Scythian Trilogy Book 3: Funeral in Babylon

by Max Overton

  The tribesmen turned when Alexander entered and one of them rose ponderously to his feet, followed by his companions. The man stood head and shoulders over the Macedonians, thick set and bear-like beneath his bulky clothing. Ragged greasy locks hung down over his shoulders and his eyes glimmered in a face overgrown with hair. He stared at the clean-shaven Macedonians and rumbled a question in a broad dialect.

  Alexander, his face impassive, gestured to the seats. He waited while the Kossaians reseated themselves before taking his seat by Ptolemy. Beckoning to the young Persian interpreter, he leaned over and, keeping his eyes locked on Beremos, asked for a translation of the chieftain's question.

  The interpreter looked uncomfortable. "He asks whether er...eunuchs attend on him, sire. He means no insult, I think, only a comment on the lack of beards."

  Alexander nodded. "Does he know who I am?"

  The interpreter addressed the delegation and listened to the terse response. "Yes sire. He says your fame precedes you, though you're...you're smaller than he thought." The interpreter flushed. "I'm sorry, sire. I'll try to be more circumspect in my translation."

  Alexander turned his eyes briefly to the young man. "You will translate exactly. There must be no misunderstanding." He leaned forward, looking at Beremos. "Offer him spiced wine."

  The chief snuffed at the great cup of heated spiced wine handed to him by a servant but did not drink. He watched as Alexander accepted a cup poured from the same pitcher, raising the wine to his lips and sipping at the hot sweet drink. After a moment Beremos tasted it, nodded in appreciation, and drank deeply. He belched loudly and put his cup down on the hard ground.

  "Why do you want to talk with me?" asked Alexander, through the interpreter.

  "I want your help," replied Beremos simply.

  "My help?"

  "Your quarrel is with Moltossos. He's paramount chief of all our peoples. I, myself..." Beremos shrugged. "I don't wish to fight you, yet if my chief orders me..."

  Alexander sat and waited.

  After a few minutes, Beremos shifted on his stool and drew his cloak tighter around him. "Moltossos is in the next valley with over a thousand men. He sits behind walls that dwarf those you razed and has food and drink to last all winter. You won't pry him out."

  Nikometros flushed and stepped forward. "We'll take him as we've taken every fort so far."

  Beremos grinned, showing a mouth full of rotten teeth. "Your puppy barks loudly but I think he's toothless."

  Alexander raised his hand as a warning for his staff officer without taking his eyes from the Kossaian. "Why do you tell me this?" he asked.

  "I can guide you into his city through mountain paths. You can fall on him before he becomes aware of your presence."

  "You would betray your lord?"

  Beremos shrugged. "Moltossos is old and set in his ways. He cannot see that the old Persian kings have passed and there's a new force in the land." He picked up his wine cup and peered into it. He held it out to the servant who immediately stepped forward to refill it.

  "And what reward do you seek for this service?"

  Beremos drank again from the hot, spiced wine before replying. "Nothing of any great import. Make me your satrap and I will govern Kossaia with an iron fist. None shall rise against you and your taxes will be collected each year."

  "And no doubt skimming a healthy profit off the top," muttered a young staff officer.

  Beremos glanced at the officer with disdain. "You fight for your king without pay?"

  Alexander frowned. "Your services will not go unrewarded. However, if Moltossos submits I will measure the man before I decide."

  The Kossaian chieftain scowled and leaned toward his companions. They muttered inaudibly for a few minutes before Beremos turned back to Alexander with a smile. "Agreed. I will guide you."

  Alexander smiled back, though his eyes remained hooded and watchful. He pushed the map forward. "Show me."

  Beremos stared down at the piece of parchment and took it in his large dirty hands, turning it and peering at the lines and notations. He scowled again and thrust it back. "I have no use for such things. I'll show you the paths myself."

  Alexander rolled the map and handed it to an officer. "Very well. Go with this man and describe to him the nature of the land we'll be crossing. I want to know details, like the width of the track, the steepness, how close it brings us to the enemy, how long it will take us to arrive. My officers know what to ask."

