THRAX IV - Ties of War E-Book

David J. Greening

• Herausgeber: Schreibstark-Verlag
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

No peace in our time...? After the liberation of the Greek cities of Asia Minor from Persian oppression, at first everything to be going according to plan for the warriors of Sparta. But only for the moment. For this time, the Great King has sent two entire armies against the Greek Expeditionary Force to end the threat to his throne once and for all. With the seemingly unstoppable forces of Persia in sight, unrest in Ephesos turns into bloody civil war. Caught between chaos and turmoil within and the Persian menace drawing ever closer, the Greeks must look for new, if improbable allies. And so Thrax finds himself once more cast adrift... on Tides of War.

Leseprobe

Inhaltsverzeichnis

Artachshathra

Medusa’s Head

Dikasterion

Hurku

Desmoterion

Nikandrippos

Koressos

Stasis

P’haluta

Shadbarot

Sus Hayam

Kypros

Kition

Prije

Aksum

Squall

Fortress

Ba’alat Gebal

Hamesh Gevarim

Rishasdra

Epilogue

Afterword

Dramatis Personae

Glossary of Ancient Terms

A Schreibstark Book

Copyright © 2025 by David J. Greening

Cover illustration by Kostas Nikellis

Cover design by Yannick Moss

Map design by David Toalster

kosv01.deviantart.com

SCHREIBSTARK

An imprint of

Schreibstark Verlag der Debus und Dr. Kuhnecke GbR

Saalburgstraße 30

61267 Neu-Ansbach

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, organisations, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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Thrax: Book Four

Tides of War

David J. Greening

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David J. Greening was born in Karachi in 1969 AD, briefly went to kindergarten in Malta and grew up in Germany. After cleaning dishes in a delicatessen, working on building sites, flipping burgers and other assorted odd jobs he trained to become a landscape gardener, a profession he worked in before studying Ancient History. Completing an MA in 2004 and a PhD in 2007 he currently works as a school teacher and part-time lecturer of ancient and medieval history. He lives in a small village in a house built in the year 1615 with his wife and two sons.

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For Rune

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Also by David J. Greening

Thrax Book I: Warrior’s Dawn

Thrax Book II: Mercenary of Sparta

Thrax Book III: Soldier of Fortune

The Sea People Book I: Children of the Sea

The Princess and the Key

The Prince and the Key

Acknowledgements

As always, this is the place where I am able to express my gratitude to a number of people who helped me with the writing of this novel. First of all, I would like to say ‘toda raba’ to Josi Moss for the Ivrit I use in my books as a stand-in for Phoinikian / Phoenician, Elmar Köhler and Marco Fernschild for general help with the manuscript, Sabina Polski for proof-reading and editing, Jari Theissen and Paul Theissen for their constructive feedback, my editor Marc Debus, my Greek mate Kostas Nikellis for his great cover art and Yannick Moss for his cover design. Last, but not least, I would like to thank my wife, Inka.

Whatever mistakes remain, historical or otherwise, are mine alone.

Asia Minor

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David J. Greening

Tides of War

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Artachshathra

Artachshathra, second of that name, High King and, by the grace of Ahura Mazda, ruler of all three continents of the world, looked out of the window of his private chamber, down upon the streets of Persepolis, still busy even at this time of evening. The weather during the day had been unusually warm for this time in spring and a gentle breeze was gradually cooling the city. The slave occupied with manicuring his left hand had finished and looked up at the face of his lord from the stool he was sitting on. Absent-mindedly, the king ran his thumb over the fingernail of the left index finger he had torn earlier on. The skill with which the slave had perfectly cut and polished it went mostly unnoticed. Without looking down, Artachshathra dismissed the man with a slight movement of his chin, at which the slave bowed deeply, quickly and quietly packed his utensils and stool and left, backing away.

His mind still occupied with the news from Asia Minor and Egypt, the High King gently raised his right hand and immediately found a cup of wine within his grasp. Taking the artfully crafted golden chalice in his palm he took a deep draught of the mulled and spiced fluid, without taking much notice of its bouquet, which was of course excellent. As the vithapatish, the royal steward, stood only a few paces behind him, he did not bother to witness the beverage being proclaimed safe, assuming it had already been sampled by one of the royal cupbearer’s food tasters.

“My lord,” one of the men standing at attention to the side of the king began, but was immediately silenced by the lifting of Artachshathra’s newly repaired index finger.

Bowing, the man shut his mouth, involuntarily taking half a step backwards. This was the spasaka, the King’s Eye, responsible for the immense corps of royal spies and envoys roaming the empire and gathering information- He was generally held to be one of the ten most powerful men in the kingdom of Persia.

Artachshathra took another sip from his wine, gazing down at his subjects, scurrying to and fro in the dusk below. While they were occupied with their own private and petty affairs and errands, it was his god-given responsibility to see to their prosperity and security. It was a responsibility that weighed heavy, despite the luxuries and trappings of power he was surrounded with. The almighty Ahura Mazda had not only charged him with the welfare of millions of loyal and reliable subjects. No, there were always also those of dubious and, in this case, downright stubborn and rebellious character. It was his task, as it had been that of his predecessors before him, to bring the people of the world into the fold of the Persian Empire. And it was his family whom god himself had entrusted with the formidable mission of ruling the world, bringing peace, prosperity and civilisation to the men and women of Asia, Europe and Africa.

But did they embrace those attempting to free them, to raise them from their hovels, to give them cities, roads and laws and the chance to rise above their petty, tribal squabbling? Was he thanked as the people’s liberator, as the one who brought the petty, stinking, mud-encrusted rulers and their primitive tribesmen the light of reason? Of course not, Artachshathra thought, shaking his head ever so slightly. Down below, the lights of Persepolis went on, bathing the streets and squares in a gentle warm glow, jarring him from his reverie. He blinked to clear his thoughts.

“You were saying, Hvarechaeshman…,” the king said quietly, turning in the general direction of his spasaka.

“My lord,” the King’s Eye began, undaunted by his master brooding, “the news as it stands makes it imperative to act. If I could advise…”

“Bugger all that, lad,” a burly, and evidently also slightly-drunk man in military garb interrupted the spasaka’s carefully sculpted speech, ignoring the fact that the King’s Eye was merely some five years his junior. This was Rewniz, supreme commander of the High King’s military forces and First Spear of the realm. “The king knows full well that the bloody Spartans have us by the balls in Ionia. I say we stop pussyfooting around and kill the whole fucking lot of them!”

