PATRIDA: A NOVEL OF THE PANKRATION by PETER K KATSIONIS - HTML preview

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into the bloodied tongue and gums and the big man staggered back, standing but already dead.

As the body crashed to the ground, an oak felled by a single cut of an axe, Piros threw off the last strands of the net and got to his feet. He was speechless. In less than the span of time it took for a stone to hit the ground after being dropped, Dioxippus had unleashed a technique so fast, so furious, that Piros thought it otherworldly. How could a foot move from the ground to the height of a tall man's chin so fast?

Dioxippus' master meanwhile had taken a step or two back. The bluster was gone. The braggart was humble. The master was now the slave and one soon to be sentenced to death. Dionys began to cry. Then he began to scream. Piros yelled at him to stop but Dionys bellowed even louder. Piros moved toward him and Dionys raised his cane in a poor mimicking of self-defense. Before the cane could even be moved, Piros slipped in and with one quick twist wrested it away from the now terrified and extremely agitated Dionys. Piros raised his left hand until it lay on Dionys' collarbone, approximately a finger length away from the throat. It was almost a lover's caress.

From the moment his hand touched the collarbone to the second it seized and crushed the larynx, less than the time it took for one breath to be inhaled passed. Dionys' face turned white, then red and finally blue as as all the air passages to his head were crushed together like eggshells. And so great was the strength of Piros, that Dionys' ability to resist was completely obliterated. Dangling like a broken doll, his beautiful robe soiled in much the same manner as the child that he had destroyed Dionys was now nothing more than a cadaver. But the screams had alerted neighbours. Voices could be heard outside the compound walls.

Occasionally a beacon of light would slash through the darkness as one of the neighbours swung one of the fat-burning lamps being used in the search for whatever or whoever had screamed. As more and more light rays cut through the night it was apparent to the huddled group within the villa that the numbers outside the wall were increasing quickly.

Dioxippus and Phylia were mute. The shock of the night's events was just beginning to manifest itself in the adolescent boy and the prepubescent girl. Piros looked at them. He could see they were now next to useless and the first priority was to get them out of Athens. That This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

thought upset him. He adored this city. It was the first place that had treated him as a human being not a slave, and he did not want to leave.

Yet, he knew that regardless of what had just transpired in the courtyard his remaining days in Athens would have been few anyway as political allegiances changed. The tragedy tonight merely hastened the move. They had to gather their things quickly and flee Athens.

336 B.C., Pella, Macedonia

Piros remembers…

He could not sleep. He continually tossed, first to the right and then to the left. Finally, he just lay on his back and stared at the ceiling, mindlessly counting the tile pieces making up the mosaic decorating the room.

It was the first time since Chaeronea that he had had trouble sleeping. In that one climactic battle, Philip had destroyed the armies of Athens and Thebes. And Piros, who personally fought at Alexander's side had not only come away with many honours but felt that he had at last exorcised the Theban demons that had haunted his dreams and thoughts since he had been a teenager.

Then why could he not sleep? Piros tried to force himself to relax...to no avail. He shifted his thoughts to his parents, particularly to his mother who so often told him stories of her youth, her capture and her life with his father. Unconsciously he smiled, and the tension faded as his eyelids were slowly drawn down.

Six hundred and fifty dinari. For a slave. A female. The crowd watching the auction was hushed as efficiently as if a giant hand had clasped their collective mouths. The Egyptian trader started sweating anew with the adrenalin running riot in his veins. No woman had come near to giving him the orgiastic elation he now felt. Six hundred and fifty dinari. One sale had financed him for another 2 years. The Egyptian put a hand to his chest, the frantic beating frightened him. He could not die.

It would not be fair to die of a heart attack at the moment of his greatest sale. He took a small rag, wiped his forehead and prayed to Issus.

Delia had not immediately understood what had happened. All she saw was a frenzied mass of people suddenly silenced by a very large black man waving his hands and fingers to the trader beside her. She could smell the acrid odor escaping from the Egyptian, its essence flavoured with spices, sweat and an almost animal-like odor redolent of the herd animals in heat. Although she could not understand the languages being spoken she could understand that something momentous had occurred and it had something to do with her. Delia knew she should be frightened but for some reason unfathomable to her conscious mind she was not.

Kruzios, the little man, so old he appeared as dried up as a sun-roasted fig, looked up at the man beside him. He was surprised, not at the bidding for the woman, after all he was going to buy her for him regardless, but rather for the fact that his companion had just made an outlandish bid with what Krutzios could guess was his own money.

Krutzios knew that Tsaka had been saving what meager earnings he had from extra jobs to buy his freedom. To spend it all on a woman made no sense to the old man. Searchingly, he gazed at this veritable giant hoping to transmit the question through his eyes, why?

And Tsaka, the calm in the eye of the hurricane? After signaling his bid he stood as immobile as a slab of marble. The noise, the excitement, the jeers were all ignored. He saw something in that tiny little flower that mesmerized him and he had to have her, even at the cost of his own freedom.

In Africa, Tsaka had not only been a man of medicine but a spiritual counsel and oral historian. Regardless of size and demeanor, this black colossus based his life philosophy in living harmoniously with nature and man. Even his slavery had not changed his beliefs. Consequently, Tsaka stayed with the little man who had bought him many years ago even though there was really no deterrent to prevent escape. The only thing missing had been a mate and although it was not an uncommon custom for a man to wed a slave (for Delia was now his slave) Tsaka would have preferred a more honourable and civilized wooing of the woman he desired. But as his owner Krutzios had told him earlier, for a slave quite often the only method of securing a mate was through the auction block.

Spending his life savings had not been part of the plan for Krutzios had been quite willing to finance the purchase for Tsaka, whom he had come to love as a son. The astronomical price Tsaka had finally paid for Delia had been fueled by a hunger, not a lustful one but one that could only be satiated by sharing his life with that petite woman barely visible on the dais. For a man who prided himself on logic and the suppression of outward emotions, this instantaneous love released a torrent of thoughts ranging from pleasure to fear to confusion. He began to wonder what he had done.

The Egyptian gently escorted Delia to the edge of the platform and called upon Tsaka to claim his purchase. Tsaka may have been This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

somewhat shocked because Krutzios ended up taking him forward. The Egyptian, ecstatic from the sale (and overjoyed he had not died from a heart-attack), started beating rhythmically on a drum located to the side of the platform. Others joined by clapping to the steps of Krutzios and Tsaka and soon all the specators joined in the revelry. The thumping got louder with every step taken until...

Pausanius

The thumping got louder and louder and Piros' eyes snapped open. His body immediately tensed, preparing itself for any danger.

"Hey Piros. Wake up. Come on. Open the door," called out an obviously inebriated voice. "It is me, Pausanias...your only true love, hawww," the words barely came out through the laughter.

Piros grinned. His friend and comrade was once again trying to outdo Dionysius, the God of Wine. Piros could only guess what party his friend had ended up at. He swung himself out of the cot and walked to the door.

As Piros raised the bolt, Pausanias, who had been leaning against the door, fell through the opening right on top of the surprised Piros. In the process of trying to right themselves they staggered around the room inadvertently imitating two elephants in a mating ritual.

Piros managed to steer Pausanias to a footstool and sat him down forcefully. "Your breath is enough to poison a room," said Piros, crinkling his nose in disgust.

"We are not all sweet flowers like you Piros. You should smell yourself, particularly downwind after a match. With your face and that pig's perfume you call sweat, I cannot understand why there is not a legion of love-starved women breaking your door down," sarcastically replied the drunk but surprisingly erudite Pausanias.

Realizing that exchanging insults with his intoxicated friend was futile, Piros sat on the edge of his cot and asked Pausanias, "Why are you here in the hours before the sun rises?

Could you not go home and sleep? Why do you have to disturb me?

Pausanias, are you listening?" Piros watched his friend slump over. Piros half got up and grabbed Pausanias by the tunic and shook him.

Pausanias muttered something incomprehensible as he sat up. His face broke into a smile.

"Piros, I did something very stupid tonight."

The carefree smile that had played on Piros' face from when he had let Pausanias in began to waver. He knew that Pausanias was utterly fearless in battle and as loyal as the Gods could make him but he also knew that Pausanias did not know when to keep his mouth shut and diplomacy was an unknown entity to him. Piros' stomach began to knot with burgeoning tension. His sixth sense told him that Pausanias was going to be in trouble.

Dioxippus

That was it. He had had enough. If his situation did not change soon, there would be violence. Just then, he spotted his nemesis, surreptitiously crawling in the shadows by the wall.

Dioxippus noiselessly rolled out of the raised platform that served as a bed and alighted without a sound on all fours. His movement had not been noticed.

Nothing stirred.

Suddenly, it was as if everything detonated. Dioxippus leapt up, charging his adversary, screaming the warrior cry meant to paralyze the enemy. In amongst the shadows Dioxippus pursued the foul foe, always one half step behind.

But the room, small and with only one entry, barred escape.

Dioxippus had him cornered. Turning with a ferocity reserved for a life-death struggle he took his position, determined to die fighting for his life.

Dioxippus concerned only with eradicating this menace did not hesitate for a moment as he seized his sword off the table and in one fluid motion threw the weapon at his tormentor. The sword whistled as it completed one cutting revolution through the air.

It was surprising how he felt no pain. The bronze tip, sharp as a razor cut into him as smoothly as his teeth bit through soft bread. It was odd how he could not move, not even to close his eyes.

