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

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a beatific smile on his face was purposely ignoring him. Did Dioxippus not know that he, Fotis, was already living on some other soul's time? Any day, any moment, he would be crossing the river of the dead into Hades.

He did not have time to spare with Dioxippus. "Wake up!" Fotis, always the curmudgeon, kicked the foot of the meditating Dioxippus.

At first all he could sense was a vibration. Then he noticed that the ever-expanding void his mind was being sucked into had ceased to grow and in fact was receding. From deep within the Void came a sound; a screeching, vile noise bent upon the destruction of the spiritual peace he had attained. Dioxippus tried to refocus, to somehow purge the intruder.

But the noise grew louder, fiercer. As if it had a life of its own, it fought his attempts to squelch it.

"You call these manners? Get up before I take your lazy ass and kick it from here to Persia." Fotis was working himself up to what soon would be a tantrum. At his age, patience was a memory.

Suddenly, the Void collapsed upon itself. The resulting reverberations forced Dioxippus' eyes open. The first thing he saw was a little man, gray and wrinkled, cocking his right foot back as he readied himself to kick the sitting Dioxippus. More by reflex than by some innate awareness the pankratiatist rolled out of the way just as the foot shot forth from its chambered position. Fotis missed, hyper-extended his knee ligaments and screamed in pain. Dioxippus, now standing, looked at Fotis, his concern apparent.

"Of all the fornicating morons in the world, I had to latch on to the dumbest, stupidest, ugliest, most worthless..."

"I need not hear any more. I am sorry..." interrupted Dioxippus, trying to end the diatribe from Fotis. His sincerity could be questioned as he laughed while saying this.

"Ohhh…the idiot grins. It must be very satisfying to trick and ridicule an old man. Should I bow down to you great warrior?" With that, Fotis curtsied in a most unfeminine manner.

Dioxippus could not control himself. He laughed hysterically. A few times he tried to say a few words but they were caught up in the torrent This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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of guffawing. He laughed even harder when he felt Fotis slap him across the back of his bent-over head.

Fotis still cursed him even though his anger had dissipated. This easy relationship he had with Dioxippus allowed him to vent some frustration without fear of penalty. It was one of the reasons he and Dios got along so well. A few more choice epithets and he was finished.

"Gods of Olympus, you smell like the back end of a mangy goat.

Phewwww…what did Piros put on your shoulder?" asked Fotis, his voice nasally as he squeezed his nostrils with his thumb and first finger.

"It deadens the pain from the bone," replied Dioxippus as he slowly removed the putrid mess from his injury.

"Well, if the smell means anything, it is working," said Fotis. He released his nose and took a step toward Dioxippus. He extended his hand and then ran his fingers along the collarbone. "Hmmmm...I cannot even feel the break. It went back together splendidly. Piros is a sorcerer. Now let me see. Can you raise your arm over your head?"

Smiling, Dioxippus lunged forward, swooped low and in one easy motion picked up the little man, lifted him over his head and held him there suspended.

Fotis had time to barely breathe much less start screaming.

Nevertheless, as soon as Dioxippus put him down, he started anew; this time the insults included every ancestor human or inhuman in Dioxippus'

family.

Dioxippus just stood. His smile illuminated his face. At this moment his joy was boundless. He had recovered.

"Do you want an even more evil-smelling concoction on your body?"

Dioxippus looked behind for the voice. He did not turn his whole body, just his head. But what he saw made him wheel around. Standing there, with grins the size of half melons, were Piros and a tall, lanky, dark-haired youth. As the rising sun was behind them, it was impossible to This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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discern faces. Yet without any hesitation, Dioxippus knew that Piros'

companion was his childhood friend and sparring partner, Euphraeus.

Both youths leaped toward each other, hugging, kissing and roughhousing. They had not seen each other since Athens fell to the Macedonians and their pleasure at being reunited overrode any rules of decorum made up by more restrained adults. Neither one could hear the other over their own animated voices. Yet it did not appear to make any difference as they alternately poked, punched and held each other.

Piros and Fotis stood to one side. They were careful not to intrude on the reunion being enacted in front of them. Although neither would admit it, each felt a small pain of bittersweet memory as they recalled the joys of a youth lost forever.

"This...this is the surprise you told me to expect a few days ago?

This is more than a surprise--it is a gift! Where...how did you find him?"

asked an over-excited Dioxippus, his arm firmly around the shoulders of his returned friend.

Euphraeus looked toward Piros, unsure if he should answer. Piros however responded immediately. "Euphraeus has just returned from Delphi, where he has been preparing for the games. He has decided this year to enter the Olympics as a boxer. As he is still lighter than most of his adversaries, he sought a sparring partner who was heavier, yet still quick, and who could really test him without attempting to kill him. His trainer told another who told another who told another until it came to me. And I thought, what better way to test Dioxippus than with his old sparring partner, Euphraeus. For you Euphraeus I present an opportunity to spar with someone who knows your style is almost as quick and will challenge you well. Add the bonus of having your best friend close by you on the eve of the most important week of your life and what more can I say?"

Dioxippus and Euphraeus looked at each other, the animated expressions on their faces indicative of the joy each felt in the other's company. Arms about each other's shoulders they walked over to the low-slung bench, and began to prepare themselves to train. They would discuss the missing years later.

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Barba Fotis did not need to be signaled. He followed the two young men to the bench where he pulled forth from under the bench a plain, undecorated clay container full of oil. Reaching under again, he retrieved a small, woven bag which he put on top of the bench beside the now sitting Dioxippus. With the fastidiousness of a nursing mother, he laid out his instruments, lotions, oils and equipment in front of him, making sure (more out of superstition than practicality) that nothing touched the other. With a grunt, Fotis then signaled the two young men to disrobe. As soon as they stood naked, he poured some of the scented olive oil into his hands, and slowly, methodically spread the slippery substance all over the body of first Dioxippus then Euphraeus. Both stood as still as the columns ringing the workout area.

Piros was pleased with what he had seen the last few moments.

Dioxippus, although reckless, had healed well since he had injured himself.

The medicine Piros had purchased from the Persian had done its job well.

As for the reunion with Euphraeus, what a good choice he had made in offering the Athenian youth the opportunity to not only be with his friend but to also be trained by he, Piros, one of the best in Greece, (he admitted to himself quite sheepishly). Fortunately, this had proven to be enough incentive for Euphraeus to leave the training grounds at Delphi. With their hand skills so well matched both fighters would reap tremendous rewards.

As the two youths stretched and performed warm-up exercises, Fotis pulled several scraps of tanned leather from his sack. Piros, who had by now moved over to the bench, picked one up and quizzically looked at the old trainer.

"It is something I have been thinking about for a long time," said Fotis, nodding in the direction of Piros' upraised hand. "I thought...that maybe I could help reduce injuries during training. Here, let me show you." Fotis picked up a scrap of leather from the bench. Extending his left arm, and with his fingers spread wide, he slid his hand into the glove-like shape. Holding his hand up so Piros could see, he clenched and unclenched the now sheathed hand.

"Hmmmm...let me see." Piros rose to take a closer look at the hand-covering Fotis had invented. He noted that the leather was soft, supple and almost immediately formed to the shape of the hand wrapped in it. Piros then extended his own hand and like a giant claw, clamped it over This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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the gloved fist of Fotis. He was surprised to feel how rigid, how solid the fist still was. His brows furrowed as he thought hard about this development.

Fotis had been with Piros so long he could sense what thoughts were emanating from his master. "The leather is not meant to cushion the blow only to prevent unnecessary cuts and injuries to the hand. I thought that for the sparring exercises it would serve well. After all, I see no reason why Dioxippus should risk injuring or being injured." He looked at Piros apprehensively. Too many times his ideas had been laughed at or dismissed. Although Piros never had been derisive Fotis could not be sure how his ingenuity would be interpreted.

While Fotis spoke, Piros slipped the other pieces of leather over his hands. There were strings to fasten them or to adjust the tightness of the fit; Piros still had to look over to Fotis' hand in order to figure out how to fit the glove properly. When the fit was satisfactory, Piros alternately closed his hands into fists and punched one into the other repeatedly. As every punch got harder, Piros' smile got bigger. Finally, after countless slaps of leather against leather he looked at Fotis and nodded his approval.

The old Helot was overjoyed. He tried to maintain a certain dignity but was unable to contain himself; he jumped from one foot to the other, his feet barely alighting on the ground. By now, even Dioxippus and Euphraeus noticed that something momentous had occurred. Ceasing their conversation, and getting up from the sitting position from which they had been stretching hamstrings and groin muscles, they came over to the bench, their curiosity begging to be satiated.

"Slip these on," suggested Piros to the two young men. "Here, I will help you."

"Are we supposed to fight with these things on?" asked a very sarcastic Euphraeus. "What in the Apollo's name are these supposed to do?"

Dioxippus looked at Piros, his eyes signaling his mentor to not respond to the affront to Fotis. The aged trainer caught the look and was pleased by Dioxippus' consideration.

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"Just put them on," said Dioxippus to Euphraeus. "I think it is time that you learned your lesson for today."

"Ohhhh...I shake with fear. You are a little bigger, maybe a little more accomplished but you are still the skinny slave I used to slap at will."

Euphraeus smiled at his friend. His words, taunting, were tempered by such good will that it was obvious no insult was intended.

"Well then, braggart...let us see how all that training at Delphi has helped." Dioxippus immediately fired off two left jabs. The unmistakable whack of the leather against the bare skin of Euphraeus' cheek snapped the air. Neither blow was thrown hard enough to cause real injury but the speed and accuracy of the punches drew gasps from even Piros and Fotis, who had between them seen thousands such techniques.

Euphraeus stepped back, unhurt but embarassed. He glowered at Dioxippus. Suddenly, he slid forward, the movement in his feet barely perceptible. The only warning of a distance closed was Euphraeus' just released punch whistling toward Dioxippus' cheek. Again the smack of leather against skin popped the air. And in a reversal of the first attack, Dioxippus stepped back, his cheek a mottled red from the impact.

"Break!" said Piros curtly. Both pankratiatists turned to look at their trainer. Piros stepped forward until he was in between them. "I concede both of you your speed with the jab. However, you make the most common mistake of the young. You are so impressed with your technique that you ignore the follow-up or even the counter. Dioxippus, I would venture to say that at this moment there is no one in Hellas with better skills in the pankration than you. Yet, you were almost killed by an inferior fighter because you spent valuable moments during the bout admiring your form. Dioxippus, and this applies to you also, Euphraeus, the pankration or the boxing, is not like the running or the discus events.

While we compare, it is not even in the same category as the wrestling.

Your sports are nothing more than glorified hand-to-hand combat. If you ignore, or dismiss the potentially fatal results of these contests, you will not only lose the olive wreath but you may also lose your life. Your opponent is your enemy. Given the chance he will crush you like a gnat. You must be so focused, so aware and so aggressive, that the opportunity for him to do you harm is reduced or even obliterated. You will not win in the Olympic games if you lose your concentration and desire."

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Neither Dioxippus nor Euphraeus looked at Piros' face. Piros was right. They spent so much time trying to look accomplished and smooth that they neglected to pursue advantages. Euphraeus had been denied the wreath at the youth games because he had spent an inordinate amount of time during the bout sniping instead of creating combinations that would have defeated the more plodding, methodical opponent. Dioxippus of course knew firsthand what could happen if an adversary was allowed to dictate the pace and rhythm of the match. His last foe made it impossible for him to set the pace of the fight. Unable to adapt to the illegal techniques, Dioxippus found himself crippled by the ruthless pankratiatist. Only fortune, a deadly new kick and ruthlessness salvaged victory. Yes, Piros was right.

"This time, put combinations together. Remember, body to head,"

continued Piros, his hands and arms moving as he tried to show his students what he wanted them to do. Dioxippus nodded, Euphraeus too.

As they began to move off, Piros called, "Stop. Before you start again let me see those horsehide straps that Fotis made." Piros took Dioxippus'

gloved hands, turned them so he could see the knuckles and peeled back the leather. Other than being slightly moistened, the hand seemed comfortably enclosed. Piros reached up, and with a touch as soft as a lover's caress, felt the cheek of his young charge. Even though it had only been hit twice, a small bruise had already formed. Piros did note that the skin had not been split. Except for the slight discolouring from the bruise, it was impossible to tell that Dioxippus had been hit at all much less hard enough to form a lump. These wraps of Fotis looked like they worked.

"Barba Fotis, I think these creations of yours might have some merit. I want you to work on making ones that provide a little more padding. Be careful. I do not want pankratiatists babied with pillows on their hands. Just put enough material in them so that these two good friends do not do serious injury to each other."

The old man beamed. The greatest pankratiatist of his time thought his idea worked.

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"Now what are you two doing? God! The young! Hurry up, do something," snapped Piros to the two youths who had been standing around.

Within seconds the dust swirled as the two future Olympians began their exercises.

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Kathos

"I think he is waking up," commented Pythogras. He turned his one good eye toward Kathos. "What do you want us to do with him?"

Kathos smirked. "Right now nothing. Ummmmm...blindfold him. The queen was firm on that."

Pythogras tore a strip of darkened material in half. With a few deft turns, he had covered Pausanius' eyes. Without asking Kathos, he tore the rest of the fabric into even thinner strips and with scarcely any movement bound his prisoner's hands and feet. He guessed that Kathos would probably ridicule him but he was not going to take any chances with a King's Companion, no matter how decrepit he had become.

"Feel safer now," drawled Kathos sarcastically.

Pythogras just glared at him. Unlike the other riffraff that hung around Kathos, he was not afraid of his master. Nor was he bothered by his insults. He knew Kathos for what he was; a sexual deviate with an insatiable bloodlust. This combination made him extremely dangerous.

However, Pythogras also knew that the feared Kathos was an interminable coward. All the bravado and posturizing was nothing more that a false front. Pythogras did have to admit though, that many important people (who perhaps should have known better) paid Kathos (and his cohorts), a large amount of money to carry out their nefarious deeds. For this reason alone, Pythogras stayed with the degenerate.

Kathos was of course oblivious to Pythogras' thoughts. All he would concern himself with at this moment was the order that Olympias had given him. He sneered at the prone Pausanius, now almost awake.

This King's Companion, he thought vehemently, was going to provide him with the best entertainment he had had in a very long while.

"Sit him up!" he barked.

Two of his cronies immediately grabbed the trussed Pausanius and sat him up.

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"Sooo...King's Companion, you awake. Forgive our zeal. We only wanted to make you comfortable quickly. I suspect my goodnight kiss was a little forceful. My apologies.

Are the ropes a little tight? It seems my compatriot Pythogras fears those legendary skills of the King's Companions. But looking at you, I see those fears are misplaced."

Under the blindfold Pausanius blinked. Otherwise there was no sign of response.

Kathos bent over, pushing his face up as close as he could to Pausanius. It looked as if he was trying to see through the fabric hiding his prisoner's eyes. He stayed in that position, not moving, not saying anything. To his subordinates it appeared that Kathos was trying to communicate with his captive through some sort of telepathic language.

But when Kathos leaned away from Pausanius, a sickening smirk twisted his face into an evil leer. There was no higher level of intercourse occurring here: only a subtle psychological assault upon a helpless victim.

"You say nothing. Is this what Greeks call courage?" The hand swung before the words were even finished. Pausanius' head cracked with the impact of Kathos' open palm. He started to fall back but Kathos grabbed him by his hair and with a motion as graceful as a dancer's, he slapped him again with his other hand. "How does this feel? Soldier!

Warrior!" screamed Kathos, his open hand swinging after almost every word, the force of his blows splitting skin, bruising bone. Yet no sound escaped the lips of the battered Pausanius.

Pythogras watched with the detachment of the professional criminal. There was no question that this Pausanius was very tough. He had taken an incredible number of blows from Kathos, still, no sound, not even a grunt, forced itself through his tightly closed lips. Pythogras noticed that Kathos was tiring and as if perfectly rehearsed, the other two members of Kathos' little gang started battering the secured captive. The monotonous thud, its brutal rhythm punctuated by the odd whack, proceeded unabated. The only other sound heard were the short exhalations of the torturers as their energy expended rapidly. From Pausanius, cut, swollen, bruised...nothing.

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"Is it necessary that we waste half a day beating a man to death?

If the queen wants him..."

Pythogras' words choked on blood and broken teeth as Kathos' fist smashed into his mouth. Reflexively, he lifted his hands to the bloody mess now gagging him. Shock, pain, both disoriented him as he reeled backward, his sixth sense somehow guiding him to a bench which he fell onto gratefully. His coolly analytical brain was now a muddled cacophony of sounds and spinning lights. What had happened?

Kathos stared hard at the man he had just struck. The queen had been explicit. No reference was to be made to her. That fool almost gave away the plan. Kathos turned to look at Pausanius. He had been reduced to a crumpled collection of bones and skin, so badly had he been beaten.

