The Paladin Chronicles Book bundle 1-4 by Neil Port - HTML preview

Chapter 1 : Hakeem of the Shantawi

Samit burned with rage when he heard the distant trumpet call and saw Hakeem's small force crest the faraway hill.

It was as if molten lead flowed throughout his body, never in his 60 years had the veteran commander felt such fury! Victory was already theirs. The Troians were beginning to fall back in disarray. Hakeem was ordered to skirmish and harass from a distance, not join the main fight.

The young pup! He had been seen as the most promising of all their legendary Shantawi mercenaries. Samit had given him a full command of 120 of the desert horsemen, despite his young age.

Now good Shantawi men would die so that Hakeem could make a gesture, so that he could join in routing the enemy. The penalty for him would be swift, but it would bring shame on Samit and those under his command.

Samit paused on a small hillock, his eyes sweeping the battleground. Below him was a chaos of men fighting and dying. The Troians had made a surprise attack on the northern defences and broke through to march on Pergamon, the great Aiol fortress-city.

Samit's forces had joined the Aiol King Helios in a desperate dash to stop them here, in this valley. Defeat had seemed inevitable for their smaller Aiol force, but then the Troians attempted to advance with much less cavalry than expected and the Aiols managed to attack their flanks.

The Troians had taken heavy losses and were now attempting the most difficult of all tasks, an orderly withdrawal in the middle of a battle. The Aiol forces had been pressing them back for more than a turn of the glass. The small size of the enemy cavalry was incomprehensible, but it seemed that at last the crafty Troians were caught. The Aiols were pressing their advantage and Samit's main command had joined them in harrying the Troian vanguard.

Samit glanced back at Hakeem's men and felt a surge of blessed relief. Hakeem's small command hadn't turned to join the battle. His trust in the young tribesman had not been misplaced.

But what were they doing?

They were rapidly skirting the main fighting, staying parallel to a distant ridge. Samit smiled in pride as he watched them gallop. Few could ride like the Shantawi! But what could be the cause of their urgent ride?

They seemed to be headed straight for the Aiol royal party on a hillock, well back from the main battle.

A sudden horror gripped Samit as a thought came to him. He glanced at the ridge that ran the length of the battlefield. Could that ridge conceal an enemy detachment, planning to attack the King and flank the main force? Was the Troian retreat a clever trap?

He cursed, where were the missing Troian horse?

It was then he heard something carry across the wind that made his blood freeze, the Berserker chant! It was the most sacred of all the Shantawi battle hymns. It had not been heard in over a hundred years.

Hakeem and his men called on their God.

They didn't offer their lives to this coming battle, they believed them lost. They pledged their very souls that they would give glory to their God. They pledged to fight to the death, but they asked God to give them inhuman strength and, in their rage, no thought for their safety. The Shantawi Berserker Chant was a final prayer by Shantawi warriors approaching certain death.

It meant only one thing.

"Hold this flank!" he yelled to the surprised General, Evagoras.

Spinning round, he screamed in his own tongue. "To me! To me!" as his trumpeters took up the call.

Treachery! Evagoras thought, but knew it was impossible. Honour was very literally a religion amongst these tribesmen.

In the confusion, the flank began to fall apart but Samit didn't care. If he was wrong, he was a dead man.

He spurred his horse, not waiting for his men, who were raggedly disengaging and galloping like the wind to catch their leader. Careless of his horse, at full gallop over the uneven ground, he was only halfway to the distant Aiol royal standard when the enemy boiled over the ridge like ants from a nest that had been kicked.

He was too late.

Evagoras had fallen for a clever trap. His main army had been drawn further and further away, leaving the royal party isolated at the rear. The enemy cavalry would take the Aiol King and would fall on the Aiol army from behind. A fresh cavalry outflanking a battle-weary centre who'd just lost their king. Few would survive this day.

The King led a score of heavily armoured lancers in his guard. Formidable in combat, their heavy armour made flight impossible. The rest of the King's personal guard was composed of eighty Latin mercenaries, heavy armoured too but they were infantry. They quickly formed a square around the King and his mounted escort. Their large rectangular shields formed a solid wall, but they were handicapped against cavalry by their short swords.

Each carried two heavy pila (javelins) on the underside of their shields, but the tight formation protecting the King, and the speed of the cavalry, prevented them from using them.

Samit watched as the infantry met a cavalry charge of superior numbers as best they could. Just as the enemy threatened to overwhelm the royal party, Hakeem's charge hit the enemy van and, incredibly, it swept it away.

* * *

In the short pause afforded them, Hakeem nudged his horse up to the King and his loud voice rang out. "Great King of Aiolía, it is thus that we of the Shantawi come to fulfil our oath to you!

"If we fail, we will gladly die at your feet. But should that prove to be our fate, we will build such a burial mound from the bodies of your enemies, that you need feel no shame amongst the greatest of your ancestors, or the mightiest Warrior Kings of old."

With these grim words the small knot of remaining defenders cheered and bashed sword against shield. They were eager for the fight.

The young King Helios nodded gravely, and then gave a great shout. "It is here, that we will stand!" He grabbed his standard himself and thrust it into the soil with a great blow.

Hakeem ordered his men to form up on either side of the infantry and they turned to face the second wave of Troians that were galloping towards them.

The Latins held the centre and the Shantawi in the wings were ready to encircle the Troians as their enemies attacked. What a cavalry they were! They were heavily outnumbered and yet the Troians had no chance against them.

* * *

As he rode, Samit laughed. His heart was bursting with pride and joy. This was the essence of the Shantawi warrior. If any survived, what songs would be sung? If they died, who could not wish for such an ending as they would make?

Behind him the desert mercenaries sang their own battle songs as they rode. Horns sounded as they thundered on. In the front was the growing clamour of fighting.

A desperate plan had come to him, but it would require the King and Hakeem to hold out longer than anyone had a right to ask of them.

* * *

Just then, Hakeem saw a frightening sight that foreshadowed the end.

The Troian advance guard were swift and lightly armoured like Hakeem's men, but they seemed to be falling back. Behind them, he could see a large company of lancers gathering for a charge. The Troians had three or more of these companies and they formed a formidable force.

Heavily armoured, they carried heavy wooden lances tipped with iron. Their shields were broad and half the height of a man. Their helmets had feathery plumes that bobbed as they arranged themselves in formation.

Their horses were heavy and strong. They lacked the speed and stamina of the desert-bred horses, but they could ram their enemies with brute strength. Their saddles had a wooden brace, like a chair, at the back of the rider, to steady their rider from the impact of his lance and their horses were also armoured with leather.

The lancers would charge in formation, as a unit, where each man supported the man on either side of him. From the front, in formation and crouched behind their heavy shields, they were almost invulnerable.

The desert fighters were the finest mounted skirmishers in the known world. They would gallop up to their enemies and shoot their wickedly accurate horse-bows and then ride away before they could be engaged in a stand-up fight. Guiding their small wiry horses with their knees, they could fire at full gallop and even fire backwards when galloping away. Any unprotected infantry that came against them in the open would be rapidly diminished without much loss to the horsemen.

They did not fight in tight formation, instead relying on speed, agility and individual prowess. If they could employ their greater speed and agility, they could likely defeat a heavy cavalry unit, but it would take time. It would be a deadly cat and mouse game, and against so many they would need a great deal of room.

They were not going to get it. They had to defend the King.

The heavy lancers would be front on, in proper formation, and with time to build up the speed of their charge. If Hakeem's men got in their way, they would simply roll over them.

Samit's force was swelling in numbers, but he was separated from Hakeem by the Troians. Whatever Hakeem did, he would have to do it on his own.

There was only one chance for Hakeem's small force, but it would require a great deal of luck. If Hakeem's men could break up the lancer's formation somehow, they could attack from the vulnerable sides or perhaps get close enough to render their lances useless, but this required the lancers being diverted from their charge at the Aiol King.

If he could hit them hard from the sides early in their charge, they might be induced to pause and try to mop up Hakeem's men first.

He only had a short space to try this. Once they got too close to the King, the Shantawi would need to face them; the Latin infantry could not be expected to meet a charge of heavy lancers unaided.

So to do this, Hakeem would have to ride well out to meet them. At the very best, it would be at great cost. Only a madman would try this knowing he had such a short distance, was hindered by the need to defend the King, and he and his men were outnumbered two to one.

Madman or desperate, he would take as many of the Troians with him them as possible, before he and his men were cut down. It was better than waiting.

Hakeem nudged his horse close to the King and nodded to the disaster they faced. Conversationally, as if remarking on the weather, he said "I'm intending to ride down and meet them. It will likely not go well for us."

Then Helios, the young King of the Aiol, nodded solemnly. "And so the time for all of us now comes." He reached forward and clasped the large mercenary's hand. King to mercenary, they farewelled like equals, like brothers.

Leaving his wounded and sixteen mounted bowmen with the King, Hakeem took less than 80 men down to meet the charge of twice that number.

* * *

Samit pulled his horse to a sudden halt. He would not try to reach Hakeem and the King. Such an attempt would only lead to defeat. He glanced back. The main battle seemed to be turning against them, so he'd get no help from their army.

He needed to do something fast with the small force at his disposal.

If Samit could avoid a direct engagement, there may be a chance. He hoped the Troians would remain focused on Hakeem and the King. It meant, in a way, using them as bait. If things went wrong, which was likely, Samit would not live to face the aftermath. To leave the King at peril would be seen as cowardice. The tribesmen's reputation for honour would be gone forever.

Samit used the same concealing ridge to gather his force just across from and behind where the enemy were pouring out. On his order, over 600 arrows struck the enemy's unprotected rear.

Chaos broke out.

Some Troians galloped forward, whether to commence the charge or escape this new threat was unclear. A few galloped back towards Samit's men but when they realised they were doing it alone, they tried to turn back. Many milled around, unsure of what to do.

Whoever was left in charge on the enemy side seemed to continue to try to get his men to form up for a charge at the King, but they were being decimated from a vulnerable rear, making it impossible to organise.

At the same time, Hakeem's small force used their bows to harry from the front. The Troians seemed frozen in horror and indecision, and then it was too late for them.

Samit's forces sent wave after wave of arrows into the enemy. Dead and dying men and horses obstructed the Troians from going forward and the crush of men coming behind prevented them from retreating. The walls of the gully prevented them from escaping to the side.

Samit began to work back along the ridge to mercilessly rain death down on the trapped Troian reinforcements. Troian wounded and their deserters fleeing from the battle claimed that daimôns had joined the Aiol side in attacking them.

The King led his knights against the few lancers who managed to come forward as a unit, taking them from the side.

It was just then that Hakeem heard a gurgling scream. It was his dearest friend, the elf-scout Elwan, struggling in vain to keep mounted with a great lance embedded in his chest.

Anguish and rage hit Hakeem like the exploding of a volcano. To this day, Hakeem can't recall what happened next. He came back to himself, hearing the King's voice, as if from a distance, "Hakeem! Steady man! It's over."

He found himself on foot with blood, not his own, splashed all over his clothes and body. His friends were giving him a very wide space, as he looked wildly around. His sword was ruined. He looked around for a replacement.

As Hakeem tried to clear his confusion and chase down a horse, a message from Samit requested the King to join him to lead the attack. A victory owed to the desert tribesmen would be resented. It had to be an Aiol victory.

The King led the tribesmen into the exposed flank of the enemy. "Aiolía! … Aiolía!" they chanted as they rode. The Troians broke. Not a careful retreat, but a rout.

Soldiers who turn their back and flee throw down their heavy shield and tall spear so they can run faster. They become an easy target, especially for horsemen.

The main Troian force was decimated that day. A great legend of the Aiol King and his mercenaries was formed, and grew in the telling.

* * *

Hakeem never found out what really happened before he came to his senses. He heard exaggerated tales by awestruck Aiol soldiers of his fighting with superhuman strength. His own men refused to correct these. In fact, one gave an oath that the whole force withdrew and simply let Hakeem fight the Troians alone.

If he seemed frustrated by their teasing, they would pull away in mock alarm saying, "Careful, don't make him angry!" Sometimes he would seem to catch them whispering to one another 'Berserker' just loud enough to be sure he could hear.

Other men would have felt exalted by the hero worship growing around him. Hakeem didn't like it. That he seemed embarrassed earned him greater respect, but it encouraged the teasing.

He understood the need of his men to take pleasure in victory, and enjoyed their good mood. He knew it was good natured, and often could not resist smiling or playing along, but underneath it all he felt sad and lonely without his friend.

That he was seen as a hero was just another barrier between him and the rest of the men.

Samit and King Helios began befriending him and the friendship of the older men helped.

 

Chapter 2: Mules, a Runaway, and Pergamon

Hakeem had been orphaned soon after birth. Having no close relative, he was raised by others of the Shantawi Badawiyyūn (Bedouins) before being accepted at age five into the abbey in the desert city of Karsh.

Only the Grand Abbot knew why he accepted a boy at such an unusually young age. Hakeem never betrayed that trust.

Hakeem could recall little of his life before the abbey and never asked about it. The only family he ever had was his teachers and mentors, yet about all other things he was endlessly curious. The next youngest child at the abbey was twice his age, but Hakeem showed great promise and by seven he could join the classes designed for the older boys.

The monks at the Abbey were followers of the mystic religion called Shayvism. It taught love of others and a cycle of reincarnation to reach enlightenment.

Karma (fate), for the Shayvists, was not a reward or punishment for good or bad deeds done in a previous life, it was 'chosen' by the lessons one needed to learn in this one. The poor and humble were not seen as inferior compared to the rich and powerful.

Mediation and extensive training in the martial arts was used by the Shayvist monks to discipline their minds and bodies. Hakeem excelled at almost everything he was taught, which included armed and unarmed combat, military tactics and horsemanship, but his greatest love was the religious texts. His only desire was to become a religious monk and study the mysteries of their sect.

He didn't feel part of the group of older boys and was too much in advance of those his own age. So, he was always solitary, quiet, serious and hardworking, but shy and naïve.

