Chapter Four: Feast

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Dark fell fast once the sun had set, and immense bonfires lit the broad plain like stars risen in the field of night. The smell of woodsmoke and roasting meat filled the raw night air. We left the fires beside the stream to burn themselves out and crossed a narrow plank bridge behind the tent, following the glow and smoke trails of torches along a squishy path. Here we encountered Erman, staff in hand, bound in the opposite direction. Festivities had begun in our absence. Far off, in the fields to the north, flutes and voices joined in strains of haunting music like a chorus of dying birds.

He nodded approvingly and flashed an awkward grin when he spotted me in my new attire. “This is where I must take my leave of you for now,” Erman said. “May the Mistress bless and keep you. Remember my words.”

“I will. And thank you.”

He departed in the direction of the unearthly music. Part of me ached to follow him and that sound, to discover its source just over the horizon. But I had my own company to keep now. My feet to the path, I followed the warriors southward.

Reed mats lay scattered over the ground in a rough circle, surrounded by embroidered felt cushions. In the center were strewn the first flowers of the field, gathered fresh that afternoon by their looks. And around the edge, plates and drinking cups were set for a feast. Nearby, torches staked in the earth cast their shuddering light over the festivities. Out beyond, in the fields, the cattle-herders spread their own table cloths upon the ground. From turning spits and great cauldrons came the scent of roasting beef, venison, wild boar, boiling mutton, and, of course, sides of horse meat from which I had to avert my eyes. Holy sacrifice or otherwise, I had never reconciled myself to the eating of horseflesh. They were next to humanity in nobility, as well as my closest companions, and it seemed the worst kind of betrayal to ask for their trust only to one day feed upon them. 

Guests made ready to take their places. A sumptuous cushion of crimson silk embroidered with gold sat beside the circle, and to its right stood the queen holding a round pitcher of gold. Father also waited beside it, and his eyes grew wide when he saw me. The other guests made even less effort to conceal their shock. What a sight I must have been, with my cropped hair, Skythian trousers, the iron collar, and a sword at my side. Hopefully, he’d not inquire into the fate of my new dress, as it had been costly.

The royal princes stood beside father while the head of the king’s Royal Guard and various dignitaries filed in beside the queen. The warriors from my rite took their places beside the princes. All arranged themselves in order of rank. Though youngest, Aric took the position nearest the king. The herald guided me to where I would be seated after the eldest, Skyles—the spitter—third among the brothers. 

Queen Opoea seated herself cross-legged upon a cushion, and the guests began to do the same. I dreaded an evening trapped beside Skyles, but it was only one meal, and then I’d be gone. I could ignore him for an hour or two. But before I could sit, Aric suddenly pushed in beside me, displacing Skyles and upsetting the order. Chatter dipped and swelled around the circle. 

“You’re good with a horse,” he said, settling onto a cushion and setting his cup of wine down before him on the mat.

“Thank you, my lord.” I kept my eyes forward, focused on a burning lamp in the center of the circle. 

“Call me Aric. I’ll not call you ‘lady’ after today.”

“All right, then.” 

He scooped up his cup of wine and, propping his elbow on a cushion, turned to me, a half-grin twisting his lips. “You despise me,” he said.

I sipped my wine without tasting it. Despise? Not quite. But I’d likely learn to soon enough. “I despise being watched,” I said over the rim of my cup. I could feel him incline closer.  

“Get used to it. Nothing hides on the steppe. Not even in the Fields. Not from me.”

“That’s where we’re going?”

“It is.”

When I was a child among my mother’s people, I’d heard stories of the Wild Fields. A no-man’s land in the borders between the steppe kingdoms, inhabited by roving bands of wild men, beasts, and outlaws. My curiosity aroused, I turned to look at him. “Is it as dangerous as they say?”

He leaned in closer, resting his elbows on his knees. “You’ve never been in a real fight, have you?”

“I am not afraid.”

He grinned. “You will be.” Then he guzzled his wine, tilting his half-full cup at me. “Everyone is, sooner or later.”

The queen and guests suddenly rose to their feet around us as the head of the tribe arrived. I stood, grateful for the distraction. Followed by Erman, Ariapaithi strode toward his wife, who waited with a golden pitcher in her hand. Standing before her, the king withdrew a gold-plated drinking horn from his belt and held it forward. 

