Scythian Trilogy Book 3: Funeral in Babylon

by Max Overton

  The man's dagger swung again but he misjudged his strike, slamming the blade into the bale.

  Tomyra heaved upward, grappling with the man as he relinquished his dagger and groped for her, his hands slipping on her blood-slicked body.

  The man rapidly bore her down, one hand effortlessly gripping her dagger hand as his other found her neck.

  Her free hand scrabbled, trying ineffectually to pull his hand from her throat then reaching for his eyes. Her knee slammed up toward his groin but he deflected her attempts, grunting as the blows impacted his thigh.

  The man grinned while Tomyra's strength failed, his hand tightening its grip on her throat. He leered at the naked woman in his grip, leaning closer, pushing himself against her.

  Tomyra's eyes rolled up, her limbs started to shake. Mother, help me, she silently pled. Her free hand fell from the man's face, plucked at his clothing before falling to her belly. She felt his manhood pushing hard toward her and her mind fled back to her ordeal with Dimurthes. No! Never again! She lunged, gripping the man's testicles through the thin cloth of his trousers. With the last of her strength she squeezed and twisted, seeking to rip the hated Serratae chieftain's parts from him.

  The man screamed, his voice rapidly escalating in volume and pitch. He let go of Tomyra and collapsed, his hands clutching himself in agony.

  Tomyra leaned against the bale, drawing painful gasps through her bruised throat. She looked down at the man at her feet and her lips drew back in a snarl of anger and hurt. Dropping to her knees, she plunged her dagger into the whimpering man's throat, cutting off his cries.

  Nikometros staggered to his feet when Scolices came back into the warehouse. He glanced toward his wife anxiously then dragged his attention back to the man advancing on him. He strained at the ropes encircling his chest and arms, feeling them stretch slightly but not enough to free his arms. Searching, he spotted the dagger dropped by Scolices and started toward it.

  Scolices saw the dagger a moment later and snarled in rage, drawing his short sword. He ran after his enemy with a shout.

  Nikometros dropped to his knees and strained sideways, his fingers scrabbling at the dagger on the floor. His fingertips grasped it as Scolices swung his sword. He swayed back, the blade arcing past his face to embed itself into the wooden floor. Nikometros rose with difficulty, stepping backward, his hand finally managing to grip the dagger firmly. He thrust it forward as far as he could and turned his side toward the Scythian.

  Scolices hefted his sword and advanced on Nikometros with a grin. "You think to fight me with that, Greek?" He flicked his sword forward and batted the dagger blade aside. The guard behind him roared with pain and Scolices stepped back a pace and risked a quick glance. He turned back with a scowl. "Enough. Time to end this." Scolices slashed at Nikometros, forcing him to lurch backward. Stepping swiftly after him, Scolices slashed downward, feeling his blade strike home.

  Nikometros saw the blade descending and swayed to one side. A moment later a blow to his chest armour preceded an arc of pain searing across his left arm, followed a moment later by a surge of blood. He staggered back and fell even as the severed ropes loosened about him. Fighting the agony in his left arm, Nikometros swung with his right and slammed the dagger into Scolices' thigh when the man stepped forward to finish his fallen enemy.

  Scolices howled and staggered back, clutching the dagger embedded in his leg.

  A shaft of light briefly illuminated the warehouse when the door crashed back. The two guards, Tissernes and Merraces, entered at a run. Tissernes tripped over the supine body of the young man, his newly drawn sword flying from his grasp. Merraces leapt to avoid his fallen comrade and found himself looking at a nude woman crouched over the body of a dying man. He gaped at the sight of a naked woman covered in blood and hesitated.

  With a scream, Tomyra launched herself at Merraces, her long black hair flying and the sunlight glinting redly off the blood-smeared dagger. She crashed into the man and carried him to the floor, yelling and stabbing.

  Nikometros flung himself at Tissernes' dropped sword and scooped it up, rolling awkwardly before staggering to his feet, agony blossoming afresh in his arm. A wave of lightheadedness swept over him and he tried to raise his left hand to his face. Unable to lift his arm, he looked aghast at his blood-soaked tunic and the blood spattering the floor beneath him. Dragging his eyes away from his wound he saw Tissernes before him. With a surge of red hot rage, he swung the sword upward and round, pivoted on his heel and slashed downward, the blade biting deep into the base of the Persian's neck.

