Storm of arrows

31

And at last, after a year in the field, the army of Olbia, as represented by the hardiest three hundred men, and the Western Assagatje, as represented by four hundred riders culled by two summers of war, and the Western Sauromatae, as represented by Lot’s two hundred, came to the gathering of all the Sakje peoples.

Queen Zarina had camped the bulk of her forces in a bend of the Jaxartes, secure that the water at her back was deep and cold, and that the mountains on her flanks were too difficult for any foe. In the vale of the Jaxartes, she had gathered thirty thousand warriors, and as many again lived in satellite camps, as close as a day’s ride away or as far as ten days’ ride, so that if the Sakje had been grains of sand spread across a parchment, it was as if the gods had tipped the parchment so that one corner of it held all the sand — tons of it — in one small area.

The grass was devastated, and twice the whole army had had to move. There were no deer to be hunted for fifty stades, no fish in the river, no wood for fires. Every tribe had sent away its weakest to their winter grounds to lessen the numbers, and even then the queen had to rotate tribes out on to the grass and back to the river to watch Iskander.

Across the river, the army of Macedon concentrated forces from camps along the Jaxartes, the Polytimeros and the Oxus into one single mass of men, horses and machines. The siege of Marakanda had been broken and only the thinnest garrison left. Oxen pulled the king’s siege artillery up to his camp on the edge of the sea of grass, the greatest horde of enemies the Sakje had ever seen — and still the Macedonian officers stared at the dust clouds across the river and shuddered. Even odds against a foe who was mounted throughout her force.

North and east of Alexander’s army, a smaller force — just two thousand men, Sogdians and Bactrians and mercenaries and a handful of Sauromatae — moved along the southern bank of the Jaxartes, searching for a ford, under Eumenes.

Kineas heard it all from scouts, from the Sakje, from Srayanka and finally from Ataelus himself before the last day of march was done. The sun was setting on the valley of the Jaxartes, and below them twenty thousand horses milled, every horse looking for the last clumps of grass along the river. Young men raced and shot bows. Women sharpened weapons and repaired tack. Tents of felt rose from some encampments, and others had a few wagons, but in the main it was a war camp and the people lay on the ground with the reins of their horses near to hand.

Ataelus waved at the whole sweep of the people, who covered the ground as far as the eye could see. ‘The power of the Massagetae, the Sakje, the Dahae.’ Ataelus wore a grin that eliminated his cheekbones. ‘I was for boying here.’

Philokles rubbed his beard and watched, transfixed, while trying to take in what Kineas had just told him. ‘So Alexander will try to turn the Sakje left?’ he asked.

‘Alexander will come right across the river,’ Kineas said with finality. ‘But my guess is that he will send a column to wrong-foot the Scythians on their left. And that’s what Ataelus says.’

Philokles could almost see it. ‘Ares,’ he said. ‘Right across the river here?’

‘No,’ Kineas said with a smile. ‘There’s no ford here. The queen chose her camp well. Upstream ten stades is where he will come.’ He spoke with conviction, and Ataelus nodded.

The Sakje screwed up his mouth. ‘Short ride,’ he said. ‘To battle,’ he added after a pause.

‘If you know all this, surely you can defeat Alexander?’ Philokles asked.

Kineas shook his head. ‘Do I look like a Sakje chief? I will not command here, Spartan. I can only share my views with Queen Zarina. Let’s go and meet her.’

‘But we may defeat him?’ Philokles asked again.

Kineas halted his horse and leaned close. ‘I have no idea, brother. I’m not a seer — I’m the commander of half a thousand cavalry. So perhaps, despite your concern for the triumph of Panhellenism, you could shut the fuck up about the battle?’

Philokles laughed. ‘You’re nervous! I’d never have believed it!’

Kineas glared, but held his tongue.

Philokles laughed again. ‘Let’s go and meet the queen of the Sea of Grass!’

When the column was halted, they had to camp on a site that had already been used and abandoned by other contingents, and it took time to wedge eight hundred people and four times that many horses into the edge of the sprawling camp. The site was good and water was plentiful but the grass was cropped to the roots. Antigonus laid out the horse lines almost in the bed of the river, the only place where there was any grazing not already taken by other groups, and he doubled the horse pickets because Macedonians could be seen just a pair of bow shots away across the river.

