By the river, in the fields, in the woods and on the high ridges, men fought – a slash of bronze or iron, a flight of arrows with deadly tips. The Sakje used poison, and the farmers never surrendered. There were skirmishes in every open space. Bands of Sakje harried bands of Sauromatae, who harried the refugees, killing the weak. Women died, and children.
Ravens feasted until they were glutted, and corpses lay on the roads and no animal mauled them, because there were so many.
This was not war the way Melitta had seen it in Aegypt. This was the war of all against all. The farmers fought to avoid annihilation, and the Sauromatae fought to exterminate them.
On the evening of the third day, Ataelus sat with Temerix and Melitta on a low hill, watching their exhausted rearguard retreat in a soft rain that favoured the enemy with every drop, rendering the strong bows of the Sakje almost useless.
Ataelus shrugged. 'We kill two or three of Upazan's for every farmer, and ten for every Sakje.'
'And yet we will run out of men first,' Temerix said.
Melitta looked back and forth between them. 'What are you telling me?' she asked.
Ataelus looked away, across the great river, where an eagle rose on an updraught. His face was blank, all the wild energy of the ambush drained from him by four days of heavy fighting and constant losses.
Temerix said, 'The men on the ships are killing us.'
Melitta nodded. She knew that the ships coming up the river to harry the farmers from the water had been an ugly surprise. Nikephoros had returned, just as Coenus had said, and established a fortified camp across the river from her fort on the bluff. Using it as a base, his men sailed up and down the river, disrupting her defences.
'If Upazan's men actually cooperated with the tyrant's soldiers, we would be the ones taking the losses,' Temerix said.
Ataelus sighed. 'It was a good plan,' he said, 'but it isn't working. Upazan is too strong – he must have had fifteen or even twenty thousand riders. And where are the other clans?' He sounded bitter.
'I don't know,' Melitta said.
'We must give up the valley,' Ataelus said. 'Send the farmers into the fort, and the Sakje ride away on to the sea of grass.'
Temerix shook his head. 'No, brother. You will not do that.'
Ataelus raised an eyebrow. In Sakje, he asked, 'Why not?'
Temerix met him, eye to eye. The two had been friends and war companions for twenty years and more. But this was conflict. 'If you ride away, you will not come back. And we will die. And I will not allow that.'
It was the longest speech Melitta had ever heard from Temerix. She met his eye. 'Listen, Temerix. My brother is coming. He has a fleet. I built that fort to buy time. If we ride away, we will come back.'
Temerix shook his head. 'When you undertook this war, you promised the farmers that you would win.' His eyes were accusing. 'We are not your pawns to stand in that fort ringed by enemies, while your precious Sakje ride the plains, free. If we lose this war, we will be dead, or slaves.'
Melitta drew herself up. 'Temerix, you are tired. We all are. Do not do this. We are close – we are so close.' She looked at the two of them. 'By the gods – we are not beaten. We are fighting a bloody delaying action, and we knew that it would be like this.'
Ataelus shook his head. 'Samahe says that there is talk. That some of Marthax's chieftains talk of riding away. When there is talk like that, it is best to move first, so that they feel that their grievances got to your ear – and yet you don't seem to have swayed in the wind but made your own way.' He shrugged. 'It is the Sakje way. Your mother knew it.'
Melitta was tired. She had shot a hundred arrows in four days, and twice she'd been sword to sword with an enemy. Her vision was odd, her bones weary, and when she pissed, there was blood and she didn't know why.
'Gather my chiefs,' Melitta said. 'Temerix, gather your principal men.'
'We will have a council?' Temerix asked.
'No,' Melitta said. They made a huge fire, consuming an old oak tree entire in a few hours of warmth and light. The nights were warm now, but not so warm that men and women didn't value a fire nearby and a cup of warm cider or mulled wine. And the fire was big enough to burn hot even in the rain.
It was full dark – a time when exhausted fighters rolled in their damp furs and Greek blankets and tried to snatch a few hours of haunted sleep before rising in the first grey day to kill and be killed again. Fighters in total war do not come eagerly to council. Words are no longer the coin of decision, and all a warrior wants is wine to dull the aches and sleep. Oblivion.
Melitta knew this. She walked among them, taking the mood, and it was bad. And then she stood on a stump and called for silence.
There was a buzz as talk died.
'Silence!' she roared. Every head turned to her, and men flinched. She wished that she had had time to change out of her armour, which weighed on her like a skin of lead, or even to rebraid her hair, to appear as a queen instead of as a tousled mouse in scale mail.
She wished she had something heartening to say.
'My brother is coming,' she said. As soon as she said it, she knew that she had said the right thing, so she said it again. 'My brother is coming with fifty ships and three thousand men. Hardened fighters – my father's men. We must hold out until they arrive. If we surrender the valley of the Tanais, then all this was for nothing. Every man, every woman and child who died, sky people and dirt people – all for nothing.'
'We don't have any arrows left,' a voice called. One of Buirtevaert's leaders.
'Half my riders have wounds,' called another. Both Standing Horses. Men who had followed Marthax against her mother.
Melitta struggled with anger, disappointment and fear. And won. Anger wouldn't sway them. They could answer anger with anger. But a little derision… 'I have wounds on half my body,' Melitta answered, her voice strong. 'I piss blood. You, boy? Do you piss blood?'
'I'm no boy!' the young man called, but the other warriors grunted, and a few laughed.
Buirtevaert was close to her. 'I have pissed blood,' he said. 'It passes.' He nodded. 'My clan is hurt, lady. I have taken deaths. I have lost horses.'
Melitta looked at him. 'Hurts heal,' she said. 'Until we take our death blow, we heal.'
'That's what they fear,' Scopasis said behind her. His voice was quiet – advising, not deriding. 'They fear that this is the last stand of the Sakje.'
She raised her voice, and it was firm. 'When we have defeated Upazan, we will grow our strength back. We will not waste the peace that we must buy in blood. But we must complete the job. Another week. Another few days, and my brother will come.'
'What if he does not come?' Buirtevaert asked. He looked apologetic. 'I must ask, lady. All here follow you willingly, but we lead clans and we are the men – and women – who must keep our people alive.'
Temerix pushed forward. He was big, bigger than most Sakje, and his black beard shot with grey shone in the firelight. 'Then we die. All of us die together. Earth people and sky people. If Satyrus does not come, we are dead.'
'Fuck that,' called a voice from the darkness.
'But he will come,' Melitta said.
'If only we knew that,' Ataelus muttered.
'Where are the other clans?' the catcalling voice asked. 'Where are the Grass Cats? Where are the Stalking Crows or the Silent Wolves? Where is the strength of the Cruel Hands? Why are we fighting this war alone?'
Melitta took a deep breath to steady her voice. 'Why don't you come into the firelight and talk?' She looked for the voice. 'It's very safe out there in the dark, I suppose.'
Graethe, the chief of the Standing Horse, came into the firelight. 'I had a spot I liked, lady. I have no need to hide. I ask the questions every Sakje asks. And I'll add another – why should we die for the dirt people?'