The blindfold still hid the eyes, but the swelling and bruising could be seen quite easily as the lumps distorted the smooth fabric surrounding the head.

Pausanius' beard, normally black, was discoloured to a brown red, as the blood, drool and sweat matted the facial hair. Kathos grunted to himself.

This Macedonian would die before he begged: the queen did not want that to happen. Turning to his confederates, who had taken a rest from the assault on Pausanius, he indicated to them that they attend Pythogras. As if to clarify his order, he tossed the shorter of the two men, a clean rag.

"Clean him up," he said.

The murky stupor clouding his brain protected him from the more acute pain. The only reality for Pausanius at this point was the darkness.

He heard sounds, or, did he feel them. He was not sure. His senses were useless. Nothing was being transmitted to his brain. Where was he? Why was it dark? Was he alone? Nobody could answer the question for him.

Kathos conferred with his men. He whispered something to them, and for emphasis pointed them in the direction of the still bleeding Pythogras. They nodded their assent and took their positions on either side of Pausanius.

"Pausanius, or should I refer to you as traitor? I see the pain does not bother you. I commend you. You present a stalwart defence. Philip was probably very proud of you at one time. It is a shame that your loyalties are now so divided. You think that we are unaware of your betrayal of our king? Do you think thank we are not privy to your plot to This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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belittle and denigrate the throne? You are a dangerous man. You should not be allowed to live. However, the man who hired us insists that we spare your life. And do you want to know what he wishes in return...nothing!" concluded a suddenly complacent Kathos.

Pausanius could feel his head pounding. Every pump of his heart, every expanding and contracting vein and artery, he could now feel. Never had he been so in tune with the machinations of his body. He could feel the subtle shifts in the air on his skin. He could taste the combination of bile, saliva and blood on his tongue. He could smell the putrefying stench of his own soiled clothes. Only the darkness remained, preventing a full awakening of his body's other life functions. That and the voice that he could barely hear.

"Strip him," ordered Kathos. A deft twist, a tearing of fabric and Pausanius was naked. "Spread him."

The pummeled body of Pausanius was as malleable as an artist's clay. Kathos' confederates each grabbed an arm and a leg and pulled the soldier's limbs away from his torso. No resistance.

Pausanius was not yet recovered from the multiple blows he had just endured. The control over his body was minimal and his brain was just now starting to reorganize itself. On the basest level he could feel a chill on his trunk, particularly on his genitals. He was incapable of explaining why, but he was newly alarmed and in response, tensed his muscles sharply. The sudden movement caught the two men holding him unaware, and for an instant it appeared that Pausanius would gain back his warrior's vigor. But the grips were tight. He would not be free.

"Excellent. He awakes. I want him to feel this. Over and over until he breathes no more," snarled Kathos. "Hold him!"

Kathos released the cord holding his own chiton. It billowed out and then fell to the dusty red tile composing the aged floor. As naked as the prostate Pausanius lying face down in front of him, Kathos slid his hand down his stomach and across his groin until it seized his own hardening penis. At his touch, the blood rushed to the organ, now erect with anticipation. Kathos dropped to his knees. He leaned over Pausanius and with an almost tender tone said, "You should feel honoured This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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Companion. The lord Attalus does not often pay this much for the pleasure of a traitor. He wants you to remember him every time you think of this moment. I know you will enjoy it."

A sword striking flesh. Burning. Pausanius howled, the shock, the biting pain of the entry catching him unaware. Kathos grunted as he plunged deeper and deeper, faster and faster. Pausanius screamed again, the shame greater than the agony. But this time there was no blessed loss of consciousness. With every violation, Pausanius regained more and more of his dulled senses. And with every thrust, the total feeling of helplessness nauseated him. He would have fought...if he could. Now he only wanted to die.

Expending himself, Kathos raised himself from the prone Pausanius. A short nod of the head was the signal his men needed.

Immediately, they started kicking the stomach, the ribs and the genitals of their prisoner. It was their last perverse pleasure.

"Let him go," ordered Kathos. "He is of no threat now." He refastened his chiton about him as he spoke. "Can you hear me Companion? Signal me if you cannot talk, or I will be forced to start our relationship all over."

Pausanius was almost beyond hearing much less comprehending what had been asked of him. But a survival instinct, buried deep within his mind, fought fiercely to regain some control over the pummeled body and defeated spirit. And although he could barely discern what his captor was saying, he managed to bang the floor twice with his hand.

"Good. Very Good!" beamed a triumphant Kathos. He bent down on one knee, leaned forward so he was close to Pausanius and said,

"Listen, then understand. You are a traitor to the throne. You have been spared death...today. But know that all who go against Philip and his family will be punished. The man who paid us wants you to know that he is the one who discovered your plans. He saves your worthless hide as a gift to a king you once served faithfully. Otherwise the buzzards would be picking your bones now. I would strongly suggest that you leave Pella, before Attalus has us finish the job we barely started. Take this advice Companion, it is the only thing I give you that will benefit you." Kathos turned his head up. "Throw him in the street with the other garbage."

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The two men who had held Pausanius most of the morning once again grabbed him, this time under the armpits. Clumsily they walked and dragged him to the door, and in the most casual manner, tossed what had once been one of Philip's bravest warriors, naked into the street.

And as he lay there, the pain of his wounds rising and falling in interminable waves, the fire in his rectum blazing the shame of the rape into his brain, he could only think of one thing: Attalus, Attalus, ATTALUS!

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Philip ponders the future

The arrow turned in lazy circles as it was gently maneuvered through the fingers. Philip was not even aware of the action as his hand mechanically manipulated the slender, feathered shaft. This old exercise had been taught to him by a mercenary in his father's army in a year so long ago that if he had been asked to recollect the moment when he was first shown this activity designed to improve the dexterity of his digits, nothing more than a hazy image would have been forthcoming. Yet, when pondering a problem, or decision, he invariably found himself twirling that piece of wood. And oddly enough, the more concentrated his thought processes, the faster the arrow traveled the space between his fingers. The barbed stick was now spinning.

Darius. Persia. Riches greater than those of the mighty Lydian king, Croesus. Philip was enthralled with the idea of marching into Asia and gaining that which the obscenely wealthy Croesus had been unable to do two hundred years earlier. With his son beside him, he would be unstoppable. And he, Philip, would usher in the noblest civilization yet known. He smiled. It would happen.

The logistics of the operation did bother him though. To move a force of thirty thousand soldiers, several thousand animals and a still undetermined number of support personnel and mere hangers-on demanded precise timing and impeccable organization. So far, his son, unquestionably brilliant, disagreed strongly with his far more experienced chief geographer, Strabo. Philip found himself in a quandary. Did he acquiesce to Alexander in order to maintain the new found peace between them? Or did he trust the word of the always right, always faithful geographer? The consequences of overriding his son's wish could permanently drive Alexander away from him, most likely back to that witch Olympias. That was the last thing he wanted to result from this expedition. However, as king and commander in chief of the army, he had to consider the risks not only to himself and Alexander but to his forces.

No soldier was dispensable, particularly for the vanity of his leader. All those men, from the generals to the infantry, depended upon him and him alone to guide them, to protect them and to ultimately bring them home again. That responsibility was not negotiable. He would have to sit down with Alexander again.

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Thus Philip sat at his throne, absorbed in thought. Except for the rhythmic, barely perceptible breathing of his two bodyguards, the room was eerily quiet for this time of day. Consequently, when loud knocking was heard at the door, all three occupants started. Philip looked at the two King's Companions, noted how quickly they had drawn their swords and pleased, sent one of them to the portal to allow entry to the knocker.

Philip recognized him immediately. It was the young infantryman he had assigned to watch Pausanius. As he had not heard a report from the soldier for a long while, he had assumed that nothing unusual had been noted and that the young spy had made his report to his commander and the matter had been dismissed. Looking at the flushed, eager face, Philip could see that he had been wrong.

"We are not in Asia. Do not grovel or bow. Make your report as you would to your commander in the field," ordered Philip to the somewhat overwhelmed youth.

Auelias stiffened. He caught himself just before he bent at the waist. He kept forgetting that Philip wanted to be treated as a mere man, not an artificial god. Surreptitiously taking a deep breath, he calmed himself and started.

"I followed the King's Companion as ordered. For the first few days, I noted that other than the taverna in the Agora, he stayed within his apartment."

Philip nodded. He was aware of the deteriorating state of his former bodyguard. It saddened him that a soldier of Pausanius' caliber spent his spare time besotted with wine. An inadvertent sigh escaped.

"But yesterday two things happened. In the morning he had an audience with the Queen Olympias..."

Philip gritted his teeth. Any mention of Olympias always made him tense.

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"...but later, after he had gone to the taverna again, I noticed four men watching him. They were dirty, mean-looking and I was sure they meant him harm. However, after awhile, they left so I dismissed them.

When it got dark, Pausanius got up from his drink and started back to his apartment. I followed him, from a safe distance of course. Even though he was drunk, he is still a King's Companion, making him much more aware of his surroundings than a normal man. So I kept back. That is when it happened.

Out of one of the alleys stepped a large, dark man. He clubbed Pausanius with something, knocking him unconscious. Two, maybe three others jumped out of the shadows, picked up Pausanius and were gone as quickly as they came. I searched for them, but was unable to find them. I am truly sorry," concluded Auelias.

Philip did not reply. He was unsure of his emotions. At one time, he had loved Pausanius as a son. Never had he seen a braver, more loyal warrior. Yet, that soldier had become a shell of his former self.

Confounding matters more was the fact that Pausanius had been duped by Olympias, who knew how to prey on moral weakness the same way that sharks devoured sailors unlucky enough to fall in the waters of Poseidon's seas.

What could he do? Pausanius was almost a traitor. It was hard to sympathize with a man who would betray his master for mere sexual gratification. Philip shook his head. Pausanius had saved his life. He still owed him that debt.

"Find him."

Auelias nodded in assent and exited hurriedly. He had thought that he might be punished for losing sight of his charge. Philip did not blame him but he did not want to tempt fate by remaining in the company of the king. He would go back to the alley and find Pausanius...or what was left of him.

Philip watched the youth leave. He turned to his bodyguards and said, "Olympias is planning something. From now on, I want to know the status of every single person in the royal

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family. I want to know where they have been, where they are going, what they have done, what they plan to do. I want them observed every hour of every day by my most loyal King's Companions. Everything must be done in the strictest secrecy. Any man leaking this action, be it on purpose or by accident, will face immediate execution. I leave it to the both of you to organize. And remember, the ultimate responsibility for the effective administration of this plan lies with you." The emphasis on the last word was pronounced.

The bodyguards looked at Philip, nodded and then left to recruit the demanded spies. They could not help thinking as they left that their beloved king was slowly letting his paranoia eat away at him. How this court had degenerated!

Philip reached up with his right hand, and grasping both temples with his thumb and middle finger, massaged the throbbing veins. The relief was at best fleeting. Philip, like most true warriors, put far more trust and faith in his own earthly powers than in the supernatural ones. But he could not help feeling that the throbbing in his head was indicative of some sort of drain on his lifeforce. Why did he have this feeling that his time was limited.

"Stop thinking like a child!" Philip looked around, embarrassed at the inadvertent blurting out. I must be going crazy, he thought. He raised himself from his throne and for the first time in a long while, felt old.

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Alexander speaks with his mother

"Mother?"

Olympias hesitated, ever so slightly, as she entered the room.

Alexander's tone was coolly inquisitive. This indifference contrasted sharply with the youth who had in the past, unabashedly displayed his pleasure whenever he saw her. Now, one word, and Olympias knew instantly that something had changed in their relationship forever.

"Dearest," gushed Olympias as she moved forward to embrace her son.

Alexander rose yet made no step in the direction of his mother.

When she put her arms around him, he felt himself hold back. Why...he did not really know.

Olympias felt him stiffening. Curse that dung-eating tyrant who sired Alexander. Somehow Philip had managed to once again turn her beloved offspring against her. How dare he come between a mother and child? She would make Philip pay even if she were dragged down the river Styx with him.

"Mother." Alexander slowly, gently unwrapped himself from Olympias' arms. "I am pleased to see you." He looked at his mother and smiled.

Olympias, as hard-hearted as any man or woman walking amongst the mortals, almost cried when Alexander smiled. He radiated a beauty, an inner essence that she knew she had never had nor ever would have. Her son was a god.

"Mother...mother..." repeated Alexander completely unaware of the effect he had on even the woman who bore him.

Olympias finally snapped out of her daze. "Yyyyesss..." she stammered, unsure of the question.

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"I am overjoyed that you have taken the time to visit but as you can see, we are occupied with something of a very demanding nature and as much as I would be honoured, I cannot spare the time to grace your presence with the deference necessary for an esteemed parent. So, unless it is of a critical nature I most humbly request that..."

"I see that Hephaestion is here," interrupted Olympias.

"My queen," said the rising Hephaestion, bowing with a flourish that might have been construed as feminine coming from any less of a man than Alexander's fiercest bodyguard and closest friend.

Olympias returned Hephaestion's obeisance with her own curtsy.

Although her relationship with Alexander's constant companion was cordial, something about the unnaturally handsome youth made her uncomfortable. She would of course never mention it to another person but she was jealous of Hephaestion, for he had developed an intimacy with Alexander that Olympias knew she would never be able to intrude on.

"Hephaestion." Her acknowledgement was a reflex as her mind continued to measure her role in Alexander's life to Hephaestion's.

"Please mother. Unless there is something critical..."

"Can a mother not see her son? Is it not bad enough that I am shunned by your father? You are leaving soon. I can see that. Are you planning on leaving in the middle of the night so as to avoid me? Have I suddenly become repulsive to you?" Olympias' voice rose higher and higher as her questions rapidly accelerated into plaintive wails. How much of this emotion was feigned even she could not answer as she realized that Alexander might be leaving her, both physically and emotionally, forever.

"The hysterics are not necessary, mother. I apologize if my behaviour has been less than considerate. We...I am preoccupied with the organization of the expedition to Asia. I did not mean to slight you."

Alexander was gentle, caring with his words. He knew that his mother possessed acting skills that could shame the classically trained thespians performing every night at the Dionyssian theatre but there was no point in accusing her of trying to manipulate him. She would not degrade herself like this unless she was concerned about his impending departure. As evil This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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as she could be, and he had seen examples of it many times, she was his mother; she loved him and he loved her.

Olympias hugged Alexander again, burying her face into his chest. This time she was not gently pushed away. Olympias choked back a real sob.

As he held his mother, Alexander looked over at Hephaestion. He noted that his confidant was busy examining the maps and making notes on the blank scroll in front of him. Hephaestion seemed oblivious to the domestic situation unfolding mere steps away from him. That is probably why I love him, thought Alexander. Hephaestion never involved himself in the machinations of the court or family. And unless Alexander broached the subject, he would never comment on anything he saw or heard. He returned Alexander's love unconditionally.

"When are you going?" sniffed Olympias, not sure whether her role as grieving mother had become real or not.

"We will stay for the games and for my half-sister Cleopatra's wedding. I know my father wishes to wait a while longer also." Alexander did not specify why his father wanted to wait. Philip had told him that that his newest wife, Cleopatra, was expecting fairly soon. Philip had also asked his son not to tell Olympias because he feared for his unborn child's life. And as close as Alexander was to his mother, on this he had to agree with his father. There was no predicting what his mother was capable of if she perceived any threat to Alexander's future as a world leader.

"Good. I do not want my child to go so quickly. Have you decided on a route or how you will deploy your troops once you have crossed the Hellespont?" asked a now curious Olympias.

The professional soldier in Alexander held back his response.

Nothing had been finalized. Consequently, any release of information would be premature and possibly displeasing to the Gods. And, if he were to be honest with himself, he did not trust his mother.

"We are still in the early stages mother. When I myself have a better idea as to how this operation will be put into effect, then I will come to your quarters and explain it in detail."

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Olympias smiled. Her son knew damn well what his plans were.

He simply was not telling her. Olympias smiled again. She would find out what was on that table that Hephaestion was still bent over.

"I know you will," replied Olympias finally. "Can I ask you one more question?" She waited for Alexander's nod. "Is Attalus returned from his trip to Asia? He was expected a week ago."

Alexander shifted his feet. He was still embarrassed at his and his father's behaviour the last time they had supped with Attalus. Sending Attalus to Asia had relieved the tension between Alexander and Philip.

Keeping him there had been Alexander's idea.

"No mother, we have decided to maintain a garrison on the Persian border and we need Attalus to stay there. Is there a reason for your interest?"

"None," replied Olympias. "Just curiousity"

"Then...mother."

