Scythian Trilogy Book 3: Funeral in Babylon

by Max Overton

  Timon gently kissed his wife's brow. "She'll recover, my love. The Goddess brought her here for a reason."

  Bithyia turned away and stared at the palace, brooding in the gathering shadows. "Curse the man who poisoned her," she whispered. Then in a strengthening voice, "Goddess, hear me. Avenge my mistress. Let the man who did this die a cold death, far from his lands and family." She paused, listening to the wind and the distant susurration of city sounds. "Was it Ptolemy?"

  "It appears so. We traced the note to the scribe who wrote it."

  "Then let us confront him. Bring it before the king."

  "We would not see him. He grieves for his friend, Hephaestion." Timon moved forward, coming up behind Bithyia. He placed his hands on her shoulders. "Besides, we couldn't prove it. We only know a servant boy in his household, a Kelt from the north, had the note written."

  Bithyia turned to face her husband again. "A Kelt? Fair-haired? A boy like that brought the gift." Her lips curled into a snarl. "Then let us find him and make him tell us."

  Timon nodded then hesitated. "Is it possible...are you sure the note came with the gift? Could it be we are led astray by it? Lord Ptolemy did send other gifts."

  "Let me see it." Bithyia held out her hand. She examined the crumpled paper and sniffed it. "There, that small stain. It smells of cinnamon. It came with the poisoned sweetmeats."

  Timon grunted. "Then let us find the boy. At least he can tell us who gave him instructions."

  Smells of cooking filled the corridors of the lower palace as Timon and Bithyia made their way toward the kitchens and servant quarters. The huge kitchens that serviced the palace bustled with a warm and pleasant confusion, in stark contrast to the nervous anticipation surrounding the king's apartments. In response to their inquiries, Timon and Bithyia found themselves directed away from the kitchens toward the palace library.

  Housed in an older and somewhat dilapidated wing of the palace, the library nonetheless showed signs of recent and constant use. Oil lamps burned on broad tables down the centre of the hall, where shelves containing scrolls and bundles of papers climbed the walls on all sides. Several men looked up from the tables as they entered.

  One rose and approached them. "May I help you?" the man inquired pleasantly.

  Timon glanced around the room. "We're looking for someone."

  The man waited, his head cocked slightly to one side.

  "A young boy," went on Timon. "A Kelt...with fair hair and blue eyes."

  "Indeed. And what do you want with him?"

  "We just want to ask him a few questions."

  The man stood silently once more.

  Timon fidgeted and opened his mouth to speak again.

  "We mean him no harm," Bithyia interrupted. "He brought a gift to our friend's wedding but we lost the accompanying note. We wanted to ask him who sent it."

  The man frowned. "You must mean Madoc. You haven't heard?"

  "Heard what?" rasped Timon.

  The man nodded and turned away. "Follow me. I'll take you to him." He walked across the library, skirting the broad tables and the other men. As he passed, he picked up one of the oil lamps then stepped through a side door into a gloomy corridor.

  Timon and Bithyia followed, hurrying to catch up. They moved through the dark corridors, the tiny pool of light thrown by the lamp accentuating shifting shadows. The man led them down past storerooms and dusty rooms filled with disused furniture.

  "Where is he taking us?" muttered Bithyia. "This doesn't feel right."

  Timon grunted and hurried on, but he loosed his sword in its sheath, keeping his hand near the hilt.

  At last, the man reached a large door and, pushing it open, gestured Timon and Bithyia to pass through. The room glowed with soft dappled light and splashing water sounded incongruously in their ears. A cool draft blew in their faces.

  Timon stepped cautiously across the threshold, followed by Bithyia. The man closed the door behind them and pointed across the large room.

  The room was lit by the last rays of the setting sun, filtering through dappled leaves beyond huge open bays in the western wall. A sheet of water fell at the far end of the room, collecting in a large shallow pool before gurgling into a conduit that passed through the eastern wall. The air felt moist and cold after the warmth of the corridors. At the far end lay a series of low stone slabs, a number of them occupied by naked bodies.

  "Over here," said the man, walking toward the slabs. "Though I fear he's a bit past questioning."

