Tyrant: Storm of Arrows (33 page)

Lot rode out to the head of his column. ‘I’m glad to be free of this place,’ he confessed, in Sakje.

Kineas wrapped his arms around the other man and they embraced, breastplate to scale shirt. ‘Stay safe. Pick us a good camp.’

‘Hurry along, Kineas. Don’t dawdle!’ The Sauromatae prince reared his horse for show and then they were off, riding through the gates of the camp.

‘I wish we were riding with them,’ Diodorus said at Kineas’s side.

Kineas shrugged. ‘Me, too,’ he said. ‘Time to do the rotten job.’

Diodorus turned his horse and fell in beside him. ‘Leon?’

Kineas nodded. ‘Fetch him for me, will you?’

When the young Numidian arrived, Kineas let him wait on the porch of the megaron while he completed the day’s reports and a letter to Lykeles at Olbia. Then he had Nicanor bring the young man.

‘You have become a very important officer,’ he said coldly. ‘But your behaviour at the funeral of Niceas was that of a slave. Let me be clear. When a gentleman competes at funeral games, he does so in the memory of the dead man, and for no personal gain or glory. You dishonoured Niceas with your behaviour.’

Leon’s knees trembled, and he stood, blank-faced. He didn’t weep. He took his rebuke as a slave takes it, showing as little as he could.

The lack of reaction enraged Kineas.

‘Don’t you care? Niceas was always kind to you - Niceas, who was a whore in the agora before he was a man - who would understand you and your life better than Niceas? And you dishonour him at his games?’

Nothing. Leon’s body betrayed his emotion, but his face gave nothing away at all.

‘I am tempted to send you away, or leave you here. Speak. Tell me why I should do otherwise.’

Leon raised his eyes. ‘No reason,’ he said in a voice bereft of hope.

‘Will you accept any punishment I offer without complaint?’ Kineas asked.

‘Yes!’ Leon said, with more emotion than he had shown until then.

Kineas nodded. ‘You will shovel snow with the common soldiers until we leave. You will make a public apology to Eumenes at the head of the parade tomorrow morning and the two of you will clasp hands. Both of you will go to the shrine of Apollo on the mountain - together - and spend the night in observance, offering a sacrifice on behalf of the whole expedition. You will keep vigil. You will make apology to the shade of Niceas. You will not sleep, nor will you wear a cloak or hat. Understood?’

Leon hid his eyes. ‘Yes,’ he barked.

The two men climbed the mountain together the next day.

‘What if only one of them returns?’ Sappho asked. She was standing arm in arm with Diodorus, and her face looked young and beautiful in the last of the sun, cheeks red from the cold and wrapped in a heavy wool cloak. Her eyes moved constantly from one to the other of the officers. Since the incident with Philokles, she watched them all carefully.

Philokles took cups of wine from Nicanor and handed them around. It was pleasant to stand on the porch in the warmth of evening - comparative warmth. In minutes it would be too cold to stand outside, and Kineas secretly pitied the two men climbing to the shrine. ‘They will both return,’ he said.

‘Kineas has the right of it,’ Sappho said, her hand shading her eyes against the last rays of the sun. ‘My heart goes out to Leon.’

Diodorus raised an eyebrow. ‘Leon? What he did was disgraceful. Like cheating - in a funeral contest.’

Sappho nodded. ‘When you have experienced slavery, write and tell me what you think then.’

Philokles turned and smiled at Sappho. ‘Well put,’ he said.

Sappho blushed and lowered her eyes. ‘Praise from a Spartan?’ she said. ‘Praise from such a great soldier might go to my head.’

Philokles took a sharp breath. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said, looking at the lees in his wine cup. ‘I’m a great soldier.’ Turning to Kineas, he said, ‘Speaking of which, your Persian asked me to teach him the ways of the gymnasium today.’

Kineas frowned. ‘Why?’ he asked.

Philokles drank off a cup of wine in a single draught. Then he wiped his mouth with his hand. ‘He was impressed with how you killed all those men,’ he said. He pointed his chin at Sappho. ‘But he doesn’t go to Kineas - no, he comes to me.’ He poured himself more wine from Nicanor’s ewer, sloshing some on the floor. ‘For all the gods,’ he slurred.

‘I didn’t mean it that way, Philokles,’ Sappho said, touching his arm lightly. ‘In Thebes, no soldier was ever offended—’

He stepped back as if her touch hurt him. ‘Nor in Sparta. No, a woman’s praise for one’s ability to kill always comes before a marriage offer, in Sparta.’

