Tyrant

10

The sickness was almost gone from his body, praise to the deadly archer Apollo for passing him by and to Kam Baqca for saving him — and the coughs scarcely troubled him. The journey back to the city was pleasant despite the chill and the deep snow on the plains, because the king’s men were good companions, and because his Olbian boys were becoming something like soldiers. For two days, Kineas had nothing to worry about. The king’s men chose camps and erected felt tents from the two heavy wagons that carried all of the party’s baggage. Kineas rode and talked, and in brief intervals alone, thought of Srayanka. Whatever coldness was between him and the king, it disappeared soon after they left the camp.

The holiday ended forty stades from Olbia.

‘We spotted a patrol!’ young Kyros shouted, as soon as he was close enough to be heard. He slowed his horse, sweeping in a wide arc in front of the king, and gave a belated salute.

Kineas waited with apparent indifference until the young man brought his horse to a stand in front of them.

‘Four men, all well mounted. Ataelus says they are your men from the city.’ Kyros looked a trifle downcast. ‘I didn’t see them. Ataelus did. He’s watching them.’

Kineas turned to the king. ‘If Ataelus saw them, they’ll have seen him and they’ll be with us shortly.’ Even as he spoke, two riders crested the next ridge and began a rapid descent.

Kineas knew Niceas by the set of his shoulders and the way he rode, even on the horizon of a snowy plain, and as soon as he spotted his hyperetes cantering down the ridge towards the Sakje king’s party, he began to worry.

‘That man rides well,’ said the king at his side.

‘He’s been in the saddle all his life,’ Kineas said. He gave a cough.

‘To keep watch on the roads in winter is no easy task,’ the king said. He tugged his beard thoughtfully.

Niceas rode up at a fast trot, and saluted. ‘Hipparch, I greet you,’ he said formally.

Kineas returned his salute and then embraced him. ‘You are better,’ he said.

Niceas smiled. ‘By the grace of all the gods, and despite the meddling of Diodorus with various potions, I’m a new man.’ Then he seemed to recollect the company he was in. ‘Pardon, sir.’

Kineas, used to the rampant informalities of the Sakje, had to make himself think like a Greek. ‘The King of the Sakje — my friend and hyperetes, Niceas. Like me, an Athenian.’

The king held out his right hand, and Niceas took it. ‘I’m honoured, Great King.’

‘I’m not a great king,’ Satrax said, ‘I am king of the Assagatje.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘I do intend to be a great king, in time.’

Niceas looked back and forth between his commander and the barbarian king. Kineas read his hesitancy and motioned to the king with his whip, already a part of him. ‘Niceas has private news for me, O King. May I have your permission to ride aside with him for a little space?’

Satrax waved his riding whip in return. It was a Sakje habit — they talked with their whips. ‘Be my guest,’ he said.

‘I like him,’ said Niceas as soon as they were out of earshot. ‘Nothing Persian about him. But Ares’ frozen balls, he’s young.’

‘Not as young as he looks. What in Hades brought you out to freeze your hairy ass in the snow?’ Kineas was taking both of them out of the column at a good standing trot, and his words were shaken by the motion of the horse.

Niceas was silent until they both reined in at the top of a low ridge. Below them the king’s two heavy wagons toiled along, drawn by a double yoke of oxen. ‘You were supposed to be back in three days — a week at longest.’ He looked around. ‘The assembly didn’t accept the archon’s taxes. Now there’s trouble. Nothing solid — yet. But when you didn’t show, people started to talk. Trouble that will be solved the hour you ride in the gate. A lot of rich fathers are missing their sons — led by Cleomenes. So Diodorus and I decided we’d send out patrols to look for you. That was three days back.’ Niceas looked like a man ridding himself of the weight of the world. ‘Why are you so late? There’s men in the city saying you were killed by the barbarians. And others saying the archon won’t let you bring back the boys until the taxes are voted.’

‘What men?’ asked Kineas. ‘Who said so?’

‘Coenus was off to find that out when I took the patrol out.’ Niceas shrugged. ‘Even money says it’s the archon.’

‘Did you have his permission to look for me?’ Kineas waved to get the king’s attention.

‘Somehow, that slipped my mind.’ Niceas pantomimed repentance.

Kineas sighed. He had enjoyed days on the plains without any burden of command beyond his handful of promising boys. He felt as if all of Niceas’s burdens had shifted squarely on to his own shoulders. He kicked his heels and his sturdy pony, one of the king’s gifts, trotted back down the hill towards the column.

