Authors: Christian Cameron
Tyrant (65 page)
‘We’ll run all the way,’ said the voice. ‘Any man who falls behind is left for the birds. Ready?’
They growled. Spears beat on shields. Kineas watched them run off to the ford, keeping their space in close order, and wondered.
The expedition to cross the ford and retrieve the dead from yesterday’s running fight was almost uncontested. Kineas kept the phalanx standing ready, held the balance of the Olbian horse under his hand, and then crossed himself for a quick reconnaissance in the second hour. Before the third hour the men of Pantecapaeum were back, still running, singing the paean of their city as they came. Behind them came the wagons, full to the beams with their grim cargo, and a handful of wounded who had survived a night in the rain. Last came Eumenes and his troop. They had seen a handful of Macedonians, as had Kineas. Eumenes had another prisoner.
Kineas called his officers, and they gathered around the fire by his wagon.
‘I don’t like it,’ he said. ‘I’m going to the king. Zopryon should have tried to close the ford.’
Eumenes didn’t agree. ‘I’m new to war, but I think they felt beaten last night, and retired from the ford to get clear - fearing the same battle we feared.’
Niceas gave the young man a proprietary grin. ‘Sounds like sense to me,’ he said.
Kineas nodded. ‘It is possible. I have to guard against all the possibilities. Get the men under cover - rotate the pickets - and see to the horses. This weather will cost us more horses than a battle. Diodorus, you’re in command of the pickets. Has anyone seen Heron?’
‘Already gone,’ Diodorus said. ‘Tried to find you when you crossed the stream, and said your orders wouldn’t wait and he was headed north with our scouts. He seemed to know what he was about. I sent Ataelus with him.’
Kineas couldn’t stifle a grin. ‘He ought to - he has all our best men. Send him to me the moment he returns, or any of his men. I’m for the king.’
Philokles, still an alien figure in a heavy helmet, spear in hand, spat expertly through his helmet. ‘I’ll see to the prisoners,’ he said. ‘Niceas has them separate. We’ll see what they say.’
Kineas nodded. ‘Eumenes - if you can stay awake, I need you.’
Eumenes nodded wearily, and Kineas dismissed the rest.
Up the hill, the view was better. As his legs brushed through the wet grass, Kineas could see the herds, well off to the north, and the camps of each of the clans. The rain would be debilitating for both armies, but the Sakje, with their huge herds of horses and their dry wagons for sleeping, would be more comfortable.
The sky was lightening, the clouds raising. Wisps of low cloud obscured his view, but on other lines he could see five stades or more, and although the rain was steady, it lacked last night’s vehemence. In Athens he would have expected the rain to end towards evening.
To the west he could see a line of fires at the limit of his perception. The fires were small, and their smoke was black.
Almost out of firewood, Kineas thought. Out of wagons, out of food. He’d flirted with Zopryon twice in the rain, and despite the outcomes, he had a feeling for Zopryon’s army.
They were desperate.
Kineas had a thought, so beautiful that it was dangerous. He didn’t want to express it to himself, much less say it aloud to others, lest he somehow change the world by speaking of it. But it kept poking into his plans and his worries, and the thought was: Zopryon does not yet know that Cleomenes has betrayed the city.
21
T
he king was just summoning his clan leaders. He had a big felt tent, and his guardsmen had erected it in the clear space at the centre of his laager.
he king was just summoning his clan leaders. He had a big felt tent, and his guardsmen had erected it in the clear space at the centre of his laager.
Kineas was still in armour from his reconnaissance. He kept his cloak around him, the more so as the clan leaders came in, Srayanka among them. She lay down on the rugs next to him. Marthax sat on his other side, and the king sat on a folding stool. He served them wine with his own hands, in heavy gold cups, glanced disapprovingly at Srayanka, and turned his head away.
The last of the chiefs came in, and a pair of Sauromatae, and then Kam Baqca. She bowed to the king, and slumped at his side, as if the energy of standing had exhausted her.
The king pointed his whip at Kineas. ‘Our thanks to our allies. We would have had many empty saddles without your actions at the ford.’
Kineas rose and pointed a bare arm at the Sauromatae. ‘They turned the tide,’ he said bluntly. ‘Without them, we might have been beaten. Even as it was, I lost young Leucon - one of my officers.’
The blonder of the two Sauromatae rose and returned his bow. He spoke rapidly to the king, and the king translated with pleasure.
‘Prince Lot says that he questioned you as allies, and now he asks no more questions, and hopes that the quality of the offence was altered by the brotherhood on the field.’
Kineas smiled at the tall blond man.
The king nodded. ‘It is good that we have the army together, and it is good that we struck Zopryon a blow at the edge of dark. Marthax?’
Marthax rose. He cracked his fingers and stretched his arms. In Greek he said, ‘It is good.’ Through Eumenes, he said, ‘Zopryon flinched from the contest.’ Eumenes translated, although, as was increasingly the case, Kineas understood almost every word. ‘My sense is that he was afraid of what started in the dark and rain - and he retreated.’
The other chiefs roared approval.
Kineas could sense that their morale had shifted in the night. They were eager, and the king looked happier. Only Kam Baqca had hollows under her eyes and pale cheeks.
Kineas raised his hand and the king waved to him.