As usual, such directness caused most of the other courtiers to flinch. Holding their collective breaths, they froze in position, in the hope of not catching the king’s attention after such an outbreak and inexcusable breach of protocol.

“Rewniz,” the King’s Eye addressed the officer, breaking the shocked silence, raising his eyebrows and shaking his head ever so slightly, “I am sure our lord is as grateful as we all are for the depth of your erudite and astute assessment of the state of our western provinces. It is obvious to all that something must be done. The situation is indeed unpropitious,” he continued, the choice of words earning him a guffaw from the soldier. “However,” here Hvarechaeshman turned back to the king, “I would advise caution, my lord. After all…”

But that was as far as he came, once again finding himself interrupted by Rewniz.

“Stop boring everyone with your drivel, Eye,” the man said. “Incited by the damned Spartans, the bloody Greeks are in open revolt along the coast. On top of those bastards, Farnabah in the north is having to deal with Thracians crawling all over his butt and has already lost us the Troad. If it’s true that bastard Meidias killed governor Mania…,” the man said, his words trailing off without finishing the sentence.

“It is, so I hear,” the king put in quietly, his voice displaying no outward hint of anger. Upon the death of her husband Dardanos, governor Mania had proved not only to be a competent administrator, but she had also been respected and adored by her Persian, Greek and Mysian subjects. Her death at the hands of her own son-in-law had directly led to the secession of the province from Persia. “He will be dealt with in accordance to his crimes,” Artachshathra added, his lack of emotion making the threat even more menacing.

“So, my Eye and my Spear both counsel me to act,” Artachshathra mused, toying with his golden cup. “Something of some portent must have occurred for Rewniz and Hvarechaeshman to be even in general agreement on a course of action,” the king said to the two senior councilmen, ignoring for the time being the interjections of the commander of his armed forces. “So, Hvarechaeshman, you were saying…?”

“Thank you, my lord,” the King’s Eye said, indicating a bow. “Indeed, as my esteemed colleague mentioned,” here he ignored another guffaw from the general, “we must act. But if we press too hard upon the barbarians, though our hand will be felt, its touch may prove too severe. Already I have reports of possible revolts in Phoinikia and Egypt in the West and South, and we all know how unruly the eastern and northern tribesmen are. Should you order for our armies to press too hard, this may cause your subjects to rise against your rule.”

The king nodded at this piece of advice, pursing his lips in contemplation. He held up his golden cup ever so slightly and immediately a slave hastened to refill it.

“My lord,” Rewniz said, managing to scratch and shake his head at the same time, “we have heard a lot about how the King’s Eye seeks to deal with barbarians, ‘gently touching them’ or whatever. But let’s make no mistake,” here he raised his voice somewhat above the volume appropriate for addressing the ruler of the world, “there’s only one kind of touch these people understand – that of a Persian fist wrapped in iron!” he finished, smacking his right fist into the palm of his left hand, causing several of the courtiers to wince, but once again merely eliciting a raised eyebrow in the spasaka. “We must crush them! Now, and without hesitation, my lord, before this plague of rebellion and insurgence spreads through all of Asia Minor! Stamp out these embers before they turn into a wildfire, I say!”

“Even if you should adopt such an ill-advised course of action, my lord,” the King’s Eye put in, “there are not enough men to be spared to march west, as our troops are too occupied with the Saka in the north and the Parthians and Sogdians in the east,” Hvarechaeshman continued with a smug look towards his military colleague.

“You snake,” the general spat at the remark, “are you saying my men are not…,” but was instantly silenced by the king holding up his hand.

This open gesture signalled displeasure of such an extreme degree that even the First Spear did not attempt to continue his tirade.

“My friends,” the High King began, making it quite obvious from his tone of voice that in that moment friendship was the last thing on his mind, “please, compose yourselves.”

In any normal conversation this would have probably been seen as a polite request, at the worst a slight reprimand. In such refined company as the court of the High King, the gesture and accompanying exhortation by the monarch himself signalled extreme disapproval. Several of the courtiers and slaves in attendance had seen men, women and even children been swiftly, and sometimes not so swiftly, put to death for similarly incurring their ruler’s displeasure. As everybody silently stood at attention, Artachshathra mulled the information and the advice over. He had naturally been fully aware of the fact that there was currently not enough manpower to send west without opening up possible rifts elsewhere, as of course were the First Spear and the King’s Eye. Egypt was always in a state of potential rebellion, while the news from the Phoinikian cities on the coast of the Levant was no better. He ran his thumb over his index finger, surprised by the new smoothness of the nail.

“Our main army is currently not in the position to march west?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

“No, my lord,” a sobered-up Rewniz answered.

“And Farnabah’s hands are also tied?” he continued.

“Correct, my lord,” the King’s Eye answered, nodding.

“I wonder where exactly the iron fist of Persia is supposed to come from in this case,” the High King mused, and this time his general knew better than to answer the rhetorical question. “So,” Artachshathra continued, turning to the King’s Eye, raising his eyebrows, “this would indicate I should be turning to my spasaka for advice…”

“Thank you, my lord,” Hvarechaeshman replied, bowing. “If I may…,” he began, only to find himself once more interrupted by his king lifting his index finger with its polished nail.

“Please, it would grieve me to find us misunderstanding one-another,” the High King said, meaning of course that any misunderstanding would have grave consequences for any of his councilmen. “I am weary of us being bested by these barbarians. We should indeed act. Our southern satrap, Chithrafarnah, why do we fail to hear anything of his efforts to support his king’s cause? Is his province not due east of the base of these Greek troublemakers?”

“Indeed it is, my lord,” the King’s Eye replied. “It is only that so far, the two governors of Asia Minor were… at odds, let us say. Farnabah did not ask his colleague for any military support against the Greeks and Chithrafarnah did not offer any.”

Slowly and menacingly, the king turned towards Hvarechaeshman, causing the royal master of spies and envoys to pale and Rewniz to smile complacently in response to the rebuke, though his colleague failed to otherwise display any outward sign of nervousness.

“I would appreciate it if you could see to it that such lack of cooperation among my governors shall cease,” Artachshathra said emotionlessly, making it obvious that a significant number of heads were in imminent danger of rolling.

The king took another sip of wine. It was actually rather good, he suddenly noticed as the spices wafted into his nose.

