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

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The plaintive tone of Fotis' voice was not lost on Dioxippus. It was obvious that the old man only wanted to help. But Dioxippus had heard far too many opinions, criticisms and recommendations to take anyone else's comments seriously. Growing up without parents, nothing more than a marketable commodity, had bred within him a strong aversion to outside biases. He realized that Fotis meant only the best for him but the ridiculous suggestion that he had just heard only served to reinforce the conviction to be independent of others. Only Piros, his guide and mentor, could plot strategy, suggest techniques and design training programs for him. All others were intruders. Even Barba Fotis.

However, he felt remorseful dismissing the aged trainer's offer. In his most placating voice, Dioxippus said to Fotis, "I will think about your suggestions. But for now, how would it be if you assisted me with some stretching exercises. The front kicks demand loose hamstrings." He finished his statement with a tooth-filled smile, a shade condescending yet genuine in its affection. Dioxippus tossed the pig's bladder back to Fotis.

Fotis snatched the ball out of the air. He then bent his head forward, mumbled something, and shuffled toward Dioxippus. So shamed was he that he could not look up at the face of his young charge.

Dioxippus felt terrible. He had not meant to insult his friend. It was true, he guessed, old people were as sensitive as children. Dioxippus took a step forward, stretching his right arm out to embrace Fotis by the shoulders. The old man looked so pathetic.

Instantaneously, something hit Dioxippus in the eye. The tears welled reflexively. Then he felt, he knew not what, an object bouncing off This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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his head, his shoulders then his head again. None of it hurt but he still had to cover himself with his arms.

"Here. Take this, and this and..." huffed Fotis, scarcely slowing down the swings he was taking at Dioxippus with the inflated bladder. His grip on the handle was so fierce that it began to tear with the impact.

"Smart man. Huh! You are nothing more than a precocious stooge. Wake up! Do you flex your brain as much as your arms? Maybe you should!"

continued Fotis, still battering the young man with the animal skin. The aged Fotis, so small that any healthy child could manhandle him, was furious at being politely dismissed. He had watched Dios kick. He had seen him fall. He had seen him stub his big toe. Fotis could show Dioxippus how to make that kick an effective part of his arsenal. The inflated bag was to minimize injury.

Now this conceited, over-grown man-child was too good to listen to his suggestion. If he had to beat it into Dios he would. Fotis felt another rush of anger-driven adrenalin. He started swinging harder and yelling curses in a local dialect that no person in all of Macedonia could understand.

Dioxippus started to laugh. And with every hit, he laughed harder. Soon he was rocking from the effort. Fotis did not stop hitting the youth but there was an appreciable slowdown. Dioxippus clutched his sides and tears started anew with the convulsions. Fotis, breathing hard with the exertion, stopped swinging, bent at the waist and gave a few coughs to clear the fluids and phlegm from his throat and lungs. Dioxippus looked at him, maybe for the first time.

"Enough...enough! I apologize. I will listen. Stop, old man...you have won," said Dioxippus, puffing from the laughter.

Fotis had no more strength to swing even the air-filled bag again.

He just looked at Dioxippus, his face chiseled into grim resolve. So determined did he look that even the still chuckling Dioxippus ceased ridiculing the old man.

"I told you, I apologize. Come now Barba Fotis, are you planning on hitting me again? I would much rather have you teach me something."

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"Why do you take that superior attitude with me? You were born a slave just as I was. And am I so stupid that after close to ten years with Piros, I have failed to gain any knowledge of the pankration? Why do you find it impossible to listen to what may be a good suggestion? Do you think Piros would have ever spoken to me in such a manner?" queried Fotis. "No! Respect is more than having money or property. It is more than having simpletons kiss your ass as they fawn all over you. What have you done to merit respect? Beating another senseless while simultaneously trying to dismember him is not an honorable vocation. It is sport. One in which the spectators, bored morons, watch others overexert themselves in an exercise that they only recognize at its basest physicality. Those are the ones that worship you. Those are the ones you should ignore. Not me!"

Dioxippus was taken aback. He did not know that the aged trainer could speak so eloquently, so forcefully. Obviously, the ten years with Piros had enlightened him in more subjects than just the pankration.

Dioxippus withstood the tirade it was the only respectful thing to do.

When Fotis appeared finished, Dioxippus spoke, "Why do I always find myself apologizing to you? Come show me this weapon that I am to master. But bring a rag to clean the dirt off of my face. I suspect that I will be kissing the ground many times today."

"Your apology and your eagerness both overwhelm me." The sarcastic bite of the comment was not lost on Dioxippus. Fotis took a step toward Dioxippus, pointed at the ground and continued, "The first problem I see is in the position of your feet. When you kicked back, you dragged the supporting foot in the direction of the kick. Now, look here in the dirt.

You see how your toes point in a perpendicular angle to your kicking leg's trajectory. You do not have enough foot on the ground to support you when you move in that direction."

Dioxippus was stunned. He never expected such a technical description from the old man. He looked at the track he had made. Fotis was right. The sliding feet had created what looked very much like the letter Gamma “". It was obvious that when the kick was executed, his supporting foot had not moved from its locked position much less pivoted.

Now Dioxippus remembered the horse. Its supporting hooves had turned in the direction of the kick, the back of each one, equating the human heel, facing the enemy. The horse had slid into the thrust too, but its legs did not This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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have to undergo the extreme torque in the knees that he did. Maintaining balance had been easier for the equine warrior than for the human one.

"See, if this foot turns in the direction of your kick, you will have more balance over the center of your body. Done correctly, you should not fall down," explained Fotis.

Dioxippus could not help but observe that the old man was completely engrossed with his subject. Fotis had now knelt, his right hand just touching the ground to keep him from falling over. He traced Dioxippus' footmark and then drew another where he thought the foot should be positioned. Unconsciously, Dioxippus shifted his own feet.

Maybe the old man was right.

"Now let us try the kick again," ordered Fotis confidently. He held out the inflated bladder. "Hit this if you can."

Dioxippus aligned himself with the target. This time he did not turn his back on it: he took a more sideways position so he would be able to see the target. Taking one, two, three breaths he suddenly jerked his leg out at the bag. The bag, hit sharply, spun around the point where the handle held it. When it reached its apex, it swung back down again.

Fotis whooped in excitement. He pointed at Dioxippus' tracks as if gold lined his very steps.

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Philip is angered

"Pausanias!" thundered Philip. His bodyguards reflexively seized Olympias by the arms. Their grip was so sudden and hard that bruises erupted almost immediately. They looked to Philip for further instructions.

Philip did not notice them. He was so angry at what had to be the vilest, most baseless accusation against his most trusted confederate that he was oblivious to all. Slowly he rose from his throne, a king, a conqueror, a warrior to fear like no other. The pure savagery in his demeanor bespoke a violent death for Olympias.

Olympias, in the vise-like grip of the King's Companions, was immobilized. She instinctively shrank back when Philip raised himself to his full height. At this moment he was an apparition from hell, ready to tear her apart. She was so frightened she bit her inside lip to keep from crying, or fainting. It had come to this; all her machinations to usurp Philip would be in vain. Her son would always be his lackey. And she, the rightful ruler of Hellas, was about to be destroyed by this crippled, warrior-king. And although her mind told her she was smarter, better bred and more deserving than the one-eyed demon descending on her, her body separated itself from her brain and began trembling violently with fright.

As Philip came down the steps toward her, she became nauseous. Her stomach felt knotted and she desperately wanted to throw up.

Philip stood in front of his wife. His one eye tore through Olympias, searing her with its ferocity. He leaned forward, so close that his breath, like the blast from an oven, scorched the tender white skin of her face. He whispered, so quietly that the bodyguards holding Olympias could not hear, "Prepare to die, traitor!" Barely had the hiss come out of his mouth before he grabbed Olympias by the throat, squeezing it slowly, stealing the breaths, one at a time, making the strangulation agonizingly prolonged. A smile, growing proportionately to the gasping sounds now emanating from Olympias, cracked the beast-like veneer of Philip. The hand crushing the life out of Olympias did not waver.

The bodyguards, still holding the Queen, noticed that she had closed her eyes, and her lips, turning blue with the lack of oxygen, were This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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moving in some sort of rhythm. Even this bitch prays to someone they thought.

Praying was the last thing Olympias thought of doing. She was trying desperately to remember a technique for breaking a chokehold one of her Asian lovers had taught her. At the time it had been a game, something to add a little danger to their lovemaking. But now she was fighting for survival, not an orgasm. And she could feel her consciousness leaving her.

Suddenly, she snapped her head around, forcing it in the direction of Philip's thumb. The torquing action, focused on the weak part of the grip, broke the hold. She pulled her head back with such force that the bodyguard on her right lost his footing and stumbled back. The grip on her arm relaxed and she twisted free. She gasped for air. In between breaths, she hoarsely cried, "I have proof."

Philip did not retreat. All his anger, his frustration, his fear was embodied in this cowering little woman. With scarcely any effort he could beat her to death. And no one would question it. Save Alexander. This made him hold back.

Seizing the momentary lapse in the attack, Olympias spoke, her voice gruff yet effective, "The traitor even now brags to his friends. He endeavors to win others to his cause. Quickly, send one of these goons to your beloved Piros. Ask him yourself. You know he can be trusted above all others. Pausanius slept at his villa last night. Ask Piros, I beg of you.

Ask him what Pausanius said. I bore you a son. I deserve some consideration."

At the mention of Piros' name, Philip stopped. Piros was as a brother to him. If there was any substance to Olympias' tale, the retired pankratiatist would verify it. Still, he refused to believe that Pausanius, a King's Companion, would conspire against him. But these were strange times, and if Olympias, so close to dying was willing to risk an even more violent end to her life by bringing in Piros to substantiate her claims, he should allow it. One more thing nagged at Philip. If he killed this banshee, his son would go insane. Then he would have no choice but to also kill Alexander.

