Athenian Steel (Book I of the The Hellennium)

by P. K. Lentz

  Just as Eris drew upright, an Equal named Menes became the last of the band to pass by her. Her sea-blue eyes, bright behind the crust of filth, caught and followed him, and in that instant Styphon saw that Menes was doomed.

  Eris lunged, and her arm flew out to grasp the passing Equal's trailing cloak. She jerked it, and Menes fell in a clatter of stones, and she fell into a crouch upon him, sliding his sword from its scabbard. Although Menes fought her, with one arm braced on her chest, the other trying to prevent the theft of his weapon, his struggles were as nothing. Breaking his grip, she plunged the blade straight down through Menes' chest, piercing his armor of stiffened leather as though it were the sackcloth of a slave.

  "We seek only words with you!" Brasidas called out over Menes' soft death groan. The rest of the band, as one, drew their bronze swords–and surely every man, as Styphon did, wished for the greater reach offered by his broad-bladed spear.

  The eyes of Eris flitted to the speaker, but her lips, faintly pink behind the filth, failed to part in answer.

  "We have no quarrel with you," Brasidas continued, and even this most feared of Equals could not hide a tremor in his iron voice of authority. "We came here to free you. We can find common–"

  The black apparition sprang from her perch. Eleven men tensed in surprise and followed her path with their blades–a path which led over their heads in an impossible leap. She landed nearest to a man named Galatias and batted his blade aside with her own before poking a hole in his throat with the point of her sword. Antigonos was the next, her blade cleaving his skull as he made an ineffectual swipe. Two more fell challenging her before Brasidas cried out, "Scatter!" and the band of Equals, its renowned courage in the face of certain death sorely tested by this army of one, gladly obliged.

  Only two did not budge: Brasidas, for reasons his own, and Styphon, who, having chosen to put his fate entirely in the polemarch's hands, opted to ignore his own instinct and do as Brasidas did.

  Now Eris leaped again, and down she came on the back of fleeing Menandros, whose face met the earth moments before his back was pierced by bronze and his life met an end. Menandros had spoken last night of the girl he was due to wed, Melissa.

  She would have to find a new man now.

  The twins Kallikrates and Dion went next to the slaughter. They had shared the hour of their birth and now they died each within seconds of the other, blood spilling from twin wounds in their necks.

  Apart from the general and his dog, only three Spartans then remained of the twelve who had ventured into the woods, and their six feet pounded the earth in a frantic dash for the deep forest, as if it might bring them safety. But this enemy was unrelenting, and as a lioness chases down her prey, she bounded after them.

  The Equal named Timon, one of those who had been on Sphakteria and tormented Styphon in prison, lost his footing and tumbled hard down a rocky slope. Eris swept her sword across his flailing form, sending an arc of blood into the air, delaying by not an instant her pursuit of the remaining two.

  Long before those two reached the imagined safety of the woods, she caught up with them. One fell with a piercing shriek as her sword blade cut his legs from beneath him, then his shriek was silenced with a earthward stab. The tenth Spartan to die that day in the orgy of slaughter which had lasted hardly more than sixty seconds, was felled by a hurled hand-ax, taken from the belt of another fallen Equal. It caught him in the base of his skull, and he collapsed against the trunk of a tree, hugging it as if to keep himself upright. But he was dead already, even if his desperate limbs were the last to know.

  Ten Equals lay dead, and Eris turned to face the last two remaining, who out of courage or stupidity had failed to flee. The terrifying goddess did not run at them but rather walked, bearing now two stolen swords, one in either hand.

  "Convince her or kill her," Brasidas said breathlessly. "I do not care which, and you'll be an Equal again. I swear it."

  Styphon could not help it: he laughed the dry laughter of the doomed.

  She was upon them now, a sinister smile adorning her crusted lips. Her sword came up, and by the light in her bluest of eyes, Styphon knew she was taking pleasure in the slaughter. This was vengeance, perhaps, for her imprisonment–it being apparently lost on her, or of no consequence, the difference between Spartan and Arkadian.