  On the slab in front of them lay the body of a young boy. His pale corpse lay naked and defenceless, his straw-coloured hair tousled and untidy. Pale blue eyes, milky with death, bulged in an open-eyed stare at the ceiling, while his mouth gaped as if in an agonised shout.

  "Madoc," said the man quietly. "He is...was, the only Kelt in the palace. A member of Lord Ptolemy's household."

  Timon stared at the young body in dismay. "When did this happen?"

  The man shrugged. "They found him just after the noon meal. In the shrubbery near the servant's quarters."

  Bithyia's eyes glistened. "Poor child," she murmured. She stepped closer and attempted to close the boy's staring eyes. The lids resisted and she gave up with a sigh. "How did he die?"

  "Choked," answered the man. "See?" He stepped up to the body and, firmly holding the head, pulled the jaw down, forcing the tongue to one side. "See down there? A plum. He must have swallowed it whole." The man moved away and rinsed his hands in the pool before drying them on his tunic. "Madoc loved plums."

  Timon moved closer, his mouth turned down in an expression of distaste. He peered at the boy's body for a few moments then pointed. "What is that?" he asked. "There, on his shoulder."

  Bithyia and the man leaned over. "That?" said the man. "Just a bruise."

  Timon touched the bruise gently with a finger. "Here is another...and another." He spread his fingers to cover the bruises. "As if a hand made them," he mused.

  The man smiled. "Madoc was a boy...and a slave. Sometimes he needed discipline."

  "And this," said Bithyia. She delicately peeled back the boy's lips and pushed the tongue to one side. "There is blood on his teeth, yet he didn't appear to bite himself." She looked up at Timon. "Restrained, and then he bit...hard, before swallowing the plum."

  Timon stared back at Bithyia then nodded slowly. "This was no accident," he growled. "This boy was murdered because of what he knew."

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  Chapter Eighteen

  Iolatos, the king's equerry, stuck his head round the door and called to the man dozing on a couch by the large bed.

  "Nikometros! By the gods, wake up! The king is out and calling for you."

  Nikometros started up then groaned. He knuckled the sleep out of his eyes and stared blearily across the room. "For me? He calls for me?"

  "Don't be a fool. Not just for you. He calls for all his staff. Perdikkas sent me to find you. Now hurry!"

  Nikometros staggered to the bed and bent over the still figure of Tomyra. He leaned across and stroked her cool forehead. "I cannot leave her."

  Iolatos ground his teeth and strode across the room then grabbed Nikometros by the arm. "Didn't you hear me? The king sends for you." He glanced around the room and pointed at an old woman curled up asleep by the embers of the fire. "She'll do." He stepped across and nudged the old woman awake with his boot. "Get up, old woman," he snarled. Without waiting for her reaction, Iolatos turned back to Nikometros and hustled him across to the door. "The old woman will see to her needs. Now hurry!"

  Nikometros looked back at his wife as he was dragged out into the corridor. He shook off Iolatos' hand and ran with the equerry toward the king's apartments. As they passed through a small courtyard, Nikometros turned aside and doused himself with cold water from a fountain. He dried himself on a nearby wall hanging then ran on.

  Outside the council chamber, the two men halted and caught their breath before pushing the doors open.
A large table dominated the room, with chairs pushed back to the walls. A dozen men stood around the table, their backs to the door.

  At the head of the table stood Alexander, talking quietly but firmly. He looked up when Nikometros and Iolatos entered the room, breaking off in mid-sentence. The king stared at the two newcomers, his eyes wide and unfocused. His blond hair, streaked with grey, stood in an untidy tangle, shorn near to the scalp in places, hanging long in others.

  The silence dragged on as Nikometros and Iolattos saluted and joined the other officers.

  "As I was saying," Alexander murmured, dropping his gaze to the table. "It isn't enough that the city mourns. Send riders to every part of the empire. Let every man mourn his passing. When was there ever such a man as he?" Alexander's voice trailed away and he looked around at the serious faces of his friends and officers. "I see you mourn him too," he went on. "Ptolemy, Peukestas, Perdikkas...you offered up a lock of your hair. That is proper." His eyes wandered over Eumenes. The king's face changed. "You hated him, Eumenes."

