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.’
Cleomenes didn’t flinch. ‘I demand that you give me my son, and all the men still loyal to the archon.’
Kineas shook his head. ‘If I sent Eumenes to you,’ he said, ‘he would kill you himself.’ To Zopryon, he said, ‘Olbia is on our side of the river. Your scouts will have told you that there is no ford south of here. Whenever you think you can force the ford, come and face us. If your horses don’t starve first.’
Zopryon’s rage began to boil out of him, and Kineas rode away.
At the ford, he caught the king. ‘He must not be allowed to march south.’
Marthax nodded. ‘We know.’
‘Let the Grass Cats cross the ford as soon as Varo their lord can be ready,’ the king said. ‘Let us show them their future.’
Kineas found that Kam Baqca was watching him. He met her eyes, and wondered if the same emptiness lay in his own.
The Grass Cats rode off across the ford as the rain tailed off to fitful spurts in early afternoon. And a damp sun made portions of the sky overhead lighter, if a man was an optimist.
Kineas ordered Diodorus to take a patrol across and scout the enemy camp — or their patrol line. He wanted to do it himself, but he needed sleep.
His nap was dreamless. But he had a sharp feeling of dream when it was the same damp arm that woke him, and Philokles’ voice in his ear.
‘Huh?’ he asked, as before.
‘Your prisoner?’ Philokles said. ‘The one Laertes brought? He’s a Kelt. One of the archon’s.’
‘Athena, protectress. Shield of our fathers, lady of the olive. All the gods.’ Kineas swore, but he was out of his wagon into late afternoon light — a pale sky, sun too weak to cast a shadow but drier than rain. He followed Philokles to the fire pit, where the prisoner sat on a stone, watched by a trio of the blacksmith’s friends. He had his head in his hands, and Kineas could see that the back of his head was swollen.
‘Look at me,’ Philokles ordered in his Ares voice.
The man raised his head, and Kineas knew him, despite the bruise over his eye.
‘So,’ Kineas said. ‘It was not hubris. The gods smile on us — unless others slipped past.’
Philokles shook his head. ‘A dozen Kelts and a pair of Macedonians and Cleomenes left the city together. Ataelus’s wife discovered them in the dark, and led Heron’s men to them. This one thinks they are all dead.’
Kineas rubbed his beard. Balanced on a knife’s edge. If he and Srayanka — if she hadn’t found Ataelus — if Ataelus didn’t have a new wife to ride with him…
It wasn’t over yet.
Kineas rubbed his face with cold water. ‘Cleomenes made it to Zopryon,’ he said. ‘A day too late, I think. I hope.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m for hot water, a shave, and a strigil,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow, we fight.’
Philokles nodded. ‘I’ll comb my hair,’ he said.
Marthax pushed more of his lightest, freshest cavalry across in late afternoon, with orders to cause as much chaos as possible among the Macedonians. The next hours saw a constant skirmish just out of sight of the ford. Sakje would ride back to change horses, get arrows, or tend a wound.
Kineas sent Diodorus to support them, and to gather what information he could.
There was yet an hour of light, or perhaps more, when Kineas saw the stir at the ford. He waved to Memnon, who approached at a run. Horsemen — Olbians — were coming across the ford at speed. He could see a Sakje messenger going up the hill to the king’s laager. Another Sakje coming from the north, on their side of the river — galloping through the herds at a reckless pace. And a Greek — Diodorus, as it proved — coming to Kineas at the gallop from the ford.
‘They’re moving,’ Diodorus panted.
