‘I swear it on my father’s grave and on – on the lion skin of Herakles, my patron.’ Satyrus wondered what had moved him to say that – the god at his shoulder, he hoped.
Ptolemy turned to his guards. ‘Get me the Athenian,’ he said. ‘Let’s see what he has to say for himself.’
Diodorus stood forth. ‘I’ll bet you a silver owl to an obol that he’s gone – bag and baggage and slaves.’
Philokles began to fidget, and Leon grimaced and stood his ground.
It was a long half-hour. Diodorus yawned, over and over.
‘Stop that!’ Ptolemy insisted, yawning himself. He laughed when he said it, and the tension dropped a little.
A pair of guards came back into the megaron and whispered to Gabines, who whispered in Ptolemy’s ear.
‘So,’ Ptolemy said. He rubbed his chin. ‘He’s gone. Just as you predicted – unless you did him in yourself. Don’t tell me you ain’t capable of it, Odysseus.’ Ptolemy was looking at Diodorus, who nodded.
‘I am,’ Diodorus said. ‘But I haven’t.’
‘Fuck,’ Ptolemy said. It wasn’t very regal. He looked around the room. ‘Clear the room,’ he said to Gabines. ‘They stay, and you, and Seleucus.’
‘Seleucus?’ Satyrus whispered to Leon.
‘Another player in Alexander’s funeral games,’ Leon whispered. ‘He lost his army at Babylon fighting Antigonus, and he came here and offered his sword to Ptolemy.’
The man called Seleucus went and stood on the raised platform by Ptolemy’s chair. A pair of the Cavalry Companions – the Hetairoi, Ptolemy’s most trusted troops – came in from the barracks and stood by the chair. Satyrus knew both of them – men Diodorus liked.
‘So,’ Ptolemy said. He looked around. ‘Demetrios is coming. Gentlemen, we’re not in good shape.’
No one said anything to deny this assertion.
‘Gabines, how reliable are my Macedonian troops?’ Ptolemy asked.
‘I wouldn’t risk a field battle,’ Gabines replied. ‘Although – if I may be so bold, lord – it is Demetrios, an unknown youth, not old One-Eye in person. He would be a far greater threat, both as a general and as a figurehead.’
Seleucus nodded. He was a short man with the legs of a cavalryman and the speech of a Macedonian noble. ‘One-Eye has the king – that is, young Herakles – and Cassander has the other, unless he’s murdered him. Most of your Macedonians wouldn’t face Herakles or Alexander IV in battle – but young Demetrios has neither of the kings.
‘How many troops will Demetrios have?’ Ptolemy asked.
‘Twenty thousand infantry, forty elephants,’ Seleucus answered. ‘Good cavalry.’
‘So if we could make our infantry fight, we could outmatch him,’ Ptolemy said. He looked at Diodorus. ‘You’re awfully quiet, for you.’
Diodorus yawned again. ‘I’m just old, Ptolemy. But it seems to me that if we launch our army at Demetrios, we roll the dice. If we sit here in Alexandria, he rolls the dice.’
Seleucus nodded. ‘I agree.’
‘The disappearance of Stratokles will panic the extremists in the Macedonian faction,’ Gabines said. ‘Expect defections.’
Ptolemy shook his head as if to clear it. ‘Cassander was double-dealing me? I still find that hard to stomach. If I go down, Antigonus and his golden child get Aegypt. How on earth can that profit Cassander?’
Seleucus shrugged. ‘I don’t waste time worrying too much what a man like Cassander thinks,’ he said. ‘Demetrios is here, now. If we can keep your army together, he may make a mistake. How do we keep the army together?’
Diodorus looked at Philokles. ‘By pretending nothing has happened, except the news that Demetrios is marching here. That by itself should drown all other noise in the agora.’
‘Where is Leon?’ Ptolemy asked.
‘Putting to sea to keep watch on Demetrios’s fleet,’ Philokles said.
