‘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.
‘The king wishes to talk with you,’ drawled Polles.
Despite the veneer of courtesy, this was an order. How dare he? Ariadne forced her face to remain calm. ‘But we spoke only yesterday.’
Polles’ thin lips twisted in a travesty of a smile. Everything about him from his striking good looks to his long black hair and oiled muscles smacked of self-importance. ‘Nonetheless, he desires… the pleasure of your company once more.’
Ariadne did not miss the short but deliberate delay in his delivery. Judging by the other warriors’ chuckles, neither had they. Filthy bastard, she thought. Just like your master. ‘When?’
‘Why, now,’ he replied in a surprised tone.
‘Where is the king?’
Polles waved languidly over his shoulder. ‘In the central meeting area.’
Where all the people can see him. ‘I’ll be there in a moment.’
‘Kotys sent us to accompany you to his side. At once,’ said Polles, frowning.
‘He may well have done, but I am busy.’ Ariadne indicated the fawning old woman. ‘Can’t you see?’
Polles’ face flushed with annoyance. ‘I-’
‘Are the king’s wishes are more important than the work of the god Dionysus?’ asked Ariadne, lifting the basket’s lid.
‘No, of course not,’ Polles answered, retreating.
‘Good.’ Ariadne turned her back on him.
Angry muttering broke out behind her. ‘I don’t know what you should say to the king. Tell him that we can’t find her. Tell him that she’s in a trance. Make up something!’ snapped Polles. Ariadne heard feet scurrying off and allowed herself a small smile. Soon, however, her conversation with the old woman petered out. It wasn’t surprising. Having the king’s champion a few steps away, no doubt staring daggers at both of them, would intimidate anyone. Murmuring a blessing on the crone, Ariadne glanced at Polles. ‘I’m ready.’
With poor grace, he beckoned her into the midst of his warriors. They closed ranks smartly and Polles led the way forward, bawling at anyone foolish enough to get in his way. It didn’t take long to reach the large open area which formed the settlement’s centre. The space was roughly circular in shape, and fringed by dozens of huts. Crowds of women gossiped as they carried their washing back from the river. A ragtag assortment of children played or fought with each other in the dirt while skinny mongrels leaped excitedly around them, filling the air with shrill barks. Smoke trickled from the roof of a smithy off to one side; the clang of a hammer on an anvil could be heard from within. Several men waited outside, damaged weapons in hand. There were wooden stalls selling metalwork, hides and essential supplies such as grain, pottery and salt, a miserable inn, and three temples — one each to Dionysus, the rider god, and the mother goddess. That was it.
Like their fellow Thracians, the Maedi were not a race that depended on trade for a living. Their territory was poor in natural resources. Farming provided little more than a subsistence living, so they had evolved into fighters, whose sole purpose of existence was to make war, either in their own land or abroad. The people visible proved this point: they were mostly powerfully built warriors. The majority were red-or brown-haired, with dark complexions. Varying in age from stripling to greybeard, all had the same confident manner. Clad in pleated, short-sleeved tunics that ranged in colour from red and green to brown or cream, they wore sandals, or leather shoes with upturned toes. Many wore the ubiquitous alopekis, the pointed fox-skin cap with long flaps to cover the ears. Richer individuals sported bronze or gold torcs around their necks. A sword or a dagger — often both — hung from every man’s belt or baldric. They stood around in groups, bragging of their exploits and planning hunting trips.
Polles and his men attracted the attention of everyone in the vicinity. Ariadne felt the weight of the onlookers’ stares as they strode towards Dionysus’ temple, a larger building than most, with a squat stone pillar on each side of the entrance. She heard their muttering too, and hated it. They were brave enough to fight in battle, but not to stand up to the king they resented. It made her feel very alone.
The king was waiting by the temple doors. He was flanked by bodyguards, while a throng of warriors stood before him. He cut a grand sight. Although he was nearly fifty, Kotys looked a decade younger. His wavy black hair showed not a trace of grey and there were few wrinkles on his shrewd, fox-like face. Over his purple knee-length tunic, Kotys wore a composite iron corselet with gold fittings and twin pectorals of the same precious metal. Layered linen pteryges protected his groin, and greaves inlaid with silver covered his lower legs. He was armed with an ivory-handled machaira sword, which hung in an amber-studded scabbard from his gold-plated belt. An ornate Attic helmet sat upon his head, marking his kingship.
As Polles and his men pushed through the throng, Kotys’ eyes drank Ariadne in. ‘Priestess! Finally, you grace us with your presence,’ he called.
‘I came as soon as I could, Your Majesty.’ Ariadne did not explain further.
‘Excellent.’ Kotys made a peremptory gesture and her escorts moved aside. Reluctantly, she took a step forward, then a few more. Ariadne could sense Polles smirking. Turning her head, she glared at him. The gesture was not lost on Kotys, who waved his hands again. At this, the bodyguards withdrew some twenty paces to the smithy.
‘You must forgive Polles’ lack of manners,’ said the king. ‘He is ill suited to running errands.’