  Beremos rose to his feet with a grunt and followed the officer from the tent. When the last of the tribesmen left the audience tent. Ptolemy turned to Alexander with a troubled look. "You would trust such a man, Alexander?"

  Alexander shook his head. "Never, but I'll use him and reward him. As for Moltossos..." He shrugged. "We shall see."

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  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Bithyia leaned back on the great bed, sinking into the soft cushions with a sigh. She fanned her flushed face and shoulders, while idly glancing at the small black fan in her hand. It was emblazoned with an impossibly contorted scarlet and gold dragon and had been a year or more on the road from fabled Chin to a small Persian hamlet on the northern road from Ekbatana to Babylon. Looking down over her sweat-sheened breasts and swollen belly, she could just make out a hairy leg poking from beneath the rumpled bed covers. She grinned and kicked out at the estimated position of a familiarly hirsute posterior. "Come on, lover," she purred. "Don't think to spend your time asleep."

  The muffled snoring beneath the covers ended with a snort and a bearded face peered out blearily. A callused hand knuckled bloodshot eyes and sought to bring a semblance of order to his tousled hair. "Insatiable bitch. What do you do when I'm not here?"

  Bithyia grinned and rolled over, squirming her naked body down the bed to him. "Wait patiently for my husband, what else?" She took the man's face in her hands and kissed him firmly.

  After a moment, the man responded. He broke free and grinned before pushing Bithyia onto her back. He stared down at her naked body, a hand caressing her belly. "We shouldn't, my love. I don't want to harm our child."

  Bithyia pouted and pulled him down on her. "Once more, my beloved Timon. Once more won't hurt."

  The late afternoon sunlight crept slowly over the moving bodies and up the far wall of the bedchamber. Sated at last, Bithyia rested her head on Timon's chest and her hands complacently on her belly. They lay together in silence as twilight fell. When the last rays vanished, she stirred.

  "I wish you didn't have to return tomorrow," Bithyia whispered.

  "Aye, lass," grunted Timon. "As do I. But at least we had this time together. Niko was decent enough to let me carry dispatches back to Perdikkas, rather than the usual courier, so we shouldn't complain."

  "Is Niko well? Tomyra is certain to ask."

  "Well enough."

  The silence that followed his statement was so long that Bithyia turned her head up to look at him quizzically. "Meaning?" she queried.

  Timon sighed. "The king has changed since Hephaestion died. Once he killed only where necessary, sparing the lives of his enemies if they surrendered, certainly the women and children. Now whole villages are burned, everyone put to the sword. Niko hates the slaughter."

  Bithyia turned on her side and stroked Timon's matted chest hairs. "You do too, my great Greek bear."

  "A fine pair of soldiers, aren't we?"

  "I wouldn't love you if you enjoyed killing."

  Timon smiled and put a huge hand on Bithyia's head. "A little less loving might leave me with the strength to do other things...oof!" Timon gasped after a small fist caught him in the stomach. He grabbed for Bithyia's wrist and wrestled her back, pinning her with a leg. He leaned down and kissed her gently. "On the other hand, dear wife, your love is all that sustains me at war."

  They kissed and Bithyia's hands moved down Timon's muscular body. He broke free with a laugh. "Enough, lass. Give me time to recover."

/>   Bithyia smiled, her fingers tracing patterns on her husband's skin. "How much longer will these wars last? Does Alexander mean to kill all the Kossaians?"

  "Not much longer, I think. Two weeks ago we surprised the chief Moltossos in his stronghold. One of his sub-chiefs saw the way the wind blew and offered to betray him...for a reward of course. He wanted to be chief in his place."

  "And Alexander dealt with a traitor?" Bithyia exclaimed. "I thought more of him."

  Timon nodded. "He promised him a reward if he showed us the way over the mountains, but it turned out that Alexander's blood lust was spent. Moltossos saw he was caught in a trap and surrendered, asking only that his people be allowed to live."

  "What happened?"

  "The old man came into our camp with his family around him. Wives, sons, daughters, grandchildren...even great-grandchildren. He stood there proudly in front of Alexander and asked for mercy."

  "But he was a bandit chief. How could he expect mercy?"

