Authors: Christian Cameron
Tyrant (59 page)
After Helladius, Nicomedes strode to the centre of the assembly and spoke. He stood in the centre of the half-circle, holding his spear like every other man present. He didn’t look like a fop this morning.
‘Men of Olbia,’ he said. ‘Fellow citizens!’ He proceeded to tell the story of the war, from its inception to the demands made by Zopryon. He rehearsed for them every vote they had made - the grants of citizenship to the mercenaries, the subsidies of money to the archon for more men, more arms, armour, horses, more mercenaries. The treaty with the king of the Sakje, and the treaty with the city of Pantecapaeum. If it was dry, or boring, no one showed it. They stood leaning on their spears, grumbling when they didn’t like his point, or speaking up with shouts of ‘That’s right’, and ‘There’s the thing!’ when they felt that Nicomedes had the right of it.
Nicomedes took them right through to the end. When he came to the presence of the new garrison in the citadel, they groaned, and the spear points moved as if they were blades of grass in the wind. And then he spoke to them of the proclamation, and the threat of exile, and their voices rose around him until he could not make himself heard. He glanced at Kineas, shrugged, and stepped down.
Kineas motioned to Niceas, and the hyperetes drew a breath and blew a single note on his cavalry trumpet. Then he walked forward into the empty ground at the centre of the crowd.
His appearance was greeted with a grumble. Nicomedes was what they were used to; Nicomedes addressed the assembly on every issue that appeared. Kineas was a mercenary whom they had voted to citizenship. A foreigner from Athens. And, as hipparch, the captain of the city’s financial and social elite. But his military reputation stood him in good stead, and he received a silence punctuated only by a handful of complaints, imprecations and conversations.
‘Men of Olbia,’ he began. ‘I stand before you, almost a stranger, and yet your captain in war. I have appeared in your assembly only a handful of times, and yet I will dare to address this one as if I were an old citizen - as if I were Cleitus, or Nicomedes or some other voice to whom you are accustomed. According to the tyrant of Olbia, whoever that is today, I am no longer a citizen.’
Kineas gestured at the camp, the horses and wagons and herds of the Sakje. ‘Learn the lesson of Anarchises the Scyth,’ Kineas said. ‘You are the city. You, the citizens, are the city. The walls and the citadel are nothing. They hold no vote in the assembly. Not one stone will speak to defend the archon or Cleomenes. Not one house will proclaim him as king, or as tyrant. No roof will speak to vote a law in his favour. No statue will rise to defend the archon. Do not be slaves to your walls, men of Olbia. You are the city. Will you vote to continue what you have started?
‘You, not the archon, hold the city in your hands - you have the power to make war, or peace. The presence of a garrison in our citadel is of as much moment to you, men of Olbia, as would the presence this moment of a thief in your shop, or rats in your granary. It is something we will have to deal with when we return from this war.’
Silence. The hillside was quiet enough that horses in the king’s herds could be heard whickering to one another.
‘Nicomedes has related how this assembly voted on each step of this war. You are not the aggressors. You have not marched with fire and spear to burn the lands of Macedon, or sent mighty fleets to raid their shores and take their women!’ His mock-Homeric language and the absurdity of the image - Olbia launching aggressive war against Macedon - got him a laugh. ‘You sought peace, and only sanctioned war when Zopryon made clear that he would not accept peace.’
Kineas paused, took a breath, and when he spoke, his voice was level, quiet, but assured. ‘Zopryon is losing this war,’ he said.
A hundred voices - the men who had ridden north and west to fight the Getae - were raised. Kineas lifted a hand.
‘Enough of you rode north to speak here, or anywhere, of how badly we defeated Zopryon’s barbarian allies. But there have been other conflicts. The men of Pantecapaeum met the Macedonian squadron and destroyed it. Even now, they cruise the Hellespont, taking a toll from any Macedonian ship bold enough to venture north of Byzantium. Even now, our allies, the Sakje, are harrying Zopryon’s advance, killing his foragers, riding in close at night and shooting arrows into their campfires, or killing men who go beyond the circle of fires to have a piss.
