face, with a straight nose and high cheekbones, framed by long black ringlets of hair. A determined chin. Creamy white skin, most unsuited to the blazing sun that bathed Thrace every summer. A swirling design of dots tattooed on both her forearms. Slim but muscular shoulders. Small breasts. What does Kotys see in me? she wondered. I’m no beauty. Striking perhaps, but not pretty. As ever, the same answer entered Ariadne’s head. He sees my wild spirit and, being a king, wants it for his own. It was the same fieriness that had often got her in trouble during her training, and which had also helped her to become a priestess sooner than might have been expected. Ariadne valued her tempestuous nature greatly. Because of it, she could enter the maenad trances easily, and reach the zone where one might encounter Dionysus, and know his wishes. My spirit belongs to no man, Ariadne thought fiercely. Only to the god.
Standing, she moved to her simple bed, a blanket covering a thick layer of straw in one corner of the hut. It was the same as that used by everyone in the settlement. Thracians were known for their austerity, and she was no different. Ariadne donned her dark red woollen cloak. In addition to marking her position in life, it served as her cover at night. Picking up the wicker basket that lay at the bed’s foot, she put it to her ear. Not a sound. She wasn’t surprised. The snake within did not like the chilly autumn weather, and it was as much as she could do to rouse it occasionally from its torpor and wrap it around her neck before performing a rite at the temple. Thankfully, this simple tactic was enough to inspire awe in the villagers’ minds. To Ariadne, however, the serpent was but a tool in maintaining her air of mystery. She respected the creature, indeed feared it a little, but she’d been exhaustively trained to handle it and its kind in Kabyle.
With the basket under one arm, she headed outside. Like most of the others in the settlement, her one- roomed, rectangular hut had been constructed using a lattice of woven branches, over which a thick layer of mud had been laid. Its saddle roof was covered with a mixture of straw and mud, with a gap at one end to let out smoke from the fire. To the hut’s rear stood part of the rampart that ran around Kotys’ living quarters. It was a defence within the circular settlement’s outer wall, reinforcing the king’s elevated position and serving against treachery from within. Other huts lay to either side, each surrounded by a palisade that kept in their owners’ livestock. The dwellings followed the winding paths that divided the sprawling village. Like the regular dungheaps and mounds of refuse, they had evolved over centuries of inhabitation. Ariadne was eternally grateful that her hut was a reasonable distance from any of these necessary, but stinking, piles.
She followed the lane towards the centre of the settlement, acknowledging the respectful greetings of those she met with a grave smile, or a nod. Women with babes at the breast and the old asked for her blessing or advice, while all but the boldest of the warriors tended to avoid her gaze. Children tended to fall into two camps: those who were terrified of her and those who asked to see her snake. There were far more of the former than the latter. There was little to leaven the loneliness of Ariadne’s existence. She forced her melancholy away. The god would send her a man, if he saw fit. And if he didn’t, she would continue to serve him faithfully, as she had promised during her initiation.
The crowd in front of her parted, revealing a group of richly dressed warriors. Ariadne’s heart sank. It wasn’t just the men’s swagger that told her who they were. Their red long-sleeved tunics with vertical white stripes, elaborate bronze helmets and silver-inlaid greaves shouted stature and importance. So too did their well-made javelins, kopis swords and long, curved daggers. Ariadne mouthed a silent curse. Wherever this many of his bodyguards were, Kotys wouldn’t be far behind. Glancing to her left, she greeted an elderly woman whose sick husband she’d recently treated. A torrent of praise to Dionysus filled Ariadne’s ears. Smiling, she moved nearer to the woman’s hut, turning her back on the path. With a little luck, the warriors wouldn’t have seen her. Perhaps they weren’t even looking for her?
‘Priestess!’
Ariadne cursed silently. She continued listening to the old woman’s patter, but when the voice called again, it was right behind her.
‘Priestess.’
