Storm of arrows

25

‘ Craterus is at the Forks of the Polytimeros,’ Coenus reported.

The sun was rising on a new day, and Kineas was already hot and sticky. He wore only his tunic, pulled on hastily when he heard that there was a scout coming in. Coenus was covered in dust, his usual foppishness ruined, his face a comic mask where runnels of sweat had carved lines across the coating of grey-brown grit.

He had insisted on leading a patrol because he was, he felt, ‘out of practice’.

Kineas sent Nicanor for all the leaders. ‘You saw him?’

‘In person.’ Coenus gave a dusty grin. ‘He’s not somebody you soon forget! A thousand cavalry — perhaps some mounted infantry as well. I didn’t stay to scout the whole column. Mosva had just come in with another Sauromatae girl to tell us that Spitamenes was moving north — they found his camp — and the next thing I knew my outriders were shooting arrows at his outriders. He came up in person while I was still trying to guess their numbers.’

Kineas rubbed his beard. ‘He’ll block our way.’

Diodorus came running up with Philokles and Eumenes close behind. ‘He’ll be in among our wagons in a day. What the hell is he doing here?’

Coenus shook his head. ‘He’s fast. But I’ll wager a daric to an owl that he’s after Spitamenes — trying to cut him off from the sea of grass.’

Diodorus started buckling his cuirass. ‘You are ready to command armies, Coenus. The problem is that he must have taken your scouts for Spitamenes’.’

Kineas found that Nicanor was bringing him his armour. He stuck his arms up while Nicanor lowered the linen and scale cuirass over his head. As soon as the shoulder flaps were fastened to the breastplate, he started drawing lines in the dust. ‘If you were Craterus, in pursuit of Spitamenes-’ he said.

‘I’d have wine,’ Coenus said, hefting an empty amphora. Nicanor brought him a towel and a clay bottle of water. Nicanor enjoyed serving Coenus because Coenus had the kind of standards that Nicanor liked to live up to — unlike Kineas, who didn’t feel the need to dress to Athenian fashion in the midst of the sea of grass. He wiped the dust from his face and started to towel his hair. ‘If I were Craterus, I’d break off and go home. If I hit resistance on the Oxus, I would think that Spitamenes was ahead of me.’

‘Or I’d press the pursuit, hoping to hurt his rearguard,’ Diodorus said. ‘Let’s face it, that’s more like Craterus. He’s a terrier — once he gets his jaws on something, he never lets go. When have you ever known him not to press a pursuit until his horse fell?’

‘You all know this Macedonian?’ Philokles asked.

‘He’s older now,’ Kineas said, by way of an answer. ‘Alexander’s left fist, we used to call him.’

‘He doesn’t have Parmenion to hold his hand, either,’ Diodorus shot back.

‘So it could go either way. He could turn back, or he could be on us in, what, four hours?’ Kineas looked at Coenus.

Ataelus came in, his bow arm still bound in a sling. The wound had infected and bled pus constantly. Ataelus looked like a man with a fever and he walked unsteadily.

‘You’re not fit to ride, Ataelus. Get back to your pallet and your wife.’ Kineas saw Samahe behind her husband. ‘Take him away!’

‘Alexander is coming, and you for sending me to bed?’ Ataelus stumbled and caught himself on the tent’s central pole. ‘Need scouts. Need for seeing over hills. Prodromoi go!’ Ataelus struck his chest. ‘Samahe go, Ataelus go.’

Coenus, who had always got on well with the Scythian, shook his head. ‘We did do a certain amount of scouting before you came on the scene, brother.’

Ataelus grinned. ‘No little cut for keeping me from this. Alexander comes.’

Coenus, cleaner now, tossed his towel to Nicanor. ‘It’s not Alexander, Ataelus. It’s just Craterus. We can handle him without you.’

Diodorus was looking at Kineas’s marks in the dust. ‘Where’s Spitamenes?’ he asked.

‘Ares, let’s not make that mistake again,’ Kineas said.

Diodorus picked up a stick. He threw a glance at Ataelus, who stood by his shoulder to correct him if he went wrong.

‘I think I understand. Let’s say this anthill is Marakanda. Let’s say this line is the Polytimeros and this is the Oxus,’ Diodorus drew a line from the anthill that represented Marakanda, and then a second at right angles to represent the Oxus. ‘If Alexander has raised the siege at Marakanda — that’s my guess — then Craterus is pursuing Spitamenes west — right at us.’ Diodorus moved the stick along the line of the Polytimeros and stopped at the Oxus — the cross of the T. ‘If Spitamenes went straight across, he’d vanish into the sea of grass — south of us, but not by much. If the girls saw the camp right, the Persians are west and south of us.’ He drew another line. ‘If Craterus is at the forks of the Polytimeros,’ he went on, stick pointing at the place where the Polytimeros met the Oxus, ‘then we’re three points in an equilateral triangle: we’re at this end of the T, Spitamenes at the other end of the crossbar and Craterus down here on the base. And if Spitamenes chooses to try to link up with Queen Zarina,’ he continued his line, ‘he’ll go right through here, following the crossbar. With Craterus right behind him.’

‘And he can’t miss us,’ Coenus said. ‘And if Craterus mistook our Sakje for Spitamenes’ Sogdians, he’s already on his way. And then he’s between Spitamenes and us.’

Srayanka rubbed the bridge of her nose. ‘We have to fight.’

Lot came in, flanked by two of his knights. ‘Alexander is here?’ he asked.

‘He may be less than a day’s march away.’ Kineas recapitulated the crisis. ‘It is Alexander’s general Craterus. The king himself is at Marakanda.’ Kineas shrugged. ‘Or so we think.’

‘Our people must march north,’ Lot said. ‘Most of us are packed. The wagons of the Sakje will slow us.’

‘Without them, many will die this winter,’ Srayanka shot back.

Kineas looked around, catching their eyes. ‘Get the prodromoi out. We’ll make a stand here. Perhaps even try a little negotiation.’

Diodorus raised a red eyebrow, but then he hurried out. Philokles stood by. ‘Which one would you negotiate with?’ he asked.

Kineas shook his head, staring at his map in the dust. ‘Alexander is the enemy we came to fight,’ he said. ‘Spitamenes sold Srayanka to Macedon.’

Philokles stroked his beard. ‘I’m tired of war,’ he said. ‘Neither of them seems so very bad to me. Alexander is a tyrant, but a Hellene. Spitamenes is a Mede, but a patriot.’ He shrugged. ‘Who is the enemy?’