Dioxippus took a cautious step toward his victim. He took this extra precaution because too many times had he seen even a remnant of a life force galvanize the near dead to action. But this time there was no worry. Death had claimed another.

Dioxippus looked up...at nothing in particular. Taking a deep breath as his heart began to slow after the effects of the earlier exertions he whispered harshly, "I hate rats." And with that he pulled out the sword embedded in the floor, shook off the vermin stuck on the end and unceremoniously kicked the remains of the vile creature out the door.

The laughter made him turn his head. Seated on a low, wooden bench, wrapped in a blanket was Barba Fotis. Dioxippus could not talk.

When he, Piros and Phylia had fled Athens they had not been able to go back for Fotis. Avenging Athenians had patrolled the streets for days while they hid in a grain shed until the furor had died down enough for them to escape to Macedonia. The ensuing war of course had terminated any opportunity to return for the faithful servant. In the aftermath of Chaeronea, so many had been dislocated that finding anyone had been impossible. Piros and Dioxippus had assumed that Fotis had passed on or been killed. Now Dioxippus was looking at what might be a ghost.

Philip

"She is beginning to frighten me," whispered Philip to his new young wife Cleopatra. He raised his head from her naked breast where he had been resting it and looked at the beautiful niece of Attalus with almost reverential awe. Cleopatra was so free of sin, avarice and duplicity that he did not quite know how to act in front of her. But here in the privacy of their bedchamber, relaxed after the rigors of their rather animated lovemaking, he, the conqueror of Hellas, would-be conqueror of the civilized world, was expressing fears and doubts to not much more than a child.

Part of him questioned this exposure of weakness yet part of him needed a safe outlet for his insecurities. Cleopatra provided this haven.

"That witch is determined to destroy me. I find myself constantly on guard and am beginning to trust no one. Even my son Alexander sides with her. A son against his father. That more than anything else wounds me," continued Philip. "Did you hear how he insulted me on our wedding night? Was I to be faulted because one of my closest friends, your uncle, in the spirit of revelry, toasted to a pure Macedonian heir? No slight was made to Alexander intentionally. How could I be more proud of him?

From a child he has been the embodiment of a warrior-king. My heart near bursts when I am told of his exploits, his bravery, his loyalty to his men.

Why would your child mean more than he does? But that bitch-mother of his, Olympias, turns him against me. She claims Zeus-Ammon fathered him. I fathered him! And not by some divine blowing of spirits or other ghosts. She lay on her back and was penetrated like any common animal.

My seed is in Alexander. He is a part of me. He is me," and the now sobbing Philip buried his head once more into the welcoming bosom of Cleopatra.

She caressed his temple, gently brushing back the curly hair. Her long, delicate fingers slid softly across his cheek, stopping before they could become entangled in his coarse beard. She knew that tonight had been one of too much drink, too much festivity and far too much self-examination. Now this one-eyed, lame old warrior was wallowing in self-pity. The excessive imbibing of Greek wine had caused that; his fear of Olympias on the other hand was based on observed fact.

Cleopatra, although but a recent addition to the court, already had her network of spies in operation. Olympias' favoring of Alexander was of course old news. Her worship of Dionysius was not. A eunuch slave attached to the Macedonian queen was enamored of one of the maidens belonging to Cleopatra. What he saw, heard and felt was almost immediately reported to Cleopatra. She had heard of the orgies, the elaborate rituals, the sacrifices of animals maybe of children too. She knew also of Olympias' cavorting with gigantic snakes imported from Africa. This growing fascination with the mystic religions of countries far away was beginning to manifest itself in court procedures and official policy-making. More and more of the Macedonian aristocracy was becoming involved with the Queen's macabre excuse for a religion making court life extremely unpredictable for everyone. Cleopatra knew that the queen hated her too, and was probably biding her time to either oust or assassinate her. To protect herself (and of course Philip) she had slaves test her food and always went about with a select group of bodyguards.

Because of these and other real or perceived threats Cleopatra's existence resembled that of a city under siege. Philip, ruler of this growing empire, was himself living under the cloud of treachery. His usually light-hearted toughness had been stripped by the liquor tonight, exposing his true fears.

Tomorrow, sobered, he would either not remember tonight or ignore it.

Cleopatra looked down at the now sleeping Philip. She shifted her weight slightly, pulled the coverlet a little higher and tried to sleep. An intuitive sense of foreboding chilled her, making her body involuntarily shudder. The still slumbering Philip did not wake although his body too quivered in response. Cleopatra held Philip a little tighter then forced her eyes to close.

Pausanius questions Philip’s rule

"You said what! Are you insane? Do you know what he might do to you? He is the king's new brother-in-law. Where in Hades was your brain tonight?" Piros demanded of the now solemn Pausanias.

"I do not know," whimpered Pausanias. "I drank too much. You know what it is like when the wine flows. We all talk too much. It was just that when I saw the old man all the memories came back. Piros, I, I could not stand it any longer. Attalus telling us war-stories, how he killed fine men, destroyed cities and so on, and the whole time he is looking at me, mocking me... while he fondles the ass of some..." the exasperated Pausanias could not even spit out the words he wanted to say.

"Listen. It was years ago. You were stupid and you were made to suffer for it. But if I remember correctly, you were compensated rather handsomely for your moral indignation. Since then you have shown yourself to be a man and in the process you have risen to the rank of captain in the King’s bodyguard--not bad for someone who a short time ago showed his asshole to every Greek noble with an itch to satisfy.

"Piros, you are my friend, my best friend, but do not dare to call what happened to me at the order of Attalus a moral indignation. I was raped. Gang-raped by the lowest mule-skinners in the city and I was barely more than a child. I did nothing to warrant such a wicked penalty!

As for my compensation, it was Philip’s way of keeping our affair quiet.

He knew my family would pursue this insult if they were told and he feared the vendetta. I took the money not for myself but because I was in love with him.

"Pausanias, you know, and have always known, that most of the Greeks that have boy lovers have many. The king used you to satisfy a temporary carnal need just like he used the other Pausanius, who need I remind you, has been dead for quite a while. Both of you were blinded by Philip’s attentions and promises. It cost the other his life. Please my friend, don’t let yourself be consumed by plots, real or imagined. That episode is over. Look to the future." said Piros.

Pausanius looked away.

"Pausanias, good friend. I sympathize with you for your pain.

Yet I cannot help but feel that the memory of a past transgression no matter how bad, would elicit such a diatribe from you to a general. There is more to this than you are telling me. So, remove this facade of righteous fury and tell me why you really insulted Attalus." Piros' tone changed from a conciliatory to an insistent one as he probed deeper into Pausanias' reckless actions earlier this evening.

"Piros, what I tell you now, you keep secret. I want you to swear on the life you owe me. Piros, do you understand? I saved you at Chaeronea from that brute with the spear. You promised to honor me the rest of our days. Now you must honor me. What I tell you remains confidential. Promise me!"

Piros nodded his head twice. He said nothing.

Pausanias leaned forward but not before glancing around apprehensively. His voice was a harsh whisper and Piros had to lean forward to hear it.

"A fortnight ago, the Queen invited me to supp with her. Piros, if you see how beautiful and desirable she is, you will..."

Piros interrupted, "Pausanias, I know the Queen. Cease the platitudes and continue. At this rate it will be dawn soon."

Feeling chastened, Pausanias assumed a more straightforward manner and continued.

"The Queen expressed legitimate concerns about Philip. She fears that his excessive drinking coupled with the traitorous company he keeps will lead to a crumbling of the Macedonian empire. Piros, believe me, she loves the king. She was adamant on that point. But she loves our kingdom more. That is why she wants to excise the evil growths that poison the court. And for her to choose me, a lowly captain, to help her achieve eternal glory for Macedonia....aaaah...that is simply a dream to be savored."

Piros recoiled and then angrily said, "Is this the same Pausanias that single-handedly unseated three Theban horsemen with only a short spear? Is this the man who fought without a helmet or shield against too many to count so that King Philip could escape from the field? What have you become Pausanias, a plaything for that sex-starved perversion we call Queen? What did she do, stroke your manhood and tell you that yours was the biggest she had ever seen. Or did she let your dagger taste her sweet fruit? Think Pausanias, she is trying to use you to dethrone the king."

"And is that so wrong, Piros? This military genius you so faithfully follow like a starving dog is dragging us down. He talks of conquering Asia yet he cannot even walk straight. Ask Alexander."

Piros winced at the reference to that night when Philip had gotten into an argument with his son Alexander. Alexander's sarcastic assessment of his father was on everyone's lips. Obviously, the Queen had taken Alexander's disparagement of his father's inability to walk, much less conquer Asia, and had twisted it until she was able to use it as a weapon against him. And in Pausanias she had found her missile; a missile whose lusts, for men or women, always seemed to bring disaster.

"Pausanias, sleep here tonight. We will discuss this further when you are sober. Hush now, your talk is treasonous and there may be others about. Here take this blanket and go to sleep," said Piros.

The wine that had earlier so agitated him now began to force Pausanius’ eyelids to close. His vision began to blur and he felt himself flying like Icarus.

Piros sat staring at his recumbent friend. He sighed. The stupidity of men, particularly when a bit of tantalizing flesh tickled their manhood, never failed to amaze him. Looking at the unconscious Pausanias again, he shook his head, blew out the candle and tried to fall asleep.