  Tissernes thumped to the floor.

  Scolices gripped the dagger in his thigh and, gritting his teeth, pulled it out. Blood spurted, soaking his leg. He glanced at Tomyra and Merraces wrestling for their lives, then back to Nikometros in time to see him deliver the deathblow to Tissernes. Staring at his enemy's back he tightened his grip on the bloody dagger in his left hand and the sword in his right. He nodded, a grim smile on his face, and moved quietly forward.

  Nikometros looked down at the bloody corpse of Tissernes but saw nothing. Black spots swam before his eyes. He swayed on his feet, his heartbeat loud in his ears, drowning out the creak of floorboards behind him.

  "Nikometros," whispered a voice in his head.

  "Nikometros," someone said just behind him.

  "Nikometros!" shouted a thin voice from a distance.

  He turned, swinging fast, his sword arcing across even as he lost consciousness and fell sideways to the floor. He only glimpsed Scolices behind him; the Scythian's sword falling like a thunderbolt.

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  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Morning sunlight streamed through an open window of the lesser palace, falling in warm shafts over the figure lying in the rumpled bed. Hidden from view behind the headboard of the bed sat an old slave, his hand tugging rhythmically on a tasseled rope, swinging the ostrich-plumed fan fixed above the bed. The man in the bed opened his eyes and stared about him without moving, taking in the figure of a grizzled soldier standing looking out of the window and a young woman playing with a child by the bed. He smiled and struggled to raise himself. "Tomyra," he whispered.

  The woman turned with a cry of joy, the child staring up curiously. "Niko! You're awake. Timon, look! My lord awakens!"

  The old soldier turned, his teeth showing white in the greying profusion of his beard. He strode to the bedside and gripped Nikometros' right hand like a vice. "Thank the gods!"

  Nikometros winced and almost cried out as a wave of pain washed over him. His vision greyed and he slumped back on the pillows.

  "Careful, Timon!" cried Tomyra. "He's weak yet."

  Nikometros forced his eyelids open and gazed at his wife. "What happened?" he whispered. "Why am I so weak?"

  "You lost a lot of blood, my love. The doctors thought you might die but I knew you wouldn't." Tomyra smiled. "Your time is not yet."

  "I remember...I think there was a fight...or did I dream?"

  "There was a fight, my love. In the warehouse. You fought Scolices and saved all our lives."

  Nikometros nodded weakly. "I seem to remember you fighting too, though for some reason my memory is of you nak..."

  "Hush, Niko," interposed Tomyra hurriedly. She flushed and glanced at Timon. "That's between us."

  Nikometros lay quietly, drinking in the sight of his wife. "Between us, Tomyra." He essayed a faint smile. "Agreed."

  "It was a near tragedy though, from what I hear," Timon said. "A pity the City Guard couldn't have arrived a bit sooner. They might have caught Parates too then we could all rest easy."

  "I don't think you need worry about Parates," Tomyra replied. "He was badly wounded and may not survive." She hesitated. "Besides, he did save our lives. I'm glad he got away."

  "I think I remember," Nikometros whispered. "He called out a warning to me. Scolices attacked me but I survived. I don't know how though. I turned, glimpsed his sword coming at me...
and that's the last I remember. I would guess you killed him, Tomyra."

  "No, you did. I was still fighting the man on the floor." Tomyra shook her head and smiled up at Timon. "You should have seen it, Timon. Scolices was in his downswing, moments from killing Niko then Niko turns, pivots on his heel, his sword arcing round and catching Scolices in the inner thigh. I never saw blood gush so mightily."

  Timon nodded, stroking his beard. "The great artery in the leg. A lucky stroke."

  "Lucky or not, it sufficed. Scolices went down as if pole-axed and bled to death before he could even try to rise. Niko collapsed also and I thought he was dead too. Covered in blood but most of it from Scolices." Tomyra grinned and took her husband's right hand in hers. "I should have had more faith in the Mother."

  "And Starissa is unharmed?"

  "Yes, Niko. The Mother looks after her too."

