Tyrant (27 page)

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Authors: Christian Cameron

BOOK: Tyrant
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Kineas nodded and lay back on the pile of furs beneath his head. Just raising his head took too much effort.
 
Kam Baqca began to speak. The longer she spoke, the more familiar her words seemed - so like Persian. She said
xshathrâ Ghân
, the Great King - he knew that word. It wore him out, listening, so near to understanding.
 
Ataelus began to translate. ‘She say, for you important seek the king, soon. But sooner for you talk to her. More important, most important thing talk to her. She say, for you almost die. Then she say, yes, do you remember for almost die?’
 
Kineas nodded. ‘Tell yes. Yes, I remember.’
 
She nodded as his response and went on. Ataelus said, ‘She say, did you go into the river?’
 
And Kineas was afraid. She was very barbarous and her male/female role was alien, and now she was asking him a question about his dream. He didn’t answer.
 
She shook her head violently. A hand shot out of her cuffs and gestured at him, and when she spoke, her Greek, while Ionian, was clear enough. ‘Be not afraid! But only speak the truth. Did you go into the river?’
 
Kineas nodded. He could see it - could taste the dust. ‘Yes.’
 
She nodded. From behind her she produced a drum, covered in more little animals - mostly reindeer. She produced a small whip, like a children’s toy riding whip, except that the handle was iron and the whip was made of hair, and with the whip she began to play the drum and sing.
 
Kineas wanted to go. He wanted free of the alien tent and the alien he-woman and he wanted to be spoken to in proper Greek. He was very near the edge of panic. He stared at Ataelus - familiar Ataelus, his
prokusatore
, searching for stability.
 
She snapped the drum up into the air and said a long sentence. Ataelus said, ‘She says, I find you in the river, I bring you home. Only for you. Only for Baqcas. No warrior is - was - will . . .’ Ataelus sat and struggled with language, and suddenly smiled: ‘
Should
be alive. She say, this for most important thing. Yes? You know what I say?’
 
Kineas turned away, unable to understand past the sheer barbarity. ‘Tell her I thank her,’ he said and pretended to fall asleep. Soon, he was.
 
9
 
T
he next day he was stronger and they moved him. The move cleared his head and his glimpse of the outside world, even amidst the snow, cheered him; there were dogs and horses and men wearing skins and fur, women in trousers and heavy fur jackets, gold rings and gold decorations everywhere. He had been in the tent of the Kam Baqca, he now understood, and now they took him to a tent set aside for him. He had piles of furs and two gold lamps, rugs and mats and several Thracian cloaks for good measure. Philokles led the move and all of the boys were there, fighting for a place in carrying his litter, arranging his furs, his blankets, getting him hot wine.
 
It was deeply touching and he enjoyed it. And the conversation with Kam Baqca seemed less alien. Perhaps he had still had a touch of fever, but it was gone now.
 
‘I take it you are all waiting for me to recover,’ he said to Philokles. The rest of the boys had cleared out, led by Ajax, to join hunters from the Sakje.
 
‘Yes. The king wants to speak to you before he moves. To be frank, I suggested we leave you with his people and I lead the escort back to Olbia, but he thinks that you are a person of consequence.’
 
‘Ares’ balls. Why?’ Kineas snorted. Many things had gone below the threshold of worry during the last days, but they were all back now - his alienated employer, the factions, the city.
 
‘Lady Srayanka - I mentioned her. The king’s niece, I think, although they have a different word for every degree of relative.’
 
‘Like the Persians.’
 
‘Just so. She’s a niece, or maybe a sister’s adopted child, but she’s someone with power and she’s our girl from the plains. She claims you are a man of importance. Ataelus says it’s a warrior thing.’ Philokles shrugged. ‘I gather you killed someone important - or perhaps just at the right time? Or - Eumenes says this - avenged somebody here by your act and that gives you status.’
 
Kineas shook his head. ‘We’re a long way from home.’ He felt an excitement -
our girl from the plains. Now I’ve learned her name. Srayanka
. It seemed an absurd thing for a grown man to be so pleased by, but he was pleased. He repeated it over and over, like a prayer.
 
Philokles sat on a pile of furs. Kineas realized with a start that Philokles was wearing leather trousers. It was so un-Greek; so unlike a Spartan, however exiled. Philokles followed his gaze and smiled. ‘It’s cold. And someone made them for me - Eumenes said it would be rude to refuse. They are warm. They rub the parts.’
 
‘If the Ephors could see you now, you’d be an exile for ever.’ Kineas began to laugh. It hurt his chest, but it felt good. He was speaking Greek to a Greek. The world would be right soon enough.
 
Philokles laughed with him and then leaned over. ‘Listen to me, Kineas. There’s more to this than you know.’
 
Kineas nodded.
 
‘No, listen! These people - they hold the military power on the plains. They don’t need hoplites or walls. They’re nomads - they just move when they want.
They
hold the power here.
They
have the ability to stop Macedon on the plains. Or not.’
 
Kineas sat up. ‘Since when do you care so deeply what Macedon does?’
 
Philokles stood up. ‘This is not about me.’
 
Kineas lay back. ‘It is. It is about you.’ There was something nagging at the edge of his thoughts, some connection. ‘You wanted to be here. Here you are. Macedon? Are they really coming here? Do I care? I’ll get the company clear before—’
 
‘NO!’ Philokles leaned over him. ‘No, Kineas. Stay and fight! All these people need to hear is that Olbia and Pantecapaeum will stand and fight beside them, and they will assemble an army. Srayanka says so.’
 
Kineas shook his head and said slowly, ‘This means a great deal to you, Spartan. Is this why you came? To make an alliance against Macedon?’
 
