‘They meant to kill us a moment before.’
‘And perhaps they shall before long,’ said Kai, ‘but we are safe until it is decided otherwise.’
Voices calling, the captains circling about them – an honour guard to lead them to the chieftain’s fire.
‘I have given you your chance, Lucius,’ said Kai, before they were parted by the crowd. ‘Do not waste it.’
‘I will not,’ he said.
It was Gaevani who led the way – some kind of champion he seemed to the Sarmatians now, and Kai set his horse forward until he was at that man’s side, leaned close as they rode. ‘I owe a great debt to you,’ he said, ‘for letting them go. Tomyris, and Arite.’
Gaevani went still. On his face was an expression that Kai had not seen before – the look of a man caught in something shameful. Then he smiled, and said: ‘Shame to waste a handsome woman such as Arite. Perhaps I will have her for my own, when all this is done.’ He leered at Kai. ‘I have heard she is one who men may share, is she not?’
The feeling of hate rolling hot across his skin, his hand dancing towards the knife at his side – Kai took a hard breath, made himself be still once more. ‘Always the testing with you,’ he said. ‘I wonder if it is that you find yourself so wanting.’
‘Oh, that is not my way,’ said Gaevani. ‘I do love myself very well. But I grant you that yes, I do enjoy the testing. How else can you know if you are the best?’ He swept his hand towards the army – the mad, straggling army, stumbling towards their death. ‘That is what we are all here to do. That is why the chieftains will say no to you.’
‘Does this seem a band of heroes to you? Do you think it will make a good death?’
Gaevani hesitated. ‘No,’ he said softly. ‘I feel like an old man, wandering towards his grave, ruined and stupid. I would wish for a way other than this one.’
‘That is what we come to offer,’ said Kai. ‘Another way.’
‘Oh, I know. But it shall do you no good. And now, you will see why.’
For once more before them rose the great chieftains’ fire. But four men now gathered there, not five. And one who sat raised above the rest upon a pile of furs, iron in his hand and gold at his throat, a mantle of scalps slung about his shoulders. There were fresh ones there now, gleaming wet in the light of the fire, and upon his brow something that no Sarmatian had worn for generations. A thin, battered circlet of iron wrapped about his forehead.
It was Zanticus, the man with whom they had come to bargain. But he was a chieftain of the Wolves no longer. This was a man who had made himself a king at the end of the world.
Lucius had thought that there could be no fear left for him, after his audience with the Emperor. He had seen this chieftain in the winter, from afar – heavy-set for a cavalryman, a thick braided beard and bright, hollow eyes, wearing the dead as trophies. An intimidating man to meet on the battlefield, but a warlord like any other, and what was a warlord compared to a god?
Yet there was something in the way that man smiled and laughed about the fire, even as he led a rotting army, a broken nation, towards its own destruction. And when Lucius saw the crown of iron upon his head, he felt the battle calm descend as though the swords were already drawn. For he knew all too well what men might do for a trophy such as that.
As they came beside the fire, Zanticus did not look upon Lucius at first. He stared at Kai, and he laid his hand to the fresh scalps on his cloak, fingers knotting into the hair, nails running across stitch and scar.
‘What brings a man from a dead clan to my fire?’ said Zanticus. ‘Have you come to join these kinsmen of yours, here upon my cloak?’
Beside him, Lucius felt Kai quiver once, go still. A moment of waiting about the fire – half a step forward, an inch of iron shown, a single insult called in response, and the Sarmatians would swarm upon them and tear them to pieces. But Kai only breathed deep, and held his silence.
‘Yes,’ Zanticus said. ‘A dog of Rome you are now. You shall not speak unless commanded. And what use is it to hear words from a dead clan? I do not bargain with ghosts.’ He smiled, and inclined his head towards Lucius. ‘We shall talk to those from a clan about to die instead. Speak then, Roman. What words do you bring?’
‘Great chieftain—’ Lucius began, but at once he was interrupted.
‘A king now,’ said Zanticus. ‘King of the Sarmatians. There never was anything that could unite us before, until you thought to come across the water.’
‘Great king, I bring a message from the Emperor of Rome. He admires your bravery, salutes your courage. He has no wish to destroy such warriors as yourselves.’
Zanticus spat into the fire. ‘This is all that you have to say? These words, we have heard their like before. Empty, and worthless. Surely there is more you have to offer?’
Lucius hesitated. ‘Perhaps we might speak away from the crowd,’ he said. ‘The words of kings are not fit for the mob.’
‘I am king of the people! We shall speak before the people!’ A great roar answered his words, a chanting and rattling of spears, and Zanticus threw his arms wide open. ‘Offer your bribe, if that is what you came here to do. Offer me gold and lands, a little kingdom of my own. Offer me iron and slaves. Offer it all to me, so I can say no.’
‘I bring no iron or gold,’ said Lucius. ‘I come to offer you war. For Rome, not with her. A great journey, and glorious battle at the end of it, such as your people have never fought.’
Stillness for a moment. The crackle of the fire. Then Zanticus pointed towards the west, and said: ‘Why travel far for a war, when we can have one there?’ Once more laughter answered him around the fire.
‘But against Rome, it is a war you cannot win.’
‘What does that matter? You think us afraid to die?’
‘No,’ said Lucius. ‘But that you might wish to see your children grow old. To enjoy the passage of the seasons, the spring flowers upon the steppe. That you would see ten thousand generations of your people ride free across the plain. It is a beautiful world that you have built here. Why let it end?’
A little sigh then, from somewhere close – a hesitance from the crowd. And a test for Zanticus to answer, whether he were truly a king of his people, or a tyrant leading them into the darkness. For a moment, the peace was there amongst them like a spirit, as hands unwrapped from sword hilts and eyes wandered towards lovers. And then the king spoke once more.
‘There is no promise that you would give that we would trust,’ Zanticus said. ‘You are oathbreakers. You would have us throw down our weapons and let you butcher us. We will fight you, and destroy you. You are here because you are afraid. Why else would you come here?’
And all about them then, the blood-mad chanting, the words of a people who had chosen death. It would be no use to shout them down, to plead. But when Lucius laid a hand upon the hilt of his sword, the Sarmatians fell silent. And when he spoke again, he made himself speak lightly. The way a man might offer an idle wager, or ask a question of a child.
‘You are not afraid to fight the Romans?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Then you would not be afraid to fight me?’
More laughter – uncertain now. For the crowd could feel that the words were changing, sharpening and hardening.
‘Is it the way of your messengers,’ Zanticus said, ‘to insult a king?’
‘I mean no insult. Our people will soon be killing each other. And we may begin it now, if that is your wish. But I have not heard it said that a Sarmatian needed twenty men to kill one of ours. Or that their chieftains and kings lead from behind their warriors.’
‘I do not ride at the back.’
‘Prove it then. Fight me before you send your warriors to die for you. If you have the courage for it.’