Scythian Trilogy Book 3: Funeral in Babylon

by Max Overton

  Timon answered his knock, staring coldly at his commander. He made no move to invite Nikometros in.

  "Timon, I need to talk to you. May I come in?"

  "Bithyia is tired, sir. I'd rather you didn't."

  "Then come outside and talk. Perhaps we could find a tavern."

  "I don't want to leave her alone."

  "Damn it, Timon. We must talk. If you won't ask me in then come out."

  Timon stared for a long minute then shrugged. "As my commander wishes." He closed the door behind him and stepped out into the portico.

  Nikometros sighed in exasperation but turned and led the way out of the lesser palace and into a street running down into the heart of Babylon. They walked in silence, their footsteps echoing off the brick and stone structures around them. The night was dark and overcast; the air heavy and humid, dim haloes forming around the flickering lights of the torches set on the street corners.

  "You heard what happened last night?" asked Nikometros.

  "Yes." Timon walked on in silence for a minute. "I...I'm glad you...I'm glad the attempt didn't succeed."

  "Thank you, Timon. You should have seen Tomyra. She was magnificent." Nikometros grinned and half-turned toward his friend, his teeth visible in the torchlight. "She killed the man, you know."

  "Indeed? I'm gratified. She wasn't injured then?"

  "Nothing serious. Bruises, a few cuts. They'll heal."

  They turned down a street that led toward the naval yards. The streets were busier here and the jostle of people and the growing hubbub forced them to walk closer together.

  "How is Bithyia?" enquired Nikometros. "She's due soon?"

  "The midwife says within days. I should be with her."

  "I'm sorry to keep you from her, Timon. I promise you shall rejoin her soon."

  "So where are we going? How about here, it looks decent enough." Timon indicated a busy tavern, a roar of laughter and conversation bursting from its door and open windows.

  "No, not here. I had another place in mind. Just a bit further."

  Timon looked quizzically at Nikometros but said nothing. They walked on, passing through the docks and into the quieter streets beyond. At last Nikometros turned down a narrow street that ended in a tiny tavern. The surge of noise from the burgeoning humanity of the city dropped to a distant murmur. The lights of the tavern cast a mellow light over the stone-paved street, welcoming thirsty travellers.

  "Here?" Timon asked. "Why this out of the way place?"

  "It's quieter. We need to talk."

  Nikometros led the way into the almost deserted tavern. He nodded at the barman and asked for a jug of wine. Accepting the pitcher of thin wine and two mugs he indicated a table in the far corner, deep in the shadows. Timon followed his commander and drew back one of the roughly fashioned high-backed chairs, preparatory to sitting down. He stopped in mid-action and stared into the shadows at the man sitting at the table.

  "You!" Timon spat. He rounded on Nikometros. "You knew, didn't you? You knew he was here."

  Nikometros nodded and set the wine on the table. "Yes, I knew. I invited Parates so we can settle this matter once and for all. Sit down Timon...please."

  Timon scowled but reluctantly sat, drawing his chair away from the table. Nikometros smiled and poured wine into the two mugs, splashing more into Parates' mug.

  Timon pushed his mug away. "I won't drink with him."

  "Why not?" drawled Parates, leaning back in his chair. He sipped from his mug. "This may not be very good wine, certainly not up to the standards I'm used to, but you can be certain it isn't poisoned." He smiled at the furious expression on Timon's face.

  "Please, Parates," soothed Nikometros. "Timon, no one will ask you to drink if you do not care to." He glanced from one to the other. "I want you to become...well, if not friends, then at least to tolerate one another."

  Timon glowered in silence. Parates smiled and spread his hands. "Nikometros, I'm honoured to be considered your friend. I'd be only too happy to extend the hand of friendship to this worthy man."

  "Thank you Parates," Nikometros said. "Timon, why do you feel such enmity toward Parates?"

  "You really don't know?"

  "I'm asking you."

  "I don't trust him," said Timon. "He admits to friendship with that bastard Areipithes, he entertained Scolices and the poison which nearly claimed the life of Tomyra came from his warehouse."