Sappho slipped out of Diodorus’s arm and made a sign to Temerix the smith. The two of them closed on the Spartan from both sides. ‘Why don’t you tell me how Spartan women live, Philokles?’ she asked.

Philokles glanced back and forth between the two of them. ‘I’m not drunk yet,’ he said, watching them as if they were sparring opponents on the sand.

Temerix smiled at the ground, embarrassed. ‘Yes, lord,’ he said, spreading his arms.

‘Don’t call me lord,’ Philokles said.

Temerix stepped back. ‘Yes, lord,’ he said.

Sappho caught at his arm. ‘Spartan women,’ she insisted.

‘Too brave for me,’ Philokles said. ‘Just like you.’ He held out his wine cup and Nicanor, after a beseeching look at Kineas, filled it again. Philokles glanced at Kineas, a smile on his face. He slammed the wine back and grinned. ‘Wants to be a better killer. Who better to ask than me, eh? And the farther east we go, the better we’ll be, until we can kill anyone we want. Maybe each other in the end, eh?’ He stumbled back and caught himself, holding his wine cup out again.

Sappho hauled on his arm. ‘You are being rude, Spartan. Tell me about the Spartan women.’

Philokles drew himself up. ‘You are not a Spartan woman,’ he said. ‘You are a woman of Thebes, hence it is unseemly for you to be out in public, discoursing with men, hence I do not have to discourse with you, as you should not be here.’

Kineas tried to think of something to say.

‘I am no longer a woman of Thebes, just as you are no longer a man of Sparta,’ she said. ‘We are Olbians, are we not? Or perhaps we are the people of Kineas.’

Philokles laughed. ‘The Kineasae! And among the Kineasae, it was customary for women to debate with men in the agora!’

Diodorus stepped up beside the Spartan. ‘It quickly became customary for sober women to debate with drunken men. Go to bed, Philokles! You’re making men look bad!’

All around them, people laughed - friendly laughter, at a situation diffused. And the next time Philokles stumbled, Temerix was there with an arm around his neck. The smith had no difficulty lifting the Spartan over his shoulder, nor did he flinch when the big man vomited wine and bile over his back.

Later, Kineas heard Philokles speaking of the role of women in a well-ordered polis, and Temerix, whose Greek was about equal to directing a wood-cutting party, grunting agreement while he washed the Spartan. Their voices went on and on, and eventually Kineas fell asleep.

Both young men returned from the shrine the next morning, and Kineas, who had not slept well, shared wine with them and prayed to the gods with them. And then he went back to bed.

When he rose again, it was to the final preparations for leaving. With Leon and Eumenes at his side, he picked the best riders from among the hoplites and put them in the cavalry. The rest were left as a core of Olbians with the mercenary recruits to hold the town. Two dozen men, too badly wounded to march but still expected to recover, were left as military settlers.

The column had food and water for ten days, and better wagons and carts than when they’d started, already staged over the last of the Hyrkanian hills and waiting in a camp at the edge of the steppes. More wagons and all the Sauromatae had already crossed the desert. They were as prepared as Leon could manage.

The same weather that saw Kineas’s column prepare to march against Alexander brought the first of the spring traders from Lycia. Just as the spring rains in the mountains washed the stream beds clear and brought old trees down the hillsides, so they washed broken men out of the hills, and mercenaries looking for employment, and desperate men fleeing distant catastrophes. Before the column rode, Kineas heard the rumours of a dozen nations spoken in three languages. A Macedonian deserter bound for home said that old Antipater was paralysed by news of the murder of Parmenion. It was said that he had gathered a Thracian bodyguard and went in fear that Alexander might order his death, too.

A Syrian Jew from Lebanon told Kineas that every satrap west of Media was raising an army.

A Cretan who had almost certainly spent the winter as a brigand said that Alexander had marched north from Kandahar before the snows melted. Rumours said that Bessus was dead and Spitamenes was negotiating for a satrapy. It was said that he had sent Alexander a dozen Amazons as a gift.

And on the final morning, when the main column was mounted and the last men were kissing their Hyrkanian wives one last time, Kineas heard from a horse trader that the queen of the Massagetae was rallying the clans east of Marakanda to fight Alexander. Kineas purchased his whole string of horses.