Kineas looked at his map. ‘Craterus will be here first, if he’s coming,’ he said. ‘If we held him, and sent a messenger to Spitamenes — we could defeat him here.’ Kineas looked around.

Philokles waved a hand dismissively. ‘Do we need to fight?’

Kineas nodded. ‘The wagons will roll in two hours,’ he said. ‘We need to hold here at least until darkness, or we could have Craterus’s outriders in among the columns.’

Scythians travelled the sea of grass in two or three parallel columns of wagons, with the herds penned between them and watched by a vanguard and a rearguard of young riders. The columns raised so much dust on the summer plains that they could be seen for fifteen stades and the rearguard was often blind owing to the dust raised.

‘He’ll push his men after the columns of dust,’ Coenus added. ‘May I speak frankly, friend?’

Kineas was surprised by his tone. ‘Of course!’

Coenus finished his water. ‘Do you really want to ambush Craterus? To what purpose?’

Philokles nodded as if in agreement, but after a pause of shocked silence, he said, ‘For the liberation of Greece.’ He stood up like an orator. ‘Any defeat Alexander suffers weakens his choke hold on Greece. If he is beaten out here, all the states of Greece will rise up and be free. Sparta — Athens — Megara.’

Coenus laughed. ‘Don’t you believe it, Philokles. They’ll find a way to fuck it up, trust me. They’ll fight among themselves.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘I’m not much interested in liberating Greece. I’m a gentleman of Olbia now.’

Srayanka licked her lips, and then smiled. ‘We should defeat Alexander because he is dangerous,’ she said. ‘Because he is like a wild dog, and if he is not killed, he will savage our flocks.’

‘Craterus is the enemy. Spitamenes is a possible ally — otherwise, just an interruption. Spitamenes poses no threat to Olbia.’ Kineas looked around and got nods of agreement. ‘Glad that’s settled,’ Kineas said. He was armoured — so were most of the men he could see. ‘Let’s move.’

The columns rolled off before the sun crested the sky. The Sauromatae led the way, although Lot and his best warriors were left behind with Kineas’s force holding the high ground just west of the Oxus. The Sauromatae held the right of the line, hidden in a fold of ground behind a low ridge that ran parallel to the track of the trade road. Kineas placed the trained Greek horse in the centre under Diodorus, with the Olbians on the right under Eumenes and Antigonus and the Keltoi on the left under Coenus and Andronicus. On the right, Srayanka led the Sakje with Parshtaevalt and Urvara. Kineas kept a reserve of mixed Sakje and Greek cavalry — men and women who had trained together for a month — under his own command in the rear. The total force was a little less than eight hundred, because more than a third of their strength was guarding the columns and herding the animals.

Darius was off to find Spitamenes and, if he could, persuade the partisan to alliance or at least tolerance, over Srayanka’s objections.

Ataelus and his prodromoi, with Coenus and his picked men, were out in the trough of the Oxus valley and farther south and east.

It was noon before the battlefield was prepared and all the men in place. Kineas sat atop the ridge with Leon, Philokles, Diodorus and a handful of Sakje maidens as messengers. There was no shade and the sun painted them in fire; not a breath of wind stirred the dust. Anywhere that the casual exercise of riding caused bare skin to contact armour — all too common — left a line of pain. Kineas used his cloak to cover his armour and then sweltered in the gritty heat of a wool cloak.

His mouth was so full of dust that even after he rinsed and spat, his molars ground together as if he was chewing pottery.

Leon watched the wooded ground in the valley with all the stress of a lover worried for his friend. Which he was. Mosva was down there with Ataelus instead of back behind the ridge with her father.

An hour passed, and then a second hour.

A third hour.

A fourth hour.

The sun was sinking appreciably. The day was cooler. The horses were restless, eager for the water they could smell in the bed of the Oxus, signalling their displeasure with shrill calls and a great deal of stomping and rein-chewing.

Kineas watched it all in an agony of indecision and doubt. If I water the horses, and he comes — if Spitamenes refuses to cooperate — if Spitamenes comes first — if Craterus comes from the east on this side of the Oxus — if the horses require water — now? — now? — now? Where is he? Where is he?

Where is Craterus?

They saw the dust cloud before they got a report. The cloud looked to be forty stades distant, or more, but distances could be misleading on the plains. While all his friends debated its meaning, Samahe rode in, the cloud towering over her shoulder like a thunderhead. Her red leather tunic was almost brown with dust, but her chain of gold plaques glinted in the sun.

‘Craterus comes,’ she said. ‘For killing one enemy I shot.’ She mimed her draw and release. ‘Ataelus for saying “Ride and tell Kineas — he comes!” and Ataelus say word. Say “Iskander deploys!”’ She pointed. ‘And for dirt-eating Sogdii! Fight for Iskander, fight for Spitamenes. Same.’

Kineas leaned forward. ‘Samahe, are you sure these are Craterus’s men? Not Spitamenes’ Sogdae?’

‘Greek men in bronze with cloaks like yours,’ she said, nodding. She pointed.

Kineas looked around. ‘Time for the army to water their horses?’ he asked.

‘Easy,’ she answered. ‘Hour. Maybe more.’

Kineas nodded. ‘Water the horses,’ he said. ‘Craterus is on to us. We have about half an hour. Bring the whole army down; give the beasts a good drink and then straight back to your places. Push the prodromoi right across to cover the watering. Tell Eumenes to have a section ready to reinforce the picket line at need.’ And he watched in agony, waiting for the Macedonians to come and crash into his horses as they drank.

No Macedonians appeared, but there was someone out in the tamarisk scrub on the far side of the Oxus, and there was more and more dust above the flood line, and glints of colour, flashes of steel, movement. After half an hour, Ataelus’s prodromoi were under constant, if inaccurate, arrow fire from the high ground of the opposite spring bank. Nihmu came back, walking her royal stallion, which was calling loudly in pain with an arrow in his withers. Nihmu was bleeding from her shoulder. She was pale, but she came up to Kineas. ‘Ataelus asks that you send him some force. We are hard-pressed.’

Kineas nodded. ‘Get that wound looked after,’ he said. The girl was at most thirteen years old — to Kineas, too young to be in battle. But as he watched, she was taking the arrow out of her horse’s rump, crooning to the beast while she used a tiny knife to slip the barbed head free. He never kicked. When she was done, the work of a moment, she vaulted into the saddle.

‘Ride down to the river and tell Eumenes to take his sortie across,’ Kineas said. The watering was taking too long, and sending Olbians to clear the Sogdae would only slow it further.

