Tyrant t-1, page 22
part #1 of Tyrant Series
The step gave the big man time to recover. With both hands on the haft of his club, he leaped to the attack, swinging the club faster than Kineas thought possible. Kineas scrambled, ducked, and slashed with both whip and sword, but he was parried. The lash landed twice, but the big man showed no effect.
His assailant was a skilled fighter, not a thug. Big, skilled, and brave.
Kineas was driven back by a flurry of blows he could neither parry nor fully avoid without retreat. Suddenly his back foot was stopped by the stucco of the wine shop and he had no place to move to the right due to the presence of a huge urn by the door.
The big man paused. He hadn’t said a word, except to grunt when the lash went home. Both of them were breathing hard.
Kineas began to be afraid — not the normal fear of every warrior, but the fear that he might be outmatched. Might die, in the old vomit at the door to a wretched wine shop. His assailant was very skilled. Not a common hired killer.
He feinted movement towards the open ground to his left, and at the same time, feinted an underhand sword cut at the clubman’s hands. The big man changed his guard, shifted, and Kineas gave him the whole lash of the whip across his face. The man screamed and swung his club, and Kineas tripped and fell in attempting to avoid the blow, and his head hit the shop front hard enough that he smelled blood in his nostrils. He pushed himself on his heels, rolled to avoid a second blow, and got his legs under himself despite the weight of the breastplate and the fog in his mind. He staggered.
The clubman wasn’t blind, but he was in pain. He swung the club. The swing was wild, and lacked the full power of the man’s arms, but it almost ended the fight, glancing off Kineas’s left shoulder. Even so, the blow numbed his left arm and he dropped the whip.
Kineas moved in, despite his body’s urge to run while the other man was hurt. He got in close, punched with his left hand against the big man’s head and cut with his sword at the man’s fingers, several of which fell in the street. The big man’s blood steamed as it sprayed.
‘Ungggh!’ screamed the clubman, more in rage than fear — his first loud noise. With his one good hand, he brought his club down on Kineas’s sword. It wasn’t a heavy blow, but it knocked the weapon clear and left Kineas’s hand numb.
Kineas was disarmed.
His enemy had trouble recovering the club.
Kineas threw himself on the bigger man. He got his arms around him and threw him, a simple wrestling move that his assailant didn’t know, and then Kineas was atop his foe, kneeing him in the groin,
The man thrashed, trying to break his hold, and he bit into Kineas’s arm, so that Kineas had to move his arm. He smashed his right fist into the man’s face and his flailing left hand found the pliable fronds of his Sakje whip. Without conscious thought, he snapped it up and rammed the haft of the whip into his opponent’s belly, kneed him again in the groin, grappled him close so that he could smell the garlic and the pork on the man’s breath. The big man tried to squeeze him but the breastplate stopped him.
Even with the damage Kineas had just wreaked at close quarters, his assailant managed to break his remaining hold and started to struggle to his feet.
Kineas twisted, placed a leg behind the other man’s thigh and levered him over. The bigger man was unprepared — or had never wrestled — the whole sequence surprised him again, and in three heartbeats he was face down in the icy mud with Kineas’s foot on the back of his neck. Kineas was too afraid of the clubman to let him up. So he reversed the whip again and hit him, hard, on the head.
The giant lay still. His back rose and fell to show that he was alive. Kineas lifted his head by the hair and then let it down, so the man didn’t drown in the mud — and so he knew the man was out.
He couldn’t remember fighting hand to hand with an opponent so dangerous. ‘Ares and Aphrodite,’ he breathed. His lungs were eager for air, any air, and his throat felt like a narrow funnel through which molten bronze had to pass. He bent to retrieve his sword and felt light-headed. His whole body shook in reaction, and he sat down in the mud suddenly, his knees too weak to support him. But the mud was as cold as the Styx, and it got him to his feet again quickly.
He went back to the smaller man, counting himself lucky that he had landed so heavy a blow at the very outset — two men as well trained as the giant clubman would have had him down in seconds. He whispered a prayer of thanks to Athena and bent by the body. He turned aside to vomit as the reaction hit him again, and then he shook again.
It was all right. He was alive.
The smaller man was oiled like a wrestler — good olive oil. He was almost naked, despite the cold. Close up, he looked like a barbarian — close examination showed that he had yellow hair. The oil made it lank and dark.
