Thrax - Mercenary of Sparta

Prologue: Sestos

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

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

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

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

“No speak Thrax.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Θ

Wave Breaker

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why am I here? Am I dead?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was back in the lad of the living.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And why is that so?” Hypsikles asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Θ

Ephesos

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

Blushing at the little he understood of their mumbled words – “filthy beggar”, “disgusting” or “bloody barbarian” – he quickly dressed. Just as he bent down to pick up his cloak, an elderly man with a cane appeared, waving it menacingly in the air. Not knowing if he should leave or laugh, Bryzos simply stood there for a moment, too dumbfounded at the man’s behaviour.

Shouting “Dirty barbarian, get back on your boat!” the man’s cane suddenly whacked down upon him, and Bryzos only barely got his arm up in time to ward off a blow directly to his head.

As he looked around, he realised all of the faces here were either frightened or hostile. The cane came down again, this time on his shoulders, making it clear he was very much unwanted here. Holding up his hands with palms outwards in a gesture of appeasement, he gathered up his zeira from the ground and quickly vacated the premises amidst the jeering of the people and the threats of the old man with his cane.

***

Dawning, the city looked entirely different once again from the view it had presented the previous day. However, it was just as busy, if not more so. Fishers and sailors were early risers by the prerequisites of their trades, so there were already plenty of men about on the way to their boats and ships docked at the harbour.

After he felt he had left the fountain far enough behind him, Bryzos asked a couple of dockyard workers he ran across for directions to the house of Shadbarot.

“Shadbarot? Never heard of him,” one of the men replied, shrugging.

“You be realising this big place, lad,” the second man added, his white teeth grinning from a dark face.

“By that name he’s not Greek, right?” the third man asked.

“No, he Phoinikian trader,” Bryzos replied, hoping the information would help.

“Ah so,” the dark-skinned man said. “You look Phoinikian quarter, ask there,” and the three began giving him instructions how to find his goal.

Thanking the men, the prince walked away in the direction indicated. As traders, the Phoinikians generally preferred to take up accommodation near their warehouses at the harbour, and so it seemed as if Bryzos did not in fact have a long distance to cover. However, he had completely underestimated the sheer size of the city. Soon he had once again lost his way and now found himself in a different part of the docklands.

Standing outside on the road he was walking were a number of women or girls, who immediately began speaking to him in several different languages and one or two of them actually went so far as to bare their breasts at him. These were obviously wenches of some sort or other, catering to the needs of the sailors leaving on the morning tide. Bryzos had never paid a girl in coin for spending the night with him – as the son of King Ozrykes he had after all been a prince, which immediately made him wonder if he still was.

Ignoring the whores, he shook his head and changed the side of the street, only to find himself bumping into a woman obviously engaged in the same trade. As he blushed and opened his mouth to apologise, she smiled and said something. Seeing his incomprehension, she tried a few words in another language, then took a closer look at his clothing and said “So, you be new Ephesos, then?” in strongly accented Thracian.

Bryzos instinctively smiled at the familiar sound and she laughed. Not in a demeaning or humiliating manner at his lack of language skills, but with a tinkling sound, like a bell, a laugh of pure, unadulterated pleasure. Stunned from hearing his mother tongue here of all places, Bryzos nodded in reply, prompting the woman, who was actually rather beautiful as the prince now began to notice, to once more produce her tinkling laughter.

Noting his bewilderment and his unfamiliarity with his surroundings she said, “And, young man, is there be anything here I offer making you feel home-like?” and leaning to the wall she had been standing in front of, she proceeded to hook her right index finger into the neckline of the shift she was wearing, offering him a glimpse of a rather splendid cleavage. Seeing him blush she laughed once more, saying “So tell me, Thracian, what be looking for?”

Bryzos licked his lips wondering if a woman like her of all people could indeed help him.

Finally, he said, “I am looking for the house of Shadbarot. He is a Phoinikian trader, and I arrived with one of his ships.”

“Ah, young man lucky-lucky!” the woman replied smiling, “I have good night last night, so tell you for free. I know house of man you look. Phoinikian quarter it be just back there,” she added, gesturing over her shoulder with her thumb. “But do you know about man in blood-red house?” she asked raising her eyebrows. “You know, he be…,” and here she said something in Greek Bryzos failed to understand.

At this the prince merely nodded to hide his lack of comprehension, hoping she would carry on.

“So, must suit yourself,” the woman said shrugging. “But I warn you.”

Then, to his relief, she proceeded to describe to him how to get there, what house he was to look out for, landmarks on the way, which streets to turn into and other general directions.

“When you come tavern ‘Siren’ be asking for Posidike, Thracian,” she finished. “Who knowing, maybe we get see each other again then,” and smiling at him pleasantly once more, she ran her index finger along the front of his tunic suggestively.

Nodding, Bryzos found it hard to believe his luck in meeting this person. He thanked her politely, causing her to laugh once more which made the hair on his arms rise, then he quickly walked away in the direction she had indicated. This time, he did in fact arrive in the Phoinikian quarter after a short stroll. While the house of Shadbarot was not far off, his naked feet had already begun to ache from the hard and unyielding paving stones below him. Although his feet were hardened from walking barefoot, he was much more accustomed to wooden floorings, grass or simply earth beneath him. Finally, he came upon the house of the Phoinikian trader.

Like most residences in the vicinity, its walls were not whitewashed with lime in the Greek manner. Instead they were daubed in a dark reddish colour, giving the outside a distinct appearance. While its outward appearance resembled the others for all he could tell, the house of Shadbarot was easily discernible due to its blood-red tinge. Bryzos walked around it until he finally came to a door. It was massive and broad, hinged and fitted in bronze. There was a panel at eye level and Bryzos wondered what exactly it could be for as he grasped the bronze door knocker below it. While all other outside aspects of the house appeared more or less Greek, or as near-Greek as the prince was able to tell from his finite knowledge of such matters, the door knocker was not.

Such appliances were not particularly common in Thrace – if somebody wished to knock before entering, he would simply rap his knuckles against the door or its frame – still, he had seen several. But none had looked anything like this. It consisted of a bronze bull’s head pointing an evil stare directly at anyone approaching. In its mouth it held a large metal ring which could be knocked against a metal plate inset into the door. Gazing at it, the bull appeared to be looking back malevolently at Bryzos, as if it were challenging his courage to touch it and he found a shiver running up and down his spine.

Looking about he saw he was alone and shook his head at such trickery. Bloody Phoinikians, he thought, shaking his head again. Taking a firm grip of the ring he knocked it three times against the plate in the door, stepped back and waited.

After a short while he heard steps approaching and then the function of the panel became evident: It opened and a face appeared peering to the left and right of the street before its eyes centred on him. The person, Bryzos could not properly tell if it was a man or woman, was completely hairless, not even possessing eyelashes, making its look all the more disturbing.

“This is the house of Shadbarot the trader,” the person said in Greek with a dry, high voice devoid of any obvious sign of his or her sex. “What do you seek here so early in the morning?”

Slightly taken aback by the reception, Bryzos licked his lips nervously and replied in the best Ionian he could muster, “My name Bryzos, I came here from Sestos aboard Wave Breaker day before. Zygostratos me sent here.”

The doorperson looked him up and down. Scrutinising the prince, he noted the absence of footwear or hat, as well as the unkempt hair, soiled tunic and dusty zeira. He raised his eyebrows, or better what would have been his eyebrows if he had had any, in a display of scepticism.

“So you say,” the mysterious figure said in his dry voice. “My master is a busy man. I would not disturb him with the protestations of a foreigner unknown to his house. Have you any proof?”

“Here,” Bryzos replied.

Nodding, he held up his right hand with the ring he had been given in Sestos. He had never taken any time to look at the ring more closely, having mostly been pre-occupied with other things, such as spewing his guts into the Aegean or fighting for his life. Now, however, the prince saw it bore an inscription on the outside.

“It is a ring,” the door man commented, without any enthusiasm.

“Zygostratos me gave this ring to proving I be sent by him,” the prince answered.

“So you say,” the doorman said once more, shrugging. “I am sorry, but I would ask you to return at a more sociable hour. I would not disturb my master with such trifles,” and nodding, he began to close the shutter on the astonished Bryzos.

“Wait!” the prince said loudly, causing the man to knit his brows, “here take it and show it to your master!” he said in a panicked voice.

