Scythian Trilogy Book 3: Funeral in Babylon

by Max Overton

  "Kerros is still squadron commander. I believe I may have mentioned him once or twice."

  "Bad sort, is he?" asked Timon.

  "The worst," muttered Nikometros. "Cruel and greedy. He was a good officer once, before Philotas promoted him. Now he seeks only his pleasure, not the welfare of the men."

  Timon grunted. "I've known a few like that. Still, stay out of his way as much as you can and he'll forget about you."

  The guard strode on through the camp with Nikometros and Timon, passing rows of tents with soldiers lounging around campfires, tending to their weapons or mending ragged clothing. Several local Persian women, from the lower levels of society to judge by their dress and behaviour, sat with the soldiers. Some looked up as the three men passed, making lewd comments.

  "Kerros won't forget me," stated Nikometros. "He's hated me for years. He'll degrade me with the worst of tasks until he tires of me and then he'll probably arrange for my death."

  The city of tents gave way to an open arena on which dozens of men ran, jumped or wrestled. All were naked, their bodies gleaming from liberally smeared oil.

  Timon grinned. "I wonder what Bithyia's reaction to this will be? Scythian women are not used to such public nudity."

  "I dare say she'll get used to it, Timon." Nikometros tapped his friend on the arm. "I think we've arrived."

  Timon looked around at the walled stockade with alert guards at the gate. "He's putting you in prison again?" growled Timon. "He cannot. Lord Hephaestion just freed you."

  Nikometros shook his head. "No, Timon. I'm to take charge of an execution. Kerros ordered me to kill a man I once knew."

  "Fornicating bastard!"

  "Careful, Timon. That could be judged insubordination. You risk a flogging."

  Timon scowled and spat on the ground but kept silent. He followed Nikometros and the guard into the stockade and across a bare patch of ground to where a young officer stood with a squad of soldiers. The men leaned on javelins, watching as the trio approached. The guard saluted the officer and passed him the note from Kerros. The officer read the note, looked at Nikometros then snapped off a crisp salute. When Nikometros returned the salute the man relaxed and ventured a cautious smile.

  "Glad to see you, sir. I wasn't looking forward to this detail."

  "I imagine not," Nikometros replied. "No man likes to kill in cold blood but it sometimes has to be done." He beckoned the man aside, out of earshot of the soldiers. "This prisoner uttered traitorous remarks?"

  "Yes sir. Though why the commander should take such drastic measures against a fool like Lymnos..."

  "A fool who may be a traitor," interrupted Nikometros. "I remember this Lymnos. Straight talk may be valued in his native Sparta, but he should know when to keep his mouth shut."

  "No, no. Not the Spartan, sir. Who said the Spartan? It is Lymnos the Macedonian who is condemned."

  Nikometros stood nonplussed. "The stable hand? But the man is a halfwit. Dropped on his head or some such when he was a baby. How can he be a traitor?"

  The young officer shrugged. "The commander interrogated him. He made some comments about Alexander and how he'd offended the gods."

  "I cannot believe it," muttered Nikometros. He ran nervous fingers through his tousled hair. "Fetch the man. Let us see what he has to say for himself."

  "Judgment has already been passed, sir. You cannot..."

  "Do it." Nikometros stared the officer down then watched while the man hurried into one of the cells, emerging a few moments later with a middle-aged man, thin and balding.

  The prisoner shuffled along in front of the officer, his head cocked to one side with watery eyes squinting in the sunlight, his hands twisting and turning in agitation. He stopped in front of Nikometros and gaped up at him.

  "Lymnos," Nikometros said. "Do you remember me?"

  Lymnos stared uncomprehendingly.

  "My name is Nikometros. Do you remember?"

  Lymnos gave a weak smile and nodded. "Big golden horse."

  "Yes, Lymnos." Nikometros nodded. "I have a big golden stallion called Diomede." He lowered to a squat, pulling Lymnos down beside him. "Do you know why you are here?"

  "Here?" Lymnos asked uncertainly. "Want to go. Horses need me. I go now?" A smile broke out over his face.

  "Lymnos, listen carefully. You said some things about Alexander...about the king. Do you remember what you said?"