‘I came to see the world. I am an exile and a philosopher.’
 
‘Bastard! You are an agent of the kings and Ephors, and a spy.’
 
‘You lie!’ Philokles snapped up his cloak. ‘Rot in hell, Athenian. You have it in your power to do good, to hold the line and save something - bah. Like an Athenian - save your skin and let the others rot. No wonder the Macedonians own us.’ He pushed out through the flap, bruising snow off the roof and leaving a gap where an icy wind crept in. The fire began to smoke.
 
Kineas climbed out from underneath his furs and made his way to the door. It wasn’t as bad as he had feared - just cold. He tugged at the heavy felt flap until it fell into place across the door, and he pushed on a stick sewn into the felt until it closed just right - sealing the door. An inner curtain fell over the whole. He was warmer immediately. He found dried meat and apple cider by his bed and tore into them - the meat was softly seasoned, almost tart, and the cider smelled of Ectabana. He drank it all.
 
Then he had to piss. He was naked in his tent, and there was nothing like a jar or a chamber pot.
 
He wondered what had led him to accuse Philokles and he shook his head at the hypocrisy of his accusation. He had to piss and he needed someone to help him. That revealed to him how foolish he had been to antagonize the Spartan - and for what? He was suspicious of the Spartan’s motives - he always had been.
 
‘Who cares?’ he asked the tent flap. He had no clothes and it would be cold as hell outside, and he needed to piss. ‘Who gives a shit?’ which under the circumstances, seemed funny.
 
The flap rustled and Philokles’s head appeared.
 
Kineas smiled in relief. ‘I apologize.’
 
‘Me, too.’ Philokles came in. ‘I antagonized a very sick man. What are you doing out of your blankets?’
 
‘I have to piss like a warhorse.’
 
Philokles wrapped him in two Thracian cloaks and led him out in the snow. His feet hurt from the cold, but the relief of emptying his bladder trumped the pain of his feet and in seconds he was back in the furs.
 
Philokles watched him intently. ‘You are better.’
 
Kineas nodded. ‘I am.’
 
‘Good. I have found someone more persuasive to make my argument. Lady Srayanka will be here when the hunt ends. She will make the case herself.’
 
Kineas cast about the tent again. ‘Where are my clothes?’
 
‘Don’t be a fool. This is not a mating ritual - I imagine the lady is well wed. This is diplomacy and you have the advantage of illness. Sit and look pale. Besides, you’ve seldom been lovelier. Eumenes pines for you when he isn’t pining for Ajax.’
 
Kineas glanced at him and realized that he was being teased. ‘Cut my beard.’
 
‘An hour ago I was a coward and a liar.’
 
‘No, a spy. You said liar.’
 
The possibility of real enmity hung in the air between them, just a few words away from the raillery. Kineas made a sign of aversion in the air, a peasant sign from the hills of Attica. ‘I have apologized, and I will again.’
 
‘No need. I’m a touchy bastard.’ Philokles looked away. ‘I am a bastard, Kineas. Do you know what that means in Sparta?’
 
Kineas shook his head. He knew what it meant in Athens.
 
‘It means you are never a Spartiate. Win at games, triumph in lessons and still no mess group will welcome you. I thought that I had escaped from the weight of the shame - but apparently I brought it here with me.’
 
Kineas thought for a moment, sipping more cider. And then he said, ‘You are not a bastard here. I’m sorry for the word. I use it too often. It is easy - I’m well born, whatever I am now. But I say again - you are no bastard here, or in Olbia. Or in Tomis, for that matter. Please forgive me.’
 
Philokles smiled. It was a rare kind of smile for him, free of sarcasm or doubt - just a smile. ‘The Philosopher forgave you when I walked out the tent.’ He laughed. ‘The Spartan needed a little more combat.’
 
Kineas rubbed his face. ‘Now trim my beard and comb my hair.’
 
And Philokles said, ‘You bastard.’
 
It was long after dark when she came. Kineas and Philokles had spent the afternoon talking, first in a gush and then comfortably, by topics, with silences. Twice, Kineas went to sleep and awoke to find him still there.
 
The snow had finally ceased. Eumenes said so when he came back with an antelope he’d knocked over with his own spear, proud as a boy reciting his first lines of Homer, ‘These barbarians can ride! My father calls them bandits, but they are like centaurs. I’d only seen them drunk in the town - and my nurse, of course. Not like they are here at all!’
 
Philokles smiled. ‘I fancy you are seeing a different type of Sakje altogether.’
 
‘Noble ones. I know. The lady - she rides like Artemis herself.’
 
Kineas started before he realized the boy must mean the goddess. He made the avert sign - women who rivalled Artemis seldom came to a good end. But his Artemis had been a fine rider, in many different ways. He smiled to himself. He was becoming an old fool.
 
Eumenes continued. ‘She killed twice, once with a bow and once with her spear. A woman, sirs, imagine? And the men - so courteous. They found my buck. I was nervous - what if I failed my throw right there, surrounded by barbarians?’
 
Kineas laughed aloud. ‘I know that feeling, young man.’
 
Eumenes looked hurt. ‘You sir? I saw you throw in the hippodrome, sir. But anyway - I’ll never let my father call them bandits again.’ Philokles ushered him out.
 
‘I gather Lady Srayanka has gone to dinner.’
 
Kineas was disappointed. He was shaved and under the furs he had a good linen tunic, now somewhat creased from being napped in. But he smiled. ‘You are good company, sir.’
 
Philokles flushed like a young man. ‘You please me.’
 
‘Socrates said there was no higher compliment. Or maybe Xenophon. One of them anyway. For a soldier - but why hector you about what soldiers think? Have you made a campaign? Is it not something about which you will speak? I mean no insult.’

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