  The dealer of death was but two paces shy of reaching them in her unhurried advance when a single word came unbidden to Styphon's mind. He had forgotten its syllables, but they returned now as if by the intervention of some benevolent god at this moment when his very life depended on them.

  Ten men today had tested the strength of their arms or the swiftness of their feet against this enemy; all had failed and died. Styphon put his faith instead in the tongue which he managed to pry loose from tightly clenched jaw.

  The word forced its way out without preamble or explanation: "Geneva."

  The beautiful, terrible bringer of death froze in her soundless tracks. Sensing salvation, Brasidas echoed the foreign syllables just spoken by his dog.

  Eyes like the depths of Ocean flitted between the two speakers. Without lowering her bronze or relaxing her guard, bloodstained Eris posed them a question in calm, heavily accented Attic.

  "What do you know of that worthless fucking cunt?"

  IV. ARKADIA 8. Witch-Tamer

  Being a practiced master of the Athenian legal system, Kleon managed to carry forward with a public rather than private lawsuit against the man whom no fewer than thirty witnesses identified as the assailant who had done him harm. The charges included assault, of course, but also obstructing the duties of a public official and, worst of all, cowardice in the face of the enemy. This last was the fourth most serious charge (after murder, treason, and impiety) which could be leveled against any public defendant.

  The accused, Demosthenes of Thria, reported to the law courts as ordered and entered his plea: guilty of all but the final count. A day later, he went before the jury of a thousand-and-one citizens and waited patiently while red-faced Kleon exhausted the three hours allotted for his prosecution.

  Then Demosthenes stood under the gray winter clouds and spoke calmly in his defense. His argument was simple. Eight days ago, he asserted, three hundred of the most feared killers in all the world, implacable enemies of Athens, had taken civilians prisoner in a quiet corner of Melite. Hours later, the escapees had left the city and marched to the border where they released the last of their hostages and went on their way.

  "My prosecutor today should be thanking me rather than accusing me," he said in the conclusion to his abnormally short defense. "Had I not stepped in to relieve him of the job for which he was eminently unqualified, the gutters of Melite would have run red with children's blood, and Kleon would stand in my place today, the target of half a hundred suits brought by the husbands and fathers of wives and heirs put in the earth before their time.

  "Instead, no one lies dead. And Kleon calls me a coward for not having taken the place of twelve of those women whose lives my actions saved. Nine of their husbands you heard speak today as witnesses on my behalf. I am a husband, too, do not forget, and I swore to my bride that very morning that I would return to our bed unharmed. Only by declining to deliver myself into the hands of the enemy whom I humiliated at Amphipolis did I keep that pledge.

  "What I am guilty of, I freely admit: silencing a voice of incompetence on my city's behalf. Punish me accordingly for that if you must. Still, I would do the same again, and laugh at the idea that I am a coward, if not for the sobering knowledge of what might have happened had Kleon had his way."

  With those words, composed a night prior, Demosthenes put his fate in the hands of the jury, which proceeded immediately to a vote. Muttering amongst themselves, a thousand-and-one men shuffled over to two urns, one of copper, one of wood, that were set at the rear of the open Heliaia. Each man carried two nearly identical disc-shaped bronze ballots. One ballot was marked for the prosecution, the other for the de
fense. When his turn came, each juror deposited both of his discs into the containers, one into each. Ballots dropped into the bronze bin would count toward the verdict, while those in the wood would be discarded. In the end, each urn would contain a thousand and one ballots, and every individual vote was a secret, if the caster wanted it to be so. Some jurors cared nothing for secrecy, of course, and would walk up to one party or the other to wish him luck or assure him that victory was his. It seemed to Demosthenes that he received more of these well-wishes than Kleon, but such observations were worthless, since men's mouths were under no legal obligation to vote in the same direction as their hands.

