by Max Overton
Tomyra raised an eyebrow. "Forbid it?" she asked coolly. "I am a priestess of the People, my lord, and my own woman besides. You do not forbid me."
Nikometros ground his teeth in frustration. "Tomyra, for pity's sake. I didn't mean to command you but, think...I mean, for the love we..." His voice trailed off as he flushed. He stared round the circle of faces wildly. "Tell her. Surely you can see the folly..."
"She is right," said Jaxes. "One of you must do it and it cannot be you." He shrugged. "Therefore, my friend..."
Timon nodded soberly. "You know I would do anything to save her from harm, Niko, but she's right. Areipithes will go after her without a second thought. With his guard down, you can spring the trap and finish him once and for all."
"It will be all right, Niko." Tomyra rose and crossed to Nikometros, falling on her knees beside him. She looked up into his troubled face, a slight smile tweaking her lips. "Don't you believe the Mother Goddess holds me in her hands? She won't allow me to come to harm."
Nikometros stared into her dark eyes then slowly nodded. "I don't like it but I suppose you're right, my love," he whispered. "If anyone enjoys the protection of the Goddess, you do."
"So how do we set this trap?" asked Tirses. "How is the usurper to find the bait alone and seemingly defenceless?"
"And where?" queried Jaxes. "His suspicions will be aroused if he has to come into our territory."
"Wherever it is, it must be in a place that is favourable for our cavalry charge." Timon gave a savage bark of humour. "The charge is our strongest weapon. I would hate not to show that bastard how it is properly carried out."
"The plains around Urul," said Nikometros slowly. "But how to get him there? And how to surprise him? He'll see our army half a day's travel away."
"I know!" squeaked Prithia, in great excitement. "There is a place, my lady. Remember, three years ago, during the drought..."
"Yes," nodded Bithyia, with a grin. "The shrine of the Mother at Marsil-tagal."
Nikometros looked from one young woman to the other. "What is this place and why might it be the place?"
"Marsil-tagal is a shrine to the Great Goddess in the foothills south of Urul, not far in fact from where you were captured, Niko." Tomyra smiled and squeezed Nikometros' knee. "We pray to the Mother there in times of direst need, such as during the drought three years ago." She rocked back on her heels, her voice rising in pitch as excitement gripped her. "Areipithes will think nothing of my going there. We're in dire need. He'll half expect it."
"I'll have Timon and a squad of Lions ride with you. I won't put you in unnecessary danger."
"You cannot," said Tomyra simply. "It would immediately arouse his suspicions if my brother saw any man ride toward Marsil-tagal. Only women go there."
Nikometros kept silent, biting his lip. At last, he sighed deeply. "Very well. At least you'll be armed and ready for him."
"That neither, my lord," smiled Tomyra. "No priestess or her maidens would go to Marsil-tagal dressed for war. We must wear our priestly robes, though we shall have our bows. They are sacred."
Nikometros grunted. "What is the ground like?"
"The shrine itself is in a rocky cleft in the hills, my lord," broke in Prithia. 'Tagal' is the word for a woman's er...female parts...I mean..." She blushed and stuttered to a stop.
Bithyia raised her eyes with a look of exasperation. "The shrine is hidden, my lord, but two low rolling hills stretch out into the plains. The ground between them is flat and hard."
"With squadrons hidden behind both the hills..."
"...We can sweep out and surprise him."
"Our lady will never be in any danger," said Bithyia triumphantly.
"Divide our forces?" queried Jaxes. "Not a good idea."
Nikometros grinned, feeling his mood lighten. "That is where my maps come in. By the time I have finished, every commander will know his place, where everyone else is, when to move and precisely where to."
Shouting erupted from the Jartai camp; interrupting Nikometros and making everyone crane their necks to see what was happening. Several Jartai soldiers hurried over, jabbering excitedly.
"He comes, lords, he comes!" cried one.
"Met our envoys, he did," said another.
Jaxes strode out and grabbed one of the soldiers and shook him. "Who?" he barked. "Who is coming?"
"The Dumae chief," crowed the first man. "He's here with his army. He comes to aid us against the Massegetae beasts."
