Chapter Five: Bonfire

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The cauldrons were refilled, fresh carcasses hung over fires on spits, and amphorae of wine poured into buckets for serving, but I’d had enough of feasting for the night. I excused myself while father busied himself with trade and politics. Taking another horn of wine and a hunk of cheese, I slipped away, seeking a quiet spot far from the noise of the crowd.

Out in the field, I found the forgotten remains of a bonfire. Stoking its embers, I threw some logs into its glowing center and stood in the cool grass, losing myself in the play of the flames as they began to rise again. Reed-pipes and drums played a frantic tune for dancers in the pasture, their harsh drone resounding up the low slope of the plain like a thunderstorm.

A half-dozen massive fires still dotted the horizon. There was wood—a lot of it—but no trees in the plain. A small forest must have been imported just for this night. When I was home, I loved nothing more than the open fields. How limitless they felt, running unobstructed toward the horizon. But smelling that bonfire, I missed the trees. The forests were only budding when I’d left and would be nearly in full leaf now, the fruit trees blossoming and the birds nesting. Oak, ash, and willow lined the streams where I watered the horses.

A massive linden stood in the courtyard at the center of our fort. No one knew whether the tree or the village came first. Some said the tree was ancient long before the first hut ever stood and that the town sprang up around it. My father’s fathers built their fort upon the hill generations ago and were all crowned at the foot of that tree. Father, too, before I was born. They called her “The Lady”—Lady Linden. And each year, when the tree was in flower near midsummer, the high Bastarnai Assembly came from far and near to meet beneath her spreading canopy, for it was said only truth could be spoken in the shade of her branches.

As a child, I clambered up the nooks of her craggy bark and nestled into her swaying limbs, rocking to half-sleep from the vantage of the birds. Like the dappled sunlight that would bathe my skin in summer, her leaves would turn golden, then crisp and fall, warning of the night season. And she’d abide, naked and barren through the storms and trials of winter. No moon was as perfect and pure as that which, on a cold night, lay cradled in the bare branches of that tree.

Here, stark and unadorned, the moon was just a sliver—a bright scythe sweeping across the field of night. A half-furlong away, a dance circled around another fire. I’d spent most of my youth avoiding the ludicrous duty of public dance, and I hoped no one would see me and try to make me join them. The night had settled in now, and the dancers melted into the dark. Invisible but for the glimmer of their gold adornments in the firelight, each dancer was a constellation unto himself.

The warmth of the wine and heat of the flame spread through my blood like a fever, and I closed my eyes to shut out the chaos whirling around me. I hardly knew what to make of all that had transpired since I stepped off my chariot this morning. Nothing had gone to plan. I’d walked straight into an ambush. Did father know how much these men would scorn me when he chose to send me here? He had promised that my duty was not to seduce the king—not that I could even if I tried. I was to simply keep my eyes open and convey what I learned. His intentions were plain without need of words. I was to probe the Skythai—and Ariapaithi—for anything which father might seize upon or exploit. There must be rich plunder here, as the three princes couldn’t sit down to a meal without almost coming to blows. They made no attempt to hide it. Yet, the Skythai spoke fervently of oaths, and Aric’s words sat ill with me. A man I’d never met, who owed me nothing, swore today before the gods to sacrifice his life for mine? Men were sometimes mad, and perhaps the Skythai were doubly so, but a seasoned warrior couldn’t truly be that reckless. That had to just be the kind of grand, empty talk men made at court. But what kind of man makes a solemn oath knowing it to be hollow? What kind of man makes such an oath and truly means it? I wasn’t sure which was worse.

“So, you’re off again already?” said a voice beyond the bonfire, approaching from outside the firelight. Oktamasad stood opposite me, where I could clearly discern his features in the flickering light. I could just make out a small group of a half-dozen men, lured like moths by the now-roaring bonfire. Their approach wakened me from my reveries.

“First thing,” came the low rumble of Aric in response, as if I’d summoned him with my thoughts.