  In a private chamber of the court building, in the presence of both prosecutor and defendant and any male citizens chosen by each to serve as witnesses, the bronze urn was overturned and counting began under the supervision of the hegemon. Well before the process was complete, Alkibiades, a witness for the defense, clapped his friend on the neck and gave him a celebratory shake, for the verdict was clear: acquittal. A sputtering Kleon departed early, without bothering to discover whether he had achieved the one-fifth of votes needed to avoid being struck with a fine.

  He did, it turned out, if barely. But this verdict was only on the charge of cowardice. Other charges existed against which Demosthenes had put up no defense, and the jury yet needed to decide upon his penalty. When the sentencing hearing convened, Kleon returned and argued for a massive fine and jail-time. Then the defendant made his counter-proposal. Precedent clearly showed that it was rarely wise for a guilty defendant to ask for no punishment at all, since the jurors were only able to choose between one proposal or the other, and so Demosthenes made no such argument this day.

  As morning turned to afternoon, the redistributed ballots were cast and a sentence was determined.

  ***

  Alone, Demosthenes came to the gate of his home and walked down the palm-lined garden path, seeing three women waiting for him in the open doorway ahead. On the right, squatting on her haunches with ink-banded arms folded in front of her, was Eurydike. On the left was Laonome, brow furrowed with the fear that she would lose her new husband to prison or exile. And in the center, behind the other two, stood Thalassia, quietly confident, exuding certainty that whatever news may come would prove no obstacle to her plans.

  Demosthenes did not smile as he walked the path, a cruel oversight, perhaps, and it caused two bleak expressions to grow bleaker still. As he took the final steps, Laonome surged forward and laid hands gently on his chest as her wide eyes silently begged knowledge of the day's verdict.

  Though unintended, Demosthenes' sharp intake of breath preparatory to making the announcement almost certainly sounded ominous; both Eurydike and Laonome tensed as if to receive a blow.

  "Four months," he declared evenly. "To begin at nightfall."

  On hearing the sentence, Laonome gasped. Eurydike loosed a whimper.

  Now he really was toying with them, knowingly, although it had not been his intention–some of Thalassia's bad habits evidently had rubbed off on him. But he had not the heart to let the cruel trick go on more than an instant. He slipped his arm around his bride and pulled her close.

  "House arrest!" he said brightly. "You will be sick of me soon."

  When his words had sunk in, Eurydike sprang to her feet and joined the embrace, while Thalassia looked down from the threshold with a smirk. She begrudged a laugh, shook her head and retreated into the megaron.

  Demosthenes did not spend his last few hours of freedom in his home, but in public carrying out a small amount of business but mostly just receiving praise and congratulation on the verdict. Word of it had spread quickly, and the common wisdom was that between the fame Amphipolis had won him and his humble acceptance of guilt, his own influence would shortly eclipse that of Kleon.

  Good news for the future of Athens, perhaps, but a mixed blessing for the recipient of the public's esteem. The demos was nothing if not fickle, and as likely as not to dispose of its most notable public figures the moment their stars stopped shining.

  His sentence presented a more immediate problem with regard to his political career. Elections to the Board of Ten were to be held two months from now, and a candidate under arrest was ineligible. The reason was simple and logical: no matter how many votes he received, he would be legally unable to go abroad on campaign.

  "What now?" he asked of Thalassia later that evening, when they had a chance to be alone. They stood against the balustrade of the rooftop terrace, under smooth clouds white with moonglow.

  "I am glad for you," she said reflectively. "And Laonome."

  "Brasidas knows about you. And with the hostages gone, Sparta will invade this summer for certain."

  "You chose the sentence. You might have asked for half the time spent in jail instead."

  "I might have," Demosthenes agreed, and let the matter drop. "What of Brasidas?"

  Thalassia shrugged. She seemed strangely subdued. "What can he do? The invasion will come, and we will be ready. Much liquid stone has been prepared. It will let us build fortifications quickly and cheaply. And you will be free by then."

  "I will not be a strategos."

  "You weren't at Pylos, either. The Board will not let you go to waste."

  "Fortifications..." Demosthenes observed. "A year ago, you spoke of killing strokes. Now we prepare again to defend against theirs."