  "That's all?" asked Parates.

  "That's not enough?" exploded Timon. He pushed back his chair and started to rise. "I'm not staying..."

  "Timon." Nikometros grasped his friend's hand. "Please. Stay and hear me out." He waited until Timon subsided and reseated himself. "So," he went on. "There are three questions to be answered. The first is his friendship with Areipithes. Parates...?" He turned enquiringly to the Persian.

  Parates shrugged. "I've told you already. I'm a merchant and a trader. I deal with many tribes along the borders. The Massegetae are known to me. I've dealt with Areipithes, I've done business with him...as I have with his father before him." Parates paused and steepled his hands in thought. "As for friendship with the man--well, apart from the fact that he's dead..." a small smile quirked his lips, "...he didn't treat me as a friend."

  "The second point was entertaining Scolices," prompted Nikometros.

  "The man was known to me as one of Areipithes' associates. He approached me on a business matter and I merely offered him hospitality as is my duty."

  "And his business?" growled Timon.

  "I regret we were interrupted before he could raise the matter," Parates observed. "I've said all this before, Nikometros, before the authorities."

  "I know, Parates. Please bear with me. The third point was the poison."

  "Arabian death weed has other uses. Some people use it to rid themselves of vermin. In any case, it can be found in many places. Most traders carry small amounts--I do myself." Parates leaned over the table. "However, I don't see how you can possibly know it came from my warehouse. And even if it did, anyone could have bought it."

  Nikometros turned to Timon. "Parates has answered all three of your accusations reasonably."

  Timon shifted uncomfortably. "He has a ready tongue, I'll admit. If I had but one of these doubts I'd be prepared to believe his story--but three? I don't believe in coincidences."

  Nikometros sighed. "You believe in the gods, don't you, Timon?" Timon nodded and he went on. "Parates also believes. His god Ahura-Mazda is a god of truth." He turned to Parates.

  "Parates, answer me this in the name of your god and as you follow the Light in truth--do you seek to harm, in any way, myself or my wife Tomyra?"

  Parates sat silently and looked at Nikometros, then at Timon. He brought his hands together softly then spread them wide. "In the name of Ahura-Mazda and the truth for which he stands, I'm not trying to harm you or your wife."

  "Words," sneered Timon. "I've heard some of the greatest liars swear by the gods."

  "What of Tomyra?" Nikometros asked. "You've seen her power as a priestess, haven't you?" Timon nodded hesitantly. "You've seen true prophecy and heard the voice of the Mother Goddess speak through her?" Timon nodded again.

  "Have you seen evidence that the Goddess protects her?"

  "Yes," admitted Timon.

  "Then will you believe her when she says that the Goddess speaks to her still and offers no warning about Parates?"

  Timon frowned. "She says that? In truth?"

  "She says that, Timon. No harm will come to her from Parates." Nikometros smiled encouragingly. "Won't you believe the Goddess?"

  "Who am I to contradict the Goddess?" Timon said slowly. "I will accept the words of Tomyra."

  "And will you also accept my hand of friendship?" asked Parates, extending his arm.

  Timon hesitated then reached out and lightly brushed his fingertips with the other man.

  "Excellent," Nikometros said with a grin. "Now," he added, raising his mug. "Let us drink to the future." />
  "Prosperity," said Parates. "And the fulfillment of our desires."

  They drank, though Timon only sipped, screwing up his face at the thin, sour wine.

  "Well, I must leave you now," said Parates, pushing back his chair. He dug into his purse and placed a coin on the table. "Allow me to offer my hospitality this time, my friends." He rose, bowed to Nikometros, then to Timon and exited the tavern.

  Nikometros sat back and looked quizzically at his friend. "You mean it, Timon? You'll believe Tomyra?"

  Timon grimaced then allowed a reluctant grin. "Aye, Niko. It was killing me to stay away. I still don't like him, you understand, but I'll give him the benefit of the doubt."

  "Good man." Nikometros drained his cup and belched. "Come on then, let's go and tell Bithyia of your change of heart." He rose and moved toward the door, followed by Timon.

