Thrax - Warrior´s Dawn

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.

“Well, you’re no warrior yet as far as I can see. A free man shouldn’t be without a blade of some sort. Put it to good use,” he said gruffly, his tone making it obvious he did not trust Bryzos to actually do so.

The prince thanked him and attached it to the rope which currently acted as his belt, as his leather belt had vanished together with his tunic during the night.

After that they were immediately set to leave, as Rakas had of course already prepared the horses. Bryzos was given one of the horses to ride, a spiritless, drab, bay-coloured mare, and then they set off with Rudas in the lead.

After a short ride, passing through a little pine copse they came to hamlet by the obvious name of Kurtabria, ‘wood-grove village’, according to Rakas. They did not dismount, which set Bryzos thinking about the headman having got off his horse yesterday before they entered Sonketa. Had this been because it was his home? Or possibly to retain some of Bryzos’ dignity, so as not to make the prince look completely like a servant, walking while his ‘master’ rode on horseback. He slowly, grudgingly began to appreciate the laconic headman.

At the time of day most of the inhabitants of course had left to see to their fields, gardens, orchards or sheep. Rudas led his little band along the main road, past loosely fenced-in vegetable patches, in which invariably beans, grapes or the occasional olive tree grew, with dirt tracks leading to the actual farmhouses. Finally they stopped outside a garden before a large, single-storied farmstead. Rudas dismounted, wordlessly handed Rakas the reins of his horse, walked across the front yard and knocked on the door. Hereupon a servant, a red-headed Thracian boy, opened up, saying “Headman Rudas, oh, and master Ieter. Can I help you?”

“We are here to see the master of the house, headman Saimas,” said in a voice slightly louder than necessary, this information obviously being for the benefit of Bryzos. “Send someone for the horses and tell him I’m here, will you.”

The boy nodded and closed the door.

Rudas signalled to Rakas, who dismounted, as then did Ieter, with Bryzos following suit. Rakas and the prince led the horses along the driveway into the yard, while Ieter walked ahead to join his father. As they approached the other two, the door opened and another Thracian servant, the stable hand this time, came out of the door, nodding to the headman, saying “Come you two, we’ll give your horses a drink,” and lead the way around the house towards the stable at the back. Here, they tied the horses to a rail mounted before a trough filled with water for the horses to drink.

“And, do we also get something to drink, my friend?” Bryzos prompted, at which both Rakas and he grinned wickedly. From somewhere inside a fold of his tunic he produced a leather flask, waved it at them and unstoppered it, dramatically moving it about under his nose, so as if to enjoy the bouquet.

“Don’t worry, Bryzos, I’ve never seen Antzeri to run out of a good sip of, brytos, right, old son?”

The other youth simply nodded at this and took the first sip, letting out an exaggerated sigh of pleasure and smacked his lips.

“This, my friends is the headman’s best ale, reserved for his servants – not the piss he serves our esteemed guests,” at this the three of them laughed, and Rakas held out his hand for a swig. “Tell me,” Antzeri said addressing his friend Rakas, “any idea what the masters are talking about?”

Rakas finished his mouthful, opening his eyes wide and grinning wryly, “my, my, this really is the stuff, my man! Headman Saimas obviously keeps his cellar well-stocked!” He passed the flask on to Bryzos, replying “Its war, that’s what it is. Rudas is calling up the levy here in the north.”

The prince sipped some of the beer. While it was not a bad drop, and undiluted at that, at this time of day, he could not quite comprehend the enthusiasm of the other two. He shrugged the notion off, maybe he was simply used to better.

“What a fine beer indeed,” he said aloud, handing the flask back to the stable boy, who held out his hand for more.

Conversation revolved around the question of who the Dolonkans would be going to war against this time. Relations with the Greeks of the peninsula seemed fair, apart from the fact of course, that the Thracians thought the Greeks weaklings, whereas the Greek inhabitants of the Chersonesos regarded Thracians as the epitome of barbarism, seeing themselves as Promethean bringers of enlightenment. In the course of the discussion, Bryzos was completely astounded by how well the lads seemed informed – for country bumpkins. He did know that the majority of the Greeks here were Aiolian or Ionian, until very recently he had been totally unaware of the existence of the ‘League of Delos’ his father had mentioned. Judging by the name, he presumed it was some Greek city somewhere.

The boys were well-informed as to the number of men the headmen of the surrounding villages would probably be able to summon, what proportion of that number would be combatants and how long it would take to raise them. They had seen these things going on before, a number of times in fact, after all.

Slowly but surely it was Bryzos who felt as if he had been living at the back of nowhere. He would not have been able to answer any question posed as to the number and strength of his father’s men, their equipment, fighting capacity and battle readiness. Not only did he realise at that moment, sitting outside a stable, barefoot and dressed in a borrowed tunic, with lads earning their keep by shovelling horse-shit, that his monologue the day before in his father’s main hall about ‘Thracian greatness’, his proud ancestry and the House of Akamas was pure bollocks. But that it was he, Prince Charming from the king’s residence, the lord from Keirpara who was the country bumpkin. All his talk of Thracians being warriors was just that: talk. He knew nothing of war, nothing at all, and these boys here, while they may never have encountered warriors of the ferocity of men such as Bull or Zeuxidas, would have had to accompany their masters on campaign.

He remembered the old Skythian proverb: ‘The god gave you two eyes and two ears but only one mouth, so you see and hear double the amount you speak’. At that moment, Bryzos decided that his life required some amount of adjustment. He did not yet know to what extent and how this would be accomplished, but decided to keep his eyes and ears open until he knew more.

The other two accepted his pensive silence and the fact that he obviously felt to have little to contribute to their conversation, but continued passing the flask. They heard footsteps approaching from around the corner and the leather flask, and with it the little that remained of their host’s brytos, once more vanished into Antzeri’s tunic. When the two headmen appeared together with Ieter accompanying them, their three eyes scowled at the lads while the younger man smiled mischievously, making it pretty obvious they all knew that the stable boys had been up to in the last hour.

