Tyrant: Storm of Arrows (36 page)

Kineas awoke to the feel of rough bark under his arms and thighs, and a leaden fatigue in his limbs.

On the third night in the caldera, Kineas sat under a rough shelter, with a scrap of animal parchment on which he’d rendered a rough map of the ground from the caldera to the distant Jaxartes. Philokles lay beside him, and Diodorus sat on the ground with Sappho at his shoulder on a stool. Eumenes and Andronicus sat back to back, both of them mending bridles. Leon was off questioning traders - or following Mosva.

They all looked at the map and made plans: a quick trip across the dry ground to the edge of the sea where Srayanka’s Sakje were camped, a grand reunion, and then some hard decisions.

‘If the pay doesn’t catch up with us, and even if it does, I have to wonder at whether we keep the boys together,’ he said.

Eumenes, hitherto silent, leaned into the discussion. ‘The men complain that they are too far from home. And many complain that we are not keeping the festival calendar and that the gods will not be pleased.’

Diodorus nodded. ‘There’s a lot of complaining, Eumenes. But I see it as a sign that the boys are recovering from the march here and the storming of the citadel. Never worry your head about a little bitching.’ But to Kineas he said, ‘I don’t see what we can accomplish here. The Massagetae, all the Sauromatae, the Dahae - they’ve got more horsemen than the gods. They can bury Alexander in a tide of horseflesh. What can we do with our four hundred?’

‘We have discipline they lack, and we’ve faced Macedon before,’ Kineas said. ‘But I take your point.’ He looked out at the rim of the caldera and the deep blue sky beyond. ‘The world is larger than I ever imagined.’

Diodorus nodded. ‘I’d like to find my tutors and bring them here,’ he said.

Kineas went on as if his friend hadn’t spoken. ‘But Alexander is still the monster. However great the world is, he seems to bestride it. I will go where he goes.’

Diodorus shook his head. ‘Then I guess we’ll follow you there,’ he said. He watched the sun for a moment. ‘Then what happens? I mean, when we fight Alexander. Then what?’

Kineas laughed. ‘When we beat Alexander, I will try to persuade Srayanka to ride home.’ He shrugged. ‘If I’m alive.’

Philokles shook his head. ‘Always that old tune. What we’re telling you, Strategos, is that if you want your men to follow you to the end of the world to fight the finest army to stride the earth since the long-haired Achaeans sailed to windy Ilium, you had better have a plan for what we do when we win.’

‘Or lose,’ said Diodorus, cheerily.

On the next morning, the hyperetes of each troop got the men into column. They grumbled and groaned and cursed their sore muscles and their hard lot as they mounted, but they did it. Kineas watched Leon embrace Mosva, and watched Eumenes’ face darken almost to purple, and Upazan’s match it, but he did not interfere. Leon made a gesture at the Sauromatae chief with his hand - a small gesture of two fingers. Upazan reacted immediately, running at Leon, but Leon was mounted. Smiling, he tripped the Sauromatae with his spear and danced his horse away. An ugly muttering spread among the younger Sauromatae.

Kineas thought of interfering. But he didn’t.

Before the sun was a hand’s-breadth in the ether, their borrowed Sauromatae scouts were over the lip of the caldera and the great lake of the steppes gleamed like a flat sapphire on the horizon. It vanished as they descended the caldera’s side, but the next day it came into sight again. They made good time on the steppe, the scouts found water and they slept in rough camps with heavy curtains of sentries.

Kineas drove them hard.

By the festival of Skirophoria they were watering their horses in the Oxus, and across the river they could see horses and men washing shirts. The Olbians and the Sakje fell on each other like long-lost friends and battle brothers (and sisters), so that discipline dissolved as they entered the Sakje camp. Kineas rode straight for the circle of wagons at the centre, his heart slamming in his chest and his tongue thick in his mouth.
Why had she not come out to meet him? Her scouts must have seen him a day ago!

He dismounted, with Ataelus beside him. Parshtaevalt stood to receive him, and the younger man looked tired.

Kineas embraced Srayanka’s tanist, who all but sighed with relief. ‘Where is she?’ he blurted out.

