by Ben Kane
Standing, she moved to her simple bed, a blanket covering a thick layer of straw in one corner of the hut. It was the same as that used by everyone in the settlement. Thracians were known for their austerity, and she was no different. Ariadne donned her dark red woollen cloak. In addition to marking her position in life, it served as her cover at night. Picking up the wicker basket that lay at the bed’s foot, she put it to her ear. Not a sound. She wasn’t surprised. The snake within did not like the chilly autumn weather, and it was as much as she could do to rouse it occasionally from its torpor and wrap it around her neck before performing a rite at the temple. Thankfully, this simple tactic was enough to inspire awe in the villagers’ minds. To Ariadne, however, the serpent was but a tool in maintaining her air of mystery. She respected the creature, indeed feared it a little, but she’d been exhaustively trained to handle it and its kind in Kabyle.
With the basket under one arm, she headed outside. Like most of the others in the settlement, her one-roomed, rectangular hut had been constructed using a lattice of woven branches, over which a thick layer of mud had been laid. Its saddle roof was covered with a mixture of straw and mud, with a gap at one end to let out smoke from the fire. To the hut’s rear stood part of the rampart that ran around Kotys’ living quarters. It was a defence within the circular settlement’s outer wall, reinforcing the king’s elevated position and serving against treachery from within. Other huts lay to either side, each surrounded by a palisade that kept in their owners’ livestock. The dwellings followed the winding paths that divided the sprawling village. Like the regular dungheaps and mounds of refuse, they had evolved over centuries of inhabitation. Ariadne was eternally grateful that her hut was a reasonable distance from any of these necessary, but stinking, piles.
She followed the lane towards the centre of the settlement, acknowledging the respectful greetings of those she met with a grave smile, or a nod. Women with babes at the breast and the old asked for her blessing or advice, while all but the boldest of the warriors tended to avoid her gaze. Children tended to fall into two camps: those who were terrified of her and those who asked to see her snake. There were far more of the former than the latter. There was little to leaven the loneliness of Ariadne’s existence. She forced her melancholy away. The god would send her a man, if he saw fit. And if he didn’t, she would continue to serve him faithfully, as she had promised during her initiation.
The crowd in front of her parted, revealing a group of richly dressed warriors. Ariadne’s heart sank. It wasn’t just the men’s swagger that told her who they were. Their red long-sleeved tunics with vertical white stripes, elaborate bronze helmets and silver-inlaid greaves shouted stature and importance. So too did their well-made javelins, kopis swords and long, curved daggers. Ariadne mouthed a silent curse. Wherever this many of his bodyguards were, Kotys wouldn’t be far behind. Glancing to her left, she greeted an elderly woman whose sick husband she’d recently treated. A torrent of praise to Dionysus filled Ariadne’s ears. Smiling, she moved nearer to the woman’s hut, turning her back on the path. With a little luck, the warriors wouldn’t have seen her. Perhaps they weren’t even looking for her?
‘Priestess!’
Ariadne cursed silently. She continued listening to the old woman’s patter, but when the voice called again, it was right behind her.
‘Priestess.’
The traveller didn’t linger at the scene where he’d been ambushed. Of course, the brigands had nothing worth taking. All he’d had to do was clean his sica, snap off the javelin that had skewered his shield and retie the shield to the pack on his horse’s back. Leaving the bodies where they’d fallen, he set out for the village. At this rate, they’d be lucky to reach it before dark. That eventuality did not bear thinking about. Banks of dull yellow clouds overhead promised an early fall of snow. His luck was in, however. Whether it was the adrenalin pumping through his mount’s veins, or an intervention by the Great Rider, he did not know, but the stallion now seemed to move more easily on its bad leg. They made good progress, coming within sight of the settlement just as the first flakes began to fall.
Loud bleating carried through the air, and the traveller looked up. Aided by a pair of dogs, a small boy was herding a flock of sheep and goats on to the road just ahead. ‘We’re not the only ones seeking shelter,’ he said to his mount. They halted, giving the lad space to usher his resentful charges on to the stony track. ‘Some bitter weather coming. You’re wise to head for home now,’ he said in a friendly tone.
