Storm of arrows

16

Niceas’s funeral games lasted three days, after two weeks of preparations. Slaves and freedmen and farmers cleaned the citadel, and Kineas declared that all taxes and tribute would be remitted in exchange for a tithe on spring fodder and wagons. Nor did he offer any other choice — his soldiers collected the tithe with drawn weapons. It was ugly, like everything about Hyrkania in the aftermath of the escalade.

Eumenes and Leon seemed reconciled by their shared roles as heroes, but their reconciliation lasted only until they wrestled for the prize of the funeral games on the third day, with Mosva watching them. The bout became ugly and all their wounds were ripped open in a single word when Leon said something while his opponent had his head down in a hold, and then they were fighting like dogs.

Leon won.

Ataelus had returned with the rest of the prodromoi on the third day of games, in time to join all the old hands in throwing torches on to Niceas’s pyre. He wept with them, and threw his best gold-hilted dagger on to the roaring blaze.

Philokles had barely spoken since the storming. He sat in silence and was drunk most of the time. Only Kineas and Diodorus and Sappho knew that he had tried to kill himself with his sword. Sappho had caught him at it and they had all wrestled the blade away from him, Sappho cut and bleeding, until Philokles screamed, ‘Can I do nothing but injure and kill! Let me go!’ and subsided into weeping. That was in the first few days after the action, and Philokles wasn’t the only man in despair.

At the games, he was silent. He stood alone, and when men went to embrace him, he turned away. Kineas failed to move him. It was Ataelus who pushed past his rudeness. He placed himself in front of the Spartan, hands on hips, weeping unabashedly in the Scythian manner. When he had the silent man’s attention, he demanded, ‘Niceas for killing enemies?’

Philokles’s face was streaked with tears in the firelight. ‘Yes.’

‘How many in last fight?’ Ataelus asked. He didn’t seem to know, or care, what Philokles was suffering.

Philokles flinched. ‘Two,’ he said.

Ataelus nodded. ‘Two is good,’ he said. ‘And you?’ He looked at the Spartan curiously. ‘For revenge? You were killing?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Philokles bitterly. ‘I killed quite a few. Six or seven in combat — perhaps twice that in cowering, defenceless men. At least one woman. I am very proud. ’

Ataelus, immune to his tone, nodded. ‘Good. Twenty men — good. And you, Kineax?’

Kineas shrugged. ‘The same.’

Ataelus shook his head. ‘For thinking my friend goes to hell alone! Long faces and tears! Dies like airyanam! Kills two, even for being wounded! And friends who love him kill forty mens to serve him in death? For what crying?’

Kineas took his arm. ‘We behaved like beasts,’ he said. He didn’t know how to explain it to the Sakje.

But Ataelus shrugged him off. He looked around the ruddy faces lit by the pyre. ‘War is for making all men beasts,’ he said. He shrugged. ‘Hunt men, kill men, act like beast, hunt like beast. Yes?’ He shook his head. ‘All war bad. All not-war good. But when for making war, then for fighting like beast. Yes?’ He shrugged. ‘Love Niceas,’ he said, and struck his chest. Then he embraced Philokles, who tried to avoid the embrace and was then trapped by the smaller man.

And one by one, all the old hands, the men who had ridden north from Tomis almost two years before and the men who had followed Alexander from Granicus to Ecbatana and the newer men who had stopped Zopryon on the plains, embraced like brothers, and they all embraced Philokles.

That night, for the first time in months, Kineas dreamed of the tree. And Niceas stood among the tangled roots with Ajax, and both of them offered him hands full of sand. He wept when he awoke, but he began to understand. It scared him.

Carlus survived, as did Darius. They each took the better part of the next month to recover, and Kineas had so many wounded from the storming that he couldn’t start his little force in motion. As it turned out, the weather, which had promised an early spring, then deteriorated, and it wasn’t until a week after Niceas’s funeral that they had another sight of the sun. The ground began to dry.

Kineas left Heron and Lycurgus in charge, just as Diodorus had originally planned, with orders to forward some of the bullion and use the rest to pay their garrison and cover Leon’s investments. The storming of the citadel had gained them all the queen’s treasures — not the richest hoard in the east, but enough to satisfy an army of a thousand men for some months and buy them as many remounts as they could find.

‘Are we founding an empire?’ Diodorus asked. ‘First the settlement on the Rha and now a town on the Kaspian.’

Kineas just looked at him. ‘Not exactly,’ he said. ‘The fort on the Rha is Sakje territory, and this is in the satrapy of Hyrkania. We won’t hold either for any time. Just long enough to secure our retreat.’

Diodorus rubbed his beard. They all had them now. Winter had eliminated the last clean-shaven men. ‘Another hundred mercenaries came in today,’ he said. ‘Mostly Greeks.’

Kineas grunted.

‘Heron is trying to hire your Leosthenes to command a thousand hoplites,’ he said. ‘Leosthenes is ready to leave the satrap. Man’s doomed.’

