Storm of arrows t-2

by Christian Cameron

  ‘Why not?’ Philokles asked.

  ‘Because if Ptolemy stops playing, somebody under him will have him killed and move up,’ Kineas said, and Diodorus nodded agreement. ‘We never played the Macedonian game — we’re just Greeks. But we watched.’ Kineas looked at Ptolemy’s face and thought about how often Philokles had asked him questions like this with the same intensity. It was interesting to see him do it to another man, to see the effect, the confusion, the sudden self-doubt.

  ‘Best join us,’ Diodorus said. ‘We’ve Numidians and Kelts and Megarans and Spartans. There’s a Babylonian Jew in second troop — or so he claims. We’ve a couple of Persians. Why not a Macedonian?’

  Ptolemy laughed. ‘You are-’ He looked around the firelight. ‘Hah!’ he laughed, shaking his head. ‘You will actually let me go?’

  Kineas nodded. ‘Be my guest.’

  Ptolemy stood at attention. ‘I am honour-bound to report everything I have seen and heard,’ he said.

  Philokles spoke up again. ‘But will you?’ he asked.

  Ptolemy suddenly looked younger and more vulnerable than he had throughout his time by the fire. ‘I–I must,’ he said.

  Philokles shrugged. ‘Except that if you tell the king everything, you will never see home. First, because tyrants always blame the messenger. Is that not true, Kineas?’

  ‘Are you asking me because I know so many tyrants, or because I have been one?’ Kineas asked. ‘But yes.’

  ‘Which you well know, yes?’ Philokles, in his turn, rose to his feet. ‘And because if you tell Alexander all you know, you will change his campaign. His Amazon — his prize! — is right here. And so is the man who defeated Zopryon.’ Philokles had never looked more like a philosopher, despite his stained tunic and dirty legs, than at that moment, gleaming and golden in the firelight, leaning forward like a statue of an orator. ‘If you tell him, he will drop everything to fight us — out on the grass. And you will never see home.’ Philokles’ eyes were sparkling. ‘And you know it.’

  Diodorus, still reclining, said, ‘There is a god at your shoulder, Philokles.’

  The others were silent. Some slurping and gurgling from Lita broke the solemnity of the moment.

  Ptolemy was gone in the morning with the other prisoners. Philokles rode with him to the south, accompanied by Ataelus, and returned alone at midday, when the whole column was so far out on the sea of grass that the trees of the Polytimeros valley were lost in the haze. Only the mountains to the east marred the perfect bowl of the earth.

  It was not until evening that the desert nature of the ground began to take its toll. The scouts had found waterholes, and their camps were based on those, but no single place gave sufficient water for eight hundred horses. Kineas had to fragment his command into four groups, based more on horse strength than on manpower. Srayanka and the Sakje were at another waterhole. He lay awake listening to the restless, under-watered horses. He was unused to sleeping alone, already missing his children. He awoke with a dry mouth. He drank water from the spring after the horses were clear, and there was more silt than refreshment.

  By noon his mouth was like parchment, his tongue had taken on a presence in his mouth it had never had before and his clay water bottle, sized for Greece where dozen of streams crossed the plains, was almost dry. He had travelled through deserts before, in Persia and Media and west, by Hyrkania, so he knew to put a pebble under his tongue and to ration his water skin and pottery canteen carefully. He made sure that Antigonus and the under-officers checked the Greek and Keltoi troopers constantly, made them drink, watched them for signs of sickness.

  Even with a host of water problems, they flew. Released from the rough ground at the foot of the Sogdian mountains, the four small columns moved at a pace that could only be maintained when every man had at least two mounts. Their second camp on the sea of grass came after what seemed like three hundred stades of travel — an incredible march for one day. The prodromoi rode back and forth between the columns, reporting on the water ahead and the distance that each troop had left to reach their camp, but soon enough the horses smelled the water and then they saw a stream rushing out of the hills — hills that had shifted from the eastern horizon towards the south, and were closer. The stream was still cool and the horses trumpeted when they smelled it and could barely be controlled.

  ‘For worrying,’ Ataelus confessed, as they watched the horses charge into the stream. ‘For one day on Great Grass.’ He pointed mutely at the chaotic drinking. ‘Next time, four days. And one night — no water.’ He shrugged. His shrugs were so Greek now that he could have sat on a wall in the agora of Athens.