“Too bad. We only see you at festivals and funerals.”

“You say it like it’s a bad thing.”

A third man joined them. “Ever met one before?” he asked. By his burly outline, I thought it must be Bornon, a bristly man with a badly scarred face but soft cow eyes who’d been among the dozen men at my initiation.

“A hamazon? Thought I did once,” another interjected too loudly, “but it was just a pretty boy!” That one they called Olgas. Through the smoke and flames, I could make out his rangy silhouette and tousled black hair cut in a fringe across his brow. He laughed heartily at himself, revealing the gaping hole where all the teeth on the left side of his mouth had been smashed out. 

“Bet you tried to fuck him anyway,” Bornon said, slapping him on the back. More laughter from the group. “No, you’d know it if you met one. There’s no mistaking it. I met many when we traded for horses with the Aorsi across the Tanais.”

“You’ve traded with them?” Oktamasad asked. “What was that like?” 

“Best horses in this world. Raided from the very pastures of heaven.”

“Do they really learn to fight,” Olgas asked, “and go to war like men?”

“The best among them,” Aric replied. “Like us. They’re just training bitches instead of dogs.”

Olgas shook his shaggy black head. “Well, what’s it got to do with us? Women aren’t meant to see and hear the secrets of the kara. Others have died for this. The fuck you thinking?”

“I’m not so sure it’s wise either,” Bornon said, “taking her into the Fields.” A deep frown furrowed an already profoundly scarred face. 

“Eh, she’ll do,” Aric said gruffly. 

“She might. But what about us?” Bornon asked. “You don’t turn a mare loose among a herd of stallions.”

“Heh, so you’re a stallion now?”

“You know what I’m saying.”

“I do,” Aric said, “but you’re men, not beasts.” 

“You hope.”

“She looks soft to me,” Olgas said, “with her doe eyes and dewy face. She won’t last a week. Won’t even last the ride out.”  

“We’ll see,” Aric said. “What looks hardest is often most brittle and breaks easiest. Besides, her mother was Suramatai. She’s practically Skythai.”

“Hardly,” a fifth man, who’d been silent till now, interjected. That haughty tone would be forever seared into my memory. Skyles. “Any peasant can sit on a horse and shoot a bow, even the girls.”

If I stayed, I would have to listen to their bullshit for the rest of the night. So, I gathered myself and stood to skulk off and find another fire to warm myself at, squinting angrily through the smoke and flames at the men who disturbed my peace.

“Ah, see? Look how she scorns us!” Aric said, meeting my gaze across the fire. “She’ll do just fine.” He waved me over. “Anaiti, come, join us for a drink.” Ladling a cup of wine from the bucket they’d brought, he held it up in offering.

Shit. Did I have to? I just wanted to be alone—to sleep. But it was too late to hide now. I dragged myself around the bonfire to them. One drink.

Aric handed the horn to me as the other men stepped in closer. Their clothes all smelled of cannabis. Another stood with them. He was at the ceremony and feast as well, but I’d not yet heard him speak. Stormai. Tall and powerfully built, he was younger than the others and boyishly handsome, with sandy hair and a firm jaw. When I nodded to him, he looked at his boots.

“Blessings on becoming a fellow of the Warband.” Oktamasad raised his horn and gave me a kind smile, his red beard glowing like polished copper in the firelight. 

“Thank you.” I tried to hide my weariness. “I hope to prove worthy of it.”

“What do you think of Skythia?” Oktamasad asked. “I expect it is strange for you, coming from farm country?”

“It’s strange in some ways but familiar in others. I was fostered among the Rokhalani, as I told the king.” I was sure he couldn’t care less, but it cost nothing to be cordial. “I’ve missed those days. I’ve always dreamed of returning.”

“I understand. I myself was fostered in Thrake among the Odrysae with my uncle Sitalk before he took the crown. In fact, I have just returned from there this morning. I have seen this country from within and without. It can seem strange and formidable to foreigners,” he said. “But I hope you will come to appreciate it as we do.” 

