Thrax - Soldier Of Fortune

Bithynia

It was cold. When Bryzos had still been a prince on the Thracian Chersonnesos peninsula, he had always imagined Asia to be warm, or at least warmer than home. But now he was in Asia, standing in the middle of a field ankle-deep in snow, covered in tents and men, with the occasional campfire scattered in between. Bryzos looked about: Everywhere around him were soldiers, their breathing visible as dense clouds in the feeble early morning sunlight. Still, even these hard, battle-scarred men appeared lost in a landscape covered in white all around them. Wrapping their cloaks tightly around themselves against the cold or attempting to warm themselves at one of the small fires, the men waited patiently for their commander to deliver a speech.

Of course, he was now no longer Bryzos, the Thracian prince, but Thrax, the Thracian. He certainly was the only Thracian in his unit, a lochos of light-armed infantry, Arkadian peltasts, currently about two hundred strong. Not that he had been given a choice at the time about joining the army or not. Still, for Thrax matters could also have been a lot worse. He had managed to escape the hands of his murderous brother who had made himself king after putting the rest of his family, including his father King Ozrykes, to the sword. And here, in Asia, he had found both new friends and gainful employment with these strange Greek mercenaries.

Thrax shivered, diverting his attention back to the officer who was about to address them: Megalias, the ‘Old Man’, commander of a unit of light-armed mercenaries currently employed by the ‘Greek Expeditionary Force’, the Spartan army campaigning in Asia Minor against the Persians. Initially, the campaign had been a success: The Spartan command had been able to not only secure a truce with the Persians over the winter, but had also made allies with the Odrysians, one of the most powerful Thracian tribes against their arch-enemies the Bithynians, another local tribe. Several villages and homesteads had been raided and large amounts of plunder had been made. Then, however, the foragers had been betrayed and their camp sacked, with over two hundred men slaughtered while sleeping in their tents. What would happen next was anybody’s guess, but right now at least both morale and supplies were at an all-time low.

He sighed, shaking his head, his musings interrupted by their commanding officer.

“Men,” Megalias said in a calm carrying voice loud enough to reach everyone present, “I won’t try to mince words here: We’re in deep shit.”

At this conversation immediately erupted everywhere. Thrax nodded to himself, shrugging and pulling his cloak tighter around his shoulders against the cold. The campfires were only small as the army had started to run out of kindling, while food supplies had dwindled to two helpings of porridge a day. There was no denying the fact that he men, the army and possibly the entire campaign had run into severe trouble.

“This enterprise,” Megalias went on, raising his voice and causing the conversation to quickly die down, “didn’t exactly work out as well as the Boss had thought.”

‘The Boss’, that was Derkylidas, the Spartan supreme commander of the Greek Expeditionary Force. The men around Thrax mumbled and nodded their assent, waiting for Megalias to continue.

“It’s the middle of winter. We will run out of supplies soon, our allies seem to have deserted us, most of the spoils from our campaign are lost and…”

This time, Megalias was unable to finish his sentence in the uproar of the crowd around him. This was a bad surprise indeed, Thrax thought, shaking his head. A tough mercenary unit such as that of Megalias’ was used to bad weather, bad food and bad company. But with the plunder from their campaign lost the men now had nothing at all to show up for their troubles. Thrax wondered what had happened to their supposed Odrysian Thracian allies, but Megalias was already continuing.

“An Odrysian envoy arrived yesterday and there will be a meeting with them this evening.”

“Fuck all Thracians!” someone shouted, receiving several jeers and grumbled approval from a number of those present.

At this, several of the bystanders turned their eyes towards Thrax, who was instantly recognisable as a Thracian due to his brightly patterned coloured cloak.

“Despite this meeting, the Boss summoned me and the other officers yesterday evening to consult and it was decided that the sooner we left for the coast, the better,” Megalias went on, ignoring the interjection. “We were told the inhabitants of the fine city of Lampsakos are looking forward to shower their Greek liberators with cash, and are only too willing to fulfil any other desires we may have,” he continued, pausing for effect. “I tell you, men, I don’t believe a word of it! But at least we’ll all be out of the snow and back someplace we won’t have to deal with the natives showering us with javelins in the night!”

At this everybody started talking all at once, and Megalias gave the men some time to mull over the matter, as the situation of the army was only too clear to everyone present.

“I don’t even know where bloody Lampsakos is,” a young man beside Thrax muttered, turning towards him.

This was Smiler, his tent-mate, nicknamed for the scar running from the corner of his mouth upwards across his left cheek nearly all the way up to his eye, forcing his face into a permanent grin.

“In the north of the Troad, on the southern coast of the Hellespontos just opposite the Chersonnesos,” a girl replied, scowling at the incredulous look this gained her.

This had been Zenia, Thrax’ personal servant, a Persian girl he had acquired during the army’s occupation of Gergis several months back. While she was indeed a sight for sore eyes, she mostly refused to actually serve or do chores, was a rotten cook and overall poor company.

“How do you know where...” he began, but he was interrupted by Megalias continuing to speak.

“I know we had hoped things would turn out more profitable for us all, but there it is, men. So, eat well and prepare to pack, when we move tomorrow the Arkadians will take the van. Dismiss!” the Old Man finished.

Immediately, the men around them began to disperse to their respective tents, campfires and the hope of a decent breakfast until they received orders to strike camp. Thrax nodded to Smiler and the two of them trudged through the snow back to their own tent.

“What about the Odrysians then?” Smiler asked, “What’ll they do if we all simply move off? You know, without even saying good-bye?”

Thrax shrugged his shoulders darkly at this remark. Indeed, what would the Odrysians do? Nobody had heard of them for some time after all until now. He himself had been in the middle of the fighting when the foragers’ camp had been attacked at night, the plunder lifted and the men put to the sword in their sleep. He still had to limp from the javelin wound he had sustained in the attack. Not only that, he was fairly certain that one of the commanding Spartan officers together with one of the Odrysian officers had in fact been responsible for getting them into this mess.

Thrax opened his mouth to answer, but was silenced by a slap on the shoulder.

“Not you, Thracian,” Megalias said, appearing out of nowhere, causing the two to stop in their tracks. “Oros wants a Thracian on his team when they ride out.”

Thrax glance sidewise at Smiler, while Zenia merely shrugged and left the three of them standing there. Oros was the cavalry scout master. He opened his mouth to speak, but orders were orders after all. Instead he nodded, at which Megalias returned the gesture, turned about and, without a further word, left them as suddenly as he had appeared.

“So, the cavalry scouts, eh,” Smiler said. “Well, at least you’ll get a decent breakfast instead of Zenia’s burnt porridge, I suppose.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll see to the packing, mate,” he finished, grinning broadly, the scar on his left cheek turning his face into a grotesque grimace.

They clasped forearms and Smiler left for their camp site, leaving Thrax standing in the snow by himself. For a moment, Thrax stood there looking around. Everywhere men were either eating, packing or both, preparing for the army’s march to Lampsakos as soon as the order was given. There were still about five thousand men in the Greek Expeditionary Force and it would take some time for all of them to get going. He shrugged, his left hand instinctively going to his lucky knife he wore sheathed on his left hip, and nodded silently to himself. He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, readying himself for what was to come. At least he’d be on a horse instead of having to plough through the snow on foot, he thought. As Thrax took a deep breath, turning around in the direction of the horses’ paddock, it once again began to snow.

***

“Mmmh,” the rider to his right said quietly, pointing in the direction of a small copse of beech and oak trees just in front of them.

Thrax looked about, nodding in response and rode forward to investigate as noiselessly as possible. ‘Silence’ was the word for these men. Thrax himself had acted as a cavalry scout in the army of his father, but these men… well, they were the real stuff, he had to grudgingly admit. They hardly ever spoke and only when absolutely necessary. He and Erimanthos, among others, had been appointed to act as outriders, scouting the area even before Oros and the other scouts and riding far ahead of the actual army. The man on horseback beside him was one of Oros’ senior scouts. He was considerably older than Thrax, but damned was he good at his job. While Erimanthos stayed put, gently – and silently – patting his horse’s neck, Thrax rode towards the trees. As it had been gently snowing all morning so far, any traces of other men, be they friend or foe, were quickly obliterated, covered by a dense, white carpet. Underneath the trees, however, there was no snow, of course.

What had he seen? Thrax asked himself, slipping from his mount and crunching into the snow underneath. He looked around. Nothing. There were no foot or hoof prints visible in the snow, nor had anybody passed along this route, their tracks would have long since been covered. Stroking his horse, he looked back to Erimanthos, but the man simply nodded and once more pointed to the trees in front of Thrax. Shrugging he advanced as quietly as possible. The snow drift here came to the middle of his knee-high riding boots, good Thracian embades that would remain dry and warm even in this weather.

The branches of the beech trees were largely bare, while the oaks still retained most of their brown, shrivelled leaves, now covered in snow. He came right up to the lowest boughs and looked about, but still failed to see what Erimanthos had spotted. Turning around he looked back at the senior scout and shrugged. Instead of answering, the man simply shook his head in disgust and rode his horse a couple of paces nearer. Taking hold of the bow and quiver hanging Scythian-style from his belt, he elegantly slid off his mount. There was no noise, even as the man’s feet hit the frozen snow. Erimanthos approached, wordlessly walking past Thrax and headed for… and now Thrax could see it too. On one of the lower oak branches, at just about chest level was something that looked a bit like a torn spider’s web. But instead of being white and covered with snow, it was a drab, reddish brown.

“Horsetail,” Erimanthos said, carefully picking the tuft of hair from the branch. “Tie up our horses,” he added, ducking to move in between the trees without waiting for an answer from Thrax.

Exhaling frustratedly at having been weighed and found too light in the eye of the senior scout, Thrax turned, took the horses’ reins and tied them to the nearest branch. Pursing his lips, he then followed his superior in between the trees. At first there was nothing to be seen: Fallen leaves, some snow that had managed to make its way to the ground through the maze of half-empty branches up above, patches of frozen mud here and there.

“There,” Erimanthos said quietly, pointing to a pile of horse droppings underneath a tree. “Spoor. Bastards thought we’d miss it. They were wrong,” the scout continued in an unaccustomed fit of verbosity that made Thrax raise his eyebrows in surprise.

To his further surprise, the man now gestured impatiently for him to approach, as he crouched down beside the small pile of manure. Thrax came closer and squatted down beside him, waiting for orders. When he remained there, waiting idly, Erimanthos simply looked at him quizzically, at which Thrax was merely able to return the look. What the hell did the man want him to do now? Fondle bloody horse shit?

Instead of wasting any more words, Erimanthos rolled his eyes in disgust and carefully dug his fingertip into the centre of the pile of manure. Thrax shook his head. As a stable hand and later as the most junior of all junior members of the Greek army, he had spent enough time shovelling shit, feeling no compulsion whatsoever now to actually tough the stuff. And so, he was utterly astonished, when Erimanthos simply took his left hand and shoved his fingers in between the fist-sized spheres. Thrax flashed the senior scout a look of disgust, instinctively wanting to withdraw his hand, but found himself interrupted by Erimanthos speaking.

“Learn, lad. How warm is it?” he said sternly and even more quietly than before, keeping Thrax’ hand inside the pile with an amazingly strong grip for a man of his age.

Thrax decided not to push the issue and re-focussed his attention on the temperature of the dung. Only to suddenly open his eyes wide in realisation. It was still warm.

“Yes, lad. They’re still around here somewhere.”

Fuck, Thrax thought. How many, friend or foe, Odrysians or Bithynians? And would it actually make any difference which tribe of Thracians they encountered? And how many of them were there, and…

Letting go of Thrax’ wrist, Erimanthos rose from his haunches in a fluid gesture, wiping his right hand on the leg of his riding pants, interrupting any further contemplation for the moment. He looked around and Thrax quickly pulled his fingers out of the pile of dung, wiped them in a patch of snow and also got up. In the muddled light beneath the trees, he now could see a hoof print here and there, but nothing more.

“How many do you think…?” he began, but Erimanthos was already holding up his hand for silence.

Thrax nodded, instantly quiet. For a moment the two of them stood there, listening. The senior scout remained silent, evidently focussing on the sounds about them. Thrax tried to follow suit, breathing as shallowly as possible until he felt he could hear his own heart beating, but he was unable to make out anything else. Wordlessly, Erimanthos inclined his head and walked back to their mounts. Thrax swallowed, wondering if the man could possibly have heard something he had had not, but decided better to follow quickly. They were just about to leave the cover of the trees, when one of their horses whinnied.

“Fuck,” Erimanthos exclaimed, baring his teeth, instantly going down and crouching behind the nearest beech tree.

Without any obvious sign of nervousness, he took his bow from its case and nocked an arrow, making it once more obvious to Thrax that he was once again inadequately armed. While he was a good targeter, a pack of javelins slung across his back was hardly anything to be transported easily on scout duty without getting caught up all the time if he was going to ride silently through the woods. At least Oros had loaned him a decent sword, so he was not merely down to his lucky knife for a change.

They waited. Thrax looked out and saw it had stopped snowing. Their two mounts stood idly, just beyond them, hardly a stone’s throw away. One of the horses began to scratch away at the ground below with its hoof, looking for some leftover grass. While the surrounding branches would hide them from anybody looking in this direction, their two mounts not only made it quite clear to any enemy scouting parties that somebody was hiding behind the trees, but also how many men they would have to deal with. Nothing happened for some time. Erimanthos just crouched there, his eyes scouring the snow-covered hills they had crossed on their way here, as well as the line of trees atop a hillock to their left, maybe a bowshot away. There was no further sound. Erimanthos took a deep, quiet breath, then rose and beckoned for Thrax to join him.

