Scythian Trilogy Book 3: Funeral in Babylon

by Max Overton

  "And an attempt is made to poison our lady!" interrupted Menares.

  "Where is the connection to this Tol-me person that Timon talked about?" asked Berinax.

  Gerrades shrugged. "Who knows? Do we march in and grab them both, or wait for Timon?"

  Berinax thought for a few minutes. "Wait for Timon. We need more people. Menares, get up to the palace as quick as you can and find Timon. Tell him the situation and suggest he brings some soldiers with him."

  Menares disappeared into the crowd and the other two men settled down to wait. They wandered over to a nearby tavern with outside trestle tables sheltered from the elements by a gaily-coloured awning. Settling down with cheese, bread and wine, Berinax and Gerrades sat and watched the shop front.

  The sun rose in the morning sky then passed the zenith before Timon arrived. He arrived quietly, slipping into the tavern courtyard and sitting down next to Berinax. Tirses, Menares and five other Scythian Lions seated themselves at a nearby table, watching Timon with fierce anticipation.

  "You're certain it's Scolices?" asked Timon. "And this Parates, who exactly is he?"

  "A man without a tribe," growled Gerrades. "A brigand who trades with all the southern tribes of Scythia."

  "I met him," interposed Tirses as he slipped across from the other table. "A cultured man but a thief and a murderer when it suited him."

  "How do we take them, sir?" asked Berinax.

  "Carefully." Timon considered the problem. "Berinax, you'll take five men and try to secure any exits there might be at the rear and sides of the building. Tirses, you'll accompany me. Look at him carefully, make sure it is the man you remember then challenge him. Watch his eyes. If he's guilty he'll betray himself."

  "What of Menares and myself?" asked Gerrades.

  "Wait by the door and be ready to come to our assistance. Berinax, if you hear my shout, come running. But remember, it's vital we take them alive."

  Timon rose from the table and waited in the street with Tirses as Berinax and his companions sauntered into the narrow alleys alongside the shop. After a few minutes he nodded and, crossing the street, pushed open the door of the shop.

  The interior, lit only by numerous smoky oil lamps, swam in a tenuous blue haze. Odours, of which smoke and spices dominated, battered at their nostrils. Grain crunched beneath their feet, their passage disturbing large fat cockroaches that fled to the shelter of some food crates. The place was deserted except for two men examining bolts of cloth along one wall and a sour-faced youth picking his nose behind a wooden counter in the shadows at the rear.

  Tirses, with a glance at his companion, drifted across to some barrels and began lifting the lids to examine the contents.

  Timon weaved a path through the scattered merchandise toward the youth.

  The youth turned to Timon as he approached and roused himself from some internal contemplation, wiping a finger on his grubby tunic. "Yes?" he asked in a bored voice.

  "I wish to speak with your master," said Timon. "Please be so good as to fetch him."

  The youth shrugged. "He's busy. What do you want to see him for?"

  "My own business. Fetch him here now."

  "I told you, he's busy." The youth yawned, not bothering to cover his mouth. "Come back tomorrow."

  Timon slipped a dagger from his belt and slammed it into the wooden counter.

  The youth jumped back, his eyes widening. The two men examining cloth turned and stared for a few moments before resuming their quiet discussions.

  Timon leant on the counter and glared at the youth. "Now, I'm a reasonable man, so I'm willing to overlook your insolence. Are you going to fetch your master or do I have to explain to him why he lacks an assistant in his shop?" He glanced significantly at the dagger.

  The youth gulped, his throat working convulsively. "I'll get him," he squeaked before diving for the curtain at the rear of the shop.

  "Good," Timon muttered to himself and pulled the dagger out of the counter and slipping it into his belt. He turned and surveyed the smoke-filled room, nodding at Tirses.

  "How may I be of service?" The curtains parted and a tall, dark man emerged, his glossy shoulder length hair swinging as he walked. His handsome face showed only a polite curiosity as his dark eyes swept the room. He hesitated briefly at the sight of Tirses bent over an open barrel before turning to Timon.

  "I wish to buy weapons," Timon said. "Short swords, daggers. Some decent bows if you have them."