‘How are the rest?’ Kineas asked.

‘Pretty fair. Bored. This patrol had everyone volunteering. Diodorus put everything off limits except the gymnasium and the hippodrome until your return.’ Niceas chuckled. ‘We’ve acquired some whores. Diodorus bought the services of a hetaera.’

Kineas congratulated Diodorus in his mind. ‘Where’d they come from?’ he asked. They were approaching the king and Marthax, who were laughing with Ajax and Eumenes.

Niceas glanced away. ‘Oh — here and there, I guess,’ he said evasively.

Kineas made a note to himself to find out, and then saluted the king. ‘O King — I am required in the city.’ Ajax made room, and Kineas brought his horse alongside the king’s.

Satrax nodded. ‘Then let us go faster,’ he said, and set his horse to a gallop. Every Sakje in the party did the same, and the Greeks had to scramble to keep up.

For the first time, Kineas saw the full measure of the Sakje as horsemen. They galloped their horses for an hour, halted, and every man switched horses, and they were off again. It was a pace that would have broken a troop of Greek cavalry in two hours, but with their herd of remounts and their unflagging energy, the Sakje rode at a gallop for three hours, pausing once to drink unwatered wine and piss in the snow. They left their wagons and half their party to come along at the pace of the oxen. Before the sun was three fists from the horizon, the whole party was passing over the city’s boundary ditch and through the outer fields of the Greek and Sindi farmers.

‘Fast enough for you, Kineas?’ asked the king, reining in. ‘I’d prefer to arrive without all my horses blown.’

Kineas’s legs felt like hot lead had been poured down his thighs. His Olbian boys were all still with them, but the moment the cavalcade stopped, every one of them dismounted and began to rub his thighs. The horses steamed.

The Sakje merely pulled out their wineskins and drank. Next to the king, Marthax opened his barbarian trousers and pissed in the snow without dismounting. His horse did the same.

Kineas rode back to his own men. ‘Ten stades, my friends. Let’s finish with the same spirit we had at the start. Backs straight, good seat, and a javelin in your fist. Niceas?’

Even the hyperetes looked tired from the last three hours. ‘Sir?’

‘Check their gear. Helmets, I think. Look sharp!’ Kineas rode back to the horses and exchanged his pony for his warhorse, who seemed happy to see him. He didn’t feel too sharp himself, but as he rode he pulled his freezing helmet off his pack and pushed it on to the back of his head. Eumenes rode up and handed him a javelin.

Marthax rode up beside him. ‘King says — fear what?’

Kineas had gotten to know a little of Marthax on the ride. He was a relation to Srayanka, and he had a little Greek. He seemed to be the king’s steward, or his closest companion, despite the age difference. Marthax was a warrior in his prime, or perhaps past it. Kineas suspected he was the King’s warlord.

‘I’ll tell the king. Let’s go.’ Kineas hadn’t mastered much of the Sakje tongue beyond simple congnates of Persian he already knew, but he had gotten the knack of speaking simple Greek to the Greek speakers and to Hades with subtlety.

Ataelus was sitting on his horse beside the king. ‘I have for the town gate. And back,’ he said. He held up an arrow. ‘Got this for greeting.’

Kineas pushed his horse into the king’s group. ‘I can explain, O King. The town is in some turmoil. I am overdue, and Niceas had told me a rumour was spread that — that we were killed. On the plain.’

Satrax gave him a level look. ‘But all of your men are arming.’

‘For show, sir. Only for the show.’

Marthax spoke quickly in Sakje, and there were grunts from the other warriors. Ataelus pushed his horse to Kineas’s side. ‘For going home. For not trust city. Trust you, he says, trust not city. For telling king he told all this before.’

Kineas raised his voice over the murmurs of the Sakje nobles. ‘If we move now, Satrax, we will be in the city before dark and we’ll quell these rumors. If we wait a day…’ He shrugged.

Satrax nodded. He spoke in Sakje, and Dikarxes, a noble of the king’s age, spoke, and then Marthax spoke, clearly in agreement. The king nodded, and turned to Kineas. ‘We’ll wait here for the wagons. If you’ll be so kind as to send one of your men to get permission from the farmer. We’ll make our camp by the first bend in the river — where the horse market is held.’

Kineas glanced at the rapidly setting sun. ‘I had thought to take you to the city.’

