‘No.’ Saida shook her head. ‘No. The Silent Wolves will send no warriors.’
‘No,’ Thyrsis said, mocking her voice. ‘The Silent Wolves are a clan of children, and have no warriors to send. We never do-’
‘Thyrsis!’ Melitta said, though in truth she appreciated his comment.
Saida stared at the other horse lords. ‘Pah. War and more war — that’s all this one wants. We will be out on the grass.’ She turned to leave, but Scopasis had caught Melitta’s glance and he blocked the entrance of the tent.
‘You have not been dismissed,’ Melitta said. ‘Saida, you seem to crave my ill will. Listen, then. We have not yet chosen a path. Every leader — aye, and every tanist — can speak her mind in council. But if we choose to send riders, and you refuse — then you may indeed go to the Sea of Grass. And don’t come back. Please understand: that will mean you will have no share of the grain and gold that the Dirt People earn for us, and you will hold no land from the Assagetae. You can go north, or east, and fight for grazing as our people did in the old times. Is that plain?’
Saida looked at Kontarus, and he shook his head. ‘As if you would — or could — push us off our lands.’
Melitta was suddenly tired; tired of their childishness. This was an old and insular man who was speaking from ignorance because he had not ridden to the fight at Tanais River: he had no idea of how much power she and her brother had.
Scopasis spoke from behind him. ‘The lady has the power of all the clans, and her brother has fifty ships and five thousand soldiers. And you two represent one small clan that behaves as if you were all the people.’
‘You may go,’ Melitta said. ‘I mean what I have said. If you refuse to serve — begone. If you try to choose a middle path, I will eliminate you. And frankly,’ she said, her temper getting the better of her, ‘I’m tempted to be rid of the pair of you now, as your actions suggest that neither of you is fit to lead one of my clans.’
Scopasis drew his akinake. ‘Say the word, lady,’ he said.
Kontarus glared around. ‘Kill an old man and a woman — murder in council! Bah. Empty threats. We are the greatest of the Assagetae clans — why will you not treat us with the respect we deserve? We have more wagons, more lodges, more horses-’
‘-and no warriors,’ Listra said. ‘The lady is right. Go — or stay. Your own warriors mutter against you because you shirked the fight at Tanais. Try to face us, and see what you get.’
Saida looked around again, still blank-faced. ‘Very well,’ she said. She looked up at Scopasis. ‘Out of my way,’ she ordered.
Scopasis looked at Melitta. ‘I have said they may go,’ Melitta agreed with a nod. When they were gone, she turned to the rest of her lords.
‘Those two have to go,’ she said. ‘I hadn’t realised how bad they were.’
‘It is just ignorance,’ Tuarn pleaded. ‘I, too was late for the Tanais battle. But I saw the forces on that field. Kontarus has no idea — he lives in the days of your grandfather’s father, lady. The Silent Wolves have not ridden to battle in many years. Not under their lords.’
Melitta shrugged. ‘Let us deal with these issues one at a time. Are we all agreed in sending a force east?’
All of the clan leaders agreed, although none of them was happy about it.
‘Can the Standing Horses send me twenty-five warriors?’ she asked Sindispharnax.
He took a deep breath. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I can send fifty.’
She smiled at him. ‘I do not want fifty. I’ll ask you to provide me with twenty-five young scouts. I’ll ask Thyrsis to provide the same — people who know the country. The rest of you I ask to provide fifty knights and a leader who can speak for your people, if I find that I need to negotiate.’
Thyrsis grinned. ‘May we come ourselves?’ he asked.
She nodded. ‘I hope that some of you will, and that others will stay. I will name a tanist of my own, to watch the people while I ride east.’ She forced a smile. ‘This will come between me and my son,’ she said. ‘But Tuarn speaks correctly. The last time we were threatened, we were slow to react.’
They were not Greeks, who argued everything endlessly and then voted in slow-moving assemblies. The next day, she told the whole of the people who were assembled about the Parni, and that there would be an expedition to the east.
They roared their approval. Three days later, Melitta discovered that Kontarus had ordered his people to pack and leave the Tanja, and he departed — but fewer than four hundred of them accompanied him.
