Four hours they walked the ridges, and never saw an enemy except in the valley below, and Temerix grunted every time he saw a devastated farmstead. And while they never saw an enemy, Temerix’s men found dozens of farmfolk, Sindi and Maeotae, living in small caves or dirt hollows where they’d fled the depredations of the enemy.
Melitta wanted to weep at every group of them. They reached out to touch her, and she smiled for them instead, and told them that it would be all right.
And then they moved on – closer and closer to the enemy camp. By afternoon, the camp was visible, just a few stades from her mother’s city on the bluff. They were camped at the foot of her father’s kurgan, in a big rectangle of earth and wood stakes.
She lay with the Sindi smith, on earth still wet enough to soak through her clothes and armour, and watched the gates of the camp. There were two, and both were guarded. Parties of the enemy were coming down both roads to get in their camp as quickly as possible.
Temerix nodded. ‘Now we fight,’ he said.
Unlike her other chiefs, he didn’t ask her permission. He spoke in Sindi, and men jumped to do his bidding. He turned to her. ‘Go to kill Greeks,’ he said. ‘You?’
She got to her feet, adjusted her gorytos and her akinakes, and nodded. ‘Me too,’ she said.
Temerix’s eyes flicked over to Scopasis and back to her. ‘Loose five arrows and run,’ he said. ‘Understand?’
Scopasis nodded.
Melitta nodded. It was not her first ambush, but Temerix had no way of knowing that.
‘I shoot first arrow,’ Temerix said. And then he was off, running down the hillside.
The Sindi were fast on rough ground – as fast as horsemen, or even faster, at least for short bursts. And their progress was eerie – almost inhuman, as she had to watch them carefully not to lose them in the scrub and tree cover of the hillside. Their ragged cloaks and dun colours vanished against the valley’s spring green.
The soldiers on the road were too fixated on the horsemen behind them. They were well formed, and they held together, but they had no flank guards and no advance party – just sixty men under a senior file-leader, moving at a jog back along the road, with another twenty light-armed men – peltastai, probably rowers from the fleet, armed only with javelins and knives.
Temerix had chosen to catch them on the same stretch of road where Melitta had had her first taste of combat, all those years before. Where her brother had saved Coenus. Where Theron had proven to be a friend. It seemed odd, to be fighting on the same ground again, as if her life was going around some sort of loop.
She put herself behind an oak so big that she and Scopasis wouldn’t have been able to encircle it with their arms. She could hear the Greeks on the road.
‘Give me a hand up,’ she said quietly.
Scopasis frowned, but then he made a stirrup and she stepped up into his hands, on to his shoulder and up into the tree’s first big joint. Her guess was that the Greeks saw nothing but the mounted Sakje pursuing them.
She got into the joint, scraping her knee and cursing the weight of her armour, which made everything harder and served no purpose in this kind of war. Then her bow was in her hand and she had an arrow on the bow and her whole focus was on the Greeks coming down the road. They were trotting, and their officer had a big plume.
‘Not far, boys,’ he shouted, in Macedonian-accented Greek. ‘Two stades. Keep it together.’
The file-closers nearest to Melitta were middle-aged men with hard faces and grey in their beards, but the middle-rankers were children wearing helmets that were far too big for them, padded in sheepskin that showed around the edges of their high-peaked helms. Of course, they were the same age as her spear-maidens and their brothers.
Armies of children, killing each other so that adults can wield power, she thought.
Temerix’s first arrow screamed as it flew, and it took the officer high on his unarmoured thigh. He went down in a clatter of bronze. Before his men could react, two dozen shafts flew, buzzing like wasps aroused by foolish children, and men fell.
Melitta shot a file-closer in the neck and felt a burst of pleasure at the fine shot.
Another file-leader waved his sword. ‘At ’em, lads!’ he shouted, and died, several arrows in him. But another leader got them moving, and they rushed down the road at the ambush. Now their shields were facing the right way and the next volley of arrows from the ambushers had little effect.
Melitta shot twice and had no idea whether her arrows were going home. She had the third arrow drawn, her right thumb just brushing the outward edge of her lip as her mother had taught her, when she realized that Scopasis was fighting hand-to-hand at her feet. She leaned out and shot down at a boy in leather armour. Her shaft glanced off his Thracian helmet to bury itself in his foot, and he yelled.
