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  All that stood between Darius and the cave was this one man. Wishing he had brought his bow, Darius wiped the dust from the climb off his hands. Slowly he drew his sword.

  Jumping up he charged, feet pounding rock, akinakes held low, blade forward, legs pumping. The warrior spun round, mouth opening wide then hardening into a snarl as he hitched the string over the end of his bow, skilfully notching an arrow and aiming between Darius’s eyes. Darius screwed up his face and looked away as his shoulder barged into the warrior’s chest. The bow snapped; the arrow point scored across Darius’s cheek. He drew back his arm and with a grunt drove his sword up behind the warrior’s breastbone. Poised on the edge of the drop the warrior grasped at Darius’s throat to stop himself toppling backwards, hands clawing at Darius’s windpipe. Darius’s lungs burned, stars danced before his eyes, the night darkness deepening into a black void. As he fought the faintness swelling in his head, a survival instinct deep within Darius kicked in, and the blade in his hand seemed to wrench itself up, scraping against the inside of the warrior’s ribcage before finding his heart. Darius twisted the sword savagely. The warrior’s head flew up, a rumbling from his chest as his body jerked in short spasms. Wrists jabbing outward one at a time, Darius broke the grip on his throat, and freezing air scorched his lungs as it flooded in. Arms windmilling, the Saka fought for balance. Darius shoved him hard in the chest and the man slipped off the blade into the darkness, the wind whipping away his scream.

  Darius stationed two men on the dead Saka’s ledge to watch the enemy camp while the wounded were brought in. He couldn’t help the smile that animated his features as high spirits crackled through the cave. Loud greetings, hugs and clasping hands mingled with gasps of relief as friends thought lost were carried into the warm smoky air. A chorus of exaggerated whoops followed as Frada’s stallion and three more horses were led inside. Leaning against the cave wall, Darius’s pleasure in the scene was tinged with sadness at the realization that many of these men would soon be dead.

  Squatting in the dust, Vinda was clasping a dying asabari’s wrist, comforting him with surprising tenderness as he choked his last breath, while Vivana and Baba, the youngest asabari, settled a blood-soaked Frada on a blanket. Vivana’s steady green eyes focused briefly on Frada’s chest wound then flicked to Darius. Darius met them with a slight shake of his head. Nothing was said but both men knew. Chest wounds were usually fatal in the end.

  Frada’s short kandys cloak was pinned closed with an exquisitely worked gold brooch, in the shape of a horse’s head that turned to look back. Darius touched the cold metal and felt a lump in his throat at the memory it evoked. Instinctively, his hand went to the scar on his arm. The wound from the Saka spear had taken a long time to heal. It had been a bronze point, like all Saka weapons: they had never mastered iron. The tip had pierced the bone, and for months afterwards Darius’s arm had ached. Even now it sometimes pained him. Back then it had been agony, but anger had blotted out the pain. Darius closed his eyes tight and remembered. It had been towards the end of the previous year, and with two campaigns under their belts they had felt like seasoned veterans. Returning from a scouting trip, they had been negotiating a treacherous ridge when Frada had fallen from his horse, sliding down the precipitous slope and coming to rest lying in the bottom of a gully with his leg twisted beneath him. From out of nowhere, eight howling Saka warriors had descended like a pack of wolves. Darius heard again the terror in his friend’s voice as he screamed at them and held them at bay with his spear. But they had formed a circle and were closing in. From the safety of the ridge, Darius had watched, knowing it was only a matter of time …

  Darius shook his head at the folly of what he had done next. Enraged at his friend’s distress, Darius had left his safe vantage point and charged down the gully into the mass of warriors, hacking, stabbing and yelling. Fury had turned him into an animal, intent on shedding blood. How he had survived he still didn’t know, but the Saka had scattered, leaving three of their number dead or dying. Despite Frada’s broken leg, Darius had dragged him, screaming, out of the gully and tied him to his horse. Before leaving, Darius had taken the horse’s head brooch from one of the dying Saka and pinned it to Frada’s cloak. ‘A gift from a dying man brings life,’ he had told his wounded friend. Frada had worn it ever since as a badge of that friendship. Gratitude, and shared danger, had led Frada to name him ‘brother’. A bond had been created between the two men that could never break.