Lot rode up from the Sauromatae at the back of the column with Lady Bahareh at his side. He clasped hands with Kineas. ‘She and Zarina are old friends. We — Zarina and I — have traded some sword cuts.’

‘Good,’ Philokles said. ‘We can all hide behind Bahareh.’

The Sauromatae spear-maiden grinned. She was as thin as a tree branch and her hair was the colour of iron. ‘I’ll protect you, little prince,’ she said. ‘Greetings, Lord Kineas.’

Srayanka took Ataelus and Parshtaevalt, and Kineas took Leon and Diodorus. Philokles never required an invitation. They took no escort and left their people cooking dinner. They rode hard for the queen’s tent, just a dozen stades away around the next bend in the river.

After travelling more than four hundred parasangs from the Ford of the River God on the little Borysthenes to the upper Jaxartes, Queen Zarina was almost a disappointment.

Qares, Zarina’s messenger earlier in the summer, was the first to recognize them. He ordered a group of adolescent girls to hold their horses and ushered them into the queen’s tent, a magnificent construction in red and white. There were no guards, and the tent was full of tribal leaders and Sakje knights, as well as other Massagetae in simpler dress and a dozen slaves. If Qares hadn’t been standing in respectful silence next to him, his whole attention focused on a short woman in a simple dress, Kineas might have mistaken who among the assembly was the queen. There were several women with regal bearing, two of them in armour, but the queen stood towards the edge of the group, looking at arrow shafts. One by one she looked down the shafts, making quiet comments to a child who stood by her with her gold-covered gorytos, until thirty were chosen. The discards were carried out of the tent. Kineas had time to observe her as she spoke in quiet tones to the child, and to a man of her own age who stood at her shoulder.

Zarina was a short woman with iron-grey hair in straight braids woven tight with gold foil, the only sign of her royalty that she wore on her person. On a lacquered armour stand behind her sat a coat of iron scales with alternating rows of gold, with a golden gorget as rich as Srayanka’s and a golden helmet surmounted by a gryphon whose eyes were picked out in garnets. The child — clearly her squire — replaced the gorytos on the armour stand and brought her a long-handled axe with a double blade. She rubbed her thumb across the blades, first one and then the other, and smiled. As she smiled, she raised her eyes and in one glance took in Qares and then the group with him.

‘You found them!’ she said, stepping forward. The tent fell silent as she raised her voice and every head turned.

Srayanka went to meet her. She inclined her head — the closest any Sakje managed to a bow.

Zarina took both of her hands. ‘You must be the Lady Srayanka of the Cruel Hands,’ she said in Sakje. She had a deep, hoarse voice for a woman, but her tone was warm.

‘I am Lady Srayanka. I have brought four hundred of my people to the muster, and my husband has brought two hundred Greeks, who are our allies. And Prince Lot,’ she turned to invite Lot forward, and the Sauromatae lord bowed his head with a smile.

‘Zarina and I are old friends,’ he said.

‘And bitter foes,’ Zarina said. ‘Sometimes.’ Their eyes locked and the tent was silent. Zarina’s tent — the entire tent — was alternating red and white silk panels, heavily oiled and almost translucent. The light from the coloured panels fell differently on the people in the tent — the queen was brightly lit under a white panel, while Lot was covered in red, like blood. He bowed again.

‘So you have not followed that charlatan Pharmenax?’ she said to Lot. ‘Does he still call himself the king of all the Sauromatae?’

‘Prince Lot has been fighting Iskander all summer,’ Qares put in.

Kineas could see that the claim of an old enmity was founded on something. There was tension in her stance, and Lot was stiffer than usual.

‘Only a fool would follow Pharmenax,’ Lot said.

‘I forbade you to go west,’ Zarina said.

‘I said I would return with allies,’ Lot shot back. ‘And I have.’

Bahareh stepped forward, distracting the queen, and the two embraced.

‘But I forbade it,’ Zarina said.

Kineas thought that she was speaking to Bahareh alone. The Sauromatae woman punched the queen’s shoulder. ‘He did as he said he would. Eh?’

Zarina’s brows narrowed, but then her face cleared. ‘So you have. Welcome!’

As if every breath had been held, there was a sigh throughout the tent and then conversation started again.

Queen Zarina beckoned and Kineas stepped forward in his turn. Close up, he became aware that she had the darkest green eyes that Kineas had ever seen on a human being. Her hands were as hard as a woodcutter’s. ‘You have truly come all the way from the Sea of Darkness?’ she asked.