“After exhaustively scrutinising my council’s advice I have come to following decision,” he continued formally, inclining his head to a scribe who immediately began committing the king’s orders to papyrus. “It is my will that my loyal satraps Farnabah and Chithrafarnah muster their forces and unite them under their joint command.”

This meant that any failure in the military cooperation of the two would result in the unpleasant demise of whoever was accountable, possibly both of them.

“As soon as the weather permits, they shall then carry the offensive to our enemies,” the High King continued nodding slightly towards his First Spear, who bowed in response to Artachshathra complying with his advice.

“But it is also my wish to curb the Greeks’ encroachment upon my domain by other means. Thus, I have also decided to heed the advice of my Eye,” the king continued, this time inclining his head to Hvarechaeshman, who also answered with a bow. “It will not do that barbarian warriors and the like roam freely in the empire. What then is it that all primitives seek before everything else?” the High King asked the men gathered about him.

At first nobody dared to answer, until one man finally replied “Gold, my lord,” in accent-free Persian.

Poignantly, the man speaking was Titanios, the son of the Spartan king Damaratos who had fled to the court of the High King after being exiled and was himself currently in the service of the First Spear.

“Indeed,” Artachshathra, “gold,” making no mention of the fact that several of his retainers were in fact Greek themselves. “So, we shall combine the force of our iron fist with the stealth of the snake and shall at once both attack and bribe the barbarians,” the High King said elegantly, earning nods and bows all around. “See to it,” he added curtly in the direction of his two main advisors, effectively dismissing the council members.

And hopefully the greedy bastards will cut their own throats and drown in their own blood, he added to himself as his advisors lined up to kiss their lord’s hands before taking their leave.

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Medusa’s Head

Thrax leaned back from the somewhat coarse table against the wall of the tavern. He was sitting on a rickety wooden bench outside the ‘Mermaid’, the inn he and his acquaintances usually frequented during the daytime. In direct view of the harbour of Ephesos, anybody sitting outside was able to observe whatever was going on below, a source of news not to be underestimated. Especially in wartime.

Currently, however, trade was slack due to the Persians gradually taking up the offensive again. Normally the surprisingly good weather for this early in spring would have seen to a lively business at the docks. Ah well, peace is good for business, Thrax thought to himself. But doesn’t the same count for war? Things may become more difficult for the city’s average inhabitants, but if there was one thing the Spartans were certainly good at, then it was keeping their army in good shape. Of course, he himself was no Spartan. ‘Thrax’ after all merely meant ‘Thracian’ in Greek. And neither was the mercenary unit he was currently serving in as part of the Greek Expeditionary Corps currently campaigning in Asia Minor. Both Megalias his commanding officer and most of the men serving under him were Arkadians, from the central Peloponnesos, a peninsula in the south of Greece. They lived in the mountainous region due north of Lakedaimon, the homeland of their Spartan employers. While Thrax had never been to mainland Greece before, he was always surprised at the similarity of these people with his own Thracian countrymen.

These rough-and-tumble, hard-drinking and even-harder-fighting men did not have much time to spare for the niceties of their Ionian hosts in Ephesos and, to be honest, neither did he. A rough table and bench and a decent drink was good enough for him most days. Thrax set down his mug of beer, holding the back of his hand against his mouth and suppressing a belch, sighed contentedly and closed his eyes. All in all, things were going rather well: He had completely recovered from the injuries he had sustained in the siege and later storming of the city of Atarneus, even if his back still did twitch occasionally. The weather was fine, he was among… well, if not exactly friends, then at least superiors positively disposed towards him, he decided after a few moments of searching for the right words. Or at least so far Nikandrippos, the Spartan officer in charge of the guard chatting with Athenadas the hoplite commander sitting opposite, had generally seemed sympathetic towards him. Athenadas certainly had every reason to be, after all, Thrax had been part of a troop of men who had saved the man’s life.

The people most important to him, who over the last one and a half years had become something akin to a family, were likewise happy. Or at least content with the way things were currently working out. There was Therimachos, whom everyone merely called ‘Smiler’ due to the large scar along his cheek, forcing the right side of his face into a permanent skull-like grin. He had become more of a brother to him than simply a brother-in-arms in the light infantry unit they served in together. Or his friend’s woman Sarta. Like himself, she was a Thracian of the Dolonkan tribe and foreigner in this army. She had always been a tough one, but after the Greek army had freed her from captivity, she had transformed herself into a warrior-woman so fierce and skilful with a bow that the men now merely referred to her as ‘Skythis’, the Skythian girl, women renowned for their belligerence. Then there was Galea, the cat-girl, whom they had somehow unwittingly adopted at Atarneus. While she did not actually smile very much – hell, she didn’t even speak very much except to her cat Lie – she seemed fairly content to have chosen to stick with them.

And then of course there was Zenia… involuntarily, his mouth began to curl up into a lopsided grin. Though most of his Greek comrades mocked the Persians as weak and effeminate, she, herself a Persian noblewoman by birth, was anything but. More than once he had witnessed her resoluteness and her ability to assert herself, and as far as Thrax was concerned she was every bit as tough as any of his Spartan officers. She happened to be the cleverest and most, uh, eruditious person he had ever met he added to himself, hoping he had got the term right. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever met… but also the most headstrong. His grin turned into a smile as he thought about her piercing, dark eyes and rose-tinted lips in a face framed by jet-black hair, her petite but at the same time athletic figure. Thrax’ abdomen tingled warmly as he contemplated toying with the small, golden rings adorning her…

“Wake up I said, lad!” a loud voice blared in his ear, jarring him from his daydreaming in an ungentle fashion. “Where the hell were you then just now, Thracian,” Nikandrippos said beside him in his broad Dorian Greek accent, “up his missus’ skirts again, eh?” he added chuckling to himself in the direction of Athenadas, who guffawed in response.

“I’m sorry, guardsman,” Thrax replied, hoping the two did not notice him blushing, “you were saying?”

“Ah look at him, young love still going to the lad’s head!” Nikandrippos said to his fellow officer, ignoring Thrax’ answer and making it evident that his face had indeed turned a different colour. “Enjoy it while it lasts, lad, there’s nothing like your first love,” the guardsman carried on. “Believe an old man,” he added, “women come and go. But war, lad, there’ll always be war. And so, there’ll always be a place for men like us,” and he lifted his drink.

