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

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The light, languorously crawling over the dawn horizon, barely illuminated the modest hovel serving as a barracks for the pankratiatists.

Exhaustion from the previous day's training clamped their eyelids tight--so tight that the torpid rays of an early summer sun were unable to stimulate them to wakefulness.

Except for one.

Dioxippus lay with his arms crossed behind his head, his eyes flitting about as they searched for patterns, marks and other oddities impressed upon the ceiling. The satiny, yellow-red softness of the growing light, cast muted shadows about the room as it draped the still sleeping athletes. Peace, pure and natural, gently settled over Dioxippus--for no reasons that he could probably pinpoint. For the first time since he had come to Elis to prepare for the Olympics, he felt relaxed.

He turned onto his left side. Before him, laid out on what used to be a tile floor, were two rows of four, blissfully snoring pankratiatists.

Dioxippus smiled. In two days, the Olympics would start. On the fourth day of the games, he would have to fight for the olive wreath against some of these men. But for now, it was enough just to enjoy the closeness, the unity in purpose--the comradeship. Dioxippus fit in this group comfortably. He regretted that he would have to engage in combat with the athletes who over the last two weeks had become his friends.

He turned onto his back again. Closing his eyes slightly, he began to muse over the controversy that he had somehow managed to generate once again. It was less than a month ago, just after Petros had injured him in the qualifying match. He and Piros had been trying to placate an enraged Pausanius. The former King's Companion had just been told that his assaulters had been terminated before they could be made to confess.

And even though Philip had shown great character and loyalty to the discredited Pausanius by pursuing Kathos and his henchmen, Pausanius still refused to accept that Philip was somehow not involved with the personal violation he had been subjected to. He believed, with god-inspired passion, that Attalus, in revenge for his effrontery in fornicating with Olympias, had planned and had executed this attack on him.

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friends, Piros and Dioxippus. All he could rant about was revenge against Attalus. He also, albeit foolishly, muttered about exacting an accounting from Philip but his traitorous words stopped just short of treason.

Dioxippus, more loyal than practical, publicly supported Pausanius. Unlike Piros, he felt that he did not owe the king anything more than a normal subject would. And even though Philip's eager willingness to rectify the wrong done to Pausanius was admirable, it had just been too convenient to find Kathos and his band already dead when they came upon them. Dioxippus did not, like Pausanius, believe that Philip had orchestrated the attack. He did however suspect Attalus, who was protected by the king. This viewpoint had made it uncomfortable to stay in Pella, so Dioxippus waived the special exemption that Philip had arranged for him and came to Elis to join the other Olympians, most of whom had been there for ten months already. Of course, that meant he had forsaken the opportunity to meet Yiorgakas, Alexander's champion, in the arranged preliminary. This had angered the young prince, whose delicate ego frustrated easily. Even Piros had felt slighted, as Dioxippus' action was interpreted by some as cowardly which obviously reflected on his trainer.

Having offended both friend and enemy, Dioxippus had arrived in Elis, burdened with doubt and interminably lonely for his friends, particularly Panthea, with whom he had fallen in love. But the rules were strict. No visitors, friends or lovers. Yet being alone somehow focused him in a way he had been unable to before. It was as if all his problems could be controlled by the action within the ring. Dioxippus had come to the realization that when engaged in combat his worldly problems subsided. The struggle to survive then win shunted aside the petty and the serious concerns storming his mind. The more he fought, the more relaxed he became. That was when he was his most dangerous.

While training, Dioxippus continued to introduce new, untried innovations into his style of fighting. His reliance on long-range punching and kicking had already made him famous. By forcing his opponents to contend with his extensive array of striking techniques, he had elevated the pankration to a new level. The days of rolling around in the dirt, clutching and grabbing in some poor imitation of wrestling were coming to an end.

Across Hellas, young boys were throwing high, fast kicks closely followed by perfectly executed boxing combinations. Brutality was giving way to This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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speed and finesse and even veterans as acknowledged as Piros were recognizing the effectiveness of this new "way". Dioxippus was only marginally aware of his influence. He was far more concerned with the evolvement of the art as he saw it. And now, lying here on his mat, mentally secluded from his fellows, he reviewed yet another discovery.

It had happened shortly after he had been so traumatically injured by the unconstrained Petros. Piros, eager to find Dioxippus an easy opponent, chanced upon the unknown Agemmemnon. And in most respects, it was a good choice Piros made. Dioxippus' challenger possessed enough skill to test the young champion without presenting an undue threat. It also allowed Dioxippus to employ his whole arsenal with confidence. Coupled with the fact that his battered shoulder had held up, Dioxippus had counted this session a great success. Except for one fleeting moment.

While kicking relentlessly at various targets on his opponent's body, Dioxippus slipped in the sand. The momentary imbalance left his foot and leg hanging a second too long. Agemmemnon grabbed the extremity and pulled hard to his right, desperately trying to throw Dioxippus to the ground. Dioxippus, bigger and stronger, managed to yank his foot free but not until he had been turned so hard that his back now faced his opponent. Instinct, honed by years of practice, warned him that Agemmemnon was about to leap on his back. Unable to roll, with not enough time to spin away, Dioxippus was defenseless. Whether inspired, lucky, or by reflex, Dioxippus thrust out his other leg in a rearward direction. Instantly, he felt the flat of his foot impact something hard.

Turning his head over his shoulder, Dioxippus saw Agemmemnon stagger back, his hands clutching at a spot on his hip. The surprise counter had not really injured Agemmemnon but there was no question from his reaction that it had surprised maybe even frightened him. No less astonished was Dioxippus. This was something completely new. His prior modifications to the system had been revelatory only in the sense that the established means of combat contained incredible potential that had never been realized until Dioxippus systematically recast the way a kick was delivered, a punch thrown, a man grappled. But this spinning, then delivering a technique from an apparently defenseless position was divinely

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inspired. The possibilities were endless. Attack was no longer limited to a frontal assault. Dioxippus could perceive how the pankration could ascend to an even higher level, as feint and parry could now be complemented by fakery and trickery. The science of the art would gain mastery over the brutality.

Dioxippus sat up, startled. Someone or something had bumped into the empty water containers left outside. Suddenly, Dioxippus heard a cat screech and a blur of fur flash past the open window. Relieved, Dioxippus lay back down but not before he glanced around him to see that not one of the other sleeping pankratiatists had so much as even shifted.

He made a sardonic mental note that if these athletes ever became soldiers to transfer to another unit.

As Dioxippus slipped back into that shadowy netherworld that existed between conscious thought and unconscious sleep, a world where thoughts and ideas could unfold slowly and where nothing was limited by the constraints of actuality, he summoned back the images that had impressed themselves upon him over the last few days. The contests, the people, the foods, the tiredness, the exaltation, the pain, the rapture, the tension, all these fell upon his mind's eye like a torrential downpour. But one image, standing solid amongst the fleeting wisps was again, Dioxippus on his hands and knees looking at Agemmemnon staggering back with the ludicrous expression on his face. Again and again the body was spun, and again and again the leg flashed out of its chambered position in a rearward direction.

As good as the lingering image was, Dioxippus' intellect pushed through the dreamworld to disseminate the frivolous throng of voices, faces, events. Logic charged Dioxippus' brain with the task to analyze then adapt what had been a fluke of circumstance and physics to a strategically sound counter-offensive. From the smug, complacent state of his almost-sleep Dioxippus was roused to a hard analytical assessment of his discovery. His eyes flashed open in response.

Still, no one else had awakened. Dioxippus raised himself up to a seating position. He would not be able to sleep any longer. He reached forward, gathered up his chiton and in one practiced motion, pulled and secured it about him. Then cautiously, so as not to disturb anyone, he got to his feet and surreptitiously let himself out the door. Outside, the rising This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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sun hurled long thin shadows over the hard-packed ground. A few birds scratched about the dirt, looking for worms attracted to the surface by the residual moisture of the morning dew. The bright yellow-white of the midday sun had not manifested itself yet. Rather, a soft, almost pink incandescence flowed over the landscape, lending an ephemeral gentleness to this sacred place.

The serenity of the scene was not lost on Dioxippus. However, this ideal time, eroding rapidly, needed to be used for purposes other than meditation.

Just beyond the dilapidated courtyard was a solitary olive tree.

Little vegetation surrounded it and the ground was relatively clear of bumps, roots or other obstacles. Perfect, thought Dioxippus. Stepping into the area shaded by the knurled old tree, Dioxippus removed his chiton.

The dawn sun had not yet warmed the air and the young pankratiatist trembled slightly when the still crisp air hit his naked body. The slight discomfort was ignored as Dioxippus slowly stretched then did some warm-up calisthenics. When he had exercised enough to warm his body again, he took the combat stance and faced the tree. His feet were positioned almost parallel to each other, the left one ahead of the right by about the width of a shoulder. The hands were raised, the left slightly lower and ahead of the right also. To most observers, Dioxippus resembled more a boxer than a pankratiatist, and that would have been a fairly accurate assessment as Dioxippus always favored the boxer's offensive position to the wrestler's defensive one. Dioxippus did however differ from his boxing brethren--his legs were drawn up a little closer to each other so that when kicks were utilized, travel-time and balance were maintained. Dioxippus looked at the tree-trunk in front of him. Mentally-imaging a target, Dioxippus quickly pivoted his front foot, turning it in.

Instantaneously, his head and neck turned in the same direction but in a half circle, to be closely followed by the spinning trunk, hip and legs.

When the revolution was almost complete, the right leg, drawn up tight during the rotation, ripped out of its cocoon. Dirt and pieces of bark exploded as the hard calloused heel slammed into the brittle bark of the ancient olive tree. Dioxippus grinned.

Dioxippus did not let his pleasure become euphoria. Although the spinning kick, as he would refer to it from now on, had the potential to be a maliciously painful counter-attack the efficacy of the technique was This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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questionable. There were in fact, inherent problems with it that Dioxippus, now a seasoned veteran of the ring, recognized. The spinning action necessitated turning his back, albeit momentarily, to his opponent: his balance was maintained on one foot while his body was being simultaneously subjected to a whirling centrifugal force. These factors exposed him to counters that would not only negate the spinning kick but also handicap the rest of his arsenal.

Surprise, thought Dioxippus. The strength of the spinning kick lay in surprise. Its effectiveness was dependent upon Dioxippus' ability to first choose the moment then disguise its utilization. And it would probably be a one-shot, desperation-driven stab at victory. That thought sobered Dioxippus.

From the antiquated abode across the dusty yard, sleepy, disgruntled voices arose. The rest of the pankratiatists were beginning to rise.

Smiling evilly, Dioxippus ran back to the dwelling, screaming, yelling...and laughing. His friends would all wake up now.

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Alexander is counseled by Hephaestion

"We have come a long way. Now you want to go back?"

"I have a campaign to plan. I cannot waste time watching adults play children's games."

Hephaestion shook his head. Alexander's answer to his question was almost blasphemous. The Olympics were far more than a series of physical contests. It was a homage to gods who idealized the human form and reveled in the celebration of it. Alexander's pique notwithstanding, these Olympics were also of critical importance to the political stability of Philip's Greek Empire. Alexander's attitude would do nothing to help his father maintain control over the Hellenes.

"The games start the day after tomorrow. Your father and his retinue are here. Most of your generals are here. Thousands of Greeks from all over Hellas are here. Many foreigners have also come. And you stand there moping about a campaign that is still a year away. Your responsibility is here. You are the heir apparent and it is your duty to help your father oversee the games. This is the first time in many decades that relative peace has existed. It is also your father's first Olympics as the head of government. Even more importantly, it is your first Olympics.

And one day, you will be the leader of the Hellenistic world and I believe it would not be a good choice you would be making in leaving Elis to go back to Pella, just two days before the festival starts." Hephaestion took a deep breath. "You must stay!"

Alexander glared at his friend and bodyguard. He hated to be corrected. And he really hated it when the person correcting him was right.

"Hmmmpphh...by the way you tell me what to do, I wonder which one of us would be king," said Alexander sarcastically. "We will stay...for appearances."

Hephaestion bent his head in a slight bow. Alexander had acquiesced but prudence suggested that the issue be dropped. The volatile temper of the young prince could be sparked by the slightest of provocations and Hephaestion had been with him far too long to lord a This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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victory, no matter how small or inconsequential over Alexander.

Obviously, Alexander felt slighted by the actions of Dioxippus yet this imagined offense was nothing compared to his feelings of jealousy toward his father, Philip. And nowhere were these feelings accentuated more than at Elis where physical perfection, excellence and divinity fostered fanatical worship, where a king could be made a god and a prince, even one such as Alexander was regulated to the ignoble task of being a mere observer. For a man accustomed to the limelight, not being the center of attention at an event as wildly popular as the Olympics was tantamount to being ignored.

Alexander refused to be ignored even if it meant that it might conflict with his father's plans. Hephaestion had realized this, had foreseen the problems that Alexander might face and had endeavored to mitigate the circumstances that could lead to a confrontation. Having Alexander agree to stay had been a significant compromise.

"What of Yiorgakas?" asked Alexander, already on a different subject.

"Well...we are still experiencing problems with the Hellanodikai, the game officials. They have refused to grant Yiorgakas a place in the pankration until they have reviewed our application with the king.

Apparently, they feel that any athlete who has not resided in Elis for at least ten months prior to the games is unclean. Already they are upset with the exception they made for Philip's favourite, Dioxippus."

Alexander winced. Dioxippus' refusal to side with him still exasperated him. Bringing Yiorgakas from Asia to combat the Greek champion had been a good plan until Dioxippus had decided to go to Elis earlier than planned. Philip had interceded with the Hellanodikai in order to get Dioxippus reinstated. Now the officials felt that yet another ruler (or worse, the child of one) was trying to denigrate the purity of the games by bringing in a professional fighter. Although no rules actually prohibited Yiorgakas from competing--he was Greek--it reflected poorly on the organizing committee of the Olympics. And as this was about to be one of the greatest Olympics ever, the Hellanodikai were reluctant to accommodate Alexander's request. Alexander had been furious. The destroyed suite of his lodging was evidence of that. But Hephaestion, after letting the prince demolish the apartment, convinced Alexander that the best plan was to use diplomacy and tact. So far this method could be deemed a success because the Hellanodikai were still debating about This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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Yiorgakas. However, they had left themselves a way out by telling Alexander that Philip would make the final decision. Alexander did not think that Philip would vote against him but the humiliation of having one's father giving allowances to strangers but not him was very offensive.

"May I make a further suggestion?" queried Hephaestion.

"Will I be able to stop you?" answered Alexander.

Hephaestion smiled in response. He could see that the tension that had been creasing Alexander's face earlier had eased and the normal good nature of the handsome young prince was emerging. Hephaestion did not want to upset Alexander any further so he decided not to pursue the earlier subject.

"We should go to the hippodrome. Apparently one of the merchants from Asia Minor has brought a team of horses from Ephesus.

Rumour has it that these horses are bred from a desert stock kept by nomads who live in the lands east of Daruis'. All who have seen these horses say they are the most handsome animals on earth and must have been stolen from the gods themselves. They are also I have been told, as fleet as birds on a wing...and even more beautiful." Hephaestion took a breath. No greater horse-lover existed in the world than Alexander and he would never miss an opportunity to see these animals that were almost mythologized by all who saw them. Hephaestion also hoped that Alexander would take his mind off the various intrigues, real or imagined, that seemed to occupy him so much as of late.

"Yes. That is a good idea. In fact, it is the first good idea either one of us has had today. Let's go."

Hephaestion tilted his head in response and turned to gather up a couple of cloaks.

"Then we can go watch the pankratiatists."

Hephaestion snapped his head around. Alexander stood grinning, his brows slightly arched and his arms crossed in front of his chest.

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Hepaestion to himself. Alexander's prescience was unsettling, even for a confidante as close to the prince as Hephaestion.

"Well...are we going?" asked Alexander.

"Yes...yes. Now is a good time. It's still morning and they should just be starting their exercises...at both venues," said Hephaestion, now standing by the doorway.

"Then let us leave." Alexander motioned to Hephaestion. The dark, young Greek preceded Alexander as they began to make their way to the racetrack.

Unlike Pella, with its endless streets and proliferate alleys, Elis consisted of one main thoroughfare bordered on each side by comparatively small, less permanent buildings. This was a town that came alive every four years: the time in-between was rarely used for anything commercially-productive, consequently, the few true residents, mostly farmers, servants and slaves did not have the energy or desire to expend themselves unnecessarily when it would not profit them. Elis thus remained a small town notable only for its proximity to Olympia.

Alexander could not care less about what Elis was or was not. He had seen hundreds of such villages and if they did not present some sort of tactical advantage before a battle, he was not interested in them. To Alexander, Elis was nothing more than a holding pen for the athletes so why should he ascribe it any more importance than that.

Hephaestion thought differently. He could feel the history, the sacredness of this place that served as a place of spiritual cleansing for the athletes that would participate in the holiest of games, the Olympics.

Hephaestion looked about. The Gods had chosen Elis, not man. He glanced at Alexander. Alexander was striding ahead, his attention focused on the horses he would soon see, not the street he was currently walking on. Hephaestion was so finely tuned to Alexander's feelings and emotions, that quite often he could anticipate Alexander's thoughts and actions. But it did not take any great gift of insight to know that Alexander's attitude to this town, the upcoming festival and the Olympic games was insolent and rude. Hephaestion feared no man but he feared what insulted gods might wreak upon a contemptuous Alexander.

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"There...ahead."

Hephaestion turned to see what Alexander had called his attention to. The heat had formed a rippling haze and it took some concerted effort to peer through it. Hephaestion assumed that Alexander had spotted the stables so he didn't panic because he was unable to discern clearly what Alexander was pointing to. Within moments, the acrid yet sweet smell of the stables flooded his olfactory nerves. Hephaestion smiled; he was definitely near horses.