‘Best you go ahead. Dikarxes and Marthax agree — a horde of bandits like ourselves might get a grim reception.’ He extended his hand and clasped Kineas’s hand. ‘You look worried, my friend. Go attend to this, and come fetch us in the morning. In truth, your city makes us nervous. I think we will be happier to camp in the snow.’

Kineas shook his head. ‘You shame me, O King. And yet I fear that your decision is a wise one. Look for me in the morning.’ He rode back to his own men. ‘Gather round,’ he said, and they pressed close. ‘The king will camp here. The city is nervous — some fool has spread a rumour we’re all dead. We’ll go to the city, but the king needs a man to guarantee the good behaviour of the farmers. Remember that to them, he’s a dangerous bandit.’

He could see at a glance that they’d taken it in. They were good boys, and every one of them had matured in two weeks on the plains. He went on, ‘I need a volunteer to spend another night in the snow with them.’ Ataelus immediately waved his hand, but Kineas continued, ‘I’d prefer one of the citizens.’

They all clamoured to volunteer. He was impressed. ‘Eumenes. And Clio. My thanks to both of you. I want you to ride around to every farmer in ten stades, tell them who is camping at the bend in the river, and why. Take all your slaves — make a show, and don’t take any crap from the farmers.’

Eumenes seemed to grow a hand span. ‘Yes, sir. Clio’s father owns this farm and the next. I don’t expect we’ll have much trouble.’

Clio, who had matured the most of all the boys, saluted. ‘No problem at all, sir. Please tell my father I’m at Gade’s Farm.’

Kineas pointed his heavy whip at Ataelus. ‘You stay with them. Help them translate. Make sure anything taken is paid for. And stay sober. If I don’t come back in the morning, stay sharp. I’ll return as soon as I can.’ He shook hands with all three of them. Finally he said to Eumenes, ‘You are in charge.’

Eumenes glowed. ‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Thank me when you see me again.’

Behind him, Ajax was forming the rest of the Greeks. Niceas formed as a simple trooper, allowing Ajax to be the hyperetes, just as the younger man had done for the past two weeks. The two Syracusans, Antigonus and Andronicus, had come out with Niceas, and they formed the next file, equally willing to allow Ajax to command.

Kineas pulled up beside Philokles while Ajax checked equipment and inspected.

‘You’re leaving the two boys as hostages,’ Philokles said.

‘Nothing so brutal,’ Kineas said. ‘They’ll have a fine time, and the king and his men won’t feel that we abandoned them amidst a horde of terrified Sindi farmers.’

The Spartan shrugged. ‘You are worried about what the archon intends. ’ Kineas nodded. Philokles spat in the snow. ‘Ajax makes a good hyperetes.’

‘He’s had good teachers.’ Kineas worried that all of them in armour would frighten the city watch into some action, but it was too late, and the die was cast. ‘Ajax, are we ready to ride?’

Ajax raised his fist to his breastplate. ‘At your command, sir.’

Kineas took the lead spot, and waved his whip. ‘Let’s ride,’ he said.

He prayed to Hermes and to Apollo as he rode, asking that they preserve the peace. He worried that the tyrant had done something, said something, to provoke so much anguish and fear that a city man had fired an arrow at Ataelus. And he worried what the archon intended for the Sakje. And for his men.

He had lots to worry about.

The sun set red on the city, and their jingling column rode down out of the hills of the isthmus. Peasants, slaves and farmers came out to the edge of their fields despite the cold, and word spread like lightning, so that by the time they approached the suburb beyond the city’s fortifications, the streets were lined with people bundled in cloaks and blankets.

Kineas feared mischief, feared an accident — considered assassination, cursed his imagination. He wasn’t sure what he was afraid of, but he was afraid. He turned to Niceas. ‘You have the best lungs. Ride ahead and announce us — first to the crowd, then at the gate. The hipparch and hippeis of the city return from an embassy to the king of the Assagatje. Got it?’

Niceas nodded once, and kneed his horse into motion.

Kineas turned to Ajax at his side. ‘Let us walk our horses slowly, as if in a temple procession. But Ajax — tell your men to watch the crowd and watch the roofs. Antigonus — watch the rear.’

Slowly, they walked through the suburb. In the distance, he could hear Niceas’s voice roaring at the gate.

‘Do you know the Paean of Apollo?’ he asked. The five boys all nodded. ‘Sing it!’ he said.

