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

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Phylia

Anybody else would have cried. She had run circles around the palace, looking in every imaginable area for the despot of Macedonia. All those she asked shrugged their shoulders. The King was nowhere to be found. No one was alarmed as this was a common occurrence with Philip.

Knowing the King was probably healthy did not alleviate Phylia's stress.

Olympias would be furious with her if she returned without the Queen's husband. And even though Phylia was beyond caring what happened to her physical person, nevertheless she did not want to have to listen to Olympias' hysterical haranguing if she did not have to. It looked now that she would have to return to Olympias' quarters with her mission unfulfilled. Phylia sighed once, shrugged her shoulders to rid herself of the last bit of nervous tension and started back. She would not prepare excuses or make up a story to mask what Olympias would deem her ineptitude. Phylia did not fear punishment. She had heard Piros tell Dioxippus that every man was accountable for his own actions. Phylia believed that also applied to her. She would accept whatever the Queen decided to mete out.

With her mind flooded with these thoughts of actions and consequences, Phylia's normal senses became dulled. She was completely unaware that a shadow surreptitiously paralleled her movements and had in fact been following her for quite some time. The specter was clever. It stayed far back and blended in with the court life extremely well. It would have been impossible for anyone to observe the wraith's actions and know that Phylia or any other person was being followed. For the young girl, the person haunting her steps really was nothing more than a shadow. So as she approached the Queen's chambers, she did not even cast a cursory glance over her shoulder. She unlatched the doors.

Without warning a great force shoved her through the opening.

The shock forced a scream but it only echoed through her head, an immovable claw had clamped her mouth shut. So powerful was the grip that Phylia's head was unable to budge from its held position. Phylia's heart hammered and with the severe restriction on her breathing the strain on her body sapped her strength as well as if she had run a marathon. She could not see her attacker, as any turning of the neck was negligible. Her eyes however, slightly bugged from the lack of oxygen, flew side to side, This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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desperately trying to identify the attacker to no avail. Phylia felt herself weakening rapidly. Her arms began to thrash as her nervous system fought to survive. But the strength of the stalker was too great. Phylia knew she was about to die. The thought that her torment would finally end made her feel at peace.

Patroclus could feel the young girl slipping. He had not meant to choke her to death. He had only wanted to put a little extra pressure on the carotid artery just enough to make Phylia black out. Now it looked as if he might have killed her. Patroclus was now the frightened one. First he was not a child or woman killer. Secondly, if his mistress, the true queen, found out that he had killed Phylia, he would be the one to face the executioner. These thoughts careened through his head. He let the young woman go.

Phylia slumped to the ground unconscious. Patroclus leaned over the prone body, consternation furrowing his forehead. Ever so gently he picked Phylia up and placed her upon the long chairs in the suite. With his forefinger, he massaged the area behind the ear. It seemed like eons before Phylia's eyes fluttered open.

"Is this the afterlife?" asked a disoriented Phylia. "Where is my sister? Please, please let me see her!"

Even though the voice was faint, the sadness was all consuming.

Patroclus knew nothing about the girl other than what Cleopatra had told him: she was the personal servant of Olympias and had probably been abused in some manner. There was a strong possibility that she could be recruited by Philip's youngest wife to spy on the mother of Alexander.

That was why Patroclus had been sent to follow Phylia. Further orders pertained to turning Phylia against Olympias. As for who the sister was, or the allusions to an afterlife, Patroclus could not guess. He did see however, that this girl or woman was extraordinarily beautiful. Her features had matured into a type of handsomeness rather than prettiness. It gave the girl a patrician look, one that would last her a lifetime. Patroclus was strangely attracted to this person. He bit his lip in anger. Eunuchs did not love women. They were not capable.

When she heard no answer, Phylia decided to risk looking about the chamber. She then realized that she had not died. She was in her room This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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with a strange man sitting beside and over her. Phylia had heard of women being sexually attacked even within the confines of the palace. More than likely, this was one of Olympias' perverted confederates. If he wanted her so badly he could have her but he would never leave the room alive. The light from the window was at his back, leaving his face cloaked in shadow.

Phylia would not even see the man she would kill.

"You have not died. And I promise not to hurt you. Please, speak to me. I implore you, do not be frightened," said Patroclus, his voice strangely throttled, as if he had been the one almost strangled into oblivion. The emotion in the voice was real. Phylia was still not sure of what had transpired and what would transpire. But she was no longer frightened of the man beside her. She nodded affirmatively, making sure that her eyes locked with his.

Patroclus slowly removed his hand from her mouth, the motion similar to the drawing of a bowstring, ready to instantly spring back to its original position. Except for a muted sucking in of badly needed air, no other sound could be heard from the young woman. Patroclus noted that she was completely immobile. Whether she was paralyzed with fear or extremely cautious, there was no perceptible movement of any part of her body. Even her eyes, reflecting his image like a finely burnished bronze shield, refused to blink or flicker. Patroclus had to admit to himself that this woman-child had fantastic control over her emotions, her fears and her body. Patroclus swallowed, trying to diminish the lump in his throat.

This admiration, this being smitten by the enemy, was causing chaos within his brain. And he had only been with her for these few moments.

Gods in heaven, what was happening to him?

Phylia of course could not read his mind, and Patroclus, like most court eunuchs possessed a tremendous ability to constrain his feelings and emotions. To the young woman, he appeared to be a cold, calculating transgressor who could kill her as easily as stepping on one of the myriad of black beetles that scurried around the palace. Why her attacker did not did not really concern her. She was still alive. Strange how she was not overly pleased about it.

"I will not hurt you," whispered Patroclus, the volume of his whisper adding a harsh-sounding undertone to his words. "The queen, the This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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real one, her majesty Cleopatra, begs a favor. Some risk exists but probably no more than if you were to stay with Olympias for any extended period. I cannot force you to accept anything. If you are uninterested, I will leave only to return if you make mention of what is discussed here today. Then I will return as your executioner," said Patroclus, his tone low, steady. He wanted Phylia to understand the importance of his request and to know that her life might depend on the next few moments because if she answered the wrong way, Patroclus, regardless of the almost unnatural attraction for his prisoner, would kill her, quickly and with little remorse.

He purposely avoided telling Phylia that as to not be threatening. Her participation in the game had to be of her own free will, otherwise the queen Olympias would rip through her charade. Patroclus waited.

Phylia did not want to be a spy. She did not want to be a part of any assassination attempt. And she was most definitely not interested in the court politicking of Olympias, and her nemesis, the young queen, Cleopatra. Her head pounded. What a quandary she found herself in. She knew that somehow she would end up the loser in all of this. Olympias had not really mistreated her, and had never involved her in any of the games that Olympias herself was so fond of staging and participating in.

Phylia would admit without hesitation that her life in the court had so far been rather sheltered. Why...she could not even venture a guess. Maybe Piros had said something to Olympias when he had first left her there: maybe she was too ugly or ungainly. Whatever the reasons she owed Olympias her well-being. However, there was no denying that as of late, the lust-crazed perverts that shadowed Olympias' every move, were becoming more forceful in their requests that the young woman join their twisted sex contests. And on more than one occasion, Olympias had vacillated in her refusal to allow Phylia to be 'pleasured' by one of her lovers. The situation was further complicated by the amorous advances of Olympias' female paramours. Phylia feared them even more than the men.

These women performed violent, often, macabre acts while fornicating.

Phylia had witnessed and been sickened by the brutality of these feats passing for love. These factors, when scrutinized, pointed to a bleak future for Phylia. And after what had happened to her sister, she vowed never to let a man (or woman) touch her that way again. She started to give Patroclus' request some consideration.

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Patroclus tried hard to maintain his composure. Olympias could be back at any moment and he would have a very difficult time explaining his presence. The girl would have to make up her mind right now or else.

Phylia noticed Patroclus lower his right hand. He made it look as if he were adjusting the belt of his chiton. The many creases in the fabric made it difficult to see if anything were hidden there unless you were looking. Phylia was. The knife's handle could not help but protrude slightly, altering the fold of one of the creases. Phylia was not overtly alarmed. Yet, there was only one answer to give now.

"If I cooperate with you, will I be protected?"

Patroclus nodded.

"The queen does not usually allow me to run free through the palace. How will I contact you and how long must I spy on her, if that is what you really want?" queried Phylia, her voice devoid of any passion.

Patroclus could feel his shoulders slump and his stomach muscles relax. It appeared that Phylia would do as he bid. Without even noticing it, his right hand rose from his beltline.

