Storm of arrows t-2 Read online

  All of them together — the Sakje and the Olbians — had fought a great battle, the greatest battle any of them could remember. Ten stades north of the wagon-yurt where Kineas lay entwined with Srayanka, the field of the Ford of the River God was still an unquiet grave three full weeks after Zopryon’s army had died on it. More than twenty thousand Macedonians and their auxiliaries and allies had perished — and almost a third that number of Sakje, and a thousand Euxine Greeks. The dead outnumbered the living, and the rain that fell like the tears of repentant gods rotted the corpses so fast that men feared to touch or lift them. Carrion creatures still thronged the field, feasting on the Macedonian dead who lay defenceless, their armour stripped off.

  Men said the field was cursed.

  Kineas felt it like an open wound, because the unburied dead haunted his dreams, demanding burial. It was beyond his experience, that one army might be exterminated and unable to bury its dead. It frightened him. As did the voices of the many dead.

  ‘What are you thinking, Airyanam?’ Srayanka asked. She propped herself on an elbow. She was naked in the damp heat, and not so much shameless as unconscious that anyone would wear clothes on such a hot night. Inside her wagon, she disdained clothing as long as the damp and the heat prevailed.

  Kineas forced himself away from the battlefield in his mind and back into the wagon with her marvellous, god-given body and her ambitions and her caprice. But he was honest. ‘I’m thinking of the unburied dead,’ he said.

  ‘Food for crows,’ she said with a shrug. She made a gesture to avert unwelcome attention from the creatures of the underworld. ‘Naming calls, Kineax.’ She put a finger to his lips. ‘Don’t speak of the dead so lightly. They were enemies. Now they have passed beyond. The field is cursed, and the Sindi will avoid it for a generation. And then the grass will grow greener for the blood, and then the grain will grow. That is the way. And the Mother will take their unquiet spirits down to her breasts, and in time, all will be healed.’

  He watched her, sitting like a statue of Aphrodite, ticking off her points about the dead on one hand as if she was a scholar in the agora. ‘You should be queen,’ he said. ‘You have the head for it.’ He rubbed his untrimmed beard and scratched his head. ‘I should not have spoken today. I spoke out of turn and I fear-’

  ‘Hush,’ she said. She shook her head, her unbound hair swaying. ‘Marthax is stronger than I, Kineas.’ She watched him for a moment in the light of the single oil lamp. ‘I will not lead my people to war against each other. Marthax will not be a bad king — you know him. He does as he thinks he must.’ She sighed. ‘I worked hard to prepare the people to accept you as my consort.’ She shrugged, and her heavy breasts rose and fell, and the sheath of muscle moved from her hips to her neck, and he wanted her. But he was a disciplined man and he kept his hands to himself.

  She turned to face him. ‘Instead, they fear you.’

  ‘Because I am foreign?’ he asked, tracing a finger along her flanks.

  ‘And because you are baqca, and because you love me. You are like a creature from a song of heroes, and you bring change.’ She kissed him. ‘Because you could rule them with a rod of iron, and they fear that.’

  He shook his head. ‘I have no desire to rule,’ he said.

  ‘But you would, if you thought it was for the good of all.’ She rattled off the phrase ‘good of all’ in his own intonation.

  He shrugged. ‘Listen, my love. Together, we could force the will of the army. Make it your army.’ There, it was said. His own officers wanted to be gone, but he had to offer — to support her claim.

  She took his head in her hands and kissed him. ‘No, Airyanam. I thank you, but no. It was Satrax’s army — and he is dead.’ She made a motion with her hand indicating the unknowable will of the gods. ‘If he had lived another year, I would have been his heir — we would have been.’ She shrugged again. ‘I will not pit Greek soldiers against clansmen.’

  Kineas sat up with her. ‘What will you do?’ he asked. ‘What will we do?’

  She was silent for a long time, and they could hear thousands of horses cropping grass — the ever-present sound of the Sakje camp. Somewhere, men shouted by a fire.

  ‘I will go east,’ she said. ‘Many of the younger warriors are still willing — even eager — to fight the monster in the east. I will tell Marthax that I will lead them, and he will accept, because that path avoids war.’