None could doubt that he had a good heart. If an animal or a boy needed help, he always seemed to be at hand. He was always polite to his superiors and a good-natured teacher of the younger boys. He was the favourite of the monks and the younger novices alike.

On the day of his coming of age (18), Hakeem made an appointment with the Grand Abbot to formally ask to become a monk. The memory of that meeting is forever burnt into his mind.

He gave a respectful bow and looked at the kindly old man, Gavri'el (Gabriel). He was the closest thing to a parent he had ever had.

"Father Gavri'el, today is my coming of age."

"So soon? Truly?" Gavri'el looked unsettled. "I was meaning to talk to you before this, but the time has slipped away."

"Father, as I am now of age, I wish to apply to be a monk."

Gavri'el smiled at him with gentle fondness. "You will have to forgive an old man, Hakeem. I really meant to talk to you before this."

It felt as if a large rock of ice had settled into Hakeem's chest, his breath caught in his throat. Hakeem had never even a moment of doubt, why the need for a talk?

"Talk about what, master?" He managed, his mouth was dry, his heart pumping. "All I have ever wanted is to be a monk and remain here like you and all the others."

The abbot shifted awkwardly in his seat. "It was what I had meant to talk to you about. It is not your path. You will join the company of Shantawi mercenaries led by Samit in Aiolía. There are some monks leaving for there in ten days, I want you to travel with them. You are to train as a paladin."

Hakeem never considered he would be refused. It was all he ever wanted. He had thought he was their best student. He had always worked so hard.

How had this happened? It was if his world had dropped out from under him.

He knew little about the paladins. There had only been four in all the history of Shayvism and that was so long ago now. What he did know was that to be a paladin was to become a warrior, not a monk. Monks can defend themselves and assist with local security but the 'life path' of a warrior was very different. The spiritual dangers of being a soldier or mercenary are many and obvious.

While the Shayvists officially teach that all life paths are equal, most have greatest respect for scholars, and most think that becoming a monk is the highest calling of all.

They seemed to accept other monks so easily. Why not him?

He burned with shame.

The abbot was recreating an archaic tradition, just for him. It was offered out of pity, for a fault he could not see. With tears falling down his cheeks and sobs wracking his body, he begged, "Please. Please… this is my home …. to be a monk … it's all I've ever wanted "

The Grand Abbot waited patiently, until his tears ceased. It took a long time no matter how he struggled to control them.

"We are proud of you, but it is not your path."

"But what am I to do?" Hakeem asked in despair.

"Go to Aeolia. Have faith. Come to me tomorrow and we will talk on this."

There was no use arguing. Hakeem gathered himself to bow respectfully. "Thank you, father, I will go now and meditate on why I am not to become a monk."

The abbot opened his mouth to say something more, but Hakeem was already walking away.

Wise old men, they say, can see the blindness of the young, but old and powerful men can sometimes forget what it is like to be young. The abbot was so sure that he was right that it caused his wisdom to fail. He had put off what would be an awkward and difficult discussion with his favourite novice. He was not given another chance.

Hakeem gathered his few possessions and the little money he had and left within the hour. The only weapons he took were a belt knife and one of the heavy wooden staves the monks used when walking.

He did not take provisions, not wanting to feel he owed the monastery anything. He didn't know what else to do, so he would go to Aeolia and become a mercenary, but they couldn't expect him to face his shame by staying in the monastery till then!

He said goodbye to no one. He was challenged by the old monk guarding the gate. When he said he was leaving the elderly monk hesitated, "but that's impossible," before allowing Hakeem to pass, as was his right.

Hakeem closed his mind to avoid dwelling on the pain. He slipped through the dark back streets of the city and searched out the cheap boarding houses and taverns for a caravan owner headed for Anatolē. It was not too late and in the third tavern he visited, he had a stroke of luck.

The man serving was blind in one eye and limped badly.

Hakeem approached him diffidently. "Sir, I take you for a veteran."

The old man smiled at him, seeming amused. "Well, you would be right, lad, and I take you as a young lad looking for a favour."

Hakeem laughed and nodded. "I wish to make for Aeolia, on the West coast of Anatolē and wish to work my passage."

"I know where Aeolia is, young pup!" scolded the old man, but he smiled in a friendly enough way. "You choose a long journey for yourself, so I wish you luck. That man against the wall over there, his name is Gennadios. The other man he is sitting with is his brother, Agapetos. They are going to Ikónion. Being a boy, Gennadios wouldn't pay you much but he just lost a man to the grippe, so it won't hurt to ask."

Several lamps caste their dim light through the room and shadows moved as people opened and closed the door. Hakeem thanked the old man and moved past several tables of men drinking to reach the rough-cut table where the two big teamsters sat half in gloom, drinking from double-handled mugs and talking quietly.

Hakeem gave a short bow, palms held together in front, as was his habit. "Gennadios, sir, my name is Hakeem. I wish to work my passage to Ikónion."

Gennadios's brother grunted. "You're too young. Go away, boy."

Hakeem didn't move. "I am strong, I am good with animals and I can fight."

Agapetos snorted and looked him up and down. "Perhaps you would like to prove that against me."

Hakeem shrugged, willing enough. "If you will give me the job and promise no grudge if I beat you."

"Leave him alone, Agapetos." Gennadios interrupted. "You don't know who you are offering to fight, boy. I'll pay you one silver obolos (a sixth of a drachma) per day and all you can eat, be at the stables near the south gate in the morning."

Hakeem smiled gratefully. "If you have no objection, sir, I will sleep with your animals."

At the stables he got a friendlier reception.

Their teamster, Origenes was Greek but fluent in Aramaic, Hakeem's native tongue.

"An obolos for a boy!" he said, clearly impressed. "He must have liked you; I only get two. He will expect you to work for that though. You look a strong lad; I hope you are."

The two of them had one end of the large stables to themselves. They were lying on straw and blankets. Origenes had positioned them in the middle so they could get a view of the stalls on either side. Gennadios had eighteen mules in three teams. They were medium size, less than fourteen hands high. which Hakeem later found out was the best size for teams.

The mules were tied by a long lead so their rumps faced outwards. Mules need less sleep than men, so most were still awake and standing, one turned its head to study Hakeem curiously. Its eyes glinted faintly in the shadowy light of the small lamp. It looked intelligent with its long ears standing up alertly. Origenes started giving Hakeem an education about mules. Hakeem found he enjoyed the old man's company and Origenes found him an attentive listener.

"Give me a mule any day, Hakeem," Origenes was saying with great relish, gesturing at the animals half-seen in the light. "They are even-tempered, smart and will outlast any horse."

"I hear they kick," Hakeem said, a bit doubtful. He had no experience with mules.

"Ungelded males can be troublesome, but horses are worse! Mules are only trouble when they need to be," Origenes claimed. "Shows how intelligent they are. Did you know a good mule is worth seven times the cost of a donkey or three times the cost of a horse? They can travel twice the distance of oxen at twice the speed."

Hakeem looked at the shadowy figures with a new respect.

"Believe me, boy," Origenes finished as they were bedding down to sleep, "if you want to be happy in your life, all you have to do is choose your mules with more care than you choose your wife."

Hakeem nodded; his young face serious. He'd try to remember that.

* * *

They were up at first light. Once Hakeem understood what was needed, the work of harnessing the three teams went quickly enough. He still needed Origenes to tell him which mules were paired with which and in what position.

Each mule had its own individual harness adjusted for its size and a heavy collar individually fitted by moulding when wet, and then trimming and stitching, so it didn't rub. Origenes was very fussy with his mules.

"You work well, boy!" said Origenes as Hakeem lifted and carefully positioned one of the heavy harnesses. Hakeem grinned at the compliment as they finished with last-minute adjustments and helped walked the pair to their position on the shaft. He was used to harnessing horses to wagons, it wasn't a lot different and he and Origenes worked well together.

With the morning sun shining in their eyes, they finished tying the coverings over the wagons. They were made from hemp-cloth waterproofed by linseed oil. Origenes said to leave them loose on one side so Gennadios could check the load.

Agapetos and Gennadios had been drinking late and there wasn't much more they could do until they arrived. Origenes tossed a chalkos (copper) to a young boy to fetch them.

It was then that they had a problem.

Their three wagons were blocking the exit from the marshalling yard. It hadn't mattered at first, as Hakeem and Origenes were first up and made good time, but the other teams had more men helping and now were ready. They immediately became impatient.

"Move your loads!" said a burly teamster, he walked right up to Hakeem and stood close to intimidate him. The man had sour breath and hadn't bathed recently. Other teamsters had gathered behind and were starting to complain loudly.

Hakeem very felt nervous, teamsters weren't known for their patience.

Origenes called down from his seat on the wagon, "I'm really sorry Binyamin (Benjamin). Gennadios has let us down."

"I'm sorry, sir," Hakeem added. "We have sent for him and his brother. They will be here any moment."

The man gave Hakeem a push designed to unbalance him. "Move your teams, now boy!" He said with emphasis, "or we will move them for you."

Hakeem rolled with the push and moved gracefully to the side as he did so.

"There are only two of us and there are three teams, we will move as soon as our owner or his brother arrives." Checking the load could be done later!

The man wouldn't wait. "I'll show you." he grunted and swung hard at Hakeem. He was shorter than Hakeem but a powerfully built teamster. His swing was easily strong enough to knock Hakeem down.

Without thought, Hakeem ducked under the punch, and rapidly responded. He hit Binyamin hard in the stomach with his right fist. As the man's swing missed, he trapped the man's arm against his body pushing with his left hand and moved forward to block a kick with his knee. His right fist pumped back and then forward to hit the man in the mouth.

As the man grunted and bent over, Hakeem grabbed the back of his head and kneed him hard into the nose as he came down. He dropped at Hakeem's feet as if he had been hit by an axe. Hakeem danced smoothly back to keep his distance and waited, ready for any more.

Binyamin's men and the others were shocked by the abrupt violence, and the ease with which a mere lad had disabled such a strong man, but they wouldn't hesitate for long. Hakeem, satisfied that Binyamin was staying still, ran back to the wagon and slid out his quarter staff.

He moved to face the crowd in a slight crouch, his staff held pointing forward like a spear held underarm. Origenes was shouting something or other. Hakeem yelled loudly over his shoulder. "Stay back, Origenes. I'll handle this!"

He was astounded to see Binyamin getting to his feet, admittedly unsteadily. Blood was flowing freely from the man's nose and mouth. He wasn't up to saying anything but he drew a Xiphos, the sharp pointed Greek short-sword for stabbing and slashing. The other three from his team had moved in front of their leader and had their Xiphoi at the ready.

"Can we stop this fight?" Hakeem pleaded. "I don't want to hurt any of you."

"Too late for that, boy!" one of the men snarled, starting to circle around. "You tricked our boss somehow, but you dream if you think you can hurt us. We will make that stick of yours into kindling and then we will cut you up real bad like."

Hakeem could hear Agapetos and Gennadios shouting from far behind him but he couldn't spare them any attention. He brought his stave up and ran the short distance between himself and the men and simply punched the end of his staff at the man on his right.

He was utterly astonished to find the man wasn't expecting it. All he did was to try a flimsy block and arch backwards, trying to get out of the way without even moving his feet!

He couldn't really be expecting Hakeem to wait for them to come to him, could he? That was preposterous. The staff made a crunching "whack" as he hit him in the chest. The man bent over, unable to breathe, clutching his chest with pain. Hakeem hoped it wasn't hard enough to kill him.

He mentally shrugged, he doubted it.

Now to concentrate on the other two.

He pulled his staff back and made a quick feint for the face of the next man. The man looked frightened and raised his sword in an equally ineffectual parry. Hakeem spun the staff around and brought the other end whistling around to crack him really hard across the shins. The man collapsed, screaming. These men knew nothing about fighting against a man with a quarter staff.

"Enough!" Hakeem demanded of the last man who was still uninjured. Just then Agapetos, Gennadios and Origenes joined Hakeem, with their own Xiphoi at the ready. The last man nodded and lowered his sword and stepped back, looking a bit pale. The fight had lasted less than a minute.

"My Lord," Hakeem said urgently. "We need to move our wagons before the town guards are called or there is more trouble. There are some in this city I do not wish to meet."

"Well, I can imagine that, Hakeem, now I have seen you fight," said Gennadios, stunned by the lad's ability. "Have you killed a man?"

"No sir, and there is no accusation against me." Hakeem drew himself up with dignity.

"We'd better go then. You really can fight," Gennadios said, shaking his head in amazement.

"Those men had no idea what they were doing," Hakeem said simply.

"Tell that to all those men Binyamin and his boys have bloodied over the years," said Agapetos, feelingly.

* * *

Origenes and Hakeem were sharing a wagon. Origenes loved to talk, which was not a problem because Hakeem liked to listen. The Greek was telling him about Anatolē (Turkey) and was incredulous at how little Hakeem knew.

"Don't you know anything, Boy?"

Hakeem shrugged, "It didn't seem important."

He had never intended to leave the monastery, he thought, glumly.

They were leaving Karsh, Anatolē lay to the north and west of where they were.

The name comes from Greek 'the rising of the sun', referring to its easterly position from Greece.

According to Origenes, it is a large box-shaped land bridge, connecting the West and the East. Hakeem was headed for Pergamon on the West coast which would be a long journey.

The three mule teams were making their way through the wādī (valley) where Hakeem's home city lay and had just joined the road that zigzagged out of the valley to head north.

Hakeem and Origenes were in the third wagon in line and while Origenes tried to hang back, they travelled in a dense cloud of dust. Origenes wore a faded pilos (Greek felt cap) and a cloth tied over his nose and mouth and Hakeem wore an old keffiyeh (headscarf) with a faded white and woad (blue) pattern, tied so only his eyes were showing.

"Why are you going to Aeolia?"

Hakeem had no real answer. "Some of my people are mercenaries there."

Origenes nodded, "Did you always want to be a mercenary?"