  Nikometros lay back with a smile on his face and looked from Tomyra to Timon.

  The old soldier stooped and picked up Starissa, setting the child on the sheets beside her father.

  Starissa stared at the pale, tousled man in the bed with wide eyes for several long moments before venturing a shy smile. She reached out tentatively and grasped one of Nikometros' fingers in a chubby fist.

  "What it is to have children," Nikometros whispered. "I can feel the future in her...oh, gods, Timon. I was forgetting." The smile slipped from his face to be replaced by a frown of anxiety. "What of Bithyia? How is she?"

  Timon grinned. "She's fine, Niko." He preened, looking smug. "In fact, you're looking at the proud father of a baby boy. You can tell he's going to grow up to become a redoubtable warrior." Timon laughed. "Why, already he's practicing horrendous war cries to terrify his enemies."

  Nikometros disentangled his hand from Starissa's fist and reached out to touch Timon. "I'm overjoyed, old friend. You must bring him to see me when I'm stronger, Bithyia too, I miss her."

  A soft rapping came at the door of the bedroom. A moment later it opened and two heavily bearded men peered in, their faces breaking into grins of delight at the sight of an awake Nikometros.

  "Mardes! Tirses!" Nikometros struggled to prop himself on his right elbow as his two friends entered. "It's good to see you." He tried to move his left arm to greet them but failed, collapsing back with a puzzled frown. "My arm. Why can't I move it?" He reached across with his right hand to pick at the bandages.

  Tomyra restrained her husband. "Leave it, Niko." She hesitated, biting her lip. "Niko. Your wound was severe. The muscles and tendons were cut to the bone. The doctors say you won't lose your arm but you may...you may not regain full use of it."

  "I'll be a cripple," Nikometros said flatly.

  "Never a cripple," Mardes said. "Merely a wound of honour. Many warriors bear the wounds of battle for all to see."

  "Besides which," added Timon. "Great fighter though you are, I think your talents as a leader will be more important."

  "Always my leader," Tirses said. "Gods, Nikometros! I arrived with the Guard. The warehouse looked like a slaughterhouse. It's hard to credit how a captive man and a woman could wreak such destruction. I was only glad to be there to render such assistance..." Tirses blushed and looked down at the floor. "My lady, I thank the gods I wore my cloak that day, despite the heat."

  "Eh?" Timon frowned, looking from Tirses to Tomyra. "What am I missing? What's the significance of your cloak?"

  Tomyra smiled. "Nothing you need be concerned about, Timon." She reached out to the Scythian warrior. "You have my thanks again, Tirses." Giving him a quizzical look she added, "You'll stay then, rather than return to Scythia with the others?"

  "Yes, lady. The others will wait until both of you are recovered, before they bid you farewell. For myself, I'll always serve the Lion, whether he be of Scythia, Persia or Macedon."

  "I wish I could remain too," Mardes said. "I must take my young brother back to my estates, but I'll try to return to Babylon in a few months. I hope you'll still be here."

  "I think we will, dear Mardes," Tomyra replied. "It'll be a while before Niko can take up his duties again."

  "Speaking of which," Nikometros said. "I presume Perdikkas was told. I'm still technically on his staff."

  "He knows," Timon replied. "Though he has rather more to occupy his mind at present. He's trying to govern an empire after all."

  Nikometros nodded. "How is he coping with Meleagros? I know he can't stand the man."

  Timon looked away. "He has no problems there," he muttered.

  "Good. The last thing we need is a civil war. I'm sorry I missed the Purification Ceremony though. I heard they were to have the trained elephants to give the Royal Salute. Ever since Hephaestion's funeral I've wanted to see elephants again."

  Timon coughed and turned away from the bed. "You didn't miss much, Niko. Nothing you would have wanted to see." Below his breath he muttered, "I wish to all the gods I hadn't seen it either." He stood silently staring out the window while Nikometros looked puzzled.

  Tomyra filled the awkward silence by tidying up the bedclothes and pouring wine for the visitors. After a few inconsequential comments about general matters and the city gossip, Mardes and Tirses excused themselves, promising to return the next day.

  When they left, Nikometros looked at Tomyra and at Timon, still staring out the window. "What? There's something you aren't telling me."

