Storm of arrows t-2

by Christian Cameron

  All the commanders, Greek and Sakje and Sauromatae, stopped talking.

  Tears rolled down Lot’s face. ‘No, lord. Not heavier than Mosva’s loss.’

  Kineas’s eyes went over Lot’s head, off into the blue sky. ‘Death is not as you think,’ he said. And then his head went down, and the light in his eyes dwindled, and he slept.

  He was aware of the passage of time, although his awareness was flawed and he knew it, the way a man with a fever is aware that time does not pass for him as it does for his wife bathing his brow and cleaning the bed. He heard the reassuring voices of those he loved best, friends and wife, the babble and scream of his children, and he felt such passion for them that it was like physical pain, like a javelin piercing his chest straight to his heart.

  He knew that a stranger had come, speaking a strange dialect, like Sakje, with many of the same words, but in a different tone with more music. He listened, but he didn’t open his eyes for a long time.

  When he did, he felt better and he could breathe without wheezing. He tried to sit up and gave a cry, curling into a ball, and Srayanka was there.

  ‘Hush, Kineas.’

  ‘I’m better,’ he croaked. ‘Oh, the ill luck of it! Right where the spear hit me.’

  Srayanka stroked his hand. ‘I have news,’ she said.

  ‘I heard a stranger,’ Kineas said.

  ‘A messenger from the queen of the Massagetae, bidding us hurry to the muster. My husband is a famous warrior, I find. His fame carries even to the queen of the Massagetae.’

  Kineas smiled and fell asleep.

  For a day, he was aware of food, aware of wine, aware of Srayanka’s caress at his cheek. He would hold his children and feel the piercing spear of love. He saw it all through the veil of dreams, and none of it had the immediacy of his thoughts, which raced and raced like a herd of deer run by dogs. It was not unlike his childhood experience of high fever.

  One night he woke and Srayanka was weeping with the children in her arms. She looked at him and hissed, ‘I am not a fucking Greek!’ Then she lowered her voice still further. ‘Come back to me! Better that you had died than that I have this walking corpse!’

  And Kineas noted that what she said was true, in its way, but not important. I am dead, he thought. What did you expect?

  Another sun, and another day in the saddle, his hips rolling easily with the gait of his charger, his mind far beyond the clouds. Around him they all chattered — so much talk! About him, about the weather, about the Massagetae and the Dahae and the tribes gathered in a great horde ahead of them, about Alexander’s army across the river. And then it was dark, and he dreamed of the assembly of Athens and listened to Demosthenes and Phocion debate further support to Alexander, reliving the moment when he was summoned by the council to lead the richest youth of the city to support Alexander. The dream was as clear as the first experience.

  He began to weep, because he had never thought to see Athens again, and because he missed it so much. How had he forgotten that the Parthenon shone so in the moonlight?

  ‘What is death, brother?’ asked a voice at his elbow.

  He was weeping, and he could only just remember why. But the question was an excellent one. It engaged his mind so that his tears were choked off. He looked at the heavens and finally he said, ‘The cessation of the body.’

  ‘And truth? What is truth?’

  Kineas took a deep breath. Again he was riding, and his hips moved with a life of their own. ‘Damned if I know,’ he said, and his ribs hurt like fresh bruises when he laughed. And in saying, he became aware from the tips of his hair to the aches in his wounds. He was sitting on his Getae hack, legs clamped to its narrow back, and around him were thousands of horses, cropping the grass of the Jaxartes valley, and he was Kineas.

  ‘What do you say?’ Srayanka asked, riding up, her face lit with hope.

  ‘I love you,’ Kineas said. He reached for her and winced at the wave of pain.

  She gave a little shriek like the one she sometimes uttered in passion. ‘You have returned!’

  ‘I was never very far away,’ he said. He grinned and rubbed his beard.

  ‘You climbed the tree?’ Nihmu asked, full of excitement. It was night, and they were eating dinner in a camp at the edge of the Jaxartes valley.

  ‘Be gone, bird of ill omen. Be gone with your barbarian notions of life.’ Philokles made to shoo the tanned girl away from Kineas, like a farmer moving poultry in his yard.

  ‘Shush, brother,’ Kineas said. He smiled at Philokles. To Nihmu, he said, ‘I climbed the tree. Now the tree is behind me.’ He shrugged. ‘I do not think that my tree and yours are the same.’