‘I had scouts to the south,’ he said. ‘They saw patrols, and took a prisoner. Zopryon is looking for a ford. He has scouted us well - his men knew where to expect us last night, even in the rain.’
Srayanka spoke from the rug at his side. ‘Those Thessalians are tough bastards,’ she said.
Another chief across the tent swallowed his wine. ‘And their companions are just as good,’ he said.
Kineas nodded. ‘As we said from the first - this is where he is desperate. He must either destroy this army or cross to the south and go to Olbia.’ Kineas shrugged. Hesitantly, he enunciated his dearest thought. ‘If he even knows of Cleomenes’s treason - and nothing we have seen so far suggests he knows.’ He grimaced at the irony of it - Zopryon’s greatest advantage might be unknown to the man. The gods punished hubris in just such ways. He made a gesture learned from his nurse - pure superstition, to avert any part he might play in such hubris.
Kineas continued, ‘He ought to push to the ford today. If he does not, we should consider pressing him again - sending raids across the river.’
Marthax rubbed his moustache and drank some wine. ‘Already it is late in the day. And the rain soaks everything.’
The king nodded. ‘There is standing water in the camp. It will be worse where the Macedonians are.’
Srayanka looked around the circle. ‘I don’t want to fight today,’ she said, and other chiefs nodded with her, and Gaomavañt, lord of the Patient Wolves, rose to his feet. ‘We need rest, Lord. The horses are weary, and the warriors - too many are hurt. The rain does not help.’
Lot of the Sauromatae shrugged, despite the weight of his armour. He spoke through the king, who matched him gesture for gesture. ‘We are not tired. Show us a line of bronze hats, and we will cut them down. The rain does not wet our lance heads. If you are tired, think how the bronze hats are today.’
Kineas shook his head. ‘The taxeis are not tired. They can march through a hundred days of rain.’ He looked at the king and shook his head again. ‘We are drier - and more secure - than the Macedonians. We will rest better. You have more remounts to replace those who are lame. And - I hesitate to shout this to the gods, lest I offend by hubris - but nothing,
nothing
we have seen in two days suggests that Zopryon knows that Olbia is open to them. If my council carries weight here, then I suggest that the freshest clans cross the ford and block Zopryon’s access to the south. Cut him off from any message. Strike his southern pickets and wear at them. A few hundred horse, at most - if they are cut off when Zopryon moves to the ford, they can harry his rear or simply ride off into the grass.’
nothing
we have seen in two days suggests that Zopryon knows that Olbia is open to them. If my council carries weight here, then I suggest that the freshest clans cross the ford and block Zopryon’s access to the south. Cut him off from any message. Strike his southern pickets and wear at them. A few hundred horse, at most - if they are cut off when Zopryon moves to the ford, they can harry his rear or simply ride off into the grass.’
The king rubbed his beard. He glanced at Marthax. ‘Warlord?’ he asked.
Marthax shrugged. ‘What do we want, Lord?’ he asked bluntly. ‘The campaign has always come to this. Do we avoid battle? Or force battle and fight to destroy this enemy utterly - risking our own destruction? Did we not decide from the first to take that risk? We might have ridden into the grass in the spring - even now, we might be with the Messagetae. We are here. Enough council. Let us cut this Zopryon off from the south - that is sense - and goad him to the fight. Let him cross the ford in the morning.’ Marthax’s look at Kam Baqca was almost tender. ‘We will be stung. But the hornet’s nest will be destroyed utterly. So say I.’
The king glanced around the circle, but it was clear that the chiefs were with Marthax, and only the king hesitated. He said, ‘I remind you that when we first planned this campaign, we discussed a parley at this precise moment. A token of submission.’
The chiefs growled. Next to Kineas, Srayanka stiffened and her face set.
The king looked around at them. He pointed to Kineas. ‘Your friend the Spartan says that war is a tyrant, and nothing makes it more clear than this.’ His bitterness was evident. ‘The taste of blood has excited you. You want to risk all so that this menace may be destroyed, or so that we may all be remembered in song.’ He glanced at Srayanka. ‘Or so that past injustice may be wiped clean.’
The tent was silent while he toyed with his whip. None of them made a noise, and the sound of hoof beats carried clearly from outside.
The king looked at Kam Baqca, but she turned her face away and raised her hand, as if the king’s eyes might scorch her. The hoof beats came closer, and stopped, and in the unnatural stillness Kineas heard the sound as the rider’s feet hit the ground.
The king flinched at Kam Baqca’s reaction. Then he drew himself up, and Kineas, who knew the weight of command, could all but see the full load settle on the king’s shoulders. He raised his whip and pointed at the lord of the Grass Cats.
‘The king! I must see the king!’ said a strong voice from the doorway of the tent.
The messenger was young, wearing nothing but a gorytos over breeches and boots and a short knife. He threw himself in front of the king.
‘Lord - there is a herald at the ford demanding our submission. A herald from the bronze hats.’
As soon as Kineas saw Cleomenes sitting on a tall mare at Zopryon’s side, he knew the worst.
The rain was clearing. A veil of cloud moved fitfully along the river valley, separating the two armies, but in the heavens, the sun was gradually conquering the element of water. Kineas looked up, and saw an eagle or a hawk 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.’
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