He approached as silently as he could, attempting not to trip over a branch in the growing tension he was feeling. They peered through the branches, but there was nothing to be seen. This is ridiculous, Thrax thought, the sound they had heard had been from one of their mounts. There was no-one anywhere near, neither enemies nor friends, neither on foot nor on horseback. The senior scout was evidently getting a bit too senior for the job, Thrax thought, shaking his head and suppressing a grin. Erimanthos nodded to himself, looked sidewise to Thrax and gestured forward with his chin. Thrax noted that the scout still held his bow and an arrow in his left hand, but simply nodded and the two of them approached their horses. The two beasts had by now cleared the snow from a small patch of ground and were both peacefully munching on the dry, frozen grass they had found. Thrax untied the reins, handed Erimanthos his and patted the neck of his horse, which gently snuffled his hand in response. Erimanthos swung onto the back of his own mount with his usual, quiet elegance and Thrax was about to do the same, when all hell broke loose.

Without any warning whatsoever, a number of arrows suddenly came down on them. Instantly, Erimanthos’ horse began to scream, throwing the senior scout clear. Thrax’ mount whinnied loudly, bucking, instantly tearing the reins from his hands. He had to get hold of the beast somehow, or else he’d be next. The panicking horse began to rear and shake, and the flailing reins caught him squarely on the side of the head. He doubled up in pain, tears filling his eyes, his cheek stung and the taste of blood filled his mouth.

“Will you fucking get on!” he suddenly heard Erimanthos’ voice from above.

He straightened up with trembling knees, only to feel himself being hauled upwards by the nape of his cloak. Somehow the senior scout had managed not only to steady Thrax’ horse, but also climb onto its back.

Without thinking, Thrax swung himself onto the animal, which immediately kicked out backwards at the unaccustomed weight. But before either beast or rider had any chance to settle down, Erimanthos was already spurring the horse forward. As Thrax glanced about, he saw the other horse go down with several arrows protruding from its flank, with a new volley already coming down on them. Without further hesitation, Erimanthos directed their mount into the trees.

An arrow thudded into a branch to their left, another smacking into the frozen ground at their feet, but they were already among the first trees, nearly out of reach. Erimanthos spurred the horse on, allowing it to buck and kick at will, attempting to make it as difficult for the enemy to hit him as possible. And then he had it under control and they were galloping at full tilt through the grove. Only then did he notice that Erimanthos had a broken arrow protruding from his left shoulder blade.

“Down!” came Erimanthos’ voice from ahead.

Before he could react, an oak branch smacked across the top of his skull, tearing his cap from his head.

Stars exploded before his eyes and he felt dizzy. The horse jumped over some unseen obstacle beneath them and Thrax felt his fingers slip from Erimanthos’ belt.

“Hold on, damn you!” the scout yelled, causing Thrax to tighten his grip.

He shook his head and looked over the man’s shoulder: Snow was clearly visible through the trees. In moments, they’d be beyond the trees and out in the open again.

“Where are we going?” he shouted.

Instead of answering, Erimanthos turned the horse left and the snow-covered hill country opened up before them.

The next thing Thrax felt, was the two of them being catapulted from the back of the horse, while the beast itself crashed into the snow to the left as they were thrown clear. Thrax crashed into the frozen ground face-forward, unable to catch his fall with more than an outstretched elbow. Snow filled his mouth and nose, covering his eyes. Luckily enough, he had hit the ground with his right hip instead of landing on top of one of the two blades he had slung onto his left.

The pain was intense, but he forced himself up, wiping the snow out of his eyes to get his bearings. Only to see that the senior scout had once again somehow managed to take the fall better than him. In fact, although he was still lying in the snow, Erimanthos was aiming an arrow at something. Or better someone, Thrax realised, looking to their right. There stood an archer, aiming directly back at the scout. He held his breath. If he moved, he would be this man’s target, even though this would mean Erimanthos would shoot him next. Motionless, the two archers held their bows at full tension, daring one another to blink, flinch or look the other way. But Thrax could already see Erimanthos trembling, the arrow in his shoulder blade quickly taking its toll.

“Fuck all Thracians,” he said matter-of-factly and released his arrow.

But the quivering in his bow arm made the shot go awry and the enemy archer simply stepped aside, avoiding the missile.

“You, you be Greek,” he replied, his Greek slurred by a strong Thracian accent.

“Yes, you bastard. Now get it over with,” Erimanthos answered, giving in to the pain and letting himself fall back into the snow.

“But you, you not Greek,” the man said, nodding and turning to aim at Thrax.

He swallowed. This man was Thracian, obvious not only from his accent, but also his clothing, the brightly patterned cloak, the felt cap, Thracian embades of the same type Thrax himself wore, he realised. Was he a Bithynian or an Odrysian? And would it make any difference? As he looked around, he could see several other men approach on horseback, while their own horse stood there, snorting and shaking, a rope sling of some kind hanging from its neck.

“What tribe are you from then, lad?” the man asked, without relaxing his bow arm in the least.

Thrax inhaled deeply.

“Dolonkan,” he said, “I’m Dolonkan,” he repeated, balling his hands into fists as he prepared for the worst

For a moment the archer merely stood there motionless. Then he nodded and slowly relaxed the arm he had been drawing his bow with. Only then did Thrax notice he had been holding his breath.

“Sorry about the horse,” he said, spat into the snow and returned the arrow to its quiver.

***

As a Spartan, Derkylidas was of course a good soldier. However, he was also an efficient commander and so by no means a man to spurn a good ruse, if it was to his own, and thus the army’s advantage. Therefore, he had installed a small, hand-picked group of foreigners in the army who had been trained as Spartan guardsmen, a unit referred to as the ‘Native Speakers’. By merely standing guard when foreign dignitaries visited, these men were capable of listening in on their conversations. More than once this had given the Spartans an edge over both potential enemies and allies.

After his adventure in the Bithynian woods, the situation still felt somewhat unreal to Thrax. Shortly after the Odrysian scouts had escorted him and Erimanthos back to the camp of the Greek Expeditionary Force, Thrax had been summoned to join the Native Speakers, as he was their only Thracian member. And so, while Erimanthos had been given immediate medical attention, he had been forced to limp off to the command quarters. There, he and the other Native Speakers had been hastily ushered into a tent by a Spartan named Nikandrippos, the commander of the guard and Derkylidas right-hand man. They had been ordered to quietly and quickly change into full Spartan regalia and were then immediately marched back out into the snow to stand guard in front of a row of officers’ tents.

And so now, not even an hour after his return to the Greek camp, Thrax found himself standing to attention together with the other men, trying his best to look like the elite Spartan guardsman he was not. He was in pain. His head hurt from encounters with more than one branch, whereas his hip made standing upright caused him continuous pain. But as Spartans did not believe in secret dealings, he and the others would have to remain standing there until the Odrysian delegates would have left, or at least until matters had been resolved, whatever occurred first.

Servants had set up a square of several trestle tables under a canvas awning, with benches on two sides. The two delegations would be sitting opposite each other and the guardsmen had been stationed on the left and right-hand sides of the arrangement. As their only Thracian, Thrax was of course on the far left of the line of Native Speakers, so he could listen in on any conversation in his mother tongue.

“Don’t want them to think we’re their enemies, do we after all,” Nikandrippos had replied as they all waited when one of the Native Speakers had remarked on the lay-out. “Stupid Thracian bastards may even fall for it, who knows. No offence, Thracian,” he had added, slapping Thrax on the shoulder.

More servants came and went, seeing to this and that, when Thrax heard a horse neighing somewhere beyond the rows of tall officers’ tents blocking their view of the rest of the camp.

“There they are, lads,” the guardsman said, “look sharp!”

Had it been possible to stand even more rigidly to attention than they were, the men would have done so. Even so, several of them at least attempted to stand up straighter still. To his right, Thrax saw the flaps of a tent being opened and a number of men march across the hard-packed snow past the honour guard. Wordlessly, the officers began to take their seats, all grouped around Derkylidas in order of seniority.

From his previous duties as a Native Speaker, Thrax easily recognised the senior officers present: At the head of the table of course sat Derkylidas himself, the Boss, commander of the Greek Expeditionary Force currently consisting of five thousand men. As Thrax knew from last summer, this number would rise to at least fifteen thousand during campaign season, with many towns in Asia Minor providing soldiers, as well as several mercenary contingents joining the army which had been dismissed over winter. A huge force, more fighting men than he had ever seen while he had been in Thrace. To his left sat Kleitos and Laios, senior staff officers and fellow Spartans. Beside them were Athenadas, the army’s main hoplite unit commander, Megalias, Thrax’ unit commander and Oros, the cavalry scout master; all of them Derkylidas’ loyal retainers.

To his right, however, matters looked very much different. Directly beside Derkylidas, but still sitting as far away from him as physically possible was his Spartan second-in-command, Onomakles. The dislike they shared for each other bordered on hatred, and Thrax knew he was not the only one present suspecting the man of some form of treachery. So far, however, none of this had been proven and he continued to enjoy strong support from Sparta, forcing Derkylidas to have to deal with him.

On his right-hand side sat Xenophon, the pompous Athenian commander of the ‘Kyreians’, a mercenary band notorious both for their prowess on the battlefield and their penchant for the indiscriminate murdering of civilians, enemies and allies alike. In fact, their former commander had been recalled to Sparta, where he had been found guilty of aiding and abetting numerous war crimes and subsequently disgraced. These men had not only fought for their current enemies the Persians, but also the Thracians and now the Spartans – whoever paid most. Mercenaries. Thrax shook his head in disgust.

And to the far right sat Polykritos, commander of three hundred Athenian horsemen. Thrax swallowed hard. While Polykritos’ Athenians liked to style themselves as gentlemen-adventurers, Thrax knew him and his henchmen to have raped, tortured and killed friend and foe alike. But one day there would be a reckoning, he thought grimly. And then men like him and his cronies would be called to answer for their crimes, and he would be there to…

“Attention!” bellowed Nikandrippos, instantly tearing Thrax’ away from his contemplated revenge and back to the here and now.

Maybe two dozen men or so were approaching on foot, led by a servant and escorted on either side by a small honour contingent of actual Spartan guardsmen, looking both taller and sharper than the Native Speakers present. Derkylidas rose silently from his seat, prompting all those present around the table to do likewise.

“Dismiss,” Nikandrippos said in a quieter voice, at which the escort marched off to vanish somewhere between the officers’ tents, leaving their Odrysian charges in the hands of their Spartan host.

The Thracians approached the table, casting suspicious glances here and there. About half of the men remained standing to take up position behind their side of the table, obviously providing some sort of personal bodyguard to the Odrysian dignitaries present. When everyone finally seemed to be where they were supposed to be, Derkylidas nodded.

“Welcome,” he said in his typical curt Spartan manner and simply sat down again, causing everyone present, Greeks and Thracians alike, to do the same.

As they were sitting directly in front of him, Thrax was able to take a closer look at the Thracian delegation, but he was only able to recognise one of its members, a man called Skreta. He was in charge of the Odrysian forces operating in Bithynia and only reported to King Seuthes II himself. At first, all had appeared to go well, until the night raid on the joint Greek and Odrysian camp which had lost them most of their prisoners and plunder, and costing the Spartans nearly an entire unit of two hundred and fifty men. One man, however, was notably absent: Pytros, their Odrysian liaison officer. First befriending Onomakles, the man had vanished after the raid, together with two large, heavy wooden chests. For some reason neither Pytros, nor the chests had ever been mentioned after the attack.

There was an uneasy silence as a number of servants appeared from the tent behind them, carrying trays with steaming jugs of what had to be mulled wine and simple, unadorned beakers. Wordlessly, the men began to pour beverages, mixing both the contents of the jugs and the mugs to allay any possible suspicion of there being any poisoning. Thrax didn’t think the Spartans capable of poisoning even their enemies, let alone possible former allies, but the gesture was both noted and approved of by their guests. The smell of the spiced, hot wine wafted over to where he stood, causing his stomach to rumble quietly. This earned him a stern look from Nikandrippos, who always seemed to notice anything that went on under his command.

At last everyone seated had been provided with a hot beverage and the commander decided to begin with the proceedings.

“So,” Derkylidas said, taking a sip from his cup, “thank you for agreeing to meet me. I hope we can…”

“We have been betrayed,” Skreta interrupted him, and Thrax noticed that none of the Odrysians had so much as touched their wine. “And we will punish those responsible,” he continued, looking at each of the Greek officers opposite him in turn.

“Indeed. I had the same thoughts,” Derkylidas replied, apparently unfazed by his guest’s outbreak. “May I ask you to share your information with us, so we…”

“I know the traitor to be one of your men,” Skreta interrupted the Boss once again, causing murmurs of assent from the Thracian envoys present. “In fact, I know him to be sitting at this table right now.”

At this, the Greek side of the table erupted in chaos. Before Derkylidas was able to even phrase a reply, Xenophon was on his feet hurling threats and accusations at the Odrysians with Athenadas joining in, while Polykritos merely laughed at the supposed absurdity of such an accusation. Unsurprisingly, several of the other Odrysians were also on their feet, returning the sentiments of the Greeks. The Spartans on the other hand remained quiet. Derkylidas, Kleitos and Laios slowly but poignantly turned their heads towards Onomakles. Betraying no outside emotion, the second-in-command simply sat there returning the stare.

“Attention!” barked Nikandrippos, his voice instantly silencing most of the diatribe crossing from one side of the table to the other.

Derkylidas nodded silently as the men quickly quietened down all around him.

“Do I take it rightly that you are accusing someone under my command of betraying not only our men, but also yours to our common enemy, the Bithynians?” the Boss said flatly.

“I do,” Skreta answered.

And to underline his words, he lifted the cup of wine before him and poured its contents into the snow beside him, leaving a steaming, blood-red stain on the ground.

