Chapter Thirteen: Trial

Reading time: 20 min

If you are a new subscriber, you may wish to start at the beginning.

A bruising wind blew over the dry grass. Since I arrived, no rain had come, and the drought stirred whispers everywhere through the parched blades. But the sky remained silent. White clouds drifted through, followed by grey ones which came to stay, throwing deep shadows over the fields. The pastures were thirsty, but I hoped a storm wasn’t brewing.

After working the horses, I undressed to my snugly-laced linen vest and breechcloth and climbed down the bank of the sluggish river. It had receded to almost a trickle. But nothing was sweeter after the sweat of a workday than laying on the smooth stones of the riverbed and letting the water wash over me. I closed my eyes, stretched out my arms, and let my head fall back into the cooling current. 

I drifted there, weightless, the crisp, clear water slipping over my skin, the warm glow of the sporadic sun seeping through my eyelids, the burbling current mumbling in my ears. A long cloud shadow passed over me, and the warmth faded. A quick series of splashes startled me from my peaceful daze. As I opened my eyes, hands gripped my outstretched arm, flipped me over in the water, and forced me under, pinning me down to the riverbed. I struggled beneath the surface, my eyes clamped shut, holding my breath. Braced my hands against the stones. Pushed with all my strength. But a gruesome weight bore me down—the weight of a man on my back. 

My lungs ached, and my ribs were about to crack when I was lifted, dragged to the bank, and thrown face-down on it. He was impossibly strong, like an enraged bear. Still, I thrashed against him as he restrained me. He grabbed me by the back of the head and, with a growl, smashed my face into the stone-hard ground. Dust and blood mixed on my tongue.

Desperate to scream, I coughed up water and gasped for air. But more than I wanted words or breath, I wanted a weapon in my hand. My dagger was with my clothes up the bank. Stupid. There were no rocks or sticks nearby, even if I could get my hands free. Even my bare feet were mired in slick river mud. 

Body pressed against mine, he released his right hand and slid it down between us where I could feel it working. He began to untie his trousers.

Panting on the back of my neck, his breath was thick with the odor of wine. My thoughts blurred. This can’t be happening. 

But while he worked, my right arm was free. Pulling a scream from deep within my chest, I planted my foot on the bank and shoved back with all my strength, flailing my elbow at his face so violently that he fell back into the water. Then I scrambled up the bank, grabbed the dagger from my pile of clothes, and ran for my life. I think I was still screaming.

Mourdag, Bradak, and Stormai appeared at the top of the low hill, galloping toward me with bows in hand. I tried to cover myself with my arms.

They pulled their horses up in front of me. “We heard screaming,” Mourdag said. “What happened?”

“Oh, shit,” Bradak answered for me as he pointed at the man clawing his way up the riverbank, the front of his trousers still open. From atop his horse, Bradak looked down his crooked nose at me in understanding, sable hair blowing across his face. I turned back toward the river. Now that I had a chance to look at my attacker, I should have guessed. Tiranes. He’d despised me since the day I won his horse. Probably before. 

Mourdag and Bradak shouted to him to halt once he reached the shore, but Tiranes, like a hurled stone, threw himself from the bank and plunged into the river. Kicking their horses on, Mourdag and Bradak cantered across the river toward him. The riders were on him in no time, shouting at him to stop. Tiranes spun round in a whirlwind and let forth a cry like an animal thirsting for blood. Then he drew his sword and began thrashing at them, his movements sudden, senseless, tenacious. The men called his name, but there was no recognition in Tiranes’ eyes. Mourdag fitted an arrow to his bowstring, and Bradak flanked him and pulled his own sword. Like a cornered beast, Tiranes lunged at Bradak’s horse, sword raised and shrieking. Bradak wheeled his horse around and deflected the strike, just as Mourdag swiftly half-drew and released his arrow with a dull twang, shooting Tiranes in the back of his thigh. The bolt barely slowed him in his rage, but it gave the two enough time to dismount and wrestle him to the ground, where both men struggled to subdue the thrashing madman. They sat upon him like an unbroken colt and bound him tightly as he bucked and writhed. Then yanked the arrow shaft from his leg, harnessed him like a sledge to their horses, and dragged him away, screaming. 