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Piros ventures to the agora

The last of the stragglers was just coming in. Piros watched with amusement. These young, supposedly vital men had experienced a tremendous loss of face after Piros, laughingly referred to as the old man by his charges, came back from the run around the amphitheatre far ahead of even the most fit of the trainees. The limping, staggering youths coming in now ran with their heads drooped, their tongues flopping like dogs'.

Shame and exhaustion clouded their faces. The catcalls from their peers only added to the agony of the run. And to face Piros, so soon after they bragged about leaving him lying in the dirt, was the ultimate humiliation.

Piros grinned. There was no use in pursuing an attack on the confidence of his trainees. His ego did not need to be caressed. He turned and yelled out, "That is enough for today. Go to your homes. Rest.

Tomorrow we spar."

The students turned and looked at each other; then they looked at Piros. A couple looked around nervously. Piros nodded and they all started to shamble off in different directions.

Piros sighed. He shook his head once. What a morning! He rubbed the sore spot on his leg. That had been an interesting conversation with Alexander. What was he up to? That sparked another series of thoughts. Where was Dioxippus? He almost never missed a workout.

Piros walked over to the bench. Underneath it, hidden by the cooling shade was a clay water container. Piros took a draught. The overflow ran down his chin and onto his naked body. The fluid made trails through the dust on his torso. Although not much fell on him, the liquid cooled the still-sweating skin. He would go look for Dioxippus. It was not like him to miss a workout. He slipped on his chiton, a much plainer shade than he usually wore. Piros had eschewed wearing a belt this morning so the garment just hung down straight. Once he had checked for comfort, he turned in the direction of the street and started walking.

The main thoroughfare was packed with people walking, animals pulling and troops pushing through. Shopkeepers barked prices and deals incessantly, while customers, gesticulating wildly, fiercely bargained for This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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the best price. All kinds of wares, ranging from fruit to vegetables to dried meats overflowed from baskets piled high, one on top of another. Other vendors, hawking more exotic items competed for space amongst the foodstuffs and in more than one instance, raucous arguments broke out between merchants. Occasionally, some shoving would start which inevitably would attract more people to a particular area. Even more confusion would then result.

Piros wound his way through this maze of merchandise, foodstuffs and humanity as if he had been born amid the chaos. The frantic pace of the market had its own heart, its own soul.

Piros respected the ebb and flow of street life. And with his dark skin, his prideful walk and esteemed reputation, he stood out amongst the human ants rushing about their nests. Piros was called out to, greeted, sometimes hugged as he negotiated a pathway through the turmoil. In every instance, he would return a greeting, smiling amiably, wishing the best to a particular person or family. Beautiful fabrics were thrust out to him, to touch, to comment on. Anything more than a cursory glance would elicit whoops of joy from the merchants who would take the opportunity to call out anew to their customers, claiming a testimonial from Piros was almost as

good as god-blessed. Piros enjoyed the people. He liked calling out to friends or neighbors. He really was interested in their lives and would take the time to catch up on all the events in a particular person's life. Today it seemed that every street vendor in Hellas knew him. From one to the other, he was bumped or jostled. Hugs from the men, kisses from the women, laughing cries from the children, the celebrity that was Piros received them all. To Piros, this outpouring of affection, two years after he had retired, was something physically tangible, a feeling to be savored, much like a good wine. And to a man separated from his roots, his heritage, this involvement with the Macedonian community, limited as it was, sustained him when he was lonely or suffering from the melancholy of being different in an adopted society.

Piros continued making his way through the throngs. He found himself alternately shifting sideways or forward, depending upon the amount of space opening up at any one moment. Occasionally someone would step on his foot, or drag on his robe. Piros barely noticed these intrusions on his person. No angry word ever escaped his lips. He had to This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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admit to himself though that he would be glad to escape his sea of admirers. And if his vision was still good, he could see the end of the swarm coming up soon.

A few more well chosen, forceful steps and Piros found himself free. The air, now allowed to circulate freely, cooled him as it began the long process of drying his sweat-streaked clothing. The open space also afforded him the luxury of walking unimpeded. Within a few lengths of a human body, Piros was striding. At this pace he would reach the cottage Dioxippus lived at in the time it took for a normal man to eat a small meal.

Outwardly he was not worried about the young man. Dioxippus had proven himself in too many dangerous situations to warrant any worry.

However, Piros could not let himself relax. The blond youth was as a son to him with all the requisite worries and concerns. His father had been a worrier. Piros knew with all his heart that his father never relaxed when Piros was out of his sight. This sort of paternal concern was rare for the time and even rarer for a slave. Piros had to admit his father had been quite the man. If he closed his eyes, just for a moment, he would see his father again.

Slowly Piros felt his eyes drawn downward. The rhythmic slapping of the bare feet against the hard earth further assuaged his restless spirit. His eyes, locked into a non-seeing stare, glazed over. Piros felt himself entering an alternate plane or so he thought. The fear of madness jerked his head up, but his vision remained bolted. He could not see. He did not want to see. Yet.

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Piros remembers…

At first, Delia was full of trepidation. The black man was a monster in size. He also spoke a language she could not understand. He wanted her. That had been obvious from the podium. But why?

The crowd's cadence was as well orchestrated as if it had been rehearsed. Delia barely noticed it though. As had been taught her, she kept her head bowed, in the manner of all well-bred Hebrew women.

As the noise died down, Krutzios began to speak to Delia. His speech was halting and he often stopped to search for a word.

Communicating in a difficult tongue he had not used for years was a painstaking process. Nevertheless, Krutzios' command of Hebrew was good enough to convey his and Tsaka's thoughts to Delia.

Delia listened to the wrinkled little man. Occasionally, she would sneak a look at the dark-skinned colossus. She heard Krutzios but did not believe him or her interpretation thereof. This African wanted her for a mate. Not a slave. She would be his wife, the mother to his children. And if what Krutzios was trying so hard to say was true she would be treated with honor and respect. This was too much for her to absorb. Reflexively she put her hands to her temples. The gesture caused a slight panic in the two men facing her. Both spoke at the same time, their native tongue bouncing from Delia uselessly. Yet the timbre in their voices, fragile with care, was not lost on the rabbi's daughter. They, for reasons not known to her, really cared about her welfare. Not since her capture in the desert had any human beings been more than perfunctory in their concern for her well being. There was no question in Delia's mind. The thought of being married to this man frightened her. Yet, something about this man intrigued her, attracted her. Immediately, her face blushed and she begged her god's forgiveness for her less than pure thoughts. She wished her father were here.

Krutzios was trying his best to placate the desert maiden. Again he reassured her of Tsaka's good intentions. To emphasize his point, he told Tsaka (in Greek) to bow to Delia and in the kindest tone possible, ask her to marry him.

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In a motion so smooth that a professional dancer would have been shamed, Tsaka stepped directly in front of Delia. With no flourish, Tsaka bent his head forward. As his head moved downwards, his right hand gently grasped Delia's and raised it to approximately her chest height.

Still bowed, Tsaka looked into the maiden's eyes, and in a voice so soft, so gentle yet so full of power and pride, he asked her to share his life with him.

Delia was overwhelmed. The black man standing in front of her dwarfed her. When he picked up her hand, his first three fingers all but obliterated it from her sight. She started trembling again and she berated herself for not controlling her fear. And then she looked at him. His eyes, as black as obsidian made even blacker by the contrasting white surrounding the irises, were not fierce, not angry. Delia was mesmerized by the emotion, the passion she could see in Tsaka. She was not being confronted by some base savage nor she was being threatened with the dehumanizing fate promised her by the slave trader. In Tsaka, Delia could see faith, hope and even love. Her trembling stopped. She nodded her assent.

The communication barrier still existed. It made no difference.

Tsaka had understood. He broke into a smile. He took Delia by both hands and with Krutzios in tow, started walking away from the pier and toward the town. Far ahead of them they could see children running and playing. Their squeals of joy could be heard at even this great distance.

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Piros reunites with Fotis

The joyous laughter seemed particularly loud. Piros looked up.

There were no children. Delia, Tsaka and Krutzios had vanished. The pier was gone. The town had changed. Piros was confused.

"Piros! Come, come quickly. I have a gift for you. Hurry!"

yelled out the excited Dioxippus upon sighting his mentor coming up the alleyway.

Piros now realized where he was. He could see Dioxippus waving his arms and crying something out. There was another person standing with his back toward him. Something about the posture looked tantalizingly familiar. Whoever it was, was small, bent and probably old.

He also seemed to be holding something in his hands but Piros was too far away to see what it was. A mystery he thought to himself.

As Piros got closer his heart increased its beat. Piros hurried his steps. He did not know why but he felt elated. He got closer and closer.

Dioxippus was still calling out. Piros' attention was focused on that little body. He could not hear a thing. Inexplicably a rush, more of happiness than adrenalin, coursed through his body. A few more steps and he would...

Fotis turned around just before Piros was upon him. He did not have a chance to take a breath much less voice a greeting. Piros swept the old man up, crushing him with love. Around and around Piros swung the old man, oblivious to all. Only when he heard the dizzy whimpering of Fotis did he release his embrace. Fotis put his feet down, standing a little unsteadily after the spinning. His grin, punctuated with spaces made by missing teeth, was reflective of so much joy, that Piros felt compelled to again seize the old slave. Only Fotis' and Dioxippus' restraining gestures kept Piros from crushing the little man to death with happiness.

"Where have you been? What have you been doing? Are you healthy? fit? Why are you here? Why did you not come to me immediately?" Piros asked these questions so fast that he scarcely caught a breath.