"I cannot guarantee your safety. Obviously, some measure of watchfulness and precaution will be necessary on your part. I do want to assure you that there will always be somebody near and his sole purpose will be to anticipate and if necessary intervene when problems that you are unable to deal with arise. To give him a message, pass a tiny scrap of material, no bigger than this." Patroclus held up his thumb and forefinger to illustrate the size he wanted. When your 'friend' on the other side sees this he will consider it a signal to come to the door so you can pass him an oral message. Do not ever write anything down or risk going out or even to the door when the queen is in her chambers. On those occasions when you are allowed out, walk to the marketplace near the palace grounds and there someone will meet you. Listen for this password..."

Patroclus leaned forward and whispered something to Phylia.

The only indication she gave that she heard it was a slight tilting of the head in the direction of his voice. Her face remained expressionless.

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Patroclus rose. It was not hard for Phylia to see that he possessed a certain stateliness. Somewhere deep within her, a spark long thought dead, flickered. As Patroclus exited the apartments, Phylia smiled.

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Philip amongst his people

The last few words were swallowed up by the crescendo of voices emanating from the vast wall of humanity bustling about on the outer grounds of the palace. Every person was completely ensconced within their own needs, wants and desires. So odd, thought Piros, how every man or woman regardless of position, felt critical to the well-being of the society they lived in. But what was man? Piros thought of his role in this world. Had his presence had any effect on the society as a whole or was his function limited to interfering in the lives of just a few none of which would affect the community in any significant manner. Was he really as insignificant as an insect, a bug, concerned with nothing more than the survival of the nest, the hive? Piros considered himself a scholar but these philosophical musings were best left to those who dedicated their lives to it. Glancing over to his right, he looked at Philip. The king, as jocular with his subjects as with his friends, was greeting many merchants, slaves, officers, soldiers, by name. Jokes, anecdotes and other insignificant verbal tidbits flew from his lips, yet to the people these words reaffirmed the faith in the man, a man who could ask them to go to the ends of the earth. To be known by, or be spoken to by Philip, a personage far more related to the gods of their religion than to themselves, his good words were as anticipated and relished as if they were a manna from the heights of Olympus. This rare ability to empathize with the masses was what made Philip a hero in his homeland.

Finally, his refusal to be deified, a normal occurrence in other lands, endeared him even more to his people. Piros was forced to concede that maybe Philip was more than the allegorical hero.

"Leonidas! Myromos! Anything good to eat today? What? I cannot hear you. Yes, yes I will. What? No, no, no...I will get too fat and then who will collect your taxes!" roared Philip to a couple of farmers manning a small cart loaded with precooked foodstuffs. Much of the conversation between the parties was lost in the din of the market. Philip's laughter, and warm manner shone like a beacon in the middle of an ocean.

His grin, somewhat marred by the scarring and the one missing eye nevertheless did more to solidify his relationship with the people than any number of forced edicts or false promises.

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Piros also noticed that Philip was not afraid to wade in amongst the throngs, thrusting out his hand to be shaken, his robes touched his back patted. Although by now the bodyguards had begun to make their way to their leader, there was no conceivable way for them to protect their king from an assassin. Piros knew that Philip never entertained the idea of any disloyalty from the citizens of Macedonia. As far as Philip was concerned, he was invincible in the arms of his subjects.

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Olympias

"My...such good manners." The words were civil, the tone biting as Olympias, normally quick to anger, maintained her composure.

"You are not speaking to a slave or to one of your lackeys,"

continued Cleopatra, emboldened by what she interpreted to be a non-threatening response from Olympias. "Look around you, these are a queen's quarters." Cleopatra whirled around graciously, the sleeves of her loose-fitting chiton billowing as they puffed up with air. And with the grace of a trained dancer, her pirouette ended at exactly the same spot it had started. Her triumphant grin illustrated quite clearly her revilement in the insult to Olympias. Dancer, lover, queen--she was all of them and more.

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Piros fields a hard question

"Have you then decided?" asked Philip suddenly. Only his head turned as his hands and arms were being constantly grasped, held, shaken and kissed by well-wishers.

"Decided what?" yelled Piros back.

"I want you to enlist Dioxippus. I must have him near me in battle. He would make a glorious King's Companion. With you to guide him, he will achieve glory...maybe even approximating yours my friend,"

answered Philip. He turned his head away for a few seconds to greet some of the many people clamoring to him.

Piros was not surprised by what Philip had just said. Top athletes were always being recruited by military leaders looking for men with outstanding skills or gifts. To assume that Dioxippus probably the best young pankratiatist in Hellas would be ignored would have been presumptuous at best. Ordinarily, Piros would have been ecstatic to have the ruler of the civilized world eager to recruit a charge personally trained by him. But Piros had matured with the years and no longer felt it necessary that a man distinguish himself by his ability to slaughter.

Dioxippus' potential was not limited to the fighting ring; on many occasions he had demonstrated to Piros the ability to discuss politics and philosophy with insight and knowledge. This was quite impressive considering that Dioxippus' formal education had been severely restricted when he had been Dionys' slave. Now Piros wanted Dioxippus to pursue an intellectual course. But to refuse the king would be construed as almost treasonous. Complicating matters further was Alexander who had made the same request earlier. Piros and Dioxippus had discussed it then and had not been able to make a decision. Of course, Alexander or Philip could just press him or anyone else into service but the value to morale that having Dioxippus volunteer would provide was too great to have to force an athlete of Dioxippus' caliber to do something he did not want. So Alexander had never been answered. Now Piros found himself in a predicament where if he could convince Dioxippus to assent to the king he would offend the prince. And as much as Piros was loyal to Philip, there was little doubt that Alexander would one day take over his father's This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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position and it could bode ill for anyone who had crossed or given the appearance of crossing, Alexander. Piros needed to think. He had to get away from this tidal wave of humanity. Piros signaled the king, who by now had become separated from Piros. It was also obvious that the bodyguards, chosen from the elite King's companions, had by now surrounded Philip and were gently yet forcefully clearing a path for him to escape the potential danger presented in this crowd. This was good for Piros as it allowed some time to ponder the request he would have to make of Dioxippus.

Piros turned on a tangent to the direction Philip had taken. He could see Philip, still surrounded, bobbing amongst the sea of heads, his own head nothing more than a fisherman's float. Piros turned away, seeking a quieter route along the periphery of the 'agora'. Eventually the maelstrom of the late day's market was only a memory. The quiet enveloped him, a comforting blanket shielding him from the world he had just left. Piros could feel the tension from the back of his neck dissipate, the stiffness flowing away. His head became light, his mind cleared of worries. For the first time in the last few days, he felt truly cleansed.

From nowhere, a body crashed into his. The impact, completely unexpected upset his balance. Piros stumbled backward, waving his arms, maddeningly trying to grasp at something for support but failing miserably.

With little dignity but great force, his posterior slammed into the earth. So straight had the trajectory of his rear end been that he ended up in a sitting position, legs splayed open, his eyes open wide and his mind completely dumbfounded. The perpetrator of his present state had not fared much better. He lay sprawled against the wall that he had so hurriedly come around just moments ago. A hand was raised to his temple, possibly in response to an injury there. The upraised arm obscured the face.

Except for the indignity of his present position, Piros was unscathed. However, the indefensibility of his position coupled with the omnipresent threat of assassination made Piros only too aware that his personal safety might be compromised. He leapt to his feet, the adrenalin charge electrifying his motor reflexes. The bag of herbs and leaves, still clasped in his left fist, was thrown aside as he charged forward, determined to eliminate this would-be executioner before he could draw a weapon or summon accomplices.

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Just then, as if anticipating Piros' movement, the man leaning against the wall pulled his arm away, positioned his feet wide and braced himself for the attack.

It never came. Piros pulled up short in front of a disheveled Dioxippus. He began to laugh, deep, emotional laughter--a sound so rich, so contagious that anyone near it would be unable to keep from being drawn into it. Like so many others, Dioxippus joined his friend, his mentor, in that most joyous of emotional expressions.

There they were, two large men, warriors, laughing at their paranoia, a condition that had them jumping from or at shadows. The relief, combined with the ludicrous situation, almost choked the two guffawing friends. Between the tears and the constant coughing they ridiculed each other with rare epithets and timely insults.

From a distance of a few buildings, the encounter between Dioxippus and Piros sounded violent. To Panthea, who had just left Dioxippus a few moments ago, it sounded like a death struggle. She dropped the hydria full of water, withdrew her knife from her chiton and ran back in the direction she had come from, trying desperately to locate the voices she had heard.

Taking a wrong turn, she heard the voices fading away. Panicked, she called out to Dioxippus. Hearing nothing, she began to sob. Suddenly, she heard the voices again, this time much clearer. She also heard coughing, intermittent yet forceful. Dioxippus must be hurt, she thought.

That assessment made her even more resolute in her search. The tears gave way to angry expletives a she sprinted round the corner, her knife brandished her fury unabated.

