Tyrant

14

The Sakje town had a market as big as any on the Euxine. Twenty stalls competed to sell every edged implement from the simplest eating knife to the heavy rhompheas, the new, heavy swords favoured by the Thracian hillmen. Simple short swords were available at every booth, from plain iron weapons with serviceable bone hilts to fanciful examples decorated in Persian gold work.

Cavalry swords were less common because the Sakje didn’t like them. Kineas walked from one booth to the next, comparing lengths and weights, price, ornamentation, and practicality. Kineas enjoyed shopping and hearing the talk of war. Sword merchants were notorious gossips, often spies. Most of the stalls were run by slaves, but one was held by its owner, a big Egyptian freedman with his own stall and a wagon.

After he’d examined every ware on the man’s table, he was invited to drink wine. In half a cup, he heard professional gossip from Ectabana and from Egypt and all the lands in between.

‘You’re the hipparch I’ve heard so much about?’ the merchant asked. ‘No offence, but you’re in for it.’

Kineas shrugged and swirled the second cup of excellent wine in the plain horn cup he’d been offered. ‘I gather Zopryon has quite an army,’ he observed.

‘Zopryon means to conquer these Sakje — all the Scyths,’ the merchant replied. ‘At least, that’s what he says in his cups. Darius failed, Xerxes failed, Cyrus died fighting them — Zopryon figures that he can get a name up there.’ The merchant took a sip of his own wine and gave a slight smile. ‘All of them want to rival Alexander.’ He made the lords of Macedon sound like foolish boys.

Kineas was sitting on a leather stool behind the man’s stall, watching Laertes haggle for an expensive knife at the next stall. As he watched, Laertes’ face went through a series of expressions like a comic mime — anger, irritation, puzzlement, pleasure — as the price dropped.

The merchant was watching the exchange as well. ‘That man’s good at haggling. One of your soldiers?’

‘And an old family friend,’ said Kineas. ‘We grew up together.’

‘In Athens,’ the merchant said, and then paused, realizing that perhaps he’d said too much. ‘Well — that’s what I heard — and your accent.’

Kineas turned away to hide his smile. ‘He helped save my life at Issus,’ he said.

‘Nice kind of friend,’ the merchant said. ‘The kind of friend the gods send to a man.’ Both of them spilled wine on the ground. Then choosing his words carefully, the merchant said, ‘That would be when you won the prize for bravery.’

Kineas nodded. ‘Stupidity, more like.’ He considered the merchant for a few breaths. ‘You know too much about me.’

The merchant looked around and shrugged. ‘I came here from Tomis,’ he said. ‘Where Zopryon is raising his army.’

‘Ah,’ Kineas replied, pleased at the man’s calm. He was obviously a spy, but in some small way an honest one.

‘Zopryon has heard all about you from the veterans on his staff. The hipparch of his regiment of companions — Phillip? They’re all named Phillip, aren’t they?’

‘So they are,’ Kineas agreed. He knew a Phillip who commanded companions. The dreaded Hetaerae — the finest heavy cavalry in the world.

‘I gather this Phillip had a woman named Artemis.’

Kineas narrowed his eyes. ‘Yes,’ he said.

‘She has a very high opinion of you,’ said the Egyptian. ‘I began to wonder if this campaign is as one-sided as people in Thrace claim it is.’

Kineas leaned forward. ‘Zopryon may be surprised by the strength of the opposition,’ he said carefully.

The merchant flicked his eyes around the Sakje and Sindi in the crowd and then let his gaze fall heavily on Kineas. ‘Do tell,’ he said.

Kineas smiled. ‘Phillip barely scraped a victory out of his fight with the Scyths,’ he said. ‘Cyrus died. Darius ran home with his whiskers burned. What does that tell you?’

The Egyptian had a fur-lined Thracian cloak across his lap. He pulled it around his shoulders. ‘You tell me,’ he said slowly.

Kineas leaned back. ‘I’m here to buy a good sword, not swap gossip.’

