CHAPTER ONE

            A man in the full armor of the Macedonian cavalry rode slowly up the rocky path through the valley. Further down the trail, a small body of mounted horsemen waited patiently, adjusting their equipment and talking in a desultory fashion.

Nikometros felt uneasy. Razor-sharp shadows, cast by the harsh Sogdian sunlight, made the landscape flat and forbidding. The few sounds that came to his ears were muted, heard as if from a great distance. The stench of burning flesh assailed his nostrils. His horse shied as a vulture squawked and beat its way slowly into the air. Nikometros leaned forward, patting the stallion's neck, soothing him. "Easy, Diomede, easy!"

The stallion and rider picked their way slowly over uneven ground past a burned out hovel. A dirty, unkempt figure moved slowly on foot alongside him. Bits and pieces of pottery and other debris lay scattered by the side of the track. The buzzing of flies around an unidentifiable corpse lying by the rough track and the muted jingling of harness were the only sounds invading the silence. He scanned the rocky ground ahead. A few kites circled high above, almost lost in the intense blue of the mountain sky. The tall young officer in Macedonian armor gripped his horse with powerful tanned thighs, controlling him easily, his hands only lightly resting on the reins. Light blue eyes squinted in the glare beneath blonde locks poking out from under a bronze crested helmet. He shifted his weight when his golden stallion fidgeted, stamping and trying to turn as another horseman came up alongside him. He turned to see his commander, Eumenion, smiling at him.

"I don't like the look of this place, sir," Nikometros murmured. "Those

bandits obviously passed this way and recently, but I don't trust our guide. He keeps assuring me they are nowhere near. Besides, this valley makes me uneasy."

Eumenion glanced at the short figure of their guide standing stolidly a few  paces away. His squat and solidly built body, clothed in dirty rags, and reeking from accumulated filth blended in with the desolate rocky ground. His dirty face gazed vacantly at the hills around them.

"I'm not sure he's capable of guile, Niko", he replied. "He hardly seems aware of us. Anyway, the men are ready for anything these savages can throw at us."

"I'll move them ahead then, sir."

He snapped off a salute, wheeled his horse, and galloped back to the men waiting further down the dusty track. The body of horsemen broke into a trot when Nikometros beckoned them forward. His mind went back a few months to recent battles against the Persians. As a young captain in Alexander's Companion Cavalry, he had led the elite of the army, sweeping all before them. Laid low by foul water for several days, he found himself stranded in newly conquered Sogdiana, as the ever-victorious Macedonian army swept eastward. Now he found himself detached as an auxiliary commander of new recruits, struggling to keep Scythia, part of the border territories, in some sort of order. He examined the men as they passed, putting a name to the face, examining their equipment, noting how each sat his horse.

"Ten only," he muttered to himself. "And only half-trained recruits at that. May the gods keep us." His right hand went to the ornate gold armband around his left arm, as it always did when he was worried. It had been his mother's, and her mother's before her, a trophy of some long forgotten war on Macedonia's northern border. It featured a woman's upper body merging into the coils of a serpent. It was a prized possession, and he felt that some daemon of good luck resided within it. He rubbed it absentmindedly, hoping his luck held for them today.

Spurring his horse forward Nikometros took up a position near the head of the column, the guide running alongside and holding onto his horse's mane. When they entered the mouth of the defile, Eumenion raised his hand, and slowed the column to a walk. Nikometros scanned the rocky hillsides, looking for any sign of movement. Only the sun-baked earth met his intense gaze, waves of heat distorting the air. A few scraggly trees sprawled over the boulder-strewn ground, casting harsh shadows in the bright sunlight. Sweat trickled slowly down his back. Flies gathered in a small cloud around him, settling around his stallion's eyes and mouth. It tossed its head irritably, snorting. Nikometros shifted uncomfortably, the worn, leather straps of his armor digging into tensed muscles.

The column moved slowly forward, penetrating deeper into the valley. Eumenion moved up beside Nikometros, his brown gelding whickering softly at the golden stallion.

"I'm worried, Niko. It's too quiet. We were close behind those bandits an hour ago, now they've just disappeared. Have we lost them, or are they waiting for us somewhere? They must know we are following."

Nikometros frowned at the easy familiarity in Eumenion's voice. He knew he'd have to find some way to have a quiet word about it later. It was one thing to be relaxed in his presence, but sometimes Eumenion was too friendly on duty. Discipline was hard enough when separated from the main army, without appearing to show favoritism. He'd known Eumenion since childhood, and fought beside him throughout the Asian campaign. Consequently, he often treated Nikometros as a friend rather than a junior officer. Sometimes the men resented their special relationship. However, right now he sounded worried. The bandits they were pursuing were probably local tribesmen, but this last raid showed skillful planning. They had been following the trail of burned out farms for three days.

