and they were away — a hundred riders vanishing into the tamarisk scrub in the Oxus valley. They seemed to ride impossibly fast for the broken ground, passing through Ataelus’s prodromoi in their picket line. Samahe, visible in her red and gold, raised her bow in salute as the Sakje rode by, and Parshtaevalt whooped.
A flight of birds burst from the foliage on the far side of the river and then ten Sakje were up the bank. They were hunkered down on their horse’s necks, and they were fast, flowing over the ground more like running cats than men and women on horses.
What if the scrub was full of Sogdae? Where was Craterus? Was he already scouting another ford on the Oxus? Indecision or, to call the cat by its true name, fear moved through Kineas’s guts like the flux. Sweat from his helmet dripped down his brow and then down his face like tears, and he could smell the dirt on his chinstrap, which stank like old cheese. He prayed for wind. He prayed that he had guessed well. He peered into the gathering dust. The light was going as the afternoon grew old.
A chorus of thin shouts on the afternoon breeze, and riders swept out of the farthest foliage two stades away across the muddy river, firing as they came, ripping shots at the Sakje, who turned and fled as if their horses had neither momentum nor bones — they fled like a school of Aegean fish before the onrush of a predator, a porpoise or a shark. The leaders of the Sogdae pressed the handful of Sakje hard, and one man mounted on a big roan rode flat out for Parshtaevalt, visible because his horse harness was studded with gold. The Sakje chief turned his body an impossible three-quarters rotation and shot straight back over the rump of his horse into his pursuer, catching him in the belly and robbing him of life. Parshtaevalt then slowed his horse and caught the dead man’s reins, shouting his war cry. He brandished his bow while a dozen Sogdians bore down on him and another handful shot at him. He grinned, waved his bow and rode off, again shrieking his war cry so that it rang off the sides of the Oxus valley while arrows fell around him and all the ridges rang with cheers.
The Sogdians, angry now, pounded after the handful of Sakje, more and more riders emerging from the brush to avenge their fallen warrior. They were close on the tails of the Scythian horses when the other seventy Sakje appeared out of the river bed and fired a single volley of arrows and charged home under their own lethal rain, emptying a dozen saddles in as many heartbeats.
Shattered, the Sogdians broke and ran. The Sakje pursued them hard, right up the bank, and dust rose around them as their hooves pounded the dry earth. After a few breaths, they came back, whooping and waving their bows and spears. Parshtaevalt rode back to where he’d dropped his man and, heedless of the stray shafts of the remaining Sogdians, slipped from his horse and cut the hair and neck skin from his downed enemy before leaping on to his pony. He collected his riders with a wave and then they were back among the officers in the river bed.
Parshtaevalt’s hands were bloody to the elbow, and rivulets of blood had run all the way down his torso where he had raised his arms in the air to show his trophies. ‘Too long have I been the nursemaid!’ he said in his excellent Greek. ‘Aiyeee!’
Srayanka kissed him, and most of the rest of the Sakje pressed forward to touch him.
Kineas was grinning. ‘Was that Achilles?’ he asked.
Philokles met his grin with one of his own. ‘I have seldom seen anything so beautiful,’ Philokles said. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. ‘Praise to Ares that I was allowed to see so brave an act. Ah!’ He sang:
Ares, exceeding in strength, chariot-rider, golden-helmed,
Doughty in heart, shield-bearer, saviour of cities, harnessed in bronze,
Strong of arm, unwearying, mighty with the spear,
O defence of Olympus, father of warlike Victory,
Ally of Themis, stern governor of the rebellious,
Leader of righteous men, sceptred king of manliness,
Who whirl your fiery sphere among the planets
In their sevenfold courses through the aether
Wherein your blazing steeds ever bear you
Above the third firmament of heaven;
Hear me, helper of men, giver of dauntless youth!
Shed down a kindly ray from above upon my life,
And strength of war, that I may be able to drive
Away bitter cowardice from my head
And crush down the deceitful impulses of my soul.
Restrain also the keen fury of my heart
Which provokes me to tread the ways of blood-curdling strife.
Rather, O blessed one, give me boldness to abide
Within the harmless laws of peace, avoiding strife
And hatred and the violent fiends of death.
The Greeks took it up, and the Olbians had good voices. They sang, roaring the lines as if every man of them was a champion, and the sound carried over the cropped, dry grass and the sand to the Sogdae, who were gathered on their bank, no longer willing to push down into the flood plain and the tamarisk scrub, just visible in the rising column of dust and sand from the fight. Their horses were fidgeting and calling for water.
When the song was done, the Greek horse gathered their mounts and dragged them from the water and up the bank to their ridge. Concealment was now purposeless, but Kineas sent them back over the ridge anyway — easier than giving them new positions, and some shade to protect them. The shadows were long, but the sun still had power out on the plains.
The Sauromatae were still watering their horses. Kineas rode over in time to hear Lot cursing at some men who were still in the stream. One of them waved his golden helmet, and all fifteen of the men in the stream mounted. The man in the golden helmet turned his horse in a spray of water. He had his horse at the gallop in just a few strides, and he rode straight for Mosva, who was watering her father’s horse. She looked up and grinned, clearly thinking it a game. She called something, and she died with that smile on her face, as Upazan cut her head from her body in one swing of his long-handled axe. Then he turned and rode at Lot.
‘Now fight me, you old coward!’ he crowed, riding at the prince.
Leon, at Kineas’s side, put his head down and pressed his heels to his mount. He had a small mare with a deep chest and a small head, a pretty horse that Leon doted on. She fairly flew across the water, her hooves appearing to skim the surface. Too late to save Mosva, Leon rode in. Upazan, his whole charge aimed at Lot, pushed for his target and ignored the Numidian, but the smaller mare rammed the bigger Sauromatae gelding in the rump, forcing the horse to stumble and sidestep, almost throwing his rider.
Upazan took a cut at Leon with the axe. Leon’s mare danced back, and the axe missed, and Leon’s spear licked out, pricking Upazan in the side. Kineas, still stunned to see two of his own men fighting, had time to be reminded of Nicomedes’ fastidious fighting style. The Numidian used his mare to avoid every cut and he landed two more blows that drew blood.
Upazan’s companions were milling in confusion and then one of them left the others and rode at Leon.
Lot was frozen in disbelief. ‘Bastard!’ he called, pressing forward.
Another of Upazan’s men drew a bow and shot. The arrow passed between Philokles and Kineas. A second arrow rattled off Lot’s armour.
Upazan stood up, knees clenched on the barrel of his horse, and leaned out, whirling his axe on the wrist thong for more reach. It caught Leon on the bull’s-hide shield he wore strapped to his left shoulder in the Sakje manner and skidded up, ringing off the Numidian’s helmet. At the same moment, Leon’s spear licked out again, this time passing under the bronze brow of the Sauromatae’s heavy helm and entering the man’s face. Blood flowered from under his helmet and Upazan folded.
Leon fell into the river and Philokles and Kineas raced to reach him, while Upazan’s friends dragged him free of his horse and bolted for the far side of the stream.
‘Arse-cunts!’ bellowed Philokles, struggling with his horse and trying to get an arm under Leon. ‘Traitors!’
Lot was still cursing. The ranks of the Sauromatae were moving like a corpse full of maggots.
‘I must calm my people,’ he said. His voice was dull. He looked like a man who had taken a wound. His
