Lord of the Two Lands

by Judith Tarr

  Meriamon laughed. It was free enough, and the air seemed cleaner for it. “So you are. Well then. Would you love us if we had taken your empire, set it under our heel, given you leave to worship your gods—but worked our will with them first, so that you might know who was master?”

  “But,” said Barsine, “that is the way of the world, surely. For conqueror to become conquered, and for a new conqueror to rise up, and for him in turn to fall. Egypt has had its day. Persis, it may be, is passing as well, in the face of the king from Macedon.”

  “That doesn’t trouble you?”

  “It troubles me. I accept it. It is the will of heaven.”

  “There,” said Meriamon. “There we differ. Egypt does not accept. Egypt rules, or it rebels.”

  “And yet its gods accept all who come, and make each their own.”

  “Except yours.”

  “We have no gods to give. We have the Truth.”

  “There is no one truth. Its faces are as many as there are gods in heaven.”

  “But—” said Barsine. And stopped. She sat back. She firmed her lips.

  “You see,” Meriamon said. “Your faith knows the way of adversaries, of two who can never be one, nor share what is theirs. Your king, your faith, your magic—there is nothing that ours can meet or match.”

  “We were never unjust to your people.”

  “No? Artaxerxes crushed us and slew our gods, slaughtered Apis’ bull in his own temple. You call that justice?”

  “That was long ago,” said Barsine, “and richly earned. You had rebelled against him.”

  “We had taken back what was ours.”

  “You were conquered.”

  “We are never conquered.”

  The air rang like the clash of sword on sword. Barsine was taut, half on her feet.

  Slowly she subsided. Meriamon, who had never sat at all, took the chair that waited for her, and willed herself to be calm. When she could trust her voice, she asked, “Now do you understand?”

  “No,” Barsine said.

  “Then you never will.”

  “No.”

  There was a silence. It was oddly peaceful.

  “I do,” Barsine said after a while, “understand why you left us. You would have found us unbearable.”

  Meriamon did not feel that she needed to answer that.

  The silence stretched again. Meriamon made no move to break it. Again it was Barsine who spoke. “Will you be with me when my child is born?”

  That took Meriamon by surprise. “You want me there? Even knowing what you know?”

  “You hate with a clean hate. And you are a healer.”

  “A poor one as my people reckon it.”

  “That is better than anything here.”

  “Not now. There are priests of Imhotep in the service of the king. He will see that they look after you.”

  “Priests,” said Barsine. “Will they consent to be made eunuchs, then, to attend my presence?”

  “You wouldn’t,” Meriamon said, shocked out of dignity.

  Was that a glint of wickedness in the dark eyes? “I shall ask for you.”

  And Alexander would grant it. Meriamon knew that as well as Barsine did. He would say exactly what Barsine said, and be even less patient about it.

  “I could strangle your child at birth,” Meriamon said.

  “You would not,” said Barsine.

  Clear, clear eyes. And a will as strong as any queen’s. It was gentle, it seemed soft, but it would not yield for anything that Meriamon could do. She would have Meriamon there, festering hate, feeble magic, and all; and that was that.

  Fourteen

  Meriamon frowned at Niko. “Close your fist,” she said.

  He did. It was not much of a fist, but it was more than he had had. “Open,” she said. She set a ball in it: a small one such as children played with, tanned hide sewn over thick-wadded wool. “Now,” she said. “Squeeze it.”

  He shook with effort. The muscles stood out in his jaw; sweat ran down his face.

  His fingers sagged open. The ball dropped. Sekhmet bounded after it, batting it with a paw.

  Meriamon smiled at them both. Niko glowered. “I’m as weak as a baby.”

  “Not quite,” she said. She retrieved the ball. “Now. Again.”

  He set his teeth, but he obeyed her. She watched carefully.

  The bone was knit long since. His hand was twisted and shortened, ugly enough but far from what it could have been. He was, for all his doubts, getting his strength back, and regaining use of his hand. He would not get all of it. But neither would he be a one-handed man.

  His fingers were stiffened and clawed. They would soften, she hoped, if he did as she told him. His thumb and forefinger could not meet, not yet, but she had hopes of it.