The merchant took his turn to shrug. ‘I have a few good swords I save for special customers,’ he said. ‘The kind that bring me good gossip are my favourites.’ He watched Laertes paying for his purchase. Kineas was glad to see the man happy.

Kineas got up and began to toy with one of the infantry short swords on the merchant’s table. ‘There are a lot of Scyths,’ he said. He rolled his wrist, letting the sword fall into an imaginary victim under its own weight. Too light. He knew that.

The merchant looked bored. ‘This is something about which I have wondered much,’ he said. He poured more wine from a ewer and held it up for Kineas, who held out his horn cup.

‘Think of it this way,’ Kineas said. ‘There are Scyths here, there are Scyths all around the Euxine. Scyths north of Bactria, and north of Persia, and everywhere in between.’

The Egyptian nodded. ‘Just as Herodotus says.’ He got up, shrugged the cloak into place on his shoulders, and took a heavy rug off the two-wheeled cart at the back of his stall.

Kineas had had all winter to read Herodotus. It had become one of his favourite pastimes. Especially the part about Amazons. ‘He came to Olbia,’ Kineas said. ‘He knew what he was talking about.’

The merchant nodded. ‘I expect he did,’ he said. ‘Will they fight?’

Kineas watched him unroll the rug. It had four swords in its folds. Two were short and two were long. The longest was shaped like a Greek cavalry sword, a true machaira, the weight near the tip of the blade, curved like a reversed sickle, but it had a wicked point. It felt curiously light in his hand, almost alive. The tang had a simple leather wrapping and no hilt. Kineas rolled it in his fist and let the point drop. It bit into the table with a soft thunk. ‘Beautiful,’ he said.

‘Steel,’ the merchant said. He flexed it in his hands and handed it back. ‘There’s a priest in Alexandria who has the knack. He doesn’t make many, but every one of them comes out right.’ The merchant drank wine, put his cup down and rubbed his hands before blowing on them. Then he said, ‘I’ve seen other men make steel blades — one in a dozen, or one in a hundred. This priest is the only man I know who makes them every time.’

The blade seemed to have a dozen colours trapped just under the surface, which was polished to a degree Kineas had not seen before. He made an overhand cut and the sword sang as it cut the air. Kineas realized that he had a broad smile on his face. He couldn’t help it. ‘How much?’ he asked.

‘How many Scyths are there?’ the man asked again.

Kineas rubbed his thumb on the tang. ‘Thousands,’ he said, and sat back on his stool.

The Egyptian nodded. ‘The Getae tell Lord Zopryon that there are only a few hundred warriors, the last remnant of a proud race, and that he can conquer them in a summer. Zopryon intends to take Olbia and Pantecapaeum to pay for the campaign and to serve as bases, and then march inland, building forts as he goes. I tell you nothing that is not common knowledge, yes?’ He looked intently at Kineas for a reaction.

It wasn’t common knowledge in Olbia. Kineas tried to keep his face blank. It must have been good enough, because the Egyptian continued. ‘But some of the older officers ask questions about the numbers of the nomads. They say the old king brought ten thousand horsemen to fight Phillip.’ He gestured with his chin at the sword blade across Kineas lap. ‘Eight minae of silver.’

Kineas handed the sword back with regret. ‘Too rich for me,’ he said. ‘I’m an officer, not a god.’ He rose. ‘Thanks for the wine.’

The Egyptian rose as well, and bowed. ‘I could perhaps accept seven minae.’

Kineas shook his head. ‘He must be a very rich priest, this fellow in Alexandria. Two minae would break me. I’d have to go sell my services to Zopryon.’

The merchant gave him an amused look. ‘You are the hipparch of the richest city on the Euxine. You plead poverty? I think rather that you are some hard-hearted rich man who seeks to beggar me and leave my wife and my two expensive daughters as paupers. That sword is a gift of the gods to a fighting man. Look — I didn’t even bother to put a hilt on it, because only a rich fool or a swordsman would want the thing. The first would want a hilt I can’t afford, and the second would want to hilt it himself. The sword was made for you. Make me an offer!’

