Chapter Thirty: Gutless

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The days shortened, and the green things faded toward their long hibernation. The solemn feast of Yamadin approached, beginning Slaughter Month in the camps. We called it Harvest Month back home, though I supposed they were essentially the same thing. Nothing delighted the weary farmer like the sight of ripe grain waving softly over the fields in the waning sun of autumn. We'd sharpen our scythes and, day and night, go reaping in the fields while the weather was fine. The weary stockman must feel something akin to that now, seeing his herds fit and healthy at the end of the season as he also sharpened his blade for the stock he'd be unable to feed through the night season. A long term of eating salted, smoked, and dried meats was upon us after a season of bounty, and grim as that prospect always seemed, the coming winter was also the time for rest. 

With the raiding season soon coming to a close, all but the kara would be leaving the Marches to return to their families, as the young novices took up their lessons, and those who'd both made their tallies and reached their twenty-first winter would be leaving for good. 

We forded the upper reaches of the Pantikap River on the way to meet up with the court above the cataracts of the Volosdanu before it began its forty-mile descent down the Nine Steps, which some said one could descend to the underworld. 

We rode through farm country, finding the fields all recently harvested and the pastures revived by the colder days and grudging rains of late summer. Those few Skythai permitted by King Ariapaithi to settle and farm made fair use of this fertile strip of land nestled between the Volos and Pantikap rivers. Now, it seemed the whole kingdom descended upon it for the festival. With the animals at their fittest, it was time to collect taxes. 

It was also an occasion for gift-giving. Chiefs brought gold and silver on behalf of their clans while warriors paraded horses captured in raids. Herdsmen brought hides, cheese, and fine cloth of felt and hemp, and the farmers presented the fruits of their fields. Gifts were also exchanged between friends, and for bereaved clans and those who suffered hardship, the more fortunate showed their generosity with donations of food and clothing. 

Nonetheless, the festival's peak was the ceremony celebrating the achievement of this year's crop of novices who had survived their ordeals, reached their manhood, and were finally fledged. They could now resign their Warband duties and take up their rights as members of the tribe. After Yamadin, our numbers would be reduced, but the burden was also lighter as these young men prepared to leave for the lands and herds of their fathers' clans and defend their—and Skythia's—holdings in earnest.

The long-awaited moment had arrived when they could bring their war trophies—heads and scalps—to the head of the tribe and be granted the privilege of drinking from his golden bowl, gaining full rights of citizenship. They stood on the platform above the crowd, offering up the scalps they'd taken from the field. No longer servants of Goetosura, Aric stood before each, ready to remove their iron torcs, burn their bast girdles, and thrust their heads into a massive cauldron of holy water to quench the warrior fury within. 

I stood on my toes and lifted my chin, searching above the crowd for Antisthenes, hoping I might lend him some comfort, but in vain. I understood: he had his reasons for being elsewhere today.

Flanked by the tribe's elder officiants—for the Skythai lacked any formal priesthood—and several anarei, they came before Ariapaithi to be permitted, finally, to dip their cups into the king's wine and forevermore drink alongside the other men of the tribe. This was the moment they'd waited for all their young lives—the moment they confirmed their worth and received their rights as Paralatai, as Skythai.

I should have stood among them. 

With my scalp secreted away, I suffered a pang of conscience as I watched. I studied Aric for some sign that he felt it too. If it caused him grief, he didn't let it show. He seldom let unquiet spirits rise and ripple his still surface, but I knew they must boil there from time to time. Was this such a time? I'd no method to read his mind, divine his fears, or learn his plans despite how I tried in those moments when the spells came over me or when we lay silently in the dark awaiting sleep. I would pore over the day's conversations, gestures, looks, trying to piece together some significance from them in the way the seers found meaning in the spatters of blood from a sacrifice, or the death throes of the victim, or the position of the entrails when exposed to the light. Was I exposed? No, I trusted him with my life. But should I trust him also with my secrets? It might have been foolish to give him—or anyone—such jurisdiction. In doing so, I'd given him something more valuable—more powerful—than my trifling life, which suddenly terrified me. The price paid for a deception this consequential would be steep and broad. Not just to me, but to my people. Caught between them, father did not have the forces to fight both the Agathyrsi and the Paralatai. Aric understood this better than anyone, but he was still Ariapaithi's son. It was a lot of faith to place in one man. Too much, perhaps.