Ptolemy nodded sharply, and stood. ‘You, boy,’ he said, pointing at Satyrus. ‘Keep your head down. Understand me, boy?’
‘I have work for him, with the phalanx,’ Philokles said.
Ptolemy nodded. ‘I can accept that.’ He looked around. ‘No talk of this, anyone. If Stratokles surfaces, we deal with it. Otherwise, let the plotters plot, eh? When any of them is ready to defect, I wish to know.’
Gabines nodded.
Ptolemy looked around. ‘Well then. I suppose we’ll try to fight this golden boy and his forty elephants. Athena of the victories, be with us!’ He turned to Seleucus. ‘Ready to march in ten days. Pass the word. And see how they react.’
Diodorus saluted, as did Coenus.
Satyrus slept for a whole day, and then the reaction hit him. The killing – the fighting – left him feeling nothing, and then it left him feeling like a stranger. His body seemed strange. His thoughts, or lack of them, seemed strange. The accomplishment of commanding a ship seemed a small thing – the death of Peleus loomed large.
His sister came and went. She babbled about riding and said something about Xeno, as if her infatuation for his best friend needed to be discussed. He listened to her without hearing a word, said what he hoped were the right things in return and she went away.
The third morning, he felt no better. So he drank some wine and that seemed to help. He just kept reliving his decisions – when to turn the ship, when to fight. He saw too many ways he could have done it. Spur-of-the-moment improvization was revealed as boyish bravado.
His sister came and he listened to her, and then drank more wine, and that helped too. Kallista came, closed the curtain at his door and kissed him.
He stiffened immediately, and she caught his erection with a practised hand. ‘Have your attention?’ she asked.
‘Mmm?’ he answered. She was not melting into his arms.
‘Philokles has been around several times asking for you, and everyone in this house is girding for war, and you are sulking like Achilles.’ She relinquished her hold on his body and he pawed at her, and she shrugged him off with a laugh and walked out through his curtain, leaving him feeling like a boy.
He sat on the floor, depressed and ashamed of all his many weaknesses, and then he found another amphora of wine.
And then Philokles came.
‘Stand up,’ Philokles said. He was taller than usual, at least viewed from the floor. He’d added muscle to his chest and his paunch was almost gone.
Satyrus obeyed. ‘I’m a little drunk,’ he slurred. ‘You’ll understan’, I’m sure.’
‘There’s work to be done,’ Philokles said. His voice was kind.
Satyrus couldn’t meet Philokles’ eye. ‘I – am – sorry.’
‘Because you slobbered at Kallista? Or because you got Peleus killed?’ Philokles was clean and sober. ‘Most men would grab Kallista’s tits if they could, and any man worth his stones would have to think hard after he ordered men to their deaths. That’s good. However, your time for such thoughts is over. Stop wallowing. Get up. The world’s going to hell and we have work to do.’
‘You’re the philosopher, Philokles! And the hoplomachos, the best spear in Alexandria. And I’m just a boy.’ There, it was said. He felt better, and took a little wine.
Philokles went and sat on the bed. He had military sandals on and a chitoniskos, the undergarment to armour. He was dressed for war. He rubbed his chin and then nodded. ‘I’m here to get you moving and bring you out of this. It’s tempting to tell you a couple of lies and get your heart beating again.’ He shrugged and raised an eyebrow. ‘But you’re a man, not a child.’
‘Twenty men died. Peleus and nineteen others. I want-’ Satyrus bit his lip. ‘I did not do much of the fighting,’ he said.
‘You want to be forgiven?’ Philokles’ face was the mask of Ares. ‘There is no forgiveness, Satyrus. None. Just the next task. You are as brave as you need to be and your fears about your courage are foolish,’ Philokles said. ‘But you can prove yourself brave, if you like. Come and stand your ground with me in the phalanx. Beside me. In the front rank.’
Satyrus nodded. ‘Yes!’ he said, willing to try. He drew a breath. ‘Very well,’ he said. It came out pretty well. ‘So that’s the next task?’