Hephaestion’s humour was restored by Srayanka’s reaction. ‘She can spread her legs for me as well as any woman,’ he said, and a few of the soldiers in the tent laughed. ‘Give me back my sword before someone gets hurt,’ he said in the voice he used to reason with women and animals.
Srayanka nodded, as if thinking. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said to Alexander, and she cut Hephaestion across the unarmoured top of his thighs so that blood flowed like water — not a deep cut, but a painful one. Then she tossed the sword on the ground at Alexander’s feet as his guards grabbed her. ‘I don’t imagine you’ll spread a lot of legs anytime soon,’ she said into the pandemonium.
Alexander regarded her with a mixture of horror and pleasure. ‘I shall call you Medea!’ he said.
Srayanka shrugged. ‘Many men do,’ she said. ‘Release me, or you will suffer by it.’
Alexander grinned — his first spontaneous grin since his ragtag army had fought its way through the drifts of snow from Kandahar. ‘I will never release you, lady,’ he said. Behind him, guardsmen and slaves were seeing to Hephaestion.
Srayanka drew herself up, and her pregnancy only added to her dignity. ‘We will see,’ she said. She flicked a glance at Hephaestion, who was rising with the aid of two other men.
‘You will be raped by dogs and the corpses of your unborn children ripped from your womb and fed to them,’ Hephaestion shouted. ‘I will have you tortured until you have no skin, until-’
Alexander slapped him and he subsided, but his eyes watched Srayanka with feverish hate.
‘We will see,’ she said.
18
Luck, good fortune, careful planning and the will of the gods got Kineas’s force across the desert in the full bloom of spring, with water at every major depression and flowers blossoming among the desolate rocks. Fifteen days after they marched, on the feast of Plynteria in Athens, the army was reunited at the edge of the endless grass that rolled away to every horizon but the one behind them, heat mirage and dust devils and a line of purple mountains in the sunset as the last token of Hyrkania.
‘You make good time,’ Lot said, clasping Kineas’s forearm. ‘You have truly become Sakje.’
Kineas flushed at the praise. ‘We had perfect weather and water in every hole.’
Lot grinned. In Sakje, he said, ‘That’s why you cross a desert in the spring. Come — I have a little bad wine and Samahe is reporting on Ataelus’s adventures in the east.’
‘You seem happy,’ Kineas said.
‘I’m home!’ Prince Lot said. ‘I think I never expected to live to get here. And here we are! My messengers are out on the grass, riding for our yurts and our people. We’ll make rendezvous in the Salt Hills, and then we will have such a feast!’
Kineas nodded. ‘How far to the Salt Hills?’
Lot led on to his ‘tent’, merely a square of tough linen staked over a pair of lances. Mosva poured them wine in gold cups. ‘The cups are better than the wine,’ he said. ‘Ten days and we’ll be in the hills. Ten hard days, and then you’ll have all the fodder you need until you reach Srayanka.’ The Sauromatae prince sniffed the air, which was heavy with dust and pollen, like an open bazaar. ‘That is the smell of home!’
‘Will you leave us?’ Kineas asked.
‘Never!’ Lot said. ‘Now you are in my land! I will keep you as safe as you have kept me.’ He drank his cup and Kineas finished his. ‘Ten days’ hard riding and then we feast.’
Kineas turned to Mosva. In a way she was a woman, and then in another way she was just one of his troopers. ‘Do you fancy either Leon or Eumenes?’ he asked.
She gave the grin of a young woman just discovering her powers. ‘Both,’ she said, and laughed.
Lot nodded. ‘They are both fine young men.’ He shrugged. ‘Among my people, women choose their own mates. Both are rich, well-connected, brave and foreign.’ He grinned again. ‘My sister’s son inherits my tribes, no matter what road my daughter takes.’
‘Your sister’s son?’ Kineas asked.
‘Upazan,’ Lot answered, and he frowned, as if the name left a bad taste.
‘Ten days’ hard riding’ was repeated throughout the army as they rode east. The desert vanished behind them and they rode over downs of new grass, green as Persephone’s robe, but watercourses were rare and only rain saved them from serious consequences until they came to a great river flowing across their path, burbling brown with spring run-off across rocks.
Kineas was on his Getae hack and he led the horse down to the water, careful not to let the beast over-drink. Diodorus and Leon were doing the same. ‘Surely this isn’t the Oxus?’ Diodorus asked.
Kineas shook his head. ‘We must still be twenty days from the Oxus,’ he said. He rubbed his beard. ‘Or more. Lot!’ he shouted.
Prince Lot circled his horse through the drinking animals and splashed up.
‘What is this river called?’ Kineas asked.
Lot shrugged. ‘In Sakje, it is Tanais.’
Leon was pulling his gelding clear of the water, because the horse wanted to keep drinking and Leon had no intention of letting him. From the far bank, he shouted, ‘They’re all called Tanais! It means “river”.’
Lot shrugged. ‘No Greek name that I know,’ he said.
Leon, who interrogated every merchant and traveller they met, went to his pack and withdrew a scroll whereon he made a few marks. ‘This must be the Sarnios,’ he said. ‘At least, that’s what the horse-dealer called it.’
They camped in a bend of the Sarnios. Kineas sacrificed a young calf born on the march to the river goddess and ordered a few of their cattle slaughtered so that all the troops got a ration of meat with their grain. Later, well fed and greasy, they sat under the sky, wrapped in their cloaks against the cold night air, and watched the stars spread above them, backlit by the glow of Temerix’s forge in the bed of his wagon. Antigonus and Kineas worked on tack, repairing headstalls. Kineas saw that the charm Kam Baqca had given him so long ago in the winter camp on the Little Borysthenes was fraying, and he sewed it down tight. Antigonus had acquired a bronze chamfron, a piece of horse armour, but he couldn’t get it to fit his horse without troubling the animal. Every night it seemed he was making adjustments.
‘Wish she could talk,’ Antigonus joked. ‘Tell me if the cursed thing fits.’
Kineas finished his much smaller project and watched Darius attaching nocks to arrow shafts in the firelight. It was finicky work. ‘Wouldn’t you do better waiting for daylight?’ Kineas asked.
The Persian had all his arrow-making kit spread on a pale blanket. ‘Yes,’ he said. He swore as his hand slipped and a finished nock went sailing off into the darkness. ‘But Temerix bought charcoal from a trader. He has enough to melt bronze and he’s casting the heads tonight.’
Kineas grinned. ‘You could still put the nocks on in daylight,’ he said.
Darius nodded. ‘There’s never time.’ He flicked a glance at Kineas. ‘The Sauromatae saw deer tracks today. I won’t be caught unprepared!’
Kineas laughed. ‘You had all winter to make arrows.’
Darius ignored his commander and concentrated on his task.
‘Uuggh!’ said Philokles, arriving with a bowl and a slab of meat. ‘What’s that smell?’
‘Glue,’ Darius said. He had another nock ready and was fitting it on a neat dovetail into the butt of the arrow’s shaft, where the string would catch it. He rolled the nock in glue and slid it home, wiping the excess with his thumb. Then he took three carefully prepared fletchings, all cut from heron feathers, and glued them in place on the shaft. He set the arrow point-first in the ground and went on to the next shaft, methodically placing and gluing the nock.
‘Hmm,’ said Philokles, interested despite himself. ‘Why not set the feathers straight on? What purpose do they serve?’
Darius dropped a fletching in the grass by the fire and swore again. By the time he recovered it, there was glue on the feather itself and Darius threw it in the fire in disgust and began to cut another.