Thrax - Warrior´s Dawn E-Book

David J. Greening

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

Beschreibung

“War waits for no-one” After the Age of Heroes: Ever since the fall of Troy, the House of Akamas ruled over the Chersonesos peninsula, unchallenged by Greeks and Thracians alike since time immemorial. But when Prince Bryzos, fourth in line to the throne, wakes up one morning half-drunk and with no clear recollection of the previous night’s events, his life is about to take a drastic turn for the worse: His father King Ozrykes disowns him, exiling the wayward prince to the countryside. And then, without warning, the inhabitants of the peninsula suddenly find themselves embroiled in a conflict played out hundreds of miles away between Sparta, the Odrysian Kingdom and the Persian Empire. As these super powers collide in war, the Apsinthians, the Dolonkan’s arch-enemies, grasp the opportunity to invade, laying waste to everything in their path. Caught up in events he is hardly able to comprehend, the womanizer and drunkard must become a warrior. And he will have to learn fast… or die.

Leseprobe

Inhaltsverzeichnis

Keirpara

Sonketa

Mernest

Aizike

Death

Spindas

Kupsela

Kotys

Deluge

Zvaka

Xenis

Sacrifice

Gaidrus

Afterword

A Note on Spelling and Tranlation

Dramatis Personae

Glossary of Ancient Terms

Schreibstark Verlag

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.

Schreibstark Verlag

Saalburgstr 30, 61267 Neu Anspach

Copyright © 2015 by David J. Greening

ISBN 978-3—946922-17-9

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.

Cover illustration by Kostas Nikellis,

Cover and map design by Patrick Toalster.

kosv01.deviantart.com

www.toalster.de

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Thrax: Book One

Warrior’s Dawn

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, working on building sites, flipping burgers and other assorted odd jobs he trained to become a landscape gardener before studying Ancient History at Frankfurt University. 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 shortly after the Thirty-Years War with his wife, two sons and two cats.

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This book is dedicated to the memory of

Michael John Dent

* Hull, England 4.8.1948,

† Melbourne, Australia 16.12.1998.

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Acknowledgements

I am deeply indebted to several people whose help was much appreciated during the writing of this novel. First of all I would like to thank my wife Annette once again for generously allowing me to spend so much time on the battlefields of Antiquity, my agent Nadia Micheilis for her honesty and hard work, Elmar Köhler for his productive criticism during the odd brytos or two, Charlotte Knöll, Katha Plum and Dr. Frank ‘Billy’ Billek for proof reading, Christian Rhode for his aid in background research, Milena Klumbies and a number of former students of mine at the Department of Ancient History at Frankfurt University for general advice and encouragement, Chris Palmer of Scorpion Swords for material inspiration and weaponry, Kostas Nikellis for his great artwork and finally my brother Patrick Toalster for his excellent maps and lay-out.

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

The Chersonese

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David J. Greening

Warrior’s Dawn

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Keirpara

The setting for a classroom was about as beautiful as can be imagined. The teacher and his pupils were gathered on a hill on a promontory, with a panoramic view of the rocky slope leading down to the shore and the blue waters of the Gulf of Melas below. It was an early summer day, hot and dusty, though the grove of oak trees in which the youths were listening to their teacher lecturing did offer some shade. The oaks were old and gnarled, leaning this way and that, their growth influenced by the promontory’s exposure to the wind from the Aegean. The grove was also a sanctuary of the god Zibelthiurdos, wielder of the thunderbolt to whom the oak was sacred.

A dozen youths sat beneath the trees, while their teacher stood before them with a long cane in his hand, using it both to gesture and draw into the sand before him. He was old and wizened, clad in Hellene fashion, as opposed to the Thracian garb the lads sitting about him wore. His name was Glyptos and he was an Ionian, instructing the boys in Greek in what the Greeks considered the only worthwhile pastime, the love and pursuit of wisdom they called ‘philosophia’. His pupils were all princes related to King Ozrykes, ruler of the Dolonkan how inhabited the neck of the Chersonesos peninsula. Glyptos’ white cloak and tunic made him stand out among the colourful and boldly patterned tunics the boys wore. Midday approached, some of the younger boys becoming drowsy, one of them, prince Bryzos, having actually fallen asleep and begun to snore softly.

“As I was saying,” Glyptos continued in his monotonous, reedy voice, “we Ionians reckon that natural phenomena are not utterances of the gods, but can be explained by reason. For instance, the great Thales of Miletos theorised,” some of the younger boys glanced around questioningly at the complicated word, “that the quaking of the earth is not caused by Poseidon the Earthshaker striking the ground with his trident in anger, but through the fact that our whole Earth is floating upon the endless Okeanos, the father of all oceans, surrounding everything in creation.”

“But how can earth float on water?” one of the older lads, prince Brentas, the king’s first-born prompted in fluent Greek. “Whenever I throw dirt into the sea it sinks,” he added, the comment eliciting giggles from the younger boys.

“Well it is of course a theory, young Brentas. But you will remember I told you that our Earth is also made of other elements, such as fire, or air. And air of course is lighter than water, as we can see by the fact that we, creatures of the Earth, are above the water and breathing the air. Thus, the Earth must naturally float above.”

“And the fire inside the earth, master Glyptos,” Tarbos, the king’s third son added, “how can fire rise above water, when we all know that the water simply extinguishes it?”

As the teacher turned to face Tarbos and attempt to counter his argument, he was interrupted by a particularly loud snore from Bryzos, at which the entire grove erupted in laughter. His face reddening, Glyptos tried to retain his dignity and Bryzos awoke all of a sudden as the teacher’s cane smacked against the trunk of the tree above him.

“What were we just talking about, young man?” the teacher demanded in a loud voice, “what exactly do you think your father is paying me for!”

Unconcerned at the rebuke, Bryzos stretched and yawned, replying in his strong Thracian accent, “No bloody idea. But I can tell you, I’m bloody thirsty.”

The boys, all awake by now at their teacher’s outburst, broke out in roaring laughter, finally making Glyptos lose his Greek composure.

