King of the Bosphorus t-4 Page 12

  She was across the next stream and starting to worry about the wound on her face, which kept bleeding, so that the blood ran down her neck, colder and colder as it soaked the neck of her cloak. Then she was climbing again. She turned just short of the snow line and rode north and east, as best she could estimate in the moonless dark.

  She saw motion on the last ridge and shouts reached her, and later, a horn call, but she was still moving fast, wishing she had not taken a wound and wishing, too, that she'd taken the other two horses. Her new horse was a fine beast, with a deep chest and a wide rump, and she only changed horses to give him a rest. He had scars on his chest and a set of ritual scars on his hindquarters in the barbed shape of a gryphon. So she called him Gryphon, happy in the knowledge that he was a warhorse of some age and thus a proven mount.

  She lay up for an hour in a circle of tall spruce trees high on a ridge, where the snow was deep enough to hide the flames of a small fire. She needed the fire to melt water and refill her canteen and her water skin.

  Her whole face throbbed.

  She had lost her guide and her mentor. She had no food except the snack in her wallet, a honey cake wrapped in leaves and a big slice of cheese, both of which she consumed immediately, her cheek burning with pain as she chewed. She melted water in her helmet and filled her water skin and her canteen.

  Only then did it occur to her to search the big wallet on Gryphon.

  It was decorated in the Sauromatae way, made from two caribou skins sewn back to back, fur in, with decorations in dyed hair all over the outside.

  I killed someone important, she thought. She poured a little water from her helmet into her horn cup and had a sip. Even just warm enough to steam, it was marvellous. She looked at the embroidery, a full winter of work for someone sitting in a lodge or a yurt on the sea of grass, and shook her head at the ways of fortune – Tyche, as the Greeks said. This man had been a warrior – a good one, with a fine horse and good kit. Probably veteran of a hundred raids – smart enough to be well back of his scouts. But his one arrow had missed her, and she'd killed him – as much by luck as skill. If she'd come over the hill a few horse-lengths either way, and given him time…

  She sighed, wanting only to sleep. She reached her hands inside the warm softness of the embroidered wallet – so like Greek saddlebags, but made on the plains – and found that the wallet held two sets of treasures. She actually laughed aloud at the joy of it. There was a heavy fur hat, which she immediately put on her head, and a magnificent pair of embroidered mittens, made of caribou, lined in some fur that was soft and instantly warm on her fingers, and she almost cried.

  But she couldn't stop. With her water bottles full and some food in her belly and mittens on her hands, she rode to the top of her ridge and looked north and south. Coenus and Nihmu, if they lived, would try to go back for her.

  If they lived. And if Melitta went back the way she had come, she was more likely to fall in with her pursuers. She still had no food – she was exhausted.

  'They'll just have to get on without me,' Melitta said aloud, and turned her horse's head across the ridge, heading north and east, to the Tanais high ground of her girlhood. Three ridges further, and no sign of pursuit. She was afraid to sleep – afraid to stop at all – but her own horse was flagging. She got them into a creek bottom, with running water, overhanging trees and no snow over the grass. She hobbled and picketed her mounts. Then, cursing herself for a barbarian, she opened up the dead man's beautiful wallet with her knife, slitting ten nights' worth of sewing to open it out as a sleeping pad, put her cloak roll under her,and lay down.

  She lay open-eyed for longer than she could believe. Her horses made more noise than she could have imagined – whickering back and forth, crunching near-frozen greenery, belching, farting, drinking.

  She awoke to cold and dark. Her head and shoulders had come loose from her pile of blankets, and she was cold right through. She got up, wished she had some food and drank her canteen dry. Then she refilled it from the icy stream, working cautiously to avoid wetting any part of her, and collected her kit, making the sloppiest of knots to tie her bed roll. She could feel the pursuit. She'd killed a man of consequence. They would track her.

  She got the bed roll on to the back of her horse with an effort of will, surprised and dismayed at the loss of strength from just two days without food or much rest. The wound on her face felt odd, and she was light-headed, and all her dreams had been full of colour.

