Chapter Text
The march north was slow going, made all the slower by the many units of soldiers that joined them along the way. By the time they crossed the Isthmus, the ranks were mottled with the various sigils of great houses, hoisted up on flagpoles or embroidered on cloaks. The Corinthians were second only to the Spartans in visibility, with their white shields slung across their backs, so reflective that you had to bow your head when the midday sun shone on them. The wagon trains and mules and slaves dutifully trod on amongst the freemen, burdened by armor, rations, keepsakes, and all the supplies they could carry.
As Kratos observed the brooding men in middle age and boys just old enough to carry swords, he realized that not all would return. In this hour, he would remember their faces. Tomorrow they would just be an afterthought. In years to come, not even that.
The next day, Athens came up from beyond the horizon and Kratos forgot all about them. Now it was the Athenians capturing his attention, stood just outside the city. Themistocles made the customary introductions, then joined Nabis and Kratos at the front line. For such a lively place, the countryside was unusually vacant. When Themistocles gave Kratos a hearty slap across the shoulder blades, his booming laughter echoed ominously across the empty fields.
During the following evenings, the men sat around campfires, acquainting themselves with the soldiers who would become their brothers just for the months to come. Already many were rubbing at their soles, complaining of swollen feet. Against the low flames, Spartans smirked.
Kratos would have stayed with them, had it not been for a certain young Spartan with a decidedly un-Spartan desire to know everything about anything. Atreus’s quality of earnest curiosity, while forgivable in a youth his age, nevertheless had a habit of attracting unsavory elements. When Kratos found him sitting with a group of Athenians, there was already a man eyeing him.
Atreus was too busy questioning the soldiers to notice Kratos come up from behind. “I hear that in Athens, any freeborn man can make his way however he pleases, whenever he pleases it,” said Atreus, sitting cross legged in the circle. “I also heard that right on the cusp of a war, half the soldiery has never picked up arms before, let alone used them.”
There was a wild flailing of limbs and pointed fingers as the Athenians protested this. The soldier who had been eyeing Atreus, blond-haired and clever-eyed, said, “All Spartan propaganda, friend. We may not be raised up as soldiers the way you were, but we fight just as well as you, if not better.”
The suggestive purr in the challenge was unmistakable. Atreus leaned forward with a knowing look and said, “Propaganda it may be, but the love of battle flows in our veins. Before boys come into their training, they have already hunted and bled, learned to fend for themselves, to survive. I held a blade before I could even walk.”
The men erupted in disbelieving protest. Atreus threw his hands up in surrender. “It’s true, all true! My agoge-mate can confirm it!”
Four sets of eyes now focused on Kratos. The easygoing feeling common amongst a group of drunken almost-friends died instantly. Atreus might have been the one wearing red, but it was Kratos that looked the part of a Peer.
“He is correct,” rumbled Kratos in his most menacing voice. It amused him greatly to see two of the men straighten up, like he was a commander. “We are born to fight. This is why Sparta is best in war.”
“Yet it is Athens that grows in power. The tyranny of kings has shackled men since… well, since Ouranos was spread out and made into the sky,” said the blond Athenian, flippantly waving a hand up at the starry heavens. “Answer me this— in the dark times, how did the despots hold onto their power?”
“The way men always have. The ones who ruled were more powerful than those ruled.”
“Yes, but how were those ends achieved?” The Athenian looked around at his fellows encouragingly. “By the elite cavalries, who only maintained their status because of how jealously they hoarded their wealth. This stifled the people, but as the cities grew, so too did the investment the common man had in defending her. With prosperity, wealth trickled slowly to him, and he soon became not just a peasant, but a hoplite, a citizen, entitled to the politeia for the sacrifices his duties required of him. War made this a possibility, and the toppling of our kings solidified it. Because of the merits of democracy, Athens now boasts the strongest fighting force in all the west.”
“I had a front row seat to Athenian brotherhood at your Assemblies. It was… wanting,” sneered Kratos.
The men stiffened. Atreus hastily added, “Well, even brothers fight, don’t they? Zeus on high knows we do it enough ourselves. Even from the other side of town, you can hear the men quarreling in the Apella. We excel at war, but the same isn’t always true for peacekeeping.”
“You seem practiced enough in it,” said the blond, who had turned his gaze away from Kratos and back to the subject of his desires. He smiled, and Atreus smiled back. Having had enough unity between the nations for one night, Kratos left them to their own devices.
He was accosted the next day as they crossed the low hills into Boeotia. Rivers had split the land into chunks, green from spring storms. Theron, who had also been conscripted, walked further ahead with his father, hair russet-brown in the sunshine. In the distance, lake Kopaida sparkled, bordered by violet irises and rushes of wind-bent grasses along the shore. A gleaming citadel had been constructed on an island in the lake’s center, famous as a sanctuary of Apollo, though Kratos was ignorant of its name.
Atreus, who had a particular love of architecture and would fawn over a shit-bench if it was built prettily enough, ignored it completely. That was exactly when Kratos knew Atreus’s annoyance was genuine.
“Must you always treat others so ungraciously?” he asked. “We all existed in perfect harmony until you came along.”
“If you are not prepared for an honest assessment, then do not invite me into the conversation,” replied Kratos.
“Of course. No, I should be the one who’s sorry— it was my fault for thinking you could contain yourself for five minutes.” Atreus rolled his eyes. “They were just tradesmen. What does it matter if they think their country is the best of them all?”
