My Sister's Song (2 page)

So it was that I was the
first Heptakomete to see Romans on our land. I actually heard them
first. They walk very loudly for the conquerors of the world. I
wondered, as I climbed a convenient tree, how they could stand to
announce their presence in such a way. They passed right under me,
so close I could have spat upon their silly fringed helmets. As
they passed, I realized the reason for the noise. The warriors in
our village number thirty in all, but there are always scout groups
out, even in the winter months, so all thirty are never together in
one place. The most warriors I’ve seen at any one time is maybe
sixty-five, the representatives who met with Mithridates, two
summers before. All I knew was that below me there were many more
than sixty-five. I had heard, but not believed, that the Romans
traveled in squadrons of one-hundred strong. All male, theses
warriors were garbed in matching leathers and carried something
called spears (very long knives) and shields (like great squares of
tree bark). Never had I truly believed the stories until I saw the
centurion below me.

I did not move as I sat in
my tree above them, I hardly even breathed. All I did was count. I
counted one hundred and one men. As luck would have it, the leader
called a halt beneath my tree. I watched as they broke ranks and
settled in the shade as far as I could see, leaning back against
the bark or each other. They pulled out rations and began to eat,
murmuring quietly in their peculiar tongue. They drank a blood red
wine from brown flasks and ate a bread which was fat and almost
white in color. I watched the leader closely. He sat a little apart
from the others, surrounded by four men, whose helmet plumes were a
little taller than the others. These, I surmised, were rather like
scout leaders, only their scout groups would consist of twenty four
warriors, instead of six. They five talked among themselves, but as
I spoke no Latin I watched their behavior and the movement of their
bodies. Apparently they were dissatisfied with the bread. Its
consumption was accompanied by much twisting of the lips and
wrinkling of the noses in disgust. Finally, the leader sighed and
reached into his pack to produce a small ceramic jar wrapped in a
linen cloth. Its contents were greeted with cries of delight and
much gratitude, which the leader accepted as his due. The four
scout-leaders dipped their white bread into the jar. Only then did
I realize what it contained, a familiar thick golden mass of syrupy
sweetness.

They rested for only a
brief time before their leader yelled a command and they
reassembled the large stomping porcupine. I dropped soundlessly
(not that it mattered considering the racket they made) from the
tree, skirted around them to the west and ran to my companions. I
estimated they were but two hours march behind me when I skidded to
a halt at Joheri’s side. I explained what I had seen – one hundred
strong, well armed and well protected from our arrows.

The scout leaders met and
decided to take to the trees and launch a surprise attack, much as
we did against Mithridates’ squadrons. I lodged a formal protest, I
felt that the Roman’s strange shields would protect them from such
an assault. The leaders did not listen. What else could we do? We
had no other way to deal with such a threat. Still, my objection
was acknowledged and I was assigned the hilt position, to observe
rather than lead in battle.

We would wait in the
branches until they were directly below us. We were to use all of
our arrows from the trees and then drop to engage at knife point.
As hilt it was, my duty to stay back and witness the attack’s
success, or survive to report why it had failed. I was also the
fastest of the runners and should we be defeated someone would have
to get the information home.

The attack faired better
then I had expected. Caught by surprise the centurion (clearly was
made up of unseasoned fighters) was slow to realize that the attack
came from above. A few of our best archers were able to pick off
Romans through the eyes, or by way of one of their few unarmed
spots. But by the time we dropped down they had regrouped. Our
knives were little match against their spears. If we managed to get
close enough to one warrior his neighbor picked us off. Even if he
didn’t, we could not get past those shields. The best thing, we
found, was to role under, or force our way between two warriors,
like a wedge, so that we were in the center of the porcupine and
could attack from within. Joheri was the first to figure this
tactic and managed to claim four to her honor before she was
killed. I hugged back hilt and watched. I picked off those who
broke ranks and noted that in single combat, unprotected by his
fellows, a Roman was no match for a Heptakomete. I also saw that
the female warriors seemed to disconcert the Romans. I counted our
losses to theirs and though it was even, we hardly dented their
number. By the time we had lost half our warriors I had seen
enough. As back hilt it was my responsibility to whistle retreat. I
whistled.

