The Blood Star (62 page)

“This is the hardest time, when everything is
still to come. It is worse for you than for me.”

“Are you then not afraid?”

“Yes, I am afraid. But I know that when the
moment comes my fear will desert me.”

In the darkness, as we lay together on our
sleeping mat, Selana pressed her hands against my chest, as if to
assure herself that I had not vanished. The house was quiet around
us. There was not even an oil lamp burning in our room. Tomorrow I
would become once more the Tyrant of Naxos, leading an untried army
into the mountains to test the will of the gods. But for what was
left of that last night, I was only hers.

I felt her lips against my throat and heard
her weep.

“It is terrible,” she whispered through her
tears.

“Yes, it is terrible. But it is the same for
everyone. In every Greek household tonight, a man lies in his
woman’s arms. It is no different for them. It has always been just
so, whenever men have had to go away to fight.”

“That makes it no less terrible.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“If you let yourself be killed, I will not
forgive you.”

“I will not forgive myself.”

“How am I to stand this?”

“You will find a way.”

And at last, even as the black night moved
across the sky, we found sleep, and forgetfulness.

XXVII

Moving single-file over the switchback trails
that wind through marshy valleys from one chain of mountains to
another, hampered by the persistent, haunting threat of ambush,
even an army of only a hundred men travels as slowly as a wounded
snake. We were five days reaching the flatlands watered by the
Salito River—a man alone, with no enemy patrols counting his steps,
might have covered the same terrain in less than three.

Yet at last we found ourselves able to look
back on the western slope of Mount Aetna. We had reached the
interior of the island, and so far the brigands who were supposed
to control this whole region had not thought to attack us. I
wondered why.

And then, when we reached the Salito Plain, I
understood. It was level country, where men on horseback would feel
themselves to hold the advantage. In the mountains they could only
harass us, wear us down and perhaps make us lose heart and turn
back. But a series of inconclusive skirmishes was not what they
hoped for. They wanted to settle this quarrel forever. They wanted
a pitched battle. They wanted to catch us in the open and destroy
us.

Thus as soon as we descended from the
mountains, while we still had those walls of sheer and ragged rock
at our backs, I gave orders that an encampment be laid out and
earthworks dug to protect our exposed flanks.

“The men are tired, Tiglath. They need a
night’s rest before they will be ready for such a task.”

“Is this such a fair place that you would
care to lie here forever? They will likely rest a good deal longer
than just one night if the brigands choose to strike before
dawn.”

Thus, with much grumbling, the thing was
done. Great fires were lit that the men might see to work and
trenches were dug thirty paces long on each side, the earthworks
behind bristling with sharpened stakes. By morning it was possible
for at least some of us to sleep in safety.

“Now we are at liberty to look about us and
decide what to do. Their plans are clear enough—it is time we made
a few of our own.”

With the first gray light of dawn I left
Epeios in command and borrowed his horse to scout the surrounding
area alone.

“Keep them at the work,” I told him. “And I
will try to bring your precious gelding back still fit to pull a
cart.”

“Be sure you bring yourself back. Just try to
remember, Tiglath, we will be in a fine mess here if anything
should happen to you.”

“I promise to remember.”

As I rode away from the encampment, I could
not but experience a certain sense of escape, as if I had broken
the tether that held me back. I hadn’t realized how much I needed
to be alone for a time. I gave the horse its head to gallop off in
whatever direction it chose.

Although it did not look as if a plow had
ever broken the earth here, this was rich country. The sun-yellowed
grass reached as high as a man’s knees, and clumps of trees here
and there indicated the presence of water if a man would only take
the trouble to dig for it. The Sicels appeared to understand almost
nothing of irrigation, for otherwise they would be a rich people
instead of a nation of beggars and these plains would be waist-deep
in grain.