The first thing she saw was a bent-over Dioxippus leaning against the building wall for support. Opposite him was a black man, also stooped although it was difficult to tell if he also was injured. Something about the black man was familiar. Regardless, he obviously was trying to hurt Dioxippus. With her knife in an up-raised position she charged Piros.

Enjoying the comical situation to its fullest, Piros was not as attentive as he normally would have been. He was not aware of Panthea's presence until he felt the knife slash across his shoulder. The metal bit into This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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his skin, splitting it, the pain sharp, burning. Reflexes saved Piros from the follow-up, a downward stab aimed at his heart, by throwing his body into a backward roll. The crimson streak formed by the tumbling Piros, its brilliance muted by the dust and dirt of the street, pointed at the now standing Piros like some evil arrow. The blood cascaded down his arm, its flow forceful, the result of the knife severing one of the tendons and its surrounding veins in the deltoid muscle of his shoulder. The wounded arm was almost useless but Piros, always the warrior, refused to clutch it or even attempt to stem the bleeding. Instead, he stood in the guarded position of the pankratiatist, both legs slightly apart, hands open and raised in front of him.

So quick had the attack been, Piros had not even seen the assailant. His autonomic nervous system had reacted immediately, saving his life. Yet, now that his mind had caught up to his body, he was even more confused. Facing him was a woman, probably no older than Dioxippus, her face contorted with rage, wielding a knife in which she was an obvious expert in the use of. Piros had seen assassins, some of whom were women, but never had he seen one so intense, so committed to the demise of her intended target. Her emotional state, rather than the detached professionalism of most hired killers, was more reminiscent of a lioness protecting her cubs. Except for the obvious threat to his life, nothing about the last, frenzied moments were logical.

Piros' yelp of pain was the first sign that something had gone horribly awry. By the time Dioxippus looked up, miniscule by any standard, he had seen his beloved mentor viciously assaulted. From the back it appeared to be a woman. Piros, trying desperately to evade the deadly blade had moved away. The murderess had followed, effectively putting both her and Piros out of Dioxippus' immediate range. He did the only thing that he could think of--he yelled. It was a battle cry, specifically created and mastered only by a few, to freeze or disorient the assailant in any battle. It pierced the air, a spear of sound, rupturing the confidence, the concentration of the enemy.

Panthea, emboldened by her aroused protective instincts, stepped forward to finish off this man who had tried so arduously to take yet another person whom she cared for from her life. She stopped. A sound or was it some force unknown froze her body as it smashed into her head, This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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disrupting her thought processes, diverting the messages from her brain to her extremities, effectively if only momentarily paralyzing her.

With the speed of a pouncing leopard, Dioxippis leaped at Panthea, his mass so great in comparison to Panthea's that his shadow enveloped her before he even touched her. Her momentary lapse of concentration had been enough though. Dioxippus slapped the back of her hand at precisely the point where the tendons and nerves were most sensitive. Panthea's fingers jerked outward releasing the knife. Without hesitating, Dioxippus encircled the young woman's waist and held her. He called to Piros, the anguish and concern in his voice obvious.

Piros looked over at the oddly combined pair. He could see that Dioxippus had managed to restrain what appeared to be a murderess. He turned his head down and looked at the blood still streaming from the wound in his shoulder. Piros grimaced. This would have to be taken care of quickly. Yet, he felt inexplicably drawn to that young woman.

What was it about her that made him want to talk to her rather than twist her head off like he would a rabid weasel? A drop of blood fell on the top of his bare foot, again breaking his sequence of thought. He had to take care of this arm.

"Piros! Are you hurt badly?" asked an agitated Dioxippus.

"I am not sure. My arm does not have much movement left.

Control the girl while I make a tourniquet. Find out why she attacked me,"

replied Piros, by now already tearing strips off the bottom of his robe.

Somewhat relieved, Dioxippus turned Panthea around to face him.

As soon as her eyes met his, she began to cry. Then she sank her face into his chest, put her arms around his waist and began to sob. Dioxippus was shocked. Here he was, trying to placate an apparently inconsolable person met within the last while who had obviously cast a spell on him of some sort, while his best friend, a friend closer than almost any parent, sat across the alley trying to control a wound caused by this woman entangled in his embrace. This was insane. Dioxippus' emotions felt as if they had been systematically stripped with an awl.

Panthea was also devastated. She had thought that Dioxippus' life had been endangered and had reacted accordingly. From the concern This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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Dioxippus had expressed for her victim, she had made a tragic mistake.

She lifted her head, ever so slightly, and cast a quick look over at the man she attacked. He did not see her watching him as he was engrossed in tending his injury. What was it about that man that tugged at her emotions so? Panthea had seen very few people of his hue in her life. She was sure she would have remembered a man so black, so imposing. Yet, her brain refused to connect the visual input to her memory. It was as if the gods had purposely robbed her of that experience. Panthea choked back a sob, and rested her head again on the chest of the now thoroughly confused Dioxippus.

The young pankratiatist tried to move toward his friend. The young woman however, clutched him so tight that any attempt at real progress would be met with a tumble to the dirt. Dioxippus took a deep breath, inflating his chest like the pig's bladder he used to play kick ball with, and slid his arms in between Panthea's and his torso. Slowly, he forced her away from him until he could look right into her face without any undue effort. When he had her attention, he spoke.

"Why did you attack Piros? You do not even know him. If, you have been sent to assassinate him, pray to your gods now because you will be meeting them soon," said Dioxippus, his tone so forceful it surprised even him.

"I...I was only trying to..to..." Panthea could not finish her reply.

"You have used me. I felt...something between us at the well,"

said Dioxippus. "Now you stand here, with no answers and the blood of my best friend on your hands. Tell me...now...why I should spare you the same fate you planned for Piros."

These last few words sparked something in Panthea. Although emotionally spent, she had in good conscience tried to save Dioxippus from what she thought had been certain doom. Now he was accusing her of treachery and threatening her with death. Could this man, albeit a young one, be so stupid, so unfeeling that he would assume her guilty of something so vile without even questioning her about it? Panthea's sorrow was quickly transforming itself into rage.

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"As of when have you been an all seeing god? You dare accuse, sentence and execute me without the benefit of defense, explanation or trust. What am I to you? Did you think that I would first bed you, then thank you and go on my way? You obviously did not feel the attraction to my spirit that I felt for yours. How could I be so ignorant as to trust a man thick with muscles including his brain? Do not look at me with such surprise. I stabbed your friend. You cannot even comprehend how shamed I feel. I thought that you were being attacked. I admit I over-reacted. But if you had seen your mother, father, brothers and sister hunted down and killed as if they were vermin you would not be so sanctimonious. When I saw you, stooped as if from injury, and a stranger, exotic even in Macedonia, coming toward you I assumed the worst. But why should I explain anything to you." The fury in Panthea's voice attracted the attention of Piros. Dioxippus withstood this tirade as if it had been a physical attack. Panthea was not finished.

"When I was a girl, my family was abused, set upon and attacked so often, that my father, even though he was nothing more than a Helot farmer, stole away from his Spartan masters, taking not only his own family but that of a neighbor. By hiding effectively, covering our trail and working in unison we escaped the tyranny of our masters in Sparta. It was not until we had reached the great and forgiving state of Thebes that we saw what true evil was." Panthea took a breath. At the mention of Thebes, her face twisted into a mask of revulsion. Whatever the association with the Thebans, its end result had been one of hate and bitterness.

"We were pursued as if we were the vilest creatures on earth. We ran then we tried to hide. Still, they found us." Panthea bit her lip vainly trying to force the now emerging tears back into their ducts. She continued.

"My father, my uncle, my brothers, and my neighbors were hacked to death. Not one had a real weapon with which to fight back.

Even sheep do not have as ignoble a death. I will never forget, ever, the sight of my father bent over my little sister's body as he tried to shield her from the swords. The soldiers used their weapons like cleavers...and the whole time they laughed." The last few words were barely audible.

Piros was mesmerized. He had been listening intently to the conversation taking place just a few steps away. His own memories were This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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being awakened. Between what the girl was saying and his recognition of her, the floodgates to the past were opened. And the first thing to come through them were the events of that horrible day long ago in Thebes.

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Piros remembers…

The march back to the city took only a day. For Piros it was an agonizing eternity. The other soldiers shunned him; his commander treated him like a leper. Only yesterday, Piros had been the center of the barracks' social life. With his martial skills, quick wit and imposing intellect, no gathering no party was complete without him. Now, he trudged along the road, last in a spread-out line. To further aggravate the shame, the body of the dead Yemestos was being carried by four of his comrades directly in front of Piros. Every time Piros looked up from the road, he would see the grimacing face, its tongue lolling, staring back at him, begging him to restore the life, the soul to the physical shell that had previously housed it. Piros averted his eyes as much as he could. Still, the bloody corpse called to him and then Piros, would, despite his reasoning mind's exhortations, invariably look up again. Then the guilt, the anger, the frustration would tear through him with the icy chill of a winter wind.

