“First plunder, then burn!” Everard recalled. The twentieth-century joke, which doubtless had a hoary lineage, was not very funny when the reality drew nigh, but a man was apt to grab at any straw of humor.
“Fear not,” soothed Zoilus. Hipponicus had explained to Everard that this minister of the treasury had connections throughout the realm. Beneath the big nose, gaunt features creased in a pursy little smile. “Our king knows well what he does. With his forces concentrated here, the enemy must stay close by. Else we could send detachments out to take them from behind, piecemeal. Isn’t that right, Creon?”
“Not quite that simple, especially over the long haul.” The officer’s glance at his couchmate added, You civilians always fancy yourselves strategists, don’t you? “But, true, Antiochus is playing it cautious. That’s plain to see. After all, our army is still in working order, and he’s far from home.”
Everard, who had kept a respectful silence in the presence of the dignitaries, decided he could venture a query. “Just what did happen, sir? Can you tell us, from the dispatches you’ve gotten?”
Creon’s reply was slightly condescending, but amicable, as one fighting man to another. “The Syrians marched along the southern bank of the River Arius.” On the maps of Everard’s milieu, that was the Hari Rud. “Else they’d have had desert to cross. Euthydemus knew Antiochus was coming, of course. He’d expected him for a long time.”
Naturally, Everard thought. This war had been brewing six decades, since the satrap of Bactria revolted against the Seleucid monarchy and proclaimed his province independent, himself its king.
The Parthians had taken fire about the same time and done likewise. They were more nearly pure Iranian—Aryan, in the true meaning of that term—and considered themselves the heirs of the Persian Empire which Alexander had conquered and Alexander’s generals divided among each other. Long at strife with rivals in the West, the descendants of General Seleucus suddenly found an added menace at their backs.
At present, they ruled over Cilicia (south central Turkey, in Everard’s era) and Latakia along the Mediterranean seaboard. Thence their domain sprawled across most of Syria, Mesopotamia (Iraq), and Persia (Iran), holding much directly, some in vassalage. Therefore language commonly lumped it under the name “Syria,” although its lords were Graeco-Macedonian with Near Eastern admixture and their subjects wildly diverse. King Antiochus III had drawn it back together after civil and foreign wars nearly shattered it. He went on to Parthia (northeastern Iran) and chastened that new power—for the time being. Now he was come to reclaim Bactria and Sogdiana. His ambitions reached southward from them, into India….
“—and kept his spies and scouts busy. He took position at the ford he knew the Syrians would use.” Creon sighed. “But I must say Antiochus is a wily one, and as daring as he’s tough. Shortly before dawn, he sent a picked force across—”
The Bactrian troops, like the Parthian, were principally cavalry. That suited Asian traditions and, most places, the Asian land; but it left them terribly handicapped at night, when they always withdrew to what they hoped was a safe distance from the enemy.
“—and drove our pickets back on our main body. His own main body followed. Euthydemus deemed it wisest to give ground, regroup, and make for here. He’s been collecting reinforcements along the way. Antiochus has pursued, but not closely. Fighting has amounted to skirmishes.”
Hipponicus frowned. “That isn’t like Antiochus, from What I’ve heard of him,” he said.
Creon shrugged, emptied his cup, held it out to a slave for a refill. “Our intelligence is that he was wounded at the ford. Not enough to disable, obviously, but maybe enough to slow him down.”
“Still,” declared Zoilus, “he’s been unwise not to follow up his advantage immediately. Bactra is well supplied. These walls are impregnable. Once behind them, King Euthydemus—”
“Can sit and let Antiochus blockade us into starvation?” Hipponicus interrupted. “I hope not!”
Foreknowledge gave confidence for Everard to say, “That may not be what he intends. If I were your king, I’d make myself secure here, then sally forth for a pitched battle, with the city to return to in case I lost it.”
Creon nodded.
“The Trojan War over again?” Hipponicus protested. “May the gods grant a different outcome for us.” He tipped his cup and sprinkled some drops on the floor.
“Fear not,” said Zoilus. “Our king has better sense than Priam. And his eldest son, Demetrius, bids fair to become a new Alexander.” Evidently he remained a courtier wherever he went.
Yet he was not merely a sycophant, or Hipponicus would not have wanted him present. In this matter he spoke truth. Euthydemus was a self-made man, adventurer from Magnesia, usurper who seized the crown of Bactria; but he governed ably and fought cannily. In years to come, Demetrius would cross the Hindu Kush and grab off a goodly chunk of the decaying Mauryan Empire for himself.
Unless the Exaltationists prevailed in spite of everything, and that whole future from which Everard sprang was annulled.
“Well, I’d better see to my own arms,” Hipponicus said heavily. “I have … three men of fighting age in this household, besides myself. My sons—” He did not quite suppress a wince.
“Good,” rumbled Creon. “We’ve reorganized things somewhat. You’ll report to Philip, son of Xanthus, at the Orion Tower.”
Hipponicus cast Everard a look. Their forearms were in contact. The Patrolman felt a slight quiver.
Zoilus took the word, a bit maliciously: “If you don’t care for a part in our war, Meander, leave at once.”
“Not so fast, I hope, sir,” Everard answered.
“You’ll fight on our side?” Hipponicus breathed.
“Well, this takes me by surprise—” I lie like a wet rag.
Creon chuckled. “Oh, you’d been looking forward to some fun? Spend your pay on the best, then. Drink good wine while it’s to be had, and do your whoring before the army drives every street slut’s price as high as Theonis’ is now.”
“Whose?” asked Everard.
Hipponicus’ grin was sour. “Never mind. She’s out of your class and mine.”
Zoilus flushed. “She’s not for any oaf who brings a bag of gold,” he snapped. “She chooses the lovers she desires.”
Oh-ho! Everard thought. The great official has his human side, does he? But let’s avoid embarrassing him. It’ll be tricky as is, steering this conversation the way I want even for a minute or two. Kipling’s lines passed wryly through his mind:“Four things greater than all things are,—Women and Horses and Power and War.We spake of them all, but the last the most….”
He turned to Hipponicus. “Forgive me,” he said. “I’d like to stand with you, but by the time I could be enlisted, me, a foreigner, the battle that decides the victory might well be finished. In any case, I couldn’t do much. I’m not trained to fight on horseback.”
The merchant nodded. “Nor is it your fight,” he replied, more pragmatic than disappointed. “I’m sorry your welcome to my city is so poor. You’d better leave tomorrow or the day after.”
“I’ll go around town among the metics and transients,” Everard said. “Somebody may want to hire an extra guard for his trip home. Half the world passes through Bactra, doesn’t it? If I can find somebody returning to some place I’ve never been before, that would be perfect.” He had been at pains with Hipponicus to build the persona of a man who tramped around not simply because of having gotten into trouble with his tribe, but out of curiosity. Such were not uncommon in this milieu.