“It matters because they are wrong.”
“They’d say the same thing about us. Everyone believes with all their heart that their customs are superior. Those men from last night were telling me about their friend— he got crushed under a wheel, awful situation— and they mourned him, but do you know what they did before that? They burned him.”
Kratos scrunched his face up. Atreus clarified, “Athenian funerary rites. They cremate their dead, rather than bury them in the ground where they belong. Then again, I only say that because it’s what I know. I find the idea unsettling, having my cold body shoved onto a pyre and left to burn. I’d rather the earth lay me down.”
“Where maggots can eat your rotting corpse instead.”
“You’re missing the point.”
“Then arrive at it.”
“The point being that if I had been born further north, I’d have the opposite perspective, having a completely different conversation with you—”
“If you’d been born Athenian, we wouldn’t be having this discussion at all. We wouldn’t have met.”
Atreus growled frustratedly. Kratos fought very hard to keep the smirk off his face. The troops swayed slightly left in a mass of bronze and leather as they navigated around a broken-down wagon in the road’s center.
For a moment, there was blissful silence. But only for a moment.
“Ways that aren’t your own are strange, no matter whether they work for somebody else. There was a Megaran who was disgusted that Spartan women may allow a man who is not her husband to father her children, in the event that the husband proves sterile. Seemed to think it was a mark of dishonor, and when I pointed out that it could not be considered infidelity because all parties were just performing their duties for the state, he became enraged. Even those Athenians around the campfire couldn’t believe it when I told them. Andreas said—"
“Andreas,” repeated Kratos. “You remembered this one’s name. That took you less time than usual.”
Atreus had always been a flirt, though his interest was rarely long-lasting. His friend’s irritation waned into playfulness as he said, “I was just promoting cooperation between the nations.”
“That does sound better than consorting with the enemy.”
“The enemy is out there.” Atreus inclined his head forward, where thick barriers of mountain sat. A breeze caught the strands of the brown hair that had just started growing past his ears. He had even given himself a few tiny braids, though they were nothing compared to the breast-length ones maintained by the older Spartans. “They have an army of true strangers, past the sea beyond all our borders.”
“Not for long. The spies reported that they will cross the Hellespont soon.” Kratos lowered his voice. They were on the edge of the formation, and while such information was not strictly classified, discretion was still wise. “They say Xerxes is building bridges to transport his army into Thrace. When the first bridge collapsed, he executed the engineers and lashed the ocean.”
Atreus laughed softly. “So petulant, like a child. How fortunate for us, and how unlucky for him. This God-King… let’s see how he fares against a real god. Poseidon might just deal with him for us.”
News of Xerxes and his army continued to pass down the ranks after that. God-King was just a ceremonial title, after all, and nobody seemed more aware of that than Xerxes himself. In what had once been Troy, the King had ordered the sacrifice of a thousand oxen to Athena. This performance of piety was doubtless intended to earn sympathy from the less loyal Hellene families, who would make a great show of always considering the will of the gods, even if they always threw their weight behind the most powerful man.
Kratos, however, did not see the stunt as a legitimate appeal to Olympus. He saw it as a waste of perfectly good meat.
The days rolled by, and their numbers soon rose to ten thousand. Oddly enough, Themistocles did not take the normal route into Thessaly, but along the coastlines, where the shore cities lay. His reasons soon became clear. Not a single city volunteered more than a handful of fighters, and one only need whisper ‘resistance’ to send people slamming doors and running for the hills.
It was as the League had feared. There was no high-spirited rebellion here, no resistance fighters. Only cowards and old men.
“It could just be a fluke,” said Atreus when they left the gulf with nothing to show for it. “Don’t forget about the people inland. And what about Larissa? This whole thing was their operation.”
Atreus’s faith soon proved misplaced. Moods continued souring as the inland towns all greeted the army with empty hands. Soon, all that remained of the largest cities was Larissa herself, their final stop before the Vale and the last chance the Thessalians had to prove their loyalties.
The banners of House Aleuadae flapped atop Larissa’s tall walls, deepest violet and with a golden stallion in the center, the common symbol for Thessaly, the most renowned equestrians in all the mainland. The soldiers were thrown into a pale blue shade as their train stopped outside the gates. The head officers broke off from the body and were escorted into the city, including Nabis and Themistocles.
Custom demanded that guests be greeted warmly, even when those guests arrived with an army. The noblemen of House Aleuadae at least prepared a banquet, which was more than the other cities could say. Young slave girls served them steaming plates of pork and fish, while cupbearers poured the wine. The guards watched the scene coldly. Many trophies decorated the wall, but none were as magnificent as the huge sword at the far end, golden-hilted and encrusted with precious gemstones.
Kratos assessed the situation quickly. The Aleuadae of Larissa were an ancient family indeed. Legend had it that their founder had been gifted oracular Sight by serpents, who had purified his ears so that he could interpret the speech of birds. The God of Delphi had sanctified his rule, and the family had controlled greater Thessaly ever since.
The culmination of the family’s power was all concentrated into this very room. The Tagus, King of all, sat at the head of the table. An old and decaying man, he did not capture the attention or respect of anyone. Rather than speak for himself, he allowed the man at his side to do it for him. He was enormous and more than made up for the Tagus’s less than commanding presence. The questions the officers had about Thessaly were all directed at him. In the middle of Themistocles’s long winded interrogation, Nabis leaned over to Kratos.