He fumbled the golden ring off his finger and hastily handed it through the half-closed panel. This Shadbarot was the only person he could turn to in this damned city, and here was this ghoul, hindering him from entering! The strange figure took hold of the object with his long, thin fingers and scrutinised it closely.

“Wait here,” he said curtly, and the panel finally clicked shut, leaving Bryzos standing alone in the street with only the door knocker for company.

The eyes of the bull’s head followed him around as he paced to and fro nervously. Not only did he feel he was being observed, but it also made him feel intensely uncomfortable. For a long time, or at least what seemed to Bryzos to be a long time, nothing happened. And then, finally, the nervous prince heard the sound of someone approaching. Once again, the panel opened.

“Please walk to your left. I will open the servants’ entrance,” the doorkeeper said, adding, “My master will see you shortly,” and the panel clicked shut.

Bryzos exhaled, only now noticing he must have been holding his breath. As he passed by, the door knocker had reverted back to a bronze casting, its malevolent aura gone all of a sudden. He walked along to the left. Around the corner was a smaller, very much less conspicuous door with a shuttered window beside it. As he lifted his hand to rap against the door, it was opened.

“Please follow me, Bryzos from Sestos,” the doorperson, who turned out to be a tall man said.

He stepped aside and waited for him to pass the threshold. He was clothed in a dark, possibly even black tunic reaching to his knees embroidered in a white key pattern of some at the hem. The choice of colour merely served to emphasise the ghostly pallor of his skin, as well as his baldness, making the man appear even more ghoulish and once again sending a chill down the prince’s spine.

While the street outside had slowly been heating up as it was bathed in the light of the rising sun, the building he entered was pleasantly cool and shady. He waited as the doorman shot the bolt of the door, then turned around and beckoned for Bryzos to follow him. They passed through a short corridor, turning right into a kitchen where two women looked up in surprise at the early visitor, one of them going so far as to wrinkle her nose at his smell. But there was no time to take a closer look as the doorkeeper strode ahead silently, forcing Bryzos to tag along. They went through a small courtyard with a shallow water basin in its centre into which the roofs of the surrounding rooms of the house drained.

At its far end was a small stone altar, beside which stood a brazier on a bronze tripod. As the doorman led Bryzos around the basin he saw a stylised picture of a woman holding up arms bent at the elbows carved into the altar’s surface. Above the figure were other symbols, but they had already walked past before he was able to catch a better glimpse. They passed underneath a row of stone columns where Bryzos was led into a room. There were two men inside, one sitting at a broad desk opposite the door and poring over a papyrus roll, while another stood at his side, pointing out some detail or other.

“Henay ha’tarzia shelcha,” the standing man said, “hu nir’eh kmo balagan echad g’dola,” briefly looking up at the sorry state of their guest, nodding and returning to the paperwork.

“Ke’ilu hu yashan be’biyuv ve’afilu masriach yoter garua mizeh,” the sitting man noted, commenting on the smell emanating from the prince, not bothering to look up.

Had Bryzos understood their comments on him looking and smelling as if he had slept in the gutter he would have agreed. As the two continued to ignore him and his guide for the time being, the prince took a moment to scrutinise his surroundings. He was in a study of some kind. Its walls were lined with shelves divided into what looked like pigeonholes, containing papyrus scrolls. This indeed impressed Bryzos. He had never seen so much papyrus at once, there had to be dozens, maybe hundreds of scrolls, tidily rolled up and each in its individual little shelf. The sheer volume of written material was, at least for a Thracian like him, immense, more than Bryzos could ever imagine having been written, let alone being in the possession of one single person.

Finally, his gaze centred on the man sitting at the desk, who he guessed to be Shadbarot. This was a strange mixture of a man: His dress, the ease with which he talked to his subordinate and of course the fact that two people simply stood there waiting for him to deign to notice them was evidence for the fact that the man was the head of the house. Bryzos noted that both his earlobes were pierced, with large golden earrings hanging from them. His jet-black hair was combed back from his forehead except for a frill of locks artfully draped across his forehead. Gathered into a bun at the back of his head, this hairdo was held together by a crimson and gold-coloured scarf.

His beard was also black, but shot with a hint of grey here and there, also carefully arranged and curled into locks to frame his face. Instead of one of the types of tunic Bryzos had seen most men wearing, Shadbarot wore a garment wrapped around his body, closing at the front. It was of the same colour as his headscarf, hemmed in gold, with a pattern embroidered in black the prince failed to identify. On both of his arms he wore a number of golden bangles and bracelets of different sizes and styles. As far as he could see, none of the people in the room were armed, though he guessed that the doorman would have some kind of weapon concealed about his body.

In contrast to his clothing however, Shadbarot’s body was far from impressive. The head of a Thracian house, particularly if this house held power, would display a virile, forceful appearance. Here, on the other hand the opposite was the case. Hunched over his papers, the trader was pot-bellied and both narrow of chest and shoulders.

While his entire demeanour bespoke of the fact that he was undisputedly the master here, he would have been quickly done away with if this house had been Thracian. Bryzos shook his head, wondering how a man with such an unimpressive frame came to lead others, or better, why other men should choose to follow such an unremarkable figure.

Finally, the clerk had finished discussing the paperwork and left with a nod to the doorman. The man at the desk took a moment to conclude the business at hand. While the doorman continued to wait uncomplainingly and unmoving, Bryzos found himself growing impatient. Just as he found himself fidgeting, the man sitting at the desk looked up from his scroll.

“I am Shadbarot,” he said. “Who are you then, young man?” he added in perfect Ionian Greek, taking the ring Bryzos had presented to the doorman, which had been concealed beneath one of the scrolls littering the table.

“I be Bryzos, son of King Ozrykes, son of Burazas, the Rock of Battle,” the prince said grandly, the delivery of his introduction marred by his dry throat and the fact that he looked such a mess, though he had at least got the Greek right.

Shadbarot lifted an eyebrow, casting a dubious look in the prince’s direction.

“Ata ma’min et hakol ma she hu omer?” he asked the doorman in Phoinikian.

“Lo, adoni,” his ghoulish servant replied curtly behind Bryzos.

“So. This ring. Where did you say you acquired it?” Shadbarot asked, switching back to Greek

“It being given me by Zygostratos, trader in Sestos. He telled me to go to house of Shadbarot, master trader in Ephesos,” Bryzos answered.

“I see,” the Phoinikian said, nodding, pursing his lips. “Now, Zygostratos would not have given this ring to anybody just like that. As you know my name and were able to find my house, I must assume you are telling the truth – at least about our mutual acquaintance, that is. Otherwise you could have simply converted the ring to coin. However, I find your claim to royal lineage… let us say questionable,” the trader concluded, gesturing at his strange guest’s appearance. So, humour me and tell me why I should believe you?” Shadbarot finished, leaning back.

Bryzos licked his lips. Then, taking a deep breath he simply decided to spill out the truth.

“My father king is dead, killed by brother of mine Tarbos,” he began. “He kill my brothers and sisters and mother, I flee home with help of Gaidrus. He big man at court,” he explained, hoping he was able to convey the significance of the senior retainer, long dead by then. “I go to Sestos, Zygostratos, friend of Gaidrus help me and I take ship to Ephesos. Now am being here,” Bryzos concluded.

“The king is dead, you say. And Tarbos is the new ruler?” Shadbarot asked, at which the prince nodded in response. “This makes things somewhat complicated,” the trader said, steeping his fingers. Addressing the doorman behind him he said “T’vadeh she’ha bachur hamasriach hazeh t’kabel miklachat ve’tisrof et ha tunika shelo. I must contemplate these matters at length, young man,” he said turning back to Bryzos, and switching from Phoinikian back to Greek. “Meanwhile, Saris here will take care of your needs.”

***

As it turned out, things were a lot more complicated than he could have ever imagined. Shadbarot’s grandfather Fuaba’al had been an associate of his own grandfather, King Burazas. This meant that he, as a son of the Dolonkan king was on principle welcome beneath this roof. The ring he had been given in Sestos had indeed gained him entry to the house of the Phoinikian, but he would simply have been given a meal, a bed in one of the slaves’ rooms and would have been asked to leave the next morning with a warm handshake and wishes of good luck. He would most certainly not have had his hair washed and combed, new clothes and something warm to eat.

However, while the guest-friendship extended to Burazas’ offspring, it was centred on the king himself. And due to the death of his father Ozrykes, there now was a new ruler there. And this man, his brother, King Tarbos, wanted anybody able to dispute his claim to the throne dead, a task he had already performed on Bryzos’ siblings.

