Cyrus held out his hand for his sword to be returned to him. The servant who held it stared wide-eyed, clutching the jewelled scabbard and strap to his chest.
‘Steward. Give me what is mine,’ Cyrus said slowly.
He thought the day could not get any stranger, but then he heard his brother approach, with Tissaphernes. Both men looked relaxed and refreshed, Cyrus saw. Tissaphernes had changed his robes for flowing silks and had found time to bathe, his hair still wet. More surprising was the presence of armed guards with them, spreading out as they approached through the gardens. Their intent was unmistakable and Cyrus lowered his head, considering.
Before the steward could do more than yelp, the prince snatched the sword from his grasp and belted it on.
‘There, that is better,’ he said. ‘Now, Brother. What threat brings swordsmen to this pavilion at such a time?’
‘You,’ Artaxerxes said. He smiled as the guards moved in and surrounded the younger prince. He saw Cyrus consider resisting them, but their father lay dying just a few paces away and events had overtaken him. Artaxerxes saw his brother’s head dip and his teeth showed white.
‘You are under arrest, Cyrus. On our father’s order. To be held for execution.’
Cyrus had been about to attack. He had marked the man he would have to cut down to break the circle and he would have moved if not for those words. Instead, he turned round in astonishment. He saw his father was watching him, an expression of peace on his face. Even as Cyrus understood that the old man knew, the eyes closed once more.
His arms were held and his sword taken from him. His brother’s personal guard marched him through the pavilion and back out into the paradise of gardens and paths. Artaxerxes and Tissaphernes walked behind him and Cyrus craned his neck to speak, though the guards prodded him along.
‘Why do this, Brother? I have always been loyal. Not once have I given you reason to doubt me. Not once in a lifetime!’
He thought Artaxerxes pursed his mouth and set his jaw rather than answer. When Cyrus turned to Tissaphernes, the older man shook his head and looked at the stones of the path, unable to meet his gaze.
3
Cyrus sat on a soldier’s cot. The door was locked, though it was merely the small room of an officer in his father’s guard and a far cry from a prison cell. Whoever the previous occupant had been, the man had enjoyed a range of oils and powders, two pairs of Egyptian scissors, stiff brushes for nails and beard, as well as finely carved ivory probes for cleaning the nose and ears, all still arrayed by a washstand in the corner.
Cyrus could hear the noise of the barracks all around him, with shouted orders and barked laughter. He fixed his gaze on the door and waited. He did not yet understand what had happened, but he knew Artaxerxes too well to think he would be dragged out and beheaded without a chance to speak. His brother would want to gloat, or accuse – something. Cyrus knew it with the certainty of two lads who had grown up together. He knew Artaxerxes. He hoped so, anyway. He had been away from home a long time.
As the night wore on, the moon rose as a crescent in a clear sky, bright above the plateau. Cyrus thought he could not possibly sleep, but he turned to the wall and closed his eyes, his thoughts a whirl.
With no sense of time passing, he came suddenly awake. He was off the bed and standing in a heartbeat, blinking in confusion in the morning light. He had been exhausted, from days on the road as well as the strain of his arrest and grief for his father. To his embarrassment, he had slept like a child and woken refreshed and far more alert. With his life hanging in the balance! He ran a hand over his face, grimacing at the thick curls. He preferred to be smooth-shaven, but it took work and the finest blades. There was no razor on the officer’s washstand. Presumably the man used scissors on his beard, or plaited it with threads.
Cyrus blinked as the bolts on the door were drawn and Tissaphernes entered, standing awkwardly so that between them the tiny room was almost full. Guards peered in from outside, but there was no way for them to join Tissaphernes, even to protect him. They merely glowered, while Cyrus waited for his friend to tell him what was happening.
The older man decided to sit on the cot, which creaked as he lowered himself. Cyrus remained against a wall and one of the guards loomed through the doorway to observe.
Cyrus merely raised his eyebrows when Tissaphernes looked to him. He felt he was the injured party and sensed he would give up his advantage if he spoke.