Knowing the others would be at the ceremony for a while longer, I slipped away from the rite back to our campsite. I avoided our tent for fear of encountering Antisthenes there. Instead, I rummaged through the wagon where our spare things were stowed. Extra clothes and blankets, leather for repairs, hides to trade, my old bow. It had to be here somewhere. I knew Aric would have stowed the scalp in a safe place. I just had to think where. For a man who traveled light as he did, he had a surprising array of trinkets and knickknacks stashed away. The gold, jewels, and rare foreign goods I understood. As well as the perilous Mard-Khwaar dagger carefully wrapped and stowed for safe-keeping. Those had clear value. Of less obvious worth was a carved wooden horse, well-burnished with age. A small, clay model of a wagon with one of the wheels broken off. A perfectly smooth and white but otherwise ordinary river pebble the size of a walnut. And a painted and glazed potsherd from a red and black Greek-style vase bearing the broken image of a woman's face in profile and a disembodied hand clutching the shaft of a spear.

My vexation had reached its end as I surveyed the destruction I'd wrought inside the wagon I'd now have to set right. 

"What are you doing?" Aric's phantom voice froze me like a dog caught digging in the garden. He mounted the stairs and ducked into the wagon.

"I'm putting it all back." I was still on my knees amid the pile of scattered things as he stood over me. 

"Looking for something?" His tone was patient, but it was restrained patience. 

I didn't look at him but chose my words carefully. "I should have been up there today. With them." 

"So, that's it?" 

Was he angry or hurt? It was almost impossible to discern the difference with him. "You do realize," he continued, "this goes badly for us both if you reveal what we've done?" 

"I hadn't considered that." In my eagerness, I forgot that there would also be consequences for my accomplice. I had shunned my duty, which was dire enough, but in allowing me to remain after I'd made a kill, Aric had also betrayed his king and jeopardized the pact with my father. Either of us could strike the other a severe blow with this knowledge. 

"Then why?" he asked, more accusation than inquiry. "You truly wish to go?"

"Of course not." I could no more bear the thought of relinquishing my arms than I could of bedding the aged king. He could keep his golden bowl and bitter wine. I'd found a life far fuller and nobler than any king could offer me at court. But I still couldn't face Aric. I stared at the reed mats covering the planks of the wagon's floor, unweaving them with my gaze. "But it weighs on me." 

He grabbed a bundle of hides and shoved them aside to kneel before me. "It weighs on me, too." He exhaled sharply and took my hands. "You're free. But, Anaiti, the road is treacherous, and I have need of you. I hope you will stay."

I forced myself to meet his gaze. "I don't want to leave, but someday I may have to. I cannot do that unless I have it in my possession."

"Of course," he said, his words tinged with gloom.

He moved aside a few packs near the front of the wagon, pulled back the reed mat, and, withdrawing his dagger, pried up a short plank that was not nailed down. Beneath was a small, hidden compartment containing various pouches of waxed cloth. He extracted and passed me one of these. It appeared to be filled with dark hair and white leather. I breathed deeply, uncertain what I would even do with it, if anything, but oddly lighter than I'd been in weeks.

"Thank you," I said and set the pouch back into the false compartment before replacing the board and the packs over top of it.

I was told that a tradition of the festival was the horseracing that took place on the second day. Held in the eastern pastures, the races promised to display horseflesh unrivaled anywhere in the world. The Skythai horses, having spent all season grazing on lush meadows and traversing great distances in pursuit of cattle and commerce, were in peak condition and would be racing fit. Some had even brought specially trained racing steeds for the main events later in the day. 

A few of the men had badgered me to enter Vatra in one of the smaller, informal races. It would be fun, they assured me. Olgas, Bornon, and Gohar goaded me relentlessly, and yet when it came time for the race, I noticed none of them were riding. But Vatra was a competitive horse, always resentful of the protocols of rank and duty which usually held us to the rear of the field. I'd longed to see what he could do if given free rein. With some anxiety, I relented and rode to the post to join a half dozen of the other karik in a friendly match.

After all, who didn't love a horserace? Few sights in this world were as perfect as a horse in motion. Nothing could quite equal the power and grace of a horse in full flight. Its coat shimmering, its muscles rippling like water over a stone. The joy it exhibits with every beat drummed, every hoofprint stamped into the earth, each footfall proclaiming a fierce but unpretentious pride. 