‘Zopryon has garrisoned a dozen forts between here and Tomis. He has divided his force and divided it again to force a passage over the sea of grass, and now, when his doom is close and the hooves of the Sakje echo in his dreams, the Tyrant of Olbia declares that we should put our spears on our shoulders and slink home or face exile. The Tyrant has betrayed us. Like tyrants everywhere, he thinks that his word can order the will of all men, and like a tyrant, he gives orders without consulting you.’
Kineas found it difficult to decide how this was going down. His eyes strayed to familiar faces - Ajax and Leucon, and the young men of their generation, who stood closest to him, were already in full agreement - but what of the older men who stood farther back? And Eumenes stood alone, his eyes red. Today, for all his beauty and his heroism, he had no friends.
Too late to worry over it. ‘Today, we, here, are the city of Olbia. The archon, or Cleomenes, or whoever holds power today in the city has revealed by his proclamation that he is a tyrant.’ Kineas raised an arm and shouted, ‘He is a tyrant!’ and the assembly responded with shouts and calls. He began to feel that he had them. ‘His laws are not valid! His proclamation is worthless! The Tyrant of Olbia can sit in his citadel with his Macedonian garrison and proclaim himself the Great King of the Medes and the absolute Lord of the Moon. Here, right here, are the bones and sinews of Olbia! If we stand with the Sakje, we can destroy Zopryon - and then we can march home and deal with the rats in our manger at leisure. Or we can tuck our spears between our legs and drag our asses home to Olbia and proclaim ourselves slaves. Have it as you will - you are free men.’
There was a silence, and then Eumenes came forward, leaning on his spear like an older man. The crowd parted for him as if he had a disease. Kineas stepped aside for him, and the young man raised his voice.
‘My father,’ he said, ‘is a traitor. The archon is a traitor. And I will remain to fight beside the Sakje, whatever you vote.’
He turned away. Kineas reached out to him, but he turned his face away and walked through the crowd. Kineas was glad when he saw that Ajax was following him.
Other men spoke. No man spoke directly for the archon, but there were those who questioned their right to assemble and vote, barracks lawyers of the commonest sort, and more who wanted to march on the city immediately and seize it back from the archon.
Kineas stood with his hand clenched on the bronze socket of his spear. He could smell the rain in the air and feel the throb of distant summer lightning. He ceased to listen to the men who spoke, because . . .
he was an owl, flying out over the sea of grass, flying out of the sun towards the clouds that rose like pillars over the advancing Macedonian host, and their dust rose like another pillar, an ugly brown one.
he was an owl, flying out over the sea of grass, flying out of the sun towards the clouds that rose like pillars over the advancing Macedonian host, and their dust rose like another pillar, an ugly brown one.
At the feet of the monster of dust and men, the Sakje toiled, knots and bunches of them riding close and then riding away. He looked for Srayanka, but from this height, the riders were dots in the sea of green.
They were close, though. Close, and the storm was getting ready to break.
Cheers brought him back. Nicomedes greeted Kineas by clasping his hands - both of them - and embracing him. Leucon and Ajax, and men he didn’t know as well crowded around. Many of them were deeply moved - one tall man wept openly, and others were close to tears, or hoarse from shouting. Even Memnon was moved. He grunted and smiled before he caught himself.
Kineas and Nicomedes were in the middle of more than a thousand men, buffeted to and fro by the storm of congratulations.
‘I take it we carried the day,’ Kineas said. As he looked about, he felt that the emotion of these men was affecting him - his throat was closing, his eyes hot.
Nicomedes rolled his eyes. ‘My dear Hipparch,’ he said. ‘You may be the man for an ambush or a cavalry charge - but you don’t know much about managing an assembly. If you had spoken last, you might have seen - but you didn’t. As it was,’ Nicomedes shrugged, ‘I was only worried once.’
‘When was that?’ Kineas asked, shouting.
