by Max Overton
Tomyra gagged and tried to knock Bithyia's hand aside. She gagged again then threw up, vomit cascading over them both. Amber flecks of the sweetmeat swam in a milky fluid, stained with fresh blood.
"Great Mother, help her," gasped Bithyia. She leapt to her feet, leaving Tomyra sprawled on the couch and raced back to the pitcher of water. She dashed handfuls of water in Tomyra's face then held her head up, forcing water into her mouth. "Drink, my lady," she urged. "You must drink."
Tomyra spluttered and choked, swallowing and coughing. "It hurts," she rasped, pushing Bithyia away.
Bithyia held her head, forcing more water into her. She put the pitcher down and pushed her finger down Tomyra's throat once more. The vomit came up almost clear but still bloody. She made her drink again.
Twice more Bithyia forced Tomyra to vomit, until all that came up was water with curdles of blood. She eased her friend's head back onto the couch and strode to the door, flinging it wide. "Sisyphis!" she yelled. "Sisyphis, send for a doctor then come at once. Sisyphis!" Bithyia hurried back to the couch.
A few moments later a patter of footsteps sounded in the corridor and an old woman peered around the jamb. "Did you call, young mistress?" the old woman enquired. She stared at the mess puddled by the couch and clucked her tongue. "Upset stomach, eh? No need for a doctor, no need at all. I can deal with that." Sisyphis tottered into the room.
"Get a doctor," yelled Bithyia. "She was poisoned, you old fool."
Sisyphis stared down at Bithyia then at the bloody mess on the floor. She nodded sharply and turned, lifting the hem of her skirts as she tottered with surprising speed for the door. She disappeared down the corridor, screeching in Persian.
Minutes passed. Bithyia wet her sleeve from the pitcher and bathed Tomyra's face, peering anxiously at her pale features. Tomyra's eyelids fluttered and opened, her dark eyes staring unfocussed. Shouts rose from outside and footsteps echoed. Sisyphis returned with two young girls and a wan young man in tow.
The young man hurried to the couch, neatly lifting his robe over the puddle of vomit. He sat on the edge of the couch and peered at Tomyra. Bending over her face, he sniffed delicately then touched a forefinger to the reddened marks on her lips. He picked up a limp wrist and turned her hand over to examine the palm. "How long since the poison was administered?" he asked.
Bithyia shook her head. "I'm not sure. Not long."
"Give me some idea," snapped the doctor. "A day? An hour?"
"A few minutes only. The sweetmeats were poisoned." Bithyia pointed at the silver tray. "She ate a piece, asked for water, then collapsed."
"And this?" asked the doctor, indicating the pool of vomit.
"I made her vomit then gave her water and made her vomit again."
The doctor looked up at Bithyia and nodded. "A reasonable action...unless the substance is caustic." He bent over and prodded at the flecks of sweetmeat in the vomit then picked up one of the pieces still on the silver tray. "She ate one of these?"
Bithyia nodded and looked around, picking up the remnant of bitten sweetmeat from where it had fallen. "This was the piece she actually bit."
The doctor placed the piece he held back onto the tray and took the half-eaten piece from Bithyia. He peered at it then sniffed it. He lifted it to his mouth and touched the tip of his tongue to the morsel. Pursing his lips, the young doctor surveyed the ceiling intently for a few moments then spat on the floor.
"As I suspected," he said. "The poisoner opted for speed rather than subtlety. Arabian death weed I would say. A few moments more and the poison would have corroded her stomach, killing her within hours. As it is, the action of the death weed, both in the original swallowing and in the subsequent vomit may have caused a rupture of the throat. A better action would have been to neutralise the death weed within the stomach." The young doctor looked up at Bithyia's anxious face. "However, you could not know the agent, or the proper remedy."
"She will be all right?"
The doctor shrugged. "Perhaps. I shall prescribe a tonic to strengthen the blood and the digestive humours. I'll add some of the antidote. My servant will bring it round within the hour. See that she drinks it and that the appropriate sacrifices are made to the gods. It's in their hands now."
"What happened?" The words cut like a lash in the still air.
Bithyia turned to see Nikometros in the doorway, staring at the scene. His face paled as the doctor rose to his feet, revealing the supine form of Tomyra sprawled on the couch. His eyes widened and he stepped forward, a hand rising in supplication. "Tomyra...she is..."