Kineas found that he had picked the sword up again. Not his best bargaining technique. ‘I might be able to find three minae.’

The Egyptian raised his hands to heaven and then pulled them abruptly down on his head. ‘I’d have my slaves throw you in the mud, except you are a guest,’ he said, and then he smiled. ‘And, of course, none of my slaves are big enough to throw you in the mud, and your friend the king could have me executed.’ He put his hands on his hips. ‘Let us drop this haggling. You pleased me with your tidbits about the Scyth. You are the first man of sense I have met in this market. Make me a genuine offer and I will take it.’

Kineas leaned close, where he could smell the rose-scented perfume on the other man and the fish sauce he’d had with his lunch. ‘The Sakje here will eat Zopryon for dinner.’

The Egyptian narrowed his eyes. ‘And your alliance with him is firm?’

Kineas shrugged. ‘I suspect Zopryon would like to know.’ He grinned. ‘Will he hear it from you?’

‘Amon — do I look like a spy for Zopryon?’ The Egyptian smiled. With a sleight of hand that Kineas had to admire, two small scrolls were pressed into Kineas’s cloak.

To cover the movement, Kineas nodded. ‘I might go to four minae,’ he said.

The Egyptian shrugged. ‘Now you offer some money. Still not enough.’ He pulled his cloak tighter. ‘When the assembly restores your father’s property, you’ll be so rich you can buy every sword in the market.’

Kineas raised an eyebrow. ‘Your words to Zeus, Egyptian. Or do you know something?’

‘I know many people,’ the Egyptian said. ‘Some live in Athens.’ He made a face and pulled his cloak tighter yet. ‘By Zeus-Amon, it’s colder than Olbia.’

Kineas’s eyebrows shot up. ‘You were in Olbia?’

‘I just missed you,’ said the Egyptian. Raising his voice, he said, ‘Perhaps I might let you keep this sword for six minae.’

Kineas was too eager to read the letters to wait and haggle over the sword blade. ‘I don’t have six minae,’ Kineas said. He put the horn cup down on the table and laid the sword gently on the rug. ‘I wish I did.’ He gave the Egyptian a short bow. ‘Thanks for the wine.’

‘Any time,’ said the merchant. ‘Borrow the money!’

Kineas laughed and walked away. At a table in a tented wine shop, he read the two scrolls — letters from Athens. The letters were months behind. He rubbed his face, and then laughed.

Athens wanted him to stop Zopryon.

One thing the Sakje town boasted out of all proportion to its size were goldsmiths. Kineas walked among them with the king’s companion Dikarxes, as well as Ataelus and Philokles. Gold was cheap here — not cheap, per se, but cheaper than in Athens — and the Sakje required it for every garment, every ornament. There were shops of craftsmen from Persia and from Athens and from as far afield as the Etruscan peninsula north of Syracuse. The crowds of goldsmiths made Kineas feel yet more foolish for imagining the town a secret.

A freedman from Athens ran a shop with six men of all races working. The bust of Athena in his shop window and the sound of his voice moved Kineas profoundly, and he entered to talk and stayed to buy. He presented the Egyptian sword blade to be hilted — purchased the day before for five minae.

‘Quite a piece of iron,’ said the Athenian. He made a face. ‘Most of my customers want a horse or a griffon on their swords. What do you fancy?’

‘A hilt that balances the blade,’ Kineas said.

‘How much can you pay?’ asked the man, eyeing the blade with professional interest. He put it on a scale and weighed it, made notes on a wax tablet. ‘Point heavy? Show me where you want the balance. Close enough.’ He set some weights on the balance and then wrote the result, drew a line on the blade with a wax stylus.

Kineas looked around the shop. Parshtaevalt was admiring a gorytos cover — solid gold, with magnificent depictions of Olympus — surrounded by a score of Assagatje nobles. ‘Not as much as they can pay,’ he said. ‘Two minae of silver?’ he said. He’d have to borrow it — the sword had returned him to penury.

