Scythian Trilogy Book 3: Funeral in Babylon

by Max Overton

  "Yes," continued Ptolemy with a sneering smile. "I doubt Heracles himself could deal with these common brigands. Certainly none of the Persian kings were up to the task."

  Peukestas rose to his feet in agitation. "Pay no attention, Alexander. Of course it is best to wait until spring. Your commands will be carried out..."

  Alexander stopped him with a peremptory gesture. "Go on, Ptolemy," he said coldly.

  "Wait until spring then Alexander." Ptolemy shrugged. "No one will think less of you I'm sure. No matter that the Kossaians will be snugged up in their forts, eating and drinking, enjoying their plunder and laughing at us."

  "By all the gods of Olympus," roared Alexander. "No one laughs at Alexander." His lips tightened to a thin line as his pale eyes flashed angrily. Abruptly he grinned. "No one but you would dare to speak like that Ptolemy, except..." Alexander's voice trailed away, a shadow descending on his face for a moment. He shook his head, his hair grown out but ragged. "Winter it is, you fox. I'll show these Kossaians what it means to hold Alexander in contempt." Alexander stared around at the council. "Start preparations. War council tomorrow. We march within the week." He turned and strode across the room then disappeared into his private chambers.

  As the meeting dispersed, Nikometros turned to Perdikkas. "What was that all about? Ptolemy risked almost certain displeasure, even death--for what?"

  Perdikkas' face reflected a grudging admiration. "Alexander lost in his grief is no use to anyone. Ptolemy brought out a flash of the old Alexander. He'll find it harder to return to his grief. I think we'll see great things this winter."

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  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Rocks clattered dully in the intense cold, dislodged from the narrow track by the feet of a trudging army. Macedonian soldiers, Persian auxiliaries, faces from every far-flung corner of the empire, dully watched the back of the man in front as they struggled up into the bleak mountains of Kossaia. Cloaked and muffled against the biting cold, weighed down by equipment and weapons, the army advanced up the narrow river valley toward the towering crags and walls of the bandit stronghold. Behind them, far down the valley, in the first swelling rise of foothills, lay their first encounter with the enemy. A dirty smudge of smoke clung to the land, unable to rise in the frigid air, hiding the destruction and death meted out to the homes and families of the tribes opposing the king.

  Nikometros shivered despite his heavy woollen cloak as he looked out over the valley, watching columns of men moving slowly up the trails. The slow pace of their advance made them more menacing, inexorable, as they moved into the shadow of the Kossaian hill fort. He looked up at the battlements above him, seeing tiny figures of men moving, staring back down at approaching death. He shivered again and turned, picking his way down the rocky slope toward the nearest column of men.

  A hundred paces or so up the track stood General Ptolemy, hunched over a map spread on a boulder in the shelter of a rocky outcrop. Around him clustered a dozen officers and adjutants, listening as he talked, his finger stabbing down at the map. Every few minutes one or more would break away and hurry off, carrying commands to various units of the army.

  Ptolemy looked up when Nikometros approached, and then back down at the map. He snapped off a series of commands to the remaining officers, accepting their salutes, before turning back.

  "So, Nikometros, you came after all. Hoping to see some action or just to keep an eye on me for your new master?"

  "General Perdikkas hoped I might be of some service to you, sir."

  Ptolemy snorted, his breath white in the still air. "Perdikkas always has an ulterior motive, boy, though he may not have told you of it. Expects you to report back regularly, I warrant."

  "Yes, sir."

  Ptolemy turned away and began folding up the map. "Well, I won't hold you up, Colonel. No doubt you'll want to join your unit or find your staff tent." He waved a hand dismissively.

  Nikometros saluted the general's back, started to turn away and hesitated. "Sir...sir, I owe you an apology."

  Ptolemy straightened but kept his back turned. "Yes?"

  "Yes, sir. I was wrong to think you had a hand in trying to poison my wife. I ask your pardon."

