Brave To Be a King tp-2 Read online

  Now there was a breathing spell. Cilicia would yield without a fight, seeing that Persia’s other conquests were governed with a humanity and a tolerance of local custom such as the world had not known before. Cyrus would leave the eastern marches to his nobles, and devote himself to consolidating what he had won. Not until 539 would the war with Babylon be taken up again and Mesopotamia acquired. And then Cyrus would have another time of peace, until the wild men grew too strong beyond the Aral Sea and the King rode forth against them to his death.

  Manse Everard entered Pasargadae as if into a springtime of hope.

  Not that any actual era lends itself to such flowery metaphors. He jogged through miles where peasants bent with sickles, loading creaky unpainted oxcarts, and dust smoked off the stubble fields into his eyes. Ragged children sucked their thumbs outside windowless mud huts and stared at him. A chicken squawked back and forth on the highway until the galloping royal messenger who had alarmed it was past and the chicken dead. A squad of lancers trotting by were costumed picturesquely enough, baggy pants and scaly armor, spiked or plumed helmets, gaily striped cloaks; but they were also dusty, sweaty, and swapping foul jokes. Behind adobe walls the aristocrats possessed large houses with very beautiful gardens, but an economy like this would not support many such estates. Pasargadae was 90 per cent an Oriental town of twisted slimy streets between faceless hovels, greasy headcloths and dingy robes, screaming merchants in the bazaars, beggars displaying their sores, traders leading strings of battered camels and overloaded donkeys, dogs raiding offal heaps, tavern music like a cat in a washing machine, men who wind-milled their arms and screamed curses—what ever started this yarn about the inscrutable East?

  “Alms, lord. Alms, for the love of Light! Alms, and Mithras will smile upon you!…”

  “Behold, sir! By my father’s beard I swear that never was there finer work from a more skilled hand than this bridle which I offer to you, most fortunate of men, for the ridiculous sum of…”

  “This way, master, this way, only four houses down to the finest sarai in all Persia—no, in all the world. Our pallets are stuffed with swan’s down, my father serves wine fit for a Devi, my mother cooks a pilau whose fame has spread to the ends of the earth, and my sisters are three moons of delight available for a mere…”

  Everard ignored the childish runners who clamored at his sides. One of them tugged his ankle, he swore and kicked and the boy grinned without shame. The man hoped to avoid staying at an inn; the Persians were cleaner than most folk in this age, but there would still be insect life.

  He tried not to feel defenseless. Ordinarily a Patrolman could have an ace in the hole: say, a thirtieth-century stun pistol beneath his coat and a midget radio to call the hidden space-time antigravity scooter to him. But not when he might be frisked. Everard wore a Greek outfit; tunic and sandals and long wool cloak, sword at waist, helmet and shield hung at the horse’s crupper, and that was it; only the steel was anachronistic. He could turn to no local branch office if he got into trouble, for this relatively poor and turbulent transition epoch attracted no Temporal commerce; the nearest Patrol unit was milieu HQ in Persepolis, a generation futureward.

  The streets widened as he pushed on, bazaars thinned out and houses grew larger. At last he emerged in a square enclosed by four mansions. He could see pruned trees above their outer walls. Guards, lean lightly armed youths, squatted beneath on their heels because standing at attention had not yet been invented. But they rose, nocking wary arrows, as Everard approached. He might simply have crossed the plaza, but he veered and hailed a fellow who looked like a captain.

  “Greetings, sir, may the sun fall bright upon you.” The Persian which he had learned in an hour under hypno flowed readily off his tongue. “I seek hospitality from some great man who may care to hear my poor tales of foreign travel.”

  “May your days be many,” said the guard. Everard remembered that he must not offer baksheesh: these Persians of Cyrus’s own clans were a proud hardy folk, hunters, herdsmen, and warriors. All spoke with the dignified politeness common to their type throughout history. “I serve Croesus the Lydian, servant of the Great King. He will not refuse his roof to—”

  “Meander from Athens,” supplied Everard. It was an alias which would explain his large bones, light complexion, and short hair. He had, though, been forced to stick a realistic Van Dyke effect on his chin. Herodotus was not the first Greek globe-trotter, so an Athenian would not be inconveniently outre. At the same time, half a century before Marathon, Europeans were still uncommon enough here to excite interest.