  "Leave it for now, Niko, please," Tomyra said. "You're still very weak. You need your rest."

  Timon turned from the window and nodded. "I'll leave you too. I should be getting back to Bithyia." He walked to the door and was reaching for the handle when it opened.

  "May I see the patient?" Ptolemy asked. He looked past Timon to where Nikometros lay on the bed. "Ah, good. I see you're awake at last, Nikometros. I need to talk to you." He put a hand on Timon's shoulder. "Stay a moment, if you would, Timon."

  "Good morning, sir," Nikometros said, a smile of pleasure creasing his pale features. "It is good to see you."

  "And you, lad. The doctors tell me you'll be up and about again within a few days but that you must be careful of your arm for a while." Ptolemy smiled at Tomyra. "I'll look to you, dear lady, to see he does as he's told."

  Tomyra smiled and dipped in a small curtsey. "Indeed, lord Ptolemy. I will do my best."

  Nikometros glanced at Timon. "Sir," he said to Ptolemy, "something happened at the Ceremony of Purification, but they won't tell me what. What happened?"

  Ptolemy's smile vanished. He stared at the man in the bed for a long while before answering. "You would have found out eventually. No doubt your family and friends sought to spare you but I won't.

  "The army, both cavalry and infantry, met on the field outside the Nitokris Gate," Ptolemy said, his voice cold and detached. "All was done with great ceremony, the sacrifice of the finest wolfhound from the royal kennels. The omens were bad. The victim did not go consenting and to make matters worse, the King..." Ptolemy snorted derisively. "The King disgraced himself by trying to stop the sacrifice. It took place; the field was purified and the army entered."

  Timon grimaced but remained silent.

  "Oh, it was a glorious sight," went on Ptolemy. "No doubt about it. The armour polished, weapons sharpened. The walls of Babylon made up one side of a giant square, the infantry one side, the cavalry another and the royal elephants the fourth."

  Ptolemy broke off and walked to the window, breathing in the warm summer air, heady with the scents of perfumed shrubs. "You missed the elephants in India, lad, though you saw them briefly in the darkness when we cremated Hephaestion. They paint them, you know, scarlet, ochre or green; and drape them with rich silks threaded with gold. They made the feet red with henna...a custom for occasions such as this. The mahouts ride on their necks, richly attired and looking like kings. They are there to control the great beasts, make them do their bidding."

  "Sounds fabulous, sir," Nikometros said.

  "Yes, it was...then. Nobody expected what happened next, except
those of us privy to the plans. The ceremony called for the army to give the paean of rejoicing and then to march off the field. Instead, the pipers played advance and the cavalry advanced on the infantry." Ptolemy allowed himself a small smile. "Scared the livers out of them! I shouldn't laugh though. It demonstrates just how much discipline has decayed since..."

  Nikometros smiled with him but he felt a deep surge of something wrong and waited for Ptolemy to finish the story.

  "Anyway, King Philip called out loudly for the army to surrender the mutineers--he had been carefully coached by Perdikkas--and, after a bit of confusion, they did. About thirty of them. They bound them and turned them over to the cavalry, throwing them on the ground."

  "Meleagros too?" asked Nikometros.

  "No. We were waiting for him to object, but he kept quiet." Ptolemy paused for a few seconds before resuming his narration. "The pipes sounded again and the elephants answered with a great crashing roll of sound. They moved forward at a run, squealing, their great ears flapping. Then they reached the men lying helpless on the ground." Ptolemy paused again and looked directly at Nikometros. "The screaming didn't last long. When it was over, the elephants moved away and the army sang the paean before dismissing."

  Nikometros looked sick. "Who thought up that idea?"

  "Perdikkas. He takes his position very seriously and Meleagros was in the way."

  "But Meleagros wasn't...he didn't die?"

  "Not then. He fled the field and sought sanctuary at the altar of Marduk. Little good it did him. Perdikkas' assassins found him at dusk and killed him."

  "And you...you can live with this, sir?" Nikometros asked quietly.

  "Gods, no!" barked Ptolemy. "Don't you know me better than that, lad? It was necessary; that's the most that can be said for it, but it wasn't Alexander's way. He would have handled it in a more seemly fashion."

  "So what will you do, sir?"