I would like to have killed that man
, he thought, and then he was gone.
Stratokles had meant to ride all the way to Hyrkania, but events conspired to ease his passage, and he arrived at the settlement at Namastae on a fishing boat that carried him, Lucius, and their horses – six of them – crammed so tight that Stratokles slept with his head on his horse’s rump.
But the wind was fair and the sea calm, and he was riding up the hill to the citadel just eleven days after fleeing Heraklea. His purse was almost empty. It would have been as flat as salt-bread if he and Lucius hadn’t had the good luck to be attacked by bandits who were richer and better mounted than they. Their horses and their darics had solved most of their travel problems.
‘You haven’t said much about what we’re doing here,’ Lucius said, as they rode up the hill to the stone citadel on the height.
‘Kineas of Olbia stormed this,’ Stratokles said. ‘Perhaps he was a god, at that. How in the name of all the gods did he storm this?’
Lucius looked up the steep slope, and shrugged. ‘Crap defenders, superb attackers – the usual story. Like most, I expect he won the fight back when he was training his legion, not here while they were fighting.’
Stratokles smiled. ‘You are not just a pretty face,’ he said.
Lucius shook his head. ‘If we could drop all this back-stabbing and fight a war, you and I might prosper,’ he said.
Stratokles nodded. ‘My thoughts exactly. The question is, which side? And the answer –
let’s start our own
.’
Banugul was no longer young. Unlike many beautiful women, she didn’t trouble to hide her age. She did not redden her lips or apply too much kohl or other cosmetics to smooth out the tiny wrinkles or hide the years.
In fact, despite – or even because of – the crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes and lips, the skin at the top of her chin, the infinitely slight sign of a jowl under her jaw, she was still Banugul, from the top of her fine light head to the base of her slim, arched feet; feet that wore slight golden sandals because the wearer was not afraid to emphasise rather than hide. Under her Greek matron’s chiton, her body was hard and muscled, her breasts swelled in proportion to her hips and shoulders, and when she moved, all the temple dancers in Heraklea could not have competed with her.
‘Stratokles,’ she said, rising from her carved chair to take his hand.
‘My lady,’ he said formally.
‘And who is your beautiful friend?’ she asked.
Stratokles bowed. ‘This is Lucius, a Latin from far-off Italia. He has served me for some years – indeed, he was with me when we rescued your son.’
Banugul smiled, and her smile decorated the room. Even from the side, Stratokles caught its force, but Lucius, who was the intended recipient, all but staggered.
She stepped down off her dais and caught his hands. ‘I understand that Stratokles – and you, sir – no doubt took my son for your own ends. And yet as a mother I know that your actions saved his life. Demetrios would have executed him – or Cassander would have, or Ptolemy.’ She turned the smile on Stratokles, like the beam of a lamp turned on a moth, and Stratokles found himself grinning like a fool.
‘I’ve come to talk about your son,’ Stratokles said.
‘The answer is “no”.’ She smiled a very different smile. ‘You want him for some scheme. I am done with schemes, Stratokles. Once, in this very room, Kineas of Olbia told me to be satisfied with what I had. And now have again. And you know? I have built a life here, my dear. I have killed most of my enemies and I rule a goodly piece of the coast, and the satrap and I are old friends, and Antigonus and Seleucus both court me.’
Stratokles twitched his lips.
Lucius was pinned by her gaze the way a butterfly might be pinned to a piece of parchment, as a specimen for a rich man’s collection. Or perhaps a rich woman’s.
Stratokles had noted on arrival in the mosaicked throne room that there was an eyehole behind the throne – an eyehole he’d noted on earlier visits. In former times, it had appeared to be a flaw in the black hair of a naked nymph who was enjoying, or being enjoyed by, a particularly ardent and well-endowed satyr, but the mosaics had changed with the tastes of their owner, and the eyehole was now in the dark fur of a luxuriating panther. Stratokles smiled to himself, looking for something witty to say about the change in decoration.
The slaves wore clothes, too.
But there was an eye at the eyehole, and that eye could only belong to one person.
Satyrus looked back to where Banugul was busy conquering Lucius without a word being said. He ate her with his eyes, and she merely accepted his homage without promise or denial – and spurred him to greater surrenders.
‘He is old enough to make his own decisions, is he not, your son?’ Stratokles said.