I was aware, of course, that I was being
watched. Two riders followed at a discreet distance but made no
move to approach or challenge me. I had expected something of the
sort, nor did it alarm me particularly, since our arrival was not a
secret—the brigands could hardly be expected to ignore the presence
of a force like ours, and the movements of our scouts would be of
interest to them.

The Salito river, from which the region took
its name, was not more than an hour’s march from our encampment. It
was swift flowing and wide enough to constitute a formidable
barrier, yet I found two or three places where foot soldiers could
cross safely.

It divided the plain into north and south,
and the other side, I gathered, was less sparsely populated—I could
see thin trails of smoke on the northern horizon, probably from
cooking fires, and, once I had gained the opposite bank, even a few
huts made of rough-hewn stone and hardly big enough for a man to
stand up in.

I rode into the farmyard of one of these and
came upon an old man in the process of feeding his geese. He was
remarkably surprised to see me—or perhaps only frightened—and
stared openmouthed, as if I had come wrapped in a mantle of fire
like one of the deathless gods.

“Good morning to you,” I said, without
dismounting from my horse. My Sicel was in those days awkward at
best, so while I waited through his long silence for some reply I
wondered if perhaps he hadn’t understood me at all.

“Is Your Honor one of the Lord Collatinus’
men?” he finally inquired. “My woman is old, dried up with years,
and we have hardly enough to feed us. There is nothing here anyone
would want, yet if Your Honor will show us mercy I will kill one of
my geese and cook it in milk for you to breakfast on.”

“I want nothing from you, my friend. I mean
you no harm. I am Tiglath the Greek, and I owe service to no one.
Who is the Lord Collatinus?”

“You say you are a Greek?” The old man clawed
at his beard with blackened fingernails—he seemed to be trying to
remember if he had ever heard what a Greek might be. “The great
lord’s horsemen raid across the mountains, where it is said
strangers dwell. Are you from across the mountains?”

“Yes,” I answered, glimpsing a possibility.
“I have come with a mighty army of my neighbors. We are here to
take revenge for the murders of our children and the plundering of
our farms and women.”

“The great lord has weapons of bronze, and
many horses. He is powerful and cruel. He is without pity, and if
any speak against him he burns their crops in the fields and
crucifies them on the very doors of their houses, taking their
women as slaves.”

All the while he spoke he seemed to be
assessing me, measuring my chances of success against this
Collatinus who filled him with such terror. From time to time he
would glance toward the horizon, for doubtless he too had seen the
riders watching from a distance—a distance that now appeared to
shorten every minute.

“A man who is wise enough to stay alive does
not challenge those who are stronger than himself,” he went on, his
eyes on the spiral of dust that was coming ever closer. “He is
prudent, and keeps his nose pressed against the earth. Or, if he
has a horse, as none here do except the great lord’s men, he runs
away.”

“I thank you for your timely warning, my
friend, but sometimes a man is wiser still when he stands and
fights.”

I reined my horse about and drew a javelin
from the quiver I was carrying slung behind my back. The two riders
who had been following me all morning were now no more than a
hundred or so paces away and closing at a trot.

Why had they chosen this moment to confront
me, I will never know. Perhaps merely to give the old man a lesson.
There are those who must forever be displaying their might, afraid
that any restraint will be seen as weakness. These two were so sure
of themselves, I almost could have found it in me to pity them.

I prodded Epeios’ horse to a canter and then
to a full gallop, not allowing myself to wonder what this gelding
was made of, if he would stand the shock of battle. With my javelin
couched under my arm like a lance, I bore down on the two riders,
making straight for the man in the lead.

It was not what they had expected. For an
instant they drew to a complete stop and then, when they saw what I
intended, the man in the lead tried to rein his horse to the side,
out of my way, while the other drew his sword. But they had already
waited too long.

This style of combat I had first seen among
the Medes, against whom I made war in my father’s name. Their
leader, the brave and noble Daiaukka, a man possessed of every
excellence and whom it was an honor to have killed, almost stripped
me of my life fighting with a lance from the back of a horse, and
on that day I had learned from him that momentum was everything.
Thus these Sicel brigands were already food for the dogs.

