Athenian Steel (Book I of the The Hellennium) by P. K. Lentz Read Free Book Online Page B

heard the shouts of greeting which told him
Epitadas and the survivors of the rout at the island's center had
come.
    “Fight dirty,” Thalassia urged one last
time.

I. PYLOS \ 8. The Goddess's
Wrath
    Epitadas' men came in their hundreds,
shuffling and limping from the tree line, mixing with and vastly
outnumbering the polished inhabitants of Nestor's fort.  The
forlorn retreating force's mood was grim, its lips tight, its
shields bristling with arrows.  Some men walked with
white-fletched shafts lodged in their backs or breasts, and almost
all leaned heavily on their spears.  Reaching the stockade,
Helot attendants among them slumped to their knees against walls to
grab a moment’s rest before being kicked or spat upon by masters in
a mood to inflict harm on someone, anyone. Behind them all,
somewhere invisible as yet in the distance, an inexorable tide of
death was surging north up the island's length to swallow the men
of Lakedaimon, shields and all.
    It did not take long for the new arrivals to
begin taking note of Thalassia's presence.  Soon a cluster of
ash-encrusted refugees had gathered at the curtain of rags, and
they pushed it back, revealing her.  Styphon knew some of the
men as close confidantes of Epitadas, and their  grumbled
words and black expressions bespoke displeasure at this proof that
the  pentekoster 's command had gone ignored.
 Styphon inserted himself between those men and the
red-cloaked Thalassia, whose perfect, foreign features remained
placid.  
    “She is a priestess of Artemis,” Styphon
lied.  “Killing her would turn the goddess against us.”
 
    Largely, if not only, because Styphon
outranked them, the men yielded.  But they were still
whispering their dissatisfaction when a deep voice bellowed in rage
from somewhere behind.  “ Styphon! ”
    It was Epitadas.  An inbuilt instinct
to obey made of Styphon's spine an iron rod.  The crowd of
battered hoplites which had swamped the fort parted to reveal
Epitadas stalking up in his old-style Corinthian helmet, its red
horsehair crest bouncing with every emphatic step of the his
sandaled feet.  Behind him walked a retinue of ten or more
hoplites who looked like stone statues come to life, all dull gray
ash marbled with dark blood.  Flanked by these ghosts,
the  pentekoster  drew up face-to-face with his
field-promoted second-in-command.  He inclined his bronze-clad
skull over Styphon's shoulder.
    “Why does that  bitch  yet
live?”  The metallic voice might have belonged to the helmet
itself.
    In spite the midday summer sun, Styphon's
skin went cold inside its shell of stiffened leather.  “She is
a priestess of Artemis,  pentekoster ,” he lied
plain-faced to his superior, a punishable offense.  “We dared
not bring down the goddess's wrath.”
    A sharp laugh emerged from Epitadas' mouth,
a pink hole framed by an overgrown black beard and the bronze cheek
pieces of his encompassing helmet.  “ We? ” he mocked.
 “Who commands here?  And it is true that you have 'dared
not'!”  He waved an arm at the arrow-riddled army of the
half-dead behind him.  “Here are the ones who
have  dared !”
    Though Styphon knew that he and his men
could hardly be chastised for having remained at their assigned
posts, he held his tongue and accepted the rebuke.
    Epitadas drew a short sword, the blade of
which still shone brightly in contrast to the rest of him.
 There was little chance the weapon had seen use this day,
given the way the enemy fought.  The sword's tip came to rest
on Styphon's breast, at his heart, daring him to move.
    “You!”
the  pentekoster  barked at Thalassia.  “Come
forward!  Remove that cloak!  You haven't earned the
right to bleed in it!”
    From behind him Styphon heard a soft rustle,
and seconds later, Thalassia stood at his left arm.  She must
have understood that she'd been summoned to her death, but for
reasons that could be obvious to no other than Styphon, she