Kineas said. ‘Your time is over. The Sakje have the power to stop Iskander, or not, as they please. When you sent him Amazons as hostages, you lost them as allies — and you have done nothing this summer but lose prestige in every action. You are done.’
Kineas’s voice had the sound of doom — of prophecy.
Spitamenes started as if he had stepped on a snake. ‘Be gone before I regret my hosting!’ he said.
‘Keep from under our hooves, Persian,’ Kineas said. ‘If I find you there, I will end you myself.’
Philokles listened to the bloodless tone in Kineas’s voice — not threat, but a statement of facts. Like the voice of prophecy combined with the voice of command.
Spitamenes frowned. ‘I had heard that you were a prophet.’
Kineas backed his charger a few steps and nodded. ‘Shall I prophesy for you, lord?’
Spitamenes said, ‘I care not,’ but his eagerness and hesitancy were there in his voice, and Philokles was left with the impression that Kineas was the elder of the two. And then the Persian asked, ‘Will there be a great battle?’
Kineas nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘And will Iskander lose? Will I triumph?’ Spitamenes asked.
Kineas was silent for a time — an uncomfortable time, with dozens of torchlit Persians surrounding him in the dark. At last, he said, ‘Iskander will not win. But you will lose. I will die.’ He laughed then, as if all of life was a joke. ‘Your death is coming, but mine is near.’
‘How will I die?’ Spitamenes asked, pressing closer to Kineas’s horse.
Kineas’s face gave a spasm of fear, or revulsion — difficult for Philokles to read in the firelight. He looked at a man standing at Spitamenes’ shoulder. ‘Badly,’ Kineas said. ‘Ask me no more.’
Spitamenes turned away and growled something at one of his lieutenants. The crowd of torches dispersed. ‘Go, before I turn on you,’ Spitamenes said.
Kineas nodded. Then he backed his horse, checked to see that his friends were clear and rode away.
That night, they made camp in a stand of old pines at the edge of a high bluff along the Jaxartes. The grass had been cropped recently and Ataelus reported on a dozen Sakje camps around them. Kineas could see their fires, and he could see the fires of Alexander’s army on the far bank and smell the smoke that filled the valley of the Jaxartes, which hadn’t seen so many people since it first rose from the meltwaters of the Sogdian mountains when the gods were young.
Srayanka had built them a camp, or her household had, with a heavy hide as a shelter and a pair of spears supporting an awning of woven branches to give the illusion of privacy, right in under the supporting pines. It was a far cry from the luxury in which an Athenian officer might live, and yet it touched Kineas deeply — no one else had any shelter since the wagons had rolled north and west, and it had taken many hands to raise. There was even a fire pit with a circle of rocks and a small fire, fragrant with cedar.
She put a cup of wine in his hands after he’d seen to Thalassa, and he drank it in careful sips as he admired the ropework on the hemp bindings that held the spears — Sitalkes for sure. Then he took her hand and drew her close, and they kissed.
Philokles came into the little clearing that held their camp. He looked around as if puzzled, and Kineas could see he was drunk.
‘Very nice!’ Philokles said. He swayed a little.
Diodorus followed him up the trail, and behind him came Leon and Sitalkes and someone else moving in the darkness.
‘Can I help you gentlemen?’ Kineas asked, his voice redolent with the irritation of a man interrupted in kissing his wife.
Philokles turned his head away and gave a lurch and a burp. ‘Excuse me, gentlemen. Not myself.’ He grinned at Kineas. ‘Didn’t know you wanted to be alone. Missed you.’
Diodorus came up and put his hand on the Spartan’s shoulder. ‘Come away, Philokles.’
‘Says he’ll be dead soon. Then we’ll never see him!’ Philokles shook his head. He raised his cup. ‘Godlike Kineas, share this cup of wine!’ he said, and spilt some wine on the pine needles, though whether in clumsiness or deliberate invocation it was hard to tell.