  Removing Frada’s cloak, Darius set the brooch aside, praying his friend would live to wear it again. Silently, he and Vivana unbuckled Frada’s shoulder straps, manoeuvred the corselet over his head, and cut away the bloody gown beneath it. Darius forced himself to look at the torn skin surrounded by purple bruising and encrusted blood, where the arrows from the ambush had driven deep into flesh. He knew that three wicked backward-facing barbs on each arrow made the shafts impossible to pull out, and the only way to remove them was to cut. Even though it was essential, he recoiled from slicing into his friend’s living flesh, already hearing the screams and seeing the sweat glisten on Frada’s cold, bloodless skin. Even if Frada survived the ordeal, there would still be the wound fever that might kill him. But if Darius wanted to give him any chance of life there was no choice. Six strong asabari held Frada down, and Vivana pretended not to see his commander’s hands shaking slightly as Darius gritted his teeth and stood over his friend with a sharp knife …

  By the time five arrowheads were piled on the ground Frada was drenched with sweat, gasping through the leather gag in his mouth. Vivana picked up a discarded arrowhead and looked curiously at the three bronze lobes that came together in a long, narrow point. ‘Armour piercing, sir? From the Saka? It weren’t no hunting party, was it? And they weren’t after no rustlers neither.’ Arrows for hunting game were larger, with more strongly curved heads. And horse rustlers didn’t wear armour.

  Darius considered the metal point. ‘You’re right, Vivana … it’s odd. As though they were expecting Persians …’

  He stared dejectedly at the sixth arrow, still lodged in Frada’s chest. It was by far the most dangerous. Vivana gave him a look, as if to ask ‘Are you going to remove it?’ Darius shook his head. ‘Not from the chest. I’d kill him.’ There would be a surgeon travelling with Cyrus’s army. If Frada held out that long.

  Wiping blood from his hands, Darius slumped down on a bundle of saddlecloths as the asabari crowded round to hear what he had seen in the valley. Even the wounded propped themselves up to listen. Before speaking Darius looked round the half circle of expectant faces, feeling their fates weighing him down. Most were a similar age to him, a few a couple of years younger, but with the exception of Vinda they all wore expressions of complete trust. Sobered by their faith he took a deep breath. ‘The reason the pass is being guarded is that the smoke we saw is a Saka army.’

  Shocked silence was followed by cries of dismay. Vinda leant forward and stared at Darius with hostile eyes. One pair of asabari had obviously laid bets. Heads nodded and silver surreptitiously changed hands. As everyone listened in silence Darius told them of the ten thousand cooking fires speckling the night, the swarms of warriors whose ox-drawn wagons and tents filled the valley. ‘Cyrus thinks their army is about twenty thousand and many days north. It’s more like a hundred and fifty thousand and right here, waiting to pounce.’ Darius waved down cries of dismay. ‘Our duty is to escape and warn the King of Kings that it’s a trap. If Cyrus takes up Tomyris’s offer to cross the river, he’ll be wiped out.’

  The hostility on Vinda’s face deepened into outright anger. ‘This is ludicrous. There’s no Saka army. You’re lying to these men and you know it.’ He looked Darius in the eye and lowered his voice. ‘Remember there will be hell to pay.’

  Frada stirred, groaned and croaked hoarsely for water. Darius knelt over him and dribbled some into his mouth. ‘How are you feeling?’

  Frada managed a thin smile. ‘Better … without … the arrows. Than
ks.’ The smile faded. ‘But you know … I’m … too weak … to ride. Promise you won’t … leave me here … alive. I don’t want to die … hanging on a tree … by my guts …’

  Darius looked down at his friend. ‘Frada! You think I’d leave my brother to the mercy of the Saka? You’re coming on my horse! All you have to do is sit there, you great lazy brute. You think you can manage that?’

  Frada’s eyes closed and his chest rose and fell. ‘You’re a … good man, Darius. You look after … your … soldiers well.’

  ‘You’d have done the same.’

  ‘Not just me … all of them. And it’s more … than I deserve.’ Frada’s voice sank to a whisper. ‘I’ve not been a … good friend … to you.’

  Darius felt Frada’s forehead. ‘No sign of fever, yet you’re babbling nonsense. Quiet now. Try to rest.’ Darius was deeply concerned for his friend. He watched every gasp and listened to every faltering breath with his heart in his mouth. Having come back from the dead once, to lose Frada now would be a terrible blow.

