Thrax - Mercenary of Sparta E-Book

David J. Greening

• Herausgeber: Schreibstark-Verlag
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

After his family is murdered by the hand of his own brother, Bryzos is forced to flee home. But after running ashore in Asia Minor, the homeless prince finds himself in the midst of a war, as the army of Sparta takes up arms against the might of the Persian empire. And so, the warrior fighting for glory is forced to become what he hates most: a mercenary...A mercenary of Sparta

Leseprobe

Inhaltsverzeichnis

Prologue: Sestos

Wave Breaker

Ephesos

Polykritos

Kyreians

Ionia

Mania

Smiler

Kebren

Gergis

Zenia

Phrygia

Ukanas

Bithynia

Raid

Epilogue: Winter

Afterword

Dramatis Personae

Glossary of Ancient Terms

A Schreibstark Book

Copyright © 2020 by David J. Greening

Cover illustration by Kostas Nikellis. kosv01.deviantart.com

Map and cover design by David Toalster, Patrick Toalster & Martin Henze

SCHREIBSTARK

An imprint of

Schreibstark Verlag der Debus und Dr. Kuhnecke GbR

Saalburgstraße 30

61267 Neu-Ansbach

ISBN 9783946922469

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.

Θ

Thrax: Book Two

Mercenary of Sparta

David J. Greening

Θ

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 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, two sons and the occasional cat.

Θ

To Elmar,

for being there

Θ

Acknowledgements

Once again, I am deeply grateful to a number of people who helped in the course of writing this novel. First of all I would like to express my gratitude to my agent Nadia Micheilis for letting me wear her nerves thin, Elmar Köhler, Dr Frank Billek and Martin Vogel for reading and commenting on earlier versions of the manuscript, Charlotte Knöll and Katha Plum, toda raba to Yosi Moss for a hand in the Phoenician, my Greek mate Kostas Nikellis for his great cover art and my brother Patrick Toalster for the map and for making it all come together. Cheers to Marc Debus for welcoming me to his team. Last, but not least, I would like to thank my wife Inka, for being the light of my life.

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

Asia Minor

Θ

David J. Greening

Mercenary of Sparta

Θ

Prologue: Sestos

Bryzos had ridden the whole night, crossing the entire Chersonnesos peninsula. By the time he came in view of Sestos, he was too tired to dwell on the fact that his brother had murdered his entire family to make himself king, forcing him to choose either exile or death. Entering the town, he came past a basket weaver’s shop and stopped to ask the man for directions. He dismounted and approached the man.

“A good day to you,” he said in Thracian, “could you tell me the way to the harbour?”

The man sitting in the shade of the awning covering the front of his shop stopped his weaving but only smiled, shrugging his shoulders and giving him an uncomprehending look.

“The harbour? Where?” Bryzos tried again, but with the same result, only that this time the man replied.

“No speak Thrax.”

“Sea-boat place, you having where? I look Zygostratos son of Xenostratos,” the prince said in his strongly accented Greek.

This was the man whom Gaidrus, now also a victim of his murderous brother, had told him to seek out. The weaver smiled broadly, amused by Bryzos’ feeble attempt at wrapping his tongue around the foreign language.

“Ah, the ivory merchant. Just follow this road,” he replied slowly and carefully gesturing to the left. Bryzos found his Greek accent only barely comprehensible, having to check himself at the man’s patronising manner and his loud voice, as if the prince was hard of hearing. “Then you will come to the harbour. Zygostratos has a large warehouse at the south docks. You ride along the quay, Thracian and ask your way at the end.”

Bryzos nodded and got back on his horse. Continuing along the road, the smell of the sea quickly became stronger and the bustle on the streets intensified. The water of the harbour was filled with ships laid up against the docks, the size of which the prince had never seen. They were being loaded and unloaded by an army of labourers, everyone going about some incomprehensible task or other.

Finally, he arrived at a one-storey building. Standing in the shadow was a man clad in a purple tunic wearing a broadly brimmed straw hat, talking to another man holding a ledger. Bryzos got off his horse and led his mounts towards the two. The purple man gazed up from his work, looking the new arrival up and down and assessing this unknown Thracian. This had to be Zygostratos. He was the fattest man the prince had ever seen, sporting a magnificent beard reaching to his chest. For a Greek at least he was virtually loaded down with jewellery and finery: None of his fingers seemed to be without a ring and he had a number of bangles and bracelets covering both wrists and arms.

“What can I do for you then, young man,” he asked in Thracian, dismissing his assistant with the wave of his hand.

“Master Zygostratos,” the prince blurted out, relieved to note that this man spoke his own language, “I wish to take passage on one of your ships.”

Unfazed by the fact that his name would be known to a total stranger, the trader replied, “And, pray tell me, why I would grant you this? Might I inquire who you are?” he added in a friendly tone.

“My apologies,” the prince quickly conceded. “My name is Bryzos and I am the son of Ozrykes, king of the Dolonkans.”

“I am sorry to say, Prince Bryzos, that this is impossible. If you will look at the dock, you will see there is only one of our ships leaving today and it is already well-filled. There is simply no room to take on a passenger, particularly a member of the nobility,” at this he smiled at Bryzos’ destitute appearance, turning to leave.

“Please, I must leave Sestos. I am to tell you that you owe Gaidrus a favour!” Bryzos said urgently.

At this the trader turned around sharply, his interest now visibly piqued asking “You know Gaidrus?”

“He w… is a friend,” the prince said, embellishing the truth and deciding not to mention the fact this ‘friend’ had met an untimely death. “It was he who sent me here.”

“That may change things then,” the trader replied, stroking his beard. “Do you see that ship there?” he asked, pointing at the dock where a vessel was getting ready to sail. “That is the Kymatothraustes, ‘Wave Breaker’ in your language. She will be leaving for Ephesos as soon as she is fully loaded. Have you ever been to Ephesos, prince?” the trader asked good-naturedly, but Bryzos could only shake his head. Smiling at this display of ignorance, Zygostratos replied, “She’ll be in Ephesos in two or three days.” Feeling himself warming to this strange, distraught Thracian, he asked, “What will you do there, prince? Have you somewhere to go to?”