  "The king..." Lymnos' forehead wrinkled in concentration. "He thinks himself a god but he will be struck down for his hoo...hoob...I cannot remember the word."

  Nikometros rocked back on his heels. "Hubris? You said the king would be struck down for his hubris?"

  Lymnos grinned. "Yes, yes. That is the word the man used."

  "What man?"

  Lymnos shrugged. "A man." He frowned. "I had not heard the word before and I forgot it. What does it mean?"

  "It means he was too proud and that the gods would punish him for it," muttered Nikometros. He got to his feet and called the officer and Timon over. "This man doesn't even know the meaning of the words he spoke. He was just repeating them."

  Timon snorted. "He could be punished for repeating them, I suppose, but it would be unjust for him to die for it."

  "Nevertheless," stated the young officer. "The commander ordered his death. I have the signed warrant here."

  "I'm not going to execute him for merely repeating another man's words," Nikometros replied with a frown.

  The officer stubbornly clenched his jaw. "I won't disobey my commanding officer. If you won't carry it out, I will." He turned and shouted to the squad of soldiers. They hefted their javelins and ran into a semicircle around the stable hand.

  Lymnos straightened and stared around him. "What is happening?" he whispered.

  "By almighty Zeus," Nikometros swore. "The man isn't even aware of what's happening to him."

  "Stand aside," warned the young officer. "Or I'll have you removed and placed under arrest."

  "Better do it, Niko," muttered Timon. "The poor fool is not worth your life."

  Nikometros swung round and gripped Lymnos by the shoulders. "Lymnos," he yelled. "Look at me." When he was sure he had the man's attention he lowered his voice. "Say this, Lymnos. 'I appeal to the king'. Say it."

  "Stand aside," the officer said again. He snapped an order and two soldiers leapt forward, grasping Nikometros by the arms.

  Timon grappled with them and was restrained in turn by other soldiers.

  "Lock them up," grated the officer. "I'm sorry, sir, but you leave me no choice."

  "Say it, Lymnos!" Nikometros bellowed as he was dragged back.

  Lymnos looked bewildered. "I...I appeal to the king," he muttered.

  "Louder! Say it louder!" Nikometros shook himself free and headed back toward the condemned man.

  A soldier leapt in front of him and leveled a javelin at his chest.

  "I appeal to the king," Lymnos repeated, louder. "I appeal to the king."

  Nikometros relaxed. "There," he said to the officer. "You cannot deny him his request."

  "What do you mean? He's condemned already. I intend to carry out the sentence."

  Nikometros pitched his voice to carry over the open area so all present could hear his words. "A Macedonian soldier, accused of any crime, may appeal directly to the king for judgment. It is the Law."

  "Nonsense," barked the officer. "Besides, he's not even a soldier."

  "He is still a Macedonian and has appealed to the king," Nikometros said stubbornly. "By law he has a right to be heard by the king."

  "He is condemned already. It does not apply."

  The soldier in front of Nikometros lowered his javelin and turned toward the officer. "Beggin' yer pardon, sir, but it does." He called over to the other soldiers. "Don't it lads?"

  Amid a chorus of agreement, the soldiers grounded their javelins, falling back into rough lines again. "It's his right, sir."

  "Aye, sir."

  "Could be any of us, lads. 'Tis th
e law."

  The young officer stuttered, looking unsure, and then he capitulated.

  "V...Very well, then. Lock him up again. I'll send word to the commander."

  "To the king," Nikometros ordered. "He appealed to the king, not the commander."

  The young man looked around at his squad, noting the determined looks on their faces. He nodded and turned on his heel before stalking to the nearby barracks.

  Nikometros beckoned the nearest soldier over to him. "Take word of this to the city, soldier," he said quietly. "Make sure the king hears of it, or someone close to him."

  The soldier nodded and saluted. "Aye, sir...and thank you."

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  Chapter Eight

  Autumn rains, borne on chill winds from the north, swept through the Macedonian camp, beating out a staccato rhythm on the tent sides, finding the smallest gaps and worn areas in the cloth. Clothing became damp, bedding moldy and the earthen floors beneath the carpets softened. Outside the ground became a sea of mud, churned by countless feet and the sharp hooves of the cavalry detachments.