‘As long as Heron pays with his own money, I told him he was welcome to try for Pantecapaeum,’ Kineas said. ‘We have no friends there. They exiled Demostrate, too.’

Diodorus whistled. ‘Heron will make a dangerous tyrant,’ he said.

Nicanor came into the megaron. ‘Prince Lot is ready to ride,’ he said.

Kineas already had his armour on. He went out into the weak spring sun, mounted Thalassa and rode to the head of the parade, where all of the Sauromatae waited, their goods loaded on pack mules and six heavy wagons. Lady Bahareh nodded to him as he rode past and Gwair Blackhorse raised his lance and gave a ypp! of exultation.

Lot rode out to the head of his column. ‘I’m glad to be free of this place,’ he confessed, in Sakje.

Kineas wrapped his arms around the other man and they embraced, breastplate to scale shirt. ‘Stay safe. Pick us a good camp.’

‘Hurry along, Kineas. Don’t dawdle!’ The Sauromatae prince reared his horse for show and then they were off, riding through the gates of the camp.

‘I wish we were riding with them,’ Diodorus said at Kineas’s side.

Kineas shrugged. ‘Me, too,’ he said. ‘Time to do the rotten job.’

Diodorus turned his horse and fell in beside him. ‘Leon?’

Kineas nodded. ‘Fetch him for me, will you?’

When the young Numidian arrived, Kineas let him wait on the porch of the megaron while he completed the day’s reports and a letter to Lykeles at Olbia. Then he had Nicanor bring the young man.

‘You have become a very important officer,’ he said coldly. ‘But your behaviour at the funeral of Niceas was that of a slave. Let me be clear. When a gentleman competes at funeral games, he does so in the memory of the dead man, and for no personal gain or glory. You dishonoured Niceas with your behaviour.’

Leon’s knees trembled, and he stood, blank-faced. He didn’t weep. He took his rebuke as a slave takes it, showing as little as he could.

The lack of reaction enraged Kineas.

‘Don’t you care? Niceas was always kind to you — Niceas, who was a whore in the agora before he was a man — who would understand you and your life better than Niceas? And you dishonour him at his games?’

Nothing. Leon’s body betrayed his emotion, but his face gave nothing away at all.

‘I am tempted to send you away, or leave you here. Speak. Tell me why I should do otherwise.’

Leon raised his eyes. ‘No reason,’ he said in a voice bereft of hope.

‘Will you accept any punishment I offer without complaint?’ Kineas asked.

‘Yes!’ Leon said, with more emotion than he had shown until then.

Kineas nodded. ‘You will shovel snow with the common soldiers until we leave. You will make a public apology to Eumenes at the head of the parade tomorrow morning and the two of you will clasp hands. Both of you will go to the shrine of Apollo on the mountain — together — and spend the night in observance, offering a sacrifice on behalf of the whole expedition. You will keep vigil. You will make apology to the shade of Niceas. You will not sleep, nor will you wear a cloak or hat. Understood?’

Leon hid his eyes. ‘Yes,’ he barked.

The two men climbed the mountain together the next day.

‘What if only one of them returns?’ Sappho asked. She was standing arm in arm with Diodorus, and her face looked young and beautiful in the last of the sun, cheeks red from the cold and wrapped in a heavy wool cloak. Her eyes moved constantly from one to the other of the officers. Since the incident with Philokles, she watched them all carefully.

Philokles took cups of wine from Nicanor and handed them around. It was pleasant to stand on the porch in the warmth of evening — comparative warmth. In minutes it would be too cold to stand outside, and Kineas secretly pitied the two men climbing to the shrine. ‘They will both return,’ he said.

‘Kineas has the right of it,’ Sappho said, her hand shading her eyes against the last rays of the sun. ‘My heart goes out to Leon.’

Diodorus raised an eyebrow. ‘Leon? What he did was disgraceful. Like cheating — in a funeral contest.’

Sappho nodded. ‘When you have experienced slavery, write and tell me what you think then.’

Philokles turned and smiled at Sappho. ‘Well put,’ he said.

Sappho blushed and lowered her eyes. ‘Praise from a Spartan?’ she said. ‘Praise from such a great soldier might go to my head.’

Philokles took a sharp breath. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said, looking at the lees in his wine cup. ‘I’m a great soldier.’ Turning to Kineas, he said, ‘Speaking of which, your Persian asked me to teach him the ways of the gymnasium today.’

Kineas frowned. ‘Why?’ he asked.

Philokles drank off a cup of wine in a single draught. Then he wiped his mouth with his hand. ‘He was impressed with how you killed all those men,’ he said. He pointed his chin at Sappho. ‘But he doesn’t go to Kineas — no, he comes to me.’ He poured himself more wine from Nicanor’s ewer, sloshing some on the floor. ‘For all the gods,’ he slurred.