  Outside, the humid air pressed close beneath the overcast sky. The lights of the city burned dully beyond the dark alleyway and the sounds of burgeoning humanity came muted to their ears.

  Timon shook his head as he started up the alleyway. "Why in Hades did you choose this tavern, Niko? Apart from the quiet it has nothing else to recommend it."

  "I didn't. Parates sent word that he wanted to make up with you and suggested we meet here."

  Timon grunted. A shadow detached from the blackness of the alley and closed with him. Nikometros shouted an inarticulate warning and dragged his sword from its sheath. Timon whirled, meeting the shadow, staggering back with a cry. Light glinted dully on steel as the man leapt forward, arm upraised.

  Nikometros strode forward then turned as he heard footsteps behind him. Without thinking, he met the sword thrust with his own, metal ringing loudly in the silent alley. The man grunted and swung again, pressing forward. Nikometros parried again, feeling out his opponent, judging his skill level. He feinted left, flicked the blade up toward the man's eyes, smiling to himself as the man flinched and stumbled back. He pressed forward and nearly died as another sword swept in from his right.

  Throwing himself to the left, Nikometros crashed into the alley wall, the second man's sword ripping through his tunic. The first man immediately resumed his attack and together, they pressed Nikometros back towards the tavern. Lights came on in the houses along the alley and several shutters were thrown back as the inhabitants looked out. Light flooded the dark alley, allowing Nikometros to see his opponents clearly for the first time.

  The men facing him hid enigmatically behind full beards. Their dark hair hung to their shoulders, only their bright eyes displaying any signs of emotion as they sought Nikometros' life. Now that he could see the men he fought, Nikometros recognised the differing quality of their sword skill. The second man was plainly a professional. He crouched, moving fluidly on the balls of his feet, his blade moving constantly, probing his quarry's defences. The first man who attacked him was just as plainly untutored in swordplay. He attacked rigidly and without imagination, boldly pressing forward seemingly without thought for his own safety.

  Nikometros flicked a glance toward the entrance of the alley and caught a glimpse of Timon. The old Macedonian soldier's left arm hung by his side and it was all he could do to fight off the determined attack of his assailant. Nikometros abruptly launched himself at the amateur swordsman, the surprise making the man hesitate and step back. Nikometros stepped forward, whirled and slipped between the two men, narrowly avoiding the professional's blade. He ran to Timon's back and turned to face his foes again.

  "You are hurt?" Nikometros slashed crossways, his sword blade making a double ring as it met his opponents' blades.

  Timon gasped with exertion. "A scratch, Niko." He stumbled back, threatening to knock his friend off balance. "The fornicator's good though."

  Nikometros felt himself tiring and knew help was needed if they were to survive this attack. He raised his voice and yelled, in passable if stilted Persian.

  "Holla, good citizens. Call the city guard, I beg you."

  There was little response, save a few shouts and the sound of more shutters thrown back. Timon grunted as his man slipped through his defence again, inflicting another minor wound.

  The amateur grinned. "The guard won't save you." He pushed forward aggressively, forcing Nikometros to counter his attack. The other man moved sideways, flicking his blade out under Nikometros' guard. The sword tip scored a line along the underside of Nikometros' sword arm and into his chest.

  Nikometros gasped with pain as the point glanced off a rib. He threw himself to the left, preventing the blade from penetrating further but distracting himself from the amateur's attack. The man swung down hard but misjudged the distance as Nikometros stumbled. Instead of a killing blow, his fist and pommel connected with Nikometros' shoulder, sending him reeling back against the alley wall. The amateur fell forwards, colliding with the professional as he moved in to finish his opponent off. Nikometros grimaced with pain and swapped his sword to his left hand, flexing his numb fingers.

  The collision distracted Timon's opponent too and, as the man glanced sideways, the old soldier stabbed forward, into the man's arm. The sword fell with a clatter and the man backed away frantically, clutching at the dagger in his belt. Timon stepped over the fallen sword and, ignoring his disarmed opponent slashed at the back of one of the two men attacking Nikometros. The man swung round with a curse to defend himself.