“Hear, hear,” Athenadas replied, nodding and raising his own mug in response.

Thrax used the pause to likewise have a drink, hoping the lull in conversation would give his face enough time to lose its colour.

“I could get used to this Thracian piss,” Nikandrippos said good-naturedly, setting down his beverage.

“Beats bad wine, that’s for sure,” Athenadas agreed, looking into his mug. “No such thing as bad beer, isn’t that a Thracian proverb?” he asked Thrax, who merely nodded.

With international trade having taken a downturn, decent wine had become harder to come by. Grain, on the other hand, was plentiful. As a result, a number of the kapeleia, the Greek public houses catering to both the sailors and inhabitants, and currently also the soldiers stationed in Ephesos, had taken to brewing beer. While Kabdamush, the Karian proprietor of the ‘Mermaid’ did serve a decent drop, this Greek version of beer was of course nothing like brytos, Thracian beer, which was of course the best in the world. If Thrax could only lay his hands on brytomer, Thracian strong beer, he…

“Wake up, lad,” Athenadas said. “There he went again, guardsman,” he continued in an aside to Nikandrippos, chuckling and shaking his head. “I wanted to know what you think of the cavalry situation,” he asked, gesticulating with the stump of his left arm, the hand of which he had lost in the battle for Atarneus. “I mean, you being Thracian you know something about horses, right?”

Thrax nodded. Thracians were considered among the best horsemen in the world, certainly better than Thessalian Greeks or Skythians and second maybe only to their Persian enemies themselves.

“Well, uh, I suppose our cavalry is good enough,” he ventured, not wishing to give his true opinion of the commander of their own horsemen, the Athenian Polykritos.

“Polykritos is a fucking bastard,” Nikandrippos replied, “and everyone knows he tried to sell us out at Atarneus.”

Thrax merely was able to shrug in response. This treachery had involved a full third of their allied Athenian horsemen, meaning that these men were now either dead or sold off as slaves and thus severely decimating the army’s cavalry. The rumour persisted that the Athenian had helped the enemy set up an ambush for the Greek troops, but he had somehow managed to convince supreme commander Derkylidas of the fact that this had been instigated by Badimos, one of his underlings. But Thrax knew this rumour to be true, especially after having fought the Athenian shield to shield.

“Well, there were no Thessalians to be had, I suppose,” Athenadas put in with an unsuccessful attempt at humour.

“So, what do you think?” the guardsman asked seriously.

“We simply don’t have enough,” Thrax replied.

“What, men or horses?” Athenadas demanded.

“Both,” he blurted out, shaking his head. “Whatever one may think of Polykritos,” he continued, the way he pronounced the name making it very clear of his personal opinion of the man, “he is a… decent horseman. But he lost a lot of men at Atarneus,” several of whom I actually killed myself, he added silently to himself, “and Oros and his cavalry scouts simply aren’t up to the same job.”

“Damn, that’s what we thought too,” Nikandrippos said, nodding and stroking his beard. “I keep telling the Boss,” – this was what everybody unofficially called Derkylidas, supreme commander of the Greek Expeditionary Force – “that we need horsemen, but he just won’t listen.”

“You bloody Spartans just aren’t horsemen,” Athenadas replied, grinning. “Your pedestrians, that’s it. Born infantrymen, I’ll give you that – not as good as us men from Sikyon, of course. Maybe you should eat the animals…?”

“Fuck you,” the guardsman answered, good-naturedly. “Imagine the lip I have to take from a bloody Sikyonian!” Nikandrippos continued. “He’ll be lucky if he can tell the difference between a horse and a donkey, lad.”

“Ah, go to hell, you Spartan bastard,” Athenadas said chuckling. “How about the Ionians, Thracian?” he asked Thrax, quickly turning serious again, “how are the Ionians for cavalry?”

“They seem good enough, as far as I can tell,” Thrax replied, taken aback by two senior officers suddenly asking him, a foreigner barely as old as one of their younger sons, for his opinion. “They certainly know how to handle the animals, but on a battlefield… I couldn’t say,” he finished, shrugging.

“Ionians…,” Athenadas mused, reaching towards his beer.

“A fickle lot,” Nikandrippos said, shrugging. “Bloody Athenian poofs are Ionian after all,” he added, grimacing. “But the lad’s right, whatever anyone thinks of that bastard Polykritos, the army needs him. The Boss needs him.”

“Praised be the day when this statement ceases to be true,” Athenadas said tight-lipped, and drank deeply from his mug of beer.

This effectively silenced everyone for a moment. But before either of the three had the opportunity to resume their conversation, a lean but muscular man came out of the tavern and sat down at their table.

“Lochagos,” Nikandrippos said in a vaguely formal tone, addressing Thrax’ superior by his title as a commander of five hundred, inclined his head and lifted his drink in greeting.

“Guardsman, Athenadas,” Megalias replied, nodding, “and our pet Thracian too, I see,” he added in mock surprise at seeing Thrax seated with the other two, slapping him on the shoulder in a friendly manner.

“Any news?” Nikandrippos asked.

“Good or bad?” Megalias answered grimacing.

“Either, both,” the guardsman replied in typical curt, Lakonic manner.

“The bloody Persians,” Thrax commanding officer said, losing any trace of humour. “Yesterday they… well thank you, beautiful,” he interrupted his train of thought as one of Kabdamush’s buxom serving girls set down a large wooden mug of beer in front of him.

“Hallo, fellas,” she said in a thick Karian accent, smiling at Megalias.

His response was more of a polite remark than an attempt to chat her up, as the man made no secret of the fact that he preferred good-looking young men. She looked about if anyone else needed a drink. Upon seeing half-full mugs all around, she winked suggestively at Thrax and with a swish of her hips she left the four of them to their own devices.

“Giving you the eye, eh lad,” Megalias said, smiling once again.

War and Persian attacks were a matter of life and death, but a man only lived once. Thrax blushed once again, making the officers chuckle and Megalias continued.

“News from one of Oros’ outriders. There was a cavalry attack somewhere near Magnesia,” he said earnestly. “The bastards raided a supply caravan meant for Ephesos, which had taken a safe route south of Mount Thorax. Nobody should have known they were there.”

“And even if,” Nikandrippos added grimly, “they shouldn’t have gotten there in time. That was the fifth time in the last two weeks.”

“We have a spy problem,” Athenadas stated earnestly.

