Tyrant: Storm of Arrows

by Christian Cameron

  ‘You can’t torture me!’ Philotas spat. ‘I’m the commander of the Companions! On the bones of Achilles, the best of the Achaeans, I swear I am no traitor! And you’ll never prove it before the assembly!’ He stood there, tall and handsome, the very image of the dashing officer.

  But the assembly thought differently, two days later, when he was brought before them toothless, with much of his face gone. He looked like a traitor with his hands broken. Hephaestion said that he had confessed his own guilt, and the king said the same. No one could understand Philotas when he spoke.

  They executed him.

  ‘Now I can clean house,’ Alexander said to Hephaestion. It was a private council, with only a few men - Eumenes and Kleisthenes and Hephaestion.

  ‘You have to kill Parmenion,’ Hephaestion urged. ‘When he hears—’

  ‘Yes, Patrocles!’ Alexander ruffled his bronze hair. ‘I know. The father must go, now that the son is proved a traitor.’

  Even Kleisthenes, a sophist and a professional propagandist, was cut to the bone to hear the king call Philotas a traitor in private. The king had convinced himself - a dangerous precedent.

  Eumenes the Cardian kept his face composed. ‘Spitamenes has accepted our suggestions about negotiation,’ he said. Eumenes had learned not to use words that the king might take to mean that the Macedonians were suing for peace with a rebel satrap. The truth was that Spitamenes, with the remnants of Bessus’s Persian army and the support of the Massagetae and the Dahae, was slowing up their conquest of the north to an unpalatable degree.

  The king drank some more wine. ‘When Parmenion is dead, the areas to my rear will be secure,’ he said. ‘I’ll have all the time I need to conquer the rest of the world. I don’t need Spitamenes. Tell him to fuck off.’

  Hephaestion laughed aloud.

  Eumenes, who had laboured all winter to get negotiations on the table, took a deep breath. ‘Spitamenes is interested in religious issues, your majesty. He does not desire to be King of Kings.’ He got the bit between his teeth and spoke the truth. ‘As long as he has the Scythian tribes, he can cross the Jaxartes at will. We cannot follow him there.’

  Alexander turned his head and his mad, white-rimmed eyes bored into Eumenes’ head. ‘There is nowhere my army cannot go,’ he said.

  Eumenes flicked his eyes to Hephaestion, hoping that the indulgent man would remember his own self-interest.

  Hephaestion swirled the wine in his cup and then leaned forward. ‘If we campaign across the Jaxartes, we’ll lose a whole campaign season from India.’

  He ought to have been an actor, Eumenes thought. He wiped his brow.

  Alexander threw himself back on his couch. ‘Fine. Even Achilles listened when Phoenix spoke. But I want an Amazon - better yet, a dozen. Tell Spitamenes to get me a dozen Amazons.’

  This was the type of demand that could unseat a negotiation in a moment, but Eumenes knew his master’s voice. He nodded.

  ‘Yes, majesty,’ he said.

  And Kleisthenes shuddered.

  15

  The first flowers bloomed through the last snow in Hyrkania, and the winds coming across the Kaspian were still cold enough for Hyperboreans and strong enough to discourage even the keenest bow-men.

  Kineas felt fat. He’d eaten too well and exercised too little, although they’d built a gymnasium and used it, too. He’d never been so cold in his life as in the dead of winter in Hyrkania, when the snow hit like hard-blown sand and the wolves howled every night. And too often his exercise consisted of climbing the steep hill to the citadel, where the queen entertained him with stories in Greek and Persian, the questionable antics of her slaves and the sensuous pleasure of her heated floors and luxurious baths, as well as the more intellectual pleasures of scrolls and singers and poetry.

  After Therapon had presented her with too many coloured versions of Kineas’s law court, she asked with a smile to come down the hill and see one - and to see his camp. He had no way to refuse her and so the next day her cavalcade wound its way down from the citadel, a dozen local gentlemen on horseback with some of her guards in hastily polished bronze. She wore a fur-lined cloak over a richly embroidered Scythian jacket and wool trousers tucked into small boots, with a tall Median cap and a veil that covered her eyes without disguising them.

  And a sword.