Filling the king’s cup with mead, she said in a loud, clear voice: “Great King Ariapaithi, see how brave and honorable men come to join us on this blessed day! The unworthy dare not show their faces to you. Rejoice in your friends. Be content partaking of this sacred feast, be cordial to your people, and be hospitable to your guests.”

“Good wife, noble Opoea,” he turned to face those gathered, “nothing shall please me more!” Amid cheers, Ariapaithi raised the cup to his lips and drank.

The queen then made the rounds of the table with her pitcher and mead, bestowing a blessing upon each as she went. Pouring out a cup to father, she placed it in his hands, and he raised it to his lips. 

Before he could drink, a middle-aged man from among the ranks of the Warband stood forward. “King Ariapaithi,” he said, “grant me permission to speak.”

The king nodded, flicking his hand indulgently at the man. He was of average height and slight, with greasy, hemp-colored hair combed back from his low forehead. A scraggly beard like hazel twigs sprouted from his narrow chin. His small eyes narrowed to slits as he scanned those whose attention he now held, and a satisfied grin overtook his face. I recognized him as one of the warriors at my ceremony earlier. 

“Most of you know me. But allow me, King Arianta, to introduce myself. I am Rathagos, son of Akasas, vazarka of the Paralatai and rider of the East March,” he said. “I wish to voice a protest on behalf of my brothers.”

I looked to Aric, but he was unmoved, watching and listening intently, as were the others. 

“I have to wonder,” he continued, “how it is, King Arianta of the Bastarnae, that any man—and indeed a king so wise as yourself—allows his own daughter to ride and bear arms like a man? And now you send her out to hunt with us, into the path of harm. It is unfeminine and surely an insult to The Lady. Likewise, it is a great insult to Goetosura and the honor of the kara. Is this not a great sacrilege to your Bastarnae gods as well?” 

I looked to the queen, but she remained solemn as the man spoke. Ariapaithi, too, remained impassive. I looked to Aric, and his face was cold and still as stone. My cheeks began to burn. Would no one intervene on our behalf? Would they permit this man to insult and challenge the king’s guest—a king himself? Would the rest of the Warband not defend me after having just called me one of their own?

Father appeared unperturbed—even amused—by the insult, though he must be raging inside. He turned and addressed his so-called ally Ariapaithi, ignoring Rathagos entirely. “Dear friends, the Bastarnae people are grateful for the warm welcome and generous hospitality you have bestowed upon their sovereign and his beloved daughter. It is with immeasurable pride that I give my daughter to the noble Ariapaithi and thereby join our two great houses. Yet, how strange these events might seem to some. 

“I wonder, have any of you daughters?” he asked of all those present. “Have you sisters and wives? Your people are herdsmen, so perhaps your ways are different. But my people are farmers. I, too, am a farmer. I love to watch things grow. And what a farmer fears most is to plant a seed and see it drowned by storms, starved by drought, ravaged by insects and animals, or cut down before it is ripe. From the day she was born, my daughter was as a beautiful, tender flower. I wanted to shelter her from all harm. To give her water and sunlight, good soil in which to thrive, and watch her grow. 

“But no garden wall could keep out all storms, or beasts, or men. So, instead of building a stronger wall, I cultivated a stronger flower. A gardener, no matter how vigilant, must close his eyes sometimes. I don’t have to build a wall around this flower. The gods themselves have seen fit to make her hardy and give her thorns. Who am I to challenge their wisdom? By their will, Anaiti is fearless and strong. And I would have it no other way.” 

I’d never heard father say such things. My eyes stung to listen to the words spoken now. I blinked and swallowed hard, hoping no one would notice. Heads nodded their assent around the table, though Rathagos seemed unimpressed.

“Well said, Arianta, my friend,” Ariapaithi finally spoke up, “well said.”

The queen blessed father with a smile and her cup and came at last to me. She stood rigid before me and looked me up and down. “Welcome, Princess Anaiti, hamazon of the Rokhalani, daughter of Arianta of the Bastarnae. Thanks to Papahio and blessings of Tabiti upon you,” she said flatly. 