  Ptolemy turned and stared coldly at Nikometros. "You were a by-blow of my youth. By the time I even knew of your existence, your mother was in the care of a man prepared to raise you as his own." He looked away over the valley and his expression softened. "Yet I didn't forget her...or you. I gave gifts and provided what I could. I have no legitimate son, Nikometros, yet I..." Ptolemy made an abrupt chopping motion with his right hand and swung back toward his son, his face tight. "I'm keeping you from your duties, Colonel. You'll find the king up there somewhere." He gestured toward the fort. "Dismissed."

  Nikometros gave a shaky salute and turned away, his face flushed. Leaving General Ptolemy, he picked his way slowly up the valley to where the army gathered in an open area just out of range of the arrows and other missiles that flew haphazardly from the fortifications. Officers pointed out where Alexander stood, in complete disregard of a shower of arrows aimed at him, close to the walled fort.

  Nikometros hurried up, alert for missiles, and saluted. Alexander flicked him a glance and nodded before returning to his study of the fortifications and a disjointed discussion with the cluster of officers and engineers around him.

  "Sir, catapults would reduce that wall quickly, it's only loose rock," said an engineer.

  "It would take a week to bring them up. I won't wait."

  "It would be safer, sir," said a young officer.

  Alexander turned and looked at the officer coldly. "War is never safe. You have leave to go. Return to the city." He turned away as the young man retreated, a blush of shame colouring his face.

  After a few moments of silence, a senior officer raised the same point. "Nevertheless, sir, a frontal assault will be costly unless we reduce the walls first."

  Alexander nodded, the white plumes on his helmet tossing. The movement attracted another shower of arrows. One bounced off a boulder and clanged against the king's breastplate. He ignored it, staring up at the fort. "The cost must be borne. I won't wait; they have defied me and that is far more dangerous to let pass."

  "The ground is too rocky to tunnel under the walls," observed an engineer.

  "Perhaps we could burn the gates?" asked an officer.

  "Scaling ladders?" queried another.

  "No timber," replied the first engineer. "If we had it we could build catapults."

  "Could we climb above them?" asked an older officer. "Like we did against Oxyartes, at the Sogdian Rock."

  Alexander pointed to the crags above them. "A good idea, Eupomenes, except it would give us no advantage. There's no clear field of fire down into the fort." He shook his head. "No, we'll attack the gate directly. I'm confident we can take the place."

  The engineers saluted and drew back, leaving a handful of staff officers around their king.

  Alexander beckoned to Nikometros. "Your opinion, Nikometros?"

  "There doesn't appear to be an alternative, sir."

  "You don't approve?"

  Nikometros shrugged. "I'm a soldier, sir. I'll do my duty."

  Alexander said nothing, staring at the young Colonel with an appraising look.

  "Perhaps a diversion?" suggested Nikometros. "Something to draw their attention. Give our men more time to breach the gates."

  "Good. Take a hundred men and work your way around that hill on the right. Let them see you. When you attack the wall, I'll attack the gates."

  "Yes sir."

  Nikometros withdrew and hurried back to where the main body of men stood or sat around, huddled against the cold. Men looked up as he neared, apprehension showing in their faces.

  "You there. Alcimon, Philos, Dymnotes...pick a hundred men. Fully armed, shields. Bows if you have them. Then follow me." Nikometros waved in the general direction of the low hill abutting the fortificati
ons on the far end of the fort and moved away, leaving the officers to select the men.

  In the lea of the hill, Nikometros explained the plan to his officers. "We must be visible. Don't hide; don't seek the cover of rocks. The enemy must see us coming and attack us. Our duty is to draw their attention from the main thrust at the gates."

  Philos looked nervous and glanced at his fellow officers. "Er...they have the advantage, sir. They can fire down on us and we cannot strike back."

  "Very observant, Philos. Use your shield. If the archers can cover us we may get inside the fort. Then you can strike back. If we fail in that, then let us at least buy time for the main attack. Now, disperse the men. We'll attack there," Nikometros pointed at a spur of rock jutting from the wall of stone, "And there, where the scree slope abuts the wall."

  The junior officers formed the men into two groups and led them off at a run toward the designated areas. As they rounded the small hillock, heading toward the wall, cries arose from the defenders and a barrage of arrows and rocks fell about the Macedonians. Several men fell, some almost silently, with a breathless sigh and a muted clatter on the scree slope, others with a curse or a scream.