Thrax could hear one of the Native Speakers inhale sharply beside him. Everyone present seemed to hold their collective breaths for the moment. This was unheard of. Not only had the man accused his host of treason, he had even refused the gift of sacred hospitality.

“Do you have any proof for this allegation?” Derkylidas asked, the tonelessness of his voice betraying the fury rising inside of him at this behaviour.

“I thought you shared my suspicions,” Skreta sneered back. “Why then, do you think I would require proof, when it is evident only one of your men could have performed such a deed?”

Derkylidas opened his mouth, but whatever he had wanted to reply went unsaid in the ensuing commotion. All of the men were now standing and shouting at each other across the table, with the exception of Derkylidas and Onomakles. For a meeting called up to settle matters between the former allies, things had gone wrong remarkably fast. Thrax could see several of the Odrysian guards assessing the possible opposition, causing more than one of the Native Speakers to fidget nervously. This isn’t good, he thought to himself. The spear in his right hand would only present an obstacle and get caught in one of the guy ropes of the awning above them if he tried to use it, whereas the heavy shield on his left arm would simply be dead weight if it came to a fight in such an enclosed space. Not that he was in any state to give someone a decent fight with the pain in his hip. He would have to quickly drop both if it came to the worst and…

“Quiet!” Nikandrippos shouted, but instead of managing to silence the men around him immediately, the barked order was only gradually able to subdue them into murmuring and mumbled curses.

Gradually matters died down and the guardsmen on both sides relaxed. Only now did Thrax realise he had been holding his breath and exhaled as quietly as he could.

“As I said,” Derkylidas began, looking at his own men and daring them to raise their voices for the moment, “I agree: There has been treason. Why you suppose it to have originated in our ranks, however, I find hard to understand.”

One of the Odrysians quietly said something in Thracian to the extent that Spartan denseness was only matched by their treacherousness, but only Thrax seemed to have caught the remark. Several of the Greeks nodded their heads at this, leaning forward to find out what arguments Skreta would put forward now.

“The camp was enclosed by a palisade wall and was heavily guarded,” Skreta answered. “Some of the guards on duty had their throats cut before the attack. They were found face down in the snow, with no other wounds on their bodies.”

These were both true, Thrax nodded to himself. In fact, he had discovered one of the murdered guards just prior to the attack.

“We are Odrysians, Spartan. We are the sworn enemies of the Bithynians and none of my men would have anything to do with them, let alone ally themselves with them to betray us!” Skreta continued heatedly.

“This still does not…” Xenophon began, but was silenced by a raised hand from Derkylidas and a stern look from Nikandrippos.

“I understand,” the Boss said. “So, in your opinion it had to be one of my men who killed your guards and let the enemy in. Killing most of the men we had stationed with you, as well as losing us most of the plunder from our raids in Bithynia. Besides driving a wedge between allies in enemy territory. And all of this in the middle of winter.”

Skreta had begun to nod at the initial remark, but had balled his fists and was frowning by the end.

“Does such behaviour make any sense to you? Because it makes none to me,” Derkylidas replied in a cold voice, turning first left and then right, looking each of his officers in the eye except for Onomakles.

Nodding at the heads shaken in reply, he turned his attention back to Skreta.

“Neither I, nor any of my men,” and here the Spartan commander put a strong emphasis on the word ‘my’, “has anything to gain from such a cowardly act. Does one of yours?”

Several of the Odrysians jumped from their seats to shout replies at this supposed allegation, but to everyone’s surprise, Skreta remained seated, spreading both arms and quickly silencing his men.

“And there is one more thing,” Derkylidas continued, leaning back, “where is your man Pytros?”

***

“So, what happened then?”, Smiler asked as they tightened the pack saddle on the second of their donkeys, a mare named Gala, ‘milk’ for her light grey pelt.

“Well, that’s it,” Thrax replied, shrugging. “Nothing. The Boss dismissed everyone and he and Skreta vanished inside a tent. Alone.”

“Alone?” Smiler guffawed, shaking his head, “you’re kidding me. Since when do the Spartans go in for secrecy? I mean, what do you…”

“Am I disturbing you fine young gentlemen by any means?” Neodamos the purser interrupted their conversation. “Stop bloody babbling and get a move on!” he added tensely and shook his head.

But just as he was about to turn about and leave them to find someone else to bark at, he stopped.

“And before I forget, Thracian, the Old Man was looking for you,” at which he left them to finish their chores.

Hastily and silently, Thrax and Smiler finished lashing up the donkey’s pack.

“What is it this time then?” Smiler asked when the purser had gone out of earshot. “Guards or scouts?”

Thrax shrugged, tightened a final lashing and patted their pack animal. Though it looked far too heavy for it, he knew that the small but sturdy beast was easily capable of managing the load – and more if need be, even in the snow. Guards or scouts, Thrax thought, Neodamos or Oros… for a moment he simply stood there pursing his lips and contemplating.

“Scouts, I reckon,” he replied finally. “Right now, the Odrysians and the Spartans don’t appear to want any witnesses.”

“It’ll be bloody cold, I tell you,” Smiler answered, gripping Gala’s bridle. “So, we’ll see you this evening, mate,” he added, turned about and led Gala off to the other pack animals of their unit.

Thrax nodded to himself, moved his leg to feel how his hip was doing and winced. Well, at least he wouldn’t be having to walk he thought and marched off to look for Megalias.

***

The afternoon sun was hardly more than a wan, yellowish smudge in the sky, while the clouds above appeared poised to unload a cargo of snow on everyone and everything beneath them. Thrax looked around, patting his horse. He had guessed right, it had been the scouts. Derkylidas and the other Spartans had turned from discussing most proceedings fairly openly into everything becoming all hush-hush, or so at least Oros had told him.

“The Boss ordered me to team up my men with these Odrysians,” he had said when Thrax had reported to him for duty. He pointed with his chin in the direction of a group of Thracians about as strong as his own unit. “So here we are. Orders are orders,” he shrugged, tightening the straps of his saddle. “And you’re back with your people,” he added, turning back towards Thrax.

“They’re not my people,” Thrax, replied, bristling ever so slightly at being thrown in with the likes of Pytros. “I’m Dolonkan, they’re Odrysian.”

“But your both Thracians,” Oros stated matter-of-factly.

“Well, you’re Ionian, the Spartans are Lakedaimonians. Technically that makes you both Greek,” Thrax answered, “but you’re not even from the same continent.”

At this Oros, simply nodded silently, pursing his lips, mulling the matter over.

“Well, grab a horse then, Thracian, the one we gave you last time seems to have gone missing,” he finally said.

Tuning about, he elegantly vaulted onto his saddle and rode off, leaving Thrax standing there.

And so here he was once again: on horseback among taciturn Greeks, riding through the snow somewhere in Bithynia. The only difference being that his hip hurt, and that the men responsible for it were accompanying Oros’ cavalry scouts this time, instead of shooting at them.

The riders had been sent out in groups of eight this time, with four Greeks and four Thracians. While nobody had said so, it was obvious that the doubling of the number of men on the side of the Greeks was due to the fact that no-one trusted their former and now current allies. A complement of two scouts could be easily murdered somewhere in the wilderness. But four men would be a lot harder to kill or prevent from returning to the army to report any kind of treachery. The Odrysians, on the other hand, trusted the Greeks just as little, evidently assuming that Oros’ men would turn on them as soon as they found the right opportunity. And so, four riders each seemed to be about the right unit size for the job.

Eight horsemen, however, were rather too many. While the eight riders would be silent enough, Thrax hoped their mounts could also be trusted to remain quiet. But even so, a group of eight men on horseback would be a lot simpler for any Bithynian observer to spot than a mere two riders.

They had been riding for several hours now, so far without encountering anything or anybody. The sun had not climbed particularly high up even at noon, and now was clearly already beginning to set. The men remained close to a wood, hoping the trees to their right would shield them from any casual observer. Riding in single file, it had been tacitly agreed upon that units would mingle: One Greek, one Thracian, one Greek and so on, so that nobody would have to deal with an entire group of potential hostiles in their backs. There was no sound except for the hooves crunching through the snow, punctuated by an occasional snort from one of the mounts. There were no animals to be seen, there were not even any birds in the sky.

Thrax shivered, tightening his cloak about him. Somehow, he felt as if he was being watched. He stopped his horse and looked about: To his right there was a wood, mainly oaks and beeches, with pines and assorted other trees interspersed. To his left was an open expanse, some kind of meadow, covered in snow, while beyond it was a ridge with a loose assortment of trees, too open to be called a wood. Three men rode behind him, four in front, all in single file. The Odrysian rider directly behind him was already looking in his direction suspiciously, probably wondering why the strange Thracian working for the Greeks had suddenly halted. Thrax inhaled slowly and deeply, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of disquiet. He concentrated on the trees along the ridge. Had he seen something move there?

The Odrysian rode up and stopped at his left-hand side.

“See something?” he asked quietly, glancing across the snow-covered fields to their left and to the tree-covered hills beyond.

“Don’t know,” Thrax replied, “it’s just a feeling.”

“A feeling, eh,” the man said, knitting his brows. “Lad, I don’t know about you Greeks, but…”

“What is it?” Theoxenos interrupted, his voice more a hiss than anything else.

Immediately the Odrysian turned around, forcing his horse backward, to be in a better defensive position. From the corner of his eyes, Thrax could see that the other riders were also turning, the Thracians assessing the Greeks for possible threats, while the Greeks were likewise getting ready for any possible betrayal. Thrax slowly lifted his hands.

“I think…” he began in Greek, but quickly cleared his voice at the looks he received. “I saw something,” he hastily continued, with a lot more conviction that he actually felt.

“What, where?” the Odrysian replied in Thracian, still eyeing them suspiciously.

“What did he say?” Theoxenos demanded, obviously not having understood the question in Thracian.

This isn’t going very well, Thrax thought nervously. Violence could erupt any moment, and the scouts hadn’t even made contact with the enemy!

“I saw something move,” he replied in Greek, quickly repeating his answer in Thracian, and pointed to the ridge to their left.

The men, all of the men Thrax now noticed, instantly turned to look. The wood behind them was fairly dense, easily able to hide their silhouettes, while the line of trees on the ridge would provide potential enemies much less possibility of hiding. And then he suddenly saw movement, followed by a quickly dispersing patch of white. A horse, pawing the snow and snorting!

“Well done, lad,” Theoxenos remarked, nodding towards the Odrysian.

“Good job, boy,” he said, likewise nodding in appreciation.

“What are we going to do now?” Thrax asked, both pleased at having been the first to spot however it was shadowing them, but also completely taken aback by what would happen next. Would they attack? Run? Send for reinforcements? Or…

“We should go and meet your new friend,” Theoxenos answered, turning his horse towards the ridge. “Seeing as he let us spot him and he hasn’t made any attempt to run.”

“Grab a branch, boy,” the Odrysian ordered, also turning his horse.

Thrax looked around. The three riders behind them were getting ready to flee and report back to the army if anything should happen, while the two men in front of him were preparing to gallop off into the opposite direction. Whatever happened to him and the other two, Derkylidas would be informed. He swallowed, suddenly realising he was expendable.

“Waiting for something?” Theoxenos asked, glancing at him impatiently.

“No, it was just…” Thrax began.

“Well step to it then!” Theoxenos hissed, turning back towards the ridge.

Thrax followed him, only to now see that a single horseman was slowly riding down and across the snow-covered meadow, a branch of fir or spruce in his hand. The green of its needles made a stark contrast to the dark colour of his clothing and his horse with the whitish gleam of the snow beneath him. Thrax hastily rode in among the trees and, laying hands on the first fir branch, quickly lopped it off with his lucky knife.

He returned, earning him two nods, and the three of them rode off to meet the stranger, who had stopped his mount and was now waiting for them about halfway across the meadow. As they slowly approached, Thrax saw that the man’s head was covered with some kind of wrapping, instead of him wearing a fur or felt cap of some kind.

“Persian,” Theoxenos said quietly, to which the Odrysian nodded.

Silently agreeing, Thrax wondered what by the gods a Persian scout – and he would not have been alone, that much was clear – was doing in the snow, in the middle of Bithynia, several days’ ride away from any Persian support.

“My greetings to you,” the Persian horseman said in Greek when they had come near enough to be easily heard, but would also be able to turn and flee quickly if matters should somehow go wrong. “A beautiful day for a ride out, don’t you agree?”

Thrax suppressed a grin, noting that the Odrysian did the same, whereas Theoxenos merely scowled darkly at such an overly polite opening.

“What do you want? What are you doing here?” he countered, skipping any further courtesies.

At this, the Persian horseman nodded.

“I could ask you the same,” he said, smiling thinly. “After all, both you, your Odrysian comrade and your…” he paused a moment, scrutinising Thrax’ cloak, “Apsinthian envoy are strangers here in the realm of my master Farnabah.”

“We came here at the invitation of our Odrysian… friends,” Theoxenos replied stiffly. “And for your information: This isn’t Persia.”

“No, it is not,” the Persian horseman answered, smiling politely. “But neither is it Greece, as you may have noticed. Interesting definition of the word ‘friend’ you have, by the way,” he added, noting the way Theoxenos had positioned his horse, so the Odrysian would not be able to attack him by surprise.

“Whatever you say,” the Greek scout replied gruffly. “Is there any meaning to this, or do you intend us to exchange more idle chit-chat until it is dark?”

‘And you can call up reinforcements,’ Thrax thought to himself, likewise wondering where exactly all of this was leading to.

“Oh no, I just thought it would be polite to make myself known after you having spotted me,” the Persian said. “A good man, that Apsinthian of yours.”

Thrax bristled. After all, the Apsinthians were the arch-enemies of his own tribe after all. However, this was not the time to insist on the correct identification of his tribal affiliation.