Hakeem's eyes grew bleak. "I do not want to be a mercenary. I just don't know what else to do."

He told Origenes about the monastery. Origenes confessed he had trained to be a priest and worked in a library, but he refused to tell Hakeem which God he had served, or why he had left. All he did say was that he was happiest doing what he was doing now. Maybe that was comforting. Hakeem wasn't sure.

Origenes regarded the young man somewhat warily. He had seemed such a nice young man, respectful, keen to please and eager to learn, but under that surface lay something very dark. When it was triggered as it had been, it was terrifying.

He was terrifying. He was sure something had happened causing him to have to leave, something the young man wasn't saying. Anyone could see why a group of monks wouldn't want someone like Hakeem in their monastery.

The army was a good idea, the young man needed to learn how to control his temper or he would murder someone one day.

"Can you tell me about Aeolia, Origenes?"

Origenes was jerked out of his reverie. "It's 'Aiolía' in the local dialect. It's on the western coast of Anatolē. I'll start at the beginning. You know about the elves and the Aryans, don't you?"

"I have heard about them," Hakeem said gesturing vaguely.

Origenes sighed. "You're lucky it is a long trip, my young friend. I'll tell you what I know. I don't know everything. For that you'd have to ask an elf, though I doubt you'd get an answer."

The heavy wagon entered a level part half way up the road that climbed out of the Wadi Karsh. Origenes slowed to allow Hakeem to look down on the oasis say goodbye to the only home he had ever known.

It was a truly beautiful sight, especially compared to the dreary land they were moving into. Hakeem was impressed by how strongly the mules pulled for their size. Origenes was right, mules were better.

"No human knows when the elves first came to Anatolē but it was many thousands of years ago. When humans first met them, they worshipped them. It was said that all of them had some form of magic back then, either big or small." He took a breath. "If so, the elves are not as they were, but you know what legends are like and elves won't talk about it.

"The Western Elves ruled the native humans of Anatolē. If you ever meet an elf now, you might wonder how a human could tolerate them for a week, let alone thousands of years but there is something about the elves that is hard to describe, and their humans were very loyal."

"Aren't the Eastern Elves the greater ones?"

"What? The Eastern Elves only ever had one great city, and each of the cities of the Western Elves were greater than it, but let me come to that.

"The greatest and holiest city of the Western Elves was Troia (Troy). It was said to be a place of many wonders and the city of their great seafarers. The old races of Hellás (Greece) and the many islands, we call the 'Pelasgoí'. They were also great sailors and builders and were on good terms with the elves. I think it was the elves that taught them, but both were mostly peaceful."

Hakeem looked at Origenes in surprise, "Different Greeks?"

Origenes nodded. "There are still some Pelasgoí settlements left, mainly villages. They were darker than the later Greeks but now the races are mingling. We don't know much about how they were back then; it was a long time ago and soon you'll understand why we don't have much of the old records. The Pelasgoí weren't united into one kingdom of course. Their greatest cities were on Kriti (Crete) but they were all through the islands and mainland.

"Centuries before the time of the Aryans, a savage warlike-race began to conquer the Pelasgoí. We call them the Mykēnai (Myceneans), after their greatest city."

"They sacked Elvish Troia."

Even Hakeem knew that tale!

Origenes nodded and paused as the wagon reached a big dip. Origenes didn't need a whip, he didn't need to scream and curse. Hakeem didn't need to leap off and run to lead the mules from the front. All Origenes did was "cluck" several times, make some "Yee-harr" noises and shake the reins lightly.

The mules gingerly allowed the wagon to roll into the hollow and, with a jingling of the harnesses they deftly pulled at exactly the right instant and in the right way, allowing it to rock out again. They were smart animals!

Origenes paused to think where he was up to.

"Compared to the elves and the Pelasgoí, the time of the Mykēnai seems short. It took them five hundred years before they conquered all the old Greeks. The Pelasgoí of Crete (the Minoans) and their allies had navies that proved too strong for them, but then there was a terrible eruption on the island of Thera (Santorini). It shook the whole world and darkened the sky for a very long time.

"It sent great waves moving over the ocean, destroying all in their path. Well, you can imagine the effect on a nearby maritime culture. It was a terrible disaster and it allowed the Mykēnai to conquer the last of the Pelasgoí."

"I heard there was a Greek story about something like that," Hakeem murmured.

"Atlantis?" Origenes snorted. "9,000 years ago, that could only be a story."

He thought some more. "It was one of Plato's stories. If he had said 900 years before his time, that would have been right. Athēnai was a Mykēnai city then, but of course Plato makes the Athēnai the brave heroes of the tale, better for the Athenian theatre.

"Anyway, once the Mykēnai had defeated the last of the Pelasgoí they turned their attention to the elves. It took them two hundred years, and the Mykēnai were at the height of their power then. They say King Agamémnonas led a thousand ships to sack Elvish Troia. It is one of the reasons why many elves hate humans so much.

"Some Greeks will tell you differently, but the elves never stole anything. It was greed, pure and simple, and the need to conquer, that drove the Mykēnai. Even then they only defeated the elves through treachery, by offering peace and then betraying them."

Hakeem counted himself lucky to be travelling with such a great storyteller. He noticed Origenes had a faraway look in his eyes as he spoke of Elvish Troia.

Origenes was from the Greek city of Troia, built by the Athēnai more than five hundred years after the burning of the elf capital, but the Greek Troians always felt a very special connection with the elves of old.

"After they had finally conquered Kriti, Troia and the coast of Kanaan, Aígyptos was the last great maritime power that could oppose them. The Mykēnai had a fearsome reputation back then, the Aígyptoi called them and those allied with them the 'sea people'. Your people called them Plištim (Philistines) but that was only a remnant of them.

"Within decades of the sacking of Troia, all their great cities were no more. Only a small fraction of them survived the destruction and the famine that followed."

"The Aryan Hordes," Hakeem said softly.

"And those they drove before them." Origenes nodded. " They came in wave after wave in numbers too many to count, there seemed no end to them. They didn't just kill people and burn cities, they took everything. The countryside was stripped bare, and just when things had started to recover, there was another wave of them. After they had gone, many strong kingdoms, empires and cities – some that had stood for thousands of years, were simply no more.

"They say the Western elves and their allies fought bravely against them, but it finished them. Now only a few Western Elves remain, in the woodlands just south of the Black Sea.

"The Eastern Elves fared better. Their mountainous kingdom and forests were better suited to their way of fighting and poorly suited to the Aryan chariots. They renamed their capital Elgard to celebrate its survival.

"Two or three hundred years passed and a new people came to Hellás from the north, related to the Mykēnai but not them. They built on the remnants of the Mykēnai and Pelasgoí. They are the greatest and cleverest humans that have ever set foot upon the earth."

He winked at Hakeem. "My Greeks!"

Hakeem couldn't help but laugh. He grabbed a goatskin of water from an overhead hook and passed it to Origenes. Origenes smiled and spat and then took a swig and rinsed his mouth before swallowing and passed it back.

Origenes was right yet again, Hakeem decided. His ignorance of anything outside of Karsh was almost complete. He was going to try to enlist as a mercenary, but he didn't even know if there was a war on. He didn't think there was.

"You frightened me back there." Origenes said softly.

"I'm sorry, Origenes, I didn't want to fight."

"What about that temper of yours?"

"Origenes I wasn't angry." Hakeem looked at Origenes steadily. "I didn't want to hurt them. It was a silly reason to fight."

Origenes looked at his big companion in confusion. Then, as he thought back, he realised Hakeem had tried to avoid a fight. He shuddered slightly … that was what this boy could do when he wasn't angry!

"Who taught you?"

"The monks."

"Would you know how to use this, then?" Origenes pulled a battered gorytos from behind him in the wagon. "It was owned by Philandros, who died of colic. I was his friend so it's mine to give. You can have it, if you can use it. If you don't take it, Agapetos will, and he doesn't use a bow."

Hakeem looked at the old gorytos. Gorytos is the Greek name for a holster of the shorter (composite) bow. It has space for the quiver, a hood to keep the inside dry and slots for beeswax, oil, spare bow-strings and arrowheads. It was usually carried over the shoulder or attached to a saddle.

Hakeem slid out the bow and quiver and his expression of pure delight said it all to Origenes. He took one of the arrows out, checked its length, sighted along it, and then, frowning in concentration, very carefully rolled it along the wooden corner of the cart, his wide grin returning as he did so.

Then he took out one of the hemp bow-strings and, warming a dab of wax between his thumb and forefinger, carefully waxed it.

Placing the bow on some cloth and rising to a half crouch, he attached one side of the bow-string and levered his weight to finish stringing it. He grunted and coloured with the effort.

"It's easier to do that on the ground, but this really is a heavy bow!" he said with appreciation.

Hakeem fumbled around in the gorytos. "Is there a thumb ring or a glove?" he asked.

"I wondered what these were." Origenes passed two odd shaped thumb rings across. They had long flattened tails at an angle a bit like a helmet.

Hakeem laughed, "These aren't for decoration. These are made from polished cow's horn. You really need to make your own, I can show you how. I'm sorry I didn't meet Philandros.

"This is a nice bow but I really can't take it. It is too valuable. I'll show you how it is used. A heavy battle bow has to be drawn by a thumb with a thumb ring, or three-fingered grip with a leather guard or glove. Using the thumb grip is far easier and it gives you a cleaner release, so it is more accurate," he explained.

"You put the ring just over the joint of your right thumb, the flat tail of the ring protects the end pad of the thumb … see the nock on string, that's where the arrow fits. You take the string just below the nock with your thumb. "

Hakeem continued.

"You bend your thumb completely into an angle. There is a very shallow groove on the ring … there … that's where the string goes when you pull on it. Now you grip the nail of the thumb with your big finger, to help the thumb. You rest two fingers against it to make sure the arrow stays securely in place."

He demonstrated with an arrow then put the arrow to one side. Then he pulled the bow a few times and then held it for a while at full draw. "It is a very heavy battle bow," he repeated, grinning with appreciation.

He passed it to Origenes and showed him how to wear the thumb ring and how to use it. Origenes grunted and tugged as hard as he could while Hakeem took the reins of the mules. Origenes swore profusely and went red in the face but couldn't get it even to half draw.

"It's not like a long bow. It's harder at half draw than at full draw," Hakeem encouraged.

Origenes took a deep breath and pulled harder and, lost control. The bow string hit his forearm with a loud "Whack!" Origenes bent over in agony, monotonously swearing in Greek.

"Oh!" Hakeem said wincing sympathetically. "I should have warned you. Your left arm was all wrong. I didn't think you were going to release it."

Origenes gave him a look of disgust. "I didn't think I was going to release it either," he said through gritted teeth.

It is very bad to 'dry shoot' a Scythian bow (shoot it without an arrow).

Hakeem decided not to mention this at this particular moment. In fact, he was quite alarmed at the vengeful look Origenes was directing at the expensive bow and hastily placed it well out of his reach.

"It's far too heavy for you. You should learn with a hunting bow first."

"I think you had better keep it," Origenes said nursing his arm, still red in the face.

Hakeem looked uncertain but his eyes were sparkling. Origenes didn't understand why he was so impressed with it, it looked rather plain. "It's a horse bow, isn't it?"

"I think this might have been made for infantry," Hakeem said slowly. "It would be too heavy for most on horseback, but I could use it." He smiled. "I'd need to practice with it, but it's as if it were made for me."

"It's yours," Origenes said through clenched teeth. He was gingerly fingering a welt on his forearm.

"Are you sure, Origenes? Do you have any idea how long it takes to make a bow like this and what it would cost? I can't ever pay you for it," Hakeem gestured helplessly.

Origenes nodded. "Just don't ask me to try it again," he said firmly. "Now let's try to work on your knowledge of Greeks, so I don't have to think of my arm."

Origenes explained that there were wild mountainous regions to the north of the Hellás and that's where the influx of new Greeks came from, first the Mykēnai and then, later, his Greeks. It was this that allowed the Hellás (Greece) to be one of the first great regions to recover after the Bronze Age collapse.

Indeed, for a time, Hellás with its limited farmland had became crowded that young Greeks needed to make their fortune far from home. It meant the new Greeks had built a mighty maritime civilisation that stretched over all of the north of the Mediterranean, the adjacent seas and lands.

They dominated much of Anatolē (Turkey), especially along the Aegean coast and the entrance to the Black Sea. The Athēnai rebuilt Troia as a Greek city. With the prevailing trade winds favouring its sheltered harbour and its control over the entrance to the Black Sea, it became the greatest of all their colonies. Hakeem found out he was headed for the Greek (Aegean) coast of Anatolē, south of Troia.

The greatest rivals of the modern Greeks were another great seafaring race. Distant cousins of the Hakeem's Aramaeans, that the Greeks called Phoiníkē (Phoenicians). They dominated the southern Mediterranean coast, while the Greeks dominated the northern coast.

But the greatest enemy of the Greeks was really the Greeks themselves.

"If you have two Greeks from different parts of the Hellás in the one room, you immediately have an argument. Leave them for a turn of the glass and they'll be trying to kill each other."

It was an exaggeration, but while the Greeks of the Hellás endlessly fought amongst themselves and lost control of their maritime empires, a King called Philippos brought his barbarian kingdom of Makedonía from the point of collapse to conquer all his neighbours.

The famous pass of Thermopylae (meaning "hot gateway" because of its springs) was still occupied by an Athenian garrison to try to prevent him reaching the central Hellás, but Philippos held all of the land to the north.

Hakeem didn't know it then, but Philippos was destined to be a name that he would know very well.

* * *

It was six moons later that Hakeem finally found himself, dusty and travel weary, walking through the gates of lower Pergamon. During his journey he had gained great knowledge of Anatolē and its history, and his Greek was greatly improved. He also had as his most precious possessions, a somewhat battered gorytos, and a small hoard of coins.

The royal Aiol city is Kyme, but Hakeem had made for the mercenary barracks at Pergamon, Aiolía's great fortress-city in the north.