By now Alexander's pace had increased, leaving Hephaestion several yards behind. Hephaestion, casting a quick look about, trotted to catch-up to his friend. But Alexander, overwhelmed by his curiousity concerning these strange new beasts, hurried even more, forcing Hephaestion to run.

As he caught up to the rapidly moving Alexander, Hephaestion found himself stunned. Just a few yards away, standing docilely, were the most beautiful animals he had ever seen.

Alexander had already moved to the side of the nearest, an alabaster-white stallion whose inviolate form looked like it had been chiseled from one, unblemished block of marble. Slowly, with the practiced hand of the expert equestrian, Alexander caressed the muscular neck, the thick mane. Not once did the horse's shapely head move or the compact body flinch as the young prince examined the eerily calm animal.

Hephaestion tried to observe as unobtrusively as possible but it was impossible to witness this strange symbiosis and not be moved.

Alexander may have had the innate ability to command men but his control over animals, particularly equine was something divinely determined and Hephaestion was awed.

One of the trainers had noticed Alexander and Hephaestion and had wandered over. With an elegantly casual grace, he bowed to Alexander, more in the manner of an Asian than a Greek.

Alexander acknowledged him with a nod and then turned back to the horse. He continued running his hands over the animal's body, This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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soothing it with his gentle touch and soft voice. After a few moments, without turning his head, he spoke.

"From where did this breed originate? I have never seen a horse that looks like this one."

"My lord, he, his father and his ancestors all come from the desert," replied Magios, the trainer.

"Hephaestion, look at this," said Alexander, pointing. "This horse has such a beautiful form. See...look right here. Do you notice how the head is small but shapely while its broad forehead cradles this small star.

And those eyes. They burn as bright as fire. Surely this horse must be of greater intelligence than those woeful, undersized creatures that we use.

Look...he understands the compliment." It appeared so as the horse nuzzled Alexander's neck. "Notice how he carries his tail...upright, proud.

This horse is a king amongst his peers. I must have one," concluded Alexander fiercely, his hands still caressing the creature of his affections.

Hephaestion tilted his head slightly, agreeing with the young prince. There was no question, that this horse (and its companions just now emerging from the stable) was unquestionably beautiful. But Hephaestion also knew that aesthetics were not always indicative of practicality. This animal might be beautiful to look at but would it be able to withstand the travails of war, particularly the hard-charging style of the Macedonians. Looking at the horse again, Hephaestion noted how pronounced its musculature was, how well developed the withers and how deep the chest were. Power emanated from this beast and Hephaestion found himself doubting whether there was any arena that this horse could not only survive in but excel in.

"This one is known as Haj--the chieftain. He leads the team."

Alexander nodded at Magios’ comment. "After the games, how much do you want for him?" asked Alexander, not even turning to face Magios.

"My Lord, how can I sell such a one. He is part of my family, more valued than even my two worthless sons. I cannot part with him.

Could you...could you part with the magnificent Bucephalus?"

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Alexander turned to look at Magios. The trainer was small, as short as Alexander but frail of body. His dark skin, black hair and elaborate beard were accentuated by the shimmering, sun-coloured fabric of his chiton. The only adornment was a leather belt cinched about his waist. In all, a non-threatening personage who appeared, on first impression anyway, to be quite earnest in his insistence to Alexander that he could not sell the horse. Alexander's impression of Magios rose significantly because of that. Smiling, he said, "Never. Bucephalus is no more a horse than a pig is. He is a spirit...perhaps part of mine, perhaps one of the many that inhabit our world. Bucephalus is linked to me by power, ambition and Gods. I do not exist without him: he does not exist without me. If or when one of us falls, the other will follow...I understand your bond to this animal. May you spend many years together." With that, Alexander petted the desert horse one more time, signaled to Hephaestion and began walking toward the gymnasia.

Hephaestion was caught slightly unaware and stumbled in an attempt to catch Alexander. The resulting misstep brushed him up against the still motionless steed. Immediately, the horse reared back, snorting in anger, its small but iron-cast hooves pawing the air. A disconcerted Magios leapt to the side of the angered horse, calming it with his voice and hands. Hephaestion had himself jumped out of the way and other than some dirt on his clothing was unharmed. His heart however, beat faster than a hummingbird's wings as the unexpected fright coursed adrenaline throughout his body.

Up ahead, Alexander continued walking, seemingly oblivious to what had just transpired a few steps behing him. Yet, creeping slowly across his face, a secret little smile began to form.

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Philip’s security

"The precautions are not enough."

"What would you have me do, go back to Pella?" snorted Philip derisively. The overzealousness of his commander of the Bodyguard was beginning to grate on him. "What am I supposed to fear...assassination?"

Gemellos flinched. As the officer in charge of Philip's personal security his was one of the most difficult commands in Macedon. Philip's fearlessness albeit a noble characteristic on the battlefield, bordered on foolhardiness off it. With every major king, political leader and tribal chieftain in Hellas expected to attend the first unified Olympic games in close to a millennium, the king's safety could not be guaranteed. Rumours of violence and regicide were always making their way to the palace and most were ignored as nothing more than discordant rumbling. Yet, Gemellos could not help but be concerned about the latest comments he had heard. It was as if those criticizing and wanting harm to the king had become particularly vitriolic. Gemellos had no real evidence but he would have gambled his life on it; Philip, more than at any other time was in real danger of assassination. And to confound things even more, Gemellos knew that Philip was aware of this malevolent force ready to destroy him.

But a belief in his own strength, perhaps even in his immortality, superceded his concerns about his safety and this was making Gemellos crazy.

"How do you expect me to protect your person if you insist on walking about with few even no soldiers to protect you? This is not a campaign where death is imminent and you prepare yourself and your forces for it. No assassin will call you out to a duel nor will that assassin charge upon you in full view of both you and your soldiers. The assassin could be anyone, a friend, a servant, a woman even a child. To walk about unprotected, even at the Olympics is inviting disaster. Do not forget, Philip, Hellas may be one now, but only because you conquered her. To most Greeks, you are a tyrant. The Greek ideals of citizenship and government demand that all tyrants be put to death. Killing you will be considered akin to stepping on a scorpion--unpleasant but necessary."

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Philip leaned back in his chair. This Gemellos spoke his mind: a nice change from the whispered conspiracies that were beginning to dominate his court. Perhaps Gemellos was right, there were probably fewer friends out there now and as the Gods well-knew, the list of enemies had grown at an accelerated pace. Philip looked at the commander standing in front of him.

"Do what you have to do. Keep from making it obvious. I have to show these Greeks and anybody else who shows up that I am more than a king. In fact, if I can convince even a few that I am a God, we will reduce and eliminate any rebellions that may be brewing before they get a chance to become a cancer to the Macedonian Empire."

"And which God is it that you claim to be related to?"

Philip wheeled at the snickered question. "So...now you insult me? Will I never get the respect I deserve from you, Theban?"

Piros grinned at the insult Philip had countered his query with. It had been many months since Piros had felt comfortable with his close friend, Philip. The relationship had regained its strength, as far as Piros was concerned, the day they had found Kathos' mutilated body. Even though they were never able to avenge Pausanius' assault and rape satisfactorily, Piros was impressed with how earnest the king had been in finding and punishing the criminal deviate who had violated one of his most dependable soldiers. And revenge would have been theirs had not Olympias, as usual, beaten them to the scene and exacted her own accounting from Kathos and his henchmen. Philip and Piros had questioned her--to no avail. Her demeanor was imperturbable: no amount of cajoling or threats could get her to reveal why she had Kinovas execute Kathos so brutally. Piros still found it implausible that Olympias' frail-looking companion, Kinovas, had not only been able to protect Olympias from such a ruthless gang of villains but had also managed to bind, then systematically dissect them with apparently no outside help. The man-killing skills of the Queen's confidante impressed Piros, who perhaps more than most men, understood the difficulty of ending a life that did not wish it.

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"Piros, if your feeble little mind continues to wander, not enough will be left to even show you how to piss, much less have an intelligent conversation with me," joked Philip.

"Given a choice between wandering and engaging in an exchange of feeble witticisms with you, I am sure my mind would just as soon remain in the netherworld," replied Piros, barely containing his laughter.

"If you've spent as much time training Dioxippus to fight as you have in preparing your comic skills, he will walk away with the olive wreath with a minimum of effort," replied Philip. "Don't work yourself to a lather. I bear the boy I mean young man, no ill will for leaving Pella.

He's young, impetuous and fanatically devoted to what he thinks is right.

His character is similar to Alexander's and with proper nurturing he could be a great leader of men too. So let him compete. Let him enjoy his day."

Piros was astounded. He had convinced himself that Philip resented Dioxippus for having the audacity to waive his exemption (granted with the influence of the King) and come to Elis earlier than either Philip or Piros had planned. The magnanimity of Philip's statement clearly indicated that Philip was less concerned over his ego than he was with Dioxippus' desire to win the Olympiad. Again Piros was impressed.

"Except for your sarcastic rejoinders, you are strangely mute my friend," said Philip.

"My apologies. I am pleased that you do not begrudge Dios. He is young, sometimes foolish but a better, more loyal person you would be hard-pressed to find and he will make a welcome addition to your bodyguard after the Games. I am somewhat concerned that Alexander nurtures resentment toward Dios. Even that lumbering behemoth, Yiorgakas, appeared in Pella a few days after Dios left. My sources tell me that he was sponsored by one of the lieutenants in Alexander's personal guard. With no disrespect meant toward the prince, I do suspect his influence." Piros couched the last statement in cautious, non-offensive tones, knowing how easily Philip could anger when anyone criticized his son.

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"No offense taken. My spies tell me that Alexander did in fact arrange Yiorgaka's return. Don't concern yourself with it. Alexander is the ultimate competitor. He himself won't compete--believes it is beneath royalty. But he sees the pankration as a contest where the competitors can be bought or sold like the horses he trades in. So for him, bringing in a brute like this Yiorgakas, is his way of entering the games and with a little bit of luck, showing up his father, who is of course backing his own fighter. A little father/son rivalry, Piros. I have not worried about it--

neither should you. But assure me of one thing."

"Name it."

"Dioxippus has gained much fame for his innovations and unquestionably is one of the finest pankratiatists I've seen, save you of course." Piros bowed his head as Philip continued.

"What I question is his emotion? He always appears calm, never flustered or angry. I cannot help but wonder how this might affect him in the ring, especially against an animal like Yiorgakas. I see you ready to object Piros...patience. I do not want Dioxippus to lose against Yiorgakas or anyone else for that matter and I want you to understand how critical it is to Macedonian rule that a champion supported by the new ruler of Hellas wins, ideally in a convincing manner. I am rambling, I know. Reassure me that Dioxippus is as tough as he is talented."

"Philip, concern yourself with your kingdom. Dioxippus is unbeatable. His technique is so far advanced that it will take generations for the rest of the pankratiatists to learn what he knows. And, I am flattered by your compliment yet it is inaccurate. My skills pale next to the boy's. In fact, his height, coupled with his size and speed, has made him too dangerous for me to train with. I leave it to younger, dumber sparring partners now. Dioxippus will not lose, of that I am confident. I still see doubt. Remember Philip, I trained this boy when he was a child, an orphan taken as a slave by a man so evil that Athens to this day refuses to acknowledge that such a one could live within their city. Dioxippus broke free of this monster with almost no help from me: he then fought at Chaeronea in your army, with only a club, no shield or armor. He has been involved in some of the most brutal matches in the ring that I have ever witnessed and always, often while injured, triumphed. Dios is not tough...his spirit is indomitable, that is why he cannot lose."

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Philip slowly eased himself off the sofa he had been lying on as Piros came to the end of his oration. "You have convinced me."

"Then may I make another suggestion? Let us go down to the gymnasia and watch this morning's training session. Watching Dios should prove comforting to the both of us."

"Excellent idea," replied Philip. He looked over to see Gemellos still standing there, all this time as immobile as one of the pillars supporting the roof. "I suppose you're going to want to bring a legion along. Hmmmmppphhh...I think it was better when I wasn't a king, then I could go anywhere. And the places we went, eh Piros? No woman in Thebes was safe when we were around." Philip, then Piros laughed at the bawdy reminder of their youth. "Hurry up, Gemellos. Bring your guard, Piros and I are going to the gymnasia."

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Dioxippus trains

There were fifteen pankratiatists lined up along the line crookedly drawn in the dirt. Facing them was their trainer, a grim-faced, barrel-chested brute whose only purpose in life was to bring misery to the sorry excuses standing in front of him. He surveyed the line with the piercing gaze of the hunting falcon. These men were his prey and he would chew them up and spit them out. Hopefully, what he spit out would be better for the mastication.

"I said, twenty pushups not two, you miserable little pukes!

Again. Do them again before I have to disassemble each one of you! Are you deaf, twenty?"

"Claudius must not have gotten it last night," gasped Herodites to Dioxippus. He dropped his body down so he could begin his next pushup.

"Speaking of which, did you see the women the Illyrian brought? For a few drachmas..."

"Hey you...over there. What in Hades do you think you're doing, you moron? If you can still talk, you puissant little bug maybe you're having too easy a time. Let's make this interesting. All you...Greeks...your friend here, the one up front with the pecker smaller than a thimble...yeah, this one. Well, he seems to think that all of you 'girls' need to exercise harder. So in his honour, you can all start again. You, Herodites, obviously you can talk, why don't you count instead."

Herodites groaned out another pushup. His arms, his shoulders and his upper abdominals were on fire and the strain in his deltoid muscles was beginning to feel like someone was tearing them apart. His body begged him to stop but the presence of this trainer from Hell precluded any relief soon. And now he had to count...

"One...two...three...four..."

Herodites turned his head to the voice. Dioxippus, smiling widely had started the count and by the number four, the whole group of pankratiatists had joined him. Dioxippus' voice, almost lyrical as it picked up the cadence of the exercise stood out strongly amongst the chorus.

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Claudius was impressed with Dioxippus’ leadership. Granted he was not so moved that he halted the calisthenics.

"...eighteen...nineteen...twenty..." A staccato of dull thuds reverberated through the gymnasia as fifteen exhausted bodies collapsed.

Gasps and whimpers from everyone but Dioxippus filled the air. He lay calmly on his belly, his torso half-raised and supported by his elbows and forearms.

"So mule-kicker, you feel like a little run?" Claudius asked Dioxippus, using a disparagement that was currently popular amongst those who did not like or did not bet on Dioxippus.

"Will you lead us, great emperor of Italia?"

"You mock me, goat-fucker?" Claudius snapped back. He knew that this last epithet always ignited Macedonian passions particularly amongst those who still recalled the almost primitive agrarian lifestyle of the Macedonians before Alexander the First transformed the sheepherders of the mountains into a fighting force that by Philip's reign would be considered one of the finest on earth.

Dioxippus was dismissive of the trainer’s comments. Claudius was paid to advise, guide, oversee and agitate the pankratiatists. His knowledge of the human body, coupled with his ability to identify and correct weaknesses in technique made him invaluable to the combatants preparing for the Olympics. Although every pankratiatist there utilized the services of a personal trainer, during the preparatory month before the games Claudius supervised the practice and conditioning sessions.

Dioxippus had met Claudius on the periodos (the Circuit); the Olympic, the Pythian, the Nemean and the Isthmiun Games. Dioxippus had competed and won as an adult at all but the Olympiad. Claudius, whose presence at these and other contests in Hellas was as expected as the sun, had come to know Dioxippus through his close friend and former charge, Piros. And even though many considered his gruff, unforgiving manner as indicative of a closed, restricted mind, in actuality he was quite progressive in his conceptualization of the sport. Claudius had been among the first to see that Dioxippus' innovations would change the sport and he had embraced the opportunity to work with him at Nemea. He had learned much from the Greek, enough to return to his birthplace in Syracuse and open his own This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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gymnasia. With luck and hard work, one day one of his fighters would be competing for the olive wreath. But today, these men before him would work harder than the pack mules at the Lydian mines.

"You...yes you...don't pretend you're deaf or I'll come over there and hit you so hard, your ears will ring until you wish you were deaf.

Gather up your boyfriends, and run over to the hippodrome--the horses aren't training yet--and complete at least twenty laps of the track. The two who come in last must stay behind and sweep the dirt so that it's smooth for the horses. Do we understand each other?" yelled Claudius at Dioxippus who was still lying down in front of him.

Dioxippus slowly got to his feet. "I hear you oh wise one. And may I thank you for rewarding us so graciously." The sweet sarcasm dripped off of Dioxippus' lips. "Come my friends, this Syracusan does not believe that we Greeks are the finest athletes in the world. Let us show him how twenty laps of the hippodrome are nothing more than a little sprint." Dioxippus waved the troupe on and began to run.

"He's become quite the man, hasn't he?"

Startled, Claudius looked behind him.

Standing there, almost shoulder to shoulder, were Piros and the Macedonian king, Philip. And right behind them, arrayed in a protective semi-circle, were ten of Philip's private bodyguard.

"You are allowed to talk to an old friend," continued Piros, Claudius started to turn toward Piros before he caught himself.

He turned to Philip and said, "Sire, you do me honour with your presence."

Then Claudius shifted his attention to Piros. "I see that you still retain that black hide of yours. By now I thought that your supple skin would be hanging from a peg in some admiring lady's kitchen. Alas, you appear as slippery outside of the ring as you once were in. I still remember your first real fight."

So do I, thought Piros. So do I.

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Piros remembers…

Fear. Not fear of death but the fear of defeat. Second place meant nothing. Being a finalist meant nothing. Even dying meant nothing if you lost. And to lose by submission was even worse. But at this moment, with his arm impossibly locked by the gargantuan Archimides, the young Piros could feel imminent defeat and he was terrified. Reflexively he squirmed and twisted, doing anything to relieve the pressure on his arm but the hold was too strong. The only relief that Piros felt as he scrambled crablike in the dirt was that Archimedes who would have normally struck Piros to render him unconcious was having so much difficulty merely holding on to his greasy, naked opponent that the opportunity did not present itself. So Piros kept moving, hoping, praying that an idea would come to him. Again and again he spun, his feet and one free hand churning up the dust but little else.