Eumenes took almost half his troop across the Oxus. Kineas watched them trot across at the main ford and turn south in the tamarisk scrub in the valley, spreading out in a skirmish line. Every man had his javelin in his fist, ready to throw. They swept south and east, and suddenly there was a swirl of dust and a keening yell and Kineas’s guts clenched. There were Sogdae riding out of the brush, at least forty of them.

He couldn’t hear Eumenes and he couldn’t see what was happening and his imagination was worse than the reality as the dust swirled and thickened. He clenched his reins and worried, riding back and forth on his ridge. He watched the people watering their horses and tried to urge them to go faster, to cut through the crowds on the riverbank, to get back in battle order.

‘Eumenes can handle a fight with barbarians,’ Philokles said.

‘Not if he’s badly outnumbered.’ Kineas shook his head. ‘Athena, be with us in our hour of need.’ Kineas turned to Diodorus. ‘Should we send him reinforcements?’

Diodorus shook his head. ‘Let’s wait for his report. Ares, I’m getting sick of this.’

Just when Kineas was preparing to order Diodorus into the scrub, Eumenes returned, riding across the ford with six empty saddles. He was injured, blood all down one booted leg, and his face was pinched with anger and pain. ‘The scrub is full of them,’ he said. ‘Hundreds of them. Sogdians, I think — I don’t know whether they’re Craterus’s or Spitamenes’ — who in Hades can tell?’ He shook his head. ‘We rode into an ambush. I’m sorry. It is my fault.’

Kineas watched. ‘Samahe says they’re from Craterus.’ The Sakje, their mounts watered, were already clearing the Oxus and returning to their positions. The Olbians were slower, and the heavily armoured Sauromatae were used to having maiden archers to do this sort of thing while they baked like ovens. They were slow. Kineas cursed the bad luck of it all — and the loss of the remounts and manpower that the horse herds and the wagon columns had taken. Then he reached out and clasped Eumenes’ hand. ‘In war, we lose men. We carry the responsibility. ’ In his head, his words sounded unbearably pompous. ‘You did the job I sent you to do. Did you hurt them?’

Eumenes shook his head, at the edge of a sob. ‘I walked into the ambush,’ he said. ‘They were waiting in the scrub. I should know better. ’ Sullenly, he said, ‘I hurt them. I pushed them out of the scrub and back up the bank, but they’ll be back.’ He looked across the river, where the dust of the skirmish hung in the still air, and wiped his brow. He’d lost the brow band that held his hair.

Philokles reached into his shoulder pack and produced another. ‘Let me tie your hair, lad,’ he said kindly.

Eumenes continued to slouch, looking at the ground in misery. ‘I should have done better,’ he said again.

Kineas rubbed his chin. ‘Sit straight and suck it up,’ he said.

Stung, Eumenes sat straight.

‘That’s better,’ Kineas said. He nodded. ‘Let Philokles look at your wound, and then back to your troop and get the rest of the horses watered. Mourn the dead later. Help me win this thing now.’

Eumenes saluted. He dismounted and let Philokles tie his hair and look at the cut on his thigh. Before he could ride away, Srayanka rode up.

‘Let me send Parshtaevalt,’ she said. ‘We need to clear it before the fucking Sogdae make attacks on our Sauromatae.’

Kineas started to refuse. Then he looked at Philokles and Diodorus. ‘I dislike breaking up my force,’ he said.

Eumenes pulled his helmet off, his face red with exertion. He spoke cautiously, conscious of his defeat. ‘I took casualties trying to rattle them,’ he said. ‘I think that…’ He hesitated, and then drove on. ‘I think Srayanka is right.’

Diodorus nodded. ‘It wouldn’t take many of their arrows falling on the Sauromatae to cause trouble,’ he said. ‘There’s something going on with them that I don’t like.’

Kineas waited another moment, thoughts racing like a galloping horse, and then exhaled. ‘Go!’ Kineas said to Srayanka. She turned and waved to Parshtaevalt, who raised his bow and pointed one end of it at certain horsemen, and they were away — a hundred riders vanishing into the tamarisk scrub in the Oxus valley. They seemed to ride impossibly fast for the broken ground, passing through Ataelus’s prodromoi in their picket line. Samahe, visible in her red and gold, raised her bow in salute as the Sakje rode by, and Parshtaevalt whooped.

A flight of birds burst from the foliage on the far side of the river and then ten Sakje were up the bank. They were hunkered down on their horse’s necks, and they were fast, flowing over the ground more like running cats than men and women on horses.

What if the scrub was full of Sogdae? Where was Craterus? Was he already scouting another ford on the Oxus? Indecision or, to call the cat by its true name, fear moved through Kineas’s guts like the flux. Sweat from his helmet dripped down his brow and then down his face like tears, and he could smell the dirt on his chinstrap, which stank like old cheese. He prayed for wind. He prayed that he had guessed well. He peered into the gathering dust. The light was going as the afternoon grew old.

A chorus of thin shouts on the afternoon breeze, and riders swept out of the farthest foliage two stades away across the muddy river, firing as they came, ripping shots at the Sakje, who turned and fled as if their horses had neither momentum nor bones — they fled like a school of Aegean fish before the onrush of a predator, a porpoise or a shark. The leaders of the Sogdae pressed the handful of Sakje hard, and one man mounted on a big roan rode flat out for Parshtaevalt, visible because his horse harness was studded with gold. The Sakje chief turned his body an impossible three-quarters rotation and shot straight back over the rump of his horse into his pursuer, catching him in the belly and robbing him of life. Parshtaevalt then slowed his horse and caught the dead man’s reins, shouting his war cry. He brandished his bow while a dozen Sogdians bore down on him and another handful shot at him. He grinned, waved his bow and rode off, again shrieking his war cry so that it rang off the sides of the Oxus valley while arrows fell around him and all the ridges rang with cheers.

The Sogdians, angry now, pounded after the handful of Sakje, more and more riders emerging from the brush to avenge their fallen warrior. They were close on the tails of the Scythian horses when the other seventy Sakje appeared out of the river bed and fired a single volley of arrows and charged home under their own lethal rain, emptying a dozen saddles in as many heartbeats.

Shattered, the Sogdians broke and ran. The Sakje pursued them hard, right up the bank, and dust rose around them as their hooves pounded the dry earth. After a few breaths, they came back, whooping and waving their bows and spears. Parshtaevalt rode back to where he’d dropped his man and, heedless of the stray shafts of the remaining Sogdians, slipped from his horse and cut the hair and neck skin from his downed enemy before leaping on to his pony. He collected his riders with a wave and then they were back among the officers in the river bed.