Saimas sniffed the air, merely remarking to the three “I hope the horses also drank their fill,” and embraced Rudas, saying “well met as always, old friend. I will pass the word among the people on the coast and me and my men will be there on the day. And don’t forget to keep an eye on that guardsman, that Bull.”

“I told the king I didn’t like the look of the man, but he simply said ‘as long as I’m paying, the bastards will fight’; you know how he is,” Rudas answered, shrugging.

“Well that may be true, but whom?” Saimas replied cryptically. “Ieter, give your mother my regards,” he said, quickly changing the topic as the boys began listening in more closely. And then, turning to Antzeri, he said “Boy, ready my horse and saddle up, we are heading to the coast.”

Antzeri immediately got up, slightly losing his footing which made the two older men grin, and went into the stable with his master.

As Ieter got onto his horse, Rudas said “Well, that is done then. On to Ketrepiza. We still have a bit of ground to cover before we’re done for the day, don’t hit it too hard, eh?” Rudas undid the reins from the rail they had been tied to, patted his horse’s neck and, in one fluid movement obviously meant to challenge his younger companions, vaulted onto its back. “Well, what are you waiting for, come on,” and nodding to his son to follow, he turned the animal about and rode out the yard without looking back.

Which was the better choice, as both Rakas and Bryzos, who both knew how to handle a horse and also how to handle some drink, proved that they were no experts in handling both at the same time. Some embarrassing moments later, amid the invoking of both the ‘Horseman’s balls’, as well as of ‘Epta’s tits’, among others, the two finally finished making fools of them themselves and got their horses to catch up with Ieter and his father.

“Well, it’s a pity you had to look after the horses, lads. Saimas’ young wife brews this really excellent brytos,” Rudas said shaking his head, snorting in disgust and they rode on to Ketrepiza.

***

In the course of the day they followed the road along the main line of hills forming the backbone of the peninsula, doubling back before entering the boundaries of the Greek town of Kallipolis, which was not subject to King Ozrykes and returned back remaining south of the ridge. Bryzos had now visited such illustrious settlements as Siltas, Dingavas or Zilmadatan, among others, made acquaintances with half a dozen stable hands, some of them girls, tasted some of the best figs he had ever eaten for lunch and sampled quite a respectable portion of the locally produced alcoholic beverages. Country life as a horse boy did have some things to be said for it.

The headman, on the other hand, who must at least have also have been invited to the odd mug or two, showed no sign whatsoever of being affected, whereas both Rakas and Bryzos, and to some extent also Ieter, though he was a lot better at keeping a straight face, were beginning to show definite signs of inebriation by late afternoon.

The road led through a small pine forest to a stream, with a shallow ford permitting them to cross. Rudas stooped his horse and turned, addressing his three younger companions and stating “Well, you young gentlemen are pissed. And to be quite honest, I’m not completely sober myself. The problem is that just beyond the forest lies bloody Agora.” He pronounced it A-gow-rah, his problems in wrapping his tongue around the Greek name at long last also showing the others that he was indeed not completely sober anymore. “And bloody Greeks always mean trouble, boys, even if they’re our bloody allies. So, we’ll all better sober up now.”

He crossed the stream on his horse, dismounting on the other side and tying the reins to a bush, then he hung his hat and cloak into the same bush and slipped his shoulders out of his tunic leaving the upper part of his body bare. This was the first time Bryzos saw the extent of the battle scars and tattoos the headman bore, asking himself what he had done to look like that. The headman carried on into the ford at an angle, wading until he was in knee-deep into the little stream which was pleasantly cool and immediately bowed down to the water, completely immersing his head and splashing himself.

As he came up for air he simply said “Well, what are you boys waiting for?” whereupon the other three also crossed over, tied up their horses and proceeded to disrobe and splash themselves, except for Rakas, that is, who slipped on some slimy pebbles falling into the water headlong. This naturally made the other two erupt into hysterical laughter, while Rudas merely scowled at such frivolous antics, and a short time later they were all soaked, but had also in a very much better state of sobriety.

As they approached the town after a short ride, Bryzos noticed that everything about the place marked it out as not being Thracian. The fields were... he couldn’t even pinpoint it, but they appeared to be set out differently. Or did they grow a different crop? Where Thracian houses were constructed with the timbers visible and generally only one storey high, the houses here were plastered and whitewashed, gleaming in the fading sun of the late afternoon. Where the Thracian village he had visited today built their homes in proximity to one-another, strung along a main road and separated by gardens, yards or sheds, the Greeks preferred a lot more privacy. Roofs were decked in tile, not in shingles or thatch as was the Thracian custom, the houses seemed completely enclosed, as if their inhabitants were barricaded within, with no intention of ever permitting anybody within their doors. And the inhabitants... they were, well Greek.

At this time of day several of the men were on the return from working in their fields. Each one of them was invariably barefooted and wearing an exomis, some leading a team of oxen, others pushing carts or simply walking home. There were no women, not even girls on the street. All the men were dark-skinned, dark-haired and dark-eyed. No shock of red or golden hair typically seen in any Thracian village. And all of the men stared at the four on horseback wordlessly, without a nod or a greeting. Bryzos felt he had been flung into a village of crows or ravens, mute crows at that, glaring at them in silence behind their black brows. A good thing Rudas had prompted them to hop in the stream, Bryzos thought. On the other hand, this joyless sight would have been enough to make any one of us sober immediately anyway.

Rudas led the way into the settlement, not attempting conversation with any of the inhabitants as he had in the Thracian villages they had visited during the day, but rode on, obviously sure of where he was going.

