Echoes of Olympus (The Atheniad Book 1)

by Darrin Drader

  “That should be a sound plan,” Heliodas agreed, though he couldn’t help but wonder if Thermiandra had other motives for avoiding Cyme.

  Part II

  The Curse of Athena

  Chapter 11

  Interlude I

  Heliodas threw some more sticks and branches on the fire, then sat down and looked at Pelephon. “I never thought it would come to this. Aren’t you supposed to be the tracker in our group?”

  “Even I can’t find things that aren’t there,” Pelephon said. He tossed something into his mouth and Heliodas could hear a sickening crunch.

  “I could just refuse to give in,” Heliodas protested.

  “Sure, if you want to starve,” Pelephon replied. He threw another one into his mouth and began to chew.

  After four days of riding, with little food and only the contents of his waterskin to sustain him, Heliodas was starving. He knew that he wasn’t going to make it through another day without some form of sustenance. Despite his years of experience hunting and tracking, Pelephon had so far been unable to bring back anything to eat. In desperation, Thermiandra had split the last of her nuts and dates between the three of them a day ago, but those had only lasted a few hours before they were consumed.

  “I refuse to eat bugs!” Heliodas stated once again.

  Pelephon crunched away. “It’s your decision. I’m just saying that if it’s between eating bugs and passing out in your saddle tomorrow, I think you should probably eat the bugs.”

  “I don’t see Thermiandra eating bugs,” Heliodas commented.

  “She will. She’ll come back into camp and she’ll still be hungry. She’ll have no choice,” Pelephon said.

  There were times when Pelephon was quite smug, and this was one of them. It was almost as though he enjoyed dining on the lowliest creatures of the world for no reason other than that his companions were unaccustomed to it. “So starve or eat these… things.” Heliodas wanted to vomit, but realized that there was nothing in his stomach to expel. He spotted a long shape on the ground a few feet away by the firelight, caught it in his hand and felt it flutter in protest. He tried not to think about what he was doing as he jammed the struggling locust into his mouth, and then bit down hard. The outer shell cracked between his teeth, and the warm juices from the insect’s internal organs spilled out into his mouth. He could feel the wings fluttering in its death throes with his tongue, and that almost caused him to spit it out. It was tart, and he thought he could detect some sort of meat in there as well. As he swallowed, he decided that it wasn’t as bad as he’d thought it would be.

  “See? Locusts aren’t that bad,” Pelephon said with a smile.

  “I’d rather be eating something else… anything else… but this will have to do for now,” Heliodas said. He then popped another panicked grasshopper into his mouth and began to chew. Over the course of the next few minutes, Heliodas managed to choke down half a dozen of the insects while Pelephon watched with an amused expression on his face.

  In the distance, they heard footsteps approaching. Though they could not see who it was, Heliodas was certain that it was Thermiandra returning from her hunt. The footsteps came closer, and then Heliodas could see her feminine form as she entered the firelight.

  “Is anyone hungry?” she asked as she threw a couple of fresh carcasses toward the fire, arrows protruding from their lifeless bodies. Her catch was a couple of rabbits and a large carrion bird. There was easily enough meat there to feed the three of them for the night.

  The full realization that he’d resorted to eating the disgusting twitchy insects hit Heliodas full-force, and he had little time to do anything other than lean forward as he vomited the contents of his stomach. The nausea passed once his stomach was empty again, but he couldn’t help but notice the tiny pieces of chewed up bug parts amidst the fluid in front of him.

  After the animals were cleaned, cooked, and consumed, the three companions indulged themselves by downing the contents of one of Heliodas’ wineskins. In truth, Heliodas and Thermiandra had no more than a quarter of the wine themselves, while Pelephon drank the remainder. As a result, the big Macedonian’s speech became slurred and his contributions to the conversation turned non- sensical. Heliodas couldn’t help but be happy to see his friend in such good spirits, but he was also not upset when the warrior wandered early to his bedroll, leaving him alone with Thermiandra.