‘Mother of the clans, we have indeed ridden from the Western Sea,’ Srayanka responded. ‘I promised to come, and I am here, though less than a tithe of our strength has come with me.’

Zarina waved her hand as if this loss of strength was of no import. ‘And the cities of the Western Sea sent a contingent? So that Greeks will ride to fight Greeks? This has been reported to me all summer and still I find it a wonder.’

Zarina’s gaze returned to Kineas and gave him the sort of careful examination that a Sakje gave a horse she considered buying — or stealing. ‘You are baqca,’ she said. ‘This I have heard.’

Kineas bowed. ‘I am the strategos of Olbia,’ he said. ‘A war leader.’

‘Hmm,’ Zarina replied. Then she dismissed Kineas as other leaders were introduced by Srayanka — Diodorus, whose red hair and beard made the queen laugh, and Parshtaevalt, and Leon, whose dark skin she touched several times. Next came Ataelus. She raised an eyebrow. ‘Surely you are of my people?’ she asked.

Ataelus gave his Greek shrug. ‘Many years ago I rode west, lady,’ he answered. ‘Now I serve the Lady Srayanka.’

Zarina pursed her lips and motioned for the next man to be presented, and Philokles stepped forward. She looked him up and down. ‘You are a Zpar-tan?’ she asked.

‘I am,’ Philokles answered, obviously pleased that here, at the edge of the known world, the barbarians still knew the word Spartan.

‘Hmm,’ she murmured. The two women in armour laughed — a tough-looking pair. One of them pushed past to feel Philokles’ arm muscles. She nodded approval. ‘That’s what a man should look like,’ she said to Srayanka. ‘Why didn’t you marry that one?’

Srayanka snorted. ‘He didn’t know how to ride!’ she laughed.

Zarina laughed so hard she had to cross her arms on her gut. When she recovered, she was still smiling broadly. ‘I welcome all of you to my camp,’ she said. ‘I’ll see if my slaves can find space for you for dinner. Tonight we set the battle order. Are your horses ready to fight?’

Srayanka nodded. ‘Ready enough. We miss the grain of home. None of our chargers are at their best.’

Zarina nodded. ‘We’re at the end of the grazing. Iskander is at the end of his. The fight must come soon.’

Dinner was simple and reminded Kineas of dinners with Satrax — spiced mutton served in the same bronze cauldron in which it had been cooked, and every man and woman dipping their flatbread into the pot. The mutton was delicious, but there was no wine and no oil. No one spoke. The gathered guests ate quickly and efficiently, and then sat quietly until Zarina rose to her feet.

‘Now,’ she said to her guests, ‘we will discuss how to show Iskander our strength.’

The meeting of the chiefs of all the Scythians reminded Kineas that he was truly among barbarians. Everyone spoke at once — on and on. No considerations of tactics ever rose to the surface of the meeting, but rather, chieftains demanded precedence in battle — the left of the line, the right of the line, the position guarding the standard — based on ancient custom or hard-won privilege shouted and debated from one bearded warlord to another.

Queen Zarina appeared indifferent, watching her tribal leaders with obvious pride, sure of her strength. Kineas stood silent, with Diodorus, Srayanka and Philokles around him, whispering from time to time in disgust at the chaos and the arrogance.

Lot gave a wry grin. ‘I’d forgotten what it was like,’ he said.

Ataelus shook his head. ‘Fight for too long with Greeks,’ he said. ‘Sakje for talking.’

‘Do they know who Alexander is?’ Diodorus asked. ‘Do they think they can just ride around the plain and shoot arrows and call it a victory? ’

Philokles had remained silent for over an hour. ‘I admire these people,’ he said, ‘but no one here has proposed that we simply ride away and leave Alexander to starve on the high plains. Where is the wisdom of the Assagatje? Where is their Satrax?’

Srayanka pulled on a braid, fretting for her children. ‘I had forgotten what we were like in my father’s time,’ she said. ‘Truly, Kam Baqca and Satrax made us something greater. And you, my husband. The three of you made each leader see his place.’

‘Perhaps if you spoke to the queen?’ Diodorus said to Srayanka.

Srayanka shook her head. ‘I am as much a foreigner here as any of you Greeks. I will go and see to our children. My breasts are heavy.’ She kissed Kineas lightly.