“And a cavalry problem,” the guardsman said,

And soon we’ll also have a supply problem if things go on like this, Thrax added silently to himself, as the conversation turned towards the details of Megalias’ report.

***

By noon, all three officers had left on various errands. Nikandrippos had to see to his guardsmen patrolling the city, as the inhabitants were gradually becoming agitated and nervous due to the increasing Persian activity in the region. Athenadas and Megalias had simply been picked up by their current significant others. Athenadas by Myrta, an elderly former prostitute from the isle of Samos. She had come to ply her trade among the members of the Spartan army and had somehow ended up becoming an officer’s common-law wife. Megalias, on the other hand, had been picked up by Artemisios, a beautiful boy the lochagos had bought as a slave but had then fallen in love with. Now he shared chores and duties with Thrax and Smiler during the daytime, and his master’s tent during the night.

While such a thing as homophilia as the Greeks called it was not unknown to Thrax, he always wondered why men bothered with other men. Or boys for that matter, no matter how beautiful they were. Well, to each his own he thought to himself, shrugging.

In the course of the lazy afternoon of his day off, a number of people had called by, sitting down and sharing a drink with him. Neodamos, their unit’s purser and the man in charge of procuring food and drink, one of the cavalry scouts serving under Oros whose name he had forgotten, but who bought him a large mug of beer, possibly hoping to jog his memory. Tekmor the hoplite officer and two of his men, as well as a few dock workers he did not even know who simply wanted to sit, relax and have a chat. At dusk, Thrax was what Zenia would have termed ‘inebriated’. He would have simply said he was pissed out of his skull. By then, he was the only person still sitting outside, as all the other patrons had already either left or gone inside with the air turning cool.

“Be alone at last then?” a female voice suddenly said beside him. It was the Karian girl who had been serving him earlier on. “You plan yet for evening…?” she asked flashing him a smile, lithely sitting down beside him without waiting for a response. She touched a small mug to his own and took a small, careful sip.

“No, s’orrite, Timoosi,” juss siddown, Thrax replied, unsuccessfully trying his best not to appear as drunk as he felt.

“Oh, sweet you pronouncing my name,” she giggled in response. “But correct ‘Tamosi’. Can you say?” she asked, slipping near enough to him for their thighs to touch.

Thrax noticed the warmth of her skin, realising that the air had become cool enough for a shiver to suddenly run down his spine.

“Tamousi?” he attempted, feeling slightly overwhelmed by so much femaleness encroaching upon him.

“You nearly got,” Tamosi, replied, giggling. “But I name Tamosi. See, Ta-Mo-Si,” and she exaggeratingly pursed her mouth around the ‘mo’ part making her lips look as if she wished to deliver a lot more than a mere brotherly kiss. “I help,” she added, using the moment to sidle up against him, pressing her ample bosom against his chest. “Ta,” she began, nodding toward Thrax in encouragement.

“Ta…?” he replied, finding himself unable to withdraw.

“Mo,” she continued, gently gripping his cheeks and pressing them together.

“Mo,” Thrax said through his now pursed lips.

“Si,” she finished, not letting go of his face even though the last sound did not in fact merit the aid of a native speaker.

“Si…,” Thrax finished, pronouncing the final syllable as ‘see’ not ‘sigh’.

“Oh, you very good, nearly like Karian,” the serving girl nodded with rather more enthusiasm than necessary. “I must give reward.”

And before Thrax knew what was happening, he suddenly found her left hand which had never left his cheek turning his face towards her and Ta-Mo-Si’s lips on his own, her tongue quickly finding her way into his mouth for good measure.

“I would appreciate it if you would take your hands off him, girl.”

He immediately recognised the voice, as someone suddenly sat on the bench on the opposite side of the table. It was Zenia.

“You better go, girl,” Tamosi replied, detaching herself from Thrax before he himself was able to say anything. “You know tonsulkoin, Thracian?” Tamosi asked him, leaning suggestively against his left shoulder.

“S’what?” he asked, trying somehow to detach himself from the Karian girl’s grasp, but failing miserably.

“Oh, she is Karian, I see,” Zenia answered, smiling coldly. “I very much think you are sitting at the wrong table, girl. Parabebin-nu qdarrouss, otrsh acht-qan,” she added in Tamosi’s direction, her tone of voice having lost any trace of politeness.

The serving girl’s mouth opened in surprise, only to snap audibly shut. Glancing from the determined-looking Zenia to the drunken Thrax, she disentangled herself and, without another word, she got up and left.

“Whassat,” Thrax demanded with a hurt look in his eyes, “wha’she say to you, she was juss bein’ nice, princess.”

“I recognise that kind of ‘nice’, Thrax,” Zenia answered in fluent Thracian, making a point of not calling him by his actual name as she usually did in private. “And, to answer your question, she called me a mother-sheep. I did not appreciate the denotation, just in case you were wondering.”

“Oh. Orright. An’ whaddayou say to’er?” Thrax asked sheepishly.

“Oh, I just said ‘fuck off wench, you daughter-of-a-bitch’, in her own language. It mostly seems to deliver the message better to address people in their native tongue,” she added, the fact that their conversation was in his native Thracian and not her Persian going unnoticed for the moment.

“I dinnow you spoke Karian. Well, fugdat, I’ll never b’able to come ‘ere again,” Thrax replied drunkenly, shrugging to himself.

“And maybe that would just be for the better,” Zenia stated, nodding and rising from the bench. “And now, if you don’t mind, ‘prince’,” here her tone of voice made it quite clear that her usual term of endearment was not to be taken literally in any way, “I was sent to pick you up to eat at the ‘Siren’. If you do not mind, I think I will drop you there. I would on the whole prefer to have an early night today.”

***

The two of them walked along the wharf together. Or better Zenia walked and Thrax stumbled along after her, keeping up as best as he could. Though the walk through town to the ‘Siren’ was by no means very long, the combination of cool air and Zenia’s icy behaviour towards him quickly served to sober him up. When they came to the corner of the road leading to the tavern, she simply stopped, making him nearly barge into her.

“I hope you will be able to find your own way from here,” she said coolly, glancing briefly and, without another word, left him standing there.

“Uh…,” Thrax began lamely, reaching out to touch her, but she elegantly evaded his outstretched hand and walked off into the dark.

