Satyrus shrugged. ‘My father had priests in his phalanx. In Greek cities, many priests serve in the ranks just like other men.’ He made a face. ‘I have no idea what the tradition is here.’
‘Then I will come tomorrow,’ Namastis said.
As Philokles had predicted, fewer than half of the Aegyptians returned to the ranks the next day, and those that came were surly and often stood immobile instead of exercising.
‘Why did you come, if not to work?’ Philokles asked one. The man carefully grounded his pike and walked off.
‘Look at the bright side,’ Dionysius said. ‘Now we have enough sarissas. ’ He shrugged. Dionysius was the least affected by the death of Theo. He’d never liked the boy and didn’t even pretend to mourn him.
Satyrus was working with the young men, practising with the hoplite arms most of them had – heavy shields, a handspan larger than the Macedonian shields and much deeper, so that they protected the whole body; shorter spears with heavy heads and long bronze butt-spikes, like those carried by Leon’s marines. They were practising a marine tactic – one that Philokles admired – a short burst of a charge from just three paces out from the enemy line. On board ship, this was all the deck space any marine ever had for a charge. On the battlefield, Satyrus reckoned, those three paces represented the length of the enemy sarissas.
He had bargepoles affixed to two-wheel carts so that the spears stood out two spans past the poles of the yokes. A line of these carts represented the enemy, and again and again the young men practised flinging themselves forward three steps, stooping low and shields held at an acute, uncomfortable angle – slam into the face of the carts, hopefully avoiding the tips of the bargepoles. And pushing the carts back.
Every fourth or fifth time, they managed it, and the carts rocked back. The other times, they tripped and fell, or someone got a bargepole in the head or lost his grip or the pace – ugly accidents, and reminders of what would happen when there were veteran killers at the other end of the bargepoles.
It was after one such disaster, with Theron berating a gaggle of Jews as if they were slaves and not the sons of four of the city’s richest citizens, when Satyrus saw that all the Aegyptians were standing still, refusing any further orders. It was a curious form of rebellion – the phalanx was voluntary, and any of them might have grounded their pikes like the first rebel and walked away.
‘Uh-oh,’ Abraham muttered. He pushed the helmet back on his head so that his arming cap showed white against his tawny skin.
‘Why are we working so hard, if all the Gyptos are going to quit?’ Dionysius asked. He took a pull from his elegant black canteen and then handed it around. It had straight unwatered wine.
Satyrus drank some anyway. ‘If Philokles were here, he’d say that if they mutiny, that’s their decision and not ours about defending our city.’
Dionysius looked far more capable than he usually did. He raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s a nice argument for the schoolroom, dear. But for a man who’s considering facing a line of spears, it doesn’t seem to me to carry much weight.’
Philokles was standing with his hands on his hips. His face was red, as if he was about to give way to anger. The Aegyptians moved as if a breeze was passing over a field of their own emmer, and a sigh escaped from their ranks, which were none too even.
And then a file of men in dark cloaks came on to the parade ground from the west, towards the temple district. Most of them – but not all – were of mixed birth. A few were marked by their features and their distinctive linen garments as Aegyptian priests. There were more than twenty of them, and they came to a dignified halt behind Philokles.
Namastis stepped out from the gaggle of priests. ‘Lord Philokles? The temple district sends its tithe of men who are citizens to serve.’
Another sigh escaped from the men in the ranks.
Philokles returned the priest’s bow. ‘Twenty willing men delight me, but the favour of the gods would delight us all.’
An older man wearing the curious long garment favoured by servants of the older Aegyptian gods stepped forth. ‘I may not serve under arms,’ he said. ‘But if I might address your men, you might find them better soldiers.’
Philokles frowned, and then stepped out of the command spot at the head of the square. ‘Be my guest, priest,’ he said politely. He walked over to where Theron and Satyrus were standing. ‘Can’t hurt us,’ he said with a shrug. ‘Perhaps he’ll help. I know him – Temple of Osiris. A fine speaker.’
Theron shook his head. ‘Strange, like all barbarians. Priests who won’t fight?’
Satyrus furrowed his brow. ‘You told me that in Corinth the priests of Aphrodite didn’t fight, but pimped for their priestesses who sold their bodies.’
Theron rubbed his nose and had the grace to look embarrassed. ‘Um – that’s true.’
Philokles and Satyrus exchanged glances, even as the older priest of Osiris raised his arms and began to speak.
Some of the men in the ranks looked inattentive, bored or even angry to be addressed by the priest – but a great many more listened as if receiving the words of the great gods themselves, and some fell to their knees until the priest was done speaking. One by one, five priests addressed them in Aegyptian. Then all five gave a benediction in Greek and in Aegyptian, and they went off to the side, where a stand of date palms offered some shade.
The priests of the Greek gods also offered benedictions, but when they were done, Namastis clapped his hands and slaves brought them shields and linen armour like the Aegyptians wore, and good Greek Pylos helmets straight from the forges.
Philokles looked around. ‘Harmless,’ he said. He rolled his shoulders as if taking the weight of his responsibility back. ‘Might even do some good.’
It had done some good. If the natives had ever intended mutiny – and none of the Hellenes knew them or their language well enough to know – they meant no mutiny now. Most of them began to drill with something like enthusiasm, and despite the fact that they were a thousand men short of their required size since the day before, Philokles led them through exercise after exercise with something like enthusiasm himself, and Dionysius shook his head in admiration at their first successful wheel all the way through a circle – a difficult manoeuvre even for professionals. Of course it was easier with half the men, but the spirit of the whole was different – profoundly different.
When the sun touched the horizon, Satyrus sought out the priest of Poseidon. ‘What did you do?’ he said.
Namastis shook his head. ‘I did very little. It had already been discussed – but meeting you last night stiffened my spine.’
‘What did the priest of Osiris say? It was like magic!’ Satyrus said.
‘Yes!’ Namastis replied. He glanced at Philokles. ‘He told them to act like men. That the eyes of the entire lower kingdom were on them. That they, and they alone, stood between the old gods and destruction.’
Satyrus shook his head. ‘Well, he’s a fine old fellow.’
‘Don’t patronize me, Greek.’ Namastis looked far more imposing in a linen corslet and a helmet than in his robes. ‘And don’t patronize him.’
Satyrus bit back an adolescent retort and nodded. ‘I won’t.’
Namastis shook his head. ‘It’s hard not to be touchy when you are half-caste. Listen – he also told them that Philokles is the very avatar of the war god – at least for now.’
‘My tutor?’ Satyrus laughed, but then he stopped. A great many scenes passed before his eyes in a few heartbeats. ‘That’s not altogether far from the mark,’ he said.
Namastis glanced over Satyrus’s shoulder to where a knot of fashionable young men waited for their friend but were too polite to break in on the two of them – or too disdainful of the Gypto. ‘You Hellenes are great fools,’ Namastis said. ‘He wasn’t speaking in allegory, Satyrus. He meant that Philokles is the very avatar of the god of war. Here. Now.’ The priest picked up his spear and swung it carefully erect. The full length of the pike made any sudden movement perilous.