Antigonus nodded. ‘That’s the way to do it,’ he said. ‘I thought Lysimachos tried to kill him? And my son was making this man his friend?’ He shrugged. ‘We were close. You may go — see to it your dressings are changed, young man. Narses, give him a horse — his choice. I need men who will fight with a wound in them.’
When the young man was gone, Antigonus groaned. ‘Ephesus lost?’
‘He may be lying,’ Philip, his chief of staff, murmured.
‘Really, Philip? And how exactly would he get five thousand men up that pass if he didn’t have Ephesus? If Plistias was behind him?’ He shook his head. ‘One day. One arse-cunt of a day, and we’d have had fucking Lysimachos and the war would be over.’
Philip looked down the valley — twenty stades separated them from Satyrus of Tanais’s forces. Lysimachos’s routed men were still flowing by. Only his rearguard — led by the man in person — held together. ‘Night attack?’ he asked.
Antigonus shook his head. ‘I’ve made two mistakes today,’ he said gruffly. ‘I underestimated a deadly accurate scouting report this morning, telling me that there were fresh forces moving up the pass. And then I bet everything on breaking those forces instead of caving in the flanks of Lysimachos’s rearguard.’ He shook his head again. ‘Philip, sometimes you have to know when Tyche is not at your shoulder. All our cavalry is tired. Lysimachos is a wreck. Let him go.’
Philip shook his head. ‘You’re wrong — now or never. If we’re tired, Lysimachos is ten times more tired. He can’t stand a concerted attack — and he’s still ten stades from these fresh troops.’
Antigonus was tired, and he felt old, and he didn’t trust Philip the way he trusted his son — didn’t like the man’s hectoring tone. He’d been in the saddle since dawn, and he couldn’t see leading a night attack from a litter.
‘No,’ he said.
‘I’ll lead it myself,’ Philip said.
‘Give me a cup of wine,’ Antigonus said.
‘He’s just barely keeping it together,’ Stratokles said, as soon as he rode up. He looked as if he’d been beaten with rods: tired, with bags under his eyes and his shoulders slumped. ‘He asks — begs, really — that you come with some men — just to put heart into his men.’
Apollodorus put a hand on his bridle. ‘No,’ he said. ‘That would be an insane risk.’
Satyrus looked at the last light. ‘How far?’
‘Ten stades,’ Stratokles said.
‘Let’s see if the Apobatai can live up to their name,’ Satyrus said.
‘Foolish!’ Apollodorus said.
‘Shush, now,’ Satyrus said. ‘I can do this. And I must. I’d appreciate it if you’d trust that I have a strategy.’
Apollodorus shook his head. ‘You’re haring off after glory,’ he said.
Satyrus reined in his temper. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m gaining myself an ally. For life.’ He looked around his friends and officers. ‘This is not vainglory. This is politics. I wish to save Lysimachos myself. Understand?’
Apollodorus shrugged. ‘I understand that I promised your sister — we all did — that we’d keep you from excess.’
Satyrus had to laugh. ‘Then she should have stayed to help. Nikephorus?’
The mercenary nodded. ‘If we mount all the riders we have sixty men and we can put the rest on the mules. We’re wrecked if attacked, though.’
‘In the dark?’ Anaxagoras asked.
‘Want to come?’ Satyrus asked, cheerfully.
Philip carried his point by enough to be allowed to mount a night attack on Lysimachos. Antigonus would not allow him to cross the valley against Satyrus.
‘That bastard is snug behind a rock wall,’ Antigonus said. ‘You’ll lose me a hundred troopers — just from horses with broken legs. No. But a stab at Lysimachos — have a go.’
The attack started badly, when his flanking Persian cavalry vanished in the darkness. But his Greek cavalry did better, following a line of withies laid out by an enterprising officer and they burst into Lysimachos’s rearguard like furies, slaying right and left. Philip rallied the Greek cavalry and the troop of the Companions he’d committed, and paused to send prodromoi to learn where the next line was — if there was a next line.
Then a band of barbarians charged his Companions — they emerged screaming from the dark, undaunted by the cavalry, with tattoos and enormous two-handed swords, and the whole fight went bad. When he fell back and sounded the rally trumpet, all of his cavalrymen retreated. Suddenly they’d abandoned the enemy camp — and they ran onto enemy forces moving in the dark, and his satrapal levies panicked and broke.
‘Damn it, you fools, we’re winning!’ he screamed at their backs.
Moments later and the barbarians were dead or in flight — Thracians, he thought. But he’d lost control, always fragile in the dark, and he was a canny old hound and he knew when a night attack was a lost cause.
‘There’s Greek regulars out there by the olive trees,’ said a scout. ‘They ran off the Medes, and now they’re working around our flank.’
Philip sent the scout back, sent a half-dozen Aegema with him, and waited, blowing the rally.
After a few minutes, it suddenly occurred to him that his trumpet call was giving the enemy a focus.
His prodromoi officer came back with an arrow in his side. ‘They’re coming,’ he said. ‘Hundreds of them.’
Philip didn’t catch another word — the shrill eleuelaieleuelai of Greeks came over the broken ground, and his cavalry cantered away, stung with javelins and with their flanks threatened by Thracians.
A stade from his own camp, his rout slowed where the old man had a phalanx out on the open ground in good order, pikes braced. They stood their ground and the enemy declined the engagement, the barbarians slipping away, the enemy peltasts, if that’s what they were, forming at the edge of sight and slipping away.
Philip pulled his helmet off in disgust and rode over to the old man. ‘My apologies, lord,’ he said tersely.
Antigonus handed him a canteen. ‘We gave them too much time. Let them go.’
Philip shook his head. ‘It should have worked.’
Antigonus grunted. ‘No. It shouldn’t.’ He slapped Philip on the back. ‘I’m an old bastard and I need sleep. But next time I tell you something, just take my word for it. Eh?’
Philip took a long drink of sour wine, and spat.
Two stades away, Satyrus leaned on his remaining spear. At his side stood the Satrap of Thrace, Lysimachos.
‘I owe you,’ Lysimachos said. ‘Gods, that was almost worth the last three days.’
Satyrus nodded, almost invisible in the dark. ‘So … can you take some straight talk? Ally?’
Lysimachos nodded, grunted. ‘I like to think I’m famous for it.’
Satyrus opened his canteen, drank the vinegar, honey and water, and handed it to the Satrap of Thrace. ‘No advance north of Heraklea. No dicking about at Sinope. No troops in the Sakje hinterland — and I’ll know in hours, won’t I? No more playing at assassination. You and me — we’ll be allies. My sister will watch you like a hawk, and if I die, she’ll make you a bad enemy.’
Lysimachos coughed. ‘It was Cassander wanted you dead. He thought that if you and Stratokles joined forces …’ They turned, as if by common consent, and began walking back towards the pass. ‘I understand the joke. You did join forces, and the result was my rescue.’ He shrugged. ‘It was never personal.’
Satyrus’s voice was hard. ‘It’ll be fairly personal if you have me killed now. I’m just hoping you understand that. If the western Assagetae went into the Getae and Bastarnae, you’d lose all of Thrace — at least as long as the tribal fighting went on. To say nothing of what the fleet would do to your shipping.’
‘What do you want me to say?’ Lysimachos said. ‘I’m in the wrong. And you’ve saved my arse anyway.’