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Fotis sighed. He looked about. He saw the stone-carved bench and signaling to the still-talking Piros, he walked over and sat on it. Piros and Dioxippus followed. Piros sat beside the old man. Dioxippus sat on the ground cross-legged. When everyone was relatively comfortable, Fotis retold his story to Piros. An occasional nod was the only sign that Piros was listening although both Dioxippus and Fotis noted that the smile was now gone.

After an elapsed time, Fotis finished. Piros stood up slowly. In a low voice he said, "Old man, you are now free. No longer will you have to live the life of a slave. You may choose to do what you want."

Fotis looked stunned. He could not believe it. After spending virtually his whole life in slavery he had been set free. A free man. What a concept. Until he thought about it a little more.

"Are you insane? Have I wronged you so badly that you would cast me out to be a beggar? Freedom. Huh! What is that? I cannot eat it.

It will not keep me warm. This is your gratitude. I thought you were glad to see me. Obviously, you have had far too many punches to the head!"

The old man's voice rose louder and louder.

Piros was flabbergasted. To his father, freedom had been the ultimate gift. To Fotis it had been the ultimate insult. Piros considered being insulted but thought it better to be amused. So he started to laugh.

And laugh. And laugh.

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Pausanius faces Philip

He would have to have one of the court philosophers, maybe even Aristotle explain it to him. How could a man enter battle knowing that death was imminent and not be afraid? How many times had he been cut, slashed, wounded? He still did not cower from the battleground. How often had he whispered a prayer to any god he thought might listen to him, not asking for salvation but for glory, even in death? He had never been afraid. Not of injury. Not of his life becoming extinct. Was he then fearless? No. Because if he were, he would not now be standing here so scared that his teeth could barely be kept from rattling. He surreptitiously glanced down at his knees. They appeared still although to him they felt as if they were shaking uncontrollably. This dichotomy of emotion kept his logical mind occupied while his illogical mind ran rampant with the controls to his body.

"Have you nothing to say, Pausanius?" asked Philip. He looked steadfastedly at the countenance of his subordinate. Philip could instantly appraise the strengths and weaknesses of a soldier. He could see Pausanius was scared. Why? Was he really the traitor his wife Olympias had charged? Or was he afraid because he knew no one was called to meet the king privately unless something was drastically wrong? Philip was well aware of the types of fears that could manifest themselves in a loyal subject who was trying to outguess his superior. Paranoia was a weapon to people in power, and Philip knew how to use it. Still, this time he was hoping that Olympias was wrong and that he could stop torturing his friend with innuendo and veiled threats.

"Well...are you going to answer?" asked Philip.

Pausanius opened his mouth. Nothing came out. He swallowed once, twice. Words finally began to come out slowly. "I do not know what warrants the king calling me out at this hour. Why must I be escorted like a common criminal? And why must I be brought to you by these boy lovers of Alexander? Do I not at least deserve to be escorted by real soldiers? My compatriots. Who are these shaven pretty boys?" Pausanius'

tone was getting almost belligerent as he began to recover his composure.

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Inwardly, Philip was glad at Pausanius' response. His friend should be angry. Pride was a very carefully cultivated characteristic in all the King's Companions. If Pausanius was any less forceful in his reply, Philip might begin to suspect that one of his most loyal bodyguards did indeed have something to hide. Philip relaxed his shoulders. His gaze remained firm however. Even the most faithful dog could turn rabid.

"The 'boys' you refer to are Alexander's own elite. I thought it best to summon you here with men who are not your friends...or rivals.

Nobody has accused you of anything so I do not understand your discomfiture. Can we not just talk, like old friends?" queried Philip. His voice was low, evenly modulated.

Pausanius did not detect any menace in Philip. But he had also served far too long with the warrior-king to know that if Philip had wanted to talk to him as an “old friend”, he would have invited him to an all night sortie at one of the local drinking establishments. He had been called here for a purpose. And Pausanius was not drunk or stupid. Somehow, Philip had learned of his liaison with the queen. It then followed that Philip had an inkling of the traitorous talk he had engaged in. Pausanius racked his brain trying to figure out who could have betrayed him. And what of the Queen. If Philip suspected him, he would definitely charge his wife with treason. Philip's hatred for his first wife was well known. He would seize the opportunity to execute her. Pausanius could not let that happen! He had to protect Olympias. The nobility of purpose coupled with fear and anger gave Pausanius a much-needed rush of adrenalin. Suddenly, he felt himself invincible. He looked Philip right in the eye.

"If we are truly old friends, I may speak to you as an equal," said Pausanius. Philip nodded affirmatively. "You bring me here under armed escort. Do you fear me? Have I ever given you reason to doubt my loyalty? At Charonea I stood shoulder to shoulder with you. If I wanted you dead, one moment of inattention would have been enough to suffice. I am a King's Companion. I am not a traitor."

The forcefulness of the words was not lost on Philip. He could kick himself for listening to that woman. Now he had lost face in front of one of his most loyal men. He would have to apologize.

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"You say you look for traitors. Why not consider your new in-laws? Many have questioned whether their interests are the same as Macedonia's" continued Pausanius.

"Well...the warrior remembers how to bite," replied Philip. His one eye tracked Pausanius' movements. Now this was unexpected. What did Pausanius mean by casting doubt on the loyalty of Attalus? Why was he so concerned with the interests of Macedonia rather than Philip? And why did those few words sound like something Olympias would have said?

The space where Philip's eye had once been began to throb with pain.

Philip was not as assured of Pausanius' loyalty as he had been only moments before. He could not be sure but there was treachery afoot. The rapidly accelerating pain of the headache made this convoluted thinking impossible. Philip looked at Pausanius. The bodyguard's chest was inflated with self-righteousness, while his demeanor bespoke defiance.

There was something wrong here. Philip took one last look at Pausanius, waved his hand and dismissed the bodyguard.

As the now relieved Pausanius left, Philip signaled one of Alexander's Companions. The youth, delicately featured and finely muscled, jumped up to the podium and stood at attention. Philip could not help but notice how handsome the soldier was. But he also marked the hard lines of the war-veteran that were barely concealed by the still elastic skin of the young man. This soldier was a warrior. Philip did not doubt that. He would be perfect for the job.

"Follow him. Night and day", ordered Philip.

The Companion, his face expressionless, turned and walked through the throne room and out the far door. So silently did he move that Philip was not really aware of his departure until he felt the momentary draft from the opening and closing door.

Philip leaned back in his throne. He stroked his forehead with his right hand. The pain was still there.

"I do not think I will live to see my grandchildren," sighed Philip.

"You said something my King."

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Philip was taken aback at the immediate response. Alexander had trained his men to razor sharpness. He looked over at the guard and shook his head in a negative reply. Immersed in thought he sat there as immobile as a slab of marble.

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Olympias plots with Kathos

"Bring me Kathos," snapped the queen to her servant. The boy, barely a teenager, did not move. Olympias could not tell if he was scared, confused or just stupid. "Now, not tomorrow!" roared the queen, her powerful voice sounding odd coming from such a small body. The boy wheeled and ran headlong from her bedchamber.

Olympias grunted, her frustration too great to be articulated with any civility. She was sick of dealing with the morons who passed for slaves now attached to her person. This little joke of Philip's was designed to purposely drive her insane. Olympias would not stand for it much longer.

Glancing around, Olympias assessed her new situation. This suite was smaller than her last one and although tastefully appointed, did not reflect her character. Laying out her robes for cleaning and pressing were two girls, the first probably fourteen or fifteen years old, the second was probably a pre-teen. The older one had been born with a split lip, which when combined with her rotund shape and low intelligence, made her extremely unattractive. Whoever had assigned the slave to her had done it intentionally so Olympias could not include her personal attendants in her perverted sexual liaisons. Olympias hated to admit it, but it had worked.

She was repulsed by the girl's ugliness. The second girl, little more than a child, was different. She was slim, with long dark hair, more auburn than brown. The child was finely featured and would one day probably be a beautiful woman. Yet in her own way she was as odd as her co-worker.

Olympias had rarely seen such an emotionally destitute person. The girl never talked, and refused, even after repeated cajoling, to look her in the face. She was dutiful, listened well and was able to anticipate Olympias'

needs in advance of the actual order. Obviously, the girl possessed a great intelligence but she chose to not demonstrate it. So aloof was this slave that even Olympias chose not to challenge her. It was not because Olympias felt any sympathy for the child: it was simply that to mentally terrorize someone, one needed for the victim to be afraid. This slave girl feared nothing--not even death. Consequently she was left alone by all including Olympias.

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The tapping on the door was barely audible. Olympias, her senses honed to animal-like keenness, not only heard the faint knocking but also identified it as that of the slave boy she had sent to fetch Kathos. She gathered her robes about her, called out for the slave to let himself and Kathos in, and in her most imperious manner strode to the middle of the room and awaited her 'guest'.

Olympias had not seen Kathos for years. When he walked into the room her nose crinkled in disgust. He had not changed.

The queen assessed the man standing in front of her. Kathos was evil embodied. From his youth, when he had, through perfidy and slander, managed to destroy the unity of one of the oldest aristocratic houses in Pella to his later days as a bodyguard and confidant to Philip's father, his influence was felt throughout the kingdom. Kathos was indispensable to the fratricidal coalitions fighting to establish power bases within the rapidly expanding empire. There was no assignment too immoral, no deed too nefarious for the diabolic Kathos. He sought no honor. His reward was drawn from the act itself. The malevolent genius that was Kathos savored the debauchery of his most heinous actions as if they were fine wine. And what Olympias had planned for him would utilize his unique talents to their full potential.