  The ground was frozen hard and Kineas’s men put on a display on horse and foot. The Olbian cavalry threw javelins, the prodromoi shot their bows, and the hoplites marched and counter-marched and demonstrated a change of front in the Spartan fashion, to her beaming approval. They shot arrows at targets and she insisted on having a turn, shooting competently, although Kineas allowed himself to note that Srayanka would have filled the targets with arrows while riding at a gallop.

  She looked into the wine shops and the brothels of the camp’s marketplace. ‘Am I supplying all the women for your army, Kineas?’ she asked.

  Kineas looked away. ‘We brought a few of our own,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, and a hetaira to manage them,’ Banugul said. She laughed. ‘So well organized. Do the men stand in line waiting their turn when they can’t get Hyrkanian farm girls? Or go without?’ Then she began to recite:

  Baulked in your amorous delight

  How melancholy is your plight.

  With sympathy your case I view;

  For I am sure it’s hard on you.

  What human being could sustain

  This unforeseen domestic strain,

  And not a single trace

  Of willing women in the place!

  As she spoke, she deepened her voice because it was the male chorus part in Lysistrata, and they all laughed with her.

  Therapon glanced at Philokles. ‘Perhaps they have no need of women, my lady.’

  ‘If that were the case,’ she said with a twinkle, ‘“Then why do they hide those lances, that stick out under their tunics?”’ Her wicked paraphrase of Aristophanes made them all laugh again.

  Philokles stepped closer to the queen. Looking up at her, he declaimed, ‘“She did it all, the harlot, she - with her atrocious harlotry.”’

  Therapon whirled, his face red, but Banugul reached down from her horse and took the Spartan’s hand. ‘I love a man of education,’ she said. ‘You are Philokles the Sophist?’

  He laughed, obviously flattered. ‘I am Philokles the Spartan, my lady. I can’t remember being called a sophist, except by Kineas here.’

  She beamed. ‘If you can call me a harlot, I can call you a sophist.’

  ‘I will be more careful of my epigrams,’ Philokles said, clearly stung.

  She blew him a kiss. ‘Why do you not come and visit my court, Spartan? All the others come - save Diodorus here, who has ceased to visit me. But you never come.’

  ‘Sophistry takes all my time,’ Philokles said, gravely.

  Diodorus went so red that he turned away, and even Kineas had to stifle a guffaw, while Banugul blushed a little, but she didn’t flinch. ‘Implying that harlotry takes all my time?’

  ‘I said nothing of the sort,’ Philokles said, drawling the words.

  ‘Pederasty, more like,’ said Therapon quietly, but his voice carried.

  Kineas stepped between them. ‘Philokles, the lady is not a target for your wit.’

  ‘I can protect myself, Kineas,’ Banugul said. ‘By all the gods, I see now what I missed by staying in my citadel. And I see now why Kineas can parry any little wit I may employ if this is his daily sparring.’

  ‘More than sparring,’ Therapon said broadly. ‘Perhaps they entertain each other exclusively.’ He leered.

  Philokles seemed to ignore the Thessalian’s jibes until later, when the Olbians were showing the queen and her entourage around their log-built gymnasium. Philokles had the queen’s arm and her ear, and he spoke of Greek wrestling and of pankration, their unarmed combat sport, until she clapped her hands.

  ‘I would love to see that,’ she said. ‘I have read so much about it.’


  Philokles smiled, and the warrior that lurked under the skin of the philosopher came to the surface. ‘I would be pleased to show you, my lady,’ he said. ‘I’m sure your Therapon would be delighted to fight me chest to chest.’

  Therapon was not the kind of man to refuse a challenge, and he stripped. ‘I’m not likely to let you behind me,’ he mocked. ‘I know what naked Greeks do.’

  ‘We fight naked,’ Philokles said to the queen, by way of apology.

  ‘My harlotry extends to male nudity,’ Banugul replied.

  Philokles dropped his heavy cloak and pulled his wool chiton over his head, exposing the body of a statue. Therapon was heavier and had the start of a gut, although his arms were longer and immensely strong. Kineas tried to catch his friend’s eye.

  Banugul put a hand on Philokles’ naked shoulder. ‘I would take it amiss if you hurt my captain,’ she said. Her nails brushed Philokles’ chest as she withdrew her hand. Her smile was a private one, for Philokles alone, and Kineas was appalled to find within himself a tingle of jealousy at their intimacy.