We melted back into the
trees our numbers halved, two of us been badly wounded. I carried
one atop my back and Sokar carried the other. We ran due east until
dark-fall, there I left them to tend to their injuries and ran
north alone. All the scout leaders had been killed in the battle
and I was the most seasoned warrior. By rights I should have stayed
to lead those who survived. But I had back hilt and first scout. I
was the one to report. I left Sokar in charge, he had two seasons
of fight in him and had struck good and true during the battle. He
was also unharmed and well thought of, so most able to lead.

I did the three days of
travel in one day and two nights of running, stopping only to
drink. I arrived back at the village mid morning yelling warrior’s
rites to instant assembly.

The villagers, accustomed
to such meetings from past battles with Mithridates, were quick to
collect in the large central hut. There I told of the battle as
quickly as possible. The remaining two scout groups, the Charmers
and the Melissai sat before me, silent. I emphasized the great
number in the Roman squadron. I explained that we were equally
matched warrior to warrior, but that there were simply too many of
them and they were barely two days behind me. They were headed
roughly in the direction of our village, though they might pass us
in favor of our neighbors to the east. A runner was immediately
dispatched with this information to them and I was silent at
last.

So was everyone else.

Finally my father spoke,
“Mithra are you quite certain of the number?”

I was still panting
slightly from my run, “Quite certain. I know the number seems
amazing but you must believe me.”

A Melissai spoke, “We must
consider all our options, please offer suggestions. It seems a
direct confrontation is impossible. Even those attacks we have used
against Mithridates are useless.”

“We could send to
Mithridates for aide.”

“He would not get here in
time.”

“We could send to our
neighbors to the north.”

“They would not believe
that the Romans came in such number.”

“Then we must trick the
Romans.”

“If we could convince them
to enter the river, their ranks would break, their armor would sink
them, they would drop their shields in order to swim. Then we could
pick them off with arrows.”

I sat slumped while they
battered ideas back and forth. Nothing, I felt, could batter such a
menace. Rome was truly a mighty and hungry monster. I forced myself
not to think of my lost scout members. It is a warrior’s place to
loose companions. No one, I noted, had asked for the names of the
dead. Parents wondered, but stayed silent. Right now, it was better
to wonder. Grief would muddle the head, push anger into the soul
when logic was needed. Grief and anger made for bad decisions and
worse strategy.

Children were not meant to
sit a war council, but somehow Arite wiggled into the hut. She went
unnoticed, or at last unremarked upon. Arite looked to me, my
clothing soaked with other people’s blood, her eyes wide and her
face white. In that instant I remembered picking mushrooms and
hearing her singing. Her face had looked the same as we sat in the
stream and I reminded her of the danger in the honey. Into my head
flashed another image, the Roman leader as he produced a ceramic
pot from his satchel. The delight on the faces of his comrades at
the unexpected treat.

“Honey!” I spoke the
thought allowed, and into silence. The council had quieted,
thoughtful and sobered.

My statement startled
them.

“Honey.” I said again, more
to myself this time, “They love honey. I watched them eat it at
their mid-day meal. You should have seen their enjoyment. We should
give it to them.”

“Child, our stores are
nearly empty. What nonsense you talk. You think a little honey
would make them treaty? Don’t be silly.”

“No, the dreaming honey of
the wet spring. Arite nearly ate some the other day. It is a curse
of our lands, the Romans, they wouldn’t know. If we could get them
to eat it. Even if we could get only half of them to eat it, we
would have a fair chance.”

The council looked
thoughtful. The Melissai grumbled a bit at the use of their sacred
honey for war purposes.