South of Aiol lay the Ionian league and east the Lydian city (Sardeis or 'Sfard' in Lydian) but Pergamon stood between Aiolía and its most dangerous of neighbours, the Greek Troians..

Since the loss of tribute from the wealthy coastal city of Smyrna, which switched to join the Ionian league fifty years earlier, and loss of land to the Troians, the royal Aiol dynasty was only holding on very tenuously. King Helios was trying to rebuild the kingdom his father and his father's father had allowed to run down.

Bandits, pirates and deserters had become very numerous and bold under the old kings. There were many roads and surrounding areas of the country that had become unsafe. A number of local warlords had declared independence and trade had dried up. His cities were impoverished and its army run down. It was why he had employed a mercenary force. It was expensive but as his kingdom started to recover, it was paying for itself.

Hakeem waited to wave to his latest travelling companions, who had stopped at the guard station in front of the gate. They had business in the lower part of the city. With a lot of "mooing," shouting and swearing, the cracking of a whip and a great cloud of dust, the bullock drivers slowly got their team moving.

As they inched off, Hakeem was absolutely sure, after a fortnight of travelling with them, that he preferred almost anything to bullocks.

He started to trudge in another direction, along the road and over a stone bridge (across a small river) that lead to the lowermost gates and fortification of the akropolis (from akron 'summit' and polis 'city').

Pergamon meant 'castle' in an ancient native tongue. It had started life as a fortified hilltop in the misty time before the arrival of the Greeks. The base of the hill was surrounded by the junction of two tributaries that joined at Pergamon to form the river Kaïkos. It was naturally fortified on all but the south side, which was also the only entrance. The river Kaïkos had long silted up and was no longer navigable to the sea. Even so, no one was likely to want to abandon a site this good.

As he came closer to the hill, far above he could see the palace complex, barracks, and storage areas surrounded by the upper defensive walls and he could also make out the roof and the upper parts of the columns that marked the temple to Athēnā.

One of the guards at the gate directed him to the administrative barracks housed in the akropolis itself, so Hakeem, feeling nervous now that the end was in sight, continued to trudge up the curving path past the crowded agora (market), baths, gymnasia, and various minor temples before joining the foot traffic up the steep, broad steps which led to the great gates guarding the final entrance to the upper-most fortress.

A surprise awaited him at the top. He was ushered in to await an audience with the Shantawi commander, Samit, himself. Apparently, Samit had received a letter from Father Gavri'el and the situation was such an unusual one that Samit wanted to question him personally.

Hakeem found himself seated in an empty room, anxiously waiting for no less than the most senior warrior of all the Shantawi.

He wondered what was in the letter, but the file leader who ushered him in would give him no clue. When Samit had finished his morning's work, he hurried to question the young man. The letter made no sense at all. It was very complimentary and said the lad had applied to be a monk.

If the abbot thought so well of Hakeem, why was he in Aiolía, instead of the monastery in Karsh? The monks never sent one of their own to join the mercenaries.

Did Hakeem have some fault? But a Grand Abbot of the Shayvists would not have neglected to mention such a thing. The correction of fault was a Shayvist article of faith. Samit, like most of the Shantawi, was brought up on Shayvist teachings.

To get him expelled from the order, it would have to be a serious matter and yet the young man had not been expelled. As he met with Hakeem and tried unsuccessfully to put him at his ease, Samit became more and more puzzled. Hakeem had wanted to become a monk since he was a child and he had been rejected.

The large lad was polite and softly spoken, he seemed earnest. He had strong religious views and was distinctly naïve, exactly as one might expect.

He wasn't a bully. He said he liked training the younger novices. He was interested in caring for animals. He was self-effacing, but had a scholarly grasp of Shayvism. He was clearly intelligent.

He would make a perfect monk.

He looked like he could handle any violence that came his way, but that wasn't unusual in a Shayvist monk. Why send him to be a mercenary?

Hakeem had joined the Monastery at five as an orphan. It was a cruel thing to send this young man away; the monastery had been his whole life.

It certainly wasn't going to be easy for him adjusting to a soldier's life in the barracks. He couldn't afford a horse, so he would be in the infantry and separated from the other Shantawi.

The young man was deeply wounded by his rejection, as one would expect. The reasons had never been explained to him. Samit hoped it didn't leave him bitter. He hoped it wouldn't cause the ruin of such a promising young man.

The only explanation that Samit could find was something to do with 'paladins', but they didn't have those anymore. The abbot must have some plan to recreate the idea of religious knights and wished to use Hakeem in some way, but Hakeem had to be free to choose his own path! It was one of the central tenets of their faith.

Samit felt a strong stir of anger. That old man was a complete fool, even if he was a Grand Abbot. There was no valid reason for refusing this young man's request to become a monk.

Well, the abbot was not so powerful, or so beyond reproach, as he might believe.

For the moment, there wasn't much else he could do. Samit welcomed Hakeem as kindly as he could and sent him to get kitted and settled into the infantry barracks. He made a mental note to keep a watch on the progress of this young man, after that, he put it from his mind. He had many other things to worry about. It was Hakeem's karma and he needed to face it.

* * *

The first weeks in Aiolía were the most miserable of Hakeem's life. He was shy, reserved, and religious. Many didn't know how to take him. Some thought he was aloof.

Others mistakenly saw him as a target for bullying. That was one impression they found was most definitely wrong. Responding to bullies was the one area where the young lad was not given to any great subtlety.

Hakeem didn't expect to fit in or be liked, and so he kept to himself. Most of all, he was lonely and ached for the only home he ever known. A few made an effort to befriend him and were pleasantly surprised.

Hakeem didn't drink, gamble or go whoring, but he was slow to anger. He made a good friend and he was certainly a good man to have at your side in any trouble.

* * *

When Hakeem was called to see the Lochagos (infantry captain), not much more than one moon after his arrival, he assumed he was in serious trouble, but he didn't know why. The Lochagos was a God compared to a new recruit!

Pallas was busy when Hakeem's escort had him wait outside and went in to announce him. Hakeem was alarmed when Pallas dismissed his other visitor and asked that Hakeem be shown in immediately.

"Ah Hakeem!" Pallas said as Hakeem was ushered in. "At ease," he added, as Hakeem automatically dropped to his right knee, head bowed and right hand across his chest.

"Deimos speaks very well of you, but I suppose you know that."

"I'm certain I don't know that, sir," Hakeem replied stiffly, standing alert and ready.

"After three days, he had you training new recruits," Pallas said dryly.

"Is that unusual, sir? It's what I had been doing at the monastery for three years. What the recruits are learning is simple, sir." He paused. "In exchange, he gives me extra attention. Learning and teaching are what I like, if I may say, sir. Dekadarchos (Sargent) Deimos never said whether he was pleased with me or not, sir."

"I wanted to talk to you about the monastery," Pallas said changing the topic.

Hakeem felt a familiar icy lump inside.

"There is someone from there that has come and wishes to see you," Pallas finished, watching Hakeem closely.

Hakeem felt a wave of shame and agony, but he simply stood and waited.

"Do you wish to see him?"

Hakeem was surprised to be asked. "Sir, I see no point. I asked to become a monk and I was not found suitable. I have no wish at all to look back on that time, or talk to anyone from that place. My wish is that I be left alone. They have made their decision, and I have no place amongst them."

Hakeem was even further surprised when Pallas spoke kindly to him. He could have sworn his face showed no clue as to the pain this request had caused him.

"Hakeem that is your right, try to not let this distract you. Those monks were a bunch of fools. I expect you to have an early promotion. Make sure you don't disappoint me."

Hakeem straightened himself up and took a deep breath, but he couldn't prevent a smile. "Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!"

That was it, Hakeem was dismissed, and he heard no more for many days.

* * *

The monk, Brother Cephas, was one of the senior-most monks of the order, junior only to a full abbot. All he wanted was to talk to one of the junior recruits and no one would let him. He had made the long journey from Karsh and was bearing a letter from the Grand Abbot himself!

He was forced to become increasingly insistent, until finally he was brought before Samit the Shantawi commander. As he was led to see the commander, he felt relieved. This 'misunderstanding' could now be corrected. An order from Hakeem's superior would immediately solve the problem.

"Brother Cephas, did you wish to see me?" Samit said pleasantly enough, as the elderly monk in his white robes was ushered in.

Cephas was a little taken aback. Samit was a grey-haired man in his early sixties, but still fit looking. He was sitting in battle armour with his sword drawn and lying across his lap. He had a whole stichos of fifteen men, in full armour, standing behind him, seemingly at the ready. Then Cephas laughed to himself at his own reaction. This couldn't be for his visit, now could it?

"Well, my Lord. It's a very simple matter. I wish to see one of your men, Hakeem, who has left our monastery to come here," he explained.

"And he doesn't want to see you," Samit finished for him.

He seemed to be familiar with the matter. Cephas smiled with relief; he knew Samit would understand. Samit gave him a slow smile in return. It was hard to know how friendly it was.

Then Samit waited.

The time started to stretch out, though Samit and his men showed no sign of discomfort or impatience.

Cephas eventually shook himself a little. "I wish to talk to him," he smiled as he explained.

None of the men responded, they simply waited. They could have been carved of stone. Cephas was becoming increasingly unsettled by their lack of reaction. Samit still sat impassively, waiting.

"He won't see me," Cephas mumbled uncertainly.

No one else in the room moved a muscle.

Samit waited a long time and then asked, "And was there anything else you wished to talk to me about?" with a distinctly wolfish smile at the monk.

"Well," Cephas was getting a distinct sense of unreality. "I came all the way from Karsh to speak to the lad, and he doesn't want to talk to me. I have spoken to those in charge but they won't give me permission. When I insist, they refer me to someone else, and now I have had to talk to you."

Samit looked surprised. "Hakeem, has he stolen something or committed some crime? It wasn't mentioned in the letter Father Gavri'el sent me." He held up a piece of parchment.

"Hakeem? No!" Cephas was utterly appalled.

"I understand he applied to be a monk, and he was refused. Is that true?" Samit eyes were flashing angrily, as he looked at the increasingly uncomfortable monk.

"Yes, but …" Cephas started.

"Silence!" Samit shouted. He leapt to his feet, striking the arm of his chair with a slap like thunder.

"You rejected that man, though I can find no fault in him. So he is not part of your order. He has a right not to want to talk to you, under the very laws of your own order. You will leave this camp!"

"You don't understand!" Cephas spluttered desperately. "There has been a misunderstanding."

Samit towered over the old monk, and held his sword forward, at the ready.

"I understand perfectly!" Samit shouted loudly, his face flushed and his breathing rapid. "An injustice has been done. That young man wanted to become a monk and he was refused." He pointed at Cephas with his naked sword, "not because he was unworthy, but because someone with power over him wanted him to become something else. And now, you refuse to leave him alone.

"Let your superiors know he is here under my protection, and I will not permit anyone else to come here to harass him."

As he finished, he nodded over his shoulder to the leader of his guard with a smile. "Sampson, could you ensure Brother Cephas finds his way out of the city? I forbid him from interfering with any of my troops. If he still finds this difficult to understand, you may arrest him and hold him until I have time to attend to the matter."

"My lord, you exceed your authority!" Cephas was more shocked than angry. "I am a special envoy of the Grand Abbot."

"So I exceed my authority, do I?" Samit paused, as if considering. "You seem to have forgotten who I am." He said this gently and smiled dangerously at the monk, glancing almost idly at his sword, held ready.

Cephas's head jerked up in recognition, his mouth hung open. The men in the room could almost see him thinking.

Samit was the senior-most warrior of the Shantawi. If war threatened their homes, it was Samit who would lead them. He had a role and title, but by tradition it was never spoken of, and it had hardly ever been invoked in peacetime.

Yet it was his unquestioned right to invoke it at any time he perceived a threat, no matter how distant, to the war readiness of the Shantawi. The Abbot intruding on one of their trainees under Samit's command? In such a matter Samit's authority was absolute. He could go to any length he thought necessary to enforce his decision and it would be accepted as a matter of course.

Would he invoke his authority now? Looking at Samit's face, the monk realised he would.

For Cephas, it was as shocking and frightening as if he were running hard across an empty field and a precipice suddenly appeared in front of him. If Cephas made any more fuss, Samit could take this as far as he wished. It would become public knowledge what the brotherhood had done.

Cephas bowed and mumbled his apologies and, fled as quickly as he was able. His escort had to scramble to keep up with him.

Once he was out of earshot, Samit sat down, laughing. He had thoroughly enjoyed that.

He knew something almost unprecedented was going on. Why would the Grand Abbot dismiss Hakeem and yet send someone so senior all the way from Karsh to speak to a mere recruit?

Samit had already talked to Pallas, the captain in charge of Hakeem. The lad was as unhappy as Samit had expected him to be. He was also very talented, as expected, probably more so, but this didn't explain what was going on.

The Shayvist Grand Abbot had had some sort of plan for Hakeem, and it had fallen apart when Hakeem left the monastery so suddenly. This was very unusual behaviour for Shayvist monks.

It didn't matter, he wouldn't let the order do this to one of his men.

* * *

Hakeem was passed the letter from the Grand Abbot but he stored it, unread. It was only a moon and a half later that Hakeem received a message saying the old man had died. The great old man had never stopped asking after Hakeem, and had left another letter and a book to him. Overcome by grief and remorse, Hakeem could open neither.

He knew the old man regretted what had happened.

Hakeem had forgiven him.

He had given the abbot no chance to explain but what would the old man have said? Somehow, he preferred not to know. It was all too painful.

The Grand Abbot was the closest he ever had to a father. That day, he asked for some time to himself and went into a nearby forest. When he returned the next afternoon, he didn't mention it again.

The final link to his childhood was broken.

Chapter 3: The King's Game, an Elf, a Lesson, and the Men's Latrine

Hakeem produced his new orders to Niketas, the grizzled old recruiting dekadarchos (sergeant), in a room crowded with beeswax tablets and papyrus. He remained at attention with a barely suppressed smile on his face and his chest proudly puffed up while the old veteran read them.

