they went down. They’d left enough in the bottle to make an attractive sloshing sound. He handed it to his wife and she took a sip, rolled it around her mouth and swallowed. ‘You take the rest,’ she said.
It tasted like ambrosia.
And then they were all asleep.
He was standing at the base of the tree, and Ajax and Niceas stood before him. ‘Are you ready?’ Niceas asked.
‘No,’ Kineas said.
Niceas nodded. ‘Get ready,’ he said. Beyond him, on the plain, stood thousands of corpses — some rotting, some dismembered. Close to Ajax stood a Getae warrior with a hand gone and a neat puncture wound in his abdomen. ‘Do the thing!’ he said in Greek. Those had been his last words. But they had a certain urgency. He cut at a Sakje warrior in a fine suit of scale — Satrax, of course. But the king broke him with a single swing.
Behind the Getae were more men, mostly Persians. Darius’s half-brother was trying to push past Graccus.
‘These are all the men I have killed,’ Kineas said. He began to be afraid, even in the dream. The men he had killed were so many. And for what? As he stood to lose his own life, he found that he had never valued it more. And every one of them had valued his life the same.
Now they were trying to push past other shades, the rage of combat still fresh on them.
Niceas took his hand and pushed him to the tree. His hands were bony. ‘Go!’ he said. ‘Climb!’ He looked desperate. ‘Don’t let this be for nothing!’ he shouted.
And then Kineas was on the tree, looking down at where a circle of dead friends stood fast against a rising tide of corpses. He tore his eyes from the sight and climbed higher, swinging from branch to branch at a rate that wouldn’t have been possible in the waking world, but feeling fatigue as well. His mouth was dry. He was high enough that the tree itself, despite its immensity, had a motion to it, so that the top seemed to sway like a ship’s mast — or had his thoughts of a ship’s mast imparted the motion?
The climb became much harder as he neared the top, the immensity of the darkening sky filling his head. Lightning played on every hand and the top moved like a wild animal under him.
Directly in his way, the thin branches of the top intertwined like an old olive tree, making a barrier like a wicker wall over his head, and he paused, trying to push through. The branches seemed to push back, the twigs whipping in the wind and cutting at his face and hands.
He pushed, using the dream strength against the branches, and as he pushed they seemed to consume him — he no longer knew, in the way of dreams, whether he was climbing or falling, trapped in a dark tunnel of branches heaving and pressing against him, and…
Across the river there stood a tree — a lone willow, blasted by lightning in some inconceivably ancient past, for it was a mighty tree even in death — and its cousins lay scattered across the far shore.
The wreck of the enemy cavalry took cover by the dead tree. A warrior in a magnificent suit of armour and a golden helmet tried to rally them, pointing his bow across the river. A few arrows arched at them and fell short, and Srayanka smiled — a tired smile. He returned the smile and motioned to her, and she put a trumpet to her lips. Above the red swirl of dust he could see the last of a blue sky, and high in the sky an eagle circled.
‘Charge!’ he said. He gestured…
And they were in the river, bodies piled like gutted fish in the spring run of the Tanais, their blood making the froth of the river pink in the setting sun. They went forward, splashing through the river, the drops catching the sun like jewels and the cool water a blessing after a day of battle.
The shattered taxeis, the remnants of which had made their way back across, struggled to re-form, with a single officer, sword arm hanging useless at his side, bellowing for them to rally.
The man in the golden helm drew his bow, even as his companions left him…
Kineas was in midstream, his steel-grey charger stepping carefully because of the gravel and rocks, and then he felt a blow in his gut — sky — cold — water…
‘You are waking the children,’ Srayanka said. She sounded frightened. He listened to her cuddling the two babies and he felt — nothing.
He was a long time getting back to sleep.
In the morning, the horses were weak and difficult. There was little water in the camp and two days’ travel until they could get more. The columns set off with a minimum of fuss or orders, as if two years of campaigning had been practice for these few days when every minute counted. The ground was dry grass and hard gravel, and they moved as fast as the state of their horses would allow. Srayanka looked pinched — she was losing fluid in her milk, and she was worried for the children.
‘This is insane,’ Kineas said to her. ‘I ride to my death and you follow me to yours. The children — we must turn back.’ Every word was an effort and his mouth felt like a drunkard’s after a long night drinking.
‘Turn back?’ she retorted. ‘Do you think me weak?’ She turned around and waved a hand at the silent figures jogging along through the dust. ‘Our children are as strong as they need to be.’ She bent at the waist for a moment and then straightened. ‘We must find water.’
Kineas rubbed his beard.
Four swigs of water later, they crossed a low ridge and, meeting with Nihmu, who had been left as a guide, they prepared to turn due east, away from the sun. The mountains remained on their right hand, and all that could be seen in the distance was a shimmer of heat.
Nihmu rode up to Srayanka and silently handed her a wineskin. It sloshed with water.
The column was halted so that everyone could change horses — the only relief any of them had — and every eye was drawn to the wineskin as if it glowed with blue god’s fire.
‘For the children,’ Nihmu said. Her tone was curious — almost triumphant, or gloating.
Srayanka nodded and accepted the skin. Then she beckoned to Samahe — since Hirene’s death, Samahe had become her hyperetes. ‘Everyone take a sip,’ she said. ‘I’ll have what’s left.’ She handed it to Samahe, who tilted it along her arm and handed it to Diodorus. Diodorus looked at it with wonder, and at her. But he, too, tipped it back briefly, before handing the skin to Antigonus, who passed it to Parshtaevalt — on and on, down the column. Kineas could follow the passage of the skin by the disturbance it made among the horses, almost as if a camel was walking among them.
When he changed horses, he chose Thalassa, because she was fresh, head high and seemed eager for him. It took him three attempts to get his leg over her back, he was so tired, and his Getae hack looked ready to drop. He could hear the sound of the skin coming back up the column. It filled his mind like something in a dream and the craving for the water drove all other thoughts from him. He imagined that the water was still cool, crisp, from some mountain stream that Nihmu had scouted.
‘No one will drink,’ Nihmu said by his side. The girl was so darkly tanned that she rivalled Leon’s looks, and she had a straw hat over a linen wimple to guard her face from the sun. ‘The water is for the children, and your people know it.’
Kineas looked at her, stunned to silence. He didn’t think that he had the discipline to pass on a mouthful of water.
The water skin was already back to Carlus. Carlus looked at it with obvious longing, but he didn’t put it to his mouth. Instead, he handed it to Kineas. The skin was more than half full — some of the riders had taken a sip. But their discipline was remarkable, and humbling. Kineas took enough water to loosen his tongue in his mouth.
‘We must have water tonight,’ Nihmu said. ‘Or many will die.’
Kineas looked at her. ‘Why don’t you find water?’ he asked.
‘I did,’ she said. ‘That water.’ The wineskin was still in his hands, and he passed it across to Srayanka. ‘It is a long ride to that water, lord. I can take you there. Ataelus will help. But you must lead.’ Nihmu turned her head away to look at the horizon.
‘Thank you,’ Srayanka said. ‘But do you think I could drink when all my people were thirsty?’
‘All have had their fill, lady,’ Kineas said. ‘Now you drink.’
Kineas’s eyes burned with unspent tears and Srayanka hung her head.
But she drank.
As she drank, her throat moving with the gulps of water, her drinking noises and the sounds of horses and conversation and Nihmu’s light voice wove themselves like the border on a garment, so that in one moment they were disparate threads and in the next the voice of the god.