  "Raise your shields, you fools!" yelled Nikometros. He pointed with his sword at the scree slope and ran toward it, his shield over his head. A large rock crashed down on him and he staggered, ignoring the sudden pain in his shield arm.

  Reaching the slope, he looked around at his men. "Group together," he said. "Give the archers some protection." A dozen bowmen raised their weapons and, protected by the upraised shields of their companions, sent a ragged volley at the battlements. Another volley followed a few moments later, then a greater one as the group by the rock spur joined in. The rain of missiles from the battlements eased and Nikometros urged his men up the slope, climbing into the gully that ascended between the natural slope and the rough, loose wall of the Kossaian fort.

  Nikometros climbed slowly, keeping his shield raised, his feet slipping in the loose rock. Behind him, his men stumbled and staggered, a rain of stones and small boulders showering down on them from the defenders. The missiles clanged and clattered on their shields or penetrated to strike the bodies beneath. A steady stream of curses and cries punctuated their heavy breathing. At last, the slope increased to the point where they could no longer ascend and they huddled beneath their shields some three or four body lengths below the crest of the wall. The stream of missiles increased as they crouched there, slowly battering them.

  "We cannot stay here, sir," gasped Dymnotes, bleeding from a gash on his head.

  A boulder crashed down, throwing a man bleeding and broken down the rocky slope. The other men grimly closed ranks, huddling closer.

  "Sir," repeated Dymnotes. "We can go no further, we must retreat."

  Nikometros wiped a free hand over his face, the rock dust smearing his features. He shook his head and gestured at the rock wall above them. "Climb," he said. "We must go on." He scrambled to his feet and sprang at the steep rock wall, his hands and feet scrabbling for purchase. There was a pause that lasted for two or three breaths then Dymnotes gave a yell of encouragement and followed, waving the men onward.

  Spread-eagled against the wall, the rain of missiles slackened as the defenders found themselves having to lean out over the fortifications to throw stones. A shower of arrows from the Macedonian archers at the bottom of the slope sent them reeling back for cover.

  Nikometros climbed on, blindly feeling for the next handhold. Stones clanged on his helmet, making his ears ring and stung his arms and back, bruising him through his armour. Dimly, he heard a distant roaring of many voices over his rasping breath. Abruptly, the rain of stones ceased and the only sound was the wind and the crunch of stones beneath his feet.

  His hand met open air and he risked a glance upward. The top of the battlements met his gaze and, with a groan, he hauled himself over, struggling to bring his shield up to protect himself against the inevitable attack. No blows fell and Nikometros scrambled to his feet, staring wildly about as Dymnotes and the first of his men hauled themselves onto the top of the wall.

  Nikometros stared down into the Kossaian fortress. Hundreds of men struggled and fought in the narrow spaces between stone and timber huts. The gates of the fort lay shattered and broken on the ground, a wave of soldiers pouring in over them, yelling and brandishing their weapons. At the front ran Alexander, his white-plumed helmet bobbing as he cut and stabbed.

  Further along the wall, Nikometros saw his other officers, Philos and Alcimon climbing over the top, together with a dozen or so men. He yelled to get their attention and pointed down into the town before drawing his sword and leaping down behind the defenders.

  A burly man in leather armour pushed a spear at Nikometros. He blocked the blow with his shield and, ducking, stabbed upward, feeling his blade slice home. The man groaned and fell back, his spear clattering to the ground. Nikometros stepped over the still quivering body and slashed at the backs of two men shooting arrows at the advancing soldiers. One fell with a howl of agony while the other dropped his bow and ran for the cover of the buildings. Alcimon snatched the spear from the ground, balanced himself and cast, impaling the fleeing archer.

  Defenders in the rear ranks turned to face this new threat but died quickly, caught between the two forces of disciplined soldiers. The fighting broke up into scattered groups as the Macedonian army surged through the now-burning fort. Kossaian tribesmen fled, seeking shelter in stone huts or scrambling to climb over the walls.

