by Max Overton
"Not the most palatable of drinks," he sneered, "But not one that will do me any harm."
"You see, Timon?" reproved Tomyra. "Parates wouldn't hurt me. You owe him an apology."
"I remain unconvinced." Timon frowned. "However, I'm willing to hear him out."
"What do you mean, hear me out?"
"You said you were a follower of the Light. Back in Ekbatana, remember? What exactly did you mean by that?"
Parates sat back down in his chair and settled himself with a smile. "I'm a follower of Ahura-Mazda," he said quietly. "The Light from heaven that banishes the darkness."
Timon nodded. "As I thought. I've made inquiries." He paused. "So you're opposed to Ahriman, the god of darkness and the Lie?"
Parates clapped his hands together softly then spread them wide, palms down. "Never speak that name."
Timon inclined his head in acquiescence. "As a follower of Ahura-Mazda you speak only the truth then?" His voice hardened. "In the name of your god, answer me this in truth...Do you seek to harm the lady Tomyra?"
Parates paused and looked at Tomyra then back to Timon. "On my honour, and in the name of my god, I do not seek to harm her."
Timon nodded again. "And did you send the lady Tomyra a gift of poisoned sweetmeats?"
Parates closed his eyes, his face screwing up as if in pain. "I did send a gift of sweetmeats, but I swear by my god that I did not put poison in them. Some other hand must have intervened between my house and your lady's."
"Whose hand?" asked Timon.
"Enough, Timon," interposed Tomyra. "Parates is my guest."
"Whose hand?" repeated Timon. "In the name of Ahura-Mazda, speak the truth."
Parates hesitated, his eyes flicking from Timon to Tomyra and back again. "In truth? I don't know for a certainty, I didn't see the act." He shrugged. "If I were to guess...this man Scolices."
"It could be," agreed Tomyra. "Scolices does hate me." She shivered and slipped a richly embroidered shawl over her shoulders. "My brother's hand reaches out from the grave."
Timon grunted. He crossed the small room and perched himself on the corner of the bed. "What of the note that came with the gift? Why put another's name if there was nothing to hide?"
"There was no note with it when it left my hand," said Parates quietly. "I sent a verbal message with the servant."
"Ah, yes...the boy Madoc."
Parates screwed up his forehead. "Who?"
"Madoc. The servant who delivered the poisoned sweetmeats," growled Timon. "Surely you remember him? The young Kelt who so conveniently died after making your delivery."
"Timon," snapped Tomyra. "You go too far. This man is my guest. I won't have you interrogate him so."
Parates shook his head. "I have had no one of that name in my employ."
"No, you were careful to use a servant of Ptolemy, not one of your own. Then you killed him so he couldn't implicate you." Timon grinned, a feral snarl that left his eyes hard and cold. "Deny it, Parates, in the name of your god of Truth."
Parates sat silently, staring down at the worn rug on the uneven wooden flooring. From beneath came the raucous shouts and singing of drunken men and from the open window wafted the sounds and smells of an army on the move. After several minutes, Parates stirred and looked up at Tomyra, a tired look in his eyes. "I swear to you, in the name of Ahura-Mazda that I did not kill this servant boy Madoc." He held up a hand as Timon opened his mouth. "Nor," Parates added, "Did I have him killed."
The merchant rose slowly to his feet and adjusted his robes. He bowed to Tomyra. "With your leave, lady, I will withdraw. It seems I have outstayed my welcome."
Tomyra also stood and held out her slim hand. "I'm sorry, Parates. Please call on me again. You're welcome any time." She flashed a hard look at Timon.
Parates clasped her hand briefly then, bowing again to Tomyra, left the room, accompanied by the maidservant.
Timon made a rude gesture at the closing door. "Good riddance," he grunted. "He may deny it, my lady, but he's guilty. His god notwithstanding." He turned to Tomyra with a smile. "Anyway, to happier things. I have good news..."
"Timon of Messa," Tomyra's voice was frigid with anger. "I have seldom seen such a display of ill manners to an invited guest. Your behaviour is a disgrace and if I were a man I would call you to account for it. As it is I shall ask my husband..."
