The Sakje chief scratched his head and sighed. ‘I am a war leader,’ he said. ‘Peace councils leave me confused. I was — waiting. And look, you came!’
‘I am not the king of the Assagatje,’ Kineas said.
‘You are her consort,’ Parshtaevalt said. ‘That is enough.’
And so it proved. The council made it clear from their respectful silence that they wished Kineas to take command. Kineas had enough experience with Sakje to listen to what they left unsaid. He rose, angered at their hesitation and their silent insistence.
‘I am not your king. Why do you sit awaiting my orders?’ he asked.
None of the chiefs said anything. Several of them glanced at Parshtaevalt, as if waiting for him to speak. Finally, Bain, the most aggressive of the war leaders, rose. ‘Lord, you are the Lady’s consort, and you led us all through the campaigns last year. Even if Srayanka were here, she would share her authority with you. Lead us!’
Kineas took a deep breath. ‘I want to rescue Srayanka,’ he said. ‘Is it even possible? We need to know what has happened in the world. I have heard rumour of betrayal, and I have heard that she is a hostage.’ Even as he spoke the words, he felt a tide of despair rise in his heart. For a moment the pain was so intense that he stopped speaking and stood in the midst of the Assagatje, head hanging.
Kineas had been following Srayanka for months, and here, in the middle of the sea of grass, he had lost her again. It was too much.
A strong hand clenched his shoulder, warm in the chill of evening. ‘Courage, brother,’ Philokles said. ‘We’ll find her.’ The Spartan was sober, which he rarely was in the evening since the storming of the citadel. ‘Come on, Athenian. Head up. These people are depending on you.’
Kineas swallowed. His chin came up. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Let’s hear from those who know something of what has passed.’
Despite Alexander’s best efforts, there was a constant exchange of men and information between the tribesmen serving Spitamenes and their cousins serving the Macedonian king, so that rumours crossed the lines in a matter of days and each side knew what the other intended and what each had done, and the camp of the Assagatje had a dozen warriors who knew what passed on the Oxus and in the valley of the Jaxartes that summer. One by one they rose in council or were sent for by their chiefs.
There were three armies. Spitamenes laid siege to Marakanda, fabled city of the trade route, and his army was the last Persian army in the field against Alexander, with veteran Iranian cavalrymen and hardbitten Sogdian noblemen, exiles in their own land, who had been fighting Alexander for three and sometimes four years. Alexander had a garrison in Marakanda, fighting carefully and looking east towards the king’s army for relief. It was in the east that Alexander had his field army, still bent on rescuing the seven garrisons he had left on the Jaxartes and on keeping the third army under observation. The third army was the Scythian horde, led by the queen of the Massagetae. Her force was small, just a few thousand riders, but she had sent out the call for the full muster, and the very grass itself seemed to be moving across the steppe towards the appointed rendezvous.
When her force had been described by one of Bain’s horsemen, Qares rose, and when he was recognized, he stepped forward into the council. ‘I am Qares, of the Iron Hills Massagetae,’ he said, and his voice had the sing-song quality that Ataelus had when he spoke. ‘I come from Queen Zarina to your queen. I see a good force here, a force that the Massagetae need and greater than we had dared hope.’ His voice was strong. His hair was in a dozen braids, each tied with a gold bell, and he was a handsome man. ‘I, too, mourn the loss of your queen. But all the Sakje must ride together to face Iskander. Queen Zarina has a fair host, and she will have more with every week. But when Iskander relieves Marakanda and defeats Spitamenes, for whom we have no trust, then he will turn east. We must be ready. Make haste!’
Kineas nodded and the man fell silent.
‘Lord Qares,’ Kineas raised his whip. ‘How far is it from here to the camp of your queen?’
‘Twenty days’ riding without haste,’ Qares replied.
‘Is there water?’ Parshtaevalt asked.
Qares shrugged. ‘More now than there will be in a month,’ he said.
The council came to no decision that night, and Kineas was bitter when he drank wine with his own officers. ‘If I had wanted to be archon, I could have stayed in Olbia,’ Kineas said.
Philokles was deep in his cups. The Assagatje had a store of Persian wine and Philokles had determined to get to the bottom of it. ‘Be a man,’ he said, slurring his words. ‘These people need you.’
‘Go to bed,’ Kineas said.
‘He’s drunk,’ Diodorus said. But when Temerix and Sappho had taken Philokles away, Diodorus said, ‘He’s right. These people need you.’
Kineas took a deep breath. He thought of saying that all he wanted was Srayanka, and he thought of cursing, but he thought better of it and released the breath unused.
Kineas was silent in the morning, having slept in her wagon and having wakened to her smell on the blankets. He lay awake in the dawn watching the heavy felt dragons, gryphons and running deer on her wall hangings move gently in the morning breeze. And when he couldn’t lie there any longer, he rose and took Thalassa and rode away on the plains. He rode alone, galloping out on to the long grass until Thalassa was as tired as he was. Then he slipped from her back and wove her a garland of late roses while she breathed heavily and then cropped the green grass that still lay under the summer-scorched grass that stood in golden waves on the plain. Her silver-grey coat was streaked with sweat in black patterns. He rubbed the sweat off her neck.
He placed the garland on her head and she sidled at the prickles, but then steadied, and he sang a hymn to Poseidon. He stood alone under the bowl of the sky and watched, and finally a lone bird rose from the east on his right and turned long circles in the sky. It was an eagle, and after the sun moved towards the west, a second eagle joined it and the two danced in the sky above him and then flew away to the west.
Kineas mounted Thalassa and rode slowly across the plains towards their camp.
That night, he summoned the council in his own name, and a third of all the people came, so that the night was filled with the murmur of their voices. The Sakje sat in a circle with the Olbians, as they had the year before. Kineas rose.
‘Will you have me as your leader until Srayanka is returned to us?’ Kineas asked.
Parshtaevalt shot to his feet. ‘We will!’ he said.
‘Very well,’ said Kineas. He looked around. He invited all the chiefs to speak, and one by one they rose to demand Srayanka’s rescue, and to speak about fodder and grass, about infractions of the law, about the dangers of wintering on the sea of grass.
Then Kineas rose with the whip that Srayanka had given him in his fist. First, he sketched with words what he knew of the great war in the south. Then, as best he could, he described how Srayanka must have been betrayed. He stressed that Alexander had no reason to harm any of the hostages — neither Srayanka of the Cruel Hands, nor her young friend Urvara of the Grass Cats, nor Hirene her trumpeter.
Young men and women who had ridden abroad rose to tell of what they had heard at the great camp at Marakanda and from traders on the trade road. They spoke too long, as the young often do, but despite this, the excitement of the circle grew.
And then Diodorus stood. His Sakje wasn’t good, and he called on Eumenes to translate for him. ‘They don’t know us here,’ he said. He turned to Qares. ‘The Massagetae do not spurn Spitamenes for his treachery, because they do not know Srayanka and how far she has come.’ He turned to Darius. ‘Spitamenes does not know the campaign we waged last year.’ Finally he turned to Kineas. ‘Alexander does not know us.’ He looked at the circle — Sakje faces, ruddy with firelight, their hair sparkling with gold ornaments, and Greek faces, their beards long and often shot with grey, and Keltoi with their bronze and gold beards. Kineas watched them all — even without Srayanka, he felt as if he had returned home. These were the comrades of his last campaign, and here among them he might have been a few stades from Olbia on a different arm of the sea of grass.