  Nikometros and his men hunted through the huts, stabbing and killing the snarling tribesmen. Blood ran down his blade and stuck his fingers to the hilt. A young girl, her small breasts showing through a ripped shift, flung herself from behind a door at him, her dagger thrusting wildly toward his chest. Nikometros staggered back, weaving to avoid the blade, trying to block her attack without killing her. One of his men pushed past him, knocked the girl to the ground with the edge of his shield and slashed her stomach open as she lay stunned. Blood spurted up over Nikometros' legs. The man grinned at Nikometros then left the hut, searching for other victims. Nikometros looked down at the young body at his feet and shook his head. He wiped his sword on a scrap of cloth then sheathed it before walking outside.

  Soldiers milled everywhere, looting and burning, the bodies of the Kossaians lying strewn through the shattered fort.

  Nikometros called his men to him and when, after a long interval, the majority arrived, started to pick his way through the rubble and carnage toward the fallen gates. He saw Alexander standing with Ptolemy and a small group of officers by the walls and approached them.

  Ptolemy grinned at the bloodied and dust-streaked face of Nikometros then glanced down at the fresh blood on his tunic and legs, frowning. "You're hurt?"

  Nikometros shook his head. "A few bruises, nothing more."

  Alexander reached over and gripped the young man's arm briefly. "Well done," he murmured. "You drew their attention nicely." He turned and looked around the burning fort, the dense smoke clinging low in frigid air, obscuring the death around him. Screams of women and children rose in a despairing ululation. "May their blood warm your ghost, Hephaestion," he whispered. He grimaced and beckoned to General Ptolemy. "Destroy the fort and tear down the walls. Let this destruction be a salutary lesson for the rebels." Alexander looked down at the blood and grime on his body, his lips curling in distaste. "Kill them all, I take no prisoners today." He turned on his heel and stalked away, out of the fort, his junior officers running to keep up.

  Nikometros turned to Ptolemy with a look of disgust. "He cannot mean it, sir," he exclaimed. "Listen. There are only women and children left alive."

  "He's the king, Nikometros. The glory is his...and the pain. His soul is hurting but he will heal. This savagery will pass in time but for now his orders stand." Ptolemy nodded to his staff officers. "You have your orders," he said.

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  Chap
ter Twenty-Four

  Snow fell, blanketing stony ground and softening the harsh edges of war. The Macedonian army continued its relentless passage through the mountains of Kossaia, hunting down fugitive tribes, laying siege to walled forts and bringing death to the rebel populace. One of the sub-chiefs, Beremos, sued for peace, offering to come down from his mountain fortress and talk with the king if he was guaranteed safe passage.

  Alexander sent a herald with tokens and the man came, at the head of a small retinue.

  Alexander's tent sat in the shelter of a great rock, straddling the main road through the mountains to Babylon. Alexander himself sat on a plain wooden stool, poring over a map of the region. His breath smoked in the icy air and his staff officers shivered despite their thick woollen cloaks. The king disdained any show of weakness and ignored the rich cloak draped over the table. A brazier burned sullenly in one corner of the tent, giving off only fitful heat.

  A squire poked his head through the tent entrance, reporting the arrival of Beremos. Alexander rolled up the map and handed it to an aide before pushing back the stool and getting to his feet. "Bring them to the great tent," he said. "And send for spiced wine." He ducked under the tent flap and strode off through the growing dusk, followed by Nikometros and the other staff officers.

  Soldiers camped along the road and over the lower slopes of the valley floor. Huddling in groups of five or ten, they sat crouched by small campfires against the bitter cold, or asleep in small tents. Sentries paced and called out the challenge, scrambling to salute when the king approached.

  With a nod and a half-wave, Alexander acknowledged their presence before entering the great audience tent. Several men sat around a blazing fire in the middle of the tent, an opening in the canvas roof dispersing a plume of dense smoke. The vent flapped in the wind, sending eddies of smoke curling through the interior.

  The Kossaian tribesmen sat on stools around the fire, glaring suspiciously at the ring of guards along the walls. They fingered their weapons, ready for the slightest sign of treachery. Ptolemy sat on a stool opposite the Kossaians.