‘Yes, majesty,’ he said.
And Kleisthenes shuddered.
15
The first flowers bloomed through the last snow in Hyrkania, and the winds coming across the Kaspian were still cold enough for Hyperboreans and strong enough to discourage even the keenest bow-men.
Kineas felt fat. He’d eaten too well and exercised too little, although they’d built a gymnasium and used it, too. He’d never been so cold in his life as in the dead of winter in Hyrkania, when the snow hit like hard-blown sand and the wolves howled every night. And too often his exercise consisted of climbing the steep hill to the citadel, where the queen entertained him with stories in Greek and Persian, the questionable antics of her slaves and the sensuous pleasure of her heated floors and luxurious baths, as well as the more intellectual pleasures of scrolls and singers and poetry.
After Therapon had presented her with too many coloured versions of Kineas’s law court, she asked with a smile to come down the hill and see one — and to see his camp. He had no way to refuse her and so the next day her cavalcade wound its way down from the citadel, a dozen local gentlemen on horseback with some of her guards in hastily polished bronze. She wore a fur-lined cloak over a richly embroidered Scythian jacket and wool trousers tucked into small boots, with a tall Median cap and a veil that covered her eyes without disguising them.
And a sword.
The ground was frozen hard and Kineas’s men put on a display on horse and foot. The Olbian cavalry threw javelins, the prodromoi shot their bows, and the hoplites marched and counter-marched and demonstrated a change of front in the Spartan fashion, to her beaming approval. They shot arrows at targets and she insisted on having a turn, shooting competently, although Kineas allowed himself to note that Srayanka would have filled the targets with arrows while riding at a gallop.
She looked into the wine shops and the brothels of the camp’s marketplace. ‘Am I supplying all the women for your army, Kineas?’ she asked.
Kineas looked away. ‘We brought a few of our own,’ he said.
‘Yes, and a hetaira to manage them,’ Banugul said. She laughed. ‘So well organized. Do the men stand in line waiting their turn when they can’t get Hyrkanian farm girls? Or go without?’ Then she began to recite: Baulked in your amorous delight
How melancholy is your plight.
With sympathy your case I view;
For I am sure it’s hard on you.
What human being could sustain
This unforeseen domestic strain,
And not a single trace
Of willing women in the place!
As she spoke, she deepened her voice because it was the male chorus part in Lysistrata, and they all laughed with her.
Therapon glanced at Philokles. ‘Perhaps they have no need of women, my lady.’
‘If that were the case,’ she said with a twinkle, ‘“Then why do they hide those lances, that stick out under their tunics?”’ Her wicked paraphrase of Aristophanes made them all laugh again.
Philokles stepped closer to the queen. Looking up at her, he declaimed, ‘“She did it all, the harlot, she — with her atrocious harlotry.”’
Therapon whirled, his face red, but Banugul reached down from her horse and took the Spartan’s hand. ‘I love a man of education,’ she said. ‘You are Philokles the Sophist?’
He laughed, obviously flattered. ‘I am Philokles the Spartan, my lady. I can’t remember being called a sophist, except by Kineas here.’
She beamed. ‘If you can call me a harlot, I can call you a sophist.’
‘I will be more careful of my epigrams,’ Philokles said, clearly stung.
She blew him a kiss. ‘Why do you not come and visit my court, Spartan? All the others come — save Diodorus here, who has ceased to visit me. But you never come.’
‘Sophistry takes all my time,’ Philokles said, gravely.
Diodorus went so red that he turned away, and even Kineas had to stifle a guffaw, while Banugul blushed a little, but she didn’t flinch. ‘Implying that harlotry takes all my time?’
‘I said nothing of the sort,’ Philokles said, drawling the words.
‘Pederasty, more like,’ said Therapon quietly, but his voice carried.
Kineas stepped between them. ‘Philokles, the lady is not a target for your wit.’
‘I can protect myself, Kineas,’ Banugul said. ‘By all the gods, I see now what I missed by staying in my citadel. And I see now why Kineas can parry any little wit I may employ if this is his daily sparring.’
‘More than sparring,’ Therapon said broadly. ‘Perhaps they entertain each other exclusively.’ He leered.
Philokles seemed to ignore the Thessalian’s jibes until later, when the Olbians were showing the queen and her entourage around their log-built gymnasium. Philokles had the queen’s arm and her ear, and he spoke of Greek wrestling and of pankration, their unarmed combat sport, until she clapped her hands.
‘I would love to see that,’ she said. ‘I have read so much about it.’
Philokles smiled, and the warrior that lurked under the skin of the philosopher came to the surface. ‘I would be pleased to show you, my lady,’ he said. ‘I’m sure your Therapon would be delighted to fight me chest to chest.’
Therapon was not the kind of man to refuse a challenge, and he stripped. ‘I’m not likely to let you behind me,’ he mocked. ‘I know what naked Greeks do.’
‘We fight naked,’ Philokles said to the queen, by way of apology.
‘My harlotry extends to male nudity,’ Banugul replied.
Philokles dropped his heavy cloak and pulled his wool chiton over his head, exposing the body of a statue. Therapon was heavier and had the start of a gut, although his arms were longer and immensely strong. Kineas tried to catch his friend’s eye.
Banugul put a hand on Philokles’ naked shoulder. ‘I would take it amiss if you hurt my captain,’ she said. Her nails brushed Philokles’ chest as she withdrew her hand. Her smile was a private one, for Philokles alone, and Kineas was appalled to find within himself a tingle of jealousy at their intimacy.
Then the two men were circling on the sand, bent low, intent. They circled long enough for the queen to grow bored and smile self-consciously at her host, when suddenly some shift in posture or intent brought the two contestants together, arms locked high, feet well back as they heaved against each other’s strength. Muscles stood out in strain and, despite the cold, a sheen of sweat covered both men.
Banugul leaned forward, her hands on her hips. Kineas watched her as she watched the contestants.
Philokles changed his weight suddenly, as if surrendering to the Thessalian’s embrace, but he got his body turned as he stepped in. One arm moved and he struck the Thessalian in the head with his forearm and suddenly Therapon was on his back and Philokles landed on him, driving the air from his lungs.
‘He does that to me all the time,’ Kineas said ruefully.
Banugul turned to him, eyes alight with mischief. ‘The things I could imply,’ she said. But she reached out a hand to his chest and shook her head. ‘I am too crude for words. I mean no hurt.’
It was the first time she had touched him. The warmth of her palm on his chest seemed to light a small fire there. She withdrew the hand while he was still surprised by its presence.
Philokles swung to his feet and offered Therapon his hand, but the other man didn’t take it. Instead, he stood brushing sand off his sweat, glowering. Philokles held his eyes. ‘Another throw?’ he asked.
‘Perhaps another time,’ the Thessalian said, and reached for his chiton. Kineas disliked the look the Thessalian gave his friend. It boded ill.
The queen’s tour started a new round of visits between camp and citadel, and the new ties between them did not make Kineas entirely happy. The first thing that annoyed him was Darius, whose skill with the bow and willingness to learn had endeared him to the Olbians. Kineas was becoming used to seeing his officers in the corridors of the citadel from time to time — Banugul had made it clear that they were welcome. But Kineas saw Darius too often, almost every day, and Kineas worried, both for the Persian boy and for his loyalties.