My hands trembling, fingers fumbling at the ties and buckles, I dressed as quickly as I could. I still clutched the dagger in my hand. My legs were muddy under my clothes. Blood flowed over my tunic and caftan from my nose. My head throbbed. Sweet Stormai, who’d remained behind, didn’t speak. Even after I’d dressed, he couldn’t look at me.

Escorted to camp by Stormai, I rushed back to the tent to find Aric and dry clothes, but there was no time to change. News had arrived ahead of me, and a riot was breaking out at the center of camp.  

“What’s happening?” I asked of Antisthenes as he emerged from our tent. Since my arrival, we’d barely spoken beyond daily formalities and courtesies. Mostly we avoided each other. But, once an outsider here himself, I hoped the Hellene could, if not muster approval, at least help me navigate this world he’d become so well accustomed to—even if only for Aric's sake.

“A trial.”

That sounded ominous. Would I be accused? No doubt Tiranes would try to say I incited him. My only witnesses were Tiranes’ sworn brothers. 

Antisthenes led me toward the western pasture where all were gathering. “Have no fear,” he said. “The Skythai sense of justice runs deep.”

That was precisely what I was afraid of. “Will Aric send for a lawspeaker?”

“We karik have our own law.”

After arriving here, I’d learned that, outside the boundaries of court and the farmsteads of cattle-herders, a karik was eka: individual and free from the bonds of society to act according to his own will. Unlike ordinary citizens, he lived according to the svadha, or self-law. Each governed himself by his own sense of honor, in keeping with the oaths he had sworn before the gods and the pacts he made with his fellow Skythai and foreigners alike. He was judged accordingly in the eyes of gods and men. It sounded virtuous, but I had no idea what that meant in practice. 

“There are no prisons on the steppe,” he continued, “and no karik will be made a slave. Justice will be swift and final.”

“What justice?”

“A fine in wealth, a fine in flesh, death, or exile.”

“What is Tiranes to be accused of?” 

“Several crimes, perhaps. A man must only pay for the worst of them—in this case, perhaps breaking his oath. But forcing himself upon a free woman—and a noblewoman who is his lord’s guest, no less—is most grave. It is strictly forbidden to molest a woman against her will. That alone is punishable by death.”

“Death?” I stopped and looked at him, incredulous. Impressed. “I’ve never heard of a man being killed for violating a woman.” Three riders galloped past us toward the trial.

“Oh, truly, the Skythai are jealous of their holdings and take great offense at anyone who does not show their women proper respect.”

Holdings? That was a disagreeable term for it. I resumed walking.

“A man’s honor is bound to that of his women.”

“As is a woman’s to that of her men.”

“Indeed. Character is the thread with which the Fates weave,” he said in Greek. “Our own as well as that of others. Usually, there is not a trial, though. If a man lays hands on a woman against her will, he will be simply beaten or killed by her kin or husband on the spot.”

We were nearing the center of camp, and I slowed, not eager to arrive. “But he is vazarka?”

“Tiranes has transgressed an oath made before the gods. Skythai hold that to break one’s word disrupts the Arta and incurs the wrath of the gods. The murderous must suffer iron; the insatiable must suffer fire or water; the oathbreaker—enemy of true speech—must be punished by the noose.”

“Then… he is doomed?”

“It would seem so,” he said with a shrug. “Are you not pleased?”

“Do the Skythai not believe in mercy?” 

“What do you believe Tiranes would have done when he was finished with you?”

I took a moment to consider what he asked, and it chilled my heart. Tiranes would surely have killed me and let another tribe bear the blame—and consequences.

“If there is leniency for Tiranes, others will transgress their oaths. But we must see what the trial reveals. Unlike in my homeland, there are no inscribed contracts, no fences, no walls, no fortifications. A Skythai would say, ‘there is only the truth.’ One’s good word is worth more than gold.”

The sky greyed, and the air became drenched with the weight of coming rain. As we pushed through the mob, Aric sat upon Isiras, his black gelding, looking down on Tiranes at the center of a silent crowd of men. Rope still bound his hands before him, though he knelt passively now—drowsy, even, as though he’d just been roused from a deep sleep.