As a result, he had been treated with due hospitality: The servants of the house had filled a bathtub for him with hot water, cleaned his zeira and presented him with a fresh tunic, as well as a pair of sandals and also placed something for him to eat on a dresser. But it was equally clear he could not stay.

Bryzos dried himself on a smooth, clean linen towel and quickly wolfed down all of the food provided, hardly tasting any of it. He was just slipping the new tunic over his head when there was a knock on the door of the room he had been set up in.

“Bryzos,” Saris said opening the door. “My master wishes to see you.”

The prince nodded and hastily tied the leather belt he had been supplied with. He contemplated taking the sheathed knife with him, but he was a guest after all and did not wish to make the wrong impression. Instead, he put on the sandals and followed the ghoulish doorman. The man wordlessly led him to the altar in the atrium. Shadbarot was standing there with what had to be the entire household, about a dozen people. The trader nodded at Bryzos as he joined the others standing around the stone with its stylised carving of a woman. The trader lifted his hands, palm up, and intoned a prayer of some kind. Once more the prince failed to understand a single word of what was being said, though he did notice the word “Tanit” being spoken repeatedly. While the trader continued his incomprehensible singsong, he saw that there was smoke coming from the brazier beside the altar stone and that there was a curved bronze knife lying on the altar which had been polished to a fine golden sheen.

Finally, Shadbarot finished and the mysterious doorman appeared beside him handing him a pigeon. Tightly gripping the quietly cooing bird in his left hand, he took hold of the knife with his right, decapitating the animal with a single slash. The blood of the sacrifice spurted onto the stone and he continued with his litany, while the life quickly drained from the bird. The ease with which he performed the rite showed he knew exactly how to kill the bird quickly, without needlessly prolonging its suffering. After the headless pigeon had ceased struggling, he placed it on the altar and held out his hands. Another servant gave him a white cloth to clean the blood that had splashed onto his hands.

The sacrifice thus having been accepted, the trader moved to the right to come standing before the hissing brazier. Now, at least so Bryzos thought, the cadaver of the bird would be burnt. The trader once again held up his hands palms outward and prayed. This time it was the word ‘Dagon’ Bryzos heard most frequently. Another sacrifice for another god then, he thought to himself, the pigeon’s blood for ‘Tanit’, its body for ‘Dagon’, whoever they were. What happened then, however, came as a surprise, to say the least.

Shadbarot once more held out his left hand and Saris gave him another pigeon he once again mysteriously produced from thin air. As Bryzos and the other spectators looked on, the trader proceeded to break the spine of the struggling animal, whose gentle cooing instantly turned into squawks of pain. Shadbarot held it in his hands a short while, watching the animal’s life slowly beginning to fade away. And then, when its struggling had nearly ceased, to the prince’s surprise, he dropped the still living bird it into the embers of the brazier.

Instantly brought to a semblance of life by such renewed agony the pigeon shrieked and attempted to escape the flames which had already begun consuming it. Unable to use its legs, the animal’s wings flapped about, but this movement actually fanned the flames already blackening its body. Bryzos found himself scowling at this barbaric display of needless suffering. Unable to look away at the agony of the victim, the smoke turned acrid in his nose as the animal’s feathers started to smoulder from the embers. Still feebly fluttering, the bird’s eyes began to melt before it eventually succumbed to the flames.

Bryzos wondered what kind of cruel, demonic gods the Phoinikian sacrificed to, a shiver running up and down his back. At the same time, he noted that he was in fact the only person affected by what he had just witnessed. Managing not to shake his head, the prince slowly inhaled through his mouth, wondering at the place he had come to, that had seemed so hospitable mere moments ago. The hair on his arms was standing up on end, while the atrium suddenly appeared darker, as if he had been drawn into some infernal ritual. Involuntarily, he found himself looking for a way to safely get out of the place, when a hand on his shoulder nearly made him jump.

“If would you follow me?” Saris said, nodding.

As he followed the doorman, the members of the household dispersed to go about their various duties while the two left the acrid smell of the burning fowl behind them. Saris led the prince across the patio with the water basin towards the study room he had first seen earlier that morning. Shadbarot was already seated at his desk.

“I hope you enjoyed the hospitality of my house,” the trader said in a tone of voice that made it clear that something unpleasant would follow shortly. “The sacrifice you witnessed,” he continued in a completely unexpected direction, “was to two gods: our Mistress Tanit, Mother of All, to honour her before we eat. The other was to Dagon, the Lord of the Sea. I sacrificed to Lord Dagon because one of my family’s ships, the Sea Stag, narrowly escaped the predations of those wishing to seize it. This, young man, brings us to the heart of the problem.”

Bryzos nodded. This would obviously be where the unpleasant bit came in.

“I am a trader,” Shadbarot continued. “While Ionia was subject to Persia, men like me were free to make an honest living in peace. At the moment, however, this appears to be over. War has come to Ephesos in the guise of Sparta, whose men who are not traders like their fellow Greeks, or us. These men are warriors and know only war. And so, the seas are now filled with Greek war ships, feeling free to capture any vessel taking their fancy. This means that my business here is far from safe at the moment. But this was not the only tale the captain of the Sea Stag had to tell me while you were refreshing yourself. He also brought me news of the occurrences in the Chersonnesos.”

“As you told me, King Ozrykes, who was an associate to my family, is no more. This means that the new ruler, King Tarbos, is now the associate to my family. And King Tarbos has sent word to all whom it may concern, that after his father’s sad passing, his brothers immediately began killing each other, attempting to incite civil war. Only by his auspicious handling of the situation and the punishment or banishment of all of those involved was order at last restored to the peninsula. Those princes still alive who took part in these unpleasant dealings are to be no longer considered or treated as members of the royal Dolonkan family. Do you know what this means, Prince Bryzos?”

Bryzos nodded, grimacing.

“You are no longer a ‘prince’, young man, but what is more, you cannot be a guest to my house. You have been disavowed by your own people, whose stand in this conflict is completely unclear at this time. For the sake of the safety of my family and the members of this house, I cannot allow you to remain here. In fact, had I not taken you in due to Zygostratos’ ring, I would be bound through my ties to the Dolonkan royal house to hand you over to King Tarbos.”

Bryzos froze at these words, his right hand automatically wandering to his belt, only to realise his lucky knife was still in the room he had refreshed himself in. He looked around carefully. Behind him, Saris had both of his hands concealed inside of the folds of his tunic, probably concealing a drawn weapon. Any movement on his side would result in the doorman simply stabbing him in the back. Finally, his eyes came back to rest on the trader.

“However, since I took you in, you have enjoyed the hospitality and protection due to a guest in my house,” Shadbarot said, nodding slowly.

A bath, a meal and a tunic, and a ghoul ready to kill me on the spot Bryzos thought to himself, but nodded instead of speaking. He had just been stripped of whatever perception of royalty he had retained. And from all he could tell, he would now probably be spending this evening in the back of an alley.

“I see you understand,” Shadbarot continued, and placed the ring Bryzos had given to the doorman on the desk, gesturing for him to take it.

Nodding silently, the former prince accepted its return, once again placing it on his right hand.

“Good, that settles matters then. Now, if you don’t mind, I have work to do,” the Phoinikian said, gesturing at the scrolls on his desk. “Saris, if you would kindly see our guest out,” he added, dismissing the two.

“Ken, adoni,” he replied.

He gestured for Bryzos to walk ahead. So, that was it, he thought passing the doorman. From the corner of his eyes he could now see the man’s hand resting on a knife, and Saris smiled at him coldly and humourlessly at being caught out like that. The doorman accompanied him back to the room he been in, where he immediately saw that his knife was absent. Not wishing to press the point, he picked up his cleaned zeira and the two made their way back to the servants’ entrance.

“It would probably be better for everyone if you did not come here again,” Saris said drily.

“Indeed,” Bryzos agreed, walking through the door, realising he actually had less than before he had entered the house, having now lost both his knife and his dignity.

“Good,” the doorman replied. “Here, this may make things slightly easier,” the man said.

To his complete surprise the doorman pulled both his lucky knife and a small pouch from somewhere inside his tunic and handed the two to him.

“I hope we do not meet again,” he said, closing the door and barring it from the inside, leaving Bryzos standing there on the street.

