by Tom Holt
‘Wonderful,’ jeered the Founder Agesilaus. ‘Give them notice we’re going to attack, so they’ve got time to get ready. Was that the kind of military theory you taught back when you were a schoolmaster? If so, gods help Macedon.’
I shook my head. ‘They’ll be expecting an attack right now, don’t you worry,’ I replied. ‘I’m afraid the element of surprise is a luxury we just don’t have.
Look, what we’re doing here is setting a precedent for whatever troubles we have with them in the future — and there’ll be trouble, mark my words, so we might as well use our brains here and see if we can’t come up with something a little bit more advanced than starting a fight. After all,’ I couldn’t help adding, ‘I thought this was supposed to be the Ideal City . If we’re really superior citizens, let’s try acting the part.’
Ptolemocrates’ widow didn’t like the sound of that. ‘Excuse me,’ she burst out, ‘but it’s my husband who’s just been murdered, and you’re the people who’ve got to do something about it. I can’t believe I’m hearing this; talk nicely to the people who slaughtered my husband—’
That was more the sort of thing the meeting wanted to hear. I wasn’t having any, though. ‘Oh, fine,’ I said. ‘You just lost your husband; let’s see if we can’t widow a few more women too, to keep you company. Yes, all right,’ I added quickly, ‘that wasn’t a nice thing to say, I’m sorry. But sometimes the truth can be ugly. We’ve had a terrible shock — dammit, I was there, it could just as easily have been Theano as you making that particular speech. But we’ve got to use our heads now, if we don’t want to throw away everything we’ve worked for these past ten years. Otherwise we might as well do what Agesilaus here suggested when the news first broke and pack up and go back to Macedon — I notice he’s changed his tune since, for which I’m grateful. Or is there anybody else here who thinks we should do that?’
Nobody said anything.
‘All right,’ I said, ‘here’s what I suggest — and it’s only a suggestion, nothing more; this is a free city, and we’ll abide by our principles. We send a mission to the Scythians and demand that they hand over the men who did this. We make it absolutely clear that if they don’t, they’re going to regret it. Then we see what happens before we do anything we might have cause to regret later. My guess is they’re absolutely terrified right now, expecting us to come tramping across the fields in full armour with burning torches. Let’s show them we’re not savages, and maybe we’ll find out they aren’t savages either. Well? Anyone got anything to say?’
Nobody had; and, to my intense relief, they went away and left me to the serious bout of delayed shock I’d been needing to get out of my system for the last hour or so. Please remember, this was the first time I’d been involved in fighting, or seen violent, deliberate death. It was all right for the Illyrians, and most of the Macedonians as well. They’d been soldiers, they knew about this sort of thing, whereas I knew about it only to the degree that I know about Ethiopia —
I’ve read about it and on balance I believe that it exists, and I have a vague, probably entirely false mental image of what it’s probably like. I suppose it was just as well that I had the familiar, almost comforting business of sorting out the idiotic squabbles of my contemptible fellows to take my mind off it all.
If I’d been one of them, with someone else to load the responsibility onto, I expect I’d have been scared out of my wits.
Once I’d pulled myself together and dealt with the urge to crawl under a couch and curl up into a tight little ball, I forced myself to figure out what needed to be done.
In theory, we Founders were merely the representatives of the colonists, and any major decision should have been put to a full Assembly and argued out until a consensus was agreed. The hell, I decided, with that; time was of the essence here, and what the colonists really wanted was to be told that everything was under control and nothing like this would ever happen again. Failing that, of course, they’d all want their say (or their shout, more like) and if the embassy idea didn’t work, I was quite happy to indulge them, if only to avoid having to take responsibility for the management of what could turn into a genuine war.
I thought it over for a few minutes, then yelled for Theano, who was still in the back room.
‘Did you hear all that?’ I asked.