Then Niketas looked up at Hakeem, leaned back, and laughed. Hakeem had just received a promotion, after only two moons of service. He saw nothing funny about it. He remained stiffly at attention, the smile dropped from his face and his eyes looked bleak.

"Oh, good, they have sent me another new dimoiria (corporal)!" Niketas called out to his aide in the small office. "I hope he can play the King's Game."

The Aide laughed at the jest. The 'King's Game' was a board game from Aígyptos.

"You have no position for me," Hakeem said darkly, as he realised what was happening. "I won't be playing the King's Game."

"I'm sorry," Niketas apologised. "I suppose I should be congratulating you." He sighed gloomily. "They keep sending me seconds. I already have nine waiting for a post already. One has been waiting for three moons ... What a way to run an army."

Until he was attached to a dekadarchos (sergeant), Hakeem's promotion wasn't effected. He would be paid as a common soldier, but he couldn't return to his previous stichos (file). He was stuck nowhere, just like nine other men.

"I'm sorry, 'Akeem. They give our best soldiers a promotion and then send them to fae skata in the barracks." Niketas swore. "I can't find a new dekadarchos out of my kolos!"

Hakeem's initial impression of Niketas softened. He was rough and foul mouthed but not deliberately spiteful. Hakeem knew Niketas could hardly pull a dekadarchos out of his 'kolos', but he didn't intend to 'fae skata' (eat shit) in the barracks either!

The decadarchoi, literally meaning 'leaders of ten,' each commanded a stichos (file), mostly fifteen or sixteen men. They were, in many ways, the real backbone of the army. In war, they led from the front so attrition was high, but there were enough hardened veterans to replace them.

In peace, though, there simply weren't enough suitable soldiers with the sort of experience needed and it was worse now that King Helios was expanding his army.

"You can complain to Pallas, but you may as well skipse kai glipse."

Hakeem frowned, the last obscenity made no sense, 'bend over and lick'? He would really rather it wasn't explained to him. He had the idea. Complaining to his lochagos (captain) would do no good.

"Look at this!" Niketas he waved a parchment in front of Hakeem. "A fort that is a lump of skata has been waiting for a file leader for four moons. So what, I say?

"Some malakas (masturbator) who got sent there demands another file leader. Where am I supposed to find one? I wanted to say 'pare mou pipa'." Hakeem had to chuckle at that, he very much doubted the sergeant would actually say "suck my pipe" to anyone, let alone a superior officer.

"He is an anthypolochagos (junior lieutenant). To get sent there, he couldn't be too popular, I say. Now his father turns out to be some sort of archi-malakas (head and important wanker) and I have received his letter as well.

"I will have to show this to Pallas, and tell him we must take a file leader from an existing file and send it to this flea-ridden place. You can imagine how he will react!"

"Well," Hakeem said, lifting up the letter. It was brief, but there was no mistaking the message. "I plan to see Pallas so I am happy to carry this good news for you as well."

"It can't possibly help you," Niketas said, looking very uncertain as he looked up at Hakeem holding the letter.

* * *

Pallas stared at the parchment written by the lieutenant's father. The father had been a lochagos who had retired after coming up through the ranks. He had recently bought a commission for his son.

The father would be furious about where his son had been posted: the fort at Malea had an ill reputation. There was no mention of this, nor would there be.

The fort had three understrength files, each of eleven men. The sensible thing was to merge them into two files but his son had a bought commission, this entitled him to lead three files which meant three file leaders. The message was short and blunt. His son had a legal entitlement and his father was not without friends.

Pallas looked up. He looked like he wanted to smash things. "I can't conjure men capable of being proper file leaders out of the air!" he said to himself.

Hakeem managed to suppress a grin, Pallas had not said out of his 'kolos', like Niketas, but this was not a good time to show amusement.

Then Pallas noticed Hakeem was still waiting at attention, his face expressionless. "I suppose you have come to complain to me too. Did you bring this to put me in a good mood first?"

"No sir," Hakeem said respectfully "I merely came to deliver your mail, sir."

He produced a papyrus document and placed it carefully on top of the other one.

"What's this? It's from Deimos!" Pallas cried in surprise.

He squinted. Then he moved the paper back and forward. He turned it upside down and then turned it around and held it up to the light. "He actually wrote something himself. I didn't know he could do that."

He eventually flopped back, defeated, and threw the paper from his hoplomachos (drill sergeant) back on the desk. "How does he expect me to read something like this?"

"It's about me sir." Hakeem said. "It's a recommendation for promotion."

"Hakeem, we already received this verbally," Pallas said. "And we accepted it. I'm just sorry we have no position for you."

"Well, sir, that's not exactly true. Deimos has agreed to take me as his second. In fact, he says I have been his acting second for two moons."

Pallas was impressed, Hakeem had no combat experience yet Deimos had agreed to keep him training recruits.

"But that's not what this is about, sir. You will see that the letter is dated today."

It was so outrageously cheeky that it took a moment for Pallas to comprehend what Hakeem was actually suggesting.

"You got Deimos to recommend you for file leader!" Pallas surged from his chair and struck the table loudly in disbelief. "Was he drunk?" he said laughing. "You're not even a second yet, you don't have a position."

"Yes, sir I agree, normally that would be the case. I have checked the rules with the pay master. With Deimos saying I was his acting second for two moons, I am entitled to be a second waiting a new assignment, not a soldier waiting to become a second. I already have a place to go as a second, in case there is any dispute.

"So I have two moons experience which is the minimum, before I can be legally recommended for file leader, and I have the recommendation of my dekadarchos." Hakeem concluded.

Pallas dropped back in his chair laughing. The sheer audacity of it all!

"All, right, very clever, Hakeem. Maybe you are not as naïve as we all thought.

"I can't let you get away with it, of course, but with Deimos's recommendation and some more experience, you will make file leader in a couple of moons. Believe me, you would rather wait and have a proper command than go to Malea."

"I wouldn't mind sir," Hakeem said quietly. "I take it you have another solution, sir?" He stood waiting, his face expressionless.

"I admire your nerve, Hakeem." Pallas said levelly. "I just let anyone get away with something like this." His last few words trailed off in a weak fashion.

He paused for a long while completely motionless and then finally he shook his head in disgust. He looked like a man swallowing something distasteful. "You'll regret this, Hakeem. If you were Greek, I couldn't promote you like this. You would be too young. You know that, don’t you?"

Hakeem nodded. "Yes sir, thank you, sir. I'm a Shantawi, sir."

* * *

The time Hakeem was in Malea passed very quickly, for him and all those around him. The tribesmen have a saying, "it was almost over before it began."

It was the events of Malea that convinced Samit to make what seemed an extraordinary gamble, putting Hakeem in charge of a full century of Shantawi cavalry. Yet Hakeem could have been forgiven if he found his introduction to Malea decidedly discouraging. Not that he expected any better.

It was on the way there that he first met Elwan.

Elwan had been sent there to escort Hakeem on the last leg of his journey from the village of Aigiriossa to Malea. Hakeem was delivered there early in the morning and he found the elf already waiting. He had heard about elves from Origenes but he had never met one. He was intrigued by the subtle 'otherness' of his companion.

The elf was tall, no taller than Hakeem, but he was slender as all elves are. That could be deceiving, Hakeem knew: even strong elf warriors looked slender and all of them had a speed and balance that was hard to match.

The elf's complexion was inhumanly fair. His face was smooth (elves do not grow facial hair). His red silky hair was tied in a warrior's knot to reveal the pointed ears of an elf which were said to be able to hear the fall of a leaf at scores of paces. When he turned his gaze on Hakeem his intense green eyes seemed to shine like a cat’s.

He was dressed in the green and brown leathers of an elf scout and armed with a heavy elf-knife with an exquisitely carved ivory handle. He had a long sword with an equally beautifully decorated hilt and he carried a composite bow.

All elvish weapons are not only exquisitely beautiful; they are of a quality even the best human weapons could not meet. Yet Elwan's marked him out as an elf noble.

Hakeem was only carrying his weapons, a light pack, and the sealed orders that would allow him to assume his first command. His other meagre possessions would follow in due course.

Elwan didn't bother to offer his name. As soon as he thought Hakeem was ready, he turned without a further word, and began walking out of the village, Hakeem realised he was supposed to follow. When they reached the open road, without a glance at Hakeem behind him, the elf simply began running.

Hakeem grinned as he saw his guide take off. The elf was making a point!

He could outrun Hakeem, but that would be too obvious. Instead, he was maintaining what for an elf was a relaxed lope. Hakeem had been trained to endurance and mental discipline. He would find this more comfortable than the elf expected.

The elf maintained a rhythm that would rapidly eat the distance between them and the fort and Hakeem managed to match him without any strain. At this pace, they would easily arrive on the morning of the third day rather than the evening of the fourth.

Hakeem reached into the discipline of his mind that allowed him to merge with the rhythm of his body, Hakeem ran as one trained for endurance, but he could not match the grace of the elf.

His rhythm varied over the uneven ground. The elf ran as if he were somehow flying through the forest; the dappled morning sunlight flickering through the trees almost made him seem to disappear for short periods or blur as he ran.

It was as if Hakeem, for all his training and mental discipline, reached blindly for something that elves could do so easily as breathing. They could merge with their surroundings by their very nature. "You sound like an elephant!" the elf called back to him in a musical voice.

Compared to you, I am, Hakeem thought, but he didn't bother to reply.

The elf had his war-bow strung and Hakeem cursed his own foolishness, but he didn't pause to string it till he noticed a change in the behaviour of his companion and softly called to him. The elf waited a little ahead, scanning the forest while Hakeem crouched down and quickly and efficiently strung his heavy bow and extracted his quiver. He turned to acknowledge Hakeem who cautiously moved up.

He had expected the human to have trouble keeping pace but the big lad wasn't even out of breath. He felt more inclined to talk to him now, but he allowed his eyes to continue to scan the forest, alert to any changes as he spoke.

"Perhaps there is one of you humans, who is not completely deaf and blind," he said grudgingly.

Hakeem favoured the elf with a sheepish grin. "I am, compared to an elf. I only watched you. You kept glancing at that ridge beyond the trees. Will they attack?"

"No, they only watch," Elwan said. "That looks a proper bow, do you know how to use it?"

"I would say 'yes' in any other company but not in front of an elf," Hakeem returned politely.

Elwan smiled, greatly pleased by the reply. "You are a Shantawi, how does a Shantawi end up not only on foot, but going to a neglected outpost in this Godforsaken land?"

Hakeem smiled, his own eyes automatically scanning the bushes.

"I argued with the Grand Abbot, and had to leave suddenly. It left no time to steal a horse."

Elwan laughed and whistled in surprise. This stranger argued with the most powerful man in Karsh! "Can you fight on foot?"

"In that, I think I am safe to say 'yes' in your company or any other, but why are you here, elf? Why would they waste a full blood elf-scout by sending him to Malea?"

"I told the truth!" Elwan spat.

"To the Grand Abbot?" Hakeem asked with his eye brows raised.

Elwan looked at him suspiciously, and then suddenly threw his head back and laughed.

"No, it was a lochagos. He was the son of a noble," he admitted. "By the way, my name is Elwan from C file. Our file leader got himself killed in the woods, like the damn fool he was. We all wait impatiently to see what they trawl from out of the sewer to send us. I will have to play nursemaid to another daufi (stupid) human who knows nothing and acts like he knows everything."

"Well, all I can say is that the daufi human will be fortunate, if he has a full blood elf scout," Hakeem suggested mildly.

Elwan snorted.

Hakeem extended his hand. "By the way, my name is Hakeem. I would feel privileged, if you have some time to instruct me in how not to get killed in the woods."

Elwan was touched by the courteous request. The elves had an almost magical ability in what they called 'woods-craft' (the art of reading the wood and moving through it, leaving little sign of their passing). It made them terrifyingly efficient in heavy cover.

"Well, agreed then, Hakeem. They say the Shantawi are the only humans worth knowing! I like you, even though you are a human. Are you coming to C platoon too?"

"I am, my tactful friend," Hakeem agreed. "I am the one they have at last trawled up from the sewer. You said I will be daufi in the woods, and that is my thought also. I will freely admit it and hope to hold you to your promise to train me and our men in woods-craft."

Elwan looked at him in shock.

"You can't be," he said, incredulous. "You are only a boy! You cannot be fit to be a file leader!"

Hakeem looked back at him and laughed. "It seems if I want an honest opinion, I only need ask an elf. I know little of the Elf-kin but I had heard they are usually not so hasty a people."

Elwan had nothing to say to that. He gave Hakeem a long searching look, up and down. Then he nodded and they were back running.

* * *

As they emerged from the trees, Hakeem could view the fort, about a mile distant. Elwan motioned him to silence. Without a word, the elf led Hakeem to one side, and settled himself down behind a bush. As Hakeem carefully joined his new friend, they were able to get a good view of the village, and the nearby fort, without being seen.

So we are to observe, Hakeem concluded. Hakeem was beginning to suspect that elves were not great ones for idle chatter.

After about five minutes, Elwan led him back out of sight behind the trees and waited till they were both settled comfortably. "So, human, what did you see?" the elf asked, his face unreadable. Hakeem decided that his first lesson had started.

"It's not what I expected," Hakeem started. "What I see most of is what I don't see. It's called a fort, but there are no proper fortifications, not even field fortifications or a simple watch tower. The fort is little more than a permanent camp, a collection of wooden buildings forming a rectangle on a small hill."

"That is good," Elwan nodded. "What else don't you see?"

"There are two sentries on the roof but they are resting comfortably and not alert. The forest has been allowed to grow back too closely, but recently there has been an attempt to cut it back."

"Our new lieutenant, Aeton," Elwan informed him. "He has been here two moons."

"Not much progress for thirty men in two moons," Hakeem commented dryly. "No stockade, despite the ready timber, no barriers, ditches or even water barrels for defence against fire. The town too, is wide open."

