Scythian Trilogy Book 3: Funeral in Babylon

by Max Overton

  The Scythian warrior had at last succumbed to the growing heat of the coming Babylonian summer. With much grumbling and complaint he had changed heavy felts and leather for cooler and thinner Persian dress. The gaily-coloured jacket and pantaloons he wore gave him an incongruously festive air, belying the fierce expression he determined to be proper for a warrior of his standing.

  A servant hurried to his side and refilled the cup with dark wine. He offered a pitcher of iced water but Tirses waved it away. "No watered wine for me." He drank deeply and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of the soft linen jacket. Then he belched, before waving a hand in the air by way of apology.

  "Be careful with the wine, old friend," admonished Nikometros. "It is good quality but this growing heat leads one easily to excess."

  Tirses nodded, drinking again from his cup. "True but the water in Babylon isn't good. The natives seem to be able to drink it without ill effect but strangers die from it."

  "Really?" asked Caius. "Is it that deadly, or is it that native Babylonians are nearer to their gods and thus their prayers are answered faster?"

  "You cannot tell me these local gods are any stronger than Greek gods," growled Timon. "My prayers are answered well enough."

  "Oh? What need have you of prayer, husband?" enquired Bithyia. She smiled sweetly and cocked her head on one side. "What have you been getting up to?"

  Nikometros grinned when Timon flushed. "Seriously, Caius, some of the water here is dangerous. I believe it depends on where it comes from."

  Caius nodded soberly. He picked up his cup of iced water and swirled it gently, staring into the clear liquid. "Everyone knows that Nicomatrus. Plains water can be deadly but mountain or spring water is usually pure. What I want to know is why?"

  "Aye, and why should living in a place weaken the ill effects?" added Tirses.

  "My mother's people believed that water close to people was worse than water from the mountains," said Tomyra slowly. She turned to Caius with a smile. "My mother was a Sauromantian priestess. She believed that some evil influence gets into the water from the bad thoughts of people."

  "Interesting idea," commented Caius. "I don't know how you could be sure though."

  "No, look," said Timon, getting to his feet. "This could be. Water that is standing, as in a pond or puddle is often bad, whereas swiftly moving water is usually potable." He started throwing his arms about in excitement. "Perhaps the motion of the water dislodges the evil influence."

  Nikometros nodded. "Possible. I know that when the army camps it's better to draw water from upstream rather than downstream."

  "That's because the water is muddier downstream," said Caius. "You can see the discolouration."

  Timon and Nikometros laughed. "True," replied Nikometros. "And not just coloured by mud either--by horses and men also."

  "Niko," reproved Tomyra. "I don't think we need to further discuss that avenue of thought."

  Nikometros acquiesced with a smile and a nod. "Nonetheless, the water of the Euphrates upriver from Babylon is healthier than the water below the city. Even a day's travel downriver the water, though clear and sparkling, can induce flux." He shook his head. "I won't drink any water except pure spring water from the mountains. It's expensive to bring in but worth it. You need have no fear, Caius. Your water is safe."

  Caius put down his cup and stared across at his host. "Romans do not 'fear', Nicomatrus. We reason and act accordingly."

  "Of course," replied Nikometros hastily. "I implied nothing."

  The conversation died away into awkward silence.

  Timon lay back down on his couch with Bithyia and idly stroked her leg. He looked around at the other guests who sat or lay looking down at the floor or pretending great interest in the worked metal of their wine cups. He grimaced and cleared his throat. "It is good wine, Niko. Where do you get it from?"

  Nikometros smiled his thanks at Timon. "Not a bad drop is it? It comes from Anatolia I believe. Parates has a monopoly on the imports of wine from that region and supplies most of the nobles in the north." Nikometros leaned down to pick up his own cup and missed the look of incredulity and fury on Timon's face. "In fact, he took advantage of the court moving south to open up a market in Babylon."

  Timon struggled to his feet and threw his wine cup to the floor. It clattered and rolled, spilling a trail of red over the coloured tile floor. "Parates!" he shouted. "You buy from that son of a whore? Are you mad?"

  Bithyia pushed herself upright, holding her swollen belly with one hand as she sought to restrain her husband with the other. "Timon, please," she cried, pulling at his arm.