"My lady!" broke in Timon. "You know I have only your safety in mind. That man is evil, he..."
"Enough! Among my people a guest is sacred. An insult offered to a guest is an insult offered to me." She turned her back on Timon. "You have my leave to go."
"My lady, you must know I..."
"Go!"
Timon blinked and opened his mouth to protest anew. He stared at Tomyra's rigid back and shut his mouth with an audible snap. He turned on his heel and stalked to the door of the bedchamber, pushing past the maidservant. Turning in the doorway he jerked his head in a taut semblance of a bow. "As you wish, my lady," he rasped before slamming the door behind him.
Timon emerged into the upstairs corridor and stood there, breathing hard. He gave an incoherent cry of rage and slammed his fist into a wall, rattling the nearby doors. He swore, holding his wrist then lifted his hand, scowling at his bruised and cut knuckles. He strode off down the corridor, pushing past the inn porter and disappearing down the darkened stairs.
When the sounds of Timon's footsteps faded, Parates emerged from the shadows in the corridor and stared after him, a smile slowly creasing his face.
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Chapter Twenty-Six
Parates sat astride a glossy black fine-boned Arabian stallion, controlling the high-spirited beast with unconscious ease as his gaze scoured the wooded hills below him. The road from the hills disgorged into flat and featureless river plains in the distance. A cloud of dust marked the passage of the court, appearing to be merely a smudge on the landscape. Far to the south, another discolouration told of the presence of the king's army, marching north and west up the Tigris River.
Another day, maybe two, before they meet and turn westward toward Babylon thought Parates. The wrong time of year to be arriving in the capital. Has no one told the king it will be hot and fever-filled in the summer?
He sighed and turned his attention to the man beside him. "You have him?"
The man nodded and Parates pulled his horse's head round. "Take me to him."
The man nudged his horse, a brown gelding, down the rough track that led from the hilltop, back into the aspen forest that clothed the landscape. Green buds and newly unfurled leaves exploded along branches and twigs scoured bare by winter storms. The air, fresh and clean, surged through their lungs, filling them with energy.
Parates grinned, despite his coming confrontation. It really is too nice a day to kill someone.
The path led down into a tangled forest, one that had not seen axe or fire for many years. The trees towered above them, beech and oak, gnarled and twisted roots gripping the leaf-strewn slopes. The horses slowed, picking their way carefully. Around them, the woods pulsed with new life, the air filled with bird song.
Parates sniffed, the odour of wood smoke tickling his nostrils. A few moments later, the path opened out into a small clearing. A dozen men sat around a small cooking fire or lounged against the tumbledown remnants of an old woodcutter's hut. They looked up as the horsemen entered the clearing, several of them uttering cries of greeting.
Parates dismounted and passed the reins to one of the men. He turned to one of the men by the ruined hut and raised an eyebrow enquiringly.
"Inside," grunted the man. "The little sniveller will be almost glad to see you, I think." He grinned and scratched his groin with a scarred and filthy hand.
Parates walked into the meagre shelter afforded by rickety walls and stared around at the debris strewn over the ground. A bundle of rags and leaves stirred in the corner and a pale face, streaked with grime, peered up at him.
"Parates," croaked the figure. "In the name of all the gods, why am I treated like this?"
Parates signalled to his men. "Get him up."
He waited while they hauled their captive onto his knees and brushed the filth off him with ungentle hands. They stepped back and watched with predatory grins on their faces. Parates looked around and shoved a segment of axe-hewn wood close to the prisoner. He sat down on it and stretched his legs out, staring at the unkempt captive. "Well, Scolices. Can you give me any reason to keep you alive?"
"Wha...what do you mean? What have I done?" asked Scolices, fear giving his voice a rise in pitch.
Parates inspected the other man silently, his hand stroking his short dark beard and an expectant expression in his eyes.
Scolices fidgeted, his tongue licking his lips nervously. He glanced into his captor's eyes then away again. "I...I don't know what you think I've done. I haven't done..." His voice trailed away.