His many years training for the pankration allowed him to maintain almost phenomenal control over his body so none of the other soldiers was aware of his inner turmoil. But coursing through his veins and arteries to every extremity, every skin receptacle, even every hair, was the fearsome bite of the monster, shame.

His nostrils flared. A scent. So faint that it might have been nothing more than an errant puff of air. He caught it again. Piros knew what it was. At this early stage, it was tantalizingly sweet but he knew that as the day progressed and the temperature rose that almost sweet scent that was now perfuming the atmosphere would evolve into a horrifying stench that would attack his nose and throat like a burning brand. Thus the unavenged Yemestos would use his putrefying body to exact one last emotional tribute from Piros.

Was it a day, week or an eternity? Piros' logical mind told him that Thebes lay within a day's march of the camp they had attacked the day before. Yet the onslaught on his finer senses from the suppurating flesh that was once Yemestos, disoriented him to such an extent that he had lost all track of the length of the journey. His eyes struggled to stay open. His breathing labored as he tried to inhale only enough of the polluted oxygen to keep himself alive. He tried to erect a barrier within his mind.

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now in, so effectively had he shut down his sensory receptacles, that he was not aware that he and his small troop had reached the city gates until the shadow of the protecting walls had cast a cool shadow on him. The sensation on his skin, so pleasant after so many hours in the heat jarred him out of his cocoon. The awakening was further accelerated by the rising noise level of the city itself as they drew closer.

As the gates were pulled open, a mass of people surged out to greet the returning war party. Many calls of recognition, promptly followed by cries of adulation greeted the soldiers. Farmers, merchants, soldiers, women and children all milled about the troop. Interspersed with the Thebans were many slaves, many of whom offered to carry the bundles, weapons and loot of the scouts. At first, many came to Piros, praising, then congratulating him. If Piros could have shrugged off the hands touching him he would have. But as he made his way into the city he noticed that fewer and fewer well-wishers came to him and those that did were quickly admonished by the standers-by. Soon it became quite clear that his actions had been made public. Fortunately, no one verbally or physically attacked him. The Thebans' disappointment in him however was almost palatable. Piros wanted to hide.

"Piros!"

The pankratiatist looked around. Who had called him? friend or enemy?

"My hero. Ooohhhhh...you big dark stud."

Now he was really confused. The voice sounded somewhat feminine. Piros looked around. And then he saw...

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Panthea

"Blood...you cannot imagine how hard it was to rid my clothes and my skin of it. Every nightmare I had after that day was bathed in it,"

said Panthea.

Dioxippus shifted on the seat. Panthea's tale had been one of terror and tragedy. He had had no idea how much she had suffered when she began her story. Even Piros had listened attentively although Dioxippus noticed that his mentor's eyes had glazed over, much like they used to in Athens when he used to go into his "thoughts", as Fotis used to refer to the trance-like state. Dioxippus looked down at Panthea. He had not noticed that he was still holding her hand from when he had led her to where they were now sitting, a covered stoop in what appeared to be an abandoned building.

"I know you."

Panthea and Dioxippus looked over to the now upright Piros.

They would not have been able to explain why but they rose quickly .

"You have reason to hate me."

Piros' words had no emotion, no life. It was as if a spiritual being was channeling a message through the medium that was Piros.

Panthea stepped closer. She was unsure as to what she heard. She tilted her head in Piros' direction. She felt something press ever so lightly into her body. Dioxippus had also moved forward.

"I am the one who killed the two escaping women that night."

Panthea gasped. The memory, long suppressed, now tore into her mind with the voraciousness of a carnivore. She grabbed her temples with both hands bent at the waist and moaned with a pain more real than if she had been wounded. Tears did not come however. The agony of the This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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experience superceded the emotional response so Panthea found herself unable to cry.

Dioxippus was once again shocked. His first action was to hold the writhing Panthea. Then he looked up at Piros who was standing there immobile. Dioxippus' eyes pleaded with Piros to somehow make this right, to maybe deny what he had just said. Dioxippus worshipped Piros.

To find out that he had killed two women, two women who obviously were an integral part of Panthea's life, was shattering to the image he had built, then cultivated of his mentor. His eyes, no longer reflectors of mere images, but transmitters from his soul, begged Piros for answers, reasons, anything that would justify the heinous act he had just heard detailed.

Thus the three stood; three players in a tragedy.

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Philip meets with Alexander

"He comes."

Philip did not appear to be listening.

Patroclus gently cleared his throat. He repeated the statement.

Philip turned his head in the direction of Patroclus. The movement was exaggerated as Philip had to half-turn out of his seat in order for his one good eye to see the servant.

Patroclus nodded, turned and left. The movement was a much abbreviated bow in comparison to what 0lympias expected. Philip did not like or tolerate the typical genuflecting of the court.

Barely had the door closed behind Patroclus when it opened.

Striding in, the light from the hallway bathing them in a surreal halo, were Alexander and Hephaestion. The combination of power, beauty and youth was almost overpowering. Gods had blessed these two.

Philip could feel his heart beat faster. Excitement or apprehension? He could not guess which affected him more at this moment. What he did know was that he loved Alexander with a fierceness and intensity which was at times all-consuming. He also knew that for most of his life Alexander had reciprocated those feelings. Philip had always had a spiritual bond with his son, from his days as an infant to his young adulthood, Alexander had been his father's shadow, first following then sharing the journey Philip had chosen to take. How the Fates had punished him. Now Philip never knew what to expect from his son.

0lympias, even more consumed with her son's future than he was, had cracked his sphere of influence and he was not sure he could effect the repairs that would restore his son to him. To help rebuild the relationship they had had, Philip was planning on an expedition with his son. By sharing their ambitions and desires far from the corrupting influences of Pella, Philip knew that father and son could be one again.

"Father."

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Philip looked up. Alexander stood there, arms crossed, legs braced slightly apart. His lightly tanned skin, long blonde hair, clean-shaven face and blue eyes all combined to give him the look of a young teenager. To some, Alexander may have even appeared feminine as his appearance was so opposite the Macedonian standard. Philip knew better than to underestimate his son's manhood. The scars riddling the taut, muscular body attested to Alexander's courage. Even his bearing, so confident that probably no indecisive thought had ever crossed his mind, bespoke the power of one chosen by the gods. And now, standing before the conqueror of Hellas, the King of Macedonia and most importantly, his father, Alexander displayed a cool indifference. This attitude that might have been construed as flippant or discordant by others was interpreted by Philip as self-confidence. There was no question Alexander was his son.

"Hellas grows too small for us. It is time that we flexed our muscles. I say we look over the eastern horizon and see what is there."

Philip rose out of his seat and started moving toward Alexander.

A spark lit up Alexander's eyes. Otherwise no other emotion escaped the confines of his superb self-control. Nevertheless, Philip noted it and was pleased.

"Are you planning to catch a few fish or the shark itself?" queried Alexander, his eyes narrowing slightly.

"I am too old to cast my line in hopes of catching a minnow. I want Darius himself. And of course all he has," replied Philip.

"Persia." The word flowed out of Alexander's mouth. His austere lifestyle, modeled on that of a Spartan had provided him with the skill to inwardly focus all his feelings, hopes and emotions. Thus he was able to maintain control over every aspect of his life. But now, the thought of conquering Persia was too much for the exuberance of his youth. He smiled, and without noticing, uncrossed his arms and relaxed his posture.

"It can be ours. I have called the cartographers, and with your help, we can formulate a plan of attack that will push Darius so far into the desert that even a camel would be afraid to go looking for him," said a now ebullient Philip.

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Alexander did not reply. And the stillness of his body did not belie the whirlpool of thoughts spinning in his brain. Compounding his mental state was a hunger that he could not identify, gnawing at him, alternately begging then threatening him; so painful that an ache manifested itself deep in the recesses of his abdomen. What did he want?

What need could there exist that even his physical body craved it to the point of pain?

"Darius has wealth unimaginable to mountain goats such as ourselves" laughed Philip. "He controls lands that extend to the end of the world. He is lord over a hundred different peoples, each one with a culture so different, so unique...so rich, that it would be a mockery of the Hellenistic spirit to allow such a barbarian to continue to be master.

You say nothing. Would it that I could be privy to what you envision." Philip continued. "This is an adventure decreed by the Gods for you and me. Alexander, let your imagination fly with the knowledge, the curiosity that Aristotle has instilled in you. Continue to be an ascetic in the way you live not in the way you think. Unknown worlds await us. Glory and ambition call our names. Make the commitment. I will not set out without my son."

