The king rubbed his beard. He glanced at Marthax. ‘Warlord?’ he asked.
Marthax shrugged. ‘What do we want, Lord?’ he asked bluntly. ‘The campaign has always come to this. Do we avoid battle? Or force battle and fight to destroy this enemy utterly — risking our own destruction? Did we not decide from the first to take that risk? We might have ridden into the grass in the spring — even now, we might be with the Messagetae. We are here. Enough council. Let us cut this Zopryon off from the south — that is sense — and goad him to the fight. Let him cross the ford in the morning.’ Marthax’s look at Kam Baqca was almost tender. ‘We will be stung. But the hornet’s nest will be destroyed utterly. So say I.’
The king glanced around the circle, but it was clear that the chiefs were with Marthax, and only the king hesitated. He said, ‘I remind you that when we first planned this campaign, we discussed a parley at this precise moment. A token of submission.’
The chiefs growled. Next to Kineas, Srayanka stiffened and her face set.
The king looked around at them. He pointed to Kineas. ‘Your friend the Spartan says that war is a tyrant, and nothing makes it more clear than this.’ His bitterness was evident. ‘The taste of blood has excited you. You want to risk all so that this menace may be destroyed, or so that we may all be remembered in song.’ He glanced at Srayanka. ‘Or so that past injustice may be wiped clean.’
The tent was silent while he toyed with his whip. None of them made a noise, and the sound of hoof beats carried clearly from outside.
The king looked at Kam Baqca, but she turned her face away and raised her hand, as if the king’s eyes might scorch her. The hoof beats came closer, and stopped, and in the unnatural stillness Kineas heard the sound as the rider’s feet hit the ground.
The king flinched at Kam Baqca’s reaction. Then he drew himself up, and Kineas, who knew the weight of command, could all but see the full load settle on the king’s shoulders. He raised his whip and pointed at the lord of the Grass Cats.
‘The king! I must see the king!’ said a strong voice from the doorway of the tent.
The messenger was young, wearing nothing but a gorytos over breeches and boots and a short knife. He threw himself in front of the king.
‘Lord — there is a herald at the ford demanding our submission. A herald from the bronze hats.’
As soon as Kineas saw Cleomenes sitting on a tall mare at Zopryon’s side, he knew the worst.
The rain was clearing. A veil of cloud moved fitfully along the river valley, separating the two armies, but in the heavens, the sun was gradually conquering the element of water. Kineas looked up, and saw an eagle or a hawk far, far to the north — his right. A good omen. Below, on the earth, a hundred Macedonian cavalry sat a half-stade to the west, while a hundred of the king’s household sat at the edge of the ford. And between them were two half-circles: the king of the Sakje, Marthax and Srayanka, Lot and Kineas. Across a horse length of grass: Zopryon, flanked by a Macedonian officer and Cleomenes, and a herald.
The good omen in the sky hardly balanced the disaster of Cleomenes’ presence.
The Macedonian herald had just completed reading his master’s requirements — the submission of the Sakje, a tribute of twenty thousand horses, and the immediate repudiation of the armies of Olbia and Pantecapaeum.
Kineas watched Cleomenes. Cleomenes met his eye and smiled.
When the herald was done, Zopryon nudged his horse into motion. He wore no helmet, but a diadem of white in his hair.
‘I have Olbia in the palm of my hand,’ he said. His words were arrogant. They belied the look on his face — fatigue, and worry. He went on. ‘With Olbia as a base, I can ride against your towns. I will spend the autumn burning your crops. Save me the time. Submit.’
None of the Sakje flinched.
Cleomenes spoke to Kineas. ‘You are wise to bring no man of Olbia to this parley, mercenary. But my men will find them, and tell them. And they will march away from you, and leave you to die with these. Traitor. False hireling. For you, my lord Zopryon will have no mercy.’
Kineas gave no more reaction than the Sakje. Instead, he turned to the king. And the king, who had sat slumped, relaxed, or perhaps tired while listening to the herald, now drew himself erect.
‘When news of your herald came,’ he said in his excellent Greek, ‘I was in council with my chiefs. Ever they urge me to battle, and ever I hesitate, because to fight a battle is to submit the fate of my people to chance and death. O Zopryon, your words have cleared the air for me, as the sun burns away every fog, in the end. Do you know your Herodotus?’
Zopryon’s face darkened. ‘Do not toy with me. Submit, or take the consequence.’
Even now, Kineas could see that the man was in a hurry. Even with Olbia in hand, just three hundred stades away, the desperation was still there. A flicker of hope relit in Kineas’s stomach.
The king reached out and took a basket from Srayanka, who rode at his side. ‘Here are your tokens, O Zopryon.’ He shrugged, and appeared as young as he really was. ‘I hadn’t time to catch a bird.’
He pushed his horse into motion. The horse took a few steps, and all of the Macedonians reacted. But the king handed the wicker basket to the herald. And then stopped his horse nose to nose with Zopryon’s horse.
Zopryon motioned impatiently. The herald took a linen towel off the top of the basket, and a frog leaped clear. The herald dropped the basket in shock. He turned to his master. ‘Vermin!’ he said. ‘Mice and frogs!’
The king reached into his gorytos and withdrew a handful of light arrows, which he threw on the ground at Zopryon’s feet. ‘I am the king of the Sakje. That is the answer of the Sakje. My allies may speak for themselves.’ The king glanced at Kineas and sat straight. And then he turned his horse and rode away.
Cleomenes was as red as a Spartan’s cloak. The herald’s horse shied from the mice in the grass.
Kineas leaned forward. His hands were clenched with tension, but his voice carried well enough. ‘His tokens mean just this, Zopryon. Unless you can swim like a frog, burrow like a mouse, or fly like a bird, we will destroy you with our arrows.’
Zopryon reacted angrily enough to confirm Kineas’s suspicion that the man was at the edge. ‘This embassage is ended, mercenary! Be gone before I order you dead.’
Kineas pushed his horse forward, floating on the promise of his dream. ‘Try, Zopryon,’ he said. ‘Try to kill me.’
Zopryon turned his horse. ‘You are mad. Drunk with power.’
Kineas laughed. It was a harsh laugh, a little forced, but it did the job. ‘Does Alexander know you wear the diadem?’ Kineas called. ‘Do you have an ivory stool to match it?’ He saw the shot go home. Zopryon whirled his horse. He put his hand on his sword hilt.
Kineas sat still, and his warhorse didn’t stir.
Cleomenes leaned forward over his horse’s neck. ‘You are a dangerous man. And now you will die.’
Kineas stood his ground. His laugh was derisive, and he was proud that he could conjure it. And he needed to goad Zopryon. He needed the man to commit to his desperation. ‘Your horses are starving,’ he yelled. ‘Your men walk like corpses. You are burning your wagons for firewood.’
Zopryon was two horse lengths away. His hand was still on his sword, and his face was moving.
Kineas pointed at the king’s arrows. ‘Cleomenes,’ he said mockingly. ‘You have chosen unwisely.’ He held the man’s eyes. ‘You are a fool. This army will never get to Olbia alive.’