The sun had risen halfway to its zenith, sending strips and puddles of gold creeping over the floor, when the warriors came for them.

Flinging the door wide, half a dozen men crowded into the hut and hauled Nikometros and Timon to their feet. Binding their hands behind their backs, they hustled them outside. Mardes now conscious but groaning softly, was slung over the shoulder of a warrior. The morning light dazzled them after the dimness of their prison. They stumbled, almost falling. A low laugh rippled through the waiting throng, and coarse jests assaulted their ears.

By the gods, thought Nikometros, are we to be mocked? Let them see how a Macedonian soldier dies. He straightened, standing tall then half turned to Timon. "Have courage, Timon. Show them we are men."

Timon grunted and a wry grimace passed swiftly across his face. "Aye, sir ... for a while at least."

The crowd on their right parted and a push from the warriors sent them stumbling into the gap. The crowd straggled behind and to each side while the procession moved through the town. Nikometros flexed his arms as he walked, trying to get some of the stiffness out of them. His shoulder and thigh still ached from his wounds and his head throbbed slightly. At least my wounds are not serious. He laughed quietly to himself. Yet.

At last, they emerged from a gap in the earthworks. In the hot morning sun, a cool northerly breeze tempered the heat, rippling the grass out to the horizon. It looks like the sea. Nikometros marveled. A sea of grass, stretching forever. He closed his eyes and breathed in cool air. The breeze brought him the pungent scent of horses, reminding him of the Macedonian horse lines. For a moment he forgot his situation.

A tall structure of cloth and poles loomed ahead. When they came closer, Nikometros made out designs on the cloth. They appeared to be just random swirls and lines then his mind caught on a distorted horse's face and the designs leapt out at him. They were beasts. Fabulous beasts. He recognized horses and a lion leaping onto the back of one of them. A shout caught his attention. His escort halted, lowering Mardes to the ground.

The cloth hangings formed a backdrop behind an ornate throne of carved wood richly inlaid with beaten gold designs. On the throne sat an imposing figure in long felt robes of deep red. A tall headpiece almost obscured the face. Shuffling and fidgeting, the crowd spread around the small group of men standing before the throne. An expectant hush fell. Movement to his left drew Nikometros' eyes. It startled him to see the tall figure of the chieftain stride out from behind the screens. His gaze whipped back to the sitting figure. Who is that then, he thought, if not the chieftain? The figure raised its eyes as if in answer to his thought. Two deep green eyes gazed back at him. They fluttered slightly as they met his gaze. The woman flushed slightly then focused on the approaching chieftain.

The chief strode to the seated woman, stopping a few paces in front of her. Stretching out both hands to her, he intoned a complex series of phrases, its cadence rising and falling discordantly. When he fell silent, she rose. Putting the fingers of one hand on the chieftain's forehead, she raised the other to the sky.

"Great Goddess, bless thy people, lead us through thy chosen one." She dropped her hands and walked out into the space in front of the assembled tribe. "See, O people. See thy mighty leader, Spargises, son of Masades, chosen of the gods to lead his people. The Great Goddess blesses him once more." A sigh swept through the crowd at her words. She turned back to the chieftain.

This is a man who dominates any group of warriors, Nikometros thought. Powerfully built and tall, Spargises' eyes moved slowly over the crowd. A crimson tunic fell to his thighs with deeper red leggings tucked into brown felt boots. Gold thread woven into patterns of animals ran along both arms and legs. A short coat of metal scales covered his chest, overlain by an ornate gold and enamel pectoral. A round gold helmet covered his head with felt flaps falling over his ears. A sword hung from his waist in a golden scabbard and a ceremonial mace hung by a leather thong from his right wrist. His intense gaze came to rest on Nikometros and Timon ... and stopped.

By his side, Nikometros recognized the angry man, Areipithes son of Spargises, from the day before. He too, was dressed in gold-adorned felts and armor. Smaller than his father and less strongly built, he nevertheless exuded an essence of danger. He smiled viciously at Nikometros then leaned over and whispered to his father. Spargises nodded.

"Let them be offered," Areipithes declared. Pointing at Nikometros, he turned to the woman. "If he belongs to the Great Goddess then send him first. Let him go to greet her and bring blessings on her people."

The warrior behind Nikometros undid his bonds. Another removed his breastplate, leaving him clad only in tunic and boots. Stepping back. They hustled Timon to one side and dragged Mardes away. The other warriors drew back to the encircling crowd, leaving Nikometros alone with the woman in a circle some fifty paces across. She approached him and spoke softly. "Do you know the ways of the Great Goddess?"

Nikometros shook his head. His breath caught at her nearness. By all the gods, she is beautiful, he thought. "Your name?" he asked.

She flushed, and hesitated. "That is not for you to ask. I am a daughter of the Great Goddess. I serve her for the people." She paused, looking at him through long lashes. "But as you are chosen by the Mother ... I am also Tomyra, daughter of Spargises."

"Why you say I chosen?" Now that he could talk to her, Nikometros wished he knew her language better. He could understand it tolerably well, but his tongue still stumbled over the syllables.

"You bear her image upon your arm. How did it come to you?" Tomyra pointed at his armband. When she saw his confusion she pointed at the armband again. "It is the image of the Goddess."

"Gift was from my mother and from hers before her. Image not as beautiful as you."