This was the way that politics happened on the plains. People didn’t meet in assemblies to vote — usually. Most of the time, they ‘voted’ by moving their tents and wagons to another clan. Suddenly, the Standing Horse clan was larger than it had been in five years. The Cruel Hands had to turn new adherents away — they had no more grazing land to share.
‘I didn’t like the look of Saida,’ Melitta commented to her captain of the guard. They were both mounted, having ridden out to review the warriors that each clan were contributing to the force for the east.
‘She means to trouble you,’ he agreed. ‘Shall I follow her and kill her?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Melitta said, but only after a pause. ‘No, Scopasis. I don’t want to rule in that way.’
Scopasis hadn’t been in her bed for five nights. He turned and looked at her for a long time. ‘You are angry at me because I am who I am,’ he said. ‘What I have to say will not make you love me better.’
‘You might be surprised,’ she said.
‘You cannot be the Lady of the Assagetae and let this woman defy you,’ he said.
She shook her head. ‘I can. And I will. Do not — I repeat, do not — take action against her.’
Scopasis turned his head to watch the sun setting on the plains. The grass rolled away in waves like the sea, a carpet of fresh green that went north as far as the eye could see, and west into the setting sun, which turned the seed heads of the new grass a ruddy gold. He watched the sunset for a while.
‘Would you like me to ride away?’ he asked, after a while. ‘I would be gone, and never trouble you again.’
Yes and no both crossed in her head. ‘You must do what is best for you,’ she said carefully, hating the foolish sound of the words, and the pomposity with which she said them. In a moment, she saw what Xeno’s death had spared her. ‘Can you be my guard captain without being my lover?’ she asked — and was proud that she’d said it.
Scopasis groaned. When she turned to look at him, he was weeping.
‘Are you a child?’ she asked, suddenly angry. ‘Grow up!’
So much for mature reflection. She was glad she was riding to war in the east. She felt as if killing someone might make her feel better. She wished that Scopasis was less of a foolish man, so that she could have his long, hard body next to hers and not be lonely at night. The truth was that picking a lover was a hard task for the Lady of the Assagetae — and it would be easier to keep the one she had.
She feared he would do something stupid and dramatic.
‘I want a gallop,’ she announced to the air, and turned her horse’s head and started away across the grass.
She saw him look at her, as if tempted to follow.
But he didn’t.
Two days later, she cut her time at the spring Tanja short, gathered her warriors and headed east. She had more than three hundred riders — she even had twenty-five of Temerix’s people on ponies, big bows on their shoulders and jars of grain in their wagons. They had fifty wagons. The grass was green and fresh, and the game was plentiful as soon as they rode clear of the circle of the Tanja where everyone had hunted everything.
Listra came along with her young cousin, Philokles of Olbia, and a dozen of his friends — Olbian gentlemen, members of the new aristocracy, part Sakje and part Greek that was the legacy of constant intermarriage. They had been at the Tanja and now they rode east, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. She was glad t
o have them — they were well-armoured, capable men who, despite their youth, had already made a campaign or two.
Tuarn of the Hungry Crows came in person as well, riding a black stallion of magnificent size.
She admired the horse and called out to praise him, and he rode out of his part of the column. ‘When you are lord of the Hungry Crows,’ he joked, ‘you had best ride a good black horse.’
‘Why have we not been friends before?’ she asked him.
He made a face. ‘You always speak your mind like this, lady? I thought that childhood among the Greeks would have made you. . subtle.’
‘Much the opposite,’ she said. Her eyes happened to stray across her guard — and there was Scopasis, in his place, wearing his armour — and she found that her heart gave a little leap.
‘I was Marthax’s man,’ he said. ‘Sometimes I represented him to Eumeles. I didn’t expect you to forgive me.’ She digested this.
‘You didn’t know,’ he said.
‘No,’ she allowed.
‘Shall I ride away?’ he asked.
She shook her head. ‘No. No, let’s share this little war, and be friends.’
He nodded. ‘This bluntness has its benefits, I see.’
