Storm of arrows t-2

by Christian Cameron

  Lot said that Upazan’s bow, and the one he gave as a prize, were spoils of raids far to the east, where he claimed there lived an empire mightier than all of Persia, with soldiers in bronze armour. Leon listened with rapt attention. Lot, sensing the Numidian’s interest, showed them another bow, this one fitted with a shoulder stock and a bronze trigger mechanism. Kineas shot it for sport and it carried well and punched a bolt through a Sakje shield with ease. Leon listened carefully, drew a picture of the weapon on his scroll and added notes. He was so distracted that Mosva showed her hurt by flirting with her cousin Upazan, whose desire for her was obvious and drew disapproval from the elders.

  Kineas watched Upazan. Upazan was bitter at having missed the campaign in the west, more bitter still that his uncle was now a hero, and bitter again to be eclipsed in contests by foreigners. When he and Leon threw javelins and Leon bested him, striking a hide shield five times out of five at the gallop, Upazan responded by riding up behind the black man and striking him with a spear, sweeping him from his mount with the haft.

  In a heartbeat every Olbian was on his feet. Leon was well liked. Eumenes, no friend of the Numidians, ran to his side and helped him to his feet. Upazan laughed. ‘It is just play such as men play,’ he said. ‘Too rough for you westerners?’

  Lot shook his head and demanded that the young sub-chief apologize, which he refused to do. He stood in front of them without flinching and laughed again. ‘Does the black boy need so many mothers?’ he asked. ‘If he seeks redress, we can fight! I will kill him and then I will own the prize. It should have been mine. You are all fools.’

  Under Kineas’s direct order, Leon turned and walked away. Upazan laughed at the Greeks, and Kineas let him laugh.

  Later that day, Kineas met Lot’s queen, Monae, who had held his tribes together while he fought in the west, a campaign that already had the status of legend among the Sauromatae. He saw how she looked at Upazan — with distaste bordering on hate. ‘Lot’s sister was everything to him and she died giving birth. Lot has never put reins on that horse.’ She pointed her chin at Upazan. ‘He is more trouble than all the rest of the young men and women together — and many of them worship him, or at least fear him. With the young, the two are often the same.’

  Kineas was too old to let one angry young man spoil his pleasure, and he was too desperate to see Srayanka to mind the young man’s passions too much. He accepted Lot’s apologies in place of the truculent Upazan’s.

  Later, around a council fire, sitting on the beautiful Sauromatae rugs of coloured wool under the canopy of stars, Kineas listened to Lot talk about the politics of the tribes. Monae was with them, along with Diodorus, Philokles, Ataelus — and Upazan. There was no avoiding the young man — he was, after all, Lot’s heir.

  ‘Pharmenax, the king paramount of all the Sauromatae, has made a separate peace with Alexander — has ridden to meet him,’ Lot said.

  Kineas was startled. ‘So your war is over,’ he said.

  Lot looked at his Monae, who smiled like a wolf. ‘No one followed him. Being king of the Sauromatae is not very different from being king of the Sakje, Kineax. He has the title, but he has made a decision that is unpopular, and few of us care to follow him. Now, if this Alexander wins great victories, and if Spitamenes the Persian and Queen Zarina of the Massagetae are defeated? Hmm. Then, perhaps you will see us join King Pharmenax.

  ‘We should be riding to Alexander now,’ said Upazan. ‘He is strongest. He will conquer.’

  ‘Spitamenes?’ Kineas asked, ignoring the boy. ‘I heard talk of him in Hyrkania. Refresh my memory?’

  ‘One of the lords of Bactria. He has given Alexander the former usurper — Bessus. Handed him over — for impiety, so it is said. Bessus is a good man and a poor general.’ Monae shook her head sadly. ‘It has been quite a year, husband.’

  Upazan leaned forward. ‘This is not women’s talk, Monae. I spoke and I expect to be answered. We should go to Alexander.’

  Kineas looked at the boy but said nothing.

  Lot put up a hand. ‘Upazan, your time as a hostage with the Medae has left you rude. Women may share in any council.’

  ‘Pah — women warm beds and make babies. We are fools to allow them anything else. When I am king, we will have done with spear-maidens. ’ He spoke with the malicious enjoyment every adolescent experiences in stating a view that he knows his elders will hate. It was hard to tell if he actually believed any of it.

