Scythian Trilogy Book 3: Funeral in Babylon

by Max Overton

  What am I doing here? he thought. I should be with Tomyra.

  The king stepped forward to the edge of the enclosure and raised his arms. Rapidly the noise and chatter of the crowd died away, the stadium lapsing into an expectant hush. Alexander smiled and pitched his voice into the silence like a trumpet call on a still day. "Friends," he called, the acoustics of the stadium carrying his words to the farthest seats. "Today we see the future. Before us, the youth of our great empire, of Macedonia and Persia and the most distant lands compete for the crown of victory. Join with me in this celebration of youth." Alexander signalled and a trumpet note rang out, releasing a torrent of young boys and youths from either end of the arena.

  The crowd surged to its feet, clapping and cheering. Alexander grinned broadly and sat down, his eyes gleaming as the boys formed up into precise ranks in front of him and raised a treble paean of praise. He acknowledged the tribute with a nod and a wave. The boys broke formation and hurried to different parts of the arena to start several varied competitions.

  Alexander accepted a cup of wine and beckoned his friends to pull their chairs closer to his.

  Nikometros noticed the Macedonian officers readily accepted the invitation, casually pressing in around the king, even walking in front of him. The Persian nobles seemed perturbed at this familiarity and bowed deeply, carefully walking round behind Alexander, keeping their heads lowered as they approached.

  "Nikometros!" called Alexander. "Join me." He indicated a seat beside him, occupied by Peukestas.

  The general got up and nodded to Nikometros as he approached, moving back to evict a lesser officer a few rows back. Nikometros pushed through the throng, excusing himself as he went, then stopped as someone stood up in front of him. He looked up to see Ptolemy's smiling face.

  "Good day to you, Nikometros," Ptolemy said.

  Nikometros stared at him, his suspicions raging up inside. He opened his mouth to accuse him, thought better of it and pushed past to the recently vacated seat.

  Ptolemy looked after him with a frown on his face.

  Alexander pointed at the activity in the arena as Nikometros sat down. "See, the footrace is about to begin. Perdikkas, who do you pick to win?"

  Perdikkas leaned forward, examining the runners warming up on the starting line. "A short race, Alexander. No stamina required. I think the tall dark one."

  Ptolemy snorted. "You obviously have not seen Kepher run. The Egyptian. A head shorter but well built." He smiled again, hesitantly, at Nikometros. "You agree, Nikometros?"

  Nikometros shook his head. "No. The dark one," he muttered.

  Perdikkas leaned across and clapped Nikometros on the shoulder. "Good man. You choose well."

  Ptolemy frowned again and turned back to the arena.

  Alexander grinned. "What about the tall fair one? He has the look of a runner. What do you think Eumenes?"

  Eumenes smiled ingratiatingly and dropped his gaze. "Oh, yes, Alexander. An excellent choice. Without a doubt, the tall fair one."

  Alexander raised an eyebrow while Perdikkas openly sneered.

  "Care to put a wager on that, Eumenes?" asked Perdikkas. "I have a thousand gold darics that say the dark boy beats your fair one."

  Eumenes glowered and shook his head.

  Perdikkas laughed loudly. "No balls, eh, Eumenes? The gods know you have wealth enough."

  Eumenes flushed and glared at the general. "Very well then, if you insist," he ground out.

  Alexander leaned over and tapped Perdikkas on the knee. "I'll take half that wager myself."

  Ptolemy grunted and nodded. "A thousand on the Egyptian then. Any takers?"

  Perdikkas smiled. "I think Nikometros and I have enough confidence in our boy to cover that, Ptolemy."

  Nikometros opened his mouth to comment when a shout went up from the crowd as the runners leapt into action.

  The Egyptian boy, Kepher, raced into the lead, closely followed by the tall fair-haired boy and a tall Persian youth. The rest of the runners followed in the dust, the tall dark boy trailing the pack.

  Perdikkas groaned. "What in Hades is wrong with the boy? Come on!" he yelled, rising to his feet.

  The boys ran on down the stadium to the far marker. Rounding the stone pillar, the boys jostled for position and Kepher lost his balance, sprawling in the dust. Two boys fell with him but the fair-haired youth leapt over the tangle of limbs and set off for the finish. The main body of youths rounded the mark, the dark boy swinging wide and bypassing the confusion. He raced off after the leader, his dark limbs pumping.