  “The stars are very bright tonight,” Heliodas said, looking to the sky.

  “It’s also the coldest night we’ve had for a while,” Thermiandra commented, locking Heliodas’ gaze from across the fire.

  “Is the fire not keeping you warm enough?” Heliodas asked.

  “I could be warmer,” she replied with a wide grin. She lifted her chin and stared at Heliodas expectantly.

  Heliodas walked back to his bedroll, grabbed the blanket from on top, and walked to Thermiandra. He placed one end around her shoulders, and then sat next to her, wrapping the other end around himself.

  “Better,” she said, as she leaned slightly toward him.

  Heliodas put his arm around her waist, and was pleased when she leaned closer to him and put her head on his shoulder. Despite the fact that he knew she wasn’t telling him the truth about everything, he recognized the feelings he was beginning to have for her. In Athens, he had courted a number of women, girls really, and had fallen in love with two of them. He knew what it felt like when infatuation gave way to love. With Thermiandra, it was difficult to allow himself to feel either for her due to the commitment she’d made to the gods. He knew she was unlikely to break that, even for him.

  The closeness of her body, however, was almost intoxicating. “So tell me about that promise you made to the gods. Why?”

  “It has to do with my family,” she said.

  “Were they especially devoted to them?” Heliodas asked.

  Thermiandra laughed. “No, quite the opposite.”

  “So why do you refuse men?”

  Thermiandra was silent for a moment. “Because the men who love the women in my family tend to not live very long,” she said.

  “What, you mean they have a shorter than average span of life?”

  “I was an only child, raised by my mother, at least until she died and I was adopted by the ruler of Cyme,” she replied. “I never knew my father. He died before I was born.”

  “That’s something I understand well,” Heliodas said.

  “Except your father isn’t dead,” Thermiandra said. “It must be extraordinary to have a god for a father.”

  Heliodas sighed. “My mother had a lot of men around before she died. As far as I know, the stories she told about Zeus taking her for a lover before my birth were lies to hide the fact that she didn’t really know who my father was.”

  “And the birthmark of the bull on your shoulder?” Thermiandra asked.

  “I’ve seen some strangely shaped birthmarks on other people. I’m not convinced,” Heliodas said as he gazed at the mark on his arm. It was not a particularly large mark, but there was no mistaking that it was in the shape of a bull, and it was clearly not a scar or a tattoo.

  “What about the fact that you healed from your injuries faster than any man has the right to, especially after the severity of the wounds?” Thermiandra asked.

  “I was lucky. I’ve seen men heal from some wounds just as fast.”

  “But it’s extremely unusual,” she commented. “Normally, wounds like that would fester, and they would die of a fever if the wound itself doesn’t kill them.”

  “So why did you choose to save me?” Heliodas asked.

  “Because I trusted my vision, and because I saw your mark as you were lying on the battlefield. In that moment, I was certain that you were the one I was supposed to find.”

  Heliodas tightened his grip around her waist. “Have you not considered that if I am the son of Zeus, whatever misfortune befalls the other men in your family might not befall me?”

  “If only that wer
e the case. Forgive me, Heliodas,” Thermiandra said. “I can’t allow you to fall in love with me.” With that, she stood up, wrapped the blanket around the shoulder she had been leaning on, then kissed him lightly on the cheek. “We must ride tomorrow. We should get some rest.”

  Heliodas watched her climb into her bedroll and decided to remain up and watch the stars for a while longer.

  Chapter 12

  A Death in Athens

  The Butcher of Thebes enjoyed the cool humidity of the morning air as he stretched in Leotas’ courtyard. The physical exercise and warmth of the sun helped ease his mind about the duty he would soon carry out. A week ago, he had met Leotas on the streets of Athens at night, slightly intoxicated, and worried that his wife would learn of his affair with the blond, voluptuous Archipatra. Despite the fact that he was no more than a citizen, Leotas was favored because of his oratory skills, though not as highly as his political ally Demosthenes.