“The Prince of Birds, Tisandros,” he murmured. “The Tagus’s nephew and only heir. He united the warring aristocrats from the hill cities, many years ago. They all answer to the family. Only the Echecatrids remain… uncooperative.”
The Echecatrids were the family that controlled Pharsalos to the west. One of the envoys that had convinced the League to haul their army into Thessaly had been an Echecatrid. That man sat amongst the Aleuadae now, drinking and laughing. Kratos subtly pointed him out.
“Then why is he here?”
“It is wise to keep one’s friends close. It is wiser still to do the same for one’s adversaries.”
“He dishonors himself to dine with the enemy.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps the purposes of such a man are not what meets the eye. I assure you that the Aleuadae have learned this lesson. You should do the same.”
Themistocles continued his banter with the nobles. The prince, who had been perfectly congenial all evening, had apparently been set off by something Themistocles said. He slammed his hand so hard into the dining table that it cracked right down the middle. It was a miracle that it had not collapsed and sent tableware flying. The stunned silence was disturbed only by the prince’s heavy, angry breathing.
The Echecatrid was quick to laugh it off, insisting that the table must be in dire need of replacing if it broke so easily. The continuation of the meal was incredibly uneasy. Wisely, Themistocles kept his silence.
“They say that only a man of divine blood could accomplish what he has,” said Nabis quietly, wiping the grease from his fingers off on the apomagdalia. “Heracles blesses the endeavors of his youngest son.”
Kratos no longer heard the conversations around him. He considered this Bird Prince, wondering it it could be true. The man certainly looked the part— he was at least seven feet tall and with the comely features common to the children of gods. When the niceties concluded and everyone stood, the prince looked at Kratos with eyes of pure gold. His smile was razor-sharp as he raised his goblet to Kratos. The gem-encrusted sword hung over him on the wall, poised like it would come swinging down on his neck. The prince drank his toast, and wine spilled down his chin. In the torchlight, it shown red as fresh blood.
Ω
The riverbanks of the Vale rushed down many miles below their squad. The water flickered, reflected with so much sunshine that it made the limestone cliffs glow with dancing light.
The journey up the gorge had been long, but tranquil. The Vale was famous for its pastoral beauty, a little paradise the gods came to purify themselves in. The trees were plentiful and their leaves green, dappling the grass where daisies and peonies shot out from black soil. It was the sort of place that poets wrote about and lovers practiced in, with budding flowers and laurel trees hanging heavily over sand.
Their party knelt over a jagged precipice, looking away from the river and to the dry land of the gorge. Two guides had been handpicked from the Aleuadae’s court to assist their reconnaissance.
“The pass extends from Macedonia into Thessaly,” said one of the men. He pointed along the edges of the gorge. “Archers could be positioned on the clifftops, but a solid front line in the gorge itself is sufficient to deter invaders.”
“What about alternative routes into the plains? Other negotiable passes?” asked Nabis.
“This is all there is. Ten thousand hoplites are more than enough of a force to ensure that you will not be outmaneuvered, especially with reinforcements from the nearby towns.”
“From where? Halos? Larissa herself? We picked up five hundred infantrymen when thousands were promised to us.”
“Rest assured, you shall have them. The hill tribes fear Xerxes and his army, but they are brave. When the time comes, you will see just what they are capable of.”
Everything seemed to be in order, until their own reconnaissance reported back to Themistocles days later. Some of the local goat-herders had a very different assessment of the Vale’s defensibility, and their scouts had confirmed it. Kratos had never seen Themistocles so enraged.
“Three passes to defend!” he hissed, throwing aside a handful of recon notes down on the table before him. “Petra and Volustana, in addition to the gorge… not to mention the hill track on Gonnus. The filthy liars. We never should have come to Thessaly.”
Upon receiving the news, Themistocles had barked everyone out of the officers’ tent, except for Nabis and, by extension, Kratos. Themistocles flung himself down into his chair, glaring at nothing in particular. Nabis removed his cloak and carefully began to fold it, saying, “Regardless, we are here now. Best to make the most of it.”
“To profit from circumstance, there needs to be something to exploit. The only thing Thessaly possesses are petty tribal feuds.” Themistocles pinched his nose, huffing. “To make matters sweeter, the numbers Xerxes brought to bear remain unknown… although it hardly matters now. Without the Larissans bringing in local help, holding three passes is not possible.”
“Then we approach the locals ourselves,” replied Nabis. He set his cloak down and sat beside Themistocles. “The Tagus is unreliable, if not treacherous. His power extends throughout the plains, but the hill tribes have no more loyalty to him than to the Medes themselves.”
Themistocles laughed humorlessly. “It is unlike you not to speak your mind freely. What would you have me do? Stage a mutiny? There is fighting to go around aplenty.”
“Not a mutiny. A reminder of where the Thessalians' true loyalties lie— to their ancestors’ homeland, to preserving the dignity of the gods and their shrines. A decade ago, the Aleuadae pledged earth and water to King Darius at the first sign of trouble. They will not hesitate to do so again, but if they wake up one day with the hill peoples right on their doorstep—”
The sweltering heat seemed to dissipate as a sudden iciness fell over the tent. Themistocles narrowed his eyes at Nabis.