Parshtaevalt’s hands were bloody to the elbow, and rivulets of blood had run all the way down his torso where he had raised his arms in the air to show his trophies. ‘Too long have I been the nursemaid!’ he said in his excellent Greek. ‘Aiyeee!’

Srayanka kissed him, and most of the rest of the Sakje pressed forward to touch him.

Kineas was grinning. ‘Was that Achilles?’ he asked.

Philokles met his grin with one of his own. ‘I have seldom seen anything so beautiful,’ Philokles said. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. ‘Praise to Ares that I was allowed to see so brave an act. Ah!’ He sang:

Ares, exceeding in strength, chariot-rider, golden-helmed,

Doughty in heart, shield-bearer, saviour of cities, harnessed in bronze,

Strong of arm, unwearying, mighty with the spear,

O defence of Olympus, father of warlike Victory,

Ally of Themis, stern governor of the rebellious,

Leader of righteous men, sceptred king of manliness,

Who whirl your fiery sphere among the planets

In their sevenfold courses through the aether

Wherein your blazing steeds ever bear you

Above the third firmament of heaven;

Hear me, helper of men, giver of dauntless youth!

Shed down a kindly ray from above upon my life,

And strength of war, that I may be able to drive

Away bitter cowardice from my head

And crush down the deceitful impulses of my soul.

Restrain also the keen fury of my heart

Which provokes me to tread the ways of blood-curdling strife.

Rather, O blessed one, give me boldness to abide

Within the harmless laws of peace, avoiding strife

And hatred and the violent fiends of death.

The Greeks took it up, and the Olbians had good voices. They sang, roaring the lines as if every man of them was a champion, and the sound carried over the cropped, dry grass and the sand to the Sogdae, who were gathered on their bank, no longer willing to push down into the flood plain and the tamarisk scrub, just visible in the rising column of dust and sand from the fight. Their horses were fidgeting and calling for water.

When the song was done, the Greek horse gathered their mounts and dragged them from the water and up the bank to their ridge. Concealment was now purposeless, but Kineas sent them back over the ridge anyway — easier than giving them new positions, and some shade to protect them. The shadows were long, but the sun still had power out on the plains.

The Sauromatae were still watering their horses. Kineas rode over in time to hear Lot cursing at some men who were still in the stream. One of them waved his golden helmet, and all fifteen of the men in the stream mounted. The man in the golden helmet turned his horse in a spray of water. He had his horse at the gallop in just a few strides, and he rode straight for Mosva, who was watering her father’s horse. She looked up and grinned, clearly thinking it a game. She called something, and she died with that smile on her face, as Upazan cut her head from her body in one swing of his long-handled axe. Then he turned and rode at Lot.

‘Now fight me, you old coward!’ he crowed, riding at the prince.

Leon, at Kineas’s side, put his head down and pressed his heels to his mount. He had a small mare with a deep chest and a small head, a pretty horse that Leon doted on. She fairly flew across the water, her hooves appearing to skim the surface. Too late to save Mosva, Leon rode in. Upazan, his whole charge aimed at Lot, pushed for his target and ignored the Numidian, but the smaller mare rammed the bigger Sauromatae gelding in the rump, forcing the horse to stumble and sidestep, almost throwing his rider.

Upazan took a cut at Leon with the axe. Leon’s mare danced back, and the axe missed, and Leon’s spear licked out, pricking Upazan in the side. Kineas, still stunned to see two of his own men fighting, had time to be reminded of Nicomedes’ fastidious fighting style. The Numidian used his mare to avoid every cut and he landed two more blows that drew blood.

Upazan’s companions were milling in confusion and then one of them left the others and rode at Leon.

Lot was frozen in disbelief. ‘Bastard!’ he called, pressing forward.

Another of Upazan’s men drew a bow and shot. The arrow passed between Philokles and Kineas. A second arrow rattled off Lot’s armour.

Upazan stood up, knees clenched on the barrel of his horse, and leaned out, whirling his axe on the wrist thong for more reach. It caught Leon on the bull’s-hide shield he wore strapped to his left shoulder in the Sakje manner and skidded up, ringing off the Numidian’s helmet. At the same moment, Leon’s spear licked out again, this time passing under the bronze brow of the Sauromatae’s heavy helm and entering the man’s face. Blood flowered from under his helmet and Upazan folded.

Leon fell into the river and Philokles and Kineas raced to reach him, while Upazan’s friends dragged him free of his horse and bolted for the far side of the stream.

‘Arse-cunts!’ bellowed Philokles, struggling with his horse and trying to get an arm under Leon. ‘Traitors!’

Lot was still cursing. The ranks of the Sauromatae were moving like a corpse full of maggots.

‘I must calm my people,’ he said. His voice was dull. He looked like a man who had taken a wound. His daughter’s headless corpse lay at the far edge of the river and the water was a sickly red-brown where her blood mingled with the silt.

Several of Ataelus’s scouts surrounded her. Others rushed to surround Leon. Philokles and Eumenes supported Leon out of the water. Kineas laid him on the bank and cut his chinstrap. The base of his skull showed blood and his neck was cut so deep that the cords of his neck muscles could be seen. There was blood everywhere.

‘He killed her, didn’t he?’ Leon asked in a dull voice.

Philokles was off his horse and there. ‘Concussion,’ he said. ‘Give him to me. You command your army.’

Kineas handed over that responsibility with thanks and remounted. He swept his horse in a circle, another ugly feeling in his gut.

Upazan’s companions had crossed the river straight south and then ridden east along the water. The Sakje, confused, had not loosed an arrow. Even the prodromoi let them go.

Two stades away to the south and east, a man in a dust-coloured cloak with wide purple bands at the edges reined in at the far edge of the Oxus. Behind him was a dense column of purple-blue cloaks and dirty brown cloaks — Macedonian cavalry and a handful of Royal Hetairoi. Trumpets sounded and the blond man waved a dozen troopers forward to intercept Upazan’s friends. And then the dust cloud of the column settled over everything.

Kineas turned to Diodorus. ‘That is what we call a bad omen,’ he said. He couldn’t take his eyes off the blood in the water. When he did, all he could see were the Sauromatae, trickling back over the ridge.

Diodorus made a sign of aversion. ‘If Spitamenes comes now and decides to take our side?’ he said.