“What have you to say for yourself?” Aric demanded.

Tiranes bowed his head and refused to speak.

“What man of honor raids his own?”

Tiranes’ face burned red, but he would not look at Aric.

“The woman is not a prize to be taken. She is one of us. And in seizing her, you have also made a raid upon King Ariapaithi, King Arianta, and your kara-daranaka.”

At this, Tiranes drew a deep hiss through his teeth and raised his head, glaring up defiantly at Aric. “I have pledged myself unto death. If now my life is forfeit, so be it. I have served my brothers and my kara faithfully. But who is this girl to me? What does she serve—besides Aric’s cock?” 

An uproar seized the crowd. 

Aric dismounted Isiras and drew his dagger as he strode to the center of the circle to stand over Tiranes. “You also slander my name and impugn my honor?” He cut Tiranes’ bonds. “Stand, then, and make your accusation against me, brave Tiranes.”

Tiranes cowered, and the crowd fell still. Aric struck him across the face with the back of his fist, knocking him flat to the ground, and took him by the throat. His back in the dirt, a knee upon his chest, Tiranes went limp beneath Aric.

“That’s what I thought,” Aric snarled as he released Tiranes and stepped back. Tiranes squirmed to his feet. “You are a ravisher, a slanderer, and an oath-breaker.”

The wind picked up, flattening the grass, and thunder rumbled in the distance.

“Why?” Aric asked.

Tiranes shook his head.

“Why this woman?” 

“I might ask you the same.” He aimed his quivering finger toward me as his craggy face wearily scanned the crowd for sympathizers and found more than a few to nod along with him. “Maybe my blood is hungry,” he said. “A man’s heart wants glory. We just get tame in the company of this woman.” Gathering himself up, he raised his heavy head and spoke out to them. “Look what’s happening to us! A woman joins our ranks, and we don’t raid like we used to. Just these pathetic hunts a few miles from camp so Aric can rush back to his mistress. I’m a noble son of the Paralatai and vazarka. Weeks into the season, I have nothing to show for it—a mangy scalp and a few scrawny goats. We should all be buried under mounds of gold and beef by now! Instead, this—this sorceress,” he clenched his hand into a fist, “has seduced me into folly. To lead me down the path of my destruction, just as she is leading your kara-daranaka.” 

I held myself still and straight-faced. I wanted to glance toward icy Antisthenes, standing beside me. I could sense his firm, calm presence as I watched a wave of support for Tiranes spread across the faces of the other men. 

“Lies,” Aric said. “I see her wounds. There’s no seduction here—no sorcery. You attacked her.” Aric called out to the crowd: “You swore an oath by the sacred fire. Before Tabiti. To Goetosura. By Papahio and Eraman. Thagimasad sees—and punishes—all deceptions. You have been a great champion of the vazarka. But now you’ve betrayed not only me and your kara but all the gods. You raided King Ariapaithi himself. I won’t ask again, brother, why?”

He shook his head.

“Your future life depends on your answer. It is no moment for lies.”

He raised his eyes to Aric’s, grit his teeth as his face reddened, and again shook his head. “I recall none of it. I—I was walking along the river. She was in the water. Just lying there. Why was she there?” His eyes welled with tears. “Then, the fog. When it cleared, she was gone, I was in the river, and Bradak and Mourdag were hunting me with arrows.” He scrubbed his hands over his face and rubbed his red eyes with the heels of his palms. Pulling the words from his lungs like arrows extracted from his chest, he whispered, “I was possessed.” Then he collapsed onto his knees, eyes raised to the sky and chest heaving. “The fury,” he murmured, “just took hold of me. I—I was powerless to stop it.”

The gathering of men let out a long, low moan, like wind blowing through a hollow tree, their eyes fixed on Tiranes as if in a trance. I didn’t understand what was happening.

“Is it… time?” Tiranes asked, breathless. 

Aric turned to the men assembled before them and asked, “How do you judge the acts of this man?” 

In silence, across the gathered crowd, most men bowed their heads and held up their right hands, the last two fingers folded toward the palm. Rathagos, the man who had spoken out against me the first night at the king’s feast, fixed his eyes on me and folded his arms across his chest. 

