Read Online Tyrant by Christian Cameron - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Christian Cameron
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wet cunny. That’s not in Homer, but I’d wager that it was the same for the girls at Troy.’
Artemis was well known to pick a unit she liked and go to the strongest man in it, until he died or she grew restless or he didn’t provide for her. She wouldn’t abide a non-provider. Kineas had kept her a year, in camp and city. She’d left him for Phillip Kontos, a Macedonian hipparch, a good professional move, and he didn’t hate her for it, although it occurred to him behind closed eyelids under a tree on the Euxine that he had expected her to stay with him.
Like the women, the life. He didn’t see much hope of becoming a farmer.
He fell asleep and Poseidon sent him a dream of horses.
He was riding a tall horse - or he was the horse, and they flowed together on an endless plain of grass - floating, galloping, on and on. There were other horses, too, and they followed, until he left the plain of grass for a plain of ash. And then they neighed and fell behind, and he rode on alone. And then they were at a river - a ford, full of rocks. On the far bank was a pile of driftwood as tall as a man, and a single dead tree, and on the ground beneath his hooves were the bodies of the dead . . .
He awoke with a start, rubbed his eyes and wondered what god had sent him such a dream. Then he rose and went to the house’s bath, handed his best tunic to a slave to press and gave the woman a few obols to do a good job. She brought him ewers of warm water to bathe. She was attractive - an older woman with a good figure, high cheekbones and a tattoo of an eagle on her shoulder. Sex crossed his mind, but she was having none of it, and he didn’t press the issue. Perhaps because he didn’t, he got his tunic beautifully pressed, with every fold opened and carefully erased, the linen shining white, so that he looked like the statue of Leto’s son on Mytilene. She accepted his thanks with a stiff nod and stayed out of his reach, which made him wonder about the habits of the house.
He walked naked back to where the men were camped. He had some good things in his baggage, to go with his good tunic. He had good sandals, light and strong with red leather bindings that helped disguise the scar on his leg, but the only cloak he had was his military cloak, which had once been blue and was now a faded colour between sky-blue and dust. He did, however, have an excellent cloak pin; a pair of Medusa’s heads in bright silver from the very best Athenian sculptor and castor. He pinned it to the old cloak with a muttered prayer and slung the cloak over his shoulder anyway, out by the fire with Diodorus and Niceas. The other men had gone to the market to drink. They hadn’t been invited to the symposium, and since most of them were as well born as Calchus, they chose to resent it. Agis and Laertes and Gracus had known Calchus as a boy. They were angry at being treated as inferiors.
Diodorus had a flagon of good wine, and he Coenus and Niceas passed it around while Kineas finished dressing.
Niceas held out a good brooch to put on his cloak, loot from Tyre, meant as a guest gift for Calchus. ‘Save the Medusas for a more worthy host,’ he said.
Kineas wondered what Calchus would think if he knew that the slave-born Athenian on his back farm considered him a poor host. Probably snort in contempt. His ruminations on Calchus were interrupted.
‘Look at that,’ Niceas exclaimed.
Kineas turned and looked over his shoulder. A lone horseman was trotting to the paddock. Coenus laughed.
‘Ataelus!’ bellowed Kineas.
The Scyth raised a dusty hand in greeting and swung his legs over the side of the horse so that he slipped in one lithe movement to the ground. He touched the flank of the horse with a little riding whip and she turned and walked through the gate into the paddock.
‘Horse good,’ he said. He reached out a hand for the flagon.
Coenus handed it to him without a moment’s
Artemis was well known to pick a unit she liked and go to the strongest man in it, until he died or she grew restless or he didn’t provide for her. She wouldn’t abide a non-provider. Kineas had kept her a year, in camp and city. She’d left him for Phillip Kontos, a Macedonian hipparch, a good professional move, and he didn’t hate her for it, although it occurred to him behind closed eyelids under a tree on the Euxine that he had expected her to stay with him.
Like the women, the life. He didn’t see much hope of becoming a farmer.
He fell asleep and Poseidon sent him a dream of horses.
He was riding a tall horse - or he was the horse, and they flowed together on an endless plain of grass - floating, galloping, on and on. There were other horses, too, and they followed, until he left the plain of grass for a plain of ash. And then they neighed and fell behind, and he rode on alone. And then they were at a river - a ford, full of rocks. On the far bank was a pile of driftwood as tall as a man, and a single dead tree, and on the ground beneath his hooves were the bodies of the dead . . .
He awoke with a start, rubbed his eyes and wondered what god had sent him such a dream. Then he rose and went to the house’s bath, handed his best tunic to a slave to press and gave the woman a few obols to do a good job. She brought him ewers of warm water to bathe. She was attractive - an older woman with a good figure, high cheekbones and a tattoo of an eagle on her shoulder. Sex crossed his mind, but she was having none of it, and he didn’t press the issue. Perhaps because he didn’t, he got his tunic beautifully pressed, with every fold opened and carefully erased, the linen shining white, so that he looked like the statue of Leto’s son on Mytilene. She accepted his thanks with a stiff nod and stayed out of his reach, which made him wonder about the habits of the house.
He walked naked back to where the men were camped. He had some good things in his baggage, to go with his good tunic. He had good sandals, light and strong with red leather bindings that helped disguise the scar on his leg, but the only cloak he had was his military cloak, which had once been blue and was now a faded colour between sky-blue and dust. He did, however, have an excellent cloak pin; a pair of Medusa’s heads in bright silver from the very best Athenian sculptor and castor. He pinned it to the old cloak with a muttered prayer and slung the cloak over his shoulder anyway, out by the fire with Diodorus and Niceas. The other men had gone to the market to drink. They hadn’t been invited to the symposium, and since most of them were as well born as Calchus, they chose to resent it. Agis and Laertes and Gracus had known Calchus as a boy. They were angry at being treated as inferiors.
Diodorus had a flagon of good wine, and he Coenus and Niceas passed it around while Kineas finished dressing.
Niceas held out a good brooch to put on his cloak, loot from Tyre, meant as a guest gift for Calchus. ‘Save the Medusas for a more worthy host,’ he said.
Kineas wondered what Calchus would think if he knew that the slave-born Athenian on his back farm considered him a poor host. Probably snort in contempt. His ruminations on Calchus were interrupted.
‘Look at that,’ Niceas exclaimed.
Kineas turned and looked over his shoulder. A lone horseman was trotting to the paddock. Coenus laughed.
‘Ataelus!’ bellowed Kineas.
The Scyth raised a dusty hand in greeting and swung his legs over the side of the horse so that he slipped in one lithe movement to the ground. He touched the flank of the horse with a little riding whip and she turned and walked through the gate into the paddock.
‘Horse good,’ he said. He reached out a hand for the flagon.
Coenus handed it to him without a moment’s
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