Olympias

A tigress protecting her cub. She smiled at that reference. She could not remember where she had heard it: it did not matter. It was enough to know that it inspired fear in those who had said it.

She looked at herself in the burnished bronze plate that served as a mirror. She did not look fearsome. Her fair skin contrasted sharply with most of the court and her eyes could be said to be small but in comparison to her peers she was still stunningly beautiful. She turned her head sideways, checking the skin under her jaw. Still tight. She then checked her profile. Straight nose, petite jaw, pouty yet full lips. She turned to face the mirror once again. Letting her elegant robe, dyed the deep purple royalty favored, slip from her shoulders, she sat mesmerized as she stared at the reflection of her now exposed breasts. She lifted her right hand to heart. Then slowly, she drew her long fingers across her bosom, alternately squeezing and caressing her rapidly stiffening nipples. A smile began to form at the corners of her mouth. Any man capable of an erection would die to have her. Her breathing became more rapid as the movement of her hand increased in speed and force. That bastard Philip, why did he need a new wife when he had her. She had given him a son, one who would conquer the world for her. Now that pig Philip was thrusting his most valuable weapon into a teenage harlot. Her breathing became more shallow as the heart rate increased. Both her hands fluttered like butterflies over her heaving bosom. Small, barely discernible exhalations of sound came out of her mouth. She twisted in her seat. No man refused her, including the king. Her eyes began to narrow until only a slit remained.

He would pay for the insult. She was more woman than he could ever hope to have. Shoving her aside for an inexperienced, moronic little tramp would cost him dearly. The tension, coupled with the almost violent stimulation of her breasts had caused her to perspire. The resulting glow captured what little light there was causing her body to radiate its lifeforce. She seized the mirror with both hands, her eyes fixated on her image. Standing up in her eagerness to join the image cast on the shiny metal, the rest of her robe fell away exposing long, graceful legs framing a soft, inviting treasure crowned with a delicate down of light-coloured hair.

She raised the mirror and with the practiced ease of a dancer twirled once around. That bastard Philip was giving up this. He must be out of his This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

mind. The things she knew that could give him pleasure were not limited by morals, customs or the imagination. But he, like all those rutting Macedonian pigs, was only concerned by thrusting himself to a quick, selfish ejaculation. Men like Philip were not interested in the different often dangerous techniques she had learnt from masters who came from all over the civilized world just to seek her out. She was a real woman.

Powerful, lustful and feared. She did not notice although she was still staring at her image in the mirror that she resembled a feline creature of the night, much the same as the ones the Egyptians worshipped. Even if she had known, it would have been doubtful that Olympias, engrossed in her self-examination, would have been concerned. In fact, comparing her to a feline would have flattered her.

The knock on the door went unanswered. The second knock also failed to garner a response from the narcissistic Queen. Opening the door quietly, gently calling her name, the young man entered the Queen's bedchamber. Many would have been struck dumb, frightened or the very least been extremely uncomfortable with watching a demi-god cavort about unclad the whole time moaning with pleasure as she stared at herself in a mirror she grasped as tightly as life itself. Patroclus however was unimpressed.

Sensing another's presence, Olympias whirled around to face her servant. A cat-like sneer twisted that beautiful face into a macabre mask.

And standing there naked, flushed with raw sexuality, she emanated omnipotence. She expected men, whom she always considered the weaker sex, to grovel in her presence. This miserable slave was no exception.

Patroclus was not privy to Olympias' thoughts. Consequently he did not feel obligated to play the subservient slave. He moved forward to deliver his message.

Olympias intuitively detected a certain haughtiness in this feeble excuse for a man. She too moved forward, making absolutely no attempt at modesty. When she was within arm's reach of Patroclus, she lunged, grabbing his hair with both hands and pulling his head into her chest.

Jerking his head from breast to breast, muffling with tender flesh what sounds could escape him, she was determined to sexually ravage this stoic youth.

Patroclus tried to push her away but the combination of her lustful fury and her station precluded success in this venture. All he could hope for was getting enough air to breathe.

Olympias meanwhile forced his head lower and lower, leaving a trail of saliva and sweat down across her abdomen. He could already smell the odor of a lust run rampant. Just as his lips and tongue were about to make contact with her womanhood, she twisted her wrist, yanking his hair painfully forcing him to lift his head up.

"Do you want a taste slave? Beg, beg like the dog smelling the bitch in heat. Do you want me? Come closer..." and with that Olympias released Patroclus' hair and grabbing his buttocks with her left hand, lifted his knee-length chiton simultaneously leaning forward to take him into her mouth.

She reeled back. Both her hands came back to cover her face.

Inadvertently, one hand slipped down and now covered her still naked breasts. Even her face, flushed with the pleasure she was giving herself, turned dark red with the humiliation. She, a queen, had tried to give herself to a eunuch.

Patroclus stood immobile. No expression graced his countenance-

-that would be too dangerous. Inwardly, he laughed at this whore who would be a god. And the message he was to deliver would make her even more unhappy. Keeping from breaking into a grin would be very, very difficult.

Fotis reappears

"Do you have nothing to say to the old man who helped train you?" asked Fotis.

Dioxippus was still dumbfounded. He simultaneously felt ecstatic and embarrassed. He loved the old man. Yet it was he who had ruined Fotis' idyllic existence. It was he who had forced Piros into abandoning the faithful servant. To run to Fotis now, to hug him, to tell him how happy he was to see him seemed trite and a mockery of the relationship they once had. He needed to have the old man forgive him, if that was possible.

"Well, it seems the intervening years have not only added an incredible amount of muscle to your body but also to your head. From the flowing rhetoric I hear from your mouth, it appears that the mass you have added to your chest and arms has cut off the circulation to your brain. This old man does not have many years to live, at least not enough to wait for a greeting from one he loves as a son." Fotis stood up, arms slightly outstretched in the direction of Dioxippus.

Suddenly, Dioxippus felt a tingling in his scalp, followed by an itch on his forehead and a rush of heat to his cheeks. Fotis had made the first move but his embarrassment or shame refused to subside.

Fotis urged him on. "Dios, are we no longer friends? Come before this night air permeates my bones even further."

Dioxippus took a couple of halting steps forward. The movement shook him out of his melancholic self-disparagement and within a body's length he was running toward the old man.

As they closed, Dioxippus seized Fotis with both arms and lifted him off the ground. Fotis was so small and light that his legs were swung around in almost a full circle. Dioxippus was so ecstatic that he did not notice the old man's tears staining the shoulder of his tunic.

"Come inside, tell me where you have been, what you have been doing, why you are back..."

"Calm my young friend," interrupted Fotis. "You have obviously not lost the ability to turn your mouth into a waterfall of words. Let me make myself comfortable and I will tell you my story. But it approaches dawn and maybe we should sleep."

"I have not seen you for two years and you want me to sleep!"

countered Dioxippus. "No, tell me your story now...that is of course if you are up to it. I should consider your welfare."

"Hah, at my age sleep robs one of a few hours every day. I would rather talk." Fotis made himself comfortable on Dioxippus' bed and began.

"The first night was the worst. I had not retired to bed because I was waiting for my master. But age, the heat of the day and the lateness of the hour made me, I am ashamed to say, extremely tired. Well, all I know is that I fell asleep sitting by the main door. I was awakened by someone pounding the door like one of the lunatics they send to that island."

"That was me, Barba Fotis. I was looking for Piros," interjected Dioxippus.

"Aah, that explains one mystery. I am sorry lad that I did not answer. By the time I awoke, roused myself and limped to the door...you were gone. As I looked out the door however I saw masses of people milling about. To be honest, I had no idea why there would be so many about late into the night. Although I may be old, at times I have the curiosity of a child. So, I threw on a robe and went into the street and began to follow the crowd.

Dioxippus, I could not believe my ears. This rabble that passed for an assembly were calling Piros a traitor, a turncoat. Others were yelling for him to be exiled. And a few, the ferrets that turn on their own kind, wanted him executed. To say I was dismayed is like saying Mt.

Olympus is a molehill. If I were not so old and worn, I would have taken those ungrateful morons and twisted their necks like chickens for a pot.

Well, we continued on, most of the mob carrying firebrands, and yelling at the population of Athens to unite against the evil hordes from Macedonia. (As if all those sleeping in their beds were going to get up, get dressed and march about the city in the late hours of the night). No matter, to continue.

We had been marching like this for a while when we heard screams or cries from what appeared to be your master's compound. They appeared to be appeals for help so a good part of the crowd moved towards the outside walls. None of us was prepared for what happened next..."

Dioxippus shifted uncomfortably on the low stone bench. He was sitting partially obscured by shadow so Fotis, engrossed in the telling of his story, did not notice how Dioxippus tensed with the memory of his last night in Athens.

"There you were, running along the top of the wall. Right behind you was a small figure, (at the time I did not know who) and behind both of you was Piros, recognizable only by his dark skin (and by the way he was running with his chiton pulled up around his waist like some woman urinating in a field--quite funny actually). At first the confusion kept anybody from venturing inside the gate. Eventually that little donkey's organ Yiovanis forced his way in. I may be old but I had to see".

Dioxippus let out a sigh. The flashes of the carnage left behind shot sharp pains into the area behind his eyes. He blinked several times.

The pain began a slow throbbing that with every heartbeat put pressure on his eyes. This time he shifted noticeably and Fotis noticed.