  Then the two men were circling on the sand, bent low, intent. They circled long enough for the queen to grow bored and smile self-consciously at her host, when suddenly some shift in posture or intent brought the two contestants together, arms locked high, feet well back as they heaved against each other’s strength. Muscles stood out in strain and, despite the cold, a sheen of sweat covered both men.

  Banugul leaned forward, her hands on her hips. Kineas watched her as she watched the contestants.

  Philokles changed his weight suddenly, as if surrendering to the Thessalian’s embrace, but he got his body turned as he stepped in. One arm moved and he struck the Thessalian in the head with his forearm and suddenly Therapon was on his back and Philokles landed on him, driving the air from his lungs.

  ‘He does that to me all the time,’ Kineas said ruefully.

  Banugul turned to him, eyes alight with mischief. ‘The things I could imply,’ she said. But she reached out a hand to his chest and shook her head. ‘I am too crude for words. I mean no hurt.’

  It was the first time she had touched him. The warmth of her palm on his chest seemed to light a small fire there. She withdrew the hand while he was still surprised by its presence.

  Philokles swung to his feet and offered Therapon his hand, but the other man didn’t take it. Instead, he stood brushing sand off his sweat, glowering. Philokles held his eyes. ‘Another throw?’ he asked.

  ‘Perhaps another time,’ the Thessalian said, and reached for his chiton. Kineas disliked the look the Thessalian gave his friend. It boded ill.

  The queen’s tour started a new round of visits between camp and citadel, and the new ties between them did not make Kineas entirely happy. The first thing that annoyed him was Darius, whose skill with the bow and willingness to learn had endeared him to the Olbians. Kineas was becoming used to seeing his officers in the corridors of the citadel from time to time - Banugul had made it clear that they were welcome. But Kineas saw Darius too often, almost every day, and Kineas worried, both for the Persian boy and for his loyalties.

  ‘You spend a great deal of time here,’ Kineas said, several weeks after the queen’s visit to the camp.

  Embarrassed, the young Persian shrugged. He smelled of perfume. ‘I like to hear Persian spoken sometimes,’ he said. ‘They are not unlike my people,’ he went on in the tone of outraged adolescence. Despite his upright carriage, he had the whine of the young to him when he replied, and it annoyed Kineas still more.

  ‘You are on the duty roster today,’ Kineas said.

  ‘Only for the reserve,’ Darius said. He shrugged. ‘They won’t be called out. What, is Alexander coming through the snow?’

  Kineas tried to decide whether what he felt was jealousy at the smell of her perfume or annoyance at the tone of bratty innocence and justification. ‘Why don’t you make your way down to camp and take a spell on the walls while you consider the difference between insolence and disobedience?’ Kineas said.

  Darius was not a fool. He saluted and left. Later inquiry showed that he had spent the entire shift on the walls. Kineas dismissed the incident.

  Four days later, Darius was in the citadel again on his duty day, and Kineas barely restrained his temper. He felt that his orders were being flouted - worse, he suspected that he was himself being unjust. He visited the citadel, and he was the commander, the most responsible man of all. A poor example.

  However, despite his own transgressions - perhaps because of them - Kineas lost his temper. ‘March your arse down to the duty office and wait there!’ Kineas barked.

  Later that evening, Kineas found Darius sitting in his megaron ‘You are banned from the citadel until further notice,’ Kineas said.

  ‘Oh, that’s fair,’ Darius said with fluent sarcasm.

  ‘One more word and you can shovel snow for the rest of the winter,’ Kineas said.

  Darius looked as if he wanted to say more - a great deal more. When the Persian marched out, his silence made Kineas feel like a bully, the more so as Darius cast such a look of supplication at Philokles, who was just coming in, that Philokles put his arm around the young man’s shoulders and stepped out into the snow to talk to him. When Philokles came back in, he was shaking his head.

  ‘You go to the palace, Strategos!’ Philokles said.

  ‘I am the commander, and responsible for our relations with the queen.’ Kineas offered the Spartan a cup of wine.

  ‘Ares and Aphrodite, and you call me a sophist?’ Philokles grinned. Then he stopped smiling. ‘Listen, I’m here for something serious. Have you watched Leon and Eumenes? Together?’