"Yes, Alexander. I will go." Olympias reached up and kissed her son on the cheek. She looked over at Hephaestion, unsure whether or not to bid him good-bye. He was still immersed in his maps however, saving her the always uncomfortable feeling she was subject to when she had to speak to him. With one more pat on the cheek of her son she departed.

Alexander turned to Hephaestion and in an exaggerated movement, arched his brows. His friend grinned and resumed his work on the map laid out in front of him. Alexander walked over, sat down, and began to compare the charts to his data.

Suddenly, a wild cacophony tore through the oak door, its volume as great as if the planks constructing the closed door were made of the delicate Egyptian papyrus. Grabbing daggers, both Alexander and Hephaestion charged through the portal, the latter using his greater bulk to squeeze in front of his friend and master, thus placing himself in the dangerous situation first.

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Nothing could have surprised them more as they burst through the portal. Standing there, nose to nose, screaming with abandon at each other, were Alexander's parents, Philip and

Olympias. Bad luck, a prankster God or the fates had caused them to meet at a time when both were angrier at each other than usual.

"You plan a major campaign to the Gods know where without consulting me, taking my son and leaving Hellas without any real leadership. What is wrong with you? Has your organ replaced your brain?

Is it a Persian delicacy that craves your love, as puny as it is?" yelled Olympias, the sarcasm in her voice as cutting as a hoplite's dagger.

"Who are you woman? How dare you ask me my plans? Were you made a general while I was away fighting with the Thebans or the Athenians? A woman's role is to be submissive to her man, to not question his intentions, to obey without compromise." Philip assumed a more authoritative stance, his voice reflecting one whose every wish is obeyed.

Olympias however would not be so easily cowed. "Where do you give birth to these moronic assumptions? I was not aware that the art of killing men somehow added character to oneself. Nor was I told that a wife, the king's chosen one, would have to defer to or accept the inane ramblings of a man who has probably lived too long and now only seeks one more, probably unattainable triumph. Oh, Philip, have you been reduced to the level of the court scum who would pander to any need if your future had even the slightest glimmer of success in it. Philip you are an old man. Stay here. Take care of your kingdom. Leave my son alone!"

Philip could not overlook Olympias' tirade. More than any person he had ever met, even more than his overbearing, exacting father, she could rouse him to a fury within the blink of an eyelash. His hatred of her, just as the love for her he once had, was unrestrained by artificial emotional boundaries. She fanned such white-hot passion in him; he was capable of killing her with his bare-hands. Her haranguing now was just another in the growing list of malicious attacks upon him. If not for Alexander, he would have had her "removed" years ago; probably by the same murderous leech she had been entertaining for the last few months.

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"You have nothing to say, King Philip?" Olympias' voice slithered.

Alexander took advantage of the momentary lull and jumped in between his glaring parents. He rested his palm on his father's chest and with the other took a gentle hold of his mother's fingers.

"Stop it." Alexander's voice was low yet powerful. "This is not necessary."

Philip continued his silence, his one good eye transfixed on the woman he so hated, and when he dared admit it to himself, feared.

Olympias turned to her son, pecked him on the cheek, and twirled to go. Half-turning as she walked away, she tossed an aside to Philip,

"Wherever you go, my spirit will be beside you. If anything happens to my son because of your ineptitude, you will achieve that gods' status you secretly crave far sooner than you believe."

"Gods on Olympus, I hate her," said Philip.

"Father. Just once, could you act civilly to each other. I am the son of both of you. It should not be necessary that I have to mediate every meeting you too ever have--even the accidental ones."

Embarassed, Philip nodded a couple of times. As usual, Alexander was right. He did not say a word but with his head indicated that the three enter Alexander's chambers.

Alexander and Hephaestion assented and all three walked to the table. Immediately Philip was struck by the charts and maps spread out before him. He noticed the detailed notes, meticulously neat and well ordered, written on sheets of papyrus or in some cases directly on the maps. Alexander's attention to detail was one of his strengths as a leader.

Philip, ever the judge of men, knew that somehow, someday, Alexander would rule the world. That revelation, or admission, made him light-headed for an instant as the realization that his own mortality would be only a stepping-stone for his son's immortality, came crashing in upon him This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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"You see father, if we follow the route suggested by Strabo, we will be forced to winter along the river Arda because the mountains and the weather will prevent the successful transport of a force as large as ours. I agree with Strabo that a march closer to the coast and a crossing at the Hellespontus puts us at greater risk of attack. However, by diverting north, then cutting across through Thracia and then crossing into Asia over the Thracicus puts us too far north which in turn will give Darius too much time to prepare as he awaits us. Better to lose men fighting than have them freeze, starve or die of excessive heat. Armies we can fight. The Gods of nature we cannot." Alexander took a deep breath, the words having flown out of his mouth like a cascading waterfall.

Philip nodded. He bent low over the maps, examining every mountain, every valley, every river on the route that Alexander proposed.

He noted with satisfaction the various names written on the map denoting both friendly and unfriendly city-states. Upon closer examination, Philip noted that even tribal alliances were marked off, particularly in the mountain areas, where Philip's army would be the most vulnerable to a small, annoying force. The research impressed him. Alexander had sought and gotten the critical data needed for this operation. It was also obvious that he had analyzed the mechanics of the expedition extensively. All that remained was for Philip to give his final approval.

"Father..." queried Alexander, trying hard not to show his eagerness.

"When would you propose leaving?" asked Philip.

Barely able to contain his excitement, Alexander replied. "I thought it best to start immediately after my sister's wedding. I think it best that you were here for the ceremony. With the relations you have had with mother for the last while, it would not be prudent to offend her brother. Epirus may not be the power it once was, but nevertheless, my uncle is king and soon he will be your son-in-law. It has also proven in the past that troops who depart right after a festival maintain their spirit better during a long march."

Alexander waited. Philip did not look up. He would be putting a lot of faith in a youth of only twenty years. Philip's most trusted geographer thought an alternate route to Alexander's the safer one. And This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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Strabo had been with him for many years without once making a mistake.

Yet, Philip could not help but be impressed with his son's effort. Greatness cannot always take the safer route, he thought to himself.

"Begin the mobilization of the troops. Soon we cross the Hellespont into Asia." Philip looked up at Alexander, the faintest hint of a smile cracking the battle-scarred face, then turned and left.

Alexander turned to Hephaestion, his closest friend and his only confidant, and cried with joy.

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Pausanius is found

He lifted his face to the sky. The drops of rain, cool, vitalizing, caressed his skin with a touch softer than a woman. His nostrils flared.

The scent of growing fruit, tinged with the salty freshness of a nearby ocean, massaged his olfactory nerves. The heaven that was Creta beckoned, no...begged, him to remain. But deep in the shadow clouding his brain, a fierce, animalistic terror said no. Not until...

"He is waking up," said Panthea to a distressed Piros. No reply was forthcoming so she turned to the man standing behind the black warrior-philosopher. "Moisten this rag again and hold it to his forehead,"

she ordered Dioxippus. "Now!" The youth jumped up and went to the urn containing the water.

Pausanius opened his eyes slowly, the light of the afternoon sun burning them. He tried to look around but all he could see were hazy images, the largest being particularly dark and frighteningly close.

Pausanius panicked momentarily and tried to lift himself up. Immediately, sharp, searing pain tore through his head and he collapsed down onto his back again. The unceasing ache in his head disoriented him and for a few terrifying moments he did not know whether he was alive or dead. Voices called out to him. None were recognizable.

"Pausanius. Pausanius. Wake my old friend," begged a distraught Piros. He laid his hand on the prone Pausanius' bruised forehead, touching him ever so gently, vainly trying to comfort the battered body and defeated spirit of his comrade. "It is me, Piros."

"He is delirious," said Panthea, squeezing out a few more drops of water onto the face of the now tossing Pausanius. She beckoned Dioxippus to hand her the fresh rag that he had just dampened. This time she gently wiped away the dirt, sweat and dried blood from the fallen warrior's scalp.

"You must get your medicine bag, Piros. I am sure he has broken bones and there are probably more serious injuries that we cannot see.

Whoever did this to him knew when to stop...just. Still, if his spirit has admitted defeat, he may still die. Tell me where to look and I will go This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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retrieve what you need," said Dioxippus, trying hard to contain his emotions as to not upset Piros any more.

"You are right. I am acting the fool. In my villa, under the couch in the front room," said Piros, his voice firm, conviction strong. Dioxippus left with scarcely a glance. His friend Euphraeus stayed behind, ready to offer any assistance he was capable of.

"We must clean and examine him or we will not know the extent of his injuries."

Panthea nodded in agreement and slowly lifted the sheet away from the naked Pausanius. A shocked gasp betrayed the composure shown earlier. The man before her should not be alive. Large welts and rising bruises had completely discoloured his torso. Where the ribs should have made a symmetrical pattern, there was now tremendous swelling and unnaturally shaped protrusions. The legs had been cut and scraped as if dragged through gravel but they were only a macabre background to the blood-blackened genitals. Veins had obviously been ruptured and the internal bleeding had discoloured and made useless the penis and testicles of this once vital man. Panthea turned away, nauseated.

"Turn him over," said Piros. Euphraeus moved to help him. Even the strength of these athletes was tested as they grunted with the exertion of rotating the dead weight that was Pausanius.

Panthea and Euphraeus gagged. Piros bit his lower lip in white-hot anger. None could avert their eyes from the grisly testament to one man's perversion. Amidst the myriad of cuts, scrapes and bruises vying for space on Pausanius' back, was a thin trickle of blood, not much more than a putrid discharge, emanating from the rent skin and tissue that had once been the rectum.

"Wha...who, who could have done this?" begged a shocked Euphraeus, the words choking on a sob.

"A dead man."

Panthea forced her eyes away from the battered Pausanius to look at Piros. Even though his ferocity was almost legendary, she had never This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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even seen him frown. But those eyes were coal-black now, the dense musculature in his shoulders and back expanding with the rush of blood and adrenalin and she saw now that the roles Piros played, athlete, trainer, scholar were only facades. He would kill whoever had done this to Pausanius--and he would enjoy it. The simplicity of the concept shocked Panthea.

So absorbed were the three that they did not notice Dioxippus'

return. He stood there, looking. Unlike, Euphraeus and Panthea, he was not shocked. Nor did he become consumed with fury like his mentor. But he promised himself that whoever could debase themselves on another human being as they had on Pausanius (and on his beloved Iyea, in what seemed eons ago) necessitated squashing like one would a persistent cockroach. He would not deprive Piros of his vengeance but he would be there.

"Hand me the bag, Dios," asked Piros, suddenly noticing Dioxippus.

As Piros mixed leaves and herbs, Panthea gently wiped down the prostrate Pausanius. Dioxippus and Euphraeus watched attentively, every so often bringing a clean rag or some fresh water for Panthea's use.

Nobody spoke.

Eventually Piros had his pastes and poultice ready. Pausanius was still unconscious. He did not feel the natural medicines cleaning, disinfecting his wounds. His labored breathing was the only sign he was still alive. Piros noted it and continued his methodical task, only stopping to change a dressing when necessary.

"How did you find him?"

Piros' voice made Panthea jump. They had been laboring in an almost enforced silence and the question had caught her completely unaware. She had sent for Piros immediately upon finding the beaten heap that was Pausanius rolled up against one of the alley walls on her way to get produce from the market. Only a low groaning attracted her attention, otherwise she would have walked right by the dust-covered body that blended in so well with the loose garbage that littered this part of the street.

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streets had found him first otherwise they might be dressing a corpse now.

She had recognized Pausanius from her early days in Pella when she had worked as a personal servant to one of Philip's foreign wives. As marriage to these women was a diplomatic necessity rather than a passionate one, they rarely came into contact with Philip's court. Consequently, their personal servants, such as Panthea, ran all their errands, answered all their messages and did whatever was necessary to maintain their voluntary cloistering. That was how Panthea had met Pausanius, who at that time was a war-hero, unfailingly handsome and desired by most women who saw him. She had also seen Piros with him on many occasions and knew that there was a bond between them. When she had recognized Pausanius in the alley, which in itself was difficult considering not only his state but the decrepit condition he had allowed himself to sink to, she sent a young boy loitering around the corner to fetch Piros. He had arrived with Dioxippus and Euphraeus and between the three of them had managed to carry him back to her apartment, a small room on the edge of her mistress'

compound. In the confusion and panic, she had not told Piros the details of her discovery. She proceeded to do so.

The three men listened carefully. None doubted that Pausanius had been the victim of a plot. Yet, doubts as to who might want to punish him in such a brutal manner negated immediate identification. However, through palace scuttlebutt and other gossip, Piros was aware of the rather lengthy stay of the infamous Kathos. And although no direct link could be found to Pausanius, Piros had been involved in enough palace intrigues to know that someone like Kathos did not rest in any one place for long. For him to have remained in Pella over two seasons was out of the ordinary; he had to have had a nefarious purpose in mind to risk being found by one or more of his many enemies. Piros did not know why, but in his mind, Kathos had his hand in this atrocity perpetrated on Pausanius. Being just, Piros would wait until some physical evidence could be produced proving Kathos' or anyone else's guilt in this matter before he settled the matter.

"Ppp...Piros."

The harsh whisper was barely audible.

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Olympias

Phylia had already seen the sun rise over the eastern hills by the time her mistress, Queen Olympia, began to stir awake. The servant-girl had prepared the bath, brought towels and a fresh chiton for the queen.

Phylia had also arranged combs and assorted jewelry on the table so Olympias would have her pick of accessories to complement her attire.

Now all that remained was for the queen to actually get out of her bed.

Olympias yawned and slowly uncurled herself. She was so tired.

Putting one arm under her head, she turned and looked at her companion from the night before. Hmmmm...not bad, she thought. This trader from the island of Kerkira had proved inventive. He had lent their base lust a dangerous edge which Olympias found exhilirating even addictive. He had told her that the island of Sicilia a region he often travelled to by ship was inhabited by a mixture of Greeks and locals who reveled in hardship and danger. Raids, invasions, natural disasters, all contributed to lives teetering on a delicate balance. Life and death were intertwined and this manifested itself in the Sicilian's day to day existence. Violence, vendetta, feuds were normal occurrences. This fierceness even extended itself to copulation.

It was here, the trader told Olympias, that he had learned how to take a knife or dagger, preferably razor-sharp, and use it to heighten stimulation. And he had demonstrated this skill gloriously to Olympias.

He had bound her naked body, hands pulled over the head and tied to the top of the bed's frame, legs spread and each held by a leather thong fastened to opposite corners of the bed. Then he had taken a long, thin shiv, and with just enough force to crease the skin had run the blade along the most sensitive and vulnerable parts of Olympias' anatomy. She tingled with the remembrance of the cool, somehow comforting metal, being drawn down from behind her ear, tracing the path of major arteries across her throat on its way to the taut, tender derma of her exposed underarms.

Here the trader, stopped. Shifting the blade in his hands so that the downward pressure manifested itself closer to the point, he danced across the delicate skin of her conspicuously palpitating breasts, slowing to circle the engorging nipples, the razor-sharp blade now scratching the skin although not hard enough to draw blood. Olympias twitched, then squirmed her lower body, the excitement, the need for satisfaction threatening to drive her to an uncontrollable sexual hysteria but the proximity of the killing weapon demanded complete subservience.

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Not once had the trader touched Olympias with his hand. He simply twirled the deadly instrument, meandering across her torso, stopping only to turn the blade to its opposite side, sometimes raising the hilt so only the sharp point made contact with the frenzied woman's skin.

The closer the trader approached her womanhood, the more tense, the more excited became Olympias, who by now wanted to buck her hips forward and up and take in the bastard who was punishing (or was it pleasuring) her so. But the trader, barely able to breathe himself, continued his journey.

He lifted the shiv off of her lower belly and shifted its position to her right ankle. Again he drew the knife up, following a curvaceous path up the back of her leg until it came to the gently curled pubic hairs of her vagina.

Olympias had stopped breathing, fearing that the intake of breath would make her explode into wild, tossing abandonment. The danger of that wicked metal so close to her most cherished, most valued pleasure, forced what seemed cruel now, restriction on motion. Then, the trader turned the knife again, this time the flat of the blade making contact with her skin.

With just enough force for Olympias to feel it but not cause injury, he parted the petal-soft lips of her labia, exposing the moistened clitoris letting it feel the hard, unforgiving agent of terror. Olympias gasped, her mind, her body begging for relief, begging for penetration, begging, begging...

"If you are ready my queen, the bath is ready."

Olympias blinked. She glanced in Phylia's direction, unsure of where she was. The sheet covering her breasts had slipped away. She ignored her nakedness. She also noted that Phylia barely gave her a glance. Olympias sat up and turned to look at the still sleeping trader beside her. Yes, he had tantalized her to the point of torture but he too got far more than he bargained for. Olympias had ravaged him, forcing herself on him (after he released her) time and time again, until he himself was begging--for her to desist, not continue. She looked at him. He had provided some amusement, and he had taught her something new...time to be rid of him. Olympias caught Phylia's eye, nodded in the direction of the sleeping trader then eased herself out of bed and walked to the drawn drape, on the other side of which was a smaller replica of the public baths near the agora. Slowly, Olympias eased herself in, reveling in the heat and the fragrance of the warm, scented water. She leaned back, began humming softly to herself and closed her eyes.

