by Max Overton
Tirses also drank then muttered his appreciation.
"I find citron so much more refreshing than wine," Chrysoas said. "Also, one can keep a clear head. I feel this is important when discussing delicate matters."
"Indeed," Timon agreed. "Misunderstandings often stem from over-indulgence."
"And what of Scythia, Tirses son of Pragmyges? Do Scythians drink wine?"
"Er...no. That is...yes, sometimes," Tirses stammered. "It is expensive as grapes don't grow in our land."
"Interesting. What is it you drink then?"
"Koumiss. We make it from the milk of mares, fermented in leather flasks."
Chrysoas averted his eyes, lifting a delicately embroidered napkin to his mouth as he gave a small shudder. "Fascinating," he whispered.
An awkward silence fell. Chrysoas poured more iced citron and the three men sat in the dappled shade sipping at their drinks.
At last Chrysoas put down his cup and cleared his throat. "We waste time with trivialities. I regret you didn't come to see me out of friendship, did you Timon?"
"I value your friendship, Chrysoas, but...no."
"The whole court is in an uproar over the death of lord Hephaestion," stated the eunuch. "Many fear for the sanity of the king. Perhaps this concerns you?" He watched Timon closely then shook his head. "No, not this. Then it must be the attempt on the life of your lord Nikometros and his wife."
"You know of this?"
Chrysoas smiled. "Little goes on at court that doesn't reach my ears sooner or later."
"Have you heard anything about who is responsible?"
Chrysoas pursed his lips and thought for a few moments. "You have the note that came with the gift?"
Timon raised his eyebrows then dug into his purse before passing over the soiled paper.
Chrysoas examined it for a moment, rubbing the paper between delicate fingers and lifting it to his nostrils before passing it back. "Who do you suspect?"
"This Tol-me person," blurted Tirses. "But Timon explained..."
"It was not lord Ptolemy," interrupted Chrysoas.
"You know this for a certainty?" asked Timon, leaning forward. "How?"
Chrysoas reached over and tapped the note with a manicured fingertip. "The language is Macedonian but the writer was not Macedonian."
"Eh?" Timon looked down at the scrap of paper. "How can you tell?"
Chrysoas leaned back and steepled his hands on his large belly. He gazed up at the leafy branches above him. "Timon, my friend," he quietly replied. "Forgive me, but your family in Macedonia...were not at the royal court very often, were they?"
Timon flushed and looked down at his boots. "No. My father was a hill chief. He never went to the court. Neither did I until I enlisted and then it was just to pass through Pella on the way to war."
"I didn't mean to cause you offence, my friend. I merely wished to make the point that you are relatively unfamiliar with court etiquette and the forms of nobility."
Tirses frowned. "You talk in riddles."
Chrysoas smiled. "A note that came from the office of Lord Ptolemy would use an honorific and almost certainly would use the full form of his name rather than his familiar army abbreviation."
"More riddles!" snorted Tirses.
"His full name?" Timon frowned.
"Ptolemaios. If the note derived from his offices, it would probably read 'A gift from Lord Ptolemaios'."
"So, where did it come from?" asked Tirses.
"Ah, that is harder," replied Chrysoas with a smile. "However, I would hazard it came from the pen of a scribe in the Street of Artists, near the Amphitheatre. Probably one that is situated near a shop selling kohl and henna."
Timon frowned. "This isn't a subject for jest, my friend."
"Nor would I. The paper is coarse, not at all the quality one might expect from the court. The hand is neat, as from the hand of a scribe or artist, not scrawled, and there are faint smudges of makeup powders on the back of it." Chrysoas' smile grew broader. "Unless you have taken to making yourself more beautiful, my friend."
"Makeup?" Timon queried.
"Also cinnamon, but that came from a small stain that might have come later."
Tirses muttered a string of expletives under his breath. Then, "You got all that from that scrap of paper?"
"When you live long in a place where every man seeks betterment at the cost of your own, you learn to be observant."
Timon nodded and got to his feet. "Chrysoas, my friend, I thank you," he rumbled. "I don't wish to seem rude or hasty..."