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Pella, Delphi 336 BC

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Dioxippus overcomes a challenge

He rubbed the back of his knuckles. The strong massaging action helped relieve the cramping. He took a deep breath, vainly trying to control the accelerated beating of his heart. People were talking to him but all he could hear was an annoying buzz. He shook his head once. The sounds did not become any clearer. Slowly, he raised his right hand so that it rested on his chest. His heart pounded, the force so great that he was sure the organ would rend his chest like some escaping beast. He turned his head and looked down. Fotis was feverishly applying a medicinal paste to his shin. Did the little man not hear it? The noise of his beating heart deafened him. Fotis, engrossed in his job acted as if he was oblivious to it all. Dioxippus jerked his leg angrily. The diminutive gnome snarled as he reeled backwards. Yet as soon as he regained his balance, Fotis went right back to massaging the leg, trying to make up the time lost with his uncooperative host. The object of his ministrations was still engrossed with the very perceptible rhythm emanating from his 'stithos'.

Dioxippus could not help but think that maybe his body would surrender before his mind did.

"Dios...Dios!"

From somewhere far away, he could hear a muffled cry. He could not quite make it out. It did sound strangely familiar.

"Fotis, look at his eyes. They are open but he cannot see,"

yelled Piros to Barba Fotis. "Bring me that urn, no, not that one, the other one" instructed Piros, pointing at a jar still sealed. "Hurry!"

Fotis scampered to the container Piros was pointing at, picked it up and brought it to the now agitated trainer.

With scarcely any effort Piros peeled back the wax and papyrus seal off the clay urn. Immediately an acrid scent polluted the air.

Holding his breath, Piros shoved the jar right under the nose of Dioxippus. The biting odor tore through the nostrils and sinuses of the near unconscious pankratiatist. His head snapped away reflexively but there was no escape from the demons fleeing the confines of Piros' urn.

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direction, vainly trying to avoid the fumes. Tears welled up in his eyes and he started to cough. The extreme discomfort coupled with a growing fear jerked his body up until he was halfway off the bench he had been sitting on. He was stopped before he could fully rise by one of Piros'

thickly muscled arms. So, immobilized, suffering intolerable pain, Dioxippus readied himself for surrender.

"Dios, can you hear me now? The referee returns. Get up man Your opponent awaits and I think he has recovered. Dios!"

The fog clouding his brain, impermeable to his efforts had been dissipated by the concoction from Piros' urn. He could now hear his mentor and he sensed the extreme urgency in his voice.

The match was beginning again. Now he knew where he was and what he was doing. This was a qualifying fight for the games. The Olympics. And that man, sitting across the ring, glowering at him like some rabid dog was trying to prevent him from competing later by systematically destroying him. The thoughts now rushed back to Dioxippus. That brute had used every dirty and illegal technique to disrupt his attack. He had gouged, poked and bitten until even the referee had been forced to whip him with the stick that all officials used for enforcement. When that had failed the referee had called for a break. At that moment of disengagement, Dioxippus' adversary had blindsided him with a stiff right arm. The referee had been quick to smack and then chastise the perpetrator for his unsportsmanlike conduct. Unfortunately, the haranguing from the official did not alleviate the damage to Dioxippus. He remained standing but there was no vigor left in the young man. The referee, breaking with the normal sequence of events, called time so Dioxippus could recover his composure. For a few panic-stricken moments it appeared he would not. Piros' witches' brew had cleared his head just in time. Dioxippus would continue.

"Kick low, punch high and come up under his right side and take him down with a leg trip. Make sure you come down on top of him.

Straddle his lower back with your legs positioned wide so he cannot roll you," said Piros, his instructions spoken so rapidly that to Dioxippus they were one breathless slur of words.

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Dioxippus stepped into the ring. He glanced around him. Few spectators attended qualifying matches. The stillness of the setting was not representative of the ferocious activity about to resume in the ring.

Dioxippus heard his opponent snort. He looked at him, analytically.

Petros was built along the lines of Piros, not tall, not short. His shoulders sloped rapidly, giving the impression of slimness although in actuality he outweighed Dioxippus by twenty pounds. Petros had short, bowlegs with quadriceps the size of Dioxippus' waist. Low kicks would not have an effect quick enough for Dioxippus to capitalize on. He decided to continue with the long-range jabbing attack that he had used. This time he would be prepared for the unexpected and the illegal.

The referee, a slight man, dressed in a three quarter length chiton, contrasted sharply with the two pankratiatists standing on either side of him. He looked and felt like a sapling between oaks. To a spectator it might have appeared ludicrous that such a puny man would be able to control the free-for all that passed for a competitive sport. Yet he was always called to officiate at the most important events. Never had his final judgment been overruled by the sanctioning heads of states. His confidence in himself eliminated the indecision of some of his colleagues. Knowing that, competitors invariably asked for him. No man, living or dead had ever accused him of impropriety. But this Bycean, Petros, had tried even his tremendous resolve. In a hundred matches, some even ending in death, he had not seen such a flagrant disregard for even the most basic of rules. He should disqualify Dioxippus' opponent. And he normally would have. This match however was different. To an athlete the caliber of Dioxippus a win by disqualification was tantamount to being labeled a coward. He would never allow it.

The three men had reached the center of the circle. Once again the referee explained the rules, few as they were. For emphasis he waved his official's stick, warning both fighters of the consequences of any illegalities during the bout.

As the referee spoke, Dioxippus stared into the eyes of his adversary. He could not have been more than six to eight inches away from him yet he could not see his reflection in the pupils of his enemy.

Normally, his image would be clear. This time all that was visible was a dull gray film coating the most lifeless eyes he had ever seen. Petros'

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face was a blank but not like those unfortunates born devoid of intelligence. Petros' eyes showed no care, no humanness, no life.

Dioxippus now knew that he was in real danger.

The referee gave a hand signal. The combatants stepped back from each other. A moment later, the referee made a popping sound with his tongue against his cheek. Instantly, the two pankratiatists charged forward.

Before Dioxippus could take two steps forward, he felt two rapid kicks, one to the back of his right calf and the other to the side of his left thigh. Neither was hard enough to cause any injury or real pain. He slid his feet forward and raised his own leg to respond in kind. Barely had his left foot left the ground when it was jammed tight by Petros' extended leg. Reflexively, Dioxippus started to move his other leg. Again his leg was jammed into its chambered position, effectively neutralizing his most feared weapons. Frustrated by Petros' strong defense, Dioxippus leaned his torso forward and released two quick, hard jabs at the face of his competitor.

Caught slightly off balance, Petros could not duck both punches.

The first clipped his ear, cutting it across the lower lobe. The second punch missed completely. Petros countered with an uppercut to the exposed ribs of Dioxippus. He felt his knuckles contract sharply as they impacted on the thick mass of abdominal muscle and bone. He heard a short hiss of air as the diaphragm released itself. Barely had his fist made contact before his right knee, chambered tightly, rushed from the ground to meet the face of the now bent over Dioxippus.

Dioxippus, pained by the blow to the ribs, could not help himself from bending at the waist. Petros' knee, already in the air slammed into his shoulder. The pain was excruciating. Stabs from nerves consumed with fire seared into his neck. Involuntarily, he closed his eyes. His collarbone had been broken.

Sensing the injury, Petros brought his palm down hard on Dioxippus' fractured bone. But Dioxippus, overcome with nausea had fallen to his knees. Petros' onrushing strike ended beyond its planned point of contact, lessening the force of the impact. Nevertheless, Dioxippus felt new, even sharper pains tearing through his upper torso.

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Positioned on all fours, his good arm bearing the most weight, Dioxippus, broken, beaten, waited for the referee to stop the fight. It was over. The referee moved forward. No signal had come from Dioxippus signifying surrender. It was not possible for any human being to continue with such a serious injury against an opponent as fierce and determined as Petros.

Petros refused to wait for Dioxippus' surrender. As his hand slammed into the injured shoulder, he was already snapping his right leg forward into Dioxippus' kidneys. The force of the kick into such a vital organ crumpled Dioxippus into a rolling ball of agony. Petros leaped at him like a snarling leopard. A sense of survival being all that remained to Dioxippus, he added a revolution to his roll, momentarily putting some space between him and the diving Petros. His brain had cleared enough to recognize that Petros would kill him if he did not signal defeat. He glanced at the referee. In that briefest of contact, Dioxippus saw the sorrow and concern in the referee's eyes. This fight was over. He began to raise his hand.

Barely had the movement begun when a tremendous force knocked him back down. Petros, in one fluid motion had recovered from his fall and thrown his body at the rising Dioxippus. Unable to avoid the human projectile, Dioxippus had absorbed the heavy impact and in the process been smashed back into the hard ground. Pain so intense that it drove Dioxippus to tears coursed through his body like burning lava. But this time, through the torment, anger, white-hot, suppressed the anguish.

Dioxippus, entangled in the arms and legs of the predatory Petros, decided that live or die. He would not admit defeat.

Petros had somehow positioned himself across the upper body of Dioxippus so that his forehead was buried in the space between the shoulder and neck. His arms had seized the trunk and were trying to turn Dioxippus over. The dirt, mixed with the oil and sweat on both men precluded getting a good grip. Dioxippus however, knew that to continue wrestling was fruitless with one side of his body basically immobilized.

Out of desperation as much as strategy, he freed his good arm and without hesitation grabbed a handful of Petros’, curly black hair and with all the strength left in his battered form, yanked hard, twisting his wrist at the same time. Petros' head was lifted away from the protective confines of his opponent's body. Within the space of half a heartbeat, Dioxippus This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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slammed his forehead into the nose of Petros. The reaction was instantaneous. Petros' nose, now a bloody pulp, caused his eyes to well with tears, momentarily blinding him. Dioxippus raised his good arm and like a blacksmith's hammer descending, struck Petros on the upper cheekbone, breaking more bone. Petros roared in pain. Dioxippus, renewed with a torrent of rushing adrenalin, twisted free of the clutching Petros, rolled once and rose to a standing position. Petros, blinded, could still make out the shape of the erect Dioxippus. Crazed by his injuries, furious at having a sure victory slip away from him, he lurched toward Dioxippus, bellowing fearsome obscenities. He had not taken two steps before Dioxippus himself stepped toward him, turned sideways and in one graceful motion pulled up his leg and with flashing speed thrust it out. Petros, warned by some remote part of his brain of the danger of this kicking phenomena's arsenal, raised his arms to protect his head and chest. But Dioxippus knowing that the high chambering of his leg gave the impression of a kick to the head aimed low. The heel, catapulted out of its tight position, tore into Petros' legs just above the kneecap. The force of the blow exploded on the fragile bones, cartilage and tendons comprising the joint. Shards of bone ripped through the skin, sending spurts of dark blood splattering over Petros and Dioxippus. Petros screamed, his pain knowing no limits. Dioxippus stepped back. His adversary, bawling incoherently rolled on the ground crying out for help, begging for anything, even death, to stop the pain.