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Phylia drew the curtain on her bathing mistress. She walked quietly to the door, opened it and whispered something to the bodyguard standing there. Like a well-practiced dance, the soldier came in, gathered the clothes of the queen's guest in one arm and then with the other grabbed the thinning hair locks of the dormant trader and yanked.

"Owwwww, ooooh! Help! Help! Wh...who are you?" screamed the now thoroughly frightened man. He was simultaneously trying to raise himself to a sitting position and trying to preserve some modesty but the iron-like grip on his hair kept him seriously off-balance.

"Time to go." The tone of the bodyguard had no inflection, no emotion. The grip on the hair did not relax.

"I...I,I am the qu...queen's guest." The trader was terrified.

Ohhhh, gods in heaven, I am going to urinate myself, he thought.

But before any such humiliation could occur, he found himself outside the queen's suite, naked, bruised and scared. And alive! The soldier threw his clothes at him and resumed his stoic watch over the entrance to the apartment. The trader warily picked up his clothes, then turned and ran down the hallway, joy and relief adding Hermes' wings to his feet.

So fast did he run that he did not notice the dark, ferret-like little man pass him in the hallway. Nor would he have noticed how the bodyguard deferred to this character as if he were a high-ranking soldier or politician. Regardless, this new player in the court gained access to the queen's apartment immediately.

Phylia glanced up as the door opened. She did not recognize this person but the odor of treachery and death was about him so strongly that it approached a stench. The queen knew and consorted with many low-life criminals, of which Kathos had been the basest and most cruel. But an unexplainable feeling, cold and biting, told her--no, warned her--that this man was to Kathos what a viper was to a rat. As quickly and as unobtrusively as possible, Phylia drew the curtain to the queen's bath and whispered to her mistress. Olympias nodded, asked to be dried and stepped out of the bath. She saw Kinovas standing there, watching her.

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In many respects, Kinovas presented an odd figure. Shorter than most men, without much bulk, he resembled a forest sprite. His thinness was deceiving. Kinovas redefined the word, wiry. Muscles and tendons were stretched tighter than the skin on a drum. The blood tearing through his veins with what appeared to be a constant fury was almost visible to the naked eye. Kinovas was a man who never relaxed, tension being his elixir.

Even sleep, the great rejuvenator, was sporadic and never enjoyed.

Kinovas had no wife, children or lover. He existed only to serve Olympias. Without her, he was nothing.

Olympias remembered the day she met this man. He had been one of the very few survivors of the seige at Thebes. His critically injured body had been brought back to Pella on a whim of Philip's. Nobody expected the little man with the grievous wounds to survive for long. And he would have died had not Olympias, who at that time still got along with Philip, not been privy to a conversation between her husband and son.

They were talking about how this little man, stood back to back with the Companions (of Thebes) and fought with such ferocity that Alexander's own bodyguard was unable to break through his part of the line. It was not until the warrior fighting beside him was felled by a thrown spear that Kinovas distracted by the death of his comrade, was overrun by the Macedonians. In the resulting chaos and orgy of violence, the small Kinovas was lost among the bodies, blood and gore. Much later, when the corpses were being gathered and burned was he discovered. Alexander, who had fought hand to hand with the Theban elite, recalled him, told Philip, who being impressed and magnanimous in victory, spared him.

Olympias found herself intrigued and calling the most-skilled physicians in her court to her, ordered them to save Kinovas. Knowledge, possibly coupled with fear, achieved the impossible, and today Kinovas stood before her, very much alive.

"Well..." queried the queen.

"It has been done. Perhaps too well," said Kinovas.

"He is still alive?" The queen's question was hopeful.

"Yes. But barely."

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"Who has him now?"

"Piros."

Olympias' eyes flared. This was better than she had hoped. She lifted her arms slightly to allow Phylia to finish toweling her down.

"And Kathos?" asked Olympias.

"He has been paid and is preparing to leave. No one knows of his role in this."

"Kill him...and his cronies." Olympias' tone was cool, businesslike. It was time to rid herself of that sewer scum. Kathos was a lowlight who had outlived her need for him. Too bad she could not tell anyone of her order. Many would kiss her feet out of gratitude.

"Anything else?"

"Make sure the bastard knows who did this to him. And if it is at all possible...take your time."

Kinovas bowed graciously and turned to leave.

"One moment more. I want Piros to find out about Kathos...after you have killed him."

Kinovas bent his head in acknowledgement and exited the room.

Olympias stood staring at the door Kinovas had just gone through.

He would do what she said most effectively. Loyalty like his was invaluable. Even though Philip disapproved, and Alexander had his reservations, she was beginning to think that maybe the Thebans had been right to form a company of warriors who were more than just comrades.

Pairing male lovers, training them to a point of martial superiority and then putting them in a unit that up to the final battle with Philip had been considered the elite of the elite, was an idea born of genius. Warrior-lovers would and did fight with a phenomenal savagery. Had not Philip told the whole Greek world how the Theban Companions had been the toughest of all his opponents? Had it not taken Alexander to personally lead his own This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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elite against these Thebans? And Kinovas, would he have been taken if his own lover had not fallen to the pikes of the Macedonians? The queen did not tarry with these thoughts. It was enough that the loyalty Kinovas had almost been bred with was now transferred to her.

"Phylia. Dress me."

The servant girl quickly gathered up some clothing and began to dress her mistress. She tried to be as unobtrusive as possible, not wanting Olympias to pay her any undue attention. Phylia also thought of something else. How was she going to get a message to Piros? Should Patroclus also know what was transpiring? For that matter, did she?

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Dioxippus refines his technique

Sitting cross-legged in the dirt, his shoulders stooped, and head hanging, he appeared to be mourning. But Dioxippus did not grieve. He was immersed in a brutally cutting introspection. His goals, his desires, his dreams, did not seem to make any sense to him anymore. Within a few short weeks, he would partake in the most important festival and contest in the civilized world, the Olympics. He was considered a favourite yet he himself could not understand why. Piros spoke to him of the spiritual beauty of the event honouring and sanctioned by the Gods. Yet Dioxippus saw many competitors, in his and the other events, accept bribes and gifts.

Many spoke of the immortality of the victor's names, yet Dioxippus was hearing more and more criticism of the athletes from the masses. Some said that a victory at the Olympiad would guarantee success in the future yet Dioxippus only saw a future in the elite military wing of Alexander's or Philip's bodyguard. Defeat would bring anonymity. Victory...misery? He just was not sure.

Dioxippus raised his head and looked up over his shoulder at the compound behind him. A scream cracked the silence. Dioxippus shivered.

Pausanius' body was on fire and the resulting delirium threatened to strip what little was left of his sanity bare. Dioxippus could not hear the words but his ears or a sixth sense could detect Piros' gentle, placating voice. It appeared to have no effect because within moments, another scream knifed its way through the compound. Dioxippus half-raised his hands to cover his ears then thought better of it and dropped them. He was a man.

But was he? His body, maybe. His mind and soul...he could not be sure. He understood loyalty, responsibility. He maintained, even raised the ideals of friendship. He worshipped well and willingly served his king.

Few could fault the path his life had taken. Still, Dioxippus was unhappy.

And he knew why. History, particularly if he won the Pankration in the Olympiad, would paint him not as an athlete, an innovator, a winner. He would be shown for what he had become, a crippler and murderer of men.

And what frightened Dioxippus the most was that he would not be able to deviate from this course. Death and violence were as much as part of him as any limb from his body. He would never escape it.

Another scream. Dioxippus winced. What had happened to Pausanius was brutal. No human being should be subjected to that type of This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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violence. He shook his head. Reality dictated otherwise. Pausanius had made the mistake of becoming involved in the various court intrigues. Bad mistake. He was lucky that he had a friend like Piros. Otherwise he would be dead. And who would feel for him. He had no family, few friends.

Even his comrades would barely note his passing. After all, had Pausanius not chosen his life? Had he not been warned? Sometimes vanity and stupidity brought another's wrath down on one. Pausanius in effect should have expected the attack and been better prepared for it.

“Have you lost what little is left of your mind? Do you so easily justify the evils of man?”

Dioxippus realized that the voice berating him was coming from within. His cheeks flushed scarlet. How could he try to justify what happened to Pausanius? Was this the man he had become? At this instant, Piros was tending a man disgraced, humiliated and most certainly out of favour. The repercussions for this humanitarian act could be disastrous for Piros. Yet he stayed by the side of his friend, administering medicine, cleaning his wounds and most important, comforting his fellow. Piros was a man. A true man.

Dioxippus opened then closed his hand. He stared at the fist. The knuckles were surprisingly free of scars. With these hands...thought Dioxippus. He sighed. This melancholy and self-criticism was serving no purpose. His fate had been chosen for him at birth. The gods had blessed him (or cursed him--stop it!) with the ability to use his body to fight. The way he was built, the way his mind broke down and dissected facts, the way he observed the great torrent that was life, all these served the lord that was combat. It was as if all his experience was compressed and spun wildly into a whirlpool from whose vortex emerged something feral. It was this Dioxippus that reveled in the killing of Dionys. It was this Dioxippus who shunned weapons on the battlefields of Charoenea. It was this Dioxippus who systematically destroyed his opponents in the pankration. It would be this Dioxippus who would win the Olympiad. Or die.

"Boy, what do you do there?"

Dioxippus shot up to his feet.

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"Well, your reflexes still work...somewhat," said Barba Fotis, a tinge of playful sarcasm in his voice.

Dioxippus walked to the trainer, every step shutting the door on his melancholy tighter and tighter. By the time he reached the old man, a smile, still a little sad, had managed to crack the set grimness of his contemplation.

"I have been looking for you and Piros. Why are you here? And where is my master?"

"A friend of Piros' suffers. He attends to him now. I decided to stay here for awhile," answered Dioxippus.

"Mmmmm..." Fotis was not convinced but thought it better not to pursue this subject. There was something different with Dioxippus. He could not identify it yet. For now it was best to start the training again.

"Are you ready to practice?" he asked.

Dioxippus shrugged his shoulders. "Why not?" With that he began to limber up his body, rotating first his neck, then his arms and finally his trunk. While he engaged himself in this, Fotis took out what looked like a small sack made of a dark, shimmering material. He held it up to his mouth and began blowing into a small hole that must have been hidden by the murky colour. Slowly, the material began to expand and in a few moments, the empty pig's bladder had inflated until it resembled a ball, much like the ones the young children kicked around the street.

"Anytime you are ready," said Fotis.

Dioxippus slid up to the bag. He knew the drill. But an idea had come to him in the night. An involuntary grimace flashed across his face.

All his ideas, some of which were brilliant, according to Piros, centered on ways to expedite his opponents. To Hades with it, he thought. I am here to fight. With that reflection, he snapped out a flurry of left-right combinations at the bag Fotis was holding. The old man stumbled back, being caught by surprise at the rage exploding through those hammer-like fists.

"Easy...easy, Dios!"

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Dioxippus stopped. He mumbled something barely discernible.

He let out a deep breath and raised his hands to the ready position beside his face again.

Fotis was not convinced that his young charge would slacken his attack so he braced himself and gripped the target a little tighter.

The fists tore out of their chambered positions again. Although one preceded the other so great was their speed that the whack-whack of the two impacting fists could barely be separated as the reverberations blended into one sound. This time Dioxippus stopped after a couple of combinations to allow Fotis to recover himself. The old man slapped the inflated bladder with his left hand and indicated to Dioxippus to continue.

Dioxippus slid a half a step forward and in one fluid motion raised his knee almost to his chest, pivoted his supporting leg and with a sharp turn of the hip, released the lower part of the leg and with a combination of strength, speed, technique and centrifugal force, catapulted a vicious kick off the front leg. It tore through the inflated bladder so hard that the bag exploded as it was ripped through the hands of the completely shocked Fotis.

The old man stood, mouth agape. He looked down at the piece of animal skin still left in his hand. Then he looked across the yard at the remnant of what had just moments before been a valuable piece of training equipment. He shook his head. Dumbfounded. That was the only word to explain his feelings.

"What do you think?" queried a grinning Dioxippus.

"I think that you are a conceited, insolent show-off who ought to learn to have respect for those who are of a gentler age," snapped Fotis.

"However, if you are asking me if that aberration of a kick has a chance for success...I might be tempted to say yes."

Dioxippus reached over and with one quick motion rubbed the top of the balding Fotis' head. The crusty trainer muttered something about the ancestry of Dioxippus then waved him back to the middle of the makeshift ring.

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"Well...you obviously have been thinking about new techniques or combinations. And with your apparent lack of control, I had better stand back and have you show me. Not that I will be interested but it is best to allow you to burn off the excess energy that your poor training as of late has failed to do."

The corners of Dioxippus' mouth turned slightly upward. He had been thinking about these techniques that he was about to demonstrate to Fotis for quite awhile. Dioxippus no longer even considered whether or not these new kicks, these radical combinations, these untested theories, even worked. He knew they did as surely as he knew his name. God blessed or cursed, he had been given a gift that one day he would give to the world.

The sun was not yet overhead. Shadows were still being cast.

Dioxippus positioned himself so that he could use his shadow as a mirror image. Then, taking a deep breath, shrugging his shoulders once, he started.

A foot arced through the air, its parabolic path a mere blur. Two fists, left then right followed, popped the same space just vacated by Dioxippus' left foot. Barely had he retracted his hands before his right knee came flying upward, so high it almost bounced off his chest. But the knee merely carried the leg and just before it reached its apex, it hinged outward, lifting the foot straight up, toes pointing at the open sky and the ball of the foot, now exposed, struck the imaginary opponent. Dioxippus did not stop. He chased the fleeing shadow, moving ever forward. The right foot had barely touched ground before the left hook whistled through to the exact spot where all the other techniques had landed. This time Dioxippus did not retract his punch but let the momentum carry him through so his left side now lay fully exposed. But before any part of his body could possibly be targeted he had raised his left knee and with a strong thrusting action extended his leg in a linear trajectory up, his heel now rushing to impact. This technique too popped the air where all its predecessors had gone. Suddenly, Dioxippus put the left foot down and just like that, his demonstration was over.

Five...or was it six...or even seven. Fotis was unsure. How many techniques had he seen? All were done within a blinking of the eye. The speed, the accuracy were phenomenal. And the height! Every attack This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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struck what would have been head height on a real adversary. This was unheard of. All pankratiatists, as far back as recorded history had always focused their energies on the lower part of the body, the legs, the thighs and particularly the trunk, the center of one's being, the source of one's physical and spiritual strength. Even the mighty Piros always attacked the base of his opponents, chopping at them as one would a tree before he moved in for the grappling which would finish the fight. But Dioxippus had changed that. His method depended upon utilizing distance, opening and closing space as need demanded it. His style of fighting avoided the clinch. The rough often deadly ground-combat was supplanted by long-range sniping followed by multiple barrages. Gods of Olympus! It was possible for Dioxippus to win a contest without once entangling himself with his foe. This was too much. Dioxippus had taken the pankration and in a few short years undone five hundred years of history. For all intents and purposes, Dioxippus had forever changed the sport. Even if he lost, which secretly Fotis did not think likely, Dioxippus would be imitated.

Had they all not seen what an impact his new kicking style had already had on other pankratiatists who even now mimicked what Dioxippus called the front kick? Did Fotis, almost every day on his way to train Dioxippus see children, who only weeks ago were wrestling in the dusty, dirty streets, practicing kicks on the walls, trees or even on each other? Dioxippus probably did not know what he was creating nor did he probably know what an influence he was on the other practitioners of the pankration but Fotis had lived long enough to recognize what some might construe as a revolution. And like it or not, one was brewing in the pankration.

"Well, what do you think?" asked the growing impatient Dioxippus.

"Not too bad. Some of what you did has...possibilities. The rest...best to talk to Piros about it. I do not want to be the one to depress you. For now, let us concentrate on the drills that you were supposed to be doing." Fotis very calmly walked over, picked up the tattered and deflated bladder from the ground and signaled Dioxippus to follow him.

Dioxippus was mildly disappointed. He had not expected Fotis to jump up and down, but he thought that his demonstration had been somewhat impressive. Maybe he was wrong. He sighed, then crouched low and began stretching his legs.

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Fotis stared down at Dioxippus. This boy, he thought, will change a sport forever. Long after they have all died, somebody, somewhere, will be performing these kicks, these punches in a way that will differ from everybody else. That will be Dioxippus' legacy. And, damn it he is just a boy, he thought.