“No, Master Zygostratos, I know no-one there,” Bryzos replied despondently. “I had only hoped to leave here, wherever your ship may take me.”

“And what of your horse, young man? I am sorry to say you cannot take it with you.”

“Maybe you could accept it as compensation for my passage,” he said, knowing only too well it was worth a lot more than a passage on a freighter.

“A fine beast, a true Thracian steed; I will see it taken care of well, prince.” And then, completely spontaneous and unthinking he pulled a ring from his finger, saying, “When you arrive at Ephesos look up Master Shadbarot, my Phoinikian associate there, and give this ring to him. Tell him I sent you and he will take you in, at least for a night.”

The trader nodded to a servant to take care of the horse, at which a boy walked up and lead the animal off.

“I wish you luck, prince. You certainly seem to be in need of it. And if I were you, I would better not claim any royal lineage as it would appear to me that you are fleeing from your peers. Farewell, and may your Horseman see you safely ashore,” and he turned around.

Zygostratos summoned a servant and pointed in the direction of the ship. The boy nodded and headed back towards Bryzos, gesturing for him to accompany him. Together, the two approached the skipper.

“Master Hypsikles, it is master Zygostratos, sir. I am to tell you have a passenger and…”

“Fuck,” the man interrupted. “Who is it? Him?” he asked, turning towards Bryzos.

“Yes. Name of me Bryzos and I…” he began in his broken Greek.

“I can’t pronounce that barbarian crap,” the skipper interrupted, taking a moment to look at his new and unwanted passenger. “Anything else?” Hypsikles asked, turning back to the servant, who merely shook his head. “Excellent,” he replied in a voice dripping with sarcasm, dismissing the boy who quickly scampered off. “Well, Thracian, we leave within the hour.”

At this the man turned and simply left Bryzos standing there.

Never having felt as alone as then in his entire life, he squared his shoulders and walked towards the ship without looking back.

Θ

Wave Breaker

Thracians were not meant to go to sea, Bryzos thought, and not for the first time. A wave crashed over the side of the ship drenching him in saltwater, though he was already soaked to the bone by the rain. This, he was sure, was the end. At a lull in the seemingly endless surges of water, he leaned over the side of the ship and vomited copiously. He had long since thrown up anything he had eaten into the waters of the Aegean, and the taste of bile was bitter in his mouth.

The waves surged around the vessel, threatening to take them all to the deep. At least things would be over then, Bryzos thought, or so he hoped. He sat up to look overboard, only to duck instinctively as a clap of thunder erupted near the Wave Breaker, closely followed by a bolt of lightning. The sailors had long since stopped attempting to do anything but simply hold on for dear life. Most of them had tied themselves to some part of the ship or other after they had reefed the single square sail to stop it from being shredded to ribbons by the wind.

All about them the storm raged. Bryzos had never been to sea before and would never have begun to imagine there was so much water in the world. Waves the size of houses tried to smash their ship into so much kindling, but somehow the helmsman managed to keep them on a course avoiding the worst of the swell. He had no idea where they were or where the Wave Breaker was currently headed and wondered if anyone on board in fact did. When the prince, or better former prince, had boarded the trading ship in Sestos in the morning, the weather had been fair.

Bryzos scoffed; a prince! The whole idea was now nothing but a joke: While the hatred he felt for his half-brother Tarbos was mutual, he would never have imagined… How could a man be filled with so much hate for his own family? His father King Ozrykes, his mother, his brothers and sisters, all of them now dead, killed by the hand of one of their own. His stomach convulsed once again at the thought, and he leaned over the side. But before he was able to throw up into the water, another wave came crashing over the rails.

One of the sailors had not tied himself down properly. As Bryzos looked on, the screaming man was torn off his feet and smashed against the stern post. Even if he had not been dead that instant, as the water retreated it simply pulled him overboard, sealing his fate.

“It’s him, the Thracian!” one of the seamen shouted, loud enough to be heard above the din of the storm raging about them. “It’s all his fault!”

Bryzos rose to counter the accusation, but before he was able to so much as open his mouth, another thunderclap directly above made him cower back down in fear. Heartbeats later, a bolt of lightning struck into the mast. His ears tingled and he was momentarily blinded by the flash as the wooden pole all but exploded. He looked up, the afterimage of the glare making stars appear across his field of vision. He was just able to make out a large section of what remained of the mast come crashing towards him before he was knocked senseless.

***

When Bryzos awoke, he was lying on the grass in a clearing in the middle of a forest. The sun shone gently above and the air smelled of spring. Only moments ago, he had been sitting on a ship destined to succumb to the storm. The earth lay underneath him, unmoving, and for a moment he just lay there, enjoying the lack of movement around him. He knew where he was: These were the Fields of Derzelas and he was dead.

After a while he sat up, without haste; after all, the dead knew no hurry. No, their souls only waited here to be reborn, to go on, to where no-one, not even the dead themselves really knew. He had lost everything, and now also his life. Still, Bryzos felt strangely at peace, as this would at least mean his flight was over.

It was late morning, a beautiful day, but all days were fair in the Fields. Above him the trees were green, and flowers filled the grassy meadow in which he sat. Bryzos took a deep breath and enjoyed the smell of the fresh green and nodded to himself. It was time to find out why he was here.

While the trees of the forest around him looked familiar, they were in fact strange, the colour of the leaves was a shade too dark to be right, and he recognised none of the flowers beneath him. At the corner of the glade he saw a single figure standing in the shade of the trees. Bryzos instinctively knew he was waiting for him and so he rose and approached the man. He walked towards the shadowy figure, who nodded towards him. As he drew closer, he recognised the person: It was his brother Brentas who should have become king after the death of their father.