She nodded. ‘It says something when the most sensible, practical person among this city’s leading citizens turns out to be you,’ she said sweetly. ‘On balance, maybe packing up and going home really would be the best thing—’
‘Do me a favour,’ I interrupted. ‘Go and fetch Agenor and Marsamleptes, tell Marsamleptes to get twelve good, reliable men, with their armour on but under their big cloaks, swords only. Tell Eupolis to get the horse saddled up. All right?’
She nodded. ‘Just those two?’ she said.
‘Who else would you suggest?’ I asked.
She considered for a moment. ‘Polybius,’ she said. ‘I know he’s a Founder but he’s too meek and wet to interfere, and you’d better take one of them with you or the others’ll play war.’
‘All right,’ I said. ‘That’s sensible. Anyone else?’
‘Tyrsenius.’
I scowled. ‘Oh, come on,’ I said. ‘I’ve got enough on my plate as it is.
She shook her head. ‘For one thing,’ she said, ‘you’ll need him as an interpreter for the Illyrians—’
‘Balls,’ I interrupted. ‘I know more Illyrian than he does. Come to think of it, so do you. So does Anthemius’ daughter’s pet ferret, come to that.’
‘Also,’ she went on, rather rudely ignoring me, ‘the Scythians know him and trust him, it’ll be useful to have someone they—’
I held up my hand. ‘Hang on,’ I said. ‘What do you mean, “know and trust”? How the hell can that be? We haven’t had anything to do with them for years.’
Theano frowned a little, as if she’d realised she’d been indiscreet. ‘Tyrsenius has,’ she replied. ‘He is a merchant, remember, he’s got to have someone to trade with. He’s been dealing with them for ages.’
‘Really,’ I said. ‘What’s he been dealing in?’
‘Corn for oil, wine, dried fish, pottery, a few other bits and pieces—’
‘What other “bits and pieces”?’
She shrugged, just a little bit too vigorously. ‘Oh, you know. Jewellery. The odd piece of furniture. Cloth. Metalwork. The usual things.’
I looked at her. ‘Metalwork,’ I said.
‘Sure, metalwork,’ she said. ‘Big bronze mixing-bowls. Lamp-stands. Ornamental breastplates. You know the sort of—’
‘You mean armour,’ I said.
‘A few bits of armour. That ornate, decorated stuff, status symbols really. Only a few pieces.’
I breathed out through my nose. ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Tyrsenius has been selling armour and weapons to the Scythians for — how long did you say?’
‘I didn’t. And you said weapons, not me.’
‘A considerable time, then. Years rather than months.’
‘It’s a very popular line. And it’s not as if they don’t have perfectly good weapons of their own. Better, in fact.’
‘Oh, so I’m right about the weapons, then.’
‘You’re blowing it up out of all proportion,’ she said angrily. ‘He hasn’t sold them anything they can’t make for themselves; and if they didn’t buy from him, they’d get the stuff from Olbia City or Odessus. And really, it’s just expensive toys for a few of the top men.’
‘Armour and weapons,’ I repeated. ‘And you’ve known about it all this time and never saw fit to mention—’
‘So? There’s all sorts of things I don’t tell you. And you know why? Because they aren’t important. Euxenus, I saw a thrush today. Euxenus, Calonice bought a jar of sprats the day before last. Euxenus, one of the straps has gone on my second-best pair of sandals...’
‘All right.’ I held up my hand again. ‘We’ll talk about it later. Is it your cons
idered opinion that I should take Tyrsenius with me?’
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘All right, fetch him as well, though it’s against my better judgement. Anyone else?’
She nodded. ‘Me,’ she said.
‘You?’ I snorted. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. If they get the idea that we let women participate in making decisions—’
‘Actually,’ she said coldly, ‘many Scythian tribes have women elders, it’s quite usual in many parts of the region. But that wasn’t what I meant. I think you need someone to carry the jar.’
‘Jar?’ I furrowed my brow. ‘What jar?’
‘The one with the snake in, of course. Do you know why the Scythians have left us alone all these years? Well?’
I stared at her. ‘You don’t mean—’
‘Of course. Once they heard the colony was led by a great wizard with a familiar serpent.