  Timon shrugged her off and strode over to Nikometros' couch and stared down at his host's startled face. "Have you taken leave of your senses, Niko? You know he tried to poison you."

  Caius looked from one to the other then down at the pitcher of wine on a nearby table.

  Tirses swore softly but fluently in Scythian, putting his cup down.

  Tomyra flushed and sat up as Nikometros got to his feet, pushing Timon back from the couch.

  "Timon, calm down," said Nikometros. "You've drunk too much."

  "Then I'm lucky to be alive," snarled Timon, stepping forward to thrust his bearded face at his friend. "I suppose I should be thankful he hasn't poisoned this batch."

  "Timon," Tomyra said in a voice trembling with anger. "I told you before, Parates shows himself a friend. I asked you to restrain yourself and not to insult my friends with your fanciful accusations. You will please apologise to my guests and sit down."

  Timon glowered at Tomyra then looked away. He held himself stiffly at attention. "Lady, I would not willingly bring shame on you. But you are misled by this man. He seeks to harm you and Niko."

  "Enough!" snapped Tomyra. She breathed hard then forced herself to relax. "Sit down, Timon...please."

  Nikometros took his friend by the arm and half turned him toward his couch. "Come, Timon, please."

  Caius watched the argument avidly. He turned to Tirses and spoke in a low voice. "Who is this Parates?"

  Tirses wore a sour expression. "A Persian trader from the north borders. There was an attempt on the lady's life. Parates was implicated but it seems he wasn't actually involved."

  Caius nodded toward Timon. "He still believes the man guilty."

  Tirses shrugged. "I don't trust the man myself, for all our lady says. However, I'm content to watch and wait. Timon is more impulsive."

  "This man Parates...he's in the city?"

  "Indeed. Though he often calls on Nikometros and his lady."

  Caius looked thoughtful. "You must point him out to me. It would be well to know the face of such a dangerous man."

  "Come with me tomorrow and I'll show you him."

  "You know where he's to be found?"

  "Oh, yes. He owns a warehouse near the docks. His trade keeps him busy. It'll be easy to point him out unseen."

  Caius nodded. "Poison, I think Timon said? I wonder where he obtained it?"

  Tirses snorted. "The bugger only had it in his own warehouse. Arabian death weed. I gather it can be used to poison rats, so there was an excuse for him to have it."

  "Indeed." Caius nodded again slowly. "Still, it makes you think." He looked back to where Timon, still angry, stood by his couch with Nikometros and Bithyia attempting to calm him.

  "Come Timon," repeated Nikometros, bending to retrieve Timon's cup from under his couch. "Have some more wine. You can see for yourself it hasn't been poisoned." He signalled to a servant who hurried forward to fill the cup.

  "Sit, husband," soothed Bithyia. She glanced over at Tomyra, who sat biting her lip and staring at Timon. She forced a laugh. "This lovely night puts me in mind of the nights we spent on patrol along the Oxus River. Remember how we argued half the night and spent the hours till dawn in sweet love?"

  Timon grumbled but allowed himself to be persuaded onto the couch, sitting next to his wife. He took the cup from Nikometros and sipped, albeit reluctantly.

>   "I'm still waiting for an apology," said Tomyra in a cold voice.

  Timon lowered his cup and stared across at her, open-mouthed.

  Nikometros swung round, the smile falling uncertainly from his face. "My love," he said softly into the silence. "That isn't necessary."

  "I think it is."

  Timon erupted to his feet again with an oath. The cup went tumbling, splashing his robes and the floor. "Apology? To whom? The man isn't here." He stood with feet apart, hands knotted into fists, glaring around the courtyard. "Even if he was, I wouldn't," he grated.

  Tomyra came to her feet and walked stiffly up to Timon. "Nevertheless, you will apologise. You insult me with your insinuations that I, as priestess of the Mother Goddess, cannot distinguish between a good man and an evil one."

  "Lady, the truth speaks for itself. This man plays you for a fool."

  Tomyra paled and she took a step back. She flicked her gaze to her husband. "Niko, you allow him to speak to me like this?"