“Welcome to the Fields of Derzelas, prince,” Brentas said nodding.

They did not embrace, Bryzos simply nodded. They had not been close in life, and neither of them felt the need to be any closer in death.

“Did Tarbos kill you and father?” he asked, “I heard you had both died in a ‘hunting accident’.”

At this question Brentas grinned in a demonstration of mirth Bryzos had never witnessed while his brother had been alive.

“No, Tarbos did not kill father or me. He bribed our father’s mercenaries to do the job for him.”

Bryzos nodded. This was just the kind of thing Tarbos would do after all.

“And our family? Our mother, father’s other wives? Eptarys and Saldas?” he added, who were his favourite sisters.

“I have not seen them here. I cannot tell you more than that.”

Bryzos nodded. This could mean anything or nothing. For a moment, the two just stood there silently. Then he grimaced and finally asked:

“Why am I here? Am I dead?”

“No,” his brother replied. “No, you are here to learn. Though this has never really been one of your strengths,” he added.

Bryzos shrugged; this was true after all, he had never really taken to listening to others, preferring to simply follow where desire led.

“You, brother, must learn how to fight.”

Now this is ridiculous, Bryzos thought. A mere year ago he had taken part in his first action, had killed his man and been one of the men fighting at the siege of Keirpara, where they had vanquished the forces of the Apsinthians.

“I know how to fight,” he replied, tight-lipped, and a lot better than you ever did, he added to himself.

“Oh, you are a warrior, no doubt,” Brentas nodded. “But there is more.”

“What more is there to war than being a warrior?” Bryzos scoffed.

“Much more, as you will see. A warrior fights for honour, for himself, and some,” here he nodded in his brother’s direction, “fight for their family. And it is his heart which gives a warrior his strength. But not a soldier, prince. A soldier follows orders; he fights because he is told to. He serves.”

“I am a warrior and a prince from the House of Akamas,” Bryzos snapped back. “I don’t follow anybody’s orders, and I for sure do not serve anyone.”

“Good,” his brother replied, his voice dripping sarcasm. “Then you already have your lesson cut out. For nobody will follow a man’s orders who himself is not prepared to serve. Remember that,” he added, smiling thinly.

Angered by the tone of voice, Bryzos instantly opened his mouth to reply with a snide remark. But then he halted. There had to be more to learn, even from someone already dead! What would happen to him when he awoke? Balling his fists, he inhaled deeply and closed his eyes, contemplating his answer. A moment later he knew what he would say. Opening his eyes again, he…

Bryzos spluttered awake. Drenched, he saw a seaman standing before him with an empty bucket in his hand.

“So, our ‘esteemed guest’ is finally awake,” the Greek skipper by the name Hypsikles said, making it quite clear Bryzos was neither of the two.

The prince was totally disorientated by the harsh awakening. For a moment the man just stood there glowering down, then he shook his head and stomped off. The sailor with the bucket used the moment of being unobserved and made a gesture with his hands in Bryzos’ direction, following it up by spitting between the former prince’s legs.

He was back in the lad of the living.

Bryzos shook his head to clear it. He looked around. All of the men, or those who remained, as he now recalled that he had seen one man go overboard after all, appeared to be doing the incomprehensible things people did on a ship. Tying and untying ropes, rearranging things on deck and… standing around looking at him. As soon as he looked their way, those men who had appeared to be idle quickly found some rope to fiddle with, making Bryzos feel intensely uncomfortable. The mood on board the ship had shifted, or so it seemed to him. Only then did he notice that the sea was calm and that the Wave Breaker was sailing steadily along, having somehow acquired a new mast.

“De men be afraid of you, Trashan,” Miren the boatswain said in his strange Karian accent, looking down at Bryzos and tearing him from his thoughts.

Nodding, the man squatted down and handed him a flask of strongly watered-down wine, which he took gratefully. The man made a striking appearance: He was a giant, a lot taller than anyone else aboard the ship, including the skipper, who was by no means a small man. He went about the ship wearing only a kilt reaching to his knees, cinched at the waist by a broad, bright red leather belt containing the sheaths of two knives, one long and one short. Both his earlobes were pierced, containing heavy golden rings and he also wore a variety of golden bracelets on his wrists. Both his black hair and beard were long, with the hair on his head tied into a complicated topknot, fastened with a golden clasp. And his skin, tanned to a deep brown colour, was darker than anything Bryzos had ever seen.

“It be your red hair, Trashan. Dey think you cause storm. We never have Trashan on ship before, bring bad luck, some of de men say,” the boatswain said while Bryzos rinsed out his mouth and spat the dregs overboard.

He took a careful sip and then shook his head, handing Miren back his flask. The whole idea was ridiculous! After all, this would mean he had somehow angered the gods, the gods of the sea! He had never ever even been to sea before!

The remark made it difficult for Bryzos to suppress a guffaw, but he thanked Miren instead. By now there seemed to be so many people wanting to see him dead that a handful of superstitious seamen did not really make that much of a difference.

Stoppering the flask, Miren slapped his shoulder and said quietly, “We lose half day through storm, but be at anchor in evening and tomorrow be Ephesos. Den land under your feet. You Trashans, good on land, good on horse, I wonder maybe even good on woman,” he added, smirking and shaking his head, “but on ship – you be useless. You look out,” he warned and got up in a fluid movement looking decidedly out of place on a man his size.

He went back to the stern to check on the helmsman, taking the roll of the ship in his stride. The sight of Miren walking away, seemingly wobbling to and fro in the gentle movement of the sea beneath them induced another severe attack of motion sickness. Another day-and-a-half in this nutshell!

Half-rising, Bryzos threw up the wine he had only just drunken into the water below. At this moment he once more vowed miserably that not even Kotys, the Queen of Death herself, would ever be able to force him aboard a fucking ship again.

***

“You! You brought up the gods against us!” the seaman said loudly, awakening Bryzos from the exhausted sleep he had fallen into.

