by Max Overton
Tomyra raised her eyebrows. "And why?"
"They're homesick. They're depressed and are drinking far too much. It's all I can do some days to get them out of bed in the morning. They neglect their duties, sitting around talking about the 'old days'." He shook his head. "For their own sakes, they must return home."
"Tirses won't go. He'll never leave your service. Some of the others, maybe, but not Tirses."
"Still, I think I must give them the chance."
A soft swishing noise from the darkness interrupted him. Something dark and swift passed between them, embedding itself in the upholstery of the couch. Nikometros stared down at the thin wooden shaft and the feathers of the flight, still vibrating from the impact. For a moment, no longer than two beats of his heart, incomprehension gripped him. Then with an inarticulate cry, he threw himself forward and over Tomyra, bearing her to the floor as the swishing noise came again, just before lancing pain gripped his leg.
Tomyra struggled to rise, her breath coming in whooping gasps. "What...what are you...doing, Niko?"
"Stay down!" Nikometros snapped. He glanced down at his leg, noting the arrow sticking into the calf. The point, gleaming redly in the lamplight, pierced the muscle, protruding through his leg. Blood ran in thick rivulets to the floor.
Nikometros scrambled deeper into the room, pushing Tomyra in front of him. He pulled the couch over, sheltering behind it, the plate shattering on the floor.
"You're unhurt?" he asked, running his eyes over her.
Tomyra nodded. "Bruised and startled," she said, a hesitant smile twitching her lips. "What is it, Niko? What happened?"
"Someone shot an arrow at us...two of them in fact." He drew his leg up to examine the wound, eliciting a gasp of shock from Tomyra. A shadow flicked across the room and a clatter told of another arrow seeking its mark.
"Three," he said grimly. Nikometros gripped the arrow tentatively and flexed it, testing the strength of the wood. He grimaced with the pain and let go of the shaft. He looked cautiously around the end of the couch and spied the knife lying among the shards of the earthenware platter. Throwing himself forward, he grabbed the knife as another arrow thumped into the couch beside him. He scrambled back into the cover of the upended couch, grunting with pain when the arrowhead scraped on the floor.
Nikometros gripped the arrow shaft again and sawed at the wood with the knife. Although not sharp, the blade scored a shallow groove. He put the knife down and taking a deep breath, flexed the shaft. A groan of pain escaped his lips when the sideways motion tore at his flesh. The wood snapped and the feathered end broke away in his hand. Gritting his teeth, Nikometros dragged the arrow forward, pulling the shaft through his calf muscle. Blood erupted anew when the arrow came free.
Tomyra mopped the blood with the edge of her robe then, ripping a napkin into strips, bound the wounds as tightly as she could. "It'll do for now, Niko," she whispered. She looked around the room at the flickering shadows cast by the oil lamp, and listened. Rolling peals of thunder drowned any other sound from outside the pavilion. "What can we do? Call for help? There must be servants somewhere around here."
"I'm sure there are," agreed Nikometros. "During the day. No, we cannot rely on outside help. We must do this ourselves."
Tomyra nodded. "How many do you think there are?"
"One archer. There was a pause between each shot. Maybe others."
"It's a Scythian arrow, Niko."
"I noticed."
"Where do you think they are now?"
"The grove is the only real cover but he could have crept closer in the darkness." Nikometros looked around the room. "I need a weapon."
"The knife?"
Nikometros snorted. "It would be hard to pierce his skin with that, let alone kill him." His eyes fell on the heavy drapes tied back at the edges of the open doorways. Across the top of the doorway, supporting the weighty material, stretched a polished wooden staff. "There." He pointed. "That will suffice."
"You'll be exposed if you try for it, Niko. I don't want to lose you now."
"Needs must, my love. If I move fast he may not expect it." He got to his knees and gathered his legs beneath him, his muscles tensed.
"Wait," hissed Tomyra. "Wait until he shoots again then move."
"Aye, but why should he shoot again if he cannot see us? No! Tomyra..."
Tomyra rose to her feet and darted for the interior door. An arrow hissed, thwacking into the folds of her robes. She stumbled then ran on, ducking into cover.