Scopasis was fighting with a long-handled cavalry axe, the kind that the Greeks called a sagaris, and as soon as he saw the boy stumble, he cut at him, and the axe collapsed the dome of his helmet.
Melitta drew again. This time the Greeks were looking up and had their shields ready – but they couldn’t watch her and Scopasis at the same time. There were three more of them, and the biggest one had a long sword.
‘On my count, boys,’ he said. ‘One – arrggh!’ He fell as if the axe had taken him, an arrow in his back.
The other two broke. Melitta shot one, low in the back, so that he fell and kicked and screamed. The other tripped and fell on a root, and Scopasis killed him while he cowered and begged.
Melitta looked up and down the road. There were Greeks still alive – they were running at full speed for their fort.
‘Jump,’ Scopasis said. ‘I’ll catch you.’
Melitta dropped her bow into its scabbard and jumped.
He caught her with an audible grunt, and he sank to one knee with the effort, but he did catch her. The scales of her thorax caught in the scales of his for a moment, and their faces were close.
‘T hank you,’ she said, far more stiffly than she had meant. Scopasis had clear green eyes, like the glass the Aegyptians made. She hadn’t noticed that before. Then she was out of his arms and moving.
Heartbeats later, and Temerix’s horn was sounding on the ridge. She and Scopasis were the last ambushers to rejoin the smith, where he sat on a stump, sharpening his axe.
‘Why do we run, when the enemy is beaten?’ she asked.
Temerix shrugged. ‘Because I say,’ he answered with a grim smile. Then he shook his head. ‘Kill – run. Always. Sometimes enemy runs too. But sometime, someday, enemy has ambush of his own – yes? Sure. My men live and not die. Yes?’ He looked around and spoke in Sindi, and the men nodded and laughed. ‘You fight well, and you obey,’ Temerix said. ‘Queen of Assagatje obey a Sindi.’ He nodded. ‘It is good.’ He spoke again, the men around her laughed, and the nearest, a small man with tattoos around his eyes, slapped her on the back.
On the way back, they collected their refugees and sent them to strip the dead in the valley. In camp, Urvara was beside herself with worry when she saw Melitta, and she was visibly reining in her temper.
‘I had to,’ Melitta said.
Temerix slapped her back and headed off with his own. Urvara watched him go, and then kissed her brow. ‘I guess you did, at that,’ she said in Sakje. ‘You know that if you die, this comes to an end.’
‘No,’ Melitta said. ‘No, Auntie. I have a brother, and a son. If I die, they’ll ride the horse.’
The next morning, it rained – cold rain that seemed like a last touch of winter’s icy fingers. She sat in the cold rain with Coenus on the same low ridge where Temerix had rallied them the day before, oppos ite the enemy camp. The enemy ships were drawn up on the muddy beach – twenty triremes and forty more small merchant ships and big fishing smacks, all capable of carrying forty or fifty men.
Coenus peered at them under his hand in the rising sun. ‘Nikephoros,’ he said. ‘Good officer. Look at the camp – and the sentries.�
��
‘You know him?’ Melitta asked.
‘Don’t spend your life on the stage without getting to know the chorus,’ Coenus said. ‘There he is!’ He pointed to the line of ships.
Melitta had no idea what her captain was pointing at. Coenus’s eyes had always been godlike. ‘Will he fight?’ she asked.
Coenus saw her puzzlement. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Whatever he came for, he’s too smart to fight. He made a grab at the fort, destroyed some farms, got his fingers burned and now he’s re-embarking.’
‘He built that fortified camp and now he’ll just leave it?’ she asked.
‘That’s right, honey bee,’ Coenus said. He rubbed his beard and then snuffled. He had a cold. Most of them did. Spring had come and the ground was drying, but the nights were still damp and cold. ‘I would. Camps are easy to build. He can’t afford losses. And if he lost a battle here – we’d kill every man in his force and burn his ships.’
Scopasis, normally silent, was moved to speak. ‘Send us, lady. We will storm his camp now.’
Gaweint seconded him. ‘Send us!’ he said.