"I apologize Dios," said the now subdued Fotis. He had been so engrossed with his tale that he had not even begun to consider the effects on Dioxippus. The loquacious Fotis had not had the opportunity in the last couple of years to speak so long, so uninterrupted to a captive and willing audience, consequently, the words spewed forth like torrents in a storm.

Now he regretted that he had not pondered on Dioxippus' emotional state.

"Barba Fotis. Continue please. I am quite capable of hearing your story without wringing my hands in weak emotionalism," declared Dioxippus.

"Excuse me my prince," laughed Fotis. "I was not aware of the great progress you have made intellectually since last I saw you. Weak emotionalism...mmmm...that is quite the phrase, young Plato". The mocking sarcasm was tinged with affectionate humour and Dioxippus found himself laughing at his own snobbery. The tension lifted, Fotis continued his tale, albeit with more caution.

"I will not go into detail but that garden was a mess. And you know those Athenians. They may spout democracy but let a slave raise a hand against (much less destroy) one of their own...no fury exists in Hades as unconstrained as that of vengeance-seeking Athenians. Dios, it was if they had drunk of a potion created specifically to induce insanity. They ran about tearing out their hair, shouting obscenities, weeping tears of grief...it made me ill to my stomach. They hated your master. To them, Dionys was a poisonous snake; dangerous unless kept fed. And that bastard fed on children. They all knew it. And when they found the body of Iyea, battered and violated, they knew it was Dionys who had killed her and for a moment everyone hushed. But that little dung-eating parasite, Yiovanis, started wailing how good a civic leader Dionys was, and how his murderers should be brought to justice...I barely kept the vomit down. To not burden you any more with an old man's feeble attempt at rhetoric, I decided that it was time to leave so I slipped out of the city that night. I hid on my father's cousin's farm, approximately 2 leagues out of the city. I hoped that Piros might find me but it was not to be."

The last few words were spoken haltingly. It was obvious that even the garrulous Fotis had tired out. His eyes grew heavy and his speech started to slur. Dioxippus moved to the bed, lay a hand on the old man's chest and gently pushed him back until he was prone. He then took a tattered blanket and gently placed it over Fotis. Even though it was now approaching dawn, he decided to try and sleep himself. Dioxippus took his outdoor robe, rolled it into ball, placed it on the low-lying bench and rested his head on it as he lay down.

Olympias challenges Patroclus

"You saw nothing, slave," hissed the Queen. She got off her knees and slithered to the other side of the room. At least that was the way Patroclus perceived her.

"You are here for a reason. Speak quickly or I'll take what's left of your jewels and feed it to you personally," continued Olympias, her haughty manner returned.

"The king sends a message...O' esteemed Empress of Mollossis,"

stated the bowing Patroclus. The ostentatious display of servility was not lost on the Queen nor was the use of her former title appreciated. Her burgeoning anger at the insolence of this messenger had already discolored her pale, almost translucent skin into a mottled collage of reds as the blood rushed to the topmost layers of skin. She began to feel a pressure in her chest and she had to force herself to take several deep breaths. Her mind-state was further compounded by her growing inability to conceal her agitation. The sheer audacity of this slave did not bode well for her. He knew something.

"Well...are you planning on continuing your little speech or are you going to stand there, doing nothing, much like you would should a beautiful woman need a man," drawled the queen, making sure she emphasized the word man.

Patroclus smiled. He was playing a dangerous game with this witch.

"Philip, King of Macedonia, requests that you, Olympias, remove yourself and your belongings from this suite within the passing of three days. He further requests that all courtiers associated with your person be asked to leave the palace."

"Where am I to relocate myself...slave," spit out Olympias.

"The king suggested the east wing. He also stated that your personal slaves would be given the opportunity to serve someone else...in order to break up the monotony of serving but one lord. The king trusts This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

this meets with your approval," concluded Patroclus. He braced himself for the expected attack.

The color drained from Olympias' face. Her teeth ground as she fought to control her fury. The tendons in her slender neck raged to tear themselves through the brittle skin. For the briefest of moments, she could not see. But her mind, brilliantly calculating, overrode her unbalanced emotional state enabling her to present an obviously angry yet controlled demeanor. For the first time since he had began this verbal sparring, Patroclus felt he was in danger.

During the course of the exchange, Olympias had dressed. Now she occupied herself with the clasping of the robe at her shoulders. As she purposely fumbled with the clasp, wasting time and not speaking to Patroclus, the tension from her body manifested itself like some wraith from Hades in the room.

Outwardly, Patroclus displayed no discomfort. He maintained the stolid deportment of his warrior kin despite the taut passions on the verge of rupturing. Yet, an insidious fear began to grow, feeding on itself.

Already, Patroclus was experiencing difficulty containing his bladder and he could swear his knees were trembling.

Olympias had the heightened senses of a hunting carnivore. She smelt the fear in Patroclus. She attacked.

"What is your name, slave?" asked Olympias, her voice sweet, kindly...beckoning.

"Patroclus," replied Patroclus, chiding himself immediately for so easily giving away his identity.

"You appear to be an intelligent young man. I think the king's plan to provide me with a change of personal attendants is a good one. It is not proper for a slave to become too attached to his mistress or master. I am glad that you brought me the message. It has afforded me the opportunity to personally select the first of my new entourage--you!"

Her comforting smile twisted into a leer while her eyes flashed cold. Patroclus struggled to maintain calm but he knew the king, after This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

moving or more accurately throwing her out, would not risk offending Olympias further by refusing her a slave, particularly a court eunuch.

With him part of her entourage she would have the right to do anything with him as she pleased.

Although Patroclus made no discernible move after her announcement his panic entered her body through all her pores. That terror was an elixir. She could now feel her heart start to race as the adrenalin charged through her veins. Her breasts screamed to be touched and she unconsciously started sliding her hand down across her lower abdomen.

The power she now had over this, this thing provided her with almost ecstatic sexual gratification that was better than any of the erotica she was constantly importing. And it would get better when she dealt with the king.

Philip arises to Pella

The first light had barely begun to make its way across the shadows covering the Macedonian capital. The dew glistened as it caught the sun's rays and refracted them into sparkling stars. Occasionally, the droplets acted like minute prisms as they dispersed the rays into spectrums of color.

To most of the now rising tradesmen, farmers, servants and whoever else needed to begin work at dawn, the city's morning incandescence was not representative of nature's unsullied, pure beauty.

To them the dew was an unwelcome dampness that cut through their lightweight chitons, chilling them. The moisture on the ground, shimmering like something alive did not amaze or awe the workmen trudging to their jobs: it wet their feet, ankles and shins and set their legs to trembling with the cold.

Not all of the citizens of Pella muttered curses at the hour, the duty or the morning condensation. While his fellow revelers would no doubt sleep until midday, Philip always made sure he was up with the dawn. To him, the splendors of Greece paled in comparison with his city, his home. Not that he could compare Pella's basically rustic layout and architecture with the glorious Athens but the simple straightforward lifestyle of his capital reflected his own outlook on the world around him.

Philip considered himself an uncomplicated man. He administered the bureaucracy that ran his government, he went to war when he felt the need to expand and he planned on making Hellas the world leader it should be; approached correctly, rather straightforward goals. He had an army, not large by international standards, yet so well-trained that they routinely defeated forces two to five times their size. He had subordinates who were not afraid to make decisions and were almost insanely loyal to him. And through strategic marriages and diplomatic ruthlessness he had annexed most of the Greek city-states to his empire. Now as he looked out from the palace over the city, he wondered why with all the factors in his favor, his hopes for an empire that would transcend time and history were about to vanish like the evaporating mist now steaming into nothingness as the rising sun's heat raised the temperature higher and higher.

Standing here alone, momentarily separated from the chaos his life was becoming Philip could ask himself the questions no one else would dare. Did he love Cleopatra? Had he ever loved Olympias? Had he ever loved anything? He felt, he could not describe it. It was an awareness that quite possibly everything he did was to gratify himself only. Wives or countries, both were the same. He wooed them, made love to them, conquered them. Some were happy, some were not. He did not particularly care as long as they acknowledged him as their supreme leader. If in the process, he developed a great affection for them it was a gift to thank the gods for. But to say he truly loved any one person, any one philosophy or any one culture--it could not be said. He questioned this lack of true, unmitigated passion. Everything he did was pre-calculated to measure the effects of the particular action. True spontaneity he could not muster. Blind, unflagging love he could not bring himself to develop. As far as he could tell he was emotionally bereft. And for some unknown reason, this made him feel less of a man, less a part of society. Philip would surpass almost all his contemporaries in his accomplishments of that he was sure. But no one would know or care about him as a living being, someone who breathed, who ate and drank, who fornicated with women.

He was a man, nothing more, nothing less. Circumstance and ambition would not let him remain one.

Then he thought of Alexander. His son. He loved him so fiercely that he felt real physical pain when he was separated from him. In battle, his own effectiveness was compromised as he constantly kept his mind focused on Alexander's safety. Fortunately, Alexander seemed to be protected by the Gods as the extraordinary chances he took would have claimed the life of any ordinary man. And even though Philip feared for his son's well-being he nevertheless felt intense pride at Alexander's successes on and off the field. In Alexander, Philip saw the culmination of all he had done well.