  Kineas had felt the decision coming. He had known from the first that Srayanka favoured sending an expedition east to support the Massagetae. He hadn’t imagined that she would go herself.

  ‘But…’ he said. And stopped himself. But what of us? was too selfish for him, or for them. Her choice was clear, and she had made it like the hero she was. Could he do less?

  ‘I must seize Olbia from the tyrant,’ he said. ‘Then I can join you.’ Just like that — and the future was set. Join you echoed in his head — echoed in the world of dreams, like prophecy, and suddenly he was cold.

  She shook her head. ‘No. That is — what is the Greek word? Folly? Madness? You Greeks have so many words for stupid thinking. You can be the tyrant of Olbia — you can be king. They worship you like a god. You have made their city something, and your army is now a strong one. The grain will make you rich, your hoplites will make you secure and your alliance with the Sakje will make you great.’

  Kineas knelt and took her hands. ‘I don’t want to be rich,’ he said, and even as he said the words, he knew that they were as true as they were trite. The image of a long trek east to fight Alexander at her side stretched away like a dream, and beside it, the day-to-day world of patronage and politics seemed like a nightmare. ‘I don’t want to be tyrant, or king. I want you.’ He grinned like a boy. ‘I have had a dream that I will defeat Alexander.’

  She smiled then, and he feared her a little, because it was not the smile of love, but the smile of triumph. ‘Then you shall have me, Airyanam. And we will go far,’ she said, and put her lips on his. ‘Even to the mountains of the east, and Alexander.’

  When they had made love again, she wrapped herself around him despite the damp heat and their sweat, and together they fell asleep. And no sooner had he acknowledged the pleasure of such sleep, her smooth, hard leg pinned between his, than instead he was… astride the tree, a branch clenched between his legs. Farther along the branch, two eagles demanded food from a nest between Srayanka’s thighs. Their screaming demands drowned out her words. When he reached out to her, the larger chick nipped him, and he fell…

  He glanced around, and all the warriors behind him were strange, all Sakje, in magnificent armour, and he himself wore a vambrace of chased gold on the arm he could see through the slits of his helmet. He was dry, sitting tall on a horse the colour of dark metal, and the battle was won, the enemy broken, and across the river, the survivors tried to rally in the driftwood and by the single old dead tree that offered the only cover from the bronze rain of Sakje arrows, and he raised Srayanka’s whip, motioned three times and they all began to cross the river. He was ready for the arrow when it came, and he almost greeted it, he knew it so well, and then he was in the water — hands grabbing at him…

  He was dead, and walking the battlefield, but it was another battlefield, Issus, and the dead were rising all around him like men woken early from rest. And then they began to walk, rubbing at their wounds, some stuffing the intestines into their guts. They tried to speak but failed, and many shrugged, and then, Greek and Persian, they all began to walk away from the battlefield… and they were joined by the dead of Gaugamela, more Persians and fewer Greeks and Macedonians, all shuffling along in a column of the wretched dead.

  A single figure emerged from the column. He had two deep wounds, one in his neck and another under his armpit, and his breastplate was gone, and his face was slack and empty of feeling, rotted and black, but Kineas could recognize Kleisthenes, a boyhood friend who had fallen in a nameless fight on the banks of the Euphrates. Kineas could feel tha
t Kleisthenes was sad. Indeed, sadness came off him like heat from a fire. His jaw, almost naked of flesh three years after his death, was working, but no sound emerged. He reached out a hand and rested his finger bones on Kineas’s deeply scarred forearm.

  ‘What?’ Kineas demanded. ‘Speak!’

  Kleisthenes’ jaw worked again, more like a man chewing meat than a man attempting to speak. His mouth opened, and sand came forth. The rotting figure gathered the sand as it vomited from his mouth, catching it in his hands. He held it out to Kineas as if it was a payment, or an offering.

  Even in a dream, Kineas was terrified. He stumbled back.

  ‘Wake up now, or die in your sleep!’ said the voice of Kam Baqca..

  Noises in the dark, and too much motion, and the wagon moving as if a man was climbing aboard. Kineas rolled off the furs and his hand was on his sword as the heavy felt that covered the wagon was ripped back and an arrow skidded along his back with a line of pain. There were torches in the dark, and the glint of weapons.

