Kineas found that he was standing in the flap of his wagon, watching the king’s laager and trying to will the man to send for him. He was starved for news. And his dream — his waking dream — told him that the danger was close.
Philokles came up, rubbing his hands on a piece of linen. His hair was clean and his skin newly oiled. ‘I have made sacrifice to all the gods,’ Philokles said.
Kineas nodded. ‘It is a good day to greet the gods,’ he said, his eyes still on the king’s camp. ‘I believe Diodorus is doing the same?’
Philokles sat on the wagon step, using a small knife to get sacrificial blood out from under his nails. He nodded absently at the mention of Diodorus, and said, ‘When we get to this battle?’
‘Yes?’ Kineas asked. He misunderstood Philokles’ purpose. ‘It’ll be different in battle. The Sakje have some heavy cavalry — I was surprised by how well armoured the nobles are, and you saw the Sauromatae — they’re like brick ovens on horses. But they can’t manoeuvre like us.’ He glanced at Philokles and saw that he had missed his mark. ‘That’s not what you wanted to know, is it?’ he said with some embarrassment.
Philokles shook his head. ‘No. Interesting enough, but no. Where do you die? Do you mind if I do something to prevent it?’
Kineas frowned, then smiled. ‘I think I’m too used to it. It has become the central fact of my existence, and yet it is like a burden released. I know the hour of my death — I know we will triumph. It seems almost a fair exchange.’ He shrugged, because there was no explaining how he felt about it — the fatalism. ‘I don’t worry as much as I used to,’ he said, hoping that this would sound like a joke.
Philokles’ face grew red, and his eyes sparkled, and he smacked the wagon bed with his fist so that the whole wagon moved. ‘Bullshit! Bullshit, Hipparch! You do not need to die. I have great respect for Kam Baqca. But her trances come from drugs — from the seeds they all carry. I say it again — she has foreseen her death, and it colours all her dreams.’ He paused, took a breath. ‘Tell me where you die?’
Kineas sighed. He pointed out at the ford. ‘It is not here — but it is very like. There should be a huge tree on the far bank, and driftwood on a beach — also on the far side. Big driftwood — whole tree trunks. That’s what I remember.’ He shrugged. ‘I haven’t really looked.’
Philokles stood like a bull, breathing through his nose — angry, or frustrated, or both. ‘You haven’t looked. Do you think the battle will be here?’
Looking out the flap in the wagon tent, Kineas could see Eumenes and Niceas standing with a third man — a big man. Niceas gestured toward Kineas. Kineas saw that the third man was the Sindi smith. He poured himself a cup of wine. He gestured silently at Philokles, who nodded, and he poured wine for the Spartan while he responded.
‘I think it will be here — yes. The road runs to this ford, and this is the best ford for stades — dozens, even hundreds of stades. The king assures me this is true.’ Even as Kineas said this, he considered the assertion. It was untested. He should be exploring himself. The Sakje were superb horsemen, but they were not professional soldiers, and he’d already seen the difference between their observational skills — excellent, and their scouting reports — pitiful. His own sense of fatalism was sapping his professional competence.
Philokles took the wine. ‘So what — Zopryon will just march up to the river, see our camp, and force a crossing?’
Kineas could see Niceas and the smith walking up the hill toward the wagon. ‘It will depend on how badly the next week hurts him. On the spirit that motivates his army. I think he will march up to the ford, and camp, leaving a strong force to block the ford. This will free him from night raids and allow his men to sleep — and if the Sakje have harassed him for a week, that sleep will be valuable. After he’s rested his men and horses for a day — perhaps two — he’ll make his move.’
‘Straight across the ford?’ Philokles asked.
‘Alexander — or rather Parmenion — had two ways to deal with this. One was to force a crossing with the cavalry, and then use them to cover the taxeis when they cross.’ Kineas smiled wolfishly. ‘That would not work against the Sakje. If Zopryon attempts it, he will be beaten swiftly. So rather, the second method — to send the taxeis across with shields locked, push up our bank, and then move cavalry across under cover of the pikes.’ Kineas nodded to himself. ‘I’ve seen it done. It has the added charm of demoralizing the foe — every unit you get across and formed in line seems like another stitch in his winding sheet.’
