Scythian Trilogy Book 3: Funeral in Babylon

by Max Overton

  Nikometros grinned. "How are the rooms, Tomyra? To your satisfaction?"

  The robed woman grimaced. "Dirty. And with holes in the walls." She set the candle down on the table and sank onto a stool. "However, I'm too tired to worry about it." She glanced up at the tall figure behind her and grinned. "Bithyia wants to force the inn-keeper to clean the rooms himself. At sword point if necessary."

  Timon snorted with laughter then embraced the slim figure. "I'd wager good money he never had to deal with a Scythian warrior woman before." He kissed the tall woman before ushering her to the table. "Come, Bithyia. We have wine and the promise of a meal." He poured the thin wine into cups and passed them around.

  Nikometros stepped around the women and guided the old man to a bench and passed him a cup of wine. The grey head shook his head and motioned the cup away. "Water," he muttered. "And some milk for Bubis."

  "The water is not safe in the plains, Ket. It will give you the flux," replied Nikometros gently. "At least add some wine to it. Enough to take the ill from it." He scratched the black cat behind the ears and smiled as it butted his hand. "I'm certain we can find some milk for Bubis though."

  Tirses arrived from stabling the horses and threw off his jacket with an oath. He slumped onto a bench and drained a cup of wine, spilling some of the thin red liquid onto his chest and shirt. He belched loudly and grinned.

  "Apologies, my lady. But I really needed that." He refilled his cup and sipped. "The men are settled in the stables, my lord. Meat has been provided, and wine."

  Nikometros nodded. "Good." He paused before carefully putting down his cup. "What is the mood of the men, Tirses?"

  "Mood? What do you mean, my lord?"

  "We've been traveling a month. A month away from their native Scythia. How are they holding up? Do they want to turn back?"

  Tirses shrugged and glanced away. "One or two speak of their homes with longing."

  "Malcontents!" growled Timon. "Do they imagine Parasades would leave them alive if they returned?"

  "Such is the way of the world," muttered Ket.

  "Yet they allowed Agarus to remain," pointed out Tomyra. "I really thought he was coming with us. But when he turned back at the last minute..."

  Bithyia nodded. "Parasades will do anything to retain his mastery of our people. Those who followed the lord Nikom...Nikometros..." she stumbled over the pronunciation, "...would die as soon as they crossed the borders."

  "They know this," Tirses quietly replied.

  "Then why do they grumble?" barked Timon. "Give me their names. I'll teach them loyalty."

  Nikometros gripped Timon's arm. "It doesn't matter who they are, Timon. Didn't you long for Macedon when we were captive?"

  The meal arrived, ladled from the steaming kitchen cauldron into large earthenware bowls. A thick lamb stew, reeking with herbs and spices, set their mouths watering then rapidly satiated their hunger. Freshly baked bread, hot from the ovens, soaked up the juices of the meal. At last, they pushed their bowls back and stretched, watching Bubis delicately lick the last traces of gravy from the tabletop.

  "Now that was a meal," grunted Timon.

  "A bit too spiced for my taste," observed Bithyia, "But quite acceptable." She stifled a belch and took another sip of wine.

  Tomyra yawned and pushed her bench back. "I think I'm ready for my bed. Will you join me, Niko?"

  Nikometros smiled and rose. "Presently, Tomyra. I must talk to the men first. Timon, Tirses, will you join me?"

  Bithyia watched her man leave the room with Nikometros and Tirses before turning to her priestess with a smile. "As soon as we reach the army I'm going to insist we're married."

  Tomyra grinned. "Does he know what a firebrand he's getting?"

  Bithyia curled her tongue and licked her upper lip. "Oh, he knows." Her eyes sparkled then flicked across at Tomyra. "And you, my lady? What of you and Niko?"

  Tomyra's grin faltered. "I don't know."

  Ket looked up sharply from where he sat, cradling Bubis in his lap. "You haven't told him yet, child?"

  Bithyia shook her head. "My lady, you said you were going to days ago."

  "It isn't easy to tell the man you love that you carry another man's child."