Θ

Polykritos

Bryzos fixed the sheath of his knife to his belt to at least give himself the semblance of being a warrior and looked around. The afternoon was hot and there was nobody about. Crossing the street to get into the shade, he opened the purse, which was half filled with coins. The amount would not set him up in business, but at least it would see him through the next couple of days until he had got a better feel of the city.

After the sacrifice he had witnessed he suddenly felt better off having left the Phoinikian’s house behind him and its master Shadbarot, the pot-bellied, paper-pushing pigeon-tormentor. While Ephesos was big, really big and not just large, as he was slowly beginning to realise, it was only a town after all.

Strolling along the road he wondered where to go and what to do on his first day as a free man, liberated of all previous bonds. The fishermen and day labourers, merchants and customers he saw were generally either going to or coming from the harbour, so he let himself be carried along to the waterfront by the men and women around him. Walking past a couple of the street vendors selling fresh flat breads, he noted their enticing smell, but he had after all only eaten a short while ago.

No, he decided, bread was not what was called for here; he should celebrate this fine late summer day. And the best way for a Thracian to celebrate anything was by having a good drink and, if possible, female company. There were only three places he even knew of in the city by name: The Mermaid Miren had mentioned and the house of Shadbarot he had only just left. Not particularly wishing to see the crew of the Wave Breaker any time again soon, and unable to return to the latter, his mind was thus made up for him. Smiling broadly, Bryzos redirected his steps towards the Siren, the promise of a good jug of wine and, at least so he hoped, a more intimate meeting with Posidike than their first encounter.

***

In the afternoon light the roads once again looked rather different. The fish market seemed to have moved to a different location, though the smell emanating from the wares offered there for sale wafted in the air of the surrounding streets. Not that he particularly minded the smell of freshly caught seafood, but the fishmongers gutted, chopped and scaled their catch on the spot, as they did anywhere fish was being offered for sale. The former prince only knew the look and smell of a couple of small fish markets in villages he had visited along the coast north of Keirpara. There, the vendors dumped whatever remains they ended up with somewhere for the strays, both animal and human, to eat and the stench had been abominable despite the small amounts of refuse. What the odour would be like here he hesitated to contemplate but decided to give the area a wide berth.

After getting lost and finding his way again a few times, his good mood had not taken a turn for worse. However, his thirst for something more potent than the strongly watered, acidy wine he had been given for his morning meal had rather increased. Things were not aided by the dustiness of the streets, or the heat of the sun. Still, he had decided that today would be a good day for him, and was determined not to have anything rob him of this feeling. Finally, he recognised a few landmarks: a particularly memorable stele engraved with the countenance of a smiling human face with a ridiculously large erect phallus. He stopped to look at it more closely and while he was standing there, an elderly woman, a servant or slave judging from her dress, came out of the house with a small jug and a cloth. While Bryzos stood by, she proceeded to rub the erect, carved stone member with the fluid from the jug. At first glance it appeared to be water, but then he realised it was actually some kind of oil.

Noticing him standing there observing she grinned and said something he did not understand and, upon seeing his incomprehension, switched to speaking slowly in Ionian.

“You wish you too have dick like Hermes, what young man?” the woman said chuckling, continuing to masturbate the stele’s penis. “Bring good luck for house, eh? This is God Hermes, he keep traders safe on road. You stroke him dick, bring you luck,” and she went back into the house, laughing at Bryzos’ hesitation.

While he had the utmost respect for every deity, and especially so of course for those residing here, the notion of fondling male genitalia other than his own, even if they belonged to a stone god, did not particularly take his fancy. He nodded to the carved idol as a sign of respect, which grinned back at him with its oily penis glistening in the sun, and turned into the road which he no knew to take him to the Siren at last.

As it appeared, he was in luck: Standing directly outside of the tavern were a few chatting women, among whom he saw Posidike. As he slowed just outside the entrance of the place, she recognised him and excused herself from the others, approaching him.

“Ah, my Thracian friend! I see you not forget Posidike,” she said switching directly to Thracian from the Greek she had been speaking to the women who probably shared her profession. And then she laughed in that bell-like, tinkling fashion of hers, coming to a halt in front of him. Immediately she ran a finger down his chest, pushing his zeira to one side and lightly touching his left nipple, sending a tingling sensation all through his body. “Have got lost again, or you looking for me?” she asked, flashing him a voluptuous smile and taking a stance which served both to accentuate her hips and breasts.

She was dark-haired and her skin was also a lot darker than his, the brown eyes peering into his and sizing him up were warm, radiant and intelligent. Her skin was immaculate and seemed to beg Bryzos to reach out and caress her in public, then and there. The fingernails of the hand that had just touched him were carefully manicured, a far cry from the score of servants, innkeeper’s and farmer’s daughters Bryzos had bedded with so far. Her dress was of ankle length, and at first glance actually quite chaste, but her movements revealed the fact that it was open at her right side in the fashion of the Dorian chiton, not the Ionian version commonly worn in these parts. He tried, rather in vain, to speak into her face, but found his eyes wandering to and fro across her magnificent body, her whole demeanour already causing his loins to stir in response, something she evidently both registered and found amusing.

“How could I forget the most beautiful woman in Ephesos,” Bryzos said in his best princely manner. “Thanks to you I was able to find the man I was looking for two days ago. As it turned out, this was a lucky turn. What do you say, would you perhaps like to celebrate with me a little?”

“You flattering me, Thracian, too much! I happy I help you, yes let us celebrate! But think maybe we go inside the kapeleion and continue talk together alone,” she said, winking at him suggestively.

***

A short while later the two entered the Siren, where Posidike was greeted as a regular by a man standing behind the counter. He was large and burly, as well as extremely hirsute. The hair on his chest and shoulders crept from every opening of his exomis and the shoulders of the tunic had been gathered and tied into thin straps, so as to all the more emphasise his muscular frame. In contrast to the mighty black beard and moustache he sported to compliment this appearance, his most striking feature was that his head was completely shaven for effect, adding an element of menace to his otherwise peaceful manner.

His appearance certainly did not fail to deliver the impression that it would not be a particularly good idea to pick a fight with him. However, as he had ample funds on him, Bryzos doubted that he would find himself in any altercation with the man and just nodded at him while he waited. The exchange between the man and Posidike was in fast, garbled Ionian, which Bryzos once more failed to understand, probably describing the couple’s intended activities for the next few hours. Finally, the man had replied, nodding to the two, smiling and gesturing upstairs with his chin.

As they climbed the stairs, she pointed out to him that this had not been the owner of the establishment, who was in fact a woman called Anath who rarely got out of bed before noon. No, this had been Hylos the bartender, “Not man you should mess with, Thracian,” she said, smiling cryptically.

As they entered one of the private rooms upstairs Bryzos was surprised by its size. He had thought the upper rooms in taverns to be basically all alike, sparsely furnished and somewhat measly. This, however, was nearly palatial in comparison. The walls were whitewashed and painted with scenes depicting a number of different sexual acts, there was a dresser, a table and two chairs and a window, through whose closed shutters the subdued noise of the street below was audible. Thinking that this would be a life he could definitely get used to, Bryzos threw his zeira on the dresser and sat on the bed and began unlacing his sandals, when there was a knock on the door.

Without waiting for him to answer, Posidike, still standing and fully dressed, went to the door and accepted a tray containing a jug of wine, two cups and a couple of bowls containing what appeared to be a variety of things to eat. The girl serving looked inside the room, saw Bryzos sitting on the bed, smiled in a friendly, non-committal way and left. Posidike placed the tray on the table and proceeded to pour the two of them something to drink. After he had cleared his footwear aside and unceremoniously dumped his belt on top, Bryzos took the two leather pouches containing his earthly belongings from inside his tunic and simply dropped them on top of the pile.

With a keen ear for the pecuniary side of her trade, Posidike heard the clinking, jangling sound the pouches made when they hit the floor and immediately approached Bryzos as he sprawled on the bed.

“So so, Thracian, sound as if you have good money to spend! I make sure you have a good time,” she said, handing him the cup in her left hand directly began running her right along the inside of his left leg.

Unsurprisingly to both of them, the response of his body was both immediate and foreseeable. While she gently worked her way up his leg, softly caressing the area at the hem of his tunic, a distinct bulge began to appear at his midriff. They raised their cups and Bryzos downed his in one single, thirsty gulp. The wine was excellent, if rather heavy, as it had not been watered down in the slightest. Posidike took a mouthful of wine from her own cup and leaned over him and came closer to kiss him. However, as his lips opened to play with her tongue, instead of having swallowed the wine, she let it run down into his mouth, sharing the warm, strong drink.

