Tyrant t-1, page 31
part #1 of Tyrant Series
Kineas’s heart was thudding, and his breathing was fast. He took a deep breath and counted to ten in Sakje — an exercise that was coming more and more easily. ‘You provoke me more easily than any man on earth.’
‘You are not the first man to tell me that,’ Philokles replied.
‘I am not ready to discuss the thing that I fear. Yes. You are right, of course. I am afraid. Yet — and I ask you to trust me on this — it is not a matter that need concern you.’ I am afraid of death. Somehow, just admitting the fear to himself had lightened the load.
Philokles glanced at him sharply, and then held his eye. ‘When you are ready, you should talk about it. I am a spy — I learn things. I know that you saw Kam Baqca. I suspect she told you something.’ He looked hard at Kineas. ‘And I guess she told you some ill news.’ Kineas’s face must have betrayed his inner anguish, because Philokles raised his hand. ‘Your pardon. I see on your face that I am on poor ground. I know you love the lady. If she treats you ill, I’m sorry.’
Kineas nodded. ‘I am not ready to discuss it.’ Yet his friend’s concern touched him, and he had to smile — confronted with the loss of a woman he’d scarcely touched, and his imminent death, which was more important? Men were idiots. His sisters had said as much, many times, and Artemis had concurred.
Philokles slung his wineskin. ‘You’re smiling. I have achieved something! Shall we ride to Olbia, then?’
Kineas managed another smile. ‘Where the worst thing to face is the archon?’ He waved to Niceas to sound the mount order. ‘Who said that war makes things simple?’
Philokles grunted. ‘Someone who had never planned a war.’
‘Once again, I confess that I have underestimated you, my dear Hipparch.’ The archon beamed with satisfaction.
Kineas was growing used to the archon’s abrupt swings of mood and favour. Instead of betraying surprise, or giving an answer, he merely inclined his head.
‘You have lured the bandit king to do his all in our protection — and then, before anyone is committed to a policy of war, we are allowed to negotiate a settlement? Brilliant! And Zopryon, out on the plains with bands of barbarians harrying him…’ The archon, who had been rubbing his chin, now clapped his hands together. ‘He’ll negotiate, all right. Hipparch, I appoint you our commander. I put in your hands the forces of the state. Please do your best to avoid using them.’
Kineas found that he was pleased, despite everything, to be appointed commander. He had thought that, on balance, he would get the post — Memnon, though older, hadn’t seen nearly as much fighting as he — but these things were political and often unpredictable. ‘I will, Archon.’
‘Good.’ The archon signalled his Nubian slave for wine and indicated that he wanted three cups.
Kineas glanced at Memnon, whose dark face was thunderous.
‘You aren’t pleased?’ the archon said to Memnon.
Memnon’s voice was flat. ‘Very pleased.’
The archon’s voice was all honey. ‘You do not sound pleased. Are you slighted? Should you have had the command?’
Memnon glanced at Kineas. Shrugged. ‘Perhaps.’ He hesitated, but anger got the better of him. ‘I want to push my spear into Macedon, not hide behind walls and then feign submission! What kind of plan is that?’
The archon put his chin on his hand, one finger pointing up along his temple towards heaven. His hair was cut in the latest mode, with a fringe of ringlets around the crown which accentuated the golden wreath he affected. ‘The plan of a realist, Memnon. Kineas’s plan’s greatest elegance is that the Macedonians can spend all the money and do all the dying, and then at the end we have a full range of political options. We can, if I desire it, rescue poor Zopryon — supplies, a base of operations — and use him to rid us of the bandits for ever.’ While he pronounced these words, the archon glanced at Kineas. He had a wicked smile on his face — the sort of smile a little boy wears when he knows that he does wrong.
Kineas maintained his impassivity. He was finding that the knowledge of his own death had gifted him with as much calm as fear. In fact, the fear was fading with acceptance. He had two months to live. The archon’s desire to manipulate and disconcert was of little moment.
These musings kept him silent too long, and the archon snapped. ‘Well? Hipparch? Why shouldn’t I help Zopryon?’
Kineas wrapped his left hand around the pommel of his old sword. ‘Because he would seize your city at the first pretext,’ he said carefully.
The archon slumped. ‘There must be a way to use him against the bandits.’