The boy made no move to come down off the slope. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded suspiciously.
‘Peiros is my name,’ he lied. Even this close to his home, he did not yet feel like revealing his true identity.
‘Never heard of you,’ came the dismissive reply.
‘You were probably still crawling around on a bearskin rug at your mother’s feet when I left the village.’
Some of the wariness left the boy’s eyes. ‘Maybe.’ He began urging the last of the sheep and goats on to the road with sharp cries and waves of his arms. The dogs darted to and fro, ensuring that there were no stragglers. The traveller watched, and when the entire flock was safely down, he began to walk alongside the young shepherd. I wonder what I can find out. ‘How’s Rhesus?’ he asked.
‘Rhesus? The old king?’
‘Yes.’
‘He’s been gone these four years. A plague took him.’
‘His son Andriscus should be king then.’
The boy threw him a scornful look. ‘You really have been away. Andriscus is dead too.’ He glanced around warily before whispering, ‘Murdered, like Sitalkes.’ He saw the flash of horror in the traveller’s eyes. ‘I know, it was terrible. My father says that the Great Rider will punish Kotys eventually, but for now, we have to live with him.’
‘Kotys killed Sitalkes?’
‘Yes,’ replied the lad, spitting.
‘And now he’s the king?’
A nod.
‘I see.’
A silence fell, which the boy did not dare break. He wouldn’t admit it, but the grim traveller scared him. A moment later, the man halted. ‘You go on.’ He gestured at his stallion. ‘I mustn’t make him walk too long on his bad leg. I’ll see you in the village.’
With a relieved nod, the boy began chivvying the flock along the road again. The traveller waited until he was some distance away before closing his eyes. Guilt nipped at his conscience. If only I had been here, things might have been different. He didn’t let the feeling linger. Or they might not. I too might have been slain. Father’s decision to send me away was a good one. Somehow he knew that Sitalkes also would not have changed what had transpired. It was impossible to deny his sadness at the news of his father’s murder, however. He thought of Sitalkes as he’d last seen him: strong, straight-backed, healthy. Rest well. All he’d wanted was to come home. For his service with his most hated enemies to end. To hear that his father was dead was bad enough, but if it was true that he had been murdered, there would be no warm homecoming. No rest. Yet to think of turning away from the settlement and retracing his steps was not an option. Vengeance had to be obtained. His honour demanded it. Besides, where would he go? Back into service with the legions? Absolutely not. It was time to return, no matter what reception awaited him. I do not question your will, Great Rider. Instead I ask you to protect me, as you have always done, and to help me punish my father’s killer. The fact that this meant slaying a king did not weaken his resolve.
‘Come on,’ he said to the stallion. ‘Let’s find you a stable and some food.’
Ariadne turned slowly. ‘Polles. What a surprise.’ She made no attempt to keep the ice from her voice. Polles might be Kotys’ champion, but he was also an arrogant bully who abused his position of authority.
‘The king wishes to talk with you,’ drawled Polles.
Despite the veneer of courtesy, this was an order. How dare he? Ariadne forced her face to remain calm. ‘But we spoke only ye
sterday.’
Polles’ thin lips twisted in a travesty of a smile. Everything about him from his striking good looks to his long black hair and oiled muscles smacked of self-importance. ‘Nonetheless, he desires… the pleasure of your company once more.’
Ariadne did not miss the short but deliberate delay in his delivery. Judging by the other warriors’ chuckles, neither had they. Filthy bastard, she thought. Just like your master. ‘When?’
‘Why, now,’ he replied in a surprised tone.
‘Where is the king?’
Polles waved languidly over his shoulder. ‘In the central meeting area.’
Where all the people can see him. ‘I’ll be there in a moment.’
‘Kotys sent us to accompany you to his side. At once,’ said Polles, frowning.
‘He may well have done, but I am busy.’ Ariadne indicated the fawning old woman. ‘Can’t you see?’