  Kineas made a face and shook his head. ‘Should I? What, are they lovers?’

  ‘Ares, you’re blind as a bat. No, much the opposite. They’re facing each other like armed camps on a plain.’ Philokles drained his wine. ‘You need to keep them apart.’

  ‘What’s it about?’ Kineas asked.

  Philokles narrowed his eyes and frowned. ‘I may spy for you from time to time, or for my homeland. I don’t carry tales about my comrades. ’ He turned the cup upside down and stomped out.

  Alerted, Kineas couldn’t miss the growing competition between Eumenes and Leon. Kineas didn’t know where it had started or what it was about, but it was out of hand. The incident that brought their misdeeds to light for Kineas was a torch-lit horse race on the snow, where the riders competed to bring fire to the altar of Demeter at the spring equinox, a tradition that Olbia shared with Athens. The competitors raced around the circuit of the camp and finished at a gallop down the main street, riding flat out for the building that served as a temple for all their gods. Eumenes lost when his horse, tearing around the corner of one of the soldiers’ cabins, slipped and fell. The young man broke a rib and walked with a limp for two weeks, and his horse slid on the ice, limbs flailing, and ended up injuring a dozen bystanders. Kineas saw the turn and saw the rough play between Leon and Eumenes in the moments before the fall.

  When Kineas inquired, he received the kind of knowing looks that told him that most of his commanders already knew that something lay between the young men, and weren’t going to inform on them. When Kineas confronted the two combatants, they glared at each other like a pair of fighting cocks. When he upbraided them in private, they wore looks of humiliation and apology.

  It was a week later, when he saw Leon talking to Lot’s surviving daughter, Mosva, that Kineas began to see how the winter wind blew. Because even as he watched Leon, who lost all of his courtly polish in her presence and had the body language of a young dog, shifting, shrugging, rolling and hanging his head, he also saw Eumenes watching the two of them, his face a thundercloud.

  Aha! he thought. But it didn’t resolve the issue.

  It was about the same time that Kineas went up the hill to see Banugul about a matter of logistics and found she was not available to receive him. Darius’s pale roan horse was in the citadel stables. Kineas rode
back down the hill in a foul temper. He called for Diodorus.

  ‘Have the fucking Persian dismissed. He has disobeyed me for the last time.’ Kineas was so angry he spilled wine.

  Philokles came in through the multiple blankets that now made the doorway. ‘Problems?’

  Kineas was silent. Diodorus raised an eyebrow. ‘Kineas’s Persian boy has become a little too popular in the palace,’ Diodorus said. He made a face.

  ‘Fuck you,’ Kineas said. ‘I gave him a direct order and he disobeyed. I am ordering him dismissed.’

  ‘You’re over-reacting,’ Diodorus said. ‘He’s an excellent horseman and a top-notch fighter. You’ve said yourself he’s a better swordsman than you, and you’re the best I know. I’m ready to put him up for phylarch.’

  ‘Dismiss him,’ Kineas said, voice hard.

  ‘Don’t be an ass,’ Diodorus said.

  Philokles shook his head. ‘Probably better if you dismiss him,’ he said after a moment.

  Diodorus looked hurt. ‘The strategos is thinking with his little head,’ he said.

  Philokles raised an eyebrow. ‘I say that it is for the best.’

  ‘Fine!’ Diodorus said. ‘I’ll obey. I think you’re both idiots, though.’

  Kineas didn’t see the Persian again, but the rumour mill said that the young man had immediately taken service in the citadel, with the queen’s guard.

  Kineas felt like an idiot, but it didn’t cause him to apologize. Winter was taking its toll. And despite his best efforts, he wasn’t able to stop his own visits to the citadel. Kineas tried to limit them to matters of business, but he was aware that he stretched those boundaries to fit his needs. As winter howled outside his megaron he admitted to himself that, like a wine-bibber denied his tipple, four days of snow had denied him his addiction and he was growing fractious. He decided to punish himself for the dismissal of Darius by avoiding the citadel. He snapped at Philokles on the fifth day of imposed abstinence from Banugul’s charms and the Spartan grinned.

  ‘I can find you a nice clean Hyrkanian girl who’ll reduce that swelling in no time,’ he quipped.