  Morale fell. The land was at peace and no campaigns or wars beckoned. Men sat around listlessly, tending their equipment or gossiping. Food was cold or half cooked, the fires smoldering fitfully at best in the humid atmosphere. Discontent grew.

  Nikometros sat on a padded chair in the officers' mess tent, apart from the other officers, talking quietly to Timon. He nursed a cup of watered wine, sipping from it absentmindedly, listening to snatches of argument and conversation drifting across from the other off-duty officers.

  Timon jerked his head in the direction of the other men. "Sooner the Caspian Expedition starts the better, if you ask me. Listen to them, Niko. Much more of this weather and it wouldn't surprise me to hear talk of mutiny."

  "Winter's no time for campaigning, Timon. Not in the north anyway." Nikometros shrugged and pulled his damp cloak tighter about his shoulders. "It'll be spring before anything happens." He shivered. "Gods, I wish I knew how Tomyra is."

  Timon nodded gloomily. "Aye. Two weeks since they were taken to the city and no word from them. And no leave to visit either."

  "I'm sorry, Timon. I shouldn't have involved you in my...disagreement with the commander."

  "That bastard?"

  Heads turned at Timon's outburst, the conversation faltering. Timon dropped his voice and leaned closer. "That son of a whore has it in for you and no mistake, Niko. Keeping you here under virtual camp arrest and giving you no duties. Can't you appeal to the king too?"

  Nikometros smiled. "For what? I'm not accused of any crime." He sighed and sipped his wine. "No, this is the reality of army life Timon, as you well know. You keep the favour of your commander or you suffer for it."

  "It's the sitting around that kills me, Niko. I need to be up and doing something." Timon got up and grabbed the wine flask, pouring more of the ruby liquid into their cups. He splashed water in after and sat down again, turning his face to the tent flap.

  The rain drummed on the sides of the tent, splashing and dripping into the sheets of water that slowly ran between the tents, down to the swollen river. Sounds of the army camp came muted to Timon's ears, the murmur of discontented men, the distant whicker from the horse lines and the measured stamp and splash of the dejected but ever alert guards. He listened absently, his mind churning with thoughts of Bithyia. He sipped from his cup then paused, the cup at his lips. Slowly he lowered it and cocked his head.

  "Something's up, Niko. Listen."

  Nikometros raised his head and stared toward the tent entrance. The barely heard babble of thousands of men swelled into a low roar of interest as the sound of many hooves ploughing through the mud grew in volume. Nikometros got to his feet and moved to the entrance, lifting the tent flap with one hand. He ignored the cold rivulet that ran down his uplifted arm and stared out into the rain.

  A column of horsemen in the colours of the Bodyguard rode slowly down the lines between the tents. As they passed, crowds of men, drawn by the presence of something new, moved after them, wrapping themselves tightly in already wet cloaks. The column approached and came to a halt outside the officers' mess of the Fourth squadron.

  A young man, fresh faced and alert, called out to Nikometros as he stood in the tent entrance. "Please tell Nikometros, son of Leonnatos of Pella that I wish to speak to him."

  Nikometros folded his arms and leaned against the tent pole. "Who shall I say wants to see him?"

  "Iolatos, equerry to the king," the young man replied. "Please call him, there is some urgency."

  The other officers crowded behind Nikometros in an eager babble of questions. Timon pushed through to his side, ignoring the protests from the higher ranked officers. Nikometros stepped out into the rain and stood looking up at Iolatos.

  "I am Nikometros," he said.

  A look of annoyance flitted across the young man's face. "Why didn't you say so at once?" His eyes flicked toward the tent. "And your adjutant Timon?"

  "Here," growled Timon. "What does a young pup like you want with us?"

  "Not I, you fool," said Iolatos. "The king requires you. Immediately." He gestured and two of his men rode up, leading two fine horses. "Come."

  Nikometros glanced down at his wet and muddied tunic, his frayed cloak and scuffed boots. "I should change," he muttered.

  Iolatos looked down at Nikometros and casually flicked a spot of mud from his cloak. "Yes, no doubt you should but one doesn't keep the king waiting. Mount up, lieutenant. Now!"