The goldsmith tilted his head. ‘I suppose I could make it from lead,’ he said.

Parshtaevalt leaned over. ‘Listen — you big man. King pay for you, yes yes.’

‘I don’t want the king to pay,’ Kineas said.

‘Let me build you something as fine as the blade,’ said the Athenian smith. ‘You’re the hipparch of Olbia — I’ve heard of you. Your credit is good with me.’

Kineas relinquished the blade with some hesitation.

Dikarxes, the king’s friend, pushed past Philokles. The shop was growing crowded with Sakje nobles — almost every man and woman from the council. Parshtaevalt growled a greeting and Dikarxes replied at length. Ataelus translated. ‘Trust you to find out all our secrets! Our own Athenian goldsmith!’ Parshtaevalt slapped his back.

Dikarxes spoke again, and Ataelus said, ‘Of course the king for pay. He for show favour you. He ask everyone what gift to give. What better gift than sword?’

Dikarxes interrupted to introduce the other nobles. ‘Kaliax of the Standing Horse,’ he said through Ataelus. And went on, ‘Gaomavant of the Patient Wolves. They are the most loyal — the core of the king’s army — with the Cruel Hands, of course.’ He grinned at Parshtaevalt. ‘It is a very good sign that they are already come in, with most of their strength.’

Kineas clasped hands with each in turn.

Gaomavant gave him a tight hug and spoke while slapping his back. Ataelus choked, and Eumenes translated, his face red as a flame. ‘He says — you are the one that Srayanka fancies. It is good you are so tough, or she will swallow you.’

Dikarxes said a few words, and the others roared, and again Gaomavant slapped his back.

Ataelus wiped his eyes. ‘Lord Dikarxes say — good for everyone if she mate you — you Greek, and no clan suffer from the alliance. If Cruel Hands join Patient Wolves, blood on the grass — yes? Cruel Hands mate with king — king too powerful. But Cruel Hands-’

‘Cruel Hands?’ Kineas asked. ‘Is that Srayanka’s clan?’

Ataelus nodded. ‘And lady’s war name, too. Cruel Hands.’

Philokles patted his shoulder. ‘Nice name. Perfect little Greek wife.’

Kineas made himself laugh, but for the rest of the afternoon he heard Ataelus’s voice in his head — Cruel Hands mate with king.

Kineas tried to avoid Kam Baqca because the woman scared him. She was the personification of the dreams that troubled him, and in her presence, the dreams of the tree and the plain seemed more imminent — almost real. But on his fifth day in the city of the Sakje, Kam Baqca found him in the great hall and seized his arm in hers — strong as an iron blade — and walked him to a curtained alcove like a tent. She threw a handful of seeds on a brazier and a cloud of heavy smoke rose around them. The smoke smelled like cut grass. It made him cough.

‘You dreamed the tree,’ she said.

He nodded.

‘You dreamed the tree twice. You touched the tree, and you are paying the price. But you waited for me to climb it, so you are not altogether a fool.’

Kineas bit his lips. There was a drug in the incense — he could feel it. ‘I am a Greek man,’ he said. ‘Your tree is not for me.’

She seemed to move in the smoke like a snake, coiling, flowing easily from one place to another. ‘You are a baqca born,’ she said. ‘You dream like a baqca. Are you ready for the tree? I must take you now, while I have you. Soon you will be gone, and the maw of war will devour you. It is a war I will not survive — and then there will be no one to take you to the tree. And without the tree, you will neither survive, nor win the lady.’ She was telling him too many things too fast.

‘You will die?’

She was beside him. ‘Listen to me.’ She held his arm in a grip of iron. ‘Listen. The first thing the tree shows you is the moment of your death. Are you ready for that?’

Kineas wasn’t ready for any of it. ‘I am a Greek man,’ he said again, although it sounded like a poor excuse. Especially as the tree itself was growing before his eyes, rising from the smoke-dense tent, straight out of the charcoal of the brazier, its heavy branches just over his head and rising into the heavens above him.