Frozen for a second, the hiss of the arrow released him. Nikometros dove for the drapes and pulled, swinging his whole weight on them. With a sharp crack, the wooden pole snapped and he fell to the floor, the drapes enveloping him. Pain careened up his leg as his wounds broke open again, blood soaking the bandages.
Nikometros fumbled for the wooden pole. He found the short end and rejected it, searching for the other fragment. He breathed a sigh of relief when his fingers found it. Wriggling from beneath the heavy folds of material, he eyed the room and the darkness outside, occasionally lit by white flashes of heavenly fire.
"Tomyra! Tomyra, are you all right?"
"I...I'm unhurt, Niko." She paused. "Be careful."
Nikometros did not answer, turning all his attention to the night and its hidden danger. He shifted, raising a fold of the drapes with the stick, hoping to draw another arrow. Nothing happened and he wriggled sideways into the cover of the wall. Stripping the drapes off, Nikometros sat up. He looked at the room again, noting the angles of the arrows in the couch. He nodded in satisfaction. "From the left. Then I must go to the right."
He got to his feet, leaning up against the wall and gripped the makeshift weapon tightly. Ignoring his injured leg, he waited until the next bolt of light before stepping out into the open doorway. He hesitated a moment then leapt to the right as an arrow zipped past his head. He landed on thick meadow grass and rolled. There was a crash of thunder above him and the first heavy drops of rain fell like ice water on his naked body. Quickly, he got to his feet and, crouching low, raced for the grove of trees, throwing himself to the ground under some bushes. He lay still, controlling his breathing and listening. In the pauses between rolls of thunder, the only sound was the splash of raindrops on the foliage. Nikometros gripped the wooden pole and crawled further into the grove, stopping every few paces to listen. Thunder became almost constant and flashes of light turned the night into a garish flickering day. Ahead, between the buttresses of an ancient banyan tree, something moved.
Nikometros crept closer, taking care not to disturb the leaf litter. Something unseen slithered away from his hand and he froze, the god's name gusting through his lips. The rain fell harder, drumming on the foliage and rim of bare earth around the banyan. He moved forward again, inching toward the place he had seen movement. Easing himself between two high buttress roots, he pulled himself upright against the bole of the tree and listened. Between peals of thunder he discerned voices. Two men sat but an arm's length away and argued, their voices rose in recrimination and accusation. Nikometros strained to make out the words.
"...damn fool, I told you to let me..."
"It was my place to...I would kill..."
"...better to get close...with swords."
"...dangerous."
"What...do now?
There came a pause during which the roar of the rain dominated, the thunder slipping away to the east, even as brilliant flashes still lit the soaking landscape.
"Where's Caraxes?" asked one of the unseen voices.
A shrug, almost invisible in the night, preceded the answer. "Gone to the pavilion I suppose."
The first voice swore. "Find him. Help him."
"And you?"
"I'll follow. Someone must guard your back."
A bitter laugh.
Nikometros eased his head around the trunk of the tree, pushing aside a thin screen of pendulous roots hanging from one of the branches. In a flash of lightning, he saw two crouchi
ng men, one with a drawn sword, the other holding a Scythian double-curved bow and a half empty quiver of arrows.
Darkness descended and, when the light flared again a moment or two later, only the archer remained, standing at the edge of the canopy looking out through the driving rain at the dim flickering light of the pavilion. A shadow crossed the pavilion doorway and a thin cry pierced the rain and thunder.
Nikometros froze with shock then vaulted the high buttress root and threw himself at the remembered place of the archer. A flash showed him his aim was amiss but it was too late to correct the charge. He despairingly threw out his arm and, as he crashed to the ground, the wooden staff connected with the back of the man's legs. With a yell of fear the man fell back.
Lightning revealed a prostrate man a few feet from Nikometros. He scrambled to his knees and hurled himself forward. His hands scrabbled and found flailing limbs. A fist crashed into his ribs and he gasped, ripping at the man's clothing, seeking his throat. Fingers clawed at eyes and a knee brushed Nikometros' naked genitals. Nikometros gripped his staff and flailed it, connecting with something solid. The man screamed and struggled to get away. Nikometros struck again and missed, then again with more success.
The heavens blazed once, twice, a pause, and again.