Nobody had ever done anything quite like that with him, and the feelings this intimate act of sharing incited with Bryzos were intense, exciting and a promise of a lot more to come. Especially as Posidike began fondling his privates beneath his tunic with her right hand. He closed his eyes, simply giving in to her ministrations of her lips, tongue and hand for the moment.

After what appeared to be quite some time, but could only have been moments, she disentangled herself from his embrace and got up again, saying “This could be thirsty work, Thracian, and outside there is hot day,” and smiled, refilling their cups once more.

Handing him one of the two, she raised her own one in salute and, while he took another deep draught, she began undressing. She was wearing a Dorian chiton, a simple wrap-around garment, clasped at the shoulders and belted at the waist and open at her right-hand side. She untied her girdle, making the linen of her dress fall to the ground and proceeded to stroke her breasts suggestively. Bryzos grinned at the erotic display, noticing her nipples beginning to stand out underneath her diaphanous garment. He emptied his cup and was about to rise from the bed, but Posidike pursed her lips and shook her head, taking hold of the jug to pour him another measure of wine.

Never one to say no to a good drink, he merely shrugged and held out his cup for a refill. She set down the jug once more and, sipping, he leaned back against the cushion again to see the next act of her performance. Caressing her breasts with her left hand, she began undoing the clasps at the shoulders of her garment with her right, carefully placing them on the table, where Bryzos had simply dumped his belongings on the floor. Finally, kicking off her light sandals, she stood before him with only her left arm keeping the cloth up and preventing him from gazing on her naked body.

For a moment she simply stood there, swaying slightly to and fro, teasing him.

“What would you have of me,” Bryzos said, smiling at her with a shrugging, open-armed gesture.

“Everything, Thracian,” Posidike replied, laughing her tinkling, bell-like laugh, letting her dress drop to the floor, finally granting him a view of her entire magnificent body. “Oh, everything…”

***

Bryzos awoke, feeling, well good, he supposed, but that word alone was nowhere close to describing the emotions running through him. He now felt well and truly free at last. The last few hours with Posidike had sheared off any of the remaining veneer the Dolonkan prince may have still possessed. He had drunken and he had fucked. No, that did not do her justice. They had made love, at once unrestrained and controlled, both passionately and guided by her hands, lips and body, all so much more experienced than his own. He had rolled in the hay with enough farmers’ daughters. But this had been entirely different. He thanked the Thracian love-goddess Epta for his stamina and the fact that he had actually been able to keep up with her insatiable lust. Maybe it was the wine he thought, grinning, he could remember the serving girl coming in with a new jug at least three times.

They had shared carnal pleasures previously unknown to him. Before them he had never known what a woman’s lips and tongue were capable of in bed. Yes, the hills of the peninsula were truly at least one world away at this moment.

As he stretched himself, feeling comfortably screwed and inebriated, his outstretched arm failed to touch his passionate bed-mate. Bryzos shrugged, reckoning that she must have left to answer a call of nature or perhaps get them something more to drink. Yes, that would be nice, another jug of wine and then perhaps another few hours spent in her embrace…

He got up, stark naked, with his member hanging down between his legs. It was already slightly swollen and throbbing from the thought of another possible bout with his female companion, but also slightly aching from their activities so far. There was some wine left inside the jug and he poured in into one of the cups, draining it in a single gulp and lying down again. Posidike had indeed been right, this was thirsty work.

After a short while, still slightly befuddled and with no sign of her reappearing, Bryzos peered out the window. Finding it to already be dark outside and feeling his stomach beginning to grumble, he decided to dress and get hold of something to eat downstairs. He slipped his tunic over his head, belting it and, attaching the sheath of his lucky knife so it was easily and readily accessible. Loosening the muscles of his neck, he laced on his sandals, leaving his zeira on the dresser where he had deposited it hours ago. His money pouches were not to be found at the moment, but he assumed Posidike would probably have deposited them somewhere safe.

He yawned, and opened the dresser, assuming the money to be somewhere inside, but after a short while it became obvious that it was not. Though Bryzos had a sudden flash of suspicion and foreboding, he laughed it off and decided not to let his good arrival in Ephesos be shadowed by such bad, baseless sentiments. After all, Posidike had just spent several hours very intimately with him – why, by the Horseman, should she want to harm someone who had only been good to her?

While he was still unable to answer this question about half an hour later, he was also quite sure, that his money was nowhere in the room. In fact, as he suddenly noticed with his senses once more sharpening from the dull state they had been in due to the wine, the ring Zygostratos had given him was turned and sat higher on his finger. As if someone had tried to remove it and, after having failed in the attempt, had left it there in a different position. Bryzos quickly proceeded to search the entire room a second time, until he at last had to admit that he had not only been robbed, but truly fucked. Literally in fact.

Everything, he muttered to himself, every-bloody-thing! He sat down on the bed, rubbing his head, completely exasperated and momentarily at a loss what to do, when a knock on the door jolted him into a standing position.

“Come in,” he said in a voice that was both a little too loud and out of control.

“A good evening to you, sir,” the girl who had served them earlier said in Greek. “Will you be occupying the room for the night? If yes, it’s double the rate. And if you don’t mind,” here she smiled sweetly in way of apology, “please come down and pay now. It’s just that you aren’t one of our regular customers, sorry.”

“Yes, yes, no problem,” Bryzos answered, attempting one of his winning smiles but, judging by her frown, reckoning he had not been particularly successful. “I’ll come down right away.”

She nodded, obviously not entirely convinced and left, closing the door behind her. While he had contemplated asking about Posidike’s whereabouts on the spur of the moment as the serving girl had entered, he had quickly decided against this after she had delivered her message. No innkeeper took customers lightly who attempted to leave without paying their bills. While still a prince, Bryzos had done this dozens of times, but his face was known, as was his pedigree and there had always been someone to pick up his tab later on. This was different and a lot worse. There was only one thing to be done. He had to run for it. Gathering up his zeira, he noticed that the bitch had even pilfered the bronze claps used to fix it around his shoulders. Nothing to be done, he thought, just throw it over my shoulders and then quickly get out of the place.

The door to the room opened onto a passage ending at the staircase leading down into the main, public room of the tavern. Judging from the level of noise, the place was already quite full, and Bryzos’ bad feeling about his current situation took a slight turn for the better, as he reckoned he would easily be able to leave the Siren without being noticed. Creeping along the unlit passage quietly and remaining close to the wall, he arrived at the turn where the top of the staircase was located. Peering round the corner down into the tavern, he saw that the place was not only frequented, but in fact packed.

Well, at least that would make things fairly easy, he thought to himself, nobody is going to stop a man running out of a full tavern. Grinning, he turned around the corner only to bump into a surprised Hylos.

“Hello there,” the bartender said in his deep voice, “I was about to finish for today, but I wanted to see about you paying your tab first.”

Giving Hylos his best princely smile, Bryzos replied, “I just going down get something to eat. Not Posidike pay for us by now?” he added hopefully.

“Oh, no,” the barman replied chuckling, “she always has her man to pick up the bill, didn’t you know? I’m sorry about any misunderstanding,” he added, making a point of looking at the travelling cloak his counterpart was wearing. “Just give me the money now and no harm is done,” and he grasped the banister tightly with a left fist the size of a small melon, blocking the staircase and any possibility of a fast, unnoticed getaway.

Smiling, the former prince said, “Absolutely, not problem. Money being in my room, we just get it now and I pay,” and he turned around to go back to his room.

In the moment Hylos let go of the railing to follow him, Bryzos draped his zeira over his head and shot past the angry bartender, taking as many steps at once as possible. Laughing, he bumped his way through the throng in the main room, apologising here and excusing himself there, quickly threading his way to the exit. And then suddenly the serving girl spotted him.

“Stop him, that blondie there!” she screamed in a voice surprisingly loud for such a petite person.

Bryzos chuckled, knowing that the patrons would be slow and unwilling to react to tackle a foreigner at best. This made what did happen all the more surprising. Suddenly, someone tripped him and while he stumbled along a few more steps, another of the patrons shoved him in such a way that he slipped and fell on his hands and knees. Desperately scrambling to get up and hopefully also out, he was surprised by the feel of something cold against his right ear and shoulder.