  She wondered at the possibility that she might die out here, alone. It made her laugh. The sheer unlikelihood of her survival cheered her – long odds had an appeal of their own.

  An unshod horse hoof struck a rock, somewhere upstream, clear as the noise of a temple gong.

  This time, she didn't hesitate. Her choices were clear – even stark. She was up on Gryphon in a heartbeat, and she didn't even untether her other horse. She rode downstream, moving from one stand of trees to the next in the new moonlight, her bow strung and in her hand, an arrow nocked and three more clutched along her bow.

  'All or nothing,' she said aloud. There were three of them again, riding single file on the far bank. They were bickering. Words and pieces of words came to her on the still air – the older man wanted to stop for the night.

  The stream hid the sounds of her horse's hooves, and when she was just a few dozen horse-lengths from them she half-rose and let her mount go, galloping across the moonlit river meadow. One hole, and she was dead.

  She swept alongside them, just the thin rivulet of the stream and its steep banks between her bow and their soft skin, and she shot the last man first. No following the flight of the arrow in the dark. She drew and shot again, and again, and again, and then her last arrow was gone.

  One man was whispering, perhaps grumbling to his gods, but he was face up in the long grass, and all three horses were standing in the new moonlight, as if waiting for their new owner to come and take them.

  She left the horses and rode on, cantering through the dark along the stream in the weak moonlight, confident in her mount and still terrified, still amazed at her own boldness and the totality of its result. She rode almost two stades downstream, but she was alone in the valley.

  Then she rode back. Two of her victims were still alive – the elder she had shot three times and he still tried to shoot her as she rode up, but his left arm couldn't support this bow and he fell to his knees.

  She rode up, a javelin pointed at his face, a white circle in the moonlight.

  'Who are you?' he asked.

  She couldn't think of anything to say – exhaustion robbed her of speech – so she killed him.

  The other wounded man watched her with open, glittering eyes as she searched their bodies and their kit – a good hide tent on a packhorse and a bronze kettle. She collected the horses and rode back.

  'I have to kill you,' she said to the young man, after some thought. But even as she spoke to him, she realized that she couldn't kill him. She had, quite simply, had enough.

  He nodded, though, and turned his face away.

  When she had mounted, she shook her head, wondering if the borders of the waking world and the sleeping world had drifted, because she felt as if she could see the dead men following at her horse's tail – quite a few dead men, for a girl her age. The shock robbed her of speech for a moment and made her neck hairs quiver. She rode back to the boy with the arrow in his chest. The ghosts were terrifying apparitions – as if they were being tormented by some mad god.

  'I've changed my mind,' she said to the wounded boy. 'If you live, you live.' She put a heavy wool blanket of Greek weaving over him, and then another.

  He grunted.

  She watched him for a moment, and knew her sudden burst of mercy was for nothing. He coughed blood, cursed her and died. She watched as his shade dragged itself from his corpse like some slithering maggot leaving the skin of a dead thing and joined the grim troupe at her tail.

  'Artemis, stand with me,' she
said, and slitted her eyes to avoid seeing the apparitions. Then, ever practical, she stripped the blankets back off him, rolled them tight and rode back to her camp, mind blank. There, she made a big fire for the first time in three nights, killed the smallest horse and gorged herself on half-cooked horsemeat before falling into a dream-haunted sleep that made her moan and toss. Twice she awoke, to relieve herself and to shiver in fear at the killing and the blood and what she had so easily become. Both times, she went back to sleep, and the third time she awoke it was day, and the ghosts were gone, and no new pursuers were on her trail.

  She bathed in the icy stream and washed the blood off her hands and the pus off her cheek. The water was as much of a shock as the ghosts, and she wondered how bad her fever was. Then she warmed herself by the fire and put on the fresh, dry wool shirt of one of the dead men.

  Her cheek smelled bad. She couldn't get away from it – she smelled like death. Perhaps the man's arrowpoint had been poisoned. Perhaps she was already dead – that might be why she could see the dead so clearly.