“Class dismissed,” the old man said, ending the day’s teaching session, shook his head at these barbarians he was forced to teach and left, at which all the younger boys immediately ran off cheering.

“Say, Bryzos, father will want to see you about that,” Tarbos said admonishingly as the older lads gathered around Brentas, their informal leader. “I think Glyptos is not too happy with the way you seem to be attending lessons,” he carried on. “You are not only making a fool of yourself, but also making us look like complete barbarians.”

“Yes, well I had the feeling the old coot thinks we are stupid savages, whatever I do,” Bryzos replied shrugging. “And as to father chewing me out for ignoring that drivel, I’m used to that by now. I have no idea what made him get hold of this old fool; bores me shitless.” Some chuckled at that, but also looked to Brentas at the same time, who was slowly shaking his head.

“If you one day should wish to be king,” the older brother quietly pointed out, “you would be better off listening to a scholar like him. What Glyptos is trying, or in your case I suppose to do, is to teach us to think.”

“I am fourth in line to become king if and when our father should die,” Bryzos replied calmly, “do you really see me ever ruling the straits with such fine young men like you others so eagerly standing in line? Well? I thought not somehow.”

“Brother, I for my part do not intend to live only for wine, women and song,” Tarbos joined in again chiding, “I intend ...”

“You don’t, brother, because you can’t hold your beer and you’re too ugly to get laid, that’s why!” Bryzos jeered at his older sibling.

His cheeks reddening from the remark, Tarbos flashed his younger brother a venomous stare and left wordlessly, trailing the princes Darsas and Skaplis behind him.

“Oh well,” Bryzos remarked merrily after they were out of earshot, “it seems the classy boys have now gone. Let’s drink! Who’s up for a mug of beer with me then?”

***

When Bryzos gradually managed to open his eyes again, some considerable time later, the side of his face was lying on the ground inside his own room. His cheek and hair were stuck to the floor tiles by a copious amount of vomit which also covered much of his upper body, his nostrils were filled with the cloying odour of his own filth.

The only flashes of memory he retained from the last evening were him and his mates going to a tavern and getting very drunk on brytos, the local Thracian beer. Bryzos attempted to sit straight and failed miserably as he tried to prop himself up. His hand slipped in the sticky fluid on the ground and without being capable of reacting he banged his head on the stone flooring, covering the rest of himself in the remnants of the previous night.

Hearing a harrumphing noise he looked up, straight into a familiar face.

“I bid you a good day, young master,” Ziles, his father’s Greek manservant said in a friendly, non-committing tone of voice. His Thracian was without accent, clipped and precise, but obviously that of someone not native to the language. That being said however, it was a lot better than the Greek of his master.

“I take it last evening’s activities lived up to expectations.”

“Leeme ‘lone” was all Bryzos was capable of replying, with a mumbled “sodoff, ol’ man” thrown in for good measure.

“Now, now, master Bryzos! What would your father say, I wonder, seeing you in this, shall we say, state of undress? I have allowed myself to excuse you from your father’s presence, as I had seen you return to bed rather late last night. Missing your belt, if I might add. The king does wish to see you this afternoon, though; he positively insisted actually. No dissuading your father when his mind is made up, you know his temper when people fail to obey him. Oh, and master Tarbos was quite adamant about some form of punishment for your behaviour. Your behaviour during your morning’s teaching session that is, just in case you were wondering. I would not wish to be present if your father were to see you like this. Up lad, up! Or he will have your hide this time, I’m sure!”

The friendly, if admonishing monologue kept droning on, while Bryzos, now somewhat more successful, tried to rise from his stupor. Ziles opened the shutters to a beautiful summer day, the sun instantly flooding the room, just as instantly flooding the prince’s head with pain, albeit a lot less worse than it had been some time ago. Bryzos looked a complete shambles: His hair stuck up at various angles, matted in a mixture of sweat and vomit, with the two combined fluids likewise covering the left side of his face which had been lying on the floor, as well as the tunic, he had been wearing since the morning of the day before.

At least I hope the other bastards are just as badly off, he thought, finally standing up a bit shakily. “And a nice fucking day to you too, Ziles,” he interrupted the old man, who had not ceased talking in the same drone all the while he had made the bed and poured water into the washing stand at other side of the room. He turned round, noticing Bryzos being aware of him for the first time, and left the room to take something from a shelf along the hall.

“Here, master Bryzos, this should help you somewhat. Hair of the dog, you know,” and he proffered the prince a mug of hot fluid, the scent of mulled spiced wine wafting into Bryzos nostrils. He instantly threw up, the remaining contents of his stomach splashing on his naked feet, his body racked by cramps, forcing him to steady himself by grasping hold of the side of his bed.

“Ah, there you are,” a pleasant voice said from behind him.

It was his brother Tarbos.

“Father asked me to fetch you. He wished to…” here Tarbos paused briefly, looking Bryzos up and down, a gradually broadening, nasty smile splitting his face, “speak to you.”

“Get lost,” Bryzos managed to say, once again trying to straighten up unsuccessfully.

“I am very sorry,” Tarbos replied in a tone of voice making it evident he was anything but, “father was quite insistent. I did get the impression he was not eaxactly... amused,” he added, smiling maliciously.

***

The building housing the court of King Ozrykes could, by Greek standards at least, hardly be described as a palace, though the philhellene ruler of the Dolonkans had adopted quite a number of Greek styles and customs, one of these being the way he had had his residence constructed. The king, his wives, official concubines and their children, some of his most trusted retainers, the usual number of bodyguards to the nobles, soldiers and guards, as well as the mass of servants, bondsmen and slaves required to run such an estate, lived in a number of buildings sprawling about on the levelled hilltop. The hill on which the residence had been placed had been chosen for obvious strategic reasons, as for the Thracians war was never very far away.