  ‘Your death?’ Nihmu asked.

  ‘Is my business, girl,’ Kineas snapped.

  ‘And Iskander?’ Leon asked.

  ‘Is a very capable commander, with a fine army.’ Kineas smiled. ‘I have dreamed of him and I have thought about his army.’ He shrugged. ‘But he’s across the river, as I understand.’

  Philokles was polishing his helmet, using tallow and fine grit on a pad of linen tow. ‘We’ve had brushes with his pickets every day since you went down, brother. I threw my best spear at Upazan just yesterday.’ Philokles gave a mirthless grin. ‘I find that all my wine-induced desires for peace vanish when I have a chance to kill.’ He put the helmet down on the ground and put a felt cap on his head, then donned the helmet, transforming from philosopher to spirit of Ares in a few heartbeats. ‘What is the point, Kineas? What is the point of all this marching, all this striving, all this killing? Did your precious tree tell you?’ He pulled his helmet off, obviously dissatisfied with the fit. He stared at the lacings.

  Kineas often found himself at a loss when debating with Philokles, but today the answers flowed into his mind like the Jaxartes in spate across the plains. ‘Come, brother, you know the answer.’ He laughed to see his brilliant and philosophical friend look at him so. He reached out and embraced Philokles. ‘What would Achilles say to you, Spartan? What would Socrates say?’

  Philokles drank water from a skin. He was blushing. ‘They would say that the point was virtue,’ he said.

  Kineas nodded. ‘Just so.’ He took a deep breath like a man who loved the taste of air. ‘Sometimes we kill because we are men of virtue and sometimes we abstain from killing for the same reason. Sometimes a man may choose to drink wine and another time he may choose to abstain. The doing of things is what earns the glory. We should need neither reward nor praise.’

  Nihmu stared from one to the other. ‘What are you talking about?’ she asked with the annoyance of a young woman who thinks that her ignorance is being mocked. ‘Is this a Greek thing?’

  Kineas smiled and shook his head. ‘Perhaps, and perhaps not, child.’

  Philokles nodded. ‘It is the Greek thing, child. The struggle for virtue.’

  Kineas took the helmet from Philokles. ‘You are the last man on earth to wear the Corinthian helmet, brother. What’s wrong with it?’

  ‘The lining is all worn out.’

  Kineas nodded. ‘Nothing for it but to pull the leather and sew a new one.’

  Philokles nodded. ‘I was being lazy.’ He took his belt knife and cut the threads, and in one motion ripped the liner clear. ‘Ares help me if we are attacked now,’ he said.

  Nihmu shook her head. ‘I don’t even know what you’re talking about,’ she said, and stalked off.

  When she was gone, Diodorus joined them, with Leon and Srayanka. Ataelus sat heavily on the ground. He looked thin.

  ‘Queen Zarina,’ Ataelus said. ‘For asking you.’ He waved at the eastern horizon. ‘For much messengers.’

  Diodorus nodded. ‘When will we reach her?’

  Srayanka stretched. ‘Two more days and we will reach the muster. Even going slowly. The horses are getting their coats back.’

  Kineas nodded. ‘I want to talk to Spitamenes first,’ he said. ‘He must be close.’

  ‘Gods, is this some baqca thing?’ Diodor
us asked.

  Kineas rubbed his chin and pulled his beard, enjoying his friend’s discomfort. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s ten years in the saddle. Think of it, friend. When we were on the Oxus, Spitamenes was a hundred stades south of us. He never caught us on the Polytimeros. No one has said that Alexander caught him. We were all going to the same place. He can’t be far.’

  Philokles laughed. ‘And we call Diodorus a fox. Well reasoned, Kineas!’

  Ataelus grunted. ‘Could have asked me. Fuck-their-mothers Persae at the second water today. Garait said this.’ He shrugged.

  Kineas turned to kiss Srayanka. ‘I want to talk to the old bandit first. Then we ride to the muster.’

  ‘The old bandit sold me to Iskander,’ she said.

  ‘I want to settle that before we ride into an alien camp,’ Kineas said.

  Srayanka rolled her eyes.

  30

  The next day, Kineas met Spitamenes. Garait located his camp and Ataelus led him there. Darius was the intermediary, and Kineas rode with a short train of followers to share a meal with the last Persian in the field against Alexander. Philokles joined them, eager to observe.