  ‘We’ll survive,’ Kineas said.

  Ataelus gave him a look that suggested that no amount of command optimism was going to cure a night without water.

  They all camped together, because of the stream. Kineas snuggled up to Srayanka, and she snuggled back. ‘I missed you,’ she said. ‘I know I will lose you — so I resent being parted. I will yet be a silly girl.’

  ‘No,’ Kineas said, smelling the sweet grass and woodsmoke and horse smell of her. ‘How were the children?’

  She rocked her hips, pushing back against him. ‘They were like babies. When their mouths get dry, they cry. Worry more when they don’t cry.’ She rolled her head back to him. ‘Most of the women who have borne children are gone — the only other women are spear-maidens. I wish I had someone to ask-’

  ‘Ask what?’ Kineas said.

  ‘Lita doesn’t — move — as much as I am for liking.’ She kissed him. ‘I am being a mother. Pay me no heed.’

  Kineas lay still for a little while.

  Srayanka rolled on to her back. ‘What are you for thinking?’

  Kineas watched her in the starlight. ‘I’m thinking how many things there are to worry about. Babies and water, horses and water. Alexander. Death.’

  Srayanka put her hand behind his head. ‘I can think of something we can do to stop worrying,’ she said, her right hand already playful. ‘But you must be quiet!’

  Kineas chuckled into her lips. He started to say something witty and then he wasn’t thinking about much of anything.

  About two minutes later, something hit Kineas’s rump. ‘Keep it down!’ Diodorus called, and forty men and two women laughed.

  ‘Told you to be quiet,’ Srayanka said. But her chuckles didn’t last long.

  PART VI

  THE BEACON

  27

  ‘ So this party of mixed Greeks and Scythians just let you go. ’ Hephaestion was beginning to see Ptolemy as a competitor, and in his creed competitors needed to be destroyed.

  Ptolemy was struggling not to lose his nerve or his temper. In his detached, commander’s brain, he wondered that a man could be afraid and enraged at the same time. The Poet always said that one drove out the other.

  The Poet had never been to Sogdiana. ‘The Greeks made sure of it,’ he said. ‘There was a Spartan mercenary. He rode me clear of their lines.’

  Alexander, far from being angry, seemed pleased. ‘So the Sakje barbarians have some Greek allies,’ he said. He rubbed the stubble on his chin. ‘That makes it more of a fight, don’t you think?’

  Hephaestion wasn’t through yet. ‘It might, if you believed this halfarsed story.’

  Alexander looked at his closest companion with a certain scepticism. He raised an eyebrow. ‘Do Sogdians take prisoners?’

  ‘No,’ said Hephaestion. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Dahae? Sakje? Massagetae?’ Alexander was just like his tutor when he bored in on an argument. He was at his most annoyingly superior, but since the focus of his superiority was on Hephaestion and not him, Ptolemy was prepared to watch.

  ‘No,’ said Hephaestion, now surly as he understood the point being made.

  ‘Exactly. If his story was false, he wouldn’t be here. So Craterus lost, what, seventy Sogdians?’ Alexander snapped his fingers and received a cup of wine. Another cup was offered to Ptolemy, while Alexander s
hared his with Hephaestion.

  Ptolemy nodded. ‘More like a hundred, lord.’

  Alexander rolled the wine in his cup before he raised his eyes. ‘Craterus needs to be replaced.’

  Ptolemy shook his head. ‘Who could have expected a trained commander in this wilderness? Or an enemy who could make three direction changes inside a few stades?’

  Alexander’s steady and mismatched gaze didn’t waver.

  So much for Craterus, Ptolemy thought.

  ‘Will you take command of the Sogdian cavalry?’ Alexander asked.

  ‘No,’ Ptolemy said, without a moment’s thought. ‘I would like to go back to commanding my taxeis.’

  ‘Very well,’ Alexander said. His annoyance was plain — blood rushed to his face. ‘Go back to foot-slogging with my compliments on your report.’ He made a hand motion that indicated dismissal. Ptolemy gave a brief bow — a sketchy compromise between a Macedonian head nod and a Persian bow — and withdrew.

  As he left, Alexander turned to Hephaestion. ‘This Greek mercenary has hurt us several times. I can’t believe he’s a Spartan — they have no head for cavalry. Agesilaus was the exception, not the rule.’