  Timon shook his head. "Expect it? No. But he got it. I think all the killing and burning finally exhausted the king and he was only too willing to have an excuse to stop. He allowed the old man to go into exile with his family."

  "So he gave the traitor his reward? He made him chief?"

  Timon laughed. "No. Once a traitor, always a traitor. He gave him gold and suggested quite strongly that he find another part of the country to live in."

  "I would have killed him."

  Timon stroked his wife's hair and smiled. "My fierce Scythian warrior."

  "What happened to the tribe? Did they go into exile too?"

  "No. Alexander did as he so often has in the past. He installed one of Moltossos' sons as chief, left him a Macedonian officer and squad to keep order and marched away." Timon grimaced. "He always believed in letting his defeated enemies govern themselves, though heaven help them if they betrayed his trust."

  "The war is over then," exclaimed Bithyia. "You'll be home again soon."

  "With luck, lass, though there's still some things left to do. Not all the Kossaian tribes followed Moltossos." Timon stretched and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He walked across to the pot in the far corner of the room and relieved himself. Turning away, he picked up his clothing and began to dress.

  "I'd better pay my respects to Tomyra. See if she has a letter for Niko." Timon walked back to the bed and sat down, stooping to fasten his sandals. "How is she? Getting on better with her daughter?"

  Bithyia sat up on the edge of the bed and wrapped a blanket around her shoulders. "She still refuses to acknowledge the child. She won't even feed her and is content to let her nurse look after the child."

  Timon sighed. "I suppose she has the right but since Niko accepted the child's parentage you would think her own mother could come to terms."

  "That isn't my greatest concern." Bithyia hesitated, putting a restraining hand on her husband's arm. "She spends a lot of time with the merchant Parates."

  Timon jumped to his feet with an oath. "Parates? He's here?" His hand slid to his sword and he turned toward the door.

  Bithyia caught at him, pulling him back. "Timon. Be careful, please. He offers her no harm."

  Timon swung round and stared at his wife. "Then why are you concerned?"

  "He...I don't trust him. He's polite and generous and obeys all the proper forms in calling on a married woman, but...there's something not quite right."

  "Then I'd better call on him before I leave."

  "Please, my husband, don't let him provoke you. I know your temper..."

  "I won't lose control," growled Timon. "I'll call on Tomyra first then see Parates before I leave in the morning." He looked at Bithyia for a moment before flashing her a quick smile. "I won't go alone. If others are with me I'll be polite. But I will find out his intentions." He kissed his wife and strode from the room.

  Timon clattered down the rickety stairs of the inn and out through the tavern. The building was packed with troops and minor officials of the court. In the street the crush of humanity seemed almost as great. He walked up the street toward the centre of town, keeping to the edges of the road and stepping aside when a mule train or squadron of wagons groaned past, laden with the trappings of a minor city on the move.

  Coming at last to the door of the other inn, Timon peered up through the night at the lit windows on the upper floor. Around him, torches flickered, their shifting light and shadow made the moving crowds sway and stutter. Timon pushed through the door and up to the crowded bar where he tried to attract the attention of the innkeeper.

  "Who?" yelled the harried man after several minutes. The innkeeper broke off to push a jug of wine at a customer and scoop up a few copper coins.

  "The lady Tomyra," said Timon as the man passed by on his way to attend to another customer. "Which room is she in?"

  "Up the stairs." The innkeeper jerked a hand toward the doorway at the back of the large room. "Ask the porter. He'll tell you."

  Timon nodded and pushed away from the bar, threading his way through the jostling crowd. He peered up the darkened stairs at the faint glow of torchlight on the upper floor. He grunted and gripped the hilt of his dagger firmly as he climbed slowly.

  On the upper floor, a torch burned in a wall sconce, casting an unsteady glow down a narrow hallway. Timon walked up to the first of several doors leading off the hallway and raised his hand before hesitating.

  "What you want then?" snarled a thin voice from behind him.

  Timon turned toward the voice, the owner detaching himself from the deep shadows of a doorway on the other side of the stairs.

  "I seek the lady Tomyra. Please be so good as to tell me which room she is in."