After a short time during which none of them attempted conversation, or even said a word, while being eyed suspiciously by those inhabitants who were on the streets, they arrived at a somewhat larger house. The building looked much like the other houses they had seen so far, marked out only by a tall and somewhat worn, simple earthenware vase standing to the left of its door, which contained a long and thin, and rather dried-up branch from a birch tree. Rudas got off his horse, handing Rakas the reins and turned to the other two.

“Ieter, you stay here son, we’ll be back soon, at least I hope so. You, Bryzos, come along,” he ordered sternly. “Watch and learn.”

Bryzos dismounted and Ieter gestured to him wordlessly to give him the horse’s reins. The prince nodded, handed them over and followed Rudas, who had waited in front of the door, and they both entered. While the afternoon had been beginning to start giving way to dusk, it had still been light outside, the inside of the house thus seemed all the more dark to Bryzos, particularly as there were only a handful of small windows permitting any light to enter. While the sprig of birch in the vase had not meant anything to him, he immediately recognised the type of establishment he was in, as he was fairly familiar with its Thracian counterpart: the place was a tavern, and although he had seen no-one enter, business was obviously picking up with the men coming from the fields.

As they entered, conversation petered out and the patrons began staring at the two and he followed the headman down a small flight of stairs, as the actual main serving room had been sunk into the ground for additional cool during the summer. They made their way past several simply-furnished and unadorned wooden tables, most of which were occupied by local farmers and labourers and approached the counter. There stood an imposing figure, a broad-shouldered and, for a Greek that is, tall man, sporting an impressive black beard.

“Headman,” he began uncommittedly, “I bid you a good day, and welcome to our fine town. What will it be for you and the young master?”

“A good day to you too, master Psarion,” Rudas replied fluently in Greek, “just a quick drink, thank you. The other lads are outside, don’t want to let them wait too long.”

Upon seeing that the Thracians were, at least for the moment, not looking for trouble, the tavern erupted back into conversation. Psarion signalled to a serving girl who had appeared from a door behind the counter, who nodded and vanished through the door again.

A girl! So they do have them here after all... Bryzos thought, grinning to himself.

Rudas leaned back from the counter as the innkeeper turned around went to the other end to see after another patron and whispered to the prince “I saw that, young man. And, believe me, best you don’t even fucking think about it,” his tone far from humorous. “We come in here without any trouble, see to our business then we leave. All simple. If you as much as even bloody ... ah, master Psarion, thank you,” Rudas continued in a louder voice, as the innkeeper set down two mugs of wine before them. The headman put down a small copper coin in front to him, at which the innkeeper nodded, saying “so, headman, what brings you here?”

Rudas took the mug in hand lifted it in thanks and set it down without drinking.

“Well, master Psarion, actually we came to see the mayor. You wouldn’t know where we could find him would you?”

Bryzos wondered what a mayor was, but reasoned that this would have to be the Greek version of village headman. He took his mug and was about to take a swig, when Rudas’ glare stopped him. He did as if he also had simply raised it to greet the innkeeper, who ignored him and set the mug down again, puzzled.

Psarion answered “I am sorry to say you’re rather out of luck. Master Hippostratos is currently not in town. He left on business for Sestos yesterday. I would reckon he should be back within two days or so. Would you care to wait here, headman?”

“Well, we both know that wouldn’t be a particularly good idea,” he replied, at which Psarion held up both arms, nodding. “So, who currently acts as his deputy? I’m sorry, but its official business, you know how it is.”

“Don’t I just, headman, don’t I just,” the innkeeper answered. “See that man sitting at the table there? That’s Philippides, he’s your man.”

“Thank you, we’ll go see him right away,” Rudas nodded, leaving for the deputy’s table without having further touched his wine. Bryzos was slightly puzzled at this, to have paid for wine and not drunk it was something he rarely did. Actually never did, when he thought about it.

They approached a table with four men sitting around it, all of them middle-aged, dark-haired and bearded, dressed in chitons and sporting an assortment of golden or bronze jewelry, Bryzos could not tell due to the light, rings, necklaces and bracelets. However, none of the ornaments made any particular impression on the prince, for, as opposed to the Thracians themselves, the Greeks were not specifically noted for their prowess in working precious metals. The baubles they sported thus fit these men well, so the prince thought.

One of the four spotted Bryzos, saying to one of his drinking mates in an aside obviously made to be overheard by the two, “look, the Thracian thief has laid eyes on our valuables. Best be careful, if his master unleashes him he’ll try and steal the lot!” at which the two of them grinned at the witty remark.

Of course both of the Thracians had heard and understood this, with the man who had just spoken smiled upon seeing Bryzos bridling at the insult. Rudas ignored the entire matter, put his right hand on the table, his left arm pulling his cloak aside, so he could visibly rest his hand on the pommel of his machaira. None of the Greeks present in the entire tavern were armed as far as the prince could tell, apart from a few utility knives like his. At this gesture their conversation immediately stopped and after waiting a couple of heartbeats for effect, he said in his accent-free Greek, “Who of you four then is Philippides?”

“Who are you, Thracian, and why should we tell you?” the man who had just made the deprecatory remark answered defiantly.

“I’m headman Rudas from Sonketa, which makes me master-of-arms for this district. And you should tell me,” at which he again smiled pleasantly, his expression belied by his acid tone of voice, “because King Ozrykes, who also happens to be a personal friend of mine, your lord that is, has ordered me to pass the word to his headmen and mayors to call up his troops in this district. So, unless you are disabled, that would make me,” his smile now vanished and he raised his voice, “your commanding officer in the case of war. Well, let me try this again, then: Which of you miserable fucks is Philippides?”

All conversation ceased. The eyes of the patrons centred on the table the two were standing at. Bryzos felt more and more uncomfortable about the entire situation, wishing he had been left outside with the horses. Several of the patrons began unobtrusively leaving the tavern, expecting some kind of hostility to soon erupt.

