Tyrant: Storm of Arrows

by Christian Cameron

  Kineas was not slow to realize that many of them were not as keen to march away to fight Alexander as he was. They’d had a winter to hear tales of the eastern deserts and the impassable mountains that ran to the edge of the world.

  But Diodorus’s plan was sound.

  ‘I’ll think on it,’ Kineas said.

  ‘Don’t forget the fodder,’ Niceas said, and coughed. Red sprayed his fist. He tried to hide it, and Diodorus and Kineas exchanged a look of shared concern.

  The next day, the sun came up and stayed, and no rain fell on the fields of mud beyond the town and the citadel.

  Diodorus, Leon and Nicanor were hard at work behind him, scratching out rows of Greek characters to represent every man in the line of march and to give the officers a manual on which to drill their men. Across the drill square, by the gate, Lycurgus was recruiting and drilling men that he had turned away all winter, wolfish Greeks and nondescript Persians. Beside him, Temerix the smith stood bundled in sheepskins, also recruiting from the brigands who came to the gate as soon as they heard that Kineas was paying silver for service.

  He didn’t want to go to the palace. They had nothing to say to each other, except as a mercenary and his employer. He glanced around the smoky hall, looking for a man he could send in his stead.

  Diodorus was busy, and besides, Sappho would not forgive him for sending her man.

  Eumenes was under house arrest, and Kineas meant to let him stew.

  Leon might do. Except that he was busy, and sending him would expose Kineas’s unwillingness to do what needed to be done.

  Do the thing. Men said it when they asked for death, or when they sealed a deal in the Acropolis. He was evading responsibility. Facing the queen was his job.

  He knew with the finality of oracular prophesy that if he climbed the hill again, he would fall into her arms, vulgarity or none. She would think that his offer of service by his infantry was a concession to her charms. And he was not made of wood, or stone.

  Cowardice.

  A gust of wind picked up dust and dry snow from under the eaves of the huts and brushed it across the parade ground in a long swirl of dirty white, and when it was gone, Nihmu’s slight figure could be seen riding across the drill field.

  ‘Do you never appear as other people do?’ Kineas asked, by way of greeting.

  She laughed and lifted a leg over her horse’s head and slid to the ground all in one elastic motion. ‘The world is about to change,’ she said, her face suddenly serious. ‘I rode to tell you.’

  Kineas nodded.

  ‘The woman in the palace - the sorceress. She is very dangerous to you - today and tomorrow and tomorrow again after that. Be on your guard.’ Nihmu’s odd eyes met his square on.

  Kineas nodded again. ‘I was just thinking the very same thing as you rode up.’

  Sometimes, when dealing with Nihmu, it was possible to forget that she was a child. At other times, it was painfully obvious. ‘I have not had as much time for you this winter as I ought.’

  Nihmu nodded. ‘You are often at the palace. All the Sakje fear me. I long to talk to you. And my father orders it.’ She looked around. ‘I like your Nicanor. He is funny, and he makes good cakes.’

  ‘I’m sure that Nicanor doesn’t make cakes himself.’ Kineas couldn’t imagine the pompous and rather staid Nicanor amusing a child.

  Nihmu made a face. ‘Fat lot you know, Strategos.’ She laughed.

  Behind her in the drill square, Lycurgus dismissed the twenty files he was drilling and they broke up into knots of men talking and shouting. Another group, mostly Olbians, were heading out to the brothels of the agora, and they were shouting at a third party that was returning. The noise level swelled.

  Suddenly all the voices in the drill square shaped themselves into one voice. ‘Your blindness will kill as effectively as your sword,’ it said in the tone of a god.

  Kineas fell back a pace. Nihmu’s eyes were wide and her face was contorted, not the face of a child but that of a priestess. And then she grabbed at the bridle of her horse and ran away, crying.

  He sent for Ataelus when he gathered the tangled skein of his thoughts. Ataelus rode up looking at the sky. ‘Sun again tomorrow,’ he said. ‘For drying earth.’

  Kineas nodded. ‘I need you and the prodromoi to start making a fodder inventory,’ he said.

  Ataelus shrugged. ‘Huh?’ he asked.

  Kineas started again. ‘I need you and the scouts to go out every day and give me a report on the farms within a day’s ride - the number of wagons, the amount of fodder they have in their barns and stores.’

