Chapter Thirty-One: Vazarka
Chapter Thirty-One: Vazarka
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Since we’d arrived, I had been eager to speak with Erman again. His wagon-tent sat on the outskirts of the camp, and I climbed the stairs to knock on his doorframe.
“Anaiti, come in,” he called from behind the closed door.
“How did you know it was me?” I asked, peeking inside.
He just smiled. His hair was pulled back into a knot, and he wore his usual white linen skirt and a tunic of felted wool. “Have you come for your tattoo?”
I’d forgotten. The last time we spoke, he mentioned having a vision of an image meant for me.
“Please,” I said, entering and walking straight into the dried horse phallus again. As I removed my dusty shoes beside the door, I thought how much less the shriveled cock made me feel lucky and how much more it reminded me of the unfortunate horse.
“I will paint it now if you wish it…” he gestured to a place on the carpet.
“What have you chosen?”
“Ah. Well, you are a huntress. And what creature is more sacred to Artimpasa herself than the Golden Hind, bright as the Sun and swifter than arrows?”
“A hind?”
“Are you not pleased?”
There was no hiding my disappointment. It broke my heart to learn that even he saw me as nothing more than the timid, skittish companion to the great king of the wilds, the hart.
“The noblest creature of the wild is the shape-shifting deer—overleaping every boundary, traversing all the realms; antlers which grow and recede miraculously, branching into the sky like the Great Tree.”
“But the hind has no antlers. She is docile, defenseless.”
“Why do you imagine she is called the Golden Hind if not to honor her golden antlers? This is what makes her sacred to the Mistress.”
“Can this be true?”
“In the northern lands of the Budini, there is such a living species whose females grow horns like the males.”
How had I never heard of such a thing in all my years? I suddenly felt deprived of a vast wealth of knowledge, having grown up shielded within the confines of Bastarnia’s forts. “I should like to see such a deer.”
“Let me draw one for you.”
“All right, then.”
“Her head rests on your breast,” he began to trace the image as he spoke, “then comes around your shoulder and back.”
I trembled with excitement. The tattoos I glimpsed engraved upon the men filled me with envy, and I felt almost naked without more of my own.
“Good, then let’s begin.”
I tied back my hair and dressed in the white robe he provided as before. He told me that parts would be excruciating, like over my collarbone, and it might not be finished until I could return at the next festival. But it would be worth whatever pain I must endure.
“So, you’ve fought your first true battle since we spoke last…” he said as he rifled through his things, looking for his tools and dyes. “That changes things.”
“I suppose it does. And it doesn’t.”
“How do you mean?” He spread his kit upon the carpet.
“Well, I know what to expect now. How I’ll react. I will be ready next time.”
“Then, it was a victory.” Standing over me, he held a small bundle of dried steppe sage which he ignited in the fire and, wafting the smoke over and around me, chanted verses in an ancient tongue I scarcely understood. He drew an image on my bared skin with paint, outlining where he would prick the design. Then, sitting close beside me, ever so gently, he lifted my chin and turned my face away. Then he stretched the skin just beneath my collarbone between his thumb and forefinger and gripped the needle. I held my breath, and he began stabbing out an image.
“I don’t know,” I said tentatively. I wished I could tell him about the scalp. “The worst part is what happened after.”
He stopped working and frowned. “What happened after?”
“Some of the men asked me to speak to the dead on their behalf.”
“Did you?” he wiped clean his needle and set it on the inkwell.
“Well, not really. I guess I offered—to try, anyway. But obviously, I cannot. I should have simply told them that, but I didn’t want to disappoint them. To break their hearts.”
“Why is it obvious you can’t?”
“Because I don’t even know if such a thing is possible.”
“And yet, they believe you do this?” he raised his eyebrows and then shrugged. “Aric believes you are twice-born—a traveler to the other realms, able to leave your flesh and walk among the shades—though I can see you doubt this. Perhaps they have spoken to you, and you never realized? Who knows if the dead speak to the living, or how? They don’t have mouths anymore. And if corpses ever speak, run for your life!” he tittered to himself. “Yet many voices compete for attention in our thoughts, our dreams. Who can say where all of them originate?”