The crowd was on its feet now, cheering for Archimedes, clapping derisively for the apparently defeated Piros. Through the sweat, the blood and the pain, Piros could feel the heat of shame beginning to burn his cheeks. If he did not surrender, Archimedes would cripple him.

Suddenly, a memory flashed in Piros' mind. The story told to him by Prince Philip. Yes, that was it, the legend of Arrachion, the champion pankratiatist who while being throttled in a match, managed to break his opponent's toe and gain a win by submission even as he expired. That desperate measure was all that was left for Piros.

He spun away again, forcing Archimedes to move with him. This time however, he turned into his opponent, bent low and grabbed Archimedes' fourth and fifth toes. Unhesitatingly, Piros wrenched hard, twisting the toes in the opposite direction of their normal position. Piros heard several pops as the small bones snapped. A stifled scream, then a furious grunting bellow were the next things Piros heard. Archimedes was in a fury but Piros' arm was free.

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Claudius

"I thought you were a dead man," continued Claudius.

"Almost, my friend, almost." Piros was still grimacing from the recollection.

"What of Dioxippus? How does he look to you? Is the injury he suffered healed sufficiently?"

"Your questions are honest and insightful Sire, and if you allow me a few moments, I will answer them." Claudius could see the king was excited by his favourite and was eager to gain Claudius' opinion on the fitness of Dioxippus. It took little, considering Claudius' sources, to find out that the champion of Asia, Yiorgakas, was coming to the Olympiad at the behest of Prince Alexander. Claudius also knew that Yiorgakas had fought in both Greek and Persian sanctioned events and he was equally adept at fighting under the marginal rules of the Hellenistic pankration or the free-for-all pit combat of the Persians. Although Dioxippus had fought against the best and the most brutal in Hellas, he had not faced anyone with the skills and unbridled savagery of the war-dog, Yiorgakas. Claudius was positive that Dioxippus possessed a higher degree of technique but he could not be sure that the young Greek had the inner toughness needed to outlast Yiorgakas. Dioxippus, a winner at the Nemean and Pythian games, as well as a score of others, nevertheless had fought fewer matches in his adult career than Yiorgakas normally fought over a six-month period. In short, it would be very, very difficult for Dioxippus to hurt Yiorgakas.

"You do not inspire me with confidence, trainer." Philip was displeased with the expressions flitting across Claudius' face. He did not want to be told that his champion would lose.

"I don't believe that Claudius thinks that Dios will lose,"

interjected Piros. "But there is no question, Yiorgakas is the strongest challenge that Dioxippus has faced to date in the ring. And we must prepare him for that challenge. And let me reiterate my friend, that Dioxippus has never been defeated in spite of the fact that he has at times suffered serious injury. To combat Alexander's favorite he needs to do but one thing..."

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"And what is that?" asked Philip.

"Be ready to die."

"That is somewhat cryptic, is it not?" queried Philip.

"Not so. Dioxippus is by nature a kind, compassionate person.

The ugliness he grew up around failed to warp his soul. Even during the war, he refused to participate in the looting that followed the defeat of our enemies. In a sense, Dios is a pure, divine-inspired warrior. He has a purity of purpose that few in Macedon can claim. He will fight, fearlessly...and give no quarter. But the question which will only be answered on the day of the match is, will Dioxippus risk his own death for nothing much more significant than a physical contest and the pride of two competing royals. Ultimately, that is all these contests are," concluded Piros, again realizing that he was pushing the boundaries of Philip's pride.

Philip did not reply. It was crucial to prove to the Hellenes that he was their sole despot and backing a popular fighter whose reputation to date was beyond reproach would do much to add to the idea that he was infallible. To run a nation of Greeks, he needed them to believe that he possessed powers beyond the normal man; again it had been suggested to him by his sages and advisors that he deify himself in much the same manner as the Great King, Darius. The thought was tempting but he would have to tread warily with it unless he wanted his Macedonian elite, who made no secret of their hatred for ordinary men acting like demigods, hacking him into tiny pieces. For now he considered it best to continue to support Dioxippus, and if the young man won then he could lord his prescience over the Hellenes.

"If Dioxippus requires anything..."

"Yes, Sire...I will not hesitate to seek your services," answered a suddenly nervous Claudius. Although Philip was a king with what many believed was the commoner's touch, Claudius had been around too many regents in too many areas to be completely trustful of the king. He had seen power corrupt even the most moral of men and Philip was anything but. Claudius could not help but feel that if Dioxippus lost so would he.

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"Will you be that generous to the rest of your charges?"

Philip, Piros and Claudius turned simultaneously. Positioned behind them were Alexander and Hephaestion, resplendent in ankle-length chitons, the first dyed an iridescent blue, the second a wine burgundy.

Philip blushed at the recollection of his earlier thoughts. Before him stood a god, his son.

Claudius' reaction was much different. His bluster, buoyed by his sizeable girth and ferocious manner, dissipated as quickly as a drop of water on a summer day. Claudius had been around violence all his life; he could sense dangerous men. And Alexander was the most dangerous of them all. Terror struck at Claudius as he contemplated what Alexander might have done to him in response to the almost traitorous words that had just spewed out of his mouth.

"All athletes must be on an equal footing. My offer to Dioxippus only addresses those needs he may not have been able to avail himself of because of his late arrival in Elis," said Philip, trying to control his nervousness at being found out.

"Can I then assume that the loyal Yiorgakas, should he be allowed to participate, may expect the same attention?" asked Alexander, suddenly looking, despite his smaller stature, twice as big as his father.

"Of course...if the Hellanodikai approve his application."

"And why would they not, Father?" pressed Alexander.

"Well...I...I see no reason why not." Philip could see a way out of this embarrassment. "I will speak to them, after all, if they did it once, they can do it twice."

The snake has just swallowed the bird, thought Piros as he noted how well Alexander had just manipulated his father into granting his fighter the same exemption that Philip had wangled for Dioxippus. Now his beloved Dios, who was just now appearing at the far end of the gymnasia, would face the greatest challenge of his young life.

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Clytemnestra

"He should not have gone."

"Mother, is this necessary. You have not stopped criticizing since you arrived. Please...let me enjoy my new son. His father will return soon.

The Olympics only last five days."

"Cleopatra, listen to me. I don't like this place. I worry for you.

Your husband Philip is in Olympia, your uncle Attalus is in Asia and you are here...without a friend. Olympias makes no secret of her hatred for you, especially now that you have given birth to a male heir. That little boy in your arms is a great threat to Alexander. She knows it and will do anything to prevent his ascension to the throne. Come with me. Your father can protect you and my grandson."

Cleopatra sympathized with her mother's sentiments. Since she had given birth, every day was spent in fear. Even when Philip had been in Pella, the threat of assassination never abated. Olympias' courtiers, brazenly hostile, had created a palatable tension at the palace which had driven Philip to distraction and Cleopatra to terror so real, she rarely ventured out of her apartment. The only thing which prevented her leaving Pella was the fact that she was not only the favored wife of the King but the mother to the only Macedonian heir and it would not behoove her position to run away.

"You know I cannot go with you," said Cleopatra, her voice barely above a whisper.

Clytemnestra stopped her pacing and sat down on a stool opposite her daughter. Tears welled up in her eyes but she kept them back by forcing herself to take a deep breath. A seer had foretold the premature death of a son of the king. Clytemnestra could not be sure if that prediction referred to Philip's half-wit and illegitimate son Arrhidaeus or to the older, god-blessed son of Olympias, Alexander. Most terrifying of all, the seer may have condemned Clytemnestra's newborn grandson to a premature death. Given the opportunity, Olympias would see the last prediction realized.

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The baby, wrapped in swaddling, began to squirm as he tried to let out a small burp. Both Cleopatra and Clytemnestra looked at the infant then each other. They began to cry.

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Patroclus

Patroclus twitched nervously. He kept looking down the corridor.

People streamed about but apparently nobody Patroclus was interested in came by. He cursed softly to himself. Unconsciously, he fondled the long, slim dagger concealed within his robe. Where was she, he asked himself.

The soft touch on his shoulder made him wheel around to face his attacker. The Sicilian blade was drawn in a blur of speed but before it could impale its victim, Patroclus pulled back.

"Did I surprise you?" asked Phylia, looking surprisingly composed, in spite of Patroclus' paranoia-driven assault.

"Yes. Could you not make at least a little noise before you come up on somebody? You scared me half to death. And Gods forbid, what would I have done if I had killed you?" Patroclus, so tense this last while, was visibly upset.

Phylia had thought it almost cute how Patroclus had jumped when she snuck up on him. But obviously that had been a mistake. Court politics and intrigue had shattered Patroclus' nerves and Phylia could see that he was a man ready to snap. Phylia sympathized with the paranoid Patroclus but otherwise could not identify with him. After her recent past and to survive the present, Phylia had adopted a fatalistic outlook. Events beyond her control she did not worry about. Plots and counter-plots did not faze her; she took precautions, thought before she opened her mouth and made sure her enemies were few and far between. Unlike Patroclus, she had developed a mental toughness that enabled her to survive the court and in many cases anticipate changing alliances. Although Phylia was not happy, she was also not on the verge of a mental collapse as was Patroclus.

Knowing this she tried to alleviate the pressure on the young guard by smiling and joking but Patroclus was beyond being consoled by quips.

"If you had killed me, I would have come back for you," replied Phylia, smiling beatifically. It was no secret to either of them that a strong, romantic attachment had evolved over these last few months between them. His being a eunuch did nothing to dampen Phylia’s desire for him.

If anything, her own aversion to the sexual act made it easier for her to love Patroclus. He possessed qualities she had thought unattainable for This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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most men: kindness, sympathy, understanding and courage. Phylia was enamored of this soldier.

Patroclus managed a cautious smile in response to Phylia’s statement. He too was in love with her and even though he cursed the loss of his manhood, indescribable feelings, some of them physical, rampaged through him every time he was with her. He prayed nightly for the opportunity to spirit Phylia away. But the reality of the court negated even the remotest possibility for escape. He was as involved in the twisted machinations of Cleopatra and Olympias as the principals. More than anything else, the knowledge that he would die in this palace depressed him greatly. And making it worse still, it was likely that Phylia too would die in what was fast becoming a hellhole. Regardless, he was here for information.

"Olympias has had visitors."

"Who?" asked Patroclus eagerly. Anything that he could report to Cleopatra that would rid Pella of that sadistic bitch Olympias was extremely valuable.

"Three brothers, the sons of Aeropus."

"Aeorpus, from Lyncestis?" Patroclus' question was rhetorical because he knew very well who Phylia was talking about. "Do you know which brothers?" he continued.

"Alexander, Heromenes and Arrhibaeus."

"Alexander. Mmmmm...is he not the son-in-law of Antipater, one of the King's most trusted officers? I wonder...is he involved in something with Olympias?" Patroclus was talking to himself, trying to figure out how one of the oldest, most trusted families in Macedonia, could find itself sneaking around with the estranged wife of the King. This reeks, thought Patroclus. But Cleopatra would be glad to hear it.

"Whatever they are discussing, it is secret. She had all her servants removed from her apartment until she personally retrieved them. I have seen many things in her quarters, some of them odd, some different, This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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many disgusting but never have I seen her so fanatical about her security.

Only Kinovas has free access to her. The rest of us have been shut out."

Phylia took a breath. "One more thing. It seems kind of odd but I have noticed that Pausanius has been keeping company with the queen, especially when the Lyncestians are there. I know they are planning something but..." Phylia shrugged her shoulders.

"You've done splendidly." Patroclus reached over and kissed Phylia gently on the lips. "I have to go to Cleopatra. If I can, I will try to see you later. Come to the market at dusk if you can get away. I don't think that it is a good idea for me to be near Olympias' lodging. She hates me and looks for any excuse to be rid of me."

Phylia nodded in agreement. "Look for me," she whispered and then as quickly as she had come she left.

Patroclus watched her weave her way through the crowded corridor until he had lost sight of her. Then he made his way back to Cleopatra.

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Pausanius voices his anger to Olympias

"That bastard." Pausanius spit out the words with such vehemence that even Olympias shied back. They were the only two in the room now, the Lyncestians having left along with Kinovas. "He calls himself King but rules over nothing but his concubines. Conqueror...hah.

That one-eyed billy goat doesn't deserve the throne of Macedonia. Better to give it to one of the noble families. Let them command the Hellenes.

At least they will do it with honour and respect. Not like the rutting pig, Philip."

A feral smile slowly wended its way across Olympias' face.

"As always, your are right, my sweet. For what Philip has done to Hellas and for what he had done to you, he should die."

A few weeks ago, Pausanius would have recoiled in horror at the queen's traitorous words. But much had transpired since then.

"I could kill the pig myself."

"And you would be a hero." Olympias replied. She opened her arms and beckoned Pausanius to come to her. When he was within her reach, she threw her arms around his neck, pulled his face close to her's and kissed him with an almost maniacal fury. Their heads twisted and turned as they attempted to devour each other. Pausanius, consumed with lust, pulled at the flimsy, chemise-like fabric of Olympias' summer chiton, ripping it slightly. The tear vented Olympias' rising body heat, almost scalding Pausanius as he forced his hands between the folds of Olympias'

robe. At Pausanius' touch, Olympias jerked herself hard against the man clutching her, wanting him, begging him to take her. Pausanius responded to the body squeezed against him by salaciously grabbing the bodice supporting Olympias' breasts, tearing it away and burying his open mouth on the exposed, now rigid nipples. Olympias gasped, then pressed her stithos into Pausanius even more, urging him to bite and suck even harder.

Taking further control, she grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head from one breast to the other, directing his lust while barely controlling her own.

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Pausanius, maddened beyond comprehension, lifted Olympias off her feet, pulled then tore away the last vestiges of her garment and in one desperate push tried to penetrate her. Olympias willingly threw open her legs in anticipation exposing her sweat and fluid-soaked womanhood to Pausanius' rutting thrusts. She then reached down between the two heaving bodies, seized Pausanius' erect member and in one motion guided it into her. The fiery union was too much for Pausanius and in his eagerness to bore into Olympias he carried her halfway across the room and slammed her into the wall. She cried out at the new pain but the increased pressure made her delirious with joy. She arched her back, seized his shoulders and as much as she could from the position she was in, lifted then twisted her hips, grinding down hard on the appendage that was pleasuring her so. Abandoning any hope of prolonging this crazed union, Pausanius accelerated his thrusts. Faster and faster Olympias' body bumped against the wall, creating a pernicious tempo broken only by the increasing grunts, groans and screams of the two lust-crazed fornicators.

Kinovas stood motionless. Pausanius and Olympias were so involved in their sexual frenzy that neither noticed the dark little man watching them mere paces away. Kinovas, always vigilant for the safety of his queen, had re-entered her apartment from the secret passageway hidden in her bath. The sexual bedlam whirling in front of him was a surprise but not unexpected considering Olympias' appetites. Nevertheless he was far more concerned with Olympias' well-being than by the eroticism of the deviant gymnastics before him so he decided to stay. He had, unlike most men and contrary to how it appeared, no voyeuristic tendencies--just a fanatic loyalty to the queen and nothing could distract him from his duty. He stood as unobtrusively as possible, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, saying nothing. Even the slapping of Olympias' taut skin against her profusely perspiring paramour, interspersed with wild cries of sexual abandon, did not elicit any response from the stoic Kinovas.

Physical love held no interest for him: particularly the animal-like coupling taking place before him now. This type of base lust could not compare to the beauty of the love he held for his beloved Nearchos. The two in heat before him had no concept what it was like to lose a part of your soul.

Nearchos had been his life. Losing him at the fall of Thebes had ended it.

Olympias shrieked, her orgasm sending spasms of trembling pleasure throughout her body. Pausanius thrust once more, then he too climaxed, the rush of searing ejaculatory fluid feeling like a torrent of This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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burning lava. Relieved, exhausted, his muscles relaxed, forcing him to lean against the still entwined Olympias, who having the wall behind her managed to hold them both up. Neither moved to disentangle themselves from the embrace until Kinovas coughed.

Immediately, Pausanius turned to face Kinovas but the entwined Olympias prevented him from moving as smoothly or as quickly as he would have liked. The resulting whirlwind of legs, arms and bodies resembled one of those slapstick comedies most often seen in the streets just outside of the Dionyssian Theatre in Athens. Even Kinovas' stoic face began to unravel as a grin fought its way across the normally tense mouth.

But Kinovas was the only one smiling. Olympias screamed obscenities at him as she gathered up her clothes. Pausanius did not even bother to dress himself. The initial fright at this invasion of privacy had turned into fury and he began to advance upon Kinovas, determined to beat the little snit into a pulp. Olympias made a motion to hold him back but Pausanius was too full of anger, past and present, to let even the queen prevent him from tearing apart Kinovas.

Kinovas did not move even though the Pausanius advancing upon him was not the round-bellied, out of shape drunkard of a few months ago.

This Pausanius was the warrior who had distinguished himself well in many of Philip's campaigns and he was a very dangerous adversary.

Kinovas' mind blasted this information to him. He still did not move.

Pausanius had not taken more than two steps before he rushed his adversary. Kinovas instantly recognized Pausanius' sudden movement for what it was: an attempt to smother the smaller man under a greater mass.

And it might have worked.

Kinovas took a half step to his right, almost but not quite out of Pausanius' trajectory. Then just as Pausanius came upon him, Kinovas thrust his hip back into his opponent's path. The surprised Pausanius had too much momentum to stop and with almost dancer-like grace was catapulted over Kinovas' hip into the far wall where he lay crumpled.