  A slave was called, who got hold of the majordomo, who sent another slave, who invited the stranger through the gate. The garden beyond was as cool and green as hoped; there was no fear that anything would be stolen from his baggage in this household; the food and drink should be good; and Croesus himself would certainly interview the guest at length. We’re playing in luck, lad, Everard assured himself, and accepted a hot bath, fragrant oils, fresh clothing, dates and wine brought to his austerely furnished room, a couch and a pleasant view. He only missed a cigar.

  Of attainable things, that is.

  To be sure, if Keith had unamendably died…

  “Hell and purple frogs,” muttered Everard. “Cut that out, will you?”

  4

  After sunset it grew chilly. Lamps were lit with much ceremony, fire being sacred, and braziers were blown up. A slave prostrated himself to announce that dinner was served. Everard accompanied him down a long hall where vigorous murals showed the Sun and the Bull of Mithras, past a couple of spearmen, and into a small chamber brightly lit, sweet with incense and lavish with carpeting. Two couches were drawn up in the Hellenic manner at a table covered with un-Hellenic dishes of silver and gold; slave waiters hovered in the background and Chinese-sounding music twanged from an inner door.

  Croesus of Lydia nodded graciously. He had been handsome once, with regular features, but seemed to have aged a lot in the few years since his wealth and power were proverbial. Grizzled of beard and with long hair, he was dressed in a Grecian chlamys but wore rouge in the Persian manner. “Rejoice, Meander of Athens,” he said in Greek, and lifted his face.

  Everard kissed his cheek as indicated. It was nice of Croesus thus to imply that Meander’s rank was but little inferior to his own, even if Croesus had been eating garlic. “Rejoice, master. I thank you for your kindness.”

  “This solitary meal was not to demean you,” said the ex-king. “I only thought… ” He hesitated. “I have always considered myself near kin to the Greeks, and we could talk seriously—”

  “My lord honors me beyond my worth.” They went through various rituals and finally got to the food. Everard spun out a prepared yarn about his travels; now and then Croesus would ask a disconcertingly sharp question, but a Patrolman soon learned how to evade that kind.

  “Indeed times are changing, you are fortunate in coming at the very dawn of a new age,” said Croesus. “Never has the world known a more glorious King than,” etc., etc., doubtless for the benefit of any retainers who doubled as royal spies. Though it happened to be true.

  “The very gods have favored our King,” went on Croesus. “Had I known how they sheltered him—for truth, I mean, not for the mere fable which I believed it was—I should never have dared oppose myself to him. For it cannot be doubted, he is a Chosen One.”

  Everard maintained his Greek character by watering the wine and wishing he had picked some less temperate nationality. “What is that tale, my lord?” he asked. “I knew only that the Great King was the son of Cambyses, who held this province as a vassal of Median Astyages. Is there more?”

  Croesus leaned forward. In the uncertain light, his eyes held a curious bright look, a Dionysian blend of terror and enthusiasm which Everard’s age had long forgotten. “Hear, and bring the ac-count to your countrymen,” he said. “Astyages wed his daughter Mandane to Cambyses, for he knew that the Persians were restless under his own heavy yoke
and he wished to tie their leaders to his house. But Cambyses became ill and weak. If he died and his infant son Cyrus succeeded in Anshan, there would be a troublesome regency of Persian nobles not bound to Astyages. Dreams also warned the Median king that Cyrus would be the death of his dominion.

  “Thereafter Astyages ordered his kinsman, the King’s Eye Aurvagaush [Croesus rendered the name Harpagus, as he Hellenized all local names], to do away with the prince. Harpagus took the child despite Queen Mandane’s protests; Cambyses lay too sick to help her, nor could Persia in any case revolt without preparation. But Harpagus could not bring himself to the deed. He exchanged the prince for the stillborn child of a herdsman in the mountains, whom he swore to secrecy. The dead baby was wrapped in royal clothes and left on a hillside; presently officials of the Median court were summoned to witness that it had been exposed, and buried it. Our lord Cyrus grew up as a herdsman.