Kineas rode back up the face of the ridge that concealed his cavalry. He stopped at the top. The Sauromatae were spread in groups over several stades of the rough ground, and all could be seen to be arguing. Kineas rode down into the valley beyond, looking for Lot. When he found him, in the middle of a dozen furious warriors, he rode straight in.

‘Will you hold?’ Kineas asked. ‘Or do I have to retreat?’

Stung, Lot drew himself up. ‘We’ll hold,’ he said.

Kineas looked around at the Sauromatae warriors, who met his gaze steadily. Kineas pointed up the hill with his sword. ‘Two summers, we have covered each other’s backs,’ he said. ‘No boy, no kin-slayer, is going to rob us of victory.’

Grunts and nods. ‘Wait for my signal,’ Kineas said, and rode back up the ridge to Diodorus, feeling far less confidence than he had just expressed.

‘We’re fucked,’ Kineas said, showing Diodorus what he saw. ‘If even a third of them decide to support Upazan and attack the rest, Craterus can cross at will.’

Diodorus nodded. ‘Ares’ throbbing cock,’ he said bitterly. ‘We have him. Craterus is too late to push us and we’re already outfighting his Sogdae. Look at them!’ Diodorus pointed at the far bank. The sullen unwillingness of the Sogdae troopers there was conveyed through posture and movement, but to a pair of cavalrymen, it was like a shout.

Kineas waved for Srayanka and cantered down over the ridge, invisible from Craterus’s position. Once out of sight, he began to use his hands. ‘See that,’ he shouted at Srayanka as she rode up.

She pulled off her helmet and her black braids fell free from their coils. ‘See it? Husband, my eyes have seen nothing else for an hour. Was that Mosva?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ Kineas spat in disgust. ‘I’m betting that they hold, but I want you to be ready to cover our retreat. If Craterus wants to cross, I intend to make him pay.’ He hesitated for a moment. ‘I may even attack him.’ He pointed across. ‘If we leave him here, that’s the end of our dream of moving on the Polytimeros.’

She nodded.

Kineas turned to Ataelus, who had just brought the prodromoi back across the Oxus and was now awaiting orders.

‘Go north, behind Srayanka, and then back into the scrub. Cover my left flank.’

Ataelus was pale, his shoulder and arm stiff with bandages, but his eyes gleamed. ‘Sure,’ he said. He turned his horse and waved his whip, and the prodromoi, all on fresh horses, trotted north.

Kineas pointed over his shoulder. ‘Our wagons are only an hour’s steady ride north,’ he said — a silly thing to say, as she would know as well as he. ‘We have to fight.’ He kissed her and rode back to the Olbians in the centre.

‘What the fuck is going on with the boiler-ovens?’ Eumenes asked, pointing at the Sauromatae and giving them the Greek name for fully armoured men.

‘Upazan made a stab at being king,’ Kineas said. ‘He killed Mosva and probably intended to kill Lot as well.’

‘He loved her,’ Eumenes said. He swallowed. ‘I was — quite fond..’ His attempt to remain laconic failed and he sobbed.

Kineas gave him a hug. ‘Not where the troops can see you, my boy,’ he said, hiding the younger man with his cloak. ‘Choke on it. There — are you ready?’

‘Yes,’ Eumenes said. He took a deep breath.

‘Don’t let Urvara see you sobbing for that girl,’ Diodorus said.

Kineas glared at him. ‘Diodorus!’ Kineas said. ‘I seem to remember

…’ he began, and Diodorus gave him a rueful smile.

‘I remember too,’ he said.

Together, they rode back over the crest of the ridge. A handful of Craterus’s Sogdians were crossing the Oxus in a spray of water well to the west. ‘Too far west to threaten us very soon,’ Kineas said.

Diodorus unslung a water skin. ‘Mmm,’ he said. ‘Muddy and warm. Faint smell of goat, too.’ He grinned appreciatively. ‘By now, Craterus has heard we have problems from that dickless arse-cunt Upazan, so he’s going to put pressure on the weakness and then come right across into our faces.’ He smiled. ‘Of course, by now he sees all the dust Lot is raising. He has no real idea of how many we are and he still doesn’t know where Spitamenes is.’ He pulled off his helmet and hung it on his sword hilt. ‘Even the Dog will take his time. Since we’re not Spitamenes, he probably doesn’t need to fight.’ Diodorus looked up and down. ‘But knowing Craterus, he hasn’t figured out that we’re not his prey. And he’s ignoring the fact that his Sogdians are already afraid of us.’

Kineas nodded. ‘And he hasn’t watered his horses,’ he said.

Diodorus scratched his chin. ‘Have to admit I thought you were mad to try it, but it surely does give us an edge now.’

Kineas sat still. Thalassa stood between his knees, back unmoving, head up as if it were a cool spring morning and she was eager for a run. He’d never had such a horse. He patted her neck affectionately. ‘Have the hyperetes sound “advance by squadrons”,’ he said.

‘We’re attacking?’ Diodorus asked.

‘We’re looking confident. The afternoon is bleeding away and we need nightfall.’ Kineas pointed with his Sakje whip. ‘Look — it’s the Farm Boy.’

They had all had an affectionate nickname for the man — a royal Macedonian bastard named Ptolemy. Unlike Craterus the Dog, who’d been hated and feared, the Farm Boy had many friends. ‘Commanding Companions.’

‘No, he’s with the Sogdians,’ Kineas said. ‘Poor bastard.’

Behind Kineas, Andronicus blew the trumpet call. The Olbian squadrons surged forward across the ridge. Their line was neat and the afternoon sun turned the bronze of their armour to fire.

‘Sound “halt”. Let’s see what they do.’ Kineas watched.

A minute later, and there were messengers flying among the Macedonians on the other side of the river. ‘They only have, what, eight hundred horse?’ Kineas asked.

Eumenes was looking up and down. ‘Twice that, surely!’

Diodorus laughed. ‘Youth is wasted on the young,’ he said. ‘Kineas is right. And half of them are Sogdians.’

Kineas looked up and down the riverbank. A stade from the river on both sides, the ground was like desert, with sun-scorched grass and gravel. But the valley itself was two stades wide and it was green — sometimes marshy, sometimes meadows of grass with stands of tamarisk and rose brush. On the far side, there were two distinct groups of Sogdian cavalry, and on Kineas’s far left, a pair of tight-knit squadrons of Macedonian professionals. The whole line moved, because the enemy horses were restless. They were moving so much that they were raising a new dust cloud, making it hard to see them.

‘I’m going to go for him,’ Kineas said, suddenly decisive. He felt better immediately, his guts settling. He saw it. ‘We’ve little to gain, sitting in the sun. His horses are tired and mine aren’t. If we get beaten, we retire into the sunset. He’s a thousand stades from his camp. Sound good to you?’