"Now you know," Elwan said simply. "It is a depressing place. It has never been attacked and it will never be attacked."

"At least there is a well, is it a good one?"

"The well is good," the elf said sardonically.

"What happened to the previous lieutenant?"

"He drank wine without adding water," Elwan said simply. "This place had no lieutenant for a year, and not much of one before that. In case you are not yet convinced about the place you have come to, my large friend, let's see how close we can get you before we are both noticed!"

* * *

Hakeem's first meeting with Aeton, the anthypolochagos (junior lieutenant) of the fort, could not be described as promising. When Hakeem and Elwan entered the room, Aeton stared at him in utter horror.

The pair fell in unison to kneel on their right knees, their right hand across their chests and heads bowed in salute.

Aeton was appalled. His father had come up through the ranks to retire as lochagos. It was a struggle for him to purchase commissions for his two older brothers and Aeton never imagined he would be able to do the same for him. It must have near impoverished his parents.

Aeton should have been attached as an aide to a senior lochagos (captain) and further promotion would then be on merit. As soon as he received his posting orders, he realised that his father had enemies, and they had set a trap for his father's youngest son.

He was sent to a fort at Malea, a tiny village in thinly populated foothills. Malea had belonged to Smyrna, before Smyrna switched to paying their tribute to the Ionian league fifty years earlier. Aiolía had decided to seize Malea in retaliation. Neither side took it as a serious move. Smyrna was not really an enemy of Aiolía, they were too interdependent, and now Smyrna had protection from their new and powerful friends.

Malea was a place of no great importance in a small section of wilderness that no one really wanted. The only paths to Malea were side tracks, one off the main road leading from Smyrna to Prusa in Bithynia, and another off the main trade route from Aiolía to Ikónion. The roads were narrow and impassable after even the slightest of rains. Yet a collection of wooden buildings was duly built just outside the village of Malea and was called a fort.

Aeton would be the most senior officer there. He would be deprived of the help of a senior experienced officer or any chance to make important contacts. Worse, he would never be noticed in such a posting.

Yet it was only after Aeton had arrived that he realised just how diabolical the trap was. There was one export from the hills around Malea that was both well-known and plentiful … bandits!

It was an ideal base for attacking traffic on several major trade routes.

Aeton, due to his rank, supposedly had three stichos (files) at his disposal. The minimum for a stichos was ten, though most had fifteen to eighteen. His three stichoi were understrength at eleven men each.

If he included himself and three file leaders, he would have 37 fighting men, two cooks and a stable hand. No one wanted to come here. Most of the soldiers he was given were lazy, corrupt, or petty criminals and there were several bandit leaders close by with bigger and better commands than he had.

He could do nothing effective against the bandits without two or three times the men he had. He was doomed to irrelevance and failure, at a time when the new king was transforming his kingdom and there was so much opportunity.

Now there was the suspicious delay in replacing one of the dekadarchos (sergeants) who had been killed. His father even had to write a letter. As he looked at Hakeem, he realised with a shock the true extent and power of the malice he faced. They had sent him a boy! It was impossible! It was incredible!

Hakeem looked up and announced his name in a clear voice "Kyrie (Lord) Anthypolochagos, my name is Hakeem." He passed his sealed orders to the lieutenant.

Aeton felt a sinking feeling as he accepted the orders. He studied Hakeem out of the corner of his eye.

The lad obviously had little or no money. He was dressed in an army issue Greek three-quarter length chiton and laced sandals. Over this, he had brown leather armour which left his arms and legs bare, not regulation, but neither expensive nor new.

He had an army issue peltastēs (light leather and wicker shield) over his shoulder and xiphos (short sword) at his hip. He had a distinctly battered gorytos slung over one shoulder as well.

His unadorned helmet had a small dint and was lined inside with linen. It was swinging from a strap he had attached to his gear. Aeton could see a woollen chlamys (short-cloak/blanket) bundled on top of his small pack.

He was certainly big for his age, and muscular. He moved with grace suggesting some training. His tanned face was handsome and he had dark curly hair with a full beard and moustache, neatly trimmed. His brown eyes met Aeton's gaze evenly.

Aeton looked warily at the dispatch and then chewed his lip as he opened it. He still hoped it was some mistake, he hoped this wasn't his new dekadarchos. As he read it, he felt like screwing it up and angrily throwing it in the lad's face. This was preposterous!

A Greek at eighteen had to serve two years' compulsory military service and training, before he was a citizen. Hakeem wasn't old enough to be a Greek citizen let alone a Greek officer. This didn't apply to Shantawi mercenaries, but Aeton still hadn't heard of a sergeant anywhere near as young as Hakeem. The lad might look big, but he was just a boy. The hard men of file C would eat him alive.

He was described as highly recommended. Did they think Aeton was stupid?

He sighed, he would have to register a complaint, but he had better wait till this boy slipped up.

He felt so helpless! Even if he knew who was doing this to him, there wouldn't be anything he or his family could do.

"Well, Hakeem, you come very highly recommended," he said dryly, waiting to see how the young man would respond. Elwan started to rise, but quickly resumed his kneeling position when he noticed Hakeem hadn't moved a muscle.

"At ease!" Aeton called impatiently. The two men rose to stand, looking alert and respectful.

"Hakeem, can you tell me why a Shantawi is in the infantry? Or why he would come here where no one else wants to be?"

"Yes sir, I volunteered," Hakeem replied quietly.

Aeton paused. "You, what?" he asked, incredulous. "For a moment, I thought you said you volunteered."

"Yes sir, I had to insist. I had two reasons, sir.

"The first is that I am not nobly born. I could be a second in a stichos which is very good after joining not yet a season ago, but the position here was for a dekadarchos. No one else wanted to come, and they didn't want to lose anyone to this post. I managed to get recommended for an additional promotion."

Very clever! Aeton thought with complete disgust. Did anyone think of what I might think of that? Well, congratulations, boy! Wait till you find out what you got with your clever bargaining.

What a mess.

"The second reason is," Hakeem was continuing, smiling with relish, "… I hear you have a lot of bandits!"

Aeton looked at Hakeem as if he had gone mad. "So you're not sent here by my enemies, and you hate bandits."

Hakeem looked puzzled. "Sir, no one pushed me to come here … but why do you say I hate bandits?"

"Because I thought you were saying you wanted to kill them, wasn't that what you meant to say?" Aeton snapped at him irritably.

"Yes, sir! They certainly have to be stopped, and that's the only way I know of," Hakeem said and then he paused, "but it would be very wrong for me to hate them. I hope you understand that, sir?" The big lad looked at him earnestly.

Aeton stared at him disbelievingly, almost lost for a reply. "So, you want to kill them, but it's nothing personal," he suggested.

Hakeem nodded enthusiastically and visibly relaxed, the lieutenant really did understand!

It was then that Aeton remembered something about Hakeem he hadn't thought through till then. Hakeem was brought up in a monastery from the age of five. He was likely to be strange and religious. What on earth was he doing as a soldier?

Aeton tried to force himself to finish with a friendly smile and a small chuckle.

"Well perhaps you aren't here to stir up trouble. I suppose you wish to rest after the elf has run you into the ground. I didn't expect you till late tomorrow. I'm surprised you're still standing."

"Oh no, sir!" Hakeem returned enthusiastically, "It wasn't too bad, and Elwan has agreed to show me the rest of the men, so I'll start right away if I may. I have no second in command, and Elwan is qualified; would it be alright, if I selected him?" he asked, looking at Aeton.

Aeton was shocked by the idiocy of the request. "Are you sure that's wise?" he said, barely managing to be polite. "Elwan himself will tell you that he is hardly popular."

"I understand how that might be, sir," Hakeem nodded in acknowledgement. "But he is exactly what I need. I think you will be surprised."

"Alright, I'll let you try it." Elwan was qualified to be second in command and there was no one else suitable in the file. There was no official reason he could refuse … but there was a reason Elwan was never put in a position of command. Meet him and you instantly understood. Didn't this young fool from the desert see the obvious?

"I promise we won't stir up trouble, except on your behalf, sir," Hakeem had finished cheerfully.

After they had stepped out of the hut that was the lieutenant's and were walking away, Elwan turned to Hakeem. "He didn't like your choice for second," he said with a wry smile.

Hakeem shrugged. "He didn't like me much either. He thought one of his enemies sent me." He chuckled.

"Well what do we do now, my big friend?"

"I'm going to suggest to the men that we should do some regular training."

"Suggest?" Elwan looked at him quizzically. "May I 'suggest' you make that an order if you really want it done?"

"Oh, no!" Hakeem laughed. "We wouldn't want to upset our men now, would we? I think I'll just explain to them I think it is a good idea. I'm sure they will agree." He smiled confidently.

Elwan looked at the young man in disbelief. "You don't want to upset them by ordering them to train. You expect them to agree it is a good idea?"

"That's the way!" Hakeem said slapping his new friend on the shoulder.

As Hakeem strode purposely towards the men's barracks, Elwan followed, shaking his head.

* * *

Aeton had remained sitting at his desk, his head in his hands. He hadn't thought things could get any worse but they had. He had a boy as his new sergeant, a religious fanatic who wanted to charge out and kill people ... but it was nothing personal! Please don't think that, sir, it would be wrong to dislike anyone you are killing!

What infernal madness was that?

How the lad would react when he met the motley collection of troops they had in this godless fort, Aeton couldn't imagine. Would he preach to them, or want to convert them?

The men would defeat Hakeem, though. They had defeated Aeton and it had only taken two months. They had done it, not by open defiance, but wearing him down, resisting him every step of the way.

No matter what he suggested, it couldn't be done, or shouldn't be done, or it wasn't wise … or they tried it and made sure it failed. The men had done it with the barely concealed support of the two sergeants. There seemed no way out from the trap he found himself in.

He just hoped Hakeem didn't start fighting them when they started to do that to him. He sighed. He would find out what would happen between Hakeem and his men soon enough.

He never imagined he would be finding out the very same morning.

* * *

It could not have been more than two turns of the hour-glass when Damianos and Hesiod, the other sergeants came hurrying in. They told him Hakeem was physically attacking his men for disobeying his orders.

"Bring him and the men involved to me!" Aeton snarled, his stomach sinking. This was exactly the sort of thing he was worried about. An officer attacking soldiers who couldn't strike back.

Any discipline and punishments had to be applied formally in Helios's army and a record of punishments kept. The King insisted on it.

Aeton bent his head. Who had sent this mad horror to him? Then he straightened up. Perhaps this was better, if he could have Hakeem on report within hours of arriving, he could show what they were doing to him.

Soon he was glaring at Hakeem, who stood impassively at attention. He didn't look concerned in the slightest. Yet if he was one of these religious fanatics; he wouldn't see that he had done anything wrong, would he?

Next to him was Elwan, standing silent, motionless, his face a mask of elvish reserve. Behind them were three of Hakeem's men: Nikodemos, Isokrates and their ringleader Saul. They were known for their unsavoury reputation, but now they were looking in very poor shape!

Their clothes were dirty and their hair all over the place. Nikodemos was tenderly fingering a broken nose which was clogged with blood, forcing him to breathe through his mouth. His face and hair had dirt and bits of grass all through it, his ear had been bleeding but had stopped and his tunic was ripped and had blood all down the front. Saul had a cut lip and his cheek below his right eye was puffy and bruised. He was supporting Isokrates, who was hopping about with a neatly bandaged ankle.

Hakeem appeared untouched, his clothes were still as neat as when he arrived, his curly black hair and beard nicely combed and trimmed. He flashed his bright white teeth in a friendly smile at his lieutenant.

"Well, Hakeem," Aeton shouted angrily. "You only left my presence two hours ago and already you are accused of physically attacking these men, when they disobeyed your orders."

Hakeem nodded.

"So you admit it?" Aeton sputtered, in angry disbelief.

"Of course not, sir," Hakeem answered respectfully. "I was just agreeing with you that the other file leaders had accused me. I was awaiting permission to speak."

"You were awaiting permission to speak," Aeton repeated slowly. "What is this about disobeying orders then, you should have put them on report, not attacked them."

Hakeem looked puzzled. "I have no idea what that is supposed to be about, sir. I issued no orders. I told the men I thought we should be doing daily training. These gentlemen," he waved his hand to indicate the trio, who had tried to smile winningly as they bobbed their heads at their lieutenant, "felt they didn't need further training. I merely gave them the chance to show me what they could do. No one was seriously hurt."

Aeton surveyed the three. Nikodemos's nose and Isokrates's ankle would keep them both out of heavy action for weeks. "Saul, what is your version of this?"

"Well sir, the Sergeant was showing us some techniques."

Aeton had to lean back and smile. Despite himself … he really had to smile. Of course, that is what happened! Hakeem claimed he hadn't ordered all his men to train and some refused. It was a philosophical discussion between him and his men.

Aeton could imagine the scene. The rest of the squad would be assembled and Hakeem would invite any man who wished, to come forward, one at a time …

This was a surprise.

His opinion of the young tribesman rose tremendously. Despite his youth and inexperience, he had chosen to pit himself against possibly the three toughest men in the whole fort and he had beaten them. Not only did he know how to gain the men's respect, but despite his age, he really was a skilled fighter. Perhaps there was something to the claims about him, after all.

He noted the look of admiration they were all giving Hakeem. They didn't feel abused. Hakeem wasn't all orders and rule books at least. He may be young but he was acting like a seasoned file leader.

"Nikodemos attacked the sergeant first, who tripped him and pushed him," Saul continued. "He fell hard, face-forward onto the ground, that's how he broke his nose, but the Sergeant reset it straight for him. It will be as good as new in a few weeks, the Sergeant says.

"That's when I collided with Isokrates while we were trying to close on the Sergeant, and he was able to tangle us both up together and trip us up. It was because he dodged too quickly for us. The Sergeant bandaged his ankle for him, did a good job too, sir. The Sergeant is right, sir, we have a lot to learn, sir!"