  Ataelus grinned. ‘For counting wagons and for scouting trail to east. Anything else for scouts?’

  Kineas spread his hands.

  Ataelus leaned down from his horse. ‘Temerix for counting barns and wagons. Ataelus for scouting east.’

  Ataelus never cut corners and he never feared to argue with his leader, which was welcome, even when the news was bad.

  ‘You are right.’

  Ataelus nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘If sun is for shining, scouts ride tomorrow. Back when moon is full.’ He shrugged. ‘Unless for dead. Always unless.’

  Kineas pointed at the throng of would-be warriors at the gate. ‘Anyone worth recruiting for the prodromoi?’

  Ataelus didn’t turn his head. ‘No,’ he said.

  Having dismissed centuries of Hyrkanian horsemanship in one word, Ataelus grinned. ‘Anything else, Strategos?’ It was a word Ataelus relished - he trotted it out too often.

  ‘You taking the girl - Lot’s daughter? Mosva?’

  ‘When for riding east? No. Stay with father. Last child. Not for scouting.’

  Kineas rubbed his beard and then snatched his fingers away. ‘I’d rather she went,’ he said.

  ‘Oho!’ said the Scyth. He nodded and gave a big grin. ‘Good. I for talking Lot.’

  ‘Go with the gods, Ataelus.’

  ‘Go with horses. For coming back with gods.’ Ataelus grinned. Then he wheeled his horse and rode away.

  Kineas went to finish some discipline.

  He slipped through two layers of hanging cloaks and blankets to enter the hut that Eumenes shared with Andronicus and six other gentlemen-troopers. The hearth was cold and so was the room, and the whitewashed walls served only to make it colder. There was no table and no chairs and no couches, only a rack of beds made by local craftsmen and covered with piles of blankets and furs and sheepskins. At the far end of the dark hut, one of the troopers - a Kelt called Hama - was ploughing a local girl, moving slowly and rhythmically under a tent of blankets. They whispered to each other, moaned and giggled together. Eumenes sat in misery, trying to pretend he was not there.

  ‘Let’s walk,’ Kineas said to Eumenes.

  Eumenes took his cloak from the doorway and followed Kineas into the sunshine.

  Kineas walked them up the snowdrifts to the walls. Troopers were punished with snow-clearing duty outside the walls, where a beaten zone was maintained. Inside, the snowdrifts sometimes added to the height of the fort.

  ‘You and Leon are competing for Mosva, Lot’s daughter,’ he said when they were out of the wind.

  Eumenes nodded.

  ‘I have sent her off east with the prodromoi. I suggest you apply yourself to your work as a professional soldier. Buy a girl if you feel the urge. That outburst in the meeting was ill-meant and bad for discipline. And you started it. I hope you understand me.’

  Eumenes flushed despite the bite of the cold. ‘It’s not fair. He called my father a traitor.’

  Kineas put his hands on the boy’s shoulders. ‘What you mean is that it’s not fair that your father was a traitor. He was. And Leon was a slave. And both of you are important officers in this company, and we need you to function as adults and not as brainless children.’

  ‘Not fair,’ muttered Eumenes. He was weeping.

  Kineas embraced the boy, who had suffered so much in the last year and was now weeping for the loss of
a girl and some prestige. His embrace obviously comforted the young man, and Kineas thought of Mosva crying in his arms after the fight in the high ground to the west, and how useless he was at comforting anyone.

  He did his best.

  Without really intending it, Kineas didn’t climb the hill to the citadel that day, or the next. Ataelus’s twenty riders trotted out over the mud into a sunny morning and vanished into the eastern hills before the sun was a hand high in the sky. The mercenaries - new and old - drilled on the parade under Lycurgus’s eye, with Diodorus watching and Leon taking notes. Eumenes had the cavalry out all day, conditioning their horses, walking them up and down, riding for brief stints, and the young man was merciless in working himself and every trooper under him. Temerix’s men went out in twos and threes, unarmed, and began the long job of locating fodder. Kineas watched the Kaspian for ships from the north and the mountains to the east for a rider from Ataelus.

  Another day passed, and Kineas failed to climb the hill.