"But you must take your leave," finished Chrysoas. "I quite understand. Perhaps you would be so kind as to send word if your search is successful?" He ushered the two men to the courtyard gates and bid them farewell.
Tirses turned to Timon as they hurried back onto the main citadel road. "You believe him? All that nonsense about scribes and makeup?"
Timon shrugged, turning down through the walled fortress toward the city once more. "Possibly. He knows many things. Anyway, we shall see presently."
The Street of Scribes wound haphazardly along the contour of the hill, close to the vast bowl of the amphitheatre. Timon and Tirses walked slowly along the length of the street, pausing at each scribe's place of business and scanning the surrounding shops and stalls for cosmetic supplies. The afternoon wore on as they continued, eventually stopping at a stall to buy a cup of thin wine apiece.
"This is pointless," grumbled Tirses. "There are dozens of scribes and such stalls as sell kohl and henna wander from place to place on different days. We could already have passed the place."
Timon drained his cup of wine and stifled a belch. "What else do you suggest we do?" Turning to the wine seller he held out a small silver piece. "We are looking for a shop that sells cosmetics. Not a stall, you understand, but a reputable shop. Our mistress wants good quality."
The wine seller took the coin and examined it closely before slipping it into his tunic. "Up the street." He jerked his thumb in the general direction of the amphitheatre. "Can't miss it. Has a red awning." He turned away to serve another customer.
"Why a shop?" muttered Tirses as they set off up the street. "It could just as well be one of these itinerant stalls."
"If it was a stall then we have to question every scribe in the street. If it was a shop then chances are there will be only one or two scribes nearby."
In fact, there were two. The cosmetic shop with the red awning dominated a street corner. Opposite, across the narrow street, a single clerk sat in a small room open to the public, scribbling on a roll of parchment. He looked up when Timon stepped across the threshold.
"Whatever it is," the clerk said in a peevish voice. "I cannot possibly attend to you until tomorrow."
"It's nothing much," said Timon. "I was merely interested in finding the author of this note." He waved the piece of paper in front of the man. "I admire the penmanship. If I find the author there will be more work for him."
"Let me see," snapped the clerk, grabbing at the note. He perused the paper for a moment before his lip curled in a sneer of contempt. "This? You admire this? This is amateurish and clumsy."
"Yes," agreed Timon straight-faced. "Perhaps you are right. However, the person who gave me the note was certain it came from here."
"Not from here," the clerk grated. "Maybe the Jew, over there." He waved a hand toward the street. "Now get out, I have work to do."
Timon backed out of the shop with a mutter of thanks.
Tirses shot his companion a disgusted look. "You're too polite for your own good, Timon. I would thrash the man to teach him some manners."
"Leave him, Tirses." Timon strode over to the cosmetic shop and ducked inside. Emerging a few minutes later, he nodded in satisfaction. "Around the corner. Josiah the Jew."
Josiah proved to be a tall, powerfully built man. He rose from behind a table when Timon and Tirses entered the premises.
"How may I be of service, good sirs?"
Timon gl
anced quickly around the interior of the shop before passing the note to the tall Jew. "I'm seeking the writer of this note. I was told you might have written it."
Josiah examined it carefully then handed it back with a shake of his head. "I'm sorry," he said with a faint smile. "I didn't write that. In all modesty, I produce better work."
Timon nodded glumly. "It was worth a try. My friend said it came from a scribe who lived very close to a cosmetic shop but could not remember which one. Perhaps you know of another cosmetic shop near here?"
Josiah thought for a moment then shook his head again. "Not around here." He bowed slightly and held back the curtain over the doorway for his customers. "May you find what you seek."
As Timon stepped out onto the street, Josiah hesitated. "Wait a moment, sir. When was this note written? Only a day or two? I have been away on business and may not be aware of who was here that day." Josiah turned and called into the shadowy recesses of the room. "Benjamin? Where are you boy?"
A tall gangling boy emerged from the back of the shop, walked slowly into a shaft of sunlight and stood staring at the floor. "Yes, father?"