Shocked by the action of the last few moments, the referee signaled Dioxippus the winner and immediately called for Petros' trainers to lend assistance to their pankratiatist. Piros and Fotis also responded immediately as they rushed to the barely vertical Dioxippus. With scarcely any effort, Piros picked up his young friend, and as tenderly as carrying a bird with a broken wing, brought him to the side of the ring where he gently laid him down. Although the air was hot, the shock of the injury had started Dioxippus shaking so Fotis laid a cloth over his naked body.

Piros examined the broken collarbone. The break had been clean and his practiced eye told him there were no fragments lodged anywhere. He turned to Fotis and said, "Hold him down firmly. Take that rag. Yes, that one. Roll it up and put it in his mouth. When I count to three, hold him tight."

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Still in shock, barely aware of what was transpiring, Dioxippus felt something put in his mouth. He panicked when his breathing became restricted and he began to struggle. He looked up at Piros. All he could see were his trainer's eyes, full of tears.

Dioxippus heard some sounds from his friend and then lightning struck his body. He shrieked. Then he fainted.

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Phylia

"That bastard can rot in Hades as far as I am concerned.

Who does he think he is giving me orders like some dimwitted slave? His time will come. And I will be there waiting!"

Phylia barely looked up. The Queen was ranting again. Best to ignore her when she was in this kind of mood. Surviving in Olympias'

household was simple...see nothing, hear nothing, say nothing. Phylia looked down. Her hands were engaged in massaging and kneading the muscles and tendons in the Queen's feet. They were so small. The Queen was so small. Yet she had enough venom in her for ten women.

And now, angry at some injustice, real or imagined, perpetrated by her husband Philip, she was letting loose the most spiteful, vitriolic harangue that Phylia had ever heard. She bowed her head even lower as if she could conceal herself by reducing the space her body occupied.

"One-eyed, crippled, uncouth dirt-farmer. That's all you are Philip. You may own Hellas but you will always be a Macedonian, one of a people barely removed from the caves they used to inhabit in the mountains. Conqueror, huh! Any moron with a bad temper can ram a sword into some unsuspecting victim. He thinks he is so special because of the, the...damn it, he makes me crazy!"

Phylia was beginning to have trouble holding on to Olympias'

feet. Her tirade had so agitated her that she was squirming in her lounge making it impossible for Phylia to retain control of her oil-covered feet.

Phylia pulled back, waiting patiently for the Queen to calm down. She did not raise her head

Olympias stopped to take a breath. Looking around her, suspecting even the walls, her gaze remained steadfast as it scanned the room, daring anyone foolish enough to spy on her to report to the king.

Except for the elaborate folds of the hanging fabrics decorating the room, it was bare. It was also devoid of any life (except for Olympias and Phylia); plant, animal or human. Accentuated by the predominance of white, the sterility of the Queen's chambers was overwhelming. And in spite of the excessive sexual adventures still taking place within these This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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walls, the room still lacked a basic humanity. Even Olympias, devoid of most emotions, save anger, could feel although not identify the tangent missing from this equation. Fortunately for Olympias, she was not subject to the wild paranoias of the other treasonous courtiers.

Consequently, she dismissed quite quickly those thoughts of the paranormal. She stared at Phylia.

From that first day that Piros had mysteriously appeared at the gates of the capital with the young warrior and this girl, Olympias had been fascinated with Phylia. Never had she seen a child so beautiful yet so dead. The vacant eyes, the monosyllabic speech pattern, the refusal to be cowed by a superior all these made Phylia irresistible to the snake worshipping, sex-crazed fanatic that was Olympias. She immediately interceded with the King to have her placed under her care. Philip, not wanting to challenge his wife while he was secretly courting Cleopatra spoke to Piros. The pankratiatist, wanted for murder by the Athenians, and suddenly encumbered by two children felt it best to leave Phylia with the Queen. At least with her he felt that the young girl would be taken care of. Olympias had been ecstatic. But her joy was short-lived. She found that she could not frighten or intimidate this slave. And although her beauty made her wanted by the many lovers, male and female, that Olympias entertained, her apparent removal from the human race made her so cold, so spiritually unattainable, that Olympias did not include her in her sexual sorties.

Phylia started massaging the feet again. Olympias, her eyes narrowed to mere slits, continued to stare at the girl. In some ways, Phylia reminded the queen of herself, beautiful yet not of this world. In Phylia, Olympias saw the absence of emotion that so dominated her own personality. To be ruthless, truly ruthless, love, loyalty and trust had to be eschewed for treachery, ambition and pleasure. Only Alexander was deserving of anything more.

Olympias was so engrossed with Phylia and her own musings that she did not notice the faint knocking at her door. Phylia ceased her ministrations and looked up at the queen. The movement startled Olympias out of her trance and with a motion that would have been missed by most, bade Phylia to open the door.

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The young slave girl glided to the door. Putting her head sideways against the aged, oak timbers, she called out to the person on the other side. Olympias, sitting not five human lengths from the entrance herself, heard not a thing. Phylia's voice was as soft as the plaintive cry of a small bird. Nevertheless, the person on the other side of the door must have heard because a voice growled in reply. Phylia opened the door and let Pausanius in.

Even the queen was shocked. The proud warrior was no more.

Instead there stood a decrepit, over-indulged sycophant whose purpose in life had gone from serving a king on a battlefield to begging for deviant sexual thrills from Olympias. Pausanius, by nature a driven man, had allowed the attributes which made him a great soldier propel him blindly into the world of the sexual and moral degenerate. To reduce the mental torture of conflicting needs, Pausanius drank, ate and whored to such excesses that his constitution was ravaged. And the more he saw himself slip, the more his self-loathing forced him to continue the punishing regimen. For the want of fleeting sexual gratification, Pausanius had reduced himself to a level lower than the scum who haunted the alleys and the piers.

"Pausanius, you do me honour with your presence. May I have the girl bring you something to eat, drink?" asked the queen in her most gracious tone.

Pausanius rubbed his chin with the back of his hand. The stubble from a three days' growth of beard scratched the soft skin. He licked his lips and turning towards Phylia grunted something the young girl interpreted to be a yes. She immediately went to a beautifully cast bronze urn and prepared a cup of wine for Pausanius.

"You have come for a reason my lord?" queried the queen with just a touch of sarcastic emphasis on the last two words.

Pausanius stopped watching Phylia and turned to Olympias. He took a deep breath, simultaneously straightening his shoulders and trying his best to present a military air. Coughing once, desperately trying to cover his nervousness, Pausanius said, "My queen, it is with humbleness that I make this request."

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Olympias' interest was piqued. What could this shell of a man want from her--other than her pleasures?

"The king no longer considers me a Companion. I am ignored, and of late, belittled by those that were once my inferiors. I now know that I said stupid things many months ago. And even though I may have been critical of Philip, never did I speak treason. Furthermore, the lifestyle I have pursued for the last while I now find...not suitable to a soldier." Pausanius had to catch himself with his last few words. He had meant to say offensive but that would only prove to be critical of the queen and at this moment he needed her goodwill.

"You wish me to speak to Philip on your behalf. Consider it done", stated Olympias, almost obsequious in her manner.

Pausanius smiled. With a flourishing bow, a silent thank you, he turned and left the room, nodding to Phylia who was standing there with his undrunk wine.

Olympias watched the door close. She waved Phylia over to her. "Get the King. I want him here how," ordered Olympias brusquely.

Recognizing the tone, Phylia ran to the door, barely opened it before squeezing through and in a flash was gone from the room.

Finding herself alone, the queen began to think aloud. "I think it is time for Pausanius to pay back the favors I have so generously granted him the last few months." Olympias looked around, almost expecting someone to answer her. "Philip, I think the time has come for Alexander to sit on your throne. In fact my beloved," Olympias spat out the word

'beloved', "I foresee an imminent and probably permanent separation about to occur." The most radiant smile lit up the queen's face. For the first time in a long period she felt herself as young as a child. If things worked out, soon she would be the real queen of an empire limited only by her son's vision.

Olympias was moving about the room as she spoke to herself, gathering up shoes, veils and other items she would need to go out in.

Dressing herself quickly, she took a look over her shoulder at the room and then exited.

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Outside in the great hall, dozens of slaves, courtiers, politicians and soldiers milled about. All were scrambling, running errands, seeking favors, presenting petitions, doing whatever was necessary to further their own interests. And what proved to be the most fascinating to Olympias, now watching this ordered chaos, was that Philip handled almost all the daily administration himself. Give the bastard credit she thought, he knew how to run a government. This was one aspect of the kingdom Olympias had overlooked. She would have to educate Alexander in the more mundane responsibilities of leadership.

So engrossed were the people in the hall that Olympias stood unnoticed. This struck her as odd, as first there was not a single woman (other than herself) present, secondly, she was a queen and she expected to be noticed. Normally, this situation would have angered her. She smiled.

Moving forward, her steps so light, her body so small that she was almost elfin-1ike, she walked amongst the teeming mass, waiting to savor their reaction.

At first no one noticed Olympias. Within moments that changed.