“He Dolonkan,” the Odrysian scout said, grinning broadly, evidently enjoying the whole matter to the same extent Theoxenos was not.

“My apologies, young man,” the Persian began, “it must have been the light…”

“Are we finished here, then,” Theoxenos interrupted, “or is there anything more?”

“One small detail maybe,” the Persian answered, totally unfazed by the man’s complete lack of etiquette. “Just in case you had been scouting for a possible Bithynian ambush on your army, let me assure you that the route to Lampsakos is devoid of any… hostiles.”

Whereas the Odrysian scowled, Theoxenos not so much bristled at this remark, but rather petrified with anger, while Thrax himself wondered how sensitive information of this kind had reached Farnabah.

“And… why would you… assume this?” the Greek replied, evidently barely being able to stop himself from attacking the Persian on the spot.

“The Bithynian retreat or Derkylidas marching to Lampsakos?” the man asked good-naturedly. “My master, Satrap Farnabah, likes to be informed on what goes on in his realm. And so, I and many others with me see to it that he is. After your foraging during the winter, the Bithynians have now retreated east. They no longer pose any threat, neither to your master, King Seuthes,” he said, turning to the Odrysian scout, “nor to your master, Derkylidas.”

“And what the fuck are you doing here then?” Theoxenos answered gruffly after ruminating on this information for a moment.

“We are simply escorting you back to the coast,” the Persian replied, polite as ever. “Making sure you do not get lost on the way,” he added, smiling broadly.

At this Theoxenos nearly snapped. His face turned red with rage and Thrax could see his right hand basically itching to draw his sword and attack. To everyone’s surprise, however, the Odrysian scout began to laugh out loud.

“You funny man,” he said in broken Greek, shaking his head at the absurdity of the entire situation. “I say Skreta that Persian tell me all safe, he laugh me, maybe have me whip. Why believing you?” he said, grinning broadly.

“Well, I could give you my word, I suppose,” the Persian replied, returning the grin. “However, this here may be somewhat more serviceable in gaining your trust.”

At this he switched the fir branch to his left hand, tucked his right hand somewhere inside his tunic and withdrew a small roll. The Odrysian rode nearer, held out his right hand and the Persian gave it to him.

“A message from Satrap Farnabah, should we encounter any of Derkylidas’ men,” the Persian said.

The Odrysian scout scrutinised the seal, finally shrugged, backed his horse towards Theoxenos and handed it over to him. Thrax noted him accepting it with his left hand, leaving his right free to grab his sword should the need arise.

“And I’m simply to believe this is genuine?” he spat at the Persian, not even bothering to take a closer look at the small, cylindrical object.

“You may believe what you choose,” came the reply. “However, I would advise you to pass the message on to somebody who is able to… appreciate it,” he ended.

Even Thrax had to suppress a grin now, as it was obvious, he had intended to say ‘read it’.

The fuming Theoxenos opened his mouth to deliver another retort, but was interrupted by the Odrysian.

“So, we return camp and see, Persian,” he said, holding out his hand to Therimachos for the message cylinder.

Shaking his head, the Greek scout spat in the snow between himself and the Persian. Turning his horse, he tossed the message vaguely in the direction of the Odrysian and rode off without looking back. Deftly catching the cylinder, the Odrysian nodded and likewise turned his horse without uttering another word. Thrax was about to leave, when the Persian spoke.

“I wonder, why would a Dolonkan be riding on a scouting mission among Odrysians and Greeks, both of them people who are not generally counted among your friends,” he said, smiling and raising his eyebrow. “I would imagine there is a story behind all of this. Maybe we shall hear it one time,” he added, turned his horse, inclined his head politely in Thrax’ direction and rode back across the meadow.

Sighing, Thrax dropped his branch into the snow, wondering where all of this would get him into this time.

Θ

Lampsakos

“Can you smell that?” Smiler asked, making a show of pointing his nose into the wind.

To emphasise his words, he stopped in his tracks, causing the donkey he had been leading to do the same. Spreading his arms, he inhaled deeply.

“Smell what?” Thrax asked, unconsciously clicking his tongue to spur on Phaia, their unit’s trusty asinine beast of burden.

“The sea, of course,” Zenia put in, shaking her head and muttering something Thrax couldn’t quite catch, but what obviously must have been some kind of invective in Persian.

“She’s right, Thracian. It’s the sea!” Smiler continued. “Not that you Thracian horsemen of the plains would be able to recognise the smell of course. But us Greeks, well, to us the sea is second nature, I tell you!”

At this, Thrax merely rolled his eyes in disgust. He decided not to remind his friend that he had in fact grown up on a peninsula never more than a couple of hours’ ride from the sea, while Smiler had spent most of his life somewhere in an Arkadian village, before he had ever set eyes upon an expanse of water larger than a mountain lake. What stung most, however, was the remark about the ‘Thracian horseman’. Immediately after the incident with the Persian scout, Thrax had been posted back with the Arkadians. Meaning of course, that instead of riding with Oros’ men, he had walked here all the way from Bithynia.

“Ah… the sea…” Smiler said, sighing in Zenia’s direction, who instantly pulled a face. “This was where us Greeks were always meant to…”

“Some of the Greeks maybe, lad, but not an Arkadian grunt like you!” Neodamos the purser interrupted, giving Smiler a slap to the back of the head. “And now bloody get a move on, you’re holding everybody up!” he added, marching past the three and shaking his head.

“Some people simply fail to appreciate…” Smiler began, but Thrax simply shook his head and trudged on, ignoring whatever his friend had meant to say.

***

It had taken a month for the army to reach Lampsakos. In that time, the wintery Anatolian plateau had given way to the plain of the Troad, where spring had already begun. Belts were tighter after the strain of making their way through Phrygia as fast as possible and packs were lighter as a substantial amount of the booty taken had been converted into food. Not only had everyone suffered from the strain of more than three months of relentless marching and campaigning, but so had the army as a whole: Of the over five thousand men following Derkylidas east only four thousand five hundred had returned back west.

The Odrysian scouts had parted ways with the Greeks upon entering the satrapy of Farnabah, evidently not wishing to become part of the conflict between Persia and Sparta. On the other hand, the army had been continuously shadowed by Persian horsemen, right up to the moment they had reached the Doration, ‘Mount Javelin’ that marked the border of the realm of Farnabah, some ten days ago.

Arriving at midday, the men had immediately got busy pitching their tents on a vast expanse of open ground allocated to them by the city fathers of Lampsakos. By mid-afternoon, the Arkadians were sitting in front of their fires relaxing. At least for the moment they enjoyed the fact that they would be able to rest, eat, drink and heal in peace. Even Zenia appeared to have mellowed somewhat, the strains of the past campaign curbing her abrasiveness and general arrogance towards the ‘Greek barbarians’. However, officers had made it clear to the men that there would be a strict curfew imposed. Until terms had been finalised under which the men were allowed to enter the city, the soldiers would have to stay put for a day or two.

This had led to a lot of grumbling and complaining. After all, they had been invited to the place and now there were literally thousands of men pining for female company, decent food and drink, new clothing and equipment, or all of the former.

“Won’t do for all them lonely hearts and empty bellies wandering the streets all at once, I tell you,” Neodamos had commented, shrugging the matter off like many of the more seasoned campaigners. “Else the lads would rip apart the first tavern or five before sundown. The people here have had enough time to stockpile food and drink. And there’s always enough whores to go round, as long as everybody takes turns,” he added, earning him a particularly poisonous look from Zenia.

Thrax nodded and smiled to himself, silently enjoying a sip from the bowl offered him and passing it on. Wine, by Dionysos, real wine, for a change, a present from Lampsakos. At least somebody inside the town had made sure they would get something decent to drink. Around him, the men chatted animatedly. Thrax stretched, his feet and back hurting from the weeks of marching. He looked at himself: His zeira was held together by a loose assortment of patches, his tunic didn’t look much better, while his boots were basically in ribbons and beyond repair. Neodamos had promised to go into town with him as soon as the curfew was lifted to get hold of a new pair of embades and possibly a new cloak, but all in all Thrax felt as much at peace as he had for a long time. Though he missed his comrades from Oros’ scouts and the Native Speakers, he was definitely quite happy not to be part of the plots and schemes surrounding command tents or strange messages from Persian horsemen.

“You know, Smiler,” he said musing and turning to his left, “actually, sometimes it’s not all bad to be a grunt.”

“Well, I wouldn’t know otherwise, but if you say so,” his friend shrugged. “Let me tell you, I ...”

“Sorry to interrupt, lads,” Megalias suddenly said, approaching them from behind and putting his hand on Thrax’ shoulder, “but I’ll need a word with our Thracian friend here.”

Rising, he gestured for Thrax to follow. Zenia, as always sitting on Smiler’s other side, gave him a puzzled look, while Smiler himself held up his hand in a questioning gesture, but all Thrax could do in response was shrug and follow the lochagos.

“The Boss wants to see you tomorrow evening,” Megalias said without preamble.

Thrax noted the somewhat edgy tone of voice of the officer, who was generally known for his easy-going manner, but nodded and waited for some further explanation. But Megalias just stood there, pursing his lips and peering at him questioningly. It suddenly became clear that for once the lochagos had no idea what the summons was about and obviously thought Thrax himself knew something about the whole matter. However, he in fact had not the slightest idea what all of this was about and was merely able to return the officer’s questioning look.

“There’s more,” the lochagos finally said, after the silence had continued for an uncomfortable moment. “I’m to tell you turn up in some decent gear for the meeting,” he continued.

They both took a moment to look Thrax up and down. Megalias scowled and shook his head.

“The Spartan high command doesn’t mind us folks looking ‘rugged’ or ‘seasoned’,” he commented. “You, however, look more like an impoverished camp-follower than a soldier, I tell you. Better get hold of some decent kit, and fast. And see to that everything else, and I mean everything, lad, is polished up,” he added tapping his index finger against Thrax’ chest for emphasis. “Or you’ll be in serious shit. And so will your commanding officer, and that’s me, and I’d prefer that not to happen.”

“Uh, where do I get hold of some new kit?” Thrax asked, now completely puzzled by the entire matter.

“In Lampsakos, I would imagine,” Megalias replied with more than a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

“But, uh, the curfew… I mean, how…?” Thrax replied lamely.

“Well, what do you think, Thracian?” the lochagos answered, shaking his head, his tone of voice suggesting he was speaking to a particularly dense child. “If the Spartans impose a curfew, they can just as easily lift it, don’t you reckon? Take one man along and get hold of whatever you need. And, for the gods’ sakes, don’t get yourself into any trouble. The sentries on the city side of camp have orders about letting a Thracian and his companion through and back in. If you’re hailed, the password is ‘smilia’. And, by the way, no word to anyone about the whole matter, do you understand?”

Thrax nodded, now entirely bewildered by the whole affair.

“Good,” Megalias said, noting the look of total incomprehension on Thrax’ face. “See you tomorrow at headquarters,” he finished and walked off, leaving a puzzled Thrax behind, as he so often did.

‘Spartan high command’, Thrax thought, shaking his head in puzzlement. And what on earth did ‘smilia’ mean? Looking west, he reckoned that the late winter sun would be setting in a couple of hours, while he would have to find his way in and out of a city completely unknown to him. Taking a deep breath, he quickly walked back to his comrades.

***

“Well, I can’t help you and that’s it, lad,” Neodamos replied, his annoyed tone of voice now bordering on anger. “I won’t get myself into any trouble skipping the curfew just so you can get hold of …a new pair of boots,” the purser added with a side-glance towards Zenia, his words making it clear he didn’t believe a word of what Thrax had been saying and folded his arms across his chest.

Thrax opened his mouth, but Neodamos was already shaking his head before he was able to say anything.

“Don’t waste your breath. I tell you, lad, wait a couple of days and you’ll be able to… well, lay hands on whatever you need,” he finished and left.

Thrax looked towards Smiler, but his friend simply grinned and lifted his hands in a defensive gesture.

“Don’t look at me, mate,” he said, when Thrax opened his mouth to speak. “The Old Man made it pretty clear we’re to stay put. Not that I can’t see what you’re aiming at,” he added, leaning closer, his grin taking on a somewhat lecherous aspect, gaining him an acid look from Zenia. “Sorry, but when he said ‘or I’ll have your balls’ he sounded dead convincing to me.”

Thrax wrung his hands. This was not at all what he had bargained with. He had reckoned with wheedling Neodamos into coming along, surprising him by exchanging the parole with the guards and that was it. He would never have expected the purser to say no, especially after he had claimed to know the parole which would get them in and out without any further ado. The man had simply not believed him. And Smiler, who was usually up to any form of mischief, well, his friend had likewise refused to be swayed, even by the possibility of some form of illicit reward for his support in a brothel of his choice.

He had never been to Lampsakos. In fact, he had never been to any city its size apart from Ephesos. But what made things even more difficult was that he simply had no clue whatsoever about bargaining. And without that skill his money would at best get him a pair of boots. Or maybe a cloak? Thrax had no idea.

Dropping down beside the fire he shook his head in exasperation, at which Smiler stood up, slapped his friend on the shoulder and walked off, before getting embroiled into any further discussion about the matter. Thrax looked to the west. What had initially been several hours’ worth of daylight shopping time, so to speak, had now narrowed down to a mere couple of hours. And he still had to walk to the city and find a market or shop. As he dropped his gaze, he surprisingly found his eyes meeting Zenia’s. Pursing her lips, she raised her eyebrows but failed to say anything.

“You haven’t ever been Lampsakos, by any chance,” Thrax said, taking a swig from the wine skin Smiler had left behind, with neither hope nor much interest in his voice.

“Come to think of it, yes, I have,” she replied, smirking as he coughed in surprise, spluttering wine all over his tunic.