Diodorus grabbed at Philokles. The Spartan glided out of his hands and sprang back, but in his haze of wine fumes he’d forgotten the two spears and the ropes, and he tripped. There was a crash and Philokles went down, and the whole shelter came down with him. He bellowed as he rolled through the small fire, extinguishing it.
‘Hades! Philokles, you fucking idiot!’ Kineas grabbed the Spartan by the arm and dragged him to his feet, sweeping the man with his hand to get rid of coals.
Philokles looked as if he’d been hit with a plank. ‘Didn’t mean — Gods! Srayanka! Sorry!’ He pushed Kineas away roughly and began to try to gather up the pieces of the shelter. He stumbled and managed to pick up a single rope.
Sitalkes emerged from the darkness, and Temerix. Temerix took the Spartan’s shoulder. ‘Come,’ he said in his heavy accent. ‘Come, friend. We fix this. Come!’
Philokles wept. ‘I only break things,’ he cried as the Sindi smith pulled him along. ‘I make nothing!’
Srayanka grinned. ‘Sitalkes, make this right again,’ she said. She turned to Kineas. ‘He’s hurt in his soul, husband. Go and help him.’
Behind her, Sitalkes had his fire kit out and was blowing coals to light, and Srayanka’s eyes glinted. ‘But don’t take too long,’ she said.
Kineas found Philokles by his own fire, with a clay beaker of wine in his hand and Temerix sitting by his side.
‘I’m sorry,’ Philokles said. He was more sullen than sorry, and his eyes were on the fire.
Kineas reached past him and grabbed the wine cup. He took a pull and then emptied the contents into the fire.
‘Hey!’ Philokles shouted.
‘Do you love me, brother?’ Kineas asked.
Philokles stopped moving. Then he drew himself up. ‘Yes. Yes I do.’
Kineas nodded. ‘I love you, too. Too much to watch you kill the hero in your breast with wine. That was your last cup, brother. Swear to me by all the gods and by my children that you will never drink wine again.’
Philokles was aghast. ‘Never?’
‘Never for any reason. Swear, if we are friends.’ Kineas saw an amphora point-first in the ground, and he plucked it free. ‘Temerix, is this yours?’
Temerix spat. ‘Never bring wine to Philokles,’ he said. ‘Friend.’
Kineas tucked it under his arm. ‘Mine now. Swear, Philokles.’
Philokles looked sly and sullen, two casts for which his face was not naturally formed. ‘What if I don’t?’
Kineas shrugged. ‘Maybe I’ll never answer another one of your cursed questions. Or perhaps I’ll simply banish you and fight without you. But if you don’t stop drinking wine, you are no companion of mine.’
Philokles came up. ‘Fuck you,’ he said, reaching for the amphora.
Kineas hit him on the chin. Then he put the amphora into the dirt carefully while the Spartan backed away. Kineas raised his hands. Philokles took another step backwards and stopped. He had adopted the guard stance of the pankration, hands open, held high to guard his face, his left hand stretched forward. Then he came forward, fast, reaching with his left hand for a grapple.
Kineas stepped forward, inside the left, and punched — one, two — staggering Philokles. He retreated a step and Kineas let him.
They stood facing each other.
Philokles bellowed, a shout of anger, almost the cry of a wounded man, and he charged. His two feints were not the feints of a drunk, and Kineas bought the second and in a moment he was on his back in the dirt, but he got his legs around Philokles’ knees and rotated his hips, tripping the big Spartan and pulling him down. He got both of the man’s hands in his own and they grappled, pushing for purchase with their feet and backs, covered in dust.
It was hopeless for Kineas to try to beat the Spartan in a grapple, but he continued to try until Philokles had his head and arm locked under his shoulder and the pain was enough to drive the breath from his body.
And then suddenly Philokles, who had him at the point of submission, sagged away in the dirt and lay on his back as if he’d been hit in the head with a plank. Then he rolled to his feet and held out a hand.