First one, then two, then many slaves fell to the ground prostrating themselves, praying fervently that they had not inadvertently incurred the wrath of the notoriously unforgiving queen. So afraid were they of her that not one dared lift his head to look her in the face. The rest of the crowd, although not slaves, could not help but be impressed by the obvious sublimation.

Some nodded, most bowed and all, royal supplicants or not acknowledged the presence of Olympias. In fact, some went so far as to verbally grovel in front of her. None of this went unnoticed by the slyly smiling Olympias. These morons feared her. She liked that.

One man stood aside however. He ignored the tableau unfolding before him. He felt embarrassed by the actions of his compatriots. Even the behavior of the slaves for some unaccountable reason made him blush.

Why did these strong, able men reduce themselves to such low levels because a woman, a puny, out of favor one at that, walked into their midst?

What was Olympias after all? She bred like any other mare. Not even as well. She had only the one son. And he was what he was because of Philip. Not this bitch. So why should he, Attalus, bow to her? Philip, and now Attalus' niece, Cleopatra were the real rulers. One night someone This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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would slit Olympias' throat: they would blame a jilted lover, which would calm Alexander, and Philip and his court would be rid of her forever.

Attalus smiled.

Olympias had noticed that all save Attalus had come to her. She knew that now that his niece was sleeping with Philip he thought himself safe from her. A foolish mistake. Olympias would make Attalus pay and pay dearly for his lack of respect. Even his re-assignment to Asia Minor might work in her favor. Olympias smiled in return, her almond shaped eyes lending her expression a distinctively feline appearance. She would have loved to stay and verbally spar with the general but she had more important things to attend to. Breaking herself free from the still floor-scraping slaves, she gathered her robe about her shoulder with just enough flourish to show her royalty and turning away from Attalus, left. That last, small rearranging of facial muscles had effectively transmitted the message she wanted Attalus to be left with. His time would come.

For now, she had to hurry. There was no telling how long Kathos would remain in Pella. A man like him was reviled by all those with even the tiniest shred of decency. Only evil followed him and his sorry band of cohorts. Consequently, their stay in any one place was usually limited.

Only their 'clients' interceding for them with the authorities allowed them within twenty leagues of any city-state in Hellas. But when people such as Olympias sent a message, all pathways were immediately free of all obstacles--physical, legal or moral. Kathos was thus saved the inconvenience of trial and punishment. And in this case the queen had made him and his partners very comfortable for the last few months.

However, constant harassment from local authorities coupled with extreme boredom had put the itch into him and he was ready to leave. That had necessitated sending a message to Olympias. She now realized that the time had come for a decision to be made concerning her son's future.

Olympias came to the door of Kathos' lodging. She rapped hard.

Suddenly, a hairy arm, as thick as one of her boas encircled her throat and the point of a very sharp knife forced its way through her chiton until it rested forcibly on her rib cage. Breathing was next to impossible, and the metal being forced on her torso caused extreme pain. A tear forced itself out of her left eye, leaving a faint trail down across her cheek. Yet she refused to show fear to her potential murderer.

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The door opened. Standing there naked, unabashed was Kathos.

Behind him stood a young boy, just entering pubescence. He too was naked and horribly beaten. Even Olympias, inured to even the basest sexual perversions could not stomach the excessive, pointless violence that Kathos reveled in. But with a knife at her ribs and an arm choking the life out of her she was less concerned with Kathos' lover than with her own salvation.

Kathos smiled, his rotten teeth poisoning the air with their fetidity. He just looked at his bodyguard and that was enough for the queen to be released.

Olympias gasped once or twice and straightening her clothing (while surreptitiously rubbing the spot where the knife had been held) took a step forward. The difference in height between her and Kathos was over a head. To Olympias it did not matter. She angrily thrust her chin up and prepared to chide him.

This woman has nerve, thought Kathos. Neither his obvious nakedness nor her proximity to death appeared to fluster the queen.

Kathos knew how dangerous he was. How dangerous was she?

"Well...is this simian going to stand behind me for the whole time I am here?" demanded Olympias of Kathos. "And is it necessary to remind you that I am a queen and expected to be treated like one? Do you understand?"

"Ohh...I would be most happy to treat you like a queen. Which one do you fancy? Lytheran? Argolian?" replied a still smiling Kathos.

Olympias shivered. Both those queens had been horribly tortured then killed. Officially, no one knew who the murderers were.

Olympias did remember that both kings had remarried rather quickly.

Perhaps it was best to get to the matter at hand. Threats were counterproductive. For now.

"The job is ready to be done," said Olympias.

"You know my terms," replied Kathos. He reached down, grasped his engorging penis and said, "My pleasure."

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Dioxippus refuses to succumb

"You cannot continue to expect that all your opponents will observe the rules as carefully as you," said Piros. He finished tying the sling supporting Dioxippus' shoulder. "This should do until the bone heals. It may be wise to forego your next match even though Kefallas will not arrive for a few more days from Sparta."

Dioxippus grimaced as the tightening sling put painful pressure on his collarbone. Without looking up at his mentor he replied, "I will not pull out of the Olympics. I have waited my whole life for these games. Piros do not misinterpret what I am saying. I do not want to be a god or hero or anything else. But how can I give up when I am so close.

You said the break was clean and would heal quickly. You are a magician when it comes to medicine. Find a cure for me. Please..."

Dioxippus' voice trailed off into a choked sob. He could not control his emotions at this juncture of his life.

Piros took half a step back to survey what he had done. His Dios was no longer a gawky adolescent. Here was a young man, full of promise, desire and potential. Here also was a young man whose life was one of loss. And now, he had to see Dioxippus give everything up once again because of a vicious injury. The cruelty of the situation bothered him greatly. He did not know whether to offer sacrifices to the Greek gods or to pray to the Hebrew God of his parents. This was a quagmire with no escape. Piros thoughts were on what would his father have done? The ebony giant who had sired Piros would have told him to solve the problem and not expect outside help, physical or spiritual.

"Piros...tell me that I can heal enough to fight Kefallas,"

implored Dioxippus.

An idea struck Piros. He had heard of a compound used by the Persians to alleviate pain during surgery. From what he could remember, when this paste was applied to the wound it caused sharp, smarting pains but within a few heartbeats it deadened the skin and nerves surrounding This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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the area. If Piros could apply a similar concoction to Dioxippus' shoulder before the fight began, it was possible to minimize the pain enough for Dioxippus to participate. And if Dioxippus defeated his adversary quickly, any further damage to the collarbone would be minimal. He would have to go to the market and seek out the Arab traders. Piros inadvertently smiled.

"You can do it," responded an elated Dioxippus.

"I will try. Rest now. I will be back as quickly as I can," said Piros. He strode over to the doors, looked back once and left.

Dioxippus sighed once then shifted his body repeatedly until he found a comfortable position for his wounded shoulder. The movement sparked a small, sharp pain. Reflexively, Dioxippus gritted his teeth.

The pain subsided quickly and Dioxippus finally began to relax.

He began to analyze the contest he had just emerged victorious from. There was no question that Petros had been the toughest fighter he had ever come up against. The techniques he had used had all been chosen for their destructive powers. The pankration, when fought by people such as Petros, was transformed from a healthy, sporting event into a melee resembling more the dog pits than the Olympics. Dioxippus winced at the simile. The pankration, especially at this level, had undergone changes, some subtle, some not so subtle, since the glory days of Piros. No longer were the pankratiatists satisfied to wear the olive wreath. Now they wanted financial compensation, incentives and bonuses, depending on how well they did in the games. This crass commercialization of an athletic event as pure as the pankration jaded the honorable Piros even though he had to admit that the giving of monies to the winners had attracted many more people into the Olympiad. When Piros had competed, he would have had to fight no more than three times in two days to win the wreath. Dioxippus on the other hand had already fought twice, the second a life threatening contest, just to qualify for the Olympics. To reach the finals he would have to fight three more times.

With this sore shoulder, Dioxippus did not feel too self-assured at this time.

Dioxippus looked around. He had not noticed that he was alone.

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extremely thirsty with no one to fetch water for him. He smiled ashamedly. Who was he to expect to be waited on? Piros would have had a fit if he knew that Dioxippus would sit there until somebody served him. The young pankratiatist swung himself slowly off the couch. He planted his feet firmly and stood erect. All his muscles had stiffened and for a few steps he had difficulty maintaining his balance. He shuffled over to the terra cotta pot that contained the water and with his good arm and hand lifted it to his mouth. As the pot was raised, Dioxippus noticed two things: first, the container was extremely light; second, there was no sloshing of fluids. Dioxippus shook the urn once, noticed that there was only a negligible amount of water in it. So muttering, he dropped his arm to his side, leaving the urn resting against his hip and outer thigh and proceeded to the door. Dioxippus would have to go to the well himself if he was to drink water that day.

Although Pella was the capital of Macedonia, it was still relatively backward in comparison to Thebes and Athens. The water supply was still drawn from wells, most of which were located somewhat outside the city gates. In Pella itself, there were a few wells that were considered communal, and it was to one of these that Dioxippus made his way. He did not mind the chore because these communal wells were also great places to catch up on the news of the community, city and empire.

They were also great places to hear the latest gossip, rumors and innuendos. To Dioxippus, this contact with the bawdy, robust people of the Macedonian empire was worth all the pain and discomfort that this walk exerted on his shoulder.

As Dioxippus neared the well he usually used, he noticed a large number of people milling about in a loosely constructed circle. They appeared to have their attention focused on something occurring within that circle. From their laughter and catcalls, Dioxippus guessed that "the event" was at the center of that group of people.

Suddenly, a scream pierced the air and then a yell, angry, defiant and pained. Almost simultaneously, the circle of people opened up and a man, his chiton torn or cut into several barely united sections came running out. Blood was also spattered on his garment although where it had come from could not be ascertained in the few, brief seconds that Dioxippus glimpsed him.