What had happened? They were barely speaking to each other now. Alexander had seen fit to go to Asia without him, supposedly on a mission to check the viability of annexing even more territory. But he knew the truth. Alexander no longer respected him as a father. Philip felt a stabbing pain in his chest. Why Alexander, he asked himself. What could come between a son and his father? Philip knew the answer as he asked the question. That slut of a Queen, Olympias, wanted him removed or dead, whichever proved more convenient. And since he had married This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

Cleopatra, well...he thought to himself, he had had to increase his bodyguard including the food tasters. Philip had survived almost crippling injuries from his enemies in conflicts too many to remember. Now this harlot from hell would probably succeed where legions had failed. And what made the thought unbearable was knowing that Alexander would assume the throne not knowing how much his father truly loved him. If Olympias could only understand that his plans for Alexander were almost identical to hers there would be no need for this subterfuge and treachery.

It was not to be. Alexander had fallen under the spell of his mother and in the process forsaken his father. Philip let out a sigh. This melancholic soliloquizing was serving no purpose. He turned to go back to his room.

The slowly escalating brightness of the rising sun momentarily blinded Philip as he entered the relatively dark confines of his bedroom.

As his eyes readjusted to the changing light, Philip noticed that Cleopatra was sitting up in their bed. She had drawn up the coverlet so it covered her nakedness. Philip noticed how this made her even more alluring and he felt the first traces of a blood rush to his groin area. Even Olympias, with her almost unnatural beauty and ravishing sexual appetite did not excite him as much as this nubile teenager. His eyes caught her's as they refocused and he could not help but wonder how this innocent creature could survive the intrigues of the court without him to protect her. And as he moved closer to the bed her petiteness imparted a sense of fragility that begged to be handled with an extra modicum of care and love. The sheer helplessness of Cleopatra drove him mad with the need to offer himself as a shield to cover her. It also drove him mad with the need to grab her, hold her and penetrate her with abandon, always knowing that he and he alone would be the only man to own this flower.

As the naked Philip slid in beside his wife, delirious with desire, he failed to notice the faint but smug smile tantalizing the lips of Cleopatra.

Burying his head into her firm young breasts, his mouth clamping over her erect and gloriously pink nipples, he twisted his hips back and forth desperately trying to insert his achingly hard penis into Cleopatra.

Teasingly, she would let the short pubic hairs just touch Philip making him almost cry with desperation as his testicles screamed to have the pressure within released. They tousled back and forth for what seemed to Philip an eternity before seizing her buttocks and pulling her hips forward as he thrust into her. His hands were holding her so tightly, that the areas surrounding his fingers turned white as the blood circulation was cut off.

His invasion continued, the pace blistering as he plunged in and out oblivious to all but satisfying his lust. His groans and harsh breathing muffled the squealing, almost pain-filled chirps from Cleopatra but he heard enough to drive himself even harder, the violence of his love somehow cleansing, purifying him of the evils surrounding him. His mind a blank, his sweaty body streaked with fluids from the both of them he felt himself explode again and again. Cleopatra too let out a guttural cry as her husband's fluids spurted into, onto her. Philip's body spasmed.

Cleopatra held him in her arms, much like she would a child. She could feel his back rise then sink as her king tried to suck in air as rapidly as his body depleted it from his lungs. She could learn to love this man; his character fascinated her almost as much as his power. She stroked his forehead, relaxing him.

"My lord, the pleasure you give me is immeasurable. I love you like no other...I would die for you," whispered Cleopatra to the recumbent Philip. "Do you love me?"

"Only you," lied Philip. "I crave you night and day". This was not a lie.

"My only desire is to be your wife and mother of your children. I exist to satisfy you. To make you happy. You know this," said a plaintive Cleopatra. Philip nodded in agreement. "But...I am unsure how to tell you," said Cleopatra as she cast her eyes down submissively.

A wolf unaware of the trap, Philip replied, "Whatever the problem, I am here to solve it." He raised himself on one elbow and grinning, in a somewhat condescending manner, he said, "Now tell me what troubles you...you may reward me after I offer a solution."

Cleopatra bowed her head, blushing. Her peripheral vision indicated that this moronic game-play was having its effect on the old warrior. She marveled at how easily she could manipulate this man, someone renown for assessing character instantly, no matter what the situation. Philip could form an accurate appraisal of a soldier within moments. This was probably why he was an exemplary commander of his troops. But when it came to women, all he could or would understand was This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

that they needed him more than he needed them. Only Olympias had proven to be different--and he feared her.

Cleopatra took the gamble. "My lord, I request but one thing."

"Anything," replied Philip.

"I would like to have the Queen's chambers moved. She and her retinue of perverts frighten me. Please say the word and I will have the orders obeyed immediately. I assure you, I will not insult or belittle the Queen. I will give her reasons that will not reflect on you at all."

Philip pondered for a moment. Olympias was beginning to frighten him too. A permanent solution was still out of the question. And if Cleopatra was willing to talk the Queen into moving, what harm could come to him?

"If you can convince the Queen to move, I would not object."

Cleopatra threw herself on Philip, whispering thank you over and over. And as her hand searched for him, driving him again into a sexual frenzy, she smiled; for at that moment, the first of the porters were already moving Olympias' belongings out of her apartment.

Piros trains his charges

Piros watched the trainees intently. Occasionally one's technique would pique his interest: sometimes one's aggressiveness would draw a lingering look. Still, it was difficult to excite oneself with the pool of talent being so shallow. Admittedly, these Macedonians were tough, extremely tough. They refused to acknowledge pain, even in training, which of course made it simple to suffer debilitating injuries. If Piros could teach these farmboys the intricacies of the pankration he would have a team of fighters unstoppable in the Games. All he had now were man-boys with big muscles and thick skulls. Piros shook his head. What purpose was he serving instructing these novices? Piros was anything but a defeatist. This time however, he was prepared to throw his hands up.

Not having a winner would be a great loss of face to both King Philip and the prince Alexander, especially now that the Greek city-states had been subjugated by the Macedonians. Piros did not know what to do. He called out some instructions to a pair of grappling students and made his way down to the training pit.

"Enough!" yelled Piros to the twelve pankratiatists. "Come over here...now!" There was a rush of shuffling and bodies bumping awkwardly into each other. "Sit down and listen," said Piros, crinkling his nose with disgust at the sheer ineptitude of this group.

"The pankration is not a sport. It is not an arena to show off beautiful bodies. It is not the sport that will win you great favors. Nor will it provide you with worshippers and admirers," Piros stated coolly. "The pankration is war. You against your opponent. If you do not try to maim or kill him, he will definitely maim or kill you. In order to do that, you must follow a system, a plan of attack that integrates all your techniques.

For example, if I want to bring down this Titan, Panos, how would I do it?"

The group broke into cautious laughter. Panos was almost a foot taller than Piros with a musculature resembling a war elephant from India.

The disparity in size looked comical but as Piros himself was neither laughing nor smiling, the pankratiatists quickly hushed. One raised his hand and spoke.

"The legs. You must start on the legs."

"Good. And from there where do we go?"

Another student answered. "Attack the body and the head will fall."

"Careful now. That would be a good answer--if you were a boxer with many rounds to go. But this is the pankration. As soon as you close to hit the body, your opponent will grab you and attempt to throw you to the ground. If he is quick enough or you are too slow, he may even grab your arm and snap it off like a twig on a branch."

"Follow a kick to the legs with a rapid punch to the head. Then grab him by the hair and twist his head off," answered one of the seated men, a smug smile the only thing differentiating him from the rest. One of the older pankratiatists, sitting on the periphery of the ring, turned his head away and covering his mouth with his hand, smiled...he had seen this before.

"Ahhh, a scholar of the martial arts. Come my friend.

Demonstrate your attack on me. But be gentle, the Gods of Olympus have stolen my best years," said Piros to the man who had espoused on the ease of detaching heads.

The conscripted volunteer stood up. He was a youth of approximately nineteen. His Macedonian heritage was evident. He had short, curly hair, so red that when it caught the sun it shone like a beacon.

In build, he was taut, with very little body fat concealing his muscles.

Although not short, his height was misleading because his elongated trunk stole precious inches away from his legs. He had a thick neck but his youth still lent it an air of gracefulness and combined with the still unbroken facial features he was not unpleasant to look upon. Piros of course saw and remembered everything in his opponents. But in this case, he paid far more attention to how the pankratiatist approached him for that would tell him how the man moved, how he might attack and how much confidence propelled him.

The youth, Dimitris, strode into the middle of the ring. Of the Macedonians, he considered himself the best. Many had fallen victim to This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

his speed, particularly in his hands. He also knew that his disproportioned torso lent him an incredible advantage in grappling and wrestling.

Combined with his low center of gravity and legs as thick as Dorian pillars, he was almost unbeatable in the ring. And unlike the others, Dimitris had fought competitively albeit not successfully in the adults' divisions. Now however, he possessed skills he never imagined a year ago and he was hoping to win the olive wreath at the games.

Piros waited. Two years of relative inactivity had softened some of his chiseled edge. He had retired from the pankration ring a demi-god: he had reaped extensive financial and political rewards for his efforts. The hunger, the drive to not only win but to destroy had been compromised by the accompanying wealth and easy living. Even the baleful stare that would defeat his opponents before the match started had been replaced by an intelligent, analytical gaze...as befitting a scholar, hardly intimidating.

To further compound his own effectiveness, his role as a teacher precluded his showing any great effort in the ring. As a champion he was expected to defeat all opponents. As a teacher, he was expected to only use enough force to instruct. Piros knew that Dimitris would fight with abandon because he had nothing to lose.