  "Tell him," Ket gently admonished. "Tell him. He knows the circumstances; he'll understand."

  "Of course he will," growled Bithyia. "Dimurthes forced you and he's now dead by his own hand. The Mother Goddess forbade you to rid yourself of it, so there must be a reason for you to carry it."

  "Still, he's a man..."

  Ket leaned forward and gently held Tomyra's wrist. His wise gaze searched her face. "How far gone are you, child. Three months?"

  "Near enough, Ket."

  "Then it will show soon. Do you mean to let him believe it is his own? Will you found your marriage on a deceit?"

  "If you don't tell him, he'll never know it's not his," snapped Tomyra. "Niko is an innocent in some things."

  Ket shook his head. "I won't tell him, child; that is for you to do. However, I've known him longer than you. He's no fool and he will find out."

  "How can you say you've known Niko longer?" interjected Bithyia. "You were a slave of the Jartai when we found you. Niko and my lady were already close."

  "Have you forgotten I was a priest at Siwah in Egypt, girl?" asked Ket. "I was there on that golden day when the pharaoh, Alexander, son of Ammon-Ra, came to the oracle. His half-brother Ptolemy was there, as was a certain youth in his entourage, scarcely more than a boy. Nikometros, illegitimate son of Ptolemy and nephew to Alexander." Ket lifted his cup and sipped his well-watered wine. "Oh yes, I have known Nikometros a long time."

  Tomyra sat silent with her head bowed. For several minutes the only sounds in the room were the muted purring of Ket's cat, the clatter behind the kitchen screens and the ever-present drone of flies. At last, Tomyra raised her head and pushed back the black locks of hair falling over her eyes. She nodded.

  "I'll tell him tonight."

  "Would you like me there?" Bithyia nervously eyed her friend. "I can at least give you some moral support."

  Tomyra opened her mouth to reply then shut it with a snap, whipping her head round as a volley of shouts and the clash of steel resounded from the street. She leapt to her feet and darted toward the door, Bithyia on her heels. Bursting into the street, the two women halted, staring in horror at the scene outside.

  The narrow street overflowed with armed men. Greek soldiers in armour and clutching long spears stared belligerently over tall shields at Nikometros and Timon who crouched by a body lying in the dust. Behind them, Tirses and his men stood with drawn swords, uncertain as to their next action, waiting for a word of command.

  The ranks of the soldiers parted and a tall man in full parade armour strode out to confront the two men crouching over the body of their fallen comrade. Scarlet plumes on his gleaming helmet bobbed as he advanced and the glint in his dark eyes matched that of the drawn sword. Fixing Nikometros with a steely glare, his voice rang out in the silence.

  "Nikometros, son of Leonnatos. You are under arrest for treason."

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  Chapter Two

  The small stone cell sweltered in the noon heat. Nikometros lay on a thin straw pallet, feeling sweat trickle down his body. He shifted and scratched at the vermin bites scattered over his torso. A bar of sunlight, golden and rippling in the heat, lay across his legs. His eyes roamed the cell then gazed up to follow the light to the window high on the southern wall, where a thin sliver of blue sky taunted him, speaking of the wide, grassy plains of Scythia. His mind, unlike his captive and supine body, raced free, recounting over and over the events of the last three days.

  Outnumbered and confronted by the lawful authority of the land, Nikometros surrendered his sword to the tall Macedonian officer in Abyek. His men, bewildered but ready to fight and die in his defence, unwillingly put down their arms. Nikometros argued for their release as envoys of the Mas
segetae people but to no avail. The most he could secure for them was the freedom to accompany their captive leader to Kharmsar, the headquarters of the local Macedonian garrison. At least they had retained their weapons and hence, some measure of honour.

  Tomyra and Bithyia were treated well and with honour, as was the old Egyptian, Ket. Nikometros grinned despite his discomfort as he remembered the old man querulously insisting he be addressed by his full title and name: Holy Priest of Ammon-Ra, Beloved of the Gods, Keeper of the Oracle at Siwah, Ketherennoferptah.

