Echoes of Olympus (The Atheniad Book 1)

by Darrin Drader

  “And how would you suggest that we combine our forces?” Alexander asked.

  “You would be a welcome guest in Athens once again, along with a contingent of soldiers that we would allow inside the polis for your security. From there, we can determine the appropriate allotment of soldiers.”

  Alexander stared into Demosthenes’ eyes for a long moment. “It is done then! I accept your offer and we will resume this discussion within Athens. I look forward to seeing your fair polis once again.”

  Heliodas noted that Lysiemon remained expressionless and silent, despite the opposition that he surely felt. Demosthenes had easily neutered the man in the presence of their enemy, once again outmaneuvering his political opposition with little effort. Had Lysiemon insisted on derailing the alliance Demosthenes had just brokered, the League would have appeared weak and it would have guaranteed war, which Lysiemon had previously stated opposition to. His silence indicated consent for this course of action despite the fact that what he had intended was the opposite.

  The Macedonian soldiers entered Athens under a banner of peace a few days later. After his return to the polis, Demosthenes addressed the assembly, presenting Alexander’s plan to go to war with Persia as well as his solution. As expected, there was grumbling among some of the citizens about how Demosthenes overstepped his authority in arranging an alliance without first bringing it before them, but ultimately it was decided that his solution was the most politically viable and they agreed to the alliance. The next evening Demosthenes addressed the Delian League representatives, who also came to the same conclusion, though the grumbling was louder at this meeting. Lysiemon voiced his displeasure with being belittled before an enemy of the League. He also made it clear that Amphipolis, the polis that he represented, was far closer to the Macedonian threat than Athens, which is why he should have been allowed to speak at the meeting. The League ultimately dismissed his complaints and agreed to allocate troops to the Macedonian invasion force.

  At the end of the meetings, Heliodas escaped to the farm where his mother had been buried three years ago. She had been a solemn woman who had insisted that he was the son of Zeus. Of course nobody in Athens had believed a word she said, despite the lock of black hair at her temple, which had suddenly appeared on the night she said he was conceived.

  He remembered her from his youth, a constant, caring presence who lovingly ensured that he received an education and the love he needed to develop into the best man he could be. He did not remember his grandparents, who had died when he was very young, and his mother, in her quest for people to accept her incredible version of the events in an increasingly rational society, became bitter while taking one lover after another, none of whom seemed to please her. Heliodas had always been embarrassed to be her son.

  Three years ago, on a warm, clear night, she had walked to the temple of Zeus in the Acropolis and sliced her own throat from ear to ear with the tip of a ceremonial spear. She bled to death on the floor, despite the fact that she was in a temple where the priests could have saved her by channeling the power of Zeus, had any been present at the time. Upon her death, Heliodas had suddenly found himself in charge of the land the family owned outside the polis, but his interest had been elsewhere. He had placed the land under the care of a trusted but educated slave named Telagorus while he enlisted in the polis’ army.

  Before her death, Heliodas had made a promise to his mother that he would never become a soldier. He did not know why she opposed this course for him. Many of the citizens of Athens joined the army because securing its freedom and democracy was their sacred right. For the past three years, he had served as one of the elite guards in the service of Demosthenes, which was one of the less dangerous assignments he could receive. He would have liked to have served with the regular army, but he took on the less dangerous duties as part of his promise to his mother, whom he still held dear.

  On this day, he sat by her grave site with a small cake and a clay container filled with wine. He placed the cake atop her grave and then poured the wine over the dry soil. “May my gifts reach you in the underworld,” Heliodas said.

  He thought for a moment of his mother’s friend Ophene, who had risen to the top of the priesthood of Athena, and wondered why she had never spoken publicly to support the claim that Zeus had taken her for a lover. As part of the priesthood, the people of Athens would have listened to her and perhaps his mother would not have felt compelled to take her own life. There were many things that Heliodas regretted; not the least was the fact that he had to break the promise he had made to her so long ago.

  “Mother,” he said. “I know you never wanted me to go to war. I intended to honor our agreement. I never dreamed of breaking my word, but I must.” He paused for a moment, trying to find the words that would help him explain his decision in a way that would allow his mother to understand him. She had always been supportive of him, but she’d told him on multiple occasions that this was one decision that she could never live with. Whenever she spoke of the evils of war, she had always had a look of sadness, which she had never fully explained to him. She had always said that she would tell him the story someday, but she took her life before that day had come.

  “Alexander, our enemy to the north, has decided to embark upon a war with our enemies to the east. You know as well as I do that the Persians are a constant threat that we will never be free of until we have acted against them. I think Alexander’s army stands a chance of success. While I would be content to continue to protect Demosthenes, I feel that my life is called to a higher purpose to help defend Athens from its most dangerous enemy.”

  He paused again, wondering exactly how much his mother would be swayed by his argument. He suspected that if she were alive, she would be wailing at him by now, or throwing things at him. “I’m going to go with the army, mother. I’m going to help secure Athens for ages to come. I will lay down my life in its defense if I must.”