Melitta looked at Coenus, expecting a rapid negation. Instead, the Megaran scratched his beard, and then pulled his helmet off and his wool cap and scratched his head more thoroughly. ‘Creatures of icy Tartarus,’ he cursed. ‘Lice. Lice are supposed to come with warm weather. Scopasis, you may have something – and I don’t mean more lice. Lady, how many dead can you tolerate?’
Melitta felt her stomach contract. ‘What are you saying?’
Coenus smiled grimly. ‘Did I mention how all my life I’ve refused command? This is it. Scopasis is right. They’ve just started to load.’ He crushed a bug between his nails. ‘Right now, if we go for them, we’ll wipe them out.’ He smeared the remains of the bug on his horse’s withers. ‘It’ll cost you a thousand warriors.’
‘Unacceptable,’ she said. Coenus’s tone horrified her.
‘It’d change the war,’ Coenus said. ‘In one blow, we cripple his fleet and get his best general and a third of his professional soldiers.’
Scopasis pulled his horse in front of her. ‘I would be proud to lead,’ he said. ‘I will die here.’
Gaweint threw his sword in the air. ‘Hah!’ he said, and caught it.
Urvara came up with her bodyguard and Parshtaevalt followed, dickering with Graethe over the price of a horse. They fell silent as they saw the enemy camp.
Melitta looked down at the enemy ships and the files of rowers going aboard, the men on the walls looking up the hill at the Sakje and over their shoulders, already nervous that they might be abandoned.
‘No,’ she said. ‘It is enough that they board their ships and sail away.’
‘Tomorrow, they will land a hundred stades from here. They will burn the Temple of Herakles, or kill your friend – that farmer up on the Hypanis. What’s his name? Gardan.’ Coenus shrugged. ‘Right now, we have them under our hands.’ Coenus pulled his wool arming cap back on to his head. ‘I don’t want to order it, either. But this is what war is. And if you order it, I will lead it.’
‘A thousand riders?’ Urvara asked. ‘Dead?’ She looked at Coenus. ‘This is some Greek madness. The people would never recover.’
‘And Upazan would still come,’ Parshtaevalt said. ‘But – oh, Coenus. It is a hard thing, but even if it is my clan that dies, I see the merit in your words.’
Coenus nodded. ‘Don’t mistake me, friends. I don’t want this battle. But mark my words – later in the summer we’ll face Nikephoros on ground of his own choosing, with Eumeles and all his mercenaries and Upazan guarding his flanks.’
Melitta was sure that her answer was the right one. ‘Friends,’ she said, and all their heads turned. ‘My friends, this is a battle I will never fight – a battle where I must expect a thousand empty saddles. Coenus – I understand. I am enough Greek that I understand, but I will find us another way.’
Coenus nodded. He tucked his helmet into the leather bag at his back and pulled out a Sakje fur hat. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘It would have been horrible.’
Scopasis shook his head. ‘Glorious,’ he spat. Gaweint looked as if he might cry.
Ataelus came up last, heard the end of the debate and slapped his former outlaw on the back. ‘Live a few more days,’ he said. ‘You may find that dying in battle is not the only joy.’
The Sindi and the Maeotae cheered like heroes as their queen rode up the bluff and entered the gates over the corpses of a dozen dead phalangites. Coenus congratulated the farmers on the spirit of their defence, and Ataelus already had two hundred riders across the river, riding the coast, trying to find out where the enemy fleet was heading.
‘Where is my brother?’ Melitta asked.
‘If he is alive, he is coming,’ Urvara said.
Coenus nodded.
But the enemy fleet sailed out into the bay, and Melitta suspected that perhaps an opportunity had sailed with it.
One boat returned, a pentekonter rowed by soldiers with a handsome older man in the stern. Melitta found Coenus overseeing the storage of yet more grain and pointed it out to him.
‘Nikephoros,’ he said. ‘Must want to bury his dead. He’s of the old school – quite an honourable man.’
‘How can he stomach his master, then?’ Melitta asked. She saw Nihmu – pale, thin and distraught. It took her a moment to realize that Nihmu was waiting on her – literally. Melitta had waited on Nihmu most of her adult life. It was odd to reverse the situation.
