Christian Cameron: Tyrant

More Thrake were coming up the river bank — every man seemed to make his own decision, and some ran off towards the base of the thumb, to end the galling fire of the archers, while others threw themselves into the fight in front of them.

Kineas tore his eyes away from the fight to watch the enemy cavalry. They were trapped in the ford — now they were the victims of the deadly archery, and they couldn’t push forward because of the crowd of Thrake.

The width of an Athenian street away, Philokles’ plume showed in the front rank, and his roar shook the air. Kineas saw the great black spear rise and fall — back and forth, held one-handed on the Spartan’s shoulder, and he punched with it as if it had no weight — back and forth, like a machine for killing men. He was not alone — he was at the corner of his threatened line — yet he killed five men in as many breaths, the great black spear shooting forward with brutal economy, straight through a nose, into a mouth, into the soft flesh under a man’s chin — and out, the broad blade never sinking past its greatest width. Philokles’ arm was black at the hand, red as high as his shoulder, and he was red down his side where the blood of other men ran down his naked skin. Even as Kineas watched, the Greek line solidified, and Philokles’ roar was answered by a push — a heave that threw the Thrake back on their heels, some men actually falling to the ground, and the line stepped over them, and spears in the rear rank rose and fell, the whole phalanx like a loom weaving death.

The Thrake broke. They were being massacred against the round shields, the strength of their charge was spent, and fear took them. They broke and fled into the ford, already choked with latecomers and their own cavalry supports.

Kineas rode up next to Philokles, who was leading his men forward. They were singing, and Kineas had to bellow to be heard. ‘Halt!’ he yelled. He poked Philokles’ helmet with the butt of his javelin. ‘Halt!’

The black spear whirled, and the butt-spite paused a fraction of a foot away from his face. Philokles glared at him with dull recognition. He shouted. His pipe player shrilled a call, and the victorious men of Pantecapaeum stopped. Kineas whirled his mount, put his heels to the stallion’s flanks, and raced to Eumenes.

‘Now!’ he yelled. ‘Into the ford!’

Eumenes wasn’t ready. Clearly, he had been waiting for the fight to develop as Kineas had predicted.

It hadn’t. Kineas had expected the rush of Thrake to push Philokles’ little band back, to give the trap space to develop. Philokles’ victory had happened too fast.

‘Now!’ Kineas bellowed.

Eumenes waved at Clip. ‘Sound: Advance!’ he called.

Kineas rode away, wishing for Niceas. This was too slow — the trap would never be sprung, now. The men of Pantecapaeum had fought too well, and the Thrake had broken too soon. He waved to Nicomedes — harder to see now.

Nicomedes started for the ford, but halted before Kineas reached him.

There wasn’t room for both troops abreast. Eumenes’ men swept by, already at a gallop, and hit the river in a spray of water.

‘Reform the line!’ Kineas yelled. He waved with his sword, and Nicomedes led his cavalry back the little distance they had advanced. Philokles’ men walked backwards, their shields to the enemy. Heron’s troop had never advanced — they were too far to the flank to even see the fighting.

Niceas rode up. ‘We’ll have a camp in an hour,’ he said. He pointed at the ford. ‘What’s that?’

Kineas shook his head. ‘A trap gone wrong,’ he said. ‘Sound the recall.’ Out in the ford, Eumenes’ men were killing fugitive Thrake, but the enemy cavalry were already formed on the far bank.

Eumenes’ men returned in good order, the sting of their rout expunged, and the ford was full of dead men, but the actual damage inflicted on the enemy was slight. He peered into the dusk, trying to read what lay on the other side of the ford. He felt that a taxeis had come up, but he saw no proof.

Behind him, on the ridge, a fire winked into life, and then another.

Memnon’s column marched on to the edge of the dry ground and began to form.

Kineas watched the ford. He praised the men, riding along the line. He took the time to manoeuvre Memnon into the line, right in the centre, facing the ford, with the main phalanx of Pantecapaeum on his right and the epilektoi under Philokles on his left, and the cavalry covering their flanks. By the time they were all in line, Kineas couldn’t see across the river. And there were fires all along the slope of the ridge behind him.

He gathered his officers again, and sent Niceas to get the Sindi blacksmith from his fortress of trees. When they were all present, he saluted them.

‘We stopped them,’ he said. ‘We won the race. We almost hurt them badly. Now we have to hold them until the king comes.’ He looked around in the last light at all the faces — new men and old friends. And Philokles — he couldn’t adapt to Philokles as a killer.

‘This is my plan. The whole army will retire to the ridge, to camp and eat. We’ll hold the ford with a rotation of pickets — cavalry and infantry in every watch, four watches. But…’ He looked around, gathering eyes, making sure he had their attention. ‘When they come, we give them the ford. I think they’ll come at dawn — they’ll push a whole taxeis across at a rush. Let them come.’ He pointed to Temerix, who stood a little apart. ‘You have enough arrows?’ he asked in Sakje.

The blacksmith laughed. ‘All we do for day and day is cut arrows,’ he said.

‘Can you hold the shrine? All night, and as long as you can in the day?’ Kineas asked.

The blacksmith shrugged. ‘I am your man,’ he said. ‘And I came here to die. River god’s shrine is good place for man to die.’

Kineas shook his head, too tired to argue about ordering a man to his death. ‘Don’t die,’ he said. ‘Just hold it until they get across, and run to us.’ He looked around the circle. ‘The rest of you — form just as we are formed now, but here — at the edge of the marsh. We push up the little rise — that’s our line.’

‘With our flank on the river,’ Philokles said. ‘And the other flank in air.’

Kineas shook his head and pointed to the ridge. Even in the near darkness the silhouettes of riders were visible. ‘Our friends from the Grass Cats and the Standing Horses will take care of the open flank,’ he said. ‘We let Zopryon — if he’s here — come across. He’ll be at right angles to our line — a terrible position to start a battle. He’ll use more time to reform his line. And he’ll have no way to expect it — which will cost him time. We advance at my word — and we’ll pin them against the river.’ He gave a small smile. ‘Until they get their second taxies across — and then we give ground.’ He motioned over his shoulder. ‘We have a great deal of ground to give, gentlemen — about thirty stades. Stay together, keep the line, and don’t get routed. As far as I am concerned, we can spend all day retreating. I want to hurt him early on, and then retreat until the king comes. That’s all. And tonight — eat well, and sleep.’

They nodded — laughed a little. Their spirits were soaring.

Kineas mounted Thanatos again, and spared the ford one more look. It was lost in the darkness. The Macedonians had fires now, too.

Then he rode back to camp.

They cosseted him — the Sindi, the slaves, his comrades. His kit was already laid out, and he had a tent, ready pitched — the only tent among the hippeis, on a fine summer night with the stars like a canopy of glory across the sky. His cloak and armour vanished as soon as he had them off, and a bowl of cheese and meat and bread was put in his hands. Philokles came to the fire, the blood washed from his arms and side, wearing a tunic. He had a Spartan cup brimming with strong, unwatered wine, which he set on a rock by Kineas’s hand. Just beyond the periphery of his vision, Arni and Sitalkes worked together on Thanatos, washing the mud from his legs, brushing the dirt and sweat from his coat, and he stood calmly enough and bore their attentions.