“I will say this once and only once: my respect for you is great and always has been. I do not forget the man who led Spartans into great victories against impossible odds, or the youth that supported my ambitions. Be that as it may, Larissa has a democratic constitution. Until they pledge themselves to Xerxes, Athens remains sympathetic to their cause. They will remain responsible for Thessaly’s forces… for the time being.”
“Democracy is a fantasy when an empire marches on city walls.”
“It has always been a fragile thing, there is no denying that. Yet, I will fight to preserve it, just as I will fight to preserve my homeland. Just as you will do the same,” finished Themistocles pointedly.
“What else is there to do for men of war?”
“What else indeed.”
Kratos warily watched the two of them. Nabis sighed, then granted, “Your priorities are with your own countrymen, with your nation and her values. I could not blame you for that, but do you really think it prudent to leave so soon?”
“If there is nothing to gain, then yes. There is no reality where our forces succeed in holding back the horde without assistance, and,” emphasized Themistocles, “neither will I weasel my way into power skirmishes that do not concern me. Unlike Sparta, Athens is exposed above the Isthmus. I will not waste precious time dawdling about in the plains when it should be spent preparing the navy. It is our only salvation.”
Nabis considered this. “One month,” he said. “That is all I require. One month to persuade the locals to join the war effort or, failing that, to convince the Tagus to outfit his army himself.”
“No longer,” warned Themistocles.
“No longer. I give you my word.”
“It is the one thing I never had reason to doubt.”
The two men shook hands. Themistocles’s anger had drained and he seemed lost in his thoughts, so lost that Kratos wondered whether the man had noticed Nabis’s split second of hesitation before the agreement, or the hard quality in green eyes. The next moment, the hardness turned wistful.
“Go cool your temper,” said Nabis. “There are boys playing at men who need disciplining. That always lifts your spirits.”
As if on cue, young men started howling just outside the tent. Trouble was no doubt afoot.
“Oh, I can’t be bothered. No need to jeopardize their morale any further,” muttered Themistocles, waving his hand. “Well… I’m off. Duty calls.”
He got up and left through the tent flap. Even after it swung back down, Kratos heard Themistocles mutter to himself, “Three passages… Three!”
Themistocles’s footsteps faded. The silence inside the tent thickened again. Kratos stood, hands behind his back. Nabis looked at him.
“Well, that went about as well as I expected. Keep your eyes and ears open for treachery, pais. In the event that we do abandon the Vale, our troubles will be far from over, with or without Xerxes,” he said.
“You do not trust the general, sir?”
“Themistocles is…” Nabis paused. Kratos knew what he wanted to say as Themistocles’s guest-friend: that Themistocles was honest, a god-fearing man of integrity. The truth, however, was that the general from Athens was none of those things.
“Themistocles will always put his people first,” Nabis finally said, leaning against his forearms. “Athens grows in influence. This desire they have to expand maritime power troubles me deeply.”
“Athens will not make their stand without Sparta. If they betrayed us, we would pull back south of the Isthmus and leave them to their fate. The Medes can have them, then.”
“Sparta cannot stay isolated forever, despite what certain elements back home would say. Whenever the opportunity to keep Athenian ambition in check arises, it must be taken,” muttered Nabis, brows furrowed. “The Thessalians put all this effort into calling the League’s forces out when we cannot possibly defend her, not without her locals… yet the Tagus refuses to use his authority and summon the army. Why?”
“They were desperate. Xerxes is almost here.” Kratos shrugged. “They want us to do the dirty work and hope they get lucky.”
Nabis remained silent, then looked intently at Kratos. “If you encounter anything strange, no matter whom it concerns, you come to me.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ω
Kratos had spent many nights awake in the barracks, imagining the splendor of war, picturing always in his mind’s eye how red the blood of the enemy would be, how powerful it must make a man feel to grasp for just a moment the power that belonged to the gods, the power over who lived and who died.
What he had not pictured were long, grueling days in between the history-making moments. Kratos, like all the other Spartans, kept to their carefully regimented exercises, but even that was not enough to stave off the boredom. Most of his time was spent either with Nabis or Atreus, but never in any novel capacity. The most exciting part of the day were the mornings before the backbreaking heat rose with the sun, when grain and heads of cattle would be transported into camp from the surrounding farms. Dust blew up in plumes around them, turning the already dry land into a beaten down desert. The bulls would throw their heads back and forth, horns spearing the sky as their throats were cut. The men always feasted well, those days.
When the action finally did come, Kratos wished immediately that it had not. He was patrolling the camp’s perimeter one night when he heard hooting and laughing. He had slipped into the shadow of a nearby tree, knife in hand, but the approaching men were soldiers, not bandits. At least a dozen of them marched triumphantly over the low hills, some outfitted in full armor, others wearing only loincloths.
Kratos looked closer and saw small figures being dragged along, long red hair flashing against the blue night. Torches swung to illuminate the bloodless faces of three girls. The jeering tapered off into uneasy silence as the party vanished behind a hill, the grass dark beneath the new moon.
He took the long way back. Even from the other side of their hastily constructed camp, Kratos still heard the screams.
Word of what had happened spread quickly. Apparently, the group of soldiers had too much to drink one night and, after many days of lethargy, hunted through the hills to create their own entertainment. This country was wild, but there were still plenty of no-name villages scattered throughout the plains, too insignificant for the dynasts to defend.
“Easy pickings,” grunted an older soldier. From the numerous scars on his sun-browned skin, apparently a veteran. “Tasteless, yes, but understandable. There is nothing else to do while we all sit around waiting for death. It is strain from the war.”