  "I don't sell weapons," the man replied. "Only a selection of knives for eating." He waved a manicured hand toward the curtain. "My servant could have shown you these if you had asked, instead of threatening violence."

  "I was told you sold weapons."

  "You were misinformed. Now if there is nothing else?" The man bowed slightly and stepped back. A movement caught his eye and he turned toward the small Scythian approaching him. His brow furrowed though his eyes remained guarded.

  "I know you," said Tirses. "Parates, is it not?"

  "Have we met?" asked the man coolly.

  "Once," replied Tirses. "At Urul. You came to see the chief's son Areipithes."

  "Ah, yes. I thought you had the look of a Massegetae. How fares Areipithes these days?"

  "Dead. As I'm sure you know."

  "Do you know a man called Scolices?" interposed Timon, leaning forward.

  Parates' eyes flickered before settling back into calm. "Scolices?" He shook his head. "I cannot say I know the name."

  "Strange," said Tirses. "He was a confidante of Areipithes. And stranger still, you talked with him last time you were in Urul."

  "Really? I cannot be expected to remember the name of every servant or common man I meet." Parates shook his head as he casually straightened his cloak, flicking a piece of grime from the cloth. "It was three years ago at least."

  "Two," said Tirses. "You haven't seen him since?"

  "Didn't I just say so?" Parates moved slowly back behind the counter. "Now, I have other business to attend to, gentlemen."

  "You lie," yelled Tirses. "We followed Scolices here. Even now he sits in your rooms." He dragged his sword from its sheath and lunged across the counter at Parates.

  Parates stepped to one side and smoothly slipped his own blade out. He slammed his sword down, trapping Tirses' sword against the counter. At the same moment he leaned across and snapped his fist out, sending Tirses reeling back against Timon. Turning, he leapt for the curtain at the back of the room and disappeared beyond it.

  Timon pushed Tirses off him with a bellow of anger. "Gerrades, Menares! Take him!" He wrenched his sword out and flung himself around the counter.

  The Scythians scrambled after him, yelling for Berinax to beware.

  They plunged into a dark warren of passages, full of shifting shadows. Timon cursed, holding his sword out, ready for a sudden attack. Shouts from deeper within the building, followed by the sharp clash of metal, drew them forward once more at a run. Bursting through a doorway, they emerged into a courtyard open to the street.

  Parates stood with his back to the wall of the building, defending himself against the concerted attacks of Berinax and two other Scythians. To one side, sprawled on the ground, lay the other three Massegetae Lions, nursing wounds.

  Timon strode into the middle of the courtyard and shouted for Berinax to pull back. Reluctantly, the Scythian obeyed, falling back but keeping his weapon at the ready. "Where is Scolices?" grated Timon.

  One of the wounded men cursed and spat. "Fled. The bastard ran as soon as he saw us."

  Timon cursed in turn then swept his gaze around the courtyard. Aware of the rapidly increasing crowd of onlookers pushing into the courtyard from the street, he called to them to stand back, then to Parates to surrender.

  Parates lowered his curved sword and stood staring at his attackers, breathing heavily. He raised his other hand and beckoned toward the crowd. "Good citizens!" he called. "Send for the Guard. I am attacked in my own place of business."

  "S
urrender!" yelled Timon, trying to hold back Tirses who struggled to get to grips with his enemy. "No harm will come to you."

  Parates remained silent, his eyes flickering over his assailants and the swelling crowd. The crowd parted and a dozen fully armed infantrymen ran up, their swords drawn and armour jangling.

  The leader of the guard detachment inspected the group in the courtyard then addressed Timon. "Identify yourself and your purpose."

  "Timon, adjutant to Nikometros, staff officer of Perdikkas."

  The guard commander grunted and turned to Parates. "And you?"

  Parates inclined his head politely. "My name is Parates. I'm a respected trader in this city. These men assaulted me in my own shop."

  The guard turned back to Timon. "Why did you assault him?"

  "He's wanted in connection with the attempt on the life of the wife of my commander."

  "Put down your sword, sir," said the guard.

  "I will not," replied Timon. "This man is coming with me."