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Alexander and Hephaestion

"So, he plans on joining my father's bodyguard," said Alexander.

"No commitment has been made but his loyalty to Piros is almost fanatical. I doubt that he will forego the opportunity to serve alongside his mentor." Hephaestion took another olive in his mouth.

Alexander's eyes narrowed. He absent-mindedly reached and took an olive from the plate and casually tossed it into his mouth. So Dioxippus did not want to serve him. Idiot! Who did he think would run this empire shortly?

Hephaestion surreptitiously watched his friend. Best not to say anything, he thought. Alexander did not outwardly display his anger but the chewing of the olive had taken on a fury totally inappropriate for the activity.

"Is it his skill at the Pankration that makes him so bold?" asked an increasingly angry Alexander. It was obvious now that Alexander's pride had been hurt by the rumoured defection of Dioxippus to the King's Companions.

"We are Greeks. A man makes the choices he wants. You do not mean to force Dioxippus to enlist in the Companions," said Hephaestion, trying to reason with the hot-tempered, easily offended Alexander.

"I will be king. I will decide what choices he or anybody else makes!" roared Alexander, the emotion so strong he half-rose from his chair.

Hephaestion said nothing. He had seen this type of behaviour too often to count. It was the only part of his personality that Hephaestion did not care for. Alexander was notorious for losing his temper at even the most insignificant slight. Insults, sometimes violence resulted. And invariably it was left to Hephaestion to soothe emotions on all sides.

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"What are you looking at!" screamed Alexander at his closest friend.

"You...you moronic son of a ..."

"Watch what you say about my mother," interrupted Alexander, the anger now dissipating as quickly as moments before it had come.

"What you need is a good slap!" said a now smiling Hephaestion.

"If you plan on becoming king you had better learn to control your temper although I am probably wasting breath talking to you about it. And what in the gods' names is so important about having Dioxippus in your bodyguard as opposed to your father's. Both are part of the Macedonian army and ultimately under your command."

Alexander shrugged his shoulders. "I want him fighting with my unit. Maybe I am not being reasonable. But think about it Hephaestion, he is probably the best pankratiatist in Hellas today. His last match with Dimitrius is becoming legend, even though few saw it. He not only does things with his hands and feet that are new to the pankration but also displays an inner toughness that no training in the world can give you.

Men like him are almost impossible to find. When you do, you must grab them like a starving man grabs a bowl of food. And, do you know what a man like him does to the morale of the troop? He imparts fearlessness to those who share his air. His fighting ability is worth five men--his ability to turn men into fighters is worth fifty men. That is why I want him after these games are over."

"You cannot threaten him. Cajoling or bribing him will probably not work either. He must come to you because he wants to; otherwise he is of no use to you," interrupted Hephaestion.

"I know. And that drives me to insanity. How do I make him want to come to me?"

"You cannot."

"That is not a sufficient answer."

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"It may not be but that is how the situation exists now. If you are truly committed to enlisting him, wait until after the games. Convince Piros. He is the key. Befriend him. Talk to him. Do not attempt to enlist him. He is fiercely loyal to your father and may resent the invitation or worse interpret it as a test of his allegiance to Philip. You must control your temper. To men like Piros, emotion is perceived as weakness and he will use it to his advantage. Be the leader he expects," concluded Hephaestion.

Alexander did not appear to be listening. He had risen and was now staring out the window. That was another habit that annoyed Hephaestion; Alexander's mind could shift from topic to topic within a heartbeat. Hephaestion did admit though, that Alexander, even when it looked like he was not paying any attention to the conversation, always knew what was said, the context in which it was said and the emotion which made one say it.

"Have you heard of the fighter, Yiorgakas?" asked Alexander.

Alexander had not even turned around to address Hephaestion.

Hephaestion knew however, that Alexander rarely if ever asked a rhetorical question.

"Yes. Is he not that half-wit who killed that boxer...uhhh...I cannot remember his name, at the Lydian Games last year or the year before?"

"That is him. Several of my lieutenants watched that and some of his other matches when we were in Asia last year. Their reports, unexaggerated, detailed what transpired in all his contests. And they tell an interesting story. Yiorgakas appears to be either more than human or less--depending upon your perspective. Regardless, his ferocity in and out of the ring is becoming legend in Lydia. In fact, his reputation extends beyond the borders of his homeland. It has even been rumored that if he were to enter the Olympiad, he would win by akiniti, a walkover. Imagine, no one has ever won the pankration crown without having to face an opponent in a final."

"So I am impressed. There is obviously a reason why you are narrating the autobiography of this Yiorgakas," interrupted Hephaestion.

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"I want him to fight Dioxippus."

"Why!" gulped a surprised Hephaestion.

"I think Dioxippus is a threat to us."

"How...where did you get an idea like that."

"Think about it. The premier athlete in Hellas does not want to be commissioned into the most prestigious military force in the world. What does this say about the Companions? What does it say about its leaders?

What does it say about me!"

Hephaestion arched his eyebrows. Alexander might be right, he thought.

"You mean to kill him then?" queried Hephaestion.

"No. I do not think Yiorgakas can kill him either. What is important is that he be perceived as a mere man--subject to the same laws as his audience. If he is defeated or if he is killed, this worship will end.

And you know Hephaestion the odd thing is that I do not even think he is aware of his popularity. After all, he is barely more than a child. That is why he has to be controlled or eliminated. Yiorgakas will do one or the other."

"But if he is still in Lydia, he may not get your message in time to be here for the Games."

"Surprisingly, he was assigned to the garrisson at Amphipolis in Chalcidice. He can be here in a few days."

Hephaestion realized that Alexander had planned for all contingencies. For whatever reason, real or imagined, Alexander considered Dioxippus' growing fame and steadfast refusal to join the Companions a threat.

"You have nothing to say." It was more of a statement than a question.

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"You are probably right. But I suggest that Yiorgakas stay in Amphipolis until just before the games start. You may also want to think about how far you want Yiorgakas to take Dioxippus," said Hephaestion.

"I will. Are we in agreement then?" asked Alexander, the timbre of his voice gentle for the first time today.

"Did I ever have a choice?"

"Always." Alexander jumped up, threw an arm around his friend and began to laugh.

Hephaestion joined in the laughter. But in the back of his mind he could not help thinking that maybe Alexander was allowing himself to become a victim of the Macedonian court's paranoia.

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Piros goes to Philip

"I must speak to him."

"Why? There is nothing he can do now. We have no witnesses.

No motive. What can you possibly say to him?" Dioxippus was trying to reason with Piros but was not having much success.

Piros was adamant. "Philip should know that one of his most loyal soldiers has been violated. He should be the one responsible for hunting down these cowardly savages. I know Philip. I have fought beside him. He will discover who is responsible for the attack on Pausanius."

"Why are you so sure that Philip will feel the same way about Pausanius that you do? Pausanius is not the same man he was a few months ago. You saw him. Even though he was beaten, it is obvious that he has become a decrepit wreck. That is not the comrade-in-arms who saved you at Chaeronea. Nor is that the Pausanius who beat the Thebans off of Philip during the siege of Thebes. This man we rescued is nothing more than the queen's bootlicker."

Piros glared at Dioxippus. The sudden rush of anger made him unconciously open then close his fist. His breath came out in short, shallow gasps. Even the tendons in his neck knotted through his ebony skin.

Dioxippus did not let Piros' fearsome transformation frighten him.

He continued to try and convince Piros not to go to Philip.

"How do you know Philip is not part of the plot against Pausanius? You have heard the rumour. Gods on Olympus, you heard Pausanius himself say that his attackers let slip that Attalus was behind this plot. Attalus is the king's new in-law. Why would Philip jeopardize his relationship with not only a family member but also one of his ablest generals? And do not forget, Attalus has been in Asia for half a year. It makes no sense, logistically or otherwise, for Attalus to be implicated in this supposed conspiracy. You risk your standing, your rank, when you speak to Philip because no matter how diplomatic, you are in effect This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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accusing him of the vilest form of treachery. When you do that, all the history between the two of you will mean nothing."

Piros had not said anything for awhile. The anger had abated slightly. Piros knew that some, maybe all of what Dioxippus had said, might be true. But he could not believe that Philip would turn on his own bodyguard. Pausanius had been one of the best of the best. His reputation for fearless devotion was almost legendary. Philip could not ignore that.

If restitution to Pausanius was to be made, Philip was the key. Dioxippus presented his argument well but he was simply not as well-versed in life.

Piros decided--he would see Philip.

"You mean well. Still, I must speak to the king."

"Have I then been arguing for nothing? Please, think about what you are doing Piros. You are siding with someone many think of as useless, or worse, a traitor. Pausanius is your friend. If you really love him, cure him and then get him out of Macedonia. That is the only reasonable way to deal with this crime. We will eventually find out who is responsible. When that time comes, I promise you, I will personally destroy the bastards who did that to Pausanius. Until that time, stay quiet; do not make accusations that you cannot substantiate. Piros, I beg you.

We need you. Do not sacrifice yourself." Dioxippus was almost pleading now.

"Over two years ago I made a decision that made me an exile in the city I loved," answered Piros.

Dioxippus could not reply. Piros had sacrificed everything for him. It was not Dioxippus' place to criticize Piros' efforts to help his long-time friend, Pausanius. Breathing a sigh of defeat, Dioxippus nodded to his mentor.

"I cannot say how long I will be. Wait for me." And with that, Piros left the room.

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Dioxippus and Panthea

Dioxippus never heard the door open.

"He is hurt."

Dioxippus looked up. Standing there was Panthea. When or how she had slipped into the room, Dioxippus did not know. This girl has many skills of which I only know a few, he thought.

"I have missed you," she said.

"And I you." Dioxippus moved toward Panthea, smoothly gathered her in his arms, and so tenderly that it was almost nothing more than the flitting of a bird, kissed her on the lips. Panthea's arms glided in unison until they crossed each other behind Dioxippus' head. With unresisted force, she pulled her beloved down toward her. Her lips, so full, so sensuous, caressed gently as they traveled over Dios' cheek, eyes and finally his mouth. At the last juncture, Panthea parted her lips slightly and with an almost ravenous passion, used her tongue, her teeth, her body, to demonstrate the lust she now felt for her man. Dioxippus, caught somewhat unaware, could only react. But his love for Panthea, so far tempered by restraint and circumstance, now unleashed itself. Twisting, turning, touching the two young lovers seemed out of control. Dioxippus slipped his right hand down, seeking then finding bare skin beneath the folds of Panthea's robe. The writhing body teased, tantalized while the soft, delicate skin burned the sensitive tips of his fingers. Both gasped, the shock of the naked touch almost too overwhelming. But Dioxippus would not be satisfied. Trailing his hand along Panthea's hip and over the heaving contours of her ribcage, he laid the palm of his hand gently over her rounded breast. She let out a small cry, her desire heightened beyond any normal sensibilities. Dioxippus continued, alternately squeezing then stroking the swollen, furiously erect nipples. Panthea's body was now thrown against his, so intensely that it felt that she was trying to fuse the two together. He too came against her, trying beyond reason to touch as much of her as was possible with one human body.

"Say it!" begged Panthea, gulping air.

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Dioxippus lifted his head up from the hollow of Panthea's neck.

Squeezing her even tighter to him, he said, "You torture me. I want you. I need you."

Panthea threw her mouth onto her lover's. For a few moments, her lips practically melded onto Dioxippus. Suddenly, without warning, she bit at the corner of his mouth.

The sharp pain snapped his head back. Dioxippus frowned, gave Panthea a look of mock anger and then leaning over her, whispered in her ear, "You are a harpy, worse than the sirens of Odyssey's voyage...but I love you more than life itself."

The joy of hearing those few words was apparent as Panthea attacked with renewed vigor her lover's body. She slid her hands down his back, marveling at the many valleys and

mountains formed by his musculature. Her nails grazed baby-soft skin stretched tight over a rock-hard frame. The heat between them had caused him to perspire; the tiny droplets imparted a silky sheen over his back, so smooth her hand glided down to his hip. She felt him tremble to her touch. And it took no seer to figure out that the growing pressure against the most sensitive erogenous parts of her lower body came from the almost out-of-control manhood of Dioxippus. She could feel her own moisture as her body and mind responded to the carnal lust manifesting itself between her and Dioxippus. Panthea wanted him in the basest, most primal way.

Dioxippus too had succumbed to this passion gone mad as his body desperately tried to bond with Panthea's. His breath, mere puffs occasionally disrupted by gasps, vainly attempted to fuel his lungs with enough air. He could not think; all he wanted to do was enter this ravenous creature eliciting so much emotion, so much desire, so much lust from him.

To that end, he somehow maneuvered both of them to the bed.

They fell onto the bed in unison, still entangled but now barely covered by their remaining clothes. Dioxippus inhaled sharply, mesmerized by the physical perfection of Panthea. Her breasts, now exposed, heaved with their earlier exertions. Dioxippus stared, not knowing whether to touch or look at the perfectly curved bosom. The nipples, normally pink, flamed red as did the surrounding aureole. They This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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almost glowed, godlike spheres begging to be devoured. His eyes reluctantly tore themselves away as they traveled downward over the flat stomach and curve of the lower abdomen. They stopped. The swollen mound of tender skin, framed by gently curled hair, beckoned him, teasing him with the promise of ravaging desire fulfilled. Suddenly, he could not move.

Panthea had no such difficulty. She was as enraptured by his semi-nude form as he was by her's the only difference being that she was not hesitant in her desires. Slowly, carefully and not with a little trepidation, she reached under the robe that was now barely concealing Dioxippus' erection and gently grasped it. Dioxippus groaned, almost painfully. Panthea squeezed the marble-hard member, pulling slightly upward at the same time. Dioxippus twisted as if to get away but they both knew that that was the last thing either wanted. Panthea continued exerting pressure on Dioxippus, opening then closing her hand. She found herself mesmerized by this raw sexual thing. She was no longer even aware that she was breathing. With her free hand, she touched her own womanhood.

The damp stickiness caught her unaware and she pulled back involuntarily.

But Dioxippus noticed the movement and with his own hand reached over and began to massage the swollen labia of Panthea. It was her turn to gasp then moan as Dioxippus' fingers touched things she had no concept of prior to this moment. She pushed her pelvis forward, taking deep the probing digits of Dioxippus. Panthea needed more. With a movement as graceful as a dancer, she threw her leg over the prone Dioxippus, straddling him.

Her right hand guided his engorged penis toward her and with almost no effort slipped it into her aching vagina.

Both shuddered, the quaking in their bodies greater than any natural geological force. Dioxippus thrust his hips up, harder and harder as he tried to insert his whole being into the woman he loved. And every time he could bear to open his eyes, he saw Panthea's breasts, swinging like perfect, god-shaped pendulums, mere breaths away from his open mouth.

He extended his arms, his claw-like fingers grabbing at the bosom of the woman astride him. He lifted his head up and with the hunger of a starving dog closed his mouth over the nearest breast.

Panthea leaned forward, grasped Dioxippus by the head and rubbed her chest even harder into his face. The result was manic. Dioxippus shot his hips up, faster and faster. Panthea bucked harder and harder. Their groans This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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became screams. Screams became cries. Faster and faster they moved.

They shrieked. The tandem became one.

Outside, sitting cross-legged on the ground underneath one of the shade trees, was Fotis. He could hear the animal-like noises emanating from the small cottage and he was not so old he could not imagine the gyrations taking place therein. Normally, he would have left: he did not like feeling like a voyeur. But he had walked far and he was tired. There was no energy left in his aged form to walk around until the two young lovers were finished. So he sat. And to occupy himself, he grumbled.

After a while it became quiet. Fotis listened carefully. No sound.

They must be finished, he thought. An image of the two lying together flashed across his mind. Before he could savor it or castigate himself for thinking it, a vision appeared before him. It was a woman. He could not see her clearly but he knew that she was small, frail and his wife. The apparition did not move. Fotis rubbed his eyes, a vain effort to see better but the ghostly entity had dissolved. Fotis looked around him. Nothing. I am like Orpheus, he thought; forever doomed to look back at my fading Eurydice as she slips back to Hades.

The melancholy distracted him. Fotis did not realize someone was standing beside him until he felt the hand on his shoulder. Startled, he leaned back sharply, lost his balance and fell over onto his back.

Immediately, the little man began to swear furiously.

"You have not changed," laughed Phylia. She had not seen Fotis for at least a couple of months. His tirade did not offend her; it was the reaction she expected. "It is good to see that time has not mellowed you Barba Fotis."

"Hmmmph. Precocious little..."

"Stop. I am sure I can guess what you want to say next," said Phylia, still laughing.

"Then give an old man a hug," came the reply.