"Poison," Parates flatly stated.
Scolices jerked his gaze round and stared at Parates. "Someone had to," he whined. "Besides, I thought you meant me to...talking about it like that."
"We were discussing possibilities, you fool. Poison is an excellent tool but it must be used properly." Parates massaged his temples with one hand. "One must prepare the ground first, carefully--not rush into it impetuously."
"I nearly succeeded."
"Really? I was under the impression both Nikometros and Tomyra still lived and were now on their guard."
Scolices shrugged. "I'll kill them next time."
"What makes you think there'll be a next time, Scolices? You have become a liability. Perhaps I should just have you killed right here and now. Who would miss you?"
Scolices blanched and licked his lips. "You would forget your vow?"
Parates contemplated the man in silence. From the forest came the distant hollow hammering of a woodpecker. At length, Parates shifted his weight and sighed. "Your dead chief laid a heavy burden on me. No, listen," Parates added when Scolices opened his mouth. "I made a promise and it's one I shall keep for I renounce the Lie." He brought his hands together softly before spreading them apart, palms down. "Yet your actions have forced me to skirt the truth closer than I would like. I haven't lied directly, not even to my enemies but I have misled. I fear Ahura-Mazda will turn his back on me."
"What do you mean?"
"I made an effort to get close to the woman, to earn her trust and gratitude and, despite your clumsy efforts, I succeeded. However, the Greek's friend, Timon, nearly undid it all. If his questions were a trifle more astute I would have been forced to kill him, and then her. I would probably be dead and, without me, you would have no hope of killing the Greek."
Scolices shook his head. "I don't understand. You kill but you won't lie to save your life? What nonsense is this?"
Parates regarded the other man coldly. "It's a matter of honour. I wouldn't expect you to understand."
He got to his feet and walked to the open side of the ruined hut and stood staring out at his men. They squatted around the smoky fire, talking and drinking. Blue wood smoke eddied and curled in the golden shafts of morning sunlight before rising through the sparse canopy of new leaves.
"Ahura-Mazda is the Light that banishes darkness," said Parates softly. "All who follow him renounce the Lie and attempt to live in honour." He glanced round at Scolices, who stood in the shadowed interior. "Yes, I kill when I have to...to defend my life, my honour, to pay a debt or to avenge a wrong. What man would not? Yet your actions brought me to the brink of a lie. It was only the fact that I couldn't be absolutely certain that you were the poisoner that allowed me to evade Timon's questions." Parates turned away again, shaking his head. "You make me feel unclean inside, before my god. I shall be asked to atone and I fear the price will be heavy."
"But you'll honour your promise?"
Parates whirled and crossed the leafmould-drifted floor of the hut in three strides. He gripped Scolices by the front of his tunic and shook the man before hurling him to the ground. "Do you understand nothing I have said?" he shouted. "I despise your dead master and you. Yet I made a promise and I will not break my word, though it means my death."
Scolices struggled to sit up, his pinioned arms hindering him. "Yes, yes, of course," he quavered. "I didn't doubt you. I only meant..." He broke off and looked up fearfully. "What am I...what do you mean to...?"
"I should kill you," said Parates flatly. "Yet I will not. I think you may yet be of some use."
Scolices sagged with relief then grinned and struggled to his feet, holding out his bound hands. "Of course, dear Parates. Tell me what to do."
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Chapter Twenty-Seven
Spring came late that year to the mountains that fed the streams then led into the Tigris and Euphrates Rivers. The snows were largely unmelted and the rivers low when Alexander's combined army and court forded the Tigris, the waters merely breasting the horses. Wagons and carts followed with scarcely a mishap. Children screamed with excitement and women and court eunuchs held fast nervously as the wagons lurched and rumbled through the swift waters of the shallows.
Nikometros, as befitted a favoured staff officer in the retinue of Perdikkas, the new Chiliarch, and most powerful man in the empire after Alexander, rode at the head of a unit of Cavalry. Beside him rode his aide-de-camp, Timon of Messa, grinning through a heavy beard as he accepted the salutes and cheers of the men.
