Read Online Tyrant: Storm of Arrows by Christian Cameron - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Christian Cameron
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young men had all the youngest cavalrymen and his troop had seen the longest fighting, if not the hardest. The homes of the wealthy up by the statue of Apollo were still full of wounded from this troop, but for the moment, only twenty troopers sat behind them,
Only second troop, commanded by Diodorus and now holding all the mercenary cavalrymen, looked prepared for another day of battle. A summer of campaigning had made Diodorus into a fine commander, and Antigonus the Gaul was the complete hyperetes - calm, authoritative and efficient. His appointment made the integration of the tyrant’s former bodyguard simpler, because he spoke their language and could claim some birth that impressed even Hama, their chieftain. There were almost a hundred of the Keltoi, and they were natural horsemen. Recent enmity meant nothing to them - more important were their endless taboos and rituals. A Greek officer might quickly have fallen foul of them. Antigonus had no such troubles. But for political reasons, only Hama and a dozen of his Keltoi rode in the second troop today. The rest were in their barracks. This was a parade of the victors.
And there was Heron. The tall young man was no less gawky in the saddle than walking the grass, and even the tallest of the captured chargers was too small for him. His troop - men of Pantecapaeum, a neighbouring city, and not really under Kineas’s command - had also taken part in Nicomedes’ desperate defence on the left of the army. They had been luckier - and broken earlier - and fifty saddles remained filled. But their victory was bitter-sweet. They were now exiles. Victory in the great battle had empowered the democratic faction in their city, and the troop of rich men - aristocrats to a trooper - was no longer wanted at home.
Kineas and Diodorus had been the victims of just such an event. They knew the sting of exile - the humiliation and the endless small slights that citizens imposed on stateless men. But Heron was a prickly fellow at the best of times, and he sat in his resentment, disdaining attempts to improve his lot, and his men followed his lead. They remained with Kineas because most of them had nowhere else to go.
Finally, formed on the far left of the line of hippeis, there were Ataelus’s twenty Sakje, half of them women. They wore odd combinations of Greek and Sakje armour, rode expensive horses and were covered in gold. They were exotic and dangerous and they would march in the procession, despite the protests of certain city factions, as would the Sauromatae.
All the survivors had benefited from the battle by acquiring the very best of the Macedonian armour and the heavy Macedonian chargers. On the day of battle, the Macedonian horses had been starved and tired - but a month on the grass, even in the rain, had restored some of their spirit, and five days’ access to the granaries of the city meant that every man was mounted like a prince.
Diodorus cantered up and gave a precise salute, his fist clenched on his breastplate. Kineas returned it.
‘Rain’s stopped,’ Diodorus said. He grinned, his sharp features and freckled cheeks glowing with pleasure. He enjoyed command, and he worried less about the future than Kineas. ‘Maybe there’s hope after all,’ he added. ‘You look beautiful, I must say.’
‘Why are you so fucking cheerful?’ Kineas asked.
‘I’m tired of rain. And Coenus is better this morning. His fever broke in the dark. He ate.’ Diodorus tilted his helmet back so that his red hair showed at the brow. ‘You have to see him. It’s a gift from the gods.’
Kineas felt his mood lighten immediately. Coenus - one of his oldest friends, one of his best men, a scholar and a fellow exile - had been given up for dead.
So Kineas had a different look about him as he took his place at the head of the hippeis and led them out into the streets, through the gate and along the edge of the market to where the priests of Apollo waited with the phalanx - all
Only second troop, commanded by Diodorus and now holding all the mercenary cavalrymen, looked prepared for another day of battle. A summer of campaigning had made Diodorus into a fine commander, and Antigonus the Gaul was the complete hyperetes - calm, authoritative and efficient. His appointment made the integration of the tyrant’s former bodyguard simpler, because he spoke their language and could claim some birth that impressed even Hama, their chieftain. There were almost a hundred of the Keltoi, and they were natural horsemen. Recent enmity meant nothing to them - more important were their endless taboos and rituals. A Greek officer might quickly have fallen foul of them. Antigonus had no such troubles. But for political reasons, only Hama and a dozen of his Keltoi rode in the second troop today. The rest were in their barracks. This was a parade of the victors.
And there was Heron. The tall young man was no less gawky in the saddle than walking the grass, and even the tallest of the captured chargers was too small for him. His troop - men of Pantecapaeum, a neighbouring city, and not really under Kineas’s command - had also taken part in Nicomedes’ desperate defence on the left of the army. They had been luckier - and broken earlier - and fifty saddles remained filled. But their victory was bitter-sweet. They were now exiles. Victory in the great battle had empowered the democratic faction in their city, and the troop of rich men - aristocrats to a trooper - was no longer wanted at home.
Kineas and Diodorus had been the victims of just such an event. They knew the sting of exile - the humiliation and the endless small slights that citizens imposed on stateless men. But Heron was a prickly fellow at the best of times, and he sat in his resentment, disdaining attempts to improve his lot, and his men followed his lead. They remained with Kineas because most of them had nowhere else to go.
Finally, formed on the far left of the line of hippeis, there were Ataelus’s twenty Sakje, half of them women. They wore odd combinations of Greek and Sakje armour, rode expensive horses and were covered in gold. They were exotic and dangerous and they would march in the procession, despite the protests of certain city factions, as would the Sauromatae.
All the survivors had benefited from the battle by acquiring the very best of the Macedonian armour and the heavy Macedonian chargers. On the day of battle, the Macedonian horses had been starved and tired - but a month on the grass, even in the rain, had restored some of their spirit, and five days’ access to the granaries of the city meant that every man was mounted like a prince.
Diodorus cantered up and gave a precise salute, his fist clenched on his breastplate. Kineas returned it.
‘Rain’s stopped,’ Diodorus said. He grinned, his sharp features and freckled cheeks glowing with pleasure. He enjoyed command, and he worried less about the future than Kineas. ‘Maybe there’s hope after all,’ he added. ‘You look beautiful, I must say.’
‘Why are you so fucking cheerful?’ Kineas asked.
‘I’m tired of rain. And Coenus is better this morning. His fever broke in the dark. He ate.’ Diodorus tilted his helmet back so that his red hair showed at the brow. ‘You have to see him. It’s a gift from the gods.’
Kineas felt his mood lighten immediately. Coenus - one of his oldest friends, one of his best men, a scholar and a fellow exile - had been given up for dead.
So Kineas had a different look about him as he took his place at the head of the hippeis and led them out into the streets, through the gate and along the edge of the market to where the priests of Apollo waited with the phalanx - all
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