by Max Overton
With some difficulty, Nikometros and Timon extricated themselves from the offices, fending off searching questions with noncommittal answers.
On the way to Hephaestion's chambers, they ran into Seleukos. The adjutant was hurrying through the corridors with a harried look on his face. "Nikometros, thank the gods I ran into you," he babbled. "Look, I'm worried we acted out of turn yesterday. The doctor, Glaukios, I think we should hang him after all."
"I thought we decided to keep him alive until the king had the opportunity to question him? He wasn't thinking clearly when he ordered his death." Nikometros took Seleukos by the arm and drew him aside. "People are saying he was poisoned."
Seleukos licked his lips nervously. "All the more reason then."
"What do you mean?"
"If Glaukios did...you know..." Seleukos glanced around the halls and dropped his voice to a whisper. "Who had reason to hate Hephaestion? Who stands to gain by his death? One of the top generals. And what happens when they find out we're keeping him alive?" He shivered. "No, we must kill him."
"He's right, Niko," murmured Timon. "Not only that but you say the king ordered it? You cannot disobey a direct order from the king."
Nikometros frowned. "I don't like it. If there's a poisoner at work...Ptolemy?"
Seleukos stared at him. "What about Ptolemy? What have you heard?"
"My wife was poisoned yesterday. She lives but the poison came from Ptolemy, or so says the note."
"You have this note? Let me see it."
Nikometros fumbled in his purse and handed over the crumpled piece of paper.
Seleukos read it, turned it over, held it up to the light then reread it. "It isn't in his hand, but then I wouldn't expect it. The paper is coarse too, not palace paper." Seleukos sighed and handed the note back. "I wouldn't expect it of Ptolemy."
"Nor I." Nikometros jerked his head toward Hephaestion's chambers. "What's happening up there?"
"Not much. The embalmers are seeing to him, thank the gods. Much longer in this heat and he would stink."
"And the king?"
"In his own rooms still and his friends attend him."
"Embalmers?" asked Timon. "Isn't he going to be cremated then?"
Seleukos shrugged. "No doubt, but Alexander will want to see to the funeral arrangements himself. If there is to be a delay then the body must be preserved. There are plenty of Egyptians in the city...why, even your old priest volunteered."
"Ket?" asked Nikometros. "He's in there?"
"Yes, well, I must be going," said Seleukos. "Think hard about the doctor, Nikometros. If I hear nothing to the contrary from the king by midday, I intend to hang him." He nodded and hurried off down the corridor.
Nikometros grimaced and resumed walking toward Hephaestion's apartments. Guards nodded to him at the door, letting them into the chamber. The body of the Chiliarch lay on a stretcher beside the bed, washed and anointed with pungent ointments to hold back the odours of decay. Several men busied themselves around the corpse, their bald heads and crisp white linen kilts marking them out as Egyptian. To one side stood the priest Ket, clad in a long white robe with a broad gold necklace hanging over his chest. He looked up with rheumy eyes as Nikometros entered.
"My lord Nikometros," Ket said, bowing. "And Timon. We have nearly finished here. In a few moments we will transport lord Hephaestion to the mortuary and prepare his body."
"Greetings, Ket," replied Nikometros with a smile. "I didn't look to see you here." He glanced around the chamber. "You're in charge of the embalming?"
"Indeed. I am a priest of Ammon-Ra. I am familiar with the procedures."
One of the embalmers approached and bowed low to Ket. "He is ready, high one."
Ket nodded. "Take him then, but with dignity. Remember he was a lord in life and beloved of the king."
The embalmers covered the corpse with a clean linen sheet, picked up the stretcher and walked sedately from the room. Ket followed.
Nikometros followed the procession. He watched as it set off down the road toward the lower levels of the citadel and the city mortuary. He turned and looked back toward the palace before gesturing to Timon. Then he set out for the Royal apartments.
The halls leading to the king's quarters bristled with people, subdued but eager for any word of the king's health and frame of mind. Nikometros pushed through, his rank giving him access to the less crowded antechambers. He saw Perdikkas and Ptolemy in earnest discussion, with a steady stream of junior officers bringing in reports and hurrying away with orders.