A group of seven were gathered around the man. Nobody pointed out that the war had not started yet, or that the Thessalians were supposed to be under their protection.
One boy protested, “But there are plenty of whores around. They should just buy them and leave the decent girls alone. I’ve sisters myself—”
“Where are you from, boy?” interrupted the man.
Looking miffed, the boy replied, “From Thaumaci down south, sir. I heard talk that the army was marching and decided to join.”
“Then you’re a local yourself.” The man took in the boy’s poorly fitted armor, the awkward way he fondled the sword at his hip. Kratos knew exactly what he was thinking because he had noticed these things just the same. “First time?”
“In what? On the march?” asked the boy.
“Aye.”
“I haven’t been in a war, if that’s what you’re asking.”
The man nodded consideringly. “Your ignorance is not wholly fool’s talk, in that case. If the Persians break through into Thessaly, we’ll all be pushed back south. Your own family is close enough nearby. Take heed of them before worrying over someone else’s.”
The boy was silent after that. Privately, Kratos agreed with him. Lykourgos the great Lawgiver had understood that paid sex weakened a man’s moral fiber, and therefore his performance in service to his nation, but whores could be found most anywhere else outside Sparta. Most were cheap enough. There was no good reason to steal farmgirls away from husbands and fathers in the night.
The boy was baffled, but Kratos understood the mindset of the soldiers very well. He had spent many years witnessing its consequences with his own eyes, in his own house. When the men discussed the incentives behind such beastly behavior, the conclusions they reached inevitably involved boredom, or stress, or uncontrollable desire, but the truth was that it was about none of those things.
The reprimand following this incident was swift, if not severe. One of the commanders haggled with an indignant farmer inside the officers’ tent— the father or uncle of the girls, perhaps. Three men stood inside with their heads bowed. Moments later, an aging man emerged with a purse full of jangling coins, while the soldiers came out with theirs significantly emptied. Fair compensation for the value of what they had stolen.
In daylight, Kratos could see the hollowed faces of the girls in full. Two were too young to wear women’s garments. The oldest, perhaps on the cusp of womanhood, seemed to have no more tears to shed. When her eyes met Kratos’s, she did not respond, like he was not there. That was when he knew she might as well have been dead already.
And so, the bouts of thieving, raping, and pillaging began in zest. No would-be assailants wanted to be held accountable for any misdemeanors involving the villages, so they practiced either discretion or fervent whoring. Predictably, the prostitutes did little to stem the flow of depravity. If Kratos happened to take a stroll, he would often see destroyed cottages or weeping people. The smell of reeds and cedarwood set on fire was almost pleasant from a distance, earthy and rich when not mixed with burning flesh.
One of the worst instances of these crimes reared its head when Kratos and Atreus were out hunting deer. They followed the tracks to a path that ended along the river Pineios. It should have been a beautiful sight, filling up the Vale with the water from the passage made by Poseidon’s trident, cut from the sea and down into the valley.
The great mass of bodies was what made it ugly. Upstream, the water sparkled azure blue and was full of leaping fish. Here, it ran scarlet, and there was no life.
Atreus was more upset by it than Kratos, who was used to this raw kind of violence. While Atreus was also no stranger to it, he had always been of a gentler disposition.
“It’s a perversion,” he said, staring at a young boy bobbing facedown in the river. “It’s an insult to their god.”
He referred to Peneos, the Immortal who held sanctity over this river. Long ago, Apollo had been driven mad with lust for Peneos’s granddaughter, Daphne. Daphne had fled to this very riverbank, but it was only by another god’s graces that she had escaped Apollo’s ravishing. Peneos had transformed her into a laurel tree to protect her from defilement. A cruel act of love.
“The gods thirst for blood,” Kratos reminded him.
“Not in that way.”
“You’ve watched men be slaughtered for years. Men and children.”
“That was different,” snapped Atreus. “The helots have to be kept in check, but this… what is there to gain?”
Kratos watched as the young boy’s body slid downstream and out of sight. He left only a bloody trail behind, and even that was washed away soon after, swallowed whole by the river god hungry for sacrifice.
“Power,” said Kratos softly.
Ω
In the middle of a house in a village outside Gyrton, a man lay facedown. He had been stripped naked, his armor long since vanished into the greedy clutches of the villagers. Two pale arms were extended at his sides, and his hands were clenched into fists. Ribs and spine had been expertly severed to allow for his lungs to be pulled from within his body and spread out across his shoulder blades.
The victim was nameless to Kratos. He would not have cared about the murder at all, were it not for the man who had committed it. He knelt beside the corpse while Theron hovered behind him.
“So this is why they call him the Prince of Birds. They look like wings,” said Kratos, pointing at the lungs. He had thought the title was a nod to the Aleuadae’s founder, but he was mistaken. Scornfully, he added, “The man has flair.”
Theron walked stiffly over to Kratos and said, “This is the fourth one they found, one for each town.”
“Which towns?”
“Eretria, Pharae, Kynoscephalae—“
“Kynoscephalae is not a town. It’s a hill range south of Skotoussa.”
“I misspoke. I knew that,” snapped Theron.
“Like you knew Pharae had already refused to join the war effort, just like this town? That is why the nobles let this happen. It’s a message for us.” Kratos curled his lip. “Some of us.”