Diodorus responded by taking his helmet, which hung by the chinstrap from his sword hilt, and putting it on. He was smiling as he tied his chinstrap.

Kineas looked around for a messenger. His eyes fixed on Leon, who had blood on the white leather of his corslet and a heavy bandage under his wide-brimmed Boeotian helmet.

‘Leon, ride all the way to Ataelus. You listening, lad? You fit?’

The Numidian nodded fiercely.

‘All the way to Ataelus. Tell him to get across and harass the far left of the enemy line. Understand? Say it back.’

Leon pulled off his helmet to listen better. ‘All the way to Ataelus. Harass the enemy left flank.’

‘Go!’ said Kineas. He looked around for another messenger. He found Hama, the chieftain of the Keltoi. ‘Hama, go to Srayanka and tell her to move forward into bow range and start plucking at the Macedonian cavalry — those right there. See?’

Hama nodded.

‘Tell her to support Ataelus on her left. You understand?’

Hama nodded and gave the smile of a man who’d captained a few fights. ‘Tell your wife to harass the horsemen in front and help Ataelus turn their flank,’ he said.

‘You’ve got it. Go!’ said Kineas. He rode over the ridge and waved his arm at the Sauromatae until Lot noticed him. Then he waved towards the eastern bank. Lot waved back.

Kineas rode back to the top of his ridge, took one more look at the Macedonian positions and pulled his cheek plates down. ‘Ready?’ he called. ‘Slow and steady over the rough ground. Keep your line and look tough and the Sogdians will vanish. Be ready to wheel left by squadron. I’m going to get us up the bank and turn north into the flank of their real cavalry. Got it?’ He looked back over his shoulder and the Sauromatae were moving, Lot’s helmet gleaming as the Sauromatae started down the tail of the ridge on Kineas’s right. Water flashed under the hooves of the lead horses. On the far bank, the rightmost Sogdian group began to mill in confusion.

‘Sound “advance”,’ Kineas yelled.

The Olbian line moved forward at a walk, picked their way down the spring riverbank, slipping and sliding on the sand, and then re-formed neatly on the broad meadow in the river valley. Kineas took the point of the leftmost Olbian rhomboid, with Carlus and Diodorus behind him.

As soon as they entered the green valley, Kineas lost his lofty view of the battlefield. He gripped his first javelin and rolled his hips as Thalassa felt her way across the rough meadow, avoiding the clumps of scrub. The Olbians, old hands at rough riding, flowed around the scrub and re-formed automatically, without orders.

‘Ready?’ Kineas called. They had the green valley to themselves — the Sogdians weren’t coming down off the spring bank.

They came to the river itself and Thalassa splashed across. The spray from her hooves felt good. He gathered his reins. ‘Straight up the bank. Spread out. Go up that bank as fast as you can.’ He waved his arms. ‘Spread out! Double intervals!’

No trumpet call for that, but he was obeyed and the other two troops followed suit. A stand of tamarisk hid the Sauromatae. Too late to worry. ‘Trot!’

He put the knees to his horse and wound the throwing strap on his his first javelin.

Antigonus sounded the call and they started up the slope. Thalassa was up in two bounds, and arrows flew by him — one hit his helmet. He leaned forward, and she was up, hindquarters surging, and he pressed his heels into her sides, rose higher in his seat and roared ‘Charge!’

A single enemy rider met him. His back was to Kineas, and he was bellowing at the Sogdians to stand, stand fast. The man was an officer with a white sash around some Bactrian garment worn over his breastplate. He had a shawl over his head, but Kineas knew him. The Farm Boy.

Kineas grinned and swung his heavy lonche javelin like a two-handed axe, blindsiding him and knocking the Macedonian from his saddle. Then he shouted at his hyperetes, already reining his mount. ‘Rally!’ he called, and the trumpet rang out.

Kineas nodded at Antigonus as troopers fell in behind. ‘Stay together!’ he ordered. ‘Let’s go!’

The trumpet sounded again. Somewhere in the dust, Ataelus would hear it and so would Lot and Srayanka.

Kineas headed into the cloud, following the fleeing enemy.

The grey-brown cloud was suddenly full of horsemen. Kineas was shocked to see how many. Bactrians, he thought, from the heads of the horses and the colourful saddle cloths. And then he was on them.

They didn’t stand, seemed confused, unaware until the last seconds that they were in danger. Kineas didn’t trouble to throw his javelin, but simply unhorsed men to the left and the right with the haft. Behind him, the broadening point of the rhomboid blew through their line and it unravelled like a moth-eaten garment. Men and horses boiled away from Kineas and his escort to vanish underfoot or away into the dust.

‘Rally! Rally!’ Kineas called, and again the trumpet call rang out.

‘Change face — left!’ Kineas called to Antigonus. The Gaul raised the trumpet and the call rang out. Kineas couldn’t see past the next two files, because now the sand and dust moved like a heavy fog full of spirits, but he pivoted his own horse and went from being the point of the formation to being its rightmost flank.

Trust your men. If the manoeuvre had been carried out, his rhomboid now faced directly along the Macedonian flank. In the dust, he couldn’t see anything.

‘Charge!’ Kineas called.

Antigonus sounded the trumpet. The formation moved, gathering speed, and Kineas began to encounter opponents — confused men whirling their horses in the battle haze. The path of the charge and the enemy formation — or lack thereof — left Kineas and his flank without opposition. They rode slowly, maintaining contact with the centre of the formation, which was doing all the fighting.

Samahe knew exactly where to find him, reading his mind as neatly as a shaman, probably riding to the trumpet sound. ‘Heh! Kineas!’ she called as she came out of the dust.

Kineas called out. ‘Samahe! On me!’

‘For fucking like gods!’ Ataelus’ grin was so wide that it split his round face in two as he cantered out of the dust behind his wife. ‘Hah! I own them all!’ He waved his uninjured arm. ‘I ride all the way around their flank. Craterus is for retreat. Yes?’

Kineas had to grin at that. ‘I’m going to the north,’ he shouted.

Ataelus shouted ‘Yes!’ and rode back into the dust.

‘Halt!’ Kineas called to Antigonus, and waited while the trumpet sang. ‘Face to the right!’ Kineas said, and again the trumpet’s brazen voice carried above the dust. He couldn’t hear very well and he couldn’t see ten horse-lengths. He had only his last glance at the battlefield and his guess to go by.