He resumed his work on the tattoo, dipping his finger in the inkwell and smudging the powdered dye into the wounds he had made, then wiping all clean and starting anew.
“But if I can’t know, how can I answer? Does this not make me a liar? A fraud?”
He wiped blood and ink away from my chest, the white cloth stained black and red. “Ah, so it’s not the dead but your conscience that haunts you.”
I exhaled a deep breath it seemed I’d been holding for months. “Aric is so certain of everything. Of the two sights, the gods, the just outcomes of battle. I’m not sure of anything—except that I don’t know what’s real or what’s true.”
“Do you believe Aric is wrong because of this?”
“He is the cleverest man I know. But that doesn’t mean he’s always right.”
He smiled. “Good judgement must fill gaps in our knowledge.
“But I want to do right—for myself, the Warband, my tribe. How do I choose a course? Is there a way to divine the right action?”
“You must do as your nature dictates.”
“That’s no help.”
“You wish me to tell you what is good and evil. But there is no such thing.”
“Are you saying our right conduct and character mean nothing?”
“Quite the opposite. I’m saying the wolves are being wolves, and the deer are being deer. But when the hunt is over, they will each tell very different stories about who is good and who is evil. Which is true?” He sat back and fixed me in his uncanny blue gaze.
“I see. But then how do we know what is right?”
“All the cosmos moves in accord with Arta, including beasts and men. Do the beasts ask what is right? The bravest of beings are the wild beasts, for they alone die willingly for their liberty. They are also the most just, for they live according to Nature’s law, and no other. Nature sometimes fails to attain its end: obstacles hinder Her workings, and monsters are Her failures. But laws are the bindings of men upon one another for our failures. Nature contains the means for restoring balance. We aim to understand this order and place ourselves in accord with it. Man cannot correct what is already perfect. And even laws cannot make us gods. Be a human being—no more or less. The wise do not seek to break the world to their will, yet the world cannot break those who seek harmony with it.”
The festival was near its end, and no one seemed certain whether I would remain behind at court with the other novices or return to the Fields with the Warband. Erman had said I would not be joining the novices for their lessons in lore and verse, so there seemed little to gain in remaining behind. Still, when I asked Aric at the feast, he leaned over and whispered in my ear, admonishing me to be patient, saying that we would speak in private after the guests had left the table.
Such talk from him always left my nerves frayed. I had also wanted to speak with him ever since that Governor Demetrios accosted him days earlier. The whole affair had been weighing on my mind. I spent the rest of the meal poking at the food on my plate, wondering when the axe would swing. But as the guests departed the table, he grabbed our cups and a pitcher of wine, and I followed him to one of the bonfires out in the field where we sat in the cold, damp grass, and he poured me a cup.
“Why such secrecy?” I asked with apprehension. “Is something wrong?”
“On the contrary,” he said, his eye flashing in the firelight as he poured a cup for himself and downed it. “Drink,” he said as he refilled his cup.
I took a tentative sip.
“Is something troubling you?” he asked.
Where would I even begin? But I had promised to be forthright with him. Did that mean always? “I’m all right,” I told him, “just very tired.”
“Well, I have a gift for you,” he said with a wide grin on his face that I had not seen in weeks.
Not another gift. “But I have nothing to give you,” I all but pleaded.
He extracted a heavy, cloth-wrapped lump from the breast of his fur-lined caftan. Slowly, I peeled back the folds to reveal a bronze mirror, and held it beside the fire, the warm glow revealing an intricate spiraling pattern on its back and an ornately cast handle in the form of a woman whose legs gracefully tapered into twining serpents. Her hands, held elegantly above her head, supported the rim of the golden mirror.
This was his idea of a gift? I didn’t much care to see what I looked like these days, and I was afraid to look in it just now.
He frowned. “You don’t like it.”