"That gap in the rocks up ahead," he went on. "If there's a trap, that'll be where it is. We'll have to go through there in single file, Niko."

Nikometros reached down and tapped the guide on the head, grimacing as he did so. He was sure the man was covered in lice.

"Raiders… where are?" he said, twisting his tongue around the recently learned syllables of the Scythian tongue.

The guide looked up at him with a blank stare, then pointed once more up the valley. Nikometros cursed softly and drew his short sword, easing the small round shield on his left arm.

"A plague on this language. I wish I knew enough of it to really question him and find out where he's leading us. I'd feel happier if we had enough men to send out a proper scouting party, sir."

"Headquarters is sure of him, Niko. The guide's proved his loyalty before."

Nikometros grunted non-committally. He searched the pass in front of him with his eyes, before turning to the fidgeting column of men and horses behind them. "Move forward slowly, and as you love your lives, stay alert as we go through there."

He pointed his sword at the guide, who looked up at him impassively, scratching his armpit. He leaned down, gesturing with the sword.

"Take there up," he said, then cursing, tried again. "Take us up there, but if you lying, I kill you, no make mistake."

The man looked sullenly at him then turned away. The column, with the two officers at its head, moved slowly up the path in single file, passing between the larger rocks at the crest of the pass. Nikometros looked keenly about him when they entered the pass, but could see no sign of danger. The shade cast by the large boulders was a short but welcome relief from the heat. Nothing stirred on the slopes, on either side, as the column moved slowly through the pass. Nikometros found himself rubbing his armband again, and dropped his hand self-consciously. The gradient dropped away steeply on the other side, and the horses slipped in the loose scree. The clatter of the rocks and the jangling of metal seemed too loud, echoing back from the sides of the valley. Nikometros slowed and looked back to check on the men, seeing the last of them emerge from the shadows of the rocks.

"That cursed fool's half asleep," he muttered to himself. He opened his mouth to shout at the soldier swaying on his horse. A shadow flitted across the sun. He involuntarily glanced upward, glimpsing swift movement above. Eumenion grunted beside him, and Nikometros swung round, aware even as he did so, that the last soldier was falling off his horse.

Eumenion stared at him; a wide-eyed empty look of horror, and his hands scrabbled at his throat. He opened his mouth and a small freshet of blood cascaded down his chin. He slid slowly back off his horse, falling limply to the ground. Nikometros watched all this in numbed disbelief. The silence and lack of awareness of danger made the whole thing seem unreal. Eumenion lay on his side, an arrow shaft in his neck propping his head up. He seemed to be looking back up the trail.

Unthinkingly, Nikometros glanced in the same direction. So little time had passed that the trooper was still falling, though at least two others began to fall with him. A shout of warning left his lips as reality flooded into his mind. Nikometros jerked his horse's head round, seeking the guide. He had disappeared. As another cloud of arrows whistled overhead, he saw figures moving on the far slope, many more than he would have expected. Nikometros looked back at his friend's body for a moment, then shook himself back into reality, cursing as he realized the folly in delay.

"Men, to me!" he yelled. "Form up on me … shields over your heads."

One of the soldiers was surging back up the path, whipping his horse in a frenzy. A man stepped out from the shadows at the top, and cast a spear, taking the horse low down in the neck. The horse screamed and reared, throwing its rider. Before the man could rise, two youths were upon him, hacking downward.

The remaining men closed on Nikometros, jostling his horse. Strained faces peered around shields as they struggled to maintain a position close to him. The clatter of arrows on the shields brought back a fleeting memory of hailstones on the wooden roof tiles of his uncle's hall near Pella, and of Eumenion. He shook his head in horror as reality rushed in on him, the weight of his responsibilities making him groan. His commander was dead. It was now his duty to care for his men. He looked quickly around, struggling to take in the chaotic situation.

Oh Gods, he thought, What do I do?

"Listen, men," he cried, his voice breaking as he raised it to carry over the din. "Ride for your lives. Follow me down the valley. Keep close!"

Nikometros kicked his horse in the ribs, pulling his head towards the slope. The powerful stallion leapt forward, plunging down, scattering rocks, and slipping in the loose rubble. High-pitched cries came from the far slope when the ambushers saw their prey escaping. Aware of riders close behind him, Nikometros spurred his horse on harder, fighting for control on the steep slope. The cries of the archers faded rapidly as his small troop raced onward, down the valley floor and, within minutes, out onto a broad plain at its base. They galloped onward, only slowing as their mounts tired.

Pulling his horse up, Nikometros turned to look back at his men. Only five remained. Sweaty, dirt-streaked faces stared back at him. They wheeled their mounts round, looking back the way they'd come. The horses panted and snorted, their coats covered with foam. Nikometros flicked his eyes over his men, registering who remained. He recognized Timon, an older grizzle-bearded Macedonian conscript.