  Srayanka was just coming to her knees and he pushed her down as another arrow bit deep into the wood of the wagon bed. Kineas roared ‘The dead!’ in Greek.

  A black shape came up on to the wagon bed with a sword in each hand. Kineas was still half asleep, his mind in another world.

  The creature’s face was black. The thing hesitated — an all too human reaction — and then he swung both weapons together. The fog of the dream dropped a little more from Kineas’s eyes and he saw that his opponent was a man with charcoal on his face. Even as he realized this, he sensed that the man’s clumsy attack was a distraction, and as he ducked and parried he turned his head to see another black figure at the other end of the wagon, illuminated by the oil lamp. It was raising a bow, also hesitating, as if unsure what to shoot.

  Kineas didn’t hesitate. He cut at his first adversary, a long overhand cut with a wrist rotation at the end, so that the man’s clumsy parry failed to stop the reversed curve of the Egyptian blade from cutting into his neck. He fell without a cry, his head half severed and black ink pouring out in the light of the moon.

  Kineas leaped back and cut at the archer, and his blow severed the bow at the grip. One end of the cut bow snapped back and raked his hand, making him drop his sword with the pain, and the other end slashed across the bowman’s face. Kineas kicked him and the bowman fell back off the wagon. Another arrow whispered out of the darkness and passed between Kineas’s legs.

  ‘Alarm! Attack!’ Kineas shouted in Sakje. He could hear sounds of movement from the fires around them, and shouts in the distance, but the attackers were silent and otherworldly, and the hair on Kineas’s neck began to stand up.

  Even in the darkness, he could see the hilt of his sword gleaming against the carpets of the wagon’s floor, and he bent and seized it. The grip was slippery with blood from his wound, and he bent to wipe his hand. Srayanka rose with her naked back to him, a bow in her hand, and shot before ducking again behind the cover of the benches.

  Out in the dark, a man urged a general attack. Kineas could hear him demanding that they all ‘go together’. And argument — in Sakje. Human. Kineas took a deep breath and steadied himself, the last fumes of his dream forced down.

  His brain was working. They were men — mere men, not vengeful spirits who would have no need for weapons and orders. And they cared nothing for him — they were here to kill Srayanka. That was the only explanation for the hesitation of the first attackers.

  It appeared that Marthax had found a solution to the succession problem.

  The plan and its execution followed each other in two breaths, and Kineas leaped down from the wagon bed and charged straight at the voice in the darkness. The Egyptian sword cut down a man who was just turning to confront his rush, and he pushed past the collapsing body and ploughed straight into a man in full armour. The man cut at him and their blades rang together as Kineas parried.

  Kineas stepped back, placing the armoured man between him and a fire, so he could see. The man he’d cut down was screaming (no monster from the dark world, then), masking all other sound. The armoured man swung at him and Kineas retreated, ducking the heavy blows, but his ripostes fell on thick scale armour. He didn’t have enough light for fine work, and he felt the press of time — at any second, he could get a blade or an arrow in the back, and his naked flesh made a better target than these black-painted attackers.

  He caught the next swing on his sword, pushed the other blade high, and stepped inside the man’s guard. Then he grappled the armoured man around the waist and threw him to the ground, where every scale on the man’s armour scraped against his naked chest. This was the fighting that Greeks trained for, and Kineas knew there was no Sakje who could stand against him. Down to the ground — fingers in the nose, thumb in the eye, knee in the groin — a spatter of blood, the smell of shit and his man was dead. Kineas listened while he wiped off the gore of the man’s eyes on the tunic under his armour and his gorge rose, because it was one thing to practise killing a man so close, and another to do it.

  The wounded man was still screaming, and off to the left, closer to the wagon, there was fighting. He lost precious seconds finding his sword again and ran, terrified that he had taken too long and she was dead.

  She was not dead. She was on the wagon, shooting down, and just below her, Philokles the Spartan stood with his heavy black spear. He had an arrow in his shoulder and another in his lower leg, and two dead men at his feet. A ring of adversaries stood beyond the reach of the black spear. There were more on the other side of the wagon, where Srayanka was shooting.