Thrax shrugged, hoping she would forgive him the fact that a serving girl had thrust her attention upon him, knowing only too well that she certainly would not forget. Women, he thought to himself, shaking his head, suddenly feeling the need to empty his bladder. He looked around and saw a small alley on the other side of the road leading off between the houses. Normally he would have had some reservations of letting a woman simply walk off alone at night in a town the size of Ephesos. However, Zenia knew very well how to defend herself against any form of unwanted male attention. After all, she made a striking impression easily recognisable after the time the army had been camped in- and outside of the city. In general, nobody messed with one of the soldiers’ women. Those who did often found themselves quickly minus their teeth, a few broken bones or possibly worse.

Additionally, there were standing orders for both civilians and soldiers to leave any blade longer than a hand’s span in camp. Nikandrippos and the guard came down hard on anybody caught openly carrying swords. Those with hidden blades on them above the length allowed were at the very least in for a flogging. Together with the Arkadians’ reputation of being a tough unit, this meant she could simply walk back to camp on her own without any fear of being molested by any of the Ephesians.

Thrax instinctively fingered his lucky knife in its worn leather sheath at his left hip, nodded to himself and easily brushed away any beginning trace of concern for Zenia on her way home. Entering the alley, he noticed the usual smell. With the doors of the ‘Siren’ more or less across the road, the dark and narrow alley basically invited people to empty their bladders or bowels. With not much of a moon to see by, he made his way past a stinking pile of refuse to the left, crunching over a number of pottery shards. All he needed was a quick piss, he’d be able to refill as soon as he was in the ‘Siren’. Just as Thrax was about to let flow, he heard a quiet purring sound, immediately followed by a hushed rustling.

“Hello, z’anybody there?” he asked in a low voice, already feeling his thoughts beginning to sober him up ever so much.

“Thracian?” a voice whispered in response.

“Galea?” Thrax replied.

He immediately recognised the strange mixture of the girl’s voice with her emotionless tone, as well as her cat Lie, clambering onto her shoulder. The Karian street urchin had led him and his friend Smiler to the gates of Atarneus, effectively helping the trapped Greek soldiers to break free and win the day. He lowered his own voice to match her whisper.

“What on earth are you doing’ere? Shouldn’you be bagin camp?”

He did not bother to mention it was far past bedtime for a girl of her age, seeing as she had been living on the streets off rats her cat caught for the two of them for as long as she had been able to remember.

“I was on my way. With Artemisios,” she replied, her voice becoming so quiet as to be almost inaudible.

He was a bit surprised, normally the lad would have been back in camp by now.

“Then why are you here? Where izze idiot?” he answered, shaking his head, the last traces of drunkenness gradually subsiding and giving way to an uneasy feeling.

“He is here,” Galea said, if at all even quieter than before.

Thrax was just able to see her nodding in the shadows and pointing at the ground. He looked down and saw a bundle of clothes to their side, smelling particularly bad. Screwing up his nose and shaking his head in the hope of sobering up a little more, he knelt down. The reek of piss and vomit immediately assaulted his nose. Taking a deep breath and fighting the urge to gag, he rustled around in the dank, smelly pile, instantly feeling a human arm somewhere in there.

“Help me,” he said quietly in the direction of Galea, who had been standing there, rigid as a statue with her cat on her shoulder.

The girl nodded silently, set the animal down and began to uncover the prostrate body in front of them. It was Artemisios, or better what was left of him. Trying hard not to throw up, Thrax held his right ear against the smashed remains of what a few hours ago had been a beautiful face and was able to hear a faint breathing sound.

“Thank the gods, he’s alive,” Thrax said to no-one in particular.

“He will die,” Galea stated in her usual flat tone of voice.

Seeing the state the lad was in he found it hard not to simply agree, so he shrugged.

“Fuck,” Thrax swore to himself. “What happened?”

“We were going home together. Lie ran off after a rat. So, I gave Artemisios the things I had bought in the market and he waited for me back there,” she whispered, pointing down the road in the direction of the ‘Medusa’s Head’.

This was the tavern where Polykritos and his cronies usually hung out. Neither Thrax nor any of his friends would even dream of setting a foot in the place. On the whole, the units that didn’t get along simply stuck to their own haunts.

“First I couldn’t find her, so I and came back to tell Artemisios to go ahead to camp and that I’d follow.”

“Right, and what happened then?” Thrax demanded impatiently.

“When I returned, they were beating him. Polykritos saw me, but I think he didn’t recognise me because Lie wasn’t with me. ‘You better go home quick, little girl, this boy here needs to be taught a lesson’, he said. And then he smiled. And then I nodded and ran off.”

“Did you see what else happened?” Thrax asked with a sickening feeling growing inside his stomach.

“Of course. Artemisios is my friend,” Galea nodded. “I hid to see what they were doing. They took him into an alley and raped him. All six of them,” she added quietly in her toneless voice. “And then they dragged him here through the back,” here she pointed in the direction opposite the entrance to the main road. “They dumped him here and kicked his head when he was lying on the ground. And then most of them pissed on him. Poor Artemisios. He’ll die, won’t he?” she added, a trace of emotion finally creeping into her voice.

“He’ll be alright,” Thrax nodded reassuringly without any conviction whatsoever, hugging the girl only to notice they were both shivering with a mixture of emotions. “He’ll be alright.”

“I hope so,” Galea said, disengaging herself from his embrace. “When people get raped, things break and tear inside them. I know. I have seen it happen. Girls selling themselves for food in Atarneus,” Galea said flatly.

This had been the town the army he served in had been besieging. For one moment Thrax wondered how much of her account could possibly stem from own experience. Before being overwhelmed by a combination of drink and horror, he got up, deciding to get help from whomever he was able to find in the ‘Siren’.

“Stay here and be quiet, I’ll be back right away,” he said to the girl, his tone for once matching hers and left as she nodded silently in response.

***

“I don’t give a fuck,” Megalias said coldly, attempting to wipe the mixture of snot, blood and tears from his face but only succeeding in smearing it across his cheek and into his beard. “I’ll go there and kill him. You can come along or stay here.”

“I’m just saying, maybe we shouldn’t, you know, provoke…,” that was as far as Deinoleon, one of the Arkadians’ senior officers came when Megalias began shouting something in an enraged voice, into which several other Arkadians instantly joined in, each louder than the next.

Thrax was surprised to find he had been able to comprehend the quieter voices better than the shouting going on now and withdrew from the centre of attention.

“What a complete fuck-up, mate,” Smiler said in a slightly blurred tone of voice, putting his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Any idea if he’ll make it?”