The big man wasn’t oiled, but he, too, had blond hair. The smaller man had tattoos on his face.
Kineas wanted them both alive, but the streets remained obstinately empty, and Kineas knew from experience that the sound of a fight late at night would drive any sober slave or decent citizen to shutter their windows. His limbs ached and his breastplate weighed more than the Atlas mountains.
He looked at his sword. It was badly bent where the club had hit it, and the iron was notched. He straightened it against the ground and felt the slight give in the weak point. The sword would break soon.
‘Aphrodite and Ares,’ he said again. Then he set his shoulders, gathered his cloak from the mud, and started for the palace.
Night or day, the gloom in the palace was the same, and the opulence. Memnon’s men were on duty on the porch of the megaron, but inside at the door to the archon’s sanctum were two of the archon’s giants in their lion skins. They relieved him of his sword without a word spoken.
Looking at their blond hair and oiled skin, Kineas smiled grimly. Neither of them reacted in any way.
Two more stood flanking the man himself. Cyrus stood behind the archon, a tablet in his hand.
‘I’m surprised you came,’ said the archon. He looked Kineas up and down. ‘You look a little the worse for wear.’ He grinned at his own witticism.
‘Cyrus told me you suspected me of plotting revolt.’ Kineas didn’t like the look of the two barbarians any more than he had the first time he had visited the archon. ‘I’m not. I hope my presence here demonstrates as much, because we have more important matters to discuss.’ He could smell the garbage, and more, on his sandals and feet. His tunic was foul with mud and the backs of his legs were worse. ‘I was attacked on my way here.’
The archon held out a gold goblet, and a slave hurried to fill it. Otherwise, he didn’t react, although Cyrus, behind him, gave a start. ‘There is no matter more important than the obedience of my men. I ordered you out to the plains-’
‘And I went.’ Kineas was tired, in pain, and suffering the bleakness that the gods send to men after they fight. He was impatient with the tyrant’s games.
‘You returned without permission.’ The archon was drunk. The words were slurred. It didn’t shock Kineas — Alexander had ruled the world through a haze of wine, but he was never drunk in a crisis.
‘What permission?’ Kineas demanded. ‘You sent me on a mission. I accomplished it. I have a report to make.’
‘You also arranged to be appointed hipparch in your own absence. It makes me wonder who is ruling this city.’ The archon sat up. ‘You were a fool to come here alone.’
Kineas flicked a glance at the two big barbarians. Probably Kelts. Kineas had heard a great deal about the Kelts. He readied himself. ‘Macedon is marching, and Antipater intends to take this city,’ Kineas said.
The archon didn’t seem to be listening. ‘They could kill you right now.’
Kineas took this for an admission — not that he needed one. ‘Their two comrades failed. And if these two try, and fail, I’ll kill you.’
Kineas still had his Sakje whip — Srayanka’s whip. His wrists trembled a little with fear and fatigue. All bluff, now. He didn’t think he could muster the virtue for another fight. But his threat got through to the archon. His head snapped around, and for the first time, he seemed to give Kineas his full attention.
‘You think you could best them?’ Then more slowly, he said. ‘Their comrades attacked you? Where?’
Kineas shrugged. ‘In the street. Does it matter? Can we move from these threats to the war that is coming? I serve you and this city. I have come — despite the attack — to prove my words are true.’
The archon appeared moved — even shocked. ‘You were attacked. And yet you came?’ He looked at Cyrus.
Cyrus gave a small fraction of a nod.
The archon looked at him carefully. ‘I appear to have been mistaken in my estimation of you,’ he said. ‘Tell me of this war. Apollo be my witness, these last days have been unkind enough. More bad news may send me mad.’
‘Macedon is marching here. The king of the Sakje is waiting to speak to you of alliance. And Apollo and Athena by my witnesses, I am not plotting to take this city.’
Kineas felt the reaction from the fight. Just six days ago he had argued against war with Macedon. Something in his head had changed during the fight in the alley, or perhaps here in this room that choked him with riches and incense.
The archon held out his hand and Cyrus put another cup of wine in it. Then he looked up. ‘Where is this bandit king?’
Kineas met the tyrant’s eyes. ‘Hard by the city ditch, at Gade’s farm.’