Alexander was impressed not only with the words but with the manner Philip spoke. It would have been obvious to even one of the idiots begging for sustenance on the streets that Philip truly spoke from the heart.

The excitement, the conviction in his voice could not be faked. For the first time in too great a time, Alexander felt the almost dead embers of his love for Philip begin to glow.

"You still do not answer," said Philip, trying desperately to keep his anger in check. He could not understand why Alexander was taking so long in giving him an answer. For Philip, going to war against Darius was not only a glorious opportunity to reacquaint himself with the son he loved but to also achieve immortality as the greatest conqueror the civilized world had ever seen. He fervently hoped that Alexander, strangely pensive was not stalling him because of a hidden agenda of his own.

"The idea intrigues me...father."

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Philip beamed, took two steps toward his son and with unabashed tears, took his son and hugged him At this instant, his joy was boundless.

Alexander had agreed to investigate the proposal. For Philip, it had been enough. And the ultimate had been Alexander's last word, said gently and with love.

Hephaestion and the returned Patroclus had been silent observers of this drama. Inadvertently, they looked at each other. As militarily proper as they could, they turned their heads away, not wanting to share the embarrassment of being intruders during this personal moment between father and son. Both assumed a guarded stance once again.

A voice caught the attention of Philip and Alexander. They separated and watched as Patroclus went to the door. He identified the person on the other side and let him in; an aged man, now stooped with arthritis yet carrying more maps than a man half his age probably could, shuffled in. Patroclus reached over to relieve the old man of part of his load. His arms had barely started to rise when the aged cartographer snapped at him and with almost comical flourish, turned away from the young slave. Patroclus looked quizzically at Philip. The king, his face displaying an open grin, just nodded. Patroclus interpreted this to mean that he was to leave their new guest alone. He stepped back and away.

Alexander moved to the table. Philip joined him on the same side. Patroclus and Hephaestion moved in behind their respective masters.

The cartographer placed the cylindrical bundles on the table and began.

"The first thing we must consider is the topography of the route we will take. If we use Pella as the starting point we have one of two choices," said the cartographer, Strabo.

"We should march east, following the coast of Thrace until we come to the Hellespont.

“Far too slow,” interrupted Alexander.

"You have not let me describe the alternative. Nor have I told you about the logistics of moving a large force through a sparsely populated and a supply-poor area. Perhaps if you look at this map again I can show you a much safer route to follow."

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Alexander looked at Strabo as if he were a child. He signaled Hephaestion. His friend and bodyguard stepped forward and from within his robe produced his own small cylinder. He handed it to Alexander and stepped back.

A bemused Philip watched Alexander unroll his map. Inwardly, Philip was laughing. Here he had wanted to convince his son to undergo a potentially doomed military expedition and all the while Alexander had been researching and planning for just such a challenge. Between Alexander's obvious preparedness, his leadership and the skill of the Macedonian army, nothing would stop them--not even the Persian god-king Darius.

Alexander was bent over the maps, discussing the enormous detail involved with moving troops numbering up to twenty or thirty thousand with Strabo. The cartographer had known that Alexander was intelligent but to meet such a young man whose knowledge of the technical aspects of geography rivaled his own was disconcerting. Furthering the uneasiness he felt in the presence of this, this...he could not think of a word to describe the prince, was the embarrassment of having this neophyte explain troop movement, supply and transportation better than he could. Strabo looked at Philip imploringly. But the king merely smiled with the satisfaction of knowing his son had come back to him.

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Pausanius

* * * *

A shiver went through his body. He felt the momentary tension in his neck and shoulders. It was hot yet he felt cold. He stopped walking.

He listened. Nothing. He cocked his head in the opposite direction.

Nothing again. His scalp tingled. He could not be sure: was he being followed?

Pausanius cursed himself. The soldier of old would have been able to confirm whether or not he was being shadowed. And that soldier of old would never have shivered in fear. Pausanius choked back a sob, pride and terror making strange allies against this dark specter squeezing the manhood out of him.

There it was...a sound. Pausanius felt for his knife. "Idiot!" he thought to himself. He remembered now that he had put it aside before he left his apartment. Unarmed, alone and in the dark he knew that whoever his stalker was, he had the decided advantage. Pausanius' arm brushed against his side. Frowning, he felt the paunch that had supplanted the chiseled abdominals he had had for most of his life.

"I am fat and weak. All I'm good for is loving women, and even that has lost all pleasure as of late. Now somebody follows and I don't even feel confident enough to protect myself," thought Pausanius.

Imploringly he looked up at the sky hoping, praying that the gods might restore him to his former self. His prayers went unanswered.

A kicked pebble, a glimpse of a shadow. Startled, Pausanius quickened his pace. He walked along the walls of the buildings, using them as a shield from at least one direction. At the same time his eyes scanned the street looking for a sign of when the attack would come.

A few more steps and he would be...

Light exploded. Then it went dark. His body did not respond to his commands. His head felt so heavy that he had to rest it on, on...

Kathos grinned. The small war club studded with bronze nails had proven its efficiency once again. He stared down at the body of Pausanius crumpled up into a shapeless heap. Blood trickled from the base This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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of Pausanius' skull. Kathos frowned. He better not have killed him. He whistled once, twice.Three of his cronies stepped out from the alcove in the building across the alley. All three were cast from the same mold, dark, squat figures with indeterminate features perfect for their chosen profession. They knelt down beside the prone Pausanius, grasped his limp arms and legs firmly and picked him up. They looked to Kathos for further instructions.

Kathos looked about nervously, his senses honed by years of subterfuge and crime. His nostrils flared, smelling the air for even the slightest scent that did not belong. Twice he jerked his head around sharply, looking for someone or something that he felt was there. He saw nothing. After a few moments he signal led his compatriots to follow him.

As the criminals moved down the alley with their quarry, a pair of eyes, occasionally glinting with reflected light from the odd lamp, followed them.

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Piros

"Why did you never tell me?" implored Dioxippus. "It has been a long time since I was a child. Have I not earned your trust? Have I not proven myself in the ring…the battlefield? Why must the man I love as a parent keep this evil from me?" The last words came hoarsely out of the mouth of the emotionally spent Dioxippus.

Piros did not look directly at his young friend. The shame of that memory long ago was consuming him. Right now he felt old and weak and he just wanted to leave.

"Piros, I think I love this girl. I should be happy...but I am not.

Every time something comes into my life that would provide me with a little of the happiness that ordinary citizens get almost by birthright, it is usurped by some unforeseen evil. I am cursed Piros. No matter what I achieve I will never be granted the pleasure of raising a family and then growing old. I have never been to the oracles at Delphi but I know what they would tell me...”

Piros could not help but be saddened by Dioxippus’ rather cryptic view of his future. He knew he should reassure the young man. He would not though. Piros did not think Dioxippus would grow old either. Whether it was a feeling or a divine revelation, Piros knew in his heart that Dioxippus was a man whose destiny had already been chosen by his Fates.

Tears welled up in his eyes.

"Can’t you answer me? Thakria I see. Are they for me or you?"

asked Dioxippus.

"They are for both of us," replied Piros. "It is time that you were told a little more of my past...and yours."

Surprised, Dioxippus just nodded in assent. He moved and awaited the story to begin.

Piros told him of his parents, the African, Tsaka and the Hebrew, Delia He told him of their slavery, their marriage and his birth. He also told him of the mines that killed his father and the grief that drove his mother to insanity.

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Dioxippus sat without once interjecting a comment or question.

This was a part of Piros never before exposed to him and it completely caught him unprepared.

Piros related all, minimizing nothing. His role in the slaughter at Panthea’s camp was told with a brutal frankness. He did not try to justify his actions in any way.

As Piros told his story, he found himself slipping further and further into the nether world of his subconscious. Soon all he could hear was this echoing noise ringing in his ears. He felt his mouth moving but he did not know why.

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Piros remembers…

That mocking voice refused to let him be. Piros looked around again searching for his tormentor.

"OOOOOhhh, Piros. Over here."

The feminine voice was identified. It was Philip, the young prince from Macedon and one of Piros' few friends in Thebes. Whilst the rest of the populace had abandoned him for what they perceived as a desertion of the popular Yemestos, Philip still played games with him. Piros saw him standing on a retaining wall, legs apart, head tilted back in laughter.

For someone who was really nothing more than a hostage of the Thebans, and was friends with the now very unpopular son of slaves, Piros, the prince was extremely happy.

"Piros, my friend. You return a more miserable bastard than when you left," called out the still laughing Philip as he jumped down from the wall and came sauntering over to Piros. He extended his arms to embrace his friend.