Theron glared at Kratos, who remained kneeling.
“I’ve had just about enough of you and your ugly sneers,” he said scornfully. “Whatever quarrel you have with me, be a man and say it to my face!”
Slowly, Kratos stood. In his case, the move was far more impressive. He was much taller than Theron. As much as he despised the little brat, even Kratos had to admit that he had developed his constitution somewhat. Theron did not back down.
“I have no quarrel at all. How could I? You have always been far beneath my attention.” When Theron bared his teeth, Kratos stepped forward, looming over him. “What will you do? When was the last time you landed a hit on me, let alone beat me in a fight? Try it and I’ll give you two black eyes, again.”
“That’s enough!”
The door to the house slammed open. Kratos did not look up until a man prised them both apart. It was no longer Theron standing before him, but Nabis, looking furious.
“This petty strife between the two of you has gone on long enough. It had no place in Sparta, and it has no place here either. Understand?”
When neither of them responded, Nabis repeated, “Do you understand?”
“Yes,” said Theron grudgingly.
Kratos nodded infinitesimally, but that was not good enough.
“Say it,” ordered Nabis.
Left without a choice, Kratos conceded.
“I understand.”
Nabis did not look convinced, but he seemed to decide a lecture would be better saved for a place without so much gore. He took a deep breath and declared, “From now on, you will conduct yourselves as soldiers, not boys. War is no place for children. Now go,” he told Kratos, gesturing to the door. “Return to the men. I will have words with you later.”
Theron jeered, but he was not quick enough to hide it from his father. Nabis pointed at him.
“Wipe that smirk off your face. You are just as guilty.”
Kratos’s anger was so great that he did not even stop to listen to the rest of Nabis’s reprimand. He stomped off, making sure that the heavy door slammed shut behind him. A mangy mutt howled as it tore down the street. Kratos ignored it and walked back towards the unit of soldiers that had been assigned to investigate the town. He sat apart from them all, burning with indignity.
When Nabis and Theron returned to the unit, Kratos’s temper still had not cooled. He marched at the tail end of the group and could only see the back of Nabis’s helmet, plumed like a half moon and striped red and white. His anger at Theron seemed diminished, and the two of them talked with the close easiness of father and son.
I am superior in every way but the most important, thought Kratos. He was the foster-son. No matter his merits, Theron would always be the blood child. Bitterness festered.
Nabis pulled him aside that evening. ‘Petulant’ was a term used more than once, as was ‘insubordinate’ and ‘stubborn.’ Kratos let the harsh words wash over him. He had heard it all before.
Finally, he was dismissed, and Kratos was left considering the grisly event he had seen that day. The situation in Thessaly was quickly deteriorating. Stories of the Persian march southward continued to spread. Some of the Hellenes who had been living in Thrace and Macedonia fled, telling all who would listen about the devastation the barbarians left in their wake, how they feasted on the lands like locusts and gave nothing in return. Some even had tales from their cousins on the Ionian coast, who had paid the price many years ago for their insurgency against King Darius. Even after a decade, the stories of burning villages, infanticide and rampant violation still chilled them all to the bone.
Not that their own army was much better, thought Kratos. The officers had put men to death for their crimes, but it was too little and too late. Worse still, the food and supplies the League envoys had promised was no longer forthcoming, and cattle rustling was now a rampant problem. That the Aleuadae had started taking matters into their own hands and executing soldiers was the most concerning thing of all. Atreus’s assertion that the enemy was outside their borders seemed naive in the extreme, now. The Thessalians had taken the role of ‘invaded’ before Xerxes had even set foot in Macedonia, and the hill people were none too happy about it.
The whole debacle was wearing on Kratos’s nerves. It also did not help that Nabis spent so much time away from camp. The other officers were happy to take up Nabis’s place and assert their authority, but Kratos always noticed his master’s absence, and only he knew where Nabis really went— not to Larissa, as he claimed, but to Pharsalos. Kratos had no idea what Nabis could possibly want with the Echecatrids, who had already refused military assistance. What concerned Kratos even more was the lengths his master had gone to conceal the visits. Nabis provided no explanations, and Kratos did not ask.
Kratos looked up and saw a head of russet-brown hair coming up over a nearby hill. His heart lightened momentarily, until he realized it was not Atreus passing by, but Theron. Kratos put on his best sneer, but Theron did not even see him. When he departed, Kratos was left feeling emptier than ever.
Ω
A few leagues from Larissa, an entire treasure trove of darics was unearthed. The moment those coins came tumbling out from their tomb, singing like a waterfall of gold, everyone knew that Thessaly no longer had a future.
The discovery had been a complete accident. A few days prior, the heads of some local clan had approached the officers, complaining of oxen and cows stolen away from them in the night. Their demands for compensation were not met, and they had left in a fury. What followed was the next stage in a pattern that had become very familiar to Kratos. The locals slaughtered an uninvolved group of infantrymen in revenge, revenge that honor dictated needed to be paid back in kind.
Thus, the cycle of violence began anew. Everything had been within the bounds of expectation, before the darics. Before the Persian gold, peace might have been called to order. Before the Persian gold, north and south were still bound together, if only by the meanest thread. But after the Persian gold, that thread was cut.
It was a miracle that the officers had been able to put the cap on more bloodshed, and even more miraculous that the summons they provided for House Aleuadae and House Echecatrid were answered.