“I’d stay down if I was you, blondie,” a threatening voice above him said.

Remaining on all fours, Bryzos cautiously peered around. The object which had caused the cold sensation was the blade of a sword, about a finger’s breadth away from the blood vessels running through his neck, resting calmly on his tunic. The fact that it was sharp enough to cut a few threads simply by lying there sent a chill down his spine. Remaining prone, he slowly also registered the fact that the previous level of sound in the tavern had receded to what seemed to be the occasional comment on him having tried to run off without paying his bill.

A hand, probably belonging to the man with the sword, took hold of the nape of his tunic, rudely pulling him into an upright position. Most of the patrons standing near were looking at him in a manner ranging from amusement at his plight, over unfriendly, to openly hostile. While this alone made him feel intensely uncomfortable, the fact that most of those standing near were also brandishing some kind of bladed weapon and pointing it at him was worse. A lot worse.

He turned around, trying to look for any way out of the mess he was in, but the only thing he saw was the face of a not-amused Hylos.

“So, you’re one of those, are you!” the bartender said rhetorically, immediately punching Bryzos in the face without waiting for an answer. “You little shit, I’ll make you pay for all you drank! And if it is with your arse,” he shouted at him angrily, raising cheers from the other patrons.

Standing around dejected and now also with a split lip, Bryzos turned and looked around at the first swordsman, who now discovered the set of strange markings tattooed on the right shoulder of his captive.

“Wait, Hylos,” the man said, seeing that the bartender had already clenched his fists for another pounding, “it appears that Blondie here may be a bit more interesting than your usual bilk. Did he have anything on him?”

Hylos nodded, producing the zeira, its outlandish patterning and weave gaining it a rising level of conversation in the tavern once again, as well as some shaken or nodding heads. Sheathing his sword, needless with all the other blades waving in Bryzos’ general direction, the man took hold of the cloak with his right hand. His fingers ran along the cloth with evident knowledge of what he was handling.

Nodding in appreciation at the fine weave and beautifully executed patterning he finally said, “This is a Thracian cloak, lads; they call it a zeera. It keeps them nice and warm when they creep off into the night to shag sheep,” at which the entire inn erupted in laughter.

All Bryzos could do of course was to wait and see where all this would lead.

“You there,” he said, turning around to face his captive, “Are you Thracian, boy? Do you understand my language?” he added in a loud voice, over-articulating each one of his words, as if talking to a half-deaf moron.

“Yes, I am, and I also not deaf or stupid am,” Bryzos replied, his face reddening at the insults and general condescending manner of the man. “And we call it zeira, not zeera, you idiot”, he added angrily.

Amused by the reply, the man’s eyebrows darted up and his face broke into a cheerful grin.

“Look, it can talk! And it can even speak a civilised tongue,” he said, at which once more the tavern erupted into laughter and jeering.

Having determined that these men must be warriors of some kind, Bryzos decided that the only way to earn some measure of respect would be to fight. The man continued poking fun at him while the onlookers, by now slightly off guard, laughed at his expense. Not taking any time to contemplate too much or even to wait until reason returned, he jumped the man.

Caught completely off guard, Bryzos threw him to the ground, wrestling him down and causing the bystanders to cheer even louder at the spectacle now presenting itself. Though the element of surprise was on his side at first, this was an experienced veteran, as immediately became evident. He neither called out to his mates for help, nor did he himself lose his nerve. The two of them struggled away grunting on the floor of the inn and the men around quickly moved tables and benches to grant them room, while the whole place was bustling with shouts and jeers, heating up the mood.

As Bryzos rolled on his back, trying to secure a choke-hold on the man’s throat, he even saw some men wagering bets on who would come out on top. Quickly he was thrown about, landing on his opponent’s back after a short struggle, finally allowing him to get a stranglehold on the man. As he was about to choke him into submission among the cries of “Blondie” or a name which sounded something like “Megalias”, everyone suddenly went quiet. Once again, Bryzos felt something cold upon his skin, this time, however, it was his throat and the object a knife.

“Get the fuck off him, Blondie,” a female voice said into the silence, completely dousing the excitement within the tavern.

Bryzos quickly let go of his opponent, getting up answering to the threat of the knife underneath his chin. The prone Megalias turned onto his back and scowled at Bryzos.

“Well played, Thracian. Not many people are able to catch me off guard. What are you then, a wrestler?”

Holding up both of his hands, Bryzos carefully shook his head in answer, not wishing for any closer encounter with the as of yet unseen woman holding the blade.

“I don’t care what the fuck he is,” the irritating female voice behind him said. “As far as I’m concerned, he can be the high-bloody-king of fucking Persia himself. I want my money!”

So, that question at least was solved, Bryzos thought to himself. This had to be Anath, the owner of the Siren and another person Posidike had warned him not to mess with. It appeared that the bitch had surrounded him with a host of people he was “not to mess with”, making sure at the same time they were all over him.

“Right, Blondie, turn round, carefully and slowly,” Anath commanded.

As he obeyed, she lowered her knife, but kept it in reach. Bryzos noted her expert handling of the blade, making very sure to comply, slowly.

“Right. You boys,” here she nodded at both Hylos and Megalias, the former looking dejected at having been so easily duped, the latter grinning in obvious enjoyment of the evening’s entertainment, “You’ve have had your fun. Now,” here she turned back to Bryzos, “I want my money. You rented the room for yourself and your whore for a day and drank six jugs of my best wine.” And as Bryzos opened his mouth to explain his plight, the proprietress lifted her left index finger in caution, saying “And now don’t you come and tell me that the slut lifted you of your money!”

Here the crowd broke out into unchecked hilarity: A country boy taking a whore to bed in a tavern, ending up destitute but with a large bill, what a laugh! If one did not happen to be the country boy, that is, Bryzos thought to himself grimly.

“I’ve heard every bloody story around, Blondie. You were thrown out of your home, your parents are dead, some bitch broke your heart, you’re a foreigner and didn’t know the rules – believe me, I’ve heard the lot!”

Bryzos realised there was no point telling her that – in his case at least – every single one of these reasons applied.

“And now you will tell me how you intend to pay for the services of the Siren, or I’ll sell your sorry arse to the slavers first thing tomorrow morning, by Artemis’ milk white titties, I will!” and once more everyone around broke into roaring laughter.

Suddenly Bryzos remembered the ring he had received in Sestos.

“I have no money on me,” he said, “but perhaps taking this ring as payment?” holding out the hand with ring.

Pocketing her knife, Anath approached him to take a closer look, as did Megalias. Frowning, she said, “Is it real gold?”

“It certainly looks like it,” Megalias said.

“How the fuck would the son of a shepherd know what real gold looks like,” Anath answered, “You can’t even tell the difference between a ewe and a girl,” at which everyone, including Megalias had to laugh.

“Come on, you old witch, take it,” Megalias said affectionately. “If it’s genuine the bill is met and then quite some. If not, we can still sell him,” he added grinning at Bryzos, who felt the man now actually fondling his behind amid more laughter from the crowd.

“Alright then. Take it off lad,” she said to him, “and hand it over. Then I accept your debts here to be paid. Mind you,” she added as an afterthought, “I don’t know how you’ll be paying that Posidike though when she shows up next,” at which everyone but Bryzos once more laughed.

While most of the men now returned to their respective tables and benches, the noises in the tavern slowly turning from menace or cheer to the usual background noise of an inn, Bryzos took off his ring and handed it to the proprietress. Weighing it in her hand, she nodded, accepting it as genuine gold.

“This is far more valuable than the tab you made here today. But I’ll be fucked if I give someone any change who tried to piss off without paying.”

Bryzos was just about to open his mouth to reply when Megalias slapped him on the shoulder.

“I’ll tell you what will happen to the change,” he said interrupting and winking at Anath. “All drinks on the house! Blondie here’s paying!” he shouted to the tavern in general. Once again, the place erupted in shouting, the patrons banging mugs and cups on the tables and the counter in cheer. “Get us another jug of your best to our table,” he said to Anath. “And you,” here he turned to Bryzos, as she left rolling her eyes and shaking her head at the entire exchange, “you can join us. I’ll give you that, you are a good wrestler; I’d be interested to see how you do when you don’t have the opportunity to surprise your opponent. What’s your name anyway?”

“Bryzos. My name is Bryzos, son of…”

“I can’t pronounce that shit!” Megalias said laughing, “We’ll just have to call you ‘Thrax’.”

