Kineas turned for his horse. Philokles gave Kineas a hand and Srayanka pushed and together they got Kineas up on Thalassa.
‘Get the horses watered,’ Kineas said. ‘All of them.’
Srayanka nodded, as did Lot.
Kineas sat silent for a long time, and gradually his friends, his staff, the chieftains and all around him became quiet.
He was about to speak when he saw the eagle.
He pointed off to the south. The eagle was rising slowly from across the river, clearly burdened by something — probably a rabbit. The prey’s entrails hung down between the eagle’s wings, unbalancing his flight. The bird turned and beat slowly towards them, wings pumping the air.
Among the Greeks and Sakje all conversation ceased, and every head watched the bird as it flew slowly, erratically, and as it closed, Kineas could see that the eagle had been feeding on the carcass of the rabbit, whose blood stained its white fur in streaks. The eagle rose again on a draught of warm air as it came over the bend in the Jaxartes where the officers had gathered while Kineas’s wounds were tended. Then the eagle vented a raucous scream, pivoted on a wingtip and dropped the carcass of the rabbit, so that it plummeted to earth, making Thalassa shy and bouncing as high as a man’s head before flopping almost at Kineas’s feet. The eagle screamed again and turned away, leaving Kineas with an impression of fierce, mad intelligence from its golden eyes. Rid of the carcass, it flew like the wind itself, rose into the heavens and raced away.
The waves of pain from mounting had vanished with the eagle. He straightened his back and raised his voice. ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘Would you leave a brother in a fight? This is not about winning. Winning — it is just as Diodorus has said. This is about virtue. ’
‘And you will die for virtue?’ Diodorus asked, but his eyes were on the sky.
‘Wouldn’t you?’ Kineas asked. ‘You never left me in the agora that day, Diodorus. You might have run.’
Diodorus put his hand before his eyes.
Kineas took a painful breath. ‘This is what we do, friends. Let’s do it well.’
Srayanka kissed him. Then she rose, clamping her mare between her legs and stretching her spine.
‘Sakje!’ she shouted. ‘Will you follow the king to battle!’
‘Baqca-King,’ they roared, a long, drawn-out roar like the sound of lions at the edge of night.
She was crying. Many of them were crying, but the dust dried their tears as they rode.
They rode five stades or more, seeing only the ephemera of battle — a fleeing rider, a wandering horse with its entrails dragging behind, screaming in pain. Time had flowed away under them like the rivers of the steppe, and it was afternoon, and despite fresh horses, they were tired.
And then they could hear the battle before they could see it, a cacophony of horse noise and metal that filled the air. Swirls of dust came floating over the low ridge in front of them as if ejected from the battle, or as if the spirits of the dead were fleeing.
Kineas stopped his horse at the base of the ridge. He waved to Ataelus. ‘Go and be my eyes,’ he said.
Ataelus gave a sad smile. ‘For you!’ he called, and he and his wife galloped diagonally up the ridge.
Kineas turned to the officers. ‘Dismount. Have the troopers take a drink,’ he said. ‘When we go over the ridge, we’ll have the Sakje on the right, the Sauromatae in the centre, and the Olbians on the left, where they are least likely to get entangled with the Massagetae or the Dahae.’ He looked at them all. ‘Unless Ataelus tells me something that shocks me, we will go over the ridge and straight into the maelstrom.’
Diodorus was ash-straight, sitting his horse as if on parade in Athens. ‘What is our objective?’ he asked.
Kineas raised an eyebrow. ‘I intend to cut my way to Alexander,’ he said. ‘But failing that, remember what Zarina said. You are warriors. Do as you will.’ He allowed himself a small smile. ‘Obedient warriors in crisp formations!’
He won an answering smile from Diodorus.
He was considering a farewell speech — a classic battle oration — when he saw Ataelus careering down the ridge, Samahe at his heels. The man’s body language screamed of disaster and Kineas abandoned his notion of a formal goodbye. ‘Mount,’ he called.
He waited until the slackers were mounted. ‘Walk,’ he called. He waved his arms to indicate that the Sauromatae and the Sakje should form arrowheads to the right as he had described. Srayanka reached out a hand — a hard hand with a doe-soft back — and they clasped hands like soldiers. ‘Goodbye!’ she said. ‘Wait for me across the river!’