  Alexander rose to his feet in excitement as the boys neared the finish. "Oh, bravely run!" he cried. "I think your boy will catch him Perdikkas."

  The other generals and lesser officers surged up as the dark boy passed the marker half a step ahead of his fair rival. A colonel of infantry threw up his arms with a curse and caught Alexander a glancing blow. The officer, unaware, muttered an apology through the side of his mouth, his attention riveted on the finish. The Persian nobles gasped at the insult, waiting for the man to be hauled off to his death.

  Alexander just smiled and leaned toward Eumenes. "It seems we're not the only ones to lose money on this race." He turned back to his other friends as they resumed their seats. "A good race. Call at the treasury, Perdikkas. I'll see the money awaits you...and Nikometros. Ptolemy, Eumenes...I'll leave you to make your own arrangements." He looked into the arena again. "What's next? Archery?"

  The archery competition progressed slowly, the boys firing at a straw figure. Gradually the number of contestants fell away until only two were left. Attendants carried the arrow-riddled target from the arena and another attached a live pigeon by a cord on one foot to a tall pole that he raised aloft. The bird fluttered wildly, pulling at the cord.

  A small Cretan boy stepped up to the mark and loosed an arrow. The shaft flashed by the moving pigeon, dislodging a small feather that spiraled downward in the gentle breeze. The crowd applauded, the noise dying away when the second archer approached.

  The youth, a tall Hindu from the eastern empire, took a long time selecting an arrow. Having done so, he turned toward the Royal dais and bowed then turned his attention toward the fluttering bird. He drew back the bow and stood motionless as the bird flapped and tugged at its restraint. He released the arrow as the bird fell back, dangling from the cord.

  A gasp went up from the crowd when the arrow sliced through the cord a finger-width from the bird. The pigeon fell, recovered itself and flapped frantically, soaring up into the sky.

  Alexander led the applause. "A difficult choice for the judges," he remarked. "Though I think on balance the second..."

  Almost every eye in the stadium watched the swiftly shrinking dot of the pigeon as it flew up over the stands. Few saw the Cretan boy snatch an arrow from the ground, fit it as he whirled about and loosed into the void. Far above, the soaring bird abruptly slumped and plummeted to the ground, transfixed. It landed with a thump not far from the Royal enclosure, bright blood staining its white plumage. For several moments the crowd sat in stunned silence then erupted into a cacophony of shouts and clapping.

  "By the gods," breathed Alexander. "My best archers couldn't do that." He beckoned to the attendants. "Fetch that boy up here!"

  The boy arrived, breathless but grinning. His eyes widened when he recognised the fair-haired man standing smiling on the steps in front of him. Dropping clumsily to one knee, he looked down at the ground.

  Alexander's smile widened and he stepped forward, grasping the boy by his shoulders and raising him to his feet. He stooped and kissed the boy lightly on the forehead. "What is your name?" he asked.

  "A...Aristes, sir," stammered the boy.

  "Well, Aristes, that shot will be talked about for years. What god did you pray to this morning?"

  "A...Apollo, sir. Far...far-seeing Apollo," stuttered Aristes. "It seemed only right to pray to the Archer."

  "Indeed," replied Alexander. "And he heard your prayer.
You must remember to sacrifice to him tonight." He smiled. "A pigeon perhaps." Alexander dug into the small calfskin purse at his belt and took out a gold coin. He handed it to the boy.

  Aristes stared at the coin for several moments before muttering breathless thanks. He backed away, his hand knuckling his forehead.

  Alexander sat down again amid a smattering of applause from his friends. He grinned and called for another cup of wine, sipping it as the attendants in the arena organised the next event.

  "Javelins," commented Ptolemy. "This should be interesting, Alexander. I was watching some of them practicing the other day and one or two of them..." He broke off as heads turned toward the stadium seating. "Now what?" he asked, with a trace of annoyance in his voice as he rose to his feet.

