‘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.
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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 sc
rub 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.
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