girl and some prestige. His embrace obviously comforted the young man, and Kineas thought of Mosva crying in his arms after the fight in the high ground to the west, and how useless he was at comforting anyone.
He did his best.
Without really intending it, Kineas didn’t climb the hill to the citadel that day, or the next. Ataelus’s twenty riders trotted out over the mud into a sunny morning and vanished into the eastern hills before the sun was a hand high in the sky. The mercenaries — new and old — drilled on the parade under Lycurgus’s eye, with Diodorus watching and Leon taking notes. Eumenes had the cavalry out all day, conditioning their horses, walking them up and down, riding for brief stints, and the young man was merciless in working himself and every trooper under him. Temerix’s men went out in twos and threes, unarmed, and began the long job of locating fodder. Kineas watched the Kaspian for ships from the north and the mountains to the east for a rider from Ataelus.
Another day passed, and Kineas failed to climb the hill.
Towards evening on the third day, Philokles joined him on the porch of the megaron. It was spring, unseasonably warm, in fact, and three days of sun had caused avalanches on the hillsides and probably opened the hill passes south. Crocuses pushed up through the rubbish and the tree bark that had accumulated along the foundation of the megaron, and Kineas marvelled at their colour as only a man who has survived a long winter can do. Outside the gate, he watched a mounted man gallop past his sentries, straight up the hill to the citadel.
‘There is much beauty in the world,’ Philokles said.
Kineas grinned. He put a hand on Philokles’ shoulder; he loved it when the philosopher ruled and his friend made statements of this sort. ‘There is,’ Kineas said. And then more soberly, ‘And much cowardice.’
Philokles sat on the step of the megaron. He stretched his long legs in front of him and took a sip of wine before handing the cup to Kineas. ‘The queen?’ he asked. His voice was carefully neutral.
‘I lust for her. I marshal a thousand arguments against her — all excellent, I might add. Srayanka. The men. Her own — bah. I lack words to express it. And yet I fly back to her like a moth to an oil lamp. And then I resist.’ He shrugged. ‘It is like a contest.’
Philokles raised an eyebrow. ‘You do love a challenge,’ he said.
‘It’s more than that,’ Kineas said.
Philokles rested on an elbow. ‘Do you think I might have a sip of the wine I brought out to us? Thanks. Is it? More than a challenge? The camp is full of whores — you could have any one you liked, and no diplomatic incident need follow. You could fuck ten of them and no one would tell Srayanka. Indeed, I wouldn’t think it Srayanka’s business. But instead of a little helpful penetration of a whore to work off your male humours, you wander off into a game with a queen. The game is being played about dominance and submission. Sex is just a piece on the board. Stop dramatizing. In a few weeks we’re riding away — fuck her and leave her, or don’t fuck her and leave her. Neither one of you will ever submit.’
Kineas laughed ruefully. ‘When you came out with the wine, I was remarking to myself what a pleasure you are when you are in a philosophical frame of mind.’ He took the cup and drained it. ‘I forgot that your philosophy often kicks like an army mule.’ Kineas took the cup back and finished the wine. ‘She says all our philosophy is cowardice, and every man should do what he wills.’
Philokles nodded. ‘That’s the philosophy of a despot — or a woman trying to seduce.’
‘She’s wrong, though.’ Kineas wasn’t sure whether that was a question or an answer.
Philokles looked into the empty wine cup and frowned. ‘You drank all of my wine.’ He looked hurt. ‘The good wine that tastes like berries.’
Kineas nodded. ‘And now I’m going to ride up the hill and see the queen.’
Philokles nodded. ‘I find it very much in keeping with the way the gods drive men to action that I began this winter begging you to avoid her, and tonight I use my tongue as a lash to push you up the hill.’ He held out the cup. ‘Since you’ll go inside to change, bring me out another cup of wine? There’s a good fellow.’ He waited until Kineas was halfway in the door. ‘She’s not wrong. Nor right. This is not about her, but about you.’