And, of course, she had Thyrsis. He chose his warriors carefully, and offered to bring three times as many, but she shook her head. ‘Bring what I ask,’ she said. ‘I need to know that there are many warriors here, if we’re all killed. So that my son will come to avenge us, in time.’ She thought of young Kineas, left behind again. She’d left him back in Tanais with her brother — in the care of Temerix’s exotic wife, who had been her nurse once, and a circle of Sauromatae matrons. Her brother, who openly accused her of being a poor mother.
I should not have left Satyrus without making peace, she thought. I should not be riding away from my son.
She rode easily, breathing deeply of the new grass and the smells of spring — the flowers on every stream bank, the smells of the horses, the woodsmoke at their first campfire. It was hard to concentrate on her winter life as a semi-Greek woman when she was here, doing what she loved, riding the plains.
It was glorious to be young, and to be Queen, leading an army to the east. Or rather, it should have been glorious, but even while she drank from the spring, she wondered if she had made the right decision. On the word of one mistreated farm girl she was leading the flower of her people east on a war of vengeance. Was she being decisive, or merely reacting from boredom?
Scopasis rode up behind her. ‘Is the camp satisfactory?’ he asked.
She nodded. ‘Beautiful,’ she said.
That made him smile.
‘Scopasis, am I doing the right thing?’ she asked, suddenly.
He sat behind her and his gelding snorted, sniffing her mare with a sort of vague interest. Her mare sidled away.
‘You ask me these things,’ he said, when they had both reined in their mounts. ‘But the truth is, I’m no king. I can’t answer. And I only sound like a fool when I try. You must ask Thyrsis or Listra. They are lords. I was an outlaw, and now I command your guard. I can make a good rabbit stew, and I will match any other man arrow for arrow, but in truth,’ and he managed a smile, ‘in truth, I’m not able to advise you.’
‘You lay out a good camp, too,’ she said.
‘I have much experience,’ he allowed.
‘You could learn to be a clan leader,’ she said. ‘As good as Sindispharnax, or better.’
He shrugged. ‘Perhaps. Yes — if I rode hard this campaign, and started speaking to the young men and the old outlaws of my youth who still live in the high ground.’ He shrugged. ‘I could be that man, I suppose. But-’ He looked around, struggling for words. ‘But that man might not be me. I don’t know.’ He looked at her. ‘If I became a clan leader, would I then be worthy of you?’
She shook her head. ‘No — or no more than you already are. I’m sorry, Scopasis. Have I treated you badly? I think I have.’
He grunted. ‘I find it hard to know what you want.’
She nodded. ‘Dinner,’ she said. And rode away, before she threw her arms around him and started all over again.
4
Ten days until he sailed, and Satyrus was meeting with the farmers of his southern shore about taxes.
They were a special case in a kingdom burdened with more special cases than uniform taxes and laws. All of the other citizens of the Kingdom of the Bosporus (as it said on the coins, of which he was very proud) were really citizens of Greek city states whose loose alliance he headed — Pantecapaeum, Olbia, Tanais — while to the far west, near the border with Lysimachos’ Kingdom of Thrace, and to the far east, near the wild lands of Hyrkania, his ‘kingdom’ possessed ‘citizens’ who had no intermediary. They had no city to which to report or to pay taxes, no easy place for refuge or law courts.
The westerners were a special case within a special case, as most of them were controlled — ruled — by Sakje overlords who owed their allegiance to his sister, Melitta. And the fact that the King of the Bosporus and the Queen of the Sea of Grass were brother and sister — twins, in fact — was convenient, but it did not represent a union of the crowns in any way, except in special cases.
But in the east, his Maeotae and Sindi farmers along the Hypanis River had no horse-nomad overlords, no archons, no tyrants. And they were wealthy men — or wealthy enough, with good stone houses, barns heavy with grain, slaves, horses and cattle — men of property who deserved his consideration. More than his consideration.
He looked at Gardan, who had fought for his father at the Ford of the River God and had raised a tagma of archers for the campaign that ended at the Battle of the Tanais River. Gardan was, in his quiet way, an important man in his kingdom. A man who had saved him, and his sister, when they were penniless, hunted exiles.
