Harry Sidebottom: The Caspian Gates

There were sledge tracks in the grass off to the left. The first snows next to never closed the nearest pass. Despite the lateness of the season, there would be Scythian nomads, Alani or, more likely, men from their subject tribes, still driving their herds back north over what they called the Croucasis.

If the man could fall in with a group of Scythians, he would be safe. Obviously, they were aware of his father. Last spring, they would have handed over to his father’s men fleeces, hides and slaves to be allowed to make the passage south. It might be that his own name was not unknown among the Scythians. The nomads would protect him. Of course, he would have to cross the mountains with them, spend the winter out on the plains. And come next spring, they would not need fleeces or slaves. His safe return would open their way. But the man cared nothing for that. He would be alive to be ransomed; alive to take revenge on his youngest brother.

A strange languor was creeping over him. The Scythians would be in a good mood, the bellies of their animals full of the sweet meadow grasses of Suania, their own saddlebags stuffed with apples and pears. They would be going home. A winter with the Scythians would not be so bad, a winter spent drifting after the flocks across the wide plains of the nomad sea. Their tents would be snug; braziers lit, a pleasant fug of conversation, food and drink. The women of the Alani were said to be tall, beautiful and wanton. Their men were complacent. All you had to do was hang your quiver outside her tent, and the husband would go off and leave you in peace until you had finished enjoying his wife.

The sharp ring of metal on metal snapped the man’s eyes open. He held his breath, listening. Nothing. Slowly, he turned his head from side to side, eyes wide. Nothing. He knew he had not imagined it. Up above, the top branches were stirring with sluggish menace. The storm would get here soon.

His arm hurt like a Christian on the pyre. He tried to push the red-hot ember back into the fennel stalk. Careful not to make a sound, he wriggled his toes, with his good hand massaged his thighs, tried to get feeling back into his legs.

Another sound. Off to his right, a careless footfall. In the gloom, the man grinned. He had always been good on the hill. Yet another sound. There was his brother’s creature, not above twenty paces away. Alternately, the hunter bent to peer at the ground, following the trail, and stood scanning ahead. He had a bow in his hands, arrow notched, half drawn. His jerky movements betrayed his nerves.

You are right to be nervous, thought the man. If I had two good arms and a bow, you would already be dead, shot as easily as a sitting pheasant. Even with one arm, I have marked you out for Hecate.

The hunter stopped at the edge of the glade, just as the man had hoped a pursuer would. The open ground was an obvious place for an ambush. Anyone would fear that, as you stepped into the clearing, an arrow might whistle out from the tree line ahead. Only the deepest thinking would suspect anything from behind.

The man eased himself to his feet. Oddly, his left arm, though still incapacitated, had ceased to hurt. He studied the way first he then the hunter had come. The wind hissed through the branches. Nothing else: no human movement or sound.

The man glided forward, feet placed carefully, the lariat in his right hand. The gathering storm covered his approach.

The hunter still hesitated. The man closed behind him. An innate intimation of danger; the hunter began to turn. Too late. With fluid movements, the man slipped the noose of bowstring over the hunter’s head, yanked the slip knot tight around his neck, pulled as hard as he could.

Instinctively, the hunter’s fingers scrabbled at the cord biting deep into his throat. There was no purchase to be had. Blood ran down his neck.

The man, left shoulder braced between the hunter’s shoulderblades, exerted all his strength. Boots slipped and stamped on the forest floor. The man’s breath came in harsh, animal pants. The hunter’s was a death rattle. Convulsions, then a heavy stillness. A foul smell of voided bladder and bowels. The man continued to choke the lifeless corpse.

‘Impressive, brother, you have killed him five times over.’

The man’s youngest brother emerged from the shadows of the wood. Above him, branches whipped this way and that. The tails of his long native coat were thrown back, the sleeves hung empty. In his unencumbered hands was a drawn bow.

The man turned, dragging the body round to act as a shield. ‘This will not look like an accident.’ He spoke to buy time, to distract. Slipping his injured arm from the sling, despite the pain, he took the weight of the dead man with it. Out of sight, his right hand drew the dagger from his belt.

‘Indeed not, brother. It is no accident. You were waylaid by a band of Alani. A tragedy.’

Fifteen or so paces on either side of the speaker, two more hunters materialized up the hill out of the darkening wood, hoods up, menacing, like creatures from Hades. The three bowmen were well spaced. Grudgingly, the man recognized good tactics.

‘Who can say what happened?’ his brother continued. ‘Everyone knows those nomadic barbarians are irrational, bloodthirsty – eaters of flesh. Robbery, ransom – who knows what they were after? Perhaps you resisted: you always were the brave warrior, our father’s favourite. Whatever happened, they killed you. Shot you down like a deer.’ He smiled, gloating. ‘Have you noticed that the arrow in your arm was made by the Alani?’

The man did not answer the rhetorical question. While his body was perfectly still, his eyes flicked this way and that, measuring, estimating. He did not intend to die here, not at the hands of his brother.

‘We have more than enough Alanic arrows. Do you not admire my foresight? You were always the brave one. I was always the one with foresight. Do you remember how our old tutor always admired my disquisitions on the quality of pronoia? Odd how the old Greek’s philosophical idea seems so much more real here than it ever did in the classroom.’

The first snowflakes were falling, twisting and turning in the gusting wind.

The man grimaced through the pain in his arm. ‘And did the philosopher’s lessons in ethics not do you any good? Who should you love if not your brother?’

‘Oh, but I do, brother, I do. Both love and admire.’ The voice was unctuous. ‘Because I admire you, I think it certain you will follow the heroes to the Islands of the Blessed. And because I love you, I will send you there forthwith.’

‘My death will do you no good.’ The man’s thoughts were racing. The dialogue had to continue, had to win him time. ‘Our father will not name you his heir. If I am dead, he will turn to one of our brothers. Failing that, old Hamazasp of Iberia or whoever our sister marries. The council of three hundred would be happier with any of them than with you. The members of the synedrion will never willingly accept you.’

The darkness was gathering. Straight ahead, thought the man. Throw the dagger; kill or wound my brother. Run straight ahead. The bowmen on either side should be reluctant to shoot and risk hitting my brother or each other. Prometheus, Hecate, hold your hands over me.

‘Enough talk.’ A new voice: female. Out of the gathering storm walked their sister. Her face was very pale, her lips a deep red in the half-light. She too held a drawn bow.

The man knew then that it was all over.

‘Enough philosophizing.’ She addressed herself to the younger brother. ‘You are not now the least of four boys sat at a teacher’s feet. Stop your ears to clever words and remorse. Show yourself a man.’

It was all over with him, but the man was not going to go quietly, not like a sacrificial animal. In one move, he let go of the corpse, threw the dagger and launched forward. The dagger spun through the falling snow. The younger brother twisted his head. The dagger caught him in the face; opened up his cheek. He dropped his weapon, reeled away, howling.