  "No he isn't, sir," stated the guard commander firmly. "I'll take you all into custody, pending an investigation." He waited for a response from Timon. "Believe me, sir. There'll be bloodshed unless you obey me."

  Timon forced down a feeling of anger and frustration. "Your name?" he ground out.

  "Aristobolous."

  "Very well then, Aristobolous. We'll put up our weapons." Timon signalled to Tirses and Berinax. "However, I'll hold you personally responsible if this man escapes." He sheathed his sword.

  Aristobolous signalled to his men and they rapidly disarmed the angry Scythians and bound their wrists. The wounded men were assisted to their feet and bound also. Allowing Timon and Parates to retain their swords, Aristobolous led the detachment off toward the prison at the bottom of the citadel where Glaukios the doctor had so recently spent his last hours.

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  Chapter Twenty

  Peukestas sighed and pushed back from the table, papers spilling to the floor as he did so. He looked around the small guardroom at the men in front of him. Nikometros and Timon stood at attention while the Scythian, Tirses, almost trembled in his desire to fly at the Persian trader, Parates. The trader stood as if relaxed and at ease, only his watchful eyes betraying any hint of uncertainty. Aristobolous, the captain of the city guard, watched the proceedings with sword drawn.

  "Let me see if I have this straight," Peukestas said. "You're accusing this man Parates of complicity in the poisoning of your wife, Nikometros, because he has a man living with him who once worked for your wife's brother?"

  "That's not how it is at all, you addle-pated..."

  Nikometros put out a hand to restrain Tirses' outburst. "I'm sorry, sir, you must excuse this outburst. Scythians are unused to formal authorities and tend to speak their minds. However, your summing up is an oversimplification. If I might explain?"

  Peukestas nodded, the colour rising in his cheeks. "Please do."

  Nikometros thought for a moment, marshalling his thoughts. "My wife's brother was Areipithes, the previous chief of his tribe. He hated his sister and myself and tried to kill us many times. Though he is now dead, one of his close associates, the man called Scolices, still hates us and seeks our deaths. He was seen in the city and followed to this man's shop." He pointed at Parates. "Parates is known to have been an associate of the dead chief. It is very possible the attempt on my wife's life was instigated by Scolices and it is possible that Parates is involved. I ask that he be put to the question."

  "These are serious charges," mused Peukestas. "Parates, what have you to say?"

  Parates drew himself up and smoothed down his cloak before looking directly at the general. "My lord Peukestas," he said quietly. "It grieves me that I should be accused of such a thing. You must surely know that I have been a good friend of our Macedonian...ah...liberators, even to the extent of supplying your army with food and other supplies."

  Peukestas nodded. "Yes, yes, of course I'm aware of this, but it doesn't answer the charge. Do you know this Scolices?"

  Parates shrugged. "Can any man really know another? However, to answer your question, yes, I've met him on several occasions and talked with him."

  Tirses hissed and scowled. Timon nodded. "He admits it."

  "Why didn't you admit this when Timon questioned you?" asked Peukestas.

  "In my business, I deal with many important people. Who would trust me if I revealed their confidences to any who asked?"

  "So Scolices confided in you?" asked Nikometros.

  "Sometimes even the presence of a person can be regarded as a confidence." Parates smiled. "I wasn't about to reveal the whereabouts of one of my business associates to a stranger."

  "What did you talk about with Scolices then?" growled Timon. "The weather?"

  Parates stood silently, a slight smile on his face.

  Peukestas coughed. "Come Parates, this is a serious matter. Tell us the nature of your conversation. These men aren't traders. You won't be giving away any economic advantage."

  "As my lord wishes." Parates bowed to Peukestas then turned toward Nikometros. "I have traded with the tribes along the northern borders of Persia for many years. I knew Areipithes no more than I knew half a dozen other chiefs or chief's sons. In the course of my visits I met other men like this Scolices." He paused, a quick smile quirking his lips. "Truth be told, I don't like the man, but when he came to my shop, I offered him hospitality, as custom demands. I asked him for news of the borderlands and he asked about affairs within the empire. Nothing was said of poison, or of any man here present."

  "You swear by your gods that you had nothing to do with the attempted poisoning?" asked Peukestas.