  Hephaestion was pouting. ‘Xenophon was a Spartan,’ he said.

  Alexander laughed. ‘What did you do while I went to my tutor?’ he asked. ‘Xenophon was an Athenian.’

  Hephaestion knocked back his wine and shrugged. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘I want to command the Sogdians.’

  Alexander looked at him fondly. ‘You command my Companions,’ he said.

  ‘You need a soldier of proven worth to lead the Sogdians and stop the defeats we’ve taken in the little fights along the Oxus.’ Hephaestion raised his head.

  Alexander met his eyes, put a hand on his head and ruffled his bronze curls. ‘It is not a job worthy of you,’ he said.

  Hephaestion shrugged off his hand. ‘I want it.’

  Alexander shrugged and turned his back. ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘I want-’ Hephaestion began.

  ‘No,’ Alexander said, in a tone of command. ‘Fetch Eumenes for me, please.’

  Hephaestion stomped out of the tent and Eumenes came in alone. ‘Great King?’ he asked after an obeisance.

  ‘I need a cavalry commander to cover the movement on the Jaxartes. Who is it to be?’

  Eumenes shrugged. ‘I thought Craterus had that job?’ he asked.

  Alexander’s eyes bored into the Cardian’s, but Eumenes held his ground, not giving a hint that he already knew what had happened. After a moment, Alexander shook his head. ‘Craterus got beaten,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ Eumenes said. His tone suggested that he didn’t want to do it.

  ‘Set a Greek to catch a Greek?’ Alexander said. ‘My thought exactly. There’s a Greek mercenary operating with Spitamenes. Take the Sogdians, a squadron of the mercenary horse and whatever foot you think will help and get him. He seems to have about four hundred horse. Perhaps twice that.’

  Eumenes nodded. ‘Where is he now?’

  Alexander had a rough sketch of Sogdiana on his camp table, although it showed nothing but towns, rivers and mountains. And even then, most of the distances were guesswork, even after a year’s campaigning. ‘Up where the Polytimeros meets the Sogdian mountains. He’ll be on the north bank of the Polytimeros, shadowing us.’

  Eumenes looked at the map. ‘If he’s on the Polytimeros, we’ll catch him against the northern wall of the valley.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Alexander said. He glanced out of the door of his tent — checking for Hephaestion, no doubt. ‘If he was smart enough to beat Craterus, he’ll be smart enough to avoid getting trapped.’

  ‘If he’s not on the Polytimeros?’ Eumenes asked.

  ‘Track him. But mostly, keep him — and Spitamenes — off me while I manoeuvre. I have thirty thousand men to concentrate on the Jaxartes, and if one of these bandits gets into my rear-’ He shrugged. Morale among the Macedonians was low. They weren’t likely to desert or fight poorly, but mutiny was always possible when they felt hard done by. Both men knew it. They would march for ever without wine or oil — when they were happy.

  ‘So you’re going to the Jaxartes?’ Eumenes asked. He’d heard rumours, but armies were full of rumours.

  ‘Now. I’ve already started some of the troops in motion. I need to beat the Massagetae before they join hands with Spitamenes and make themselves a nuisance.’

  Eumenes nodded. ‘The Massagetae have made no move to attack us,’ he said.

  ‘Except to send their men to harass our outposts and loaning horsemen to Spitamenes.’ Alexander’s tone was commanding. ‘When I beat them, Spitamenes will fold.’

  Eumenes hadn’t risen to power with the king by cowardice. ‘I disagree, lord. Spitamenes will fold anyway. We have no need to fight the Massagetae. In fact, a message acknowledging their ownership of the sea of grass would probably end their campaign.’

  ‘Should I offer to pay them tribute, too?’ Alexander asked. His voice was very quiet.

  Eumenes nodded slowly. ‘Very well, lord,’ he said. ‘Your mind is set.’

  ‘It is. Go and punish this Greek. Recruit the survivors and rejoin me. I won’t move to fight this Zarina for twenty days.’

  ‘Hephaestion wants this command,’ Eumenes said — not because he had any love of the king’s companion, but because he absolutely did not want to go chasing a wily Greek with Sakje allies on the sea of grass.