The two embraced. Fotis felt a tear on his cheek. He did not know if it was his or Phylia's. What he did know was that he had missed This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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this child. But a premonition honed by age and experience told him that Phylia was not here to reminisce. He held on a little tighter a little longer.

Phylia too knew that this reunion possessed an artificiality to it.

Yes, she was glad to see the old man. And yes, she was eager to see her beloved Dios. She would even be glad to see Piros, who although he had always been kind, caring and gentle, nevertheless frightened her. During the escape from Athens they had had to traverse a territory ravaged by war.

Piros and Dioxippus had been forced to take extraordinary measures to protect the little band. Phylia had seen what those measures sometimes entailed. She trembled at the memory.

Fotis relaxed his grip about Phylia's shoulders. "Come, sit with me," he said.

Phylia eased back from Fotis. She quickly glanced around her and spotting no stool or bench, shrugged her shoulders and squatted down onto the patch of earth where Fotis had just been sitting. The few tufts of grass and weeds secured the soil so dust was minimal. The shadow cast by the olive tree a few steps away added a much needed bit of coolness. The combination made their position relatively comfortable.

"Well..." queried Fotis, eager to get whatever subject Phylia wished to discuss started.

"Where is Dios? And Piros?" asked Phylia.

Fotis furrowed his brow. How would he explain what his young charge was up to? Would Phylia be jealous? It was no secret that she loved the young man. How would she react when she found out that he was passionate about a woman ten years her senior? Fotis decided that Dioxippus could deal with it.

"Dioxippus is in the house. Sleeping. Piros has gone to speak to Philip. A close friend of his was..." Fotis caught himself. He saw no reason to disclose the particulars of Pausanius' rape and beating to a child who had suffered so much as a victim of just those crimes. "...attacked by criminals and Piros feels the king may know who might have been involved."

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"I do not know why this might be important to Piros but knowing Olympias, anything she takes a direct hand in must mean something to someone," said Phylia.

"Anything that witch gets her hands on becomes sullied,"

interrupted Fotis, the edge in his voice apparent.

"That is why I have come. She has ordered that Kathos and his henchmen be executed. Why? I do not know. Perhaps it has something to do with the disappearance of the slave girl Tamina. What I cannot understand is that she sent one man against hyenas--a small one who is barely larger than I am. Kathos is not tall either yet compared to the man in the queen's chambers this morning he is a giant. Kathos also has help.

There are at least three others with him and even though I have seen them only a few times, they look as savage as rabid dogs. I cannot understand why the queen did as she did. It makes no sense. Olympias never does anything without considering every part of the problem. I thought Piros might be interested in this information."

"I am sure he will be."

Both Fotis and Phylia turned to the direction of the voice.

Standing there, flushed with the exertion of his earlier passion-filled endeavors stood Dioxippus. Half a pace to the right and slightly behind him was Panthea. To the seated Fotis and Phylia, they were as demigods; so beautiful, so vibrant they defied description.

Phylia leapt up and threw her arms around the neck of Dioxippus.

He embraced her gently, enjoying the warmth and affection of the child he always thought of as his little sister.

Panthea knew of Phylia and her history. Dioxippus had told her much. However, the wide-eyed child he described was not the blossoming woman with the alabaster skin and raven-colored hair throwing herself on the unsuspecting Dioxippus. A twinge of momentary jealousy curled a corner of Panthea's upper lip. This child that Dioxippus had always talked about might have been only thirteen years old but she was as much woman as she was. And in Hellas, thirteen was a common marrying age. In fact, she, Panthea, was the anomaly. Here she was, twenty-three years old, in love with an eighteen year old. To complicate the situation further, she This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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had been a virgin until she gave herself to Dioxippus. Soon she would be beyond her childbearing years. This "child" was probably better suited to Dioxippus than she was. I should be jealous, she thought.

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Philip and Piros

"Let him in," sighed Philip. He did not need to hear what Piros had to say; his spies had already briefed him. Philip lowered his head until the hair in his beard scratched the soft skin just below his neck. He scanned the floor, the tiled pattern amusing him with its order as he compared it to the disorder of his court. He sighed as the melancholy effectively immobilized him. When Piros came in, Philip was barely discernible from any of the other inanimate objects placed about his room.

Piros felt a torrent of emotions; all of them compounded by anger and frustration. He felt himself tighten, his breathing slow. Once someone had compared him to a compact siege machine. At this instant Piros felt like a machine: all wound up, ready to fire missiles at this man, this king sitting so laconically in front of him. This was the man, now mere steps away from him, who had orchestrated or knew who had, the vilest abomination on his best friend Pausanius. Now Piros would demand the answers from Philip that no one else in the court would provide. Piros had been forced to seek an audience with Philip. And even though they had been close friends in the past, events in the last year or so had strained that relationship. This would not make it any easier to get the information he wanted.

Philip seemed unaware of the black man standing in front of him.

His mind was preoccupied with Persia, Alexander, Olympias, Cleopatra, his kingdom, the Greeks and so forth. Incessant voices pounded his brain and all Philip wanted to do was to leave, to seek a place removed from the chaos his court had fallen in. Yes, he thought. I should take Cleopatra and my future child and sail to an island, far away and inaccessible. My mind will then know peace.

Piros had been born with an innate sensitivity to people's emotions. He sensed that Philip was troubled. But his friend had chosen not to confide in him. Regardless, he was here for Pausanius. And upset or not, the king would have to answer some hard questions for Piros.

Philip's eyes were still locked on the swirling colours of the tile inlays at the base of the two stairs located in front of him. It might have been moments, it might have been a day, Philip did not know. The scratchy sound of shifting feet snapped a chord in his brain. He looked up.

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"Philip."

The king winced. There was a time when his closest confidantes could use his given name with impunity, Piros more than anyone. Now it grated on him. By all the gods on Olympus he had already conquered a good third of the world. That merited some respect. History would show him to be one of the world's greatest kings. The way the Macedonians revered him one would think him a god. In fact, there was a growing movement afoot that wished to deify him. He had turned them down repeatedly, knowing that his soldiers might not be amenable to the idea.

After all, it was his accessibility that endeared him to the man slogging in the infantry. He was one of them. He had just been born with certain advantages. Yet, Philip could not help but be intrigued with the idea of being worshipped. Had not lesser kings and emperors been lionized. Who were they in comparison to him? Who was Piros? What gave him the right to address him as one would an equal? Philip felt himself begin to anger.

"State what you want." Philip was terse.

"You know why I am here," replied Piros, surprised at Philip's tone yet nevertheless unafraid.

"Hmmmmph..." Philip grunted. "I suppose it has something to do with that boot-licking lapdog of my wife's, Pausanius. Well, what would the indignant Piros request of this humble king?"

The bitter sarcasm was not lost on Piros. It did not appear likely that Philip would be overly sympathetic to his former bodyguard.

Nevertheless, Piros was obligated to seek some sort of redress for the atrocity that Pausanius had been subjected to. He thought for a moment.

Then he half-smiled. Phlip was not going to get the fight he wanted. He began.

"Strange how one man's sufferance can so affect his family, his friends...or his subordinates." Piros paused. The king leaned back slightly, confused but curious of the direction this conversation had now taken.

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office meant nothing to you. You were a soldier. And like the rest of us, your first loyalty was to the man next to you. Now that you campaign against empires, that loyalty may not seem as important as it once was.

But I remember when it was the only thing that mattered to you. Was it so long ago; did seven years pass so quickly?" Piros looked at Philip searchingly. Philip's curiousity was piqued but the blank expression on his face showed no hint of recalling what Piros was so obviously intimating at.

Whatever happened, happened seven years earlier.

Piros' eyes narrowed. For a moment he looked like a snake that had slithered unexpectedly up to a rat. "Surely you remember...the mountain tribe blocking a pass from the north to Olympus? We were not able to take a large force with us because of the limited room to maneuver.

So you chose one hundred of us."

An involuntary smile flitted across the face of Philip. Yes, he was starting to remember that conflict. It was hardly a fly landing on an elephant in terms of the Macedonian empire. But the fly turned into a hornet, he thought.

"You chose the surliest, meanest and most undisciplined men in your bodyguard. It made no sense to me at the time. These Companions would have just as soon killed each other for the warm spot by the fire as they would have the enemy. This motley crew was so bad that you personally had to lead us."

This time Philip was unable to contain his smile. The memory of that troop complaining, cursing and fighting from the first light to the last still amused him. A dirtier, nastier group would have been hard to find.

But a unit as effective at this type of hit and run warfare would have been impossible for anyone but Philip to hold together.

"Many in the court advised you against going up into the mountains. You scoffed at their concern. We admired that.

But once we were up there...there was nothing to laugh at. They ambushed us on the one day that an early blizzard hit. It was chaos.

Everything was out of control. The men did not know who to fight or what to aim for. Commands could not be communicated because of the snow.

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tipped with poison), threw rocks the size of a man's head and cast spears with barbed points. When they ran out of weapons they threw anything else that they could launch at us from the safety of their perches."

Philip's face turned grim. How could he have forgotten? In a hundred battles, most of the time against far larger, better armed forces never had he been so afraid as that time in that nameless mountain pass.

Not even the adrenalin rush that cascaded through his body during combat, which made it an insatiable thrill, could counter the panic he felt in that surreal hell.

"Some of us were trying desperately to fight back and still protect you. But the snow, by now a whirling dervish, made it impossible to see further than a few meters. I remember crying in anguish because I could not see you. I called and called but it was impossible. I managed to gather a few men together. Somehow we were able to move as a unit; not quite a phalanx but at least a body that could protect itself."

Even though Philip knew the story he found himself mesmerized by Piros' retelling of it.

"Those of us in front were using the butts of our pikes to feel for bodies buried in the snow. Whenever we came across one we prayed that it was not you. Our progress was slow because the savages were still hailing down on us. Eventually we made it across the open space to the shelter of some trees. To a man we felt disgusted because we had lost you.

Our anger and our grief knew no bounds so when we saw, just beyond the little grove we had just come in, some fifteen to twenty fur-clad barbarians screaming and jumping and waving weapons we went crazy. The blizzard had eased somewhat so we were able to see relatively clearly. We charged them like ravenous beasts; our hunger for vengeance tearing at our guts.

Yet even in those few steps it was obvious that our attackers had surrounded someone and whoever it was had managed to instill a fearsome respect in them."

Although Philip knew the story, this part was a forced blank in his memory. The ravaged space where one of his eyes used to be began to throb.

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"We tore into them like the dogs in the animal pits. Even though these warriors were exceedingly strong and insanely fearless, in hand–to-hand combat with the fiercest of the King's Companions, they were slaughtered with the ease of a butcher cutting up a side of beef. Not one was left alive. And as the snowfall began to abate, the others, seeing the carnage, left as noiselessly as they had come. The survivors of our troop began to call out and as some were wounded I sent men out to attend to or retrieve them. I myself was going to lead the search for you. But first I had to see who had managed to hold off so many of the enemy by himself."

Philip shifted in his seat. He was very uncomfortable now.

"Sitting there, in the snow, his face a mask of blood was Pausanius. A spear had pierced the upper part of his thigh, his hip had been chopped open with an axe and two arrows, their feathers still quivering, protruded from his left shoulder. Only his armor and the thick fur coat he had on saved his life. In his right hand he still clutched his sword; waving it feebly at us, the pain making him so delirious he did not know the enemy had been defeated. But your highness..."

Philip winced at the title. He blushed with embarrassment at his earlier thoughts. Vanity...

"...half-buried in the snow, stuck full of arrows was this body that was so bloody it was almost unrecognizable. Pausanius had thrown himself over top of this person to protect him. No one helped Pausanius.

By himself he had held off the savages until help arrived. You know of course, that the body was yours Philip. You are here now, not by the grace of the gods, but by the courage of your most loyal bodyguard, Pausanius.

Now it is he who is the beaten body. We did not save him from his attackers so that he could become the victim of some unnamed plot. His sacrifice for you should at least be rewarded with some compassion for him. We cannot undo what has transpired. Let us at least avenge the vile transgression against him."

Philip swallowed. His anger had abated as the story was being told. Everything Piros had said was true. Pausanius had willingly used his body to shield him. He had shown tremendous courage and resolve to keep the savages away from his king. Now he lay beaten, the victim of some sick plot. Philip clenched his teeth as he exhaled fiercely through his This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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nostrils. The bastards who did that to Pausanius deserved the worst punishment the sickest of minds could come up with. The only trouble was that Philip did not know who was responsible. His spies suspected that sewer scum Kathos but there were no witnesses and no evidence.

Philip's spies had also told them that a rumour was circulating that Attalus had hired the criminals. Philip knew that was not true. His new in-law and ablest general was so far in the Persian desert that the necessary means to formulate and execute a plot like this were impossible to get access to. No, whoever had done this had an agenda.

"If I were to tell you that I do not know who is responsible for what happened to Pausanius, would you believe me?" asked Philip.

"At one time, if you had told me it was raining while the noonday sun burnt my body, I would have believed you. But circumstances have changed. The man Pausanius himself believes is responsible is your father-in-law. How can you turn against a family member?"

"I have not ruled by using games and trickery. Those that are guilty of crimes are punished regardless of alliances. If Attalus were involved I would slit his throat myself. But think Piros, use your intellect.

How could Attalus order such a thing? He is in the desert, two thousand miles away. And why would he do that to Pausanius? He barely knows him. If anyone has a grievance, it is me. I am the cuckolded husband.

More than anyone, I have the right to punish Pausanius. Yet, you do not accuse me. Or do you?" Philip looked directly into Piros' eyes.

Piros bowed his head slightly. Logic would dictate that the king was right. Attalus may have been a decoy, thought Piros. It was not likely that Philip would employ such clandestine means to eliminate an enemy.

Somebody was using Pausanius as a pawn in a game--but what game?

"Do you have to think about it?" asked the waiting Philip.

"No," answered Piros.

"Then what would you have me do?"

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"Let me find the guilty parties. And when I do...ignore what results." Piros' tone had a steely edge to it. It took no imagination to guess what Piros would do when he caught up to Pauasanius' assailants.

"Done," replied Philip. "However, Pausanius is still guilty of indiscretions with my wife. You know me well, Piros. He can have the bitch if he wants her." Philip leaned forward, his eyes meeting Piros. "I grieve for what he has suffered. It is true I owe him my life, probably a few times over. Yet I cannot and will not have any further contact with him. Engaging a king's wife, even an unfavoured one, in adultery, negates any rights or obligations. I hope you find his attackers. Do with them what you want. But do not let Pausanius contact me; do not yourself bring this subject up again. This discussion is over." Philip's head dropped to his chest, weariness having sucked all the energy out of him.

Piros knew nothing more would be gained. Declining his head forward slightly, he said, "Philip," turned on his heels and left.

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Phylia

Tapping.

The sound, normally barely discernible amongst the profusion of noises invading her world, now assaulted her ears. Phylia looked over at the source of the sound: the offender to her solitude and peace.

Olympias was unaware of Phylia's rancor. She sat, on a low, elaborately carved stone bench, looking out through the window. Her eyes were transfixed, as if they were examining something in great detail. But Olympias' eyes saw nothing. Colours and images flitted across her pupils, refusing to hold still long enough to have their message relayed by the retina to the brain. The visual stimuli was to Olympias as it would be to a blind person, nothing to nothing. Still she sat. Trancelike. Waiting.

Waiting. And tapping her long, exquisitely coloured fingernails on the windowsill beside her.

Phylia was bored, tired and desperate to leave the suite of her mistress. She chanced another look at Olympias. The queen was still staring out the window, looking but not seeing, rolling her fingers, the nails tapping that incessant beat. Phylia sighed, careful to muffle the action.

She's waiting for someone, she thought. Phylia surreptitiously cast a glance over at Olympias again. Whoever the queen was waiting for had managed to capture and hold still the fierce beast that took refuge in the beautiful Olympias' body. Lover or enemy? Phylia could not decide whom Olympias waited for. She had never seen Olympias in this coma-like state and although Phylia could not care less about Olympias she felt herself obligated to watch over the obviously distracted monarch.

A faint rustling of material snapped both women's heads up in the direction of the far wall. A wraith-like spirit stood there, seemingly materialized from nothing. Phylia took a sharp breath, the sudden intake of air an instinctive response to the sudden appearance of Kinovas. Olympias too could feel her heart take a couple of extra beats but her self-control quickly assuaged her body's defensive mechanisms. After all, she chastised herself, what made Kinovas so valuable was his innate ability to move as furtively as a ghost, to appear when unexpected. To be frightened This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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of him served no purpose. To use him did. And the fact that he had come now indicated to Olympias that some news was forthcoming.

"Well..." The inflection in Olympias' voice evidenced a mutual understanding of objectives.

"It is done."

Olympias beamed. Then her smile turned into a hard line. She turned to Phylia. "Out...now!"