  He did not voice any objection to the game with the ball, which every other Macedonian she knew would have protested loudly and refused to have anything to do with. Niko gritted his teeth and knotted his brows and endured, till his face was wringing wet and his body trembling with exhaustion.

  She caught the ball as it fell yet again, and tossed it toward Sekhmet. The cat pursued it joyously under Meriamon’s bed.

  Niko half-rose to go after it. Meriamon held him down. “Not now,” she said. “Rest a bit. You’re trying too hard.”

  “I want to be whole,” he said.

  She took his hand in hers, working her fingers into its knots and spasms. He jerked in sudden pain; she held him till he eased, and went on. “You’ll be whole,” she told him. “It takes time, that’s all.”

  “I want it to be now.”

  He was as simple as a child. She had a sudden, powerful urge to kiss him. She did not. He had not welcomed it before, or ever said a word of it.

  He was not aware of her at all, except as a source of pain and slow ease.

  “You’ve been practicing with weapons,” she said.

  He started. She held his hand before it could pull away. “How did you know?”

  “I’ve watched you. You’re losing sleep on it. Why not do it in the day like everyone else?”

  “I’m guarding you in the day.”

  “That’s no excuse.”

  He shrugged one-sided. “I didn’t think you would approve.”

  “Why not? It’s making you stronger.”

  “Strong enough to go back to the cavalry?”

  Her heart stuttered. She said steadily, “Strong enough for that. Since you’re a left-handed man.”

  A long sigh escaped him. It did not look like relief. He was scowling at his hand, or at her fingers flexing his, making them bend and straighten. “I still can’t hold Typhon’s rein.”

  “You’ve tried.”

  It was not a question. His response was not an answer. “I was thinking. Did you see the horse that Peukestas brought in yesterday, that he said had come from Scythia? Did you see what it had for gear?”

  “No,” said Meriamon. “I was getting a catapult bolt out of some idiot’s leg.”

  “It was something,” Niko said. “It had a bit—not even like the thing you use on Phoenix, that wouldn’t keep a stallion down for a heartbeat. It was just a broken link, nothing to hold the tongue, no bars to clamp the jaw, nothing. But the groom was riding as solid as you please. It’s the saddle that did it. It’s got padding, and arches that come up fore and aft, and hold you where you sit. You can’t lose your seat for anything, unless you’re hopeless to begin with.”

  “You rode Peukestas’ horse.” said Meriamon. She wished that she could doubt it.

  “He’s not much to look at—he’s got a coat like a half-shorn sheep, and a head to match. But he’s as tough as old leather. And his mouth: silk. I had him going from a gallop to a standstill and back, with hardly more than a finger on the rein.”

  “Did you buy him?”

  “Peukestas wouldn’t sell.”

  He did not, she noticed, sound unduly cast down. “So?”

  “So I was thinking,” h
e said. “If I could get one of the armorers to have a try at a saddle like that, and keep the bridle I’ve got—I wouldn’t need so much strength to keep Typhon in hand. Even,” he said with a curl of the lip, “this one.”

  “Why not trade Typhon for a quieter horse? Then you won’t need to do anything at all.”

  “Typhon is mine,” he said. “I bred him. I was the first man ever to sit on his back. And the last, too, if I hadn’t let Amyntas look after him.”

  “Sell him to Amyntas.”

  “No,” said Niko.

  Meriamon shut her mouth with a click. She should have known better. She did; but she had to try.

  “He’s pure Nisaian, you know,” said Niko. “I had his dam out of a Persian mare, and his sire was the king’s own—Philip, that was, before he died. He’s not the best-tempered of beasts, but he has heart, and brains... too much, if you ask some people. You’ve never really seen him, have you?”

  “I’ve seen enough,” Meriamon said.

  “You haven’t.” He got up, freed from her grip at last, eager. “We’ve time before sundown. Maybe we can even talk to an armorer. The king might be interested, if we can make it work.”

  Meriamon could think of no good reason to refuse him. If she was there, she told herself, he would not try to ride the beast. Greek horses were flighty, and enough of them were wicked-tempered that she could almost forgive the ghastly bridles their masters hung on them, but Typhon had a name for viciousness. The grooms talked when she went to visit Phoenix, telling tales of men kicked and bitten, and Amyntas thrown and nearly trampled.