“Anath has sent for an iatros,” Thrax replied, shrugging.

The ‘Siren’s’ owner had taken one look at Artemisios when Thrax and several of his comrades had brought the lad inside and immediately got one of her sons to fetch a healer.

“I suppose he should be here soon, but who knows?” he added grimacing.

Even in the meagre lamplight the ‘Siren’ was able to provide, it was fairly obvious the lad was in a sorry state. From what Thrax had been able to see, his face was destroyed. Both jaws seemed broken and several teeth had gone missing. And if anything, his body was worse off. Thrax had seen several battle-hardened warriors gag at the sight, one quietly retreating to the corner of the inn’s main room to throw up.

“Why didn’t they kill him?” Smiler asked, shaking his head. “I mean, look at him…”

“He’s very stupid, isn’t he,” Galea said in Thrax’ direction, stroking Lie who was once again atop her favourite perch, her owner’s shoulder. “They wanted you to find him. He wanted Megalias to find him. He wants you to fight him.”

Taken aback, Smiler screwed his eyebrow together, evidently trying to sober up and digest the matter at the same time, just as evidently with little success.

“You mean he’s… I mean he’ll be…”

“Polykritos will be waiting for you inside the ‘Medusa’,” Galea answered, nodding. “And he will be armed, while you only have knives. And then he will…”

“I know, I know,” Thrax interrupted her usual train of thought, “we’re all going to die, I get it.”

“Who is with me?” they suddenly heard Megalias’ voice drowning out whatever commotion had been going on before. “This time we’ll teach them! Smiler, remember what they did to your face?” he roared, all attention immediately shifting towards their corner of the room as Megalias pointed in their direction. “Or Latropos?”

This had been one of the Arkadians found beaten up and robbed, and then dumped unconscious in another back alley in the vicinity, leading to a first, smaller incident between the Arkadian peltasts and the Athenian cavalrymen. Nikandrippos and his guardsmen had broken up the ensuing fight before anything worse happened than a few knocked-out teeth and black eyes. This, however, was a different order of magnitude. While it was unclear if Artemisios would survive his injuries, his good looks were definitely ruined. And even if he did happen to be a slave, everyone, including Polykritos of course knew that he happened to be Megalias’ bum-boy. And who would be the bastard’s next victim? Zenia? Galea…? Thrax shivered suddenly feeling completely and uncomfortably sober.

“It’s payback time!” the leader of the Arkadians cried.

It seemed as if the entire room answered. Without thinking, Thrax found himself joining in. Immediately, several of the men began smashing chairs and tables, turning planks and legs into improvised maces and bludgeons while the proprietress and her sons looked on without interfering. Smiler grimaced and handed him a length of wood which appeared to have been part of a table, nodded and squared his shoulders. Moments later, they were on the street outside, with Megalias leading his Arkadians towards the ‘Medusa’s Head’ and Polykritos.

Keeping to the back to see that Galea was safe, Thrax looked in her direction. Although she opened her mouth to speak, he was unable to make out the words among the Arkadian battle cries and general shouting and yelling going on, but her lips seemed to be saying “We are all going to die.”

***

By the time the noisy gang of soldiers had arrived outside the tavern of their supposed brothers-in-arms, whoever had still been on the streets at this time of night had got out of their way as fast as possible. Thrax had an extremely bad feeling about what would be happening next, especially with Galea towing along. However, he reckoned that someone who had survived a siege and the resulting battle for a town unharmed would hopefully also be able to get out of this whole matter unscathed.

The name ‘Medusa’s Head’ did not exactly conjure up any positive expectations in Thrax. After all, the public house was named after a man-eating female monster with snakes for hair that turned those into stone that set eyes upon it. But it quickly became clear the place was several tiers above the ‘Siren’. There was a terrace outside with chairs and tables surrounded by a low wall into which trellises were set covered in grape vines, giving the patrons seated outside some measure of privacy from the passers-by. From what Thrax could see, the place appeared clean and well-tended, as opposed to the gritty and scruffy ‘Siren’, the Arkadians’ usual hangout.

With all the noise the men had made on their way there, any possible element of surprise was already gone, should it have ever existed in the first place.

“Polykritos!” Megalias shouted, stretching out his arms to halt his men in front of the gateless entrance to the patio. “Come out you Athenian bastard! Show yourself, you fucking coward!”

The Arkadians around him took up the call of ‘coward’, rhythmically banging whatever truncheons and general hitting implements they had against the paving stones, the ‘Medusa’s’ low wall or the wall of the next-door building. Thrax quickly took a look around himself. The furious Arkadians were shaking their fists and brandishing their weapons in the air, shouting and he braced himself for imminent battle. He tried to see if Galea was anywhere near, but was unable to catch any glimpse of her. Only a few windows in the upper floors looked onto the street, but each one was now open, lined with spectators who had been rudely awakened by the row down below.

All of a sudden, arms and voices were lowered as a single figure exited the door of the tavern. Meticulously dressed and cleanly-shaven as always, he sauntered at a relaxed pace across the terrace, followed by maybe three dozen men who kept far back. It was Polykritos.

“Ah, the Arkadians,” he said, coming to a stop in the entranceway.

Smiling broadly, he picked a grape from the vines above him and popped in his mouth. He chewed briefly and then spat the pips in the general direction of the Arkadians.

“I do think you have got lost, Megalias. The cheap whorehouses and watering holes catering to your, ah… people,” he finished, pretending to look for a polite expression, “are that way,” and he pointed to the right in the direction of the harbour. “Now, if you would mind telling your men to keep down the noise, I daresay the good people of Ephesos would prefer a well-deserved night’s sleep to your, um, Arkadian chanting,” and he made as if to turn his back on them and return inside.

“You, stand!” Megalias shouted. “Don’t you fucking run away on me, you bastard! I know it was you, you bloody coward!”

The other Arkadians quickly joined in, making any reply impossible for a moment.

“I do not take lightly to being insulted, lochagos,” Polykritos replied coldly at a momentary lull in the shouts and insults, turning around again. “Especially not from you and your riff-raff. Now, if you would kindly tell me what it is I am supposed to have done, I am sure your pointless accusations can be quickly dispersed. And then I will gladly accept your apology,” he added, smiling smugly.

At this moment, Thrax was not alone in realising what Galea had immediately realised, namely that the man was not only guilty, but had actually been seeking this confrontation.