“Indeed,” Skyles stepped in, “outsiders often misunderstand this place. They think we live poorly, but it is just the opposite. There is opportunity for great wealth if one knows how to seize it.”

I gritted my teeth and swallowed. There was nothing I despised more than a one-man cock-measuring contest. I tried to let him win. “I imagine that’s true. The Skythai seem well equipped to do so.” 

“The Skythai?” Skyles said, inexplicably affronted. “Who said anything about the Skythai? We Paralatai are the first men to inhabit this land, and the first kings of this country. All others dwelling upon the steppe do so by our leave. You would not be here otherwise.”

If father was here, he would have told me to be diplomatic—to not let him provoke me. “We are, of course, honored to be allies of the Paralatai and friends of King Ariapaithi.” Actually, he’d have told me to keep my mouth shut. “But we do quite well for ourselves. It would seem that our merit is mutual, as you also depend upon us and the grain we supply to feed yourselves and your markets. Without tribes like ours, the colonies and trade you value so highly wither and die. And your tariffs with them.” 

His muddy eyes narrowed, and his jaw muscles tightened. “Then perhaps King Arianta did not enjoy the gifts I arranged for him on the occasion of this covenant? Are such exquisite treasures so common in your backwater that they merit no thanks? Tell me: what fate would await your little tribe without our favor, our trade—and our protection? I’ll tell you: rape and murder by the Agathyrsi,” he said through a forced smile.

Oktamasad stepped forward and interrupted: “Let’s not joke and tease each other on a night like this. It’s Eramandin! Tonight we celebrate! Our tribes are soon to be joined. And let’s not forget that our respective nations were founded by brothers… more or less.”

“Brothers?” I asked, welcoming his distraction before I got myself into real trouble.

“Not this bloody story,” Skyles groaned.

“What’s wrong with it?” Aric asked.

“It’s revolting.” Skyles sucked in deeply through his nose and spit a wad of phlegm into the fire. I stifled a gag. 

“It’s our history,” Oktamasad said, “and I quite like it.”

“So do I,” Aric said to the assent of the others. “It seems you’re outnumbered.” He grinned mockingly at his brother, raised his horn, and finished off his wine. 

“I’d like to hear.” I glanced around at the men, and none would meet my eye. But Aric’s eye gleamed, and he methodically refilled his cup, then smiled at me as he filled mine, the crowd waiting, watching in silence. 

“Well, you see,” he began, “Skythia was the last country to be populated by men. Before that, this entire land was desert, inhabited only by spirits, winds, and wild beasts. For, like those beasts, it is a fierce, untamed place unsuited to cultivating crops or building towns. The first man to settle here was Targitao. The son of Papahio and a daughter of Apia, he was no ordinary human, and walked the earth a hero among men.

“One night after he had been raiding cattle, as he drove his spoils through the Wild Fields, a terrible blizzard descended upon him. He made camp beside his chariot and lay down to sleep. But when morning came, he awoke to find his horses gone. He hid his cattle in a narrow valley and followed the horses’ tracks in the snow to the Woodland. There, he came upon an ancient willow within a grove. Beneath its roots, a cleft opened into the earth, and, peering inside, he was greeted by a wondrous creature. Above, she was a woman; below, her legs were like twin serpents which writhed and coiled about as she slithered along the floor of her cave,” he said, making serpentine motions with his arms.

“He was mystified as he watched. ‘I am Apia, Lady of the Waters,’ she said, ‘and your horses are now in my possession.’ 

“She was the daughter of Targitao’s adversary, none other than Volos, the Encloser. Wrangler of Cattle, Gatherer of Clouds, and keeper of the Great Swamps of the Volosdanu, which the Hellenes insist on calling ‘Borysthenes,’ because they can’t pronounce our words.” 