  Timon was taken captive. Though clearly an enlisted man and under the orders of a superior officer, he was named in the arrest warrant as an accomplice. He and Nikometros were bound and, under strict security, transported to the garrison town of Kharmsar, to await trial and sentence.

  Footsteps sounded on the stone flagging outside the cell. Nikometros stood up, brushing down his tunic and running fingers through tangled hair. The bolt rattled and the heavy wooden door swung open. An armed officer stepped into the cell, flicking his gaze around the bare stone before settling on the unkempt and unshaven figure before him. After a moment's scrutiny he stepped back, letting an unarmed soldier enter.

  The soldier thrust a wooden bowl at Nikometros then stooped and set a jug and cup on the floor. Rising, the man stared at Nikometros, scratching his chin.

  "Say your prayers, traitor," he grated. "This will be your last meal."

  "Enough, Demos," the officer quietly remarked. "Leave the gentleman alone."

  The soldier shrugged and sidled out of the cell. The officer stared at Nikometros a moment longer. "My apologies, sir," he said. He paused. "I would try to collect my thoughts, sir. I'll come for you within the hour. A brave showing may mean the difference between a quick death and a lingering one."

  Nikometros glanced down at the bowl he held then tossed the stale bread within it onto the pallet. He cleared his throat and took a deep breath. "I am condemned then? There's to be no trial?"

  The officer shook his head. "You're under Macedonian law now. You'll be heard, of course; though the evidence against you is clear enough."

  "What evidence...?"

  "In due course," interrupted the officer. "For now, eat, prepare yourself." He stepped back, dragging the door shut behind him. The bolt rattled home and the sound of footsteps diminished.

  Nikometros slammed the empty bowl against the wall with a curse. He stared around the small stone cell, his hands clenching impotently at his sides, his nostrils flaring. Taking a deep breath, he uttered a few choice epithets, describing the ancestry and desired fate of the officer and his superiors. After a few moments contemplation, Nikometros sighed and shook his head. He straightened his tunic and ran a hand over the stubble on his chin and then, shrugging at the impossibility of making himself presentable under the present circumstances, he picked up the crust of bread and lay down on the pallet. Chewing absently on the bread he looked toward the barred window far above. The tiny strip of blue sky beckoned to him and he lost himself in memories--for a while he roamed the open plains of Scythia with Tomyra by his side.

  The shaft of sunlight was a hand span higher on the wall when they came for him. Nikometros heard the tramp of boots outside the cell and shouted commands. Footsteps resounded in the passage and the cell door crashed open. The same officer beckoned to him.

  "Nikometros, son of Leonnatos, it is time."

  Nikometros smoothed down his tunic and stepped past the officer into the corridor. Two burly soldiers took hold of his arms and started to hustle him toward the exterior door. A sharp command from the officer and they released him, standing back against the walls of the corridor.

  Nikometros nodded toward the officer. "Thank you."

  He turned and walked toward the open door, flanked by the guards. He stepped into an open courtyard surrounded by low buildings of wood and stone. Squinting into bright sunshine, Nikometros made out a large building at the opposite end of the courtyard. Scarlet pennants flew from poles affixed to the roof and armed guards stood at attention outside the broad doors. He started across the dusty ground toward the building.

  The officer fell in beside him and several more soldiers followed with hands on sword hilts. To one side, several soldiers lounged around a rough wooden stake set into hard-baked earth. One or two rested, leaning on slender javelins. Others hefted them or practiced casting them at a pile of rags. They fell silent as the small party walked by, turning to look at Nikometros with curiosity.

  One man laughed. "Ho, traitor! I'll enjoy killing you." His fellow soldiers guffawed and turned back to their practice. Nikometros paled slightly but lifted a hand in a half salute and marched on.

  "Bravely done!" muttered the officer.

  Nikometros inclined his head. "What is your name, sir?" he asked.

  "Dymnos." The officer paused. "I met you before, sir. Well, sort of. After the battle at the Granicus River. I was in Nicanor's infantry. You were wonderful." Dymnos flushed. "The Companion Cavalry, I mean, sir. You swept all before you."

  "I must admit I don't remember you, Dymnos."