Lot made a face as if he smelled something foul. ‘I know Zarina of old,’ he said. ‘You won’t find it easy to tell her anything. She esteems women above men, but not as much if they bear children.’ He looked at Srayanka, who nodded agreement. ‘She esteems men, but only for their strength, not their wisdom, even in war.’ Lot glanced at Philokles. ‘The Spartan might approach her with a message. She was impressed by his size and his name. And Lady Bahareh has known her for years.’

The chieftains went on shouting until the sun had set, and scouts came in to report that Iskander had moved bolt-shooters up to the banks of the river and was assembling bladders and rafts. Srayanka rode away. Kineas rubbed his beard and listened to the growing excitement. Rumours of Alexander’s imminent attack only fed the shouting, and the queen watched with a tolerant amusement that proclaimed her more interested in being the warlord of these chiefs than in working to defeat the common foe.

Diodorus shook his head. ‘They’re going to get their heads handed to them. Ares’ balls, Kineas — have we ridden fifteen thousand stades so that we can watch Alexander dispatch another horde of tribes the way he did the Thracians? Let us be gone — the rout will be ugly.’

Kineas was tired of standing. ‘There is some god-sent irony,’ he said, ‘that we can all but see how Alexander will attack, and no one here cares to listen to us.’ He shrugged and took his companions out of the great tent and into the gathering gloom of the Sakje camp, where three thousand fires twinkled along the curve of the river. The air smelled of horse and burning wood.

‘We should ride back while the sun gives us a little light,’ Kineas said.

‘I would try to speak to the queen, if you gave me leave,’ Philokles said. He glanced at Bahareh and Ataelus.

‘When have you ever needed my permission?’ Kineas slapped the Spartan on the shoulder. ‘This is not as bad as you all seem to think. Their very chaos will serve them against Alexander. It is almost impossible to plan a battle against a hundred generals. New forces will ride on to the field all day, and each will commit themselves as they see fit, unbound by precedent or structure.’

‘What would you have the queen know?’ Bahareh asked.

Kineas was looking for their horses, tethered in a herd of magnificent horseflesh brought by two hundred chiefs. He was pleased that Thalassa held her own, surrounded by admiring Massagetae children and a dozen respectful adolescents. A severe-looking young woman handed him her reins and nodded. ‘That is a horse,’ she said. ‘You sell her?’

Kineas grinned, his thoughts suddenly infected with an image of Thalassa’s foals. ‘Never,’ he said in Sakje. ‘But I wish you may find as fine a horse.’

They nodded to each other and Kineas used his spear to vault into the saddle, showing off for the children like a much younger warrior. He leaned down to Bahareh. ‘Ask the queen’s permission for us to ride north along the river to the next ford, to guard against a flanking move. Tell her we think that Alexander will send his best cavalry and his hardest infantry across with the dawn, tomorrow or the next day, and that he will send a force to cross upriver — to the north. Ask her to allow us to stop the northern thrust.’ He caused Thalassa to circle, to the admiration of all.

‘That’s all?’ Philokles asked. ‘Alexander’s coming across and we’ll hold the northern ford?’

Kineas nodded. ‘That’s all. Trying to tell these people how to fight Alexander would be like trying to tell an Athenian how to argue. Any half-measures we push on them will only impede them.’

Bahareh looked at Kineas with respect. ‘You are wise. I expected you to tell the queen how to fight.’

Philokles nodded. ‘Wait for us. Either she will see us, or she will not. Either way we will be brief.’

Diodorus smirked. ‘Show her your muscles and you won’t be so brief, Spartan. All night, maybe.’

Philokles punched the Athenian in the knee, just hard enough to hurt. ‘She values men in her bed to just the extent that I value women,’ the Spartan said. Bahareh coughed in her hand. Philokles waved to Ataelus, who shrugged at Kineas and followed Philokles, and then his faded red cloak swirled and he was gone in the dusk.

Kineas rode his charger up and down. A boy came up on a tall horse, a captured Nisaean of which he was justly proud, and Kineas, in the grip of some daimon, accepted his offer of a race. Torches were brought and ten more riders materialized from the gloom, while Diodorus cursed him for a fool. ‘Are you a boy? With a battle tomorrow?’

‘Hush,’ Kineas said. ‘I am making a sacrifice to Poseidon.’