‘I didn’t mean it that way, Philokles,’ Sappho said, touching his arm lightly. ‘In Thebes, no soldier was ever offended-’

He stepped back as if her touch hurt him. ‘Nor in Sparta. No, a woman’s praise for one’s ability to kill always comes before a marriage offer, in Sparta.’

Sappho slipped out of Diodorus’s arm and made a sign to Temerix the smith. The two of them closed on the Spartan from both sides. ‘Why don’t you tell me how Spartan women live, Philokles?’ she asked.

Philokles glanced back and forth between the two of them. ‘I’m not drunk yet,’ he said, watching them as if they were sparring opponents on the sand.

Temerix smiled at the ground, embarrassed. ‘Yes, lord,’ he said, spreading his arms.

‘Don’t call me lord,’ Philokles said.

Temerix stepped back. ‘Yes, lord,’ he said.

Sappho caught at his arm. ‘Spartan women,’ she insisted.

‘Too brave for me,’ Philokles said. ‘Just like you.’ He held out his wine cup and Nicanor, after a beseeching look at Kineas, filled it again. Philokles glanced at Kineas, a smile on his face. He slammed the wine back and grinned. ‘Wants to be a better killer. Who better to ask than me, eh? And the farther east we go, the better we’ll be, until we can kill anyone we want. Maybe each other in the end, eh?’ He stumbled back and caught himself, holding his wine cup out again.

Sappho hauled on his arm. ‘You are being rude, Spartan. Tell me about the Spartan women.’

Philokles drew himself up. ‘You are not a Spartan woman,’ he said. ‘You are a woman of Thebes, hence it is unseemly for you to be out in public, discoursing with men, hence I do not have to discourse with you, as you should not be here.’

Kineas tried to think of something to say.

‘I am no longer a woman of Thebes, just as you are no longer a man of Sparta,’ she said. ‘We are Olbians, are we not? Or perhaps we are the people of Kineas.’

Philokles laughed. ‘The Kineasae! And among the Kineasae, it was customary for women to debate with men in the agora!’

Diodorus stepped up beside the Spartan. ‘It quickly became customary for sober women to debate with drunken men. Go to bed, Philokles! You’re making men look bad!’

All around them, people laughed — friendly laughter, at a situation diffused. And the next time Philokles stumbled, Temerix was there with an arm around his neck. The smith had no difficulty lifting the Spartan over his shoulder, nor did he flinch when the big man vomited wine and bile over his back.

Later, Kineas heard Philokles speaking of the role of women in a well-ordered polis, and Temerix, whose Greek was about equal to directing a wood-cutting party, grunting agreement while he washed the Spartan. Their voices went on and on, and eventually Kineas fell asleep.

Both young men returned from the shrine the next morning, and Kineas, who had not slept well, shared wine with them and prayed to the gods with them. And then he went back to bed.

When he rose again, it was to the final preparations for leaving. With Leon and Eumenes at his side, he picked the best riders from among the hoplites and put them in the cavalry. The rest were left as a core of Olbians with the mercenary recruits to hold the town. Two dozen men, too badly wounded to march but still expected to recover, were left as military settlers.

The column had food and water for ten days, and better wagons and carts than when they’d started, already staged over the last of the Hyrkanian hills and waiting in a camp at the edge of the steppes. More wagons and all the Sauromatae had already crossed the desert. They were as prepared as Leon could manage.

The same weather that saw Kineas’s column prepare to march against Alexander brought the first of the spring traders from Lycia. Just as the spring rains in the mountains washed the stream beds clear and brought old trees down the hillsides, so they washed broken men out of the hills, and mercenaries looking for employment, and desperate men fleeing distant catastrophes. Before the column rode, Kineas heard the rumours of a dozen nations spoken in three languages. A Macedonian deserter bound for home said that old Antipater was paralysed by news of the murder of Parmenion. It was said that he had gathered a Thracian bodyguard and went in fear that Alexander might order his death, too.

A Syrian Jew from Lebanon told Kineas that every satrap west of Media was raising an army.

A Cretan who had almost certainly spent the winter as a brigand said that Alexander had marched north from Kandahar before the snows melted. Rumours said that Bessus was dead and Spitamenes was negotiating for a satrapy. It was said that he had sent Alexander a dozen Amazons as a gift.

And on the final morning, when the main column was mounted and the last men were kissing their Hyrkanian wives one last time, Kineas heard from a horse trader that the queen of the Massagetae was rallying the clans east of Marakanda to fight Alexander. Kineas purchased his whole string of horses.

Diodorus shook his head. ‘Remember when we were mercenaries?’ he asked wistfully.

A pale sun rose between Kineas’s charger’s ears. On his left was Diodorus and on his right was Philokles, the worse for wine but steady enough.

‘Let’s go and find Srayanka,’ he said. His heart was higher than it had been in a month.

‘And Alexander,’ Diodorus said.