Tyrant (28 page)

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Authors: Christian Cameron

BOOK: Tyrant
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‘I made a campaign with the men of Molyvos against Mytilene. It was my first, for all my training.’
 
‘Why did you leave?’
 
Philokles looked into the fire. ‘Many reasons,’ he began, and there was a stir at the door cloth.
 
Lady Srayanka entered alone and without fuss, sweeping the door aside and closing it with a single sweep of her arm. Having entered, she walked around the fire, brushed her long doeskin coat under her knees and sat in one fluid motion. She flashed a brief smile at Philokles. ‘Greetings, Greek men. May the gods look favourably upon you.’
 
It was delivered so well, so fluently, that only later did Kineas realize it was a practised phrase learned off by heart.
 
Philokles nodded gravely, as if to a Greek matron in a well-ordered house. ‘Greetings, Despoina.’
 
Kineas couldn’t help but smile. The head was the same, although the face was less severe. Still the same clear blue eyes and her ludicrous, heavy brows that nearly met in the middle of her face. He was being rude, staring into her eyes - and she was looking back at him. The corner of her mouth curled.
 
‘Greetings, lady,’ he said. It didn’t sound as stumbling as he had feared.
 
‘I desire - to send - for Ataelax. Yes?’ Her voice was low, but very much a woman’s.
 
‘Ataelax?’ asked Kineas.
 
‘Ataelus. His name as it is said here, I gather,’ Philokles explained as he opened the flap and called.
 
Ataelus came in so quickly it was obvious he had been waiting nearby. The moment he entered, something changed. Until then, her eyes were mostly on Kineas. Once he was through the flap, they were everywhere else.
 
‘For speaking,’ he said.
 
Kineas decided that he would pay some teacher in Olbia to improve on the cases of the Scyth’s nouns as soon as possible.
 
Lady Srayanka spoke softly and at length. Ataelus waited until she was completely finished and then asked her several questions, then she asked him a question. Finally, he turned to Kineas. ‘She says many fine things for you, you birth, and how to say? Hearting? Brave. She say you kill a very big man Getae. Man kill her - for special friend, and for dear man. Yes? And other thing. For other thing, all good. Then this - sorry she take tax on plain for her, from us. Make trouble with stone houses; make trouble for horse people Sakje. She say, “You never say Olbia!” and I say, “You never ask!” but truth for truth, you never tell me, or maybe I for understand. Or not. Yes?’
 
Philokles leaned over. ‘I’ve heard this before, Kineas. This Getae you killed - he had killed someone important to her. Not a relative. Not a husband. A lover? I don’t think we’ll get to know.’
 
Kineas nodded. Praise was praise when you valued the giver. ‘Tell her I am sorry for the loss of her friend.’
 
Ataelus nodded and spoke to the lady, who nodded too. She spoke, tugging one of her heavy black braids. ‘She say, “I cut these for loss.” So not now, but long ago, I think.’
 
She went on, gesturing with her hands. She was wearing a different coat and her golden breastplate was not in evidence, but this coat was also decorated in dark blue lines, abstract patterns from the middle of the sleeve to her wrist, and it had the same cones of gold foil wrapped around hair that tinkled and whispered as she moved.
 
‘Now she say other thing. She say you
airyanãm
. Yes? You know this word?’
 
Kineas nodded, flattered. The Persian word for aristocrat, old noble, and also for good behaviour. ‘I know it.’
 
‘So she say, you this airyanãm, you big man for Olbia. She say, Macedon walks here. She say, Macedon kill father, brother. I say this - big battle, ten turns of the moon. Years. Ten years. Yes? In the summer. Sakje fight Macedon. Many kill, many die, no win. But king, he killed. Me, far away on the plains, care nothing for this king, nothing for Macedon, but I hear this, too. Big battle. Big. Yes? So - so. Her father this king, So I say, not she - she big woman, big she, like I think first time. Yes?’
 
Philokles glanced at her and said, ‘You think her father was the king who died fighting Macedon? In a big battle ten years back. You weren’t there, but you heard a lot about it. And you think she is very important?’
 