Behind the man, Bryzos actually saw several of the other sailors nodding.

“We all knew taking a Thracian on board was a bad idea! And now my brother’s dead!”

Bryzos shared the first sentiment entirely. And the trip on the Wave Breaker had certainly brought him no luck so far.

“He not tying himself up properly,” he replied carefully in broken Greek, now noticing his own midriff was still roped to the side of the ship. “I having not thing do with…”

“You’re bringing us bad luck, Thracian! And I for one won’t stand by while you bring the next storm down on us,” the man added, taking a step back.

Bryzos looked around, hoping the sailor would go away and leave him alone, only to find that by now everyone was watching. Everyone, that was except for Miren and the captain, who appeared to be arguing loudly. Slowly, the man drew a knife from his belt, a sickle blade about half as long as Bryzos’ forearm.

“Get up and fight. I want you off this ship, the same way you sent my brother into the deep!”

Bryzos was merely able to shake his head in utter bewilderment at this ridiculous accusation. However, the drawn knife and the stance of the seaman made it clear there was nothing in the least funny about the challenge. Not taking his eyes off the man, he undid the rope tying him to the rails and got up. The sailor had a massive build and the arms of a man used to hard labour. But his stance gave the fact away that he was no fighter. For a moment, Bryzos toyed with the idea of drawing his own knife, but then decided against it. Should things go bad he would have to use it, probably killing the man, and…

Completely taking him by surprise, the seaman sprang forward. More by instinct than anything else, Bryzos ducked right. He avoided a fist that would have easily taken him out if it had connected to his jaw, but the man was already following up with his sickle knife in his right hand. Bryzos nodded. The man was definitely not a fighter: His hips were in the wrong place and his arms swung about as if he were attempting to fly away. Suppressing a grin, he adjusted his own footing to knock his attacker to the deck, only to have the deck rise underneath him under a wave.

Only by dropping onto his back was Bryzos able to avoid being stabbed in the side. He scrambled backwards, attempting to get on his feet again, but the ship did not do him the favour of keeping still beneath him. Instead of coming back up in a fighter’s stance, his left leg slipped away beneath him. This was in fact probably lucky, as it meant that the sailor’s second punch hammered into Bryzos’ right shoulder instead of his face.

Knocking him onto his behind again, Bryzos did not even try to save his dignity this time, but instead simply rolled away to the right to avoid the swing of the blade.

“Fight, you fucking coward!” the seaman shouted, standing up to his full height, untroubled by the movement of the Wave Breaker underneath him.

Bryzos heard the sentiment echoed by a number of other sailors and licked his lips nervously. Trying to gauge the bucking of the ship below, he managed to actually stand up straight, while the sailors now had begun to make their way across the deck to watch.

“Nobody wants you here, Thracian,” his assailant said, taking another step towards him, knife first this time.

Bryzos automatically stepped back to gain room to fight, only to find his heel knocking into the stern post behind him. Irritated by the sudden obstacle he looked down, prompting the seaman to jump at him. The man’s fist came around, smashing into the right elbow Bryzos had just been able to raise. Even before he had time to react to the stunning blow, the attacker followed up his first swing with the blade in his right hand. Off balance and with his right forearm now gone limp, Bryzos stumbled backwards, managing to catch the seaman’s left hand in his own.

Pulling the surprised man backwards with him, he rolled onto his back. Bryzos grimaced at the look of total astonishment on the man’s face as it smashed into his right elbow, knocking him senseless. Pushing the dead weight of the unconscious man off him, the former prince picked up the sickle knife with his left hand as his right was still without feeling. Holding it against the man’s throat he turned to speak to the bystanders.

However, anything he may have hoped to say was cut short by the cold steel of a blade now drawn along his own throat.

“Drop it. Now,” he heard the harsh voice of the captain in his ear.

“Will kill me if I do?” Bryzos spat back.

He was unable to see the man standing behind him, but the eyes of the rest of the crew were now upon them.

“I’ll fucking kill you any time I want, Thracian. And if I want you dead right now, I’ll do it. Don’t you believe I’ll hesitate for one fucking moment,” Hypsikles added, moving the knife so its tip now dug uncomfortably into the bottom of Bryzos’ jaw.

“Man, he attacking me. All I did defending my…”

“I don’t give a shit. I do not know why on earth Zygostratos told me to take you on board and, quite honestly, I don’t give a damn who you are. Well, he owns the bloody ship and I follow orders. But now I have lost a man, a good sailor. We managed to rig the sail up by using an extra spar, but the Wave Breaker will need some serious repairs at Ephesos. And I’ll be damned if some fucking Thracian relieves me of another good pair of hands to do the job.”

The blade pricked Bryzos’ skin and he could feel a runnel of hot fluid dribbling down his neck that had to be blood. If he dropped the knife Hypsikles would kill him, that was for sure. But if he failed to do so the outcome would simply be the same. He swallowed hard, feeling the blade move against his throat. He needed time, something to convince the captain that…

“You’re wasting my time. My men should be working, and right now they’re not but watching us instead. Now, decide, or…”

“You not wanting kill me, captain,” Bryzos said, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt.

“And why is that so?” Hypsikles asked.

“Do you seeing this?” he asked in return, holding up the golden ring the owner of the Wave Breaker had given him in Sestos before he had set off. “Your master Zygostratos, son of Xenostratos he giving it me. He say I deliver to Shadbarot the trader.” This much was indeed true, or at least near enough to the truth, but still did not give the captain any reason not to kill Bryzos. “Together with it I deliver message,” he said, quickly making it up on the spur of the moment.

“What message?” Hypsikles asked, the pressure of the knife decreasing ever so slightly. “I don’t believe a word of this. Why should Zygostratos send a bloody Thracian to deliver a message?”

Indeed, why should he? Bryzos thought, forcing himself not to simply nod in agreement.