They all sat around a table negotiating. Local feuds were the most hotly debated subject at first, and for a while the bad blood between the two noble houses dominated. Soon enough, the officers got their licks in. It all began, moaned the Corinthian strategos, when the Thessalians refused the army their promised heads of cattle.
“What else did you expect?” he demanded, referring to the many instances of cattle rustling and thieving perpetrated by soldiers. “If you want a fully outfitted army of ten thousand, then you must provide the means to support them. Let us not forget that it was your family— both of your families— who lured us here under false pretenses. There is absolutely no resistance to speak of!”
In his bland, reedy voice, the Tagus replied, “Resistance does in fact exist, though it is a resistance of your own designs. We had prepared for an invading army to sweep across the plains, but we did not foresee it would be our own kinsmen. The violation of my subjects—”
“Violation! None have committed acts of such depravity as this man,” retorted the strategos. He glared at the prince, who sat at the Tagus’s right-hand side. “If you desire peace, then call off your dog.”
“I never ordered the attacks on those soldiers. You have no proof that Tisandros committed those heinous crimes. My nephew is innocent.”
“Your nephew is a beast!”
The prince had not said a word this entire time, and did not react to the attack on his character. He sat sharpening his xiphos on a band of leather, looking incredibly bored. It was the same sword Kratos had admired during the banquet in Larissa. The scrape of metal against leather became maddeningly loud in the empty plain. Finally, Nabis had enough.
“Will you put that thing away? This is a diplomatic mission, not a stage for you to peacock. You impress nobody,” he snapped.
“I merely have a blade that needs correcting,” replied the prince.
“What needs correcting is your attitude. The barbarians are nearly upon us, yet you sit there calm as can be! And he is not the only one!” Nabis pointed at the Tagus. “Let us not forget the real reason this meeting was called. A talent’s worth of darics was uncovered in the seat of your power. Highly suspicious for a king who has already succumbed to Darius’s heralds once before!”
Before the Tagus could respond, the prince ran his sword down the leather strip in a long stripe.
“My uncle was wise to cooperate,” said the prince quietly. “King Darius’s might, and his mercy, were famous throughout the world… but of course, those days are over. Thessaly is loyal to your cause. The gold is a relic.”
Sarcastically, Nabis said, “Hidden away for a decade, in a town of people who had every opportunity to exploit it? Their restraint is a testament to their character. If only you could say the same.”
Sharp silence. The blade had halted its path. The prince glared, his eyes bright with hatred.
“I exert the amount of force a situation calls for. Better you should learn that from the mistakes of your men and not your own.”
“Is that a threat?”
Two other officers leapt to their feet as Nabis stood. The Aleuadae’s guards, lingering in shadow, stepped forward, swords halfway unsheathed. Half a dozen eyes darted to Kratos as he did the same. Before a word could be uttered and throw them all into chaos, Themistocles intervened.
“It is the law of the gods, and indeed the law of civilization itself that no blood is to be shed when men meet in peace. Put those weapons away. That includes you as well,” he said to Kratos.
After a tense moment, all arms were returned safely to their scabbards, all but two. The prince held his sword up threateningly, sneering at Kratos. Themistocles barked, “That was an order, soldier.”
A hand closed around Kratos’s upper arm. He refused to break eye contact with the prince, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw Nabis shake his head. Finally, Kratos sheathed his blade, and Nabis released him. The prince still stood.
“Tisandros, regain control of yourself and sit down. You are embarrassing me,” said the Tagus, sounding for once as a king should sound. The prince turned his glare onto him.
“You let these foreigners walk all over you, uncle. First their thieving and raping, then the massacres against our people. This disrespect must not go unpunished!”
“That is not for you to decide. You are not the Tagus yet. I am. Sit. Down.”
Kratos thought for sure that the prince would strike the Tagus down right then and there, but it was not to be. Still looking like he was ready to kill someone, the prince sat, flinging aside his sword onto the table.
“Now then,” continued Themistocles tightly, “All parties are surely in agreement that this venture has not gone as smoothly as hoped. Regardless of the merit of your complaints against our conduct, or indeed our complaints with yours, there remains the issue of the darics, and the duplicity of the terms that resulted in our arrival in the first place. We have yet to enlist more than a few hundred volunteers into our ranks, and there are three passages leading into Macedonia that need defending, two of which we were not informed of.” Themistocles spread his arms out in a pleading way. “What possible use would our forces be, given how untenable our position is? The solution to the matter at hand is obvious, if highly dissatisfying. The front line cannot be established along the Vale. There is little value in our continued presence here.”
Themistocles had almost certainly spent much time orating to himself in preparation for this moment. His regretful tone was all too believable, or would have been, had Kratos not known Themistocles wanted nothing more than to leave Thessaly and begin the evacuation of Athens.
It was a goal Kratos had no sympathy for. Themistocles believed the soul of a nation lay in its people and not in the bedrock of physical foundation, but Kratos knew otherwise. Were Sparta ever to be overrun, every last man, woman, and child, would perish with it. Better to die fighting than to live on one’s knees.
The noblemen all tried to convince Themistocles to stay, but none more so than the prince. Why he would be so dead set on them staying when he had expressed the utmost contempt for them, Kratos did not know, or care. Perhaps in an attempt to preserve the very precarious peace, the Tagus did not demand the return of the darics.