***

“For this, you owe me, Thracian,” Zenia said, leading the way as they left the four guardsmen behind them.

While there had been some initial interest in a Thracian accompanied by a young woman wanting to leave, ‘smilia’ had allowed them to exit the camp without any problems. Thrax was able to hear some chuckled comments by the guards about how only a Thracian would want to bring his whore into a city, but he chose to ignore them and simply hurry on after Zenia.

“Do you hear me? You owe me,” Zenia repeated somewhat more insistently this time, looking over her shoulder at him. “A big favour.”

Thrax hurried to nod, at which she immediately turned and continued. Somehow, there had been no real need to convince her to join him, quite the opposite in fact. This made him more than a little suspicious, as he was sure that the favour he now owed would be something outrageous, dangerous or possibly both. However, at least for the moment he was simply relieved to have found someone who was able and willing to help him. Even if it was Zenia.

They hastened along the road leading towards the city, sharing the way with several men and women. Late merchants, tradesmen or vendors, Thrax thought, either on their way out of Lampsakos after having finished their days’ trading, or hastening into town for some reason or other before the gates closed for the night. He swallowed, suddenly realising he had not thought about the problem of them being able to leave the bloody place and get back before dawn the next morning, but decided to first concentrate on the problems at hand.

Approaching Lampsakos directly, he was now able to get a measure of the actual size of the town. Rocks seemed to pile up in front of them, forming a wall, high enough to divide Asia from Europe, he spontaneously thought. Rocks, rocks piled up everywhere. The road they were walking along towards the city was well-paved and lined with trees which would provide those approaching with shade in summer, but even between the greenery there rose numerous monuments and stone structures.

In passing, he attempted to take a closer look at them, as they were all marked with some kind of inscription. But with Zenia hurrying them along, he was merely able to make out the occasional name or other. Maybe they were monuments for heroes and their deeds, or just gravestones, he couldn’t tell.

As they got nearer, traffic intensified. More carts and waggons passed by the two or came towards them, while all kinds of people also entered and left the city on foot. His mouth opened and Thrax no longer even tried to hide the mixture of bewilderment and amazement he felt. So many different people! Serving with the Greek Expeditionary Force in Asia he had seen numerous styles of clothing, heard more than a few languages he failed to understand and had in general thought himself to have come a long way from the Thracian backwater on the Chersonnesos peninsula he had once called home. When a dark-skinned man riding a donkey grinned at his incredulous look, however, he quickly snapped his mouth closed again, but it was clear he was still just a country bumpkin.

“Well, Thracian, this is what a real city looks like,” Zenia said with a smirk, evidently enjoying seeing his amazement. “This is the metropolis of the Troad. Welcome to Lampsakos.”

As the sun gradually began to set behind the city, the black expanse of the eastern wall of Lampsakos loomed closely ahead of them. Thrax had seen a number of settlements of different sizes, and more than one had been surrounded by a wall, but he had never seen anything so large that had been built by human hands. And even though Ephesos was a real city, it didn’t have a wall.

“I suppose you wanted to show a Thracian barbarian the big city,” he said, trying to regain his composure a little, “and so you thought we’d take the main gate to impress me a little.”

“That would be the Abydian Gate to the south-west then,” Zenia replied. “This here in front of us is the Mysian Gate, Thracian. It’s a side entrance,” she added, smiling smugly, at which his jaw once again dropped back down.

There were no problems or hindrance as they entered the city. The dozen or so guards posted at the gate took note of the people entering and leaving, but were more intent on seeing to it that the traffic flowed smoothly, than on actually scrutinising the passers-by. And even so, they would be more likely to be on the look-out for men from the Greek army and stopping them from attempting to enter. A young Thracian with patched up gear and an Asian girl failed to garner any interest whatsoever.

Still, Thrax sighed with relief when they had passed through the gatehouse and were inside.

“Where now?” he asked, looking around as Zenia paused for a moment.

It was still only early spring and they would need to find an outfitter quickly, before shops and markets closed down entirely for the night. Thrax tried not to think about getting back to the camp, but had already given up the notion of being able to leave Lampsakos before sunset.

“I am getting my bearings, if you don’t mind,” Zenia replied waspishly.

“I thought you knew your way around this place,” Thrax answered with a sinking feeling in his stomach. “I mean, if we don’t…”

“This way,” Zenia interrupted, turned about and simply walked off, without waiting for Thrax to complete his sentence or form some kind of adequate reply.

Shrugging, he took a deep breath and hastened to follow. The sun, low in the sky when they had left camp, was now setting. The two and three-storied buildings to the left and right lost any colour they may have had, gradually turning grey. While there was still quite a bit of traffic on the road, people were now mostly heading in the direction of the gate. Thrax tensed. The whole idea had been stupid, there was no way they’d find a place that was still selling clothing. And the notion that Zenia of all people would be able to help him… well, he’d had better ideas, so much was clear now.

They carried on, Zenia leading on through broad streets lined with impressive houses and mansions, paved with well-cut stone slabs, while the number of people up and about became less and less. And then it became clear to Thrax, they were lost.

“Do you actually know where we are going?” he said, stopping in his tracks and forcing her to do the same by grabbing her by the shoulder. “These houses are just, uh, houses,” he finished lamely. “We’re not going to find any market here!”

Zenia made a point of first glancing at the hand gripping her shoulder, at which Thrax instinctively let her go. Slowly raising her head, she proceeded to give him a look exhibiting something between contempt and extreme displeasure.

“Indeed,” she finally said after he had moved away from her half a pace. “And even if we had, the place would be closing or closed down by now and the vendors gone.”

Zenia smiled at him thinly. Evidently, she was waiting for him to further display his ignorance by asking where she had intended to take them. Thrax looked about. By now the sun was close to setting, its last rays reflected from the whitewashed house walls rising around them. Apart from a couple of people on their way home, mostly men at this hour, they were now alone.

“Alright then,” he finally gave in, sighing, “so tell me: Where do you intend to take me?”

“Oh, so you can behave like a decent human being after all, Thracian,” Zenia replied in mock surprise. “Must be quite a challenge for a barbarian like you,” she continued but Thrax failed to take the bait and reply. “Good,” she continued, “actually I intend to take us to… a friend. Of the family, I mean,” she added hastily, when Thrax replied with a raised eyebrow.

There was still enough light for Thrax to see she was beginning to blush, probably with some kind of embarrassment he couldn’t even begin to become further interested in.

“Good, so lead on then,” he quickly said, before finding himself having to face one of Zenia’s tantrums again, the sources of which continued to remain a mystery to everyone involved with the girl.

Opening her mouth to snap back some form of caustic retort, she nodded instead and, after a moment of contemplation, nodded to herself and marched off towards the left. Having long since lost any sense of direction, Thrax didn’t bother attempting to take any bearings, but simply followed her. They crossed several fairly broad, well-aired streets, took a few turns in both directions Thrax didn’t bother to keep in mind, until they passed a fountain with two elderly women drawing pails of water. Zenia turned right and stopped a couple of paces later.

“This is it,” she proclaimed, pointing straight ahead.

In front of Thrax was a broad house wall, its whitewashed walls appearing a deep red in the light of the setting sun. A couple of small windows dotted the first storey, well out of the reach of thieves and too small to climb through even if one had a ladder at the ready. Apart from its size it appeared much like the houses around them. He shrugged, turning back to Zenia.

“Alright. So, where do I get my gear then? Here?” he asked, unwilling to concede any praise to her.

“Yes,” Zenia replied, placing her hands on her hips and turning towards him, her entire demeanour a study in self-satisfaction. “This is the house of Piltoba’al, son of Yepda’aut. He is a Phoinikian trader and associate of my mo… my late mother, the sub-satrap.”

Instead of showering her with praise, Thrax was merely able to open his mouth incredulously. Yepda’aut! He had no clue about Phoinikian names. However, he doubted the name was a common one. Rich men and women, be they traders or not, seldomly chose common names for their offspring. And if he was right, then this had to be the house of a man whose brother Shadbarot just happened to be an ‘associate’ of his own late father. And if so, then how…

“No need to get on your knees in gratitude, Thracian,” Zenia snapped caustically, shaking her head at his barbarian lack of manners.

Ignoring him, she turned left in search of the main entrance. Thrax turned his head this way and that, now realising that the red tint of the wall was in fact red paint. Just like that of the Phoinikian trader he had encountered in Ephesos. Shaking his head, he hurried to catch up with Zenia, who naturally had not deigned to wait for him. Further along, there was indeed a small wooden door, probably the servants’ entrance. As he came to a stand next to her, she was already banging a knocker against the heavy wooden door.

Smiling triumphantly in his direction, Zenia took a step back. As they waited for a servant to open, Thrax had a closer look at the door itself: It was massive, as befitted the house of a wealthy trader. The wood was finely worked, as were the decorative metal fittings holding it together. The door knocker, fitted at about shoulder-height, was in the form of a griffin’s head, holding a massive bronze ring in its beak. Above it was a panel, evidently meant for a servant to check on those wishing to enter. As he looked on, it slid aside silently, leaving a black opening. However, nothing else happened.

Thrax waited, but that was it. Nothing. After a moment, he glanced sideward to Zenia, who answered his look with a broad grin. When still nothing happened, he shook his head and stepped closer impatiently to take a closer look. To his utter astonishment, two gleaming white eyes suddenly appeared, staring back at him. Completely taken by surprise, he took a step backwards, stumbled and involuntarily fumbled for his lucky knife. Only then did he realise that Zenia was laughing out loud at the entire scene.

Thrax realised that he had been made a fool of. Angrily, he thrust his knife back into its scabbard and gestured for Zenia to step forward and speak to the doorkeeper. Nodding, she suppressed her laughter, stepped forward and began to speak. Thrax couldn’t understand a single word, but presumed the language to be Phoinikian. As the doorkeeper replied, he realised the man was either an Aithiopian, or from some other people with black skin, which was why he had not seen the man’s face until he had opened his eyes. Only then did he realise that the whole thing had been meant to make fun of him, or any visitor. When any unwitting newcomers came to the house, the doorman waited until they had approached and then played his little trick.

Still, he needed something from these people, so he forced himself to swallow his anger. However, as he observed Zenia speaking to the man, he noticed her attitude changing. Her friendly banter first switched to a rather more ladylike and assertive tone of voice, only to then shift to her usual, or usual in her dealings with him at least, surly and aloof demeanour. Thrax found himself grinning involuntarily as he watched her quickly getting more and more angry and agitated. After the last exchange, in which she raised her voice and uttered something which sounded very much like some kind of invective, the eyes vanished and the panel slid shut as slowly and silently as it had opened.

“Don’t. Say. Anything,” she said as she turned back in his direction when he opened his mouth to speak.

Nodding, he remained silent. Zenia walked away from the house, so Thrax simply followed, without any idea in which direction they were headed. The sun had finally set and it was dark, whatever market or vendors Lampsakos called its own would by now have called it a day and closed shop. And he was no nearer to getting hold of some new kit than he had been when they had left camp. Thrax took a deep breath. Without at least a fresh chiton and cloak he would be in deep shit. And while it had now become extremely unlikely that he would be able to lay hands on any fresh equipment, they still had to somehow get out of this bloody place. Alright, maybe he could borrow some kit from one of the Arkadians. Perhaps Neodamos would lend him a cloak and Smiler could throw in his tunic, though that was only in slightly better shape than his own. They continued on, the residential area they had set off from gradually giving way to what had to be some kind of business district: The houses were lower, with shop fronts in the lower storey.

For a short moment Thrax got his hopes up, but as he looked around, he realised that all of these had been boarded up or shut for the night. Not a soul was in sight, the streets were completely empty. They left the shops, passing through a tall stone archway and entered into a smallish square, bordered on three sides by columned arcades. Instead of giving him any hint as to where they were going or what they would be doing about his, or better their situation, Zenia simply marched on sullenly. The whole expedition was turning into a bloody nightmare, Thrax thought, finally losing his temper. He hurried a few steps closer and stopped her by gripping her shoulder.

“Zenia, I…” he began, but the look he received quickly stopped him short. But only for the moment. “Alright, Zenia, I’ve had enough: What are you going to do…”

“Yes, pray do tell us!” a hoarse male voice suddenly interrupted him, “Well, well, well, who do we have here then?”

They both turned in the direction of the speaker. A lean young man slowly peeled himself out of the shadows cast by the moonlight above them, followed by four others, who fanned out, one to his left, the other three to the right. Automatically Thrax let go of Zenia’s shoulder and moved to the left to give himself and her some room.

“Pretty young couple, eh?” the burly man to the far right said, sauntering towards Thrax. “What do you reckon, Timeas, do you think she lets him get some? Here girly, what you need is a real man, not some foreign wimp, eh!” he said, and gripping himself by the testicles and laughing.

Thrax ventured a look to the side. Zenia was slowly sidling backwards and further to the right, lowering her body into a fighting crouch. By now it was obvious they wouldn’t get out of this without getting into a brawl.

“Maybe she needs breaking in, Praxias. Maybe it’d be better if we all give it to her,” the man with the hoarse voice said, spreading his arms to encompass his four mates and chuckling. “The boy certainly could learn something, don’t you reckon? In fact, we’d be doing the two a service.”

“You’re right, Timeas!” the man opposite Thrax said, nodding enthusiastically and licking his lips. “But we couldn’t do it for free of course.”

“No, I suppose not,” the hoarse man replied, nodding his head in agreement. What do you say girly, two of us at once, or shall we take turns? Or maybe your boy here,” he continued, gesturing vaguely in Thrax’ direction, “perhaps he’d like some. Phleias over there, boys or girls, he doesn’t mind, do you Phleias?” at which the man opposite Zenia laughed raucously.