"Recovering," said the doctor. "It appears she was poisoned."
Nikometros dragged his eyes away from Tomyra and stared at the doctor. "Poisoned?" he whispered. "Who...?" He looked at Bithyia.
Bithyia nodded. "Someone sent us poisoned sweetmeats, Niko. If she had taken more than a bite..." She shuddered.
"But she's all right?"
"Oh, yes, very probably," said the doctor, wiping his hands on his robe. "With the proper care she will recover fully, though her voice and her digestion will be sensitive for a few days. The poison no doubt put a strain on her body but a fit young woman should have no after effects. Now," he continued briskly. "There's the matter of my payment. I'll send my servant to present my bill tomorrow. I would be grateful..."
"And the baby?" interrupted Nikometros.
"Baby?" said the doctor blankly.
"My wife is nearly full term. Is the baby at risk from the poison?"
"She's pregnant?" The doctor gulped and spun round. He took a step toward Tomyra, his hand outstretched then pulled back quickly. "Er...a baby...yes, this is another matter," he muttered.
On the couch, Tomyra groaned and shifted her body.
"What is it, doctor?" asked Bithyia. "Is there a problem?"
The doctor tugged at his short black beard, his eyes worried. "Er, maybe. This isn't good. Arabian death weed can cause a miscarriage if it doesn't kill the woman outright."
"Then examine her, doctor," snapped Nikometros. "Make sure the baby's safe."
The doctor stared at Nikometros. "Sir, I'm a doctor, not a common..." He paused and drew himself upright, his face disdainful. "No doctor worthy of the name will examine a woman's...er, parts. You must bring in a midwife." He gathered his robes about him. "Now, I will depart and leave you to minister to your patient." He walked slowly to the door before turning. "I really would advise you to bring in a midwife."
Tomyra groaned again and opened her eyes. She moved her hands over her robes, holding her belly. "It hurts, Bithyia," she rasped. Her eyes widened and she attempted a weak smile. "Niko? What are you...doing here?"
Nikometros dropped to his knees beside the couch. "My love, the hurt is past. The doctor says you'll recover."
"Poison. In the sweets," whispered Tomyra.
"I'll find who sent them," Nikometros growled. "They'll die for this."
Tomyra shook her head. "The note says 'Ptolemy' but...aah!" She clenched a fist, her back arching. "It hurts, Niko." A small whimper escaped her clenched jaws and a hand plucked at her robe.
Nikometros looked up at Bithyia, a bleak look on his face. "Send for a midwife. Quickly Bithyia!"
Bithyia nodded and turned to the old woman, Sisyphis, who watched from the fireside with one of the young girls.
Sisyphis grinned, gap-toothed. "I already sent for Molossa. She's on her way."
Footsteps echoed in the corridor outside and another old woman hurried in, the other young girl close behind her. The girls busied themselves around the fire, steam already rising from a large pan of water.
The old woman, her grey hair bound and drawn back away from her face, bent over Tomyra. She ran her eyes over the girl without touching her before turning to Sisyphis. "Have you called me here without cause, Sisyphis? Her labour pains have not started."
"The servant girl didn't tell you, Molossa? She was poisoned. Arabian death weed."
Molossa frowned then bent over her patien
t again. She smiled encouragingly at Tomyra. "You are lucid, child? Yes, I see you are. Tell me exactly where the pain strikes."
"In the small of my back," whispered Tomyra. "A constant ache...but there are also stabbing pains in my...my womb."
"I must examine you, child." Molossa gently drew up Tomyra's robes then glanced up at Nikometros. "Who is this man?" she asked, her voice rising. "Why is he here?"
Bithyia hurried forward. "This is the lord Nikometros. Husband of Tomyra."
Molossa snorted and turned back to Tomyra. "This is no place for a man. Please leave."
"I will not leave," growled Nikometros. "Not until I am certain my wife and baby are safe."
"Then stand over there out of the way." Molossa waved in the general direction of the fireplace. "This is women's business now." She ignored Nikometros and leaned over Tomyra's swollen belly, gently feeling and prodding with her bony fingers. "Yes," she muttered. "There is blood. I think she will miscarry."
