Christian Cameron - Funeral Games

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.