I groaned. ‘Marvellous,’ I said. ‘All right, you come along as the high priestess or whatever. Now go and round the rest of them up, quick as you like.
There’s no time to waste if we’re going to get all this sorted out.’
Once she’d gone, taking the boy along with her, I tried to concentrate on the job before us, but it was hard going. Instead of focusing on what I was going to say or the possible excuses they might come up with, I found my mind slipping back to this strange image of my wife Theano and my friend Tyrsenius...
None of which had anything much to do with the present situation. Yes, I knew that. But once you start thinking about that it’s really difficult to stop, and the more you try the harder it gets. By the time the party was ready to leave I’d become all quiet and preoccupied, which must have been quite impressive. At least it took my mind off the desperate nature of the crisis we were facing...
Theano. And Tyrsenius. Tyrsenius, my so-called friend... I snapped myself out of it. ‘Right,’ I said, ‘listen to me. When we get there nobody — and I mean that, nobody — says a word unless and until I ask him a question, all right? You can say what you like before and you can say what you like after. While we’re there, keep it shut and don’t pull faces.’
He nodded. ‘Absolutely right,’ he said (and I thought, You bastard. Bloody fine friend you turned out to be.) ‘You can rely on us, Euxenus. We won’t let you down.’
I sighed. ‘All right,’ I said. ‘Let’s go and get this sorted out, once and for all.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
It was agony getting on the horse, and worse getting off again. My ankle had stiffened up, the way they do, and there was no way I could put any weight on it; I hung from the shoulders of two of the Illyrian soldiers like a drunk being helped along by his friends. How I was going to get back into the saddle to go home I really didn’t know. I had visions of swaying home slung over the horse’s back like a sack of onions; this particular mental picture competed fiercely with the Theano/Tyrsenius image, with the result that I was in a foul mood by the time we got there, and in no mood to take any crap from anybody.
As we hobbled into the village, the people stared at us as if we were harpies or the demon warriors who sprang out of the ground when Cadmus sowed the dragon’s teeth, then scuttled back into their houses and slammed the doors. If my old acquaintance Anabruzas, the former City archer, had turned up ten minutes or so later than he did, we may well have given up and gone home.
But he showed up, with ten or so venerable-looking whitebeards and a bunch of scared-looking men with bows. Anabruzas himself didn’t look too happy, either.
‘There you are,’ I snapped (the hanging about hadn’t helped my temper). ‘Right, you know why we’re here.’
Anabruzas nodded. ‘I’ve got a pretty fair idea,’ he said. ‘You want to hear our side of it?’
‘Not really,’ I replied. ‘Your people killed some of my people. They tried to kill me. Now, it may be that your lot has some legitimate grievance against our city, but whatever it was, it doesn’t justify murder. So here’s the deal. You hand over the murderers to us, no fuss, no rhetoric. In return; first, I’ll do what I can to keep my friends from coming over here with torches and setting fire to your village —and that’s going to take some doing, but I promise I’ll do my best. Second, if you want to file a formal complaint about anything you say we ye done, I’ll listen and I’ll try to make them listen too. Otherwise —well, it’ll be out of my hands.’
Anabruzas was quiet for some time. ‘I’m not authorised to make deals like that,’
he said. ‘I can’t order anybody to do anything, that’s not the way we do things.
It’s up to the head of each household—’
I shook my head. ‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘I’m not interested. Some day, when I’m writing a book about Scythian laws and customs, I’ll come back and you can tell me all about it. Right now, I’m holding you personally responsible, because I know your name and you can speak Greek. Unless you personally want a war, you personally do something about it.’
He gave me a look of pure fear and hatred, roughly half and half. ‘I can’t,’ he said.
‘Pity,’ I replied. ‘Because my friend here — his name’s Tyrsenius, I think you know him —my friend here can make himself understood in your pathetic excuse for a language, and in a minute he’s going to announce in a very loud voice that Anabruzas has refused our demands and we have no alternative but to declare war.