The archon put forth his arm in a dramatic gesture of negation and shook his head. ‘Why? Why is Macedon marching to take my city? I already paid a hefty bribe to send them elsewhere.’ He looked up and met Kineas’s eye. ‘We can’t fight Macedon.’
Kineas stood unmoving. Did he agree? He had already begun to plan his campaign on the endless grass. With tens of thousands of Sakje horsemen, one of whom had dark blue eyes… Suddenly he realized that his thoughts had been fully changed, as if by one of the gods. His pulse raced. It was like insanity. ‘Talk to the king,’ he said carefully.
‘Do you know that the assembly used to meet at my whim and vote anything I asked?’ The archon looked into his wine cup, and then at Kineas. ‘They loved me, Kineas. I protected them from the bandits on the plains, and they grew rich in peace, and they loved me. Now they simmer to revolt — for what? That fop Nicomedes could no more protect them from the bandits than a whore in the agora. And you, with your talk of Macedon and war — what can some bandit from the grass tell me of Macedon?’ he said. ‘Perhaps it doesn’t matter, anyway.’ He sounded drunk, and maudlin, and tired. ‘I’ve ridden this horse too long, I think, Athenian. I can no longer remember how to get their agreement.’ He waved out the doors of the megaron at the city beyond, and laughed bitterly. ‘Antipater can come and depose the assembly, perhaps. And set up a new tyrant. Nicomedes, perhaps.’
Kineas approached the ivory stool, words coming unbidden to his head as he saw both of his campaigns form in his thoughts; the one to defeat Antipater, and the other to push this tyrant to make a stand. He thought of Achilles on the beach, his rage at Agamemnon, and then his acceptance of the council of the Goddess, so that he spoke in honeyed words.
Because, like it or not, Athens had hired him from exile for this very task. They’d lied about it, of course. But it was clear to him — as clear as if Athena had just whispered it in his ear — that Licurgus and his party had sent him to Olbia to stop Antipater.
Aye. Honeyed words. They came to him as if on a whisper, and he used them. ‘The threat of Macedon should serve to unite your city,’ he said, and he saw on the archon’s face that his arrow had struck home. ‘And the king could be a better friend than you think, Archon. Peace on the plains, and more grain in our ships.’
The archon grunted. ‘I doubt that my city will be saved by the bandits,’ he said, but he had his chin in his hand and he was looking thoughtful. ‘But as soon as it is known that Antipater is marching, this city will empty.’
‘Not in winter, it won’t,’ Kineas said. ‘and by spring, with a little effort, we can build an alliance and a force to stop Macedon on the plains of the Sakje.’ Plans trembled at the edge of his thoughts, ready to tumble out in speech if he let them, but he held his tongue.
The archon shook his head. ‘You’re drunker than I am.’ He drained his glass. ‘Nothing can stop Macedon. No one should know that better than you. It is a pretty dream you spin, and I’ll grant you that the threat of Macedon would bring the city to heel as if by magic, but — no. No, I’ll send you to Antipater — overland — immediately. If you are loyal, you can buy me peace. You know these people. You can get them to listen.’
‘I doubt it,’ Kineas said. I hate them, he suddenly thought. All the slights of being a Greek in the army of Macedon — passed over for promotion, dismissed by Alexander. It was as if every scab had been ripped off every wound ever inflicted on him. I hate them.
‘I will make you a rich man. They made you a citizen — you know that? And elected you hipparch. You’ve only been here a month! Of couse, I thought you were having a shot at my diadem.’ The archon held out his cup again. Cyrus hurried to get more wine. No other slave appeared. ‘My father was a mercenary. I know just how the thing is done. You won’t find me sleeping!’ The archon bellowed the last, and sprung to his feet, glaring at Kineas.
Kineas ignored the tyrant’s fears. ‘No matter what you offer Macedon, they will march,’ he said with patience he didn’t feel. ‘Antipater needs money and he needs a war to keep the nobles from coming after him. He still fears Sparta. That leaves us. We look easy. And control of the Euxine will strengthen Antipater’s hold on Athens — on the whole of Greece.’
The archon rubbed his face with both hands like a mimer removing face paint. ‘Athens — aye, Athens, from which you are supposedly an exile. Athens, which probably sent you here. To replace me? I’ve always been loyal to Athens.’