Josiah gently took the note from Timon and held it out. "Did you write this, Benjamin?"
The boy glanced at the note and flushed. "Yes, father," he whispered.
Josiah looked closely at his son. "Benjamin, I'm not angry with you, though I am somewhat disappointed with the quality. These gentlemen are looking for the author of this note. Are you certain you wrote this?"
Benjamin glanced from his father to Timon and Tirses, then back at his father. "It was such a small thing, father. I didn't think you would mind."
"Who asked you to write it?" asked Timon.
Benjamin hesitated and looked to his father again. When Josiah nodded, the boy shrugged. "I don't know his name."
Tirses swore softly.
Timon grimaced. "It was worth a try I suppose."
"But, I have seen him before," said Benjamin. "He often accompanies the food buyers of his household. It was the first time I saw him alone though."
"Oh? And do you know which household?"
"Of course. He's a servant in the house of Lord Ptolemy."
Tirses turned away with a hiss, his fists clenching.
Timon frowned. "You're sure of this?"
"Yes, sir," Benjamin replied. "One of the men came in here once to buy paper. We sell good quality paper and many lords buy from us. I thought it strange that the boy brought his own scrap with him."
"And you wrote the words," said Timon. "You can write Macedonian?"
Benjamin grinned. "A little. Enough for this anyway."
"You didn't wonder why Lord Ptolemy would ask a servant boy to bring a scrap of paper into the city when he must have scribes of his own?"
The boy shrugged. "I assumed the boy was given a gift by his lord and wanted a note to go with it as a remembrance."
Timon grunted. "You have no idea of his name?"
Benjamin shook his head. "You cannot mistake him though. He is a Kelt, from the north. His hair is yellow and his eyes are blue."
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Chapter Seventeen
Nikometros sat on a hard stone bench in the afternoon sunshine. Banished from his apartments by a bevy of women attending to his wife, he alternately paced the width of the small courtyard or sat fidgeting on one of the benches. At every noise or movement in the dim shaded colonnades of the palace, he started, often rising to his feet in anxious anticipation. The day wore on and the lack of news steadily increased his agitation.
He cast his mind back over the months, clinging to memories of Tomyra. Once more, in his mind, he rode the vast rolling grass seas of the high plains of Scythia, hunted in the forests by the broad stony rivers, or made love to his woman beneath the black night, awash with stars. He smiled, remembering the dangers they faced together--at first because of her inviolability as a sacred priestess, later as they fought side by side against the armies of her half-brother Areipithes.
Gone now was her lithe athletic body, though her fierce will and determination still flared despite the confines of her pregnancy. A pregnancy brought about by rape. Nikometros ground his teeth at the thought of the Serratae chieftain Dimurthes. He would dearly love to have been the one to bring about the man's death. Yet, for a reason that still escaped him, Dimurthes killed himself in Tomyra's presence.
His thoughts switched abruptly to their bedchamber, where Tomyra fought against the Arabian death weed and her imminent parturition.
What if she dies? No, she's in good hands. Everyone he talked to had only good things to say about the court midwife, Molossa. She wouldn't allow anything to happen to her charges. Yet women do die in childbirth--even without the effects of poison. Nikometros leapt to his feet and paced once more.
The sun dipped below the palace roof, throwing the courtyard into cool shadow. Movement within the shaded colonnade caught Nikometros' eye and he swung round. Bithyia came toward him across the paving, her face pale, and her body rigid. She halted in front of him and essayed a hesitant smile. "A girl, Niko. You have a baby daughter."
Nikometros caught his breath, a grin surging over his face, even as he noted the pain in the young woman's eyes.
"Tomyra?" he whispered.
"She lives, Niko, but she...she lies as though asleep. Yet she cannot be wakened."
Nikometros pushed past Bithyia. "I must go to her." He broke into a run, rapidly crossing the courtyard and entering the passageway that led to his apartments. Servants and passers-by stepped aside as he raced by.
He burst into his apartment and stopped dead, his gaze taking in the disarray of the room. A bundle of bloodied sheets lay in one corner where a young girl knelt, pushing them into a wicker basket. Another girl sat by the fire, holding a squalling infant, cleaning it with a wet cloth. His eyes turned reluctantly to the bed.