  Towards evening on the third day, Philokles joined him on the porch of the megaron. It was spring, unseasonably warm, in fact, and three days of sun had caused avalanches on the hillsides and probably opened the hill passes south. Crocuses pushed up through the rubbish and the tree bark that had accumulated along the foundation of the megaron, and Kineas marvelled at their colour as only a man who has survived a long winter can do. Outside the gate, he watched a mounted man gallop past his sentries, straight up the hill to the citadel.

  ‘There is much beauty in the world,’ Philokles said.

  Kineas grinned. He put a hand on Philokles’ shoulder; he loved it when the philosopher ruled and his friend made statements of this sort. ‘There is,’ Kineas said. And then more soberly, ‘And much cowardice.’

  Philokles sat on the step of the megaron. He stretched his long legs in front of him and took a sip of wine before handing the cup to Kineas. ‘The queen?’ he asked. His voice was carefully neutral.

  ‘I lust for her. I marshal a thousand arguments against her - all excellent, I might add. Srayanka. The men. Her own - bah. I lack words to express it. And yet I fly back to her like a moth to an oil lamp. And then I resist.’ He shrugged. ‘It is like a contest.’

  Philokles raised an eyebrow. ‘You do love a challenge,’ he said.

  ‘It’s more than that,’ Kineas said.

  Philokles rested on an elbow. ‘Do you think I might have a sip of the wine I brought out to us? Thanks. Is it? More than a challenge? The camp is full of whores - you could have any one you liked, and no diplomatic incident need follow. You could fuck ten of them and no one would tell Srayanka. Indeed, I wouldn’t think it Srayanka’s business. But instead of a little helpful penetration of a whore to work off your male humours, you wander off into a game with a queen. The game is being played about dominance and submission. Sex is just a piece on the board. Stop dramatizing. In a few weeks we’re riding away - fuck her and leave her, or don’t fuck her and leave her. Neither one of you will ever submit.’

  Kineas laughed ruefully. ‘When you came out with the wine, I was remarking to myself what a pleasure you are when you are in a philosophical frame of mind.’ He took the cup and drained it. ‘I forgot that your philosophy often kicks like an army mule.’ Kineas took the cup back and finished the wine. ‘She says all our philosophy is cowardice, and every man should do what he wills.’

  Philokles nodded. ‘That’s the philosophy of a despot - or a woman trying to seduce.’

  ‘She’s wrong, though.’ Kineas wasn’t sure whether that was a question or an answer.

  Philokles looked into the empty wine cup and frowned. ‘You drank all of my wine.’ He looked hurt. ‘The good wine that tastes like berries.’

  Kineas nodded. ‘And now I’m going to ride up the hill and see the queen.’

  Philokles nodded. ‘I find it very much in keeping with the way the gods drive men to action that I began this winter begging you to avoid her, and tonight I use my tongue as a lash to push you up the hill.’ He held out the cup. ‘Since you’ll go inside to change, bring me out another cup of wine? There’s a good fellow.’ He waited until Kineas was halfway in the door. ‘She’s not wrong. Nor right. This is not about her, but about you.’

  Kineas stopped for a moment and then nodded. When he returned in a fine woollen tunic and cloak with a bronze ewer of wine, Philokles had been joined by Nicanor and Diodorus. Nicanor served wine and took a cup for himself.

  ‘So you’re taking the bit between your teeth?’ Diodorus said. ‘Sappho says to take care.’

  Kineas curled one corner of his mouth. ‘I will,’ he said. He slammed back a second cup of wine, causing his friends to look at each other.

  Lycurgus raised an eyebrow. He was leaning against a column, watching the agora. ‘Lot of messengers moving around,’ he said.

  Sitalkes brought his horse, one of the royal stallions that he rode to rest Thalassa. Beyond the gate, the rest of his escort waited. The evening was calm and warm, and curiously quiet except for the messengers. Kineas listened for a moment and diagnosed the problem - it was warm like spring, but there weren’t any insects yet.

  In the west, the sun slid down towards the cold blue waters of the Kaspian.

  Kineas got a leg over his charger, settled himself and turned back to Lycurgus and Diodorus.

  ‘Double the watch and have the quarter guard stand to arms,’ he said. ‘I’m scared of shadows.’ He hated to be like that - in a sentence he’d condemned forty men to lose their evening of rest.