I think you might find life a bit interesting after that.’
Anabruzas’ expression didn’t change. ‘I’ll do my best,’ he said. ‘How does that sound?’
‘We’re getting there,’ I said. ‘Bear with me a moment, will you?’
I got my two supporters to take me back a yard or so, then called Tyrsenius over.
‘Listen,’ I said. ‘Can you really talk their language?’
‘Yes,’ Theano put in, before he could open his mouth. ‘Not too well, but well enough.’
‘All right,’ I said. ‘And does he really know any of these people?’
She nodded. ‘The head man, for one.’
‘You mean him? Anabruzas?’
She nodded again. ‘For what it’s worth,’ she added, ‘he’s telling the truth about not being able to order the heads of house to give those men up. He just hasn’t got the authority.’
I shrugged; difficult, when both your arms are round the shoulders of tall men.
‘Someone’s got to,’ I replied. ‘Tyrsenius, I need to ask for a couple of hostages. Who do you suggest we ask for?’
Tyrsenius thought for a moment. ‘Anabruzas’ wife and daughter,’ he replied.
‘Sorry, I don’t know their names. But I know they exist, because he had me get them each a Phoenician mirror — you know, the ivory ones with the carved backs—’
‘Sounds good to me,’ I said. ‘Right, you two, take me back over there.’
I told Anabruzas that I wanted his wife and daughter as hostages until the murderers were handed over. At first I thought he was going to lose control altogether and attack me, but he calmed down — I could almost see him suppressing the anger, it was like watching a piece of iron cool down from bright red to cool grey — and eventually agreed.
‘Wait there,’ he said.
The ten or so minutes that followed, after Anabruzas had gone stomping off, leaving us alone with a bunch of scowling elders and utterly expressionless guards, were thoroughly awkward and embarrassing. I had the distinct feeling that I’d overplayed my hand and set rather more store on the threat of war with us than was actually merited, and if Anabruzas had come back with a war-band, I wouldn’t have been in the least surprised. But when he returned, he had with him a short, sullen-looking woman of about his own age, and a fourteen-year-old girl who walked with a limp.
‘Is that them?’ I asked. Tyrsenius nodded.
Anabruzas tried to shoo them in our direction, as if he was herding goats across a fast river. The girl didn’t seem to mind too much, but the woman was swearing at him and waving her hands furiously in t
he air.
‘The girl’s a bit simple,’ Tyrsenius whispered. ‘The limp’s because she fell off a horse and bust her leg, and the bones didn’t set straight. You want to watch yourself around the wife, though. She’ll have all the skin off your bones.’
We went home after that. An awful lot of people came to stare at the hostages, and it was comical to watch them standing in the doorway of the barn we put them in; the older woman ranting and shaking her fists, the girl solemnly waving and smiling. Together they served the useful purpose of beguiling the colonists into forgetting just what it was that had caused them to be there; they were a freak show of the highest quality, and nothing calms down an over-excited bunch of people than high-class entertainment.
A day or so later I was at home, trying to mend a broken mattock handle with newly boiled rawhide and glue, when someone came and told me there was a deputation from the Scythian village waiting to see me. I quickly washed the glue off my hands and went to see what they wanted.
It was Anabruzas. With him were a couple of the silent old men and a boy. I recognised the boy; I’d have known his face even if he’d been able to walk.
The wound from the arrow I’d shot into him had gone badly septic, and they’d had to amputate the leg four inches above the knee. Gods know why he hadn’t died, of the amputation as much as the wound itself. Clearly the Scythians knew a thing or two about medicine. He looked thoroughly wretched, as was only to be expected. They’d carried him in on a stretcher, and he just lay there and stared up at the sky.
‘All right,’ I said, trying to look stern and uncompromising, ‘that’s one of them. Where’s the others?’
Anabruzas gave me a filthy look. ‘That’s all you’re getting,’ he said. ‘Sorry.’
‘That’s not good enough.’