‘Live long, Queen!’ he shouted back in Sakje, and they were parted, her column forming to the right as his bore straight up the ridge.
Ataelus pulled up next to him. ‘The Zarina’s standard is down,’ he said. ‘The Dahae are leaving the field.’
‘Ares wept!’ Diodorus said.
And Kineas thought, This is not what I saw.
33
Even Thalassa laboured over the last of the climb, but before the sun had set another finger’s-breadth, Kineas topped the ridge and the whole of the battlefield was laid out before him, a bowl of war covering eight stades or more from ridge to ridge. And what he saw shook him.
Nearer to him, Scythian warriors on the other slope of the ridge were retreating, shooting arrows, in the face of a heavy line of enemy cavalry — Macedonians and Greeks and Sogdians all intermixed. The Scythians were spread thin, and they gave ground quickly and never tried to rally.
Down in the centre of the bowl, the pikemen of the phalanx had established a line across the ford and had pushed on for some distance. A rubble of dead horses, visible even at this distance, marked the futility of the Sakje resistance. But there was just one phalanx — the other was visible, pikes erect, across the river behind the line of siege machines.
Only far away, at the limit of vision on the Sakje right, did the army of Macedon seem to be getting the worst of it. There, and only there, was the movement of the antlike contestants retrograde. Years of watching battles — and serving in them — had gifted Kineas with an instant grasp of the meaning of the hundreds of signs — sounds, motion, even the quality of reflection of light could tell you which direction a man was moving. The Macedonian left was losing. The rest of their army was at the point of victory.
Over all of it, the fog of Ares rose from the sandy ground to obscure everything but the wraithlike movements and the strongest glints of polished metal. The Sakje still glittered with gold, so that even through the battle haze, Kineas could estimate their positions.
Nowhere could he find Queen Zarina, who should have been in the centre. But just to the near side of the enemy centre, just behind the fighting, Kineas could see a purple cloak surrounded by aides. Even as he watched, Alexander was leading a wedge of Companions into the Massagetae nobles to his front.
And behind the Macedonian lines was the river. Dead trees filled the ford, and across the river, a huge dead tree towered over the field, stark and awesome, and Kineas felt the full weight of his doom. He shivered, and his side hurt — something liquid seemed to move inside his skin, and he swayed in the saddle. He began to turn his horse — he thought of how he might, after all his posturing, leave the field, flee with honour. Or without it.
I do not want to die! he thought. His breath burned in his throat and his heart seemed to pump out the last of his blood, so that he was cold.
The setting sun was red like the blood of a dying man, and it shone on his men as they crested the hill, barring any possible retreat, and they reminded him — more than reminded him — of who he was. They were strong, unbeaten, three crisp triangles that darkened the ridge so that there was immediate commotion in the Macedonian centre and the Sakje on the ridge before him panicked, assuming that they were Macedonians. He looked at his men — the Keltoi and former hoplites of Olbia, dressed in the remnants of Greek armour, with Sakje tack and Sauromatae armour here and there, many in barbarian trousers, s
ome wearing Sakje hats in place of their helmets.
Just beside him, Hama grinned. ‘Now for glory!’ Hama called. He threw his sword in the air and it flew in a wheel of fire and Hama caught it by the hilt. All the Keltoi roared.
Thank you, Hama. Decision made, Kineas took a deep breath. Fear was deep in his guts, but there was elation there as well. There was even happiness, the happiness of a craftsman nearing the completion of a long and heavy task. To his right, the Sauromatae crested the hill and formed their ranks, glittering bronze and iron scales over every man, woman and horse. Gwair Blackhorse, the leftmost man in the front rank, turned and waved. The sun torched Lot’s armour, but however bright his bronze and gold burned, Srayanka was the sun herself as she rode over the crest, her helmet and gorget too bright for him to watch.
Kineas’s throat was heavy with all of it — pride, terror, joy. He could smell apples.