Kinovas, slowly, unhurriedly walked over to the prone Pausanius. But just as he was about to speak, Pausanius, obviously feigning injury, leaped up and swung a long, arcing hook punch at Kinovas' head. Again, as if anticipating the attack, Kinovas moved just a hair-breadths out of the way This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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and without interrupting the fluidity of his movement, snapped the inside ridge of his right hand across and into the throat of Pausanius. Down went Pausanius, gasping, coughing. Kinovas took a step back.

"My apologies. I did not mean to hit you so hard...bend your head forward and try to control your breathing. The damage is not permanent so do not be frightened. Control. That is the key." Kinovas was now kneeling in front of the hoarsely breathing Pausanius. "Relax. I will get your robe." Kinovas stood then went to retrieve Pausanius' chiton.

Kinovas had noticed that Pausanius was shaking with shock and cold and felt somewhat guilty that he was the cause of it.

"What did you do to him?" asked Olympias, sounding concerned but more wary than anything else.

"Nothing that he will not recover from. He was somewhat overzealous in his concern for you. I will not hurt him again and I ask, sincerely, for your forgiveness. My actions were inexcusable," said Kinovas, his manner almost sheepish.

Olympias never failed to be impressed by Kinovas. He had said more to her in these last few moments than he had said in the last few weeks and in the process demonstrated that he was obviously more intelligent than she had given him credit for. He had also shown her that the fighting ability of Thebes' Sacred Band was phenomenally superior to most of the Hellenes. The work of the late, great Theban general Epaminondas lived on in the superbly trained Kinovas. Who would have guessed, she thought, that a military unit made up of homosexual lovers would become one of the most effective units in military history? It was a wonder or a testament to his ferocity, that Alexander had defeated the Sacred Band. It was sad that all that was left of Epaminondas' legacy was the almost demure little man standing in front of the sputtering Pausanius.

And how lucky I am to have him, concluded Olympias.

"Here...let me help." Kinovas stooped to help Pausanius who was still sitting on the marble floor, holding his throat. The fallen warrior still could not talk as he hacked up bloodied spittle. Kinovas noted the injury and tried to placate the hurt and somewhat frightened Pausanius by reassuring him in quiet, mellow tones. He had once had his throat partially cut in a battle and if not for the quick action of Nearchos would have This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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perished. Even now he could remember with vivid clarity the terror at not being able to breathe as he choked on his own blood. For that and other reasons he was sympathetic to Pausanius.

Slowly Pausanius rose, still somewhat dazed but relatively fine.

He looked sheepishly over at Olympias, too embarrassed to say anything.

Normally Olympias would have verbally lashed Pausanius. But she had other plans for him and did not want to jeopardize them by tearing down the ego of the one who would bring those plans to fruition. She held out her arms and beckoned him and like a lost puppy he went to her. And even though he towered over the petite woman, Pausanius put his head on her shoulder, just as a child to his mother. Olympia caressed the back of his head and cooed soft words of reassurance.

Kinovas observed this little drama and said nothing. His eyes did narrow slightly and even though he made it his business to not know what the queen was up to, he concluded that one would have to be deaf, dumb and blind not to see that Olympias was playing Pausanius as delicately as she would a lute.

These few moments of peace might have continued if not for the sudden knock at the chamber door. Kinovas drew his blade as he moved to the portal. Holding his face close but to the side (in case the door was kicked open) he asked, "Who goes there?"

"Friends of Macedonia," came the muffled reply.

"Let them in," ordered Olympias.

Kinovas eased the door open, bracing his leg in case those on the other side tried to rush it. But the two men slipped through without incident and Kinovas closed the door behind them.

"Alexander, what a pleasure to see you again," said Olympias as she moved forward to buss him on the cheek.

Pausanius noted how effortlessly Olympias could charm. When she smiled, the radiance filled the room. Only one other person could control a room like her, and her son Alexander was far away in Elis, waiting for the games. In sharp contrast, the Alexander before them now This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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was not much more than a Lyncestian sheep farmer whose only claim to honor was a marriage to the daughter of the great general Antipater.

Pausanius sniffed in derision as he asked himself why the queen would so warmly greet this insignificant shit-gatherer. It was beyond his comprehension. And nothing from their earlier meetings surfaced to change his opinion of Alexander and his brother Heromenes. They always whined about the same things: Philip was ignoring Macedonia in his mad quest to conquer Hellas and Asia; Philip's multiple marriages affronted the Macedonian aristocracy; and finally, Philip's adoption of Greek dress, language and customs seriously undermined the cultural integrity of Macedonia. They had not discussed treason yet but there was no question that they wanted something done and that something somehow fit into Olympias' plans. Pausanius did not really care what these Lyncestians wanted. Their criticisms of Philip were minor compared to his and Olympias'. The old cripple had betrayed him and if he did not orchestrate the monstrosity perpetrated on him, was just as guilty as those who had.

And the queen. How many times had she told him that Philip was jealous of Alexander? How many plots had Olympias told him she had discovered against her beloved son? Philip was out of control and all these Lyncestians could gripe about was a perceived loss of cultural identity.

Pausanius surreptitiously snorted in disgust. Macedonia was as Greek as Athens but if these farmers wanted to differentiate themselves from the glory of Hellas and align themselves with the primitive tribesmen of the north, let them.

"May I offer you wine?"

Pausanius' eyebrows arched in surprise. He had never heard Olympias offer anything to anybody.

"Your hospitality is appreciated but we must decline," answered Heromenes, bowing slightly to show his good manners.

"Then let us continue the discussion we started a few days ago,"

said Olympias as she sat down on the chair near her bed. All the men in the room remained standing.

"I believe that we are all in agreement that Philip is not the leader he once was. He has dreams of grandeur that go beyond the wildest aspirations of the greatest Greek heroes. In fact, it has been reported to me This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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that at the wedding of our daughter, Cleopatra, he is planning to reveal a commissioned set of statues representing all thirteen gods."

"Forgive the correction, your highness, but there are only..."

"...twelve," interrupted Olympias. "Philip seeks to deify himself.

He feels that he is a god."

"What! Is he insane? Even Achilles dared not believe he was a god!" Pausanius shouted.

"Your highness, if this is true what will become of Macedonia? Is this megalomaniac to be in charge of our destinies?" asked Alexander, his voice quaking with indignity and rage.

"Not if we do not allow him," replied Olympias, her voice low, her tone mellow.

"But who...who would risk themselves in such a venture?" asked Heromenes.

"Perhaps if we could provide an escape and then protection from prosecution, a patriot might take the chance," answered Alexander, looking directly at Pausanius.

"Perhaps..." whispered Pausanius as he gazed into the eyes of Olympias.

"Perhaps..." replied the queen, moistening her full red lips with the tip of her tongue. "Perhaps..."

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Piros and Philip

"Come now, you must admit, those desert horses put ours to shame," said Piros, taking another draught of his wine cup.

"Piros, what do you know of good horses? You're an African.

Elephants maybe, but not horses," replied an obviously inebriated Philip.

"My Lord, I could have been raised by goats and I could still see that the winners of the chariot race were so far ahead they could have dried and fed their team before the others even knew they were done," answered Piros. He took another swallow. Although he was drinking less than the king, he was beginning to feel somewhat light-headed himself and why not. These last four days had seen some of the best competition in years.

From the gloriously opulent opening ceremonies to the thrilling chariot races, the first days of the Olympiad had surpassed Philip's wildest expectations. For the new regent of Hellas, these games announced his arrival in grand fashion. Competitors from all over the Hellenistic world had come, lending the games a truly international flavour. Spectators, Greek and foreign were still arriving swelling the numbers of Olympia well over the forty to fifty thousand capacity. Vendors and traders had set up their own tent city just outside of the venue and the plethora of colour and activity gave the event a life of its own. Philip was overjoyed with how things had proceeded. Not since he had himself won the chariot races a few years ago had he been so thrilled. Even having a marginally Greek trader like Demetrius win the chariot race with a team of horses unlike anything ever seen in Hellas, had not dampened his enthusiasm. In fact, the exotic origins of the winning team had only made the race more memorable. Piros was pleased for Philip. The Greeks still did not look kindly on their conqueror and the jeers on the opening day were not appreciated by any of the Macedonian luminaries. But Philip had accepted it nobly and had made a point of enjoying the festival. And even though the races and track events had been entertaining, the opening chariot race had taken all their breaths away. Since then Philip had been as pleased as a teenage girl with her first love. Piros looked at the smiling Philip and noted how relaxed he was. For the first time in years, Philip looked delighted with the course of events. Piros grinned and took another sip.

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"They will sing about this Olympiad for years to come, my friend," Philip said, his last words cut short by a deep belch. "Did you see my son? Did you see how excited he was?"

Piros nodded affirmatively. Philip's joy paled beside his son's.

Piros had not seen Alexander so thrilled since the prince was a child.

Immediately after the race, Alexander had raced down to the paddocks to see the victors. The Arabian stallions, unapproachable to all who ventured near, came willingly to the golden-haired young man. And it was clear, even to the most jaded of observers, that Alexander was blessed once again with powers beyond all others. Piros had glanced at the king. Philip's pride in his son was blatantly obvious but more astonishing to Piros was how the battle-scarred veteran of a hundred conflicts, the backwoods king who had brought the greatest city-states in Hellas to their knees and the mortal who would destroy the great God-King Darius, stood slightly aback from the stable, choking with emotion while his Alexander played with the horses.

Philip turned to the trader, Demetrius, and said, "Whatever the cost, you will deliver these animals to my son's stables in Pella." The horses' owner began to stammer but Philip cut him off. "I will not entertain a refusal. The only question I will answer is 'how much are you willing to pay'. And my answer is whatever is necessary to gain Alexander possession of those horses. He already owns the finest beast in Hellas, if not the world. But Bucephalus is one. It is time that he starts a line with the finest breed we have ever seen. No...do not wave at me. You will honor my request. Alexander will rule the world one day. It is only fitting that he possesses these most noble creatures. Give us a price and..."

"...make sure delivery is made within the moon. My sister is being married and my father's procession must be led by these god-blessed steeds," interrupted Alexander.

Philip immediately grabbed Alexander around the shoulders, hugged him tight and then in a moment of absolute tenderness, kissed him gently on the forehead, much as he had when Alexander had been a mischievous toddler. He then placed his hands on either side of Alexander's face, and looking into his son's eyes whispered, "We shall conquer the world, you and I. The gods look with favour upon us. Now go to your horses. And be careful how you break the news to Bucephalus."

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Alexander smiled then laughed. It was well known throughout the cavalry how fierce and protective Bucephalus was of his master. Any other horses vying for his attention would be sure to set off a jealous rage in the war-horse. But a chance to own and breed these exquisite equines was worth the risk.

"Do not worry father, this line will carry us to the end of the earth, maybe even to the great ocean."

"Then it is done. Trader, you will be paid in gold. See my quartermaster." And with that Philip and Piros left Alexander in the paddock. That had been two days ago.

Now as they sat here sipping the last dregs of a definitely inferior wine, Piros and Philip could look at the events of the last week with a warm glow of satisfaction. That first day with Alexander had set the tone for the Games. A general feeling of kindness and cooperation permeated the air and there were few if any problems with the athletes or the referees.

Even the spectators behaved, noteworthy considering the poor water supply, the non-existent sewage system, the lack of proper shelter and the diversity of the spectators themselves. This goodwill could be attributed to a combination of factors, not the least of which was Philip himself. After that day with Alexander, Piros noticed that the gregarious, free-spirited Philip of his youth had returned and had managed through wit and charm to win the loyalty and admiration of his new subjects. So convincingly did Philip win over the crowd that Greeks from every known corner of Hellenic culture flocked to greet him every time he ventured from his encampment. Piros knew that Philip would use this adulation like other statesmen would use a sword. His personal charisma manipulated the masses as adroitly as the feared Macedonian phalanx. And this Olympiad was his latest victory.

Tomorrow would bring foot races in the morning and the highlight of the Olympiad, the martial contests in the afternoon. The tens of thousands who had gathered at Olympia were so eager to view the boxing, wrestling and pankration matches that the hellanodikai, the officials of the Olympiad, had decided that they would move the martial sports from the area around the temple of Zeus to the This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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stadium. This was sure to raise some controversy amongst the religious zealots but the officials felt that crowding tens of thousands of people into a small space like the temple grounds would cause extensive damage to the area, possibly to the temple itself. Philip had approved the move.

Although changing the venue for these events was the best idea logistically Piros also knew Philip well enough to know that it was yet another means of drawing attention to what he was billing as the greatest games ever.

Piros yawned then took another sip. Philip had already fallen asleep. Piros yawned again. It had been an action filled, emotionally challenging four days and now the combination of liquor and exhaustion was rushing him off to sleep. Piros closed his eyes. Tomorrow would be the longest day.

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Dioxippus readies

"Owww...that hurts!"

"After all these years with you so-called fighters, I still cannot believe that a thing as simple as a massage can drive you to tears. Is there some special rule that says that all pankratiatists must be wimps? Tell me, oh great champion Dios."

Dioxippus looked over his shoulder at the gnarled old man supposedly massaging his upper back. Fotis had not changed; the bombastic sarcasm still cannonaded from his mouth. But Dioxippus did not care. After a couple of weeks with the Italian, having his own trainer back with him was a blessing. Even though Dioxippus had a tremendous amount of confidence in his own skills, on this day, the day of competition, he was more than glad to have the veteran trainer beside him. It was unlikely that Piros would get the opportunity to be his second considering how pre-occupied he was with Philip's personal security. He had promised however to come down to the warm-up area as soon as the races ended.

And from the roar that came cascading through the walls of the gymnasia, it appeared that the races were almost over.

"You had better hurry old man," said Dioxippus. "It won't be long before the procession begins."

"Don't you worry, pretty boy. The oil is ready. If your highness stands up, I'll be able to apply it. With all that beef you are carrying, I'm going to need an extra container," snorted Fotis, simulating disgust yet secretly pleased at how well Dioxippus had developed himself. From the tall, gangly boy that he had first met to the chiseled physique before him, Dios had become as fearsome-looking as the biggest and meanest pankratiatists.

"Easy with the oil. I want to be slicked, not cooked."

"Shut up you ignorant punching bag. I've known how much oil to put on a body since you were too small to take a piss by yourself. Hold still, you're making me spill this and..."

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"...it would be considered not only sinful but bad luck also."

"Piros!" exclaimed Dioxippus as he whipped around at the sound of his mentor's voice.

"Dios." Piros went to hug Dioxippus but pulled short laughing.

"Unless I want to join you in the arena, I will save my affections for later."

Dioxippus smiled as looked down at his oil-streaked torso. "Well then, will you be able to second me?" he asked.

Piros' smile faded. "I do not think so. My sources tell me that there is a plot to assassinate the king. I have no further details but as I am in charge of his well being it is best that I stay near him. Coming here now was a challenge even though he insisted. I had to leave ten of his Companions with him, just so I could relax."

Dioxippus took a step closer to Piros and laid his hand on his shoulder. "Do not worry. You have a greater responsibility. The old man here will suffice," said Dioxippus, nodding in the direction of Fotis.

"Why you precocious pup? Do you think a few muscles and a couple of years make you superior? Why if were not for the fact that you'll be competing shortly, and I have invested too much time to not let you compete, I would take you out and beat that swollen head of yours to a pulp!" retorted Fotis.

Piros broke into laughter. "Well, well, well...Barba Fotis is certainly riled. If you can muster half his emotion, you will do well today."

"Half...a quarter! Losing doesn't frighten me. Losing and coming back to face this reject from Hades--that frightens me."

"You mock me, child. Let me tell you..."

"Enough my old friend. Dios knows that with you as his second he cannot lose. Promise me, Fotis that you will look after my young charge. I love him like a son."

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Fotis glanced up at Piros' suddenly sombre face. He did not know how to reply but he nodded affirmatively.

"Now listen," said Piros, directing his attention to Dioxippus.

"The pankratiatists here present little threat as you have beaten almost all of them on the circuit. Just don't be careless. Otherwise no matter what the draw is, I do not foresee any significant problems. However, two opponents managed exemptions and you have not faced either." Dioxippus was about to interrupt but Piros signaled to be quiet. "Yes, I know that only one was to be exempted but the second was allowed in at the request of the king of Sicilia. Regardless, the first, Alexander's champion, Yiorgakas, is well known on the Asian circuit. He has also fought in the Persian pits where the winner is declared only after the opponent dies.

Expect no quarter from him. There is no doubt in my mind that he will try to kill you, rules be damned. Be aware of that. I do not want you to win by disqualification because he has killed you. That would give us both little satisfaction."

"I have heard of him. What of the other?"

"The other is one of my father's countrymen. He comes from a Greek trading post just east of the Phoenician capital, Carthage. Despite the colour of his skin, his lineage is as Greek as Philip's. Apparently, this Aristides has ancestors who fought at Troy. His parents are wealthy merchants and they provided their son with a good education and the best trainers available. Aristides has been fighting all over North Africa and Italia. The Sicilians have championed him and like Yiorgakas he has faced a tremendous variety of styles and situations. He has even fought Celts, and they are supposed to be mad. As you progress through the rounds, you will meet one or both of these men. Promise me, you will look to your survival first."

"You worry too much..."

"Promise me!"

"Consider it done. I choose not to die today." Dioxippus smiled.

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"Good. Now listen. Yiorgakas is a brute. He will savage you like a dog if he gets in close. Keep him at a distance. I don't have much information on Aristides but one of my men has a relative in Egypt who once saw him fight. He is very unorthodox and tends to crouch low and go for the legs. I suggest that you watch your high-kicking with this one."

"Noted," replied Dioxippus.

"Good luck, may your gods guide you." Piros clasped Dioxippus'

shoulder once then left.