Diodorus pursed his lips. ‘As long as you aren’t just showing off,’ he called, as Kineas rode to the starting spear.

The race was like swimming in darkness and fire from the first surge of Thalassa’s hindquarters to the last pounding moments as the leading knot of them burst through the circle of light by the finish to a roar so loud that it rose above the debating in Zarina’s tent like an offering to the Horse-God, to whom Kineas sent his prayer winging while the Sakje embraced him for his victory.

Diodorus sat on his charger, shaking his head. ‘Are you twelve years old?’ he asked.

Kineas shook his head. ‘Let us make that sacrifice to Poseidon.’ Kineas managed to convey that he wanted to purchase a goat and the animal was brought. A Massagetae baqca, resplendent in caribou antlers and a silk robe, led them past Zarina’s tent to the camp altar. Kineas sacrificed the animal himself, slashing the beast’s throat and stepping free of the blood with practised ease. He raised the hymn with Leon and Diodorus: Poseidon Lord of Horses,

Thou lovest the clip-clop beat

Of hooves in hard-fought battle

And neighs to thee sound sweet,

And when our black-maned horses

The winning vase may gain,

Their swiftness cheers the ruler

Of the wildly tossing main…

They sang to the end, Kineas grinning like a man half his age. Philokles came up singing the hymn, and with him were many of Zarina’s commanders, and at the back of the group, Zarina herself, talking and waving her hands at Ataelus, who wore a deep frown.

Kineas stood by the altar with Thalassa beside him, surrounded by Massagetae and Dahae warriors, many of whom reached up to touch his horse. He saw a girl clip a few hairs from her tail and he was about to step in when he found himself face to face with Zarina.

‘Now I see how my young cousin could marry a Greek,’ she said. She nodded. ‘Go north if that is where you see the enemy, Kineax. I have heard the Spartan — I have understood.’ She shrugged. ‘No queen has ever faced a battle this great — with the whole might of the people. I am not a Persian, to kiss and cuddle my chiefs until they go sullenly to some carefully ordered place in the battle line. Nor am I the Qu’in, with chariots and horses and lines of men like pieces on a game board. I am the queen of the Sakje, and my chiefs will fight like dogs for a place in the line. Do as you will — you are a man of war. Those are my orders to you, as they are the orders I give to every chief — you are a free man. Do as you will.’

As they rode back, Philokles rattled on about his time with her. ‘Very much the sort of barbarian that Solon or Thales might have admired. Utterly free.’ He shook his head, barely visible in the moonlight. ‘I warned her that Spitamenes was coming. She knows him. I gather that it is a marriage of convenience.’

‘As long as he is on the right while we are on the left,’ Kineas said. ‘If he comes in front of Srayanka, she will kill him and to Hades with the consequence.’

They reached their camp in the last glow of the western horizon. Fires were lit and warriors ate their fill. Leon waited until they took their horses out to the picket lines.

‘We have food for two more days and then things will get tight,’ he said.

‘The whole host of the Sakje is in the same position,’ Diodorus said bitterly. ‘All Alexander need do is wait, and we will all melt away.’

‘Two hours ago you were ready to leave,’ Kineas said.

‘I’ve ridden all this way,’ Diodorus said, shrugging off his own mercurial comments.

‘Alexander is in the same situation. He’s converged all of his armies in the east at the edge of a desert, and he’s spent the summer fighting partisans. He doesn’t have the food stores he’s used to. We’ll fight him, tomorrow or the next day. My wager goes on the next day.’

Srayanka came up with Antigonus and the rest of the chiefs and officers, as if Kineas had called a council. They stood quietly, and Kineas smiled to think of the Sakje outside the queen’s red and white silk tent.

‘They’re fine?’ Kineas asked Srayanka.

Srayanka smiled. ‘Would I wander out here to talk of war if my children were unwell?’ she asked. She looked wryly at Samahe. ‘I am becoming my mother. When young, she rode with the spear-maidens, but in middle age, she was a mother first and her hand grew light.’

Kineas took her chin and kissed her. ‘I don’t think your hand will grow light,’ he said.

‘Let Spitamenes come under it tomorrow and we’ll see,’ she said.

‘Alexander is the enemy,’ Diodorus drawled.

‘Alexander was polite,’ Srayanka said. She tossed her head. ‘Hephaestion — that one I would geld, if only for Urvara’s sake.’