This appeared to be the signal for the men to go ahead. Praxias rolled his shoulders and he and the hoarse man who appeared to be the leader of the pack began to advance on Zenia, while the others took on Thrax. He moved back instinctively and drew his knife, which earned him several hoots and jeers from the three men ganging up on him.

And then, all of a sudden, his heel touched something, meaning there was no more space to back into. He would have to fight it out. The men in front of him slowed, likewise realising that things would now get ugly, so Thrax took a quick glance over to Zenia to see how was doing – only to see a man cowering in fear in an alcove just to her right. He saw that she had also noticed him. On the spur of the moment he made to quick steps towards her, earning him more jeers.

“Seems the boy needs help from the girl!” the burly man guffawed.

“We’ll help both of them, Praxias!” came the answer from one of the other men.

The silent, dithering man was holding a broom. As his hands began shaking in fear, the broom knocked against one of the stone columns. Instantly, the sound caused the men to stop, giving Thrax and Zenia a moment to move closer to each other again. He was old, ancient possibly, but Thrax was only able to get a look at him from the corner of his eye. As the men realised this was simply some humble road sweeper, the hoarse man nodded to his cronies.

“All right, boys. Here we go,” he said, at which they once again began to advance.

This was it then, Thrax realised. Maybe he could take down one, they didn’t seem armed, but the old man wouldn’t be much help. And Zenia, well she could fight, but…

Without warning, the hoarse man suddenly sprang forward. And with just as little premonition, Zenia jumped to the side. Her arm shot out, ripping the broom out of the man’s hands and holding it across her chest.

“Oh, want to play games, girly!” the hoarse man said, instantly stopping in his tracks and checking left and right on his cronies. “You can have that, all you want!” he said, nodding for his men to continue to advance.

However, Thrax instantly noticed their enthusiasm cooling down: One single enemy and a girl, that had been more of an invitation to men like them than anything else. But when Zenia began twirling the broomstick to get a feel of its balance and once again lowered herself into what obviously was a fighting crouch, they stopped.

The hoarse man looked around, waiting for the others to advance, but they evidently were waiting for their boss to get his hands dirty first. Noting that it would be him alone for the moment, he clicked his tongue in disgust, nodded to himself and took another, a lot more cautious step forward. Zenia twirled her broomstick around between her hands like a quarterstaff, involuntarily causing Thrax to grin.

“Timeas, that your name?” he said, rolling his shoulders and getting into a wrestler’s stance.

However, the man ignored him, taking another step closer to Zenia. It was now evident to all present that this was not simply some helpless girl they could gang-rape in the shadows of the colonnade, but someone who was quite able to wield a weapon.

“So, you’re afraid of a girl then,” Thrax continued to bait him.

“Fuck you,” the hoarse man replied, moving another, smaller step forward.

The other men stood still, observing the proceedings, but doing nothing to interfere in their leader’s favour.

“Timeas, afraid of a girl. Well, she does have a broom after all,” Thrax said, now standing up straight in defiance. “Should I lend you my knife, maybe that will give you a fighting chance?”

“Shut the fuck up,” the hoarse man answered, but his tone of voice made it clear now that he would either have to tackle both of them, or his reign among these men would be over.

“You are a coward,” Thrax said, grinning. “A miserable, pitiful, rapist and coward. What do you reckon Zenia, do you think this creature has ever fought anybody his own size?” he continued, making a show of putting his knife back in its scabbard. “If you ask me, he…”

He was unable to finish his sentence. Without any further ado, the man pounced, launching himself in Zenia’s direction. His hands shot forward to grab her and there was nowhere for her to move back away. But instead of ducking or attempting to evade the attack, Zenia pointed the end of the broom straight at the man’s face. With an ugly wet squelching sound, the hoarse man had the broomstick rammed straight into his left eye. Screaming out in what had to be excruciating pain, his head was knocked backwards, just as his legs gave way beneath him. But even before he hit the ground, she had already twirled the broom about, using its momentum to smash it into the man’s exposed throat.

Collapsing at Zenia’s feet, he shuddered and twitched, rather reminding Thrax of a fish out of water. His empty left eye-socket and his mouth bled profusely as he grasped for his throat, coughing and spluttering feebly. And all of a sudden, bereft of their leader, the four remaining would-be muggers had lost their mettle.

Zenia opened her mouth to say something, but, on the spur of the moment, Thrax decided to interrupt her.

“Give us your money. All of it,” he said, ignoring whatever she had been about to say.

The four remaining men looked first at him, then at her and each other undecidedly. They only actually began to comply when Thrax slowly drew his knife, making it clear that he was also quite willing to use force to assert himself. The burly man, Praxias, slowly looked left and right, lifted his empty hands and took a few steps back. Then he turned and ran, causing the other three to do the same.

“Damn,” Thrax commented, shaking his head and sheathing his knife once more.

Ignoring Zenia’s caustic look, he walked over to Timeas and shook him by the shoulder. The man was curled up in pain, more dead than alive, unable to do more than gurgle feebly in response. Shrugging, Thrax began to check if he had any money on him. Only moments later, he held up a leather pouch, which, judging by its weight, was well-filled with the man’s spoils.

“And what exactly do you think you are going to do with that?” Zenia demanded, pursing her lips. “It’s not as if it’s our money after all, Thracian,” she added in a condescending tone of voice.

“You there,” he said, addressing the old man who was still standing there, cowering in the shadows and all but forgotten amidst the sudden outbreak of violence.

“Please, I have nothing, those men, they come and take all I have, they beat me and my daughter, they…”

“Calm down, calm down, old man,” Thrax interrupted him. “We won’t hurt you. Right, Zenia?”

Rolling her eyes in disgust, Zenia nodded, only to notice she was still holding the man’s broom in a defensive stance. Thrax suppressed a grin when she realised how this had to appear to the old man. Blushing and apologising, she handed him his broom which he gingerly took.

“So, do you work here?” Thrax asked, when the man appeared to have calmed down somewhat.

“I’m the sweeper, yes,” the old man replied.

“Good,” Thrax said. “So, tell me, who were these men?”

“That there, that’s Timeas,” the old man said, gesturing with his chin towards the wheezing man, lying prostrate at their feet. “He and his lads they’ll come and… take what they want. Particularly in the evenings. They usually don’t beat me too badly. It’s no fun Timeas said,” he continued, shrugging.

“Well, looks like that’s in the past, I reckon. At least for him that is,” Thrax added, stubbing Timeas with the tip of his worn boot, instantly causing the man to whimper and curl up even tighter. “What is your name, old man?”

“My name?” the old man replied, evidently taken aback by any interest in his person. “Well, I’m Stratos the sweeper.”

“I’m Bryzos, son of Ozrykes and this here is Zenia, daughter of Mania,” Thrax replied formally, offering the man his forearm in greeting.

This took the man completely by surprise. For a moment, he simply looked at Thrax’ arm as if it were some inanimate object thrust in his direction, then he slowly nodded. Smiling, he finally took the proffered arm, gripping it a lot tighter than Thrax had expected.

“I’m Kallistratos, son of Philostratos,” the old man finally replied formally. “Thank you for… well for…” he gestured somewhat helplessly with his broom in the direction of Timeas.

For a moment nobody said anything, in fact there was no sound at all except for Timeas wheezing and labouring to in- and exhale air that was not saturated with blood.

“So you know the people here, the vendors, traders and merchants?” Thrax continued after a moment’s silence.

“Indeed, I do,” the old man answered, nodding.

“Then I reckon we’ve done you all a favour if I’m not mistaken,” Thrax continued, earning him an enthusiastic nod.

“I don’t think they’ll be back all that soon,” Kallistratos said, shrugging. “Maybe they’re even gone for good,” he added, stubbing the prone Timeas with the butt of his broom.

“Well, Kallistratos,” Thrax said, holding up the purse in his left hand, “then maybe, just maybe you and your market acquaintances could do me a small favour in return…”

***

“So, ‘we did you all a favour’ then,” Zenia said, shaking her head and grimaced in mock disgust, but Thrax could see this was more of an act to keep face, rather than a display of her actual feelings.

“Well, alright, it was you who did them the favour,” Thrax shrugged contentedly, suppressing a burp, before getting on her wrong side as he so often did. “So what? That rat Timeas won’t be haunting that part of town any more. In fact I’d be surprised if he does anything more than beg for small change for the rest of his life,” he added, smiling to himself.

The man’s fate did not trouble him in the least, quite the opposite in fact. The things Kallistratos and his wife had told him about Timeas and his cronies… letting him live was punishment enough, Thrax decided. Instead of answering, Zenia merely shrugged, but as she abstained from any further acrid comment, he knew she basically agreed with him. Not that she would ever acknowledge the fact of course. It was a fine spring day, crisp and chill at dawn, but already warming gently as the sun slowly rose behind the Anatolian plateau to the east. They strolled along the road after having left Lampsakos when the city gates had opened at sunrise.

Well, regardless of it having been Zenia’s favour or the money Thrax had taken off Timeas, the difficulty of procuring new equipment for him had been solved. More than solved in fact: After Kallistratos had spread the word, all of his tradesmen friends, neighbours and colleagues had chipped in something. As a result, Thrax now wore a spotless new chiton cinched by a sturdy leather belt and sported a well-made pair of thigh-high boots, while a warm cloak covered his shoulders, Zenia herself had likewise been fully equipped, but had also been presented with a superb, needle-pointed dagger coming with a bright leather sheath and belt. All in all, they had done rather well for themselves. Alright, Zenia had done well for the two of them, he corrected himself. Not that he would easily admit this fact towards her of course.

“Don’t imagine I haven’t forgotten that you owe me a favour,” Zenia finally said grasping his shoulder, which caused him to stop.

When she raised her eyebrows, Thrax nodded, at which she walked on. Of course she hadn’t forgotten. And she’d cash in on it, that at least he knew for sure. But for the moment at least, the morning was much too pleasant to worry about the whole matter. Shrugging, he took a deep breath and followed a couple of paces behind her, wondering what the afternoon and the visit by this obscure ‘Spartan High Command’ would bring.

***

It had been made clear of course that the men would be on parade, to be presented to three senior Spartan officers. Thrax had naturedly assumed that this would include the guardsmen under Nikandrippos, their numbers bolstered by the Native Speakers and Xenophon’s men, as they were well-drilled but hadn’t actually done much fighting and thus were still in pretty good shape. Maybe throw in a couple of veteran units, including Megalias’ Arkadians, and let that suffice. The Spartans would see some proper fighting men, some pretty boys and lots of well-polished gear, the kind of stuff officers seemed to enjoy. Well, he was in for a surprise.

The officers had arrived from Sparta itself and their only purpose was to inspect the troops. And, with the exception of the men on active guard duty, that meant all of them; including light-armed units and the entire cavalry. This meant that over four thousand men and several hundred horses spent the entire morning getting ready. Man, beast and equipment had to be prepared and then gotten into a position that would present them to the esteemed Spartan guests in a most favourable light.

Finally, by noon the entire army had been ordered to stand on a plain to the east of the city. Raised and trained as heavy infantry, the Spartan emissaries naturally showed particular interest in Derkylidas’ hoplite units, so these had been assembled to the centre. The Arkadians and the other peltasts had been ordered to take up position to the right, making them all but unnoticed and Thrax had initially wondered what exactly all of the excitement and tension could be about. Only when the army had been hurriedly assembled by the unit commanders had he fully appreciated the magnitude of what was going on. At least four thousand men, four thousand veteran warriors, stood at rigid attention. All of this, merely to oblige three old men.

The assembled forces were to be presented to a delegation of most of the Spartan senior officers, among them Nikandrippos and Derkylidas, led by three Spartans by the names of Arakos, Naubates and Antisthenes. Each of the three grizzled veterans was bearded, wearing their long hair in handfuls of thick braids that reached to their chests and all three of them also sported the t-staff Spartan officers carried as a signal of rank. Barefooted and bareheaded, wrapped into dark-red cloaks they did not look particularly awe-inspiring to Thrax. But judging by the reverence with which Derkylidas, commander of the entire Spartan forces in Asia treated them, made it quite clear that these three elderly gentlemen were indeed a power to be reckoned with.

As he had joined the Native Speakers that morning, Nikandrippos had been very insistent on them looking their best. Strict as he was, usually the guardsman would still make an occasional jest. But not this time. And men who could make Nikandrippos nervous… well, the Native Speakers had rapidly, and nervously, decided to err on the side of caution, cleaning and polishing every item of their equipment before lining up and standing to attention.

Nothing about the men’s equipment or their stance escaped the scrutiny of the three grey-haired Spartans as they slowly walked by. Even though Thrax only stood in the third row of guardsmen, he was very much relieved about his foray into Lampsakos the evening before. While he had been issued with the standard guard kit, red cloak, shield and helmet, the boots and tunic were his own. When one of the emissaries stopped to actually speak to one of the guardsmen in the front row to his left, Thrax had been able to see Nikandrippos beside him tensioning to such an extent that he had probably held his breath. He wasn’t the only one of the men to sigh with relief when the three moved on.

After walking across the line of the troops to the centre, the senior of the three red-cloaked veterans gestured with his t-staff. Nodding, Derkylidas spoke over his shoulder to Nikandrippos, though Thrax was of course too far away to make out a single word of the actual conversation.

The commander of the guard bellowed something which, even from this distance sounded impressively commanding. Immediately, an entire hoplite lochos, some four hundred men to Thrax’ left exited their formation and began marching forward in lockstep, their timing precise and crisp. At another bellowed order from Nikandrippos, the entire unit turned right, with their commander on the far right in the first line acting as an anchor for the entire lochos. There was little clattering of shields, nobody stumbled or fell, and within seconds the entire unit was marching past the ranks of their comrades. Thrax felt deeply impressed by the spectacle, but what came next made his jaw drop.