After an age, Tissaphernes sighed.
‘Highness, I am sorry it came to this. I could have turned a blade aside from any other hand, of course. Not from your father.’ Tissaphernes looked exhausted, as if he had not slept at all. ‘Cyrus, I am to tell you the king’s mortal aspect died in the night. I am sorry. Your brother is this morning the Great King, the god-emperor of Persia, may he be blessed by Mithras, Ahura Mazda and all good spirits. May he find welcome amongst his ancestors.’
Despite the shock of the news, Cyrus felt hope leap in his chest.
‘If I am here at my father’s order, however that came about, Artaxerxes will free me,’ he said in relief. ‘I thought a spirit or demon had taken hold of my father at the end, perhaps creeping in when he was at his weakest or raving with pain. At least now he is beyond their influence. I can …’
Tissaphernes shook his head.
‘Highness, your brother confirmed the order last night. It grieves me, of course, but you are to be executed this very morning.’ The man who had been his childhood mentor ran his hand down his beard, stroking the cone to the tip. Cyrus saw he was nervous. ‘I am … to take you to the barracks square, without delay. There will be no ceremony or witnesses, beyond a few guards. Summon your dignity, my boy. Commend your soul to God and prepare for judgement.’
Cyrus stared. He did not ask about the Spartans he had brought to that place. The knowledge of their fate would be of no use, nor something he could affect. Yet he had learned from them how to be calm, at the only times it ever really mattered. He allowed his features to settle while he thought. He had no weapons, though he might wrench one from a guard. That would mean his life ended a few paces earlier than if he strolled to the square and knelt for the headsman. He saw no sign of support in Tissaphernes, but the old teacher was not his only ally.
‘I would like to see my mother, before,’ Cyrus said. ‘To say goodbye.’ He was watching Tissaphernes closely and hid a smile at the way the man frowned. ‘Has she not been told? I am her son, after all.’
‘I believe such things are the concern of the Great King,’ Tissaphernes said primly.
They both raised their heads at a sudden clatter and alarm outside the cells. Different emotions flooded the two men as they heard a woman’s voice snapping commands with the absolute certainty she would be obeyed.
Cyrus came off the wall, though his eyes glittered.
‘I will not forget the part you played in this, Tissaphernes,’ he said.
As if drawn up on strings, Tissaphernes rose from the bed.
‘Highness, I have merely obeyed your father and your brother,’ the man said, looking nervously for the first glimpse of Queen Parysatis.
‘Get out of my way!’ came a voice they all knew, a storm rushing down upon them. Tissaphernes winced in anticipation as the voice rang out once again. ‘Bring my son out, from wherever you have hidden him! Cyrus? Where is my son?’
The guard in the doorway turned to face her. Cyrus considered strangling the man from behind, or perhaps breaking the neck of Tissaphernes as the older man tried to bow in that small space.
Queen Parysatis wore dark blue for mourning, though she had not rushed to the barracks before putting on a number of golden bangles that clashed and rang as she moved. Her hair was bound tight to her head and held with a golden net at the nape of her neck. She was still beautiful in her forties and moved as lithely as a young girl. Her scent came before her, bringing attar of roses to men who stood like stunned calves.
‘Cyrus? Are you in there? Is th
at Tissaphernes with you? Come here to me, both of you. I will not enter some sweaty soldier’s room! Now, Cyrus!’
The prince found he was chuckling in relief after the fear he had felt. Tissaphernes looked like thunder as he followed the guard out of the small doorway into the corridor beyond.
‘Mistress, your son, King Artaxerxes, has given orders …’ Tissaphernes began.
Queen Parysatis turned to the guard and laid a hand on the bare skin of his arm.
‘If this man speaks to me again without first making obeisance, you may remove his head.’
The guard gave no sign he had heard, yet Tissaphernes chose caution rather than the chance of sudden death. He dropped to one knee stiffly, then the other, finally easing himself down until his forehead touched the floor. It was not particularly clean, Cyrus noted with some pleasure. Mouse droppings stuck to the man’s forehead as he rose once more.