Kineas paused like a man crossing a swamp, who suddenly finds the going treacherous. ‘I swear by Zeus I am not here to replace you!’
The archon ignored him. ‘I’ll offer to become the client of Macedon — to rule in their name. Pay taxes — the same contribution Athens levied. More.’
Kineas looked at him with disgust. ‘Archon, Macedon can have all that if they come and take the city. And my sources say that Antipater wants a war. Are you listening to me?’
The archon tossed his wine cup on the floor, and the gold rang as it hit the stone. ‘I’m fucked,’ he said. ‘No one defeats Macedon.’
It sounded craven to Kineas, even though it was the very same argument he had used to the king. Coming from the mouth of the archon, the drunk and despondent, murderous archon, it disgusted him.
In that hour, he had become a convert. Srayanka wanted war with Macedon. The archon feared it. He wondered what god had whispered in his ear, seized his tongue. He had become an advocate of the war.
‘Talk to the king,’ he said. ‘He knows much.’
‘Bloody brigand,’ said the archon. But his tone had changed. ‘When?’
‘Tomorrow. The king has to ride for the high plains before the snow comes in earnest. But he wants an alliance, and he has much to offer.’
The archon sat up. ‘I’m drunk.’ He rose. ‘I was right about you — you are a dangerous man.’ He settled the diadem more exactly on his head. ‘What do you want, anyway? Money? Power? Restoration to Athens?’ He gave Kineas a look. If the effect was supposed to be menacing, his drunken stagger and the skewed diadem on his brow ruined it. ‘Is this Athens’ doing, horse master?’ And then he slumped a little. ‘Never mind. Whatever you want, you’ll grab at in time. You’re that kind. Right now, you don’t seem to want my little crown.’ He smiled. ‘I still do. And I suppose your barbarian bandit is my best chance to keep it. I’ll see him. Bring him in the morning.’
Kineas felt bold. ‘You promise his life is safe?’
The archon raised an eyebrow, looking like an old satyr eyeing a young maiden in the theatre. ‘You think I threaten his life?’ He passed Kineas on his way to his own chamber. ‘Or yours?’ His voice trailed back into the throne room. ‘You have a lot to learn about my city, Athenian.’
11
There were bruises on his ribs in the morning, and a long red welt on his left leg where skin had been ripped away, and the joints in his fingers were swollen and prickly. He couldn’t remember how some of the injuries had happened.
Sitalkes tended them with oil and herbs and got him dressed and armoured while Philokles and Diodorus argued.
‘We’re not leaving,’ he said. ‘Get it through your heads. He’s a tyrant. Tyrants fear every man’s hand. I lived. Let’s move on.’
‘He’ll kill you. He’ll kill us.’ Diodorus stood with his hands on his hips. ‘Macedon is coming, and we can’t trust our employer. Get us out.’
Philokles shook his head. ‘He’ll trust Kineas now.’
Diodorus raised his hands in frustration, as if invoking the gods. ‘He doesn’t trust anyone. He’s a tyrant! And it doesn’t matter, because we can’t trust him. Get us out!’
Kineas got to his feet slowly, and took the weight of his armour on his shoulders. The shoulder straps were resting on last night’s bruises. ‘The king of the Assagatje is waiting at Gade’s Farm. Two hundred gentlemen of the city will be mustering in an hour. A hint of any of this will be like sparks on tinder. Let me be clear. We are staying. We are going to prepare this city to fight. If you can’t stomach it, you have my leave to depart.’
Diodorus let his hands fall by his sides. ‘You know I won’t leave you,’ he said. He sounded as tired as Kineas felt. He took a deep breath, and said, ‘Kineas, can you tell me why? Why you are hazarding our lives to fight Macedon?’
Philokles stood very still. Quietly, he said, ‘That is the question, isn’t it? A few days ago, you told the king that we should not fight. What changed your mind?’
Kineas picked his Sakje whip off the oak table and rubbed his thumb across the gold decoration. ‘Last night, while I argued with the archon, it came to me, as if a god had spoken in my ear. Friends, I cannot explain better than that. In one moment, my mind was set. It is not so much a matter for rational argument as a — a revelation.’ He tucked the whip into the sash he wore over his breastplate. ‘My mind is clear. I intend to do this thing.’