Kineas said nothing. The archon’s desires were now of little importance to him.
The archon brightened. ‘We must have a ceremony,’ he said. ‘At the temple. I will vest you with the command in public.’
Kineas’s fingers betrayed his impatience with their rapid drumming at his pommel. ‘We must get our citizens prepared. The hippeis, at least, must be ready to move to the camp.’
Memnon grunted.
‘I believe we can find time for a ceremony that will have important repercussions,’ said the archon. He motioned to a slave who stood behind his stool. ‘See to it. All the priests — perhaps some token of benevolence for the people.’
The slave — another Persian — spoke for the first time. ‘That will take some days to prepare, Archon.’
The archon’s face set. ‘You haven’t heard. Zopryon executed Cyrus — my emissary — on the pretext that as a slave, he was unworthy of serving as ambassador. This is Amarayan.’
Kineas looked carefully at Amarayan, a bronze-coloured man with a rich black beard and a face that betrayed nothing.
‘We will need cooperation from Pantecapaeum,’ Kineas said. ‘We will need their fleet.’
The archon shook his head. ‘There, I must disagree. Any action by their fleet would commit us, I fear.’
Kineas sighed. ‘If the Macedonian fleet is not kept in check, we will not have any options at midsummer.’
The archon tapped his fingers against his face. ‘Oh, very well. I will ask that they bring their ships here.’
Kineas shook his head. ‘They must do more than that, Archon. They must patrol south around the coast, seek out the Macedonian squadron, and destroy it. In addition, I’d like you to close the port.’ He continued to watch Amarayan. ‘There are, no doubt, spies here. I don’t want them to communicate with Tomis.’
The archon spoke slowly, as if humouring a child. ‘Closing our port would be ruinous to trade.’
‘With respect, Archon, we are at war.’ Kineas willed his hand to stop playing with his sword. ‘If all goes well, the grain can be shipped in the autumn.’
‘Athens will not be pleased if we hold their grain ships all summer.’ The archon looked at Amarayan, who nodded.
‘None of the autumn wheat will be coming down the river anyway,’ Kineas countered. ‘The king of the Sakje is holding the grain to supply his army.’
‘Army?’ spat the archon. ‘Bands of savages on the grass are not an army!’
Kineas remained silent.
Memnon stifled a laugh. ‘Archon, you cannot pretend that all is normal. Zopryon is marching here with the intention of taking the city.’
Kineas added, ‘Athens would rather miss a season of grain than lose us to Macedon for ever.’
Amarayan leaned forward and whispered to the archon. The archon nodded. ‘I will think on it,’ he said. ‘You are dismissed. You may inform our citizens to prepare themselves to take the field. In five days,’ he glanced at Amarayan, who nodded, ‘we will celebrate the spring festival by appointing you formally to lead the allied army. Perhaps after that, I will close the port.’
Five days. By then the three ships in port would have loaded and gone, carrying whatever messages they had.
Kineas gave a salute and withdrew. In the citadel’s courtyard, under the eyes of a dozen of the archon’s Kelts, Kineas caught Memnon by the shoulder. ‘There will be a battle,’ he said.
Memnon stopped. He was armoured and held his helmet under his arm, his curly black hair was cropped short and his black cloak flapped in the wind. His eyes searched Kineas’s face. ‘You plan to force one?’
Kineas shook his head. ‘I would avoid battle with Zopryon if I can. But the gods-’ Kineas stopped himself, unsure what to reveal. But he needed Memnon, and Memnon needed to know. Kineas couldn’t endure a summer of open hostility with the man. ‘The gods sent me a dream. A very vivid dream, Memnon. There will be a battle. I have seen it.’
Memnon continued to watch him warily. ‘I am not one for gods and dreams,’ he said. ‘You are a strange man. You puzzle me.’ He stuck his thumbs in his sash. ‘But you are not a liar, I think. Do we win this battle?’
Kineas feared to say too much — feared that by saying something, he might change it. ‘I — think so.’
Memnon stepped closer. ‘You dreamed of it, but you only think you know the result? How can this be?’
Kineas let out his breath and shook his head. ‘Ask me no more. I don’t want to discuss it. I only wanted to say that, for all the archon’s prevarications, we will fight. When midsummer comes, we will not submit.’ Kineas glanced over his shoulder. ‘Where did the new Persian come from?’