  Nikometros seized the opportunity and threw himself forward, crashing into the amateur and sending the man reeling backward. Nikometros followed, his sword back in his right hand, flickering and stabbing. He parried a high blow then ducked and thrust upward. The sword bit home and the man gasped, his sword dropping with a clangor. He stumbled back and collapsed; his face contorted and blood frothing from his mouth.

  Nikometros turned back and saw Timon on his knees by the alley wall, his sword above his head, blocking repeated blows from his opponent. As he watched, the other man snatched up his sword again and joined in the attack. Nikometros yelled a battle paean, his anger rising, and threw himself forward just as Timon fell, clutching his chest. He stood over his friend and faced the two Persians.

  Nikometros laughed bitterly as his anger flooded his mind. He gestured the men to attack and as one did, met the blow and turned it, stepped to the side and slashed at the other man. He turned back to the first, blocked, stabbed, blocked again. He ran forward, forcing the man back then turned and slashed, catching the man across the side.

  Both men fell back a few paces, hesitated, and then ran from the alley, disappearing into the night. Nikometros watched them go, his breath coming in great whooping gasps and red spots dancing before his eyes. He shook his head, leaned over and threw up on the road.

  Wiping his mouth, he stumbled back to Timon's body and dropped to his knees beside it, cradling his friend's head.

  "Timon," he whispered. "Old friend..."

  Timon's eyes fluttered open. "You stink of vomit, Niko." He gasped and held his side as a wave of pain gripped him. "Don't worry though, I'll take care..." The old soldier's head lolled.

  Nikometros knelt, clutching his friend to him as shouts echoed and the tramp of feet announced the belated arrival of the city guard. Tears streamed from his eyes.

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  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  The Persian doctor withdrew his arms, bloody to the elbows, and held up a dark, shiny liver. He peered at the organ closely for several minutes before nodding in satisfaction. "Yes, it's as I thought. This man will live."

  "Really?" said Nikometros, one eyebrow raised disdainfully. "You don't think you'd better examine your patient more closely? Look at his wounds, for instance?"

  "Whatever for?" asked the doctor in some surprise. "The gods have spoken quite clearly through the sacrifice." He tossed the liver down onto the table by the eviscerated carcass of a lamb and wiped his hands perfunctorily on his robes. "Aside from the blow to his head, his wounds are ordinary. Keep them clean and he'll mend.
If you can, get him out into fresh air away from the city smells for a while. Odiferous air makes wounds suppurate."

  "And his head wound?"

  "Watch him closely. If his mind wanders, you may need to sacrifice again. For the rest, clean air."

  "The king invited me to join him sailing this afternoon. I'm sure I can take him with me."

  "Sounds good," muttered Timon from his cot in the corner of the room. "I don't want to be any trouble though; perhaps you'd better ask the sacrifice."

  The doctor shot his patient a dark look. "I'm sure you'll be no more trouble than usual." He put his knives away into a small leather bag, tying it up with a red cord. "I'll leave you now." He bowed to Nikometros, glared at Timon again and left the room.

  "Charlatan," growled Timon. He started picking at the new scabs on his chest wound. "The damn thing's itching like Hades."

  "Leave it alone, Timon. Let it mend." Nikometros called in a servant and ordered him to clear away the sacrificial mess on the table. "I'd better let the women know what's happening, I suppose."

  "Idiot doctor," grunted Timon. "Why couldn't they just be here?"

  Nikometros shrugged. "All doctors like things run their way." He left the room to find Tomyra and Bithyia and arrange for their presence on the king's ship that afternoon.

  ***

  A fresh cool breeze blew from the north, carrying the small fleet of ships down river. The king's royal barge, its decking scrubbed white and its small triangular sail bowed out before the wind, led the other ships into a series of broad reed-lined waterways. Sailors tended the set of the sails, hauling on ropes and adjusting the angle to the following breeze as they moved into the sheltered canals. Alexander stood in the prow with his admiral Niarchos, pointing and gesticulating, talking animatedly. A few paces behind them a scribe scribbled furiously, making charts of the waterways and adding annotations.