Epeios’ horse was no plow beast—gelding that
he was, he had a stallion’s heart. He did not shy or falter, but
stretched out his neck and burned the earth with his furious
charge.

The first man’s horse panicked, trying at
once to escape a collision and to buck off its now unwelcome
master—it succeeded at the first, if only by the space of a few
fingers, but it was I who tore the rider from its back, my point
catching him just below the rib cage so that he fell to the ground
with his guts spilling out onto the dust.

The second man, his sword in his hand, could
not seem to decide between flight and attack, so I decided for him.
I drew my own sword and went for him.

Our horses slammed together, shoulder to
shoulder, and my sword caught the edge of his. We stumbled apart,
both of us still on our mounts, still within reach of each other’s
swords.

I never fancied myself as more than just
adequate with a sword. In the house of war, where I learned the
soldier’s trade, there were many who excelled me with that weapon,
and I never improved upon the skills I learned there.

This poor fool, however, cut and sawed as if
he thought we did battle with kitchen knives. At only his third or
fourth thrust he overreached himself so badly that I was able to
grab him by the sleeve with my free hand and pull him straight off
his seat—he fell into my point, which buried itself in his heart,
and he was dead before he touched the ground.

The fighting done, I collected the two horses
and slung the corpses of their riders over their backs, tying them
down with the reins. A slap on the rump with the flat of my hand
sent each in turn galloping off over the level landscape. After a
time they would find their way back to their own stables, and
Collatinus, this king of brigands, seeing their burdens, would be
free to draw what conclusions he wished.

I rode back to the old man, who waited on the
same spot where I had left him, except that now his wife had joined
him and was standing by his side.

“What will you do, Your Honor, if you kill
the great lord?” he asked. “Will you rule here in his place?”

I shook my head.

“Rulers are a burden to all men,” I said,
“and there is nothing here I want. I will take the Lord Collatinus’
head and carry it home to mount on a stake. I will leave his body
for the crows to feast on.”

“And his riders, with their bronze
weapons?”

“I will scatter them to the winds like chaff.
I will make of them an example, that others will not be tempted to
plunder their neighbors.”

The man glanced at his wife, who answered him
with a nod. Then he turned back to me.

“Your Honor, these men, or ones like them,
murdered our only son before his parents’ eyes—not for any offense
of his, but only for their own cruel sport. I am but a farmer,
defenseless and old, and to seek revenge against such as these was
merely to embrace death, yet I am not so meager in spirit as not to
know a father’s grief, and his shame. The grief I will feel while
there is breath under my ribs, but today, perhaps, I may wipe out
some small measure of the shame. My name is Maelius, Your Honor,
and I am old and poor and good for little. Yet tell me, if you
will, what gift or tribute might a humble man like myself offer to
one such as you?”

“The gift of his counsel,” I answered. “And
the tribute of his blessing.”

For half an hour, while his wife prepared us
breakfast, I squatted with Maelius in the doorway of his hut, and
he told me much of this man Collatinus, who some five years before
had sprung up as if from the earth, attracting to himself every
cutthroat and malcontent in the region until he seemed to transcend
his position as a leader of thieves and murderers to rule on the
Salito Plain like a king in his own right. He was by reputation
clever, brave, and utterly without scruple or feeling—one might say
that he had all the virtues of a great prince and thus was
necessarily among the worst of men.

Maelius had never heard of the Lord Ducerius,
but he did know that Collatinus occasionally sent payments of
treasure “to some great king in the east,” who could have been no
one else. I had no trouble understanding how such an arrangement
would be convenient for both men, since Ducerius commanded a vastly
superior force but could not have moved against the brigands
without leaving himself dangerously exposed at home. Thus he was
content to collect tribute and claim nominal sovereignty while
suffering Collatinus to enjoy unmolested the fruits of his
thievery.