  Eumenes paled. "No, sire. I...I was reconciled and counted him a friend. I mourn him too. See?" He snatched a dagger from his belt and, grabbing a handful of his hair, sawed at it with the blade. He threw the handful of dark hair on the table in front of Alexander.

  "Liar," mouthed Perdikkas behind his hand.

  The other officers who had not cut a lock of hair hurried to follow suit, Nikometros among them.

  The king nodded, his expression once more distant as he wandered away from the table. "Crop the horses' manes, Peukestas. Let even the animals mourn him." Alexander stopped by the open window and listened. Far below in the city the faint sounds of music wafted up to them. The king's face darkened. "No music!" he shouted. He breathed hard, his hands clenching. Then he turned, forcing calm into his expression. "There will be no public music until the funeral."

  Peukestas cleared his throat. "All your commands will be carried out, Alexander." He paused and flashed a quick entreaty at his fellow officers. "When will the funeral be?"

  "He lies with the embalmers," whispered Alexander. "Yet he too was Alexander." He looked around the room and continued in a firmer voice. "Gather together the riches of the empire--incense, cedar logs, gold, fine cloth. I shall build him such a pyre that the world has not seen. Even the gods will look down in wonder...even the gods..."

  "Alexander?" Ptolemy moved closer with an anxious expression.

  "I am a god, am I not?" Alexander demanded, staring wild-eyed at his half-brother. "The oracle at Siwah said I am. Son of Ammon-Ra."

  "Yes, Alexander." Ptolemy nodded. "Of course you are. Anyone can see the godhead within you."

  "But mortals don't go to the gods. Only the immortals live with them." A tear trickled slowly from his grey eye. "I shall be separated even in death from my beloved Hephaestion."

  Ptolemy opened his mouth then shut it. He looked round at the others, his hands moving in a silent plea for help. Everyone looked away except Eumenes, who smiled, his eyes glittering. "The gods can do anything," he said softly.

  Ptolemy stared at him. "What?"

  "Petition the gods, sire," Eumenes replied. "Ask your...father...Ammon-Ra to allow lord Hephaestion to be with you."

  Alexander wrinkled his brow for a few moments then his eyes cleared. "Yes. Hephaestion was the best of men. I shall send to Siwah to ask that he be made a god. After my death we shall be gods together." He smiled at Ptolemy. "You know Egypt, my friend. Organise an embassy to the oracle immediately."

  Ptolemy nodded. "At once, Alexander."

  "I shall have to get an architect, you know," said Alexander. "The pyre shall be royal, for a king...and games; we must have proper funeral games. Nothing shall be withheld. I have drawn up plans." He riffled through a pile of papers on the table. "Where is the doctor?"

  "Eh? Er...you ordered him...er, hanged, Alexander," stuttered Peukestas.

  Alexander turned and stared at the man. "I know," he said softly. "I didn't ask whether you killed him, only where he was hanging."

  Peukestas flinched and turned to Seleukos. "Where is he hanging?"

  "Outside the city gates, sire. The crows feast on him already. Shall I cut him down?"

  "Yes, then crucify his body by the city midden until it falls apart." Alexander turned back to Ptolemy. "Let no man bury him. His shade shall wander unshriven for this crime." He paused before resuming in a calm voice again. "The funeral will be in Babylon. It is only right that it should take place in the empire's capital. Next spring, I think. That will give ample time for the arrangements to be made." He looked round at the assembled officers and frowned. "Well, what are you waiting for? You have your orders. Carry them out." He turned on his heel and stalked from the room, disappearing through a small door at the rear of the chamber.

  Perdikkas watched as the officers filed from the room. He beckoned Seleukos and Nikometros to him. "What do you think?"

  "Has he lost his wits?" muttered Nikometros. "Asking for this companion to be made a god?"

  Perdikkas kept a bland expression on his face. "I would be extremely careful who I said that to, Colonel. You may find yourself hanging alongside the good doctor."

  Nikometros flushed. "Yes sir. I'm sorry, sir. I meant only that the king isn't his usual incisive self. And really, a god? Isn't that blasphemy?"

  "As that little toad Eumenes pointed out, a god can do anything he wants. You were there at Siwah, Nikometros. You saw the king afterward. Didn't he appear to be a god? Do his exploits since then not reek of divinity?" Perdikkas turned to the other man. "And what do you think Seleukos?"

