Authors: Christian Cameron
Tyrant (32 page)
‘What in Hades is going on here?’ Kineas said to Diodorus.
Diodorus unbuckled his chinstrap. ‘Hades is about it, Kineas. The archon didn’t get his taxes - at least, not yet. The assembly did some business without the archon’s approval.’
‘Like what?’ Kineas asked. He was watching the cavalryman. Their assembly was probably illegal, and such things could have serious repercussions. It occurred to him that the muster he had appointed was tomorrow. He almost missed Diodorus’s answer. ‘Say that again?’
‘The assembly appointed you hipparch,’ Diodorus said. ‘Cleitus made the motion. It didn’t go by without argument, but it did pass. I need to talk to you.’
‘Later,’ Kineas said. He smiled. He was quite happy to be the legally appointed hipparch. ‘I need to make this assembly of armed men legal. Before the archon gets the wrong idea.’ Eighty years ago, in Athens, the cavalry class had seized power in the city. It had started with a muster of the mounted gentlemen. The scars of the aristocratic revolt were still visible in every Athenian assembly.
‘Or the right one,’ said Diodorus. He knew the history of Athens as well as Kineas - or better. His grandfather had been one of the ringleaders.
Kineas glared at him. ‘Don’t even
suggest
it, friend.’
suggest
it, friend.’
Diodorus held his hands up, disclaiming responsibility. ‘People are talking,’ he said.
Kineas rode to the front of the gathered horsemen. ‘Since we’re all together, and since I see so many faces from the muster, perhaps we could have a quick inspection. Niceas?’ Kineas waved with his whip. Niceas looked hesitant. Kineas voice hardened. ‘Do the thing,’ he said.
Niceas took a deep breath and bellowed. His voice rang like a trumpet, and the hippodrome fell silent. ‘Assemble the hippeis!’ he bellowed.
The boys who had made the trek out to the plains groaned, but as one they left their fathers and their friends standing on the sand and went back to their weary horses. Young Kyros had a little trouble mounting.
Nicomedes raised an eyebrow and shook his head, but he pulled his helmet on over his carefully oiled locks and fell in where he was told. So did the others. Leucon handed his father the helmet he was holding and, brandishing his baton, joined Niceas in pushing the gentlemen of the city into their ranks. At the edge of the muster Kineas saw Cleomenes, Eumenes’ father, take his helmet from a big blond slave - the gesture was an angry one.
Out on the sand, Ajax began to help Leucon and Niceas, and as fast as the city slaves lit the torches by the gates, the whole troop was assembled and mounted. There were almost a hundred of them.
Kineas looked at them and thought, Too few to have a chance of taking the city, but enough to think about it. Trouble indeed - and power. He rode to face them and raised his voice. ‘I seem to remember appointing tomorrow as the day of exercise, but I thank every one of you who turned out this evening for your display of spirit. To the men who rode with me on the plains - well done, every one of you. Your fathers should be proud men. And despite all your pains, gentlemen, tomorrow is the day of exercise, and muster will be in the third hour after the sun rises. Dismissed!’
They sat still for a moment. Then someone gave a cheer and it was taken up. The moment passed, and the assembly began to disperse. Several fathers stopped to take his hand, and a dozen men congratulated him on his appointment. It seemed normal enough. He saw Cleomenes with his Gaulic slave and he rode over to tell the man where his son was.
Cleomenes had the heavy beard of the older generation. That and the darkness made it difficult to read his expression. ‘You were gone longer than we expected,’ he said carefully.
‘All my fault. I was quite ill. Thanks to Apollo, none of the boys was struck by such an arrow. And the Sakje were very good to us.’ Kineas raised his voice so that it would carry to the other fathers. He could see Petrocolus, Clio’s father, at the edge of the torchlight. To him, Kineas said, ‘You son sends his greetings, and says they are at Gade’s Farm. I took the liberty of placing the Sakje king there with his men.’
Petrocolus’s relief was evident. ‘Thanks for your words, Hipparch. I’ll send a slave to make sure the bandits - that is, the Sakje - get a good reception.’