“It… it’s because I be son… son of,” but he was unable to carry on due to the knife jabbing into his throat again.

“Whose son you be?” Miren said, stepping forward and speaking for the first time. “Let him speak, captain,” he added nodding towards Hypsikles.

“Alright then tell me, Thracian: Whose fucking son are you?” the skipper demanded.

Bryzos licked his lips. The truth was not only completely implausible, but would also lead to new and very much worse complications. After all, why on earth should a Dolonkan prince need to flee to Ephesos if not to avoid men with money and power who wanted to kill him? Men who would probably furnish Hypsikles with a tidy sum if he was to…

“Either you tell me now, or I will slit your throat and throw your worthless carcass over the side of my ship, message or not,” the skipper threatened.

“I… I Gaidrus’ son,” Bryzos blurted out. “Your master’s associate.”

“This be true?” Miren asked, raising an eyebrow, at which Bryzos nodded ever so slightly with the knife still so close to his throat.

“Alright then. Now: Drop the knife,” Hypsikles ordered.

Once again, Bryzos swallowed hard. But it was clear he no longer had a choice: Either things would work out from here, or not. Nodding, he slowly and carefully removed the blade in his own right hand from anywhere near the unconscious seaman’s body and then tossed it forward in Miren’s direction, who quickly picked it up. Suddenly, the pressure from the knife vanished and the captain pushed him forward and out of the way, onto the body of the man at his feet. Inhaling deeply, Bryzos fingered his throat, distributing the blood from the cut all over his neck.

“I don’t believe a word of any of this, boy. But I can’t be bothered with the trouble you’d get me in if it’s true. Stay out of my eyes,” he said, sheathing his blade with a baleful glance in the former prince’s direction. “You there, you lazy bastards! What do you think you’re being paid for, eh? Fucking get to work!” he added, simply stepping over the body of the sailor who was now slowly groaning and beginning to move.

No, Thracians were definitely not meant to go to sea, Bryzos thought.

***

For the remainder of the day the sea was calm, or as calm as sea happened to get from a Thracian point of view. The storm had blown them off to the west after the ship had left the canal between the Chersonnesos peninsula and Mainland Asia so they had to adjust their course. Bryzos realised he had never before been so far away from home; if he still had a home that was. He had no idea what the new king of the Dolonkans, his murderous half-brother Tarbos would do. Looking at the large island coming closer to the left of the ship, he became aware of the fact that he had no clue where he was. In fact, he did not even know what the remainder of the day would bring, let alone what awaited him at the end of the voyage in Ephesos.

The men on board the Wave Breaker now constantly eyed Bryzos warily. The captain had made it clear he wanted his unwelcome passenger deposited safely at their destination and then be rid of him. Still, the prince constantly had the feeling of the seamen looking for a way to throw him overboard while Hypsikles was looking the other way; all except for Miren that was. And so, he remained at the post he had tied himself to during the storm. Sitting on the right-hand side near the middle of the ship he remained constantly vigilant, hoping they would indeed arrive the next day.

As they came nearer, the large island filled his field of vision and the waters were crowded with more and more vessels. Fishing boats trawled the waters north of the island for an evening’s catch, while Bryzos saw a harbour off to the left.

“That island be Lesbos, Trashan,” Miren said, joining him at the rails. “You look over there,” here he pointed to the mouth of the harbour, “that be Methymna. Big town, big harbour”

Bryzos nodded, once again wondering why the boatswain had continued to be on friendly terms with him, despite the reactions of the captain and the other crewmen. Shrugging, he asked him.

Nodding, Miren stroked his beard and looked at the sea for a moment.

“See sailors here, Trashan,” he said. “All be Greek: Aiolians, Ionians, from de islands, from de mainland, but all Greek. But me, I not Greek,” he said, turning back to Bryzos. “Greeks, they calling us ‘barbarians’, means ‘people who can’t talk’, eh,” he said, gesturing towards his own lips and grinning, causing the prince to do the same. “So, me, I always think maybe barbarians better stick together.”

Bryzos nodded, wondering if the inhabitants of Ephesos shared such a sentiment and opened his mouth to speak.

“You see rowing ship there, Trashan,” Miren said interrupting his thoughts. “Those ships, they be triereis.” Upon seeing the lack of comprehension at the term, the sailor explained, “Be ships of war. Each ship maybe carry two-hundred men. At front they have ram of bronze, it smash into other ship and then,” here he smacked his hands together to illustrate the sound of ship’s timber being crushed, “the ship sink.” Seeing the perturbed look on Bryzos face he added, clapping him on the shoulder, “No worry, Trashan, the triereis not be interested in us, they sail for Sparta.”

There were about a dozen or so of them, long narrow boats without sails, propelled by rowers on three-tiered banks, moving east just as the Wave Breaker sailed further west. He wondered where they were bound and if there was as much conflict on sea as there appeared to be on land. And what or who exactly Sparta was supposed to be.

“There be war,” Miren said, shaking his head. “You take care in Ephesos, Trashan.”

***

The Wave Breaker continued along the northern coast of Lesbos, then turned sharply south, proceeding to hug the coast. By the end of the morning they had rounded the western tip of the island. To Bryzos, time appeared to pass at a different pace at sea. They left the island of Lesbos behind them, sailing into open water. The afternoon trickled by, and more than once Bryzos found himself drifting off to sleep, but forced himself to stay awake in fear of what the crewmen could be up to. In the evening the Wave Breaker had finally reached the island of Chios where the captain ordered the crew to drop anchor just inside a natural harbour.

The night was uneventful, but Bryzos was unable to find any sleep due the movement of the ship beneath him. And any time he heard a sound other than something in the water around them, he jolted awake in fear of finding one of the sailors trying to put a knife to his throat.

When the Wave Breaker once more set sail at first light, he was completely exhausted from lack of food and sleep. The ship entered the waters separating the island of Chios from the coast of Asia, eventually moving into a canal between the island and the mainland. While traffic was by no means heavy, they did encounter several trading ships of different sizes joining them south, heading north or even crossing their path, sailing to and from Asia.