Kineas felt his guts roil. ‘I hadn’t heard this.’

Srayanka shrugged. ‘She’s a tough girl. He did not break her, and the young Olbian boy loves her, and she has healed. No more need be said. But Hephaestion…’ No one looking at Srayanka in the light of a fire needed to wonder if her hand had grown light. She cocked her head to one side. ‘So, husband, do you see it in your head?’

There in the firelight, Kineas outlined his plan. He drew pictures in the dust with the tip of a bronze knife he’d found in the fire pit. ‘Ataelus and I agree that Alexander will send a force north — either he will lead it himself or he will send someone he trusts. It’s something he learned from Parmenion. It will be Philotas, won’t it?’

‘He murdered Philotas!’ Diodorus said. ‘Old age must be getting to you.’

‘More fool he. Philotas was his best after Parmenion. So Eumenes, perhaps? The Cardian?’

‘Craterus?’ Philokles asked. ‘I never served the monster myself, but I know the names. Why not Craterus?’

Kineas shrugged. ‘Somebody dangerous, with good troops, probably all cavalry. In my head I still see Philotas.’ He paused and poured a libation to the dead man’s shade. ‘They’ll go north to the next ford — which Ataelus has already located — and try to push across into the queen’s left flank. We’ll meet them at the ford if we’re quick. That’s the best service we can do for this army.’

Everyone nodded.

‘And if Zarina loses, we’ll have a clear road home,’ Srayanka said.

Kineas nodded. ‘Yes.’ He didn’t elaborate.

‘Let us say we meet this Macedonian and rout him back across the ford,’ Samahe asked. She shrugged, looking around. ‘Why do you look at me this way? We have been known to win battles in the past!’

That got her a laugh.

‘Then what? Eh?’ She looked around, defiant.

Kineas nodded. ‘I really can’t say. We could cross after them and return the favour, but I would expect that any fight will leave us too beaten up to turn their flank — and we’re too few. We ought to be able to turn in on our own side, however,’ Kineas’s knife point traced a black furrow along the Sakje bank of the line that marked the Jaxartes, ‘and strike the flank of their main effort.’

‘Our horses would be blown,’ Srayanka said thoughtfully.

Diodorus had found a heavy basket to sit on. He leaned forward, the basket creaking under his weight, and he pointed a stick at the map in the dirt. ‘What if Alexander’s main effort is the northern ford?’ he asked.

‘Hmm,’ said Philokles. ‘How long would we last?’

Kineas shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t even fight, beyond some skirmishing to make the ford cost him.’ He gave a bitter smile. ‘We wouldn’t last long.’

‘No,’ Diodorus said. ‘And it wouldn’t be worth spit, anyway. This Sakje army isn’t a phalanx, Philokles. If you hit the Sakje in the flank, they just ride away and fight another day. If Alexander wants a fight, he has to goad them to it, fix them in place and then hit them.’

Srayanka nodded, as if she had held a conversation with herself. ‘Listen. Let us fight like Assagatje. Let us move all our remounts to here.’ She indicated a place just west of the ford, then pointed at Diodorus. ‘If Diodorus’s worst instincts are right, and Alexander comes north, we can fight in retreat, change horses and vanish. No pursuit could possibly catch us on fresh horses. Yes?’

All around the fire, the chiefs and officers nodded. Lot slapped her back. ‘Cruel Hands, you are still the cunning one.’

She went on, smiling a very unmotherly smile at her husband. ‘If we meet this flanking force and defeat it, we take the time to change horses — and we ride to the battle in the centre on fresh mounts.’

Kineas grabbed her and kissed her. They kissed, and the other leaders whooped and mocked them. When he left her lips, he shook his head. ‘You kiss better than any of my other cavalry commanders,’ he said, and she kicked his shin.

Diodorus looked at the map in the sand again. ‘We should move tonight,’ he said. He looked at Srayanka and shrugged, apologetic. ‘Forty stades under a bright moon is nothing to us after the desert. And then there will be no dust to betray us.’

‘Odysseus is, as usual, correct,’ Kineas said. He and Srayanka exchanged a long look, because precious hours were being taken from them, never to be replaced.

‘We will ride together, as we did when our love was young,’ she said, and she began to choke on her words, but she fought through unbroken. ‘I will ask you the names of things in Greek, and you will ask me the Sakje words, and we will forget the future and know only what is now.’