He was again the point of the rhomboid — if there was a formation at all. ‘Trot!’ he called, putting his knees to Thalassa. She was calm as ever and she carried him easily. He put a knee in the middle of her back and sat up for a moment but could see nothing and almost lost his seat as she flowed over an obstruction.

When he felt that enough time had passed, he began to angle towards the west, leading the formation — if he had any formation — into a gradual wheel along the river, but a stade north, sweeping for the Macedonian cavalry.

The dust began to clear. In as many strides of his horse, he could see his hands on the reins, see a clump of grass in his path, and then he was clear and could see the dust cloud and the squadron of Sogdian horse waiting with obvious indecision just clear of the rising column of dust. The dust of the battle haze was so thick that it rose into the air as if the grass itself were afire.

Kineas unwrapped the sweat scarf from his throat where he wore it to keep his cuirass from chaffing against his neck, and wrapped it again, sweat stinging his face, around his mouth.

He kept angling west. He looked back.

The rhomboid was still there. Carlus and Antigonus and Diodorus emerged from the wall of sand behind him, and then Hama, Dercorix and Tasda, and behind them four more. The spacings were far from perfect and there seemed to be a whole wing missing — perhaps ten men — but after two blind facings and a charge, it was like a miracle.

The other two troops were nowhere to be seen.

The Sogdians to their left front had only just seen them. They were moving — the subtle movement of men and horse like a wind through tall grass that betokens indecision and fear.

Kineas whirled, keeping his seat. ‘Straight through them!’ he yelled.

His men gave a weary shout. They gathered speed.

Out of the dust to their left, a single rider on a black horse emerged like a dark thunderbolt. Kineas knew it was Leon from the moment he saw the bull’s-hide shield on the man’s arm.

Leon shot straight at the Sogdians. Their leader, a big man with a grey beard, wheeled his horse at the last moment, as if he hadn’t expected the Numidian’s charge to go straight home — and he was too late. Leon’s thrown javelin hit him low in the gut and knocked him to the earth, and Leon’s big gelding crashed past the other horse and right into the front of the Sogdian formation.

The local men were as stunned as if a real thunderbolt had levelled their chieftain. Leon vanished into them. Their standard-bearer, another big man on a grey horse with a bronze bull’s head on a pole, shouted shrill orders and the Sogdians began to close their ranks. Arrows leaped out of their formation and fell towards Kineas.

Ten strides away, Kineas cocked his light javelin back. Five strides out, he threw, and just as his horse’s head passed over the corpse of the chieftain, he lowered the point of his heavy spear to unhorse the man with the bull’s-head standard. Thalassa knocked the man’s horse flailing into the sand and sprang over, and Kineas lost his javelin in the man’s corpse.

The fleeting moments of clear sight were gone, and again they were deep in the haze of Ares. Kineas reached for his Egyptian sword, gripped it and it wouldn’t budge from the scabbard. He raised his bridle gauntlet to block a blow and took it in the side. Pain, like rage, exploded. Thalassa whirled under him.

Another blow against the scales of his corslet and then he was free in the swirling grit. His side hurt, but the daimon of combat was on him and he pinned his scabbard between his bridle arm and his side and ripped the sword free, almost losing his seat in the desperation of his efforts.

He was alone. He turned Thalassa’s head in the direction he thought was right and urged her forward.

Carlus emerged from the dust, his heavy spear dripping gore. ‘Hah!’ he grunted in greeting.

Behind him, Hama pressed forward. ‘This way, lord,’ Hama called.

The three of them rode into the veil of swirling sand.

A man with a cloth wound around his domed helmet crashed his horse into Thalassa, and Kineas was back in the melee. He cut and parried, ever more conscious of the pain in his side and the rising tide of sound. This was a stand-up fight, not a rout. The Sogdians were no longer giving ground.

The Olbians weren’t winning. He could hear their calls and the growing shouts of the Sogdians.

He pushed Thalassa straight into his opponent’s horse and cut three times, sacrificing finesse for brute force and speed. One of his blows got through and the man reeled, his hands across his face as his horse twisted, all four legs plunging for balance. Kineas was past him.

‘Apollo!’ he shouted.

All around him in the battle haze, he heard the shout taken up, and ahead of him: ‘Apollo!’

He could see the horsehair crests on some of his men off to the right — just a glimpse as a fitful breeze whipped the flying dust. He bellowed ‘Apollo!’ again and pressed Thalassa with his knees. She responded with another surge of strength, bulling over another rider without Kineas landing a blow. Then a small man who seemed to be covered in gold landed a spear thrust straight into Kineas’s chest. The scales of his mail turned the thrust — the man had over-reached. Kineas cut at the shaft, failing to break it but swinging the head wide, so Kineas was in close. He grabbed the haft with his bridle hand and pounded the Medea head of his pommel into the man’s face and their horses engaged, so that the two men were pressed breast to breast as their mounts whirled like fighting dogs, biting and kicking. Kineas reached his bridle hand around the man’s back — he was heavily armoured. Kineas’s left hand closed on the man’s sword belt and he wrenched the blade of his own sword up from where it was pinned between their chests — up and up again with each heave of their mounts. Thalassa rose on her hindquarters, biting savagely at the other horse’s rump and striking with her front hooves, and Kineas turned his wrist so that the Egyptian blade came up under the other man’s jaw…

A spray of blood, and the gold man fell away, dead weight that almost carried him off Thalassa, and a blow against his helmet…

Carlus roaring like a mad bull at his side, propping him up. Apollo! Hama on his other side and Leon’s shield coming out of the suffocating haze. He sat up, pain ebbing, muttered unheard thanks to Carlus and Hama.

He’d lost the sword. He loved that sword — the sword Satrax had given him.

Stupid reason to die, though. Antigonus was pressing through the haze.

‘Rally! Sound “rally”!’ Kineas said. His voice sounded odd. He’d lost his helmet.

He glanced down, hoping to see the glint of Medea’s face on the golden grass at his feet. Instead he saw the blood running over his thigh from somewhere under his corslet.

The world became a tunnel. At the far end, Antigonus — or was it Niceas? — was shouting ‘ Rally! Rally! ’

Niceas turned around as if the world had slid sideways and the ground rose to meet him. Then there was a skull, speaking from a wall of sand.

‘Listen, Strategos. We will turn the monster south, away from the sea of grass. Let him play with the bones of other men! Your eagles will rule here, and the life of the people will be preserved. That is my purpose, and your purpose, too.’

Kineas shook himself. ‘I am no man’s servant.’