There were only a dozen of them all told, but they made a good show, and the young voices carried, so that before they entered the last narrow, muddy street, the crowd had taken up the Paean. There was cheering.

The main gate was open, and Kineas offered thanks to Zeus. Two files of Memnon’s mercenaries lined the road inside the gate, and his second officer, Licurgus, saluted with his spear. Kineas’s fears began to calm. He returned the salute.

Niceas fell in by his side. ‘Memnon wants to speak to you at your earliest convenience. In secret.’

Kineas kept his eyes on the crowd, which was even thicker inside the city walls. ‘That can’t be good.’

‘I laid out a few obols to send boys to the homes of your lads. So their fathers would know,’ Niceas said.

‘Thanks,’ Kineas said. The crowd was thick, and the street narrow at the best of times. The little column had to ride single file, and they had to be attentive to avoid trampling children under their hooves. It was the largest crowd Kineas had seen since the festival of Apollo, made ominous by the loom of night and the narrow streets.

Kineas scanned the rooftops again. There were people on the flatter roofs, but they seemed to be watching the spectacle. ‘Why are we getting this hero’s welcome?’ he asked.

Niceas grunted and shrugged. ‘There’s a rumour on the streets that you’re going to overthrow the archon,’ he said. When Kineas whirled on him, he shrugged again. ‘Don’t blame the messenger — but I’ve heard it often enough. It makes you quite popular.’

‘Athena protect me,’ Kineas muttered.

They tried to watch the crowd and the roofs as they picked their way through the streets. They were careful.

Nothing untoward occurred. They rode through the gates of the hippodrome to find a smaller assembly — gentlemen of the city, many mounted and in armour. And the rest of Kineas’s men, also mounted and armed, with Cleitus and Diodorus at their head.

Diodorus looked as relieved as Kineas felt. They clasped hands, and Diodorus waved to his little troop to dismount. Cleitus smiled ruefully. ‘I guess we’re a bunch of worried hens,’ he said. He took off his helmet and gave it to his son, Leucon.

Fathers were embracing their sons. Young Kyros dismounted to regale a circle of family retainers with his adventures. Sophokles was embracing his father, and the word ‘Amazon’ carried clearly and echoed off the stone seats above them.

Nicomedes was there, mounted on a magnificent horse and wearing a breastplate worth more than all of Kineas’s possessions. He gave Kineas a wry smile.

Kineas could feel that something — something was right on the edge of explosion. All these men — mounted and armed, with full night just moments away.

‘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.’

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.

‘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?’

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.

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.’

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.

Kineas swung the whip at the man’s hands — once, twice, three times in a rhythm that put the bigger man on the defensive and drove him back into the centre of the street as he tried to protect his hands.

Kineas let him gain a step. He still believed that the man would bolt as soon as he came to his senses.

The step gave the big man time to recover. With both hands on the haft of his club, he leaped to the attack, swinging the club faster than Kineas thought possible. Kineas scrambled, ducked, and slashed with both whip and sword, but he was parried. The lash landed twice, but the big man showed no effect.

His assailant was a skilled fighter, not a thug. Big, skilled, and brave.

Kineas was driven back by a flurry of blows he could neither parry nor fully avoid without retreat. Suddenly his back foot was stopped by the stucco of the wine shop and he had no place to move to the right due to the presence of a huge urn by the door.

The big man paused. He hadn’t said a word, except to grunt when the lash went home. Both of them were breathing hard.

Kineas began to be afraid — not the normal fear of every warrior, but the fear that he might be outmatched. Might die, in the old vomit at the door to a wretched wine shop. His assailant was very skilled. Not a common hired killer.

He feinted movement towards the open ground to his left, and at the same time, feinted an underhand sword cut at the clubman’s hands. The big man changed his guard, shifted, and Kineas gave him the whole lash of the whip across his face. The man screamed and swung his club, and Kineas tripped and fell in attempting to avoid the blow, and his head hit the shop front hard enough that he smelled blood in his nostrils. He pushed himself on his heels, rolled to avoid a second blow, and got his legs under himself despite the weight of the breastplate and the fog in his mind. He staggered.

The clubman wasn’t blind, but he was in pain. He swung the club. The swing was wild, and lacked the full power of the man’s arms, but it almost ended the fight, glancing off Kineas’s left shoulder. Even so, the blow numbed his left arm and he dropped the whip.

Kineas moved in, despite his body’s urge to run while the other man was hurt. He got in close, punched with his left hand against the big man’s head and cut with his sword at the man’s fingers, several of which fell in the street. The big man’s blood steamed as it sprayed.