  A court official ran up the stairs from the stadium entrance, pushing aside anyone who got in his way. An attendant stopped the official at the entrance to the Royal enclosure. The official tried to push past, his voice rising in agitation. Alexander looked over at the disturbance and frowned, signaling the man over.

  "My lord," quavered the official as he bowed to the king. "You must come...er, that is...lord Hephaestion, he..." The man's voice ran down and he stood staring at the ground, his fingers gripping and pulling at his tunic.

  "Speak plainly, man," Alexander said softly. "What is it you are trying to say?"

  The man took a deep breath and raised his eyes hesitantly to the king's. "Lord Hephaestion, sir. He...he has collapsed. I think he may..."

  Alexander blanched beneath his bronzed tan. He raised his eyes briefly to the distant citadel of Ekbatana then pushing through the throng of his friends and officers and raced down the broad stadium stairs toward the entrance.

  A heartbeat passed as Ptolemy and Perdikkas stared at each other then they too ran for the stairs.

  Nikometros hesitated a moment longer before signaling to the other adjutants. "Follow," Nikometros snapped. "Go with the king. We must guard him."

  By the time Nikometros and the others emerged from the stadium, the king was nowhere to be seen. Men stood and stared up the road that led to the palace, muttering and pointing. The army officers at once commandeered horses and set off at a gallop toward the city, flogging their mounts hard in an effort to catch up.

  As they rode into the palace courtyard, the horses blowing hard in a lather of sweat, Nikometros caught sight of Ptolemy and Perdikkas disappearing between the columns into the cool darkness of the palace.

  Seleukos, one of the adjutants, pointed off to the left. "Hephaestion's quarters. Hurry!" He leapt from his horse.

  Their footsteps echoed and clattered along the corridors, servants clustering in the doorways, whispering. They were on the main stairway when a great cry of anguish arose from the darkness in front of them. Nikometros felt the hair on his neck prickle and he paused for an instant before hurrying on, a feeling of dread rising in him.

  Hephaestion's room was richly furnished in crimson wall hangings and ornately inlaid wood. A smell of sickness hung in the still air. On the bed lay Hephaestion, his pale face turned up, his mouth and eyes open wide.

  Alexander lay across the body, gripping it fiercely, his face buried in the long golden hair. He raised his head, his eyes blank and staring and uttered another anguished cry.

  Perdikkas stepped forward. "Alexander," he said hesitantly.

  Alexander looked up and through the throng of people at the door to the room. With a struggle, his eyes focused and he leapt off the bed, pacing toward the door. "Where is he?" groaned the king. "Where is the doctor?"

  Ptolemy looked around then shrugged. "I don't know, Alexander. At the games, maybe?"

  A noise erupted from the corridor behind Nikometros and he turned to see the doctor pushing through the crowd, a worried look on his face.

  Alexander strode across and, gripping the man by his tunic, threw him across the room. Leaping after him, he dragged him to his feet and shook him like a dog shakes a rat, screaming at him. "Murderer!" yelled Alexander. "Why did you leave him?" He thrust the doctor's face toward the dishes beside the bed, where the remains of a chicken still sat in congealed grease. "Why did you let him eat?"

  The doctor stammered, his eyes rolling in his head. "He...he seemed better, sir. But I ordered only broth, not chicken."

  Alexander threw the doctor to the floor. "Hang him," he said coldly. "Now."

  Perdikkas looked across at Ptolemy then nodded. He beckoned Seleukos and Nikometros. "Take him away," he ordered.

  Nikometros hauled the trembling doctor to his feet and walked him to the door, Seleukos picking out a dozen soldiers as an escort. Nikometros glanced back as he left the room. Alexander laid on the body of his friend once more, sobs wracking his frame. The purple and white state robe he wore covered them both like a shroud. Generals and adjutants stood off to one side, silently, looking at their king and each other.

  Nikometros and Seleukos marched the doctor down the corridors and out of the palace. The only sound, apart from the measured tread of the soldiers, was the snuffling sobs of the prisoner.

  "Do we really hang him?" whispered Nikometros.

  Seleukos frowned. "Ordinarily, I wouldn't hesitate. One doesn't question the king's orders. However, the king is..." he hesitated. "...distracted."

  "So what do we do?"

  Seleukos shrugged. "What do you suggest?"