Polles’ face flushed with annoyance. ‘I-’
‘Are the king’s wishes are more important than the work of the god Dionysus?’ asked Ariadne, lifting the basket’s lid.
‘No, of course not,’ Polles answered, retreating.
‘Good.’ Ariadne turned her back on him.
Angry muttering broke out behind her. ‘I don’t know what you should say to the king. Tell him that we can’t find her. Tell him that she’s in a trance. Make up something!’ snapped Polles. Ariadne heard feet scurrying off and allowed herself a small smile. Soon, however, her conversation with the old woman petered out. It wasn’t surprising. Having the king’s champion a few steps away, no doubt staring daggers at both of them, would intimidate anyone. Murmuring a blessing on the crone, Ariadne glanced at Polles. ‘I’m ready.’
With poor grace, he beckoned her into the midst of his warriors. They closed ranks smartly and Polles led the way forward, bawling at anyone foolish enough to get in his way. It didn’t take long to reach the large open area which formed the settlement’s centre. The space was roughly circular in shape, and fringed by dozens of huts. Crowds of women gossiped as they carried their washing back from the river. A ragtag assortment of children played or fought with each other in the dirt while skinny mongrels leaped excitedly around them, filling the air with shrill barks. Smoke trickled from the roof of a smithy off to one side; the clang of a hammer on an anvil could be heard from within. Several men waited outside, damaged weapons in hand. There were wooden stalls selling metalwork, hides and essential supplies such as grain, pottery and salt, a miserable inn, and three temples — one each to Dionysus, the rider god, and the mother goddess. That was it.
Like their fellow Thracians, the Maedi were not a race that depended on trade for a living. Their territory was poor in natural resources. Farming provided little more than a subsistence living, so they had evolved into fighters, whose sole purpose of existence was to make war, either in their own land or abroad. The people visible proved this point: they were mostly powerfully built warriors. The majority were red-or brown-haired, with dark complexions. Varying in age from stripling to greybeard, all had the same confident manner. Clad in pleated, short-sleeved tunics that ranged in colour from red and green to brown or cream, they wore sandals, or leather shoes with upturned toes. Many wore the ubiquitous alopekis, the pointed fox-skin cap with long flaps to cover the ears. Richer individuals sported bronze or gold torcs around their necks. A sword or a dagger — often both — hung from every man’s belt or baldric. They stood around in groups, bragging of their exploits and planning hunting trips.
Polles and his men attracted the attention of everyone in the vicinity. Ariadne felt the weight of the onlookers’ stares as they strode towards Dionysus’ temple, a larger building than most, with a squat stone pillar on each side of the entrance. She heard their muttering too, and hated it. They were brave enough to fight in battle, but not to stand up to the king they resented. It made her feel very alone.
The king was waiting by the temple doors. He was flanked by bodyguards, while a throng of warriors stood before him. He cut a grand sight. Although he was nearly fifty, Kotys looked a decade younger. His wavy black hair showed not a trace of grey and there were few wrinkles on his shrewd, fox-like face. Over his purple knee-length tunic, Kotys wore a composite iron corselet with gold fittings and twin pectorals of the same precious metal. Layered linen pteryges protected his groin, and greaves inlaid with silver covered his lower legs. He was armed with an ivory-handled machaira sword, which hung in an amber-studded scabbard from his gold-plated belt. An ornate Attic helmet sat upon his head, marking his kingship.
As Polles and his men pushed through the throng, Kotys’ eyes drank Ariadne in. ‘Priestess! Finally, you grace us with your presence,’ he called.
‘I came as soon as I could, Your Majesty.’ Ariadne did not explain further.
‘Excellent.’ Kotys made a peremptory gesture and her escorts moved aside. Reluctantly, she took a step forward, then a few more. Ariadne could sense Polles smirking. Turning her head, she glared at him. The gesture was not lost on Kotys, who waved his hands again. At this, the bodyguards withdrew some twenty paces to the smithy.
‘You must forgive Polles’ lack of manners,’ said the king. ‘He is ill suited to running errands.’
Why send him then? ‘I understand,’ she murmured, forcibly dampening her anger.