“No, I do, thank you,” I said, swallowing my bitterness as I carefully wrapped the cloth over its face. “I suppose I should have one of these.”
“That’s what I thought,” he smiled again, his cheeks dimpling.
“I sometimes forget I’m a lady.” I combed my fingers through my hair. “It gets away from me out there with the wind.”
“Hmm? Oh, no, it’s not for that,” he said, his hand unconsciously going behind his neck while he bit his lip. “No, it’s for your divining. Seers use them, do they not?” he asked tentatively, and I found his deference to my authority so charming I completely forgot my embarrassment. “The otherworld, they say, lies behind the reflective surfaces of still waters, mirrors, and the like.”
“Oh, of course,” I said, having no idea whether seers used mirrors or not. I would ask Erman about it when we next met.
“Well, I saw you didn’t have one, so….”
“It was very good of you. Again, thanks. Perhaps you could teach me to signal with it as well?”
“I will. But first, there is another matter.”
Ah, of course there was… no gift was truly free.
“Since the death of Tiranes, I have not had twelve loyal warriors to fill the ranks of the vazarka.”
“Why have you not yet promoted a man?”
“Because it is not suitable for just any warrior. Only those with something rare to offer the Warband are chosen. And it is an unyielding commitment—never to leave the field of battle without the kara-daranaka. A lifelong duty, unless released by me or by death.”
“There are many karik who’d gladly take that place.”
“I’ve considered many, but I had not found one I deemed worthy of the honor. Until now.”
“Who is he?”
He began to snort and chuckle to himself, and his face flushed in the bonfire’s ruddy glow.
“No. You can’t mean…?” No.
“Why not?”
“There must be someone better. I know there is. Many others. What have I done to deserve it?”
“You’ve proven yourself worthy time and again. Your counsel has been sound—your instincts noble. You’ve saved this miserable hide more than once. You’re my only blood-sworn friend. And, of course, you have the two sights; Erman believes you are attended by a powerful spirit. Who among the kara can claim all that?”
“But, the king, my father… how can I commit for life and also uphold their bargain?”
“Have no fear. If—when—the time comes that you must leave this place, you shall be released from your oaths to me.”
“I haven’t even made my tally—not officially. There are men here who have killed... I don’t know how many enemies. Men who have been here for years. They surely deserve it more than I do. And they’ll resent me if you prefer me with not even a scalp to show for my time here.”
“Being vazarka is not about how many enemies one kills, but how many of us one saves. You protect us and make us thrive. That is why I want you with us. You are the rarest of creatures—our satanaya in all but name. We need your wise counsel.”
“Well, if I can offer you counsel now, don’t do this. Many men think themselves more worthy of the post than I, and many others will resent me just because I’m new here and inexperienced. Or because I’m a woman. Why provoke them? Why test their loyalty?” I rambled, troubled thoughts coming more rapidly than I could speak them.
His expression darkened. “Because the composition of the vazarka is my choice. Not theirs.”
“And if I say no?”
He drew his head back in surprise and gawked at me for a moment, wide-eyed and mouth gaping, bewildered. I don’t think he even considered it a possibility. “You wouldn’t refuse?” he asked, more hurt than hostile.
“What has Antisthenes said about all of this?”
“What business is it of his?”
“He was your confidant before I arrived, and I’d not like to usurp his role. He is a great friend to you and a man of great value to this Warband. It wouldn’t be right to place me before him or make such a choice without his advice.”
He chewed his lip and nodded. “I see your point. I’ll await his judgement. But he will agree.”
I wasn’t so sure. Maybe Antisthenes could talk some sense into him. "Ask the Hellene and the other vazarka. Put it to a vote like any other matter that affects them.”
“Do you care so much what others think?”
“No,” I said defiantly. “Not for myself.”
He gripped my arm and grinned. “Then you’re ready.”
“But I must care for your sake. I will not agree unless they do. Speak to them first?”
He nodded slowly. “Tomorrow, then.”