“You will leave without any interference from me, with one condition,” said the Tagus. “Not one man amongst you, officer or foot soldier, will harass, or brutalize, or otherwise violate any subject of the families of House Aleuadae. This armistice will hold, or else the full force of Thessaly’s armies will come bearing down on you.”
The Tagus held out his hand. Happily, Themistocles took it.
“A deal is a deal.”
Ω
Kratos had never been so furious in all his life.
For weeks he had assured himself that the campaign was not over, that there was still time for the next city, the next town, the next tribe to be swayed to their cause. The opportunity for those three passages to be filled with southerners and northerners alike had remained plausible, even if slowly dwindling, like an already flickering flame barely staying lit against a strong wind.
But the flame had gone out. The decision had been made. They were all going home, and Kratos would have nothing to show for it.
So palpable was his anger that even Atreus gave him a wide berth following Themistocles’s declaration. The general had stood before a pyre, helmet curled between the crook of his elbow and chest as he delivered the news. The campfire licked steadily up into the indigo sky. Kratos sat alone for a long time afterwards, staring into the flames.
Packing began the next day. It took little time to bring the animal hide tents down or pool and account for all the rations for the journey home. What ate up more time was organizing the soldiers and closing all their dealings with the locals. When that was done, Kratos still had no solution to the problem at hand. One evening, a possible remedy revealed itself in a whispering group of men.
“—it’s been quiet. Too quiet. A few weeks ago those goat-fuckers out in the hills wouldn’t leave us be, and now they’ve just up and decided to keep their peace? They’re up to something,” insisted a Megaran.
An old man replied, “It doesn’t matter if they are. We’ll be gone soon enough. Some village idiots can take their shots if they like, but they’ll hit the ground before they can say ‘traitors.’”
“It’s more than just the hill folk. When I passed by, I saw women out in the fields and old men peaking from windows. No young men. No fighting men. If the Tagus has called them up for duty in secret—”
At this, a few people jeered, but the man said, “If their King rounded even a portion of them up, he’d have more than enough men to meet the army blow for blow. Those heathens have thirsted for blood ever since we set foot here… ungrateful bastards. If they had only the courage to defend what was already theirs, we wouldn’t be in this mess!”
Mutters of agreement swept the group, and some men nodded their heads. A Corinthian added, “Better us than Xerxes. At least we have no wish to stay, or make slaves of them. The Medes don’t even speak our language. Thessaly doesn’t see the bigger picture.”
“Peasants care little for national pride. As long as they can continue making love and singing songs, it makes not one bit of difference who holds the power,” said the old man, leaning over. “Only a rich man has anything to gain. Patriotism is worthless to them. Their language is money. They’ll sell out to the highest bidder, and best believe it doesn’t matter if he goes bar-bar-bar.”
Laughter swept the group as the man rubbed his fingers together, like he was greedily holding onto a daric. The Megaran was not finished.
“Listen,” he said, “vengeance belongs to the gods, but men must carry out the deed. Never have these people just rolled over and taken what was given to them, or lost out on the chance to strike back. What makes you think they’ll just step aside and let us leave peacefully, after everything?”
“We have an army.”
“So do they. At the very least, we should go hunt down those bastards that murdered our brothers in cold blood. I don’t want to leave this place knowing they still live.”
Kratos lingered nearby, listening as they argued amongst themselves. The old man was having none of this business of retaliation, but Kratos could see the need for retribution in the other soldiers’ eyes. The flames of bloodlust had already been fanned, and there could be no stopping it.
Unless, of course, an officer intervened. Later, long after the group dispersed, Nabis had called Kratos in to confirm that everything had been packed. It would have been the easiest thing in the world to tell him about what he had overheard, but Kratos hesitated. The Tagus’s conditions had been very clear: if no blood was spilt, the army would leave in peace. If that condition was broken, all hell would break loose.
For once, the fierce animosity the nations held for each other, illogical and inevitable, could work to Kratos’s benefit. The breaking of the truce could very well pin the army in place, if the Tagus had the manpower to do so. Nor had Kratos forgotten that Xerxes was still at large. When he inevitably crossed the boundaries of rugged Macedonia into Hellas, the Thessalians would either be forced to put aside their grievances and band together with Themistocles’s army… or else hand them all over to the invaders.
Kratos had a feeling somewhere in the Aleuadae’s chain of command, somebody knew this and had every intention of exploiting it. Either way, Kratos profited. Many men would die, and he would finally have the chance to do what he had come to Thessaly for: to reap glory, to be Spartan, to win Lysandra’s hand.
And if the men did not stick with their commitments, then Kratos would start the war himself.
So when Nabis sent him away, Kratos did not say a word of what he had discovered. He was as still and invisible as a coiled viper on black sand, waiting for the moment to strike. And that moment would come, he thought, but not yet. Not yet.
First, another sleepless night. Nearby Spartans murmured about the necessary evils of war, the farms that were no more and the civilians left to starve, their cattle rustled, their lands devastated. Despite it all, they knew as well as Kratos that men were only entitled to what they could hold onto.
Kratos repeated it to himself when he closed his eyes and saw visions of burning roofs, flickering like candles against the hazy sky, and the red-stained grass he’d encountered just that morning, indented where a body had been dragged off. He repeated it again when the cries of wildcats in the nearby forest reminded him too much of screaming girls.
All were trumped by the memory of Lysandra’s beautiful smile, and her joy when Kratos had accepted her marriage proposal. Kratos filled his mind with her and finally found rest.