  Casting the thought from his mind, Darius turned to the ring of solemn asabari. Some, expecting to ride, had already buckled on sword belts, or pulled on riding boots after toasting their feet. Others, hoping to stay in the cave, were standing in just trousers or patterned leggings and gowns. All were watching him, waiting for his lead.

  Needing time to think, Darius turned away and began pacing in the shadows, torn by indecision, his head spinning as he wrestled with conflicting needs. Frada was too ill to be moved, and if the Persians broke out now, with the Saka alert outside, many of his men would be shot down. But if they stayed, more Saka might arrive and draw the siege tight.

  Eventually, Darius stopped pacing and accepted the inevitable; his first duty was to warn Cyrus. Even at the expense of his best friend’s life. The men’s relief at finding the cave had been overwhelming, but now Darius must order them back into danger. He closed his eyes and leant against the wall. Leaving was the right thing to do, but exhaustion and dismay sapped his will. In the midst of his doubts, an image of Parmys flashed into his mind – the wickedness that sometimes came into her eyes when they kissed, the softness of her lips. It was entirely out of place at this moment of fear and tension, but it brought him the strength to summon a smile. He turned back to face his men. ‘It’s time to prepare.’

  In the glow of the flames, the asabari dressed for war. Someone pulled out a reed pipe and a thin, high tune skipped around the cave. Darius averted his eyes as men clasped wrists firmly, swapping promises to look after wives and children. Everyone there stood to lose a brother, cousin, father or uncle marching with Cyrus. If just one of the troop got through with the news to save them, the sacrifice would not have been in vain.

  The fit helped the wounded, tying them to horses and strapping shields to their arms. Working in long expert strokes, Vivana waxed the string of his bow. Baba sat taking deep breaths in a corner, head swamped by his oversized yellow hood, his friends trying to bolster his courage. With bowed heads and glazed eyes, a few men simply contemplated what was to come. Thinking of the strain Frada’s weight would put on his horse, Darius reluctantly removed his armour and tied it in a bundle to Frada’s riderless stallion. He tightened the horse’s harness, decided it was too tight, loosened it, then tightened it again. The cave buzzed with men enacting the same pointless pre-battle rituals until Vinda looked outside and announced, ‘The moon is setting!’

  Everyone who could walk gathered round as the noble pulled a battered sprig of myrtle leaf from his pack. Wine sizzled on glowing coals as Darius poured an offering onto the ground in front of the fire. The divisions between men faded and the troop became a single body of determined soldiers, as Vinda faced the flames, held up the myrtle and intoned a prayer.

  ‘Ahura Mazda, Wise Lord, Creator and Protector. Save us!’

  Leaving the warmth of the fire, Darius stepped into the frosty night. Infused with the moon’s remaining light the western sky had a cold blue-grey opalescence. The wind had dropped, the air was calm. The horses blew clouds of steam through their noses as they clattered out of the cave.

  ‘Hold tight!’ Darius warned. No answer from Frada, just a tug from behind. Darius swept his arm forward. With a jingling of harness rings and rattle of weapons the troop trotted on, heading for the tangle of rocks where the Ma-Saka were betrayed by glinting bronze. Sounds of beating hooves and men yelling for courage mingled, as they bounced off the walls of the pass. His eyes fixed on the rocks ahead, Darius kicked his horse into a gallop, the smooth footfalls light beneath him. It was good to be riding again. Cold air rushed past his face, the walls of the pass flashed by, and ahead the Ma-Saka’s rocks grew larger and closer. Rising from them, a tiny point flickered in the darkness. It raced towards him, increasing in size and speed. He raised his shield and the arrow whipped past, whistling, followed by another, and another.

  Vivana was on his left, Vinda on his right, heads low, small round shields up, nerves stretched tight, arrows sprouting from the dark and accelerating then clunking into shields or sparking off rock, while men vented fear and anger in high, piercing cries. Horses rippled forward, bronze bits clanked, the ground shook and the rhythm quickened as they built up their charge. The bow case on Darius’s hip joggled madly, jolts of movement ran up his spine. A sudden impact was followed by a cry of despair, as far to Darius’s left an asabari’s head thrashed with an arrow through his eye. The man went down and the troop thundered on, Darius hoping he had the courage to use his dagger before the Saka reached him.