  “Cambyses lived for twenty years more without begetting other sons, not strong enough in his own person to avenge the firstborn. But at last he was plainly dying, with no successor whom the Persians would feel obliged to obey. Again Astyages feared trouble. At this time Cyrus came forth, his identity being made known through various signs. Astyages, regretting what had gone before, welcomed him and confirmed him as Cambyses’ heir.

  “Cyrus remained a vassal for five years, but found the tyranny of the Medes ever more odious. Harpagus in Ecbatana had also a dreadful thing to avenge: as punishment for his disobedience in the matter of Cyrus, Astyages made Harpagus eat his own son. So Harpagus conspired with certain Median nobles. They chose Cyrus as their leader, Persia revolted, and after three years of war Cyrus made himself the master of the two peoples. Since then, of course, he has added many others. When ever did the gods show their will more plainly?”

  Everard lay quiet on the couch for a little. He heard autumn leaves rustle dryly in the garden, under a cold wind.

  “This is true, and no fanciful gossip?” he asked.

  “I have confirmed it often enough since I joined the Persian court. The King himself has vouched for it to me, as well as Harpagus and others who were directly concerned.”

  The Lydian could not be lying if he cited his ruler’s testimony: the upper-class Persians were fanatics about truthfulness. And yet Everard had heard nothing so incredible in all his Patrol career. For it was the story which Herodotus recorded—with a few modifications to be found in the Shah Nameh—and anybody could spot that as a typical hero myth. Essentially the same yarn had been told about Moses, Romulus, Sigurd, a hundred great men. There was no reason to believe it held any fact, no reason to doubt that Cyrus had been raised in a perfectly normal manner at his father’s house, had succeeded by plain right of birth and revolted for the usual reasons.

  Only, this tall tale was sworn to by eyewitnesses!

  There was a mystery here. It brought Everard back to his purpose. After appropriate marveling remarks, he led the conversation until he could say: “I have heard rumors that sixteen years ago a stranger entered Pasargadae, clad as a poor shepherd but in truth a mage who did miracles. He may have died here. Does my gracious host know anything of it?”

  He waited then, tensed. He was playing a hunch, that Keith Denison had not been murdered by some hillbilly, fallen off a cliff and broken his neck, or come to grief in any such way. Because in that case, the scooter should still have been around when the Patrol searched. They might have gridded the area too loosely to find Denison himself, but how could their detectors miss a time hopper?

  So, Everard thought, something more complicated had happened. And if Keith survived at all, he would have come down here to civilization.

  “Sixteen years ago?” Croesus tugged his beard. “I was not here then. And surely in any case the land would have been full of portents, for that was when Cyrus left the mountains and took his rightful crown of Anshan. No, Meander, I know nothing of it.

  “I have been anxious to find this person,” said Everard, “because an oracle,” etc., etc.

  “You can inquire among the servants and townspeople,” suggested Croesus. “I will ask at court on your behalf. You will stay here awhile, will you not? Perhaps the King himself will wish to see you; he is always interested in foreigners.”

  The conversation broke up soon after. Croesus explained with a rather sour smile that the Persians believed in early to bed, early to rise, and he must be at the royal palace by dawn. A slave conducted Everard back to his room, where he found a good-looking girl waiting with an expectant smile. He hesitated a moment, remembering a time twenty-four hundred years hence. But—the hell with that. A man had to take whatever the gods offered him, and they were a miserly lot.

  5

  It was not long after sunrise when a troop reined up in the plaza and shouted for Meander the Athenian. Everard left his breakfast to go out and stare up a gray stallion into the hard, hairy hawk-face of a captain of those guards called the Immortals. The men made a backdrop of restless horses, cloaks and plumes blowing, metal jingling and leather squeaking, the young sun ablaze on polished mail.

  “You are summoned by the Chiliarch,” rapped the officer. The title he actually used was Persian: commander of the guard and grand vizier of the empire.