  The Persian leader was tall and spare, with the greying remnants of red-gold hair in his beard. He was a handsome man despite a great beak of a nose, and he had an immediate presence. He rode a magnificent Nisaean charger, and he was deeply religious, so that even in the midst of his first meeting with Kineas, he paused for prayers.

  In his presence, Kineas knew that the man was a fanatic. How could he be else? And confronted with the man, it was as if his new-found wisdom was being tested against his old hatreds. Spitamenes had sold his wife to Alexander for what he thought of as a higher cause. The gambit had failed, and now the Persian was sorry, but his apology had the distant quality that indicated he would do as much again if it would serve to push the hated invader off the sacred soil of Persia.

  At his side sat Darius, translating freely, although Kineas’s Persian was of a high standard and many other men spoke the same languages. But Darius did not look at Spitamenes with worship, or even admiration. Early on, Spitamenes pointed out Darius, who was greeting his friends and file-mates among the Olbians. ‘That one loves you more than his own country,’ Spitamenes said.

  ‘We are guest friends and war-friends,’ Kineas said. ‘He has saved my life several times.’ Kineas was watching the Persians, Medes and Bactrians around the fires. Spitamenes had fewer than a thousand men and only the same number of horses. He had lost the campaign that summer and his men looked the part — dirty, tired, eyes dead. They sat on the grass with only their saddle rugs for seats. They had no followers, no women and very little chatter. They built their fires right on the grass rather than digging pits like the Greeks, so that the whole camp smelled of burning grass, and from time to time the grass would catch again and burn until a tired warrior stomped it out. They were dirty and yet they were proud, heads high, glaring at him as if he and Philokles were the personification of the enemy.

  Spitamenes turned his head away, clearly displeased. Then he asked, ‘Where is your beautiful wife?’

  When Kineas visited the Persians, Srayanka stayed at home, as did all of the Sakje. There was nothing there but blood. No Sakje could forgive such an affront. ‘In camp, sharpening her axe,’ Kineas said.

  Spitamenes nodded. ‘She would do better to see to your children, surely?’ he asked. It was not clear whether the question was honest or malicious.

  ‘You did a foolish thing when you offered my wife to Iskander,’ Kineas answered. He saw no reason to speak honeyed words. ‘She despises you, and all her clan want nothing of you but your head.’

  Spitamenes rocked back on his ankles. ‘There is blunt speech!’ he said. He rubbed his beard. ‘I had hoped that we could be friends.’

  Kineas laughed and ate more spiced mutton with his fingers. ‘Let me remind you, lord, that you sold her as a hostage to Iskander — sold her, although she owed you neither allegiance nor vassalage.’

  Spitamenes shrugged. ‘She was to hand,’ he said. ‘The god requireth that I make hard choices for my people. She is the daughter of foreigners — why should I have stayed my hand?’

  Philokles, sitting at Kineas’s side, choked on a bit of mutton and covered his mouth with his hand.

  ‘Your friend wishes to speak, perhaps?’ Spitamenes asked. His eyes gleamed dangerously.

  Philokles cleared his throat again. ‘Your god should have a better eye to consequences, then,’ he said in Greek. ‘The lady has a sting in her tail and a thousand armoured friends.’ Kineas translated.

  ‘Do not blaspheme what you haven’t the wit to understand, foreigner.’ Spitamenes’ tone hardened, and around him Persian noblemen handled their weapons.

  Kineas took another mouthful of food. When he was done chewing, he said, ‘Either Spitamenes is a man of his word, in which case this is all posturing and we should enjoy our dinner, or he is a treacherous cur, and we will die.’ Kineas smiled at Spitamenes. ‘And then Spitamenes will die. Don’t you think my wife is out there in the dark?’ Kineas shook his head as if he was a gentle father arguing with a favoured child, and then he went back to eating.

  Spitamenes grew angrier at every pronouncement, but he was a man of honour and Kineas finished his meal unimpeded. ‘I will not ask you to guest again,’ Spitamenes said, as the Greeks mounted to leave.

  ‘As you did not trouble even to apologize for the seizure of Srayanka, you’d be unlikely to get me to come,’ Kineas said. ‘Your time is over. The Sakje have the power to stop Iskander, or not, as they please. When you sent him Amazons as hostages, you lost them as allies — and you have done nothing this summer but lose prestige in every action. You are done.’

