Tyrant: Storm of Arrows

by Christian Cameron

  A month after leaving Hyrkania, the hills of Dahia were visible through the heat shimmer on the eastern horizon. Men grumbled and openly wondered about their wages, and they ogled the Sauromatae girls when they stripped their tunics to ride bare-chested in the spring sun.

  Diodorus pulled his horse up next to Kineas. ‘The troops are better,’ he said. ‘Ares, it’s good to be clear of cursed Hyrkania!’

  Kineas nodded and looked at his friend, recalled from a daydream of worry about Srayanka.

  Diodorus glanced at Philokles, who was riding alone, lost in thought. ‘Is he better?’ Diodorus asked.

  Kineas nodded. ‘I think so. Are you?’

  Diodorus shrugged. ‘I’m a soldier. I’ve seen a sack before. I—’ he began, and fell silent.

  Seeing them together, Philokles pushed his heavy stallion into a trot and the horse brought him up level with the other two. Philokles would never be a natural rider, but two years in the saddle had improved him.

  ‘You two look earnest,’ he said.

  ‘We’re talking about the troops,’ Diodorus said. ‘And morale.’

  Philokles nodded. ‘They’re back to grumbling,’ the Spartan said. ‘Always a good sign.’

  ‘You’re better?’ Kineas asked.

  Philokles shrugged. ‘I’m different,’ he said.

  Kineas watched his cavalry riding by. ‘They’re all different,’ he said. ‘I’m different too.’

  ‘You let her live,’ Philokles said. ‘I have no moment of mercy to serve as a sop to my conscience. I just killed men until my arm was too tired to kill any more.’

  ‘I let her live for pretty much the same reason,’ Kineas said. ‘There was more fatigue in it than mercy.’

  ‘This is my last campaign,’ Philokles said. ‘I love you, but I cannot be a beast for ever.’

  Kineas nodded slowly. ‘It was to have been Niceas’s last campaign,’ he said. ‘He asked me to buy him a brothel in Athens.’

  ‘Perhaps I’ll be the next to die, then,’ Philokles said, and laughed bitterly. ‘I don’t want a brothel, though.’ He looked over the plain. ‘It was merciful, but letting her live will cost us in the end. She can tell Alexander—’

  Kineas shook his head. ‘You and I have both been spies, brother. The world is so full of spies,’ he gave Philokles half a smile, ‘that one more won’t be a ruffle on the grass.’ He looked out over the plains, the sea of grass, almost the same as the sea where he had met Srayanka except for the brush of purple brown on the far horizon that betokened a great range of mountains. Wind whispered in the new blades, rippling the green between pale and dark like the footprints of giants racing across the steppe.

  ‘Somewhere out on the sea of grass, Alexander is waiting,’ he said.

  Diodorus shook his head. ‘Whatever he’s doing, he’s not waiting.’

  Kineas nodded. If I don’t find Srayanka, I won’t care, he thought.

  Two days on, and they met the outriders of the Sauromatae host, pickets at the edge of the green hills who watched their approach and cheered their lord, home from the wars. Lot rode at the front of the column and his young women rode along the flanks, bragging of their exploits and showing the heads of the men they’d killed. The column crested the first ridge and was able to look down into the caldera of an ancient volcano, with rich soil to the far wall several stades distant and a camp of yurts and tents that filled the plain on the far side of a small lake.

  Then they feasted for a day, resting their horses, and listened to news of the world. Truce had failed. Alexander was at war with Spitamenes, and Spitamenes was laying siege to Marakanda, while Alexander tried to relieve his hard-pressed garrisons in the north along the Jaxartes. All the tribes had been called to gather on the Jaxartes to resist him if he tried to force a crossing, with mid-summer named for the muster.

  And the ‘westerners’, Srayanka’s Sakje, were camped four days’ travel away, at a bend of the Oxus.

  It was all Kineas could do to remain patient. In his mind, he could see the shape of the campaign - the Sauromatae chieftains sketched him the lie of the land, the hills and the desert and the two great rivers that flowed through the high plains.

  Lot and his chiefs drew their world in the soft loam of the caldera floor, carefully building the Sogdian mountains to the east and the Bactrian highlands to the south, so that the mountains formed something like a curling wave design, or a cupped hand seen in profile. At the base of the palm was Merv, an ancient trade city that lay on the Margus river at the edge of the southern mountain range. Alexander had a garrison at Merv. At the tip of the curling wave lay Marakanda - the greatest city of the plains, also on the edge of mountains. Marakanda lay on the Polytimeros, a river that flowed out of the Sogdian mountains.

  Between Merv and Marakanda flowed the mighty Oxus, the greatest river of the east. The valley of the Oxus passed between two ranges of mountains, rising far to the east in the highlands of Bactria, and it emptied into the Lake of the Sea of Grass, a distant body of water in the far north that Lot had seen and of which Leon had only heard rumours.

  The far eastern border of the Sakje lay at the Jaxartes, which ran a complex course like a writhing snake, rising in the eastern Sogdian mountains and also emptying into the Lake of the Sea of Grass, roughly parallel to the Oxus, on a diagonal course from south-east to north-west. The land between the two great rivers was the land of the Massagetae, and the queen was rallying her army north of Marakanda on the Jaxartes, so rumour had it.

  Kineas found their descriptions of the terrain bewildering, even with Leon to help him chart it and sort out the complexities. The two great rivers - the Oxus and the Jaxartes - seemed to rise close to each other and empty into the same body of water, yet they ran hundreds, sometimes thousands, of stades apart. He found it difficult to get some notion of distance out of the Sauromatae. This was their home, and the vast reach of grass - here green and deep, there patchy like the wool on a sick sheep - defined their world. They had ten alien words for the quality of grass and none for swimming.

  Greek soldiers and Sindi clansmen wrestled and rode and ran and shot bows against their hosts. Kineas gave rich prizes from Banugul’s hoard, and Lot did as well. Temerix, the best bowman on foot, received a heavy bow with minute scales of gold under a glaze or varnish that somehow did nothing to reduce the flexibility of the weapon. His victory brought dark looks from Lot’s heir, his sister’s son Upazan, a handsome blond man who seemed to feel that his uncle had already lived too long and that any contest he lost must have been unfair. Upazan had many beautiful things - a gold helmet, magnificent scale armour, a red enamelled bow and a shield covered in silver that shone like a mirror and had a curling dragon as an emblem picked out in red and solid gold. He showed it all to Kineas with pride, and clearly desired more of the same.

  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. Ph
ilokles 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.’