  The man, a gangling youth with a wispy beard, stared at Timon, his hand scratching idly at an armpit. "Down there." He nodded toward the hall. "On the right, second door." The youth turned away with a yawn.

  Timon moved down to the indicated door and rapped on the wood. A dull murmur of voices within the room ceased and footsteps approached across creaking floorboards.

  "Who is there?" enquired a woman's voice.

  "Timon. I wish to see your lady."

  "One moment, sir."

  Footsteps creaked across the floorboards once more before fading into silence. A minute passed then Timon heard the woman returning. The latch clacked upward and the door swung open.

  "Come in, sir." A young Persian woman held the door open for Timon. "My lady will see you in her chamber." She closed and latched the door before walking ahead of Timon to a door at the far end of the room. She swung her hips provocatively, glancing back over her shoulder at the bearded warrior.

  On reaching the bedchamber, Timon eased past the woman with gruff thanks and pushed open the door. A bed dominated the room, covered with woven rugs, pelts and cushions. Beside it, a glowing brazier banished the early spring chill from the air and a pair of oil lamps cast a buttery glow over the room. In the far corner of the room, by the darkened window admitting the glow of the town lights sat Tomyra, curled up in a huge high-backed chair. At her feet sat a serving woman, her hands busy with some embroidery. Both women glanced up as Timon entered the room.

  "My lady," said Timon. "It's good to see you."

  Tomyra uncurled her feet and sat up straight, a smile lighting up her pale face. "Timon!" she cried. "You are welcome indeed. What news?"

  "Niko sends his love, my lady. As for news, I have a letter." Timon reached for his pouch and extracted a folded paper that he held out to Tomyra.

  Tomyra reached out a hand for the letter then drew back. Her smile faded and she turned toward another chair drawn back into the shadows. "Forgive me," she said. "I'm forgetting my manners. Parates, have you had the pleasure of meeting Timon of Messa, one of my husband's oldest and most trusted friends?"

  Timon whirled, his hand dropping the letter and grabbing for his dagger. He moved to place himself between Tomyra and the figure of a man rising to his feet in the shadows.


  "Yes indeed, my lady," replied Parates smoothly. "I have met him, though I regret we were never properly introduced."

  "Well then, Timon, this is...Timon, what is the matter?"

  "Stay back, my lady," growled Timon, drawing his dagger. "Has this man offered you any harm?"

  "Of course not, Timon. Why should he?"

  Parates bowed slightly, a small smile on his shadowed face. "Indeed, worthy Timon of Messa. Why would I offer any harm to such a noble lady?"

  "This is the man who harboured your brother's creature, Scolices. He probably had a hand in the attempt on your life."

  "Oh, Timon, Parates has explained all that," cried Tomyra. She stepped up beside Timon and put out her hand, pulling his arm down. "Now put up your dagger and sit down."

  Timon grimaced but allowed his arm to fall. He slid the dagger back into its sheath, all the while glaring at the other man. Tomyra picked up the fallen letter then sat down and gestured for Parates to take his seat also.

  "There, that's better," said Tomyra. "Timon, please sit down. No harm will come to us through Parates. He has shown himself this last month to be an old friend of the Massegetae people and a courteous and generous visitor." She reached down beside her and picked up a pottery flagon. With a pop she uncorked it, releasing the odour of soured milk. "See, Timon. He found me some real koumiss."

  "You haven't drunk it?" exclaimed Timon. He strode to her side and knocked the flagon to the floor, the thin pale brown liquid gushing out onto the rug. The maidservant leapt to her feet and righted the flagon, mopping at the puddle with her embroidery, a look of disgust on her face.

  Tomyra stared up at Timon with horror. "Timon, you forget yourself," she cried. "Parates, please forgive him. I'm sure he meant no disrespect."

  "My lady," growled Timon. "Have you forgotten so soon the attempt on your life? I don't trust any gift from this man, least of all a gift of food or drink."

  Parates' face darkened and he glared at the other man. "Your distrust offends me." He held out his hand to the maidservant. "Give me the flagon." He grasped it, looked around for a cup, found one and poured himself a generous portion. Staring into Timon's eyes he drank, the koumiss dribbling down his chin. He upended the cup, allowing the last few drops to fall to the floor.