So, ‘Thrax’ it was, Bryzos thought, the Greek word for ‘Thracian’. It could have been worse, like ‘yokel who gets tricked by a whore’ or just ‘country bumpkin’ or…

“You know what they say,” Megalias interrupted his dark thoughts, “‘a Thracian never turns down a drink’, what do you reckon?” and among lots of cheerful back-slapping and hooting of the bystanders he led Bryzos to a table in the corner of the main room.

***

Before long Bryzos was well and truly drunk. He had made the acquaintance of a number of hard-drinking and even harder-fighting men, employed as mercenaries for the war Sparta was currently waging against the High King of Persia. At first, everyone had made fun of him: For behaving like a dim-witted country bumpkin by having been made drunk and then getting all of his money stolen by a whore. In the course of the evening’s drinking, however, every single one of the men admitted to him in private conversation that this was a mistake they had also made. Except for their commander Megalias of course, of whom it was pointed out that he preferred to share his bed with younger men.

This revelation unleashed another fit of general laughter with the soldiers, as they then began to make comments and ask questions about how it had felt to roll around on the floor with their officer in such a close and sweaty embrace. Interestingly, Megalias joined in the fun although he was the butt of a number of their subsequent jokes. The prince was baffled. By definition this made him a Greek poof, a boy-lover, a bum-chum – but he was also very obviously a competent fighter and a man his companions were willing to follow into battle.

The general conversation wandered to and fro until Bryzos was finally asked to tell his tale. Heeding the advice, the trader Zygostratos had given him in Sestos, he merely recounted that he had left Keirpara for Sestos to end up in Ephesos, due to a combination of family troubles and a woman. A fall-out with one’s father and a faithless bitch who broke a man’s heart only to then leave him was something nearly everyone could sympathise with and drink to, which the men then proceeded to do in some abundance.

So, there he sat, quite satisfactorily inebriated, once again out of funds and with no idea what to do next. The notion of spending a couple of days drinking and wenching had condensed into a single day, but he decided to take care of tomorrow’s worries… well, tomorrow.

“I’m out for a piss and some fresh air,” one of the men called Therimachos said, a Peloponnesian like Megalias, his commanding officer. As he arose from the table, slightly staggering from the amount of wine he had consumed, Bryzos decided to join him.

“Wait, I coming along,” he said, quickly rising but just as quickly regretting the speed of his vertical movement.

Immediately beginning to sway to one side, he braced himself against the table, causing several cups and mugs to nearly topple over. Amidst the general laughter of the other drinkers at the table, the two drunkards made their way outside.

The two of them walked out into the crisp, chill night air, the smell of the sea blowing some of the fog from their heads. And then, walking around the building to take a piss against the wall, Bryzos saw Posidike. Any thoughts of relieving himself were instantly forgotten. His face instantly transformed into a mask of anger. Balling his fists, he walked from the alley to confront her. Seeing his new drinking companion suddenly change his entire relaxed attitude, Therimachos immediately stopped him with his outstretched left arm.

“Easy there,” he said in what was probably intended as a soothing tone of voice, but what was rather more of a drunken slur. “Whassup, Thrax? You seena ghoss’or what?”

“Thass her,” Bryzos said, his rage boiling away some of his drunkenness, at least so he hoped, “Posidike!” he said enraged, pointing to the other side of the street. “That bitch stealing all I had! And now be standing there talking to new idiot she can fleece!”

There was enough light from the moon in the sky to see the people she was talking to. Therimachos swallowed audibly and turned back to Bryzos.

“One of the fellows she’s talking to,” he said, sobering rapidly, gesturing with his chin in the general direction of the men clustering around Posidike, “that’s Polykritos. The Polykritos, Thrax, mind you, not someone else who goes by that name. Believe me, you don’t want to mess with him and his mates,” he added shaking his head.

“I dunno fucking Polykritos,” Bryzos answered, shaking Therimachos’ hand off his shoulder. “But I do know bitch,” he said pointing at Posidike and leaving his companion simply standing there.

Shaking his head at such rashness, Therimachos quickly returned into the tavern.

Bryzos approached the group. All of the men standing around talking and laughing were young and mostly good-looking, while their clothes and footwear were expensive. Each one of them was armed, having at least a sword of some hind at his hip, some also daggers. He suddenly realised that he once more only had his pitiful lucky knife with him. Too late now, he thought, as one of the men turned towards him as he walked in their direction.

He came to stand before them, challengingly looking at their faces and all of them stopped talking. Except one young man that was. He finished his conversation with Posidike before deigning to take note of his presence. He turned around feigning surprise at this interruption and, throwing Bryzos an amused glance, proceeded to tax the intruder from head to foot. His serpent-like gaze took in the strange combination of this intruders clothing: New sandals, a tunic scuffed and torn from the prince’s recent bout of wrestling, with a couple of wine-stains thrown in for good measure, the lack of any cloak or other decent evening dress as he had left his zeira in the tavern, his lack of any weapons, the tattoos on his right shoulder and the fact that he was evidently not sober.

As Bryzos opened his mouth to speak, the man raised his right hand and interrupted him in a surprisingly mild voice.

“I am sorry, you seem to somehow have lost your way, boy,” he began in cultivated and articulate Ionian, his tone amused and aloof. “Best you go back into that tavern to your ‘mates’,” this last word he pronounced with evident distaste. “You really shouldn’t be seen in the company of gentlemen, boy, or your people will start talking about you,” he added chuckling, inciting several members of his own company to laugh out loud.

Up until then, Bryzos had counted eight men and two women besides Posidike, now also noticing that every single one of them appeared to be sober. He opened his mouth to speak again, but once more was interrupted by the impertinent, self-admiring spokesman.

“I am sorry, I do not seem to have made myself clear, boy,” he said in Greek and then, completely surprising Bryzos, he added “creep back into your little hole,” in Thracian, without so much as the touch of an accent.

This then had to be Polykritos, Bryzos realised, also suddenly aware of the fact that he now found himself in a similar predicament as in the tavern.

“That woman there,” he said in Greek, deciding to go to the offensive and pointing past Polykritos at Posidike, “she is whore and thief. She steal everything I had and I want back!”

Looking at first incredulous at this outbreak, Polykritos, simply broke into roaring laughter, his cronies and the women following suit. After a moment everybody gradually calmed down, Polykritos even feigning to wipe a tear from his eye in amusement. Bryzos’ fists, however, clenched and unclenched as he wrestled with his composure. While the ridicule he endured was bad enough, the sound of Posidike’s tinkling laughter made things a lot worse.

“A whore, you say, boy. And a thief on top,” Polykritos replied looking over his shoulder towards Posidike, who merely raised her eyebrows and touched her chest with her right hand in a gesture of innocence. “You know, boy, normally I would ignore scum like you who come crawling from the gutter. After administering a good beating, that is,” he added, smiling, prompting his cronies to another bout of laughter. “But calling my lady-friends whores and thieves… that will simply not do, boy. What do you say to this, my dear? Do you know this… person?” he asked, turning towards Posidike.

She nodded, her amused demeanour from a moment ago turned into a look of distress. “Yes, Polykritos,” she replied, confirming Bryzos notion as to the identity of the man, “I met him two nights ago on my way home.”

Looked more like you were waiting for customers you slut, Bryzos thought, but she was already continuing.

“Today he approached me again and wanted to offer me money and when I said no, I mean just look at the lad, he tried to drag me into an alley and… and possess me! He made me touch him down there,” she said in a rather convincing protestation of horror, which Bryzos found far from amusing. “And then I only just managed to disentangle myself from his dirty, sweaty drunken embrace. I fear to think what he would have done to me otherwise!”

At this, Polykritos turned back to Bryzos, tutting.

“Now that,” he said, his tone of amusement now blended with menace, “is no way to treat a lady. Especially not if this lady,” here he turned around to nod to Posidike, “happens to be a friend of mine.”

“But she lying!” Bryzos protested, by now realising that this conversation had been a bad idea to begin with, as he had been told. “It was she took me in that tavern and then she making me drunk and…”

“I do think it is necessary to teach you a lesson, boy,” Polykritos interrupted him once more.