Perdikkas looked up as Nikometros approached. "Ah, there you are!" he exclaimed. "I wondered where you'd got to. We have a busy day ahead of us."
Nikometros glanced toward Alexander's chamber. "The king is recovered then?"
"No. However, the business of the empire must go on regardless. He won't thank us if the place is in chaos."
"Where is the doctor hanging?" asked Ptolemy. "He's sure to ask."
Nikometros hesitated. "He's still alive, sir."
"Alive?" Ptolemy glanced around and lowered his voice. "What in Hades do you think you're doing? The king gave you a direct order."
"Sir...there's talk that he...that Hephaestion was poisoned. If the doctor is killed we may never find out who gave him his orders."
"Are you mad?" hissed Ptolemy. "Let people think he was murdered and we'll have a civil war on our hands."
"He died of a flux, Nikometros," interposed Perdikkas quietly. "The doctor erred only by leaving him untended. Solid food too soon after a weakness of the stomach can kill." He held his junior officer's eye. "That is all that happened. Unfortunate, but life goes on for the rest of us."
Nikometros looked from one general to the other. "Yes sir," he said at length. "Yet there is a poisoner in our midst."
"I thought I just told you..."
"An attempt was made on my wife with poison yesterday, sir."
Perdikkas stared at him. "Your wife?"
"She lives?" asked Ptolemy. "Are you sure it was poison and not some illness?"
Nikometros opened his purse and drew out the note. He passed it to Perdikkas who read it then held it out to Ptolemy.
Ptolemy stared at Nikometros with a stiff look of insult. "You think I did it?"
"Come," said Perdikkas with a glint in his eyes. "I'm sure he means no such thing. Anyone can see it isn't in your hand."
"Do you think I would be fool enough to sign my name to such a thing?" Screwing up the piece of paper and flinging it to the floor, Ptolemy spun away and started for the door. Abruptly he turned back and pushed his angry face close to Nikometros. "I thought better of you. For your mother's sake I was...ah, to Hades with you." He stormed off, pushing past Timon.
Perdikkas raised an eyebrow. "For your mother's sake, Nikometros? What's the significance here?"
Nikometros cleared his throat and looked toward the doorway. "He is...my mother and he..."
Perdikkas snorted. "By the paps of Aphrodite! Born on the other side of the blanket, eh? Well, no great shame there. A man is what he makes of himself." He clapped Nikometros on the shoulder. "I can recognise your talents, young Nikometros. Stick with me and you'll go far."
Timon stooped and retrieved the crumpled note. He carefully smoothed it out and put it into his purse.
Perdikkas drew Nikometros aside and put his arm around his shoulder, talking quietly. "Now, we've cancelled the games and ordered the city into mourning. Peukestas is handling the foreign visitors and Eumenes concerns himself as usual with such correspondence as cannot wait. Ptolemy is keeping a firm hand on the army and I control the court. There is not much else we can do until we know Alexander's mind. What you must do, immediately, is hang the doctor."
"Seleukos is to do it at midday if there's no word from the king."
Perdikkas shook his head. "Don't wait; do it now." He glanced at Timon. "Send your man. There are important things we must discuss."
Nikometros nodded to Timon. "You heard? Then do it, T
imon. I'll meet you back at our quarters."
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Chapter Sixteen
Timon sat in a seedy-looking tavern in the Street of Horses, nursing a large mug of watered wine. He grimaced, remembering the screams of the doctor Glaukios when they dragged him away to his death. He lifted the mug and swallowed half the contents in a series of great gulps.
Across from him, similarly engrossed, sat Tirses and Berinax. The two Scythian warriors looked out of place in the city, their dark brown eyes dreamy and fixed on a place only they could find, seeing in their minds the vast rolling plains of grass of their native land. Increasingly of late, as the full extent of their self-imposed exile sank in, the Massegetae followers of Nikometros sought solace in drink. Warriors of the horse, they gravitated to familiar surroundings and were often seen in the horse lines, along the streets bordering the stockyards, and in the shops and stalls selling horse tack and feed.
