‘Owed you,’ she said. ‘No more.’
He slipped a glove from his hand, tapped a bronze ring with his finger. ‘Our father would be proud of you.’
At once, Kai knew he had misspoken. Her foot scraped across the thin snow as she shifted to a swordsman’s stance, her head dropping low and her shoulders rolling forward.
‘Me,’ she said. ‘Not you.’
‘You are right. He would not be proud of me.’
Her mouth twitched and for a moment he thought that she might speak again. Wounding words, or words meant to kill, for she had that murderous light on her face that always came before rough talk or swordplay. But she did not speak – perhaps to wait for another time when she might wound him more deeply, and have others there to see the wounding.
She was away then, back into the darkness and then to the fire, her silhouette lit by the low flames for a moment before she took her place with the others.
Kai did not follow her, for he knew there would be no sleep for him. He made his way amongst the horses, his hands outstretched as though he were feeling his way through the woods in the dark. A few stamped and snorted when they found him in their midst, but soon they settled, there was the soft touch of a nose against his neck. He inhaled the sweet stink of horse, and felt the warmth they gave together, the strange heat of the herd that was stronger than any fire he had ever known, for it must have been long before men and women had first struck fire that the horses had kept themselves warm through the winter. Kai leaned back and wrapped his arm around the neck of the horse that stood silent behind him.
For a moment, holding that warmth close against him, he might have been holding Tomyris, remembering the way his daughter liked to press close against him, as if she could not believe him there except through touch. And as he looked on the shadows of men and women gathered about fire, a memory came of Arite, the gold and silver of her hair shining as she danced by the fire at a festival long forgotten.
Kai clutched the horse close, so that he could mistake it for itself and nothing else, and let the darkness take the memory from him. He could not let himself hope that Tomyris and Arite still lived.
He looked towards the east. For the sun, and the hunt that it would bring with it.
9
It was on the third day after they fled Iolas that Arite found it – the place where they would fight and die.
The edge of a half-frozen river, thin-sheened with ice, broken through and running sluggishly in places. Yet the ground would be soft enough to break the enemy charge, and drinking the fresh icy water might give them strength and courage. For some reason, in that moment, it seemed a terrible thing to die thirsty.
And so Arite called her ragged column to a halt, those women and children who had made it with her so far. They slid from their horses with exhausted gratitude, assuming that it would be another of the few rests they had made since they fled the village. Only Arite knew, for now, that they would not start again. That it was here that the Romans would catch them at last.
Arite had not even thought to live beyond the battle in the village. But the greyhairs had made their plan without speaking, pushing forward at the charge. Toothless, some weeping and trembling even as they took their place, others roaring with laughter, those that had long since given up any hope of a glorious death in battle and saw the chance offered at the last. There were few young women who were not glad to be free of the warband, but as they grew older, and they saw the deaths that waited for them – the slow, winding murder of disease, the bloody end many found in childbirth – they felt something of that youthful longing once more for the quickness of the spear.
One charge through, and Arite had called the retreat knowing that not all would answer. That those who chose would stay to die. She led them away, across the snow and under the moon, and she looked back only twice. The first time to see the glint of moonlight on silver hair, as the women fought and died behind them. And the second time, to see the fires burning on the horizon, as her home vanished to the sky.
They had fled for two days, heading north into the foothills of the Carpathians, hoping to lose their pursuers there. Snatching sleep in the saddle where they could, resting only in the deepest darkness when it was too dangerous to ride, where a horse might lame itself on bad ground. And always, behind them, the Romans drew closer. They knew that if they had left the children behind perhaps they might have outpaced their pursuers, but that was no choice at all. Running with little hope of escape or rescue, only to buy a few more days of precious life for those who rode behind her. For the children to take in a little more life, for the mothers to make their last whispers of love.
And so, on that third day, without telling any of the others, she found herself looking for a good place for them to die. The river seemed a fitting place, for that was where the others lay, the men and the women of the warband, upon the Danu. And perhaps a soul might travel the waterways – she had heard tales told of that, had seen herself the way that grieving men and women were always drawn to the edge of the water. When they died there, they would only have to wait for the ice to thaw and their souls would flow towards their loved ones.
And when she called for her company to rest beside the river and did not call for them to ride on again soon after, it did not take the others long to understand. A little weeping, but most were too tired now to care, and there were a few that almost seemed relieved. They kissed their children, tested the balance of what few weapons they carried. They waited for the Romans to come.
It did not take long, for their pursuers had not been far behind. Wearing heavy furs and glittering with iron, grinning at one other to see their prey finally cornered. Many of the Romans were double mounted, for the greyhairs had aimed their spears true back at the village. But there were many Sarmatian horses who bore a second rider, too. Children mounted before their mothers, and in most of their hands there was the glitter of a weapon – a dagger of flint, some wooden toy to act as a club.
It was bad ground for cavalry that lay between them, soft and uneven. It was likely that whoever tried to charge first would be undone by it. And so they stood facing each other, for who knew how long, to see whose nerve might break first.
And the Sarmatians were calling then – every insult and curse they could think of, for perhaps if they could draw an unruly charge there might be a chance against the odds. But just as it seemed that the Romans were about to scatter forward, a voice called them back into line, a captain shouting them into silence.
Arite saw that the captain wore the fine armour of one of their leaders, a crested helm that hid most of his face. At that distance she could see his reddish-gold beard – at least they would not be killed by a beardless man. And then the Roman was looking amongst the Sarmatians, and Arite thought that there was a hesitance there that could not be from the odds of battle. His men were calling for the charge, yet he rode up and down the line, irresolute. His eyes found hers, and something must have given away her leadership. For he offered her the last thing she had expected. A warrior’s salute, one captain to another, sword raised high.
It was over, then, the last hope taken. There would be no mistakes from the Romans. And so Arite, her voice cracking, called to the others to make ready. They had no horn to sound the charge – her word alone would call them to fight and die.
No reason to delay, to wait any longer for what little courage the Sarmatians had left to unravel. Let them die cleanly, at least. And yet she found herself hesitating. Some instinct or omen telling her to hold on, to wait.