"He has much confidence in you. Just show a little extra care.

Now sit still. I have to finish oiling you and I can see one of the procession Marshals coming." Fotis bent down and began slathering the scented oil on Dioxippus' arms and legs. Although hurrying he still took care to grease every muscle and every fold of skin.

"Prepare yourselves. The procession starts shortly and I want all the pankratiatists together. The wrestlers and boxers are in formation already," snapped the Marshall.

"We are coming," replied Fotis, picking up his bag as he signaled Dioxippus to follow. "We are coming."

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Mistophanes

"You are not breaking any rules. You merely do a favor for Queen Olympias. Alexander himself would have made the request but thought it imprudent to be around judges the day of competition. One small moment of your time and you will be rewarded handsomely."

Mistophanes, one of the ten Hellanodikai, and the one responsible for the draw in the pankration, hesitated to reply. True, what was being asked of him was not illegal, but it begged moral considerations. It seemed that the Queen, at the behest of her son Alexander, wanted Yiorgakas, Aristides and Dioxippus all on the same side of the draw. This would create a hotly contested quarter and semifinal but would leave only one to fight in the final. There was no possible way that the final match would elicit the same response from the spectators as the earlier ones. The fight for the wreath would therefore be anti-climatic and considering how well the games had been going thus far it would be a sad way to finish. But the request came from the royal family; Mistophanes did not want to offend or make enemies of Olympias or her son Alexander. They were also willing to pay a significantly large "gratuity" and that could not be ignored.

"Well..." pressed Olympias' representative, who had conveniently neglected to mention his name.

"Hand me my tablet. It is done," replied Mistophanes somewhat curtly. He was not comfortable with this.

"I will let the Queen know of your cooperation." A bag of silver was dropped into the hand of Mistophanes.

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Alexander

"Yes, yes, yes!" screamed out Philip as leaped to his feet.

"Alexander did you see that? What a combination! One, two, three...and he was out. What speed! Alexander, did you that?"

Alexander smiled sweetly, maybe even condescendingly, at his father. Unlike Philip, he found these contests boring. War, the planning and execution of it was thrilling, not these competitions that measured nothing more than who felt good on a particular day and who didn't. The chariot races had been exciting on the opening day and he had received an extra bonus because of them that would mark these days as something special for the rest of his life but these man to man exhibitions bored him.

And although he himself had been trained in the martial arts, armed and unarmed, the wrestlers he watched earlier and the boxers he was watching now, depended far more on brute strength than technique. This would have been apparent to even the most moronic observer. The wrestlers were big enough, but the boxers were gargantuan. No ordinary man, much less somebody of smaller stature such as Alexander, could hope to compete against these behemoths. Consequently, the events had an air of artificiality about them that ruined them for Alexander. Alexander did realize though that his father not only enjoyed them on their own 'merits'

but that he was depending upon these contests to cement his popularity over the Hellenes. He did not feel right spoiling it for Philip.

"He was fast, very fast, Father."

"Piros, have you seen speed like that? Pop, pop, pop...one, two, three...and he's down. Look at this crowd, they love it too!" Philip waved his right arm at the spectators who were on their feet cheering the Boetian boxer's victory over the Cretan.

"The final should be interesting. Euphraeus has won easily so far.

His hand speed is phenomenal. Don't you agree Alexander?" asked Philip, still puffing from excitement.

Grudgingly, Alexander said it was so. Euphraeus did not fit the mold of most boxers. He tended toward slim, was tall, and used the science of the art to beat his opponents. So far, technique had won out over brute force. But in the final, he would be facing Clitomus, a hulking, This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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battle-scarred veteran of a thousand matches whose mastery of the art was rumored to be almost if not as great as Euphraeus'. And because Dioxippus would himself be warming up for the beginning of the pankration, Euphraeus could depend on nobody's help but his own. This situation piqued Alexander's interest because he was the ultimate strategist and he was eager to see what these combatants would utilize to win.

"This I am looking forward to," said Alexander to his father.

"Good. Good. Piros, any wagers?" asked Philip, not even looking at his chief of bodyguards.

"Two talents on Euphraeus," replied Piros.

"Two...that's it?"

"I am afraid you do not pay me more, my liege," answered Piros.

Philip rubbed his beard. "I tell you what. Euphraeus wins, I make you a field captain when Alexander and I take Asia."

"And if I lose?"

"I make you a field captain...but you have to kiss my ass first!"

And with that Philip leaned back in his chair, guffawing until he made himself senseless.

Alexander, Piros and Hephaestion (who had just joined them) looked at each other once, then began laughing hysterically. They probably would have continued if not for the call by the official for the final match to start. Everyone sobered quickly.

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The Boxing Match

Both men entered the dirt circle. The referee, a dark-skinned Persian Greek, bowed slightly and stepped back so that the contestants could acknowledge King Philip. Euphraeus, the taller, more slender of the two bent his waist and with a practiced grace paid homage to the king. His opponent, a Spartan known as Konros, was obviously bearing the ill will of his conquered countrymen because his salute to the new king of the Greek city-states emoted no passion greater than a grudging duty. Many spectators moaned and a few even hissed at the bad manners displayed by the Spartan but Philip, showing himself to be the generous host, smiled at Konros, and with a gentle sweep of his hand, motioned the audience to silence. Philip turned to the Hellanodikai, nodded once and sat back. The officials signaled the referee to start the match.

As the two boxers warily circled each other, Piros turned to Philip and said, "That was most admirable, my friend. Other rulers would have had such disrespect torn out of Konros' body by a dozen wild oxen. Yet you sit here as if you are pleased by his attitude. In fact, you look smug. I don't..."

"I have conquered his nation," interrupted Philip. "Sparta has been one of the strongest forces in Hellas for over a thousand years. I would be dismayed if the Spartans were any more respectful than they show. I want to control, not extinguish their spirit. If I expect to govern Hellas, then Asia, I must not be so foolhardy as to think that force alone will put then keep these states under my domination." Philip turned to watch the action but added, "Let him be angry. One day I will re-direct that anger to a common enemy. That is when he becomes mine."

Piros did not reply and Philip ended the conversation just as Euphraeus landed his first combination. The resultant roar from the spectators completed the job of distracting the regent. As Euphraeus chased Konros across the ring, Piros chanced a glance at his king. There is no question, Piros thought to himself, that Philip will rise to the two greatest challenges ever undertaken by mortal man--conquering the civilized world, then administering it. Piros' thoughts were interrupted as a quick counter by Konros brought the crowd, including those surrounding Piros' party to their feet. Piros found himself looking through a forest of legs and lower torsos, his curiousity bettering his assessment of the king This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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who would be a god. Finally, Piros stood so he too could see the battle in the ring.

Across the field, hidden by the gymnasia, Dioxippus and the other contestants were preparing themselves for their upcoming matches. The paddock they were using was filled with pankratiatists, trainers, managers, officials, and a wide assortment of hangers-on and family members. Yet within that confusion, a sedate peace reigned. Many were listening attentively to the noise from the throng watching the boxing, trying to gauge the fortunes of Euphraeus and Konros from the cheers, jeers and moans echoing into the waiting area. Others concentrated on calisthenics, trying to keep their muscles warm and their tendons and ligaments limber.

Still others meditated, withdrawing their physical senses from the secular chaos encircling them. Dioxippus, ever the observer, cast his eyes around in a random scan and noted the strange order slowly overpowering the almost psychotic frenzy that invariably manifested itself just before the most important and most popular of all the Olympic contests began.

Suddenly, a great wave of sound crashed down upon the waiting pankratiatists. Dioxippus reflexively stood up, turning his head in the direction of the stadium but the ringing cacophany of voices precluded an accurate assessment of the cause of the din. Dioxippus then attempted to move to the entranceway to get a look at the commotion but the hellanodikai motioned him back. It was considered very bad luck to watch any contest immediately preceding yours and the officials did not want to be accused of bringing a curse upon any of the contestants. So, politely but forcefully, they kept all the pankratiatists back from the entrance.

In the stadium, no such restrictions existed. Philip and his retinue along with thousands of spectators were on their feet, delirious with excitement. Euphraeus had connected with a left jab, right uppercut combination, knocking Konros down. The Spartan had raised himself to one knee but had not yet decided if he would continue. The referee, pushing Euphraeus away with one hand, bent to ask Konros if he was ready to submit. Konros shook his head and said something, but the thousands screaming drowned out his voice. The referee tried again, this time yelling his question. Konros shook his head from side to side, indicating he could not hear the referee.

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"What is he doing?" Piros cried out. "The Spartan is stalling so he can recover." Piros turned to the king. "Do you see that? That is blatant cheating. He was knocked out. Now he's getting a rest. This match should be over."

Philip only smiled. Then he replied, raising his voice so Piros could hear him over the crowd, "He is doing only what I would do if I were in the ring with him. To win you must take advantage whenever the opportunity presents itself."

Piros could not really hear Philip at this point but from the expression on his face it was obvious that Philip was pleased with the events in the ring.

Euphraeus too was angry. Konros was feigning deafness in order to buy more time and the referee's attempts to elicit an answer from him merely sparked more nodding. Euphraeus was not helping his cause either as he kept trying to push his way past the referee so he could get at Konros.

With the situation in the ring about to degenerate into anarchic confusion, the referee signaled Konros to stand. He snapped out his switch to emphasize the need to hurry. Konros pushed himself to his feet. The crowd roared again as they realized that this most entertaining match was going to continue. Euphraeus had fought too many times to believe that Konros was still hurt. Rather than lunge at him and try to finish him off as some others might try, Euphraeus hung back, patiently waiting for Konros to make a mistake.

The Spartan was also wary. He had expected his opponent to rush him; had in fact hoped he would. Although the rest had revitalized him, the punishment had sapped his inner reservoirs of strength, and at this point he needed to get the match over with quickly if he were to entertain any hope of winning. He had to become the aggressor and this did not fit in with his plan.

The spectators, rabid for action, began to hiss and whistle in derision. They screamed epithets and many began to laugh at the now cautious boxers. In the ring, Konros grew furious with Euphraeus' refusal to close with him. Out of frustration, maybe even fear, Konros rushed This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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his adversary, throwing rapid-fire left jabs at Euphraeus' still unmarked face. The young Greek could only retreat as he attempted to block or avoid the exploding left fist of the desperate Konros. He backpedaled as quickly as he could but the sharp sting of the hazel switch striking him in the back warned him painfully that he was at the edge of the ring. Konros would not abate. He followed up his jabs with right crosses in an effort to open up the defence of Euphraeus. He almost achieved success when a low, partial uppercut tore between his pumping arms to strike him just above the ribcage on his left side. Konros gasped. Once. Clutching his chest with both hands, he slowly collapsed to his knees. His eyes rolled white and with scarcely a whisper, he rolled onto his back.

The referee signaled Euphraeus the winner then hurriedly ran to the fallen Konros. He had seen heart punches kill before and hoped that this was not what was happening now. He bent over the barely breathing Spartan and as gently as he could, massaged the area above the ribcage.

This seemed to revive Konros although it was obvious he was not going to move any more than he had to. The crowd, hushed as they awaited Konros' recovery, now broke into rapturous applause as Euphraeus was granted the olive wreath by the chief hellanodikai. The cheers turned into a crashing roar as thousands rose to celebrate Euphraeus' victory.

"I guess now, I'll have to kiss your ass!" yelled out a laughing, cheering Philip to Piros.

Piros only smiled in response as he turned his eyes to the far end of the stadium.

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The Pankration

Parading across the field were the pankratiatists. Another wave of sound crashed over the stadium as the games' most popular competitors were recognized. Some of the athletes waved good-naturedly to the crowd but others, consumed with the job ahead barely lifted their heads.

Dioxippus was neither cheery nor miserable. As he walked beside what would soon be his adversaries, he assessed his competition carefully.

While warming up he had paid particular attention to Piros' "countryman"

the black, Carthaginian-based Greek whose unorthodox style had gained him many victories in North Africa, Italy and Northern Europe. To get to the final, Dioxippus would probably have to fight this Aristides. The strange, almost crablike fighting style, was not going to be easy to master for Dioxippus and he hoped that someone who fought along more traditional lines would get lucky and take the Carthaginian out early on.

Dioxippus looked around. Yiorgakas, the Asian champion sponsored by the Prince Alexander, had yet to arrive. Although Dioxippus was not frightened by rumour and innuendo, deep inside he felt relief at the absence of what many were calling a monster.

The spectators were still cheering when the procession of pankratiatists stopped in front of the king. Philip rose to greet the contestants. The stadium hushed.

"My fellow Hellenes..." Philip's voice boomed across the stadium.

"We have been blessed by the all-seeing Gods of Olympus. Zeus himself would have found it difficult to provide so much entertainment for so many. The athletes here have run, jumped, thrown and fought as if the Furies themselves were driving them. This standard of excellence may not be repeated in our lifetimes so enjoy it, savor it."

Philip did not need to say more. The stomping, clapping and applause started another crescendo of appreciation. Philip beamed with pleasure, reveling in the plaudits of his subjects. For the briefest of moments, he felt like a god.

Dioxippus too could not help but be inspired by this mass show of goodwill flowing over him like a warm, gentle wave. He felt buoyed, inspired and invincible. He could feel it; today was his day.

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At first, no one had noticed him come in. Most of the pankratiatists, including Dioxippus were listening to the king and enjoying the crowd. He made his way surreptitiously to the rear of the group facing Philip, trying his best to appear unobtrusive. But at a head taller with a girth twice that of most of his competitors, Yiorgakas was anything but unobtrusive. As he was recognized, the people in the stands stopped cheering and began to whisper and point until the raucous noise petered out to a few, quickly silenced mumbles. Yiorgakas had caught Philip's eye and although Philip did not wish to draw any more attention to the latecomer than necessary, the surprise caught him unaware and for a few seconds, he had nothing to say. His extra sense, always so useful in battle, also told him that his son Alexander was smiling.

Dioxippus was too young, too curious not to turn around. And what he saw shocked him. Yiorgakas was gargantuan, bigger than anyone he had ever fought: in fact, bigger than anyone he had ever seen.

Dioxippus noted the thick, corded forearms, the chest and abdominals expansive, flat, square, as if they were cut out of one piece of granite. The head was huge yet there were no heavy ridges over the eyes or a forehead sloping sharply as one saw in many giants. Yiorgakas was a relatively handsome man, with straw-colored hair streaked even blonder by the ferocious Asian sun. His skin was a burnished bronze color and his nakedness only enhanced his magnificent form. Dioxippus exhaled deeply. Yiorgakas appeared as if a consortium of pankratiatists had met, designed then put together their ideal fighter.

Similar thoughts raced through Piros' mind. In the hundreds of contests he had been involved in, never had he seen a fighter as physically imposing as Yiorgakas. Glancing about, Piros could see that the other pankratiatists, including Dioxippus, were standing with their mouths agape. Piros could only shake his head at the realization that Yiorgakas had already won the psychological battle and unless the other fighters composed themselves quickly, Yiorgakas would dispose of them as easily as a cat swallowing a bird.

Fearing that Alexander's favourite was stealing the crowd from him, Philip raised his arms and called out. "Friends...the pankration promises to be the highlight of this year's games. Let us call on the hellanodikai to commence this competition. We await no more!"

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Thousands cheered in agreement. Many, who were joined by many more, began to chant. The game officials, urged by the king and harangued by the spectators, saluted Philip and turned to the competitors.

Small wax tablets with the names of the competitors and their opponents were produced and with a few quick words between them the various officials broke off to get the matches started. They set up four "rings", each with its own referee. Until the semi-finals, multiple matches would be taking place. Trainers, managers and pankratiatists moved to their assigned areas and awaited the call that would start the competion.

Dioxippus was already standing in the ring. His name had been one of the first drawn and he was grateful as the adrenalin surging through his body was beginning to make him tremble with anticipation. He looked across the ring at his visibly shaken opponent, Perditheus. It was Perditheus' first Olympics and the nerves were getting the better of him.

Nevertheless, Dioxippus refused to underestimate his adversary. It was well known that Perditheus had trained for most of his life as a boxer and although he had never reached Olympian levels in that discipline he was probably the best boxer amongst the pankratiatists. Other physical attributes Dioxippus observed were Perditheus' height, equal to his own, and his slightly longer than normal arms which added a potentially deadly extension to his boxer's reach. Dioxippus' training with Euphraeus had prepared him for those pankratiatists like Perditheus: fighters overly dependent upon the exploitation of one specialized skill or strength. But unlike his good friend, Dioxippus was neither cautious nor merciful in the ring. When the referee raised his switch to signal the start of the match, Dioxippus had one plan: he would eliminate his opponent in the shortest possible time.

The referee called to the competitors to face each other. He said a quick prayer then raised the signal. Unhesitating, Dioxippus charged Perditheus. The latter raised the knee of his lead leg to help block the low-diving Dioxippus and quickly fired off a left jab, straight right, left uppercut combination. Dioxippus slipped the first, dodged the second and absorbed the third in his shoulder as he bent low and clamped his massive biceps around Perditheus' upper legs. He was countered by a vicious blow as Perditheus joined his hands together into one large hammerlike fist and smashed down upon Dioxippus' back. The sudden impact on the area near his diaphragm knocked the breath out of him but Dioxippus did not relinquish his hold on Perditheus' legs. He had gambled that his opponent This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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would try to box him so he had done the opposite; he had gone for the grappling technique. And now, in control of Perditheus' lower body he lifted his opponent off the ground, turned him in the air and brutally threw him to the ground. With scarcely a blink, Dioxippus grabbed Perditheus'

right arm, twisted it backward and up and locked it. He followed by wrapping his other forearm around his opponent's neck and then using as much force as he could muster he squeezed so hard that the only question remaining was whether the hold was a choke or a bonebreaker. Perditheus was ensnared and unlike the fly in the spider web that might break free, he knew he would be dead before that might happen. He tapped the ground twice.