Diodorus shook his head. ‘Remember when we were mercenaries?’ he asked wistfully.

A pale sun rose between Kineas’s charger’s ears. On his left was Diodorus and on his right was Philokles, the worse for wine but steady enough.

‘Let’s go and find Srayanka,’ he said. His heart was higher than it had been in a month.

‘And Alexander,’ Diodorus said.

TREE OF LIFE

‘
Y
our majesty?’ Eumenes the Cardian was careful entering the inner sanctum, where the
Iliad
sat in its golden casket and where the panoplies of Alexander’s foes decorated the walls. Alexander was becoming more withdrawn, more alien, with every campaign. Crossing the mountains, he had shown one of his bursts of superhuman activity, even of empathy, rescuing snow-blind soldiers and speaking extempore to every knot of pikemen coming down the pass. But now the godlike energy had passed and what was left was a sullen tyrant sitting amidst his favourite treasures.

He looked up, his mismatched eyes listless. ‘What, Eumenes?’

‘Spitamenes has delivered Amazons, your majesty.’ Eumenes kept his head slightly bowed. ‘And Barsine’s sister Banugul is here from Hyrkania.’

‘Hell to pay in the harem when her sister hears she’s with me.’ Alexander gave a smile. ‘I can’t say I’m altogether sorry she’s here, but you’ll have to hide her from Hephaestion,’ Alexander said. ‘Why is she here?’

‘Her tale is complex, lord. She blames her father, but also some Greek mercenary. Indeed, she hadn’t expected to find us here - she came over the mountains from Hyrkania, intending to find us at Kandahar.’

‘Greek mercenaries are never to be trusted. I thought she had more wisdom than that. Very well, make a note that I will see her. Keep her from Hephaestion. Anything else?’ Alexander was petulant.

‘As you say, Barsine will be angry when she hears.’ Barsine, like the rest of the women, had been left in Kandahar.

‘Barsine means less to me than the lowest whore carrying a bag of millet for the army. Banugul is at least intelligent.’ Alexander rubbed his head. ‘I’m distempered, Eumenes. Ignore the womanish spite.’

Eumenes shrugged. ‘She has a tale of an army, lord, coming from the Euxine.’

Alexander glared at him and the Cardian subsided. ‘The Euxine? Foolishness. The Scythians would eat their livers. Now - the Amazons. Let me see them. Are they handsome?’

‘Not really, lord.’

‘Ares, do they stink?’ Alexander rose to his feet, stripped off the Persian tunic he had on and summoned a slave with a better chiton, which he slipped over his head. Eumenes could see that he was thinner, the muscles corded like old rope. The mountains had stolen a little more of the king’s youth, just as they had killed the older veterans and aged the rest. The march over the mountains had taken the initiative from the rebels and brought Spitamenes, the most dangerous of the enemy leaders, to the table, but it had killed more Macedonians than any of the king’s victories.

Eumenes shrugged. ‘They smell like horses, majesty.’

Alexander laughed. ‘So do we,’ he said. He ran fingers through his hair and shrugged off his slaves. ‘Come,’ he said imperiously.

Eumenes followed him out of the inner tents to his receiving tent. As he entered, Hephaestion, sensing that something important might happen without him, came through the main door at a rush. To one side, a pair of messengers waited for the king’s attention, while to the other side of the main door, three barbarian women in tunics of silk and leather breeches looked about themselves curiously under the eyes of a pair of the king’s Companions.

‘What news, Achilles?’ asked Hephaestion.

Alexander, for once not in the mood to be flattered, shrugged. ‘Spitamenes’ Amazons,’ he said. ‘Send for Kleisthenes.’

Hephaestion sent a slave, and then grinned at the huddle of leather-clad women. ‘Stinking barbarian women? You plan to send them to brothels, I assume?’

Alexander looked at his friend with something akin to amazement. ‘These are free plains-women, Hephaestion. If I mistreat them, the Massagetae and the Sakje and the Dahae will come to know of it, and they will make trouble. What I desire is that they submit, as they did to the Persians. Do you understand?’

Hephaestion, unused to being corrected in public, flushed.

The eldest of the Amazons was heavily pregnant but quite beautiful. She had heavy black brows, the perfect skin of an ivory temple statue and a sense of humour. She gave Alexander half a smile.

‘The Massagetae never submitted to the Persae, and they will never submit to you.’ She bowed slightly. ‘Lord.’