‘Good for you,’ said Ataelus. ‘For me, she big. Yes? And she say, Macedon walks. She say, hands of hands of hands of men walk for Macedon, like grass, like water in river. She say, new king good man, but not fight. Or maybe fight. But if Olbia fight, king fight. Otherwise, not. King go off into plains, Macedon walks to Olbia.’
 
Kineas nodded that he understood what had been said. He was sitting up, watching her. She ignored his regard, concentrating on Ataelus. Now, she was passionate, her hands flashing in front of her as if she urged on a horse by pumping the reins. She was loud.
 
Ataelus continued. ‘She say, you big man for Olbia, you man airyanãm, you make for her.’ Although Ataelus was just starting to translate her most impassioned speech, she was finished, and she sank back with her head against the tent’s central pole, her face turned up to the smoke hole, her heavy lashes covering her eyes - as if she couldn’t bear to watch the result of her words. Kineas realized that he was watching her so intently he was missing the translation of her speech.
 
‘You go, bring Olbia, make Olbia fight. War down Macedon. Make Sakje great, make Olbia great, break Macedon, everybody free. She say more - all word talk. And Kineax - she like you. That she not say, yes? I say it. Little childrens ouside yurt say it. Yes? Everybody say it. King poke her with it. So you knowing this, I say it.’ Ataelus was smiling, but he had forgotten that the lady spoke some Greek. Like an arrow from a bow, she rose to her feet, glared at him, struck him with her riding whip - a substantial blow that knocked him flat - and vanished through the door flap.
 
‘Uh oh,’ said Ataelus. He got to his feet unsteadily, holding his shoulder. Then he pushed through the flap and called out. A steady stream of obvious invective greeted him. It was quite loud, fluent, and went on for long enough that Kineas and Philokles exchanged glances.
 
Kineas winced. ‘Very like a Persian. I think she just said that he could eat shit. And die.’
 
Philokles poured himself wine. ‘I’m happy that your romance is flourishing, but I need your brain. You understand her words about Macedon?’
 
Kineas was still listening to her. She was running down, using words that he didn’t know. They all seemed to end in -
ax
. ‘Macedon? Yes, Philokles. Yes, I was listening. Macedon is coming. Listen, Philokles - I’ve made seven campaigns. I’ve been in two great battles. I know what Macedon brings. Listen to me. If Antipater comes here, he’ll have two or three
Taxies
of foot - half as many as Alexander has in Asia. He’ll have as many Thracians as he can pay and two thousand
Heterae
, the best cavalry in the world; he’ll have Thessalians and Greeks and artillery. Even if he only sends a tithe of his strength, these noble savages and our city hoplites wouldn’t last an hour.’
 
Philokles looked at his wine cup and then held it up. It was solid gold. ‘You’ve been sick a week. I’ve been talking to people. Mostly to Kam Baqca. She is their closest approach to a philosopher.’
 
‘The witch doctor?’ Kineas said with a smile. ‘She scared me last night.’
 
‘She is a great deal more than a witch doctor. In fact, she is so great that her presence here is probably more important than the king’s. She speaks some Greek but - for her own reasons - seldom uses it. I wish I spoke this language - everything I think I know comes through the sieve of other men’s thoughts. Kam Baqca scares Ataelus so badly he can barely keep his thoughts in order to translate for me.’
 
Kineas was losing hope that Srayanka would come back. ‘Why? I admit she has tremendous presence—’
 
‘Have you ever gone to Delphi?’ Philokles interrupted. ‘No? The priestesses of Apollo are like her. She combines in herself two sacred functions. She is
Enareis
- you remember your Herodotus? She has sacrificed her manhood to function as a seer. And she is Baqca - the most powerful baqca anyone can remember, according to Ataelus.’
 
Kineas tried to remember what had been said in her tent. ‘What is baqca?’
 
