Kineas was proud of them.
Kaliax of the Standing Horse came first. He was nursing a badly cut arm, and he was pale, but he agreed to serve at Kineas’s command. Varo of the Grass Cats looked better — he spoke quickly, still full of the daimon of the fight, and he spoke eloquently in Sakje of the day-long skirmish beyond the ford, the puncturing of the enemy screen, the discovery that the enemy camp was being packed.
Kineas tried to be patient, but his heart was with the Olbians, moving swiftly up the river. They might be fighting in an hour. Right or wrong, Kineas wanted to be there. He had the eye for the ground, and his was the voice that all of the other Greeks would obey — even Memnon.
It occurred to him that he might die today — this very evening, if the fight started immediately. He felt his stomach clench, and his heart race. It was here. Now.
He wanted to see Srayanka again. The last time. She was at the foot of the hill, just the length of a racecourse away.
Instead, he turned to Varo and Kaliax. ‘There will be fighting at the river god’s shrine by nightfall,’ he said. ‘It is an hour’s ride for you. How soon can you come?’
Kaliax flexed his injured hand. ‘Sunset,’ he said.
Varo nodded. ‘Some of my Cats are still across the ford. We’ll need remounts — food. Sunset at best.’
Kineas nodded grimly. He hadn’t hoped for any better. ‘Come on my right flank,’ he said. He had to search for the words, and after a minute of confusion and worry, he slid off his mount, walked to a campfire, grabbed a burnt stick and a scrap of linen that covered a pot despite the protests of the Sindi woman at the fire. He put the linen over his knee and drew. ‘River,’ he said. Then two lines at right angles, like a road. ‘The ford and the shrine,’ he said, and the two chiefs nodded. He sketched a block, a simple rectangle. ‘The Greeks,’ he said. And another, crossing the river. ‘Macedon.’
Both chiefs nodded. Kineas’s stick was out of charcoal. He walked back to the fire and chose another. He drew a line, and then a broad, curving arrow. ‘You come north,’ he said. ‘Swing east, away from the river, along the ridge.’
Both men nodded. ‘Sunset,’ said Varo.
‘Go with the gods,’ said Kineas.
He could feel the thing moving — the whole course of events, the preliminary to the battle, sweeping along like the river in the king’s story. He wanted his warhorse and armour; wanted to make sure the slaves had sufficient food for a hot meal for every one of the Greek allies — wanted to see Srayanka.
He had no time to talk to Srayanka.
He would probably never see her again.
He mounted, took one look at the column of Olbians vanishing into the deep grass along the river, and rode down the south side of the hill to where she sat her horse, one hand on her hip and the other holding her whip. She smiled at him. ‘Now,’ she said. ‘Now you will see how we fight.’
Something in Kineas was too weary to talk. He had only come to say goodbye, but she was so alive, so like a goddess — the Poet often said that men and women were like gods in their best moments, and there she was.
He didn’t want to die. He wanted to be with her for ever.
His silence, and something in his eye moved her. She leaned forward, threw her arms around him, pressed her cheek against his, so that he felt the warmth of her and the bite of her gold gorget against his neck.
‘Tomorrow,’ she said. ‘I will find you, or you will find me, and the Sastar Baqca will be lifted.’
He thought of many things to say. He realized, because he was a brave man, that what he wanted was her comfort — and that the best thing he could give her was his silence about the dream, so that she would ride to her battle with her hope undiminished. He pressed her to him.
‘You shaved,’ she said, patting his cheek as their horses pulled them apart.
‘Always look your best for battle,’ he said. ‘It’s a Greek tradition.’ He tried for humour, but she nodded seriously.
With that inane exchange, they parted. They were commanders — they had roles to play.
Kineas looked at her one more time — and she was looking at him. Her eyes — across a widening length of grass — and then she turned to bark an order. He took a deep breath, and rode for the horse lines.
22
Arni had the command of all the slaves. The wagons were moving, and the remounts were coming along, but Arni had Kineas’s warhorse ready, and stood at the animal’s head, despite his other responsibilities.
‘Master ordered me,’ he said. He gave his lopsided smile. ‘Blankets and gear with the baggage. Here’s both your best javelins — and your armour. Clean tunic — Ajax said your best. So it’s your best.’
Kineas grinned, his heart was lifted by seeing Srayanka, and because part of him didn’t believe in fated death, and because, right or wrong, he’d planned the summer away for this battle, and it was his. He slid off his mount. It took too long to change his tunic, too long to get his feet comfortable in the long boots of the heavy cavalryman, too long to close his breastplate and tie his sash. Upriver, they might be dying now.
He took his fancy gilt helmet and put it on the back of his head, and threw his best cloak — blue as her eyes — over his shoulder.
‘Start the fires as soon as you come up,’ Kineas said to Arni. ‘Choose the camp yourself. You’ve seen it done often enough. Get there in time to feed us, and I’ll see you a free man. Tell your men — if we win, every one of you will be free.’
‘My master said the same,’ Arni said with satisfaction.
Diodorus came up with his helmet on. ‘Ready,’ he said. He gave Kineas half a smile. He was exhausted — and so would his men be.
Not as tired as the Macedonians, he reminded himself.
Kineas relinquished the reins of his best riding horse to Arni and mounted Thanatos. ‘Pick a good camp,’ he said, and set the stallion to run.
It was easy to follow the army. They had beaten a road in the tall grass as wide as Memnon’s phalanx. It ran along the river for a few stades and then went straight as a bowstring at a tangent, cutting across the long sweep of the bend.
Kineas was impatient of the speed of Diodorus’s troop. He forgave them their fatigue — they’d earned it — but he needed to be there. He found himself pulling ahead, and finally, he turned, rode back to Diodorus, and shook his head. ‘Pardon me, old friend. I have to go.’
Diodorus waved. Kineas pointed with his whip at Niceas, and the two of them set off at a gallop.
He caught the phalanx at the top of the ridge that dominated the river valley. He waved to Memnon and kept going. Memnon would not expect a chat. He rode down the ridge, passing the first wagons that Arni had dispatched where they were delayed by soft ground. Men were cutting brush and tying it in bundles to hold the weight of the wagons. Kineas rode on. Beyond, the bulk of the phalanx of Pantecapaeum was clear of the marshy ground and there were officers shouting at them to close up, close up. Men were taking their shields off their backs and putting them on their arms.
Battle was close.
From here, on the last heights of the ridge, Kineas could see that there was fighting at the ford. Archers were firing on both sides, and there were bodies on the ground. He could see his own cavalry formed well clear of the ford itself, and he could see a body of infantry — it had to be Philokles — running up to form a line, stragglers trailing away behind them. Few men could run thirty stades over bad ground without pausing, even after a life of training. They might be so tired from the run that they’d be useless in a fight — but they were there.