  Diodorus shook his head. ‘No - I feel it too. All the beggars are gone from the gate. Stay here.’

  Lycurgus nodded agreement. ‘Something has changed. I don’t like it.’

  Kineas shrugged. ‘After two days of screwing up my courage? To Hades with that.’

  Philokles came up beside Diodorus. ‘You’re both jumping at shadows. You’re going to give her good news.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m worried, too. My man in the palace hasn’t reported in three days.’

  Kineas nodded, but his mind wasn’t convinced.

  ‘You should take a sword,’ Diodorus shouted, as Kineas turned his horse.

  Kineas shook his head and rode for the gate.

  The gate to the citadel was heavily guarded. There were eight men on duty and every one of them was in full armour. They seemed surprised that Kineas had come and they sent for the captain of the guard rather than passing Kineas.

  First he fumed and then he worried. Behind him, he could hear Sitalkes speaking quietly to his men, all big Keltoi.

  ‘Don’t be separated from your weapons,’ Kineas said. ‘Something is wrong.’

  The captain of the guard came out in a polished iron helmet with a scale aventail and a scale shirt. He was armed for war. ‘Last person I expected to see,’ he said.

  ‘You are awaiting an attack,’ Kineas said flatly.

  The captain shrugged. ‘Not my place to say. The queen will receive you, if you are coming in. Your men must wait in the courtyard, disarmed. ’

  Kineas shook his head. ‘No. I’ve been in the citadel a dozen times and my men have never been disarmed.’

  The captain shrugged. ‘Then they wait out in the wind,’ he said.

  Kineas turned to Sitalkes. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It’ll be cold. I’ll see to it as soon as I speak to her.’

  ‘Never mind us,’ Sitalkes said. ‘Take Carlus, at least.’ Carlus was the tallest man in the army, two hands taller than Kineas. He rode big horses and men got out of his way wherever he went.

  Kineas turned back to the captain. ‘One bodyguard,’ he said. ‘Armed.’ He handed the man a silver owl.

  The captain grunted and took the money. ‘Whatever the fuck. One man. It’s cold - let’s go.’

  Kineas gave his horse to Sitalkes, who threw a blanket over her. They waited in the icy wind on the gravel road under the walls and Kineas passed inside, into the sensuous warmth, led by one of her slaves.

  Carlus grunted twice
- once when the warmth of the floors penetrated his sandals and again when he saw his first oiled slave girl. Other than that he was silent. Kineas left his cloak and his sandals in the outer rooms. Carlus followed him silently.

  Kineas could see the tension in every visible ligament on the slaves. He followed the slave into the throne room.

  It was much the same as his first visit, except that she was back to wearing the clothes of a Persian matron, and most of her male courtiers were in armour. They fell silent as he entered. There was a man in silvered scale mail standing at her shoulder, who looked like a prince. His face was covered by the nasal on his helmet. He looked familiar.

  ‘You are a fool to come here, Kineas of Athens,’ she said.

  Kineas agreed. The man at her shoulder was Darius. Kineas felt foolish - he’d seen all the signs that the Persian was changing sides, but he’d ignored them. ‘I come with an agreement about the spring campaign,’ he said, still thinking to buy her complacence. Perhaps it was just another round in their game. The fear round.

  ‘You are a fool, Kineas,’ she said, and this time she sounded sad. ‘The spring campaign is already over. I have need of your soldiers. And if I can’t have them, no one will.’ She looked to be on the verge of tears, but she steadied herself. She motioned at Darius. ‘Kill him.’

  Carlus gave his third grunt. Kineas whirled to see the giant Kelt with a dagger rammed through his cloak into the armour on his back. He was wearing a heavy cuirass made of layers of linen quilted together, half a finger thick, and the dagger skidded off the armour and ripped across his neck. The Kelt grunted a fourth time and ripped his heavy sword from its scabbard. He killed two men in as many blows and scattered the guardsmen, forcing their captain back as if he was a giant in a riot of children.

  Kineas was unarmed and unarmoured, but he knew where the alcove was. He leaped back from the first rush, grabbed a bronze platter and stopped a killing blow from the man concealed there and another from one of the courtiers nearest the throne. Darius was down from the dais and moving towards him.

  ‘Philokles!’ the Persian shouted, and ripped a sword from another courtier and threw it at Kineas.