Nikandrippos shouted something once more and the men instantly stopped, slightly opening up their order. Then everybody turned on their right foot, about-facing and, while the rear-man in each file remained in his place, the file-leaders now marched back between the files, duly followed by the men formerly to their back until the entire lochos had turned on the spot, their unit commander now coming to rest at the left. Once again, no-one had tripped or made a fool of himself.

“Eh, you close mouth,” Ezis, the Phrygian member of the Native Speakers whispered beside him, “you don’t want squirrel climb up and hide a nut in there,” he added, prompting Thrax’ jaw to snap audibly shut.

“I am Arakos. Sparta ordered us to observe how matters stand in Asia,” the senior of the Spartan officers said in a loud voice, easily carrying all the way to Thrax this time. He momentarily wondered how much shouting the man usually did to be able to out-bellow Nikandrippos, but the man was already continuing. “We shall report favourably.” He paused a moment for effect, then said, “For his accomplishments, Derkylidas’ command of our forces in Asia has been renewed for another year. But,” Arakos added, cutting the murmuring and occasional cheering of the assembled men at this news short, “we also heard of the atrocities committed under Thibron. The man has been tried and punished as befits all those betraying the trust of Sparta or her allies. Let it be known in this army and in all of Asia that no further misconduct of those answering to either the kings or the Goddess of the Brazen House will be tolerated. As your conduct under Derkylidas was worthy of praise, Sparta commends you and will do so again if you so continue.”

At this the soldiers began rhythmically banging their spears, javelins or whatever weapons they sported against their shields. Arakos nodded in acknowledgement.

“Who’s this ‘Goddess of the Brazen House’?” Thrax asked Ezis, while everybody around them was cheering Derkylidas, Arakos and themselves.

“That be their version of Athena, you not know of her? She be responsible for wisdom and war, you know, Spartans, they like stuff like – someone be talking again.”

Xenophon had detached himself from the others and lifted his arms for silence.

“Gods, it’s that pompous Athenian dickhead again...” Thasiades, their Chian member began, sighing, but was quickly silenced by Nikandrippos hissing “Will you shut the fuck up, you idiot!”

“Men of Lakedaimon!” he began in a loud voice, making Thrax nod to himself in acknowledgement; obviously the Athenian likewise had some good training in shouting at soldiers. “We are the same men now as we were last year; but today our commander is this man, Derkylidas,” here he pointed at the Boss for effect. “But in the past, we had another, Thibron. Therefore, you can immediately judge for yourselves the reason why we are not at fault now, although we were then.”

Thrax gave Ezis a puzzled look, but merely received a shrug in response. Evidently the Phrygian had been able to make as little sense of Xenophon’s words as he had. Suddenly, the soldiers erupted into chants of ‘Der-kyli-das, Der-kyli-das’, and though it remained unclear if the Athenian had in fact finished his speech, he nodded and stepped back. The Spartan delegates nodded at the men once more, turned about and walked off in a stately fashion to the command tents, trailing the other senior officers, including supreme commander Der-kyli-das himself. Without any formal dismissal, this prompted the army to spontaneously dissolve their parade-ground formations and return to their units’ respective camp sites.

***

“Do you have any idea what that was all about?” Thrax said to Ezis as they slowly made their way to the guard tent to change back into their regular gear, now they were no longer needed to boost guard or hoplite numbers.

“That how high-and-mighty try tell us we do good job, and that we be keeping Derkylidas,” his friend replied, shrugging.

“At least Xenophon didn’t get chance to speak,” Malises, their one-eyed Karian member added grinning. “Come, we change and then get something to eat, I be hungry.”

Thrax nodded, grinning back. Like most of the other soldiers, the Native Speakers had been forced to skip breakfast in favour of getting their gear in order. Getting caught by a member of the Spartan committee of enquiry with a tarnished shield or bent spear blade would have made the guard and their commander Nikandrippos look bad. And it was definitely better not to incur the wrath of men such as the guardsman.

They entered the guard tent, where a handful of helot servants were waiting to relieve them of their equipment. As they began to help each other out of their linen body armour, Thrax heard someone clearing his voice to speak.

“Sorry, lads, you’ll have to skip your meal, the Boss wants to see all of you straight away,” Nikandrippos said.

“Well, we be close,” Adlevazis, a Mysian hoplite said.

“Orders, they be orders,” Ezis replied to nobody in particular, shrugging.

Resignedly, those who had already undressed began to put their armour back on, while the others tightened belts and buckled straps, after all, no-one knew who they would be presented to this time. Nikandrippos left the men to it, nodding contentedly at the men’s diligence.

“Do you know why commander Derkylidas wants to see us so urgently?” Thrax asked the guardsman as he adjusted his red cloak so as not to interfere with the shield on his left arm.

“I have an idea, lad,” Nikandrippos said, speaking to all of them, “but you’ll find out from himself soon enough. Right, step to it!”

Θ

Daskyleion

So, this is serious then, Thrax thought to himself as he rigidly stood to attention awaiting further orders. Once again Nikandrippos nodded to himself, his anxiety now seemingly slightly abated and took the position of unit commander to their right. In the ensuing silence he heard the sounds of muted conversation, and all of a sudden, the Spartans appeared.

By now, Thrax had spent months marching, eating, drinking and fighting alongside Spartans. However, these men appeared more, well ‘Lakonian’ he thought to himself, stifling a grin, than anyone he had previously encountered. To him, Nikandrippos had so far seemed the epitome of a Spartan and yet all of the traits he had come to identify with the inhabitants of Lakonia seemed exponentiated in them. They looked not merely tough and humourless, but downright dangerous.

The group of men were led by commander Derkylidas who was obviously giving his distinguished guests a guided tour of the camp. The Spartans approached the motley crew of Native Speakers and Nikandrippos, if this was possible, appeared to stand even more rigidly, prompting his men to follow suit.

“These are the ‘Native Speakers’,” Derkylidas said, gesturing towards the dozen men standing at attention.

“They certainly look like natives,” one of the Spartans said, but nobody even chuckled at the remark, with the others merely nodding. “And what, commander, do you use these barbarians for?” the grizzled veteran continued, vaguely indicating the line of men before him with the t-staff every single one of the Spartans held as a sign of rank. “Surely none of them are real hoplites?”

Derkylidas hesitated to answer and of course Nikandrippos said nothing, as he had not been addressed.

“What do you make of them, Naubates?” the man said, not waiting for Derkylidas to form a reply.

“Men to catch arrows so Spartan shields don’t get scratched,” the other man replied lakonically, at which several of the men bristled at the way they were being described.

“They have so far been very useful, sir,” Derkylidas put in, seemingly unfazed by the way these men who were his superiors spoke of his charges. “Several times their knowledge and resources have helped us gain information allowing us to capture a number of towns by stealth rather than force.”

“Stealth?” Arakos replied, scowling and slowly turning his head towards Derkylidas, “is that our way now? These men are to be spent freely for the greater glory of Sparta, its kings and the Goddess of the Brazen House. True warriors fight with spear and shield, not guile, young man,” he added acidly.

While Derkylidas nodded compliantly, Thrax noted his cheeks reddening, wondering what this exchange was in fact about.

“Well, they will have to do, I suppose. Guardsman,” Arakos continued, gesturing with his chin towards Nikandrippos who had taken in the entire conversation without any outward sign of emotion, and probably even without breathing Thrax thought to himself. “Are these men to be trusted?” and once again he pointed his t-staff at the eleven Natives in their guard uniforms. “Will they obey and die if Sparta commands it?”

“Sir, they will,” Nikandrippos answered, without offering any further explanation as he had not been ordered to do so.

“Well, this man at least appears to be one of ours. Something that cannot be said of the other men you have surrounded yourself with, Derkylidas,” another of the senior Spartans commented.

The supreme commander of the Greek Expeditionary Force in Asia nodded, but also bristled further, flushing a shade matching the colour of his and the other Spartans’ cloaks.

“Men, you will be accompanying a delegation to the court of our esteemed enemy Farnabah. There an extension of the truce will be arranged. You, guardsman, will lead them,” Arakos said, at which the other Spartans nodded. “You are to leave on horseback tomorrow at daybreak.”

“Sir, I am no diplomat,” Nikandrippos said before he and his men were dismissed. “I know how to fight. But dealing with barbarians is not... my area of expertise, sir.”

“You seem to be doing quite fine with these ones,” Arakos answered, the remark raising several chuckles from his companions. “But your concern is noted, guardsman. No, commander Derkylidas has already charged a man with this task. His name is Onomakles. Dismissed,” and he simply turned around, beginning to chat to the other Spartans giving no further thought to the Natives speakers.

Of course, it had to be bloody Onomakles, Thrax thought, as he watched the red-robed group vanishing between the tents. Well, fuck my bloody luck.

With their orders now cut out, the Native Speakers hastily said good-bye to each other and quickly left for their individual units to inform their respective commanders of the change in plans. With no authority, particular importance, nor any specific responsibility within his own unit except for seeing to water, firewood and food, Thrax took his time strolling back to the Arkadian camp site, pondering three questions which had presented themselves to him: Why had the three Spartans first commended Derkylidas in public only to then humiliate him and what exactly would bloody Onomakles get up to? But first, and foremost, on his mind, as he felt his stomach rumbling was of course the question if he would be able to lay his hands on something to eat.

***

“So, off to see Farnabah tomorrow then, right,” Smiler said as they sat around the fire that evening. “It does seem a bit strange to first have the men cheer the Boss, only for those three old geezers to then cut him back down to size, I tell you. Here, give me some of that,” he added holding out his hand for the gourd of wine making its usual rounds.

“Don’t you two see, that’s precisely what it was all about,” Zenia replied shaking her head, the first thing she had said all the time while Thrax had been speaking. “The whole thing was just a show. First, they praise him and the men, and make sure everybody sees them standing beside commander Derkylidas while they do so, then they show him who’s really in charge when nobody’s looking. You really don’t get it do you,” she added exasperatedly.

“Well thank the gods we have you here at our side, princess,” Smiler replied, flashing her a grin, his left hand creeping towards her to caress her back as he so often did.

This time however Thrax noted that she merely smacked his forearm slightly, returning his smile, instead of actually trying to hurt him as usual. Seems he will charm his way into her bed, he thought to himself. Then he suddenly had to grin as he realised that, as they were sharing a tent, they were, by most ways of reckoning at least, already sharing beds.

“You still there, mate?” Smiler said, punching him in the shoulder, roughly interrupting his musings upon possible constellations between the three of them.

“Sorry?” Thrax replied sheepishly.

“I wasn’t saying anything,” Smiler said grinning, “but the lady here wanted a quiet word with you,” and he got up to leave, stepping backward over the log the three had been sitting on. “Just don’t do anything naughty,” he quickly added, kneeling down and stroking Zenia’s shoulder.

“Get your hands off me, you, rogue,” the Persian princess replied smiling in mock exasperation, hitting in his general direction, but evidently without the intent of actually doing any harm, as Smiler hastily stood up and walked off. “I really wish he would not do that,” Zenia said shaking her head somewhat ruffled, while Thrax thought that she was actually hoping he would do more of it, a lot more so it seemed to him. She moved close enough along the log for their shoulders to nearly, very nearly but not quite touch, and said in a quiet voice “I must ask you for a favour.”

“Of course, what is it?” he answered wondering what this sudden secrecy was all about.

After all, it was not as if much remained secret when they had spent most nights during the last weeks sleeping side by side. Except for the fact he had never managed to see her naked that is. Well, he had nearly gotten a look at her nipples, which was probably more than anyone else has managed so far, Thrax thought to himself, grinning.

“This is serious,” Zenia said earnestly, in a tone of voice that made him think she had in fact been reading his mind.

“I’m sorry, please carry on,” he replied flushing, hastily attempting to expel the pictures of her naked body that had instantly come to his mind.

“You must swear to keep this a secret between you and me,” she said.

Inhaling, Zenia took a moment to look around, but the other men were chatting and drinking, none of them taking any notice of the two.

“Sure: I swear I won’t tell anyone,” Thrax said, shrugging.

“No, you must swear,” Zenia answered, shaking her head. “By Epta’s... breasts,” she said, elegantly avoiding the rather more usual denomination ‘tits’, “by Mesena the Horseman and Derzelas.”

“How do you know...?” Thrax began, completely taken aback by Zenia’s sudden display of her knowledge of Thracian religion, but then simply shook his head instead of finishing the sentence.

“No matter. Swear by these three. Please,” she added.

To Thrax’ surprise, her plea felt as awkward to him as it evidently did to her.

“Alright then: By Epta’s milk-white breasts, by Mesena the Horseman and by Derzelas, Guardian of the Fields of the Dead, I swear I will not tell anybody about the favour you are asking of me,” Thrax said, quietly but solemnly and by now completely intrigued by the entire matter.

“Thank you,” Zenia said in a muted voice, looking about them to see if anyone else had followed their dialogue. However, the other men were all still engaged in their own conversation. Zenia nodded to herself and said “I need you to deliver something to Farnabah... to the satrap from me.”

“I can certainly try. But what makes you think I’ll actually get to see the man himself,” Thrax asked, “or, what’s more, alone?”

“Because you will show him this,” she said quietly, pulling a thick-walled, white tube from inside her chiton about the length of his little finger, which had been hanging by a leather thong inside her clothing. She slipped the cord over her head and hung it around Thrax’ neck.

“What is this?” Thrax asked, rolling the tube in his fingers, noting it was engraved with something which could have been writing, ornamentation or possibly both.

“Our family seal,” Zenia replied. “You must roll it, see,” she added, taking it in her right hand and rolling it in the palm of her left, inadvertently touching Thrax’ neck, shoulders and arms.