While these thoughts flashed through Piros' mind, Dimitris closed the gap between the two in the ring. His left leg was slightly ahead of his right and both hands were raised approximately chest level. Fingers were curled but unlike the boxer's were not closed into a fist.

Piros assumed a similar stance with only his hands a shade lower.

He gave a curt nod to Dimitris.

A quick shuffle forward and the left hand, each of its fingers curling with its mate into a clenched fist even as it moved through the air, whistled toward Piros' head. Simultaneously, the right leg catapulted out of its supporting position toward Piros' left quadricep muscle.

Instinctively, Piros turned his head. He had half-expected Dimitris to surprise him with something other than the discussed drill. But the left jab had been faster than he had anticipated. Eluding the punch had left him open for the kick and as it impacted into his upper thigh he gritted his teeth in pain and anger as he chided himself for giving this youngster the opportunity to not only show off but to also hurt him.

Twenty years in the ring however had left him with enough knowledge and toughness to weather the most pugnacious of attackers. As his left leg buckled, Piros accelerated the motion by falling onto his left knee. With his bent right leg pulling him he slid under the wide-open legs of Dimitris, reached up under the crotch with his left arm and seized his opponents' left buttock. His right arm went the other direction, partially encircling Dimitris' trunk. Within the blink of an eye, Piros twisted upward turning Dimitris a full circle in the air. At the peak of the revolution, Piros released the Macedonian, whose body, now freed from the control of the retired champion, smashed into the ground, raising small puffs of dust.

Dimitris, the wind knocked out of him, lay where he had landed.

The shock of the impact combined with the shock of how easily he had been manhandled left him immobile. The other students, who had held their collective breath, let out a gasp and then ran to their compatriot.

Seeing he was relatively unhurt, like small children, their excited voices raced each other until only an unintelligible babble could be heard by someone outside the group.

Piros slowly raised himself. He surreptitiously rubbed his leg with the hardened palm of his hand. Inwardly, he smiled. The youngster had nerve.

"Well done old man."

Piros turned around. Standing not twenty paces from him was an incredibly handsome youth. With his long blond hair, blue eyes and clean-shaven (rare for the time) face the youth radiated beauty. But that beauty paled in comparison to the power emanating from him. Here stood a god.

Here stood Alexander.

Dioxippus makes a discovery

He strained to hear the breathing. It was faint, barely discernible from the other morning noises. Dioxippus slowly pushed himself up from his reclining position until he could see the sleeping form of Barba Fotis.

There was no doubt; the old man was still breathing although if one were to judge by the noise level only a miniscule amount of air was entering the lungs. Dioxippus stared at the aged trainer. He could not help but compare Fotis to a small, helpless child.

The sun's morning rays had already slashed through the shadows at the far end of the house dazzling the interior with bursting colors.

Dioxippus blinked twice as the glare stung his sleep-laden eyes. The sting in his eyes made him aware of the late hour. He had to train. He would let the old man sleep.

Dioxippus slowly made his way out, after all he did not want to wake up Fotis. Outside, he allowed himself to relax and grabbing a square piece of cloth and a small clay pot of water, he went to the back of the small house where he emptied his bladder and then performed some perfunctory washing. Refreshed, he proceeded back to the front of his dwelling. Looking around, for no one in particular, and noting he was unobserved, he sat down cross-legged in the dirt.

He had only noticed it two days earlier. How could he have missed it? He looked down. Scattered among the grains of sand and multi-coloured pebbles was a stick, more a sliver really. Dioxippus picked it up. Holding the finger-length piece of wood between his thumb and forefinger he began to draw in the earth.

Dioxippus swore softly under his breath. The stick figures he was drawing began to take shape. Mumbling again, he drew what two days earlier he had witnessed--the bucking of the wild horse. There, now he could see it in his mind. The soldiers were trying to break the colt but the animal was so frightened it refused to yield to the rope being vainly thrown at it. At first the horse reared and galloped around the enclosure. That changed as soon as the first loop encircled its head and neck. Two strong Macedonians pulled down hard on the other end of the rope and even This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

though the young horse was able to initially drag its captors about the pen, the strain on its neck finally exhausted the creature. A few spectators who had ambled over when they heard the shrill screams of the horse intermingled with the cursing and yelling of the soldiers, began to cheer the horse and yell derisive comments at its new masters. But the horse, now lathered from its exertions, slumped its head down and stood as immobile as if it had been carved from marble. One of the soldiers holding the rope released it and began to walk cautiously toward the defeated animal. An experienced horseman, he approached the beast, not from the front but from an oblique direction so when he got near he was on a right angle to the horse's potentially deadly hooves. Dioxippus, watching this little drama, admitted to himself that these Macedonians knew their animals. He turned to leave.

Suddenly, Dioxippus looked back. Galvanized by some inner spirit, the horse stood on its front legs and viciously kicked out with its rear ones. The thrusting movement of the hind legs combined with the twisting hips forced the front legs to pivot in the direction of the outthrust rear. In mid-stride, the approaching Macedonian soldier was struck down as the hooves simultaneously tore through skin, hair and bone to crush as effortlessly as an egg, the face and skull of the soldier. So quickly did this happen, that the other man still held on to the rope. Only stunned momentarily, he yanked the rope hard in the opposite direction. The arc of the circle was now too great for the horse to swing his legs in the original trajectory and have any chance of striking his second nemesis. Then the unforeseen. The horse, perhaps possessed of a greater intelligence than its brothers or perhaps imbued with a supernatural spirit, snapped its head hard away from its enemy. The soldier, still holding on to the rope was jerked forward abruptly. Instantaneously, the rear legs swung up and out forcing the front hooves to pivot but this time in the opposite direction.

But he had been forewarned. The Macedonian threw his arms up to protect his head. Like the warclubs of the hill savages, the hooves tore the muscles, severed the sinews and broke the bones that constituted the arms of the Macedonian. He too fell, unconscious from the impact and shock but still alive.

All this transpired in the span of heartbeats yet many of the spectators were already leaping into the pen and running towards the untamed brute that crushed the life of one man and maimed the other.

actions, the horse trotted off to a corner of the pen, snorting its anger as it took steps first in one direction then the other. Unbeknownst to it, Alexander had issued forth a decree banning the destruction of good horses so the expletives hurled its way by the frantic humans was the only harm that would come its way.

Dioxippus had sat mesmerized. Why, he had not known? He neither knew the horsemen nor cared about them. Death and injury were part of life. The tableau before him barely interested him now that the play was finished. Why then was his brain screaming for his eyes to open? He had returned to his training later that day completely disoriented. He felt himself tantalized by a secret he could not learn.

But today, sitting in the dirt, Dioxippus had a revelation. The horse. The kick. That was what it was. In watching the horse fight its captors, Dioxippus had seen a devastating weapon unleashed. And he could have it.

Taking the tiny stick he drew a horse's rear leg in the ground in front of him. He studied it. Then he drew a human leg. He compared them. Where the knee bent on a human and where the hock joined the fetlock on a horse there was a similarity of structure that could not be overlooked. There was of course the obvious difference that the bend in the horse's leg was reverse of the bend in the human leg. Still, the motion of the horse's leg could be imitated by a man. If so, a kick could also be designed to simulate the one he saw two days earlier.

Dioxippus thought back to the day he first learned that a kick could be effective above the waist. Since then he had refined what he referred to as the front kick until it could be used from a variety of positions at a variety of targets. It had proven to be the equalizer in the pankration rings when he fought bigger, tougher or more experienced opponents. Now he was sitting here in the dirt yet again, designing a weapon best used by a dumb animal. Dioxippus smiled. He knew others were critical of his unorthodox style of fighting and if they saw him now they would also be critical of his sanity. Dioxippus was not overly concerned by others' opinions of his skills or mental state. He only cared to win.

Dioxippus stood up. He glanced around. This time there was no wall to experiment his new kick on. He considered the house. No, he would wake up Barba Fotis. There was a small fig tree near the back of the compound. It was rather narrow but it would provide a target that could be impacted. And as the tree was fairly slender it would give with the blow minimizing the jar on his foot and leg.

Dioxippus walked over to the tree. He focused on a spot where the trunk was approximately the circumference of two large hands touching thumb to thumb, middle finger to middle finger. Immediately, there was a difficulty with the physics of the kick. The horse kicked in basically a rearward direction; Dioxippus knew that duplicating the motion of the horse would necessitate turning his back on his opponent which at best would prove suicidal. Nevertheless he thought it best to at least attempt the kick the way he had seen it.

Dioxippus focused on the spot he would kick. It was approximately halfway up the trunk and relatively smooth of protruding bumps, knots or bark. With scarcely a thought, Dioxippus kicked back with his right leg at his chosen target.

The results were disastrous. The thrust from the kicking leg pulled his body toward the sapling. This forced his supporting leg and foot to slide in underneath his body, altering the center of balance, resulting in a face-first dive into the dirt. Pain compounded the embarrassment when his kicking foot missed the trunk but his first toe did not. The glancing blow on the extremity sent shards of agony up his leg. So there Dioxippus lay, in the dirt, curled in a fetal position, holding his foot and definitely not feeling the almost holy elation he had had bathe him when he had created the front kick two years earlier.

"Is that a new love dance or do you plan on plowing the ground with your teeth?" laughed a mocking voice.