Normally, Piros would have moved forward to clasp his friend around the shoulders also. He could not bring himself to, this time. The shame, the ridicule and worst of all the almost immediate ostrasization of his adopted city made him feel undesirable of companionship.

Philip did not know or care about Piros' inner turmoil. He was just so glad to see the one person he could call his confidant, that all he could think of was to greet him. Putting his thick, hairy arms around Piros’ waist, he lifted him right off the ground.

Piros' first thoughts were not of Philip's gregariousness or loyalty. Nor were they of his now sad lot in this city. Surprisingly, his first thought, being a physical person, was, "How strong this Macedonian is, to pick me up as he would a young girl half my weight.”

Philip let Piros down and throwing one arm around his shoulder and picking up the dropped shield with his other hand, guided Piros to the This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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barracks they shared. Piros exhausted from the march and the mental turmoil, let himself be led by the loquacious Philip.

As they walked, Piros recounted the story to the Macedonian.

Occasionally, Philip would nod his head or alternately shake it. He did not interrupt until Piros finished his tale.

Philip pulled up short of the barracks, turned and faced Piros and started.

"Understand one thing my friend. Be it one, two or a thousand, all battles are wars. In war, some become victims whose only crime was their innocence. These Thebans unfortunately are vultures. They are so brazen, so confident of their skills that they elevate themselves to a level where Zeus would start to get uncomfortable. Do not feel you are a traitor just because you allowed Yemestos' murderess to escape. Who cares? He was a cretin whose time had come. And personally, I am glad that somebody decided to use his testicles for a dissection." This last comment struck Philip as funny and he started to laugh at his own joke. After a few guffaws, he noticed that Piros was not sharing his good humour so he continued.

"This is what I want you to consider. You are not a Theban. You owe no loyalty to these bastards. With your colour, you will have a hard time convincing other Greeks that you are as much a citizen as they are.

Join me in Macedonia. I have been given the word that an exchange of hostages is to occur and that I will be returning to my homeland. Come with me. There you will be the hero that I know you are. Your education, your athletic prowess, even your military skills can be honed to a standard that will make these Thebans look like the overfed, pampered sissies that they are. Say yes.”

Piros was taken aback by Philip's request. Much of what the Macedonian had said was true. His parents had had their freedom here but freedom had cost his father his life, and his mother her sanity.

Thebans had raised and trained him. He owed them that. Yet he had never been welcomed as an equal. He did not mean that he was deprived of any rights afforded a normal citizen, nor did he mean that they had erected barriers between themselves and

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him. On the contrary, he had access to all things granted natives. What was missing however, was true affection, love and respect. The Thebans fulfilled their societal obligations by looking after him after his parents died but nothing more. No family adopted him. No teacher, in spite of his obviously great intellect, took a special interest in him. Even his trainers in the pankration, when it was apparent that he was the dominant force in the training camp spent no extra time with him. To Piros, the indifference of this city-state to him was the worst transgression of all.

"I will go with you to Macedonia," said Piros.

Philip jumped as a child would. "We will be subjects of many histories my friend" said a joyous Philip. He pulled Piros close to him, whispered something in his ear and pinched his rear.

Piros laughed then pushed the prince away.

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Piros confers with Dioxippus

"I do not see what the joke is," said Dioxippus.

"Uuuhhh. What joke?" asked Piros.

"The one that has pasted a smile on your face."

"I guess I was thinking further ahead than what I was telling you.

What was the last thing you heard?"

"You were saying that Philip asked you to go to Macedonia with him. Obviously you did. I still do not understand what is so funny about that. But I do understand what happened at that camp and maybe even why it happened. I will explain to Panthea."

With that, Dioxippus raised himself off the couch. He looked at Piros and turned to leave.

"Dios, one more thing."

Dioxippus looked back surprised. Piros rarely referred to him by his pet name.

"One of Philip's eunuchs has found out that you have a living relative. A sister, living in Athens we think."

Dioxippus opened his mouth slightly. Nothing came out. He stood in shock.

"I was only told the day before yesterday and I wanted to try and confirm it before I told you. Apparently it is true."

"How...how di...did you discover her?" stammered Dioxippus.

Piros cast his eyes downward.

"Piros!" snapped Dioxippus.

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"She is engaged to be married.”

"What...that should be wonderful news. Why has gloom arrested your face?"

Piros raised his eyes until they locked with Dioxippus'. He took a breath.

"She marries the son of Dionys." The statement spoken with an even modulation nevertheless cracked the air like a whip.

Dioxippus reeled back, the torrent of previous memories assaulting him. The news of a sister, so joyous was rent asunder by the choice she had made. For unlike Piros, Dioxippus remembered very little of his childhood other than he had been the slave of Dionys for what seemed forever. To be told that his sibling was to marry into the family of the animal who had tortured and killed Iyea, was paramount to justifying the abuse that monster had put the children of his household through.

Piros respected the sanctity of a man's grief. He made no move to console Dioxippus. The young man would come to him when he wanted to. Still, Piros truly sympathized with his friend. Nothing had ever come easy to Dioxippus, happiness was always just out of reach. Now, when most would have been down on their knees thanking the gods for their generosity, he stood berefit of emotion. In one day, Piros had seen Dioxippus scale an emotional peak only to plummet to depths so low that even agony would have been a relief of sorts for the body.

This brought to mind some of his mother's teachings. Unlike most civilized persons, Piros' mother, Delia, subscribed to a religion that worshipped but one god. She would often take Piros in her arms and regale him with stories of spiritual attainment in the face of great adversity.

Piros became familiar with the journeys of Moses, the trials of Abraham, the exploits of David, the wisdom of Solomon. Delia also told him of persecution, of the nomadic way of life her people had adopted as a means of survival. And throughout every tale, Delia emphasized how the nameless God constantly tested mankind by casting obstacles, temptation and evil in the way of even the best of men. Looking at Dioxippus, Piros This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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could see how stringent the test could be even though he could not understand why such a good-hearted youth would be subjected to so many ordeals.

"We cannot make judgments on situations that we are not informed about or are beyond our influence. Be happy that you have discovered a part of you that you did not know even existed. After the games are over, we will go to Athens. Until then, I will send word to her that she has a brother and that he will be meeting her soon."

Dioxippus sighed. Piros was right. He should see the good in everything that occurred and progress from there.

"I will go see Panthea. Shall we meet at the gymnasium tomorrow?" asked Dioxippus.

"Yes, yes...I will see you then. I may have a surprise for you,"

replied Piros.

"A good one, I hope," said Dioxippus, a sardonic smile forming on his lips.

"I assure you, a good one.”

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Cleopatra confronts Olympias

Silently, she counted the days one more time. There was no question she was carrying Philip's child. Cleopatra grinned. It would be her child that would assume the throne one day, not that witch's. Nervously she glanced around. She was alone. Traitorous thoughts like these had to be kept secret. She would have to watch herself.

Within moments the apprehension dissipated and she was once more euphoric with the knowledge of impending motherhood. Cleopatra found herself smiling and even though she tried she could not suppress the joy that wanted to leap out of her body. She could barely wait for Philip's return.

The creak of an opening door shocked her back to reality.

Cleopatra whirled around, sensing rather than knowing, that the opening door was the one mounted behind the wall mosaic. She held her breath, took three steps to her morning table and picked up a long, slim dagger.

With surprising dexterity she turned the knife with one hand, the handle still grasped firmly but with the blade now facing inward, concealed by the wrist. Cleopatra waited.

The figure coming through the break in the wall was stooped as he bent almost double to get through a hole better suited to a midget. By his rather feeble attempt to be quiet, it appeared that he was not here to commit a crime.

“I do not think assassins need worry about a threat to their business from you," said Cleopatra, the gentle mocking barely disguising the relief in her voice.

"If being an assassin entails sneaking around in tunnels barely bigger than badgers' dens, I forego the opportunity," replied Patroclus, straightening up slowly, stretching out the kinks from his cramped lower back.

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"You have been gone too long. I began to worry. Did you talk with the slave girl? What did she say?" Cleopatra's tone showed her anxiety.

"My sincerest apologies for the time gone. The girl needed some convincing. By the time I left, most of Olympias' security was returning so I had to take a route that would circumvent anybody who might be suspicious. However, the most important thing is that I believe the girl, her name is Phylia, will do as we ask. I think she knows that she is at far greater risk staying with that lunatic queen than she is with us. But I am still not sure what help she could be. What could she offer us? I am sure that Olympias does not confide to her. And I am certain that if she is planning something, she will not tell a slave girl."