Tomyra lay motionless, a red woollen blanket drawn up around her, her arms lying free. Nikometros walked slowly to the bed and sat down on the edge. Taking Tomyra's hand he raised it to his lips. She lay still, unaware.
"What happened?" asked Nikometros, without turning. "Why is she like this?" He raised his gaze to the midwife.
Molossa shook her head. "I don't know. It sometimes happens that the woman's spirit is expelled with the infant, yet she lives still."
Nikometros leaned forward and gently stroked Tomyra's forehead, brushing several strands of damp hair from her face. "When will she wake?"
Molossa stood silently as Nikometros stared up at her questioningly. "That is with the gods," she said. "I'll look after her for as long as life remains, but without food..." She glanced across to the girl by the fire. "See, my lord. You have a daughter."
Nikometros looked across at the infant, now sucking enthusiastically at the girl's breast, then back to his wife's pale face. He leaned over and kissed her lips lightly before getting to his feet and moving across the room.
"Let me see her." Nikometros squatted beside the girl, who smiled and disengaged the baby's mouth from her nipple. A drop of milk ran down over her breast.
The baby, her eyes tight shut, waved tiny fists and took a small breath before expelling it in a loud wail of complaint.
Nikometros smiled and touched her hand with a callused finger. "So small," he breathed.
The old servant, Sisyphis, stood over the girl. "What name do you give her, lord?"
Nikometros hesitated. "Her mother should name her."
"She cannot," replied Sisyphis. "The baby must have a name. How else can we petition the Goddess for her protection?"
Nikometros thought. "Starissa then. It was her grandmother's name. She was a Sauromantian priestess from the shores of the Euxine Sea. Both she and her daughter..." Nikometros' eyes flicked toward Tomyra, "...were priestesses of the Mother Goddess. She will look after Her own."
Sisyphis nodded. "A good name." She signed to the young girl to resume feeding the infant. "This is my granddaught
er Petis, my lord," she continued. "Her baby died but two days ago," she added matter-of-factly. "She'll be happy to wet nurse your daughter until your wife awakes."
The girl looked up at Nikometros with joy and tears in her eyes before bending over the infant girl once more.
Nikometros moved back to the bed where Bithyia now sat, holding Tomyra's hand fiercely. "What of my wife? How do you plan to care for her?"
"There is little we can do, my lord," the midwife replied. "Beyond keeping her clean and comfortable. We must pray she wakes before she starves."
"Surely we can feed her?"
"Fluids only, and little of that, else she chokes."
"Oh gods," muttered Nikometros. He sat down on the bed, staring hopelessly at his unconscious wife.
"Don't worry, Niko," said Bithyia, squeezing his arm. "I'll be with her. I'll take care of her."
"No." Nikometros shook his head. "Or rather, yes. I thank you, Bithyia, but I'll stay by her. Seek out your husband and tend to his needs. I'll tend to my wife's." He reached out and took a cup of water from a small table by the bed. Carefully propping up Tomyra's head he gently let water trickle between her lips, wiping it away as it spilled over her chin. "Go, Bithyia," he whispered. "Leave me with her."
***
Bithyia slowly rose then crossed to the door. She looked back and smiled gently before slipping out of the room. She emerged from the palace into late afternoon sunlight. Drawing the fresh clean air deeply into her lungs, she leaned against the rough bark of an old fruit tree and closed her eyes, feeling the staleness of the birthing room wash away in the soft scented breeze.
"Love?"
Without opening her eyes, Bithyia stretched a hand out behind her and took hold of Timon's. "Not good, Timon." She clenched her hand and turned, opening her eyes to stare into her husband's concerned face. "She has given birth...a daughter, but she doesn't awaken."
Timon frowned. "She lives though? What of Niko? How does he take it?"
Bithyia's eyes flashed. "Hard. How else?" Her expression softened and she moved closer, into his arms. "I'm sorry, husband," she murmured. "They've suffered enough. I thought that now they could find happiness."