"You, Timon . . . I saw Doriskos and Thyses fall. What happened to Leonidas and . . . who was that new man, Periscus was it?"

"Fell in the first volley sir," Timon grunted. "And another three of us took wounds. Lucky those dog-shit archers were only peasants or we'd all be dead." He paused, wiping the sweat from his face. "What do we do now, sir? We can't go back through there."

Nikometros' thoughts turned inward again. Five of the men dead . . . gods! And Eumenion too . . . my friend. He put his grief aside, thinking furiously. We can't go back through the pass, it's too dangerous. Maybe we can go around the hills. The Oxus River must be close too, and there's a garrison on the river. Two days ride. Lifting his head, Nikometros raised his voice so they could all hear him.

"We go around the hills, to the west. That will bring us back to the Oxus River. Then we go upriver." He paused, and his voice shook slightly as he added, "There's nothing we can do for our fallen. We'll be back in force later. We can honor our dead . . ."

His voice trailed away when a memory he fought to forget pushed unbidden into his mind. He saw again the ghastly stare on Eumenion's face when death took hold of him. He swayed, then recovered his balance.

"Goodbye, my friend," he muttered, "I'll mourn you later, and I swear you will be avenged." Nikometros gathered his thoughts, and then addressed his men again.

"All right, listen to me. We have a hard ride to the river, but if the gods are with us, we can make it. Keep close together, and don't be tempted to fight if we run into more of the enemy. This time we run." He quelled one or two murmurs at this with a fierce look. "We'll be back and we'll avenge all our comrades then." Nikometros looked into each man's eyes as he spoke, seeing pain and doubt in some, exhaustion in all, but also a determination to survive. "Timon, lead out, double file. At a trot." He kicked his horse into motion and he and the six remaining horsemen formed a rough double line, their shadows long behind them.

Toward dusk, shadows gathered around the tiny column when they rounded the last of the hills. In front, though still many miles away, lay the river. Nikometros reined in, letting his horse rest. He gazed over the plain, searching for any trace of the enemy. The ambush by archers and spearmen worried him, though he tried to conceal it from the others. The rabble of local tribesmen owned no horses, and none had been in evidence at the ambush, yet they had followed the tracks of at least twenty horsemen for the last three days.

Where are they now? he wondered. Have they come through the valley ahead of us? Are they waiting for us somewhere?

Nikometros looked around slowly, then pointed towards a small rocky outcrop about half a mile away, nestled beneath the last of the hills. "We camp there tonight," he said, "and try for the river at first light."

The men were reeling with exhaustion as he led them toward the pile of rocks. He wished they could risk a fire tonight but he knew it could easily be seen on these featureless plains.

At least we have some rations, and a warm blanket apiece, he thought.

When they drew close to the rocks, a motion beyond caught his eye. Involuntarily pulling back on the reins, his spirit sank at the sight of a large body of true Scythian horsemen coming around the edge of the outcrop. They rode easily, with gaily-colored material hanging down around the legs of their horses. Nikometros' weary band had nowhere to hide, nowhere to run, and they were heavily outnumbered. His men and horses, tired already, waited for his command. He knew that to sit and do nothing meant certain death. To flee, though, was but postponing their fate a short while. Wheeling Diomede, Nikometros gestured towards the distant river.

"Ride for the river," he yelled, "we will be cut down if we stay."

The horses reared, jostling and bumping each other when his men hauled on their reins. Before they could move more than a few paces, loud cries told him they were seen. Nikometros kicked Diomede, forcing him into a gallop, in spite of his great fatigue. His men strung out behind him, thrashing the sides of their horses, hoping for more speed. He glanced back. His throat tightened to see the Scythian horsemen only a few lengths behind. They screamed war cries while they rode. Their horses moved easily, fresh and full of energy. Nikometros snapped his attention back to his men. He could see their efforts were hopeless. Already, the horses faltered, their sides streaked with lather. As he watched, the Scythian horsemen swept by on both sides, then curved around in a double line to block them. Nikometros cursed. His men hauled at their horse's heads, desperate to avoid a collision with the encircling warriors.

"Ride through them," he screamed, "we cannot stay here to die."

As he did so, Nikometros' horse swerved violently, almost unseating him. He saw it was too late. The soldiers sat slumped on their jostling horses in the middle of a ring of screaming and laughing riders. The Scythians, brandishing weapons, tightened the circle. At some unseen signal, the ring of galloping horses came to a stop amid clouds of billowing dust, and a complete silence fell. Every Scythian horseman sat staring in at the small group of Greeks. All held a weapon at the ready. The Greeks stared back at them, in no doubt that their deaths lay only moments away. The moment dragged out. Still the encircling Scythians sat silent and motionless.