The man who had smiled at the whispered insult finally said, “Headman, I am Philippides.”

“Well, in the absence of Hippostratos you people have now been officially notified that you are to prepare yourself for war. In ten days you,” and at this he pointed at the deputy, “and I mean you personally, will be there to meet me outside of Keirpara. If you fail to come on time, or don’t turn up at all,” and now the headman bared his teeth in a humourless smile, “it will be my personal pleasure to carry out the king’s orders for deserters.”

“Are you calling us cowards?” one of the four asked, standing up and rolling his muscular wrestler’s shoulders.

Ignoring the menacing gesture, Rudas turned to smile at the other three and then, without hesitation and moving a lot faster than Bryzos would have suspected in a man his age, took the nearest mug of wine and smashed it against the man’s head. As he started to tumble, dazed from the unexpected assault, Rudas grasped his hair that was now soaked with a mixture of blood and wine and smashed his head against the table, spilling the drinks everywhere and knocking him out cold. The man slumped unconsciously to the floor, while the headman looked about, taking in the entire tavern.

“Did that get through your thick Greek skull then?” he said, now no longer having to raise his voice to be heard.

Philippides wordlessly nodded at this, Rudas glared at the two men remaining sitting at the table, saying menacingly “I now know you four and, believe me, I never forget a face. You would better be there at the appointed time,” and he turned around swinging his cloak dramatically for effect and left, with Bryzos quickly trailing along.

They stepped out into the fading sunlight, quickly taking the reins of their horses and, after vaulting onto their animals backs, left the place as fast as they were able. As they had made their way through the north of the Chersonesos in a semi-circle, by the time they joined the main road again they were already basically facing back towards Sonketa. Rudas stopped at the junction, with the other three following suit.

“Well, you had better know, lads,” the headman addressed the other two. “In ten days’ time we will be setting off, to attack the bloody Apsinthian bastards if you ask me, though the king has, of course not told me. We shall find out in due course, I reckon.”

He pointed right, “we turn back home now. The other headmen will take care of sending round the word to those it concerns. If we don’t waste too much time pissing about we should be in Sonketa just after dark.”

He spurred on his horse, with the others, who had taken in this information with great interest, immediately following. “Oh, and just in case you had been wondering, Bryzos: Psarion is a decent fellow as Greeks, but I wouldn’t trust the people pouring the wine. They spit in a cup before they serve it to a Thracian. Remember that before you accept a Greek’s hospitality,” and they set off, with Rudas leading on.

So that would be what everything was all about, Bryzos thought as the other three began talking animatedly about the prospects for the coming weeks. War… would he be part of it, he wondered. He had never done any ‘real’ fighting, discounting the occasional tavern brawl, that is, but even there he had mostly focussed on getting out of such situations with his nose and teeth all in working order. Would he become a warrior, acquiring wealth and renown, he wondered?

“Bloody Greeks,” Ieter said, spitting against a wooden fence as they passed, “the bastards will run as soon as they the enemy.”

“If they turn up at all,” Rakas added, grimacing.

“They won’t dare not too, not now,” Rudas said shaking his head.

Bryzos failed to share the headman’s confidence after witnessing the enthusiasm, or better lack of it, on the half of the Greeks he had so far encountered.

“Are they cowards then? The Greeks, I mean,” he asked.

“No,” Rudas stated, once again shaking his head, “They’re no cowards, I’ve seen them fighting more than once. It’s only that they don’t like fighting for anyone else, especially if he’s a foreigner. Still, we will be in need of every man there is before the Apsinthians turn up,” he finished, scowling ominously and spurring his mount on, effectively finishing the conversation, with Ieter towing along behind him.

“Do we know anything about the Apsinthians’ strength?” Rakas asked, but Bryzos was merely able to shrug.

However many men they have, he thought, if it’s true that every single man, including each and every Greek, is needed, then they certainly have enough. Enough to conquer the peninsula and enslave its inhabitants.

Mernest

Bryzos awoke in Rakas’ room, at daybreak, completely sober and without a girl beside him. While he could remember two of these three occurring, he tried in vain to picture when all three had happened for the last time, and failed.

After gradually having found out more about the Apsinthians he had decided to approach the headman about some form of weapons training. Rudas, however, had shrugged off the suggestion, displaying little enthusiasm at the prospect of teaching either him or Rakas in the use of sword, shield or spear. He decided he would continue to try and convince Rudas and got up.

Rakas was of course already up, dressing and getting ready to see to the horses in his care. The prince yawned, stretched and joined him for the chores awaiting in the stable without asking, wondering again when for the last time he had performed any menial tasks or laboured without having been asked to do so. Nane dropped in as she had the day before, again bearing an item of clothing, this time, however, it was a freshly-washed linen loincloth. She smiled at Rakas and unceremoniously threw it at the prince.

“Here be underwear. You put on master Rudas say,” and flashing his room-mate another smile, she left just as suddenly as she had come.

The two looked at one-another for a moment, but then Rakas simply shrugged his shoulders and said, “Well, put it on then. It’ll be bloody hot though!”

After seeing to the animals, they both went in to the house to get breakfast. Rudas was already waiting for them.

“There you are. Good. Rakas, take young Bryzos to the smithy. They are fixing up weapons; go and help out Mernest and his sons. You come back when you’ve brought him there, Rakas, I’ve got other things for you and Ieter to do. Well, eat up lads, there’s a hard day’s work in front of all of us.”

Rakas went back to the small room he shared with the prince and brought back two hats against the sun, which was already beginning to heat up the courtyard. They walked along in companionable silence for a while, then Rakas said, “You know, Mernest has a really nice daughter. Oh, and she’s pretty too.”

“And, what are you trying to tell me, my friend?” Bryzos replied. “Do you reckon I should try my luck?”