Coenus smiled at Nihmu and she looked elsewhere. He rolled his eyes. ‘Listen, honey bee. Your father was lucky. His employer was a monster – but Kineas rose above him. Not every professional soldier can do the same.’
Melitta continued to watch the fifty-oared boat approach. ‘Nihmu?’ she said softly.
‘Lady?’ Nihmu came closer. ‘Lady? I have come to crave a boon.’
Melitta tore her eyes from the approaching galley. ‘Nihmu, I think you’re being silly. I’m not the lady to you.’
Nihmu had tears in her eyes. ‘You are, lady. Listen – I wish to leave.’
Melitta started. ‘Leave?’ she asked. She glanced at Coenus – whose look of Laconic concern didn’t fool her for a moment. ‘Why are you leaving?’
Nihmu bit her lip. ‘I am going to rescue my husband,’ she said. ‘Coenus and I feel that it won’t be long before Eumeles executes him. He must be rescued.’
Melitta felt a void in her stomach as she realized that among all her busy plots and plans, Leon had vanished into obscurity. She looked at Coenus, who wiped sweat from his brow and shook his head. ‘Nihmu and I agreed that it must be her. If I go, you have no military counsel that you trust.’ His voice was flat, and she realized that he was making a sacrifice, and bearing it – rather the opposite of her first assumption.
‘You would rather rescue Leon?’ she asked.
Coenus nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘This morning reminded me of why I do not wish to command.’
Melitta nodded and began to walk down to the beach beneath her father’s kurgan. The pentekonter was coming ashore, and the first sailors to touch the beach had branches of olive in their hands. A herald came next. He wore green and walked up the beach to Coenus, and bowed. Coenus pointed to Melitta. The herald looked puzzled, but then he inclined his head.
In abysmal Sakje, he said, ‘Master of many horses Nikephoros look to ask to make not war with you.’ The man’s nerves were betrayed by the way he clutched his staff.
‘I speak Greek,’ she said.
‘Ah! My pardon, despoina. My strategos requests a truce during which he might bury his dead, or take their bodies.’ The herald waved his wand in the direction of the fort.
‘Let him approach me himself,’ Melitta said. ‘I see him standing in the stern. It is right that leaders should look each other in the eye.’
The herald turned and walked away. She saw him walk back the half-stade across the sand.
‘Build a fire,’ Melitta said.
‘Fetch wine.’
The herald went aboard, and she saw Nikephoros look her way and shrug. Then he leaped down into the cold water and trudged up the beach.
Coenus worked his magic. In moments, he had a driftwood fire going. Nihmu came to her side with a heavy amphora of wine cradled in her arms like a baby, and Urvara came down on horseback, dismounted and joined her. Temerix walked up on foot.
‘Parshtaevalt, Ataelus and Graethe are already out on the grass,’ Urvara said. ‘I gather that’s Nikephoros.’
Melitta nodded.
Nikephoros walked the half-stade towards them, apparently indifferent to his wet cloak and the icy wind. He came alone.
‘Please come and be warm,’ Melitta said. ‘There’s wine.’
‘I never refuse a cup of wine,’ Nikephoros said. ‘Hello, Coenus the Megaran. Your presence gave me hope that I could expect the courtesies of war.’
Melitta handed him a cup of wine. ‘Did you know my father?’
Nikephoros was Boeotian. He had copper-red hair – what was left of it – and fine armour. He wore a full beard like a man of a bygone era, and he didn’t waste words. ‘No. Or rather, only by repute.’ He poured a libation. ‘To all the gods, and to the shade of your father. In his name, I ask you for a truce of one day, in which to recover and bury my dead.’
Melitta nodded. ‘It is odd, Nikephoros. An hour ago, I was considering the storming of your camp. Now we drink wine. Yes – and no. You may have a five-day truce to recover your dead. There will be some by the outlying farms where we killed them yesterday.’
‘I need only a day,’ Nikephoros said.
‘Five days, during which your ships remain in the bay where I can see them.’ Melitta had to look up at him. He had a pleasant face, the kind of face she trusted. Too bad, she thought.
Tyrant: King of the Bosporus Page 32