The walls of the hall through which Bryzos was being dragged by his long reddish-blond hair into was plastered in the Greek fashion, his naked and by now bleeding feet leaving unpretty stains on the shimmering stone flooring. Like many of the Thracian nobles, Ozrykes had taken up some of the customs of the Ionian and Aiolian Greeks settling along the coast. After the Great Shaking, a massive earthquake several years ago that had flattened many buildings, particularly the stone-built, larger ones, the craftsmen who had rebuilt the mansion had therefore been ordered by the king to remake everything in the Greek fashion: Walls were plastered and white-washed styled to look like marble, with some being painted. Main entrances were flanked by massive oaken pillars dressed to resemble limestone and the roof was decked in imported Greek tiles, rather than covered in the more traditional wooden shingles. Some concessions had been made, however. Due to the frequency of the earthquakes in the region, the house and its adjacent buildings had been constructed only one storey high, walls having been erected in a timber frame construction filled with wattle and daub as opposed to stone. So far, the house of Ozrykes had successfully weathered a number of smaller earthquakes, proving him right in combining imported and Thracian construction methods.

Thracian timber and Thracian horse-shit, best building material in the world, Bryzos thought, as Tarbos tugged him along mercilessly through the hall, not particularly anticipating the meeting with his father. From the walls the painted gods looked down on him in disgust. There was Epta, goddess of love, abducted by the Heavenly Horseman, in his form as Zymdrenos, the Water Dragon. In this guise, his male body ended in the tail of a giant snake. The beautiful, naked young woman lasciviously rode the body of the undulating serpent, looking at him mockingly and clutching at Zymdrenos’ torso, while the couple was being chased by Epta’s sister Bendis. She was clad in her Thracian hunting gear and stringing her bow to shoot the snake and trying, as usual in vain, once more to save her sister’s virginity.

On the left-hand wall Bryzos saw bearded Derzelas, the god of the underworld and fertility, handing a young Dionysos the horn of plenty, symbolising the dead providing for the living.

As his brother dragged him further to his angry father they encountered two serving girls on some errand to the storage bins.

“And a good day to you, my princes,” the stocky blonde Thracian greeted the two, flashing him a broad grin, while the other, a slim black-haired Greek girl merely nodded meekly, taking in the way Tarbos had been tugging Bryzos along.

“And to you too, Zvaka. What’s up, Kersa, not pleased to see me? Come on, smile, or did someone drop dead while I was sobering up?” Bryzos chatted as Tarbos paused for a moment, attempting to smooth his hair out of his face and straighten up while he made light of the situation he was in. “If so, I do hope it was that bloody Greek philosophos.”

Both of them sobered up at that.

“Master,” Kersa proffered, “your morning so far be agreeable, me hope,” she said observing the firm grip of his brother, as well as the stern look on his face. “But us servants be unhappy today, because your father king be very, very angry. He be also very angry at you, master prince.”

Bryzos glanced back at Zvaka wryly, who by now had abandoned her smile and simply nodded.

“Prince, the king is not amused. Not at all. He had that damn bastard Sautis whipped because he had fallen asleep on guard duty again,” she spat on the ground. “He did have it coming, I say.”

Kersa nodded at that. Sautis was known to be a lecher, always forcing himself on several of the slave girls at the residence, bordering on rape more often than not. In this respect blonde Zvaka of course was a lot more fortunate than black Kersa: No simple member of the royal guard would usually dare forcing himself on one of the royal bedmates, even if he were a seasoned warrior and this prince a mere youth. They both knew that Kersa had occasionally been the target of Sautis’ advances.

“King have Sautis’ hide stripped off. Fuck him, me say,” Kersa said blinking away tears. Bryzos dropped his glance.

“That’s enough,” his brother said in a threatening voice, “come on!”

They circled around, entering the wide, open courtyard in the centre of the ensemble of buildings composing the residence, and crossed it, Tarbos making straight for the main building of the residence, his father’s palace. In the shade of the wooden columns made up to look like marble, supporting the wide, gently sloping roof covering the entire front of the building stood two unsmiling men, eyeing Tarbos and Bryzos sceptically.

The left man had his massive arms crossed over his chest, his spear resting over his right shoulder and his shield slung over his back. His name was Bolinthos, though most people simply called him Bull. He was from the Dian tribe, notorious even among other Thracians, feared for their barbarity and mercilessness in war. Bull was blond and bearded, huge, a head taller than Bryzos and half the prince’s weight again. He wore a short cloak in the patterned light-green design the king had had his guardsmen outfitted in. Large portions of his skin, including his face, were tattooed in the blue curlicues identifying him as a devotee of Kotys, the Thracian goddess of death and suffering, the tattooing of his face symbolising his total devotion to war as a way of life.

The other man was only slightly larger than Bryzos, his size actually appearing tiny in comparison to his colleague on the left. He was a Greek called Zeuxidas, his skin was olive-coloured and darker than that of the Thracians and his hair black as a raven’s back.

Tarbos checked his pace for a moment, visibly intimidated by the two burly warriors, allowing Bryzos to at least momentarily untangle his hair and stand up straight, even though there was no fight in him to resist his brother.

“Where are you going then, pretty boys?” Bull asked, giving Tarbos the same look of contempt he had Bryzos as the two gradually came to halt before the guards.

“None of your bloody business, Dian,” Tarbos snapped back, “let us pass.”

For an answer, Zeuxidas spat on the ground in front of him, just far enough to the left to force the two to detour ever so slightly to avoid stepping in the man’s phlegm, while Bolinthos simply grinned, rolling his shoulders in mock threat.

Red-faced at the insult, Tarbos grasped Bryzos roughly by his tunic and pushed him along before him. Just as they had passed through the colonnade, he heard Tarbos mutter something about “his bloody head on a pike.”

Bryzos continued on, pummelled along by his brother, keeping in the shade of the roofed colonnade that surrounded the large, square basin filled with water in the centre of the entrance area. Two of the king’s daughters, his half-sisters Eptarys and little golden-haired Saldas were sitting on the side of the basin opposite from him, talking quietly, splashing and cooling their feet in the water idly. One of the slave girls passed by, carrying a basket filled with something he could not see in the mottled shade. While she evaded his gaze, the two girls smiled at him and waved as he passed, then returned to their conversation.