The mood of the army rose when they neared Babylon, capital of the vast empire. The last of their battles were behind them; wounds suffered in the Kossaian campaign healing and loot jingled in their knapsacks. Soon they would enjoy the fleshpots of that ancient city, forgetting for a time the hard life of a soldier.
"Heady times, eh Timon?" commented Nikometros with a smile.
Timon grinned. "Aye, Niko. What a time to be alive and Macedonian. Nothing can stop Alexander now. Scarcely two months to rid the empire of the last opposition and he's ready for the nations to the west."
Nikometros' smile slipped. "Hush Timon. Don't tempt the gods. They're jealous of human achievement."
Timon snorted. "Human? You forget Alexander is styled a god." He looked around then leaned closer to his companion. "Seriously, Niko. Think on what the king has done these last twelve years and he's a young man yet. What kingdoms and lands will he conquer these next twelve?"
"They say he looks to Arabia next."
"What does he want with that? Just a hot desert and little else." Timon snorted with derision.
"Incense and spices though. Also, it leads to the southern lands--Afrik and beyond." Nikometros paused in thought for a few moments. "Ivory," he said pensively. "In Egypt I saw treasuries packed with ivory and gold that came from the south. Good slaves too and strange beasts. I swear there's an animal as tall as a tree that's all legs and neck. There was one in the menagerie at Thebes."
Timon gaped then let out a bellow of laughter and punched Nikometros lightly on the arm. "Good one, Niko! You almost had me there." Wiping his eyes he beckoned to Tirses, riding at the head of the small squad of Scythians. He leaned over and recounted the tale of the outrageous beast, struggling to maintain a straight face.
Tirses listened politely then glanced across at Nikometros. "Truly, sir?"
When Nikometros nodded, Tirses shook his head, an amazed expression on his face. "I shall look forward to seeing this marvelous beast, Timon. Thank you for telling me of it." He twitched the reins and guided his horse back to his command.
Timon stared after him with a look of disgust. "Idiot," he grunted. "Some people will believe anything." He turned toward the sound of rapidly approaching hooves from the north. "Hullo," he said, shading his eyes. "Who's this?"
A small body of horsemen approached the slowly moving cavalry detachment at a gallop. Tirses shouted a command and moved his squad up closer to his commander. The horsemen closed with Nikometros and drew rein, kicking up a small cloud of dus
t.
"Nikometros, well met!" cried the commander.
"Iolattos," Nikometros responded. "What are you doing here? Is the king near?"
Iolattos waved vaguely to the forested hills to the north. "Hunting. But he sends his orders. There's a level plain some fifty stadia to the west. We are commanded to set up camp there and await his coming."
Nikometros stared at the equerry, detecting an underlying current of excitement in the young man's voice. "What is it?"
Iolattos grinned. "Ambassadors from the whole world. There must be hundreds of them. They cooled their heels this winter, waiting for the king, waiting to bend their knee to him." The young man's excitement infected his horse and it shied violently, rearing. He fought it down again with an effort. "By the gods," he continued. There are embassies from Libya, Carthage, and Iberia. Even Kelts and Scyths. Ethiops and Etruscans too."
"The king already has loyal Scythians," growled Tirses. "What need has he of others?"
Iolattos raised an eyebrow but did not comment. He pointed back along the road to where the main body of the army marched, followed by a great straggling mass of the royal court. "Take your men forward, Nikometros and secure the area. I'll send riders to bring the army on with haste. The king wishes the camp to be set up to receive the ambassadors by dawn tomorrow." Iolattos saluted and dug his heels into his horse's sides. He, and his troop, galloped off down the road toward the approaching army.
Nikometros shouted out a command and, backed by the hurried orders of Timon and the other officers, had a detachment of cavalry thundering forward within minutes.
The road debouched into a broad flat flood plain set about with farms and herds of grazing cattle. Nikometros set his men to rapidly scouring the land for any dangers, spreading out in line abreast. By the time the sun crossed a twelfth part of the heavens, he turned the men back, feeling reasonably confident there was no danger to the court the presence of the army could not deter.