Cleomenes nodded up at him tersely. ‘So you chose to leave
my
son with the barbarians. Very nice.’ He unbuckled his breastplate and handed it to his blond slave, who stood impassively, apparently untroubled by the weight of the armour. Even in the flickering torchlight, Kineas could see that the man’s face was lined with tattoos.
my
son with the barbarians. Very nice.’ He unbuckled his breastplate and handed it to his blond slave, who stood impassively, apparently untroubled by the weight of the armour. Even in the flickering torchlight, Kineas could see that the man’s face was lined with tattoos.
‘Your son volunteered,’ Kineas said, keeping his temper on a tight rein.
‘Oh, of course,’ Cleomenes replied. Diodorus was still by Kineas’s shoulder, but Kineas rode away from him when he saw that there was a palace slave by the main gate of the hippodrome, flanked by two torchbearers. Kineas recognized him as the archon’s Persian steward, Cyrus. He had intended to try to win Cleomenes over, but the man’s face in the light looked closed and angry. Kineas shrugged and rode over toward Cyrus, despite the complaints from his thighs and knees.
‘Cyrus, I greet you,’ Kineas said.
‘My master wishes to have you attend him,’ Cyrus said. He did not raise his eyes.
Kineas was tired, and it was hard to see in the shifting light of the torches, but it appeared to him that all three slaves were afraid.
Kineas dismounted. ‘Cyrus - tell the archon I will be with him directly. He must understand - I have been on the plains, and I rode at dawn this morning. I ask his leave to have a bath.’
Cyrus glanced up. ‘You
will
come?’
will
come?’
Kineas raised an eyebrow. ‘Of course I’ll come. What foolishness is this?’
Cyrus stepped away from the other two slaves. ‘There are rumours abroad - rumours that you intend . . . to take the city.’ His eyes flickered to the horsemen still milling about at the far end of the hippodrome, and rested on the one on the best horse, wearing the most expensive cloak. ‘Or that Nicomedes intends it,’ he said, meeting Kineas’s eyes.
‘You heard me dismiss them with your own ears,’ Kineas said. What in all the Stygian flood is going on here? Kineas thought, but even as he did so, a great deal was slipping into place. In fact, it was just as he had feared it might be. The tyrant feared the hippeis. The tyrant feared
him
. That was the root of the thing.
him
. That was the root of the thing.
He sighed for the wasted time and his own fatigue. ‘I’ll come immediately. Lest your master think I’m busy plotting.’
Cyrus gave him a long look. ‘The archon prizes loyalty above all things, Hipparch. In your place, I would hurry. Or not come at all.’ He turned quickly, leaving the scent of something spicy in the wake of the swirl of his cloak.
Kineas dismounted and handed his horse to Diodorus. ‘I’ll be back soon,’ he said.
‘Don’t go,’ Diodorus said. ‘Or go in the morning with some witnesses. When the streets are full.’ He looked around as if fearing to be overheard. ‘Cleomenes voted against you in the assembly, and he thinks you left his son with the barbarians as a hostage as retribution.’
‘I heard that in his voice,’ Kineas replied. ‘I swear by Zeus, the father of all the gods, the man is a fool!’ Kineas stopped and cursed. He gave the stallion a slap on the rump. ‘That bad?’
‘Worse. Since the assembly met, the archon sees everyone as a plotter. Even Memnon.’ Diodorus grabbed Kineas by the shoulder. ‘I’m in earnest. Go in the morning. Even that perfumed Mede said as much, if you read his words the way I do.’ Diodorus looked around, and said, ‘Nicomedes has a slave - Leon. You’ve seen him?’ Kineas nodded. ‘Men attacked him. He says they were Kelts - perhaps from the archon’s bodyguard. He escaped. Nicomedes has been pressing for action ever since.’
