Chapter Twenty: Eye

Reading time: 15 min

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

I had remained behind with Antisthenes to begin breaking our little camp while most of the vazarka made final visits to the wagons housing the karevan of whores who, like flies after a herd of cattle, flocked to the kara whenever they came within reach of a settlement. 

"Aric has business with the king this morning," Antisthenes informed me as we prepared breakfast before starting. "But, he will join us soon to help." 

"He doesn't join the others?"

"Aric? He never indulges in…” he paused to clear is throat, “intercourse while he has warriors in the Marches."

"No? Why not?" I shaped the barley flour I was kneading with milk, honey, and lard into a neat little cake on the baking stone.

"He believes it saps his strength before battle."

"And when he is not fighting?"

"He is always fighting." He dripped a spoonful of stew into the fire and spoke something under his breath, then poured some into a bowl for me. 

"That must be difficult, I mean, given men's… appetite?"

"It depends on the man. It could be worse. It is not like hunger. After all, a hungry man cannot just rub his belly and be satisfied." The corner of his firm mouth drew up ever so slightly, and I felt my face flush with embarrassment. "Maybe he just does not want some whore showing up with his bastard one day when he is king, claiming compensation or rights."

"Aric? King?" Those two words had somehow never joined themselves in my mind. 

"Who else?" 

That was a good question. "I've never really thought much about it." I prepared to place the stone slab bearing the cake into the fire, but Antisthenes stopped me. 

"Offer a portion," he said, pointing to the flames. "To the gods."

"I don't know how the Skythai do it.” I'd never watched the men prepare our food before.

"The fire is the mouth of the gods, who consume our sacrifices. Drop a little butter or flour into the flames and speak the name of the gods to whom it is offered. It is the Skythai way." 

"You pray to Skythai gods?" I asked. I'd never known a Hellene to adopt barbarian gods. 

"I recognize my own gods here, as you will do in time. They just go by different names, as all things do in foreign tongues."

"And to which gods do you sacrifice?"

"There are many, and they change day by day. I always remember Goetosura, of course; he is Apollo to my people: the wolf; slayer of serpents; lord of winds, of archers and arrows, of healing and plague, of music and prophecy, of the hidden and manifest, of the fire which does not consume—the light which casts no shadow. Eraman; he is Hermes, the keeper of observance—of rites, customs, traditions, and hospitality to men and gods; to him I owe special devotion in this land. Papahio; he is Zeus, the almighty father of heaven, keeper of law, and dispenser of justice. Even Targitao, the thunderer, is much like Herakles. They are the patrons of warriors. Some of the men frown upon the worship of the gods of the earth, patrons of herdsmen, but I see no shame in it. Apia; she is Gaia, the Mother Earth, its bounty, and Queen of all that lies beneath. Tabiti; she is Hestia, of the pure fire that shelters us and accepts our sacrifices. And of course, Artimpasa is not like any one Greek goddess. She is Artemis, the Huntress, and Mistress of Beasts; or Athena, the wise patroness and protector of my homeland. Likewise, Artimpasa is the patroness of Skythia and its kings."

Most of the names he spoke were foreign to me, but it seemed harmless enough. I did as he instructed, breaking off a small piece of the cake and tossing it into the flames, repeating the names of the gods before placing the stone for baking. 

"You're certain it will be him?" I asked, still skeptical. "Surely Aric's elder brothers have a stronger claim? Oktamasad looks the part. Though, of course, Skyles is eldest." The thought sent a shudder of revulsion through me. I hoped the Skythai had the sense to never make that man their king.

"It does not work like that among the Skythai. In their view, no one is owed rule or land or status by birth. They choose the most worthy man. A father assesses his sons and determines who will best manage his household and defend his legacy. Time favors the firstborn, but this is by no means assured. Their ancient traditions favor the youngest. But no one inherits the kingship. They earn it." 

"So, Ariapaithi chooses his favorite."

"Ariapaithi chooses an heir. Then, the Assembly of the Ældar of all the Skythai territories chooses the best man from among all the chiefs of all the clans, with the help of their gods, to be king. Due to their prowess, powerful heads of clans are deemed favored by the gods. The Ældar could choose any chief of any tribe, but they will shrewdly choose the one with the greatest warriors, wealth, and allies. It is always one of the Paralatai tribe."

"And they will choose Aric? Skyles must make many of them rich, maneuvering their wares for trade in the colonies. And Oktamasad can call up a formidable militia to fight for him, and seems well-liked."

"Skyles makes some of them rich, this is true, but mostly it is the colonial governors and farmers who benefit from his dealings. The colonies of the Hellenes and farms grow at the expense of Skythai chiefs' pasturelands. Not everyone is pleased about this." 

"No, I imagine not." I wondered about Antisthenes' feelings on the subject, being a Hellene himself. 

"And Oktamasad has been Ariapaithi's ambassador abroad, but it means his allies are mostly foreigners these days."

"I see." My father was among them. 