Philokles couldn’t bear it, and he turned away.

Ataelus was already calling for horses, and Antigonus was passing the unpopular news, but the rest stayed by the fire. The night on the plains was brisk.

‘I wonder where Coenus is?’ Diodorus asked. He waited a moment, and then decided that Kineas had not heard him. ‘Do you wonder-’ he began, and Kineas turned.

‘Coenus should be watching the sun rise over the mountains of Hyrkania in the morning,’ Kineas said.

‘Athena and Hermes, have we been riding that long in the desert?’ Philokles asked.

Ataelus grunted. ‘Yes.’

Diodorus thumbed his beard. ‘Every time you kiss Srayanka, I miss Sappho more.’

Kineas slapped his shoulder. ‘There are great days ahead,’ he said. He felt sad and happy at the same time. And then, after a pause, ‘See to Philokles when I am gone.’

Diodorus coughed to cover some tears that stood bright on his cheeks. ‘It just hit me that it will be as you say — that you do know the hour of your death.’ He sniffled. ‘Are you sure?’

Kineas gathered him in an embrace. ‘I know this battle,’ he said simply. ‘I die.’

‘Philokles?’ Diodorus asked, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. ‘Ares, it’s Srayanka who will need us.’

‘No,’ Kineas said. ‘She will be queen, and all the Sakje will be her husband. Philokles will have only you.’

Diodorus chewed his lip. ‘You remember sword lessons with Phocion?’

‘I think of them all the time.’ The two men were still locked in embrace.

‘I will be the last left.’ He was weeping, the tears flowing down his cheeks like the muddy waters of the Jaxartes.

‘So you must be the best,’ Kineas said. ‘When I fall, you command. Not just for one action, either. I leave you the bequest of all my unfought battles.’

Diodorus backed away, his hand hiding his face. ‘I was never the strategos you were,’ he complained.

Kineas gripped his neck. ‘Two years ago you were a trooper,’ he said. ‘Soon, we will fight Alexander. You know how to command. You love to command.’

‘Before the gods, I do,’ Diodorus said.

‘I leave you the bequest of my unfought battles,’ Kineas said again.

‘You should be king. King of the whole of the Bosporus.’

Kineas felt his own tears as he thought of all he would miss. His children, most of all. ‘Make Satyrus king,’ he said. ‘I’m too much an Athenian to be a king.’

The other Athenian stood straight. ‘I will,’ he said.

They covered forty stades in a dream of darkness and the soft glitter of moonlight on the sand, and the hand of Artemis the huntress covered them. Ataelus’s prodromoi waited at every obstacle and every turn, guiding them around a camp of Sakje in the dark, clearing them across a gully with a burbling stream at the base, and around a shaled hill that might have hurt the horses in the dark, until they came to the back of a long ridge running perpendicular to the Jaxartes. Ataelus rode up next to Kineas in the dark.

‘For fighting,’ he said quietly. He pointed down the ridge at the river as it bowed through a deep curve in the moonlight. ‘Iskander!’ he said, and pointed across the river, where a thousand orange stars shone in the foothills of the Sogdian mountains — Alexander’s cooking fires.

They rode on for an hour, the column winding back to be lost to sight in the darkness over the big ridge. Twelve stades later, as Kineas reckoned it, they descended sharply from the path they’d followed towards the river, which they could hear but not see.

He rode down into the vale, heedless of possible enemy patrols, eager to see the ground as best he could, and Srayanka came with him, her household clattering along behind. They rode hand in hand, almost silent.

At the edge of the ford, they halted.

‘Well?’ Srayanka asked.

Kineas shook his head and grinned. ‘For whatever it means, this is not the place of my dream,’ he said. ‘Too narrow.’ He pointed across. ‘No downed trees. No giant dead tree on the far shore.’

Srayanka exhaled as if she had held a single breath all day. ‘So?’ she asked.

Kineas looked at the sky. ‘I speak no hubris,’ he said. ‘When the Macedonians come, on this field, we will triumph.’

They turned quietly and rode back across the ridge, to camp and perhaps to grapple a few hours of sleep from the last of darkness and the pre-battle jitters.

But not for Kineas. He lay awake, his body entwined with hers. He no longer needed sleep. He no longer intended to cede a moment to sleep.

The end was as close as the point of his spear.