Nikometros, on his knees, saw the man in front of him stumbling to his feet. He swung the knobbed end of his staff and felt a satisfying crack of wood on bone.
The man fell forward with a muffled groan and lay still.
Nikometros fumbled at the body, feeling for signs of life and finding none. He turned the body over and in the flickering of a distant discharge, brushed the curtain of blood from the man's face. A nearby bolt lit up the man's features.
"Scolices!" Nikometros sat back on his heels, a savage snarl contorting his face.
The deluge of rain faltered then eased to gusting showers. Another cry issued from the pavilion and Nikometros was on his feet again, racing out into the rain-slicked meadow.
Ahead, looming in the darkness flickered the dim glow of the oil lamp. Shadows obscured its light, moving. Closer, out in the rain swept night, a figure moved swiftly toward the pavilion, steel glinting in the light of the dying storm.
Nikometros ran on, desperate to intercept the figure before it reached the building, and knowing he could not. Despairing, he yelled inchoately and hurled his pole at the man. It fell short, skidding impotently on the wet grass.
The man stopped and turned, peering into the darkness at the naked man rushing toward him. He dropped into a crouch, the sword weaving small circles in front of him.
Nikometros tried to stop and his feet slid out from under him, dropping him to the slippery turf. He scrambled to his knees as the man stabbed forward, narrowly missing his face. He fell back and scrabbled sideways, the man advancing with a swagger and chopping downward, the blade slicing into wet earth.
Nikometros kicked out and connected with the man's leg.
The man grunted and swiveled, slashing out with his sword again.
Nikometros staggered to his feet and circled, leaping backward to avoid the man's blade. A crash of furniture from the pavilion distracted him and Nikometros turned his head back barely in time as the sword point nicked a thin furrow on his chest. Blood spilled, thinning rapidly in the rainwater coursing over his body.
The man grinned, his teeth showing dimly in the faint light. He ran forward, holding his sword out in front of him like a spear and forcing Nikometros to move backward.
Nikometros slipped and fell to one knee.
The man raised his sword high and leapt forward. With a cry, the man stumbled as his feet tangled on something lying on the ground. His feet flew out from under him, the discarded wooden staff on the ground scoring a wound on his leg as he fell over it. The man retained his grip on his sword, though it thumped to the ground beside him.
Nikometros hurled himself on the man, pinning his sword arm and lashing out with his fist.
The man grunted and raised his knee swiftly, cracking into the side of Nikometros' head. As Nikometros slipped off, his head reeling, the man freed his sword arm and forced himself to one knee. He grinned again and raised the sword, striking down at the naked body lying beneath him.
Nikometros rolled away as the blade descended, his fingers scrabbling for purchase on the wet grass. His hand closed around the staff and he pushed out with it, forcing it at the man thrusting down at him. He felt a shudder up his arm and into his shoulder and heard a strangled cry. The sword descended, turning and falling, the flat of the blade slapping against his naked belly.
The man slumped, his knees still on the ground but his body bent forward over Nikometros. He moved his head and coughed, a gout of blood spilling from his mouth.
Nikometros pushed himself away and the man fell onto his side. The body shuddered then stilled. Nikometros reached forward with one hand and ran his fingers up the staff to the jagged end ripped into the soft flesh of the man's throat. He felt the stickiness of fresh blood and wiped his hands on the grass before picking up the fallen sword and turning toward the pavilion.
All was silent inside. The rain fell softly on the roof, dripping into puddles under the eaves. The room lay in shambles, furniture overturned and smashed. Only the oil lamp burned undisturbed on its small side table.
Nikometros stood on the tiled floor, water, pink-tinged, pooling at his feet. The sting of his chest wound and the deeper throbbing pain of his calf barely impinged on his consciousness as he surveyed the room, a feeling of dread growing in him. "Tomyra," he called softly, then louder. "Tomyra!" Nikometros limped across the room, picking up the oil lamp as he passed. He paused in the doorway to the inner room and croaked out his wife's name again.
"T...Tomyra?"
"Niko, is that you?" Tomyra's voice, thin and hesitant, came from floor level.
