Kineas divided the rest of the army into two groups. Ataelus was gone with the first group — just the elite prodromoi, used to living off the land. They had been off as soon as their horses swam ashore, scouting the route that the army would take across the high ground. Kineas expected daily reports from the scouts — Ataelus had enough riders to send a messenger every morning.
Diodorus commanded the second group, composed of the bulk of the Greek infantry and the Sindi psiloi. They would make their best speed to the coast of the inland sea, where shipping should by then await them, covered by two troops of Olbian cavalry.
Prince Lot would lead the rest: the Sauromatae as well as Heron’s troop of cavalry and Eumenes’ troop. They were to move across the trail blazed by Ataelus in easy stages, starting last by a week and covering the movement of the other groups because they were the best fitted to living off the steppe.
The Greek infantry marched out of the camp in good order on the second day after their landing, their goods piled on their mules. Every one of them had just completed a summer on campaign. They carried too much baggage, but that was true of soldiers the world over. Their bodies were hard, and they sang as they marched out.
The hoplites set off at a pace that would eat a parasang (thirty stades) in an hour — a pace they and their donkeys could maintain all day if required. Barring disaster, they would have crossed the high ground between Lake Maeotis and the Kaspian Sea in thirty days, swamps, ridges and all, and still have purchased grain to eat while they awaited Leon’s boats on the Kaspian.
The whole army marched, and ate, as Greek soldiers had marched for generations. Every man belonged to a mess group — eight or ten men and their women and slaves under a file leader. They marched together, fought together as a file and ate together, buying their food from the daily common market and cooking it by turns over the group’s fire when they camped. That fire was often the centre of their lives — home and hearth combined. They had no tents and no blankets but the cloaks they all carried, and rain or snow or beating sun, they could live, and march.
The system was so old and so endemic to Greeks that even the gentry — the cavalry and the officers — followed the same system. At the very top, the strategos was not expected to cook — he was too busy. But he could cook, and he did, on occasion. Greek notions of democracy were not limited to politics, and Spartan or Athenian, Olbian or Heraklean, every Hellene soldier knew that his food was his own responsibility.
Kineas was much given to thoughts of food these days. He dreamed of food supply at night when he wasn’t fighting against the dreams of the tree, and awake, he pondered how to ship grain ahead of his army, pondered the purchase of additional mules, pondered the possibilities of farming failures and war and the results for his tenuous supply.
‘Do as you think best,’ Kineas had said to Philokles before they rode away, wrapped in his Spartiates cloak of scarlet, sitting beside Leon in a splendid blue cloak that lacked the wear of a season in the field, a study in contrasts. ‘Don’t be tied to my plan. Make your judgements on the ground. If we can ride around the north of this Hyrkanian Sea — the Kaspian — or if it seems better to you, or if you cannot hire the shipping, or if it is too late in the season-’
Philokles put his hand on Kineas’s shoulder. ‘You’ve already told us every word of your worries,’ he said.
Kineas gave a wry smile. ‘I will worry until I see you again,’ he said, and Leon shifted his weight, embarrassed by their obvious emotion.
Kineas smiled at Leon. ‘Don’t feel it too keenly when this plan of ours is discarded,’ he said. ‘We may never make Hyrkania.’
‘I won’t let you down,’ Leon said.
‘I’ll while away the stades discoursing on your flaws and bring him back cured of hero worship,’ Philokles said. He stroked the neck of his heavy charger, a magnificent animal he had preserved throughout the year’s campaigns by the simple expedient of fighting on foot. ‘I haven’t missed you, you brute,’ he said. ‘My thighs will burn like a river of fire before night.’
He embraced Kineas, and they patted each other’s backs for a long minute. Then they parted, and Kineas embraced Leon. ‘Do well,’ he said, and turned away to hide his tears.
Kineas found it difficult to wave goodbye to Philokles.
An hour later, Kineas stood on a low hill — almost certainly an ancient kurgan like the one that now held the body of Satrax — and watched his infantry with pride. He had climbed the kurgan alone to have time to think, a luxury for a commander, even of a thousand men. He waved at Philokles, who still sat his charger like a sack of grain, and Leon, who rode like a centaur and carried a shield on horseback, one of the few men Kineas had ever seen do such a thing. Neither saw him until the army was already a stade out on the plain, their singing just a chant on the wind, when Leon happened to look at the top of the old mound and Kineas saw him trot his mount alongside Philokles. The Spartan turned in his saddle, looked, put a hand to his eyes and then waved.
Kineas waved back enthusiastically. He found that he was crying again. He waved until he had to strain his eyes to see them, and then he sat in the hollow at the top, resting his shoulders against the stone, and closed his eyes.
‘May the gods send that I see you again,’ he swore.
‘ You will,’ said a deep voice behind him, but when he turned there was no one there but the Sakje child.
‘How do you know?’ Kineas asked her.
She looked at him with all the puzzlement that children use for adults who don’t behave themselves. ‘Know what, lord?’
Kineas bit back a retort. The voice had been hers — and yet had not been hers. ‘Surely there is someone else for you to haunt, girl,’ he said.
‘No,’ she said simply, and came around him to sit on the sacred stone that capped the kurgan. The sword that should have rested in the stone or in the earth beside it was gone, either long since rusted into the ground or taken for its power by a yatavu, a sorcerer. Ordinary mortals avoided sitting on the kurgan stones, fearing the spirits of the dead. She did not.
‘What is your name, girl?’ Kineas asked.
‘When will you come for your horses, Strategos?’ she asked. ‘They pine for you — and you ride inferior blood. You are king. I say so. My father says so. It pains him to see you astride some Getae hack when you should be riding a royal horse.’
Kineas sat down on the low bank of grass-covered earth created by the slow collapse of the roof of the kurgan and sighed. ‘They are fine horses,’ he admitted.
‘And my father is cross that you will not climb the tree. He says,’ and here she scrunched up her face and squared her shoulders so that her back was straighter, an eerie performance, ‘he says that you let your fear guide you instead of your sense as a baqca.’
Kineas sighed again. ‘Kam Baqca is dead,’ he said.
The little girl shrugged. ‘Many people are dead,’ she said. ‘Should they also be silent?’
Kineas spoke too fast, because he didn’t want an argument, and because she was annoying him. ‘We don’t believe that the dead speak.’
The little girl regarded him from under her straight dark brows. ‘That’s not true,’ she said.
Kineas caught his own mistake, and he laughed at his own inability to defeat a young woman in debate. ‘The dead may speak on great occasions,’ he said.
‘The dead may speak whenever it suits the gods to allow them to speak,’ the child said, as if teaching a lesson. ‘So you should not lie. The dead speak to Odysseus in the Odyssey. If the Poet says a thing, it must be true, don’t you think?’ She looked at him. He felt the hair on the nape of his neck begin to rise.