“Thank you, Sur. Blessings upon you,” I repeated like the others. I paused with no thought of what to say next. I should offer an oath, something to do with my impending union, but I was never a good liar. “I come to this place with one desire: to be of benefit to both my people and to yours. Let me do honor to that wish in my time among you, or let me fall trying.” 

Her eyes softened as she nodded subtly, and I took the cup in both my hands and drank, the mead thick and sweet.

“Thrive and prosper here, Anaiti,” she said quietly as she took the cup from my hands.

She returned to sit at the right side of Ariapaithi, and the feast began. Servants brought meats of every kind, assorted river fish, sausages and blood puddings, cheeses, lentils, flatbreads, bowls of kumis. The Skythian-style wine was spicy but warming. Talk and laughter resumed, and I soon found the nomads were like any others when gathered around a table of food and drink. Passionate and funny. Generous and full of mirth. I listened and did not speak as the warriors around me joked together over their meat and wine.

The guests stood and drifted from the tables to stretch their legs, digest their food, and converse before being served the final course. Father took his leave of the Skythai king to pull me aside and question me about my initiation and impending departure. We spoke in our own Bastarnai tongue, and I tried quietly and patiently to reassure him that he need not worry—that I could take care of myself. He disguised his doubt behind sips of wine. 

At the table nearby, the royal family had ceased speaking Skythian and had begun to debate amongst themselves in Greek. They spoke almost in whispers, so I had to strain to hear until the conversation became more heated. 

Skyles, the mock-Hellene with the too-black beard, turned to his father. “I cannot believe you consider union with a mankiller,” he said, unable to conceal his disgust—or not even trying. “This is an outrage. They dishonor us by offering her, and it will be a scandal if we accept.” 

Oktamasad, caught in the middle, said nothing but eyed Aric, who folded his arms across his chest, his rough-hewn features hard in the torchlight. Aric turned to glance at me and, though I pretended not to notice, something like panic coursed through me.

“Why such enmity for Amazons?” Ariapaithi asked Skyles in Greek.  

“Because, father,” Aric answered for his brother, “if women take up arms, Skyles might be humiliated by one in battle.” 

I bit my lips to suppress a smile. 

“A man is far more likely to be humiliated by a woman he weds than any he fights,” Skyles said. 

 “You speaking from experience?” Oktamasad jabbed with a smirk, his ruddy face blushing as he and Aric both indulged in a good chuckle.

“Enough! All of you.” Ariapaithi’s face twisted in a snarl.

“Father,” Skyles pleaded, “she is Rokhalani. They covet our lands and cannot be trusted.”

“Eh,” Oktamasad waved him off, “she’s also Bastarnai, and it’s with them you’ve made your pact. The Bastarnai have long been our allies. We can’t lose any more profit to Agathyrsi raids. The girl would not be my first choice, but they are said to be honest. She is tall and strong and has good hips for childbearing. One could get formidable sons from a woman like that.” He shrugged, adopting an aloof air, which was even more striking than when he smiled. It was hard to scorn him entirely, even if he was sizing me up like a broodmare. “Lest we become effeminate like the Hellenes,” he added with another smirk as his gaze flashed back to Skyles, dressed in his Greek-made finery.

Skyles’ face reddened. “Oh, heaven forbid you should become civilized,” he hissed in a loud whisper.

“Civilized, ha!” Aric taunted him. “Is that what it’s called? When all the men parade about in dresses? And proudly pen themselves up inside cages? When ships crowd our shores to stuff their hulls with slaves and grain? They can mock and scorn us all they like, but you and I both know they can’t feed themselves by their own hands. So they ship their glut of wretches here to beg on our shores. If that’s what ‘civilization’ is, then I want no part in it.” 

Skyles clenched his fist and slammed it down on the plate before him, shattering the dish and turning the heads of the diners. But before he opened his mouth, the king raised his hand, and Skyles bit his tongue. The brothers fell still, glaring at one another in taut silence. Opoea, seated beside the king, raised her eyes and briefly caught mine, but in a flash of panic, I looked away, worried she might have realized I understood everything they’d said.

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Chapter Five: Bonfire

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