‘A pox on you, you Athenian intriguer!’ she said, without asperity. ‘Why can’t you be entranced by my charms like other men?’
‘Despoina, I am as entranced as other men. I just look for more practical ways of finding my way into your bed.’ He smiled – she smiled. Lucius looked stunned.
Aside, Stratokles said, ‘Nothing those eyes promise is ever fulfilled, Lucius.’
‘For you, perhaps, but not for all men,’ Banugul said.
Stratokles shrugged.
The silence went on too long.
‘He’s twenty-three, is he not? Old enough to make a name for himself ?’ Stratokles asked.
‘No,’ Banugul said. Her eyes flicked nervously to the wall, and Stratokles knew that his suspicions – all of them – were confirmed.
‘Herakles must be the last scion of Alexander left on the board,’ he mused. ‘I wonder if he has any of his father’s talents? The prowess? The strategic thinking?’
‘The binge drinking?’ Banugul said. ‘Can you stop this? You and I both know that he is listening. You are playing on him.’
In fact, after a pause, the young man in question emerged from the door hidden in the tapestries.
He was short, by Greek standards, but well formed, with a head slightly too big for his shoulders but with a fine shock of dark blond hair and a good face – strong chin, good nose. His carriage was not as erect as Stratokles would have liked to see – too much riding and not enough gymnasium work.
He inclined his head to Stratokles. ‘I remember both of you,’ he said. ‘You took me from Demetrios.’
Stratokles nodded. ‘So we did, lad. And now we’re back. I want to ask your mother to take you from here and put you on the board. Take you out into the world – command some troops – fight. The major players are heading towards the big fight – perhaps the last. Antigonus is old. Demetrios took a heavy defeat at Rhodos, whether he knows it or not. If you wish to make a life out in the world, now is the time. In a year or two, the board may be cleared, and then … well, the winner will only want you dead, lad. Because any fool can see that you are the image of your father.’
Herakles grinned.
‘Do not, I pray you, my son,
do not
fall victim to this man’s accurate and deadly flattery.’ She tried to make the comment light-hearted, but the words had an edge.
‘As you have yourself, Mother? And yet,’ Herakles shook his head, ‘I already have this man’s measure. I
like
him. He rescued me.’
‘For his own ends,’ Banugul said.
‘Of course!’ Herakles shook his head. ‘If I go with you, sir, will I be your lord?’
Stratokles hadn’t thought that the difficult child of ten years ago would turn into something this accomplished – for all that his shoulders slumped. He twitched his lips and rubbed the knot where a chunk had been cut out of his nose.
‘We’ll be partners,’ Stratokles said. ‘I’ll be your tutor and mentor – and sometimes, your prime minister. In time – at least three years, and perhaps a great deal more – I will serve you and call you lord.’
Herakles nodded pensively. ‘I do not like taking orders or instructions,’ he said haughtily.
‘You never did,’ Stratokles said, with a smile.
‘I’m too old to strike with your hand, now,’ the young man said.
Lucius snorted.
Herakles turned on him. ‘And you. I remember you. You spanked me!’
‘And I could again,’ Lucius said. ‘But only if you deserve it.’ His eyes were already back on Banugul.
‘I forbid it. Stratokles, you are not taking my son out of this castle. And that is my word – as queen and as a mother.’ She stared at him – dark blue eyes like lapis that could melt a man’s ethics.
Stratokles feigned to meet her eyes with indifference, as it was the only weapon a man could wield in such an unequal contest. ‘Then Lucius and I have had a long trip for nothing,’ he said.
Late that night, he lay on a couch with young Herakles, drinking wine, while Lucius shared another couch with Banugul. Stratokles had never seen Lucius so completely undone by a woman, and it amused him. It also made him feel a little sorry. Lucius’s imperturbability was his greatest asset; his sense of dignity –
gravitas
, he called it in his own tongue – was one of his most endearing qualities.
But it was entertaining, and would last for years as a source of teasing. Best of all, Lucius was already squirming at his own bemusement.
After dinner, Stratokles resolutely resisted the urge to talk about politics or to seduce young Herakles with anything as banal as promises of greatness. So instead, he talked about Satyrus of Tanais.