Aric drew a long slow breath and nodded to him. “It is time.”

Tiranes fumbled to take Aric’s hands in his. “So be it,” he said longingly, his eyes spilling over with tears. His demeanor began to change. He seemed almost joyful. “I wish to see my father again.” 

“I will miss you, my brother,” Aric said. “But we shall meet again. Death is but the center of a long life.”

“Thank you, my lord. The greatest honors have fallen to me in the service of Goetosura and my karadar.”

Beside me, a man began to weep. 

Aric stepped in front of him and looked him in the eye. “You are vazarka and a fellow of the kara. I will hear your wishes.”

“Raise a mound over me beside my fathers. My possessions all go to my sister. She is a widow. When he’s old enough, my nephew will make a fine karik. See that my bow and the dagger with the horn grip go to him. My sword and the chestnut gelding rest with me.”

“I swear it will be done.” 

Tiranes nodded solemnly, strands of greasy hair falling about his face. Then he smiled and raised his eyes once more to the sky. “I can’t see the sun,” he said with a quavering voice as he searched the clouded sky for the glow of the dim orb behind its veil. Fixing his sight upon its muted light, he drew a long, deep breath and held it. On his knees, he stretched himself tall and waited.

 “By Apia, to whom this flesh is hallowed, I give this man to death. Papahio, grant him justice for his transgression. By the Father of Song and Keeper of Oaths, Taker of Breath, God of the Hanged, I send Tiranes to You, Great Goetosura. He is your faithful servant. Give him peace in your kingdom and a place at your fire.” 

Then Tiranes took the bast girdle from around his waist and handed it to Aric, who tied it around his throat like a noose. Tiranes stared vacantly ahead and clenched his own fists but remained still. Wrapping the cord over his hand, Aric lifted and pulled it tight while seizing the man’s throat in his other hand, squeezing beside his windpipe with a terrible pressure, crushing the life from him. Tiranes gagged, his tongue protruding and his eyes bulging, and then was silent. His limbs jerked and convulsed and then were still as his staring eyes went dim, and his weight slumped forward against Aric. 

I looked on in detachment, like seeing from within a dream. There was no solace or glee in it. Just a sense that I needed to watch—to take part. That somehow, it would not be complete without me. Aric’s expression was blank—jaw clenched, eye fixed on some distant point, no emotion crept into his face. The veins in his hand and arm swelled, and the sinews strained. Aric braced the weight of Tiranes against his own body and kept his hand and the noose tight for another minute before allowing the body to fall limply onto the ground. As the rope loosened, hisses and gurgles emanated from Tiranes’ lungs like water dropped onto hot iron.

I stared at Aric’s hands hanging at his sides, the rope still twined about his fingers. They’d given me little pause before. If anything, I always thought them rather gentle. Eager to share. Skillful with reins. Surprisingly deft with a sewing needle. But to see a man stand before another and squeeze the life from him. To see such raw violence lay dormant in those hands that lay peacefully clasped across his chest each night. The hands that trained me. That passed me my cup of kumis at dinner. That brushed innocently against mine as we passed one another at the door. What other terrible deeds had those hands done? What more might they do?

The sky was iron grey now, and the rumblings of thunder drew closer. Aric gave the novices orders to deal with the body, which was to be loaded on a wagon and driven back to his clan. The crowd dispersed, and Aric walked calmly away toward camp. 

Antisthenes turned to go. 

“Is that all?” I asked.

“What more do you want?” 

I shook my head. I wanted none of this. Still, something had been troubling me for some time, and it only now occurred to me what it was.

“How do the Skythai say ‘syngnómi'?” I asked, using the Greek word for 'I’m sorry’. There were still a few words I was learning and some whose subtleties of meaning I had yet to grasp. But “sorry” was one I’d never heard uttered once since I’d arrived. Could a man not even apologize for his crimes? Would he not try?

Antisthenes frowned, scratching his chin through his dark beard. “There is no such word in the Skythian language.”

His answer took me aback. “But then how does an offender express his feelings of remorse when he has committed some injury or wrong?”

He grimaced like I’d just proposed something obscene. “His feelings are irrelevant.” 