  Kineas came up silently and cut, the Egyptian blade going cleanly through the man’s neck, and then he cut again, low, severing the tendons in a man’s legs. Then he bellowed ‘Athena!’ and Philokles made two rapid lunges with the spear. A man slammed into Kineas’s side and he was suddenly in a melee, blades all around him.

  ‘Apollo!’ from the other side of the wagon. Diodorus’s voice.

  Kineas fell, both feet sliding out from under him — blood on wet grass — and a blade whistled through his hair. He rolled towards Philokles, rose to his feet and cut at a new adversary, who parried and came in close to grapple. Kineas caught at his sword hand and froze — it was Parshtaevalt.

  ‘Kineas!’ he said, and fell back. Then the two fought back to back for an eternity — perhaps a minute — their backs touching, the warmth of that touch meaning life and safety.

  ‘Apollo!’ again in the darkness, and then another and another, and the pressure on Kineas was lifting. He cut low — always dangerous in the dark — and his man went down with a grunt. Kineas leaned back until he felt Parshtaevalt’s back, and then took a deep breath. ‘Athena!’ he called.

  ‘Apollo!’ came the cries — and then they were all around him. He pushed through them, a horde of Greeks and Sakje mixed. Urvara stood, as naked as Srayanka, a bow in her hand, with a ring of Grass Cats around her. Behind her, Bain, the young war leader of the Cruel Hands, stood with a bow, covering Urvara. He threw back his head and howled like a wolf.

  Kineas had no time for them — he ran for the wagon.

  Srayanka still stood in the wagon, beautiful and terrible by the light of the oil lamp. She had a shallow cut on her neck and it had seeped blood all down her right side, so that she seemed to be a statue in black and white.

  ‘Marthax did this,’ she said.

  ‘You’re alive,’ he said.

  ‘Marthax did this,’ she repeated. ‘He means war. Fool! Fool — why did he not talk to me?’

  ‘He fears us too much,’ Kineas said. He was conscious that they were both naked — indeed, everyone but the dead and wounded attackers was naked.

  She nodded. ‘Get me the chiefs who are loyal to me,’ she said to Parshtaevalt, who had come up.

  Kineas turned to find Niceas at his shoulder. The man was shaking his head.

  ‘What do you intend?’ Kineas asked the women he loved.

  ‘To take the peo
ple who will go, and run,’ she said. ‘Otherwise, there will be war when the sun rises, and the Sakje will never unite again.’

  ‘He betrayed us and his guest oaths,’ Urvara said.

  Srayanka shook her head. ‘Perhaps.’ She spoke rapidly in Sakje — too rapidly for Kineas to follow, and the younger girl nodded.

  To Kineas, she said, ‘Either this attack came from one of his men, and he will be forced to accept it in the day — or he planned it himself, and he has another thousand horsemen waiting to fall on us with the dawn. I am taking my people and the Grass Cats and any others who will come.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Now. I go north and east. I will ride north to the City of Walls. If they admit me, I will take money and grain. From there, I will follow the sea of grass.’

  Kineas stood in the dark, still fogged from sleep, with the sick-sweet wash of combat in his veins, and tried to think. ‘I will never see you again!’ he said.

  She smiled at him, and climbed down from the wagon to embrace him. ‘That is the will of the gods,’ she said. ‘But I think that we are not two clansmen, lost on the plains. You are baqca and I am a priestess. You will see me,’ she said. ‘Go and reclaim your city. Then, if you wish it, follow me. You can go by sea to the Bay of Salmon — any Euxine Greek can show you the way. We will be slow — we will have many horses, and wagons, and children. If you miss us on the sea of grass, find us at Marakanda on the trade road. It is the greatest city on the plains.’

  ‘Marakanda?’ he asked. A city of myth. He shook his head. ‘If I can catch you, so can Marthax!’ Kineas said. His wounds hurt — the new ones, and the old ones more. But what she was saying made sense. And the plains were not as empty as he had once thought. There were roads and paths.

  ‘Marthax will not want to catch me,’ she said. She grabbed his head and pulled it down and kissed him until, despite his wounds and the blood on her, he was conscious of their nudity and the darkness.

  ‘I must be the Lady Srayanka!’ she said, breaking the embrace and pushing him away. ‘Go!’