Memnon smiled briefly, showing his teeth, two of which were broken, and then he spat on the paving stones of the courtyard. ‘Cleomenes gave him to the archon — a fully trained Persian steward. This one was born a slave. He will become very dangerous,’ Memnon said, flicking his eyes towards the citadel. Then he gave Kineas a hard grin. ‘As will the archon, if he finds that he’s not actually at the helm.’
Kineas shrugged. ‘I think that events will take the decisions out of his hands.’
‘I want a battle. I don’t much care how we come to it. All this skirmishing on the grass is well enough for the horse boys, but my lads need a flat field and a long day. We won’t be raiding camps.’
Kineas nodded. ‘Your men are the heart of the city’s citizens. Every week we keep them in the field is a week in which Olbia has no blacksmiths and no farmers. I think,’ Kineas hesitated, wondering for the hundredth time how accurate his numbers were, ‘I think that you can wait a month to follow me. Ten days to march to the camp — you should still be there twenty days ahead of Zopryon.’
Memnon fingered his beard. ‘Twenty days, plus a ten day march — that’s a good amount of time. Enough to harden them, train every day — not so much that they’ll be worn down.’ He nodded. ‘What if Zopryon doesn’t keep your timetable?’
Kineas started to walk to the gate. He didn’t want all of his thoughts reported back to the archon — although he doubted the Kelts knew much Greek. ‘He hasn’t much choice. An army his size, horse and foot — you know as well as I how slowly he’ll move. If he bides his time then he won’t get here in time to even threaten a siege. If he rushes, men will starve.’
Memnon walked with him, out through the citadel gate and down the walls to the town. ‘Your reasoning sounds excellent.’ He laughed mirthlessly. ‘Alexander would take his time coming and to Hades with the consequences. He’d assume that he could take this city — even in late autumn — and that he could use it to feed his troops even if he had to put the people to the sword.’
Kineas nodded as he walked. ‘Yes.’
Memnon stopped in the agora and turned to face Kineas. ‘So why won’t Zopryon do the same?’
Kineas pursed his lips, rubbed his beard. ‘Perhaps he will,’ he said. ‘Perhaps that’s why we’ll fight a battle.’
Memnon shook his head. ‘You sound like a priest. I have no fondness for priests. Dream or no dream — this will be a hard campaign. Mark my words — I’m an oracle of war.’ He laughed. ‘Thus speaks Memnon the oracle — Zopryon will do something we haven’t considered, and all your timetables will be buggered.’
Kineas was stung — Memnon’s dismissal of his calculations annoyed him — but he had to admit the truth of the man’s assertions. ‘Perhaps,’ he growled.
‘Perhaps nothing. You’re a professional soldier — you know it as well as I. Plan all you like — Zopryon will win or lose at the point of the spear.’ Memnon seemed to grow in size as he spoke. He was passionate. ‘And all the horse boys in the world can’t stop a Macedonian taxeis. When push comes to shove, it’s my hoplites and those from Pantecapaeum who will stand or not stand.’ The thought seemed to delight him. ‘I’ll need to arrange a muster for the Pantecapaeum troops — meet their commander, plan some drills, and see if they have some iron in their bellies.’
Kineas was pleased that Memnon was engaged. He slapped the man on the shoulder. ‘You’re a good man, Memnon.’
Memnon nodded. ‘Hah! I am. They made me a citizen — can you believe it? I may yet die in a bed.’
For a few moments Kineas the commander had forgotten the imminence of his own mortality. Memnon’s words brought it straight back. He sobered. ‘I hope you do,’ he said.
‘Bah! I’m a spear child. Ares rules me, if there are any gods and if any of them care an obol for men — which I doubt. Why die in bed?’ He chuckled, waved, and walked off into the market.
Pantecapaeum was very much in Kineas’s thoughts the next few days. He sent a letter with Niceas as the herald, addressed to the hipparch of the city, requesting that the man meet him to plan the campaign and suggesting a tentative schedule of marches. He told Niceas to bring him a report on the city’s preparedness.
Niceas returned the same day that the three ships sailed. Kineas was on the walls, watching Memnon drill the hoplites in opening gaps in their ranks to permit the passage of Diodorus with the horse.
