Kineas shook his head. ‘Fuck,’ he murmured. And went to sleep.
When he woke again, it was dark. Ataelus was sitting by the fire, playing with it, and Kineas watched him for what seemed a long time, as he collected chips of bark and wood from the carpets and fed them into the flames, absorbed by the flickers of light and the process of burning. Then he slipped out through the door and returned with an armload of small stuff, carefully broken to length. He placed it neatly atop the remnants of an older stack and built the fire up until it roared. In the new light of the high flames, Kineas could see that Kam Baqca was sitting across the fire — had been sitting the whole time. She wore a long coat of skin, covered in minute symbols carefully worked in dyed deer hair. Hundreds of small gold plates covered the sleeves and breast, so that she glittered in the new light. Her feet were clad in tight-fitting shoes and stockings of skin — the shoes were little more than socks of leather — also covered in minute decoration. Kineas could see horses and antelope and stranger animals, especially gryphons, repeated in endless variety, no two the same.
She saw that he was awake and came around the fire to him. Her face was middle-aged, handsome and dignified, with a long straight nose and high plucked brows — but the eyes were a man’s eyes, and the throat was a man’s throat. And her hands, when she lifted a cup for him to drink — the cup was solid gold — were a man’s hands, heavy with calluses and broken skin.
Ataelus was still toying with the fire. Kam Baqca spoke, her voice low, and Ataelus came and joined her.
‘Kam Baqca asks, how is it for you, this night?’ Ataelus enunciated more clearly than he usually did.
Kineas shook his head to be rid of the gold cup. ‘I’m better. Yes? Good? Can you give her my thanks? She is a doctor?’
Ataelus cocked his head to one side like a very smart dog. ‘You better? ’ he said and then repeated himself in his barbarian tongue.
‘Can you tell her “Thank you”,’ Kineas asked again. He spaced his words carefully.
Ataelus spoke more in his other language, and then turned back to Kineas. ‘I say thank you, for you. Good? Good. Speak so much Greek, for me.’ He laughed. ‘Maybe learn more Greek for me, yes?’
Kineas nodded and lay back on the pile of furs beneath his head. Just raising his head took too much effort.
Kam Baqca began to speak. The longer she spoke, the more familiar her words seemed — so like Persian. She said xshathra Ghan, the Great King — he knew that word. It wore him out, listening, so near to understanding.
Ataelus began to translate. ‘She say, for you important seek the king, soon. But sooner for you talk to her. More important, most important thing talk to her. She say, for you almost die. Then she say, yes, do you remember for almost die?’
Kineas nodded. ‘Tell yes. Yes, I remember.’
She nodded as his response and went on. Ataelus said, ‘She say, did you go into the river?’
And Kineas was afraid. She was very barbarous and her male/female role was alien, and now she was asking him a question about his dream. He didn’t answer.
She shook her head violently. A hand shot out of her cuffs and gestured at him, and when she spoke, her Greek, while Ionian, was clear enough. ‘Be not afraid! But only speak the truth. Did you go into the river?’
Kineas nodded. He could see it — could taste the dust. ‘Yes.’
She nodded. From behind her she produced a drum, covered in more little animals — mostly reindeer. She produced a small whip, like a children’s toy riding whip, except that the handle was iron and the whip was made of hair, and with the whip she began to play the drum and sing.
Kineas wanted to go. He wanted free of the alien tent and the alien he-woman and he wanted to be spoken to in proper Greek. He was very near the edge of panic. He stared at Ataelus — familiar Ataelus, his prokusatore, searching for stability.
She snapped the drum up into the air and said a long sentence. Ataelus said, ‘She says, I find you in the river, I bring you home. Only for you. Only for Baqcas. No warrior is — was — will…’ Ataelus sat and struggled with language, and suddenly smiled: ‘ Should be alive. She say, this for most important thing. Yes? You know what I say?’
Kineas turned away, unable to understand past the sheer barbarity. ‘Tell her I thank her,’ he said and pretended to fall asleep. Soon, he was.
9
The next day he was stronger and they moved him. The move cleared his head and his glimpse of the outside world, even amidst the snow, cheered him; there were dogs and horses and men wearing skins and fur, women in trousers and heavy fur jackets, gold rings and gold decorations everywhere. He had been in the tent of the Kam Baqca, he now understood, and now they took him to a tent set aside for him. He had piles of furs and two gold lamps, rugs and mats and several Thracian cloaks for good measure. Philokles led the move and all of the boys were there, fighting for a place in carrying his litter, arranging his furs, his blankets, getting him hot wine.
It was deeply touching and he enjoyed it. And the conversation with Kam Baqca seemed less alien. Perhaps he had still had a touch of fever, but it was gone now.
‘I take it you are all waiting for me to recover,’ he said to Philokles. The rest of the boys had cleared out, led by Ajax, to join hunters from the Sakje.
‘Yes. The king wants to speak to you before he moves. To be frank, I suggested we leave you with his people and I lead the escort back to Olbia, but he thinks that you are a person of consequence.’
‘Ares’ balls. Why?’ Kineas snorted. Many things had gone below the threshold of worry during the last days, but they were all back now — his alienated employer, the factions, the city.
‘Lady Srayanka — I mentioned her. The king’s niece, I think, although they have a different word for every degree of relative.’
‘Like the Persians.’
‘Just so. She’s a niece, or maybe a sister’s adopted child, but she’s someone with power and she’s our girl from the plains. She claims you are a man of importance. Ataelus says it’s a warrior thing.’ Philokles shrugged. ‘I gather you killed someone important — or perhaps just at the right time? Or — Eumenes says this — avenged somebody here by your act and that gives you status.’
Kineas shook his head. ‘We’re a long way from home.’ He felt an excitement — our girl from the plains. Now I’ve learned her name. Srayanka. It seemed an absurd thing for a grown man to be so pleased by, but he was pleased. He repeated it over and over, like a prayer.
Philokles sat on a pile of furs. Kineas realized with a start that Philokles was wearing leather trousers. It was so un-Greek; so unlike a Spartan, however exiled. Philokles followed his gaze and smiled. ‘It’s cold. And someone made them for me — Eumenes said it would be rude to refuse. They are warm. They rub the parts.’
‘If the Ephors could see you now, you’d be an exile for ever.’ Kineas began to laugh. It hurt his chest, but it felt good. He was speaking Greek to a Greek. The world would be right soon enough.
Philokles laughed with him and then leaned over. ‘Listen to me, Kineas. There’s more to this than you know.’
Kineas nodded.
‘No, listen! These people — they hold the military power on the plains. They don’t need hoplites or walls. They’re nomads — they just move when they want. They hold the power here. They have the ability to stop Macedon on the plains. Or not.’
Kineas sat up. ‘Since when do you care so deeply what Macedon does?’
Philokles stood up. ‘This is not about me.’
Kineas lay back. ‘It is. It is about you.’ There was something nagging at the edge of his thoughts, some connection. ‘You wanted to be here. Here you are. Macedon? Are they really coming here? Do I care? I’ll get the company clear before-’
‘NO!’ Philokles leaned over him. ‘No, Kineas. Stay and fight! All these people need to hear is that Olbia and Pantecapaeum will stand and fight beside them, and they will assemble an army. Srayanka says so.’