  She didn't remember packing up her camp or riding – only that sunset came and found her still mounted, moving directly away from it, following the shadows of the trees as they pointed north and east.

  But suddenly, as if by magic, she was sitting on a bluff, looking down at an immense sheet of water – ten stades across. She laughed, because she knew this place – indeed, the last rays of the sun shone on the distant Temple of Artemis on the far bank, impossibly remote from her and yet painfully close. Coenus had built the temple of white marble with the spoils of his campaigns.

  She was on the Tanais, in country she knew. She just couldn't make her mind work.

  She rode east all night, on the firm high ground above the river. She rode, not so much because she feared pursuit as because she feared to get off her horse.

  Finally, in the first faint grey light of not-dawn, she dismounted and squatted to piss, her back against a birch tree, her reins in her hand like some hero in a Sakje tale, and she understood, as if it was the most profound thing of her life, that she was living in a Sakje tale – as if Coenus and her father had lived in the Iliad. She saw it as clearly as she saw the salmon running in the winter river at her feet.

  To no one in particular, or perhaps to the gods – perhaps to the dozens of ghosts who screamed in silent torment at the edge of her vision, she spoke. 'If I live,' she said, 'this feat of arms – this endless butchery of men and horse – will live for ever among the people.' She shrugged. Then she smiled and her face hurt. 'I smell of death,' she said suddenly, to the ghosts.

  They never answered her, but they followed, and as the sun climbed the sky she saw that they came closer and closer, and she cursed them. 'Coenus must have killed a hundred men!' she said. 'Haunt him!'

  And later, as she crossed a feeder stream running white and cold down the hillside above her, she addressed Nihmu. 'Why are you lying with him?' she asked, but received no answer.

  She's not here, silly, she reminded herself, unsure whether that was good or bad.

  That night, she made no fire and she lacked the strength to cook the horsemeat or even to unpack the animals. She pulled her riding horse down to the ground with her, drew the dead man's furs over her head against the horse and slept fitfully. She was awakened when her horse, annoyed, pushed itself to its feet, dumping her on the ground and letting in the icy air.

  She tried to lie still – perhaps even to accept death. Death was very, very close; she could smell his carrion breath. The moon had set and it was utterly black. Her heart roared and pounded, and she waited for him to take her.

  Her horse farted.

  She laughed, and forced herself to her feet. With the patience of the survivor, she rolled the furs in a bundle and got them tied with thongs, and then slung them over her riding horse. She was unsurprised to find that all the horses were still gathered around her. She picked up the lead rein and mounted Gryphon, then rode away into the utter dark.

  She slept while riding, the horses finding their own way, and awoke to pale grey light and the sound of her own horse whinnying and another horse answering from her right. She froze. Half asleep, half in the world of dreams, she raised her head and saw a figure from her childhood sitting on a shaggy pony – Samahe, 'The Black-Haired One'.

  'Oh, Auntie,' she said, and then shook her head. 'Silly me.'

  But the image of Samahe didn't waver. Instead, she pushed her mount forward and emerged from the grey light, a bow bent in her hand and the arrow pointed right at Melitta's breasts. 'Who are you?' her aunt asked.

  'Oh,' Melitta said. 'Am I dead?'

  The arrowhead lowered a fraction. The Sakje woman whistled shrilly between her teeth.

  Then Melitta had time to be afraid, because suddenly she was surrounded in the dawn, the first pink light showing her a dozen riders, both men and women, all around her, their breath rising on the frozen air and their horses making the noises of real horses in the world of the sun.

  'Sauromatae girl,' said a man at her shoulder. 'I have something nice and round for her!' he said, and gave a cruel laugh.

  But the woman shook her head. 'I think I know her. Girl! What's your name?'

  Melitta shook her head. 'I smell of death,' she said.

  'That's true,' said another Sakje, a bearded man in a red jacket at her elbow. 'She's got five Sauromatae horses and her quiver is empty. How d'you get that cut on your face, girl?'

  'Killing,' Melitta said.

  'Her Sakje is pure enough,' the older woman said.

  'Samahe?' Melitta asked. She was hesitant, because this could still be a dream.