By mid-afternoon the number of ships had multiplied to such an extent that Bryzos no longer attempted to count them. Besides the usual small fishing boats, he saw freighters and traders the size of the Wave Breaker sailing to and from the coast to the east, but also several vessels which were by far larger. What they carried he could only imagine, but he was dumbfounded by the simple mass of people and things which appeared to be on the move.

As they gradually approached their destination, the crew once more busied itself with their unfathomable nautical tasks. The amount of shouted orders increased, as the ship made the occasional turn to get out of the way of a really large freighter, passing near enough for the crews to exchange what sounded to Bryzos like friendly insults.

Slowly they entered a wide cove, with a low, narrow island appearing to their left, featuring a stone tower erected at its southern tip, pointing into the bay. As they approached the inner harbour, Bryzos once again saw a number of war ships coming from the direction of Ephesos. No-one, not even the larger freighters, got in their way. Every captain and skipper granted them a wide berth. As the triereis passed to the Wave Breaker’s left, he was able to get a closer look, counting eight vessels in total. Remembering what Miren had said, Bryzos leisurely decided to calculate the number of men aboard. With a crew of two hundred, that made a total of… more than one and a half thousand men! That was more than the entire population of his home village. On eight ships…

Bryzos staggered, merely capable of gazing open-mouthed at the mighty behemoths passed alongside. What might a fleet of a dozen such ships look like, or two dozen, or three? What might they be capable of? Which king could house and feed such a force of men, let alone pay for the construction of such vessels? He continued looking after the triereis in bafflement until their own ship was swallowed up by the general bustle of the harbour they were gradually approaching.

On a hill in front of him lay Ephesos, the docks still hidden by a forest of masts, yards and sails, a new town, a new continent, a new future – and dry land at last.

Θ

Ephesos

As soon as the Wave Breaker was being moored against a pier, the crew began throwing ropes ashore to secure the vessel. Bryzos was ignored, the sailors as glad of getting rid of him as he was of being able to leave. The entire ship erupted in action, everybody speaking at the same time while the skipper seemed to be shouting commands to everyone at once. The improvised mast was dismantled, as was the steering rudder on the side of the hull, to secure either from being damaged by any of the other craft flitting about the harbour. Only when the ship was completely secured did the skipper have the men lay down a plank as a walkway from deck to pier.

“So, Trashan, we now be in Ephesos,” Miren said, thumping Bryzos on the shoulder as he packed his meagre belongings together. “Now we unload ship and tomorrow fix mast, then take on other load and sail back. But this evening, men and I go see about drink and woman. If you look for me, just ask for tavern called ‘Mermaid’. And what will you do, Trashan?”

Leaning back against the railing, the former prince took a moment to contemplate his answer, but instantly found himself yawning instead, eliciting a chuckle from Miren. Gulls screamed above, the smell of sea and salt was in his nose, as well the more unwholesome odours of a town dumping its waste into the bay. Everywhere he looked were colourful sails and ships with their hulls painted in different hues, many of them sporting eyes at the prow. The men and women bustling all about him were no less colourful. Never before had he seen so many different-looking people. In fact, he had never at all seen so many people on one spot at once.

“I will deliver my message, Miren,” he replied eventually. “And then I will hopefully eat and sleep. Right now, I am simply glad I’m back on land,” he added.

“Well, Trashan, I hope you find good luck,” Miren said, turning serious. He held out his right hand and they clasped each other’s forearm. “You take care,” the boatswain said and pressing the prince’s arm once more, he turned around to bawl at the crew to unlace the deck planking to get at the cargo.

Instantly, the men began unlashing the boards and dismantling a large section of the deck Bryzos had been standing on only moments ago, revealing the bales, amphorae and other cargo stowed below deck. Not looking back, Bryzos hopped on top of the walkway and went back on land, the skipper poignantly looking the other way. Hoping he would never see the man again if he could help it, Bryzos crossed over, his feet once again touching dry land.

So, this is Ephesos then, he thought. I have arrived.

Walking along the pier he soon became absorbed by the bustle around him. Aboard the Wave Breaker, there had always been at least a small breeze to cool him off. Here, on the other hand, any wind blowing from the sea was just swallowed up by the mass of ships in the harbour, making his heavy boots and his woollen zeira uncomfortably warm. Throwing the cloak from his shoulders he clasped it at his throat, making a kind of hood protecting his head against the sun, leaving both of his arms bare.

The tattoos on his right shoulder marking him as a warrior would have raised some interest back in Thrace. Here they earned him nothing more than a passing glance. Few of the people he could see were tattooed, but judging by their looks such marks did not serve to distinguish a man of arms here. He had seen an elderly woman marked straight across her face, as well as a man with dark skin who had markings on his bare chest and shoulders, emphasised by some kind of scarification.

He had to somehow find this Shadbarot, but for the moment he just wanted to stretch his legs. There was a lot of daylight still left and, after all, the place couldn’t be that big, he thought. Strolling in a general easterly direction, he noticed that this section of the docks looked different. The number of men clad for war was significantly higher and the ships were not as crowded against the quay or the wooden piers extending into the waters of the bay, but were each allocated an individual docking space.

Amidst the sound of drums and flutes, a large procession of men exited a warehouse. At their head was a soldier in full armour, his head covered in a magnificently polished bronze helmet adorned with a transverse crest. Directly behind him came the three musicians whom the prince had heard even before he saw the men themselves, escorted by another dozen or so warriors fully equipped for combat. Following these was a veritable forest of wooden spars, wobbling and weaving to and fro. As this strange sight drew nearer, it revealed itself to be men carrying long oars, clad only in loincloths. As soon as they had cleared the boatshed, another complement of rowers appeared and then a third.