Parshtaevalt hugged him harder. ‘Taken,’ he whispered. ‘She is prisoner of Alexander. And we have been betrayed.’

S
rayanka’s absence was like a black storm cloud, threatening to swallow Kineas and sweep him away. He couldn’t think of anything but the void she left, and twice on the first evening in the Assagatje camp he wept without cause.

Even in his despair, he could tell that Parshtaevalt needed him. The war leader was out of his depth as Srayanka’s tanist, and he hovered near Kineas and spoke twice - haltingly - of summoning the council of chiefs, until Kineas nodded to be rid of him.

Spitamenes’ betrayal was not the only news waiting in the camp of the Assagatje. When Parshtaevalt summoned the clan leaders to council, and all were seated in the fire circle before Srayanka’s wagon, Kineas saw a stranger dressed in silk. He beckoned to Parshtaevalt. ‘Who is that?’ he asked.

Parshtaevalt had the look of a drowning man who has been offered an oar to grab. ‘That is Qares, one of Zarina’s lords from the east. He came expecting to lead us to the muster.’

Kineas rubbed his beard. His eyes felt full and sore, and he didn’t want to trouble himself with the leadership of the Assagatje. Indeed, for a day he had shunned his own men.

Parshtaevalt threw his hands in the air. ‘What could I do? I am not the lord of the Assagatje!’ he said. ‘Kineax! Take this burden from me. I can command a raid. But where are we to winter? Shall we ride to this muster? How can we rescue our lady?’ He was distraught, his arms raised to heaven as if imploring the gods. ‘I am not a king!’ he said.

Kineas shook his head despondently. ‘Nor am I,’ he said. ‘But you summoned the council for me when you chose not to do it yourself.’

The Sakje chief scratched his head and sighed. ‘I am a war leader,’ he said. ‘Peace councils leave me confused. I was - waiting. And look, you came!’

‘I am not the king of the Assagatje,’ Kineas said.

‘You are her consort,’ Parshtaevalt said. ‘That is enough.’

And so it proved. The council made it clear from their respectful silence that they wished Kineas to take command. Kineas had enough experience with Sakje to listen to what they left unsaid. He rose, angered at their hesitation and their silent insistence.

‘I am not your king. Why do you sit awaiting my orders?’ he asked.

None of the chiefs said anything. Several of them glanced at Parshtaevalt, as if waiting for him to speak. Finally, Bain, the most aggressive of the war leaders, rose. ‘Lord, you are the Lady’s consort, and you led us all through the campaigns last year. Even if Srayanka were here, she would share her authority with you. Lead us!’

Kineas took a deep breath. ‘I want to rescue Srayanka,’ he said. ‘Is it even possible? We need to know what has happened in the world. I have heard rumour of betrayal, and I have heard that she is a hostage.’ Even as he spoke the words, he felt a tide of despair rise in his heart. For a moment the pain was so intense that he stopped speaking and stood in the midst of the Assagatje, head hanging.

Kineas had been following Srayanka for months, and here, in the middle of the sea of grass, he had lost her again. It was too much.

A strong hand clenched his shoulder, warm in the chill of evening. ‘Courage, brother,’ Philokles said. ‘We’ll find her.’ The Spartan was sober, which he rarely was in the evening since the storming of the citadel. ‘Come on, Athenian. Head up. These people are depending on you.’

Kineas swallowed. His chin came up. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Let’s hear from those who know something of what has passed.’

Despite Alexander’s best efforts, there was a constant exchange of men and information between the tribesmen serving Spitamenes and their cousins serving the Macedonian king, so that rumours crossed the lines in a matter of days and each side knew what the other intended and what each had done, and the camp of the Assagatje had a dozen warriors who knew what passed on the Oxus and in the valley of the Jaxartes that summer. One by one they rose in council or were sent for by their chiefs.