‘By the crooked-minded son of Cronus, boy! You could die. Pointlessly, in someone else’s fight — a street brawl, defending a tyrant who despises you. Or from a barbarian arrow in the dark. It’s not Homer, Ajax. It’s dirty, sleepless, full of scum and bugs. And on the day of battle, you are one faceless man under your helmet — no Achilles, no Hektor, just an oarsman rowing the phalanx towards the enemy.’

He heard himself — a younger and far more feckless man — speak the words.

The skull spoke with the voice of Kam Baqca, as if they sat together in the sun-dappled contentment of Calchus’s paddock. ‘That would have been your fate — face down in the slime of a street brawl, the tool of vicious men. And you are better. ’

Kineas found himself stitching away at a headstall — dear gods, he thought, I seem to have spent my entire adult life repairing horse-leathers. He was facing one of the commonest annoyances of a man sewing leather — he was just three stitches from completion and he was out of thread. Almost out of thread. He would have to stitch very carefully, taking the needle off the thread at every stitch to get it in again at the end. Even then, he wouldn’t make it — he could see that.

The handsome warrior leaned over and pulled at the dangling thread, and it lengthened — just a fraction. ‘You were a mercenary, and you chose to be something better. Go and die a king…’

It was dark. He was Kineas. The babes were crying and Srayanka’s hand was on his hand.

‘Oh, my love,’ she said in Sakje. She pressed his hand hard, so hard that the pain in his bones almost matched the pain in his left side.

‘I gather we won?’ Kineas asked.

She kissed him again. ‘I almost lost you,’ she said.

‘But we won the victory?’ he asked urgently.

‘Eumenes rallied the Olbians and came into the fight on your flank, breaking the last resistance. My Sakje harried the Macedonians for thirty stades. Some of my warriors are still riding.’

Well satisfied, Kineas slumped back into sleep — sleep free of skulls or any dreams.

And the next morning, so stiff that he could scarcely mount and needed Philokles to get on Thalassa, he rode to say goodbye to many friends as the two columns parted, and their women and children and many warriors turned east or west.

Even without his wounds, the partings would have been painful, and there were a few — Diodorus and Philokles — who tried to argue that he should go west with the column. But the wound in his side was mostly just cracked ribs — the new armour had held. He had cuts on his thigh and cuts on his arms, but so did every man who had been in the action.

And every muscle in his body hurt.

The same was true of every trooper. Kineas was not of a mind to turn west.

Rosy-fingered dawn brushed every gold trapping and made them kindle. Silver and steel were stained the delicate pink of new flowers and the grass itself wavered like new-forged bronze. The wagons of the Sakje were already rolling, their dust stained the same smoked pink as the sky and the farther clouds. Above and to the right, an eagle of good omen circled, searching for prey in the first light.

At the edge of the last watercourse before the Polytimeros, Kineas stood by Thalassa, surrounded by his friends — Srayanka and Philokles on either side of him, supporting him: Diodorus with Sappho mounted at his side; Coenus and soft-handed Artemesia with Eumenes and Urvara resplendent in her gold gorytos and a necklace of gold and lapis; Antigonus and Andronicus standing silently, their gold torcs like bands of lava at their necks; Sitalkes in his Getae cloak, Ataelus and Samahe supporting him; and Parshtaevalt, resplendent in a captured Macedonian breastplate of muscled bronze; Leon quiet and still in an Olbian cloak; Nicanor weeping openly. Nihmu watched them with a stillness that belied her youth, as if her young eyes could record every moment like a scribe’s wax tablet. Temerix stood a little apart, braiding leather with his fingers even as he accepted the farewells of Sappho. The Sindi smith had been her ally in helping Philokles.

Only Darius was missing of all of Kineas’s closest companions, still out somewhere on the sea of grass, looking for Spitamenes.

One by one those who were going west kissed those who were riding east. Coenus would command. Eumenes would lead the Olbians and Urvara the Sakje, with a tithe of the best warriors. With them would go Nicanor and Sappho, and Artemesia and Andronicus would go as Eumenes’ hyperetes.

Coenus embraced Srayanka. Then he came face to face with Kineas. ‘My heart tells me that I will not see you again,’ he said.

Kineas wiped hurriedly at his tears. ‘No, my friend. If what I have seen in the gates of horn is true, we will not hunt together this side of the Elysian Fields.’

Coenus was an aristocrat and a Megaran. He stood straight, his face unmarked by tears. He even managed a grin. He took both of Kineas’s hands.

‘I honour the gods, Kineas, but after them I honour you. May Moira see fit to leave the thread of your life uncut that we may hunt the valleys of the Tanais together. I will dedicate a temple to Artemis, and I will never cease to think of you. And if the thread of your life must be cut, let it be a worthy end.’

Diodorus spoke as though he was choking. ‘At times like this, I miss Agis the most,’ he said. To the others, who had not known the gentle Theban, he said, ‘Agis was our priest. He died at the River God’s Ford.’ He took one of Coenus’s hands. ‘We’ve ridden together for years,’ he said. ‘I find it hard to imagine a life without all of you.’

Philokles cleared his throat. ‘I lack the god-given touch of gentle Agis,’ he said, ‘but I will attempt his part.’ At length as the Morning Star was beginning to herald The light which saffron-mantled Dawn was soon to suffuse over the sea, The flames fell and the fire began to die. The winds then went home beyond the Thracian Sea Which roared and boiled as they swept over it. The son of Peleus now turned away from the pyre and lay down, Overcome with toil, till he fell into a sweet slumber. Presently they who were about the son of Atreus drew near in a body, And roused him with the noise and tramp of their coming. He sat upright and said, ‘Son of Atreus, and all other princes of the Achaeans, First pour red wine everywhere upon the fire and quench it; Let us then gather the bones of Patroclus son of Menoitios, Singling them out with care; they are easily found, For they lie in the middle of the pyre, while all else, both men and horses, Has been thrown in a heap and burned at the outer edge. We will lay the bones in a golden urn, in two layers of fat, Against the time when I shall myself go down into the house of Hades. As for the barrow, labour not to raise a great one now, But such as is reasonable. Afterwards, let those Achaeans who may be left at the ships When I am gone, build it both broad and high. When he was done, they were silent for the space a few heartbeats. Then Sappho embraced Diodorus once more, and Eumenes clasped Kineas’s hand. ‘We will build your kingdom,’ he said. ‘Your city,’ Kineas said. ‘Never my kingdom.’ And then Coenus mounted his horse, gathered his companions and rode into the sunrise.