  "I am a follower of the Light, my lord," replied Parates with dignity. "I believe in Truth."

  "You have Arabian death weed in your shop, don't you?" grated Tirses. "I saw it there."

  "People use it to kill rats, I'm told," replied Parates. "It's supposed to be very efficacious."

  "Why did you wound three of my men instead of explaining all this?" asked Nikometros.

  Parates raised an eyebrow. "I was attacked in my place of business by strangers. I could easily have killed them but I refrained."

  "Where is Scolices now?"

  "I don't know. If, as you say, he bears you malice, then I suspect he's far away. If you are forewarned then he won't succeed in harming you."

  Peukestas nodded and stood up. "Well, gentlemen," he said. "I've heard enough. I find that there's no evidence to link this man to the attempted murder. The presence of Scolices within the city may be innocent enough; we have no information on that. However, even if he is guilty, nothing beyond mere acquaintanceship links him to this respected merchant."

  Peukestas paused and turned to address Nikometros. "Nikometros, you're responsible for the actions of your men. I'm dismayed that they should launch an unprovoked attack on a respectable citizen instead of bringing this matter to the proper authorities. I therefore fine you twenty mina of silver, this sum to be paid to Parates as recompense for the damages caused. You will also apologise to him."

  "By the fornicating shades of Hades," muttered Timon. "That's a small fortune, Niko."

  Nikometros gritted his teeth, his nostrils flaring. He stared above his superior's head and forced himself to reply. "If you command me sir, I will obey." He turned to Parates and gave a stiff bow. "My apologies," he grated. "I regret that you have been inconvenienced."

  Parates smiled and returned the bow, gracefully. "Your gracious apology is accepted, my lord. My thoughts are with you in your troubles and I would like to call on your lady to ask after her health."

  "That is not possible. She hasn't recovered from the effects of the poison."

  "Then permit me to call when she is recovered. I have many fine pieces of Scythian gold and jewelry. It would please me to present your wife with a gift in remembrance of the hospitality I enjoyed among her people."

  Peukestas rubbed
his hands together, his smile broadening. "Come then, Nikometros. That's a generous gesture. Will you not clasp hands in friendship?"

  Nikometros glanced around the room, holding eye contact with Timon and Tirses for a few seconds. "As my general commands," he said. Stepping forward he held out his hand to Parates. The two men clasped hands, their eyes locking.

  With another low bow to Peukestas, Parates withdrew from the room. A few moments later, Peukestas and Aristobolous followed.

  As the door closed behind them, Timon let out a string of extremely coarse and colourful expletives. "How is this possible, lord?" hissed Tirses. "Does this general of yours mean to let the bastard go with not even a reprimand? And reward him too?"

  "Yes, Niko," added Timon, his face screwed up with worry. "How in Hades will you be able to pay the fine? I have a bit put aside from my pay you can have but nowhere near that amount."

  Nikometros snorted. "Have you forgotten the wedding gifts settled on us by Alexander? By my reckoning I could pay the fine forty times over from that gift." He shook his head. "No, that doesn't worry me, though the apology rankles somewhat. I know he's involved, Timon. I know it but I cannot prove it."

  "Then let me take care of it, lord," urged Tirses. "A dark night, a knife between the ribs."

  Nikometros rounded on the Scythian. "No. I forbid it, Tirses."

  Tirses shrugged. "As you will lord, I won't kill him."

  "Nor any of your men, Tirses. On your honour."

  Tirses looked away and exhaled loudly. "I obey." Suddenly he grinned, his teeth white against swarthy skin. "It would be the answer to our problems though."

  Timon looked thoughtful. "I don't see any connection between Lord Ptolemy and Parates though. Nor with Scolices. I cannot see a Macedonian general stooping to such depths."

  "Neither can I," agreed Nikometros. "Perhaps it's only coincidence that your dead Kelt was in the employ of Ptolemy. We know he frequented the city. It would be only too easy to bribe him to carry a gift to someone in the palace. I doubt he even knew the nature of the gift."

  "And he was murdered for it. A child, Niko," hissed Timon. "Who murders a child?"