We lined up and waited for the count. Peraka, Azarion, Mourdag, Galati, Bradak, Rathagos, Artavardiya, and myself. Then the starter waved a flag, and we were off, galloping hard across the rough pasture toward the finish post, about eight or nine furlongs away. While I kept some tension on the reins, Vatra had no trouble keeping pace with the others. The race would be over quickly.

Peraka's calm and steady horse fell behind immediately. He had no chance of catching any of us. Bradak rode a beautiful bay with a ground-eating stride, but he drove him too hard at the start, and I knew the big horse would soon fade. Azarion's horse did nothing but fight, tiring himself out against the bit. Mourdag kept his rangy grey at an even pace, but he seemed to lack the fire to pull to the front of the pack. But Rathagos' horse was quick. He'd be the one to watch. An eager, aggressive chestnut, I'd seen him in the field many times before, angrily chomping his bit and flaring his nostrils any time he was made to stand and wait instead of thrashing his hooves across the plain. He leaned into his bridle as Rathagos whipped him on. 

I eased off Vatra's reins, and we made to pass them. Rathagos pulled the chestnut hard right and bumped us, crushing my leg between the horses and launching Vatra into an incensed bucking fit, his head between his knees, his back up like a cat pouncing upon invisible prey. Somehow he galloped on. I sat down deep and rode it out, but it set us back a few paces.

After Vatra had settled again, we were staring at the haunches of Bradak's sleek bay, who had slipped past us. Beside him, Azarion's leggy liver chestnut was inching forward and closing my path between them, clods of turf flinging up in our faces. I leaned forward, fed Vatra a bit more rein, and nudged him with my heels. He flattened his ears and dug in hard. A surge of muscle and fury pulled us forward as if by a thousand hands heaving a great rope, and we passed them both with ease.

The post approached. A small crowd of onlookers, including Olgas, Bornon, Gohar, and Aric, stood beside it. We were about to pass Rathagos again. Vatra's previous bucking fit got me thinking. He was a sensitive, opinionated horse. If I pressed my heels hard to him, he bucked. He struck with his foreleg when I touched my whip to his shoulder. And if I tapped his flank with my whip, he kicked out. So, I steered near Rathagos' horse, ready this time, and tapped Vatra behind my leg with my whip. His hind leg shot out like a bolt of lightning toward Rathagos' fiery chestnut, catching him hard in the ribs and stunning him for a stride. It was all Vatra needed to gain the ground he lost, passing him and the post by at least a length. Shouts and a single cheer rose and fell as we galloped past, and I struggled to rein Vatra in, circling in the pasture beyond the course. I gave Vatra's mane a big rub and threw my arms around his neck.  

Bradak, Azarion, Mourdag, Peraka, Galati, and Artavardiya pulled their horses up alongside me in the field, and we congratulated one another on a good race. I was wrong to have doubted the men. Glad for their badgering, we trotted back to the group, triumphant, and a shameless grin overcame my face. Aric nodded approvingly. 

"I'd have won if she didn't cheat," Rathagos announced as the others caught up. "You all saw her bump me."

My smile died. He couldn't be serious. Olgas and Bornon looked at one another and shrugged, and Gohar gave me a sympathetic half-smile. Aric just shook his head. 

"Excellent race, Rathagos," I said with a pleasant smile. "That's a fine horse you have there."

Stepping forward, the judge came with my prize, which they saw fit to award me this time. He wished me awkward congratulations as he handed me a circlet of plaited wheat from the harvest. 

I placed the crown on Vatra's head, where it truly belonged. The crowd dispersed, and I dismounted and loosened his girth before walking back to camp. 

"I bet on you to win," Aric grinned triumphantly. 

After the day's ceremonies, we barely had time to tidy ourselves up and change clothes before the feast began at sundown. With only half of our things unpacked, I couldn't find my clean woolen caftan and trousers with the lovely embossed gold plaques. As a consequence, I was, as usual, running late. I promised Aric and Antisthenes I'd catch up as soon as possible and sent them on ahead. 

Cursing myself for not doing a shrewder job of packing, I finally found my dress clothes, not too severely scrunched and wrinkled, rolled up with the extra blankets I was sure I'd need but hadn't unpacked yet in the warm weather. By the time I'd finished dressing and emerged from the tent, everyone else was gone except for Gohar, who also rushed out of his tent, his long brown hair streaming behind him, still fastening his warbelt around his caftan. A horn sounded in the distance, summoning us to the feast. 