  Thalassia smiled, but distantly. "That almost sounds like an insult. And here on this roof, no less. Very bold."

  Demosthenes might have laughed–at this, a reference to his own maiming a year prior–had he not become certain by now that Thalassia was holding something back. As was always the case when she behaved thus, he was not certain he wished to know what the something was.

  She waved a hand. "It's not me who lacks the will for a killing stroke. Convince your democracy, and I'll be ready. You'll have four months to write speeches."

  Demosthenes set a hand over hers on the balustrade. How long and difficult a road he had traveled to be able to make such a simple gesture as that.

  "Tell me," he said.

  "Nothing..." she answered at first. Then, "I think I should leave."

  Demosthenes stomach lurched and he was glad for the support of his arms on the rail. "Leave Athens?"

  Thalassia quickly faced him and smiled reassuringly. "No, idiot." The insult was an affectionate one. "Your house. But I appreciate the severe reaction."

  "Why?" he demanded, ignoring the rest.

  Thalassia hung her head, face vanishing in lustrous waves of unbound hair. "Your sentence. Soon enough, these walls will close in on you. I don't want us to fight. Our fights are dangerous."

  "We are past that," Demosthenes countered.

  "And other reasons," she continued. "The more time we spend together, the harder it will be to keep our secret from the others."

  "We have done well thus far. What else? Now the true reason."

  Looking out over Athens, at the jagged, serene, moonlit acropolis, Thalassia said reluctantly, "You should have something in your life that's just for you, something that I don't infect with..."

  Madness, Demosthenes finished silently.

  "–madness," she simultaneously spoke aloud, as if reading his thoughts. "Being married is hard enough as it is. Or so I'm told."

  Demosthenes stared at her profile and wondered. She was right, of course. For all those reasons, it would be better if she moved out. But should he insist anyway that she stay, as he would with any mortal guest?

  No, no games. She was no mortal, and no guest either. This was her home.

  "I could free you, file the papers to make you a resident alien," he said.

  Thalassia flashed a half smile. He had not used the legal term in jest, but he certainly saw the irony–or, rather, the literal truth–in it.

  "It's not much concern of mine whether I wear a necklace or not." She flicked the thin silver choker on her neck, rattling the small amber pendants which hung from i
t in the soft shadow of her collarbone. "I'll stay with Alkibiades," she confirmed needlessly.

  Demosthenes nodded. "Only while I am confined. Then you will return."

  Thalassia looked over with her pale eyes which could see through all men, and spoke in the blunt way she often did. And as she often did, she replied to the meanings of words rather than their form.

  "He is still a tool," she reassured.

  She left her own true meaning up to the hearer to interpret, and Demosthenes did: He shall not replace you.

  Such reassurance implied a belief that Demosthenes was jealous. And again, as usual... she was right. There was no other way to describe what he felt, and no denying that he felt it. Others could have Thalassia's body, but her madness, her violent, destructive madness, had to be his alone.

  He must be mad, too, to want such a thing.

  The rooftop fell into silence, and against the backdrop of the Grove of Nymphs, where shrill insects droned, Demosthenes studied his raven-haired witch from the stars. There was no question but that her seasons in this world had changed her. She was more circumspect, less volatile. In Amphipolis, he had given her the perfect excuse to feed him his own severed cock and instead there had been only... a picnic. Something had tamed her. Maybe it was him. Maybe it was the loneliness of being so separated from anyone that was capable of understanding her. Then again, maybe it was the opposite of loneliness. She had come to see the pawns in her scheme for revenge as more than pawns, while revenge required a single-mindedness that left little room for affection.

  What dwelt in the mind and heart of one so alien as she, a mortal could only guess.

  Sensing sorrow brewing in her, Demosthenes took a stab at alleviating it.

  "I have reached a decision," he said. "If we win this war, assuming I live through it, and if you will have me... then I shall help you burn that Italian city to the ground once or twice. I will bring an army with me, if I can."