  "No reason to, sir. We were plundering the enemy camp when the cavalry returned from chasing Darius. I handed you a flask of wine. Men pointed you out as one destined for great things."

  "I'm sorry, Dymnos, I don't remember, but it was a kindness all the same. I do remember a great thirst and being surrounded by good comrades."

  "Aye, sir," said Dymnos. "It saddens me to see it come to this. Never fear, if all goes ill I will do what I can to make sure your death is a swift one." He looked up as they approached the guards at the door.

  When the doors swung open, Nikometros' first impression was of being in a garden. A small portico led into a large tiled room. The centre of the room opened to the sky and a fountain sprayed high into the air, splashing and tumbling into a rippling pool. Sun flecks shimmered and danced, reflected into the farthest recesses of the room. Flowering and fruiting trees of all descriptions sat in great earthenware pots around the pool, filling the air with a delicate perfume.

  A heavyset man at an ornate table sat to one side of the pool, out of reach of splashes. The man, dark and bearded, wore a drapery of rich robes and an indefinable air of command. Across the dark polished wood of the table lay scattered papers, one of which the man intently studied. At a smaller table sat two men whose duties could only be that of secretaries as a profusion of pens and scrolls lay around them and one scribbled furiously while the other dug through a mound of papers. Dymnos and Nikometros marched up to the table and halted, saluting.

  "Sir," said Dymnos. "The prisoner, Nikometros son of Leonnatos."

  The heavyset man looked up, scrutinised Nikometros briefly then resumed reading. Nikometros waited in silence. At length the man put down the paper, sighed and looked up again.

  "You stand accused of treason, soldier," drawled the man in a weary voice. "The evidence is overwhelming but as you're a Macedonian, I'll hear what you have to say before you are executed."

  "Whom have I the honour of addressing, sir?"

  "Alcimenes, son of Leanndros, garrison commander of the Macedonian army at Kharmsar and the surrounding provinces," the man replied. "If you entertain some hope of appealing to a higher officer, know that I have full authority to punish wrongdoing and will do my duty."

  "What is my supposed crime, sir?"

  "Treason." Alcimenes leaned forward. "Are you hard of hearing, soldier, or do you need an interpreter?"

  "No, sir. I meant only that treason could be many things. What precisely am I accused of?"

  Alcimenes waved a hand toward his secretaries. "Read him the list of charges, Druon."

  A short balding man dropped the pen he was scribbling with and searched through the papers in front of him. "Yes, my lord," he muttered. He cleared his throat and read from a scroll.

  "First, that last spring, with foreknowledge, you did lead a troop of Macedonian auxiliaries into an ambush, resulting in the deaths of ten of your men.r />
  "Second, that you did enter..."

  "I didn't lead any troop into an ambush, sir," interrupted Nikometros.

  "You deny the incident?" Alcimenes furrowed his brow. "It's a matter of public record. The bodies of most of the soldiers were recovered for burial."

  "Then you must know that Eumenes captained our troop. He was in command. I only took over when he was killed in the ambush."

  Druon sifted through his papers. The other secretary handed him a list that he swiftly scanned.

  "A Eumenes is listed sir, but not his rank."

  Alcimenes made a notation on a piece of paper then signed to Druon. "Continue reading the charges."

  "Yes, sir. Second, that you did enter into a treaty with the enemy."

  Alcimenes raised an eyebrow at Nikometros. "You wish to answer that charge?"

  "Indeed, sir. I entered into no treaty. I recognise I don't have the authority. What I did do, to preserve my life and the lives of my surviving men, was to become a blood brother of the chief of the Massegetae Scythians."

  "You have proof of this, or do I only have your word?"

  "Send for my man Timon and the priestess Tomyra. They were both present. Where are they anyway?" Nikometros dropped his voice to a whisper. "Sir, what has become of my companions?"

  Alcimenes leaned back and examined his nails. He nibbled at the side of one and spat delicately to one side. "Your women are safe. We don't make war on women. As for the Scythians with you, they'll be detained, quite comfortably I might add, until word arrives from Ekbatana as to their disposition."