  ‘Bessus was the satrap? Bessus?’ Kineas asked.

  ‘Satrap? He called himself King of Kings.’ Monae shook her head. ‘He will die badly, with his nose slit. This Alexander has been fast as a snake to adopt the ways of the Medae.’

  ‘I feel as if I have come out of the oil pot and fallen into the fire,’ Kineas said.

  ‘Nothing about barbarian life is simple,’ Lot said. He laughed, but there were lines on his face, and his glance strayed to Upazan.

  ‘Who is Queen Zarina?’ Kineas asked.

  ‘A spear-maiden who made herself queen,’ Monae said. She put a hand to her throat and coughed, and then laughed easily — the world was a humorous place for her, and she showed all her teeth. ‘She loves war. She does not love Spitamenes, but she wants to defeat Alexander. She has called a muster of all the Scythians — from the Euxine to the great mountains. Sakje, Dahae and Sauromatae and Massagetae and Kandae and all their kin. There has never been such a muster since the days of the great wars against the Persae.’ She smiled. ‘And they were once one of our tribes, as well. The Persae. Clan mothers remember.’ She shook her head. ‘Zarina sees herself as queen of all the people. Will we have her? Will we obey?’ She laughed. ‘But we will all go — even your Srayanka. If only to see how many horse tails the people can muster, and show this Alexander what power is.’

  Kineas caught his breath and then released it slowly.

  Lot glanced around and then leaned forward. ‘What do you intend, lord?’

  ‘Why do you call him lord?’ Upazan asked. ‘He is some foreigner, not our lord.’

  ‘You have never seen him run a battle, nephew,’ Lot said, reasonably.

  ‘Foolishness.’ Upazan had opinions for every subject and no hesitation about showing them. He got up and left the fire. Rising, he managed to kick sand at Kineas. Kineas continued to ignore the boy.

  When Upazan was gone, Kineas leaned forward. ‘First, I plan to meet with Srayanka. I understand she’s at Chatracharta, on the Oxus.’

  Lot and his wife exchanged glances. ‘That’s where we expect to find the Sakje,’ he said carefully.

  Kineas nodded. ‘If I understand it correctly, we can move north along the Oxus to the Polytimeros, and then — well, then I’m not too clear on the terrain.’ He shrugged. ‘But we’ll go to the muster on the Jaxartes.’

  Lot leaned forward and sketched the wave and the two rivers in the dirt. ‘All the valley of the Oxus is held by Iskander,’ he said. ‘And he has forts along the Polytimeros and the Jaxartes. That is his frontier. You’ll have to ride around him to get to the muster. That’s the word on the plains — stay north of the forks of the Polytimeros, and ride well clear of the Sogdian mountains.’

  Kineas shook his head. ‘Srayanka will understand this better than me,’ he said.

  Again he watched his hosts exchange a look that worried him, but he was too close to finding Srayanka to worry about the campaign.

  That night, well fed, half-drunk on Persian wine, his head buzzing with the gossip of the east, Kineas threw himself on his old cloak and went to sleep without effort.

  He stood on the field of Issus in the dark, a flood of spectral Persians coming at him from over the river, and he relived his last moments at Arbela, his horse carrying him deep into the Median nobles, his helmet torn away, fighting from habit because he had only moments to live, at the Ford of the River God, and his body shifted uncomfortably as he slept. And then he found himself at the base of the tree. Ajax waited there with Nicomedes, and Niceas had his arms around
Graccus and the two stood like men who have celebrated a great festival and now help each other home. The four of them watched him steadily as he approached.

  ‘Not long now,’ Ajax said. ‘Are you ready to join us?’

  Niceas grunted. ‘Best find that filly of yours and ride her a few times, because there’s none of that here!’

  The others laughed grimly.

  ‘You know what we’ve been trying to tell you?’ Ajax asked.

  ‘I think so,’ said Kineas. It was the first time he could remember being able to converse with the dead. Seeing them — speaking with them — made him absurdly happy.

  ‘Finish it,’ Graccus said. He was serious, dignified — just like himself. ‘We can hold them until you climb to the top.’

  Nicomedes nodded. ‘Alexander must be stopped. You will stop him.’

  And he set himself to climb. Above him, a pair of eagles shrieked

  …

  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.’

  19

  Srayanka’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 Sraya
nka,’ 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.