I’d lived among the Skythai for some time now, and I’d known them to be a sensitive and passionate people, full of both kindness and sympathy. I was sure I was not insane. Maybe he didn’t understand my question. I tried a different tack. “What do you say, then, in those circumstances?”

“Well, if I felt guilt or shame, I would never ask for pity or beg for quarter, if that is what you suggest. This would only deepen my dishonor.”

“Honor? What about humility? Doesn’t a man relieve the burden he bears in his spirit to speak this aloud?”  

“Relieve his burden? This is not humility. Trying to cast off his burden—and onto the very one he has wronged! This is the antithesis of humility.”

Had I—or the day’s events—roused this ire in him? “Then what’s to be done?” 

“A man takes responsibility for his deeds, both helpful and hurtful. Sentiment is cheap and therefore worthless. Self-pity is the most tawdry sentiment of all. A worthy man seeks neither pity nor pardon; he redeems himself through true speech, right conduct, and kept promises. In this life, we can have pity or respect—but not both. We must choose.”

Needing space to clear my thoughts and possibly my stomach, I fled the camp. With my guts churning and sick rising in the back of my throat, I headed down by the river. There, I would not have to see or speak to anyone. 

This was not the life I’d agreed to. What kind of place had I come to where these men could watch their own be strangled with such serenity? With joy, even? Regardless of what he’d tried to do to me, Tiranes’ head was not the trophy I came here to win. I was going to hunt down that brute and demand he send me home. There was a karevan leaving tonight, even if I had to go with a corpse. I’d take any scalp he had and go. The others were right—this was no place for me. What ever made me think it could be?

An outcrop of rushes near a low marshy stretch of bank would give me some shelter and quiet. The reeds glowed an eerie gold against the iron clouds forming behind them, and the sunburnt grass waved a fiery orange above. Slipping down to the shore, I surprised a man crouched in the mud. Aric.

We both froze. He narrowed his reddened eye and looked up at me as if to say, don’t. He stood, kicked some thatch over a puddle of vomit, and wiped his bearded mouth with the back of his hand. Staring coldly at me, he drew a long, steady breath then shoved past. I watched numbly as he marched toward camp, a speck disappearing into the flat horizon.

The light rain continued into the evening. I left the river and wandered the pastures until dark. With everything that had passed and the weather turning, I’d no desire to be out at night. But I returned to our tent with my innards in knots. Antisthenes had already left to drive the funerary wagon bearing Tiranes’ body to his clansmen. He’d be gone a few days at least, and I’d be left alone with Aric.  

At the door, I stopped and considered sleeping outside. Thunder rumbled in the distance as the storm grew in strength, and even if I felt uncertain with Aric, I didn’t trust anyone else. Not tonight. I knocked on the doorframe and peered inside to find him sitting before the hearth staring blankly into the flames. He motioned for me to sit beside him.

“Let me see,” he said, lifting my chin and feeling around the bridge of my nose. It was tender, but I tried not to wince. “No, still not broken.”

I searched his passionless face in vain, still finding him impossible to read. In my own weariness, I gave up trying. My body would bruise, my eye would blacken again, and my lip was cut and swollen, but, miraculously, I was unharmed. 

“I’ll be all right.” And you? I wanted to ask but thought better of it. I would heed Antisthenes’ words, keep my feelings to myself, and assume he wished the same. Instead, I went and poured a cup of wine and handed it down to him. He took it without acknowledging me and did not drink. I filled one for myself as well. Standing before him, I braced my spine, clearing my throat softly. “My presence has caused grave strife in the ranks of men. My karadar has been unselfish, and I have been careless. Today, I was heedless of my surroundings, despite your warnings. Henceforth, I promise to remain vigilant.” I swore in earnest.

He clasped the cup with both hands and held it before him, his expression grave, his eye meeting mine for the first time since I entered the tent. He nodded slowly. “As will I,” he said softly and raised his wine, waiting as if in expectation, and I realized it was I who must drink first. I lifted my cup solemnly and drank, and he likewise sipped from his.

Over our heads, the rain finally let loose, hammering on the felt roof. He patted the carpet beside him, and I took a seat before the hearth. All night, we drank in silence, listening to the drumming of the rain and staring into the flames.

---

Chapter Fourteen: Traps

---