Our hunting party had followed the hounds up the valley and into the hills above the rapids. They’d been on the scent of a stag since before dawn, and we rode close behind, hoping to get a glimpse of their quarry across the dewy fields before it could take flight. Then we could decide if it would be worth the chase that followed.
Aric had called this hunt to inaugurate me as vazarka. On the festival’s final day, we met the other eleven an hour before sunrise at the northern edge of camp. Aric had put the question of my membership to the others as I’d asked, and most had agreed, he said. Not all. He’d not mentioned who the dissenters had been, but I was surprised any at all had agreed. I spent the better part of the ride trying secretly to root out the objectors. By dawn, I had assembled a gang of suspects.
Far ahead, in the dimness of predawn, I spotted a mass of moving shadows beside the river. Aric raised his hand to signal us to stop and whistled to the hounds to bring them to heel.
Horses groundtied behind us, Aric summoned Stormai and me to creep closer through the tall grass with him for a better view of our quarry. A young stag strutted along the riverbank, bellowing to a small herd of hinds downriver. The hillside, sweeping low to the river, was all black, thick with the ripened fruits and pods of woad plants as far as the eye could see.
“He’s a fine stag,” Stormai said. “The ground is good. We should be able to get to him.”
“Indeed,” Aric said and waved his hand to the men behind us. Everyone knew his duty and made for his post. Rathagos and Siran, Bradak and Azarion, Galati and Mourdag all quietly rode away, circling wide around the field in an easy canter.
Crouched in this cover, we that remained prepared to take up our positions. With our hands, we gathered the dew from the morning grass and washed our faces so that we might be pure before asking leave to take a beast in Artimpasa’s charge. My new tattoo still stung beneath my caftan, and I said a little prayer to the Mistress in hopes She’d smile upon our hunt on this day especially.
Olgas and Bornon, Gohar and Peraka, Aric, Stormai, and I were to spread across the field, descend into the valley like a living net, and ensnare the creature as it fled. But the stag below spun around and roared. We all froze in our tracks and crouched down again.
From out of a covert, a great hart trotted down the hillside north of us and entered the valley floor. He bellowed mightily before the hinds and the young stag, and I thrilled just to see the magnificent beast. Crawling through the grass, I propped myself on my elbows and watched. Aric inched up close beside me.
The two deer met and began to walk, side by side, sizing each other up. The hart must have had over ten winters and was in fine health. The younger stag couldn’t have had more than three or four winters. If he had any sense, he would have fled. But he was in rut and wasn’t giving up on those hinds so easily. What a strange thing it was, a spectacle such as this. Neither threatened to devour the other. There was neither a portion of earth nor life-sustaining resources to battle over. Both risked their lives for the pleasure, the privilege, of a brief mating. It hardly seemed worth the hazard, yet this young stag had decided to test his mettle against the seasoned warrior of the steppe.
The venerable hart reared back and clashed horns with the younger stag. The fight was on. Scrambling in the dirt, the clashing and clacking of antlers as they bent low, locked heads twisting, bodies grappling, the hart threw the younger to the ground, but he scrambled to his feet. They locked horns again, each losing ground and regaining it. Thrashing with their forelegs, they ranged all across the field. The clashing of their great horns rang across the plain like claps of thunder. The hinds, barely interested, circled the ground, sometimes looking up from their grazing to watch the battle, sometimes inching closer, sometimes fleeing from its path.
The hart leapt forward and smashed his great horns once more into his opponent, driving his head down and into the dirt, and the young stag pulled back just as the hart twisted his head free of the locked horns and caught him in the throat. The tine of his antler punctured the young stag’s neck. The stag pulled away and fled but quickly stumbled, crumpled, then fell. He struggled to rise and fell again, lying on his side in the grass beside the river, panting. Then the rise and fall of ribs slowed, sputtered, and ceased.
The hart stood panting, with his head hung low, exhausted and confused by what had just happened. He neither fled from nor approached his fallen opponent.
