‘You friend king!’ he said. ‘Some friend. King give horses. Come! See horses, take.’
Kineas shouted for Ataelus and said to Eumenes, ‘I don’t want to be beholden for these horses. Just tell him to loan us a few so that we have remounts.’
Eumenes began to hem and haw, interjecting a few tentative words of Sakje, but the king shook his head. ‘Just take them. I have a few thousand more. I want to go fast and get this over with. My people here will be waiting and we have a long, long ride north across the plains when this is done.’ His words were friendly, but the tone was pre-emptory. The gift was not a request; it was an order.
Kineas pointed to Ataelus, already mounted, to follow Marthax. He returned with a string of sturdy plains ponies and two tall chargers. They were both pale grey like new iron, with black stripes running down their spines.
Kineas watched them go by, scrutinizing their size and strength. He was so absorbed with the chargers that he almost walked into Kam Baqca. She held his shoulders firmly and looked into his eyes. Her own were dark, so brown as to be almost black even in the glare of the snow. She began to speak, almost to sing, and the king came and stood beside her.
‘She says, “Do not try to cross the river again without my help.”’ The king raised his eyebrows. The seer smiled, still holding his shoulders, and he looked into her deep brown eyes: All the way down to where the dreams waited, and a tree grew in the dark…
And then he was standing in the snow, and she said, ‘You must not leave without speaking to my niece,’ in clear Greek.
The king turned to look at her — the sudden turn and glare of an eagle. Kineas noted it. The seer ignored her king. Instead, she reached up and attached a charm to Kineas’s horse’s bridle. The bridle was plain, just a loop of leather with a bronze bit. His good bridle was with his charger, safely back in Olbia. The charm was of iron, a bow and an arrow.
‘Will that keep me warm?’ he asked lightly.
The king frowned. ‘Do not joke about Kam Baqca. She does not sell her charms, but we are greatly favoured if we wear them. What river can you not cross without her?’
‘I dreamed a river,’ Kineas said. His eyes were on Lady Srayanka, who stood in the muddy snow by the king’s yurt, giving orders to men loading a wagon. He looked back at the king, and his eyes were wary and his face closed.
‘She says, “Next time you will dream a tree. Do not climb it without me.”’ The king rubbed his beard. He was too young to hide his anger, and Kineas had no idea what the king might be angry about. ‘This is seer talk, Kineas. Are you, too, a baqca?’
Kineas made the sign of aversion. ‘No. I am a simple cavalryman. Philokles is the philosopher.’
His aside was apparently translated, because Kam Baqca spat an answer back and then, as if relenting, gave him a pat on the head as if he were a good child. ‘She says, the one who says poems is a fine man, but she has never seen him and he did not go alone to the river. And she says,’ the king paused, his eyes narrowed, ‘she says this decision will come down to you, however you twist and turn. I think she speaks of the war with Macedon.’ Kam Baqca hit the king lightly on the shoulder. ‘And she tells me this is not for me to think on, that I am only her mouth.’ The king frowned again, adolescent petulance warring with natural humour. ‘What satrap, what great king can be ordered around in this way by his people?’ The king began to collect his arms; a heavy quiver that held both bow and arrows, called a gorytos; a short sword on an elaborately decorated belt with a heavy scabbard, and a bucket of javelins that attached to his saddle.
Kam Baqca patted Kineas on the head again, and then turned him by his shoulders so he faced Lady Srayanka. Srayanka caught his eye and then looked away. Her indifference was a little too studied; a younger man would have read her motion as a direct rejection, but Kineas had seen some of the world and recognized that she wanted his attention. He couldn’t help but smile as he walked to her. He had no translator, which, given the last occasion but one, seemed just as well.
And, as he came close to her, she extended a hand in greeting. On a whim, he reached up and took the gorgon’s head clasp off his cloak and put it in her hand. Her hand was warmer than his, with heavy calluses on the top of the palm and a velvety smoothness on the back he hadn’t remembered, and the contrast — the hard sword hand and the soft back — went through him like poetry, or the sight of the first flower of spring — recognition, wonder, awe.
At first she didn’t meet his eyes — but neither did she reject his touch. She shouted a command over her shoulder and then flicked her eyes over the broach, smiled, and looked at him. She was taller than he had imagined. Her eyes had flecks of brown amidst the blue, and were very nearly level with his own.
‘Go with the gods, Kin-y-aas,’ she said. She looked at the gorgon’s head again — decent work from an Athenian shop — and smiled. He could smell her — woodsmoke and leather. Her hair needed washing. He wanted to kiss her and he didn’t think that was a good idea, but the urge was so strong that he stepped back to avoid having his body betray him.
She put her whip in his hand. ‘Go with the gods,’ she said again. And turned on her heel, already calling to a mounted man carrying a bundle of fleeces.
Kineas looked at the whip after he mounted. He had never carried one, despising them as a tool for poor riders. This one had a handle made of something very heavy, yet pliable. He could feel it moving under his hands. Alternating bands of worked leather and solid gold were wrapped over a pliable core. The worked leather showed a scene of men and women hunting together on horseback that wound up the handle from an agate stone in the pommel to the stiff horsehair of the whip. It was a beautiful thing, too heavy to hit a horse, but a useful pointer and a pretty fair weapon. He flexed it a few times. His young men were mounting behind him. They looked better for a week riding with the Sakje and today they all had their armour, helmets and cloaks. He took his place at their head, still playing with his whip.
Ajax saluted. He was already a competent hyperetes — the men were formed neatly, and Kineas saluted back. ‘You’re a fine soldier, Ajax,’ he said. ‘I’ll be sorry when you go back to marry your rich girl and trade your cargoes.’
Ajax flashed him his beautiful smile. ‘Sir, do you ever pay a compliment without a sting in the tail?’
Kineas flexed the whip again. ‘Yes.’ He smiled at Clio, the nearest trooper. ‘Clio, you look like an adult this morning.’ and to all of them: ‘You gentlemen ready for a hard ride? The king intends to do this in two days. That’s going to be ten hours in the saddle. I can’t let anyone drop out. Are you ready?’
‘Yes!’ they shouted.
The Sakje stopped whatever they were doing to watch them for a moment. Then they went back to their preparations.
Philokles came up, mounted on one of the Sakje chargers — a fine animal, with heavy muscles. ‘The king gave me this horse. I must say, he’s a generous fellow.’ He looked around and then whispered, ‘Not your greatest fan, Kineas.’
Kineas raised an eyebrow.
Philokles spread his hands and bowed his head, a gesture universal among Greeks — I’ll say no more on the subject.
Kineas shook his head and returned his mind to the matter at hand. ‘I couldn’t find a horse your size. That’s a superb animal, Philokles. Don’t waste him in the snow.’
‘Bah, you’ve made a centaur of me, Kineas. With this beast between my legs, I could ride anywhere.’ Philokles gave him a broad smile. ‘If you don’t wipe that grin off your face, Kineas, people might mistake you for a happy man.’
Kineas glanced at the Spartan, ran his eyes over his horse. ‘You might want to get your girth tight first.’ Kineas slid down, got under the Spartan’s leg, and heaved. ‘And roll your cloak tight. Here, give it to me.’
Philokles shrugged. ‘Niceas always does it for me.’