Without a word, Phylia gathered her cloak and exited the queen's apartment. She did not dare look back. The queen's vicious temper was not one to be challenged--particularly when some sort of plot was being discussed with one of the most dangerous men in Macedonia. I need to tell Patroclus, thought Phylia. A smile danced across her face and her eyes sparkled momentarily. Patroclus.

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Kinovas

"Check the doors...and the walls," ordered Olympias. This unusual concern over security weakened the normally haughty demure of the queen.

Kinovas immediately drew a long, silver-handled dagger from a compartment in his outer robe. The knife was double-edged, and so slim it looked almost like a woman's ornament. But the glint of metal as the weapon was flicked into a reverse position belied its brutal purpose.

Grasping the handle firmly, the razor-sharp blade lying gently along the inside of the wrist, Kinovas prowled through every aperture and opening in the room. His low cat-like stance added further to the feral impression he imparted to Olympias. And like a cat or panther, when he found nothing he slowly stretched erect until he faced Olympias.

"Well..." drawled the queen, barely able to contain her excitement.

"He lies secured. I killed the others."

Kinovas' unadorned, flat-toned statement of fact nevertheless exuded a deathly chill even the hard-hearted Olympias could feel. Kathos'

band of anonymous butchers was no more. Her loyal servant had eliminated them with about as much compunction as stepping on a bug.

Still, he had not killed Kathos…yet. And that was reason enough to savour Kinovas' accomplishment and to look forward to, with salacious hunger, the moment she had envisioned months ago--the moment when she would direct the destinies of her husband and his cronies. After today, she thought to herself, we see how long you and that bitch remain in power.

Kinovas stood immobile. Nothing about the queen's ruminations, barely disguised by her demeanor, interested him. Whatever she wanted him to do, now and forever, he would do: no questions asked.

Olympias blinked. The haze over her eyes disappeared. Quickly, almost furtively, she glanced around the room. Then she picked up her cloak and whirling it around to her back, threw it over her shoulders. She looked at Kinovas. Without a visible response, he turned and made for the door, Olympias not more than a half step behind. Neither turned to look at the apartment they had just left.

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Outside in the corridor various groups of people milled about, the usual chaos no different today than any other. Those who inadvertently crossed in front of the queen and her escort immediately bowed their heads and moved out of her way. Nobody wished to risk the wrath of this all-powerful monarch. Olympias was so caught up with thoughts of Kathos that she did not even notice much less enjoy the consternation her mere presence evoked amongst her husband's subjects.

Kinovas led Olympias down the corridor, through the main square and out through the palace gates. Removed from the security of the thick stone and mud walls, Olympias felt wary. At the best of times it was not a good idea for a personage such as her to travel beyond the palace walls without an armed escort. Revolutionaries, anarchists, murderers and thieves patrolled these streets like rabid dogs. For one of them to come upon a hated queen would be like a dream come true. They would chop her into so many pieces that not even the gods of Olympus would be able to reassemble her. Few if any things frightened Olympias. Few if any men had her courage, her fierce will. Yet like many rulers, she would admit to herself that the masses, her subjects, frightened her. To be so openly exposed...it was too much. She glanced at Kinovas. He walked slightly ahead, protecting as much as leading her. His self-confidence and utter fearlessness radiated from his body like some god-like essence. Olympias became enveloped in the force emanating from the little man walking ahead of her. Even Philip's elite bodyguard did not make her feel this safe.

Thank the gods he belongs to me, thought Olympias.

Strangely, few people were about. This did not bother Olympias but she wondered where she might be. She had long ago lost her sense of direction as Kinovas weaved through the maze of streets and alleys.

Olympias was further confounded by Kinovas' elaborate precautions to avoid being followed. He was constantly doubling-back, circling, stopping. All this added time and distance to the walk and Olympias began to feel herself tire. The faintest moisture at the collar of her robe made her aware of how strenuous her exertion thus far, even in the cool shade of the surrounding buildings, had been. Just as she was about to ask Kinovas, how much longer, he signaled her to stop.

They stood in front of a small, irregularly shaped building. It was not quite a rectangle, the rear wall being somewhat elongated in This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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comparison to its parallel. This front facia was so inconspicuous it was as if whoever had built this home had wanted to conceal as much of it from the street as possible. Its nondescript, muddy yellow walls combined with the small wooden windows, barely covered by the rotten grass shutters contributed even further to its anonymity. Olympias had to admit, if one needed to hide or to hide something, this was the perfect place.

"In there?" Olympias cast a querulous look at Kinovas.

"Yes."

Kinovas moved to the door. Slowly, carefully, he opened it just enough to slide his hand through. Olympias could not see what he was doing, but it appeared that he was lifting something if the motion of his right arm was any indication. Within moments Kinovas finished. He turned and motioned to Olympias to follow him. Casting one more look around her, Olympias moved forward and through the door.

Immediately, Olympias scrunched up her nose. The reek inside this house was almost unbearable. Odours from stale grasses, rotted food, human and animal excrement and of putrefying flesh all competed with each other in offensiveness. The sunlight, fighting its way through the covered window, provided scant illumination. Although Olympias' eyes quickly adjusted to the haze, she found the impairment to her vision uncomfortable and annoying. Kinovas had already moved to the next room so it appeared to the queen that he would not be lighting a lamp or torch to assist her. Grudgingly she followed him. She was careful not to lift her feet too high, just in case she tripped or stumbled over something lying hidden on the debris-strewn floor.So intent was Olympias on watching her steps, she was unprepared for what she saw next.

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Auelias

"Worrying so much will not help you or this child," said Cleopatra, gently rubbing her distended belly. She looked up at Philip's back. He was still staring out the window.

Without turning to face his pregnant wife, Philip replied, "As of late, I face too many intrigues, plots and treacheries. Years ago, running this court was a relatively simple affair. Now we are flooded with self-servers, cheats, liars and worst of all the bureaucracy. As much as I try to maintain control, I never really know what is transpiring anymore. I am certain of such few things..."

Cleopatra was dismayed to see her husband in such melancholy.

Rumours of revolt and assassination had eaten him up and spit him out.

Cleopatra knew that his mental state was not wrought by fear but out of concern for her and her unborn child. Philip never backed down. He truly feared little. But the conflicts within his family, the problems with the settlements in Asia Minor, the upcoming campaign, the Olympics and the impending birth of his son, were for the first time beginning to stress him seriously. Cleopatra knew that the only means at her disposal to console or comfort him was to leave him to his introspection and to always be available to him.

"Soon you will have another son to gloat over. And he will, one day, help Alexander rule over the civilized world. Be thankful. Come sit near me. You have not been as affectionate of late. Do I repulse you?"

laughingly asked Cleopatra. Philip's amorous charges had slowed in the past few weeks and to be honest with herself, she was glad. Her size made her uncomfortable and making love was too much of a chore. Of course she would never tell Philip. And in his mind-state, sex was not a priority.

Still, to assuage his ego, Cleopatra grabbed at him.

"What...are you in heat woman?" asked Philip, squirming to get away from Cleopatra's groping hands. "Easy...stop it!" yelped Philip, mocking anger.

Cleopatra laughed as she gently and good-naturedly wrestled with her husband. Both squealed like children.

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"Your highness..."

"King Philip..."

Suddenly, a short cough came from the other side of the room.

Philip turned quickly, half-rising out of his chair as he simultaneously drew a dirk from about his waist. "Who are you?" he demanded sternly. "What do you want? How did you get in here? Where is my bodyguard? Prepare to die..." Philip's sharp-edged tone had been heard outside the door because suddenly it burst open as both bodyguards charged through.

Auelias immediately backed up toward the wall, his arms outstretched with his hands open. His fright was obvious and he blubbered out, "Philip, it is me Auelias. You told me to watch Kathos. Please. Don't you recognize me? The guard let me in. You told me (and them) that I was to be allowed access to you at any time, day or night. I am not an assassin. Please. Listen to me!" The words gushed out at such a rate they were difficult to understand.

Philip stopped his attack. He turned to his bodyguards. Both looked rather sheepish. They had let Auelias in to see Philip because he had told them that he carried important news. Never had they expected this to occur. And both were confused: Philip had given them specific orders, now he was acting like a madman because they had followed them.

Philip too was confused. So engrossed had he been with Cleopatra, that he had not heard the announcement from his guards. When Philip looked up and saw Auelias standing there, he had failed to recognize him. Fearing assassination he had attacked. The resulting foolishness had frightened his wife not to mention Auelias and had embarrassed him and his bodyguards. I have to get control over this fear, Philip thought to himself. He took a deep breath, and smiled. But in the pit of his stomach he felt dread.

Seeing his king relax, Auelias sighed, relieved that the situation had not escalated. A shudder, like the aftershock of an earthquake, rippled This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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through him as he tried to regain his composure. "I...I..." he stuttered.

Now angry with himself he swallowed, grit his teeth and began again.

"I followed Kathos and his henchmen...just as you ordered."

Philip felt his face flush. Ordered. He could not remember any more what he had ordered.

Getting no visible response, Auelias continued. "For awhile after Pausanius was found, Kathos hung around a tavern not too far from the wastes." The wastes Auelis referred to were the areas the city dumped its garbage. "Most of the time, he and his cohorts just drank. Sometimes they fought with each other…sometimes with others. No one unusual talked to them. I was about to report to you that this mission was accomplishing nothing until two days ago. A man, a little man, approached Kathos while he was having dinner. He looked so odd beside Kathos that I decided that I would not leave until this had played itself out. I was too far away to hear what was being discussed but whatever it was it pleased Kathos. Soon after, Kathos called the rest of his men to him. They laughed and clapped each other on the back. Then they left. The little man too." Auelias had tried to modulate the earlier panic in his voice. He hoped that the softer, even tone reflected the officious nature of his report.

By now Philip had sat down beside his wife on the couch. He listened with interest to the young soldier's story. I picked a good one for this job, he thought. Philip leaned toward his wife who whispered into his ear. Philip nodded in agreement.

"This little man you saw...was he a dwarf?" asked Philip.

"No. He was shorter than most men; maybe half a head less than Alexander. And his face was dark. Not like the famous Piros. But darker than most Greeks."

"Anything else?" Philip was curious to know who this new player was.

Auelias shifted slightly. There had been something; something that made no sense, an intangible that he could not prove. Philip was This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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looking at him, expecting an answer. Auelias stiffened his back and continued.

"Yes." Auelias took a breath. "He knew."

"Knew what?" asked Philip.

"He knew that I was watching him. I don't know how but he knew that I was following Kathos. Even more confusing, I am fairly confident that he didn't tell Kathos."

"Why would you think that?"

"He made it easy to trail them without being obvious. There was no way that Kathos could have known I was dogging him. The little man doubled back, took Kathos on dead ends, and even moved through houses and other buildings. Yet none of these evasive actions was enough to lose me. And I am no braggart. He wanted me to follow them but he didn't want Kathos to know..."

"So he did just enough to put Kathos at ease," interjected Philip.

This was getting interesting. Even Cleopatra was fascinated by this report.

Philip could tell by how hard she was squeezing his hand as she listened to Auelias.

"I followed them to a small, abandoned house. I watched it for a while. No one came or left. Eventually I heard laughing. It appeared to be a party. I moved in closer to hear..."

"...what? What did you hear?" interrupted Philip again.

"I heard Kathos say, 'I wish that Companion was younger. He was a little flabby for my taste'. I'm not sure but I think he was referring to Pausanius," said Auelias.

"Give me the directions to the house. Then go and find Piros.

Tell him what you told me and bring him there." Philip barked out the command like the leader he was. "You, Buros and Archeos, come with me. And bring my sword." By now Philip was on his feet and moving to This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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the door. Fury had cloaked his face in shadow. Cleopatra saw and was frightened.

Auelias quickly drew a diagram on a scrap piece of parchment.

Philip waited for Auelias to finish then he grabbed the scrap, signaled his bodyguards and charged down the halls, not once looking back. Auelias too took off as he went to fetch Piros. Cleopatra, suddenly left alone, trembled once then closed and bolted the door.

As soon as Philip and his guards left the palace grounds, they settled into an easy lope, the kind of running that consumed miles without excessively tiring the runners. All three men moved in silence, only the occasional clanging of a sword against a shield or belt interrupting the forced silence. They passed many Macedonian citizens but as Philip's presence among them was common, few looked up from their labours to see the king. Others however, yelled greetings to Philip but neither Philip nor his bodyguards paid them attention. All three were consumed by the need to find Kathos and extract some measure of retribution for the atrocity perpetrated on Pausanius.

As they approached the dilapidated dwelling, Philip signaled his escort to slow their pace. The king had seen too many traps to allow a charge headlong into a potential ambush. He stopped across from the little house. With his bodyguards, he silently surveyed the street, looking for anything that did not belong in this environment. The street, nothing much more than an alley, was littered with the flotsam of a growing city. Old clothes, broken pottery, rotted food, human waste all combined to give this area the most forbidding appearance. Even a soldier like Philip realized that on this, the decaying underbelly of a growing metropolis, life had only as much worth as the living could contribute. Philip sniffed. The stench came not from the myriad objects strewn about the street but from fear and despair. Hopelessness was a tangible entity in this dirty little corner of Pella. No marches, no wars, no victories could improve the condition of this ghetto. Philip was stunned by the ferocity of this air. The wind, less even than the breeze that had gently fanned Philip at his castle, carried a searing odor, a scent strong enough to order Philip away from this little house.

All three men huddled against the wall. Except for their eyes darting back and forth, none of them moved. Even when a rat, foraging for This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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food, inadvertently bumped into Philip's foot, no one so much as twitched.

The control Philip's mind exerted over his body precluded any reaction to external stimuli, even to something as revolting as a rat.

Philip and his guards had not been there long when they heard the sound of approaching footsteps. Within moments, Auelias, Piros and Dioxippus turned the corner of the house next to the one Philip was standing beside. Auelias spotted Philip, and signaling Piros and his companion, joined the king and his bodyguards. Now the group was up to six, but so well did they blend into the shadows along the wall, the six were all but invisible from across the street. Nobody spoke. The only sound to be heard was the slightly laboured breathing of the new arrivals.

Piros caught the eye of the king. Both men looked deep into each other's eyes and read there the tenets of friendship. To Piros, Philip was vindicated. Not only had he found the criminals who had attacked Pausanius he had himself come to exact retribution. Piros did not need to hear Philip. In his eyes he could see that whatever Philip had become, or was becoming, he would always remain the loquacious youth who used to so annoy his Theban "hosts" with his various pranks and profligate mouth that when it came time for him to be returned to Macedonia, they all but threw him out of the city. At that time, Piros had chosen to follow the young prince. There had been few times since then that he had regretted his decision. Now standing here, waiting for the word to destroy Kathos and his twisted henchmen, Piros was glad that Philip appeared to once again be the man he served, admired and even loved.

"Auelias. Is there a back exit?" whispered Philip.

"No, your highness. Only through the front door or side windows can you gain entry. I doubt they suspect anything. Only one person concerns me. The little man. He can smell us. And I don't know if he is with Kathos at this moment," replied Auelias.

"He is one man. On my signal, Piros, Dioxippus and I will break down the front door. You three watch the windows. If no one tries to escape that way, follow us into the house." Philip's instructions came out in a harsh whisper, but all understood. "Draw your swords. On my count, charge them."

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Low scraping sounds scratched the night still as the swords were drawn from their leather scabbards. Only Dioxippus was silent, having refused to carry a weapon. Philip looked around once more then using a hand signal to alert the group, charged across the narrow street.

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Kinovas shows what he has done

"Ohhhh...Gods of Olympus...what have you done?!" screeched Olympias.

"What you asked," came the quiet reply. Kinovas watched his queen's hysterics impassively.

Olympias forced herself to look. Even someone as hard-hearted, as merciless as her, was not prepared for the destruction before her.

Strewn haphazardly around the dirty, dingy room were the savagely violated corpses of Kathos' henchmen. All the violence, the criminal actions, the disregard for human life or dignity that Kathos' men had made a crucial part of their existence appeared to have imploded, leaving their bodies nothing more than bloody husks. Great gaping wounds about their necks and torsos left little mystery as to what finally snuffed out life's spark. But these were as nothing compared to the mayhem that had been ravaged on them before they mercifully died. Kinovas had somehow managed to bind the hands and feet of the members of this gang. Then he had made them pay for every atrocity they had ever perpetrated on another human being. With the delicate hand of a surgeon, Kinovas had first amputated whatever extremities had caught his attention. Fingers, toes, an arm on one, the tongue of another had been as neatly severed as a string under a knife. Blood, skin and shards of bone, mixed carelessly with bits and pieces of body parts, polluted the floor, the walls, the very being of this tiny hovel. And from the evidence that was so sickeningly apparent, not one of the victims had been allowed to die until he had witnessed the systematic insanity exercised on his comrades. The terror was palpable.