Turning to Sisyphis, she called for hot water and cloths. When they arrived, she used them to clean the blood from Tomyra's thighs. "She's close to eight months?" she muttered as she worked. "As I thought. Well, that's worse for her but perhaps there's a chance for the child. If she expels the infant quickly it may yet live. If not..." Molossa glanced up at Tomyra's wide eyes and lapsed into Persian. "If not, we'll lose both her and the child." She ran her hands over Tomyra's thighs and lower abdomen, feeling the muscles. "She's tight, her hips are small. Not good."
Sisyphis nodded. "She's a Scythian. Like all barbarians she was born astride a horse and has the body of warrior, not of a woman." The old woman grinned and glanced sideways at Nikometros. "He must be strong to have planted his seed in such a one."
"Well, she'll need her strength." Molossa glanced at Tomyra again and smiled reassuringly. "Nothing to worry about, my pet," she murmured in broken Greek. "Lie back and try to relax. I'll mix you up an herbal that will dilate you."
Nikometros stood awkwardly by the fireplace, his attention riveted on his wife. He strained to hear the old women's conversation and make sense of their whisperings. He knew enough Persian to be worried. He moved forward when the midwife got to her feet and took Sisyphis roughly by her arm. "I think we should find another midwife or call the doctor back. Does this woman even know what she is doing?"
Sisyphis winced and looked up at the tall Macedonian. "No doctor of any note will aid in a birth." She shrugged. "You may find a horse doctor or some barbarian potion-maker if you search. As for Molossa, you won't find a better midwife." She tried to pry Nikometros' fingers from her arm. "Now, my lord, if you'll release me I'll prepare your wife for her ordeal."
As she spoke, Tomyra drew a shuddering breath and her back arched again as a new wave of pain struck her.
Bithyia grabbed hold of Nikometros and drew him away from the old woman. "My lord, please," Bithyia said, her voice shaking with emotion. "You must let them do their work." She guided him to a chair against the far wall and knelt before him. "Niko, I'll remain with her and help her through this. It isn't seemly that you should be here though. This is a thing for women. We're trained to the mysteries of life, birth and ..." Bithyia's voice trailed away awkwardly.
Nikometros looked past her to the couch and his wife, racked with pain. "I'm staying," he growled.
"Then stay here and let me go to her."
She got to her feet and returned to the couch. Taking the cup of steaming liquid from Molossa, she knelt beside the couch, supporting Tomyra's head as she held the cup to her mistress' sweat-soaked face. She waited patiently as Tomyra sipped the pungent brew.
The two young girls, aided by Bithyia, got Tomyra to her feet and eased her across to the bed. Deftly they stripped away her crumpled and soiled robes and eased a clean white shift onto her before laying her on the bed. One girl bundled up the robes and removed them while the other started stroking Tomyra's face and arms with damp cloths.
Tomyra groaned again and tried to roll over onto her side. She drew her knees up, cradling her belly with her hands. "Niko!" she whispered.
"I'm here, my love," called Nikometros, getting to his feet and starting across the room. "Tell me how I can help."
Tomyra gazed across at him, her eyes wide as pain washed across her face. "Niko, my...love," she panted. "You must leave. It isn't right that...that you stay."
Nikometros shook his head. "I'm staying with you, Tomyra. I love you, I cannot leave you now."
"You must, Niko." Tomyra paused as a fresh pain stabbed her. "Every woman...whether Scythian, Greek...or Persian...gives birth with her women present." She paused again, panting. "Never with men, Niko. I'm in the hands of the Great Mother. She will help me. Leave me, please."
Bithyia came across and led him by the arm toward the doorway. "Listen to her, Niko. The Goddess brought her to this. Do you think She will desert her now?" She left him by the doorway and hurried back to the bed.
Molossa glanced across at Nikometros then dismissed him, turning her back and busying herself with the preparations. Sisyphis worked beside her, pulling back Tomyra's shift and applying warm herbal compresses to her belly. Across the bed, the two girls ran back and forth from the fire to the bed, renewing the cloths, bringing bowls of hot, clean water. One of the girls, returning from the pan of hot water on the fire, stopped abruptly, staring.
From the doorway came a strong clear voice. "I came as soon as I heard. How is she?"