He left the point of the Olbian wedge and rode along the crest, sword in the air, until he was sure that all three wedges were fully formed and ready. If this were their moment, he would not waste it with a simple error. Their cheers followed him, and in the valley at his feet he could sense the change. They were too golden to be Macedonians. Even as he cantered back to his place, the ocean noise of the Sakje cheers began to come back from the centre, as the Massagetae realized that their long fight in the centre was not in vain. And the purple cloak flickered in the setting sun and the dust, but it was moving back.
Kineas pulled into his place, with Diodorus at one shoulder and Carlus at the other.
‘Athena!’ he called, and men laughed aloud — power flowed through him like the ichor of a god. And the Olbians — Hellenes and Keltoi together — sang Athena’s paean as they started forward, and many among the Sakje and even the Sauromatae took it up, so many times had they heard it around campfires, standing in the rain or the biting heat of the plains, among the snows of Hyrkania. Come, Athena, now if ever!
Let us now thy Glory see!
Now, O Maid and Queen, we pray thee,
Give thy servants victory!
The three wedges came over the crest at a walk. As soon as the horses felt the slope, Kineas let them move, taking the downhill side at a fast trot and then a canter, and he could see Lot and Srayanka at the point of their formations keeping pace.
The cavalry in front of him broke a stade before he could reach them. They had not had an easy day, galled by Scythian arrows and forced to climb the ridge. Now their world had turned upside down and they ran for the ford. Only the Macedonian cavalry stood, then charged back, their tired horses making heavy work of the hill, and the Sauromatae in the centre crashed into them with a sound like summer thunder.
Kineas refused to let Thalassa have her head, and he pulled her up, keeping an eye on Lot’s golden helmet as he used his heavy lance against the more lightly armed Macedonians, already disheartened to find themselves abandoned by their allies. The Macedonians held for a few heartbeats and then a few more, unused to defeat, fighting with their guts, and then they too broke, and the Sauromatae began to re-form their wedge on the move.
The chance of the hill and the ground had pointed their formations more at the ford than at the Macedonian pikes, who were already extending files and facing as fast as they could move to react — far too late, unless their king turned away from the centre to save them — and if he did, the battle was a stalemate.
Kineas could feel it.
He was off the last of the ridge, on the flat and in the battle haze. Off to his right, there were trumpets — Alexander calling his Hetairoi to save the battle. Kineas barked ‘Take command!’ at Diodorus and then ‘Wheel right!’ at Antigonus, who sounded the call. Kineas tapped Thalassa to a gallop and she leaped forward at his order, flying over the ground. Kineas raised his heavy spear over his head, showing all three formations their new direction, and the three triangles wheeled, staggered because of distance and reaction time. Kineas placed himself ahead of the Sauromatae. ‘Wheel, Lot! Wheel right!’
Lot was becoming less visible in the dust, but he raised his lance and a moment later his trumpeter sounded.
Srayanka will hit them first, Kineas thought. He gave Thalassa her head and the mare skimmed the dirt, hooves scarcely touching the ground. How far away were Alexander’s Hetairoi?
He saw the golden glow of Srayanka’s armour first, and he pulled in as he came up. ‘Wheel right!’ he shouted.
She raised her long-handled axe in salute and her trumpet rang out as Kineas closed with her, wheeling Thalassa. ‘Alexander is right in front of us!’
She laughed, a sound of joy. ‘Hephaestion is mine!’ she shouted. ‘Aiiyyeee!’ and she gave her horse its head and the Sakje were off into the dust, Kineas already angling away to the centre. If he had pictured this correctly, the three wedges would hit the Macedonian Companions in three staggered plunges, like three sword thrusts.
He was nearly abreast of Lot when the red-cloaks came out of the haze. He turned Thalassa and settled into the Sauromatae formation seconds before the two triangles crashed into each other.
The explosion of noise as they impacted drowned out thought. Kineas never had time to throw his javelin, and Thalassa crashed breast to breast against a Macedonian horse that she couldn’t avoid as Kineas ducked the point of the man’s lance, and the two beasts went up in a flurry of hooves, standing on their hindquarters. Kineas’s legs closed like a vice and he swept his javelin like a sword — the point caught between the Companion’s arms, and Kineas leaned into it as Thalassa pushed forward on to four feet and the enemy trooper was down, unhorsed but probably otherwise uninjured. Kineas pressed in immediately. Now he threw his javelin into the man facing Lady Bahareh, recognizable from her heavy grey braids, and Kineas’s throw caught him under the bridle arm and sent him into the dust and she pushed forward as well and there was another chaos of noise from their left as the Olbian wedge met the Macedonians.