Cleopatra smiled. As intelligent as Patroclus was, he did not really understand the machinations of the court. Nor did he have the necessary ruthlessness to survive the plots and counterplots being constantly formulated. Even at her delicate age, Cleopatra knew what was needed to survive the intrigues of royalty.

"I agree the slave girl will probably not be privy to Olympias'

plots. However, it is almost impossible to live with another and not be in tune, for better or worse, with their feelings, their desires. Olympias could no better keep a secret from that girl than I could from Philip." Cleopatra smiled at her analogy, knowing that Philip was so engrossed with managing and expanding his empire that he was almost oblivious to the events in her life. But Patroclus did not need to know that.

"I do not wish to end the life of the girl unnecessarily," said Patroclus.

"She will be safe...as long as she uses her wits and does not betray us," replied Cleopatra, her eyes narrowing. "And why should you be so concerned with a slave?" The last few words hissed out.

Patroclus was taken aback by Cleopatra’s question. And for an agonizingly long few seconds, she seemed to transform herself into Olympias. Now Patroclus could see what he had always been blind to: both queens were mirror images of each other, the only difference being age.

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"Cleopatra, my only concern is a humanitarian one. You know that eunuchs are much more sensitive than whole men. I only expressed an incidental interest in the girl."

This seemed to satisfy the queen. She could not explain why she had angered so quickly upon hearing Patroclus' concern about the slave girl. But his explanation made sense. Everyone knew that eunuchs were oftentimes more effeminate than women. Patroclus did not appear to be an exception.

Patroclus had barely finished talking when a loud pounding at the door jolted his attention away from Cleopatra to the direction of the sound.

The young queen too turned to face the portal.

The massive timbers comprising the barrier between the queen's chambers and the rest of the palace squealed horrifically as they were gently pushed into the room. When a space scarce wider than a child's body was created, a young boy, perhaps ten years old, squeezed into the room. His laboured breath, his apparent agitation and his obviously sweating body all indicated that he had some great purpose in Cleopatra's suite.

"The quee...Olympias comes! My cousin who is the personal attendant for her steward told me that she is on her way. And… and I think that she comes angry. I knew that my queen would want to know immediately...so I ran as quickly as I could. I hope this pleases you,"

concluded the lad, still gulping air as he tried to replenish his lungs.

Cleopatra stepped forward and from within her robes magically produced a coin. With great and probably uncalled for civility, she presented the child with his reward. Almost snatching it, the boy beamed with pleasure as he deftly manipulated the coin through his fingers. He bowed to the queen in gratitude, and as quickly as he had come in, he disappeared.

"Stay. She would not come without good reason. I want you here...I do not trust her," said Cleopatra.

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The last thing Patroclus wished to hear was that he would have to stay to face that harpy from hell. But he also knew that to make enemies of two queens would be the surest way to a probably very painful death.

For now, he was safer to side with the king's favourite.

"I had no intention of leaving, my queen. It might be best however if I stand to the side so as not to intimidate or anger Olympias unnecessarily. It will be to your advantage if you can control the situation."

Cleopatra forced a wan smile. Patroclus was right. She had to maintain control over at least her private chambers. After all, she was the real queen now.

They both heard the rap. Patroclus stepped back, not out of sight but enough removed from Cleopatra that he would not draw Olympias'

attention easily. A nervous sigh escaped him.

"Enter," said Cleopatra.

The door screeched as it was rudely thrust open. A dark, squat man, armed with a short, bronze sword moved back from the entrance and let Olympias precede him into the room. The queen, regal in dress, emotionally poised, charged the room with an almost tangible energy.

Diminutive though she was, her stature was magnified by her self-confidence and dangerous unpredictability. She glanced around, her eyes sweeping the room, analyzing, processing the information gleaned in a fraction of a heartbeat. Patroclus did not go unnoticed. A feline smile slowly altered the stoic face that she had presented upon entry. The play that was about to be acted out was going to amuse her.

"Welcome to my suite, Olympias," offered Cleopatra, playing at the gracious hostess.

Olympias stared hard at the speaker. It appeared that she might not have heard Cleopatra until the light filtering in through the window reflected off her eyes. The ensuing glare, reminiscent of a mirror casting back the rays of the sun, almost blinded Cleopatra. Those eyes. It was as if Olympias had harnessed the power of the sun god and had used them to create a weapon.

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"I see that the eunuch is still in your employ," dripped Olympias acidly. She had ignored Cleopatra's greeting and was now staring disdainfully at a visibly nervous Patroclus.

"I assume that your coming here is something more than an inspection of my staff," replied Cleopatra in a tone simultaneously formal and sarcastic.

Olympias remained calm although someone looking into her eyes may have thought they saw them flare. Olympias then parted her lips, as if to say something, yet no words came out. A gleam of moisture, dancing on the tip of her tongue distracted Patroclus. He had watched these opening maneuvers with interest. Now he found himself staring at the full, crimson lips of this extraordinarily beautiful woman. He had never noticed it before. How blind could he be? It was apparent why men threw themselves at Olympias. The allurement was not limited to her physical accouterments either. Raw sensuality, almost bestial threatened to engulf him and he was supposed to be immune to those base needs. He shifted his position. Again he sneaked a look at Olympias, careful not to draw her attention away from Cleopatra.

A space of only a couple of body lengths separated him from Olympias, yet he felt himself a voyeur, somehow violating the privacy of her being. He could not resist. His fascination with Olympias was as a candle to an insect; he knew he would suffer...still, the pain of trying to negate his mind and body threatened to be overwhelming. What was he supposed to do? Eunuchs were not supposed to be sexually attracted to anyone. To feel these stirrings now, so close to a person who could systematically destroy him as easily as he could spit on a bug, was insanity. That had to be it. Olympias had him so frightened, Cleopatra had him so confused and that slave girl Phylia had him, dare he say it, so in love that when combined with the various court intrigues he found himself involved in, perhaps he was better off being insane.

Olympias had noticed that Patroclus was nervous. That was an incidental fact she would have to remember later. This impudent child-queen was another matter.

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"You move graciously. I see that the harlots have learned new dances with which to please their customers. Does Philip pay you an appropriate amount? I hope so. I would be extremely displeased to learn that my husband has become a tightwad over the years. After all, if he is to conquer Asia, he must keep his harem girls in Pella happy." Olympias flashed her teeth, her mouth upturned but not in a way that might be mistaken for a smile.

Cleopatra blushed. The heat in her cheeks made her skin prickly and the tiny beads of sweat forming on her forehead begged to be wiped away. She did not move. The insult had struck deeply. She could not afford to display any weakness to Philip's first wife.

"You may be right. I must remind myself to practice. It is unfortunate that one's physical attractiveness deteriorates so rapidly. It must be very difficult for you. Are there no creams or salves that would restore your skin? I admit that I admire your fortitude. Getting dressed in beautiful clothes every day, dieting so you will not gain weight, combing your hair until it almost falls out...tsk, tsk, and all for a man who will not even bed you. I know that I would be devastated." Cleopatra's return volley had been couched in gentle, caring tones that almost hid the malicious intent.

Only a twitch in Olympias' left eye betrayed her fury. "Age is an evil we all learn to live with. Some like Philip assuage their insecurities by rutting themselves on young, nubile bodies. They see the lack of practical knowledge in these girls as something attractive. I could not begin to answer why. Philip faces so many challenges during the day that he is not able to satisfy both himself and a real woman. Rather than masturbating, he has found himself an object that will stimulate him quickly, present no challenges to his manhood and will thank him incessantly for his attention.

You are still so young. For you, that is love or a reasonable facsimile of."

Patroclus could not believe what he was hearing. The catty viciousness of the queens' attacks on each other was scathing. He would rather face a swordsman than have to be the recipient of such abuse.

Olympias continued, noting with satisfaction, the discomfort of Cleopatra. "Please do not misconstrue what I am saying. I am sure, that in your own, cute little way, you are somewhat pleasing to the old cripple.

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And you are still so young...it is quite possible that the king may not live much longer and then you will be left alone although a fairly attractive girl like yourself should be able to find another husband. When Alexander becomes king, I will speak to him about it."

Cleopatra seethed. Her skin turned a mottled red as her emotions threatened to rip from her body. She knew however that she could not allow any advantage to Olympias. The reason for her presence, other than to insult her, had not been made clear. Before she reached over and tore the hair out of that old bitch, she would have to find out why she was here.

Yes, she thought. She would wait. Until then, she would add a little fire of her own.

"Alexander...king? Are you not being premature? I can tell you, Philip is the most vital, alive man I have ever known. Even with his injuries, I doubt that there is any threat to his health from his own body.

He should live another forty years...unless someone plots against his life.