I ignored them. “Allow the
Romans to get close to the village. Pretend to accidentally lead
them to our store of honey. Perhaps a secret cache in the woods.
They would stop to eat it. I know they would.”

So it was that dressed in
skirts (a peculiar garment worn by the wives of Mithridates and
other women south of our lands) I waited for the Romans at the edge
of the village. I carried a dripping honey comb strategically
peaking out of the top of a ceramic jar. I pretended not to see
them, or hear them (rabbit thumpers that they were) as I passed
quite near. They set a scout to follow me, believing I would lead
them to the village unsuspecting. Instead, I lead him to an
enormous pile of honey. All the honey we could find from the many
hives we knew of and a few new ones. Every Charmer in our village
was hoarse from singing, even Arite. Every beehive in the forest
was deprived of its loot. The honey, slightly watery and reddish,
had tingled our palms as we collected it. Now it sat, inviting and
innocent, before me. The Roman scout who followed let forth a glad
cry at the sight. I pretended startlement and was quickly bound,
gagged, and tumbled aside. He ran to collect his comrades and the
whole swarm, I counted ninety now, descended upon the honey. They
ate it greedily, apparently unused to such wealth. Licking it off
of fingers, hands, and each other. They were too eager to notice
the slightly acidic taste.

It took nearly an hour for
the toxins to take effect. By then they were almost upon the
village. Our twelve remaining warriors stood at the front of the
village and watched them come. The porcupine of enemy warriors
seemed undefeatable, until it began to wobble.

I knew how the Romans felt.
First a strange tingling sensation all over, then an empty dizzy
feeling in the head and that horrible sickness in the stomach. Then
the loss of hands and feet, limbs that would not obey commands -
like unruly children. They looked quite drunk, all ninety of them,
stumbling toward the village. The porcupine wiggled, weaving side
to side. Bits kept falling out, meandering aside on their own. The
watchers in the village began to laugh, almost hysterically, at the
approaching menace. The Romans’ spears carved arches through the
air, so that it looked as though the porcupine were shivering its
quills. It began to loose momentum. Some of the Romans fell to the
ground. Apparently, not one Roman of the group disliked the taste
of honey, all had eaten a mouthful or two. A few made it to the
waiting warriors, but sick as they were, they were easily killed.
The rest collapsed, breathing slowly, stiff as boards or jerking
slightly. They lay before our village, stretched out, the tassels
on their helmets waving softly. Some died from their
overindulgence. Most we stabbed, quickly and painlessly. By that
time, stomachs cramped, loosing their mid-day meal on the grass,
feeling as though they were being clawed from the inside, our
knives were like a blessing. A release from the whirling lights,
the grueling sickness. Even from my small dose I remembered seeking
death.

Of course, the real problem
was then disposing of ninety bodies. Our warrior survivors from the
first battle arrived that evening, in time to help us strip the
Romans of their armor and their strange weaponry. Their chain-mail
and their clothing would prove useful in trade. We eventually
decided to drag them to a meadow where we burned as much of them as
we could and buried the rest.

I was given my own scout
group. Arite made a song about the battle, and every spring we
began to collect the poison honey – and not just for the Melissai
to dream with.

The Romans
named it
meli
maenomenon
, mad honey. My people used it
to kill three squadrons over the next eight summers. Each time they
marched toward our sea they could not resist the honey laid before
them, and its golden sweetness inevitably lured them into death. So
the Heptakometes kept the Inner Sea from the yearning maw of Rome
and her allies for all the time of that great Empire.

The End

Acknowledgments

I was inspired to write this
story by an article entitled
Mad Honey
by Adrienne Mayor,
published in a 1995 issue of
Archaeology
magazine (Vol. 46,
Num. 6).

Author’s Note

This story is loosely based on
historical fact. Tribes around the Black Sea did repel Roman troops
using this most ingenious, and toothsome, form of chemical warfare.
I wrote it while I was studying for my MSc in Archaeological
Materials at Nottingham University, because it wouldn't leave me
alone.