Nikometros raised the lamp higher and peered into the shadows. For a moment, nothing made sense then, with an almost audible snap, everything became clear. The dark patches on the tile resolved into blood, the short, broad piece of metal became a stabbing sword and the fallen statuary, Tomyra.
Setting the lamp on the floor, Nikometros dropped to his knees and cradled his wife's head. A smear of blood marred her cheek and a swelling bruise threatened to close her right eye.
Her eyelids fluttered open and she smiled weakly. "I got mine, Niko. How about you?"
Nikometros nodded. "Both dead." He looked around. "Where is he?"
Tomyra pointed to a huge carved table across the room. "Over there, behind the table." She turned her eyes up at her husband. "Is he dead, Niko? Check him, will you?"
Nikometros gently lowered Tomyra to the floor again, pulling a cushion from a nearby chair for her head. Picking up the discarded sword, he padded over to the table and peered behind it. A man lay crumpled, face down, his hair a sticky mass of congealing blood. He leaned over and turned the body onto its back, revealing the left temple as a pulped cavity, fragments of skull sticking out through the mangled skin.
"Gods, Tomyra," said Nikometros. "What did you hit him with?"
"One of your gods, Niko. I'm not sure which one."
"Eh? What do you...oh, I see." Lying by the wall, a few paces from the body, lay a small marble statue of Apollo. Blood and hair spattered the base of the sculpture. Nikometros picked it up gingerly and set it on the table.
"Will he mind? Are there any purification rites we should perform?"
Nikometros smiled and returned to his wife's side. "Apollo is a gentleman. I'm sure he's delighted to save the life of a priestess of the Mother Goddess." He bent and picked her up, cradling her close. "If you like though, we can offer him a young kid by way of thanks."
He turned and walked outside into the night. The storm grumbled distantly and the air smelled fresh and clean. Silver moonlight poured from rents in the cloud cover, offering enough light for Nikometros as he carried Tomyra down the stone paved path toward the gates of paradise.
Return to
Contents
* * *
Chapter Thirty-Seven
"This is intolerable!" stormed Ptolemy. "That the life of a Macedonian officer and his family should be threatened by common cutthroats..." He broke off and glared around the room before turning to face Nikometros. His face softened. "And they tried to kill my son," he added in a whisper. "If this is a conspiracy, I'll find them all and have them executed for this." He approached Nikometros and clasped his shoulders firmly. "You're unhurt?"
"I've fared worse," replied Nikometros.
"There were three actual assassins, you say, and you killed them all?"
"No sir. That is, there were three but only two died. The one in the trees, the archer, was gone when the soldiers returned. He'll try again sir, I know it."
"Then we must ensure we catch him quickly. I wish you'd come to me immediately instead of waiting nearly a day."
"I'm sorry sir. My first thought was for my wife. I reported it to the captain of the guard at the gates but I...I didn't think you'd be interested in the affair."
"Not interested? Merciful gods, man, you're my son." Ptolemy gave him a hard look then he nodded. "You would know this man if you saw him again? You can describe him?"
"Yes sir. His name is Scolices, a Scythian of the Massegetae people. He bears a great hatred for my wife and myself."
"A Scythian? Not too many of them in Babylon. With luck he'll stand out." Ptolemy turned back to the papers on his table. "I'll draw up the necessary papers to have him arrested when he's found. Alexander will sign them today, I promise. In the meantime, your wife will remain under guard." He smiled wryly. "I cannot afford to keep you under guard. Nor would you agree to it if I ordered it so. However, I do insist that your man, Timon, accompany you everywhere. He's a good fighter and I'd feel better if he was with you."
"Yes sir, I'll ask him."
"Good man." Ptolemy nodded and dismissed Nikometros, who saluted and turned to leave. "Nikometros," added Ptolemy as his son reached the doorway, "Be careful."
Nikometros left the palace grounds and walked toward the lesser palace, his eyes watchful and his hand on the pommel of his sword. His left leg ached from the arrow wound but function remained largely unimpaired. He limped, favouring the injured leg until he caught himself doing so and then made an effort to ignore the pain. Reaching his own apartments, he hesitated, noting the presence of a squad of armed guards. He exchanged a few words with the guard commander then left and walked over to the nearby apartments of Timon and Bithyia.