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Dioxippus stood there unsure of what to think or do. He looked back at the open circle and saw that standing there, by herself, was a girl so beautiful that the gods must be jealous. Dioxippus was transfixed. The girl had long blonde hair that shimmered when the sun caught the naturally curled tresses. Her face was extremely fine-featured, almost royal in its bearing. The girl was not tall but neither was she short. Her posture, her demeanor both suggested better breeding. Yet the clothing the girl wore was more reminiscent of a slave rather than an aristocrat.

The mass of people started to disperse. Dioxippus collared one man and asked, "What happened down there by the well?"

The farmer took one look at what appeared to him a giant and said, ever so quietly, "That girl, a slave really, just carved up that sorry excuse for a man like he was a pig, ready to be served. Never have I seen such skill in the use of a knife. It flew through her fingers as if it had a life of its own. Incredible." And with that the farmer hurried away.

Dioxippus was perplexed. What happened did not make any sense. Had the girl been attacked? Why were the other people so lackadaisical in their attitude? For answers, he would have to go look himself. Admittedly, he was very keen to meet the girl that had sent such a big man running.

Dioxippus weaved his way through the talking, yelling, laughing crowd. He alternately twisted this way and that, trying desperately to keep his shoulder from being bumped. So focused was he on protecting his wound, he did not see the girl until he was almost on top of her. She turned just as Dioxippus was about to bump into her. The collision, although not hard, jarred Dioxippus' shoulder, forcing a painful grunt out of him. The girl, realizing that somehow she had managed to hurt this man, apologized profusely.

Dioxippus did not hear a word. He stood mesmerized by the vision in front of him. When her talking finally broke the trance he had fallen into, he blushed and managed to stammer some sort of reply. And for the life of him he did not know what he said.

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pleasant diversion was a godsend. She had to admit she found this stranger very appealing with his extraordinary height, large frame and for a Greek, rare blue eyes. His modest manner was also a quality that immediately endeared him to her. If only he would speak clearly.

"I, I’m sorry. I did not mean to bump into you. It was just that all these people."

Panthea interrupted Dioxippus, "Apologies are not necessary.

We both collided with each other."

Dioxippus found himself somewhat surprised at the erudite manner in which this young woman spoke to him. Immediately he chided himself for assuming that because the person in front of him was dressed poorly that she was also educated poorly. Obviously this was not the case.

"I am Panthea. You are..."

"Dioxippus. Some call me Dios."

"I have not seen you here before. Are you a freeman?" asked Panthea.

The boldness of the question was not lost on Dioxippus. Most women would never ask a man if he was a slave or not. In some social circles, Panthea's manner would probably be considered rude. Dioxippus however found it appealing.

"I was made a free man by my master" replied Dioxippus, his stomach knotting with the recollection of his former lord.

"I too am not owned although I do serve another... continued Panthea. "I have been in Pella for about five years. And since I have been treated well, I have not left."

"What of your husband, children?" asked Dioxippus. His breathing labored as he anticipated the answer.

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"Surely I do not look that old, that matronly," laughed Panthea, barely able to control herself. In fact, her laughter acted as a release for all the earlier tension, turning her initial giggling into raucous guffawing.

Dioxippus at first blushed, thinking he had inadvertently insulted his new friend. The almost hysterical reaction convinced him otherwise and unable to help himself joined in the mirth. So hard were they both laughing that the people milling about them turned and moved away.

Some even rotated fingers near their heads, indicating that the two young people had gone insane. Dioxippus and Panthea were of course oblivious to it.

"Whh, why are you here?" asked Panthea, choking back further laughter and wiping a tear from her face with the back of her hand.

"I cannot remember the last time I giggled like a child,"

gasped Dioxippus. He began to choke and cough on the laughter.

"No, no, no. Not again," ordered Panthea, trying to keep from reacting in kind to Dioxippus.

"Oh, come now. We have so few things to laugh about. Me, I've been miserable all morning. When I finally come for water I see a crowd, a man running and...you."

At the mention of the earlier incident, Panthea turned red again.

It was with anger not embarrassment or shyness this time. Dioxippus immediately noticed the unease and regretted bringing the subject up.

"That animal thought that because I came for water unescorted that I was no better than a cheap whore. He refused to leave me alone and when some of the other men tried to ask him to go he turned on them like a rabid dog. I was frightened because I did not want to see an innocent servant or slave pay the penalty for this beast's madness. So I implored him to leave, debasing myself for the greater good, so to speak. He refused to let me be and probably saw my begging as a sign of weakness.

For men like this, weakness is an aphrodisiac. He began to clutch at me grabbing my robe and making me spill the water I had fetched from the well. That is when I introduced him to my closest friend." And faster than a hummingbird's wing, a tiny, razor sharp blade flew from This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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somewhere in the folds of Panthea's clothing and came to rest on the underside of Dioxippus' chin. "A great equalizer."

Dioxippus had not moved. He was as immobile as granite. He could feel the sharp edge of the blade stretching the tender skin of his throat. He refused to show any emotion of any kind. He stared into the eyes of Panthea, seeing his reflection dance amongst the glittering images contained therein. Strangely, Dioxippus felt himself more relaxed more free than he had been in a long time. This proximity to death liberated him from the constraints of life. He smiled.

Panthea had not meant to put Dioxippus on a life and death defensive. She had been merely trying to demonstrate the effectiveness of a well-handled knife and how she had used it to frighten that pig from earlier on. But now she could not move. The knife lay there, forcing itself on Dioxippus as if it had a purpose of its own. She wanted to retract the weapon; it refused. The whole time her eyes were locked with Dioxippus'.

There was no fear or even concern in his eyes. He was either very brave or very simple-minded. His smile remained engaged despite the palatable tenseness charging the air.

Suddenly, Dioxippus glanced away at something behind Panthea. The grip on the bone-handled knife relaxed...barely.

The breath inhaled did not have time to be exhaled. Panthea's wrist was twisted painfully, forcing her to one knee. How she was taken down, when Dioxippus saw the momentary lapse of concentration, she could not answer. Yet, here she now was, on one knee with no knife and her wrist in dire peril of being broken. She looked up, not knowing what she would see.

Dioxippus was still smiling. He released Panthea's wrist from the lock, and with his other hand helped her to her feet. He had used a painful controlling technique but had been careful not to injure Panthea in any way. He would never hurt her.

As Panthea was pulled to her feet, she did not know if she should cry, scream, get angry or just accept what had just occurred.

Dioxippus' beaming face, not condescending at all, answered her question. Panthea grinned.

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Dioxippus said nothing. It was somehow understood between them. Both could be harbingers of death. Or both could come to care for one another. Dioxippus knew the answer.

He bent over picked up the two-handled hydria full of water by the one handle while Panthea, following his lead grasped the other handle.

Together they turned and made their way silently to the home of Panthea's mistress. Not a step was taken on the journey where their eyes separated from each other. The bond had been forged.

Watching them move away from the well area was an old man.

Seated, partially obscured by a low wall, this wrinkled raisin of an ancient had been an observer of all the action today. He shook his head as he recalled what he had seen: a man almost skinned, another almost decapitated, a girl almost broken and stranger than all a love affair start.

Odd.

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Philip espouses on tactics

He was the last person he expected to see in the traders’ quarters.

After all, only foreigners and those dealers who sold imported goods of questionable legitimacy or targeted for very specific interests ever came to this dilapidated part of town. And none ever came, save a few extremely confident persons such as Piros, without a bodyguard. But there he was, conspicuously alone, examining weaponry from lands so far away that it would take years to make the trip there and back. Who knows, thought Piros, perhaps Philip generated his unusual often innovative military ideas by handling killing instruments foreign to him, discussing their use with their vendors or asking questions about military strategy in other places.

No contemporary historian had yet discovered where or how Philip got the idea to lengthen the standard pike to fifteen feet and arrange his soldiers into an almost impenetrable phalanx. This rather simple idea had made the Macedonian infantry the best fighting unit in the known world. And what Piros most liked about Philip's 'invention' was that the casualties in the phalanx were extraordinarily low. Consequently, morale always remained high and the soldiers in those units thought themselves indestructible, furthering their effectiveness even more. Piros considered himself a tactician yet he knew that in Philip there existed a logistical genius. No general utilized his resources, both traditional and non-traditional as competently as the King. Save Alexander.

Philip had not seen Piros. He was completely engrossed with a bow of quite different design than a Greek one. As he hefted it, pulled its string and mentally weighed the arrows, he constantly asked the dark-skinned, black-haired trader how it was used. With great gesticulation, and few Greek words, the trader was able to indicate to Philip how the bow was used by the cavalry when in retreat. Philip was obviously impressed by the narration, and mimicking a turning rider twisted his trunk so he faced rearward and drew the bow right in the direction of the observing Piros.

Piros raised his eyebrows slightly. The querulous expression on his face appeared to amuse the King, as he returned the look with a smile.

Piros nodded to his lord. He immediately advanced forward although he did not rush forth like some patronizing commoner or court boot licker.

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Philip had always wanted his soldiers to be honest and forthwith with him.

False airs and other court buffoonery were inevitably rejected by the King.

And Piros, one of his most faithful campaigners, had earned the right to a certain familiarity with Philip.

"Piros, have you heard such a thing? In this man's land, Parthia," Philip pointed at the beaming trader, "the cavalry disperses along the flanks of the enemy force, shoots its first barrage and then retreats. While they retreat, the bowmen turn around in their seats and fire their arrows over the hindquarters of their mounts. Incredible use of the cavalry, I must say. Hitting your enemy coming and going. What do you think, Piros?" asked the King.

"I am not sure. How accurate are these mounted archers? And I have yet to see a bow that can be handled in the manner you suggest. I think the Macedonian phalanx would make life very unhappy for these riders."