He could not remember her ever having simply touched him, without any thought as to how he would interpret such a gesture. In fact, he realised, he could only remember her attempting to evade his proximity at all costs. He could not explain why, but his skin tingled at her touch as if from sunburn.

“You either roll it in clay,” Zenia continued, apparently oblivious to the unfamiliar sensations she was creating, “or ink it, then roll it on paper. And I will give you a message for him too. Promise me to deliver them to him. Please.”

“Sure, I will, I mean I’ll try my best,” Thrax answered rather incoherently.

Zenia seemed satisfied with the reply and nodded.

“Thank you, I will write it and give it to you tomorrow and...”

“What will you be giving him tomorrow then, princess?” Smiler said quietly, barging in on the two of them, kneeling down and putting his hand on each of their shoulders to separate the two. “Can I be of any help, putting anything anywhere?”

“No thank you, we were doing just fine,” Zenia said, suddenly all haughty once again, the quick moment of intimacy broken. “I am tired. Good night,” and she elegantly got up and left.

“That’s women for you, eh, Thracian,” Smiler chuckled. “All secrets. Ah well, too bad she’ll be missing out on this,” he added, producing a wine skin from out of nowhere and holding it to his lips.

Watching his friend drink, Thrax slowly and inconspicuously tucked the white tube inside his tunic, wondering about Onomakles, Farnabah, Zenia and what their journey would yet hold in store.

***

On the way to Lampsakos, Thrax had ploughed his way through sleet, rain and mud, there had been forced stops and detours due to the weather making their route simply impassable, and forced marches to bring them through the territory under Farnabah’s control as swiftly as possible. And he had walked most of the way. Now, however, the men journeying east again were on horseback, it was spring and the weather was fair, though still cool at night. The riders were not only able to take their time, but had in fact been ordered to do so, so as not to appear as if making undue haste.

All in all, there were twenty-five of them: Oros, the commander of the cavalry scouts whom Thrax had already served under, and five of his men took point and were in charge of reconnoitring their route. All of the eleven Native Speakers, including Thrax himself, had been equipped as guardsmen, commanded by Nikandrippos and bolstered by another six men from Derkylidas’ personal bodyguard “to help you lads give the Persian bastards a decent show of Spartan brawn,” as the Boss had succinctly put it. And finally, there was Onomakles, the leader of their delegation. He would be in charge of handling all negotiations with the satrap.

All twenty-five of them had been issued with a horse and Thrax had been lucky enough to once again get his hands on trusty Skilas, who had carried him out of danger more than once. Besides their mounts they were also accompanied by five donkeys carrying their other equipment, as well as presents for the satrap; a fact which had come as a complete surprise not only to him.

As they rode along a broad paved road in the shade of massive plane trees lining both of its sides, Thrax decided to ask Nikandrippos about the two beasts laden down with an assortment of valuables lifted from their common Bithynian enemies.

“The bloody Persians like their gold, lad,” Nikandrippos replied. “And so, the Boss reckoned Farnabah would be pleased to be presented with some of the stuff we took from those bloody Thracians,” at which he suddenly grinned adding, “That doesn’t include you of course, lad, you’re our Thracian,” causing Thrax to grin back. “Well, as I was saying, the Boss thought it better to try a bit of diplomacy instead of simply putting our swords on the table, so to speak. Mind you,” he added in a very much quieter tone of voice, bending towards Thrax in a conspirative fashion, “he didn’t tell Arakos and the other two about the matter; ‘guile’ and ‘stealth’ and all that, you know.”

That made a lot of sense, Thrax realised, thanking the guardsman for the information and letting himself fall back to the Native Speakers who formed the rear guard and were charged with taking care of the donkeys. After all, whatever the three Spartiates thought of the way Derkylidas had handled matters in Asia until now, as far as he could tell he had certainly gained more by convincing its inhabitants by words and treaties rather than through brute force. Stealth to some, diplomacy to others, Thrax thought to himself. Where exactly was the difference? And, more to the fact, what did it matter if the goals which had been set were achieved?

***

Before they left, the locals had told them that on horseback they should arrive at their goal within four or five days, depending on the state of the roads and if they took their time. As a result, Derkylidas had ordered Nikandrippos to make sure they used main roads and remained visible to any possible observers when they stopped. In fact, the commander had even impressed on him and Onomakles not to hesitate to tell anyone they met about their goal.

They travelled light. Tents and any other equipment to establish a proper camp site had been left behind at Lampsakos, as had the guardsmen’s large and heavy hoplite shields.

“This is supposed to be a diplomatic mission,” Nikandrippos had explained the orders to his men the morning they were setting off, “and we’ll be protected by Zeus Xenios, lads. That’s the patron of hospitality, for all of you barbarians,” he added grinning at the blank or questioning looks on the faces of some of the Native Speakers. “Even the bloody Persians won’t mess with Father Zeus,” he said, looking up to the morning sky in which the sun was about to arise. “All right, step to it!”

The ride was pleasant and Thrax was glad to exchange stories of the past months’ events with his comrades. Interestingly, due to the size of their group, the Native Speakers found themselves not only mingling with Oros’ scouts, but even with the ‘proper’ Spartans, who otherwise mostly tended to remain amongst themselves in camp. Here on the road, however, the motley assortment of mainland Greeks, Asians, islanders and one Thracian immediately found they had a lot in common. While communication occasionally presented some hurdles, the mixture of Dorian, Aiolian and Ionian Greek, together with a smattering of native tongues and hands and feet, always somehow got the message delivered, often amid some hilarity. Even Nikandrippos proved affable in this comparatively relaxed setting, though he did always make sure guards were posted and military routine adhered to.

Only Onomakles remained completely aloof. This came as no surprise to Thrax. In fact, he was extremely relieved the Spartan officer refrained from socialising with the other men. The man was up to something and would try to utilise him for some scheme, Thrax was sure. In fact, he would use anyone to further his goals, he added to himself, whatever they may be. Onomakles would not hesitate for the time it took to bat an eyelid to have him or anybody else stabbed in the back or kill them personally. He had seen the man do just that. Still, Onomakles never approached him, spoke to him or even looked him in the eye, which was fine with Thrax. But, as sure as the Fields called every man home one day, sooner or later he would. At least he looks bloody sore and uncomfortable, Thrax thought to himself, grimacing and remembering Onomakles’ remark about his “lacking equestrian skills.”

Served the bastard right.

***

On the last day of their journey, Onomakles then finally did address the men as everyone was busy packing their equipment before saddling their mounts and preparing to leave.

“Men. We are to represent Sparta, its kings and the Goddess of the Brazen House. Those of you serving as guardsmen will see to it that your equipment reflects this fact. All of you shall clean and polish arms and equipment, both your own and your horses’. Those with helmets will don them when we ride.”

The officer scrutinised the men, all of whom had by now stood up, the Spartans immediately having come to rigid attention. His look made it obvious he was not particularly impressed with what he saw. Pursing his lips as if to add something, he simply said “dismissed,” turned around and walked off.

“You heard the man, spit and polish lads! And step to it, I want to be able to shave my lip in your helmets later on!” Nikandrippos ordered, not particularly successful in attempting to lighten the mood.

A few minutes later, Ezis and Thrax were sitting side by side on a log facing the remnants of last night’s fire, polishing the helmets they had once again been loaned. This time, everyone had been issued with the same type of headgear, simple helmets of the type the Spartans called ‘pilos’. These had the same form as the felt caps soldiers often wore underneath their helmets to protect their heads from being rubbed raw by the metal. Basically, they consisted of a pot with a brim, slightly protruding over brows and ears, allowing for good sight and hearing but no protection for the wearer’s face or neck. By the time everyone was about finished cleaning boots or sandals, polishing helmets, scrubbing their linen corselets and brushing the horses’ manes and tails, Nikandrippos walked by in his gleaming bronze breastplate, with his pilos with its transverse crest likewise magnificently polished to a fine sheen.

“Tell me, lads, how come that my bronze,” here he rapped his breastplate with his knuckles for emphasis, “is already polished, while your stuff looks like shit? Believe me,” the guardsman added in a low voice, suddenly devoid of any trace of humour, “when Onomakles wants us to leave, he will. And if you’re not ready he’ll have you punished. Get a move on,” and he left to see how the other men were doing.

“What the fuck that all about?” Ezis asked in a quiet voice, visibly irritated. “I mean, we have time enough, or not? Onomakles, he that bad, Thracian?”

“Worse,” Thrax replied, receiving a grin in return, which quickly faded as Ezis realised the remark was not in the least meant as a joke.

“Fuck,” Ezis muttered, shaking his head, clenched his lips and continued to polish his helmet.

***

As they approached a stream Nikandrippos identified as the Tarsios, the hard-packed dirt track they had been on suddenly turned into a paved road. The horsemen crossed a stone bridge over the river and followed the road to the north-east, reaching the vicinity of Daskyleion in the early afternoon. By then most of the men were uncomfortable and hot due to them having to wear their full kit, spears and swords, helmets and linen armour, or bronze armour in the case of Nikandrippos and Onomakles. At the insistence of their commanding officer there had been no pause for lunch this time, only a short break to water the horses at a brook they passed by.

Within a few hours, the mood, easy-going, chatty and generally positive at the outset of their journey, had turned sullen and quiet. Thrax wondered if this had in fact been Onomakles’ intention. After all, with everyone now fully equipped for battle, the men also appeared more vigilant and combative. Or maybe it was all part of a show their Spartan officer was attempting to put on for the Persians. Well, I suppose we’ll soon find out soon, he shrugged off further contemplation.

The trees whose shade the horsemen had been riding in suddenly came to an end. A short distance ahead, two massive stone pillars stood to either side of the paved road, marking the entrance to the city limits. Further along, the road began to be lined by funerary monuments. The fluted pillars in front of them, each as thick as a horse’s trunk, were both topped with impressive stone beasts looking towards the approaching travellers. The statue on the left was of a lion sitting on his haunches, while the right pillar was topped with an eagle with folded wings. Both the pillars themselves and the animals standing on top of them just beyond the reach of the horsemen were brightly coloured, with the animals’ claws furnished in gold, gleaming in the sun. As the riders emerged into the warm spring sunlight, Onomakles lifted his right hand for the silent column to stop. Immediately the soldiers brought their mounts to a halt.

“We are near our goal. At the moment we are being watched by a dozen eyes, even though we may not be aware of this fact. Remember, you represent Sparta. Do not forget this. I will not if you should.”

He proceeded to take a leather flask of wine from his tunic and, murmuring something Thrax failed to catch, he poured what would have amounted to a generous mugful, or so it appeared to the dry mouths of the men watching on, on the paving stones of the road. Nodding to himself, he replaced the stopper and returned the flask to where it had come from. Silently, Onomakles signalled for the men to ride on.

“What was that about?” Thrax asked quietly, sidling up to Ezis.

“A sacrifice for gods who rule here, so they knowing we come in peace,” Ezis whispered back, however loud enough for Nikandrippos riding ahead to glance over his shoulder and shoot the two a dark look.

As they carried on in silence, Thrax noticed the monuments to each side becoming more and more imposing the closer they got to the city. The colours in which the steles, vases, reliefs and statues were painted became gaudier and brighter, with gold and bronze fitting attached to some of the figures. Atop one stone, well ‘box’, Thrax thought in want of any better word, there was a relief depicting a young man on a horse riding down an enemy. The entire scene, about half life-size was painted so as to appear nearly alive. The eyes of the horseman and his victim looked at each other, while the rider’s sword was in fact made of bronze. Catching Ezis’ eye, he saw his friend looking at him with an open mouth and quickly closed his own as he noticed he had been gawping, earning him a grin in response.

They rode for some time through a veritable forest of painted stone warriors and grieving mothers, bulls and wrestlers, ships’ prows and inscriptions Thrax was generally unable to decipher. He wondered if this could possibly be some type of Greek script unknown to him, when Ezis suddenly rode up, pointing to a stele with a hunting scene, topped by a procession, above which a banquet was depicted.

“That be Phrygian,” his friend whispered, evidently pleased. “See, it written in my tongue and...”

Before he was able to finish his sentence, Nikandrippos turned around, giving the two a particularly dark look and shook his head. Quietly, Ezis led his horse back to his position at Thrax’ left, ending any chance of him finding out what exactly the inscription had said. To the left of the horsemen, the Tarsios wound its way back in the general direction of the road, while to their right the countryside gently undulated east in a series of fields, with clumps of trees which appeared to mostly be pines dotting the landscape. After a short ride, the road finally joined the main overland route which originated back in Ephesos, leading through Lydia to Sardeis and Thyateira, continuing through Mysia to Mandrai, then reaching Daskyleion and carrying on to the coast at Panormos to finally end in Kyzikos.

They had failed to encounter many fellow travellers on their way so far, although they had seen several groups of people on the move. But Onomakles had instructed them to stay away from everyone they came across and to avoid any contact if they did. This meant that they had basically had the road to themselves for the last four days, even though everybody assumed they were being observed by any number of Persian eyes at all times. Now however, as the road opened up before them, giving the men their first glance of the city of Daskyleion, people were on the move everywhere. Onomakles did not let the men take their time to survey their surroundings, but they were riding slowly enough to take in the scenery. And it was every bit as impressive as the pillars and the sepulchral monuments had implied.

A steady stream of men and beasts was leaving and entering the city through what had to be one of the main gates directly to their north: Farmers on their way to and from their fields, traders and travellers, donkeys, horses and carts headed towards the city and passed the soldiers as they made their way south. While the bustle was nothing like what Thrax had encountered at Ephesos, it became clear to everybody that the town they were heading for was definitely a place of importance. They steadily carried on north, gradually beginning to share the road with other people. However, much to Thrax surprise, these took very little notice of the group of fully-armed horsemen.