What a peaceful scene, Bryzos thought to himself. Let’s just hope father has also calmed down somewhat by now, he sighed hopefully, after all, this was by no means his first dressing-down.

However, King Ozrykes had not calmed down by the time the prince had at last entered the actual main hall. Quite the opposite actually.

Bryzos entered through the heavy, open doors capable of being barred to withstand quite a serious onslaught and again guarded by members of the king’s mercenary guard that lead into King Ozrykes main hall of reception. The ceiling was raised above the level of the surrounding sections of the building to make the main hall more imposing, the entire floor was covered with a mosaic, depicting a number of different mythical scenes. His father was standing at a large table placed some distance before his high seat, consulting with members of his main council of advisors, among whom the prince also recognised Raskus, one of the king’s most important retainers and trusted councillor. His son Suras had been a member of the drinking party in the tavern the night before.

Now that isn’t going to make things any easier, Bryzos thought, his stomach dropping all of a sudden. He halted just beyond the entrance. Some of the men noticed him, nudging the others and, as all eyes suddenly centred on the prince, all conversation immediately stopped or was quick to fade away, as Tarbos nodded towards his father and retreated to the side.

“My lord, father,” Bryzos began feebly, “I apologise for not heeding your summons in time, I ...”

“Silence!” the king thundered, interrupting his son, glaring at him fiercely, his hands clenching to fists. Several of the attendants and slaves flinched at the outbreak, while the two guards standing to the left and right of the king’s high seat smirked visibly at him. He was really in for it this time it would seem.

“My king, I have come to ...”

“Quiet! You will speak when addressed!” the king erupted, his words punctuated by his fists crashing on the table, toppling over one of the wine cups standing upon it and spilling its contents over the wooden surface.

The ensuing silence was quiet enough for Bryzos to hear the sound of his own heart, whose beating also seemed to have increased in speed and intensity all of a sudden. This was definitely not going to be done with some feigned apology, nominal penance and a couple of nights’ abstinence this time. He felt himself breaking into a sweat and had to will his knees and legs to remain firmly under him and not begin to shake. At that moment he did not feel very much like a mighty Thracian god of war, both willing and able to steal fire from the gods, but rather like a slave who was about to be sentenced to the mines. This obviously was going to be his Great Shaking down.

After several moments of silence, which lengthened, continuing for some time, thus further unnerving Bryzos, King Ozrykes bellowed, “who are you, young man? Tell me, who are you!”

Bryzos quickly gathered himself and, taking a deep breath attempted a reply: “My king, I am Prince Bryzos, your ...”

“You, you are a pain in the arse, you are!” the king interrupted him once more. “You, a prince? Ha, my balls!” and he spat on the beautiful mosaic of the grand hall. His phlegm actually hit one of the heads of the hydra, captured in perpetual conflict with its nemesis, the Horseman by the craftsmen who had laid the stones. Rather a good omen, actually. “Just look at yourself! You look like a midden and smell even worse! You, Prince Useless, seem to spend all your time fucking my slave girls and my whores, taking my horses out to hunt and drinking my cellar dry!”

Some of those standing about began to grin at that.

“Well, I don’t give a fuck; I did the same at your age! Or does any of you men know how many of my bastards are running around the place?” the king carried on, brushing his caustic comment aside. Some of the bystanders had nodded at this, without noticing. After all, quite a few of the retainers present had actually been his drinking mates in their youth and with currently five wives and five official concubines only the gods themselves only knew how many children he had fathered.

“And as to going on the binge and pissing up the entire tavern,” more grins at this remark, “and then passing out and waking up in your own puke,” some of the council members began to chuckle, “by the Horseman, we’ve all done that, boy! But what I will not put up with is the way you treat that teacher of yours!”

After his spirits had begun to rise tentatively with the king’s absolution of his previous behaviour, Bryzos was completely taken aback by this remark.

“So, what have you to say to that, young man?” the king said, finally finishing his diatribe.

“Uh, well,” the prince replied lamely, expecting to be interrupted any moment. When this did not happen he gathered himself, saying “I, my lord, am a Thracian, a Dolonkan from the proud house of Ozrykes, son of Burazas the Rock of Battle, who traces his ancestry back to the War for Troy. Like our forefather Akamas, who fought the Greeks before the walls of Ilion, we have always been a race of warriors, feared and respected by all, born to rule others. You are my leader, and I am your son, King Ozrykes.”

This speech went down very well with the men standing by, most of whom had been nodding while Bryzos had spoken, as it did with the king himself, who visibly warmed to his son upon being reminded of their proud heritage.

“So be it,” he replied in a more conciliatory tone. “But I can no longer stand by as you make a fool of your teacher Glyptos. Not only do you reject his wisdom and refuse to learn from him, but you also stop others from doing so! He whined away to me about your continuous misbehaviour and claimed that, as a true philosophos, he was not dependant on taking my money for spreading his teaching, the bloody Greek poof!” At that the Thracians naturally erupted into guffawing laughter, the tension in the room draining even more. “Well you know how they are. However, he did say he would not put up with you any longer disrupting his lecturing and that he would leave if you remained attending them. What have you to say to that then?”

“Father,” Bryzos replied, confident now he had weathered the worst, “let him leave! I have no idea what it is we are meant to be learning from him! He is not only old and feeble, in body and mind if you ask me, but also a Greek, always telling us his stupid, boring stories! Why, today he claimed that Mother Earth floated on top of the sea because she is filled with air!” at this the bystanders again broke into raucous laughter, which lasted for some time. Only the king did not seem to be influenced by any of his son’s words and the surrounding mirth, slowly shaking his head, and Bryzos noted this, slowly becoming aware of the fact that something more was yet to come. “What then, father, can we possibly learn from such a man that is of any use to Thracians?” he finished.