The fear that Kinovas had managed to extract from what had been men still resonated against the walls. And perhaps the greatest abomination of all, at least to the now sickened Olympias, was that Kinovas now stood before her, unperturbed.

"Was this...necessary?" asked Olympias, her voice quavering.

"You asked that I make them suffer. They suffered." Kinovas still showed no emotion.

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Olympias forced herself to look down at the carnage. Although of a tougher mettle than most people, she could feel herself inadvertently swallowing as she willed herself to calm. She looked at the bodies closer.

The poor light, fighting its way into the dankness of the back room cast a murky haze over everything so it was difficult for Olympias to identify what were now nothing more than faceless cadavers.

"Which one is Kathos?" she asked.

"He's not there," answered Kinovas.

"What! You wasted your time with this garbage and you let the ringleader get away? Have you lost your mind? It is Kathos I want...not these degenerates. Find him...idiot!" Olympias was unaware that she was yelling, so angry was she. It was beyond comprehension that Kinovas could subdue three men, torture and kill them, and still be incapable of apprehending the leader of the group. Her anger had squelched her disgust; she began to move around the room, kicking corpses, stepping on body parts and ranting at Kinovas.

For the first time since he had gone to get Olympias, Kinovas displayed a faint hint of emotion. But rather than anger or frustration at being the recipient of the queen's vitriol, the Theban looked hurt. The verbal assault hurt him more than the physical assault he had taken when he subdued Kathos and his cohorts. He could not understand why she was furious. He had done what she asked.

"Why are you still standing there?" snapped Olympias.

"Your Highness. Kathos is here."

Olympias stopped. Her head whipped around as she scanned the room. "Where..."

"Here." Kinovas kicked what appeared to be a pile of rags. A few pieces of cloth fluttered across the floor. Where they had been, lay Kathos, bound, gagged and terrified. Although his face showed evidence of a severe beating, it was the blood-soaked rag wrapped around his genital area that drew Olympias' eyes. It took little imagination to guess what Kinovas had done to Kathos.

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"Will he live...for long?" asked Olympias.

"As long as a rapist deserves."

Olympias nodded. She was aware that Kinovas' timeline for Kathos was very short. It was unfortunate that she could not have been here while Kinovas was emasculating Kathos. That she would have enjoyed.

Suddenly, Kinovas wheeled around to face the front entrance.

"Somebody comes..."

"Kill him," ordered the queen.

Kinovas drew his dagger. In one fluid motion he had stepped over to the prostate Kathos, lifted his head by the hair and slit his throat.

Except for faint gurgling, the operation was silent.

Just as his blade was completing its diagonal trek, the front door exploded with the impact of Philip and Piros' bodies. Sunlight flooded the two-room hovel, removing the muting shadows. Every detail of the earlier carnage blazed forth. Piros, Philip and the slightly trailing Dioxippus stopped: the shock momentarily immobilizing them. But within a few heartbeats, they resumed their advance. Yet, they moved cautiously, not ever suspecting that only one man was responsible for this slaughter.

When they saw Kinovas, a small, almost frail-looking man, standing beside Olympias, they were speechless.

Olympias decided to break this verbal impasse. "Well...as usual, you are too late to do anything. This scum..." Olympias swept her arm in a low, semi-circle, indicating the dead bodies, "...wanted to kidnap, maybe even murder me. If not for Kinovas, I would have probably been in their place. By your late arrival, I assume that you did not particularly care what happened to me. Your lackeys sure proved to be of no value, other than to destroy a rotten door. And...where are your other morons? You don't usually go out without them."

Almost on cue, Buros and Archeos, the king's personal bodyguards, entered the building, crowding it even further.

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"Your highness must have been truly terrified to have feared a man trussed, beaten and castrated." Dioxippus' sarcasm was not lost on the Queen.

"You speak...puppet? I never thought you capable of an intelligent utterance. It appears that Piros has taught his pit dog well.

What next? Should I throw a stick?" Olympias' haughty return silenced the young pankratiatist.

"Please forgive Dioxippus. He has not yet learned to phrase his questions in a manner that bears no insult," said Piros to Olympias. His carefully measured tone was intended to mollify the queen. It didn't.

"Shut-up Piros. Do not attempt to kiss my ass with your whiny supplications. I am not Philip. I don't need to be liked or admired. I don't need to be flattered. I know what I am, what I want and how I will get it.

If something stands in my way I eliminate it. Like Kathos and his..."

Olympias did not finish before her delicately sandaled foot arched back, then shot forward in a vicious kicking motion toward the head of the dead Kathos. The impact, muted by the bare foot hitting skin and hair, nevertheless reverberated through the tiny enclosure.

Up to this point, Philip had remained silent. He had watched and listened to the exchanges between Olympias, Dioxippus and Piros as unobtrusively as possible. This story of attempted kidnapping was farcical.

This witch had Kathos killed. That was certain. She had also made him pay in pain; for whatever Kathos had done to incur her displeasure had been returned with almost unparalleled savagery. And this little man...where did he fit in this equation?

"Well. What are you staring at? Are you going to allow these trained apes to question me? I am still the queen. Call off these baboons now!" snorted Olympias, her glare scorching the objects of her vitriol.

"I serve the king. I have no need to listen to the maniacal ramblings of the court's supreme..."

"Shutup," Piros whispered harshly to the offended Dioxippus.

"Now is not the time for your remarks."

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"It will never be, Piros. Your plaything there has his days numbered. I don't care what he does in the Olympiad or the battlefield.

His disrespect will be punished. No mortal talks to a queen in his manner.

And...little one," the words slithering out of her serpentine mouth, "...Philip will not be around forever. Sooner or later...you will be mine."

Suddenly, Philip stepped forward, cocked his arm then released it in a vicious sweep that flew until the back of his hand cracked against Olympias' cheek. The blow, coming from a large, battle-hardened warrior, knocked the tiny woman halfway across the room, whereupon she stumbled over one of the corpses causing her to fall to the blood-soaked floor. Kinovas was already leaping to her side and almost caught her before she made contact with the putrid mess under their feet but it was too late to keep her from soiling the beautiful and probably very expensive chiton she was wearing. Olympias reached for Kinovas' arms and pulled herself up. She straightened herself as well as she could, pausing almost reflexively to pat a few loose tresses of hair. Then, like a bolt from a catapult, she flew across the room and with just as much anger, if not ferocity, she slapped her husband. Immediately, large red welts appeared on his cheek where the long, elegant nails had strafed the sensitive skin barely showing above his beard. This time Philip's hand rose to his face, sensing, then feeling the tiny droplets of blood.

Fearless, the queen stood before him, challenging him with flashing, triumphant eyes. Olympias reveled in this type of confrontation and her absolute disrespect of Philip made a psychological victory over her husband a given. Although no words came out of her mouth, her whole physical demeanor dared the king to try again.

Philip was furious. With little prodding he would have joyfully beat Olympias to death. But her inner strength transcended mere mortal limitations. Her aura, vehemently sexual leaped out of the confines of her body, crackling obscenely in the charged air of that little room. Philip could feel it, even taste it. But his own vitality was as nothing compared to Olympias'. He did not move toward her.

It was Kinovas, who gently but forcefully, cradled the queen's arm in his, and moved her away, breaking the impasse between the couple.

Olympias could not resist one last glare even as she moved from her spot.

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"Get her out of here!" snapped Philip at Kinovas. "Now...or I'll kill the both of you." He leaned slightly forward, jutted his jaw out and said, "I know that somehow you two are involved in this, this..." Philip motioned with his arms, indicating the carnage violating the sanctity of what had become a sacrosanct temple of death.

"I would not be so quick with my words...as stupid as they are,"

snapped Olympias, the edge in her voice indicating that she was ready for another fight even a physical one. "And while you are standing there like the moron you are, think of this. Kathos was the one who raped your precious Pausanius. And as he lay dying he confessed that he had been hired to 'service' Pausanius by someone in the King's court. Could it be loving husband, that you hired Kathos in a jealous rage over my coupling with Pausanius. Are you jealous, love of my life?" Olympias' acerbic wit angered the king again and he would have lunged forward save for the powerful hands of Piros gripping him like a vise. "Let him go Piros,"

whispered Olympias. She was almost gasping with anticipation, the thrill of the moment exciting her, wetting her in the innermost parts of her body.

She longed to feel the sexual frenzy that always came whenever she was combating power such as that represented by the most powerful regent in the civilized world. It was this struggle to fulfill her childhood desire to be the ultimate authority that forced Philip away from her. She knew this. He may have been a brilliant strategist and utterly maniacal in battle but with her he was as a child. Olympias exploited this flaw while cursing the gods who had made her a woman and therefore unlikely to ever hold absolute power over these simpletons Philip called subjects. Olympias took one more look at her husband. Absent-mindedly her tongue darted between her teeth to moisten her slightly parted, full red lips. Her almost coquettish expression belied the intense hatred she now felt for the man she had at one time loved enough to conceive a child with.

"We will leave." Kinovas' voice distracted Olympias.

Unhurriedly, she looked away from Philip to Kinovas, nodded assent and with barely a glance, walked between the parting warriors barring the exit, and out the door.

Piros, Dioxippus and the other bodyguards stood shell-shocked.

This whole confrontation had taken only a few moments yet all four felt as if they had been bested in some type of martial arts contest. Philip on the other hand was angrier more than he was flabbergasted. Somehow, that This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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puny bitch had once again managed to humiliate him. He felt like the idiot in some macabre tragedy she was directing. He would probably never best her as long as Alexander was alive to protect her. Philip felt a momentary pang of envy as he realized that Alexander would always favour his mother over him. This irked him; it bothered him even more to recognize this jealousy as a weakness in himself. Gods almighty he cried to himself, rid me of her...I cannot even avenge my loyal servant Pausanius because she, with what appears to be no more help than a man barely taller than a child, has beaten me to it and in the process shamed me. Philip looked around at his men, who were by now silently watching him, their expressionless faces still failing to disguise their confusion.

"Pausanius has been avenged. We will go back." Without so much as a glance at the men in his party, Philip walked out the door. Like loyal hunting dogs, Archeos and Buros fell in behind him.

"Philip," called out Piros.

But the king did not respond.

Dioxippus laid his hand on Piros' shoulder. "It's over," he said.

"We too should return."

Piros shook his head defiantly. His fists clenched and unclenched while the tendons in his neck bulged with unreleased tension. The earlier adrenalin rush had keyed up his body for an action that never came and he was finding it difficult to subdue the torrent raging through his veins. If only there were some release...

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Piros remembers…

It had been his first Olympics. And as a participant in the pankration he had garnered an inordinate amount of attention for a young rookie. His close alliance to the new Macedonian king, Philip, along with his Theban upbringing made him an object of mystery. His exotic colour also did nothing to alleviate the intense curiousity of the spectators that year. Although Piros was neither intimidated nor flattered by the unwanted notice of the masses he was aware of it and strove to minimize his profile by only appearing in public when it was his turn to compete. So far this had proven to be a successful method for maintaining his composure. Until today.

It was his quarterfinal match today. As other events were being run concurrently, most of the officials projected relatively small crowds--

even for an event as popular as the pankration. But Piros, on his walk to the venue, could sense a static electricity charging the air. As he came to the open amphitheatre, he heard the clamor of thousands of moving, shuffling bodies gradually unite into a rising roar of anticipation. Piros was spotted almost immediately and the crowd erupted in a cacophony of applause, jeers, compliments, insults and everything in between. To the young Piros, this almost rabid horde of spectators was as fearsome an enemy as the opponent he would be facing momentarily. He was tempted to stare at this throbbing, pulsating organism composed of thousands of human cells. And although he feared a weakening of resolve in the face of this external pressure, he was more afraid of allowing himself to believe that he might gain some psychological advantage from all his well-wishers of which there were many. The debate within his brain would have probably continued if he had not been distracted from his meditation by the sudden storm of voices as the crowd stood on their seats, straining to catch an early glimpse of their favorite, Piros' opponent, Archimides. Unable to resist, Piros turned to see.

A massive, moving monolith lumbered across the sand-packed floor of the combat ring. With nary a glance at the whooping crowd, Archimedes focused his baleful gaze upon a suddenly unsure Piros. Piros tried to keep from gawking by averting his eyes but like a bird to a snake, he could not control himself. Even at this distance, Piros could not help but notice the heavy brow, accentuated by the scar tissue of myriad battles, pulling the sloping forehead of his soon to be enemy, down even further, This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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giving the faintest impression of retardation. Coupled with a demeanor that bespoke tiredness and resignation, some might have been fooled enough to assume that Archimedes was beyond his prime but Piros was not. He could see that the hulking shoulders, stooped by too many years in the ring, failed to conceal the ferocious power lying there. Further examination revealed a trunk, albeit layered by fat, as thick and hard as a wine barrel. Supporting this structure were legs shaped like bowed posts, as though the weight they bolstered was so great that it warped the very bones within them. Consequently, Piros did not need to second-guess the power lurking in that body. An experienced pankratiatist acknowledged size; there was always somebody bigger. That Piros could handle, as he had on innumerable other occasions. What caught Piros' attention even more than the sheer physicality of his adversary was the practiced ease and grace of movement with which Archimedes spread the traditional oil over his now naked body. This too was an indicator to Piros that the bout making ready to start would be a hard--if not fatal--one.

As Piros took his turn slowly spreading the thick, lightly scented oil over his body, he concentrated on relaxing his muscles and freeing his mind. Still, he was barely aware of the oil,

or the deep massaging action of his short, powerful fingers. He was too consumed with strategy after strategy springing forth in his brain, only to dissipate seconds later. In response to the chaotic ricocheting of ideas in his head, his body began to twitch with nervous apprehension. Mumbling curses at his lack of mental control, Piros looked up and across the ring at his opponent.

Archimedes waited. Smiling. Confident. Ready.

Piros averted his eyes. Again he swore to himself, his anger vying to wrest control away from his fear. Suddenly he trembled, frustrating himself even further. And making his discomfort, his confusion worse, was the happily grinning Archimedes who through some telepathic sense knew that Piros had already suffered defeat.

"Are the combatants ready?"

Piros' head snapped to the right. The referee, clothed in a long, cream-colored chiton pulled up and secured between his knees, exposing This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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the lower part of his legs, stood ready, his switch (used for enforcing the rules) clasped tightly in his left hand. He looked at Piros expectantly.

"Yes. We're both ready!" boomed Archimedes' voice from across the ring.

Again Piros found his will wanting. He could only nod affirmatively at the referee.

"Then begin."

Piros had barely taken two steps into the ring before Archimedes crashed into him. Knocked backwards, Piros stumbled, falling onto his backside. Archimedes leaped after him, a predatory cat about to slay its crippled prey. But Piros, instantaneously comprehending that he would be as defenseless as a turtle if turned onto his back, curled his spine, raised his knees and in one blurring instant rolled backwards, somersaulting onto his feet and safely out of the range of the diving Archimedes. Then, by reflex more than plan, Piros lunged back at Archimedes who was desperately trying to get to his feet before the counter-attack. He saw Piros and raised his huge, roughly calloused hands to fend off the assault.

Piros launched two whistling blows to the unprotected face of his opponent. Archimedes reacted by turning his cheek away from the first and raising his arm to deflect the second. But Piros' punches were fakes.

His catapulted limbs were scarcely pulled back before he suddenly dropped himself to one knee, thrust his whole torso forward and within the same movement, wrapped his prodigious biceps around the upper thighs of his adversary. Before Archimedes could fall or attempt to pull away, Piros stood erect and with the added leverage, lifted Archimedes high into the air, turned him and threw him onto his stomach. Piros maintained his grip on the legs with his right arm and used his left to help him keep his balance on Archimedes' back. But fumbling about on the oil-slick skin thwarted Piros' attempt to get a submission hold on Archimedes' arm.

Archimedes, aware that his opponent was losing control, twisted violently, the centrifugal force not only propelling him to his feet but also sending Piros flying. Piros scrambled to regain himself but the leviathan he had only momentarily downed descended upon him like some

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earthquake driven force. Piros dove to escape a clinch. Archimedes, too far away to grab the much smaller, much faster Piros instead lashed out with a kick to Piros' midsection. Piros crossed his forearms in front of him, intercepting the kick. Unfortunately for Piros, Archimedes' foot and shin tore right through the defense, pushing Piros out of the drawn circle.

Archimedes pursued him, scenting blood. He had barely taken two steps toward Piros before a whistling sound followed by the snap of wood against skin stopped him cold. Glowering he turned to the referee and mouthed an epithet, the muffled words barely concealing his fury. The referee, significantly smaller than the man-mountain he was controlling with his puny switch, nevertheless stepped between Archimedes and the prone Piros, and waved the bigger man back.

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336 B.C. Elis, Pella, Olympia, Aegea.

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Dioxippus