You of course would know nothing about that...would you? And if I may be permitted to offer advice to such a sage and wise woman as yourself...perhaps it would be prudent to refrain from keeping company with a known murderer and his cohorts. A man like Kathos really has no legitimate business in Pella. You might be surprised as to how the citizens of our beloved Macedonia might object, rather strenuously I may add, to a queen consorting with gutter scum."

Patroclus noticed how Olympias flinched. The spies hired by Cleopatra had been right. Philip's first wife was planning something. To entertain Kathos for so long she must be devising a plot to assassinate someone. Who? Even Olympias would not risk the murder of a King.

Alexander's anger would be unstoppable. Patroclus' brow furrowed as he concentrated. Then, just out of the corner of his eye, he saw Olympias'

bodyguard slip out the main door. I wonder where he is going, thought Patroclus.

Breathing evenly, maintaining her composure, Olympias replied to the stinging insults and veiled accusations of Cleopatra. "It appears that you are well-informed. But do you consider it proper that the wives of the man who has conquered all of Hellas and will soon conquer Asia, are reduced to tracing each other's movements, spying in their bedrooms?"

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Cleopatra ignored the statement. She knew that Olympias would just as soon cut her heart out. "Let us end the charade. You are here for a reason. State your purpose." Cleopatra surprised herself with the firmness of her voice. It was almost as if the life stirring inside of her had manifested itself in her spirit. The future king was speaking through her.

A warm flush of pride suffused her face.

Patroclus noted how confident the young queen was. He was amazed that she had been able to face Olympias and trade verbal blow for blow with her. It was not something tangible, but it appeared to Patroclus that Cleopatra was standing straighter, her head was tilted higher and her eyes flashed brighter. Patroclus felt his own unease melt away as he assured himself that he had made the right alliance. A small sigh escaped him. He did not relax long. Olympias' bodyguard had returned with the most exquisitely tied bundle. Could it be a gift? A peace offering?

Olympias did not appear to notice the return of her bodyguard.

She said, "I want us to make sure that we have the mutual respect between us that the king would want. You have presented yourself quite...well. I feel it is important that you now pay me the respect that I have earned, as queen of Macedonia. This is for you." Olympias did not signal her bodyguard but he immediately stepped forward with the cloth-wrapped bundle.

Cleopatra was wary. What could Olympias possibly give her?

And why? She looked at the package. It had been wrapped with the brightest, most beautiful fabrics she had ever seen. They shimmered and changed colors as they trapped then released the sunlight filtering in through the windows. Even though she was a queen, she had only seen a few samples of this magical cloth rumored to come from somewhere in Asia. To have her most hated enemy present her with a gift wrapped in this treasure was especially annoying. Jealousy, which had so far been well contained, roused itself and Cleopatra could feel herself getting angrier and angrier. How did Olympias do it? How dare she not only find something that Cleopatra desired but also have the effrontery to hand it over as if it were nothing more important than a rough piece of burlap? To add to the insult, Cleopatra had to accept what appeared to be a peace overture. Good sense told her not to...yet...

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"If maintaining a peaceful accord with each other alleviates the tension our relationship puts on Philip, I will accept your gift...with thanks," said Cleopatra, taking a step forward and extending her arms to pick up the parcel.

Patroclus may not have been attuned to how complex the various court intrigues could get. But watching Cleopatra now, ready to take the offering from Olympias, sparked a warning signal. Patroclus leaned forward, gently took both Cleopatra's hands and pulled them back from the gift.

"If you would do us the honour?" Patroclus looked right at Olympias. He could feel Cleopatra's hands trembling in his own.

"For a slave with no manhood, you take great liberties. Either you are far more courageous than I give you credit for, or when they cut off your testicles they took a part of your brain too. Nevertheless, as you so desperately want me to open this," said Olympia, picking up the bundle,

"...I will."

With a few deft twirls of the fabric, Olympias had it unwrapped.

Cleopatra screamed. And screamed.

Patroclus choked. The vomit fought to escape the confines of his stomach. Only his battle-hardened constitution prevented him from defiling the marble floor. He did not want to look. He swallowed hard and raised his eyes.

Olympias stood defiant. Clutched in one hand and held out in front of her, a trophy of the most macabre kind, was the head of a young woman. The blood had congealed, and the skin had turned a ghastly white so it was difficult to ascertain the identity of the victim.

"It is a shame that one so young, so beautiful..." Olympias brought the dismembered head close to her, and grasping it with both hands, kissed it full on the mouth. And with what appeared to be one long uninterrupted motion, she then threw the blood-matted remnant of a human being across the room where it bounced sickeningly into a corner.

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to inform on me. I am the queen. I am the power that will give you nightmares. Try this again...and even Philip will not save your worthless skin." Olympias was roused to an almost sexual frenzy. Her heart beat rapidly, her skin was flushed and the most pleasurable sensation of all began to slowly manifest itself in the areas concealed by her gown. The power she had...

Cleopatra stood immobile, still in shock. Patroclus shook his head repeatedly. Neither one could have guessed the ruthlessness of the queen. To combat one such as Olympias was obviously the most futile of efforts. They felt defeated, ravished. To even look up at Olympias was impossible.

Olympias stood erect, triumphant. These petty meddlers had been taught that real power was dependant upon how far one was willing to violate every known societal norm. To Olympias, the conventions of her society were to be used or abused; whatever was necessary to further hers and her son's ambitions. Disposing of a naive, simple-minded chambermaid was simple. In fact, watching Kathos and his companions enjoy the brainless twit had in itself been entertaining. It paled however to the entertainment that Cleopatra and Patroclus had provided her moments ago. Standing here now, she felt omnipotent.

No one had moved. It was a tableau from one of the tragedies enacted every night at the Dionyssian theatre. There, almost as if mounted on a pedestal was Olympias, fire-breathing witch-goddess. Beside her, a wraith from the underworld, unmoving yet menacing. A few steps away, a child, in the guise of a woman lay sobbing on the shoulder of a vanquished warrior. Homer, as brilliant as he was, never envisioned such humiliation, such terror.

Olympias smirked. She took one last look, wheeled and without another word, left the chambers of Cleopatra. Her bodyguard noiselessly followed. Patroclus saw her depart. Gently, but with a little more force than planned, he eased the sobbing Cleopatra away from him. Her head hung dejectedly. Now he saw her for the child she was. She had held her own with Olympias but ultimately it had been for naught. As sorry as he felt for the young bride of Philip, there was something he had to do.

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Patroclus slowly took a step. Then another. And another. To walk to where the truncated head lay was a journey through Hell. The steps were agonizing. He went on. Now he could see the object of Olympias' ultimate revenge. It lay there a bloody, lifeless, putrefying obscenity. Patroclus swallowed. It hurt his throat. He had moved beside it now. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and with his foot, nudged the object on the floor. He heard rather than saw it turn over. Ohh, gods of Olympus, please let it not be Phylia. He opened his eyes.

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Dioxippus

What a foul smell, he thought. Then thinking aloud, "Not even my mother would come near me." He looked down at the poultice nestling along his injured collarbone. A thin line of fluid carved its way from the warm, sticky mass, through the hair on his chest, until its path was interrupted by the bottom part of his chiton. The meandering trickle went unnoticed as it slowly dampened the cloth gathered around his waist; he was concentrating hard trying to channel his thoughts into the path of the Empty Mind, a plane of meditation beyond prayer, beyond invocation.

Dioxippus knew of cultures where the mind's potential for internal healing had been reached by holy men, spiritualists and even warriors. Slowly clenching then unclenching his fists he forced himself to relax. He was aware of the blood pumping to the injured area of his body as he willed himself to heal even though he could feel no physical sensation; his body had been reduced to the shell it was. Pain, pleasure, joy, sorrow, had become intertwined and rendered impotent by the vacuum, growing, expanding in the consciousness of his being. Soon he would leave this place.

Ensconced in this cocoon of spiritual disgorgement, Dioxippus was oblivious to the stimuli being transmitted from his nervous system to his brain. His whole existence had been reduced to a small black circle that had erected itself as a barrier between his physical body and his mind.

Not the noises in the street, not the smells of the cooking fires, not the sunlight moving slowly across the floor, could filter through to the meditating Dioxippus. Not even the rush of cool air that flooded in through the opening door roused Dioxippus from the mind-state he had achieved.

"What in Zeus' name are you doing?" challenged Barba Fotis.

The little man, as irascible as the day Dioxippus met him, stared at the recumbent Dioxippus with an expression of fierce wonder. And when he did not receive an answer, his temper, frayed by age, circumstance and life, erupted quickly.

"Get up you ungrateful, ill-mannered, muscle-bound simpleton! I am talking to you," said a now thoroughly aroused Fotis. To him it appeared that the young man, sitting cross-legged with his eyes closed and This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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