There were three armies. Spitamenes laid siege to Marakanda, fabled city of the trade route, and his army was the last Persian army in the field against Alexander, with veteran Iranian cavalrymen and hardbitten Sogdian noblemen, exiles in their own land, who had been fighting Alexander for three and sometimes four years. Alexander had a garrison in Marakanda, fighting carefully and looking east towards the king’s army for relief. It was in the east that Alexander had his field army, still bent on rescuing the seven garrisons he had left on the Jaxartes and on keeping the third army under observation. The third army was the Scythian horde, led by the queen of the Massagetae. Her force was small, just a few thousand riders, but she had sent out the call for the full muster, and the very grass itself seemed to be moving across the steppe towards the appointed rendezvous.

When her force had been described by one of Bain’s horsemen, Qares rose, and when he was recognized, he stepped forward into the council. ‘I am Qares, of the Iron Hills Massagetae,’ he said, and his voice had the sing-song quality that Ataelus had when he spoke. ‘I come from Queen Zarina to your queen. I see a good force here, a force that the Massagetae need and greater than we had dared hope.’ His voice was strong. His hair was in a dozen braids, each tied with a gold bell, and he was a handsome man. ‘I, too, mourn the loss of your queen. But all the Sakje must ride together to face Iskander. Queen Zarina has a fair host, and she will have more with every week. But when Iskander relieves Marakanda and defeats Spitamenes, for whom we have no trust, then he will turn east. We must be ready. Make haste!’

Kineas nodded and the man fell silent.

‘Lord Qares,’ Kineas raised his whip. ‘How far is it from here to the camp of your queen?’

‘Twenty days’ riding without haste,’ Qares replied.

‘Is there water?’ Parshtaevalt asked.

Qares shrugged. ‘More now than there will be in a month,’ he said.

The council came to no decision that night, and Kineas was bitter when he drank wine with his own officers. ‘If I had wanted to be archon, I could have stayed in Olbia,’ Kineas said.

Philokles was deep in his cups. The Assagatje had a store of Persian wine and Philokles had determined to get to the bottom of it. ‘Be a man,’ he said, slurring his words. ‘These people need you.’

‘Go to bed,’ Kineas said.

‘He’s drunk,’ Diodorus said. But when Temerix and Sappho had taken Philokles away, Diodorus said, ‘He’s right. These people need you.’

Kineas took a deep breath. He thought of saying that all he wanted was Srayanka, and he thought of cursing, but he thought better of it and released the breath unused.

Kineas was silent in the morning, having slept in her wagon and having wakened to her smell on the blankets. He lay awake in the dawn watching the heavy felt dragons, gryphons and running deer on her wall hangings move gently in the morning breeze. And when he couldn’t lie there any longer, he rose and took Thalassa and rode away on the plains. He rode alone, galloping out on to the long grass until Thalassa was as tired as he was. Then he slipped from her back and wove her a garland of late roses while she breathed heavily and then cropped the green grass that still lay under the summer-scorched grass that stood in golden waves on the plain. Her silver-grey coat was streaked with sweat in black patterns. He rubbed the sweat off her neck.

He placed the garland on her head and she sidled at the prickles, but then steadied, and he sang a hymn to Poseidon. He stood alone under the bowl of the sky and watched, and finally a lone bird rose from the east on his right and turned long circles in the sky. It was an eagle, and after the sun moved towards the west, a second eagle joined it and the two danced in the sky above him and then flew away to the west.

Kineas mounted Thalassa and rode slowly across the plains towards their camp.

That night, he summoned the council in his own name, and a third of all the people came, so that the night was filled with the murmur of their voices. The Sakje sat in a circle with the Olbians, as they had the year before. Kineas rose.

‘Will you have me as your leader until Srayanka is returned to us?’ Kineas asked.

Parshtaevalt shot to his feet. ‘We will!’ he said.

‘Very well,’ said Kineas. He looked around. He invited all the chiefs to speak, and one by one they rose to demand Srayanka’s rescue, and to speak about fodder and grass, about infractions of the law, about the dangers of wintering on the sea of grass.

Then Kineas rose with the whip that Srayanka had given him in his fist. First, he sketched with words what he knew of the great war in the south. Then, as best he could, he described how Srayanka must have been betrayed. He stressed that Alexander had no reason to harm any of the hostages - neither Srayanka of the Cruel Hands, nor her young friend Urvara of the Grass Cats, nor Hirene her trumpeter.