  Nikometros nodded and beckoning Timon, grasped the mane and reins of one of the horses and swung himself up on it. Iolatos barked a command and the squad swung about, enclosing Nikometros and Timon in their midst, before breaking into a trot.

  The rain eased by the time the squad entered the city and stopped altogether as they approached the first gate into the great citadel of Ekbatana. The guards at the gate obviously expected the squad, snapping to attention and saluting as they passed through. Seen from within, the outer wall was still impressive, towering above the riders and a warren of buildings and streets. The next wall, though seeming to reach high above the outer battlements, now betrayed that height as owing to the rise of a hill within the citadel.

  The horses slowed to a walk as the road climbed upward, circling toward the second gate. The exertion of the climb, combined with the weak heat of the sun struggling through a dissipating cloud cover and a freshening breeze, dried their clothing. Wisps of vapor rose into the rain-washed air, mingling with the smoke of renewed cooking fires.

  The road continued upward, passing through successive battlements, the intervening buildings becoming fewer but more spacious and sumptuous as they ascended. Nikometros and Timon craned their necks, overcome with curiosity after their prolonged detention in the camp.

  Iolatos noticed their interest. "You haven't seen the citadel before, lieutenant?" he enquired.

  "Once," replied Nikometros. "But only to the second level. I came to purchase a new sword from the armourers. Who is housed in these other levels?"

  "General tradesmen, army suppliers and such in the lowest level. Armourers as you know, in the second, together with goldsmiths." A faint smile marred Iolatos' calm features. "If you need jewelry for your lady I can recommend a good smith. The third belongs to the court servants, minor chamberlains and the myriad of artists, actors and architects that Alexander seems to attract wherever he goes. The fourth..." Iolatos pointed as they exited the gate in the blue wall, "...belongs to the higher officials, the men who govern the empire."

  The next gate, the one in the orange wall, was shut. Iolatos called out as they approached, then halted the squad. An officer emerged from a guardroom and demanded their passes. Iolatos passed over an engraved tablet for scrutiny. After a few minutes they moved on, the great cedar wood gates swinging shut behind them.

  "Here are the embassies," explained Iolatos. "At the moment the citadel is full of foreigners babbling
away in their own tongues. It makes security very difficult."

  "Are my friends the Scythians on this level?" asked Nikometros.

  "Yes. Over there somewhere, I think." Iolatos waved vaguely in the direction of some buildings nestled in trees displaying the first signs of autumn colours.

  Nikometros and Timon pulled their horses up, half turning in that direction. Iolatos frowned and leaned over, catching at the bridle of Nikometros' horse. "Later maybe, lieutenant. The king awaits you."

  Reluctantly, Nikometros and Timon let themselves be turned away, renewing their upward climb, now nearing their destination. They passed through the heavily guarded gate in the silver plated wall. The weak afternoon sunlight beat about them, shimmering and flashing off the beaten metallic surfaces. Within the last two walls lay a huge flat stone-paved courtyard stretching away in a great crescent. Fountains erupted toward the sky and brightly coloured birds flew through the branches of fruit trees and flowering shrubs. The place was deserted save for several fat men in richly embroidered tunics tending the gardens.

  "The old harem of the kings of Persia," said Iolatos with a grimace of distaste. "Largely deserted now as the king has little use for the women. The royal wife is here with her ladies, of course."

  "The Bactrian?" asked Timon.

  Iolatos stared at the old soldier before answering. "Yes, though you'd do well to guard your tongue. The lady Roxane hears much of what passes in the court and she...well, she thinks highly of herself."

  "It can't be easy for her when the king is on campaign," murmured Nikometros.

  "No," replied Iolatos. He dropped his voice to a confidential level, moving his horse closer. "The king is courteous and correct, of course, but she feels he spends too much time with a certain...dancer, shall we say?"

  Nikometros raised his eyebrows enquiringly.

  "Bagoas. A young eunuch of some beauty and in favour with the king. I would stress that, lieutenant," Iolatos added with a meaningful glance. "Ah! The final gate and our destination. Behold the royal palace of Ekbatana, second only to the great palace at Babylon."