  In the week that he had come to know Leotas, Isacles could not help but like the man he was sent to kill. While he was not faithful to his wife when he was away from home, he was nothing short of dutiful to both her and his children while he was here. He was a strong, vigorous man who clearly relished the time he spent with his two boys and the woman who had given birth to them.

  Penelte, Leotas’ wife, was a kind woman, who was well poised, and had been a generous host as well as a kind master to their slaves. She could not be any older than her mid-thirties, and she had long brown hair that hung to the middle of her back, brown eyes, and pale, freckled skin. Isacles could understand, however, why Leotas sought pleasure with another woman. It was not that Penelte was unattractive or less than charming. Indeed, Isacles supposed that she was a wonderful mother who socialized well with the Athens elite. However, the main flaw he saw in her was that she seemed to lack passion and excitement. Indeed, in the time Isacles had been lurking in their home, stealthily taking stock of his victims’ habits when they weren’t watching, he had not once seen a hint of physical affection between them, let alone intimate coupling. Penelte tended her garden and cooked the food alongside the slaves, and watched over the boys, and then at the end of the day she would slumber soundly until the morning. She seemed to take her joy entirely from her domestic duties and, as far as Isacles could tell, there were no other men coming to her bedroom when Leotas was not present.

  During their week together, Isacles could tell that Leotas had been regarding him as a friend. Leotas spoke at length of his childhood in this very house, where his parents had raised him and his older brother Cleipiades. Rivals from the start who were always concerned with which one of them possessed the favor of their parents, Cleipiades had instigated a vicious brawl shortly after they were both considered men. The fight ended with the older sibling beaten and with a broken arm and ribs. Following his defeat, Cleipiades chose to leave the polis rather than live in his younger brother’s shadow.

  After Leotas had married Penelte, his parents had decided to take to the Aegean aboard their trading vessel. Since that time, Leotas had seen them, on average, once every other year when they put into port. Following their brief visits with his growing family, they would head out again, destined for some exotic location, such as Egypt, the Etruscan polises, or Persia-controlled Ionia.

  Isacles would take no joy in killing this family, yet that was the job that he had been paid to do, and he had never failed to complete a job. He was normally able to take some comfort in the fact that most of his targets were scum, and he was happy to help them along to the underworld. Among the usual fare were rapists, killers, and swindlers. Most people hired a person like Isacles because they had been wronged by someone and they lacked the strength to take revenge themselves. There were a few cases he had become involved in where the victims were honorable, upstanding people and they were targeted by relatives or associates who wished them dead. Those were the more difficult ones to live with. And then there were Menphon’s jobs. They were always politically motivated, but the same rules as before applied. Usually Menphon had him kill the corrupt and the enemies of their own poleis.

  Isacles often saw the faces of the unjustly killed in his dreams, always looking at him with terror and pain, always asking him why. If there were a way to purge his humanity and stop feeling something for the people he killed, he would gladly do it. Unfortunately, as he’d learned over a great deal of wine with some other assassins, a guilty conscience and troubled sleep was common among them. Those who possessed no guilt or regret over the taking of innocent lives in cold blood were the ones that frightened even him.

  The sun was rising as he prepared to murder this family. He had already taken care of the three servants during the night. A silent blade while they slept was the easiest way to dispatch them. The elderly woman who cooked most of the family’s meals died quietly and without struggle when he slit her throat. The middle-aged man who had sold himself into their service to pay his debts likewise protested little when the blade found his throat. He had looked at Isacles with large, frightened eyes as his blood drained away.

  The last one, however, the lad just short of twenty years, who helped out with all manner of chores around the house, had not died so easily. Isacles’ blade struck a killing blow, but it took over a minute for the boy to realize that he was already dead after he had been awakened from his slumber by the assassin’s blade. He had struck out at Isacles with his fists, bruising ribs. He had then picked up a blade from his bedside and attempted to slash the assassin’s throat. Isacles caught the powerful hand just shy of its mark, and he had held it there until the loss of blood finally weakened the boy. The muscles in his arm had relaxed, and the youth collapsed to the floor in a pool of his own blood.