‘Ungggh!’ screamed the clubman, more in rage than fear — his first loud noise. With his one good hand, he brought his club down on Kineas’s sword. It wasn’t a heavy blow, but it knocked the weapon clear and left Kineas’s hand numb.

Kineas was disarmed.

His enemy had trouble recovering the club.

Kineas threw himself on the bigger man. He got his arms around him and threw him, a simple wrestling move that his assailant didn’t know, and then Kineas was atop his foe, kneeing him in the groin,

The man thrashed, trying to break his hold, and he bit into Kineas’s arm, so that Kineas had to move his arm. He smashed his right fist into the man’s face and his flailing left hand found the pliable fronds of his Sakje whip. Without conscious thought, he snapped it up and rammed the haft of the whip into his opponent’s belly, kneed him again in the groin, grappled him close so that he could smell the garlic and the pork on the man’s breath. The big man tried to squeeze him but the breastplate stopped him.

Even with the damage Kineas had just wreaked at close quarters, his assailant managed to break his remaining hold and started to struggle to his feet.

Kineas twisted, placed a leg behind the other man’s thigh and levered him over. The bigger man was unprepared — or had never wrestled — the whole sequence surprised him again, and in three heartbeats he was face down in the icy mud with Kineas’s foot on the back of his neck. Kineas was too afraid of the clubman to let him up. So he reversed the whip again and hit him, hard, on the head.

The giant lay still. His back rose and fell to show that he was alive. Kineas lifted his head by the hair and then let it down, so the man didn’t drown in the mud — and so he knew the man was out.

He couldn’t remember fighting hand to hand with an opponent so dangerous. ‘Ares and Aphrodite,’ he breathed. His lungs were eager for air, any air, and his throat felt like a narrow funnel through which molten bronze had to pass. He bent to retrieve his sword and felt light-headed. His whole body shook in reaction, and he sat down in the mud suddenly, his knees too weak to support him. But the mud was as cold as the Styx, and it got him to his feet again quickly.

He went back to the smaller man, counting himself lucky that he had landed so heavy a blow at the very outset — two men as well trained as the giant clubman would have had him down in seconds. He whispered a prayer of thanks to Athena and bent by the body. He turned aside to vomit as the reaction hit him again, and then he shook again.

It was all right. He was alive.

The smaller man was oiled like a wrestler — good olive oil. He was almost naked, despite the cold. Close up, he looked like a barbarian — close examination showed that he had yellow hair. The oil made it lank and dark.

The big man wasn’t oiled, but he, too, had blond hair. The smaller man had tattoos on his face.

Kineas wanted them both alive, but the streets remained obstinately empty, and Kineas knew from experience that the sound of a fight late at night would drive any sober slave or decent citizen to shutter their windows. His limbs ached and his breastplate weighed more than the Atlas mountains.

He looked at his sword. It was badly bent where the club had hit it, and the iron was notched. He straightened it against the ground and felt the slight give in the weak point. The sword would break soon.

‘Aphrodite and Ares,’ he said again. Then he set his shoulders, gathered his cloak from the mud, and started for the palace.

Night or day, the gloom in the palace was the same, and the opulence. Memnon’s men were on duty on the porch of the megaron, but inside at the door to the archon’s sanctum were two of the archon’s giants in their lion skins. They relieved him of his sword without a word spoken.

Looking at their blond hair and oiled skin, Kineas smiled grimly. Neither of them reacted in any way.

Two more stood flanking the man himself. Cyrus stood behind the archon, a tablet in his hand.

‘I’m surprised you came,’ said the archon. He looked Kineas up and down. ‘You look a little the worse for wear.’ He grinned at his own witticism.

‘Cyrus told me you suspected me of plotting revolt.’ Kineas didn’t like the look of the two barbarians any more than he had the first time he had visited the archon. ‘I’m not. I hope my presence here demonstrates as much, because we have more important matters to discuss.’ He could smell the garbage, and more, on his sandals and feet. His tunic was foul with mud and the backs of his legs were worse. ‘I was attacked on my way here.’

The archon held out a gold goblet, and a slave hurried to fill it. Otherwise, he didn’t react, although Cyrus, behind him, gave a start. ‘There is no matter more important than the obedience of my men. I ordered you out to the plains-’

‘And I went.’ Kineas was tired, in pain, and suffering the bleakness that the gods send to men after they fight. He was impatient with the tyrant’s games.