Timon pulled the crumpled scrap of paper from his purse and smoothed it out on the table. He read the elegant script slowly, his mouth forming the words silently then read them again.
Berinax leaned over the table and tapped the paper with his forefinger. "What's that then?"
"A note," replied Timon shortly. "It came with a gift to Tomyra."
Tirses belched and peered down at the piece of paper. "A gift." He attempted a smile but only achieved a drunken leer. "Nice to have gifts."
"Not this sort," muttered Timon. "Someone tried to poison her."
Tirses stared at Timon and carefully placed his cup on the table. "Poison? Our priestess? When did this happen?"
"If you attended upon your lady and your commander instead of carousing in the brothels and taverns, you would know these things."
"Answer me, Timon," grated Tirses. "When did this happen and who did it?"
"Yesterday morning." Timon shrugged. "It wasn't successful but it brought on the birth early. She may miscarry."
Tirses staggered to his feet and stood swaying over the table, staring down at Timon. "I will have his blood for this," he shouted. "I will cut off his genitals and feed them to the dogs, I will..."
"Sit down," snapped Timon, grasping Tirses' arm. "And keep silent if you wish to help your lady. You too, Berinax," he added as the other Scythian opened his mouth. Timon waited until the conversation around them at the other tables started up again. He looked round the room then turned back to his companions. "We don't know who sent the poison," he whispered. "Only that this note came with it." He shoved the note across the table.
Tirses scanned the note then turned it over and examined the blank back. "What does it say? I cannot read Greek."
"It's in Macedonian. It says 'A Gift from Ptolemy'."
"Then let us find this Tol...person and kill him," Berinax declared.
"Why haven't you done so already?" asked Tirses. "Who is this Tol-me?"
"Lord Ptolemy. General of the Armies, half-brother to Alexander and father of Nikometros." A wry smile twisted Timon's mouth. "You see why we cannot just kill him."
Tirses became subdued. "Even so, this is a land of law. Surely even such as he must answer to the king."
"Or is the king guilty too?" muttered Berinax.
"Hsst!" Timon grabbed Berinax's arm. "Don't even think that," he whispered. "Men who accuse kings, die. Even one like Alexander who binds himself by law." He shook his head. "No, the king isn't involved. Nor do I really believe Ptolemy is responsible. The only evidence is the note."
"It names him," Tirses hissed.
"Would you put your name to such a gift? No, someone used the general's name to cover himself. Maybe to get past the guards too."
"So what do we do?" asked Tirses.
"We must ask among the servants of the court. Servants and slaves see many things. Someone must have seen who delivered the poison."
"The Lions can ask in the city," added Tirses. "We can go places gentlemen such as yourself couldn't go."
Timon nodded. "Berinax. Can you be trusted to deal with this? You cannot tell anyone who is suspect but you must get your friends searching immediately. Look for anything suspicious, anyone who might bear Nikometros or Tomyra a grudge. Be discreet and report back if you find anything."
Berinax rubbed his eyes and belched again. He nodded and pushed his stool back. "Aye, Timon. You can rely on us. If there's anything to find in the city, we'll find it." He straightened and staggered toward the door, pushing his way past the other customers of the tavern.
"Don't worry," Tirses said with a slight smile. "He may be drunk now but he'll sober up fast enough. He's a good man." He ran his fingers through dark hair and shook his long locks out. "What do we do, Timon?"
"Back to the court. Someone must have seen the person who brought the gift. I have an idea where to start."
Together, the two men left the tavern on the Street of Horses and turned toward the main thoroughfare that ran up through the seven levels of the citadel. The crowded city streets bustled with a hundred businesses, every man shouting his wares, pointing to a shop or craftsman, gossiping, arguing, touting or pimping for customers. Children, from ragged clothed urchins to finely dressed scions of merchant houses, ran and played, ducking and weaving through the crowds. Whores plied their trade from street corners or in darkened doorways. A dozen languages assailed their ears and many more odours assaulted their nostrils. Exotic perfumes, cooking foods, spices and ordure, animal and human, filled the air. People from the far reaches of the empire, drawn by the glittering promise of Alexander's court, surged through narrow streets, seeking the riches that followed a conquering army.