Aeton held up his hand quickly to stop the explanation and looked at the men before him. He was confused. "Hold on," he said slowly, trying to understand what happened. "Do I understand this correctly, you were fighting all three at the same time?" he carefully checked Hakeem again, who didn't seem in the slightest ruffled.

Hakeem nodded quickly. "Yes sir, there were only three of them, sir, and they weren't well trained in that sort of fighting."

"Only three of them," Aeton said softly, almost to himself.

He realised he was starting to echo in disbelief whatever this man said to him. "After racing an elf for two full days to get here, but there were only three men to deal with."

Three tough and experienced veterans, probably the toughest men in the fort.

Hakeem took a big breath. "That was just the point I was making, sir!" he said with obvious enthusiasm. "These men have had basic Hoplitai training. They don't know how to cooperate in a mêlée. They just got in each other's way."

Aeton nodded. He felt a bit numb, stunned. Soldier training concentrated on fighting in formation, and individual fighting when the formations broke up (the mêlée). Cooperation in the chaos of the mêlée was considered too hard to teach.

There was something that had been nagging at the back of Aeton's mind since he met Hakeem. He was struggling to remember the little he knew about the Shayvist monks. He had never met one, but he remembered the Shantawi mercenaries spoke about their fighting skills with the greatest respect. Hakeem had grown up in a Shayvist monastery since he was five.

Great Zeus! What sort of training had Hakeem gotten from those monks? Aeton was just beginning to get an idea of the level to which Hakeem had been trained … "Only three," Hakeem had said.

It was just like the Shantawi to have their religious monks as dangerous warriors. The monks were far worse, by the sound of things, than their mercenary cavalry, and that was saying a very great deal indeed.

"Is there any cause for complaint?" he asked.

The five replied smartly in unison, "No, sir!"

"I'm sorry, sir," Hakeem said a little regretfully, as he made ready to leave. "It will be two or three moons before I can get the men into the shape they need to be in, but I think you will be very pleased with the results. They will make good soldiers."

Aeton had struggled unsuccessfully, not to repeat, "They will make good soldiers." He was shaking his head in admiration and, for the first time since he arrived, he was smiling.

* * *

Aeton almost felt dizzy when Damianos stormed in looking furious, it was only early in the afternoon of the same day. How long was Hakeem going to keep this up? he wondered.

"Sir! You have to stop that man. He just pushed one of my men into the cess pit and then threatened me."

Aeton had difficulty imagining what had happened, but he nonetheless eyed Damianos unsympathetically. Damianos was obviously trying to cause trouble for the new file leader. "Perhaps we should hear Hakeem's version of all this, I imagine he is waiting outside."

He called out and Hakeem knocked and duly entered. The Hakeem in question seemed to be having trouble suppressing a wide grin.

"Hakeem, did you push one of Damianos's men into the cess pit?" Aeton was having a distinct sense of unreality.

"Yes, sir, I couldn't restrain myself, sir." Hakeem was trying to stop himself from laughing. "I had to remove the wooden boards on either side, of course; he wouldn't fit otherwise. I'm sure you understand that part, sir."

"Was there any reason for that, or did you just pick a victim at random?" Aeton enquired, trying to maintain a straight face.

"Well sir," Hakeem relaxed his stance, settling himself as if ready to make a story of it for his lieutenant. "The trench used by the men smells terribly, not too surprisingly I might add. I will see to that problem, when I have a chance, sir. It's in an awful state.

"Well, anyway, some men have gotten into the habit of making their mess short of the pit and leaving it for others to clean up. I found one of those men and I suggested he clean up his mess and that of some of the others.

"He told me I wasn't his sergeant and seemed rather smug about it … and then, well I just couldn't help myself. I, er… assisted him into the pit sir.

"I didn't hit him or anything. I know that's not allowed. He has got a sore shoulder though but that was from where I was stopping him from hitting me. He was also trying to get away and then later it was a tight fit and he didn't seem to want to get into the trench, you understand. I told him to stop struggling, but he just wouldn't listen, sir.

"His shoulder will be as good as new in a week." Then he paused, "Well, perhaps it will be two weeks … well, it might even be more, but it will heal completely! I was very careful not to hurt him, sir.

"I think he wanted to make a complaint about me himself, but I believe he is having a problem getting rid of the smell, sir. I think you can understand.

"I do think he will be more careful in the future, the pit was rather full and I think well overdue to be re-dug."

"He was my man!" Damianos muttered angrily. "And this man's file prevented me from getting in to help him. When I protested later, Hakeem said he would put me in the same place."

"It's simply not true, Damianos!" Hakeem patiently explained. "They were just crowded around to see what was happening. No one anywhere near could hear what you were saying, your man was screaming so loudly. My ears are still ringing." Hakeem paused and moved his head around as if to clear his hearing. "All I said to you was 'come here and I'll show you.'"

"Damianos," Aeton said tiredly, holding up his hand to stop the two men bickering. "If you were doing your own job, you would have less time to complain about others doing theirs. You should be grateful Hakeem has saved you the problem of dealing with this. Not only are you dismissed, tell your man if he comes anywhere near me to complain whether he is smelly or not, he will only find himself in more trouble."

Damianos paused and looked like he was going to argue, but then he shot a furious glare at Hakeem and left, slamming the door.

Aeton looked at his newest file leader. "Is there really a way to make the pit smell less?"

"Of course, sir, there are several ways. For the simple trench-pit like the men use, we need to add a layer of ashes and sand every day and twice a day in summer. Lime, made from baking sea-shells or limestone, mixed with ashes is really the best, if we can get that.

"They all know that, sir, and haven't done it. The whole thing is disgusting and dangerous to the health of the men." He looked angry. "The men's pit should have been filled in a moon ago and another re-dug. You dig them that deep to bury them, not to keep using them till they are full.

"The officer's pit is designed for permanence and privacy. It's even simpler; all it needs is a properly designed vent-pipe. You put a fine cloth filter to prevent flies getting in.

"The vent sucks the bad smells out by drawing air in through the holes we sit over. The flies cause the worst of the smell. Any flies that do get in go up the pipe to the light, so they can't get out, and they die inside. Don't worry about it, sir; leave it all to me, sir."

"You'll order your men to dig a new pit?"

Hakeem seemed unconcerned. "I'll do it myself, if they don't want to help, it won't take too long and the exercise will do me good. That way, I know it's done properly. Could you get the other two files to fill in the old one after that?"

Aeton realised Hakeem meant it. He would invite his men to help, but would do it himself if they didn't want to help. Aeton would bet a year's pay that every single man in his file would be out helping their sergeant before he finished. Hakeem was the sort of leader that wouldn't ask his men to do something he wasn't prepared to do himself.

Let the other file-leaders deal with the old pit … he would give the order himself.

"Hakeem, you seem to know a lot about pit latrines, did they teach you that in the monastery?" He was surprised Hakeem had learned something so practical from a group of monks.

Hakeem nodded cheerfully. "That and a lot of other things. You have to know these things, sir, if you don't like the smell." he laughed a little. "But it's a sergeant's job, sir, not a lieutenant's job."

"Thank you, Hakeem," Aeton said quietly. He was getting an idea of why Hakeem was promoted so quickly. He wondered what else Hakeem had learned at the Monastery. The Shayvists seemed to be remarkably practical for monks.

For the first time since he had come to this place, Aeton felt a surge of hope; perhaps things could be different with this strange young ex-monk here. "Hakeem, do you plan to do anything else today?" he asked, half hopefully and half fearfully.

"Yes sir, I'm going with Saul and a couple of my men and check the food preparation and the condition of the food stores."

"I see. It might be better if I ordered you to do that."

"Thank you, sir." Hakeem turned to leave.

"Hakeem, do I need to warn you that now is a good time to start watching your back?"

Hakeem laughed. "No sir, you don't have to tell me that, sir."

Chapter 4: An Inexperienced Man, a Trap, and a new Plan

It happened only three days later.

Aeton looked at his new friend sadly.

Hakeem was looking as serene as ever, as he stood at attention. He obviously didn't understand just how much trouble he really was in. In the room with Aeton were the two other file leaders and two armed guards stationed behind Hakeem (who had been ordered to surrender his weapons). The windows were shuttered for what was to be a private hearing.

Aeton really had grown to like the young man in the short time he had been here. He was beginning to think that things could be better at the fort but Hakeem's military career had just ended.

"You know this is a very serious charge," Aeton said heavily to Damianos and Hesiod who were looking smug with ill-concealed triumph. He felt boiling with anger. He knew they had set a trap for Hakeem and the inexperienced young man had fallen for it. For the first time, he felt real hatred for them.

He nodded to Hakeem. "What they say, is it true?"

"Yes sir, I issued a formal challenge to Damianos and Hesiod. I offered to fight them today, one after the other. I suggested we fight unarmed or with staves. I don't really want to damage them too much."

Aeton felt a wrench inside himself. "What on earth has got into you, man?" he cried, almost imploringly.

"Well sir," Hakeem took a breath. "They said I was currying favour with you, sir; which of course is true. They said I wished to show them up, which is not true at all.

"They reminded me they were both experienced fighters and then they told me in some detail what they would do to me, sir, if I continued. I just thought it simpler to get it over and done with, so I offered a formal challenge."

"He lies!" Hesiod snarled, furious. "We don't know what he is talking about, sir. We never threatened him!" He flashed Hakeem a smug look. It their word against his and there were two of them.

"Oh, I was worried they might not remember. They seemed so upset, sir," Hakeem said looking at the other two with what seemed like concern.

"Sometimes people don't remember things, when they are upset," he explained, as he passed a parchment sheet to Aeton.

"I have produced a record of what they said to remind them. I'm not sure why they would really want to cook and eat my testicles and I don't understand that other thing with my head and my kolos, it didn't seem possible … physically I mean sir."

"That is ridiculous!" Damianos looked like he would almost burst with indignation. "Just because he wrote it, doesn't mean it's true!"

Hakeem sighed, and shook his head ruefully. "I knew this might happen; they were just so upset. It's lucky that Elwan and four of my men just happened to be around the corner, and they heard everything these men said very clearly. Do you want me to call them?"

Aeton almost dropped the parchment and shouted in surprise. He looked at Hakeem sharply but Hakeem was busy giving Damianos and Hesiod a completely innocent look. The pair had suddenly gone very pale. No, Aeton realised, he didn't have to warn Hakeem to watch his back.

"Sir!" Damianos protested, desperately. "It was only a hypothetical threat. No one would take it seriously."

Aeton looked at him unsympathetically, and then resumed reading the parchment.

"Sir," Hakeem interrupted. "I really must apologise. Greek isn't native to me, what does Damianos mean by a hypothetical threat?" He inclined his head politely to a now thoroughly frightened Damianos.

"Yes, Damianos," Aeton invited and favoured him with a slow smile. "I don't really understand either, but I happen to be Greek and had what I thought was a thorough education. When is a threat not a threat? Perhaps you can enlighten both of us."

Damianos seemed stuck for words.

"Well then," Aeton said, passing the parchment to Damianos who took it as if it would burn his fingers. "Hakeem, the evidence seems to be clear enough. You have a right to issue a challenge to two fellow officers who threaten you in this way, but this gives us a serious problem. This region is unsettled, so technically we are on a war setting. I cannot let you fight them, and any other situation is intolerable."

"It seems I misunderstood sir," Hakeem said politely. "Damianos and Hesiod did not mean to threaten me. In that case, I apologise. If they will give me permission, I will withdraw my challenge."

Damianos and Hesiod hesitated, and looked at each other and then nodded sourly in agreement.

"Thank you, Hakeem; under the circumstances I really am grateful," Aeton said, eyeing the other two distastefully. He realised Hakeem only wanted to warn them off.

But Aeton wasn't finished; he wasn't nearly finished.

What they had done was not at all unusual, older men warning off new ones they thought were too young and too enthusiastic. It got out of hand when he offered a formal challenge. And he would have fought them, too. Aeton had no doubt.

Then they refused to back down and saw it as a chance to get rid of Hakeem. Unfortunately, the harder they tried with Hakeem, the deeper in they got.

What they had done, threatening Hakeem and blocking Aeton's efforts may not have been unusual, but they had done something that was completely and utterly unforgiveable ... they had been caught doing it.

These two had secretly blocked every attempt Aeton made to get the fort and the men in shape. When Hakeem tried to warn them off, they didn't back off. They made an official complaint knowing it would completely destroy the young man

No, Aeton wasn't finished with them at all.

He looked at them grimly. "Damianos and Hesiod I am not satisfied with your behaviour, not since I first arrived here, and this document, which I can get witnessed by no less than two officers and four of the men, gives me all the proof I need. Do you know what that means for the two of you?"

He gave them a satisfied smile. The looks they gave him back suggested that, whatever else they lacked, it wasn't imagination.

It wasn't quite open mutiny. Short of a capital offence, perhaps, but it was hard to see how they could be in much more trouble.

The room had gone unnaturally silent. Outside, they could hear the soldiers going about their chores. A small amount of light came through the shuttered window.

He had them! He really had them! Had Hakeem only been here a few days?

He smiled at them wolfishly. 'It seems that the two of you have put me in a difficult position." He paused delicately, considering. "I could, of course, have you both scourged and discharged. Any back pay would be forfeit, naturally." He looked at them, inviting them to agree with him. After their endless barracks level complaints, they had suddenly lost the urge to talk.

He stretched the moment out, as if thinking.

He well knew how terribly unpopular he would be with his superiors if he got rid of two sergeants, but they wouldn't be thinking about that just now. They would be watching him with the sort of horrified fascination a man would have for his own executioner.

"It just so happens, another solution occurs to me. Being a small garrison, we have never needed a senior sergeant, but if we have one, this will stop any squabbling amongst the three of you. If you would kindly support my recommendation, I think I can appoint Hakeem as acting senior sergeant, while I am awaiting official confirmation.

"And then we can all forget about this unpleasant matter, don't you agree?" Aeton enjoyed the looks of dismay on their faces.