"Nemathres?" grinned Nikometros. "He is here?"
The shouting in the Jartai camp changed to cheers as a small column of riders appeared in the flickering light of the numerous campfires. Banners flew proudly from spears and the men carried themselves with assurance.
"I knew he would not betray me," said Nikometros softly. He grabbed a wine skin lying on the ground near the fire. He unstoppered it and held it up then poured some onto the ground, where it splashed and pooled like blood.
"Gods and goddesses of Greece and Scythia," Nikometros cried. "Accept this offering and hear our prayer. Grant us victory over the parricide and usurper." He lifted the skin to his lips and drank, the liquid pouring over his chin and chest. Passing it on to Tomyra he urged her to drink.
One by one the others drank from the flask and passed it on, each lifting it to the skies beforehand with a cry of 'Victory!'
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Chapter Thirty-Two
Areipithes sat astride his horse in the vast rolling plains to the west of Urul staring into the setting sun. Two days of forced marches, riding day and night from the Jartai hills, brought his tired army to within sight of the city defences. Around it, and within the city walls, waited the remnants of the force that marched out barely three days before, to meet the Serratae invaders. Now bloodied and defeated, the survivors still streamed back to the city, determined to fight one last battle for their homes and families. Behind them marched the Serratae army, inexorably, spreading like a stain over the land, looting and defiling.
Looking around him at his exhausted men, Areipithes felt the first wash of doubt. He clenched his teeth and kicked his horse into a gallop, riding along the ranks of his army as it spread out like a thin earth wall in front of the approaching flood of Serratae.
"Men!" he cried. "Remember who we are. We are Massegetae warriors and no other tribe can stand against us, certainly not these Serratae curs. Our enemies thought they could use the Jartai to defeat us but look where that got them. I tell you, the gods are with us. Even now, our priestess in Urul is praying to the Mother for our victory. She will not let Her People down." Areipithes reined in his horse and sat silent in front of his troops for long moments.
"Remember your training and wait for the word from your officers. Fight for your honour, my friends. Show these dogs what we are made of. Victory is ours!"
Areipithes rode back through the ranks toward the knot of officers around his black and gray wolverine standard. The men raised a thin cheer as he passed, the cries fading as the situation gripped their attention once more. They settled down to wait for battle, grasping each moment of life as if it was their last.
The Serratae tide halted a long bowshot from the thin line of Massegetae defenders and milled indecisively. A horse squadron galloped out from the invading mass, passing close along the strung out line of their opponents. A cloud of arrows rose, hid in the eye of the sun for a long moment then fell, dispensing death. The Massegetae drew their dead and wounded to the rear and readied themselves once more. The horsemen galloped back to cheers from their fellows. A few minutes later another squadron sallied forth and repeated the manoeuver.
Thoas fidgeted on his horse, his fear and anxiety communicating itself to his mount. The beast squealed and kicked, trying to pull away from its fellows. "How long must we wait, my lord?" Thoas muttered.
"Control your horse, Thoas," replied Areipithes calmly. He raised his hand and two young men drew deep breaths and blew a deep quaverin
g note on their horns. They sounded again and, with a roar that quickly rose to scream of excitement and rage, the Massegetae army surged forward.
Arrows hurtled skyward, falling now behind the defender's lines as the two forces crashed together, all order disappearing in a welter of fighting men and horses. The line swayed back and forth, the men behind the fighting striving to get to grips with the enemy, those exchanging blows ready to step back. The rage and determination of the Massegetae defenders balanced the superior numbers of Serratae invaders forced to fight far from their homes and loved ones. It could not last, though the sun dipped toward the horizon before the Serratae forced Areipithes' army back.
At the rear, from his vantage point on a low swell of land, Areipithes saw the first faltering backward steps and knew them for an indicator of panic and defeat.
"We cannot wait any longer," he stated. "Prepare yourselves." Areipithes signaled the horn-bearers and a series of high notes rang out, repeated then again. The Massegetae line shivered, split and pulled back, horsemen wheeling their mounts, foot soldiers stumbling as they disengaged with the enemy. A cry of triumph rose from Serratae throats and a horde broke through into the gap.