  Seleukos smiled coldly. "I think there is great opportunity here, sir."

  "Indeed there is," agreed Perdikkas. "Hephaestion was Chiliarch--Vizier--the most powerful man in the empire after the king. That position is vacant, but not for long, I think."

  "You're the obvious choice, sir," said Seleukos.

  "Yes, I rather think I am. And when I'm Chiliarch I'll remember those loyal to me." Perdikkas nodded. "However, there are those who bear watching. Seleukos, keep an eye on Peukestas for me. Your efforts won't go unrewarded."

  Seleukos saluted and left the room.

  Perdikkas watched him go then turned to Nikometros. "You're an able soldier but you're naďve when it comes to the court. Learn from Seleukos if you want to get ahead, Nikometros. Events are moving fast and I have need of loyal men."

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  Chapter Nineteen

  "I tell you, Berinax, it was him, that slimy spy who betrayed us. Sco...something."

  Berinax frowned and glanced around at the busy street. "Scolices. Here? In Ekbatana? How likely is that? I thought he died in that last battle back on the high plains."

  "By the balls of Papaeus, I wouldn't forget that traitor. Ask Gerrades when he gets back. He'll tell you."

  Berinax glanced nervously at the sky. "Don't blaspheme against our gods, Menares, even this far from Scythia. And just where is Gerrades anyway?"

  "Following the traitor. I came back to find you as soon as we saw him."

  Berinax grabbed Menares by the shoulders. "Where did you leave him? Take me there."

  Menares led Berinax through the bustling streets of Ekbatana, outside the walls. Pushing through jostling crowds, they left the well-to-do areas and entered a district where the shops and stalls were dirty and full of shoddy goods. The streets swarmed with beggars, prostitutes and hard-faced men who stopped and stared at the Scythians as they passed. At length they came to a run-down tavern above which flapped an incongruously cheerful banner of a rayed sun.

  "This is the place," said Menares. "We're to meet here after he knows where he's going."

  Berinax grunted. "Well, we might as well have a drink while we wait."

  They pushed their way into the dim tavern and found seats at one of the grimy tables. The other patrons at the table gave them a sour look and reluctantly shifted along the benches. The tavern keeper put two wooden mugs
in front of them and sloshed raw red wine from a jug. He pocketed the copper coins Berinax threw on the table and disappeared into the gloom.

  Berinax sipped his wine and grimaced. "Gods, what foul stuff."

  Menares grinned and raised his voice above the clatter and conversation around them. "You've grown too fond of court wine, Berinax. You need to come drinking with us poor common men more often." He lifted his cup, drank deeply then swallowed. Then he froze and nodded toward the doorway. "Here he is. Ho, Gerrades! Over here!"

  A short, stocky young man with a straggly, unkempt beard and mustache made his way to them, his face bursting with excitement. "It's him, Berinax. And I know where he lives."

  The men slammed their cups on the table and hurriedly left the tavern. Gerrades led them out into the street and set off down a winding alley. "He didn't suspect a thing," he chattered. "Strolling around as if he owned the place. And just wait till you see where he led me."

  Gradually they left the poorer area of the city and moved once more through cleaner streets, among richly dressed men and women. Gerrades slowed by a busy shop and pulled his companions to the side. "In there." Gerrades nodded at the doorway and grinned.

  Berinax grunted. "So, you followed him here. What makes you think he lives here?"

  "Went around the back, didn't I? Found a room where he and this other man were drinking and talking."

  "Oh? What were they saying?"

  Gerrades shrugged. "Couldn't get close enough to hear, could I? But guess who the other man is?"

  Berinax shook his head. "Who?"

  "Parates." He stared at the blank expressions on the faces of his companions with dismay. "You don't know of Parates?"

  "Never heard of him," said Menares. "Who is he?"

  "A brigand and a trader. I was on guard detail once, with Tirses, a couple of years back, when this Parates arrived. Seemed he knew our chief's son, Areipithes, well. He wasn't there so he spoke with Scolices, didn't he?"

  Berinax scratched his armpit. "So Scolices is here in Ekbatana talking with a friend of Areipithes..."