Kineas stopped for a moment and then nodded. When he returned in a fine woollen tunic and cloak with a bronze ewer of wine, Philokles had been joined by Nicanor and Diodorus. Nicanor served wine and took a cup for himself.
‘So you’re taking the bit between your teeth?’ Diodorus said. ‘Sappho says to take care.’
Kineas curled one corner of his mouth. ‘I will,’ he said. He slammed back a second cup of wine, causing his friends to look at each other.
Lycurgus raised an eyebrow. He was leaning against a column, watching the agora. ‘Lot of messengers moving around,’ he said.
Sitalkes brought his horse, one of the royal stallions that he rode to rest Thalassa. Beyond the gate, the rest of his escort waited. The evening was calm and warm, and curiously quiet except for the messengers. Kineas listened for a moment and diagnosed the problem — it was warm like spring, but there weren’t any insects yet.
In the west, the sun slid down towards the cold blue waters of the Kaspian.
Kineas got a leg over his charger, settled himself and turned back to Lycurgus and Diodorus.
‘Double the watch and have the quarter guard stand to arms,’ he said. ‘I’m scared of shadows.’ He hated to be like that — in a sentence he’d condemned forty men to lose their evening of rest.
Diodorus shook his head. ‘No — I feel it too. All the beggars are gone from the gate. Stay here.’
Lycurgus nodded agreement. ‘Something has changed. I don’t like it.’
Kineas shrugged. ‘After two days of screwing up my courage? To Hades with that.’
Philokles came up beside Diodorus. ‘You’re both jumping at shadows. You’re going to give her good news.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m worried, too. My man in the palace hasn’t reported in three days.’
Kineas nodded, but his mind wasn’t convinced.
‘You should take a sword,’ Diodorus shouted, as Kineas turned his horse.
Kineas shook his head and rode for the gate.
The gate to the citadel was heavily guarded. There were eight men on duty and every one of them was in full armour. They seemed surprised that Kineas had come and they sent for the captain of the guard rather than passing Kineas.
First he fumed and then he worried. Behind him, he could hear Sitalkes speaking quietly to his men, all big Keltoi.
‘Don’t be separated from your weapons,’ Kineas said. ‘Something is wrong.’
The captain of the guard came out in a polished iron helmet with a scale aventail and a scale shirt. He was armed for war. ‘Last person I expected to see,’ he said.
‘You are awaiting an attack,’ Kineas said flatly.
The captain shrugged. ‘Not my place to say. The queen will receive you, if you are coming in. Your men must wait in the courtyard, disarmed. ’
Kineas shook his head. ‘No. I’ve been in the citadel a dozen times and my men have never been disarmed.’
The captain shrugged. ‘Then they wait out in the wind,’ he said.
Kineas turned to Sitalkes. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It’ll be cold. I’ll see to it as soon as I speak to her.’
‘Never mind us,’ Sitalkes said. ‘Take Carlus, at least.’ Carlus was the tallest man in the army, two hands taller than Kineas. He rode big horses and men got out of his way wherever he went.
Kineas turned back to the captain. ‘One bodyguard,’ he said. ‘Armed.’ He handed the man a silver owl.
The captain grunted and took the money. ‘Whatever the fuck. One man. It’s cold — let’s go.’
Kineas gave his horse to Sitalkes, who threw a blanket over her. They waited in the icy wind on the gravel road under the walls and Kineas passed inside, into the sensuous warmth, led by one of her slaves.
Carlus grunted twice — once when the warmth of the floors penetrated his sandals and again when he saw his first oiled slave girl. Other than that he was silent. Kineas left his cloak and his sandals in the outer rooms. Carlus followed him silently.
Kineas could see the tension in every visible ligament on the slaves. He followed the slave into the throne room.
It was much the same as his first visit, except that she was back to wearing the clothes of a Persian matron, and most of her male courtiers were in armour. They fell silent as he entered. There was a man in silvered scale mail standing at her shoulder, who looked like a prince. His face was covered by the nasal on his helmet. He looked