We all laughed, except for Skyles, who didn’t seem capable of humor. “None of you should be laughing with the appalling way you all speak Greek,” he said.

“Did she give his horses back?” I was eager to know.

“Ah, first, she wanted something from him in return.” Here Aric paused to refill everyone’s wine, but I had forgotten to drink the cup I had. “She said: ‘I have your horses. And I will return them to you. But only if you will lie with me.’” At this, the men all grinned and nodded knowingly at one other. I couldn’t help chuckling to myself. “He agreed, of course.”

“Of course.” 

“So, Targitao spent the rest of the long winter in the hollows of her chamber. All the while, she kept his horses hidden so he might forget them and remain with her longer.”

“Heroes,” Skyles interrupted, “are supposed to slay monsters, not lay with them.” His eyes narrowed and fixed their cold stare upon me across the waning flames.

“Well,” Aric said, “be grateful he didn’t, or none of us would be here. Including you.”

Skyles’ face twisted in disgust.

“How would horses survive in a cave all winter?” I asked, ignoring the hateful glare.

“They say,” Oktamasad jumped in, his eyes flashing now, “that the cavern reaches deep below, into the realm of Volos himself, where there are wide pastures and a bright, clear spring at the roots of the Great Tree.”

“Are you going to let me tell my story or not?” 

“I was only answering the lady’s question.” Oktamasad gave an audible sigh.

“Anyway,” Aric continued, “she soon gave birth to three sons by him. After the snows had passed, Targitao prepared to leave with his horses and continue his journey. Apia asked him what she should do with his sons when they were grown: ‘Shall they remain here in my kingdom, or shall I send them off to you?’”

“Well,” I asked, “did they have feet like their father or snake-legs like their mother?”

Frowning deeply, Aric hooked his thumb in his warbelt and just stared at me for a long moment. “Feet. Do you want to hear this or not?”

“Forgive me, please go on.”

“You’re as bad as him,” he said indulgently as he tipped his drinking horn toward Oktamasad and took a long draught. “Well, Targitao gave her his bow and warbelt. And he told her that when the boys were grown, whoever could string the bow should also wear the belt. That son would receive her vast kingdom. The others she should send off to seek their fortunes elsewhere. The older two were called Agathyrs and Gelon, and when they were grown, they could not string the bow, so they were forced to make their way beyond the borders of this land. Agathyrs went west into the fertile plains. Gelon went north into the forests. 

“The youngest son, Skyth, succeeded in stringing his father’s bow and inherited the steppelands, becoming the founder of the Skythai nations. From him descend the Paralatai, and all the kings of Skythia.”

“It’s a wonderful story,” I said. “Is that the end?”

“I certainly hope not,” Aric said, grinning wryly.

“Speaking of women and their mysterious caverns,” Olgas’ voice was now soft and mushy with wine, “it grows late….” 

Aric scowled at Olgas as he glanced toward me. Olgas shrugged sheepishly, “Pardon, my lady.” 

I smiled and nodded, having never really minded men’s talk. There was no point in feigning squeamishness. I’d said far coarser things myself. 

“The rest of the tale,” Oktamasad smiled his charming smile, “should wait until you return safely from the Fields!” He raised his cup. “Anaiti, blessings of Targitao, Volos, and Apia upon you and your road. May you return to us in honor, glory, and health!”

The lot of us clashed our drinking horns together and drained them.

Aric clapped Olgas on the back. “Don’t be late.”

“Never,” he said, downed the last of his wine, and refilled his horn before marching off beyond the firelight.

“We leave at dawn,” Aric said, turning to me. “You should get some rest.”

“Of course.” I thanked the men and took my leave. Even the quiet one, Stormai, smiled reservedly as I left, though he spoke not a word in my presence all night.

I went to make my excuses to my hosts, exhausted but relieved to have the day done. After so much wine, my own legs felt like writhing snakes, and I longed for the dark quiet of my tent and the oblivion of sleep.

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Chapter Six: Marches

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