  The men and women around her fell back in wonder.

  'You know me?' Samahe asked, her voice eager.

  'Of course I know you. You are the wife of Ataelus, and I am the daughter of Srayanka. We are cousins.' All this seemed as natural as breathing. 'Am I dead, or do you yet live?'

  As soon as she said 'Srayanka', the woman pushed her horse forward and threw her arms, bow and all, around her. And the horsemen began to shout, a long, thin scream – Aiyaiyaiyaiyai!

  'Oh, my little honey bee. What – what has happened?' Samahe ran a finger down her face and shook her head.

  'I killed some men, and I thought perhaps that I died.' Melitta took a breath. 'I smell like death.'

  And with those words, she fell straight from Samahe's arms to the ground, and the world fled away.

  PART II

  LIVING WITH LIONS

  9

  PROPONTIS, WINTER, 311 BC

  Poppy juice and bone-setting got Satyrus through the days in Tomis alive, although the arm never ceased to trouble him. A gale blew against the breakwater and all hands worked to save the captured ships. Then winter closed in a sheet of rain, and then another. His arm was setting badly, but Calchus's physician put more and more water and milk into the poppy juice, gradually weaning him from the colours and the poetry. The man was an expert, and Satyrus missed only the happiness of the dreams.

  His appetite returned in a rush, and they had been ten nights in Calchus's big house when he found himself reclining at a dinner, eating mashed lobsters and drinking too much and almost unable to follow the conversation in his urge to eat everything that the slaves brought him.

  'By all the gods, it takes me back to see you lying there, lad,' Calchus said. He raised a cup and swigged some wine. 'Eat up! More where that came from.'

  Theron ate massively as well, and Calchus watched him consume lobster with an ill-grace. 'You eat like an Olympic athlete,' Calchus said.

  'I was an Olympic athlete,' Theron answered.

  Silence fell, as the other guests looked at each other and smirked.

  Satyrus almost choked on his food. Calchus was his guest-friend, his father's friend, and his benefactor, his host – and yet, a hard man to like. His childhood visits to Tanais had always been full of ceremony and self-importance, and Satyrus could remember the face his mother would make when she heard that
the man was coming. And yet, in his sixties, he'd risen from his bed to lead the men of the town against the raiders – not once, but three times, taking wounds on each occasion. He was not a straw man – but a brash one. Just the kind to have Theron in his house ten days and never trouble to learn that the man was an Olympian.

  Calchus shrugged and drank more wine. 'Satyrus, I have another problem for you,' he said. 'T hose pirates locked up all their rowers in our slave pens – mercenaries and hirelings and slaves. Thanks all the gods they weren't free men like yours, and armed, or we'd all be dead!'

  Satyrus tried to roll over. Without the poppy, the break in his arm ached all the time. The old infected wound was polluting it, and Satyrus missed Alexandria, where the doctors knew about such things. He had other wounds, but they weren't so bad. But it wasn't polite to lie flat at a party, and his left hip had a bad cut, so there was just one position that suited him.

  'I was going to order them all killed,' Calchus said. 'But it occurred to me that you might take them – you'd could make them row your ships as far as Rhodos, at least. And then let them go – or sell them. Or keep them – they're hirelings.'

  Theron nodded. 'Better than killing four hundred innocent men,' he said.

  'Innocent? Athletics doesn't teach much in the way of ethics, I suppose,' Calchus said.

  'Not much beyond fair play,' Theron said.

  'They came here to rape and burn,' Calchus said, mostly to the audience of his own clients on their couches across the room. 'Their lives are forfeit.'

  Theron raised an eyebrow at Satyrus. Satyrus nodded. 'We'll take them. When our wounded are recovered, we'll take them away.'

  'That's a load off my mind,' Calchus said. He shrugged. 'I'm a hard man – but four hundred? Where would we bury them all? The pirates were bad enough.'

  Two hundred pirates – two hundred armoured men – all killed in a night of butchery, and their bodies lay unburied for too long, so that the charnel-house sweetness crept into everything, even through the poppy juice.