‘You returned without permission.’ The archon was drunk. The words were slurred. It didn’t shock Kineas — Alexander had ruled the world through a haze of wine, but he was never drunk in a crisis.

‘What permission?’ Kineas demanded. ‘You sent me on a mission. I accomplished it. I have a report to make.’

‘You also arranged to be appointed hipparch in your own absence. It makes me wonder who is ruling this city.’ The archon sat up. ‘You were a fool to come here alone.’

Kineas flicked a glance at the two big barbarians. Probably Kelts. Kineas had heard a great deal about the Kelts. He readied himself. ‘Macedon is marching, and Antipater intends to take this city,’ Kineas said.

The archon didn’t seem to be listening. ‘They could kill you right now.’

Kineas took this for an admission — not that he needed one. ‘Their two comrades failed. And if these two try, and fail, I’ll kill you.’

Kineas still had his Sakje whip — Srayanka’s whip. His wrists trembled a little with fear and fatigue. All bluff, now. He didn’t think he could muster the virtue for another fight. But his threat got through to the archon. His head snapped around, and for the first time, he seemed to give Kineas his full attention.

‘You think you could best them?’ Then more slowly, he said. ‘Their comrades attacked you? Where?’

Kineas shrugged. ‘In the street. Does it matter? Can we move from these threats to the war that is coming? I serve you and this city. I have come — despite the attack — to prove my words are true.’

The archon appeared moved — even shocked. ‘You were attacked. And yet you came?’ He looked at Cyrus.

Cyrus gave a small fraction of a nod.

The archon looked at him carefully. ‘I appear to have been mistaken in my estimation of you,’ he said. ‘Tell me of this war. Apollo be my witness, these last days have been unkind enough. More bad news may send me mad.’

‘Macedon is marching here. The king of the Sakje is waiting to speak to you of alliance. And Apollo and Athena by my witnesses, I am not plotting to take this city.’

Kineas felt the reaction from the fight. Just six days ago he had argued against war with Macedon. Something in his head had changed during the fight in the alley, or perhaps here in this room that choked him with riches and incense.

The archon held out his hand and Cyrus put another cup of wine in it. Then he looked up. ‘Where is this bandit king?’

Kineas met the tyrant’s eyes. ‘Hard by the city ditch, at Gade’s farm.’

The archon put forth his arm in a dramatic gesture of negation and shook his head. ‘Why? Why is Macedon marching to take my city? I already paid a hefty bribe to send them elsewhere.’ He looked up and met Kineas’s eye. ‘We can’t fight Macedon.’

Kineas stood unmoving. Did he agree? He had already begun to plan his campaign on the endless grass. With tens of thousands of Sakje horsemen, one of whom had dark blue eyes… Suddenly he realized that his thoughts had been fully changed, as if by one of the gods. His pulse raced. It was like insanity. ‘Talk to the king,’ he said carefully.

‘Do you know that the assembly used to meet at my whim and vote anything I asked?’ The archon looked into his wine cup, and then at Kineas. ‘They loved me, Kineas. I protected them from the bandits on the plains, and they grew rich in peace, and they loved me. Now they simmer to revolt — for what? That fop Nicomedes could no more protect them from the bandits than a whore in the agora. And you, with your talk of Macedon and war — what can some bandit from the grass tell me of Macedon?’ he said. ‘Perhaps it doesn’t matter, anyway.’ He sounded drunk, and maudlin, and tired. ‘I’ve ridden this horse too long, I think, Athenian. I can no longer remember how to get their agreement.’ He waved out the doors of the megaron at the city beyond, and laughed bitterly. ‘Antipater can come and depose the assembly, perhaps. And set up a new tyrant. Nicomedes, perhaps.’

Kineas approached the ivory stool, words coming unbidden to his head as he saw both of his campaigns form in his thoughts; the one to defeat Antipater, and the other to push this tyrant to make a stand. He thought of Achilles on the beach, his rage at Agamemnon, and then his acceptance of the council of the Goddess, so that he spoke in honeyed words.

Because, like it or not, Athens had hired him from exile for this very task. They’d lied about it, of course. But it was clear to him — as clear as if Athena had just whispered it in his ear — that Licurgus and his party had sent him to Olbia to stop Antipater.