Pushing up to the gates of the first tier, Timon and Tirses were challenged by the guard.
Timon grinned and nodded in recognition. "Ho, Stenos," called Timon. "I thought you weren't on duty today."
The guard looked at Timon and spat to one side. "I wasn't until my rotting commander put me on extra detail."
"I have no doubt it was completely undeserved."
"Aah, it was nothing," grumbled Stenos. "Pissing in the guardroom instead of going all the way out to the privy. It was a dark night and I wasn't feeling well. What's the harm?"
"Indeed," commented Timon. "Well, will you sign us through, Stenos?"
Stenos nodded and signed to a clerk who sat at a rough table in the shade of the citadel walls. "Timon, inner court and...yes, Tirses, Scythian envoy."
The clerk rifled through a few pages of parchment and found their names. He made a mark by each and nodded.
Stenos turned back to Timon with a lascivious grin on his face. "Perhaps I can interest you gentlemen in a rather extraordinary pleasure?" He rubbed his hands together.
"Another time," Timon replied as he stepped through the gate.
"What pleasure?" asked Tirses.
Stenos furtively scanned the area and pulled Timon and Tirses to one side. "Odda," he said. "Odda the Galician. She's a whore, but no common one. Newly arrived from Babylon and well versed in all the tricks of the trade. If you tell her I sent you, she'll..."
"I think not," interrupted Timon.
Stenos scowled and shrugged. "Well, next time maybe. But don't delay too long. She's in great demand."
Leaving Stenos in the gateway, Timon and Tirses hurried on up the main street. The guards at the other gates leading to the higher levels also knew Timon but their rank was higher and their manners more refined. They passed the two men through while exchanging only pleasantries. When they reached the level where the minor court officials and servants resided, Timon turned aside into a small, winding street. He pointed toward a solid but unassuming house surrounded by a small courtyard. He knocked on the outer door and, after exchanging a few words with the gatekeeper, entered a shaded courtyard.
A few moments later, a portly man in rich silks appeared in the portico of the house and hurried across to them, his arms open wide and a broad smile on his face. He embraced Timon exuberantly then stepped back. "Timon," he
exclaimed in a high-pitched voice. "Why have you taken so long to come and see me?" He turned to Tirses and cocked his head to one side expectantly.
"Chrysoas, may I present the leader of the Massegetae delegation, Tirses, son of Pragmyges. Tirses, this is Chrysoas, Entertainment Master to the high court."
"Er...yes, greetings," stammered Tirses. He bowed low to cover his confusion.
Chrysoas smiled and bowed low himself. "I am delighted to meet you at long last," he enthused. "I'm eager to hear what you think of Persia. It must be very different from your empty plains." He turned toward the house and sharply clapped his hands. "Where is that boy? Excuse me, my friends, pray be seated and I'll find us some refreshment." He gestured at some cushioned benches in the shade of a large peach tree before hurrying off toward the house.
"Timon," hissed Tirses as soon as Chrysoas disappeared. "He...is he...you know, a 'cut' man?"
"Chrysoas is a court eunuch, if that's what you mean. He's a good man, unambitious and unassuming. He has access to many parts of the court we could never get to."
"But a eunuch..." Tirses shook his head. "I've heard stories of them. Is he cut down to...to a woman's parts? Who would want to be such a thing?"
"He didn't choose his life," Timon snapped. "He was sold into it as a young boy. Chrysoas made the best of what the gods threw at him." He glanced toward the house. "Now be polite, Tirses. We're his guests, in his house. Treat him as you would any other gentleman."
Chrysoas bustled up with a young boy who bore a large silver tray. The boy clumsily set the tray down on a small table, bowed to his master and scampered off. Chrysoas sighed and shook his head. "It's so hard to find good servants these days." He turned back to his guests with a smile. "May I offer you refreshment? I have a delightful citron drink in crushed ice. I bring the ice from the mountains to the north, five days travel. Dreadfully expensive, but citron is really not worth drinking unless it's cold." He poured the drink into tall silver cups and passed them to Timon and Tirses.
Timon sipped and smiled. "Delicious, Chrysoas. Your hospitality truly overwhelms us."
