The waters of the Pinosh River are a mesh of meandering streams that finally join together just before they drop into the narrow chasm that cuts through the hills to the coast. The valley above the pass was broad enough for a battleground, but not so wide that the Mede army could encircle us. When we met the enemy, we had the rising ground behind us. As we retreated farther and farther, we would cross the ridge that was the watershed between the Leonyla and the long, sloping plain down to Stinos. The Medes would have a wider and wider front on which to attack.

On the morning of the fourth day, as dawn was breaking, a messenger from the Medes rode out across the open ground, inviting our high king and Sounis to a parley. It was unclear whether the insult to the queens was calculated or accidental.

It was the kind of day with brilliant blue skies and scudding black-bottomed clouds filled with rain. The sun as it rose higher turned the bright greens of the marshy ground to gleaming gold, picking out all the colors in the tents of the gathered armies. As the parley party gathered, the royal pennants blew and snapped in the wind.

Attolia would accompany the king, but both Sounis and Eddis would stay back out of an abundance of caution. They were all together as they waited for the Mede party to move first from its encampment. When it finally did, their horses shifted, stamping their feet and throwing up their heads, revealing their riders’ tightening grip on the reins.

“Gods defend us,” one of the generals said under his breath. Everyone heard it.

“What is it?” asked Xenophon the Eddisian. His eyes were not the best.

“Elephants,” the king answered grimly. “They are coming out on their elephants.”

The elephants had been brought through the pass only the day before, dragging the Mede artillery. This was the first time they’d appeared on the battlefield, their ponderous steps eating up the ground between the camps.

No one would look directly at the king. Even Fryst, with the personality of a plow horse, would go wild when confronted by an animal ten times his size, and the king was no rider to handle a badly spooked horse.

As if unaware of this looming humiliation, the king suddenly said, “I really want one of those.”

“One of what?” asked Attolia, distracted.

“An elephant,” said the king, and repeated it a little louder. “I want an elephant.”

“An elephant,” said Attolia. She briefly lifted her fingers to her temple and after a deep breath she asked, “Where do you imagine you would keep an elephant?”

The king squinted speculatively at the enormous animals. “That’s a good point. They are much too big to go in the stables. Philo,” he said, “run and get me the melons from the breakfast table.” Philologos ran as if he were being chased by wild dogs and was back with three small melons before the king and queen began their stately ride down the slope out toward the Medes. As they went, the king was stuffing the melons, each the size of his fist, into the front of his tunic, and everyone could hear him still talking.

“We could keep it in the guard’s bathhouse! There’s plenty of room.”

“And the guards will bathe . . . ?”

“In the palace reservoir.”

“Our drinking water,” the queen objected.

The king’s plans grew more grandiose as his voice grew fainter. “We’ll build your aqueduct. We’ll make another reservoir.”

“It would be cheaper to build a larger stable,” Attolia said as they were almost out of earshot. The king swept off his ridiculous hat and bowed from the saddle as if this was just the conclusion he’d been leading her toward.

“So, so, so! We’ll build a new house for our elephant.”

“Your elephant,” said Attolia.

I noticed that he didn’t put the hat back on.

Instead of riding all the way to the Mede parley, the king and queen and their councilors dismounted and walked. The king was assiduous in assisting the queen over the mud churned by the days of fighting, making the Medes wait. When he’d reached firmer ground, the king took out a melon and split it with his hook as they walked. It was the Medes who had problems with unruly mounts. One strained its trunk forward, reaching for the king.

Hilarion, who by order of precedence had the long-seeing scope, described what he saw to the rest of us.

“He’s fed it to the elephant. Gods all around us, he’s patting it on the nose and the other elephants are crowded in! He’ll be trampled.”

But he was not. Those in charge of the elephants forced them back. The Medes climbed down, and the rest of the parley was carried out on even ground.

The general sent by the emperor to conquer the Little Peninsula was a stocky, grizzled veteran. If he was disappointed not to be speaking from the back of the elephant, it didn’t show. He introduced himself as Bu-seneth and without other preamble asked for the high king’s surrender.

The king didn’t answer. Instead he leaned to look around Bu-seneth.

“Nahuseresh?” he said. “Why are you there with the junior officers? Come up and say hello.” The king waved him forward.

Nahuseresh stared without speaking.

Noting the muscles tightening in the Mede general’s jaw, the king murmured, “I’m sure he’s a great help to you.”

Addressing Attolia, Bu-seneth said, “Carry a message to Sophos, king of Sounis and Eddis. Tell him we will accept his surrender. We are not here to make war on peaceful people.”

“Then go home again,” Attolia suggested.

Bu-seneth scowled and the parley was over. The Medes had not expected a surrender; their goal had been to intimidate. If the king had blunted the awe-inspiring effect of the elephants, we soon learned the damage they could do.

At the end of the day, the council tent had been moved and reassembled, its distance from the battlefield not just a sign of the day’s retreat, but of new caution.

Out on the coast, the damp sea air turned to mist and rolled inland like a tide, squeezing through the narrow pass to spread over the dead and muffle the cries of the wounded. This was the first time we saw it, the fog they called the Leonyla’s tongue. It licked the back of the neck and made a man shiver from head to toe. It left everyone damp and chilled through.

Eddis asked the king to move through the camp, to speak to the soldiers and encourage them.

“You cannot mean that,” the king said bitterly. “Send someone they can respect.”

“Sophos will go as well. It’s a big army, Gen,” said Eddis.

“At least act like a king,” said Attolia, acid in her voice.

It had been a long, miserable day. The king might have been angry. Instead, he smiled and kissed her gently. “I will go pretend to be the best high king there ever was,” he promised.

In the growing dark, as other activities stopped and men turned to handwork, mending, and sharpening the tools of war, the king and Hilarion, Dionis, Ion, and I wandered from campfire to fire through the dripping fog, chatting for a few moments and moving on. As the night air grew cooler, one of the king’s guards offered the king his cloak and, after protesting, the king reluctantly accepted. No one wanted him to be ill again.

At one campfire the soldiers offered up a cup of wine, and he sat to drink with them. He tested the waters carefully. All were veterans, all of them old enough to be his father. They’d lost battles before and they were ready to set aside the ills of the day to savor the warmth of the fire and the life that still flowed through their veins.