"Wait!" cried Areipithes. "Wait!" He watched the invaders closely, judging their distance, knowing if he moved too soon his success would be limited, move too late and his army died. I have but one chance, one throw of the dice.
His arm chopped down and a long note rang out. Areipithes spurred his horse forward, down from the swell, hearing the gathering thunder of hooves behind him as his 'Wolverines', his trained troop of personal guards, three hundred strong, surged behind him. The arrowhead of riders galloped straight into the gap between the tattered remnants of his army, scarcely faltering as they battered aside the first ranks of Serratae horsemen, trampling them under. Onward, excitement and a cleansing terror lifting their hearts and spirits as they sped like a thrown spear into the bowels of the enemy.
Areipithes slashed and cut, his sword arm sodden with blood. Behind him then beside him and all around men screamed and thrust and died as the momentum of the charge faltered and died. "Not enough!" he groaned. Areipithes squinted through eyelashes sticky with men's blood and saw the Serratae leader, his plumes and standards flying, beating back his force. He turned toward him, urging his horse to a last effort. Cutting and slashing, the Massegetae king forced his way through the melee. The Serratae chief stared at the approaching blood-soaked warrior and looked into the eyes of his fate. He spurred forward to meet him, a cry of defiance bubbling from his throat.
The leaders clashed as around them lesser men drew back in deference. The two men circled, swords drawn, each waiting for the other to move.
"Where is Dimurthes?" rasped Areipithes.
"Dead. Slain by your tribesmen. Now you shall die."
Areipithes laughed. "What is your name, Serratae, that I may offer a sacrifice for your ghost?"
"Sparses," said the other man, spurring his horse forward.
Sparses' horse collided with Areipithes' and the two men swung their swords in a clash and grate of steel. Breath became ragged as they clutched their opponent and strove to connect metal with flesh. Areipithes gave a cry and whipped back, clutching his side, his sword dipping. Sparses leaned forward eagerly, overextending himself. Too late he saw the rising blade and the triumphant smile. The sword bit deeply, life billowing from the wound.
Areipithes raised a paean of victory as around him the invaders drew back, fear in their faces. The Massegetae army pressed forward again and suddenly the Serratae turned and fled the field, streaming back toward the setting sun. Areipithes let his army course after them, calling to Thoas and his officers to keep control of their men.
Watching his army triumphant, Areipithes leaned back on his horse and stretched, the dried blood caking his face and beard cracking as he broke into a broad grin. We won! He thought. By all the gods, and against all odds, we won!
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Chapter Thirty-Three
Raucous laughter and drunken singing rose into the star-strewn skies along with the pungent smells of roasting meat and wood smoke. Areipithes, wineskin in one hand and a haunch of half-cooked goat in the other, staggered from one fire to the next, bellowing out a bawdy soldier's song. Massegetae tribesmen, drunk with wine, koumiss and the unexpected lease on life deriving from their victory, bellowed along with their king, slapping him on the back in an orgy of comradeship.
The roaring fires lit the night sky, painting the stone and wooden walls of Urul's habitations in fiery colours, black shadows dancing over the ground. The whole city shuddered and jumped as if the life force of the hundreds of dead men strewn about the countryside gathered to innervate the inanimate structures. On this night the warriors of the tribe forgot their natural superiority over the grasping merchants of Urul and celebrated a common victory. The merchants and craftsmen likewise, eschewed their normal feelings of disdain for the uncouth rider of the plains and hailed him as a brother and a friend.
Hundreds of tribesmen lay dead, either in makeshift graves or lying cold in the arms of the Mother. Surviving them, suddenly bereft of husbands and fathers, the women and young girls of Urul put aside their grief and pragmatically sought solace and a future in the homes and beds of other men. The night descended into an orgy of rutting, grief and despair sublimating into the one activity that would assure both men and women of a future purpose in life.
Into this bacchanalia rode a single man, reeling from exhaustion on a horse that staggered and fell, its heart bursting with the effort of its long journey. The man hit the ground and rolled, rising to his feet with a whimper, only to stand swaying as he stared in disbelief at the drunken scene.