I hailed him and asked if he'd walk with me to the feasting grounds, as I didn't really like wandering about the sprawling camp on my own. Twice as large as I'd ever seen it, this festival drew members from all the affiliated tribes and clans of Skythia to court to pay their taxes and welcome the novices home. There were more people and animals than I'd ever seen in one place. As we walked, the shouts of men and bellows of stock mingled with the scents of manure and cooking fires in the crisp evening air. 

The sun had already set, and the light faded quickly. We followed a torch-lined track worn by many boots toward the voices in the distant pasture. Some cattle-herders passed us along the path, cupped their hands to their mouths, and shouted "Gohar the Gutless," then laughed among themselves and strolled away. I scowled at them as they passed, and if it wasn't beneath my honor, I'd have fought them then and there. But Gohar's graven features were unmoved. His narrowed eyes focused only on the path as if he had never heard or seen them. 

"Why do you not defend yourself?" I asked him, apparently more offended than he was. "Those men are beneath you." He was one of the finest men I'd ever met—certainly one of the bravest. I'd heard the nickname uttered behind his back many times in the Marches, and I'd assumed it was in irony or jest. But to encounter it here, at court, spoken from the mouths of far lesser men, seemed wholly unacceptable.

"I do nothing because they are beneath me. Because if I dueled every man who thought or spoke ill of me, I'd do nothing else in this life. And I have much to do." We walked silently for a few more paces, and he turned his head toward me. "But, if you wish to know…" he shrugged, holding his palms up to the starlit sky, "you might as well hear the truth. I once hung my goryt outside a woman's wagon." He drew a long slow breath and sighed. "I was young then. The court had gathered at Gerrhi for Merhedin, and she was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen. Maybe the most beautiful woman in all of Skythia. I was bold enough to tell her so." He smiled to himself as if at a private joke. 

"What happened?"

"She invited me in. Her husband was away in the fields tending his cattle. When he heard, he came home to challenge me." 

"She had a husband?" 

"She did. Any free man in good standing may make such a claim. And any woman is free to refuse or accept. But he may have to answer for it: her man came for his answer. But he was just a herdsman, and I am vazarka. There was no honor for me in dueling him. It was not cowardice that stayed my hand, but this ring you see around my neck. I've gladly taken away the lives of many challengers in battle. But I'd not deprive that fine woman of a husband when I could not replace him. I walked away."

"This they call gutless?"

"The herdsman himself gave me this name. It has stuck to me ever since."

"They only prove their dishonor repeating it."

"You're kind to say so. But he was right. If I could not make her my own, I didn't deserve the right to hang my goryt there, no matter my honor or rank. Perhaps I deceived her. Perhaps myself. But I'd no claim to her. He didn't make me pay with blood. But I have paid."

Joining the feast, I ate hungrily and laughed heartily with the kara over the funniest ways we'd all fallen off our horses. We poked good-natured fun at one another as the drink flowed and ate ourselves sick on the bounteous fare. The mood was light around the table for a change. I sensed that the novices were grateful to return safely to their families, and the Warband was glad to be rid of them.

As we finished our meal and prepared to retire to a warm hearth, a dour man in Hellenic dress approached Ariapaithi and the princes from the table where the Hellenic governors and wealthy merchants had been dining. Skyles arose to meet him, and they spoke at length before the two approached the head of the king's table.

Skyles addressed his father: "Demetrios, the governor of Kremnos, has just told me the most shocking thing!" he exclaimed with forced outrage. The king and all his guests now turned to fix their attention on the Hellenic prince. "He tells me that Aric's kara have ravaged a Greek village on the Lykus river. Not a man has survived the raid. They destroyed crops and buildings and made off with goods and livestock." His dark eyes scanned the silent table as the eyes of the guests shifted between Ariapaithi and Aric for answers. I chewed casually while I furtively watched Aric, anxious about what he would do.

It was Aric who spoke first. "This good man must be mistaken, for that is impossible," he said. "There are no Greek settlements north of the place where the Lykus and Hygris rivers meet. As the good governor is well aware, these are the terms of our covenant with the Hellenes. There has never been, nor shall there ever be, a Greek settlement beyond this meeting of the waters."

The man looked confused, then his face reddened, and a snarl contorted his thin lips. "You deny slaughtering these people?"