  The beast was handsome enough. Not a delicate beauty like Phoenix, but big for a Greek horse—Nisaian certainly, a solid fifteen hands, deep-chested and proud-necked, with a fine straight head and a bright intelligent eye. Not, she admitted, a malicious one, but there was no kindness in it.

  He greeted his master with upflung head and deafening whinny, half-rearing on his tether: they did not keep him hobbled, no hobble could hold him. Niko went in under the rope, catching it close to the halter, taking no notice of the pawing hoofs. The stallion bucked and plunged. For a moment Meriamon was sure that Niko would leap onto his back. Clearly he thought of it, but he had a little sense left.

  He soothed and gentled the stallion down, stroking the dampened neck, murmuring in the flattened ear. It quivered, flicked, rose.

  Niko grinned at Meriamon. “He’s a beauty, isn’t he?”

  He was that: gleaming copper, with a star on his forehead. Some brave soul—the groom, no doubt, with his bruises and his insouciant look, lounging out of reach—kept him spotless, his mane cropped and standing stiff, his tail brushed to silk.

  “He’d fetch a kingly price,” Meriamon said.

  The grin vanished from Niko’s face. “I’m not selling him.”

  “Pity.”

  “Well,” said Niko. Clearly he felt that he could be forgiving, with his demon of a stallion eating sweets out of his hand—drawing back when the hand was empty, snaking toward it with teeth snapping, to be slapped smartly on the nose. “There now,” said Niko to one or both of them. “He’s testing, that’s all. He has to know he can respect you.”

  “I’d rather be respected by a horse with more sense.”

  “Typhon has a lot of sense. He doesn’t put up with idiots.”

  “You’d never know it.”

  Niko bared his teeth at her.

  She exchanged look for look with the horse. There was a god in him, she thought. And not a gentle one. “Set,” she said. “Your name is Set.”

  “His name is Typhon.”

  “It is the same.”

  “You call your cat Sekhmet.”

  “Sekhmet is her own cat. I don’t ask her to carry my life in battle.”

  “Don’t you?”

  Meriamon’s mouth was open. She closed it. He did not mean— No. He did not know what he was saying. He was being a Hellene, that was all: quick, and clever with his tongue, and no matter what it said.

  “I’m going to get a saddle made,” Niko said, more to the horse than to her. “And if it works well, who knows? I’ll try the bridle, too. You’d welcome that. No more edges on your tongue. No more iron on your jaw. You’ll learn what gentle is.”

  “Not that one,” said Meriamon.

  Niko ignored her. The horse’s eye rolled, mocking her fears.

  o0o

  Alexander had had enough of idling outside of Tyre. What he called idling was the greatest siegecraft in the world, from dawn till long after dark and up again before the sun was up, building the bridge to the city. It was all but up to the gate now, the towers raised anew, and more of them, a wall of wood and reeking raw hides, flinging bolts over the walls and stones upon the ships that harried from the sea.

  “There’s nothing to do here,” he said, “but hew wood and haul water. I’m for the mountains inland. They’ve been harrying our crews, keeping them from the timber-cutting. I’ll settle them.”

  And gather a fleet. He did not talk in public about that, but Niko heard of it from Ptolemy, and went over it until Meriamon could recite the tale by heart. “The kings are coming back to Phoenicia out of the Great King’s service, and bringing their fleets with them. Gerostratos is on his way to Tyre. Arados, Byblos, Sidon—their fleets are back, and their cities have surrendered to Alexander. He has ships now, if he’ll only claim them. He can take Tyre by sea.”

  “How in the world—” Meriamon began, the first time or six. After that she did not need to.

  “To begin with,” Niko said, “he can drive off the boats that harry our crews. Then he’ll find a way to break the walls.”

  “With ships?”

  “There is a way,” said Niko. “Alexander will see it, if he hasn’t already. I’m just a soldier,” he said, “and no general, but I see what’s in front of my face. Ships are the key. Once he has ships, he has Tyre.”