Rakas actually blushed at this, opened his mouth and then seemed to change his mind about what he actually had been intending to say to the prince. Bryzos grinned, “ah, I think I know what you are trying to say. Or not to say, I mean. But I thought you and Nane were, you know... more than just friends,” he continued, as he was unsure of how such matters were dealt with in the countryside. As a prince, in the house of his father he would just have asked if Rakas was humping both of the girls. Or not, as the case may be.

Rakas stopped in his tracks. “Well yes. I mean no! Both, actually. I mean yes, Nane and I occasionally... well, you know,” at which Bryzos nodded, knowingly, trying not to grin and embarrass Rakas even more than he obviously was. “But, well, that’s different. Sarta, that’s Mernest’s daughter I mean, well Rudas and her father sort of hope that we’ll, you know, marry next year. When I’m a man, that is.”

“Then tell me, what do you want me to do. Or not to do, young Rakas! And what exactly will make you into a man, I would have thought you pretty manly by now myself,” Bryzos added, quite seriously this time.

“Well, you know,” Rakas replied, while the prince noticed that the stable boy had certainly already picked up some of his foster-father’s speaking attitudes, “received the mark; by her father. Then I can move into the house and Rudas will take me in as one of his sons.”

“Ah, right, of course,” Bryzos answered, without having even the foggiest notion what his companion was going on about. “Well if you’re trying to tell me to keep my hands off her, why, it shall be my pleasure to comply! Where I come from, friends do not interfere with one-another’s girls,” which was of course completely untrue, but depended entirely on the context and the girl in question. Bryzos doubted that Rakas had shared his experiences with tavern girls with Rudas’ other sons, or the girls themselves, by that matter.

“You have my word, my friend; I will not touch her as long as you are alive.”

“Well, thank you, Bryzos. I mean, you are good-looking, and from the town. We don’t see people from town here too often, you know. And, well, I didn’t want, you know ...”

The prince interrupted what appeared to be going on in a string of ‘you knows’ and ‘wells’ and laid his hand on the stable hand’s shoulder, saying “Rakas, my word on it. On the condition of course that I’m invited to the wedding.”

At this the tension finally left Rakas and he embraced the prince, “Of course, of course! When we both return from beating the Apsinthians, you and I!”

Trust and friendship thus restored, they continued on to the other end of the village, hearing the hammering of metal on anvil long before they came anyway near the smithy. This was situated on the little stream he had seen the first day he had come to Sonketa, aptly named ‘Apa’, Thracian for ‘little stream’. It flowed along the back of a large house, nearly the same size as that of the headman. Smoke arose from an outbuilding, indicating that work was going in the smithy. In the yard three large, bare-chested red-haired men were occupied with what seemed to be bundles of wicker stakes. As they approached, another man came out of the smithy to greet them. As he came nearer, wiping his hands on a leather apron, Bryzos realised that this was by far the largest man he had ever seen in his life. Large not as in tall, although he was by no means short, but in mass: His arms seemed to possess about the same circumference as the prince’s legs, and he was the son of a king, well-fed all his life and used to hours of riding and hunting for sport.

The mountain of a man was red-haired like the other three, in an even more fiery shade of the colour if that was possible, than Rudas. He was also heavily tattooed, marking him as a warrior of some renown, not unlike the headman, and he now also had stopped whatever they had been doing. Additionally, he sported a splendid red beard, through which he smiled at the two warmly, “Well, young Rakas! Son, how is the old man? Looking forward to campaigning again, I hope,” he said, gripping the stable boy’s hands in what seemed like the paws of a red-haired, tanned and strongly freckled bear.

“And who’s this pretty boy?” he continued, ignoring the fact that Bryzos was nearly as tall as he himself, and actually taller than two of his sons, who grinned mischievously at the greeting.

“The headman told me to expect some lad to help with the javelins, but I don’t know if this one will be up to it,” he carried on, talking to Rakas. He looked the prince up and down, “looks as if he’ll blow over if there’s a wind going, poor thing. You there,” he addressed Bryzos, making a show of being worried, “don’t they give you anything to eat in town or what?” and at that he gripped the prince’s upper arm with his hand, pressing it in mock concern. Bryzos tensed himself, as his arm, rather well-muscled due to extensive fencing lessons and him throwing the javelin, was clasped in an iron vice, the smith’s massive fingers digging into his bicep as if it were clay.

“Well, poor lad! Thank the horseman you people took him in. He would have wasted away in months otherwise, I tell you,” by then, his sons were chuckling away merrily, while Rakas nodded solemnly. Bryzos, on the other hand, was in quite excruciating pain.

At last the smith released him, his fingers having left bright-red marks where they had dug into the prince’s skin.

“I’ll be off then, master Mernest. The headman sends his greetings,” and he opened his mouth as if to say something more, changed his mind instead, nodded, turned about and walked away abruptly without any further word, leaving Bryzos standing in the yard clutching his arm, to which blood and feeling were slowly returning.

“Well, poor sod,” the smith said to no-one in particular. “In love, that’s what he is.” And he added, looking the prince in the eye, “When you’re grown-up you’ll find what that’s all about, young man,” slapping him on the back in what was meant to be a light blow, but seemed to Bryzos strong enough to knock an oak sideways. “Best we set to work again, ‘war waits for no man’ they say, after all. Well, what was your name then, lad?”

“Bryzos, master Mernest.”

“Well, seeing as you’re so emaciated I hope you don’t faint on us. Best you stay in the shade and let the boys do the hard work,” at which he earnestly pointed to the three grinning other redheads with his thumb, whom Bryzos had at first tentatively identified as men, but the youngest of whom, judging by his looks, was not quite his own age. “This here is Sula,” at which the middle redhead nodded, “the big one,” who was indeed huge, bore the scars and tattoos of a warrior, was obviously not yet fully grown and already approaching his father’s size, “that’s Skombros,” who likewise nodded, “the small one on the left,” who was by no means small, “his name’s Serme.”