"You stand before King Ariapaithi and confess to settling and farming lands outside your already generous endowment without the king's consent?" Aric countered.

The governor glanced nervously at Skyles, who showed no concern or even notice of him. "I should know when my own people have been slaughtered!" he barked, seemingly more out of desperation than wisdom.

"If your people have come to harm, you should tell them not to wander where they don't belong."

Demetrios looked reproachfully at Skyles. "We had a deal!" he said in Greek.

Aric rose from his cushion to face the man, who barely came to his elbow. Towering over the now meek governor, his tone became more stern. 

"I am Warden of the East March," Aric answered him in Greek. "There are no covenants, no grazing rights, no settlements, no trade, no passage there but through me." He stared hard at Demetrios until the man shrank with terror and, casting a last fretful look toward Skyles, scurried back to his seat amongst his fellows, no doubt to commiserate about the savagery of the barbarians.

"How dare you?" Skyles scolded Aric once the man had left.

"You blame me?" Aric raised his eyebrow. "Perhaps if you spent less time fraternizing with them and more time governing them…."

Skyles finally met Aric's steady gaze. "Fraternize?" he asked, leaning in close. "I negotiate." 

"That's an odd name for it."

"You disapprove of my partaking in their festivals."

"I don't see the appeal. But if you want to let their gods humiliate you and drive you mad, who am I to stop you?"

"I, too, have a duty," Skyles said, locking Aric in a fiery stare. "I must be gracious to my hosts, or my connections won't be amenable to making trade with me." 

"Bullshit," Aric said coolly. "I bargain and treat with man-eaters and goat-fuckers every day. Never once have I eaten a man or fucked a goat. Yet somehow, we have peace." He sipped his wine. "Believe what you like, but you do it because it pleases you. And that's fine. Do as you wish. But don't bullshit me or anyone else about your reasons."

"They come here," Skyles waved his hand over the banquet before them, "and participate in our festivals. Why shouldn't we participate in theirs?"

"Because they're our guests, we are not theirs. In need, they came to us. They must earn our trust, in our land, by honoring our ways in good faith. Instead, they scorn and disparage us here in our own home. They make outrageous demands. Bring decadent practices to our shores. You are a prince of this kingdom! Act like it." Aric lowered his voice to a whisper, so only those few at the head of the table could hear. "Soon, the cattle-herders will learn what you do—what is done to you—during these perverse rites. What will they think?"

Skyles' face reddened to match his tunic color, and his beard, less black than I recalled, seemed to reflect his ruddy glow. But he restrained his anger in the oily, condescending manner I'd grown to expect. "I care nothing for what cattle-herders think. Besides, what's so decadent about worshipping the gods? You like Greek wine well enough. Why disparage the One from whom it flows?" 

"I like plentiful wine, and the Hellenes do not disappoint on that score. But, we were making wine in Skythia long before they and their mad god arrived. Do not try to supplant our ways. Break the pillar that props the roof, and the whole tent collapses around us."

Skyles stood with his fists clenched at his sides. "So what if it does? If something better is built in its place?" 

"What do you imagine will be built?"

"The Hellenes are a great people. They are ancient and wise and powerful."

Aric turned slowly to face him. The guests, no longer whispering, fell silent. "Truly, they are. I bear them no ill will. I even respect them. But what do they know about life on the steppe? What do they know about herding cattle? And living in wagons and felt-houses? And how to fight enemies who rush in on swift horses? Have they seen our winters? For fuck's sake, they don't even have the sense to put on a pair of trousers when the snow is up to their balls and the wind is whistling up their asses! They can't feed themselves in their own land, so they spill over onto our shores and come begging for our goods. They know only cities and towns. How will they survive out here in the open? Where the rivers flood the plain in spring, and the soil is hard as stone in summer, so no seed will sprout? What will they eat then? When the sea freezes so solid we can drive our wagons clear across? Where there is no wood for fuel or building because no tree will take root? Over the ages, we have forged a life upon the steppe the hard way, through heat and cold and more blows of the hammer than numbers can count. We, too, are ancient and wise and powerful—or have you forgotten that?"

Skyles was speechless, and it seemed he had no answer, his face overtaken with a strange, painful emptiness. 

"I forget nothing," he said at last and shoved his way past the servers and out of the feasting grounds, leaving his meal unfinished and the guests to murmur in his absence. 

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Chapter Thirty-One: Vazarka

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