At a nod, his companions fanned out to take hold of Bryzos. However, the prince stepped aside, sweeping one of his assailant’s legs away, landing the man on his back. But the next two were already upon him. Though he did manage to knock the first one over, the second man grabbed him from behind, pinning his right arm to his body, someone else punched him in the stomach and he was hit in the back. The fight as it was, was over as quickly as it had started. While one man on each side pressed Bryzos’ arms onto his back in an excruciatingly painful grip, Polykritos helped the man Bryzos had felled up in a display of chivalry.

“It appears you underestimated your opponent, Landros,” he said, while his friend dusted himself off, glowering at Bryzos. “Come, you first, it will make you feel better,” Polykritos said with an inviting gesture.

The man called Landros was massive. Easily the most muscular of the men standing around he was tall for a Greek, taller even than Bryzos himself. He nodded back at Polykritos and, smiling at Bryzos, punched him in the stomach so hard that he was not only lifted off his feet, but also saw stars explode before his eyes.

“Dishing out just punishment always instils in me a sense of… of fulfilment, I suppose,” Polykritos continued, approaching Bryzos. “At home in Athens, people like you would simply be hanged. But we are in Asia after all, and here things tend to go a bit slower. But I suppose you have never heard of the place we call home beneath the tree you spent most of your life, boy.”

“Fucking cowards,” the prince spat out in the faces of his genteel captors. “None of you…” His attempt to speak was cut short by Polykritos hitting him in the stomach once more. This punch was far more painful than the first. The man evidently knew how to hurt others. Bryzos spewed the entire contents of his stomach onto the ground, splattering his own sandals. Disgusted, Polykritos gestured for his men to move their victim further into the alley, so that none of them would be stepping into Bryzos’ vomit.

“It is not that we are cowards, boy,” Polykritos said.

Smiling, he took hold of his captive’s chin, gripping it painfully hard with his right hand, pulling Bryzos nearer despite his attempts to move back to evade the grip.

“Rather that I, for one, do not soil my hands by fighting people like you. I only fight gentlemen and…”

When Polykritos had finally approached him at half an arm’s length, Bryzos surged forward, hammering his forehead into his opponent’s face. Judging by the crunching noise he had succeeded in breaking the man’s nose. Polykritos staggered backwards, holding his hand to his profusely bleeding face.

“Well, boy, look like underestimating your opponent, Athenian fuck,” Bryzos said into the shocked silence. And seeing he would have the shit beaten out of him anyway and he did not have much to lose any more, he added “And now tell whore giving back my money” for emphasis.

With their leader momentarily incapacitated, the men looked about wondering what to do, but to Bryzos’ misfortune, neither of the two loosened their grip on his arms. One of the women gave Polykritos a cloth to hold against his nose to stop the bleeding and he nodded in thanks, steadying himself against the wall.

“Pfor dis, I bill kill you,” he said coldly, changing the hand with which he was holding the cloth to his nose so he was able to grasp his sword.

Bryzos shook his head in disbelief. He was getting killed for this? As the Athenian approached with his hand on his hilt and about to draw, he steeled himself for the end. He had been one of the men standing on the walls of the fortress of Keirpara facing uncountable attackers and had beaten them back. The prince would never have believed that he had survived that day to breathe his last in an alley somewhere in a foreign town. He did not want to die, not like this.

Before he was able to open his mouth to try and plead with his assailants, just as Polykritos was about to draw, Posidike suddenly intervened.

“No, my dear, you should not kill him just yet. He called me a whore and a thief. And a liar, that Thracian bastard!”

Turning around and pointing to his sword, he asked, “bould you lige to gill ‘im youself?” at which she merely shook her head, smiling.

“No, dear. I think you should fuck him first, then kill him,” she said evidently pleased with herself for coming up with the idea.

“I lige de idea,” Polykritos replied, seeing the horror on Bryzos’ face at the prospect of being raped and then killed.

With their captive began struggling and kicking in a vain attempt to escape such a fate, he gestured for the other men to take hold of his legs. Kicking and screaming Bryzos was lifted up off the ground. As his tunic was peeled back to expose his buttocks, the three women looking on laughed with glee at seeing this foreigner receiving his due punishment, peals of tinkling laughter washing over his predicament.

Due to his victim’s struggling, Polykritos brutally kneed Bryzos in the groin from behind, knocking him nearly unconscious. This was followed by another, harder kick which then did manage to render him insensible. The prince awoke, still being held fast, from warm fluid washing over his face. Looking up he saw Polykritos urinating on his head.

“Ah, ‘e is ‘id us again,” he said, looking down into his captive’s face. “I did not ‘ant you to miss all the pfun,” he added.

Smiling he walked back around Bryzos, this time to bring things to an end. Once more he felt his tunic thrown back to expose his naked behind. But this time he only felt sick, his entire abdomen cramped in pain from the kicks the Athenian had delivered. There was no fight left in him anymore and he simply wished things to be over as soon as possible.

Just as he felt his buttocks being spread, he heard a loud voice.

“And what exactly do you think you are doing, Polykritos?”

Bryzos looked up. It was Megalias.

He approached the men holding Bryzos with at least a dozen or so of his own, among whom the prince also managed to make out Therimachos before his head flopped back downward.

“I knew it would be hard for a man like you to find someone willing to be fucked by yourself even in a place the size of Ephesos. But this is below even you, don’t you think?”

“You ant your men ‘ad bedder greep bag indo your tafern, Megalias. This boy ‘ere is none opf your pizness,” Polykritos replied through his broken nose, walking around their captive.

At this, Bryzos’ legs, whose sphincter immediately relaxed in relief, were simply dropped by the men holding them, who moved forward to aid their leader.

“What happened there, Athenian,” Megalias said in mock concern, “did something happen to your nose? What a pity, you did have such a pretty face. In fact, if you would have asked me, I would gladly have given you a taste of the true love best enjoyed among real men.” Turning to his companions he added, “For those of you who didn’t get it, I’ll gladly fuck his arse any day.”

Polykritos shot him a look of pure, undiluted hatred while the men opposite him broke out into raucous laughter.

“So, what do you say, you fuck him, I get to fuck you? I may have to ask one or two of my men to open you up first, you seem a little uptight down below!”

Several more men were coming out of the tavern now to see what all the fun was about and were evidently enjoying the exchange between the two.

“And fhat is dis to you, Argadian?” Polykritos replied, by now both furious and acutely aware of the fact that he and his men would lose any fight between the two groups. “Fe Fracian insulted me and my friends. I decided to teach ‘im a lesson.”

“Oh, normally I would not interfere in such matters. Everyone knows how just and even-tempered you are, after all!” Megalias remarked raising more laughter from the men behind him.

From all Bryzos could see from his position, the Siren had to be empty by now, with all of the men standing on the street.

“However, as it is, Thrax is one of ours. Signed up this evening in fact and already converted his entire advance into wine. You know how young people are,” he added, chuckling and shrugging his shoulders. “So, you had better hand him over to me, then you and your men can leave and no harm done. Well, except for your nose that is,” he added, grinning.

Polykritos drew his sword, prompting everyone nearby, except the two men still holding Bryzos to likewise draw their blades. Except for Megalias, that was. The Athenian slowly approached Bryzos. In a menacing voice, or as menacing as he could manage with his broken nose, he said, “ant foo fill stob me from gilling ‘im?” resting the flat of his blade on the nape of his captive’s neck.

“Oh, nobody, I suppose. But it will mean that I will have to kill you. No ill feelings, mind you, a man must do what he sees fit. I just can’t allow anyone to kill my men, you understand. Oh, and you should wipe the piss off your blade. It will get rusty,” he added, gesturing with his chin at the urine dripping from Bryzos’ hair onto the sword.

Megalias had made it clear there was no way Polykritos would be winning this fight. Fuming, the Athenian gestured for his men to sheathe their blades and the two behind Bryzos to release their captive. They dumped him unceremoniously onto the ground and he was unable to move his arms forward in time. Slamming onto the street unchecked, he only just managed to raise his head so he would not dash his forehead against the paving stones.

The Athenians and their whores moved aside and Bryzos gradually got up. His groin hurt, as did his stomach, urine was dripping from his hair and tunic and he was soiled by his own vomit. But he was alive. He staggered towards Megalias’ men who continued to stand guard as Polykritos and his cronies shrunk away into the night.

As he finally approached Megalias himself, the commander grinned and shook his head in disbelief.

“You broke his nose, Thrax, you fucking broke his nose! And I wasn’t there to see it, dammit!”

Bryzos reached out to steady himself, but everyone around quickly moved back, grinning or chuckling.