  Alexander nodded. ‘I love Hephaestion with all my soul,’ he said, ‘but he is not suited for independent command. And if I ever hear that you repeated those words…’

  Eumenes cast his eyes down to hide the gleam that must be there. Ahh! he thought. Now the game is worth playing. ‘I’ll catch this Greek, then,’ Eumenes said. ‘Perhaps I’ll bring you an Amazon, as well.’

  Alexander sighed. ‘I liked the one I had,’ he said. ‘Even gravid, she had a presence. And her eyes!’ Alexander laughed. ‘Why do I tell you these things, Eumenes?’

  Because you can’t tell Hephaestion, Eumenes thought with satisfaction.

  Alexander stopped him at the door of his tent. ‘Take the savage. What’s his name? Urgargar?’

  ‘Upazan, lord?’

  ‘That one. He knows the country and he has a good hate in him. Let him focus it in our service.’ The king sat back and drank a little more wine.

  28

  ‘ There’s cavalry behind us,’ Diodorus said as soon as he rode up. It was four days since they had left the Polytimeros to ride north, the hills of the Abii on their right and the Sogdian mountains a smudge to the south. Diodorus was so covered with dust that his cloak and his face and his tunic were all the same shade. His wide straw hat had frayed around the edges. ‘ Phewf — riding through our drag is enough to discourage any thoughts of glory.’

  ‘How many?’ asked Kineas. He looked back, although there was nothing to see but the tower of dust. They were a day and a night north of the last stream, and despite the heaviest load of water they could carry, the dash across the waterless plains had already brought equine casualties.

  ‘Eight hundred? A thousand? No remounts, according to Ataelus.’ Diodorus used the shawl over his head to wipe his face. ‘They were gaining on us, but Ataelus gave them a sting when they were watering. ’

  The last water was almost a hundred stades behind them. ‘They’ll never catch us,’ Kineas said.

  Diodorus smiled. ‘That’s what Ataelus said,’ he said, and coughed. ‘And that’s before he lifted fifty of their horses.’

  Philokles pulled the shawl off his nose to speak. ‘Don’t dismiss them. They crossed mountains and deserts to get here.’ He nodded. ‘If we get into water trouble — we can’t go back.’

  Kineas nodded. ‘I needed more to worry about,’ he said.

  ‘That’s why you’re the strategos,’ Diodorus said. ‘I used to command a couple of squadrons of cavalry, but now I’m a patrol leader.’ He laughed. ‘At this rate, another few weeks will see
me where I started — as a gentleman trooper.’

  Kineas wound his own shawl back over his face. ‘Was it so bad?’ he asked.

  ‘Nope,’ Diodorus said.

  That night there was water — enough to madden the horses, but not enough to fill them. There was trouble, even with precautions. People became surly, mounts injured themselves and Greek notions of discipline clashed with Sakje ideas of horse care.

  Kineas tried calm authority, and when that failed, he punched a Keltoi who was losing his head and then yelled himself hoarse. Angry with himself and with his command, he went to his cooking fire and sat holding his children while Srayanka checked her pickets with Diodorus. The one sandy hole in the stream bed emitted enough water to please one horse every few minutes — which mostly threatened to keep everyone awake all night.

  Srayanka came back after the moon went down. She sighed and sank against his back, and together they watched the stars. ‘They slept?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Kineas said. He had kept his water bottle for them all day and given them the whole contents before they went down. They’d left enough in the bottle to make an attractive sloshing sound. He handed it to his wife and she took a sip, rolled it around her mouth and swallowed. ‘You take the rest,’ she said.

  It tasted like ambrosia.

  And then they were all asleep.

  He was standing at the base of the tree, and Ajax and Niceas stood before him. ‘Are you ready?’ Niceas asked.

  ‘No,’ Kineas said.

  Niceas nodded. ‘Get ready,’ he said. Beyond him, on the plain, stood thousands of corpses — some rotting, some dismembered. Close to Ajax stood a Getae warrior with a hand gone and a neat puncture wound in his abdomen. ‘Do the thing!’ he said in Greek. Those had been his last words. But they had a certain urgency. He cut at a Sakje warrior in a fine suit of scale — Satrax, of course. But the king broke him with a single swing.

  Behind the Getae were more men, mostly Persians. Darius’s half-brother was trying to push past Graccus.