘Oh, yes,’ the boy said.
Anaxagoras raised his eyebrows. ‘Really?’ he asked.
‘Your first pupil,’ Satyrus said. ‘All boys claim that they can wrestle and use a sword.’
‘Can you play music?’ Anaxagoras asked.
‘I play the harp. And the flute.’ The boy nodded. ‘And the trumpet,’ he said with disdain.
Satyrus didn’t like what he was seeing to the west. He rose to his knees, shifted his weight so that he could kneel on the gelding’s back. He needed to see a little farther.
‘Would you rather be here with us, or in Mithridates’ tent?’ Anaxagoras asked.
‘Here with you, lord! Mithridates has to have me killed.’ The boy shrugged. ‘If I grow to manhood, I will surely kill him.’
Anaxagoras clucked. ‘So the trumpet has already bought you a few days of life,’ he said.
There were men in a gully – Satyrus was sure of it. Almost sure of it. The sun was high in the sky, and even this close to autumn, the heat was palpable.
‘Sound halt,’ Satyrus said. ‘One long blast.’
Artaxerxes froze.
‘Now, boy,’ Satyrus said.
The trumpet went to the boy’s lips, and the call rang out – the first time, a spluttering sound like a flock of geese, but the second was a loud clarion that carried across the valley.
All the Sakje froze.
A few of the Getae stopped moving. The officers at least looked around.
‘Enemy is front. Do you know the call?’ Satyrus asked. This is what the Sakje did – using trumpets to tell distant scouts what to do. The Exiles were masters of the trumpet. Satyrus and Scopasis knew all the calls – not so the rest of the phylarchs. Herakles wouldn’t know five of them, which was one of the reasons he and Charmides were close to the main column.
Anaxagoras whistled the call, and Satyrus shot him a thankful glance.
The boy put the trumpet to his lips and played. The first call was halting, but again, the second was high and loud.
Satyrus took a spear from Charmides and pointed it at the gully, three stades distant, where he had seen flashes. Far away to the front, a mounted man smaller than an insect waved a lance. Sakje riders broke right and left, enveloping the head of the gully.