THE FIRE STRIPES the bodies of the two soldiers with ochre. He does not think he has killed them. He hopes not, they were only doing their job. It is the first time he has fought without weapons, and without an elephant to compensate for what he lacks in size.
Catharo lies in the shadow of Ran Bagha’s corpse; the smell is unbearable and he does not linger over an examination of the body. He throws one of the soldier’s blankets over him and picks him up. He is surprised at the weight of him for such a short fellow.
He throws him across the saddle of his horse. Mara is already mounted and ready to leave. Her tunic is torn and she has to tie a knot in the shoulder to hold it together. There are fresh scratches on her arm and her throat. But she herself looks composed; how quickly she is the general’s daughter again, waiting for her champion to do her will.
If I were ever to marry her, he thinks, it will be a fiery wife I have claimed for myself. At least with the elephants they flare out their ears to warn you when they are going to charge.
The glow of the fire has dimmed by the time they reach what Gajendra judges to be a safe distance. The moon has appeared between high scudding clouds and he can hear the sea breaking on the shore. A pink glow is spreading up the sky to the south. They still haven’t put his fire out. Alexander won’t be best pleased.
They stop just above the beach to rest. He lifts Mara from the saddle and puts her down in the sand. The moon is bright enough to distinguish shapes from shadows.
He says, ‘We are safe here. We can find somewhere to bury him in the soft sand.’
‘No. We are taking him back with us to Panormus if we have to. My father will want to see the body.’
He sighs. He thought that was what she would say.
‘Why are you doing this?’ she asks.
‘I don’t know. You’re useless at mucking out and you answer back. You have too much to say for an elephant boy never mind a woman.’
‘You had everything you wanted until you walked into Alexander’s tent and pleaded for my life.’
‘Did you really try and kill him because of an elephant?’
‘He wanted his leg for a footstool. Did you know that? Did you see? They forgot about the ivory but they took his leg off so Alexander could amuse himself.’
He sits down on a rock. His earlier elation has evaporated. A small victory such as this is not salvation. He hears Alexander in his head: Do not think to win the battle, think to win the campaign. Think not to win the campaign, think to win the war.
‘I’m nothing again. You know that? When I was with Alexander I feared no one. I could stop the dreams.’
‘It’s just fear, Gajendra.’
‘Just fear? Alexander is never afraid.’
‘Of course he is. He is afraid there might be something on the other side of death greater than he is. He can’t take his army there.’
‘Would you really have killed him?’
‘I have never hated so much. I couldn’t see for spite. If he had not turned at the last moment I would have stuck that knife in him as far as I could make it go.’
‘We had best keep riding.’ He helps her back on her horse. She is still bleeding from where they beat her but she does not make a single complaint. An elephant boy on a horse. A general’s daughter fighting her father’s adversary. What a strange pair they make.
He dares not risk a fire. They huddle under their blankets for warmth. Her eyes are needle points in the dark.
‘What will you do now?’
He wraps his body around her. Shivering and scared, he still burns for her; warm and scented, Zahara left him cold. He runs his hand along her thigh.
She knocks it away. ‘I gave myself to you once in a moment of weakness and now you think you are my husband and can demand possession whenever you wish?’
‘It will keep us warm.’
‘I was a slave then, I had to submit. Now I am a general’s daughter again. I can make you wait.’
‘We are not at Panormus yet.’
She laughs deep in her throat but grips his hands and squeezes them. ‘Just hold me.’ The wind moans through the valley. He spoons into her. ‘I will miss your elephants,’ she murmurs.
‘Not as much as I.’
She turns her head, kisses him over her shoulder. ‘What will you do, Gaji? If we do find my father?’
‘I don’t know. What about you?’
‘My old life is gone. My future is as uncertain as yours.’
‘We will find some way to survive.’
‘Yes,’ she murmurs. ‘Yes, I suppose we will.’
He has been promoted from being not quite her husband to having a place in her future. He nuzzles the back of her neck, where the smell of her hair is musty and sweet.
His fingertips seek out bare flesh. Her skin is cold but there are warm places and she gives a little moan. Even fugitive as they are, all things now seem possible.
They have slept beyond dawn; the sun has thrown a lemon stain above the hills. It is cold and his muscles are stiff and sore.
He feels the drumming of horses through the earth before he hears them. He thinks it might be that dream again, and that he is at Taxila, asleep on the floor of the hut. But then he comes fully awake and realizes that the hoof beats are real.
He jumps to his feet and looks for them in the early morning dark.
Get up, he says to Mara, and she says, it’s still night, I’m not your waterboy now.
He pulls her, protesting, to her feet. He can see them now, silhouetted against the rising sun. They were headed south, but now they see them and change direction.
‘We might be able to outrun them,’ he tells her. He pushes her towards her horse. Were they Alexander’s men, deserters, bandits? With any luck they would never have to find out.
‘What are you doing?’ he says to her. She is trying to haul Catharo’s body towards the horses. Is she mad?
‘We can’t leave him here.’
‘Of course we can. He’s dead!’
‘I won’t leave him for the wolves.’
He tries to pull her away. She shrugs him off. ‘I won’t leave him!’
So there is nothing for it but to drag Catharo over to the horses and throw him across his own Arab. He covers him quickly with a blanket. And all the time the riders are getting closer.
Mara is a poor rider, even less expert than him. She keeps the reins too tight, unsure of herself in the saddle. And the poor nags they are riding are no match for the good horses of their pursuers, especially weighed down with a corpse. He looks over his shoulder. This is hopeless.
There are four of them, Bactrians by the look of them, and they know their business. They spread out, ready to encircle them.
They reach a creek and that slows them further and he realizes they will not make it. Her horse baulks in the riverbed; but it doesn’t matter, two of the Bactrians have already leaped the banks and are trotting towards them, through the shallows, grinning.