  Short of arrows, Darius had held the men back, but at a hundred paces they entered the killing zone. He reached for the horn around his neck, blew a sharp blast then refilled his lungs. Letting loose the pent-up frustration of the ambush he bellowed into the night: ‘Kill them! Kill them all!’ The Persians shrieked in reply and chaos erupted as their arrows ripped the air, iron points a thin silver in the dying light of the moon, bright fletching feathers fading, then came the distant clatter as they smashed into rock and the occasional cry as a Saka fell.

  At eighty paces something metallic glittered among the rocks. Guiding the horse with his knees, Darius dropped the reins, raised his bow and loosed three arrows, firing when all four hooves were off the ground, matching his shooting to the rhythm of his mount. A vicious hail came back in response, the flash of the arrow points winking like fireflies in the moonlight. Darius saw them approaching, felt the sharp edge of danger and, screaming at Frada to get down, threw himself low over his horse’s neck as the arrows raced past, clanging off armour or thudding into rock. Nearby, another asabari went down in a tangle of limbs, pink blood frothing from a wound in his chest. The Saka were firing frantically now, showers of bronze floating towards the Persians in the narrow space, a hailstorm sweeping in at night that was impossible to avoid. Close to panic, the asabari’s charge faltered and the drumbeat of hooves slowed, the horses’ heads lifted, the men looked around and began calling to each other in fear. Darius screamed: ‘Shields!’ The shields went up and the arrows slammed into them, all except Baba, whose face was frozen in horror and whose shield was still low at his waist. An arrow smashed through his teeth, his head jerked back, the rear half of the shaft sticking from his bloody mouth as he fell. Willing the survivors on, Darius kicked back his heels and blew the call for ‘Attack’. The hornblast echoed harshly down the pass, then came clattering hooves and resurgent war cries as the asabari rallied behind him.

  Thirty paces away the Saka’s rocks loomed. Beyond lay the exit from the pass. Shadow men in slow motion wielded spears or bows to either side. A Saka chieftain with an arrow in his arm screamed at them, gesticulating wildly to form a line. As he waved his good arm at reluctant warriors, the dull glitter of the man’s bronze armour caught Darius’s eye. Determined to cut a way through, Darius raised his bow, aimed, then heard a whine and a crack, and a burning pain in his wrist threw the bow from his hand. Shouting out in dismay he felt a line of blood dripping down his fo
rearm, burning hot against his skin. The pain cut through his exhaustion and he felt suddenly clearheaded, the muzzyness of the night falling from his eyes. Pulling his spear from its holster, Darius guided with the touch of a knee and rode straight at the chieftain. The spear lay along his arm angled forward like a lance, the cornel-wood shaft smooth against his fingertips. The chieftain watched him coming with eyes that glittered coldly beneath the stars. He raised his own spear, planted his feet and stood firm. Words were yelled in the Saka tongue, bows drawn and a flurry of violent thumps struck Darius’s shield, the impact throwing him back against Frada and forcing a gasp from his throat. There was a jolt in Darius’s chest as the spear slipped from his grasp. Fumbling he caught it, dragged it back into line and twisted his head away as a bright point was thrust into his face; he heard a shout of warning, a cry of fear. With a sudden jerk the back of Darius’s spearshaft was forced against the side of his ribcage, followed by the harsh ring of iron against bronze, and a long, drawn-out scream as his spear point drove through the chieftain’s armour. A gush of blood was dark in the night, then Darius let the shaft be torn from his hands as his Nisaean mount’s broad shoulders forced a way through the fractured Saka line.

  As the chieftain fell a burst of excited, piercing yells broke from the Persians, answered by the Saka’s howls of despair. With their chieftain dead and their blood chilled by the unearthly Persian shrieks, the warriors fled among the rocks. The Persians gave chase, and beneath the elated screams Darius heard the curved kopis scimitars thumping into flesh, followed by the crash of the Persians’ second and third ranks forcing a way through the remaining warriors. Then Darius was tearing across the open steppe with the rush of icy air in his face and the cold blue-black sky above.

  Even through a haze of exhaustion, the Yaksharta River looked beautiful, sparkling like liquid pearl in the early morning sunlight. The weather was hovering at the point where water freezes over. Not yet ice, the river was no longer water either, but something in between, like a stream of molten glass. The thirsty horsemen spluttered as they drank till their stomachs were heavy with the icy liquid. Then Darius turned the troop into the bitter east wind, heading back along the Yaksharta’s bank to share his news.