‘Did I give you permission to rise?’ Queen Parysatis said sweetly.
Tissaphernes went a darker shade in humiliation. Once more he chose not to test the authority of the lady in that place. He had lived enough years in the royal court to know that some problems were solved with blood – and only later, apologies. He pressed his forehead back to the floor and lay as if dead.
‘Cyrus,’ the queen said in greeting.
The prince took her hand and then knelt in turn.
‘Mother,’ he said in reply. ‘I am grateful. Tissaphernes here seems to think my death was ordered.’
The queen waved her hand as if to brush away dust.
‘I will have the truth of it, you may be sure. But not here, amongst these common men. We will not discuss private matters with servants and soldiers listening. Now, follow me. Your garments are soiled with sweat. They have kept you like an animal.’
Before Cyrus could reply, his mother reached out her leg and ground her shoe into Tissaphernes’ back, making him grunt in pain.
‘These men have reached too far,’ she said, ‘in their arrogance. But I will remedy it. I will make good. Come.’
She turned to leave and Cyrus glanced at the captain of the guards. The man’s face was a good attempt at blank obedience, but his eyes were afraid. He knew his life was at stake if the new king came to ask why his prisoner had been allowed to walk out. Yet the queen would not be denied, indeed she acted as if the possibility had not even occurred to her. In the few instants the officer might have objected, Queen Parysatis swept by. Cyrus followed her, sensing the man’s will flutter and fail. Even then, as Cyrus passed along the corridor and through the barracks, seeing his father’s Immortals in various stages of undress and astonishment, he feared the shout that might go up to stop him.
His mother walked swiftly, though her dress prevented a full stride. Instead, she slinked along, her hips swaying ahead of her son. Many of the men who came out to see what was happening found their gaze drawn to the queen and were ensnared. Cyrus smiled to himself at the effect she could still have.
‘I will not have my son held like a criminal,’ his mother announced to the barracks. Her voice rang with indignation and some of those who came to doorways looked at their feet, as if they’d been caught doing something shameful.
If Parysatis had hesitated, or asked for permission, Cyrus thought the spell would have broken and one of them, perhaps one of the senior officers, would have halted his escape. Somehow, her authority held all the way to the door.
The barracks were some way from the edge of the plateau. Even with the queen at his side, Cyrus was tense with expectation of a shout, or a hand dropping onto his shoulder. He listened for the jingling sound of men running in armour and felt sweat trickle cold down his ribs. He had come like a lamb amongst wolves, and he knew he had not yet escaped. His time in the cell had allowed him to go over everything he had seen and heard. The conclusion was as inescapable as it was painful. There had been no mistake in the orders.
With his head down, he followed his mother through the guardhouse gate, rejoining a troop of slaves she had left outside. They lay stretched out on the ground and Cyrus guessed they had not moved since his mother’s arrival. They leaped up as she stepped into her open litter, patting the cushions beside her. Cyrus got in, making the poles creak with his weight.
‘Mother,’ he began.
She shook her head.
‘Not now, Cyrus. Your father was a stubborn man and I will have to have words with your brother before this ridiculous business is behind. Are we Egyptian, to be killing our own? Before Artaxerxes even has an heir? For that alone, your father was rash.’
Cyrus blinked slowly, accepting her assessment.
‘I … did not think he would give an order to have me killed,’ he said.
His mother raised her head and touched his knee as the slaves lurched into motion.
‘Your father was a king, Cyrus. He put the empire before us all. I do not expect you to forgive him for the moment, while this is all raw, but in time you will see he was a man of great honour. He saw who you were – who you had become. He made a choice to remove you. In his way, it’s quite a compliment.’
‘He made an error,’ Cyrus protested. ‘I have always been loyal. I prize it in my men, I honour it in myself. I am a prince who will not be king. I have always known it. I was never a threat to Artaxerxes!’