Philokles came up behind him. ‘Athens will be pleased to get the last of the winter wheat.’
Kineas grunted. ‘Zopryon will be pleased to get a spy report from here outlining every aspect of our plans.’
Philokles yawned. ‘Somebody here is. Two Macedonian merchants came in on the last ship — the pentekonter on the beach.’
Kineas sighed. ‘We are a sieve.’
Philokles laughed. ‘Don’t despair, brother. I took some precautions. ’
Kineas looked out over the walls. The hoplites had been too slow in opening their files, and Diodorus’s troop was caught against the face of the phalanx, dreadfully exposed. In a battle, that small error of marching would have meant disaster. Memnon and Diodorus were shouting themselves hoarse.
Kineas looked back at the Spartan. ‘Precautions?’
Philokles twitched the corners of his mouth. ‘I have allowed the archon’s new factor — another perfumed Mede — to receive some reports that you have deceived the archon — that you intend to take the army and march south with the Sakje. In fact, he was surprised to learn that Sindi farmers have been paid to prepare a battlefield along the Agathes River, digging trenches and preparing traps.’
Kineas raised an eyebrow.
Philokles shrugged. ‘Rumour — all rumour.’ He sneered. ‘Zopryon is more likely to believe a rumour his spies gleaned in the wine shops than a plan spoken before his face. It is a fault all spies share.’
Kineas wrapped his arms around the Spartan. ‘Well done!’
Philokles shrugged again. ‘It was nothing.’ He was pleased by the praise, however. A flush crept up his cheeks.
‘The Macedonian merchants — they’ll know better in a few weeks,’ Kineas said.
‘Hmm.’ Philokles nodded. ‘Too true. However, Nicomedes and Leon have them in hand. That is to say — perhaps it is best if I say no more.’
Kineas shook his head. ‘Nicomedes?’
Philokles nodded. ‘Surely, having seen the ease with which he commands his troop, you no longer believe in his pose as a useless fop?’
Kineas shook his head. ‘I think that I must, despite his obvious skills and authority. I find it difficult to take him seriously.’
Philokles nodded, as if a theory had been confirmed. ‘That is why the Nicomedes of this world are so successful in the long run. At any rate, the merchants are similarly dismissive. They sit in his home, eating his bread, sneering at his effeminate ways, and chasing his slaves and his wife.’ The Spartan looked into the distance. ‘It will be a pity when an outraged freedman kills them both.’
Kineas’s bark of shock caused the big man to look back at him.
‘It’s a rough game, Hipparch. Those men want our blood, as surely as a screaming Getae waving a spear.’
Kineas relaxed, watching the hoplites reforming for a second try at the manoeuvre. He nodded. ‘Thanks. More than thanks. I had assumed there was nothing to be done — and you have done so much.’
Philokles grinned. ‘You are unsparing with praise. Very unSpartan.’ But then his grin faded. ‘The two merchants will be the first two dead in this war. And so it begins.’
‘I know you hate war,’ Kineas said. He reached out to take Philokles’s shoulder, but Philokles moved away.
‘What makes you think that?’ he asked.
The spring festival of Apollo drew every man and woman in the city and most of the populations of the farms for stades around the walls. The streets of the city were packed with people in their best clothes, and it was warm enough to cast cloaks aside, for men to be abroad in fine linen and for women, those who chose to appear in public, to look their best.
The full force of the hippeis now filled the hippodrome — two hundred and thirty horsemen, resplendent in blue and polished bronze and brilliant gold. Kineas could see the difference among the cloaks and armour — the cloaks of the men who had gone to the Sakje had already faded by some shades from the royal blue of the first cloth, and their armour had deeper shades of red from long days in the rain. But the appearance of the whole body was magnificent.
Kineas felt oddly nervous at their head. He was wearing his best armour, mounted on his tallest charger, and he knew he looked the part. He couldn’t explain it. His skills with men came from the gods, and he seldom doubted them, but today he felt as if he was an actor assigned a role, and the adulation of the crowds along the route to the temple increased his sense of unreality. To be appointed the commander of a city’s forces — short of leading the army of his own Athens in the field, he was at the summit of any soldier’s ambition.