‘Hades,’ Kineas said. ‘I’m not afraid of the archon, and there’s too much going on right now for me to wait for morning. You don’t know
my
news, and I haven’t time to tell it all. Macedon is marching - and they are coming here. Antipater wants to control the grain - he wants Pantecapeum and Olbia. The king of the Sakje is outside the suburbs, waiting to negotiate with the archon. He won’t wait long.’
my
news, and I haven’t time to tell it all. Macedon is marching - and they are coming here. Antipater wants to control the grain - he wants Pantecapeum and Olbia. The king of the Sakje is outside the suburbs, waiting to negotiate with the archon. He won’t wait long.’
Diodorus let go of Kineas’s shoulder. ‘The archon could kill you tonight, from pure fear.’ He pulled his helmet off, rubbed his hair, and sighed. ‘What a stew of crap.’
Kineas laughed. ‘I don’t think I’ll die tonight.’ He felt the weight of his cavalry breastplate on his shoulders. ‘I want to go to bed. But I’m better off seeing him tonight.’
‘Let me send one of the men.’ Diodorus tucked his helmet under his arm. ‘I’ll come myself.’
Kineas shook his head. ‘Thanks, but no. I don’t want to spook him. I think I have his measure, now. I’m betting that a quick display of loyalty right now will go a long way. If I’m wrong, and some god moves his hand to strike me, take the company out the gates to the Sakje, winter over with them, and go south in the spring.’
Diodorus shook his head. ‘I don’t know why he fears you so. In his place it would be Memnon I’d watch.’
Kineas pulled his cloak around his shoulders. He’d given the clasp to Srayanka, and he hadn’t replaced it. ‘That reminds me. Send a boy to Memnon and tell him I’ll speak to him in the morning.’
‘You are set on this course.’
‘I am.’ Kineas took the other man’s hand. ‘Trust the gods.’
Diodorus shook his head. ‘I don’t.’
Then, ignoring his friend’s protestations, Kineas walked off to the palace.
Kineas hurried. His confidence in his course of action, so high in the hippodrome, ebbed in the dark streets outside. Four streets from the palace, he wished he had a pair of torchbearers, or even a file of cavalry as escort. Twice he heard motion on rooftops, and a flash of bronze drew his eye in the alley that ran parallel to the main street.
He quickened his pace, hoping to catch sight of Cyrus and his torchbearers. He decided that his virtue would not be injured by running to catch the Persian. Even the main street was empty. There was not so much as a beggar under the eaves.
Speed, and his cavalry breastplate, saved his life. He saw, too late, the blur of motion at the alley corner by a closed wine shop. He planted a foot to turn and something hit him, hard, right in the side where the bronze was thickest over his belly.
There were at least two of them. One he’d seen - and the other who hit him.
He pushed through the attack, took another step, two, and threw himself against the sidewall of another wine shop. He had his arms free of his cloak and Srayanka’s whip in his hand. He flicked it as the king had taught him - straight into the eyes of one of them.
The man gave a choked scream and fell back. But the other man bore straight in like a wrestler, determined to knock him off his feet and finish him.
Kineas sidestepped. It wasn’t his first alley fight. He wanted room to shed his cloak and draw his sword. He knew he had room to his right, but he had to wonder if there were only two of them.
And then the time for thinking was past, and he was fighting for his life.
The first man landed a blow that rang his back plate like a gong. The man’s fist caught his cloak, seeking to unbalance him or choke him, and the whole heavy garment came away - no cloak pin.
Kineas flipped the riding whip from his right to left hand, catching the whip by the tail, and drew his sword. He lunged towards the man in front of him, holding the Sakje whip by the fronds of horsehair rather than by the handle.
The handle snapped up and took the barbarian in the side of the head and he fell as if his head had been severed.
His mate leaped forward with a bellow, but he had to get around the falling body. The two collided.
Kineas stepped back again, clear of the collision, and flipped the whip in his hand. He slashed it across the other man’s face. The fight was over, barring fresh attackers or the will of some god, and Kineas wanted the second man to run.
The second man didn’t run. He was tall and heavily built, and his big hand held a heavy club - clearly the weapon that had struck Kineas in the first seconds of the fight - and he swung it. It whistled in the air as Kineas retreated, his booted feet clumsy on refuse. Bad footing.
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