‘A fortification on the Hypanis River would appear to Sinope to be a provocation,’ Satyrus said to the group. They were not well dressed, by Greek standards — large, dark men with furry wool cloaks and homespun chitons. Many of them wore trousers, like the Sakje. ‘And your farms are under no threat.’
‘Three summers ago, Sauromatae raiders burned my house,’ Gardan said. ‘Lord, you can’t tell us it couldn’t happen again.’
‘The western Sauromatae are settling our lands,’ Satyrus said. ‘In a generation they will be neighbours.’
‘Raiders attacked out east. I heard it from a trader when the river opened.’ Scarlad Longshanks was another veteran of their campaigns. He shook his head. ‘Lord, we don’t have a city. Give us a fort.’
‘Does this fortification need soldiers?’ Satyrus asked.
‘Wouldn’t be much use without them,’ Gardan said. ‘Lord — we pay taxes, and we fought for you.’
Satyrus heard them out, because one of the tricks of ruling that he’d already learned was that listening cost him nothing and often went a long way to satisfying dissent. He listened, he talked of the new plough and showed it to them, and then he met with Coenus and Nikephorus, formerly an enemy and now the commander of his infantry.
Coenus just shook his head. ‘It’d be the last straw for Heraklea and Sinope,’ he said. ‘They already think we’re out to take them.’
Nikephorus shrugged. ‘That’s as may be. It’d be nice to have a couple of garrisons where we were welcome, and where the lads could have their own places. Billets on the populace make trouble in the end — always.’
Satyrus sat with his chin in his hand, picking at his beard. ‘I hadn’t expected to keep you all sitting around so long,’ he admitted. In the aftermath of his victory at Tanais River, he’d had two thousand of his own mercenary foot, mostly Macedonian veterans, and he’d captured Nikephorus and his equally good Greek mercenary foot — another two thousand. He’d expected further campaigns — at least in the east — but the complete collapse of the Sauromatae Confederacy with the death of Upazan left him with no external enemies unless he chose to invade his neighbours. No external enemies, a
nd five thousand veteran soldiers (12,500 drachma per day, plus officers and bonus payments, food and equipage). He used them as marines, and he loaned a thousand of them to Heraklea during a slave revolt, but day to day they were the second largest expense in the kingdom, after the fleet.
Coenus raised an eyebrow. ‘But?’
Satyrus sat up straight and spread his hands. ‘It seems foolish, but the whole world is at war and the cost of the fleet and the army seems to me to be an insurance. We’re strong enough to discourage any attempt that any of the main players could make. With the city militias and the Assagetae, we could defeat anything they could roll at us.’
Coenus smiled, and his eyes narrowed. ‘In fact, we have.’
Satyrus nodded. ‘So I’m no better than the farmers. I want to keep the army and the fleet together just in case. And we can afford it. Stability is the key to the future. Good walls and a strong army.’
Nikephorus grinned. ‘Glad you gentlemen intend to continue our employment. That being the case, how about farms for the veterans? You have the land — the top of the eastern valleys has some good land, or so I’m assured, and much of it is still empty.’
Satyrus looked at Coenus. Coenus shook his head. ‘The Macedonian farm boys will make farmers, but will the Tyrian guttersnipes? They won’t know how to hold a plough.’
Nikephorus shook his head. ‘Then they can buy a factor or a couple of slaves to work the ground.’
‘I didn’t like that report of a raid in the Tanais high ground,’ Coenus said.
Satyrus took a sip of wine. ‘Nor I.’
Coenus nodded. ‘If I take a patrol — Tamais Hippeis and some of your men on ponies — we could take a look at the ground for settlement. I want to go back and see to the restoration of the Temple of Artemis, anyway — I’ve arranged for a priestess from Samos to come and train some of our girls, and I was rather hoping that you would fund it.’
Satyrus was not in the position to refuse his principal councillor and the architect of his kingship the cost of restoring a small temple on the Tanais River. ‘Of course,’ he said.
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