Aric and I were still as well. We were so close that the hairs on my arms stood on end, touching the hairs of his arm. Though our skin never met, it sent a shiver through me. The wounds Erman made over my breast and shoulder burned now after laying propped on my elbow in the grass for so long. The others were waiting out in the field for a signal from Aric.
“Ready?” Aric asked.
“I say we leave him be.”
He stared at me, puzzled.
“Why do men always conspire to destroy the best of things? For their pride? Fuck their pride. Should we not winnow the weak and foolish and leave the best to thrive? That hart was the winner of this and every prior contest. He fought bravely and deserves to live. We should gather the fallen stag and be content.”
He frowned and scratched his beard as he studied the hart. “You’re right.”
I had readied myself for another fight. “You agree?”
“There are many deer in the plain. But few noble kings like him. We leave him.”
We stood to collect our horses. Bornon, Gohar, and Peraka gathered near.
“How do we approach?” Stormai asked, confused.
“We do not,” Aric said firmly. “It’s over.”
“Bullshit,” Olgas protested. “There’s no finer prize than him. And what could be more fitting for a royal feast?”
“Aric is right,” Stormai said. “He fought bravely. Leave him to his hinds. He’s earned them.”
The other men voiced their assent.
“Well,” Olgas waved his hand in acquiescence, “when you put it that way….”
“Good,” Aric said. “The choice is made. We go to collect the young stag.”
The light was yet too dim to signal with the mirror. But he waved a signal with his arms to Rathagos, Bradak, Siran, Azarion, Galati, and Mourdag, who had positioned themselves farther up the field, and whistled for them to return. The hunt was off. Those down on the valley floor were already making their way back up the hill to join us.
“Where is Rathagos?” I asked, searching the hillside below.
He wasn’t among the group of men returning up the hill. Aric turned to scan the field. And as my eyes swept down along the riverbank, I saw the herd of hinds scatter as a horseman crept up to the herd and approached the battle-weary hart.
“Don’t!” Aric bellowed and held up his hand in warning just before Rathagos drew his bow and shot an arrow into the side of the exhausted beast. After it had fallen, he leapt from his horse and stood over the body, placed his foot upon its neck, drew his sword, and stabbed it through the heart.
No one spoke. We waited in tense silence, watching for a sign from Aric as Rathagos rode back triumphantly, either oblivious or entirely indifferent to the scorn he’d just earned himself. But Aric was eerily calm, so none of us dared move or speak.
“Now we’ve got two fine beasts for the king’s feast,” Rathagos announced as he approached. “Let’s get the cart down there and pick them up before the crows come.”
Kicking his horse forward, Aric met him halfway. “What the fuck was that?” he roared at Rathagos like a peal of thunder. “He wasn’t yours to take!”
“No, then whose was he?” Rathagos barked back, reining in his horse before reaching the place Aric stood.
“You forget yourself. He belongs to the king, and I am his voice here. I gave a command, which you refused to heed. There will be a reckoning for this. From me, and maybe yet from the king. You’ll be lucky if he doesn’t have your hand—or worse.”
Rathagos seethed with anger, but he seemed to think better of openly defying Aric further. His hot temper burned in his reddened face and neck, and his fists, clenched on the reins, wrenched savagely at his horse’s bit as he rode away, leaving us to clean up his mess. We collected both kills and rode home in silence. I was afraid of what reckoning would come, but pleased as well. Rathagos was a constant thorn in my heel. But the death of the hart troubled me more than it should have.
That night, Aric pulled Ariapaithi aside and spoke with him, telling him what had transpired with killing the two noble deer. And the king, feeling overly generous—or perhaps overly cautious—because we were at the close of the holy festival, decided not to punish Rathagos. However, unwilling to serve poached meat at his own table, Ariapaithi ordered that the venison be brought to the pastures as a gift to the cattle-herders. Rathagos stood, his face twisting as he bit back his indignation and resentment, and watched as his prize was hauled off in the back of an oxcart to be consumed by a nameless multitude.
Chapter Thirty-Two: Rathagos