"And Oktamasad is a little too well-liked," he added. "He has managed to bed the wives and daughters of nearly all the chiefs in Skythia—and the gods only know who else. Every time a redheaded child is born, they laugh that Oktamasad must have paid the lady a visit. It is only half a joke."

"So, Aric is just the last choice?" I took a bite of my stew. It was awful. I had no idea what manner of service Antisthenes did as a slave, but he was certainly no cook. 

"Oh no, far from it," he said, taking a hearty bite of his stew. I cringed. "The king is not just a man who ensures prosperity and conducts the business of the tribe, for any husbandman or merchant could do that. And he is not just a war leader, for any war chief could do that. He is not just the intermediary between the people and the gods, for any priest could do that. The king must do all of these things at once. But you know this already, being the daughter of Arianta."

“Indeed. It's a lot for one man to carry."

"The Skythai believe his success or failure depends on the favor of Artimpasa. He becomes her consort… if she wills it. Only a king or chief who is generous, courageous, and wise can win her grace. Without her favor, he will never be able to sustain his people, bring health and prosperity to the land, win victory in battle, or protect them from harm."

When he said it that way, Aric did indeed begin to feel like a king. "Aric is among the noblest men I've ever seen."

"Aric is a noble man, but he is not a whole man. That is perhaps his greatest liability. Your cake is going to burn."

"Oh, shit." I grabbed the iron tongs, pulled the stone from the fire, and then pried off the slightly singed cake with my knife. It looked mostly edible still. "He could be passed over because of his eye?"

"Rumor is, some of the Assembly fears the Mistress will reject a marred man."

That seemed like petty wool spinners' gossip. Unless there was more to the story. I had always wondered, and I finally summoned the nerve to ask: "How was he wounded?"

"That was before my time here. He never speaks of it, but I have since heard the story from men who were there. I believe it is why they do not leave his side to this day, though they have made their tallies and are rich beyond their dreams. 

"When Aric was young, about fifteen or sixteen winters and rising through reputation as a warrior, the kara embarked upon a devastating raid in the West March. Most of the raiding was on the western border in those days, as those tribes were still hostile to the Paralatai. Following a long campaign there, a bereaved clan sought retribution, and the band was pursued. Many were captured, including Aric. In an act of great treachery, the captives were ransomed, not to their clans or the Skythian king, but to the king's greatest rival, Spargapaithi." 

"The Spargapaithi who harasses my people now?"

"The same. With his enemy's youngest son—his heir—in his possession, Spargapaithi tried to incite a war between the tribes. Ariapaithi would not fight. He offered payment and hostages instead; he offered a peace treaty in good faith; he offered land. But Spargapaithi refused to accept any terms but war. Ariapaithi still refused. They had reached a stalemate. Growing desperate, perhaps Spargapaithi thought he could provoke him if he humiliated the royal hostage. Or perhaps he thought he would make an appeal to his gods for victory over his enemy. There is a grove in the country of the Agathyrsi which is consecrated to their ancestral fathers. It is to this place they took Aric to offer him up in sacrifice. As the tribe gathered, he had Aric bound and prepared to dismember him, which is the savage rite their god demands. They pierced him with blades and burned him with irons. But Aric, though little more than a boy, never pleaded. He never flinched. He never even made a sound."

"I can't even imagine it," I said, trying my best not to. 

"This silence angered Spargapaithi, who wanted to break his rival's son before his people. So he snatched the blade from the hand of the priest, determined to do the deed himself. Still, Aric showed no fear. After weeks of hunger and abuse by the Agathyrsi, he only stared back. They say Spargapaithi's face turned white as death. But with so many watching, he could not desist. So he began the sacrifice, and cut out Aric's eye."

"No," I gasped, and my hands flew to cover my face, dropping my bowl in my lap. I looked on the results every day, and yet to hear it told—to know how it came about—was more terrible than the sight of it could ever be.

"They say Aric was deadly still and silent through it. And a terrible panic rose through the crowd. The people became so terrified by his silence that they feared he possessed some sorcery. That his gods or dark spirits protected him. When they saw how the people took fright, the Agathyrsi priests intervened with their own prognostications of doom, prophesying grave misfortune would descend upon them again for executing an inauspicious rite. Not only would they suffer defeat in any war that followed, but keeping the hostages would invite death and destruction. Whether inspired by the gods or good sense, they called a halt to the sacrifice, offered up fifty horses and cattle in Aric's place, and demanded his expulsion from the country. Their gods, they said, had rejected him. To save face, Spargapaithi demanded his ransom, Aric's and his companions' bonds were cut loose, and they were driven from the territory to march home."

"I never imagined it was anything so awful," I said from behind the hands clasped over my mouth. "Poor Aric. He was just a boy."

"If he was a boy when it happened, he was a man when it was done. They say Aric did not stop to rest until he crossed the Istros—he would not bathe his wounds or wash away the blood until he'd reached his own land. And for a year from that day, he refused to let shears touch his hair and beard and did not utter a single word."