"A gift from The Mother," she breathed. "Gifted to your mother."

She shook her head and a shadow crossed over her face. "You must not speak to me in this manner. It is unseemly. Because of this image, you were spared in battle. You must now face her chosen warrior and go to her in death. It is our way. She must be shown her people are faithful." She turned to the screens and beckoned. A heavily armed warrior stepped out from behind them and moved ponderously toward her.

"I wish you were a man of the People," she murmured, "but I think you are a courageous man at least. Fight bravely and earn a warriors death." She paused, a hint of sadness in her eyes. "What is your name, that I may pray to the Goddess for your worthy death?"

"Nikometros, son of Leonnatos."

"Nikomayros? Niko ... a strong name, a name for a warrior."

Nikometros felt his pulse race at her words. His breath came faster and he tensed in anticipation. He grasped Tomyra's sleeve when she started to turn away. A growl of anger arose from the crowd.

"With what I fight? What weapons I have?"

"Unhand me, Nikomayros," she said. "To touch me is death." His hand dropped from her sleeve. She looked at him with an unfathomable look. "You have no weapons. It ends with a death for the Goddess. Your death." She turned away quickly and walked back to the throne to seat herself.

Nikometros gazed after her. A shadow flicked across his vision and without conscious thought, he flung himself to one side. A heavy mace swept through the air close to his head. He rolled over swiftly and scrambled to his feet. The warrior grinned at him and advanced. Nikometros backed away slowly, watching the man's eyes. Wait, he thought. Look for an opening. The man came in confidently, swinging his mace. Aiming a blow at Nikometros' head, he forced him to retreat. The warrior carried a short spear in his left hand and a sheathed bronze sword at his waist. He wore no armor or helmet, just a greasy leather tunic, felt trousers and boots. He continued to grin, shouting coarse comments at the crowd.

Nikometros continued to back away until a sudden push on his back took him by surprise. He stumbled forward and the man swung again. Desperately Nikometros threw himself to the right but the mace caught him a painful blow on the side. Nikometros' breath escaped in a rush. He scrabbled on his hands and knees, trying to find a purchase on the slick grassy ground. The mace thumped into the ground beside his head. Shouts of encouragement erupted from the crowd. He regained his feet, the warrior thrusting his spear at Nikometros' face. Nikometros ducked under it and kicked out, feeling his boot connect with the man's thigh. The warrior stepped back, the smile disappearing from his face. As Nikometros edged back, slowly circling round, the man tucked his mace into his belt and took the spear in his right hand. He shifted his grip on it and hefted it, preparing to throw.

I must attack. Get in close. The warrior drew back his arm to cast. Nikometros threw himself towards the man, feeling the spear brush his shoulder. He crashed into the Scythian's broad chest, grappling for a hold as they both fell to the ground. They rolled, grunting and gouging, hands slipping on sweat. The man's fetid breath nauseated him. Nikometros found himself on top, pinning the man down. His hands found the man's throat and squeezed. The warrior jerked his knee upward into Nikometros' testicles, unseating him. Agony brought tears to his eyes. Fighting back the pain, he lunged at the warrior, butting him in the nose with his forehead. Blood spurted and the Scythian howled with pain. Nikometros brought his head down again but a fist crashed into his temple, almost stunning him. He rolled off the man and staggered to his feet. His opponent rose slowly, blood streaming from his nose. Face contorted in a snarl, he dragged his bronze sword from its sheath and lurched towards Nikometros.

Limping from the pain in his groin, Nikometros retreated. The man shouted at him and slashed, just missing Nikometros' leg. He slashed again, almost overbalancing. He's no swordfighter, Nikometros thought. Now if I can get him to ... The Scythian lunged. Nikometros feinted to his right then grabbed for his sword arm. They swayed back and forth, fighting for control. The man kicked him in the shins and threw him backwards. As he stumbled back, the man aimed a sword blow at Nikometros' neck. He threw his arm up despairingly to ward off the blade, knowing as he did so that it was all over. A roar went up from the crowd when the sword connected with Nikometros' arm.

Nikometros fell to his knees. He stared up at the man, agony shooting up his left arm. The man dropped his sword and massaged his hand. Nikometros dragged his unwilling gaze to his arm, dreading the sight of ruin. For a moment, he stared uncomprehending. The gold of the ornament on his upper arm was marred, scarred by a great slash, revealing the dull blue gray of iron beneath. My armband, he thought, the blade struck it. It saved me. The man standing above him swore and reached down for his sword. Nikometros threw himself forward, knocking the man's legs from under him. His right hand found the sword hilt and he scrambled on top of the struggling warrior. He thrust the blade downward. The man stared wild-eyed up at Nikometros. His hands clutched the blade, blood pouring from them, as his hands were sliced open. Nikometros pushed until the point pricked the skin at the base of the man's throat. The metallic stench of blood filled his nostrils.

Keeping the sword carefully in place, Nikometros looked up, seeking the chieftain and Tomyra. Now to see if I can save our lives, he thought. He cleared his throat, calling out to her.

"Great Goddess has my life spared. Her token, her gift, fights for me. Goddess chooses me to live. What say People?"

In the silence that followed he caught sight of Tomyra staring at him, the glittering green of her eyes revealing her shifting emotion. What is she thinking? he wondered.


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