  Chapter 2

  The Eternal March

  When Heliodas had joined Alexander’s army, he had assumed that they would sail to Ionia. His assumption was wrong. Instead the soldiers acquired from the Delian League joined the Macedonians who had already been marching with him, but as it turned out, more than half of the original army waited for his return in the polis of Pella, which lay roughly two hundred miles to the north. It took only two weeks to reach the polis, but Alexander paused for two months, during which time the massive army was mostly idle and the commanders were forced to increase discipline and drills in order to keep the bored soldiers from trying to sack their own polis.

  During their time there, Heliodas made himself useful by training for a number of positions within the army, including scout, infantry, and cavalry. Ultimately, the role he played would have as much to do with his equipment as his skills, but he preferred versatility. During the few times that he entered the polis, he found that the people of Pella were not as Greek as he expected. Their complexions were lighter, their hair usually worn longer, and more of their men shaved their beards. Upon this realization, he took another look at the troops in the encampment and after questioning several of them, found that many had short beards only because they had not taken the time to shave while on the march. This prompted Heliodas to take a blade to his own face in hopes of being able to form a closer bond with the Macedonian soldiers.

  Having served for only three years in the Athenian army, Heliodas had never witnessed the grandeur of an army on the march. Even the smaller force that had marched south from Macedonia and into the territory controlled by Athens had been lightly equipped by comparison. Heliodas had long heard that armies marched on their stomachs, and he soon understood that Alexander had not brought enough support along for a prolonged campaign in Greece. It was more likely that the war party the Macedonian king had brought had been just large enough to intimidate the politicians into suggesting the alliance he had sought all along, even if he had no intention of using it. At Pella, not only did the siz
e of the combined army become noticeably larger, but the total number of people marching nearly doubled as all of the support people joined them. The encampment became split between the soldiers and the cooks, food merchants, leatherworkers, and blacksmiths who would accompany them to Ionia. The group of civilians was nearly equal in number to the soldiers. It was as though a small polis had joined them.

  One night, shortly before the army began to march again, Heliodas wandered through the tents of the non-combatants with the hulking blond Macedonian soldier, Pelephon. During his march north with the army, Heliodas had heard of Pelephon’s reputation as a brutal warrior who was tightly bound by a personal sense of honor, both to his friends and to the army to which he belonged. Heliodas began spending more time in his company because he seemed not to be prejudiced against the Greek soldiers, as many of the Macedonians were, and also because he genuinely enjoyed his company.

  Pelephon was a few years older than Heliodas, and his face bore the scars of his service to Macedonia. His nose was large and long, but it was also crooked, having apparently been broken more than once. There was also a deep scar that was still red, which ran from his right eye and hooked down into his cheek. Pelephon’s hair was long, blond, and bound in the back with a leather strap, and his skin was pale.

  They had become accustomed to the low ranking soldiers bringing buckets of fish stew directly to their commanders, who doled it out to their men. Heliodas had not ventured out to see from where it originated until this night. After walking past several tents and people engaged in numerous different trades, they found a group of fifty people preparing the food. They were split between various groups, some of whom were gutting and slicing the fish. Others were cutting the vegetables, and still others merely stoked the fire upon which the massive cauldron cooked the stew.

  During his walk through the civilian encampment, Heliodas caught sight of a shapely woman who was, he judged, close to his own age. She was as tall as he was, with long black hair that hung to her shoulders, an olive complexion, and a sturdy but unmistakably feminine build. Her face was gorgeous, but there was something about her eyes that captivated him. They were slightly angular, though not as much as some of the people he had met who originated from the more distant lands of Asia.

  Heliodas wandered in her direction as she moved ladles of stew from the massive cauldron into smaller pots that would be taken to the soldiers. “She’s beautiful,” he said under his breath. He noticed the woman look at him briefly, then return to her work.

  “I would not take too much of an interest if I were you,” Pelephon warned.

  “Why is that?” Heliodas asked, not altering his course.

  “Two reasons,” Pelephon replied. “First, Alexander does not like to hear about relations between his soldiers and any of the army’s support. He says that it leads to discipline problems within the ranks. He does not look down upon his soldiers enjoying each other’s company, however; he says it helps them form stronger bonds, which gives them added incentive to aid one another in combat.”

  “And what’s the second reason?” Heliodas asked.

  “Her father is twice your size, all muscle, and is staring at you ogling his daughter.”

  Heliodas looked over and saw a gray-haired man with a dark complexion casting a baleful stare in his direction. Too late to avoid contact with her now, Heliodas caught the attention of the woman. “I know you’re hungry,” she said with a thick accent that he couldn’t place, and was definitely not Macedonian. “You’ll have to wait and get it from your commander.”

  Momentarily confused, Heliodas took a step back. “Apologies,” he said. “I was merely enjoying the aroma.”

  Pelephon grabbed Heliodas by the arm and started leading him away. “Very sorry to disturb you,” he called over to the woman. “My friend hasn’t eaten in two days.”

  Heliodas brushed Pelephon off and turned back to the woman. “I may be starving, but hunger has not blinded me to your beauty. What’s your name?” he asked, smirking as Pelephon began backing away.