How little I knew Aric. The more I learned, the more questions came than answers. I had surveyed him like I did this landscape. I began to recognize its features, and I was learning to navigate the terrain. Yet I knew nothing of how it was formed, the storms that shaped it, who left the strange, silent landmarks that cropped up across the plain, and what might be buried beneath.  

"Spargapaithi is a monster," I whispered. "Why does he despise Ariapaithi so much?"

"They both made claims on the throne when their father died. Ariapaithi was made heir, and Spargapaithi and his followers challenged him. It was an ugly battle. Spargapaithi was defeated and cast out from Skythia.” 

"So… they are brothers?"

"Mmm." He nodded and stirred the cauldron, scraping the sides of the pot and tapping the handle of the ladle against the rim. "He and his followers had to travel far in search of a new place to settle. Ariapaithi had allies in nearly every neighboring tribe. They passed a long, harsh first winter exiled in the wilderness before finally settling among—well, conquering—the Agathyrsi. That first winter, they ran short of food. Many died of hunger. The rest, like frightened hares, ate their own young. He has resented Ariapaithi ever since."

"Their children?"

"Desperate times…" he said flatly and spooned another scoop of stew into his mouth.

"This is a terrible story." 

"He is a terrible man."

"Still, to torture his own kinsman—his nephew—in vengeance…. What must something like that do to a person? Scars like that must go deep beyond the flesh…"

Antisthenes combed his dark beard absently with his fingers. "From what I have seen, it does different things to different people. Some it makes hard, and some soft; some hot and some cold; some bright and some dull; some it purifies and some it poisons."

"What did it do to him?"

"Aric? I did not know him before, but he has a firmer footing than most. Though it can shift day by day."

"So, he chose an ascetic life in the Marches?" 

"He was married once."

"Married? I can't picture that either."

"No one could," he mused. "Not even his wife."

"What happened to her?"

"You should eat that stew before it gets cold," he said, scraping the bottom of his own bowl.

I wasn't hungry anymore, but I picked up my bowl and shoveled a spoonful into my mouth to be gracious. It was already cold. I hadn't imagined it could get worse than that first bite. How wrong I was.

"That was just after I arrived. He was still very young. His father thought a wife would settle him. She died a month or two after he led her home,” he continued. "No one expected her to survive if you take my meaning."

"He… killed her?”

"No, not with his own hands. He barely saw her. Though there is always speculation… The Skythai believe man harbors many souls within, which all depart for different realms upon his death, as well as ancestral spirits that watch over him during this life. Some say that a demonic spirit attends Aric, sparing him from harm, giving him his terrible strength. Some of the Ældar fear that as well."

"Is that what you believe?" The barley cake had cooled enough. I broke off half for him.

He took a bite and made a painful face, but crumbled it into his bowl and ladled another scoop of stew on top. "Me? I think it was the climate," he continued between mouthfuls. "It drives foreigners to despair."

"Not you, though." I took a sip of water from my skin to wash down my dry cake.

"We Hellenes are made of better stuff than that," he said without pride or arrogance.

"Indeed," I smiled. His resilience never ceased to impress me. A lesser man would have been broken by a life like his long ago. Or, at the very least, would have been starved. "You don't have to stay here with me. Don't you want to join the others at the karevan?" 

"There is nothing for me there."

"There is someone, though?" I gently prodded. Many nights I lay awake with my eyes closed, pretending to sleep as he crept out of the tent and sometimes didn't return for hours. I warmed to see someone so stolid blush. 

He lowered his eyes and sighed. "I cannot say. Such things are no longer permitted once a novice has made his tally. He'll retire from this place at the festival of Yamadin." 

"Oh, Antisthenes…" My heart sank for him. 

"Say nothing of it," he raised his eyes to me, pleading. 

I nodded. I understood. Among our Bastarnai warriors, such things were accepted until the young men were of age to take wives. But those who neglected to take wives became the subject of scorn and ridicule. "No one else knows?"

"I take a woman once in a while to keep the other men from talking."

"Men talk. You are vazarka. Why should you care what they say?"

"For myself, I don't. But if neither Aric nor I am seen among the women…"

"Oh, I see." Antisthenes' sense of duty was touching. But Aric's strict discipline had placed an undue burden on his friend. "And what of the young man?"

He gazed absently at the grey felt of the tent's western wall. "He will have a chiefdom, eighty wagons or more, good grazing lands, hundreds of horses and cattle one day. He will have his pick of wives, and sons of his own. And I will maybe train them, too, if I live that long."

"Couldn't he choose to remain a karik?"

"Give up all that?"

I nodded. "Why not?" 

"That is women's talk. No, this is as it must be."

"Maybe so." I slid over beside him, pulled him tight to me, my head resting on his shoulder. "But I know it hurts, and I'm sad for it—for you both."

"Anaiti," he said, shoving another spoonful of cold stew into his mouth, "do not imagine any of us get what we want in this life.”

---

Chapter Twenty One: Karevan

---