"The king," he croaked, doubling over in a paroxysm of coughing. He lurched toward a group of men and women frantically coupling on the bare earth. "Take me to the king."
A tall man pulled free of his woman and stood, hands on hips, staring at the dirty, disheveled stranger and past him at his dead horse. He made no effort to hide his tumescent genitalia. "Who are you, stranger?" The tall man grinned suddenly and gestured at his woman, still lying in wanton abandon on the ground. "Join us, friend. Have some wine," he belched suddenly, "A woman, whatever you want." The woman smiled up at the stranger, beckoning him.
The stranger drew back, his face pulling into a rictus of horror. "Have you no shame?" he muttered, pushing past the half-naked man. He raised his voice above the laughter and drunken singing. "Where is the king? I must speak with Areipithes immediately."
"Who wants him?" called a voice from the dancing shadows. "Declare yourself or..." the speaker dissolved into high-pitched giggles. "...Or have a drink. You're spoiling the mood."
"I must see the king at once. It is a matter of great urgency."
A chorus of groans and laughter answered the stranger. A short fat man barreled up and fell over. He pointed back the way he had come. "Over there," he tittered. "But he won't like being disturbed." He gave the stranger an exaggerated wink and fell over again.
The stranger moved away, hurrying past the hordes of men and women, drinking and gorging on roasted meats. The rich cooking odours mingled with the stench of vomit and the heavy musk of unrestrained sex, making his head swim. Face averted, he stumbled on until he fell prostrate over a man engaged in the common pursuit.
The man gave a bellow of rage and rose, clutching his clothes about him. He spotted the stranger lying on the ground and nudged him with an ungentle toe. "What in Hades are you playing at? Have you no regard for your king?"
Rolling over and clutching his bruised side, the stranger stared aghast at the figure of Areipithes swaying above him. "My lord king?" he gasped. "I must speak with you."
"Speak on then," growled Areipithes, tucking himself into his clothes. "Who are you and where have you come from?"
"My lord." The stranger rose slowly to his feet and looked about him at the gathering crowd of interested revelers.
"I must talk to you in private. I bear news from the north."
"The north?" Areipithes looked at the stranger sharply, his eyes taking in the man's dirty and stained clothing, his sagging exhausted features. He nodded incisively and turned on his heel. "Come with me," he said crisply. He pushed through the crowd and led the way to a hide tent, sagging on one side where the supporting ropes hung loose. Areipithes grabbed the comatose occupants, a naked man and woman, by the feet and dragged them outside to ribald cheers from the crowd. Gesturing the stranger inside the tent, he closed the flap behind them.
"Right!" snapped Areipithes. "Who are you and what is your news?"
"My lord," muttered the stranger, swaying on his feet. "My name is Scytogages. I am an Erimathean in the employ of your man Scolices." He staggered and almost fell. He squinted at Areipithes, rubbing his face tiredly with one filthy hand. "May I sit, my lord," he murmured. "I have killed two horses beneath me to bring you this news." Scytogages grimaced. "It would be a pity if I died before I could deliver it."
Areipithes nodded. "Sit!" he grunted. He looked around the meagre contents of the tent and picked up a badly cured skin flask. He sniffed at the contents then passed the flask to Scytogages. "Drink. Take your time. If you've spent as long as you say you have on the road, another few moments won't kill us."
Scytogages swallowed feverishly, his throat working convulsively and the thin wine spilling down his front. The liquid cut runnels in the dust coating his tunic. He lowered the flask and belched long and hard. "By the gods, that was good, my lord. Thank you."
"Your news, man. Out with it."
"The rebels, my lord. They've regrouped and..."
Areipithes snorted. "A handful of whipped dogs. They won't trouble us."
"They march south my lord...with the Dumae."
"The Dumae? Nemathres? He dares challenge me?"
Scytogages nodded slowly. "Together with the rebels, lord, they number almost as many as the former Jartai army. And most of them are fresh and rested. Whereas..." He hesitated a moment. "My lord, the Serratae?"