‘The sacrifice,’ Nicomedes shouted. ‘Helladius cannot be bribed, the old fool. A bad omen might have sunk us. Other than that - you were right, Hipparch, to tell them early and often. Had this treason taken us by surprise - suddenly - I shudder to think. But prepared, with time to grumble and drink some wine - they never hesitated.’
‘Thank the gods,’ Kineas said. ‘I must go to the king.’
Nicomedes nodded. ‘Certainly. But Kineas - may I advise you? When this war is over, our world will change. The Tyrant will have to be deposed. And we will have to have new ways of doing things. The way you act with the king - all of our relations - will set the path for the next generation of men who rule in the Euxine cities. Don’t rush to him as if he was our patron. Act his equal. Don’t appear like an eager supplicant to him - send him a message declaring our whole support - tell him that we carried the assembly without a count - put his mind at ease. But do it with a message, so that the Olbians see that we don’t dance to their tune - we are allies, not subjects.’
Kineas gave Nicomedes a hard look - thinking that way could sink an alliance.
The man shook his head. ‘Glare at me all you like. An empowered assembly - an assembly that has just rejected tyranny - is a dangerous, powerful animal.’
Kineas made a face. ‘I don’t like it,’ he said.
There is already too much between me and the king.
But he waved to Ajax.
There is already too much between me and the king.
But he waved to Ajax.
Ajax went to the king and returned. A band of Patient Wolves came into camp with empty saddles and many wounded. A troop of Sauromatae nobles, armoured from head to foot, rode off to the west in close order.
Kineas found that he was standing in the flap of his wagon, watching the king’s laager and trying to will the man to send for him. He was starved for news. And his dream - his waking dream - told him that the danger was close.
Philokles came up, rubbing his hands on a piece of linen. His hair was clean and his skin newly oiled. ‘I have made sacrifice to all the gods,’ Philokles said.
Kineas nodded. ‘It is a good day to greet the gods,’ he said, his eyes still on the king’s camp. ‘I believe Diodorus is doing the same?’
Philokles sat on the wagon step, using a small knife to get sacrificial blood out from under his nails. He nodded absently at the mention of Diodorus, and said, ‘When we get to this battle?’
‘Yes?’ Kineas asked. He misunderstood Philokles’ purpose. ‘It’ll be different in battle. The Sakje have some heavy cavalry - I was surprised by how well armoured the nobles are, and you saw the Sauromatae - they’re like brick ovens on horses. But they can’t manoeuvre like us.’ He glanced at Philokles and saw that he had missed his mark. ‘That’s not what you wanted to know, is it?’ he said with some embarrassment.
Philokles shook his head. ‘No. Interesting enough, but no. Where do you die? Do you mind if I do something to prevent it?’
Kineas frowned, then smiled. ‘I think I’m too used to it. It has become the central fact of my existence, and yet it is like a burden released. I know the hour of my death - I know we will triumph. It seems almost a fair exchange.’ He shrugged, because there was no explaining how he felt about it - the fatalism. ‘I don’t worry as much as I used to,’ he said, hoping that this would sound like a joke.
Philokles’ face grew red, and his eyes sparkled, and he smacked the wagon bed with his fist so that the whole wagon moved. ‘Bullshit! Bullshit, Hipparch! You do not need to die. I have great respect for Kam Baqca. But her trances come from drugs - from the seeds they all carry. I say it again - she has foreseen her death, and it colours all her dreams.’ He paused, took a breath. ‘Tell me where you die?’
Kineas sighed. He pointed out at the ford. ‘It is not here - but it is very like. There should be a huge tree on the far bank, and driftwood on a beach - also on the far side. Big driftwood - whole tree trunks. That’s what I remember.’ He shrugged. ‘I haven’t really looked.’
Philokles stood like a bull, breathing through his nose - angry, or frustrated, or both. ‘You haven’t looked. Do you think the battle will be here?’
Looking out the flap in the wagon tent, Kineas could see Eumenes and Niceas standing with a third man - a big man. Niceas gestured toward Kineas. Kineas saw that the third man was the Sindi smith. He poured himself a cup of wine. He gestured silently at Philokles, who nodded, and he poured wine for the Spartan while he responded.
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