seemed
unafraid.
The sword point rapped the stiff leather of
Styphon's breastplate. “The sea brought us this cunt,”
Epitadas said forcefully, “and then it brought us the Athenians
with their spindles. By defying my command to throw her back,
son of Pharax, you brought us doom, and for that”—he tried to spit
in Styphon's face, but since he'd been breathing soot all day, no
moisture flew—“you are demoted. As for you, whore,” he faced
Thalassia, “I told you to remove that cloak!”
Epitadas shifted his sword-point to
Thalassia, who neither flinched nor stepped back so much as a
hair's breadth. Pale blue eyes unworried, she obeyed.
The fingers which had been holding the crimson cloak in place
at her neck opened, and it slid from her shoulders to the
rock-strewn earth, revealing her nymph-like form in all its golden
splendor.
Spartiates were nothing at all if not
disciplined in their public displays, having been trained not even
to cheer a victory, since victory was to be expected rather than
celebrated. Still, more than one Equal now could be heard to
gasp on the fall of that cloak. Brazen-faced Epitadas was not
among them. His blade went to the hollow of Thalassia's
supple neck, where it would take him less effort than was required
to swat a fly to soak the earth with her lifeblood. Still,
his victim's hard eyes still showed no fear.
“ Pentekoster , she is beloved by
Artemis,” Styphon pleaded. His intent was not to save
Thalassia's life but that of Epitadas. “I beg you,
reconsider.”
Epitadas snorted. Around him, the
members of his blood- and ash-caked retinue eyed Styphon with hands
ready on their own sword handles, daring a
demoted phylarch to interfere.
It was at that moment, with sharp bronze
poised to open the throat of a woman who was no mortal woman at
all, that the first brutal shower of Athenian arrows fell on
Nestor’s fort.
The tip of one of those countless
white-fletched shafts, unshakable in their lust to return to the
earth whence they came, found the unshielded flesh at the back of
Epitadas’s neck. Pierced between the skirt of his Corinthian
helm and the upper edge of his leather corselet, the pentekoster
spasmed. His sword swiped wildly and flew from his hand,
bouncing off a moss-covered wall to land spinning on the stones of
the uneven floor. The blade's movement only ceased when the
body of Epitadas crumpled to one side and fell atop it.
The only move Thalassia made was to take a
single step backward to remove her bare feet from the path of
Epitadas' crashing head. The soiled red crest of the fallen
leader's helmet brushed her knees.
Dumbstruck, the onlookers raised shields
belatedly, distractedly, against the incoming Athenian barrage.
Styphon didn't bother, entrusting his life instead to Fate
and a few paltry layers of stiffened leather.
“ Goddess ...” he whispered.
He was alone in finding the breath with
which to speak, and alone in one other thing, too: the knowledge
that Epitadas had not been laid low by the Athenians or even by
Thalassia, but by Fate, whose unbreakable chains bound fast even
the eternal gods. To the rest, it was clear that their leader
had been struck down by the Delighter in Arrows, the virgin
huntress Queen Artemis herself.
Believing their own goddess against them, no
man, not even those closest to Epitadas, objected when
Styphon—demotion forgotten, since it had been issued in furtherance
of a sacrilege—voiced his intent to ask the Athenians for a
truce.
***
Word had come. The Spartans, driven
back to a final redoubt at Sphakteria's north, wished to talk.
Demosthenes was inclined to listen. He stood now at the
the edge of a charred forest at the fore of fluid Athenian lines
which had only just coalesced in the wake of the enemy's wholesale
retreat. The Equal coming to parley was named Styphon, a
lower-ranking officer to whom command of the Spartan force
evidently had fallen. That
unafraid.
The sword point rapped the stiff leather of
Styphon's breastplate. “The sea brought us this cunt,”
Epitadas said forcefully, “and then it brought us the Athenians
with their spindles. By defying my command to throw her back,
son of Pharax, you brought us doom, and for that”—he tried to spit
in Styphon's face, but since he'd been breathing soot all day, no
moisture flew—“you are demoted. As for you, whore,” he faced
Thalassia, “I told you to remove that cloak!”
Epitadas shifted his sword-point to
Thalassia, who neither flinched nor stepped back so much as a
hair's breadth. Pale blue eyes unworried, she obeyed.
The fingers which had been holding the crimson cloak in place
at her neck opened, and it slid from her shoulders to the
rock-strewn earth, revealing her nymph-like form in all its golden
splendor.
Spartiates were nothing at all if not
disciplined in their public displays, having been trained not even
to cheer a victory, since victory was to be expected rather than
celebrated. Still, more than one Equal now could be heard to
gasp on the fall of that cloak. Brazen-faced Epitadas was not
among them. His blade went to the hollow of Thalassia's
supple neck, where it would take him less effort than was required
to swat a fly to soak the earth with her lifeblood. Still,
his victim's hard eyes still showed no fear.
“ Pentekoster , she is beloved by
Artemis,” Styphon pleaded. His intent was not to save
Thalassia's life but that of Epitadas. “I beg you,
reconsider.”
Epitadas snorted. Around him, the
members of his blood- and ash-caked retinue eyed Styphon with hands
ready on their own sword handles, daring a
demoted phylarch to interfere.
It was at that moment, with sharp bronze
poised to open the throat of a woman who was no mortal woman at
all, that the first brutal shower of Athenian arrows fell on
Nestor’s fort.
The tip of one of those countless
white-fletched shafts, unshakable in their lust to return to the
earth whence they came, found the unshielded flesh at the back of
Epitadas’s neck. Pierced between the skirt of his Corinthian
helm and the upper edge of his leather corselet, the pentekoster
spasmed. His sword swiped wildly and flew from his hand,
bouncing off a moss-covered wall to land spinning on the stones of
the uneven floor. The blade's movement only ceased when the
body of Epitadas crumpled to one side and fell atop it.
The only move Thalassia made was to take a
single step backward to remove her bare feet from the path of
Epitadas' crashing head. The soiled red crest of the fallen
leader's helmet brushed her knees.
Dumbstruck, the onlookers raised shields
belatedly, distractedly, against the incoming Athenian barrage.
Styphon didn't bother, entrusting his life instead to Fate
and a few paltry layers of stiffened leather.
“ Goddess ...” he whispered.
He was alone in finding the breath with
which to speak, and alone in one other thing, too: the knowledge
that Epitadas had not been laid low by the Athenians or even by
Thalassia, but by Fate, whose unbreakable chains bound fast even
the eternal gods. To the rest, it was clear that their leader
had been struck down by the Delighter in Arrows, the virgin
huntress Queen Artemis herself.
Believing their own goddess against them, no
man, not even those closest to Epitadas, objected when
Styphon—demotion forgotten, since it had been issued in furtherance
of a sacrilege—voiced his intent to ask the Athenians for a
truce.
***
Word had come. The Spartans, driven
back to a final redoubt at Sphakteria's north, wished to talk.
Demosthenes was inclined to listen. He stood now at the
the edge of a charred forest at the fore of fluid Athenian lines
which had only just coalesced in the wake of the enemy's wholesale
retreat. The Equal coming to parley was named Styphon, a
lower-ranking officer to whom command of the Spartan force
evidently had fallen. That
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