Aye. Honeyed words. They came to him as if on a whisper, and he used them. ‘The threat of Macedon should serve to unite your city,’ he said, and he saw on the archon’s face that his arrow had struck home. ‘And the king could be a better friend than you think, Archon. Peace on the plains, and more grain in our ships.’

The archon grunted. ‘I doubt that my city will be saved by the bandits,’ he said, but he had his chin in his hand and he was looking thoughtful. ‘But as soon as it is known that Antipater is marching, this city will empty.’

‘Not in winter, it won’t,’ Kineas said. ‘and by spring, with a little effort, we can build an alliance and a force to stop Macedon on the plains of the Sakje.’ Plans trembled at the edge of his thoughts, ready to tumble out in speech if he let them, but he held his tongue.

The archon shook his head. ‘You’re drunker than I am.’ He drained his glass. ‘Nothing can stop Macedon. No one should know that better than you. It is a pretty dream you spin, and I’ll grant you that the threat of Macedon would bring the city to heel as if by magic, but — no. No, I’ll send you to Antipater — overland — immediately. If you are loyal, you can buy me peace. You know these people. You can get them to listen.’

‘I doubt it,’ Kineas said. I hate them, he suddenly thought. All the slights of being a Greek in the army of Macedon — passed over for promotion, dismissed by Alexander. It was as if every scab had been ripped off every wound ever inflicted on him. I hate them.

‘I will make you a rich man. They made you a citizen — you know that? And elected you hipparch. You’ve only been here a month! Of couse, I thought you were having a shot at my diadem.’ The archon held out his cup again. Cyrus hurried to get more wine. No other slave appeared. ‘My father was a mercenary. I know just how the thing is done. You won’t find me sleeping!’ The archon bellowed the last, and sprung to his feet, glaring at Kineas.

Kineas ignored the tyrant’s fears. ‘No matter what you offer Macedon, they will march,’ he said with patience he didn’t feel. ‘Antipater needs money and he needs a war to keep the nobles from coming after him. He still fears Sparta. That leaves us. We look easy. And control of the Euxine will strengthen Antipater’s hold on Athens — on the whole of Greece.’

The archon rubbed his face with both hands like a mimer removing face paint. ‘Athens — aye, Athens, from which you are supposedly an exile. Athens, which probably sent you here. To replace me? I’ve always been loyal to Athens.’

Kineas paused like a man crossing a swamp, who suddenly finds the going treacherous. ‘I swear by Zeus I am not here to replace you!’

The archon ignored him. ‘I’ll offer to become the client of Macedon — to rule in their name. Pay taxes — the same contribution Athens levied. More.’

Kineas looked at him with disgust. ‘Archon, Macedon can have all that if they come and take the city. And my sources say that Antipater wants a war. Are you listening to me?’

The archon tossed his wine cup on the floor, and the gold rang as it hit the stone. ‘I’m fucked,’ he said. ‘No one defeats Macedon.’

It sounded craven to Kineas, even though it was the very same argument he had used to the king. Coming from the mouth of the archon, the drunk and despondent, murderous archon, it disgusted him.

In that hour, he had become a convert. Srayanka wanted war with Macedon. The archon feared it. He wondered what god had whispered in his ear, seized his tongue. He had become an advocate of the war.

‘Talk to the king,’ he said. ‘He knows much.’

‘Bloody brigand,’ said the archon. But his tone had changed. ‘When?’

‘Tomorrow. The king has to ride for the high plains before the snow comes in earnest. But he wants an alliance, and he has much to offer.’

The archon sat up. ‘I’m drunk.’ He rose. ‘I was right about you — you are a dangerous man.’ He settled the diadem more exactly on his head. ‘What do you want, anyway? Money? Power? Restoration to Athens?’ He gave Kineas a look. If the effect was supposed to be menacing, his drunken stagger and the skewed diadem on his brow ruined it. ‘Is this Athens’ doing, horse master?’ And then he slumped a little. ‘Never mind. Whatever you want, you’ll grab at in time. You’re that kind. Right now, you don’t seem to want my little crown.’ He smiled. ‘I still do. And I suppose your barbarian bandit is my best chance to keep it. I’ll see him. Bring him in the morning.’

Kineas felt bold. ‘You promise his life is safe?’

The archon raised an eyebrow, looking like an old satyr eyeing a young maiden in the theatre. ‘You think I threaten his life?’ He passed Kineas on his way to his own chamber. ‘Or yours?’ His voice trailed back into the throne room. ‘You have a lot to learn about my city, Athenian.’