"Fight, you sons of whores!" yelled Nikometros. "Come and find out how Macedonians can fight!"

Three riders detached themselves from the ring of horsemen and moved towards him. They halted some twenty paces away. Two of the men were typically short and squat, but the third, tall and slim, sat his horse silently. The tall man wore a close fitting leather garment and leggings, with a cloak over his shoulders. Gold ornaments and jewels hung from his neck and encircled his arms. An ornate helmet of Persian design covered his head. Nikometros locked eyes with him, acknowledging him as the leader. The other two, far more plainly dressed, remained slightly behind him and to each side. They exchanged a few words, too low for him to hear. Then at a gesture from the leader, one of the others drew his sword and rode forward slowly, shouting at Nikometros.

Nikometros stood his ground. He resisted the temptation to draw his own sword. Their lives were in the balance and he knew he must not precipitate a massacre by any sudden action. A high, clear cry came from behind him, lifting the hairs on his neck. A soldier pushed past him, still calling out in a high voice. Agamis, the young Thracian, galloped towards the leader. He called on his gods to accept his spirit, to know he had lived and died well.

"Agamis," Nikometros shouted, "halt!"

A glazed look in his eyes, Agamis spurred his horse, calling on his Thracian gods again and launched himself at the trio. As he did so, a quick signal from the young Scythian leader released the ring of horsemen. Agamis died, transfixed by several arrows. The ring of horsemen surged inward, swallowing up Nikometros and his men in a confused melee. The clash of metal and harsh cries told Nikometros the final moment had come. His men died around him. He dragged his sword from its sheath. Holding his shield high, he dug his heels into Diomede's sides. He swung his sword at a horseman on his right, slashing him across the chest, while blocking another blow with his shield. A spear caught him in the left shoulder and another in his thigh.

I die with honor, father, he thought, ignoring the pain and blood. A flare of pain in the side of his head dizzied him for a moment and told him his helmet was lost. The figure of the tall Scythian leader loomed in front of him. He swung blindly, determined to take him with him in death. A jarring shock in his arm swung him around when one of the leader's guards parried his blow. The man shouted and thrust his spear at Nikometros' midriff. The bronze point struck his breastplate and glanced off. Nikometros swung his sword, pushing the spear aside, then again, hacking at the guard's neck. The blow connected with his shoulder, slicing through the thin leather. The guard cried out shrilly, blood soaking his chest and his face pulled taut in agony. Nikometros pushed his horse past the dying guard, seeking the leader. Horses milled around him. Sounds of combat fell away behind. He couldn't spare a look when another spear came at him, searching for his life. His men's cries and shouts faded then ceased. He knew death had come.

"I am dead with you Eumenion," he cried out, "but their leader's blood will feed your ghost."

His stallion pressed closer to the leader, and a startled look crossed the man's eyes when Nikometros swung his sword again. The man jerked backwards, pulling sharply on his reins and half turned his horse to escape. Nikometros swung wildly at the arms clutching at him and ignored the spears probing his armor. Dropping his shield, he threw himself at the man He fell on the other horse's rump. He slid off, clutching at the man's leg with his hand as he fell, dragging him off his horse. He fell to the ground, amidst flailing hooves and dust, coughing and clutching his sword. Nikometros pushed himself up on his knees. Blood streamed from a cut on his arm. Horses stamped and moved around him. A stray hoof thumped into his side. Nikometros looked around wildly.

. . . can't see me for the horses, he thought.

The leader lay half-stunned on the ground in front of him, making feeble efforts to rise. Nikometros threw himself forward, chopping down with his sword. The blow hit the man on the helmet, knocking it off and away under the horses' hooves. The leader cried out and raised himself on an elbow. When the horses parted, Nikometros gathered himself for the killing stroke, knowing his own death would closely follow. He raised his sword, his eyes locking with the fallen man's. Deep green eyes, wide and staring, met his. Something stirred deep within them as they gazed at his pale blue ones. Long locks of black hair framed a delicate, beardless face; a face too soft, too gentle to be a warrior's.

Awareness flashed through Nikometros' mind at the same moment he started the killing downstroke, ". . . gods," he blurted, "a woman .  ." His arm jerked the blade to one side, missing her and burying the blade in the rocky earth. His sword slipped from his hand and he knelt in front of her. Nikometros felt himself weakening His right hand crept across his body, fumbled awkwardly with his armband again. The young woman's eyes followed the movement of his hand. Her eyes suddenly widened. A shadow crossed his face as a horse moved up beside him and a stunning blow to his head sent blood cascading over his face. Blinded, he was briefly aware of someone shouting before he slipped gratefully into oblivion.