At this, a stunning, red-haired girl came out of the house, bearing a large crock in her hands.

“Here’s something for you lads to drink. Mother reckons you’ll need it after all the talking and says you’re to bloody well get back to work,” and beaming at her father she handed the smith the jug, turned about in a flourish obviously meant for Bryzos and walked back indoors. The smith took a deep swig, then handed the crock to his oldest son, everyone taking turns to drink according to size. By the time it would have been Bryzos’ turn to drink, Serme had finished the jug’s contents, shrugging at him apologetically.

The prince scrutinised the red-head as closely and inconspicuously as possible with her father and brothers nearby. She was indeed as pretty as Rakas had claimed. More than that, she was the most beautiful girl, well, better amend that to most beautiful red-headed girl, Bryzos thought, he had ever seen. And, by Epta’s tits, didn’t she just know it. Instead of the Ionian chiton, the calf-long or ankle-length tunic girls usually wore in Keirpara and its surroundings, closed at the sides and clasped at the shoulders, she wore the Dorian version. This, while belted at the waist similar to its Ionian counterpart, was open at the sides, granting interesting views of a woman’s thighs, buttocks and, should she happen to bend forward, also of her breasts. And breasts she did have, by Bendis, even if Bryzos had only guessed at their shape through her thin woollen shift. He found all of a sudden that he was quite thankful for Nane having supplied him with the loincloth earlier on. It would have been embarrassing facing Mernest without this restraining garment after the obvious impression his daughter had made on him. Ah this country life, the prince mused, really not that badat all. Actually...

“I said hey, you!” he was interrupted from his reverie by Serme, who jabbed a finger into his ribs for emphasis. “Just in case you’re wondering about her, that’s my sister Sarta. She’s promised to Rakas. If you lay hands on her I’ll beat the shit out of you. And then Sula. And then Skombros. And then...”

“Let me guess, master Mernest himself?” Bryzos interrupted, getting irritated after having been treated as a small, weak child by all those present.

“Well, actually no, by mother. And you don’t want that, she’ll always tell father what to do. So best you just keep your hands to yourself. Come on, there’s work to do,” and at that he turned back to the yard, where his brothers were already busy on the wooden stakes.

The stakes were actually javelins, which needed to be outfitted with heads. Mernest was working in the smithy, banging away on his anvil fabricating new spearheads, while his sons fixed them to the pine shafts, transforming them into actual weapons. The pine stock was simply lying next to one end of a workbench which had been moved out into the yard to give the smith’s sons more light to work by. On top of the working surface was an assortment of knives of varying sizes, while the ground and the bench itself were covered in wood chips and shavings. In a large, rough basket at the other end, which was somewhat blackened and scorched, with wisps of steam rising up from them, was the pile of javelin heads waiting to be paired up with their wooden counterparts.

The sons took the raw javelin stock, choosing one end to receive the head and began carving the wood with one of the half dozen or so knives lying about until they had gotten the right shape to start with, then used a smaller blade fit the head fit with the stock and so on, until the head fitted the shaft tightly. It was then stamped down onto a tree stump lying on the other side of the bench, which Bryzos had not initially been able to see, several times, until even jigging and shaking the javelin no longer loosened the head. Finally, Serme hammered a small nail through a hole in the socket, at which the javelin was deemed finished. Looking about, the prince saw about a dozen bundles of raw shafts in the shade of the eaves of the roof, as well as another scorched basket full of javelin heads waiting to be affixed to the pine shafts.

“Well,” Skombros said grinning, looking up from his work for a moment, “are you any good at shafting?” at which the three erupted into uproarious laughter at the witticism. Bryzos approached the workbench, saying “What do you want me to do then?”

It was going to be a long morning.

***

His fingers were hurting from his hands being unaccustomed to tightly gripping the thin wooden shafts, his eyes were stinging with sweat and his throat was parched by the end of the morning. The three red-heads not only did not wear any kind of hat, but also had stripped their working tunics down to the waist, exposing their bare, tanned and very muscular chests and shoulders to the sun, seemingly enjoying the hard work, joking about while they finished javelin after javelin.

Bryzos, on the other hand, was struggling, already slightly sunburnt even though he was wearing his hat. He had likewise stripped down to the waist, to benefit from the slightly cooling breeze in the air they got thanks to the small brook nearby.

Finally, Sarta appeared again.

“Mother says you’re to pause for some food and drink. You too, pretty boy,” she said eyeing Bryzos up and down and appreciatively licking her lips. While her brothers noticed this, the prince made a face, flushing bright red within the shade of his wide-brimmed hat, which everybody seemed to find hilariously funny. “Come on in then, lads. You,” and at this she directly addressed Bryzos, “go get father.”

At this she turned, returning indoors not waiting for a reply.

The prince noticed that the banging and clanging of hammer on anvil had not ceased, guessing that the smith must have gone deaf in time with all the racket his tools made. He approached the red-headed giant in the shade of the smithy, raising his voice “Master Mernest! Your daughter sends me to...”

“Horseman’s balls, I’m not deaf, lad!” the smith interrupted him. He raised the tongs he was holding in his left hand, looking at the ruddy-coloured javelin head he had been making appreciatively, nodded and held the tongs into a tub filled with water to quench it. Steam evaporated from the trough, permeating the workspace. The smithy was basically merely a roof supported by a timber frame construction, with a wall at the back and one at the side formed by the actual wall of the house. The two other sides had been left open, the reason being obvious judging by the heat emanating from the furnace.

“Why do you use green pine for the shafts, master Mernest,” Bryzos asked, a question he had been mulling over for some time. The javelins he had thrown on the hunt had been made of well-cured wood, straight and with heads often embellished in some form or other. “Won’t they warp pretty soon? And the heads also seem rather small.”