  “Isaandra,” she replied quietly, casting a sidelong glance at her father, who continued to eye him. “Now go, before my father takes offense.”

  “My name is Heliodas,” he said as he began to walk away.

  Pelephon led Heliodas several paces away before his friend began to berate him. “Are you a fool?” he asked.

  “I spoke to a pretty woman. She told me to wait for food. I fail to see a problem,” Heliodas said.

  “Macedonia is not as free with their women as Athens. That aside, she is not Macedonian, but Bedouin, and they are even more strict with their women than my people are,” Pelephon said.

  “What of the whores I have seen in Pella?” he asked.

  Pelephon stopped walking and faced Heliodas. He started to say something, shook his head, started again, and merely said, “Greeks…”

  “What?” Heliodas asked. “Is a woman not a woman?”

  “You might as well ask if a criminal and a nobleman conform to the same standards,” Pelephon said. “The woman you just spoke to is not a whore, but you treated her like one!”

  “So speaking to a woman is treating her like a whore?”

  “A man does not approach a woman unless he first obtains her family’s permission. That is the custom of the Bedouins. You have just insulted both her and her father.”

  “Then I should return and apologize,” Heliodas said. “I would not wish for people to think poorly of her because of my ignorance.”

  “I think you’ve done enough. You are a handsome man, and lacking any large visible scars,” Pelephon said, briefly touching the one on his cheek. “I suspect that you’ll have plenty of opportunity to have your way with some women after we’ve conquered a Persian city or two, but understand that they will be the spoils of war to do with as you choose.”

  A shiver of revulsion ran down Heliodas’ spine as he considered the notion of taking a woman against her will.

  Following this incident, the pair returned to camp. Long days passed while they waited anxiously for the army to march. During the down-time, their unit continually practiced their fighting techniques and battle maneuvers. Once the march had started, they spent a great deal less time on these activities and more on simply moving forward. Still deep within Macedonia, scouts were used to ensure that the road ahead was passable and clear of enemies. Having not yet entered hostile territory, they were still mostly at ease, if somewhat apprehensive about the trials that lay ahead.

  During the nights, after the long march of the day had ended, the men would sit around in groups drinking wine, wandering from campfire to campfire, or sitting in their commanders’ tents. Heliodas found himself doing all of the above, but he avoided returning to the area occupied by the civilians. The story of his encounter with Isaandra had made the rounds and his ignorance became the subject of ridicule.

  One evening, about a week into the march, Heliodas and Pelephon were drinking wine inside one of the tents. Neither of them was sure who the tent belonged to, but the ruckus within had grown loud when the tent received an unexpected visitor. The Macedonian king swaggered into the tent, a small pot full of wine in each hand as he swigged from both alternately. Four guards accompanied him, but they all appeared relaxed. Despite the fact that this was an obvious social call, the tent went suddenly quiet. Alexander was the golden general, but during what little time he had spent near the king, Heliodas had noted that Alexander’s eyes betrayed the fact that he was still haunted by something, likely a youth where he famously witnessed the brutal death of his father and was raised by his former enemies.

  Alexander looked at the occupants of the tent and frowned. “Are you all so afraid of me that you cannot enjoy yourselves in my presence?” he demanded. A few nervous murmurs followed, but the soldiers were inclined to show proper respect to their king. “Were you not raucous a moment ago?” He looked to each of the men, his gaze finally fixing on Heliodas. “You look familiar to me. Were you no
t one of Demosthenes’ guards?”

  “I was,” Heliodas replied.

  “What are you doing in my army?”

  Heliodas cleared his throat nervously and accidentally let out a loud belch, drawing a bout of laughter from the other soldiers. “I elected to accompany your army because I wish to free the Ionians from the Persians.”

  Alexander nodded. “You wish to free them. That is an interesting assertion.”

  “Free them from the Persian conquerors,” Heliodas attempted to elaborate, looking for more words to explain his interest in the army, though he found his alcohol-fogged mind coming up short.

  “You are Athenian, are you not?” Alexander asked.

  “I am,” Heliodas replied.

  “So you wish to free the Ionians by overthrowing the Persians and hope that they implement Athenian style democracy?”

  “That is my hope,” Heliodas agreed.

  “So you maintain that democracy is what makes Athens free?”

  “I do,” Heliodas nodded.

  “And suppose I disagree with you? Suppose that I believe democracy simply turns control of the polis to the mob. What would you say to that?”

  “I would respectfully disagree,” Heliodas answered. “Democracy ensures that the people live according to their own laws instead of ones that are imposed upon them.”

  Alexander smiled. “So how do you reconcile that with the murder of Socrates? Do you feel that his death was just?”

  Heliodas tried to remember his history. The death of Socrates was something that had been mentioned in his education, but he failed to remember many of the details. “I’m sure it was a legal matter,” he said.

  “A legal matter?” Alexander laughed. “A legal matter…. As I’m sure you are aware, following my father’s defeat, I was brought to Athens and taught under Aristotle himself in the Lyceum. I am quite familiar with the history of your polis. Were you not taught the tragedy of Socrates?”