‘Take a branch and climb,’ she said.

He reached up and took the first soft-backed branch over his head, threw a leg over it clumsily and pulled himself up. His arms were as full of the drug as his head. He found that he had closed his eyes and he opened them.

He was sitting on a horse in the middle of a river — a shallow river, with rocks under his horse’s feet and pink water flowing over and around the rocks. The ford — it was a ford — was full of bodies. Men and horses, all dead, and the white water burbling over the rocks was stained with blood, the froth of the water pink in the sun.

The river was vast. Not Issus, then, some part of his mind said. He lifted his head and saw the far bank, and he rode towards it. There were other men behind him, all around him, and they were singing. He was astride a strange horse, tall and dark, and he felt the weight of strange armour.

He felt the power of a god.

He knew that feeling — the feeling of a battle won.

He gestured, and his cavalry gathered speed, crossing the ford faster. On the far bank a thin line of archers began to form and fire, but behind them was the chaos of defeat and rout — a whole army breaking into fragments.

A Macedonian army.

A half-stade from the archers, he raised his hands, his gold-hilted sword of Egyptian steel like a rainbow of death in his hand. He half turned to Niceas — it wasn’t Niceas, but a woman — the woman raised the trumpet to her lips, and the call rang like a clarion, and they charged.

The day was won. It was his last thought as the arrow knocked him from the saddle into the water. He was deep in the water, and he had been here before, and he pushed himself to his feet, but the arrow dragged him down.

He sat — alive — astride a branch of the tree, and it was as soft as a woman’s leg against his groin.

Kam Baqca spoke. ‘You have seen your death?’

Kineas was lying flat, holding someone’s hand, his death scream still raw in his throat. ‘Yes,’ he whispered.

He opened his eyes and found that he was holding Kam Baqca’s hand. Not a bad death, he thought.

Niceas had not been beside him when he fell. Had Philokles been there? Hard to tell in the chaos of a few seconds — all the men at his back had worn closed helmets, and most had been in coats of scale — Sakje armour, in fact.

Kam Baqca spoke again. ‘Do not dare to interpret what you have seen. You may be sure of what it means and you can still be surprised. You have begun to climb the tree — I have climbed it all my life. I gave my sex to the gods to help me climb faster. You do not even believe in the climb. Beware of hubris.’

‘What?’ He coughed, as if he still had water in his lungs. His mind was clear, but his body was sluggish.

‘There are no rules for Greeks,’ she replied. ‘But I think you will find it unwise to speak of it — especially in a few weeks, when you decide that I am a bent she-man who uses drugs to manipulate.’ She shrugged. ‘Perhaps I wrong you. You and Philokles — I have never met, nor seen in any dream, Greek men more open to new things.’

Kam Baqca rose on her haunches and threw another herb on the fire — this one redolent of pine. ‘That will clear your head and take death from your spirit,’ she said. She stood. ‘It is a week for hard news, Kineas the Athenian. Here is mine for you. You watch Srayanka like the stallion watches the mare. I tell you, and I speak for the king — we will not allow stallions and mares to serve in the same company, because they disturb all the horses. So with you. You will not mate until this war is over. Already Srayanka thinks more of you than of her duty. Already you fear to offend her rather than offering the king your best council.’ She put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Who cannot see that you are for each other, although you share no tongue? But not yet, and not now.’

Kineas spoke, and he couldn’t hide the anguish in his voice. ‘She hasn’t spoken to me in a week!’

‘Has she not?’ Kam Baqca seemed unperturbed by his tone. ‘You are blind, deaf, and stupid, then.’ She gave him a small smile. ‘When you grow less stupid, I ask that you have a care.’

‘It’s a care I would like to have,’ Kineas said.

Kam Baqca reached out and touched his cheek. ‘Everything — everything — is balanced in the blade of a sharp sword. One word, one act, and the balance tilts.’

Kineas thought less of the balance than of the fact that he was doomed to die — and soon.