Tyrant: Storm of Arrows Read Online Free PDF Page A

excited him as no other woman ever could - but her Greek was still limited to fifty verbs and a few hundred nouns, and the sort of subtlety that made compliments accurate and personal was as far beyond her as the comedy of Aristophanes - so far.
    Their lovemaking was occasional, often hurried and always secretive. That they were partners was suspected - and resented - throughout the dwindling camp. And especially tonight.
    The Sakje were riding away. The council had ended in division and anger before Srayanka had been formally recognized to speak so that she could lay her own claim to kingship, but the sides were drawn.
    All of them together - the Sakje and the Olbians - had fought a great battle, the greatest battle any of them could remember. Ten stades north of the wagon-yurt where Kineas lay entwined with Srayanka, the field of the Ford of the River God was still an unquiet grave three full weeks after Zopryon’s army had died on it. More than twenty thousand Macedonians and their auxiliaries and allies had perished - and almost a third that number of Sakje, and a thousand Euxine Greeks. The dead outnumbered the living, and the rain that fell like the tears of repentant gods rotted the corpses so fast that men feared to touch or lift them. Carrion creatures still thronged the field, feasting on the Macedonian dead who lay defenceless, their armour stripped off.
    Men said the field was cursed.
    Kineas felt it like an open wound, because the unburied dead haunted his dreams, demanding burial. It was beyond his experience, that one army might be exterminated and unable to bury its dead. It frightened him. As did the voices of the many dead.
    ‘What are you thinking, Airyanãm ?’ Srayanka asked. She propped herself on an elbow. She was naked in the damp heat, and not so much shameless as unconscious that anyone would wear clothes on such a hot night. Inside her wagon, she disdained clothing as long as the damp and the heat prevailed.
    Kineas forced himself away from the battlefield in his mind and back into the wagon with her marvellous, god-given body and her ambitions and her caprice. But he was honest. ‘I’m thinking of the unburied dead,’ he said.
    ‘Food for crows,’ she said with a shrug. She made a gesture to avert unwelcome attention from the creatures of the underworld. ‘Naming calls, Kineax.’ She put a finger to his lips. ‘Don’t speak of the dead so lightly. They were enemies. Now they have passed beyond. The field is cursed, and the Sindi will avoid it for a generation. And then the grass will grow greener for the blood, and then the grain will grow. That is the way. And the Mother will take their unquiet spirits down to her breasts, and in time, all will be healed.’
    He watched her, sitting like a statue of Aphrodite, ticking off her points about the dead on one hand as if she was a scholar in the agora. ‘You should be queen,’ he said. ‘You have the head for it.’ He rubbed his untrimmed beard and scratched his head. ‘I should not have spoken today. I spoke out of turn and I fear—’
    ‘Hush,’ she said. She shook her head, her unbound hair swaying. ‘Marthax is stronger than I, Kineas.’ She watched him for a moment in the light of the single oil lamp. ‘I will not lead my people to war against each other. Marthax will not be a bad king - you know him. He does as he thinks he must.’ She sighed. ‘I worked hard to prepare the people to accept you as my consort.’ She shrugged, and her heavy breasts rose and fell, and the sheath of muscle moved from her hips to her neck, and he wanted her. But he was a disciplined man and he kept his hands to himself.
    She turned to face him. ‘Instead, they fear you.’
    ‘Because I am foreign?’ he asked, tracing a finger along her flanks.
    ‘And because you are baqca, and because you love me. You are like a creature from a song of heroes, and you bring change.’ She kissed him. ‘Because you could rule them with a rod of iron, and