  Meriamon was not at all sure of that. But Niko was off and running, and no word of hers could call him back.

  Just a soldier, she thought. Oh, certainly. And Alexander was just a boy who happened to be a king. Niko had no such fire on him as Alexander had. No one did. But he had a power of his own, earth-deep, earth-strong, and he was full of it. He followed her dutifully as a guardsman should, but his mind was on the king, and his eyes whenever they were near where Alexander was.

  He had the saddle he had been looking for. It was an odd lumpy thing like a cushion gone bad, and Typhon regarded it in plunging, snapping, kicking mistrust, but Niko, with Amyntas and the groom and a sizable audience of hangers-on, got it on the horse’s back. Then he let the beast get the feel of it, taking his time, losing idlers to livelier entertainment.

  Meriamon had hoped—prayed—that he would let Amyntas do the testing. The boy was horseman enough, and the horse knew him and would accept him. But Niko was hardly one to watch when he could be up and doing. With no more warning than a word to the two who held the bridle, he sprang into the saddle.

  Typhon stood rock-still. Meriamon remembered to breathe. The horse flung himself squealing skyward and came down plunging. Bucking, it would have been, but Niko had the beast’s chin hauled against his chest. Using his good hand. The bad one gripped mane, then saddle.

  Holding. His legs clamped to the horse’s sides; his body rode with the heaving, lunging, kicking, motion, one with it, flowing into it.

  The stallion was galloping, no longer plunging; slowing little by little, easing, smoothing, accepting this weight on his back: this and no other, that had been the first to tame him. His ears were up. Had been up, Meriamon realized, almost from the first.

  It was play. For both of them. Niko grinned like a maniac, riding his maniac of a horse. Now his hand was on his thigh. His left hand. His right hand, twisted and clawed, held the reins in its weak grip.

  Meriamon’s hands went to her face. She wanted to close her eyes, but she dared not. That demon, that Set-in-flesh—it would kill him. It would break free and rear and tw
ist and throw him, and trample him to bloody nothingness.

  They danced up to her, snorting horse, grinning rider, and halted, breathing hard, both alike. “You!” she raged at them. “You idiots!”

  Niko laughed. Typhon tossed his head. His mouth was shut. She forgot his temper, forgot her caution, forgot everything in hauling his head about and prying his mouth open. He was wearing the Scythian bit.

  Words forsook her. She let the bridle go. She got her hands on Niko and hauled him down, so hard, so sudden, that he could not even stop her. When she had his feet on the ground, she knocked them out from under him and sat on him, hands fisted in his chiton, screaming at him. “Have you gone mad?”

  “Have you?”

  That was not Niko. She got up slowly. Alexander was there. Ptolemy, too, and Peukestas holding Typhon’s bridle, and Hephaistion.

  She was quite calm. A blank calm. She pointed toward the horse’s head. “Look,” she said. “Look at that.”

  They looked. Peukestas whistled between his teeth. “Herakles! I wouldn’t have tried that.”

  “I’d like to,” Alexander said. “on Boukephalas. Who,” he said before Meriamon could say anything, “is a great deal more reliable than this spawn of Mother Night.”

  Niko got to his feet, a little stiffly. Meriamon spared no sympathy for him. He had not harmed his hand. She had made sure of that. “He likes it,” Niko said. “He goes better with it.”

  “You caught him off guard,” Ptolemy said.

  Niko set his jaw and looked stubborn.

  “You have to admit,” said Alexander, “‘it wasn’t the most intelligent thing you’ve ever tried. If not quite the least. There was a little matter of stopping a chariot with your bare hands.”

  Niko flushed. “Damn it, Alexander—”

  “Damn it, Niko, is it your neck you’ll break next?”

  “No,” Niko said. Fearless. Even with Alexander glaring down that royal nose at him, which was a feat: Niko was a good head taller than the king.

  Suddenly Alexander laughed. “There never was any keeping you down, was there?”

  “No,” said Niko. “Alexander.” He made a title of it, and of his stiff pride a grudging respect.

  “Well,” Alexander said. “I must admit it was impressive. But promise me you won’t try that bit again till you’ve got it on a safer horse.”