‘Good.’ One word was the limit of Kotys’ own courtesy. ‘It would be easy to make more suitable arrangements,’ he said brusquely.
‘And they would be?’ Ariadne arched her eyebrows.
‘Dine with me in my quarters some evening. There would be no need for Polles, no need for an escort.’
‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible,’ Ariadne replied icily.
‘Are you forgetting who I am?’ asked Kotys with a scowl.
‘Of course not, Majesty.’ Ariadne lowered her eyes in a pretence of demureness. ‘Evenings are the best time for communing with the god, however,’ she lied.
‘That couldn’t happen every night,’ he growled.
‘No, the dreams are only occasional. Dionysus’ ways are mysterious, as you would expect.’
He nodded sagely. ‘The rider god is the same.’
‘Naturally, the erratic nature of their arrival means that I must always be ready to receive them. Spending an evening away from the temple is out of the question. Now, if you would excuse me, I must pray to the god.’ Although her heart was thumping in her chest, Ariadne bowed and gave Kotys a beatific smile, before making to move past him.
To Ariadne’s shock, he seized her by the arm. She dropped the basket, but unfortunately the lid stayed on.
‘You’re hurting me!’
‘You think that’s painful?’ Kotys laughed and thrust his face into hers. ‘Know this, bitch. Toy with me at your peril. I won’t tolerate it forever. Remember that I am also a priest. You will come to my bed, one way or another. And soon.’ He suddenly released his grip, and Ariadne staggered away, white-faced.
What she would have given for a lightning bolt to flash down from the sky and strike him dead. Naturally, nothing of the sort happened. She might be the representative of a deity, but so was Kotys. In a situation such as this, Ariadne was powerless. Kabyle with its powerful council of priests was far, far away. Not that they’d intervene anyway. As ruler of the Maedi and high priest to the rider god, Kotys was the one with all the power. She managed a stiff little bow. Kotys’ lips twitched in contemptuous amusement. ‘We will speak again,’ he said in a grating voice. ‘Shortly.’
With trembling hands, Ariadne carried the basket to the temple doors, where she set it down. She lifted the heavy bar which held the portal closed, letting the light flood in to the dim interior. The moment that Kotys was gone, she let out a shuddering gasp. Her knees felt weak beneath her, and she fumbled her way to one of the benches that sat against the side walls. Closing her eyes, Ariadne inhaled deeply and held it as she counted her heartbeat. At the count of four, she let the air out gradually. Dionysus, help me, she begged.
Please. She continued to take slow breaths. A vague sense of calm crept over her at last, and some of the tension left her shoulders. A lingering fear remained in Ariadne’s belly, however. It would take far more than prayers to stop Kotys taking matters into his own hands. She felt utterly helpless.
A discreet cough interrupted her reverie.
Ariadne turned her head. The figure in the doorway was outlined by sunlight, preventing her from recognising who it might be. Needles of panic stabbed through her before she regained control. Kotys or Polles would not be so polite. ‘Who is it?’
‘My name is Berisades,’ said a respectful voice. ‘I’m a trader.’
Ariadne’s professional mien took over. ‘Come in,’ she commanded, gliding towards him. Berisades was a short man in late middle age with a close-cut beard and deep-set, intelligent eyes. ‘You’ve been on the road,’ she said, eyeing his green tunic and loose trousers, which were covered in dust.
‘I have come from the east. It was a long journey, but we made it without too many losses. I wanted to offer my thanks to the god immediately.’ Berisades tapped the purse on his belt, which clinked.
Ariadne ushered the trader forward to the stone altar. Behind it, on a plinth, was a large painted statue of Dionysus. In one hand, the bearded god held a grapevine, and in the other a drinking cup. Waves lapped at his feet, showing his influence over water. A carved bull with the face of a man stood to one side of him while a group of satyrs cavorted on the other. At his feet lay bunches of withered dry flowers, miniature clay vessels containing wine and tiny statues in his likeness. Light winked off pieces of amber and glass. There were long razor clam shells, ribbed cockles and, most prized of all, a rare leopard cowrie shell.