The official rushed in and pulled Dioxippus away from his opponent. With the weight off him Perditheus slowly raised himself to his hands and knees and although he had not been seriously hurt, the arm and shoulder had been twisted so hard that even the most miniscule physical effort sent splinters of pain across the deltoid and pectoral muscles. Pride however made him stand.

Dioxippus had stepped away from the ring. As a winner in a preliminary match, there was no ceremony for a victory other than the applause of the spectators. Dioxippus felt good and was pleased that he had been able to eliminate his first opponent so quickly. His pleasure at this accomplishment was short-lived. Over in ring three, two hellanodikai and a trainer were carrying the Cretan Thebos out of the fighting area. The Cretan, the practical joker and friend to all during the training period, had drawn Yiorgakas in his first match. And from the bloody face and torn ear, Dioxippus could tell that his friend had been savaged by the Asian Greek.

Even more remarkable was the extent of damage done in a match that had taken less time to complete than his own, which he thought had gone by with inordinate swiftness. The pure ferocity of Yiorgaka's first match threatened to overwhelm all the pankratiatists. Worse still, Yiorgakas was in the same bracket of the draw as Dioxippus. They would be meeting soon.

As the afternoon wore on the matches became more brutal.

Dioxippus had been able to dispose of two more competitors with relatively little difficulty. The first of these two had been another submission; the second had been a knockout. Over in ring three, Yiorgakas had also taken his next two opponents with little difficulty.

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Both he had knocked down and out, the second so hard that many in the audience believed that he had decapitated him with his bare hands. But the action did not center only in Dioxippus' and Yiorgakas' areas. The Carthaginian Aristides had displayed a ferocity nobody expected and a range of techniques and movements that outshone all his rivals maybe even Dioxippus'. His contests had been dominated by vicious, chopping leg kicks, followed by fearless leaps onto the upper bodies of his opponents.

There, gripping tightly with his legs, he rained percussive blows on the major tendons and arteries about the necks and heads. What made his attacks even more unusual were the ways in which he curved his hands so that only the outer edge of his hand impacted on the target. The thin area of contact concentrated so much force on the attacked body part that the recipients of this punishment found the resultant pain unbearable.

Dioxippus noted this.

"Dios. It is time again," whispered Fotis to his young charge, trying hard not to disturb Dioxippus' concentration.

Dioxippus smiled at his trainer and turned to the ring. The unexpected surprise failed to cheer him.

Standing there, as immobile as a basilisk carved from black granite, was the dreaded Carthaginian, Aristides. Obviously, the draw had been manipulated for Dioxippus to meet the Carthaginian before the finals.

He shrugged his shoulders and advanced to the ring. The few moments it took provided the first and only opportunity for Dioxippus to assess his latest opponent.

Unlike most mainland Greeks, Dioxippus did not find Aristides'

ebony skin and long, curly black hair unusual. Superficial characteristics such as skin colour meant nothing to the young Greek. What concerned him more were the overdeveloped quadricep and gluteal muscles, which indicated to Dioxippus great leg strength. Therefore, an attack directed at the lower body, particularly one using a grappling technique, was probably doomed to fail. Dioxippus had already seen the Carthaginian's explosive leaps and he realized as he took his last few steps that an aerial attack would probably be forthcoming. He did not get a chance to analyze his situation any further.

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The referee called the two pankratiatists together. He whispered some instructions to them then pointed them to their opposite sides. He looked up to the king, who nodded his assent, and raised his switch. The match began.

Immediately, the Carthaginian leapt up and lashed a kick at Dioxippus' head. Quick reflexes helped Dioxippus dodge the strike but he found himself off balance. Aristides barely hesitated as he landed then jumped again, this time opening his legs wide then scissor-locking them around Dioxippus' upper torso. Dioxippus reacted by trying to bearhug the Carthaginian but the oil-slickened skin precluded getting a good grip.

While his opponent struggled, Aristides managed to grab a fistful of Dioxippus' long, blond hair with his left hand. He twisted the golden locks, forcing the head to follow. This left the right shoulder exposed and with scarcely a breath between movements, Aristides struck Dioxippus with the knife-edge of his hand right on the clavicle that had been hurt just a few weeks before. The thin ridge of calloused palm centered the strike on the injured area, allowing absolutely no dissipation of the blow. Dioxippus let out a sharp cry as the nerves around his collarbone exploded into burning shards of agony. Tears welled up, momentarily blinding the young man but worse he was forced to relinquish his hold on Aristedes. The Carthaginian, pressing his advantage, slammed the base of his right palm into the underside of Dioxippus' jaw. The mouth, still open from the exhalation of pain, shut forcefully, breaking a tooth and puncturing the tongue. Blood filled up Dioxippus' mouth as he tried to ward off the rain of blows descending upon his head, neck and shoulders. Somehow, in what seemed hours but was mere seconds, Dioxippus yanked Aristides'

hand off his hair and with a violent twist of his trunk and shoulder he threw the unorthodox Carthaginian off.

Aristides barely touched the ground as he rolled to an upright position. Dioxippus, underestimating the recovery speed of his adversary, turned his hip, chambered his leg then fired off a scythe-like kick to the midsection of Aristedes. But the Carthaginian had fought many matches in Africa, many of which featured fighters who relied almost exclusively on their foot techniques. As Dioxippus' kick rushed toward him, instead of blocking it, he threw himself into a backward somersault, jumped up then countered with his own front kick. Dioxippus, unlike most kickers, had supreme control and when his kick missed, he retracted it almost instantaneously. Aristides, committed too much to the counter, suddenly This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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found his foot trapped in an X-block and before he could retract it, felt Dioxippus' hands lock on the heel and the ball of the foot. Aristides could not do anything but bend his leg and leap into his opponent. Dioxippus anticipated that, stepped back and pulled the leg out so it was fully extended again and then with a quick movement of his hands twisted the foot hard. The inhumane torque would have broken the small bones into a hundred pieces but Aristides, using his superlative jumping ability, leapt into the air and with the fluidity of a Cretan acrobat, spun his body horizontally. The centrifugal force coupled with the long extension, whipped his free leg around and up towards Dioxippus' unprotected head.

Dioxippus ducked but not quite quick enough as Aristedes' heel caught the top part of his head. Even though it was only a glancing blow, it hurt Dioxippus enough for him to lose his concentration momentarily: long enough for Aristedes to free his trapped foot. But it had cost. Dioxippus'

lock had been so strong that in freeing the foot, Aristedes had come close to dislocating it. Now the pain of the twisted tendons and sprained muscles had rendered him effectively lame.

Sensing the injury, Dioxippus became the predator. Kick after kick was directed toward the injured extremity. Bravely, Aristides tried to throw counters while hopping out of the way of the axelike swipes Dioxippus was unleashing against him but the scalpel-like precision of the attack was unabating and Aristides' bravery notwithstanding, he was chopped down. Dioxippus dove onto the fallen Aristedes twisted his way onto his back and with as much power as he could muster, reached down, grabbed Aristides by the jaw with his right hand and by the forehead with the left and pulled back hard.

Aristedes' neck muscles, honed by years of physical training, tried to resist the force being exerted on them by the relentless Dioxippus but there was too much power concentrated against that small, naturally fragile area. Aristedes would have struggled further if the increasing pressure on the vertebre had not signalled him through excruciating pain that he would end this fight either a cripple or a corpse. With what little strength he had left, he tapped the ground.

The referee rushed in, pried loose Dioxippus' hands and signaled him the winner. This time the spectators went crazy with delight and the cheering crashed over the pankratiatists like a tidal wave. Dioxippus This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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slowly raised himself up, took a deep breath and with as much grace as his exhaustion and wounded state allowed, bowed to acknowledge the crowd.

While the applause wrapped itself around Dioxippus like a well-made sheepskin cape, trainers rushed in to help the wounded Aristedes.

Although not critically injured, the abuse his body had just suffered rendered him temporarily immobile, necessitating the help of his seconds.

He was carried out as gently as possible, his limp form hanging between his friends, his body no more than a trophy.

Others watched the drama unfold. Sitting on a low wooden stool, far away from the action that had just taken place, and apparently relaxed, was the mammoth Yiorgakas. His naked form blended harmoniously with the swirling, gold-tinged dust cutting paths between the ivory-coloured, well-worn marble structures surrounding the ring. In contrast, the pankratiatist Levendis, paced nervously on the periphery of the waiting area. He had proceeded to the semi-finals where he had just won his last match. He was assured of a place in the final but the relatively easy journey to get there did nothing to assauge his growing fear of facing either Dioxippus or Yiorgakas. The winner of that match would so outclass him that defeat was a secondary consideration to the possibility of death. And though Levendis was a good technician, he was a professional and professionals fought for more than just fame; they fought to eat. And to be destroyed by the lightning-quick, highly skilled Dioxippus or by the barbarous, desert lion watching the action from afar had no appeal. To Levendis, pride could be bought and sold like any commodity in the market outside of Olympia. He did not need to be a hero. He had a plan.

A little smile of self-satisfaction played across his face. Then he looked up.

The mass of spectators, moving as one immense, eerily silent organism, slowly undulated. The resulting mosaic of rippling colour, another dimension of the synergistic spectacle surging to a climax unrivalled in the annals of the Olympiad, created a tension so palatable that it could be felt crackling through the air, surrounding then enclosing every living thing in the stadia in a cocoon of expectation. And the objects of those expectations, Dioxippus and Yiorgakas, sat immobile, ensconced in their thoughts.

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Eventually, the hellanodikai managed to get themselves organized. Petros, the Cypriot judge and referee for the match called on its principals to come to the circle. Dioxippus rose from his seat, his just oiled body glistening in the muted glare of the late afternoon sun. Slowly, with the grace and fluidity of a feline, he glided to the ring. His opponent, Yiorgakas, raised himself at the official's signal but with a rumbling, machine-driven power rather than an athlete's symmetry of motion. The sun's rays also refracted of his burnished derma but the sun god did not bless Yiorgakas with gentle eye-pleasing halos but rather with sharp shafts of blinding light. To the breathless, salivatory crowd it was as if Yiorgakas radiated some unnatural force. Sentiment may have been with Dioxippus.

The bets, whispered almost reverently, were on Yiorgakas.

As the Cypriot official whispered instructions to the combatants, Dioxippus looked into the eyes of his opponent. Surprisingly, he did not find Yiorgakas glaring at him like the depraved fiend so many had cautioned him about. The eyes that reflected his image back at him were soft, almost gentle. For a moment, Dioxippus almost relaxed, deceived by the kindness masking the intent. His unwavering stare flickered as his focus slackened for a few heartbeats. The hellanodikai finished his instructions but at the moment when Dioxippus was about to turn away, he caught one fleeting glint of hard-edged appraisal in the eyes of Yiorgakas and realized in a revelatory way, that the Asian Greek, through almost vapid eyes had stripped him of his fighting secrets. Dioxippus now perceived that almost all of Yiorgakas' victories were assured before anybody even swung a fist. An involuntary tremor shook him. Opposite Dioxippus, Yiorgakas, the lion smelling fear, smiled.

All eyes now turned to the standing Philip as the principals awaited the signal to start. Piros too, who had been relatively silent through the previous matches, looked up expectantly at his king. Philip raised his arms into an outstretched position and in a voice befitting a king or maybe a god, he called out. "Begin!"

Dioxippus immediately braced himself for the rush as he anticipated a much heavier Yiorgakas smothering him with his sheer mass.

The attack never came. Yiorgakas hung back, his every movement an economy of motion yet positioned to thrust forward or to defend with equal alacrity. Dioxippus had assumed that the match would start off with him in an evasive role. Now it looked like he would have to mount an offense This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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before Yiorgakas formulated his own. Dioxippus slid forward, chambered his left leg tight and in what appeared to be one motion but two snapped out his left lead leg into the side of Yiorgakas' knee then high. The foot sliced the air as it whistled toward Yiorgakas' head. The Asian, distracted by the sharp slap against his leg, dropped his right hand, exposing his ear and right temple. It was enough. Dioxippus' instep cracked against Yiorgakas' head, momentarily stunning him. Dioxippus put his left foot down and with a violent twist arced his rear leg around in a semi-elliptical trajectory and smashed the instep of his right foot through the lowered arms of Yiorgakas into his ribcage. The Asian staggered, stunned, pained and looking for the next attack. Dioxippus followed up with a short, brutal left hook to the side of the neck. But he missed the carotid artery and his opportunity to knock out the giant Yiorgakas. Nevertheless, the blow hurt the Asian and he stepped back. Dioxippus, too scared to let his opponent recover, followed him with a front kick off his right rear leg which connected just above the sternum and with so much force Yiorgakas reeled. The spectators rose as one, cheering rabidly at the unexpected course the fight had taken. Dioxippus was as a man possessed. He unleashed a left jab, right cross and left uppercut combination. Each connected fully with their intended target as Yiorgakas desperately tried to maintain his balance, chancing the exposed position it left him in and paying for it dearly. Dioxippus smelled blood though and with the nimbleness of a court dancer closed the distance between himself and Yiorgakas while simultaneously firing a barrage of left, right, hand combinations. Yiorgakas could only cover his head and within moments had sunk to his knees.

The whole stadia particularly Philip and Piros jumped up and down deliriously, their ecstacy almost orgiastic in its intensity. Only Alexander and his ever-present companion Hephaestion did not join in the elation. Through narrowed eyes they watched for a change in the fortune of their favorite.

Dioxippus was merciless. With Yiorgakas on one knee, he sensed the match was over. Again he kicked out, this time connecting with the upper left shoulder of the Asian. And again Yiorgakas was hurt but this time instead of defending he countered. Using his ground position to his advantage, he shot forward, low and compact. Dioxippus, too committed to the long-range attack was unable to dodge the human missile.

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and the opposite ankle with the other. With hands so strong they could crush small rocks, Yiorgakas easily pulled out Dioxippus' legs and brought him heavily to the ground. Now he was in control as his superior size, strength and grappling skill neutralized the striking speed of the precariously positioned Dioxippus.

The spectators were stunned. Piros was in shock. His young charge had looked like he was going to win this match with relatively little difficulty. Now it had become a ground match and Piros, champion of more matches than he could remember, knew that in the pankration, the superior ground fighter or grappler invariably won. And Dioxippus, innovator that he was, was not a great wrestler nor was he an expert in the locking and choking techniques that ended ground matches so quickly.

Piros feared for Dioxippus.

Dioxippus had not yet panicked despite the vise-like grip on his ankle. Dioxippus was still able to squirm, and his oiled body provided little grip. But Yiorgakas was a highly skilled grappler and within moments had put a painful lock on Dioxippus' knee. Dioxippus tried to thrash; to no avail. The pressure on the kneecap made it difficult if not impossible for him to move and in a few heartbeats he would have to surrender. Yiorgakas had given up the ankle and was now focusing all his energy into the leg lock. Dioxippus was trying to pull away but the pain only increased with every tug. Desperate he countered the only way he knew; he moved in the same direction as the force being applied to the leg.

This unexpected maneuver loosened Yiorgakas' grip slightly. It was enough. Dioxippus yanked his leg loose and scrambled over Yiorgakas'

back to put a leg-scissors lock around his neck and arm. Now Dioxippus had the submission hold on his foe. The surrender never came. Dioxippus had grossly underestimated Yiorgakas' strength and the seemingly unbreakable lock he had on the arm of his foe came loose. In one superhuman effort, Yiorgakas pushed back into Dioxippus and arched his back and neck into a wrestler's bridge. The combination of weight and power forced Dioxippus to relinquish the grip he had maintained and in order to save himself, he rolled away from Yiorgakas and regained his feet.

The Asian also scrambled to his feet. Except for a few welts about his head, Yiorgakas looked unscathed. Sweat drops sparkled like diamonds against the dust and oil-streaked bronze skin but they were the only indication that he had been in combat. Even his chest was not This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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heaving with exertion like most pankratiatists would be at this point.

Yiorgakas straightened himself to his full height, showing off his imperious form. The many gasps he heard from the spectators brought a grin to his face.

Dioxippus was not impressed. Nervousness and fear had given way to anger. He had almost snatched defeat from the jaws of victory and he was upset with himself. If he was to end this match he was going to have to minimize Yiorgakas' effectiveness on the ground. Dioxippus was suddenly cognizant of the fact that superior grappling techniques could neutralize his striking attacks, particularly if he closed with his opponent.

Although there was no time for a plan, instinctively, Dioxippus knew he would have to finish Yiorgakas before they both ended up rolling around in the dirt.

The referee raised his switch but he did not need to strike.

Yiorgakas charged Dioxippus, determined to tackle him to the ground.

Most would have stepped back or to the side to escape the thundering giant. Dioxippus did neither. Just as Yiorgakas was about to make contact, Dioxippus took an angular step forward, lashed his right arm up and away from his own body and into the throat of the lunging Yiorgakas.

The snap of the ridge hand against the soft cartilage could be heard across the stadia. Yiorgakas' momentum had carried him forward but the pain in his trachea coupled with the rapidly growing inability to breathe threw him to the ground. Dioxippus wasted no time. He clambered onto his opponent's back, forced his arms between Yiorgakas' and began to put pressure on the carotid artery.