  Everard stood for a moment, weighing the situation. His muscles tightened. This was not a very cordial invitation. But he could scarcely plead a previous engagement.

  “I hear and obey,” he said. “Let me but fetch a small gift from my baggage, in token of the honor paid me.”

  “The Chiliarch said you were to come at once. Here is a horse.”

  An archer sentry offered cupped hands, but Everard pulled himself into the saddle without help, a trick it was useful to know in eras before stirrups were introduced. The captain nodded a harsh approval, whirled his mount, and led at a gallop off the plaza and up a wide avenue lined with sphinxes and the homes of the great. This was not as heavily trafficked as the bazaar streets, but there were enough riders, chariots, litters, and pedestrians scrambling out of the way. The Immortals stopped for no man. They roared through palace gates, flung open before them. Gravel spurted under hoofs, they tore around a lawn where fountains sparkled, and clanged to a stop outside the west wing.

  The palace, gaudily painted brick, stood on a wide platform with several lesser buildings. The captain himself sprang down, gestured curtly, and strode up a marble staircase. Everard followed, hemmed in by warriors who had taken the light battle axes from their saddlebows for his benefit. The party went among household slaves, robed and turbaned and flat on their faces, through a red and yellow colonnade, down a mosaic hall whose beauty Everard was in no mood to appreciate, and so past a squad of guards into a room where slender columns upheld a peacock dome and the fragrance of late-blooming roses entered through arched windows.

  There the Immortals made obeisance. What’s good enough for them is good enough for you, son, thought Everard, and kissed the Persian carpet. The man on the couch nodded. “Rise and attend,” he said. “Fetch a cushion for the Greek.” The soldiers took their stance by him. A Nubian bustled forth with a pillow, which he laid on the floor beneath his master’s seat. Everard sat down on it, cross-legged. His mouth felt dry.

  The Chiliarch, whom he remembered Croesus identifying as Harpagus, leaned forward. Against the tiger skin on the couch and the gorgeous red robe on his own gaunt frame, the Mede showed as an aging man, his shoulder-length hair the color of iron and his dark craggy-nosed face sunken into a mesh of wrinkles. But shrewd eyes considered the newcomer.

  “Well,” he said, his Persian having the rough accent of a North Iranian, “so you are the man from Athens. The noble Croesus spoke of your advent this morning and mentioned some inquiries you were making. Since the safety of the state may be involved, I would know just what it is you seek.” He stroked his beard with a jewel-flash-ing hand and smiled frostily. “It may even be, if your search is harmless, that I can help it.”

  He had been careful not to employ
the usual formulas of greeting, to offer refreshment, or otherwise give Meander the quasi-sacred status of guest. This was an interrogation. “Lord, what is it you wish to know?” asked Everard. He could well imagine, and it was a troublous anticipation.

  “You sought a mage in shepherd guise, who entered Pasargadae sixteen summers ago and did miracles.” The voice was ugly with tension. “Why is this and what more have you heard of such matters? Do not pause to invent a lie—speak!”

  “Great lord,” said Everard, “the oracle at Delphi told me I should mend my fortunes if I learned the fate of a herdsman who entered the Persian capital in, er, the third year of the first tyranny of Pisistratus. More than that I have never known. My lord is aware how dark are the oracular sayings.”

  “Hm, hm.” Fear touched the lean countenance and Harpagus drew the sign of the cross, which was a Mithraic sun-symbol. Then, roughly: “What have you discovered so far?”

  “Nothing, great lord. No one could tell—”

  “You lie!” snarled Harpagus. “All Greeks are liars. Have a care, for you touch on unholy matters. Who else have you spoken to?”

  Everard saw a nervous tic lift the Chiliarch’s mouth. His own stomach was a cold jump in him. He had stumbled on something which Harpagus had thought safety buried, something so big that the risk of a clash with Croesus, who was duty bound to protect a guest, became nothing. And the most reliable gag ever invented was a snicker-snee… after rack and pincers had extracted precisely what the stranger knew… But what the blue hell do I know?

  “None, my lord,” he husked. “None but the oracle, and the Sun God whose voice the oracle is, and who sent me here, has heard of this before last night.”