Bryzos wasn’t the only person drawn to this spectacle. A crowd of spectators quickly gathered to observe the proceedings. When the three men with their transverse crests had come to a standstill in front of their respective ships, they shouted orders in Greek for the men to embark.

The ships had been anchored head-first with their rams pointing towards the quay. Amidst the cheering of the onlookers, the rowers began to board in an orderly fashion by means of two ramps to either side of the front of each ship. At another shouted order, the oars were cast out to the left and the right, the blades splashing into the water and crewmen on deck and on the pier hastily cast off the ropes and cables mooring the war ships to the dock.

And then the commander of the boat nearest to the crowd gave the orders to backpedal the vessel and the war ship broke free from the embrace of the harbour of Ephesos. The thick crowd around him cheered once more as the trieres backed out, turning on the spot in what even to someone as unknowledgeable in such matter as Bryzos was evidently a highly complicated and skilled manoeuvre. With this accomplished, the ship moved off, waiting for the other members of the flotilla. Six hundred men working in unison, the prince thought, shaking his head in bafflement.

Gradually all three of them moved into the bay and rowed out to sea, once again granted a large berth by all of the other vessels bustling about the harbour. So, this is how a ship of war is worked, Bryzos thought, wondering how such a crew would perform at sea, against other men equally skilled in rowing. It would be a magnificent and terrible sight, he thought, shaking his head. Thank the Horseman I am back on dry land where I belong.

As quickly as it had gathered, the spectators began to disperse this way and that. Deciding he had better see about more important matters, Bryzos gazed about and noticed several vendors hawking their wares from small carts strewn about the pier. As he approached, the smell of food being cooked entered his nose, and he suddenly noticed he was ravenous. With his last meal having been before he had set out for Sestos, three days ago, his mind was quickly made up. He approached a cart and dug into his chiton to fish for the small purse of coins Gaidrus had given him before dying – only to find it gone. He had been robbed!

Patting himself down in the hope he had somehow mislaid the money, the furious Bryzos looked around, hoping against all hope to see someone running away with the little money he possessed. But there was nothing. His knife had actually been half drawn from its sheath, but had become entangled in the belt. Stamping on the flagstones of the pier he vented his frustration and anger, cursing loudly in Thracian. His stomach grumbled at the enticing smell of some kind of fried meat, making him feel sick even while his mouth watered. Maybe he could somehow beg something to eat…

“You, fuck off!” one of the vendors said in Greek, making a gesture in his direction the prince did not recognise, but which had to be obscene.

As the combination of hunger and resentment for the Greeks now overcoming any trace of manners he still possessed, Bryzos stomped close to the man, balling his fists. Just as he opened his mouth to dish out some of the Greek invective he knew, a stone hit him in the shoulder.

“Fuck, who…?” he said in Thracian, turning towards the unseen attacker, instinctively drawing his knife.

The person daring to attack the son of Ozrykes, prince of the Dolonkans, was a frail, wizened old woman. Completely dumbfounded, Bryzos simply stood there while she shouted at him and actually bent down to pick up another missile. Suddenly a second stone hit him in the back, a lot harder and more painful this time. As he turned, he saw this had been the man he had approached. But even as he ducked a third missile, the nearby vendors came running by, shouting and gesticulating, with more stones hurled his way.

He evaded a missile by quickly taking his head down, but a third stone hit him in the side, followed by another to the chest. Totally surprised by the sudden hostility, he jumped forward, brandishing his knife menacingly at the vendor closest to him. The man hastily drew back in fear, dropping the stone in his hand. Shouting in Thracian, Bryzos grabbed a handful of skewers from the brazier and bolted.

As he ran, he was followed by a shower of stones this time, but luckily, they either missed or hit him in the back where his thick cloak protected him from the brunt of their force. Running away from the waterline he was neither capable of looking where he went, nor did he care for the moment. Finally, he came to a stop underneath a tree standing just outside a back alley between two houses.

Tired, exhausted and hungry, Bryzos walked a few paces into the narrow street and slumped down in the shade to rest for a moment. He closed his eyes, feeling overwhelmed by the variety of colours of skin, of clothing and the languages around him. His heart pounded and he gradually realized he had scalded his left hand, while he was still holding his knife in his right. Sheathing the blade, his lucky knife, as it had rescued him more than once when a sword had given out on him, he wolfed down the meat on the wooden skewers.

It was hot and spicy, and though Bryzos felt slightly less ravenous for the moment, he now also noticed how thirsty he was. He threw the remnants of his modest repast into the alley behind him and immediately a mangy dog appeared as if from nowhere. As he watched, it began gnawing at whatever scraps of meat he could glean from the leftovers. Fingering Zygostratos’ ring on his finger, he gave his surrounding a closer inspection. He had no idea where he was, but it was several hours until dusk and there was still enough daylight left and try to find this Shadbarot before sundown. And right now, he was simply not able to look for the man in this foreign city.

Yawning, Bryzos decided to close his eyes, if only for a moment and gather his wits before taking on the next challenge.

***

In what seemed like only moments later, he was rudely woken by a kick in the side.

“Hey you,” a voice hissed, emphasising the words by kicking him again.

Bryzos opened his eyes, only to find it was already dark. Shaking himself, he rose and found himself facing three – children, he suddenly realised.

“This is our street. If you wanna sleep here there’s a fee,” the tallest of them who was half a head smaller than Bryzos said in accented Greek.

“I not wanting trouble, I go,” the prince replied haltingly, holding up his hand.

“Too late for that,” the second, dark-skinned lad said, shaking his head. “If you wanna stay, you gotta pay,” he added, grinning broadly at his quip, causing his friends to chuckle in response.

“I leave then,” Bryzos replied, nodding and making for the exit from the alley.

“Where th’fuck do you think you going then?” the third of them said, holding up his hand to stop the prince, “You stay right here, mate. I like that cloak of yours; I think I’ll have it,” he added, grinning and producing a knife from somewhere inside his ragged tunic.