Philokles finished his wine. ‘So, it will all hinge on Memnon holding the taxeis at the river?’
Kineas shook his head. ‘No. If I have my way, we’ll let him cross unopposed. We’ll let him have our camp.’
Philokles nodded slowly. ‘Are you perhaps more Sakje in your heart than Greek? Is not the loss of your camp the ultimate humiliation?’
Kineas shook his head. ‘Slavery and defeat are the ultimate humiliation. But yes, in this, I am more Sakje than Greek.’
Philokles watched the three men coming. ‘They want to speak to you. Listen, then — I want to fight on foot, with the phalanx. I’m wasted in the saddle, and if you are going to sacrifice yourself for glory, I refuse to watch it.’ His voice was tight with emotion. He looked away, steadied himself, and his voice became lighter. ‘Memnon seems to feel that he could use me to keep some youngsters in line.’
Kineas suspected it was all pre-battle jitters. Even Spartans succumbed. He rested a hand on the iron muscles of Philokles’ shoulder. ‘Fight where you will. I swear I intend no sacrifice. I would rather live.’ He thought of the iron-coloured horse, and the dreams, which grew more frequent. They were true dreams. But he wouldn’t tell Philokles the details.
‘It is almost hubris, this assumption of doom.’ Philokles put his cup down carefully. ‘I tell you, if I can break this — this dream of ill omen, break it I will.’ He grabbed the rib of the wagon tent and swung himself to the ground, brushing by Niceas, and walked off into the evening.
‘You remember Hephaestes, here?’ Niceas asked, jerking his thumb at the Sindi blacksmith.
Kineas swung down with the pitcher of wine. He glanced automatically at the king’s laager and saw a man dismounting, his arms moving feverishly. Kineas made himself turn away and offered watered wine to Niceas, then to Eumenes, whose face had aged ten years in the last day, and finally to the smith.
The smith took the wine cup and set it carefully on the ground. ‘I become man of you,’ he said without preamble.
Kineas pursed his lips and shook his head. ‘Say again,’ he said in Sakje.
The smith nodded. ‘My village is destroyed. I have no family. I will swear gutyramas to you.’
Kineas looked at Eumenes. ‘I don’t know that word.’
Eumenes shook his head. ‘Some of our farmers hold land by gutyramas. It is more than tenancy — almost like joining a family. A loyalty bond, not just a deal for cash.’ Eumenes shrugged. ‘Farmers bound that way are better workers — and more demanding. Lawsuits, dowries — like I say, they feel they have become family, like being adopted as a cousin.’
Kineas spread his hands. ‘I have no land to give you, smith. I hold no land.’
The smith rubbed the back of his neck. ‘We broke men,’ he said, and he pointed down the hill at the other Sindi refugees from the north. ‘Some of us, the Cruel Hands accept — others, no man’s man are. No family, no farm. Gone, in the smoke.’ He looked up, met Kineas’s eye. ‘They take me for leading. Yes? I have nothing. I offer it, and them, of you. Me, I seek death, but for them, I seek life. Am I speaking so that you hear?’
Kineas nodded, wishing he had Ataelus, but Ataelus was pursuing his dream of a horse herd with Srayanka and the Cruel Hands. To Niceas, he said, ‘Can we feed them?’
‘Fifty men? I expect we can. What would we do with them? Camp servants? We have enough.’ Niceas raised an eyebrow.
Kineas nodded. He gestured to the smith. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.
‘Temerix,’ he said, then frowned.
‘The Sindi form of Hephaestes,’ Eumenes put in.
‘Come with me, then,’ he said. Finally, an excuse to go to the king.
He walked up the hill to the king’s laager, followed by Temerix and Niceas. Nobody challenged them at the gate of the laager, and the king sat on the tongue of his wagon, straightening arrows with Marthax. Kam Baqca sat on the grass, her leather skirts gathered around her, sipping tea.
‘Kineas!’ the king said, getting to his feet. His pleasure was unfeigned.