  With the servants dead, there was no more time to plan for the deed. If he did nothing, the family would soon awaken, find the bodies of their servants, and realize that there was an assassin in their midst. Likely, the Athenian guards would be called to investigate, which would result in more attention being paid to him than he would have. There were still other potential targets within the polis, and he would be unable to move freely if people suddenly knew that he was implicated with this slaughter.

  Isacles gripped his knife and walked through the courtyard and through the door to the room where Leotas and Penelte slept. It was modest, possessing only a bed and shelves where their clothing was neatly folded. The sheets on their bed were likewise plain and brown, not decorated as were those of many wealthy people. They were among the elite of Athens, yet they lived no better than the common people of the polis. Again Isacles felt a pang of regret over what he was about to do. This was not a just killing.

  As he approached the bed, he saw Leotas’ eyes flutter. Clearly groggy, he looked at the man he thought was merely a recently hired bodyguard with confusion. “Telarchos, why are you in our room?” he asked, referring to the assassin by the alias he had established.

  Isacles replied only by raising his blade and striking a lethal blow.

  Demosthenes’ heart sank when the Athenian Watch called him to the home of Leotas. The political climate within the polis had been degrading for some time, with a small but vocal group of people constantly questioning his decisions, his motives, and his character. The truth of the matter was that, like Pericles before him, his power was granted by the will of the people, not taken like a tyrant. Those who disliked him were entitled to do so, and other than dislike toward their politics, he did not bear any enmity toward his political rivals. Regardless, things in the forum had become toxic. To remedy this, he had tried to banish Diophrastus and some of his supporters, but the measure failed, and he had stood looking like a man who was afraid of his political rivals. This only emboldened them. Now, he feared, it had gone beyond political.

  The polis’ Watchmen stood around Leotas’ house and Demosthenes immediately knew that something tragic had happened. He quickly passed through the door and entered the courtyard, where a watch captain bearing a white plume on his
helmet spoke with one of his subordinates. Upon seeing the general, he broke off the conversation and approached.

  “What has happened?” Demosthenes asked.

  “A heinous crime,” the soldier replied. Demosthenes felt his heart sink, for he believed that he knew what was to come next. “The masters of the house, the children, even the servants, all slain during the night.”

  Demosthenes had regarded Leotas as a son, and while he was aware of the man’s affair with Archipatra, he had felt a bond of friendship with Penelte and the boys. So many thoughts and emotions flooded over him that he was suddenly overwhelmed. “Show me the bodies,” he croaked.

  The captain led him past the rooms where the boys lay dead and showed the statesman the bed where Leotas and his wife had met their violent end. Blood drenched the sheets and the floor, and Leotas’ head had almost been completely severed. Penelte’s torso lay half out of the bed, a large bloodstain marking her heart. In the afternoon light, they were both so pale and still. Demosthenes had seen many corpses, but the sight of his friends in such a state was disturbing. He felt his stomach turn suddenly as a wave of nausea passed over him. He quickly ran into the courtyard and vomited into the foliage. He sank to his knees, tears pouring from his eyes. It had been a week since he had last seen Leotas, at which time he had left him in the company of his lover. Now he would never speak to him again.

  “Zeus, Leotas was a good man. How could you allow this to happen?” Of course there was no reply, and of late Demosthenes was beginning to think that appealing to the gods was a complete waste of time. The priests yet performed their miracles, but the gods themselves had long since stopped speaking.

  He slowly stood, wiped his eyes clean, and rinsed his mouth out with water that yet lay fresh in a container in the courtyard. He could not have the soldiers see him in this state of weakness. He spoke with the captain and told him to show him the rest of the bodies. The servants had been similarly sliced, and the boys’ throats were slit from ear to ear. “How did you learn of this?” he asked.