  Nikometros frowned. "Timon, calm down. Choose your words carefully, I beg you."

  Timon rounded on his friend. "He fools your wife and he fools you, Niko. Gods, I cannot believe you can be so stupid as to fail to see..."

  "Enough, Timon!" bellowed Nikometros. "You will hold your tongue."

  "I speak the truth. Parates blinds you to his plans. Do you mean to just stand by while he murders you and your family?"

  Nikometros swung his fist before he realised it. His knuckles clipped Timon's chin, rocking the soldier back on his feet. Timon's eyes flew wide in shock before he flushed scarlet. His hand swept down, dragging the short sword from its sheath.

  Bithyia clung to his arm as he struggled to free his sword, screaming at him to stop.

  The anger passed as rapidly as it came. Timon thrust his sword back and shrugged his wife off with an effort. He glowered at Nikometros then stepped back, coming to attention. "With your permission, sir, I will take my leave," he said expressionlessly.

  Nikometros gave his friend an anguished look. "Timon..."

  The old soldier saluted and turned on his heel, marching to the door. Nikometros gazed after him, a hand half raised in supplication. Bithyia glanced at Tomyra and Nikometros, flashed an uncertain smile, and hurried after her husband.

  Nikometros let his hand fall to his side. He stared after his friend. "Timon," he whispered. "Timon, I'm sorry." His head dropped and he stood with shoulders slumped in the middle of the courtyard. After several minutes he turned to a silent Caius and Tirses. "My friends," he said tiredly. "I think I must ask you to excuse my lady and myself. I look forward to your company another time."

  The two men rose and said a hurried and embarrassed farewell.

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  Chapter Thirty-Three

  In the darkness, while stars wheeled slowly toward a still distant dawn, men gathered to say farewell to Hephaestion. The great stone square around the funeral pyre filled with generals clad in their finest parade armour--steel and bronze and gold, gleaming in torchlight. Their breath smoked in the chill air. They waited at parade rest while junior officers filed in to take their places, followed by princes of the nations of the empire, bedecked in costly silks and jewels. Satraps came too, representing the far-flung provinces; mostly bearded Persians.

  Priests wound into the open plaza, carrying effigies of the gods and piping a mournful dirge. Heralds entered, followed by army standard bearers, each representing a unit of the army. Musicians took their stations, bearing a variety of instruments--stringed, wind and percussion.

  The square settled into a muted susurration of expectation. Sandals and boots scraped against stone, clothing rustled and armour chinked softly. Murmurs of voices rose and fell like the tides of a distant sea. Eyes turned toward the great edifice of the pyre rising into the darkness, the summit a vague outline against the starry night.

  The ground shook with a steady tread and heads turned while a parade of twenty elephants, trunks entwined with the tails of the beast in front, wound in from the city entrance and took their places around the perimeter of the square. White tusks gleamed with gold, gaily coloured cloths hung down from their backs, almost to the ground, and the skin that showed was painted in bright reds and blues. Astride each elephant, legs firmly tucked behind the beast's great ears, sat dark-skinned mahouts from the valley of the Indus, their sole garment a snow-white loincloth. They controlled the massive animals by foot pressure, a gentle word and a heavy jeweled ankh.

  Time passed. The first faint greying of dawn smudged the eastern horizon, carving the vast black walls of Babylon out of the night. The tops of the walls moved and heaved as the populace swarming over them strove for a sight of the unfolding spectacle. Across the broad Euphrates twinkled another star-strewn heaven, the orange firelights of the army encamped on the far shore forming strange constellations.

  The king's Body Squires came, singing, bearing the body of Hephaestion, friend and lover of a god. Their footsteps on the flagstones set a slow cadence, matching that of the heavy beat of the heart of the one who led them.

  Alexander, dressed simply in plain tunic and robe, his brow circled with a plain gold diadem, led the procession. He moved around to the front of the pyre, where a series of broad steps ascended into the heart of the structure. On either side of the stairs sat huge braziers and stacks of unlit torches.