“Artemisios! You… your men, they raped him and half killed him!” the enraged Megalias answered. “And Latropos! I know you were behind that one too!” he added, pointing the leg of a chair in the Athenian’s direction and once again raising a number of cries from his men.

“I would appreciate it if you would surcease thrusting what appears to pass for a ‘weapon’ in Arkadia in my direction, lochagos,” Polykritos said, once again without so much as raising his voice. “I thought matters concerning this Lotropas, or whatever the fellow was called had been settled,” he continued, mispronouncing the name on purpose. “If your men get so wasted on cheap, ah beer, isn’t it,” he said, not even pretending to hide his grin this time, “as to fall victim to the base elements of this fine city, I might suggest you take better care of them.”

Though Polykritos opened his mouth to continue, anything he might have attempted to say was drowned out by shouted Arkadian insults and challenges. The Athenian merely shrugged, proceeding to pick another grape and chew it, once again spitting the pips in Megalias’ direction. This time he nearly hit his booted feet, as the lochagos had advanced several paces by now.

“As to that arse-boy of yours, I really would prefer it if you would cease to baselessly infer others sharing in your… degeneracy. However,” here Polykritos held up his hand, as if wanting to appease the Arkadians, “I will not have anyone claim I was without pity, let alone generosity. Allow me to lay the fundament for you to purchase a new slave,” the Athenian said, fishing inside a fold of his tunic and producing a small handful of coins. “Here.”

At this he nodded condescendingly and threw them onto the paving stones at Megalias’ feet, to land squarely among his own mixture of spittle and grape pips.

With nothing more than a cursory glance on the ground, Megalias roared something unintelligible and charged, drawing his men with him. Thrax attacked with the others, but their advance was immediately curbed by the fact there was only one entrance to the premises. He saw one of the men try to kick his way through the vine-covered wooden trellis to his right, but someone from the inside thrust a length of wood in the man’s face, knocking him senseless. Thrax looked around, catching a glimpse of Galea standing against the wall of a building on the other side of the road. Good, at least she’s safe then, he thought.

All around him the men surged forward, taken hold of by a spirit of battle that for once seemed to somehow pass him by. As his comrades pressed against the creaking, but still holding barrier of vines and wood, Thrax wondered when the struggle with the foliage would finally evolve into a proper fight. As it turned out, he did not have to wait very long. Suddenly, everybody seemed to surge forward in one single, tumultuous motion, dragging Thrax toward the ‘Medusa’s’ entranceway.

Immediately, blows from fists, wooden implements or both rained down on him and the others, and he was merely able to hold up his own piece of wood in defence for the moment. A man went down beside him with a gash to his forehead and he was able to see what exactly had happened. While the Arkadians had battered their way in, the Athenian defenders had taken the tables and stood them on end, using their tops as improvised shields. A blow came down on his shoulder, forcing him to drop his improvised cudgel, which was instantly lost in the midst of shuffling feet and men falling to the ground. He ducked as another blow came his way. It hit someone beside him in the side of the head, but failed to do any damage, enabling Thrax to tightly grasp his attacker’s outstretched arm.

“Pull!” he shouted at the man beside him.

Dodging several more thrusts and blows, they pulled the Athenian forward through the tabletop shield wall together, opening it up. Immediately, Thrax elbowed one man in the side of the head. Something came down lightly on his right arm and he hammered his fist into another man’s face. He felt something crunch and give way, but was not able to hear much in the din surrounding him. And then, all of a sudden, he and the other man had broken through and the other Arkadians came pouring through the gap. Spreading out left and right, they simply battered down the Athenians with brute force. Within moments, the tables were literally turned as the men grappled with one-another. Thrax evaded a blow to his upper body, instantly realising that his opponent obviously had little or no experience using a polearm to thrust, but only to throw. He easily pulled the length of wood from the man’s grasp, making him tumble forward. Thrax’ raised knee caught him squarely in the solar plexus, instantly knocking him out cold.

He did not bother to wait and see if the Athenian would be getting up any time soon. Hammering his improvised staff into another attacker’s midriff, he quickly thrust it back and caught another Athenian in the side of the head. Suddenly finding himself with nobody to fight, Thrax once again ventured a quick look around. By now, the Arkadians had all managed to fight their way onto the ‘Medusa’s’ terrace. Neither Megalias nor Polykritos were anywhere to be seen, while all around him men seemed to be screaming abuse and generally doing their best to beat the shit out of each other. Completely taken by surprise, he was hit and fell to the ground, only barely managing to thrust out his hands and stop himself from smacking his head on the flag stones.

Thrax’ vision blurred. Blinking numbly, blood began dripping from his brow into his right eye, further obscuring his vision. And then someone stumbled across him, sending the man to ground beside him. Thrax felt a sharp, fiery pain across his back. The man looked up at him slightly dazed, and he recognised him to be an Athenian. Baring his teeth and shouted something, the man lunged at Thrax with a knife. Instinct alone saved him from being stabbed in the neck. He dropped to the side, his attacker’s blade cutting deeply into his right shoulder, but also getting torn from its owner’s grasp with his sideways motion. He had rolled onto his left arm, pinning it beneath him, while the pain from his shoulder made his right arm useless within moments. All Thrax was able to do was to roll onto his back in the hope of somehow getting back onto his feet. But the Athenian anticipated the move, jumping on top of him.

His attacker flung himself onto Thrax with his full weight, forcibly expelling the air was from his lungs. He grappled for the knife still sticking from his shoulder and pulled it out, but instantly lost his grips due to the blood now soaking his tunic. Without thinking, Thrax hammered his forehead into the man’s face. He heard a cry of agony as the proud, aquiline Athenian nose was smashed into a mixture of blood, cartilage and bone. Savagely kicking and punching the man away, Thrax stumbled to his feet, once again having to wipe the blood out of his eyes.

He felt like a mess and probably looked it as well, but those around him still standing were likewise rather worse for the wear. There were several men lying on the ground. In the wan moonlight Thrax was unable to tell if they happened to be Athenian or Arkadian, merely that there were out cold, possibly very cold, now that knives had come into play. Crouching, he moved backwards until he felt the grapevines rustling against his back and took the time to have a closer look at his shoulder. From all he could tell, the cut was not wide but had gone deep. Merely the fact he had been drinking profusely earlier had numbed his body enough to stop him from crying out in anguish.