“Better do what he says, he gets mean when people don’t do as they’re told,” tall boy said smugly, also producing a blade. “In fact, I think we’ll take all you have, right fellas?”

Bryzos looked about the three and sighed. Slowly and carefully he undid the clasp holding his zeira on his shoulders and handed it to boy number one, who grinned and nodded – until he noticed the prince had not actually let go. Quickly pulling at the cloak, Bryzos caught the lad off guard and rammed his fist into the side of his head as he stumbled past. Instantly letting the zeira fall onto the street, he turned to face the other two. Tall boy was already reacting, taking a step back and switching knife hands for effect. Taking a fighter’s crouch, Bryzos waited for the next knife flick and went down, scything tall boy’s feet from underneath him with his right leg. Landing painfully on the flagstones, he lost the knife, which instantly vanished into the shadows of the alley.

Just as Bryzos turned round to face the dark-skinned boy, something hit him between his left shoulder and his neck, driving him to his knees. The blow had not been exactly strong but it was well-placed. He turned, automatically trying to face the direction of his assailant. Before he came fully about, dark-skinned boy took another a swing at him and the prince was only barely able to lift his arm in time.

The blow numbed his left arm from the elbow down. Bryzos rolled away, covering himself in the filth dumped into the alley. As he stumbled back on his feet, tall boy was already trying to get at him. Still half-crouching, his back was smashed against the house wall behind him. Only the fact that the prince had not been standing upright prevented this head from crashing against the building behind him and knocking him out. Misjudging his reach in the dark, tall boy hastened forward to finish his victim. Instead, Bryzos slammed his right fist into his stomach.

The boy’s body folded forward in pain and the prince quickly stood up to his full height, kneeing him in the face. Dark-skinned boy looked first at his two friends, then at Bryzos. Although tall boy was out of the fight, boy number one was beginning to get up again. He approached, gesturing with his bludgeon for Bryzos. The prince nodded back grimly and jumped aside to get dark-skinned boy between them. Instinctively, dark-skinned boy moved to his right, taking a swing with his club, but finding himself banging it against the wall inside the narrow alley.

Bryzos came in under the blow and smashed into dark-skinned boy’s chest with his left elbow, immediately rolling aside in case one of the other two were back on their feet. His first assailant attempted to get up in the street outside. Seeing the prince approaching he remained on his knees, holding up his hands in a gesture of capitulation. Bryzos decided he had had enough. Making a show of it, he slowly and carefully drew his own blade, while inside the alley tall boy was already helping dark-skinned boy stagger to his feet.

“Perhaps you leaving me alone now?” he asked, the grip he had on his knife demonstrating more than anything else that he knew how to use it.

“Fuck you, we’ll…,” dark-skinned boy began, but found himself interrupted by tall boy copiously throwing up, still holding his stomach.

Boy number one got up and took several steps back from the alleyway, saying “Welcome to Ephesos, arsehole, I hope somebody fucking kills you!” and spat on the ground at Bryzos’ feet.

The prince simply stood there for a couple of breaths and then made a sudden move towards them. Instantly, the three turned tail and ran, two down the alley, the other along the street. Looking around grimly in case there was any more to be expected, Bryzos gathered up his zeira, which had been splattered with vomit. After he had waited for a moment, he decided it was unlikely for the three to return, and so he walked further into the darkness of the alley and sat down. Hoping there would be no more trouble that night, he wrapped himself into his cloak and fell asleep immediately.

***

Bryzos awoke the next morning to the cries of the gulls in the air above. The sun had not yet gone up, but the grey light of dawn had already begun to permeate the alley he was still sitting in. He opened eyelids gummy from a lack of something to drink. The stray dog from yesterday was sniffing at his feet and licking his toes for the salt of his sweat. The prince chased the animal away, yawned and stretched, deciding he had to clean himself up somehow before looking up the house of the Phoinikian. Only then, as he wriggled his toes to wring away the stiffness of his limbs from having slept in an upright position, did he notice he was barefoot.

His boots had gone. He jumped to his feet in anger, looking around. By Epta’s tits, some bastard had possessed the nerve to rob him in his sleep! Him, Prince Bryzos, son of Ozrykes, son of the great Burazas, the King of the Dolonkans! Two early risers walked by the mouth of the alley and saw him standing there with clenched fists, glowering and swearing in a foreign language. They pointed at the stranger and his even stranger behaviour, exchanging some humorous comment and walked on.

Bryzos looked down at himself. He was sweaty and covered in grime from the alley. Both his tunic and cloak were stained with splashes of vomit from the exploits of yesterday night; and now he was also barefoot. In fact, he must have looked like a Thracian beggar who had been sleeping it off in a back alley. To his chagrin, this assessment was of course more or less the truth. Hastily fumbling around inside his tunic, he breathed a sigh of relief that at least his lucky knife was still on him. While the thieves had been able to unlace his boots, they had at least not dared to try and get inside his cloak for fear of waking him up.

He had not only lost his family, but he was now also stranded in this strange city on another continent, homeless, without money and with only one person he could turn to for help: Shadbarot, whoever and wherever the man may be. It certainly had not taken him very long to fall this far. Inhaling deeply to steady himself, Bryzos shook his head in disgust and decided to find the Phoinikian before any other Ephesian thieves nicked the remainder of his meagre belongings.

Bryzos left the alley, saw a fountain at a street corner and realized how parched he was with thirst. Approaching, he saw several people, mainly women, standing about chatting and waiting for their turn to draw water. Unwilling to wait his turn for fresh water, he simply walked around the dozen or so people. Throwing his zeira to the ground, he stripped to the waist and simply thrust his head into the water of the spill-over basin. The cold instantly shocked him awake and he drank deeply with his head still under water. For a moment he just remained like that and then came back up and began washing himself as best as he could. Only then did he notice that all eyes were on him, as the servants and housewives looked at his doings in a mixture of surprise and disgust.