“Boy, there are many things you are yet to learn, not only from bloody Glyptos but in general, and I will now tell you some of them,” King Ozrykes began. “We Dolonkans, and this is likewise true for the bloody Apsinthians, our friends the Thynians, as well as the Bithynians, Kikonians and Edonians, are neighbours to, and surrounded by Greeks of the Ionian and Aiolian tribes. And though the Odrysian kings Amadokos and Seuthes hold most of the Thracians to the north under their sway, we free Thracians have never united under any one tribe or king and, by the Horseman, I for one will not submit to any other ruler, be he Thracian or Greek,” murmurs of consent and nodding heads followed this remark.

“Nonetheless,” the king continued, “many of the Greeks, weak and cowardly as they often may be, have united under one of their leading cities, Athens. And the Greeks of the Chersonesos, both Aiolian and Ionian have joined this alliance, which they call ‘the League of Delos’. Ever heard of the place, boy?”

Bryzos shook his head at this. His father signalled to one of the servants to bring him something to drink. He took a deep draught and then continued, “I didn’t think so somehow. Well, boy, this means that every Greek town in our territory, while looking to us for protection from the tribes to the north, also pays tribute to this League of theirs. And we therefore must somehow deal with these Athenians.

The Athenians are Ionians, like the men who live further down the coast of Asia, the people of Ephesos, for instance. And the bloody Athenians can write their own tongue down, can convey their thoughts to others and are always trying to gather more allies and subject cities, right. So, if we Dolonkans do not wish to bow either to another Thracian king or to these Athenians, but wish to remain free and the lords of the Chersonesos, should we not try to understand our sure rivals and potential enemies by listening to them? By trying to find out how they see things and thus profit from their weaknesses, omitting their mistakes? Think, boy! Glyptos is an Ionian! Listening to his wisdom, but also his babbling will lead us to understand the Athenians and their way of thinking and acting. And when we know these things, we will be able to beat them on the battlefield if ever the need should arise!”

At this, all of the council members broke into cheers and shouting, their blood fired by the notion of going to war against the Greeks again, as opposed to having to contend against the repeated encroachment on their territory by their Apsinthian neighbours under their two kings, Skalme and Beres.

“So, my son, that should have answered your question as to why you ought to be listening to some bloody old Greek fool – so you learn to speak Greek, how to write Greek and about how the Greeks think! However, it is now too late for any more of that. If you would one day be king, or any kind of leader at that, you must learn both to obey and to command. And you, young man, can not only do neither of the two for the time it takes to attend your lessons, but you have so far also amply demonstrated that you also wish to learn neither.”

This of course was nothing but the truth, a fact Bryzos knew all too well. However, he made one attempt to argue the matter with his father: “My lord, I know I have not always lived up to your expectations. I promise that ...”

Shaking his head, the king once more interrupted him, though this time in a completely sober and reasonable tone of voice: “Boy, for a prince of the Dolonkans and descendant of the mighty house of Akamas, this will simply not do. You are at the moment simply a disgrace. Your brothers also drink, gamble and whore – as they should, mind you, for they are young – but they attend their classes and do not constantly try to piss off their teacher, even if he only is a bloody Greek. So I have made a decision and have determined to change your type of lesson.”

The king snapped his fingers and a one-eyed man with flaming red hair and beard came from the shadows towards him, stopped and bowed his head.

“This, young Bryzos, is Rudas. You are now his and will obey him in everything, or he will punish you,” at which Rudas nodded unsmilingly. “And now begone, we have wasted enough time with you as it is.”

And without a further word, King Ozrykes turned to his councillors who gathered around him at the table once more, picking up the conversation which had been interrupted by the appearance of the prince as if nothing had happened. Bryzos stood there, open-mouthed and dismissed without another word, knowing all too well that anything he could possibly say to his father now would make things worse. Very much worse.

The one-eyed man approached him and stopped to stand before him, eying him head to toe. He was slightly taller than Bryzos, and not very much broader in build, but obviously very much more used to hard physical labour. What was visible of his arms and shoulders was covered in the linear tattoos typical of the Dolonkan Thracians, marking him as a seasoned veteran who had killed his man in battle.

Like most of the others he was dressed in a tunic and light summer cloak, a broad sun hat hung at his back by a thong around his neck, all of which looked well-worn, as did his broad leather belt and the baldric hanging from his left shoulder. He wore scuffed and obviously well-used riding boots, as opposed to the other men present with their genteel sandals. The weapon at his side likewise was not an akinakes, the straight sword of medium length worn on the right hip hanging from a belt, the blade of the nobility, but a machaira, the viciously curved, all-purpose Thracian utility blade suspended from the baldric and hanging at his left. The entire appearance of the man was testimony to the fact that he was all about business and had no time for any superfluous niceties.

“What am I supposed to call you then, boy?” Rudas prompted, shaking his head and wrinkling his nose at the sight and smell of the lad before him. “I’ll be fucked if I say ‘prince’ when I tell you to clear away the horseshit. Come on lad, off we go,” And he walked past Bryzos without another word, leaving the room through the main door, not looking back.

Completely bewildered, Bryzos at first glanced about, seeing his father and the other members of the council poring over some document on the table, completely ignoring him, while the members of the mercenary guard whose eye he caught either grinned nastily or scowled at him, as if to say “you had it coming.”

Suddenly noticing that Rudas was not waiting for him and would not stop, he turned around and quickly followed the older man, catching up with him in the hall with the water basin. The hot afternoon had made some of the king’s other children come inside to seek shade, and by now half dozen boys and girls, in various states of undress, were in or beside the basin, laughing and splashing merrily, completely unaware of anything outside their play. Rudas ignored them, striding away in front, forcing Bryzos to follow him at an undignified pace. He passed the children without their noticing him and did not try to say good-bye to his half-siblings.

Before long, the warrior had crossed the threshold of the main building and turned sharply to the left, which would take him to the opposite side of the compound from where Bryzos’ chamber was located. After the dressing down by his father, the prince thought it wiser not to ask about what when they would be picking up his personal belongings. Walking past a set of storage sheds, they approached the northern of the two stables, containing the king’s horses, as well as living quarters for the grooms. They found Ziles waiting, smiling pleasantly, wearing a hat against the sun, with another in his hand.