Yiorgakas, panicked for the first time in his life as he struggled to get air through the swollen airway in his throat, made one last desperate move; he jerked his massive head back with all the might he had left. The dull thud of skull meeting skull brought a weak smile of safisfaction. But to Dioxippus, the collision between Yiorgakas' rock hard skull and the left side of his face was the culmination of all the torments he had endured so far. Blinding daggers of agony coursed through his face, the worst of it just below the eye socket where the shattered cheekbone set fire to all the nerves surrounding his eye. Effectively blinded, Dioxippus staggered to his feet. Yiorgakas, gasping for breath managed to thrust himself up toward Dioxippus and with one last stabbing motion plunged his rigid fingers deep into the back of his enemy. New, ugly miseries ravaged the This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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severely wounded Dioxippus as he fell away. Yiorgakas, still reeling, made one last desperate charge, determined to finish off Dioxippus. But Dioxippus, out of reflex, perhaps by divine inspiration, sensed the attack and with the very last reserve of strength, spun his body and catapulted his rear leg on a direct 45 degree trajectory into the already ravaged throat area of Yiorgakas. The crackling, breaking sound of fine bone was heard as clearly as a bellow from hell. Yiorgakas fell, his throat crushed, dead.

Dioxippus sank to his knees, the excruciating pain and accompanying blindness obliterating any sense of victory.

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Aegae, 336 B.C.

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Philip becomes a god

“I cannot accept that argument. You decry absolute rule yet you propose something even worse. You are becoming a tyrant and are unrecognizable to me!”

“Do you forget that you are talking to a king?”

Piros winced at Philip’s counter but he did not back down. “I thought that his majesty was my friend and that an opinion, no matter how divergent from his own was welcome. Am I to be proved wrong now?”

Philip glowered at his subordinate. Piros had not been the first to question Philip’s decision to deify himself, after all, the idea had been discussed for months. Yet, only Piros had been so blatant in his opposition and only their friendship had prevented Philip from removing Piros permanently. Now, on the eve of his daughter’s wedding, and only a few short weeks before he and Alexander would start their campaign in Asia, his popularity was at its peak and there would never be a better opportunity to recast himself as a godhead. The political advantages that would be afforded him in this role seemed to Philip to far outweigh the criticisms of those who did not comprehend the enormity of his ambitions. The only flaw he saw with this course was the resentment that might be fostered amongst the men in his army. In spite of his dreams of divinity he realized that the men who did the fighting served him so unfailingly because he was deemed as one of their own. Consequently, in Philip, they saw not a king but a comrade; somebody who had the ability to empathize with their concerns be they in Pella or on the battlefield. A god, however no longer counted himself a part of the group, he was a separate entity. To soldiers, Philip’s choice carried no benefits to themselves. The move was seen as self-serving. Philip did not need his spies to tell him of these sentiments.

He had served with these men too long to not be privy to their desires.

And looking at Piros standing impatiently in front of him made him realize that his friend was speaking for all the soldiers in his command. Yet in spite of Piros’ entreaties, Philip refused to change his mind. Darius and his forbearers had conquered most of Asia by making people believe that they were gods. If superstition could be used so effectively in Asia there was no reason the same could not be done in Hellas.

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“My plans, in spite of your objections, will proceed as scheduled,”

said Philip, his tone hushed.

“Listen, my friend. You were my spiritual saviour in Thebes and have been the best partner any man or woman could ever ask for. We have seen many battles together. We are bonded as much in blood as in friendship.” Piros took a breath. “I am forced to question the path you are taking, not as a critic but as someone who has treasured your companionship for many years and wishes to treasure them for many more to come. You are not a god. You are a man. A great one but still a man.

You presume that the Greeks can be manipulated by their superstitions. I doubt they can be. One of the principles of this society is that all men are equal. Tyranny is seen as a societal abomination that must be eradicated before it has the opportunity to control. You are considered a tyrant to many. And making yourself a god...is the ultimate affront to probably the proudest people on the earth. They will not suffer this insult idly. Dire consequences are a given if you pursue this plan.” Piros leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Your safety cannot be guaranteed if you create the circumstances where treachery can take root. Abandon this plan. You will conquer a world; your name will be infamous for ten thousand years.

Strike down the statue I have seen the artisans constructing and become the man you were destined to be. Your enemies will dissipate like leaves to a wind and you will have the freedom to truly immortalize yourself.”

Philip listened. What Piros said was true. But the same hindrance that had prevented Piros being appointed a general blinded him on this issue. Piros was limited by his inability to risk everything to make a gain.

A combination of his upbringing, parents and religion erected a wall within his imagination. And even though Piros was a brilliant fighter and a competent tactician, many times (and this was one of them) he was unable to see the overall plan. Philip had no doubt that Piros was genuinely concerned about his welfare but he could not waste any more time discussing an issue which he had thought about for months and in his own opinion could bring him tremendous rewards.

“That will simply not happen. I am committed to this course of action and I will not be put off by petty fears and frivolous superstitions.

You, Piros, will have to live with the fact that I will be made a god.”

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only you and I will know that the only thing godlike about me is the length of my...”

“Get away,” laughed Piros, pushing Philip from him. “You son of a goat-herder, can you take nothing seriously?”

Philip grinned and replied, “No.”

Piros could not help himself; he started laughing again. No matter how frustrating or antagonistic Philip was he never failed to wring every bit of humour out of any situation. Piros shook his head, resigned to the fact that Philip was not going to change his mind.

“Are we finished arguing?” asked Philip, almost pensive.

“Do I have a choice? You don’t listen, you mock me and you threaten me with your position? I am powerless.”

“You never have been nor will you ever will be powerless,”

replied Philip. “Your strengths are needed. More importantly, I need you.

There may be some difficult days ahead. I’m not so stupid to ignore them.

I will need the only man I truly trust. You may not like what I am proposing but I depend on you to safeguard my life and family.”

Piros squirmed uncomfortably. Such talk was almost maudlin even though it was true. Trying to change the subject he said, “Then I guess I had better throw up a guard around you.”

“There now we agree. Try to make it as inconspicuous as possible, particularly when I walk into the stadium on the wedding day. It is important that I appear fearless to the various kings and political leaders who will be attending. Many of these rulers will be from places we know little about and it is critical that they see me as omnipotent.”

“I can arrange that but be wary. The fact that we don’t know most of these men will hinder our security efforts. I suggest that in addition to our uniformed bodyguard, we have men in plain clothing interspersed through the crowd. Anybody coming near you will be searched for weapons and as a final caution I will surround you with men taller than This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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yourself. King Darius uses this formation to good advantage and he has more enemies than you have hairs on your head.”

“It sounds good. Might it be a bit excessive?” asked Philip.

“It might. But if an assassin wants to get to you, this will be his best opportunity. We have disagreed over much today. Let me take care of your security. Your safety is my primary goal.”

“Done.”

“Good.” Piros was relieved. The king’s security was always difficult to maintain so he was pleased to hear Philip agree to his measures.

“Will Dioxippus be part of the guard?”

“No, my lord, he has accepted an offer to join Alexander’s bodyguard. Your son made a very generous offer to him and coupled with the youth of the prince and his confidantes, Dioxippus felt he could better serve Alexander.”

“Hmmmmm...you’re probably right,” answered Philip.

Piros nodded, relieved to hear the king”s reply. He had been nervously anticipating another confrontation between father and son but it appeared Philip was willing to acquiesce on this one.

“Piros, a word of caution however. I love my son, more than life itself. But beware. Alexander has a long and sometime vindictive memory. Dioxippus’ victory shamed him. And having Dioxippus win by akiniti was the worst affront to his pride that he has suffered in years. I may say I am god-like but I think that Alexander believes he is. His mother thinks he is. And when somebody who considers himself infallible is proved wrong, as Alexander was in backing Yiorgakas, redress will be sought. Tell Dioxippus to be careful in the friends he chooses and to always watch his back.”

Piros tilted his head in assent. What Philip had just said to him he had said to Dioxippus a few days earlier. His young charge had laughed then hugged him as he told Piros not to worry. Dioxippus had just scored This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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one of the greatest victories in Olympic history by defeating the man-mountain Yiorgakas and taking the final by akiniti, or default. Although Dioxippus was a level-headed, very intelligent young man, that victory had swelled his head slightly and he was not too open to suggestions these days. Piros did not push the issue but he made a mental note to keep his spies close to Dioxippus.

“I have nothing but the greatest respect for the prince. He is a brilliant and absolutely fearless warrior and I would gladly die for him.

But some who are close to him wish to poison his mind and like you, I fear future reprisal against Dioxippus.”

“Then let us make sure it doesn’t happen,” said Philip.

“I will do my best.”

“Good. Now let’s go over the routine for the wedding procession.”

Piros pulled out a clean parchment. With a few quick strokes of his ink stick, he had drawn a facsimile of the stadium. He turned the paper to Philip.

“Yes. I think this will do. Where do you plan on posting the uniformed

guards?”

asked

Philip.

“Here and here,” said Piros, pointing with the stick. “When you walk in, I will have you surrounded by...”

A sharp rap at the door interrupted Piros. Both men looked up to see the door open and a bodyguard enter and then stand at attention.

“Well...are you going to say anything?” asked Piros.

“He doesn’t have to. I can speak for myself.”

Philip sat up sharply. Piros half-rose out of his seat his hand on the pommel of his short sword.

“Tell your war-dog to sit, shut-up and behave!”

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Philip flinched as if the tart tongue had physically slapped him.

Olympias could always do that to him. And no matter how many times she insulted him or his subordinates he was at a loss as to how to squelch that meddlesome mouth without Alexander finding out.

“Piros, go fetch a bone. Or better yet, go stick that monster into a hole that you can crawl into later.” Olympias’ sneer possessed a wicked joviality to it as if making ribald insults was the sole source of her good humor.

“I am glad to see that the former queen still has her teeth, considering her age and lifestyle,” countered Piros, his eyes narrowing.

“Are you still a king, or do you let your animals speak for you?”

asked Olympias, redirecting her question and insults to Philip.

“Piros is my brother. His primary concern is my welfare. What is yours?” replied Philip, the tremor in his voice belying his anger.

“My, my, my...it seems the responsibilities of parenthood have robbed you of what little humor you once possessed?” smiled Olympias.

“Come Philip, I wish to talk to you civilly. I promise to behave. Just get rid of him...even for a few moments.”

Philip signaled Piros with his eyes. Piros’ resulting scowl darkened his black face until he resembled one of Hades’ avenging spirits.

But Piros had been with Philip for close to twenty years and when Philip wanted him away, there was no room for argument or question. Piros let himself out, and the bodyguard, who had also been signaled by Philip, followed.

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Olympias

“Good, now we can talk,” said Olympias, seating herself on the bench that Piros had been in moments before.

“Whatever you have to say, make it quick. I am trying to organize too many things in too little time just so I can indulge your petty gripes.” Philip leaned back slightly, waiting for the verbal barb Olympias would hurl at him.

“I have no gripes,” said Olympias, her voice curiously gentle.

She straightened her chiton using long, graceful arcs in her motion, bestowing upon her an almost angelic dignity.

As much as Philip professed to hate his wife, he was still spellbound by her. And even though he knew that she was using this frailty as a means to getting something from him, Philip let her cast her spell.

“I believe that making yourself a god is a good idea,” said Olympias.

Immediately, Philip was on his guard. If Olympias supported the idea it could not possibly have any merit. Nevertheless, he asked, “Why.”

“You have conquered those who would never be conquered.

Xerxes himself could not bring the Greeks to their knees. But you have.

They grovel now. By becoming a god, you will have them on their knees--

permanently.”

Philip was interested in Olympias’ statement but still suspicious.

“So, why are you so pleased about it?”

“Selfish reasons. If you become a god, will then Alexander, by birth and association, not become the same?”

“Yes.”

“You and Alexander will conquer Asia. Eventually, Alexander will become king. It is critical to his future as well as yours to maintain an This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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image of omnipresence. You will be safer, and more importantly, Alexander will be safer. After all, no one can strike down a god!”

Still suspicious, Philip was nevertheless impressed by the almost sincere attempt at cooperation Olympias was making. He knew that she could not care less about his welfare but she was correct in stating that Alexander would benefit greatly by his father’s deification. And whatever else she was, Philip knew that Olympias was a fanatically devoted mother to their son. If she saw merit in Philip making himself a god it was because of what it could bring to her son. This argument put a different perspective on the whole issue. It also made him want to hear more.

“Continue.”

Olympias squeezed her jaw tight to prevent herself from smiling.

She had him.

“You control the most glorious civilization in the world. You must enter the ceremony as if Zeus himself were accompanying you. And who is to say that he is not.”

Philip smiled.

“You must not lead the procession. From king to pauper, everyone at the wedding must be ready to burst with anticipation for the spectacle that will be your entrance. You will be last, just after the statues of the thirteen gods, the last one bearing your image, are brought in.”

Olympias stopped to take a breath and to let the image linger. She continued, “The people will rise as one as you take your first steps into the stadium and upon the first notes of the trumpets, will explode with applause. Rapture will blind every mortal, and the name of Philip, then Alexander will by whispered with fear and reverence from the lips of every man, woman or child in Hellas. You will be god!”

Philip was taken aback. The zealousness of Olympias’ statements almost shocked him. He did not for one moment believe that she ever considered him divine but she obviously saw the benefits such a ceremony could bring not only his kingdom but his family. For the first time in a long while, Olympias managed to impress him with something other than her sexual proclivity.

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“What I am or am not, is not important to anyone other than those in the royal household. I agree the Greeks need to see me as someone greater that they are or they will spend eternity trying to shake the yoke some say I have thrown on them. When you interrupted a few moments ago, Piros and I were going over the security for just such a procession. I had not planned the entrance but to be truthful, I like your suggestion. I thought it might even be a good idea to have Alexander walk beside me or even as part of the most elite bodyguard ever assembled.”

“That is a good plan,” said Cleopatra. “However, I think you should consider a small alteration.”

“What is that,” asked Philip, suspicious again.

“You should walk in yourself. Alexander’s day should be his own just as yours should be yours. You have conquered Hellas. You are the one having your statue dedicated by the priest from Delphi. You should enter alone. You are telling the rabble that you are a god. It is critical that you appear to be one.” Cleopatra’s tone had become formal, sounding much like a military commander reporting a position to his superior.

“Yes...I agree...but...Piros has some reservations about security,”

said Philip.

“What...you take the word of a ...”

“Careful!” snapped Philip.

“...somewhat over-cautious soldier to the advice of your closest advisors. Piros, as much as I dislike him, is an exceptional soldier. But he is not a diplomat. Look how he failed you in Athens before the battle of Chaeronea. And who was his opponent there? An old man whose entire argument against the Macedonians was a personal diatribe against you.

Piros not only failed but had to flee the city. Piros can fight but he does not understand government or the responsibilities of the regent.”

Philip gritted his teeth. He wanted to spring to Piros’ defence but Olympias was right; the only diplomatic mission Philip had sent Piros on had miscarried. Although Philip did not deceive himself with the idea that This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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every citizen loved him, he was beginning to doubt that there was any real threat to his safety.

Olympias noticed Philip’s hesitation. She pounced. “Of course, it would be prudent to prepare for all contingencies. But you must impress upon Piros that he not make you look cowardly.”

“Not in a thousand years!” bellowed Philip. “I fear no man, living or dead!” The last few words were the roar of a lion.

Olympias was nonplussed. Philip’s anger was the reaction she was looking for. She knew that Philip would do anything rather than appear gutless.

“I know that you are not a timid little girl. All of Hellas knows it too. But you don’t have to prove it by committing suicide. Let Piros protect you.”

“I don’t need your concern, Olympias,” snapped Philip, still angry. “I’ll walk through a crowd of armed Thebans if I must but no one will ever accuse me of being afraid!”

“Well then, nothing I can say will change your mind. Maybe, just maybe, the gods may have chosen you. I must take your leave and go see to our daughter. I’m sure she is nervous.” With that, Olympias rose from the chair and moved to the door. She stopped just before she opened it and said, “Philip, on our daughter’s wedding day, a light will shine from you like a beacon to storm-tossed sailors. That day, you will be the god that does what no other has ever…take Asia. In spite of our differences, I cannot help but admire you.” Olympias opened the door and went through it.

Philip stared after her, not sure of what had just transpired. He sighed once then called out for Piros. The heavy oak door opened once more and Piros came back into the room. Philip called him over and told him to sit down.

Outside the apartment, Olympias pretended to adjust her robes while Philip’s bodyguard stood watching. Within moments she was rewarded: two muffled voices, obviously arguing, seeped through the This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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thick, slab door. This time the smile on Olympias’ face was that of a feline, just after it has caught the mouse.

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Panthea

“Are you sure you have made the right decision?”

“I feel it is the right one. If I’m to be a soldier it might as well be with the future king of Hellas.”

Panthea frowned. Dioxippus’ reply had a certain resignation to it, not joy. The euphoria of winning the first Olympic pankration by akiniti had subsided and now Dioxippus was beginning to regret some of the decisions he had too hastily made. Panthea had chided Dioxippus for joining Alexander’s troops. She had been in Macedonia since childhood and she had heard many tales of Alexander’s ferocious temper. She also knew that the Macedonians, particularly the upper classes, lived by the vendetta and she had little doubt that Alexander would one day find a way to punish Dioxippus for past insults, real or imagined. To Panthea, Dioxippus’ enlistment in Alexander’s Companions was the equivalent of the antelope joining a pride of lions. But she also knew that it was too late for Dioxippus to withdraw.

“I have been promised a commission,” said Dioxippus.

Panthea wanted to scream, “who cares!” but she knew it was pointless. Instead, she placed her hands on her lower abdomen and said,

“Our future lies with this child I am carrying. I do not want him to grow up without a father. Do what Alexander wants. Serve him well. And stay alive.”

Dioxippus smiled in response. Panthea’s pregnancy had caught them by surprise but the news had been greeted with great joy and pleasure by both. Dioxippus was looking forward to being a father and for the first time in his life, the recurring nightmare depicting an early death for him, had not appeared. It was as if the child not yet born had changed the fates.

Therefore in spite of his reservations of serving with Alexander, Dioxippus was the happiest he’d ever been. Only Panthea’s oft-expressed concern for his welfare could affect his usual good humour. And he understood and sympathized with her concern.