Kineas was no longer a commander. He retrieved his spear from his left hand and got it up over his head two-handed as the men and horses pressed close — the two wedges were flattening out against each other, and the close-serried cavalry were reduced to fighting like hoplites, cheek to cheek with their opponents, their legs crushed between horses. His next opponent was still fumbling for his sword when Kineas punched his spear — shortened until his left fist was at the head — between face and cuirass. A blow rang off his scaled back and then another. He looked round at where a Macedonian had somehow penetrated their formation and he landed a blow with his butt spike, but it glanced off the man’s cuirass. He took a blow on his raised arms — armoured arms, thanks to Srayanka’s gift — and Thalassa, reading his body, backed up and kicked with her hind legs, both hooves striking home against the enemy’s horse with the sound of an axe biting wood. Kineas thrust back again as a blow rang on the back of his helmet, and his butt-spike caught under the man’s thigh, ripping his leg as his horse failed him, and they went down together. Kineas caught a glint of gold, a flash of a new enemy in his peripheral vision, and he swung the spear two-handed, straight from back to front even as he turned his head, and the whole weight of his cornel-wood spear crashed sidelong into Alexander’s golden helmet, ripping it free against the chinstraps, and the king of Macedon sagged away, a dozen of his own troopers throwing themselves into the desperate press, but Kineas was on him and thrust again at the king’s legs and scored deeply before two swords rang against his helmet — weak blows, but enough to drive him from his prey. He parried, got his spear-butt high and used it like a slave sweeping with a broom to parry, jabbing his point into faces and down into unarmoured thighs, so that men fell into the dust, but Alexander was slipping away, slumped in his seat.
The wall of Sauromatae was pressing forward now — Kineas could feel it. He was too far into the Macedonian formation but he could see Alexander just another rank away, Companions pulling at his bridle. He was hit — hit hard. Kineas took a blow in the side — the wounded side — pain blinde
d him and training made him lash out with the spear point to cover his agony, and a blow he never saw severed his heavy spear between his hands so that he had two pieces, but this was a moment for which Phocion trained you, and he lashed out with both pieces, raining blows on his opponents, his whole being focused on getting to Alexander, but his vision was tunnelling and he almost lost his seat when a kopis bit into his right side under his arm, scattering scales and drawing a new line of pain on his chest. Thalassa felt the change in his weight and reared, kicking, buying him precious heartbeats. He dropped the halves of his spear and pulled the Egyptian sword easily from its scabbard. He couldn’t breathe.
A long lance reached out from behind him and tipped a Companion into the dust, and he cut at his opponents, missing wildly but still alive, eyes clearing to his peril. He parried, and there were Macedonians on either side of him, so close that his booted knees were crushed against theirs, and his riding whip came into his bridle hand like a gift from Ares. He slashed backhanded to the left and then rammed the butt of the whip under the rider’s jaw and turned back, the whole weight of his body and Thalassa’s motion behind his sword, and he cut through the man’s guard and his blade skidded down the man’s shoulder and still had enough power to cut a long fold of flesh clear of his unarmoured sword arm. Kineas cut with the whip — one, two, three consecutive blows to the man’s face over their locked weapons — and the man fell free, more flesh shredding off his arm as he went, and he screamed but he couldn’t fall because the press of men and horses was so tight. ‘The king is down!’ shouted in Macedonian-accented Greek, and new strength flooded through Kineas. But with Thalassa’s muscles straining between his legs, he couldn’t move, trapped with the men he had put down, and the Companions just beyond the range of his sword were leaning far out over their horse’s heads, trying to cut at him, and he had to parry to protect Thalassa’s head. Thalassa tried to rear and Kineas hung on her neck to keep her down, afraid in this press that she’d lose her footing and fall.
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