“Master Bryzos, I am so glad that you made it. Your father was quite irate about the matter with Glyptos, after all. I am happy things worked out.”

One of the stable boys was also standing there, together with three horses, which were bridled and ready to set off. As neither saddles nor stirrups were used by the Thracians, or by the Greeks for that matter, who had after all learned their horsemanship from them, the horses’ backs were simply covered with padded blankets laced under the animals’ bellies.

“Clean yourself up,” Rudas said gruffly. “I won’t let you on a horse like that.”

Bryzos looked around, but all he could see was a trough with cold water. He opened his mouth to speak, turning to Rudas to complain, only to find the warrior swinging a bucket of ice-cold water in his direction, drenching the prince head to toe.

“Now stop wasting my time, boy and get on with it,” he ordered, throwing the bucket at the stable boy who caught it, trying to suppress a grin at Bryzos’ plight, while the prince simply stood there, soaking wet and shocked by the cold water.

With no other choice now, he walked over to the trough, rid himself of his soiled tunic and quickly washed himself, dressed only in his sandals. All of a sudden, Kersa walked by, carrying an amphora filled to the brim with wheat, while Bryzos turned around to see who was approaching. Seeing him naked she blushed, fumbling her load and spilled it on the flagstones outside the stable. Neither Rudas nor Ziles ventured to help the slave girl, so Bryzos approached her. Currently not in the mood for any banter, he wordlessly helped her ease the amphora onto the ground and proceeded to refill it with his hands while Kersa’s took on a darker hue, if this was possible.

“Me thank, master,” she said in her broken Thracian and scampered off before Bryzos was able to do more than nod.

“Didn’t know you were that close to servants, someone like you,” Rudas said taking the reins from the groom and simply vaulting onto his horse, a drab brown mare, whose trappings were just as indiscriminately furnished.

“Not that close, luckily enough,” Ziles replied cryptically, earning him a quizzical look from Bryzos, who was attempting to wring out his soiled and wet tunic.

The major domo merely smiled at his look, handed the prince the spare hat and gestured for the stable hand to give him a leg up. Then, after some awkwardness, he finally managed to find his seating on his horse. This was a rather magnificent black gelding, whose saddle blanket and bridle had been adorned in silver, so as to accent its coat by the contrasting colours.

Bryzos quickly dressed and took hold of the third horse, another beauty from the king’s stable, a ruddy-coloured mare, whom the stable boy had bridled and saddled in black. He firmly grasped its mane in his left hand and hopped onto its back, swinging his right leg over its side. The groom handed him the reins returning to the stables and, with Ziles pleasantly asking “shall we then?” the three of them were off. Bryzos had not been able to take any of his clothes, the small amount of jewellery he owned, nor any other of his other personal belongings, including his akinakes, the sword his father had given him as a present upon his last birthday.

“Where is our baggage, Ziles?” Bryzos asked, donning the straw hat he had been given as they started off, slowly making their way to the main gate in the wall leading out of the residence and opening onto the main road below, at the foot of the hill. Rudas simply ignored this remark, carrying on ahead of the two.

“Not to worry, master. All has been taken care of and we will not be on the road for long,” Ziles replied smiling.

This answer by no means satisfied the prince. It was obvious, both from Ziles’ noncommittal manner, as well as the total disinterest of Rudas that such matters did not merit discussion. He nodded to Ziles, who responded with another smile, and they carried on, stopping at the main gate. The two guards on duty from Ozrykes’ mercenary unit looked at the three, waving Ziles and Rudas through and smiling mischievously at Bryzos. Slowly, the fact that not only his two companions, but also all of the members of the mercenary guard seemed to know what was in store for him began to make him feel increasingly uncomfortable.

As the horses slowly made their way downhill to the village of Keirpara which surrounded part of the hill the residence occupied, his spirits began to fall in accordance.

Sonketa

The afternoon had stretched, while the three of them rode on in silence, first west after they had left the vicinity of the residence, then following the road until they came to the coast, passing by several smaller villages belonging to King Ozrykes’ domain. Nobody volunteered to tell Bryzos about their exact heading.

Probably Sonketa, he thought darkly, wherever the bloody place may be. Some hole in the ground smelling of horse-shit, I reckon, where the pigs look better than the horses, and the horses better than the girls. Nothing worth drinking either, I imagine. What a complete nightmare.

They rode along a dusty country road between two fields, in which the corn stood tall and golden, ready to be harvested soon, passing into the remnants of a small pine forest, which had been devastated by fire some time ago. This, by Bendis, must be the end of the bloody world, Bryzos thought, darkly. What, by the Horseman’s brass balls, am I doing here?

The road rose and, leaving the blackened stumps and burnt timbers of the pines behind them, they came to the top of a rise, where Rudas stopped his horse and dismounted. He turned around to the other two and, with the first word he had uttered since they had left he simply said “Sonketa.” Just as Ziles had said, they had not been on the road more than a couple of hours.

“You are there, master Bryzos,” Ziles remarked from atop his horse in his friendly voice, “would you be as kind as to please dismount?”

They stood at the top of the rise, leading gently down into a wide valley with the Gulf of Melas visible in a haze on the horizon. The sun was gradually making its way there, as the long afternoon was slowly but surely coming to an end. Sonketa was not as large as Bryzos’ native Keirpara, but also by no means the ‘hole in the ground’ he had feared it would turn out to be. It was a pleasantly set-out place, encompassed in cornfields, with sheep grazing on the surrounding hills and a brook flowing nearby.

Maybe not quite so bad after all, Bryzos thought, dismounting absent-mindedly and handing Ziles the reins. “And hadn’t the king mentioned Rudas having three good-looking daughters? He would not be the first father the prince had successfully dodged. He grinned and turned around to Ziles, who had taken hold of the reins, but was making no indication of getting of his own horse.

“So, what of our baggage, Ziles? You said that all would be taken care of?”