  Kineas’s voice had the sound of doom — of prophecy.

  Spitamenes started as if he had stepped on a snake. ‘Be gone before I regret my hosting!’ he said.

  ‘Keep from under our hooves, Persian,’ Kineas said. ‘If I find you there, I will end you myself.’

  Philokles listened to the bloodless tone in Kineas’s voice — not threat, but a statement of facts. Like the voice of prophecy combined with the voice of command.

  Spitamenes frowned. ‘I had heard that you were a prophet.’

  Kineas backed his charger a few steps and nodded. ‘Shall I prophesy for you, lord?’

  Spitamenes said, ‘I care not,’ but his eagerness and hesitancy were there in his voice, and Philokles was left with the impression that Kineas was the elder of the two. And then the Persian asked, ‘Will there be a great battle?’

  Kineas nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘And will Iskander lose? Will I triumph?’ Spitamenes asked.

  Kineas was silent for a time — an uncomfortable time, with dozens of torchlit Persians surrounding him in the dark. At last, he said, ‘Iskander will not win. But you will lose. I will die.’ He laughed then, as if all of life was a joke. ‘Your death is coming, but mine is near.’

  ‘How will I die?’ Spitamenes asked, pressing closer to Kineas’s horse.

  Kineas’s face gave a spasm of fear, or revulsion — difficult for Philokles to read in the firelight. He looked at a man standing at Spitamenes’ shoulder. ‘Badly,’ Kineas said. ‘Ask me no more.’

  Spitamenes turned away and growled something at one of his lieutenants. The crowd of torches dispersed. ‘Go, before I turn on you,’ Spitamenes said.

  Kineas nodded. Then he backed his horse, checked to see that his friends were clear and rode away.

  That night, they made camp in a stand of old pines at the edge of a high bluff along the Jaxartes. The grass had been cropped recently and Ataelus reported on a dozen Sakje camps around them. Kineas could see their fires, and he could see the fires of Alexander’s army on the far bank and smell the smoke that filled the valley of the Jaxartes, which hadn’t seen so many people since it first rose from the meltwaters of the Sogdian mountains when the gods were young.

  Srayanka had built them a camp, o
r her household had, with a heavy hide as a shelter and a pair of spears supporting an awning of woven branches to give the illusion of privacy, right in under the supporting pines. It was a far cry from the luxury in which an Athenian officer might live, and yet it touched Kineas deeply — no one else had any shelter since the wagons had rolled north and west, and it had taken many hands to raise. There was even a fire pit with a circle of rocks and a small fire, fragrant with cedar.

  She put a cup of wine in his hands after he’d seen to Thalassa, and he drank it in careful sips as he admired the ropework on the hemp bindings that held the spears — Sitalkes for sure. Then he took her hand and drew her close, and they kissed.

  Philokles came into the little clearing that held their camp. He looked around as if puzzled, and Kineas could see he was drunk.

  ‘Very nice!’ Philokles said. He swayed a little.

  Diodorus followed him up the trail, and behind him came Leon and Sitalkes and someone else moving in the darkness.

  ‘Can I help you gentlemen?’ Kineas asked, his voice redolent with the irritation of a man interrupted in kissing his wife.

  Philokles turned his head away and gave a lurch and a burp. ‘Excuse me, gentlemen. Not myself.’ He grinned at Kineas. ‘Didn’t know you wanted to be alone. Missed you.’

  Diodorus came up and put his hand on the Spartan’s shoulder. ‘Come away, Philokles.’

  ‘Says he’ll be dead soon. Then we’ll never see him!’ Philokles shook his head. He raised his cup. ‘Godlike Kineas, share this cup of wine!’ he said, and spilt some wine on the pine needles, though whether in clumsiness or deliberate invocation it was hard to tell.

  Diodorus grabbed at Philokles. The Spartan glided out of his hands and sprang back, but in his haze of wine fumes he’d forgotten the two spears and the ropes, and he tripped. There was a crash and Philokles went down, and the whole shelter came down with him. He bellowed as he rolled through the small fire, extinguishing it.

  ‘Hades! Philokles, you fucking idiot!’ Kineas grabbed the Spartan by the arm and dragged him to his feet, sweeping the man with his hand to get rid of coals.