  The body, borne on its bier by a dozen young squires, moved up the stairs and into the edifice. Singers accompanied them and, for a while, their voices reached the waiting multitude, faint and muffled. At last they reached the topmost platform and set the body on its final resting place, high above the earth, its face turned to the heavens. The singers took up their places in the huge carved figures of sirens, high on the pyre, and lifted their voices in a great song of praise to the fallen hero. The song ended and the singers and bearers wound their way down the internal staircase. The priests moved forward, igniting torches one by one in the braziers, chanting blessings over each one.

  The sky paled in the east, a greenish hue tingeing the firmament as the crowd of onlookers held their breath, eyes fixed on the still figure of Alexander, standing before the funeral pyre, eyes upturned as if seeking a final glimpse of his friend. He stirred, dragging his gaze away from where the body lay. He moved toward the pyre, taking a flaming torch from a priest and slowly ascended the steps.

  At a silent signal, the mahouts uttered a soft cry and the elephants curled back their trunks, letting loose a tremendous blast of sound, a peal of trumpeting that crashed and echoed from the city walls.

  Alexander threw the torch deep into the tinder dry centre. Flames leapt upward and his friends stepped closer, grasping torches and hurling them into the mounting fires. Two hundred feet of dry tinder caught and blazed, a roaring conflagration that ascended heavenward.

  Air, sucked into the firestorm, tugged at the clothing of the watchers in the square, even as a mounting wave of heat threw them back, their faces reddened. The gigantic stepped pyramid of fire lurched, the immense wooden carvings, already ablaze, sagged inward. A gigantic carved eagle, wings spread with flaming feathers, crashed downward into the centre of the pyre, sending brilliant sparks blossoming into the dawn sky.

  Flames engulfed Hephaestion in his coffin, alone at the top, adding the rich spices that permeated his body to the conflagration. A sculptured siren, superheated air moaning through its hollow interior, fell. A carved ship's prow joined it then, in a thunderous roar, the entire structure collapsed inward, a cloud of sparks billowing upward to replace the stars in the pale sky.

  The sun rose through a blanket of thunderclouds on the distant horizon. The population of Babylon, the assembled army, officers and princes watched in silence as the funeral pyre burned slowly down to glowing embers and ash. At last, they stirred when the mounting breeze off the river, cool and moist on their fire-burnt faces, lifted the ash in a fine cloud, spreading it over the city.

  Alexander, sta
nding transfixed, shook slightly while his spirit returned from its communion with fire. He turned to his officers and crisply gave the order to dismiss.

  With a sigh, the crowd moved back, dispersing with reluctance, caught up in the wonder of the spectacle.

  Nikometros, his parade armour actually hot to the touch, his reddened face and limbs still glowing with heat, heard his name called. He turned and saw General Ptolemy beckoning. Stiffly, the dried sweat cracking and gritty in his joints, he moved, pushing through the crowd of onlookers intent on leaving the square.

  "Nikometros," the general said. "There's someone here who travelled far to see you." He half turned and indicated a swarthy skinned young man beside him. The man smiled, white teeth showing in a luxurious curled and greased beard.

  Nikometros looked blankly and without recognition at the stranger, taking in the fine silks and jewels and the ornamented scimitar by his side. He gave a small, courteous bow.

  "May I present prince Mardesopryaxes of Pasargadae," went on Ptolemy. The general grinned. "Of course, you two have already met, so you need no real introduction."

  "It's good to see you again, Nikometros of Macedon," said the prince, his teeth showing again in a friendly smile.

  Nikometros frowned. "I...I fear you have me at a disadvantage, sire. I cannot recall..."

  "I last saw you by the Oxus River, Nikometros," interrupted the prince. "You sent me south with dispatches. Remember?"

  "I sent you south?" Nikometros frowned again as he struggled to recall the events of over a year before. "The only person I can remember taking dispatches south was...Mardes?" His eyes widened and he stared at the young man in front of him. "Mardes?" he repeated.

  The prince nodded and laughed. "I looked somewhat different then." He preened, stroking his expensive garments. "Perhaps I should shave my beard and put on rags again."

  "But you were in the auxiliary cavalry. Not a prince."

  Mardes grinned again. "My father Artalaxes, may the Good God give him peace, was a nobleman, a prince of Pasargadae. I was only a younger son so I made my way where I could. I enlisted for adventure and, by the gods, I found it."