“Oh, it has, master, do not worry. Rudas will see to everything. And now, I bid you farewell!” and, without another word, he turned the horses, spurred them on and cantered off, back down the hill and into the pine wood.

All of a sudden, Bryzos had a very bad feeling about all of this, the momentary elation he had felt gone in a heartbeat. He opened his mouth to shout something to Ziles, but found he did not know what exactly to say, and by the time he had gathered his wits, the Greek servant had simply vanished along a curve in the road.

“Bloody Greeks,” he mumbled, as that was all he found he was able to come up.

Rudas had observed all of this without comment and, upon Bryzos turning round finally, he caught his eye, nodded and led his horse down the road towards the village. Several naked young children ran past them over the dusty road towards the brook to their left, completely absorbed in whatever they were doing and Rudas smiled at them. As opposed to their Greek neighbours who preferred a hard hand in education and generally favoured the use of the rod so as not to spoil the child, Thracians adored their children, permitting them to basically do as they pleased as long as they were small. A privilege Bryzos had obviously outgrown without noticing.

As they entered the village, they encountered men and women, both free-born and slaves, going about their daily routine. They all greeted Rudas, who smiled, waved or exchanged some words of greeting, depending on the person encountered. The grizzled warrior had to be of some importance, Bryzos acknowledged to himself.

None of the people they met attempted to speak to the prince, ignoring him in favour of Rudas, however staring with some interest at the foreigner and his fancy dress: the light sandals completely useless for any type of actual physical labour, hunting or hiking, the bright red, if by now no longer particularly presentable tunic and the flashy cloak Ziles had issued him with during the ride. From the corner of his eyes he actually saw two girls whispering and giggling as they pointed at him.

For the first time in his life, fourteen or fifteen or so years of it after all, he felt totally, utterly out of place. Used to not necessarily knowing where, what and when he would eat and drink, or where, and particularly with whom he would sleep, he had so far always rested assured that people, due them knowing he was the son of their king, would provide for him. In this village in the middle of the countryside, where men and women dressed to work, and not to impress, he was a fancy-dressed youth, a fop.

Somewhere in the centre of the village they turned right, then left, bringing them to a lane leading towards a somewhat larger house apart from the main settlement. As they approached, several people came out to greet them, waving and smiling. A boy ran up to Rudas and threw himself into his father’s arms, shouting “Father, father!”

“Kenthas!” Rudas cried, smiling, and threw the boy up several times, catching him back in his arms. “And there are Ida, Kira and Ilis, my beauties!” The rest of the family, two women obviously his wives and another youth about Bryzos’ age gathered round in greeting, exchanging hugs and kisses, all talking at once to Rudas who suddenly lost his entire laconic demeanour.

How fucking quaint, the prince thought. Bloody family reunion! Let’s hope at least one of the two can cook. Another boy, obviously not part of Rakas’ immediate family and remaining absent from the general bustle that had erupted upon his return, took the horse of the master of the house and followed the others as they all slowly proceeded along the short dirt track towards the house. He was barefoot and wore an exomis, the simple working tunic leaving the right shoulder bare, gathered about his waist with a rope.

The horse boy stayed back and introduced himself, “Hello there you! I’m Rakas, I take care of master Rudas’ horses. What’s your name and why are you dressed like that?”

Bryzos opened his mouth to speak, but like several times today already, and completely unlike his usual confident and boisterous demeanour, was again at a loss for words.

“Hey, close your mouth or the flies will get in!” Rakas laughed and slapped him on the shoulder. “Come on then silent and handsome, we’d better see to the horse and then grab us some food,” and he led the mount by the reins towards the stable at the left of the Rakas farmstead. Still not sure what exactly to say, the prince merely managed to lamely utter “Uh, yes. Well, uh, I’m Bryzos,” and followed Rakas to the stable.

Bryzos had naturally grown up with horses and knew his way around the animals as did every young man of any social standing. But he had never actually had to take care of one himself. As no-one had taken him along into the actual house he therefore found himself following Rakas.

Bryzos hung his cloak over one of the stalls and proceeded to rub down the horse with straw, with the groom telling him what exactly to do, then, after having also provided all of the three horses other present with food and water, Rakas finally signalled the end of this day’s work.

“Alright, Bryzos, we’re finished now. Your fancy sandals are worse for the wear I reckon. Come on, let’s get cleaned up and then it’s time for some food for the lads!” and he slapped the prince on the shoulder laughing and left the stable for the main house. It was slowly getting dusk.

***

Rakas and his children were sitting at a large wooden table, being waited upon by the two women Bryzos had tentatively identified as his wives and a dark-haired girl, seemingly a Greek slave.

“So, Bryzos, you have become acquainted with young Rakas, I see,” Rudas said, his voice lacking any of the warmth it had when talking to his family. “Good. Sit and eat. Listen, everyone: This here is young Bryzos. His father is on the king’s council. He will be staying with us for some time.”

The prince noted that Rudas had failed to mention that his father naturally sat on the king’s council because he of course was the king himself, but accepted this demotion without comment. If what the master of the house said was true after all, he would be spending some time here. Best to start on a good footing.

The children seated made some space for Rakas and Bryzos to the left of Rudas, and as they sat down, everyone seemed to erupt into conversation, asking him who he was, where he was from, who his father was, why he was here and so on.

“Leave the boy in peace,” Rudas ordered, without having to raise his voice, quietening the bustle immediately.

With the table set, Rudas’ two wives sat at his side and everybody, except for the slave girl that was, began to eat. While conversation revolved around the master’s business at court, Bryzos discovered how hungry he actually was. The last proper meal he had eaten after all had been the evening before. Actually, he was ravenous, after the hours of riding and his work in the stable. He began shovelling food into his mouth indiscriminately, oblivious of the people talking around him.

What a day this had been. Yesterday morning he had been listening to some stupid old Greek going on about something or other, going on the binge with his mates and finally rolling in the hay with Germas. Then bloody Ziles had woken him up and father had, so it appeared, thrown him out. And so, within one single day, Prince Bryzos became Stable Hand Bryzos, and...