“Don’t you know? I can’t be hurt. The gods have blessed me with a woman who will make the greatest wife the world has ever known This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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and who will bless me with the finest sons any father has ever sired. We shouldn’t be melancholy. We should be laughing, dancing...maybe making love.” With that, Dioxippus lunged playfully at Panthea.

“You idiot!” she laughed, pushing his groping hands away from her bosom. “Leave me alone!”

Dioxippus wrapped his arms around the still giggling Panthea and lifted her until her face was even with his. He bent forward to kiss her when...

“Gods of Olympus, not again!”

Panthea pushed Dioxippus away as she disentangled herself from his arms. Phylia had come upon them so quietly that a few heartbeats later she would have found her two good friends in a very compromising position. As it was, Panthea found herself quite embarrassed.

“Don’t you lock doors?” asked Phylia, obviously amused at the discomfiture she was causing.

“And don’t you knock?” replied Dioxippus, still breathing hard after his exertions.

“Who was to know that you would attack Panthea in the middle of the day?”

“Very funny,” replied Dioxippus, mocking anger.

“Hmmmmmphh! It’s not you I want to see anyway,” sneered Phylia. “I’ve come for Panthea. We are going to the market...if parts of your body can spare her.”

Dioxippus leaped forward, grabbed Phylia and lifted her off the floor. Then he said, “From someone who hasn’t talked much these last few years, you’ve become someone who never shuts up. That lover of yours must plug his ears with wool every time you two are together.”

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“Panthea, tell this muscle-bound freak to put me down...before I get mad.” Suddenly, Phylia closed the first two knuckles of her right hand on Dioxippus’ nose and twisted.

“Owwwww...that really hurt,” cried out an indignant Dioxippus as he released Phylia.

“You deserved it,” laughed Panthea. “Let’s go now, before he thinks of something else.” Both women turned and with a flip of their hair, exited the apartment.

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Patroclus

Dioxippus was still rubbing his nose when he heard a knock.

Thinking it was the women returned, he ran to the door. He swung it open wildly and leaped into the breach screaming.

Patroclus stood in shock then quickly drew his dagger. Dioxippus immediately stepped back and away. Then they both laughed.

“I could have killed you, you moron!”

“I’m too fast for you, my friend,” replied Dioxippus.

Feigning a frown, Patroclus pretended he was angry, but it was difficult to stay mad at Dioxippus. “Where’s Phylia?” he finally asked, glancing around the apartment.

“She’s gone to the market with Panthea.”

“Oh, I thought I would catch her here. Well then, how are you?

Eager to start your service with the prince?” asked Patroclus. Dioxippus shrugged. Patroclus noticed the apathetic reply. He tried another tack.

“How does fatherhood sit with you?”

Dioxippus found it awkward to express his feelings. How did one express the joy of procreation to a eunuch? Dioxippus had grown to care for Patroclus who with his kind, gentle soul loved Phylia passionately. But his love would always be spiritual and never would he know parenthood.

Dioxippus knew that to most women, a eunuch was as useful as a corn on the foot but to Phylia, abused as a young girl, the physical component of a relationship had minimal appeal for her. The tender, compassionate man that was Patroclus had made her fall in love and that love had sparked a spiritual reawakening. The dark, brooding girl who had come to Macedonia years ago had become a vivacious, happy young woman in a matter of months. And in spite of all the court intrigues, Patroclus had effected a monumental change in Phylia. To Dioxippus, Patroclus was deserving of the title hero. That was why he found Patroclus’ question so hard to answer.

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“I know it must be wonderful for both of you,” said Patroclus, who having sensed Dioxippus’ unease, had decided to relieve his friend of the self-imposed pressure.

“It is...it is,” stammered a relieved Dioxippus.

“Excellent. May I wish you all many years of happiness. And by the way, when are you planning to marry this girl?”

“Soon. Very soon. And of course, you will be attending.”

“Just try to keep me away,” laughed Patroclus.

Dioxippus smiled.

“Well, it is probably good that we are alone,” said Patroclus.

“I’ve heard some things that maybe our women should not.” Dioxippus’

smile began to fade.

“Are you and Piros still close?” asked Patroclus.

“He wasn’t overjoyed when I enlisted with Alexander but there has been no criticism or argument. I still think of him as a father.”

“Good.” Patroclus took a deep breath and continued. “As you know, Cleopatra has retained me to spy on Olympias. So far, Olympias has done nothing more than engage in her Dionyssian rites with her various lovers. However, within the last few days I have noticed a change in her and her retinue. Suddenly, all those deviates have been cast out of the palace. Her slaves, including Phylia, have been replaced by paid servants from her father’s estate. Although having Phylia out of her clutches pleases me, I am curious as to why Olympias has brought so many changes in so short a period. It is as if she is surrounding herself with a wall of people who owe their loyalty more to her than to the kingdom. I have also kept track of the Lyncestians who now show up at her door at least once a day. They are plotting something but I don’t know what. I relayed my observations to Cleopatra and she in turn to Philip, but apparently he dismissed them. Piros is the only one close enough to Philip to make an impact. Cleopatra asked me to ask you to tell Piros of what I saw and to convince the king to upgrade his security. Dioxippus, you must do this.

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All our lives depend upon the king living a long, happy life. And I think that we both have too much to lose now.”

“I agree. I’ll tell Piros. Maybe I should also tell Pausanius. After all, he is the captain of the bodyguard.”

“That it might be wise to wait on.”

“Why?”

Patroclus looked around, as if somebody was hiding in the room.

“I’m not sure but I think I’ve seen Pausanius leaving the queen’s quarters at night.”

“They were lovers once. Maybe he still services her occasionally,” replied Dioxippus.

“Probably. Can you still mention it to Piros? I don’t feel comfortable with having the king’s chief protector in bed with his worst enemy.”

“Consider it done.” Dioxippus moved to a side table. He picked up a small, gracefully curved urn. “A little wine...”

Patroclus grinned. “Yes. And a toast...to us.”

Dioxippus handed Patroclus a cup. “To us.”

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Unto the Gods…

Pausanius leaned forward and whispered something to Piros. The dark-skinned Greek, resplendant in his burnished armor, nodded in assent but did not turn around. Piros’ attention was focused on the huge throng of humanity packed onto the palace grounds. His eyes continually scanned the multitude looking for anything or anyone that appeared odd, different or dangerous. He had deployed over a hundred of the King’s Companions throughout the crowd yet he did not feel secure. Nobody in their right mind would attempt an assassination at the wedding of the regent’s daughter but who was to say that a sane person would be the only one to try it. Piros turned to look at the king. Philip, about twenty paces back of him appeared calm and in a very good humour. The bodyguards Piros had assigned were tightly drawn in a circle around the king. All were taller than Philip and all looked ferocious enough to kill without a second’s warning. Piros glanced back at Pausanius. Even though Piros had been warned to not include his friend in the security team, Philip himself had insisted that the captain of the bodyguard remain. Pausanius did seem to be attentive and there was no question of his valor. Still, Piros was uneasy and he pledged to keep Pausanius close to him.

“Hey...Piros!”

Piros immediately stopped when he heard Philip’s voice. He trotted back to where the king was waiting.

“Piros, how much longer?”

“They are taking the statues in now. After each has been placed, they will sound the horns and we will make our entrance. And please, no more arguments. There are far more people here than we had planned, and many from foreign lands. It makes me uncomfortable. Please go with our original plan.”

Philip smiled. “We’ll see. How does my robe look? Godly enough?” Philip then laughed uproariously.

Piros just shook his head. He gave the guards one more order and returned to the entrance of the stadium. There was a short, enclosed passageway that went under the seats to the field and so far the King’s This novel is the literary property of Peter Katsionis. Copyright 1994.

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Companions had managed to keep it clear. Piros took a mental count of the steps to the center of the arena then counted the number of men he had positioned along the route. Although he wasn’t overconfident, Piros thought that they could get the king in and out with little difficulty. The passageway’s close confines concerned him but an assassin would have to hack through so many bodies that this problem was not a priority. What was a problem was Philip’s propensity to greet his subjects as if they were old friends. Piros was determined that he would not let Philip glad hand his way through an assemblage that included as many enemies as friends.

A commotion behind the group startled everyone and suddenly two dozen swords were drawn. Piros pushed Philip to the side and leaped to the forefront. The quick action proved unnecessary. Philip’s son Alexander, and his soon to be son-in-law, Alexander, had arrived with their bodyguards. Some minor jostling had occurred as the two bodies of armed men jockeyed for position in the narrow confines of the passageway but no one was hurt. Philip was overjoyed at the sight of his son and pushing his guards away forcefully, went to Alexander. The prince almost diminutive in comparison to the bodyguards leapt into his father’s arms. The king, overcome with emotion, barely kept back the tears. Only the pandemonium from the eager crowd was able to distract him.

“I am glad you came.”

“You are my king...and father,” replied Alexander.

“A world awaits us.”

“Soon. Very soon,” said Alexander. He took a look at Piros.

“The African has done a good job with security. Listen to him. I’m not as comfortable with this situation as you are. Keep the guards with you at all times.” Alexander’s joyous expression became dour.

“Hah...you all worry too much,” laughed Philip.

“Today that is our prerogative,” interrupted Piros. “The last statue, yours, is being carried in now. Soon we will be out in the open.

Stay near me.” Piros turned to Alexander. “Your highness, I request that you stay back at least four to five paces from your father; it will be easier to protect you also.”

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Alexander nodded. He was concerned but didn’t know why. His mother, Olympias, had begged him to not accompany his father. She had in fact acted quite hysterically and only his agreement to let the Lyncestian nobles accompany him had placated her. This whole situation made him suspicious and even more determined to stay close to his father. But it was obvious that Piros had planned for every contingency.

“Your Highness, we are ready,” Piros said.

“Yes...yes, let’s get on with it,” Philip replied. He gently squeezed Alexander’s arm, winked and moved away.

Piros gave some last instructions to the bodyguards then moved to the front of the procession. Pausanius was waiting there patiently. His apparent calm did not belie the anxiety he must have felt as the captain of the bodyguard. Only his eyes, flitting back and forth like hummingbirds as they scanned the crowd displayed any concern.

“Anything?” asked Piros.

“Nothing obvious,” came the curt reply.

Piros did not hear Pausanius, the cacophony making any conversation impossible to carry on.

Suddenly, a new swell of sound surged up from the thousands of guests. Piros could not see too well but he knew that the massed throng had just noticed the thirteenth statue, the one of Philip as godhead. The time had come.

Piros turned to go back to Philip when he found his passage blocked by the members of the bodyguard. For a moment, Piros thought they were coming for him. Then he saw that Philip was barking orders and pushing soldiers away from him. His son Alexander was involved in a fierce argument with him but the distance combined with the cascading din from the field prevented Piros from hearing the words flying between father and son. Something was wrong and for the first time, Piros felt a twinge of panic. He pushed his way to the king.

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“...and I say that as king, I have the right to decide what I need and don’t need. I will not enter with a bodyguard. Only tyrants need that sort of protection and the Greeks know it. I will not give them the opportunity to find reason to rebel. I must be seen as benevolent. I must be seen as fearless. I must be seen as a god!” Philip glared at his son.

“Piros, tell him he is insane!” cried Alexander to Piros.

“Philip, listen. You are the ruler of Hellas. It makes no difference whether a guard accompanies you forty paces or not. There are too many people here we don’t know. Let us protect you. You cannot take chances today. A few steps, that’s all. No one will notice. Come now, let me call back the bodyguards.” Piros spoke loudly but calmly. He did not want to anger the king.

“If it’s only a few steps, I don’t need the guards. I order you to precede me, with the bodyguard, onto the field. Alexander and my son-in-law will follow me after I have entered. I will not discuss this further.

Now hurry, the people are calling me.”

Piros bit his lip. He felt stymied by Philip’s obtuseness. He had to obey the order even though he questioned it. Shrugging his shoulders, he organized the guards into parade formation. He looked back, hoping to appeal to Philip through his eyes. It was to no avail. The expression on the king’s face showed that he was resolute in his decision.

Piros took his position at the head of the parade. He hailed his troop and then moved forward. As he moved forward, he examined the crowd lining the procession route. Most of what he saw was a blur but he noted the faces of Dioxippus, Panthea, Phylia and his ever-faithful servant, Fotis. He saw the king’s new wife sitting with her retinue and two children a little further on. Her servant, Patroclus, stood at attention, his right hand squarely on the hilt of his sword. Piros had taken a few more steps before he noticed Olympias. Alexander’s mother was sitting on a dais not far from the statues. Oddly enough, Antipater, the Macedonian general from the north was right beside her. Piros did not remember the two being friends. He took a deep breath and continued his march. The troop followed. Unable to help himself, Piros looked back over his shoulder.

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Philip presented quite the figure as he stepped forward to join the procession. His robe, an alabaster white, flowed about him like gossamer, lending his solitary form an ethereal, truly god-like appearance. Even his scarred face and blacker than black hair and beard served to accentuate the effect. Philip was aware of all these factors and they made him grin with pleasure as he took the first step onto the field. The roar as the thousands of guests caught their first sight of him rocked him as if it were a physical force. This moment was his.

At least it should have been. Coming toward him was Pausanius.

Philip reacted angrily. “I told you and all the guards to stay away from me until I reach the podium. What in Hades do you think you are doing?”

Pausanius smiled and pointed to his ears, indicating that the noise prevented him from hearing. He leaned close to Philip cocking his head slightly.

“Idiot! I said that you were supposed to be with your troop. I’m going to have Piros’ ass over this one. Now move!” Philip was still grinning, trying to maintain his composure but he was furious that his orders were ignored. How would it look for a god to have someone walk in with him.

Pausanius saluted, then leaned toward Philip to say one more thing.

“Die you bastard!”

From beneath his cloak, Pausanius pulled a short, oddly shaped sword. In one drawing motion the sword left the confines of Pausanius’

person and was driven into Philip’s ribcage. Even in the din, the metal plunging through skin, muscle and bone reverberated across the field. The blood and other bodily fluids streamed down the blade and within two heartbeats had stained the virgin white robe of the king.

Philip, his body in shock, could only grab feebly at the hilt of the blade buried in his chest. His mouth gasped and a few flecks of blood spit out. He was still standing but more because of Pausanius’ hold on the sword than his own strength. Philip could not feel any pain yet he was having great difficulty breathing. Still, he had one question.

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“Is...is...is this the way I die...like a...dog?” The effort was too great and Philip collapsed to the ground.

Pausanius looked down at the fallen regent then spit on the crumpled form. Leaving the murder weapon he took off back through the tunnel, the shocked bodyguard chasing him.

Alexander had not been paying attention and the first inkling he had that something was amiss was when he was pulled away from the center of the passageway and surrounded by the king’s bodyguards. He still did not know what had transpired until he saw Piros.

As Pausanius slayed the conqueror of the Hellenic city-states Piros watched helplessly. He was too far away to take the sword himself and he cried from grief and frustration as he fought his way through to the fallen king. The soldiers forming the human barricade encircling Philip parted to let Piros through. He immediately knelt and as gently as if Philip were a newborn, he lifted the badly bleeding monarch into his arms. Piros cradled Philip and with his free hand caressed his forehead while he called to him to live. Philip’s eyes opened but it was obvious they were unseeing and all those watching knew that the life was seeping out of the fatally wounded king rapidly and many crowded around to hear what if any words he might have to say.

The circle opened again as Alexander was led to his father. The young prince was overcome with grief and he wailed as if the sword had torn his guts out. He picked up Philip’s limp, bloodstained hand and held it to his cheek. The movement sparked something in Philip and his eyes managed to refocus for a moment on his son.

“It...it...it...it was...Ccccc...Cel...tic,” hoarsely gasped Philip, the effort costing him more blood.

Both Alexander and Piros looked down on the king, confused by the statement. Then Piros noticed the hilt of the blade still lodged in the chest of the regent. Philip, dying, had still managed to recognize that the weapon that had killed him was Celtic. Piros didn’t know whether to smile or cry.

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While the dying Philip was being attended to, Pausanius was running across the courtyard, the soldiers of the bodyguard close behind in pursuit. Pausanius felt exhilarated and he had gotten a good enough start to easily outdistance those bent on apprehending him. As his feet pounded the tile lining the open area he was traversing he thought about what he had just done. Pausanius had no regrets and as soon as he escaped he would sail to Sicily, to be there hidden by one of Olympias’ paramours. As he turned a corner a pair of horses, prepared and packed with supplies, came into view. Good, thought Pausanius, the Lyncestians had delivered what they had promised . A few more steps and he would be free. He almost whooped with elation.

The joy was short lived. A tree root, forcing its way through a crack had managed to protrude itself. The fleeing Pausanius, oblivious to all but the waiting horses, did not see it and his foot, as if directed by the gods in revenge for the slaying of one of their own, hit the petty obstruction, tripping the assassin. Pausanius stumbled then fell. His outstretched hands managed to lessen the impact but the fall knocked the wind out of him.

Pausanius saw that he could not escape the three soldiers who had just come up. Yet he was not frightened. Leonnatus, Perdiccas and Attalus, the three standing before him now, were part of the plot orchestrated by Olympias. Pausanius smiled.

Leonnatus returned the smile and extended his hand to help Pausanius up. The assassin lifted his but he never got the chance to grasp Leonnatus’ hand. Without warning, all three of the pursuers thrust their short javelins into Pausanius. Repeatedly they impaled their co-conspirator until what had been Pausanius, captain of the bodyguard, was nothing more than slaughtered meat. So quick was the execution that the surprised somewhat frightened expression on Pausanius’ face remained etched on his corpse. The three Lyncestians nodded to one another, then called out to the others just coming around the corner. Leonnatus, stepping forward to meet his comrades in arms, pointed to the bloody mess at his feet and said,

“Philip’s murder has been avenged.”

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