Philip grinned. There was nothing he enjoyed more than a debate on military strategy, especially with someone knowledgeable in the field of tactics. Philip's grin was not lost on Piros. He too enjoyed the intellectual exercise and was eager to pursue it.

"Imagine for a moment that the infantry is being attacked by this group. With our shields closed tight in our defensive posture, we are as tight as a shell from the shores of the Aegean. The damage to our force would be so minimal as to make the cavalry's maneuver a great waste of time and resources. In fact, if I were their general, I would seek higher ground, fortify the positions, unseat the horsemen, give them armor penetrating bows and arrows and then sit back comfortably and watch the slaughter," concluded a smug Piros.

"Hmmmmm, an interesting strategy, Piros. No wonder you are such a good soldier. However, an attacking force does not limit itself to a strategy of immobility. The Macedonian phalanx is an aggressive machine, one that first confronts the enemy line, then breaks it and finally pursues it until its surrender or destruction is complete. Yet here we are presented with an enemy that is highly mobile, difficult to engage and fights a war of attrition rather than annihilation. I grant you that the damage done to the phalanx might be only minimal--if the discipline to This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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stay within its confines is maintained. But what happens if after repeated attacks, with no casualties taken on the enemy side, your own soldiers decide to pursue this force. Without the protection of those united shields, the infantry exposes itself to a fusillade of arrows from an enemy they cannot reach," concluded Philip.

"You forget my lord, that we too have a cavalry. Your own son commands one of the more effective troops. Are you saying that our elite could not handle these cowards, these horsemen who shoot from afar. Alexander would take Bucephalus and run these men into the ground. I am afraid my lord that you have failed to convince me that any force could outmaneuver or outfight the Macedonians." Piros looked at Philip, assured that he had prevailed.

Philip, looking like a snake about to swallow a bird, replied,

"Piros, have you underestimated the enemy. Have you ever questioned my decision to send the cavalry onto the field after the infantry has already engaged the enemy?" Piros shook his head. Philip continued.

"The reasoning behind that is as follows. First, the infantry must be broken. This is necessary because the man on foot is still the most vital cog in a military operation. Destroy his discipline, separate him from his unit and sever his line of communication to his commanders and he becomes ineffective. When chaos ultimately results, the cavalry can seek out and eliminate the threat of this soldier with minimal risk. There is no question that a man on a horse is worth a half-dozen on foot but it is also critical that the man on the horse have the room to move unimpeded.

When engaging another cavalry, we depend on the horsemanship and martial skills of the rider. So far we possess a superior combination of both. Now Piros, listen to me carefully. These Parthian bowmen may not decimate their enemy in the manner we have come to expect.

However, by unleashing a barrage of arrows at our cavalry, they will neutralize it. No horse or man will charge into a hail of missiles relatively unprotected. And the final beauty of these men is that even if we break them, in retreat their effectiveness can be devastating. Our feared phalanx cannot assist to any great extent because it is restricted in its ability to move, particularly if the integrity of the unit is to be maintained." Philip took a breath. "You must learn Piros, that there are different methods employed all over the world when war is fought. It is important not to prejudice yourself against a philosophy, religion, race or anything else different from what you interpret to be normal. I have This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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taught Alexander to adapt his thinking to the situation. I hope that he and other leaders such as yourself remember and apply this."

Piros had nothing to say. Philip's stratagem made sense. Piros bowed his head down in acknowledgement of the well-presented argument. He looked up at Philip but Philip had already turned and was engaged in some rather heated haggling with the seller of the bow.

Piros guessed that for now this conversation with Philip was over.

Remembering why he had come here, he glanced around, looking for the Persian he knew traded in the herbs and medicines that he would need for Dioxippus. Piros spotted him over in a corner of the alley, arranging dried vegetables and flowers from strings he had suspended from the two walls on either side of him.

Piros noted that the Persian was a large man, with a belly as rotund as one of the barrels he was now pulling his goods from. And like his countrymen, he wore a trouser and shirt made of material unlike anything in Hellas. To Piros, the pants seemed undignified and not befitting a man of position. Then he remembered Philip's admonition concerning prejudices. It was easy, even for an educated man like himself to assume that differences between people indicated weakness or deficiency. He promised himself he would not be sucked into that morass. And with that he signaled the Persian.

The Persian, as large as he was, bowed to Piros with a simple dignity. He had tempered the usual flourish of his countrymen, knowing that many Greeks found the fluid movements unmanly. He presented an image opposite of what the propagandists had branded the Persians serving under Darius III. This was no decrepit, morally bankrupt barbarian. By the way he presented himself it was obvious that the Persian had been schooled in the finer points of conduct. And Piros was impressed.

"I seek a product," stated Piros.

"For one ill, injured or just for maintaining one's health?" asked the Persian already pulling things out of baskets and barrels.

"For one injured. A broken collarbone. I need to deaden the pain so he may compete in two weeks," answered Piros.

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"An athlete. What sport is your charge involved in, if I may ask?" continued the Persian.

"The Pankration."

"What! You cannot mean that you want him to compete so soon. How can such an injured man even defend himself much less take part?" The shock in the Persian's voice was obvious.

"With your help my friend," replied Piros. "You know what I seek. All you should concern yourself with is if I have the money to pay for it. If you cannot fulfill this request, I will seek someone else." Piros looked around, emphasizing the point that there were others he could approach and who would be happy to provide the service Piros wanted.

The Persian, not wanting to lose what might be a lucrative sale, blathered, "You Greeks, even you darker ones, have such short tempers.

Did I say I would not sell you what you want? Did you hear the words, 'go somewhere else' escape these lips? Why do you talk of seeking other sources when you well know that everything in the traveled world is here in these barrels, bags and other containers. I will help you and your friend.

Please forgive me for my rudeness earlier. It is just that the pankration is such a bru...rough sport and I only thought that you might want to spare your friend a more serious injury." The Persian, his demeanor tall, proud, also bore the slight cockiness of the successful entrepreneur. Nevertheless, his words were affected with just a touch of plaintiveness. With Alexander and Philip planning invasions of Asia, it was considered prudent for Persians to limit their trade to the other Arabic nations…and most definitely not to the Greeks. But the Persian considered himself above politics, racism and other prejudices. He was a merchant. What did he care if a black, pink, white, yellow or even green man bought his goods.

The business was the important thing. And at this moment he did not want to lose the sale.

"Your opinion is acknowledged. Now what would you prescribe for the injury described?" Piros pointed at his shoulder to emphasize the point. I need something that will dull or eliminate the pain without reducing the mobility of the arm. It cannot be a salve or poultice that requires bandaging. The pankration is too pure to be polluted by clothing, This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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slings or even bandages. Do you have something like this," asked Piros, waving his hand over all the containers surrounding the Persian.

"Hmmmmmmm...let me see," said the Persian. He threw himself into barrels, overturned the baskets and searched through the countless bags stuffed with rotting plants and flowers of so many designations that the watching Piros, himself a man of medicine and used to handling herbs and roots, realized how completely ignorant he was of his own profession.

While the Persian rummaged through the ever-growing mess, Piros felt someone beside him. He did not hear the person. He did not see or even smell him. But Piros, his warrior senses acute, knew the King was standing directly behind his left shoulder.

"Do you trust this Persian? Are you sure he is not concocting a poison rather than an antidote?" asked Philip, his voice not giving any indication by its timbre whether the question was meant seriously.

Piros still had not turned to look at the King. What Philip meant by his comment was unclear. Still, Piros' responsibility lay with Dioxippus and it was him he had to help. Thank the gods that this was not Olympias. She would have been crazed with anger if any of Philip's subjects, rich, poor or otherwise had pretended not to hear her. Philip was different. He was at once every man and the culmination of ambition, ruthlessness and genius. He would not get angry with Piros.

In fact, knowing Philip, Piros surmised that the question he had asked had been purely rhetorical and no answer was expected.

"Mix these leaves and herbs with water and vinegar. Allow to sit for a day until it is almost a mud. Mix the ingredients again until all the particles break down to liquid. By now you should have a paste. It will smell slightly. Take the paste and pour it into a small, porous bag or pouch. Then you should take this pack and fasten it to the wounded area.

The medicine will leak out the cloth bag slowly, deadening the nerves around the break. Your fighter will retain use of his arm but be warned that this poultice will not heal the broken bone. That requires a sling and rest. However, if your man must fight, this poultice will eliminate the superficial pain associated with the movement of the arm. I strongly This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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suggest that he protect that side of his body as best as he can." So concluded the Persian.

Piros slipped a couple of coins to the trader. By the expression on the Persians face the amount was more than generous particularly considering that no haggling over price had ensued. Even the King was impressed by Piros' generosity. For a moment.

"You have not seen me. You do not know of any pankratiatist who has been injured or has requested medication. Do we understand each other?" demanded Piros, suddenly looking much larger and fiercer than he had mere heartbeats ago.

The Persian nodded assent. He had been generously recompensed. There was no need to let anyone know what had transpired here today. Piros' implied threat was not necessary but it was noted. The Persian bowed gracefully and began to resort his wares.

Piros turned to the King. Philip smiled knowingly. After all, there was no need to make the rest of the athletic world aware of the severity of Dioxippus' injury. Both men understood this most basic of military strategies.

They began to make their way out of the alley Philip carrying his newly purchased bow and arrows, Piros his herbs and leaves. Philip was expounding on the virtues of having geographers analyze potential battlefields as he and Piros turned into the main street and began making their way back to the palace. Their voices trailed off into the distance.

Across the street, barely out of sight, were three dark figures wedged tightly in the recesses of the facing building. All three caressed the sharpened blades they had hidden under their coats. All three cursed vehemently the arrival of Piros. His unexpected presence had ruined their plan. Philip's rendezvous with thanatos would have to be postponed until another day.

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