helmet down on the ground and put a felt cap on his head, then donned the helmet, transforming from philosopher to spirit of Ares in a few heartbeats. ‘What is the point, Kineas? What is the point of all this marching, all this striving, all this killing? Did your precious tree tell you?’ He pulled his helmet off, obviously dissatisfied with the fit. He stared at the lacings.
Kineas often found himself at a loss when debating with Philokles, but today the answers flowed into his mind like the Jaxartes in spate across the plains. ‘Come, brother, you know the answer.’ He laughed to see his brilliant and philosophical friend look at him so. He reached out and embraced Philokles. ‘What would Achilles say to you, Spartan? What would Socrates say?’
Philokles drank water from a skin. He was blushing. ‘They would say that the point was virtue,’ he said.
Kineas nodded. ‘Just so.’ He took a deep breath like a man who loved the taste of air. ‘Sometimes we kill because we are men of virtue and sometimes we abstain from killing for the same reason. Sometimes a man may choose to drink wine and another time he may choose to abstain. The doing of things is what earns the glory. We should need neither reward nor praise.’
Nihmu stared from one to the other. ‘What are you talking about?’ she asked with the annoyance of a young woman who thinks that her ignorance is being mocked. ‘Is this a Greek thing?’
Kineas smiled and shook his head. ‘Perhaps, and perhaps not, child.’
Philokles nodded. ‘It is the Greek thing, child. The struggle for virtue.’
Kineas took the helmet from Philokles. ‘You are the last man on earth to wear the Corinthian helmet, brother. What’s wrong with it?’
‘The lining is all worn out.’
Kineas nodded. ‘Nothing for it but to pull the leather and sew a new one.’
Philokles nodded. ‘I was being lazy.’ He took his belt knife and cut the threads, and in one motion ripped the liner clear. ‘Ares help me if we are attacked now,’ he said.
Nihmu shook her head. ‘I don’t even know what you’re talking about,’ she said, and stalked off.
When she was gone, Diodorus joined them, with Leon and Srayanka. Ataelus sat heavily on the ground. He looked thin.
‘Queen Zarina,’ Ataelus said. ‘For asking you.’ He waved at the eastern horizon. ‘For much messengers.’
Diodorus nodded. ‘When will we reach her?’
Srayanka stretched. ‘Two more days and we will reach the muster. Even going slowly. The horses are getting their coats back.’
Kineas nodded. ‘I want to talk to Spitamenes first,’ he said. ‘He must be close.’
‘Gods, is this some baqca thing?’ Diodorus asked.
Kineas rubbed his chin and pulled his beard, enjoying his friend’s discomfort. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s ten years in the saddle. Think of it, friend. When we were on the Oxus, Spitamenes was a hundred stades south of us. He never caught us on the Polytimeros. No one has said that Alexander caught him. We were all going to the same place. He can’t be far.’
Philokles laughed. ‘And we call Diodorus a fox. Well reasoned, Kineas!’
Ataelus grunted. ‘Could have asked me. Fuck-their-mothers Persae at the second water today. Garait said this.’ He shrugged.
Kineas turned to kiss Srayanka. ‘I want to talk to the old bandit first. Then we ride to the muster.’
‘The old bandit sold me to Iskander,’ she said.
‘I want to settle that before we ride into an alien camp,’ Kineas said.
Srayanka rolled her eyes.
30
The next day, Kineas met Spitamenes. Garait located his camp and Ataelus led him there. Darius was the intermediary, and Kineas rode with a short train of followers to share a meal with the last Persian in the field against Alexander. Philokles joined them, eager to observe.
The Persian leader was tall and spare, with the greying remnants of red-gold hair in his beard. He was a handsome man despite a great beak of a nose, and he had an immediate presence. He rode a magnificent Nisaean charger, and he was deeply religious, so that even in the midst of his first meeting with Kineas, he paused for prayers.
In his presence, Kineas knew that the man was a fanatic. How could he be else? And confronted with the man, it was as if his new-found wisdom was being tested against his old hatreds. Spitamenes had sold his wife to Alexander for what he thought of as a higher cause. The gambit had failed, and now the Persian was sorry, but his apology had the distant quality that indicated he would do as much again if it would serve to push the hated invader off the sacred soil of Persia.
At his side sat Darius, translating freely, although Kineas’s Persian was of a high standard and many other men spoke the same languages. But Darius did not look at Spitamenes with worship, or even admiration. Early on, Spitamenes pointed out Darius, who was greeting his friends and file-mates among the Olbians. ‘That one loves you more than his own country,’ Spitamenes said.
‘We are guest friends and war-friends,’ Kineas said. ‘He has saved my life several times.’ Kineas was watching the Persians, Medes and Bactrians around the fires. Spitamenes had fewer than a thousand men and only the same number of horses. He had lost the campaign that summer and his men looked the part — dirty, tired, eyes dead. They sat on the grass with only their saddle rugs for seats. They had no followers, no women and very little chatter. They built their fires right on the grass rather than digging pits like the Greeks, so that the whole camp smelled of burning grass, and from time to time the grass would catch again and burn until a tired warrior stomped it out. They were dirty and yet they were proud, heads high, glaring at him as if he and Philokles were the personification of the enemy.
Spitamenes turned his head away, clearly displeased. Then he asked, ‘Where is your beautiful wife?’
When Kineas visited the Persians, Srayanka stayed at home, as did all of the Sakje. There was nothing there but blood. No Sakje could forgive such an affront. ‘In camp, sharpening her axe,’ Kineas said.
Spitamenes nodded. ‘She would do better to see to your children, surely?’ he asked. It was not clear whether the question was honest or malicious.
‘You did a foolish thing when you offered my wife to Iskander,’ Kineas answered. He saw no reason to speak honeyed words. ‘She despises you, and all her clan want nothing of you but your head.’
Spitamenes rocked back on his ankles. ‘There is blunt speech!’ he said. He rubbed his beard. ‘I had hoped that we could be friends.’
Kineas laughed and ate more spiced mutton with his fingers. ‘Let me remind you, lord, that you sold her as a hostage to Iskander — sold her, although she owed you neither allegiance nor vassalage.’
Spitamenes shrugged. ‘She was to hand,’ he said. ‘The god requireth that I make hard choices for my people. She is the daughter of foreigners — why should I have stayed my hand?’
Philokles, sitting at Kineas’s side, choked on a bit of mutton and covered his mouth with his hand.
‘Your friend wishes to speak, perhaps?’ Spitamenes asked. His eyes gleamed dangerously.
Philokles cleared his throat again. ‘Your god should have a better eye to consequences, then,’ he said in Greek. ‘The lady has a sting in her tail and a thousand armoured friends.’ Kineas translated.
‘Do not blaspheme what you haven’t the wit to understand, foreigner.’ Spitamenes’ tone hardened, and around him Persian noblemen handled their weapons.
Kineas took another mouthful of food. When he was done chewing, he said, ‘Either Spitamenes is a man of his word, in which case this is all posturing and we should enjoy our dinner, or he is a treacherous cur, and we will die.’ Kineas smiled at Spitamenes. ‘And then Spitamenes will die. Don’t you think my wife is out there in the dark?’ Kineas shook his head as if he was a gentle father arguing with a favoured child, and then he went back to eating.
Spitamenes grew angrier at every pronouncement, but he was a man of honour and Kineas finished his meal unimpeded. ‘I will not ask you to guest again,’ Spitamenes said, as the Greeks mounted to leave.
‘As you did not trouble even to apologize for the seizure of Srayanka, you’d be unlikely to get me to come,’
