‘The witch doctor?’ Kineas said with a smile. ‘She scared me last night.’
‘She is a great deal more than a witch doctor. In fact, she is so great that her presence here is probably more important than the king’s. She speaks some Greek but — for her own reasons — seldom uses it. I wish I spoke this language — everything I think I know comes through the sieve of other men’s thoughts. Kam Baqca scares Ataelus so badly he can barely keep his thoughts in order to translate for me.’
Kineas was losing hope that Srayanka would come back. ‘Why? I admit she has tremendous presence-’
‘Have you ever gone to Delphi?’ Philokles interrupted. ‘No? The priestesses of Apollo are like her. She combines in herself two sacred functions. She is Enareis — you remember your Herodotus? She has sacrificed her manhood to function as a seer. And she is Baqca — the most powerful baqca anyone can remember, according to Ataelus.’
Kineas tried to remember what had been said in her tent. ‘What is baqca?’
‘I have no idea — Ataelus keeps telling me things, and Lady Srayanka — they speak of her with reverence, but they don’t speak of baqca in detail. It is a barbarian concept.’ Philokles shook his head. ‘I’m losing my thread in a maze of details. Kineas, there are thousands of these people. Tens of thousands.’
‘And their king is wandering around with a witch doctor and a handful of retainers, looking for support from a little town on the Euxine? Tell me another one.’
Philokles tossed off the rest of his wine. ‘You’re pissing me off. They are barbarians, Kineas. I don’t understand the role of their king, but he’s neither figurehead nor Asian tyrant. The best I’ve been able to understand, he’s only king when there is something “kingly” to do. Otherwise, he’s a major chief ruling his tribe — and this is only a fraction of his tribe. His escort, if you like.’
Kineas lay back. ‘Tell me all this in the morning. I’m better. In the morning, I intend to see if I can ride.’
‘And Srayanka wants it,’ said Philokles. He smiled nastily. ‘Whichever head you want to think with, I have an argument.’
As soon as it was known that Kineas was up and dressed, he was summoned to meet the king. He was prepared, dressed in his best tunic and sandals. He left his armour off, as he was still too weak to bear the weight for any time. Outside the tent his escort waited, his eight men from Olbia in their cloaks and armour, looking like statues. They faced together like professionals and marched him to the king’s yurt, flanked by a crowd of curious Sakje. Dogs barked, children pointed, and they crossed a few yards of muddy snow. The king’s yurt was by far the largest and the entrance had two layers of doors that had to be thrown back by his escort.
Inside, it was so warm that he shed his cloak as soon as dignity permitted. A dozen Sakje sat in a semicircle around the fire. They sat crosss-legged on the ground, chatting easily and as Kineas entered the yurt, they all rose to their feet. In the centre of them stood a boy, or perhaps a very young man with heavy blond hair and a short blond beard. His position marked him as the king, but for the splendour of dress and the quantity of gold, any one of the dozen Sakje might have been royal.
Srayanka stood at his right hand. Her face was closed and cold and her glance flicked over him, rested briefly on Philokles, and returned to the king next to her.
Kam Baqca stood behind the king, dressed simply in a long coat of white, with her hair coiled atop her head. She inclined her head in greeting.
The king smiled. ‘Welcome, Kineas. I am Satrax, king of the Assagatje. Please sit, and let us serve you.’ At his words, all of the people in the tent sat together and Kineas tried, and failed, to match their grace. Philokles and Eumenes had entered with him and sat on either side by prior arrangement, and Ataelus sat a little to his right in a sort of no-man’s-land between the groups.
Kineas spoke once he had settled. ‘I thank you for your welcome, O King. Your hospitality has been gracious. Indeed, I was sick and your doctor healed me.’ He watched the king carefully. The boy was younger than Alexander had been when they crossed the Hellespont, his face still soft and unmarked with harsh experience. His wide eyes spoke well of his good nature, and his gestures had a fledgling dignity. Kineas liked what he saw.
Greek wine was brought in deep vases and poured into a huge bowl of solid gold. The king dipped cups of wine in the bowl and handed them to his guests, blessing each one. When he filled Kineas’s cup, he carried it to where Kineas sat.
Kineas rose, unsure of the protocol and unused to be being waited on by any but slaves.
The king pressed him back down. ‘The blessings of the nine gods of the heavens attend you, Kineas,’ he said in Greek. He had an accent, but his Greek was pure, if Ionic.
Kineas took his cup and drank, as he had seen others do. It was unwatered, pure Chian straight from the vase. He swallowed carefully and a small fire was lit in his stomach.
When the king was seated with a cup in his own hand, he poured a libation and spoke a prayer. Then he leaned forward.
‘To business,’ he said. He was aggressive, in the half-timorous way of the young. ‘Will Olbia fight against Macedon, or submit?’
Kineas was astonished at the speed with which the king moved to the issue at hand. He had made the mistake of finding similarities between the Sakje and the Persians and had therefore expected ceremony and lengthy conversation about trivialities. No answer came to him.
‘Come, Kineas, several of my friends have already broached this topic with you.’ The king leaned forward, clearly enjoying his advantage. ‘What will Olbia do?’
Kineas noted that the boy’s eyes flicked to Srayanka’s for approval. So. ‘I cannot speak for Olbia, sir.’ Kineas met the king’s eye. Close up, he could see the young king was handsome — almost as handsome as Ajax, with a snub barbarian nose the only jarring feature on his face. Kineas toyed with his wine to give himself time to think. ‘I think the archon will first have to be convinced that the threat of Macedon is real.’
The king nodded and exchanged a glance with a big, bearded man at his left. ‘I expected as much and I have no proof to offer. Let me ask a better question. If Macedon marches, will Olbia submit?’
Kineas suspected that the boy was giving memorized questions. He shrugged. ‘Again, you must ask the archon. I cannot speak for Olbia.’ He squirmed as Srayanka glanced at him with indifference and turned back to smile at the king.
The king played with his beard. After a short silence, he nodded. ‘This is as I expected and that is why I must go and see your archon myself.’ He paused. ‘Will you advise me?’
Kineas nodded slowly. ‘As far as I am able. I command the archon’s cavalry. I am not his confidante.’
The king smiled. ‘If you were, I should hardly ask you to advise me.’ He suddenly seemed very mature for his years — it occurred to Kineas that the boy might be asking his own questions, after all — and his sarcasm was as Greek as his language. ‘Many of my nobles feel we should fight. Kam Baqca says we should fight only if Olbia and Pantecapaeum intend to fight. What do you say?’
Easy to be derisory when facing Philokles. More difficult when facing this direct young man. ‘I would hesitate to fight Macedon.’
Srayanka’s head snapped in his direction. Her eyes narrowed. He noted how dark her lips were and how, when she turned her head away, they turned down.
Kam Baqca spoke a few words. The king smiled. ‘Kam Baqca says that you have served the monster and you know more of him than any man here.’
‘The monster?’ asked Kineas.
‘Alexander. Kam Baqca calls him The Monster.’ The king poured himself more wine.
‘I served Alexander,’ Kineas admitted. They all looked at him and he wondered if he was in danger here. None of the looks were friendly; only Kam Baqca regarded him with a smile. And Srayanka busied herself with her riding whip rather than meet his eye.