Philip and Olympias

"You requested an audience," asked Philip in the most royal of tones.

The kneeling figure did not look up at the Macedonian king.

Hunched over, the forehead touching the ground, the shapeless form was the personification of humility and servitude. The veils covering the face bespoke an Asian custom not a Greek one. Philip was intrigued.

"Will you speak?" queried Philip.

"Yes my lord."

That voice. It cut through him as effectively as a sheepherder's castration of a ram.

Olympias turned her face upwards, letting the fine gossamer of the veils slide gently aside, exposing the dark almond-shaped eyes and full, blood-filled lips. Her posture may have been servile but her face was that of a queen--powerful, fearless and angry.

Inadvertently, Philip gasped. His wife, one of several, was merely a woman, married to solidify alliances. Yet he feared her.

"My lord, have I incurred your displeasure? You no longer grace our chambers with your presence," pined Olympias, the wail in her voice scarcely concealing the venom. "Might my lord share even a crumb of his affection with the woman who bore him Alexander."

Philip winced at the reference to his son. This harpy used her control over Alexander to browbeat and humiliate him every chance afforded her. If his son was not so attached to his mother and the fawning courtiers she surrounded herself and Alexander with, Philip would have found the means to surreptitiously rid himself of her--permanently. For now he had to engage in these ridiculous games of intrigue.

"My dearest Olympias. Stand, come beside me. You know that you, my first wife, are the only one I consider myself truly married to. If I have neglected my conjugal duties of late, it is only because the political situation demands that I seal alliances by taking other spouses. None of them compares to you in beauty. None spark the desire in me that you do."

Philip reached forward with his arms, seized Olympias around the waist and drew her to him. In one motion, he grasped the back of her head, pulled it towards his face and kissed her ravenously. She returned his passion, biting and sucking on his lips, tongue and throat. The bodyguards standing less than ten paces away modestly cast their eyes down although neither one relaxed the grip on his short sword nor looked away from the twisting heads on the dais above them.

Philip was surprised, not unpleasantly, by the fury of his wife's ardor. His own state of arousal was beginning to physically hurt him, especially after Olympias, clad in mere puffs of fabric climbed into his lap and sat straddled across his groin. Not once, even for the briefest of moments did Olympias cease or even slow her amorous attack on Philip.

Philip could barely catch a breath. He wanted her. He would have her; right on the throne. Frantically, he started pulling and tearing on the costume concealing her treasures. His sexual frenzy knew no bounds.

But somewhere, buried in the recesses of his logical mind, a voice screamed at him to stop. The dangers of starting a sexual relationship with this madwoman possessed by the goddess Aphrodite were so great that even in the turmoil of touching, grabbing, squeezing, they began to penetrate the mind of the lust-crazed Philip. Fear, growing slowly at first but rapidly gathering momentum, assumed the form of a pit in his lower abdomen. Philip, regaining his sanity, pushed Olympias back, trying vainly to avoid her probing tongue and biting teeth.

She in turn had not yet realized that he was rejecting her so she forced herself even harder on the king. Philip was startled by the strength of Olympias, who was probably half his weight. Nevertheless, he managed to break the seal binding them together.

Olympias was furious. To be twice rejected in two days was an alien concept.

"Bastard!" shrieked the panting Olympias. Before Philip could even stop her, she dove onto him. Her left hand grabbed the leather and This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

cloth warrior skirt (which Philip favored wearing over a chiton) and with her right hand driving under it almost skewered his testicles. Philip's reflexes, slowed by both his mind-state and his body's desperate need for sexual release, were not able to prevent Olympias from assaulting him.

Instantaneously, the two bodyguards, members of Philip's elite King's Companions, seized Olympias and dragged her off the pain-grimaced Philip. They held her with as little force as possible; loyal to the King but respectful of the Queen. Philip leaned back in the throne, grinding his teeth as the jaw muscles tensed under the control he was exerting over the rest of his body. A tinge of nausea and a pain centering itself behind the eyes were the only lasting results from the groin injury.

Taking a few deep breaths through his nostrils, as to not show to Olympias the effect of her spear-like thrust, Philip appeared composed.

"Why is it necessary that all our meetings end up so violently? I was not rejecting you, my love. But you would have us fornicating in the throne room in front of witnesses. Your carnal lusts must be controlled.

Remember, you are a queen, not a whore," said Philip, his tone considerate, almost tender. "I still love you. Why do you treat me in such a brutish manner? Is not the son we produced a glorious testament to our bonding? Why is it necessary that your jealous tirades cost us so much peace and happiness? I only want you to be happy." Philip was quite smug upon concluding this conciliatory plea. So enamored was he with his words and so relaxed did Olympias now appear, that he actually believed that Olympias would accept this hypocritical hyperbole.

Olympias, still being held by the King's Companions, relaxed, the tension in her body dissipated. She turned and looked up at the men locked onto her arms, gave them a wan little smile then turned to face Philip.

"You are my husband. I am your wife. Yet you treat me worse than a concubine. At least they get some gratification. Am I so ugly?

Have I offered harm to you or your entourage? Why have you chosen to leave me out of your life? I only live to serve you and my son. I came here to warn you, not make love to you. Is it my fault that I desire you; you desire me. I was overwhelmed by my lord's and husband's masculinity. Yet it is I who is cast aside, failing in my matrimonial duty and ridiculed in front of these...guards. I only want to be your wife, to look This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

out for you, to make sure you live to see your grandchildren. Am I asking too much?"

The pathetic attempts being made by both the king and queen to ingratiate themselves to each other were so ridiculously insincere that it took an enormous amount of self-control to keep the king's bodyguards from reaching over and slapping both royal powers to their senses. It was particularly dismaying seeing Philip, the most charismatic, accomplished leader in the world at that time, effectively grovel in front of this trollop.

Both soldiers caught each other's eye out of their peripheral vision.

Disgust and anger were reflected in both.

"You said you were here to warn me," said Philip, trying desperately to change the subject.

"What...yes, yes I am here to warn you," replied Olympias.

"It has come to my attention that some plot against you."

"That is nothing new. I have had many try to usurp me. All have failed. All will fail," interjected Philip.

"Yes, my lord, but how many of these traitors come from the ranks of the your own King's Companions?"

The two bodyguards, who by now had released Olympias, started.

Immediately they turned to Philip, mouthing protests at the accusation.

Philip caught their eye, and in a code perceptible only to a King's Companion, warned them to silence. His curiosity was however piqued.

"Continue," he urged on Olympias, his face impassive.

"One of your closest friends speaks against you. He has been heard bragging in the brothels that when you are 'disposed' of, he will be given the rank of general by the new rulers. But he does not plan against you directly. He is far too intelligent to openly revolt. No, he instead plots against your new in-law, Attalus. The rumor has it that he will provide the means for another to assassinate the old warrior. Once this is accomplished, the alliance between Pellas and Epros will be weakened, possibly causing a domestic war, and leaving the opportunity for those critical of your policies to assassinate you without having to worry about extensive repercussions from the military. The plan also calls for the This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

execution of the royal family, including Alexander, whom they would probably poison, as no one is brave enough to face him and his own Companion guard openly."

Philip stared at Olympias. He watched her mouth, her movements, her eyes, during the whole narration of the story. His first reaction was to simply ignore what she said. His own network of spies had not reported anything out of the ordinary. A plot so insidious it involved the best of the best would or should have been ferreted out---if it existed.

Knowing the Queen, little credence could be given her tale. Philip had dealt with traitors before and he knew that to catch them he had to pretend that he believed them. This would cause them to make the critical mistake that would implicate them on a charge of treason. In order to flush out these criminals he would have to play the ignorant all-trusting leader. And even though he suspected Olympias of the worst duplicity it would be imprudent to accuse her of treason while she maintained such a strong power base with Alexander and his followers. He did not believe that one of his own elite would turn against him. He went out of his way to insure that the King's Companions were loyal to him and him alone. They were the most pampered, well-treated and honored soldiers in the empire.

They were also the fiercest, best-trained and most effectively deployed troops under his command. And they always fought beside him. As he went so did they. To have one accused by this incarnation of evil was almost laughable. However, he did find himself interested in who she would accuse.

"Well, who is it?" asked Philip.

Olympias, for the first time, felt a twinge of nervousness. Some said she was as fearless as any man. Those who knew her stated that no man was as fearless as her...save her son. But now she was trying to play the king for a fool. Nothing could be more dangerous. The gamble excited her.

"The traitor is...Pausanias!"

Alexander

For one of the few times in his adult life, Piros could not think of anything to say. His famed eloquence had been replaced by a child's dumbfounded stare. He could feel the blood rushing to his cheeks and without being aware of it his embarrassment forced his eyes to look at the ground.

"It is good to see that you have not let a life of leisure soften you to any extent. In fact, I think you enjoy spanking these 'children',"

continued a smiling Alexander. "Would I be showing disrespect to the honorable teacher if I were to ask him to join me in a private conversation?"

Piros had by now recovered his composure. Of course he would speak to Alexander. Piros knew that Alexander was not being facetious in his manner or his words. Many said that Alexander's thirst for knowledge was a greater driving force than his ambition, which in itself was considered limitless. Consequently, Alexander surrounded himself with the brightest, most erudite scholars in the empire. On every campaign, large contingents of botanists, archeologists, geographers and other scientists accompanied the troops. New lands, new flora and fauna, new people, new customs, all these were studied and all findings documented.