‘Dear boy, a king is one who removes a threat even before that threat is aware of itself. The empire brings peace and succour to millions. What is one life compared to that steady hand? I do not excuse your father, Cyrus. He will not take my beloved boy from me in his death spasm. I forbid it. You will come to forgive him in time.’
Cyrus felt like a sulky boy at her words. He resisted the urge to argue with the woman who had rescued him from death that morning. As the bearers made their way across the plateau, passing orchards watered by slaves and shaded in nets from the sun, he realised he would be dead at that moment if his mother had not come to the barracks. His blood would be soaking deep into the sand of the yard. It was a chilling thought. In a sense, that morning was the first of a new life, a new branch, a choice made. He was silent for a time, letting the motion of the litter soothe him.
‘Where are my men, Mother?’ he said after a time.
‘All dead. Your brother had them killed.’
His mother watched her son closely, seeing the flash of anger that he could not hide.
‘Can you blame him, Cyrus? You brought Spartans to the heart of your father’s capital. Should he have meekly sent them home? Who knows how those savages think? No, in that, he was correct, despite the appalling cost. Your brother could not even manage that without … well, it does not matter now. Artaxerxes is king, though he has begun badly. He gives an order to have you killed and fails. He sends archers to kill your men and half a regiment is slaughtered in the act, with a royal cousin and two senior men.’
Cyrus smiled grimly, knowing the Spartans would want it known how they had died. Of all things, they considered the manner of death mattered as much as the manner of life. He whispered a brief prayer to their Greek gods for them, asking that they be welcomed into Hades. His mother turned to watch him.
‘If I know your brother, he will be willing to set yesterday aside. It was one bad day – who can say it even happened, now? We live, that is what matters. I believe I can persuade him to undo the order for your execution, to restore you to your authority as commander of the armies. Artaxerxes needs you, Cyrus! Who else has been as loyal? Who else understands our armies half as well? Our enemies go in fear because of you. He would be a fool to lose you – and I will tell him so.’
Cyrus looked up from his thoughts and found the slaves had brought him to the outer barracks, where he had ridden his horse just the previous day. He turned to his mother with one eyebrow raised and she sighed.
‘Let me speak for you, Cyrus. I don’t want to make your brother back down on his first day as king. If I force him to swallow his pride over you, he will resent it and be angry for months. I don’t d
oubt Tissaphernes has already whispered in his ear.’
‘Tissaphernes will tell him I am loyal,’ Cyrus said, though he realised he had no faith in the words even as he said them. His mother shook her head.
‘Tissaphernes is his man, Cyrus. He always was. He is no friend of yours.’
Cyrus grimaced, feeling the betrayal like a muscle tearing. He was a royal prince. It was ridiculous to have thought he had friends at court, rather than men who schemed for influence and power. He missed his Spartans yet again. Anaxis had been a friend, along with Cinnis. It was hard to believe anyone had brought those two down, never mind the rest of them. He felt a savage joy that they had extracted such a high price. His Spartans walked with a legend on their shoulders. They would have wanted to add a few lines to it. More, they had understood loyalty. At times, it seemed no one else did.
He stepped down from the litter and held out his hand to his mother before the slaves could move. Parysatis took his fingers in hers and walked with her son to the gate. Cyrus knew he had left Anaxis and the Spartans in the yard beyond it. When light showed as a crack, he was not sure what to expect. His hand fell from his mother’s as he looked on bloodstained walls, stretching sixty paces to the other side.
The bodies had gone, but the air was still thick with flies and the smell of death, stinging his eyes. Cyrus had visited slaughterhouses as a boy, with his father, to watch cattle bled and killed. He felt his stomach heave as something of the same mingling of blood and bowels returned to him.
‘I won’t go further with you, my son,’ his mother said. ‘Let me speak to Artaxerxes.’
She had paled at the stench that wafted out from that place. Cyrus saw how her gaze flitted from one brown smear to another, never settling as she tried not to imagine the violence that had roared through that place just hours before.
The Falcon of Sparta Page 4