‘Kineas’s son!’ Banugul said with real pleasure. ‘His sister was here last year with a raiding party, headed back west. She got her man,’ she added, with just a tinge of wickedness.
‘She often does,’ Stratokles agreed.
‘She’s very beautiful, of course,’ Banugul said.
‘Not half as beautiful as you,’ Lucius said, and looked stricken.
Banugul rolled onto one hip and struck him lightly. ‘If that is the best you can do, keep it to yourself, Latin. Melitta of Tanais has the perfect skin of a maiden, eyes as fine as mine, her mother’s excellent breasts, good muscles, and a scar on her face that shows that she is no plaything.’ She smiled, stretched, rolled on her stomach and kicked her heels over her head, showing off her own excellent muscles. ‘You men think we’re all like cats – but it is not true. Worthy women admire worthy women.’
‘You sound as if you fancy her yourself, Mother,’ Herakles said.
‘I can’t hide that I would have liked to see the two of you together,’ Banugul admitted. ‘As her husband, you would have place and protection. And none of the curs who compete for Alexander’s empire have the balls to go onto the Sea of Grass.’ Wine brought out her crudity.
Stratokles liked her better that way.
‘She treated me like a child,’ Herakles said.
‘She is a queen and a warrior,’ Stratokles said. ‘She’s no friend of mine, but I’ll say this for her – if she treated you like a child, it is because that’s what you seemed to her.’
Herakles sprang off the kline, his back straight in outrage.
Stratokles shrugged. ‘You’ve never commanded an army – she has. Never fought hand to hand, have you? She’s a notorious fighter – she’s probably killed more men than her brother. Her archery is famous from one end of the steppe to another. She rules the Assagetae of the Western Door with a strong hand, but a fair one, and they love her. I couldn’t displace her with money or hired killers. You let your mother rule this small wolf-state while she is the Lady of the Sea of Grass. In her world, a man is rated by his accomplishments. What have you accomplished? Hence,’ Stratokles finished, relentless as the attack of a phalanx, ‘hence, you are like a child to her.’
Herakles held up an arm like a man trying to block a blow. His face worked, but nothing came out, and then he whirled, crashing into a slave and spilling wine everywhere, and fled from the room.
Banugul applauded. She sat up, clapping. Terrified slaves hurried to clean the floor, and still she applauded.
‘Well done, Stratokles. And don’t think that I don’t see right through you.’
Stratokles shook his head. ‘As I am making no attempt to dissimulate, you don’t have to “see” through me. I want him to come to his senses, get out of his mother’s boudoir and come out into the world.’
Banugul laughed. ‘I think you have come on too strong, my friend. He will never forgive you.’
Lucius shook his head. ‘He used to worship Stratokles. I’d watch the two of them at the camp fire when we were coming here – when was that? The year of Gaza? Yes?’ He looked into her eyes and lost the thread of his discourse.
Stratokles almost snorted wine through his nose. ‘Lucius, come back,’ he said.
Later still, Stratokles lay on a wide bed with good linen sheets, and Banugul lay in the circle of his sword arm, her head pillowed on the heavy muscles of his bicep. ‘I missed you,’ she said. ‘Why do you never come? Did that harlot at Heraklea love you better?’
Stratokles smiled at the ceiling – at the gods.
‘Amastris of Heraklea never made love to me in any way,’ he said. ‘I served her. She betrayed me, arranged for my death, and failed.’ He shrugged, a comfortable movement that caused him to appreciate her body all the more. ‘I used her as well, my dear. And I cannot serve Athens as your bed-mate. Athens cares nothing for Hyrkania.’
She lay for a little while. ‘Must I tell you again that I missed you?’ she said.
He kissed her – not passionately, as he had a few moments before, but lightly, with friendship. ‘As I missed you – not every day, but deeply, at times.’
‘And other times you forgot I existed? And you the ugliest man in creation?’ she spat, but there was no real malevolence in her words – going through the motions than aiming to cut.
He laughed. ‘How often have you thought of me?’
‘At least once a year. And whenever I see a particularly ugly old goat.’ She laughed into his chest.
And then they were kissing, slowly at first, exploring forgotten territory, and then faster and deeper as they discovered more things they had forgotten, or only laid aside – the taste of the inside of his mouth and the sharpness of his teeth, the warm heaviness of her breasts and the texture of her nipples …