Alexander himself read as many of these reports as humanly possible and on many occasions made his own comments and contributions. Anything of particular interest was sent hastily back to Pella or Athens so his mentor, Aristotle, could see what he was seeing. Piros knew all this, and for that reason he knew that to Alexander, a teacher was the most respected member of his society. Alexander, with aspirations even at this young age to conquer the world, still felt it proper to ask a teacher permission to interrupt his class. This humanness in a man rumored to be part god, endeared him to his people.

"I would be pleased to speak with you Alexander. Allow me to assign a set of exercises to the students and I will join you immediately thereafter," said Piros. Then turning to the now rising Dimitris, he said,

"You will lead your fellow pankratiatists through the grappling drills.

both sides of the facing stance." Piros turned to the prince, "Alexander, let us sit by the far bench so we may speak with as little interruption as possible."

Alexander smiled and nodded. He was pleased that Piros did not acquiesce easily to his request. He was also impressed by the way that Piros handled Dimitris. By allowing the young man to assume the leader's position so soon after being taught a lesson in such a painful manner, Piros proved that he was less concerned with his own ego than with building up the confidence of his pupils. Alexander felt that initiative and bravery should always be rewarded. Yes, he had to admit, in Piros the best of the Greeks was apparent. It was unfortunate that Piros was loyal first to Philip then to Alexander. The prince would have been ecstatic to have made him a commander in his own corps of elite warriors, the Companions.

Piros and Alexander made themselves comfortable on the low, stone-carved bench.

"I will not waste your valuable time. I have heard rumors of a fighter named Dioxippus. It has been told to me that he has added a new dimension to the pankration--something no one has done successfully before. Is this true?" asked Alexander.

"Yes Alexander. I am not quite sure how he does it, but I have seen him kick an upright man in the face. With an incredible amount of power I should add. Now he trains fanatically, doing calisthenics until noon, and pankration drills and sparring in the afternoon. He has also gained weight and filled out his muscles. He has become quite an intimidating force in the youth games. In fact, just two moons ago, he placed third in the adult division at the Nemean games."

Alexander nodded, looked up behind Piros and signaled someone with his eyes. Piros caught the look. It was wiser to ignore it.

"Tell me Piros, has this Dioxippus had any battlefield experience?

Can he use weapons? Will he follow orders? Is he the type who will remain loyal to his commander? unit? partner?"

Piros knew where this was going. Alexander wanted Dioxippus to join his personal bodyguard, the Companions. Normally he would have This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

been thrilled to have one of his students join what some argued was the best fighting force in the world. Even the King's Companions, Philip's elite, were said to be a half-step slower than the younger, hungrier troops of Alexander. The Companions were a reflection of Alexander. They had adopted the Spartan lifestyle, eating little, training hard and shunning luxury of any sort. Each one was insanely loyal to Alexander and would die a thousand deaths rather than risk a loss of face to his leader. They were further buoyed by the daring, fearless attitude of the prince.

Alexander, even though a brilliant tactician for one so young, did not sit back and plan strategy with his other generals once a battle had started. He relished combat. He never felt so alive than when near death. Money, sex, power all inevitably failed to provide Alexander with the blood rush, the euphoria of hand to hand combat. And the Companions were the same.

This intensity made them the best warriors on the planet. It also made them the most unpredictable and the most dangerous even to their allies.

Piros was not sure that Dioxippus would be able to or want to assimilate himself into a group walking the edge of disaster. There were other things about the Companions rumored also. And these concerned Piros.

Alexander was extremely perceptive. Within moments he noticed that Piros was stalling. He made a mental note.

"To answer your question Alexander, Dioxippus has had no actual battlefield experience in the context you refer to. He has had to defend himself and others, often in life-threatening situations and has always emerged the victor. In the pankration he could possibly be the best ever, he knows so much. His ability to adapt and improvise are phenomenal.

He understands the mechanics of the body so well that there is almost no hold he cannot break," said Piros, his voice rising slightly. Then he realized what he was doing. He was making Dioxippus sound like the mythical Herakles. Alexander's eyes were ablaze with excitement. Piros inhaled and tried to downplay the damage as much as possible.

"But on the battlefield, surrounded by the chaos, the confusion...I cannot predict his actions. He has never had to take orders in a group situation. And remember, he was a slave and

it is quite well-documented how slaves converted to soldiers never show the loyalty or dedication of regular troops. To expect him to commit This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

100

himself to the Companions might be too much. I am his friend, his trainer, his liberator. I cannot in good conscience recommend him to you."

Alexander's face did not change. A smile still played on his lips and his demeanor was relaxed. But the gleam in those sea-blue eyes had transformed into a glare. He knew that Piros, for reasons of his own, was deliberately refraining from saying what he really felt. Alexander was as good a judge of character as his father. He also had a memory that never forgot names, faces or places. He had seen Dioxippus at the youth games last year and had been impressed by the high level of skill and unorthodox fighting style. Alexander thought him perfect for his bodyguard. Now Piros, known throughout Hellas as one of its most honorable citizens, was telling him, Alexander, that his assessment of Dioxippus was incorrect. He did not make mistakes when it came to soldiers. Something about this whole conversation bespoke deceit. He looked hard at Piros.

"Of course your opinion is noted and appreciated," said Alexander. "However, I still would like to meet with the both of you in two day's time. Perhaps Dioxippus himself could express his concerns or desires at that time and between the three of us a solution may be formulated."

"Dioxippus will be training for the Olympics in two moons' time.

I know I may speak for him when I say that we would be honored greatly to have Alexander meet with us," replied Piros.

Alexander nodded curtly and turned to go. Stepping out of the far wall's shadow was another gloriously handsome youth. Approximately the same height as Alexander, he was olive-skinned with black, curly hair growing down to his shoulders. He was as fine-featured as Alexander and had a well-proportioned body with long legs tapering to rather small feet.

He was dressed in a standard military-type short skirt with a matching tunic. The similarity to a standard issue dress ended there. The cloth had been died deep blue with such subtle variations in the tone as to make it appear to shimmer. As the light from the sun caught the youth emerging from the dark, Piros was almost convinced that the tunic was a living thing.

There was no need to convince himself of the extraordinary allurement of the young man. And even though Piros was not in the least interested in pursuing the Athenian custom of maintaining male lovers, he had to admit that someone like Hephaestion could make you at least understand some of This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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the reasons why. Nobody knew, or would dare venture to guess what Hephaestion's relationship was with Alexander. Friends, intimates or lovers, all that anyone needed to know was that they were inextricably bound to each other, and one would die for the other without a thought.

Hephaestion was the ultimate bodyguard; he would not hesitate to stop an assassin with his own flesh.

Alexander rose, nodded to Piros, and with Hephaestion walking beside him, made his way back to the palace. As Alexander grew smaller and smaller the further he went, Piros marveled at how this prince, this general, this god could walk down the streets unescorted (other than by Hephaestion), greeting shopkeepers, soldiers and other citizens, most often by name.

An exceptional man thought Piros. He turned to his students.

"Excellent Dimitris. If you please, I will now instruct. Everyone now, two laps around the palace. The run will increase your endurance and the rocks will toughen your feet!" said a jocular Piros as he led the students on the first of today's runs.

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102

Dioxippus learns a lesson

It hurt. And with every pulse, it hurt more. Dioxippus clutched his foot even tighter trying vainly to cut off the circulation to his toe. But the throbbing pain continued.

Fotis sauntered over to the prone Dioxippus. The youth still lay in a semi-curled position, gripping that foot like life itself. Fotis smiled. It never failed to amaze him how much punishment the human body could take and continue to function. He had seen pankratiatists, with limbs broken, often near death, recover enough to defeat their opponents. He had even seen the mighty Piros once beaten into unconciousness whilst maintaining a leg lock around the torso of his adversary. Yet Piros had managed to not only crush the lungs but break the ribs of his attacker. So as Piros lay comatose, his opponent surrendered and lost the match. Such was the toughness of the pankratiatist.

Watching Dioxippus squirm like an injured child also reminded Fotis how sensitive certain parts of the body were. How often had he seen a match end in the first few moments after one pankratiatist had gained a finger lock? an ankle hold? a face grab? Some parts of the body focused energy to such a degree that the slightest injury immobilized the rest. So as Fotis gently teased the now sitting Dioxippus, he really could sympathize with the youth.

"I think I know what you did wrong. First rise, then I will show you how I think that kick should work. I have brought something that may be kinder to your foot than that tree," Piros said. With that he tossed Dioxippus an inflated pig's bladder.

Dioxippus caught the ball. He noticed how light it was, and how the skin itself had a certain elasticity. Dioxippus turned it in his hands, feeling the texture of the oblong shape. A strip of leather had been sown into the bladder to serve as a handle. He shot Fotis a querulous look.

"Dios, that pad will serve as a target. I will hold it by the handle and you will kick it. Simple. Good."

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"I do not know, Barba Fotis," sighed the rising Dioxippus as he stepped gingerly on his injured foot. "It seems there are things not meant for a human being to do. Kicking like a mule is one of them. Even if I kick successfully, my back is turned to my opponent. I tried twisting my head and I ended up in the dirt. How is any technique effective if you are blind during its execution?"

"I am not the expert, Dios. I am an old man, a farmer by trade.

You know better than I what will work and what will not. It is presumptuous of me to assume to tell you what to do."