  Nikometros thought hard. "The king is, as you put it, distracted at the moment. When he comes to his senses he may want to question the doctor. It'd be a pity if we were too zealous."

  Seleukos looked at him sidelong. "Dangerous," he muttered. "If he thought we disobeyed him..."

  "Lock him up," urged Nikometros. "If after a few days the king shows signs of wanting to find out what happened, we can produce him. If not," he shrugged. "Then we follow our orders."

  Seleukos led the soldiers down through the city to the main barracks and the prison cells. He hesitated at the entrance to the execution courtyard then turned aside toward the cells. "Very well, Nikometros," he said as the soldiers locked the doctor into one of the dirty stone chambers. "We'll wait until the king is himself again."

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  Chapter Fifteen

  Nikometros struggled out of a fitful sleep before daybreak. He rubbed itching eyes and looked across to where Timon sat by the window, staring out at the paling eastern sky. "What news?" he croaked.

  Timon turned with an expression of concern. "None yet, Niko. Bithyia was here a few moments ago. The night passed quietly enough but the midwife thinks the birth will come soon."

  "Gods," muttered Nikometros, running fingers through his tousled hair. He yawned and stretched, getting up and walking to the far corner. He passed water into a large urn, leaning against the wall as he did so. "How is Tomyra holding up?"

  "Well enough, considering." Timon poured two cups of wine and passed one to his friend. "She's sleeping for now. Don't concern yourself, Niko. She's in good hands."

  Nikometros walked to the window. Below him, Ekbatana slowly awoke to the new day. "What of the king?"

  Timon frowned. "No change. His friends--Perdikkas, Peukestas and Ptolemy--persuaded him to move to his own room. He's there now."

  Nikometros sipped wine for several minutes as the sky lightened. He rubbed a hand over the stubble on his chin and yawned again. "I must attend to the king," he murmured. "But first I must make myself presentable and see Tomyra."

  The sun shone warmly on the walls of the chamber by the time Nikometros stood washed and shaved and clad in a clean tunic of Timon's. He donned his crumpled robe from the day before and refastened his sandals. Leaving the room, he and Timon marched down the hallway to his quarters where they were forced to wait while the main doors were unbarred. A young serving girl poked her head round the door. She squeaked and ducked back inside, trying vainly to close the door against the determined efforts of the men.

  Nikometros pushed into the room and stared across at the
great bed. Tomyra lay still under the rumpled sheets, her black hair lying matted and untidy on the pillows. Beside her sat Bithyia, a rag in her hand as she wiped the unconscious woman's face. The coppery stink of blood mingled with the heavy odours of herbs and wood smoke.

  The midwife hurried to intercept Nikometros. "You cannot stay, sir."

  "I will see my wife."

  Molossa hesitated then nodded. "She's sleeping, sir. Go to her but don't wake her. She'll need her strength."

  Nikometros crossed to the bed and gently sat across from Bithyia. "How is she?"

  Bithyia smiled wanly, exhaustion showing in every line on her face. "She's strong, Niko. She throws off the effect of the death weed, but the baby...well, it comes too soon."

  Nikometros took one of Tomyra's hands in his, feeling a fluttery pulse through his fingertips. He leaned forward and kissed Tomyra's cheek then her hand. "Look after her, Bithyia," he murmured.

  "You must go, sir," Molossa said while plucking at his sleeve. "I must prepare her for the birth."

  "Don't let her die, old woman."

  Molossa shrugged. "She's strong and the Mother sustains her. As for the child...that's in the hands of the gods. I'll do my best. Now go."

  Nikometros and Timon walked out into the courtyard then under the colonnades toward the palace. The buildings hummed with unease, groups of servants and officials, high-ranking officers and common soldiers milling around talking in low voices. Slaves busied themselves as they took down festive banners and replaced them with mourning wreaths.

  "Where to, Niko?" asked Timon.

  Nikometros shrugged. "To see Perdikkas, I suppose. He's my immediate superior."

  However, none of the office clerks knew the whereabouts of the general. They intimated that he had not sent word and for all they knew was still in the west wing of the palace. 'Was it true,' the secretaries asked, 'that lord Hephaestion was poisoned and the king maddened with grief?'