Mernest nodded at this, replying, “Well observed, lad. The wood is the worst we can make the stakes out of, actually and the heads of the darts are as small as I can reasonable fit. I’ll leave the question for you, then. Why should we make a weapon to last if we’re only going to throw the bloody thing away? Hopefully into some bloody Apsinthian’s belly, that is,” he added cheerfully.

Bryzos nodded wordlessly and flushed at this obvious explanation, again realising that the realities of actual warfare had nothing to do with the style of life he was accustomed to.

“Well, how are you at throwing them javelins, lad?” Mernest said abruptly, in a quieter voice completely unlike his previous jovial banter. “Rudas said to prepare you for battle. Am I right, you have never fought another man?”

Bryzos was completely surprised at all of this, but thought it wise to stay to the truth.

“Yes, master Mernest, I have never been to war. Actually all I have ever been part of was an occasional tavern brawl,” at which Mernest chuckled. “So, what do you wish me to do?”

“Well, if you’ve never fought another man,” the smith answered, “then it’s about time you started. In nine days we will be fighting the Apsinthians and they will try to kill you. And Rudas said we don’t want that, do we? You agree?” at this Bryzos wholeheartedly nodded. “I thought so somehow, lad. Well, can you wrestle?”

At that Bryzos smiled. “I can indeed, master smith. Actually, there are few who have beaten me so far, to be honest. And I am also quite good with a javelin, even riding a horse,” he added quite proud of himself and expecting to make a good show of himself in whatever trial the headman and the smith had devised for him.

“Well, well, young man, you won’t be needing a horse! Still, I will look forward to seeing all that later. Now we need food and drink, or you will really collapse from the heat. You townsfolk aren’t used to any of this after all!”

On his mention of his no longer needing a horse Bryzos became somewhat alarmed, the smith’s assessment, however, he was immediately willing to share.

The smith wiped his hands on his apron, slapped the prince on the shoulder, friendly this time, by no means trying to stage any show for Rakas, his sons or his daughter, but simply in a gesture of amicability, and the two of them went inside.

Food, and drink, Bryzos thought, thank Derzelas, were plentiful and the men took their time to eat their fill and quench their respective thirsts. They were served by a girl the prince had not noticed so far and whose name appeared to be Zmertomara, but who did not actually say anything to anyone, merely nodding at any request for more food or drink. Their meal consisted of some leftover cold chicken, flat bread, a bowl of raisins, some chunks of a yellowish cheese the prince was not really sure what to make of and more of the delicious dried figs this side of the mountain seemed to produce in abundance. He was beginning to get quite fond of these, even after so short a time. Their drink, on the other hand, merely consisted of strongly watered-down beer. Just for once, Bryzos was thankful for this, as he imagined that he would need very much to stay sober in whatever the day still held in store for him.

***

While his fingers had ached from the work shafting the javelins in the morning, the afternoon’s ‘work’, for Bryzos at least, would prove to be of a completely different category, as well as ache.

The men finished their meal, and after the two larger red-heads had come back from pissing against one of the plane trees growing near the brook, they gathered around the workbench in the midday sun. Mernest announced “Well, sons, this boy here claims to be able to wrestle.”

This was immediately answered with hoots and clapping of hands.

“Boys, that’s what he said. Give him the benefit of the doubt, I reckon,” Mernest continued after the noise died down, which again met with some whooping and knocking on the bench by his sons. He pointed at his youngest son, “You, Serme, come on. Let’s see what the lads in town are made of shall we!”

It finally dawned on Bryzos, that the smith gripping his arm had not merely been part of the country bumpkins wanting to show the boy from the ‘big city’ who’s top dog, but also to actually see if there was any muscle on his arms. And now, this merry throng of redheads was waiting for the fun to begin between him and the youngest and therefore weakest of them, by Epta’s arse. He was by no means weak, but these people here lived by working iron. Iron as in: smelting down rocks to make axes to chop down trees. Or heads, by that matter, an image which seemed far too fitting at that moment.

Suddenly, from the corner of his eye, Bryzos noticed that the enigmatic Sarta had reappeared to watch the fun. By now, Serme had undone his rope belt and stripped off his tunic, leaving him merely dressed in a loincloth, which he now ceremoniously pulled up and tightened, adjusting his privates. It was highly unusual for men or women to wear underwear in such weather, Sarta certainly was not doing so if he saw rightly. This was the secret of the loincloth then. While he normally had no hesitation whatsoever to make his private parts public, he was quite relieved not to have to do so in front of the smith’s daughter. He took a deep breath and likewise undid his belt, then slipped out of his tunic, neither he nor his opponent were wearing any footwear. All the time he felt Sarta’s gaze on him. She had by now been joined by the taciturn Zmertomara, they exchanged looks and Bryzos knew that his good looks still were capable of performing for him. Even here in the sticks – or possibly precisely because this was the back end of nowhere. Like Serme he adjusted his loincloth and its contents for what was to come.

He rolled his shoulders and arms, loosening the muscles of his neck and smiled his winning smile, which brought whoops from Sarta and at least an appreciative look from the Greek girl. The yard turned into an arena. Bryzos and Serme crouched down slightly, lowering their respective bodies’ point of gravity, and began circling each other, scrutinising one-another for potential weaknesses in stance or balance. Suddenly, Serme sped towards him, made a quick feint to the left, which the prince recognised as such, smiling with the knowledge that the son of the smith would be attacking his right. This duly happened, and was also the last detail of the fight Bryzos could remember.

He awoke as a pail of water was emptied into his face, with what seemed like a horde of grinning, red-headed giants standing around his prostrate form.

“Well, it seems you people in town have something yet to learn about wrestling, lad,” Mernest said, smiling at him, handing the empty bucket back to one of his sons.

Bryzos suddenly remembered that Serme had grappled with him, and just as the prince had actually begun getting the better of his opponent, he had... used his legs! The bastard had tripped him up, knocking him backwards and slamming his head on the ground.