“Young man, bloody listen to me when I speak to you,” Rudas said in what appeared his usual discourteous manner, shaking him from his reverie. Bryzos blushed, swallowing ashamedly as everybody at the table once again was looking at him.

“Yes, master Rudas? I am sorry, I was so hungry after the journey, and the food was so good I completely...”

“Shut up,” the warrior interrupted him. “You will be sleeping with young Rakas,” at this the stable boy winked. “He’ll find work for you with the horses. Tomorrow you and Ieter will accompany me, while I and the other headmen muster the members of our war band. The king is gathering his troops and we shall go to war.”

At this the table again erupted in conversation, while Rudas, having surprised everybody with the news, leaned back and sipped his beer. As Bryzos was likewise completely taken by surprise at this, he remained silent. So, that was to be his new lesson: The king did not want him to become a stable hand, but a real Thracian. He smiled to himself, imagining the great deeds he would accomplish, how he would make his father, King Ozrykes proud of him and...

“Bryzos! Horseman’s balls, lad! Stop bloody daydreaming,” Rudas once more cut through his thoughts. “Right, one important thing, and make sure you listen: These three beauties,” and he indicated the three girls, one of whom sat to his right, next to Rakas, the other two, twins by the look of them, sat next to one-another opposite Bryzos, “are my daughters.” And, just as the king had said, Rudas was right, they were indeed beautiful. Not beautiful in the way of Thracian girls, fair-haired, tall and buxom, but in the manner of Greek girls: Their hair was black as a raven’s back, framing their exquisite faces. Dark eyes looked back at him and their smiles were radiant. Their skin matched their hair, being much darker in tone than that of Thracian girls. These sloe-eyed pretties were by far the most beautiful girls Bryzos had ever seen. The other girl, on the other hand, obvious took after her father, a red-headed Thracian.

“Ouch!” Something, a chicken bone, it would seem, had hit him in the face. “I am sorry, master Rudas, what were you saying?”

The whole table was laughing. Bryzos’ face reddened. The twins’ laughing was magical and the prince felt a warm tingle all over him.

“What by the Earth Mother are you up to all day in Keirpara! I’m surprised you people are not constantly falling over your own feet.” Rudas commented, engendering more laughter. “Not that I care all that much. But, mark my words, we will teach you better here. I was saying: These three girls are my daughters. That there is young Kira,” the girl with the red hair sitting to his right leaned forward, nodded and smiled, “and these other two beauties here,” he pointed out the twins placed opposite Bryzos, “are Ida and Ilis. All three are my pride and joy, and the light of my one remaining eye. If I should ever catch you as much as looking at them with a leer, let alone touching them in any way I may deem immodest and harmful to their honour,” at this he looked earnestly at his daughters, who beamed back at him radiantly, “I will make you regret it very much, because I’ll cut off your dick. Before I kill you, that is. And before a misunderstanding about me being serious here should arise, your father actually told me to do so. ‘And remind him of fucking Glyptos’ were his precise words, if my recollection does not fail me. I strongly advise you to bear this in mind; I tend to follow my words up with deeds.”

Rudas’ manner this time commanded Bryzos’ entire attention. Talking about cutting off other people’s penises was strange to the prince, however, judging by Rudas’ general behaviour this could have been a regular dinner conversation in this house. The twins certainly seemed completely unfazed, beaming at their father as if he had simply asked to have his mug filled. This was the country life, then.

He immediately answered “Yes, headman. Thank you for taking me into your household, I will protect the honour of your daughters with my own. You have my word.”

This again commanded both of the twins’ smiles, this time, however, the prince had no problems in successfully suppressed any tingling in his body.

“Good. You have been warned. Women, clear the table. I would drink a couple of mugs before bed.”

***

The next morning could not have differed more from the preceding one. Rakas awoke just before daybreak, a time the prince was not used to keeping, slipped into the same tunic he had worn yesterday and immediately set off to see to the horses.

No hangover this time, thank the gods, Bryzos thought. A fine impression he would have made, if anyone here should have seen him in the state he had been yesterday. He yawned, threw back the blanket he had slept under and swung his feet over the side of the bed. At first he was disorientated, though he was of course used to waking up in other peoples beds, other girls’ beds to be more precise, but this had generally not happened at dawn, but at a rather more civilised time of day.

He suddenly became aware of the fact that his life had turned top-to-bottom within one single day: when he had woken up the previous morning, well day, to be honest, he thought, he had been a prince of the Dolonkans, with two chests of good clothes, some exquisite finery and jewellery to adorn his good looks and emphasise his charms, a fine sword and the pick of both the king’s horses and his slave girls. Now, he was a stable hand, sharing a room with the servant the village headman had adopted as a foster son.

“G’morning, master Bryzos,” the slave girl who had served them at dinner the evening before said, entering the room without knocking and interrupting his daydreaming. For some reason the prince felt the need to quickly cover himself with his blanket – he had been sleeping naked – although this was simply a slave. Modesty felt strange in that moment, but also needful.

The girl smiled at that, saying “I be Nane. Rakas I see already gone. Here something to wear. Breakfast be in main hall,” she said, dropped a fresh tunic and a rope belt on his bed and slipped back out of the room. Her familiar tone of speaking about Rakas gave Bryzos the impression that they were more than simply friendly towards each other. So they do get a leg over occasionally here after all, he thought with a grin, slipped on his tunic and headed for breakfast.

While eating, Rudas told Bryzos, Ieter and Rakas about the plans for the next couple of days. This was the first time he noticed that the headman’s son bore a mark on his right shoulder, a zigzag above two broad lines. Rudas said that the three of them would be accompanying him to visit the headmen of the neighbouring villages. The king had ordered him to see to the calling up of the levy of the free Dolonkans and his Greek subjects in the north-western Chersonesos.

After they had finished a quick meal of yesterday’s bread, cold bean soup and a chunk of sheep’s cheese, Rudas handed Bryzos a small utility knife in a leather sheath.