The traveller didn’t linger at the scene where he’d been ambushed. Of course, the brigands had nothing worth taking. All he’d had to do was clean his sica, snap off the javelin that had skewered his shield and retie the shield to the pack on his horse’s back. Leaving the bodies where they’d fallen, he set out for the village. At this rate, they’d be lucky to reach it before dark. That eventuality did not bear thinking about. Banks of dull yellow clouds overhead promised an early fall of snow. His luck was in, however. Whether it was the adrenalin pumping through his mount’s veins, or an intervention by the Great Rider, he did not know, but the stallion now seemed to move more easily on its bad leg. They made good progress, coming within sight of the settlement just as the first flakes began to fall.
Loud bleating carried through the air, and the traveller looked up. Aided by a pair of dogs, a small boy was herding a flock of sheep and goats on to the road just ahead. ‘We’re not the only ones seeking shelter,’ he said to his mount. They halted, giving the lad space to usher his resentful charges on to the stony track. ‘Some bitter weather coming. You’re wise to head for home now,’ he said in a friendly tone.
The boy made no move to come down off the slope. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded suspiciously.
‘Peiros is my name,’ he lied. Even this close to his home, he did not yet feel like revealing his true identity.
‘Never heard of you,’ came the dismissive reply.
‘You were probably still crawling around on a bearskin rug at your mother’s feet when I left the village.’
Some of the wariness left the boy’s eyes. ‘Maybe.’ He began urging the last of the sheep and goats on to the road with sharp cries and waves of his arms. The dogs darted to and fro, ensuring that there were no stragglers. The traveller watched, and when the entire flock was safely down, he began to walk alongside the young shepherd. I wonder what I can find out. ‘How’s Rhesus?’ he asked.
‘Rhesus? The old king?’
‘Yes.’
‘He’s been gone these four years. A plague took him.’
‘His son Andriscus should be king then.’
The boy threw him a scornful look. ‘You really have been away. Andriscus is dead too.’ He glanced around warily before whispering, ‘Murdered, like Sitalkes.’ He saw the flash of horror in the traveller’s eyes. ‘I know, it was terrible. My father says that the Great Rider will punish Kotys eventually, but for now, we have to live with him.’
‘Kotys killed Sitalkes?’
‘Yes,’ replied the lad, spitting.
‘And now he’s the king?’
A nod.
‘I see.’
A silence fell, which the boy did not dare break. He wouldn’t admit it, but the grim traveller scared him. A moment later, the man halted. ‘You go on.’ He gestured at his stallion. ‘I mustn’t make him walk too long on his bad leg. I’ll see you in the village.’
With a relieved nod, the boy began chivvying the flock along the road again. The traveller waited until he was some distance away before closing his eyes. Guilt nipped at his conscience. If only I had been here, things might have been different. He didn’t let the feeling linger. Or they might not. I too might have been slain. Father’s decision to send me away was a good one. Somehow he knew that Sitalkes also would not have changed what had transpired. It was impossible to deny his sadness at the news of his father’s murder, however. He thought of Sitalkes as he’d last seen him: strong, straight-backed, healthy. Rest well. All he’d wanted was to come home. For his service with his most hated enemies to end. To hear that his father was dead was bad enough, but if it was true that he had been murdered, there would be no warm homecoming. No rest. Yet to think of turning away from the settlement and retracing his steps was not an option. Vengeance had to be obtained. His honour demanded it. Besides, where would he go? Back into service with the legions? Absolutely not. It was time to return, no matter what reception awaited him. I do not question your will, Great Rider. Instead I ask you to protect me, as you have always done, and to help me punish my father’s killer. The fact that this meant slaying a king did not weaken his resolve.
‘Come on,’ he said to the stallion. ‘Let’s find you a stable and some food.’
Ariadne turned slowly. ‘Polles. What a surprise.’ She made no attempt to keep the ice from her voice. Polles might be Kotys’ champion, but he was also an arrogant bully who abused his position of authority.