This realisation dawning, and his face reddening in anger accordingly, Bryzos arose, saying “you cheated! You used your legs, that’s bloody cheating!”

Reactions towards this accusation differed strongly, with Serme instantly bristling at the accusation.

“Who are you calling a cheat them you, spoilt little city prick,” and took a pace towards him.

“You cheated!” The prince replied indignantly. He was good at wrestling and extremely resentful at having been knocked down by his opponent with such obvious ease – because Serme had used an illegal move!

Mernest only smiled, shaking his head in disbelief, while his other two sons whooped, expecting more to come.

“Bryzos, my son never cheats. He beat you fair and square,” the smith said in a relaxed voice, obviously attempting to defuse the situation somewhat, before tempers got overheated.

“But you’re not allowed to use your legs; or grapple with someone else’s!” the prince replied, by now at least as angry as Serme.

At this explanation he shook his head, spitting on the ground, while the other two sons broke out into guffawing laughter.

“There you are then, now I see. Town rules, eh, no legs where you’re from, I take it?” Mernest asked rhetorically. “Well I’m sorry about how that went, lad. You people in town wrestle in the style of the Greeks. But we here do wrestling to prepare for war, you see and, believe me, in a real fight men don’t only have legs, they’ll use them.”

This admonishment, however, neither served to cool Serme’s, nor Bryzos’ temper, both remaining earnest even while Mernest and his other sons laughed at the entire affair.

“If you want to train for what is to come, you’ll have to unlearn some of that fancy stuff you seemed to have got used to, young man. Or you will get yourself into real trouble,” the smith said in a sober tone.

One of his huge paws descended on Bryzos’ shoulder and he continued, “Well, here’s the rules then lads: We’ll start off with these town rules, the ones Bryzos seems to know, then we’ll see what he actually is capable of,” he looked at Serme, who nodded earnestly. “And when I say, you’ll switch to our rules here, so you get a taste of the real thing,” he continued, looking at the prince this time, who also nodded seriously. “And just in case there are other differences: Leave each other’s eyes and balls alone, you don’t know if you won’t be needing them some day! Now, shake and show us what you can do, lads!”

Serme and Bryzos shook hands unenthusiastically and began another bout. This one turned out a lot better, with the prince actually being able to beat his opponent, flattening his shoulders onto the ground. Serme was extremely strong, used to heavy labour since early childhood, but while Bryzos was able to beat him, it had by no means been easy. Gritting his teeth, Serme patted the ground with the palm of his hand, yielding, refusing Bryzos’ hand offering to help him up. The spectators, some of the girls from the neighbourhood who had by now joined Sarta and Zmertomara in the shade to watch the commotion, cheered, demanding more. Mernest nodded to his other two sons now, admonishing them to use ‘town rules’ this time around. They likewise stripped down to their loincloths, earning whoops from the shade and set to it.

Bryzos fought all three of the smith’s sons, encountering new grips and holds, making a good show of himself, but not able to win, at best holding his own. However, after half a dozen bouts or so, it had become obvious to him that he would not last long if he was forced to stick to their rules. And that was, of course what happened. After he had successfully beaten Serme twice and at least managing to fight Sula and giant Skombros to standstills which the onlookers deemed a draw, he was literally hammered into the dry ground of the yard six times in succession when Mernest announced the rules to turn over. He did have a slight chance against Serme in his third bout, but was simply not used to having to use his legs, which Serme relished in savagely kicking away from under him. Much to the pleasure of the onlookers, by the time they were finished, the red-faced Bryzos and Serme no longer even pretended to be engaging in sport, forcing Mernest to step in more than once.

After what seemed like hours of frustrating athletic competition, Mernest called for a halt, at which the mainly female onlookers cheered and dispersed. The four wrestlers meanwhile, dusty, bruised and grinning, all except Bryzos that is, who was merely particularly dusty and extremely bruised, headed for the brook and washed. The two older lads talked animatedly about their respective bout and the moves they had seen the prince make, while Bryzos himself simply first sat in the brook, then lay prostrate on his back, trying to let the cool water wash away if not the humiliation of his disdainful defeats, then at least their dust.

Mernest approached and crouched in the water beside him.

“You’re pretty good, you know,” he began, a fact the prince actually was very well aware of. “But your town rules won’t do you any good, neither here, nor on the battlefield. I mean, what’s the use of fighting if you have silly rules like that?” he continued. “It’s like, well, like insisting on riding a three-legged horse! Or throwing a javelin with your eyes closed.”

While the prince had found himself bristling at the smith calling his rules ‘silly’ he also had to reluctantly acknowledge the logic of his words.

“I reckon you have a point there. Will you people teach me your village rules then?” Bryzos answered, grimacing from his bruises as he sat up.

Mernest arose, nodding and offering the prince his hand to help him up.

When they approached the yard, Mernest took one of the javelins they had assembled in his hands.

“Well, enough wrestling for now, lads. Let’s see how good you are with this”, at which he threw the javelin over to Bryzos. “See that plane tree over there?” at this he pointed at a tall tree with lime-green leaves which stood on the edge of the brook, some thirty paces away. “See if you can hit it, lad.”

Bryzos took the javelin in both hands, twirling it around to get a feeling for its weight and balance. Then he gripped it by its point of balance and, taking two long strides, hurled it with all his might in the direction of the tree. It smacked into the trunk of the plane with a thwack at about chest-height, leaving the shaft of the deeply embedded dart quivering. He folded his arms across his chest at his achievement, smiling wryly and challenging the others to accomplish the same, while Mernest and his sons nodded or clapped in acknowledgement. All except Serme, that was, whose arms remained folded tightly across his chest.

“Well, that was pretty good, lad,” the smith said in appreciation. He took another javelin from the workbench. “Who’s next then? Try and hit the man’s javelin!”