that night on the adjacent heights, rushes down on the foe.
The enemy flees into the iced-over courses. Their horses carry two, even three fugitives. When the foe strikes the riverbed, Mack artillery opens up. A furlonger can sling a ten-pound stone two hundred yards, downhill three hundred. As these missiles crash among the rocks and the ice-shards of the frozen river, panic undoes the enemy. Our captain Leander falls, struck by one of our own stones. The fight is sharp and violent. When it’s over, the bag is sixty ponies and forty men. And an unexpected bonus:
Derdas, the fourteen-year-old son of Spitamenes.
40
A melee erupts over this prize. Our Daans scrap with each other like barn cats (they recognize the lad from their days fighting on his father’s side), believing the boy’s head will bring a bucket of gold. Stephanos and other Mack officers order the lad impounded apart. Meanwhile, despite desperate efforts to save him, our captain Leander bleeds to death. Three other Macks have received fatal wounds; a dozen more have been cut up badly by the fiercely defending foe. The boy looks on with cool, intelligent eyes.
Spitamenes’ son is dressed Massagetae style, in boots and bloused trousers, long khetal cloak, and earflap cap. Nothing distinguishes him from his less illustrious companions, save an onyx-handled dagger, which two of our Daans have produced from the youth’s undervest when he and the others are disarmed. A fracas breaks out over ownership of this trophy. In the confusion a handful of the foe make getaways, on horseback, before our fellows can throw a cordon around the capture scene.
These runaways will fly on wings to Spitamenes, whose forces may be as close as beyond the next range of hills. Wherever he is, the Wolf will not spare the whip, racing to pay us out-and rescue his boy.
Stephanos and two lieutenants struggle to establish order. A council is called. As corporals, Lucas and I take part. Stephanos declares that the mixed composition of the enemy party-Daans and Massagetae with main-force Bactrians and Sogdians-can mean only that the foe is assembling. “When these bastards scatter, they break up into tribal bands. They only ride in one pack when they’re massing.”
Lucas and I confirm this. We saw it with our own eyes when we were captives.
Costas backs up Stephanos’s supposition. “Persian-trained officers”-meaning Spitamenes-“bring their sons when they believe they’re entering a fight to the death. The youth must be on hand to witness his father’s heroism in victory-or to secure from violation his remains in defeat.”
In other words, something big is coming.
A rider must be dispatched back to column. A row breaks out over this. Agathocles, the intelligence officer, demands custody of Spitamenes’ son. Whatever the meaning of the lad’s presence, his physical person must be delivered at once-to Coenus and then to Alexander. The boy represents a significant counter in the game of war and peace. Agathocles will bring the prize in himself. He commands Stephanos to detail an escort.
Stephanos refuses.
Agathocles, the poet declares, will be run down by the foe in hours, alone on the steppe with only a few men. “You must stay with the main body, sir.” Both lieutenants defer to Stephanos, though they outrank him, in favor of his experience in war and his fame as a soldier. The poet orders the column organized, prisoners bound, and our wounded tended to. We will move out as a body, as soon as we’re able.
Agathocles insists on starting off with Spitamenes’ son at once. Time, he says, is of the essence. He demands a guide and eight men on fast horses.
Stephanos laughs in his face. It goes without saying that our commander despises the intelligence officer’s unspoken motive: to claim for himself the glory of this capture.
“I’m not going to argue with you, Color Sergeant,” says Agathocles.
“Nor I with you,” answers Stephanos. He will not risk the loss of so valuable a prisoner, nor any Mack sent onto the steppe to protect him.
Costas steps up. “I’ll go.”
The parley cracks up. Flag points into the badlands. “They bleed blood out there, correspondent, not ink.”
To his credit, the chronicler stands fast. “Then I’ll write my story in it.”
Agathocles’ patience has run out. “If you refuse to give me men, poet, then come yourself. Protect me. Or do you lack the belly?”
I have rarely seen Stephanos parted from his self-command. But Agathocles, now, drives him to it. Flag and Lucas have to step in, restraining Stephanos.
Agathocles calls for horses. His aide picks out men to form an escort. Several are Daans, never to be trusted; the Macks who come forward can charitably be called opportunists. I glance to Lucas. Something has to be done. “I’ll go,” I say.
My mate blocks me.
“You went with Tollo.”
He means it’s his turn to risk his neck for no good reason.
Stephanos bars everyone. “No one’s going!”
But Agathocles is already in the saddle. His rank is full captain; Stephanos is only a color sergeant. The other riders bring their prize captive. Lucas takes up his arms and kit; he mounts; Agathocles again orders Stephanos to remember his station.
I catch Lucas’s bridle. Into his saddle-pouch I press my woolen overcloak and a sack of kishar and lentils. He takes my hand.
“Whatever happens to me, brother,” he says, “tell the truth.”
41
It takes six days, pushing our animals and prisoners, to relink with the main column. This is at Gabae, the trading camp on the frontier between Sogdiana and the Wild Lands. We catch up with the siege train; the fighting elements have already pushed north. The Wolf’s tribesmen, a scout tells us, are massing above the border. “Looks like an all-in skull-buster.”
No one has seen Lucas or Costas or Agathocles. The capture of Spitamenes’ son is news to them. They have heard nothing and know nothing.
We drop our prisoners and press north along the military highway, or what has become the military highway. Mule trains of hundreds bring up rations and heavy gear. How far ahead is Coenus? No one knows. Where is Spitamenes? The rear-boggers give us the blank stare.
Our animals are too fagged to keep pace. They need a day. We carve a camp alongside the trudging supply column, in an icecrusted wash in the middle of nothing. Gales howl. We chop sod for a windbreak. Plunging my pike into the turf, I pull up a skull. Flag digs up a hip joint. The site is a barrow. An ancient burial mound.
Soldiers are superstitious. “I ain’t bonzing here,” says Dice.
We bed down with the muleteers. Breakfast is wine and millet scratch, both frozen. We share it with a squad of Paeonian lancers-Alexander’s elite scouts-who have ridden three days without rest from Nautaca.
“Where’s the king?”
“Coming fast, mates. And bringing every bat and bumper!”
The lancers wolf their gruel, then spur north, putting the supply column behind them.
By postnoon Alexander’s merc cavalry are passing. Rumor says his Royal Squadron of Companions-and he himself-have already pushed past Gabae by the eastern caravan trace. They’re ahead of us.
We slog on. The supply train has plenty of dry fodder, but their sergeants won’t let us have it. Every bale is tagged for a line unit. We have nothing for our ponies. The steppe sprawls gray and frozen; grass is frost-stiff straw. Our horses’ turds gush like soup.
Still no one has word of Lucas.