Nikometros swung round and saw the tousled head of Alexander by his shoulder. The king glanced up at Nikometros and smiled, his eyes, one dark, one light, reflecting the depths of his worry. He put a hand on Nikometros' arm.
Molossa stiffened at the male voice and, without turning, raised her head. "How many more foolish men must I put up with? Go away," she snapped. "And when you go, at least make yourself useful by sending in more water."
Sisyphis looked up at the awestruck faces of the young girls then turned to the doorway. Her mouth fell open and she scrabbled with one hand to attract the midwife's attention.
Molossa glanced up at Sisyphis. "What?" she asked irritably. Turning, she caught sight of the king standing in the doorway beside Nikometros. With a gasp, she dropped to her knees on the floor and prostrated herself on the carpet, her action sending the other Persian women scrambling to follow suit.
Bithyia took Tomyra's hand firmly and remained standing, though she lowered her eyes.
Alexander grinned and stepped into the room. He walked over to the old midwife and stooping, lifted her gently to her feet. "Get up, old woman," he said softly. He looked into her eyes and smiled again. "Molossa, isn't it?" He turned to Nikometros. "She's delivered more babies than I have killed men." He laughed. "You could ask for no better midwife."
The king turned back to Molossa as she regained her feet. "Care for this woman well, Molossa." He turned back to the door and grinned again. "I'll send for more water too," he added.
In the doorway, Alexander looked back as the women hurried back to their business, once more unmindful of affairs outside the immediate task of birthing the woman before them. Alexander took Nikometros by the arm and ushered him into the corridor. "Come, Nikometros," he said. "Leave them to their mysteries. You cannot aid her in this."
"I know sir," replied Nikometros. "Yet I feel as if I'm abandoning her."
"They'll bring word to us if there's any development. Babies are born every day."
"Not every baby is induced by poison though," Nikometros grimly replied.
Alexander stopped and looked sharply up at the other man. "Poison?"
"Tomyra ate a sweetmeat poisoned by Arabian death weed. She was saved but the poison caused her to birth prematurely. The baby may die."
"Whence came the sweet? Do you know?"
"The note with it said Ptolemy, but I cannot believe it of him. There is no reason."
Alexander shook his head, his eyes blazing in the torchlight in the dim corridor. "Never Ptolemy. Few men are truer of heart." He stared of
f down the corridor for several moments. "I shall find out," he said slowly. He looked up at Nikometros. "I will find out, believe it of me. Poison is a dirty business, a coward's way, and I shall have their lives. No matter whom they are."
Nikometros grimly stared into Alexander's eyes and nodded.
Alexander smiled and took Nikometros by the arm. "Put it from your mind if you can. All that can be done will be done. Believe me. Now come, I would welcome your presence this morning."
Alexander led the way out into the courtyard where a squad of cavalry stood at attention. A servant brought a fine wool robe of white and purple, helping Alexander fasten it. A groom brought up a fine-looking white stallion to the king, while another led a bay stallion to Nikometros.
"There's an athletic contest for boys this morning," remarked Alexander while he led the squad clattering down the hill road through Ekbatana. "There are some promising young men among them. I told Hephaestion I would tell him all about it later."
"How is he sir?" enquired Nikometros.
"A lot better," replied Alexander with a laugh. "In fact, last night he wanted to get up and join me for supper. I told him to keep to the doctor's regime and we'd see how he felt today. It'll be good to have him out and about again." The king lifted his face to the warm sunshine and breathed in the cool morning air. "What a glorious day! I can tell this will be a day to remember."
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Chapter Fourteen
Cheering erupted from the packed stadium as Alexander ran lithely up the wide marble steps to the Royal enclosure, his white and purple robe billowing behind him. He waved to the crowds, a broad smile on his face then turned to greet his friends and other high-ranking officials who stood expectantly near the raised dais.
Nikometros followed slowly, his mind preoccupied with worry. He nodded perfunctorily to the generals and other court officers before finding a seat near the parapet overlooking the arena. The sand of the stadium floor gleamed in the sunlight, swept and cleaned from the previous day's events. At either end of the stadium, huge doors stood open, ready to disgorge the current day's crop of competitors. Nikometros' eyes slipped upward, over the crowds rising in great serried ranks around the arena, to the distant spires and gilded roofs of the King's palace.