‘I have no idea - Ataelus keeps telling me things, and Lady Srayanka - they speak of her with reverence, but they don’t speak of baqca in detail. It is a barbarian concept.’ Philokles shook his head. ‘I’m losing my thread in a maze of details. Kineas, there are thousands of these people. Tens of thousands.’
 
‘And their king is wandering around with a witch doctor and a handful of retainers, looking for support from a little town on the Euxine? Tell me another one.’
 
Philokles tossed off the rest of his wine. ‘You’re pissing me off. They are barbarians, Kineas. I don’t understand the role of their king, but he’s neither figurehead nor Asian tyrant. The best I’ve been able to understand, he’s only king when there is something “kingly” to do. Otherwise, he’s a major chief ruling his tribe - and this is only a fraction of his tribe. His escort, if you like.’
 
Kineas lay back. ‘Tell me all this in the morning. I’m better. In the morning, I intend to see if I can ride.’
 
‘And Srayanka wants it,’ said Philokles. He smiled nastily. ‘Whichever head you want to think with, I have an argument.’
 
As soon as it was known that Kineas was up and dressed, he was summoned to meet the king. He was prepared, dressed in his best tunic and sandals. He left his armour off, as he was still too weak to bear the weight for any time. Outside the tent his escort waited, his eight men from Olbia in their cloaks and armour, looking like statues. They faced together like professionals and marched him to the king’s yurt, flanked by a crowd of curious Sakje. Dogs barked, children pointed, and they crossed a few yards of muddy snow. The king’s yurt was by far the largest and the entrance had two layers of doors that had to be thrown back by his escort.
 
Inside, it was so warm that he shed his cloak as soon as dignity permitted. A dozen Sakje sat in a semicircle around the fire. They sat crosss-legged on the ground, chatting easily and as Kineas entered the yurt, they all rose to their feet. In the centre of them stood a boy, or perhaps a very young man with heavy blond hair and a short blond beard. His position marked him as the king, but for the splendour of dress and the quantity of gold, any one of the dozen Sakje might have been royal.
 
Srayanka stood at his right hand. Her face was closed and cold and her glance flicked over him, rested briefly on Philokles, and returned to the king next to her.
 
Kam Baqca stood behind the king, dressed simply in a long coat of white, with her hair coiled atop her head. She inclined her head in greeting.
 
The king smiled. ‘Welcome, Kineas. I am Satrax, king of the Assagatje. Please sit, and let us serve you.’ At his words, all of the people in the tent sat together and Kineas tried, and failed, to match their grace. Philokles and Eumenes had entered with him and sat on either side by prior arrangement, and Ataelus sat a little to his right in a sort of no-man’s-land between the groups.
 
Kineas spoke once he had settled. ‘I thank you for your welcome, O King. Your hospitality has been gracious. Indeed, I was sick and your doctor healed me.’ He watched the king carefully. The boy was younger than Alexander had been when they crossed the Hellespont, his face still soft and unmarked with harsh experience. His wide eyes spoke well of his good nature, and his gestures had a fledgling dignity. Kineas liked what he saw.
 
Greek wine was brought in deep vases and poured into a huge bowl of solid gold. The king dipped cups of wine in the bowl and handed them to his guests, blessing each one. When he filled Kineas’s cup, he carried it to where Kineas sat.
 
Kineas rose, unsure of the protocol and unused to be being waited on by any but slaves.
 
The king pressed him back down. ‘The blessings of the nine gods of the heavens attend you, Kineas,’ he said in Greek. He had an accent, but his Greek was pure, if Ionic.
 
Kineas took his cup and drank, as he had seen others do. It was unwatered, pure Chian straight from the vase. He swallowed carefully and a small fire was lit in his stomach.
 
When the king was seated with a cup in his own hand, he poured a libation and spoke a prayer. Then he leaned forward.
 
‘To business,’ he said. He was aggressive, in the half-timorous way of the young. ‘Will Olbia fight against Macedon, or submit?’
 
Kineas was astonished at the speed with which the king moved to the issue at hand. He had made the mistake of finding similarities between the Sakje and the Persians and had therefore expected ceremony and lengthy conversation about trivialities. No answer came to him.

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