"You understand of course that neither of you will want to cross me again."

He gave them a careful smile … and they wouldn't. He might not press charges against them but news of this would spread like wildfire through the whole army, even though this hearing was supposedly behind closed doors.

A young inexperienced dekadarchos, only eighteen years old, an orphan raised in a monastery in the middle of the desert, besting two experienced veteran sergeants who ganged up on him.

The two men were frozen. They looked like he had just asked them to agree to their own hanging. Then their shoulders slumped and they gave quick jerky nods of surrender. There was a look of profound disbelief on their faces about what had just happened.

"Dismissed you two, I will have the paperwork drawn up. Hakeem, remain."

After they had left, Hakeem was returning his short sword and knife to their sheaths. "Sir, you will not regret this, I promise."

"You know," Aeton laughed, "I don't think I will.

"I suppose congratulations are in order. I really cannot believe it, though I was part of it. Moving from a common soldier to a senior dekadarchos is quite something for a man to do in a whole career. You have done it in a few days, I doubt that has ever happened anywhere in this world. I must confess I feel somewhat awed by what you have done here, my young friend. If you have any pretentions at being king, perhaps I should warn Helios."

Hakeem laughed at that. "Thank you, sir. No, I won't be becoming a king. Besides, I was acting 'second' before, not just a soldier."

Aeton caught himself muttering "you were acting second" under his breath and then shook his head and laughed again.

"Sir, may I suggest you give them that parchment I wrote, as soon as they sign for me to become senior sergeant?"

"Are you sure?" Aeton asked. "You have just made some serious enemies here."

Hakeem shrugged and smiled. "Sir, I'll be safe for a good while now, and even after that, they will be too cautious of me and too busy wondering what I have planned for them."

Aeton studied his new friend very closely. "What do you plan to do to them?"

Hakeem laughed. "Absolutely nothing, and that's the beauty of it all!" Hakeem finished triumphantly.

Aeton waited for Hakeem to explain.

"Or I should say," Hakeem amended, "very little. We will get this fort and the defences of the town in order. Then I am going to offer to train them and their men."

Aeton snorted in surprise, "Hakeem, they will refuse!"

Hakeem's laughed softly and nodded. "Of course, they will, sir, I want them to refuse. They will be surprised at how little I ask of them.

"They will hardly believe they got off so lightly, after what we could have done to them. Their men will see me taking my own file away from the fort for training, while they are taking it easy. At first they will think they are lucky that I am not their file leader, but they will still feel unsettled.

"It's human nature not to want to miss out on something, and they will know we are up to something. After that, we will go about discouraging some of the local bandits."

"I know, Hakeem! You won't share the bandit's loot with them." Aeton clapped his hands in delight. That would really serve them right!

"No, sir, you don't understand, that's not what I mean to do." Hakeem was speaking very intently. "My men will be under strict orders not to talk about their training or the raids. The other files will be under orders not to ask. Otherwise, my men are to remain perfectly polite and courteous to the men of the other files, to the extent it will seem suspicious. Any problems they will refer to me. There will be no taunting and no bragging.

"If you agree sir, you and I will act as if nothing is wrong.

"Any plunder must be divided properly. We must be absolutely fastidious about that. A proper accounting will be made in front of yourself and the other two sergeants, and any accusation of cheating properly dealt with.

"A tenth share of any money will go to the King, a tenth share will be set aside for equipment and the soldier's fund, and a tenth share will go to the town and local peasants. You will get a Captain's share and the rest will be distributed in exactly the right proportions from the stable boy and cooks right up to the sergeants.

"The money will start to appear, but where it comes from and how we obtained it will be a secret. I can easily explain the need for secrecy. We will not push it in their faces but we will tell them nothing. They must have no real excuse, whatsoever, to focus their anger on us."

Aeton thought for a long while, and then he nodded doubtfully in understanding. "A bit like digging the trench, I suppose. That certainly worked, but are you sure it will work this time?" he said a little doubtfully.

Hakeem grinned. "Believe me, sir. This will drive them completely crazy. I absolutely guarantee it.

"After the second successful raid, they will be almost where we want them, and by the third they will be falling over themselves to join us. If they are not ready by the third raid, I don't want them, but don't worry, they will be. They will make good soldiers and fighters if they just let themselves."

Aeton smiled at the big man's confidence. The words "they will make good soldiers and fighters if they just let themselves" were echoing in his mind.

"One thing, I don't understand: why do we have to give such large bribes?"

Hakeem took a big breath. "Sir, most of the townspeople are more loyal to Smyrna than Aiolía. In the hills, a lot of them have family members and friends who are bandits. This is very poor country.

"We won't spend any of it on bribes … or rewards for information. We don't need information, we have Elwan. The last thing I want is civilians putting themselves in any danger of reprisals from the bandits.

"If there are widows or orphans, farmers who have fallen on bad times, money for building an altar, a temple, or a barn, someone who needs a small gift to replace a few chickens or a goat, or build up a herd or buy an ox, … anything worthwhile, that is what we will do.

"Small amounts, but for any good cause and we will also help in other ways too, provide physical help and expertise wherever we can.

"It might even stop some from becoming bandits, or mean that some bandits can go back to honest work, if we can make being a bandit dangerous enough.

"I wouldn't like to promise that, though. People will start to be happy to see us when we come to help them in any way we can, and not expect anything in return."

"'Do good works and they will praise you', it's easy to tell you grew up in a monastery," Aeton said. "Alright, Hakeem, you have been right so far, so we will do this your way. But the bandits outnumber us and you are only going to use a third of our strength."

Hakeem smiled and nodded. "We will make this fort and town secure, so we can't be raided here. Then we will train my men. After that, Elwan and I will pick our fights. If the bandits have any real chance against us, we won't fight them. I don't want to lose any of my men if I possibly can avoid it."

 

Chapter 5: Leaving Malea

Hakeem was standing on the walkway overlooking the newly constructed wooden palisade when Aeton went searching for him. It had been over a year since Hakeem had come to Malea and now it would be only a few days before he would have to go.

Aeton joined him in looking out towards the forest, waiting for one of their patrols to return. The brush beyond had been cleared and proper field fortifications dug on all parts of the hill except the road up the small hill to the fort.

"I had expected you to come in search of me after the courier arrived," Aeton said quietly.

"We both knew what the news would be," Hakeem said looking out. "I was trying to put all of this in my mind. I will miss this place, has it been not much more than a year?" he sighed.

In the last six moons they had all been so busy, waging a virtual all-out war on any of the remaining bandits.

"You don't want to leave, do you?"

"Aeton I have to, I have been offered a position as hipparchos (cavalry captain) with the Shantawi horse and I am not yet twenty."

Aeton nodded. Hakeem couldn't become a captain and stay at Malea and he was a Shantawi, he would want to join their famous cavalry.

"You'll be happier there."

"Will I? It seems all of my life is about endings." Hakeem sighed. Then he mentally shook himself. The mood was past. "And I hear it's all because someone's been spreading terrible lies about me back at Pergamon. I don't know who, but I suspect it's been you, my friend. I hardly credit they have been believed."

Aeton laughed. "Someone has to, you won't boast about yourself!"

"Are you still refusing to leave?"

Aeton laughed. "It also came with the orders. They finally agreed. I will be a lochagos (infantry captain) and can stay here.

"I will have a full lochos, though it will be scattered between here and the other nearby forts. It will be much easier to hunt out bandits with that number of men. I will have four times the area, as well, which is not such a bad thing." He smiled, before including what had become the standing joke at the fort.

"It is starting to get hard to find bandits around here anymore," he laughed, "I never dreamed I would refuse to leave. When I was sent here I thought it was a trap set by my father's enemies."

"Congratulations as well, then. We will be captains together." Hakeem put his arm on his friend's shoulder, now their rank would be equal.

"If this place was a trap for you, it would have been a good one," Hakeem laughed. "But you have sent a very clear message back to whomever, don't you think?"

"My father wrote to me too." For a moment Aeton couldn't continue, tears came to his eyes.

"He's so proud," Aeton said hoarsely. "Did you know he sold almost everything? They are comfortable again, now. I won't be the only member of my family who will never forget you, Hakeem."

Hakeem coloured, but looked very pleased.

"You know it is you that I have you to thank for this miracle."

Hakeem shook his head. "Every man did their part. Elwan is most responsible. It was him, and your leadership."

"I know he is your best friend and your blood brother, but before you came, he was just another elf-faced malaka. Now there isn't a man here who wouldn't lay down their life for him."

Hakeem laughed. Aeton did not normally use obscenities. He was saved from answering by a horn from the sentry tower, sounding the challenge.

Someone had keen eyes! Damianos's file had just emerged from the forest.

Damianos's signaller answered, the "all clear" and his stichos began to marching back, singing as they marched. Hesiod ran out of his office and called for the report. He gave a sharp command, and the duty detail ran to open the gate.

"There's another two that never stop boasting about you and will be sad to see you go." Aeton said, meaning Damianos and Hesiod.

Their men had already joined with Hakeem's men in helping build a wooden temple when the two other dekadarchoi approached Hakeem, to ask to be trained. They were hesitant, anxious about how Hakeem would react.

And what did Hakeem do? All he did was to clasp them both firmly in a warm handshake. "Well, I won't pretend you won't be most welcome!" It was exactly the right thing to say.

Some of the town's folk had already been waiting for the returning patrol, and more were hurrying to cheer them in. The town's folk loved their soldiers.

The help they gave was deeply appreciated and they always had plenty of money to spend in town. Every single one was meticulously polite around the town's folk, especially women. Hakeem had had to talk to a small handful but, being Hakeem, he only had to do it once.

Their good behaviour was unusual in a group of soldiers brought from outside a region. The soldiers knew now what it was like to be loved and admired rather than hated and feared by those they were supposed to protect. There was more than one wife and sweetheart in the enthusiastic crowd.

As they approached, each of the warriors looked smart with their new leather armour. Each carried the powerful composite war-bows and short Greek swords that had become the standard armament at the fort. They marched proudly, their eyes fixed ahead, pretending they weren't pleased with the reception.

They had been brought up to full strength and another file was to be added soon. They each had their own full blood elf scouts. Now men were asking to come to the fort.

"You will have to go around and say goodbye properly now."

"Hemera!" Hakeem said in alarmed realisation.

"She knows," Aeton said, giving the men a salute as they marched smartly in. "She saw the courier and was one of the first to come and ask. What will you do about her?" he asked, hiding a smile.

Hakeem looked discomforted and blushed. "I think she and the other women will be alright now. They have the trading post and the guest house and the laundry business, some of the women are even getting married. That they see life can be good again warms my heart more than I can say." His eyes became moist.

"They are very grateful to you," Aeton said.

Hakeem had spent his own money helping the women he had rescued.

"Hemera thinks she owes me something, but she doesn't. She was my responsibility. All the women were, but especially her and her sister. I'm just glad they don't hate me, especially Artemisia." He chuckled a little. "You know, they seem to think it is me that can't manage on my own. They all want to cook and sew and do things for me. I can sew myself." (Hakeem deliberately didn't mention his cooking.)

He had met Hemera and her sister Artemisia during his very first raid. The first raid was not the most difficult one, but Hakeem and all his men still remembered it vividly, even now.

* * *

"Every second man should rest," Elwan had murmured ...

Hakeem knew Elwan enough to know he was nervous. It was their first raid. None of their men would ever match an elf, yet by human standards their stichos was already silent and deadly in the forest. Within twelve moons they would have something quite remarkable with this group.

Elwan's name meant "elf friend" in the old tongue. The stichos had called themselves 'the Elf Friends' and now it was time to show they were worthy of that title.

Hakeem and Elwan's men were spying the camp of the same group that had killed their last file leader and some others. If Elwan was satisfied that their small force could attack with an overwhelming advantage, they would. If not, they would quietly leave, and think of something else.

There was more than a score of bandit warriors, but they hadn't detected Hakeem's soldiers.

Hakeem had settled comfortably to observe the mountain cabins the bandits operated out of. They seemed confident and made no attempt to hide their coming and goings or the change of their guards.

Most of the men stayed outdoors gathered around a great open fire to cook and talk and drink. The sound of their laughter echoed back to the silent, grim, men watching.

One of them began to sing a song in one of the native dialects, and many of the others joined in. It was a light jaunty tune and from the reaction of the audience, Hakeem knew it was almost certainly rude. They would have a couple of turns of the glass before the moon would be well risen … and then Hakeem and his men would attack.

Hakeem and Elwan had taught the men to all aim their bows like true warriors. A hunter sights their bow along the arrow and then makes allowance for distance or wind. This is too clumsy to be used for a moving target or rapid fire and it completely useless on the back of a galloping horse or in poor light.

An archer training for battle must learn to aim a bow like he would aim for throwing a rock. Someone experienced with throwing rocks looks at a point and then hits it with the rock. He doesn't try to sight along the rock. That's because he can judge the weight of the rock and the distance, and knows that if he uses his body in a certain way, which way the rock will go.

An master archer training for battle must learn the same. When he holds the bow a certain way and draws it with a certain force at a certain distance, he must know where the arrow will go.

He hits targets just by looking at the spot where he wants the arrow to go.

They had all trained at this and Elwan had taught them how to shoot arrows in darkness when all they could see was the target. Just look at the target and the training takes over.

Once the moon rose, the bandits would be outlined against the fire, and the bandit's night vision would be ruined. What was coming should be a one-sided fight.

Hakeem had made it very clear to his men that any women and children were not to be touched unless they made a credible attack with a weapon. There were four women and two children. Two of the women were unkempt, miserable creatures, little better than slaves.

As he waited, Hakeem found himself willing the bandits to drink more; they didn't seem to add water to their wine and the party was getting louder.

One of the men tried to grab one of the women Hakeem had decided were slaves. She squealed as she escaped, much to the amusement of the bandit men. One of the other women who was better dressed looked cross but she didn't say anything.

When the three-quarter moon rose, Hakeem could have sworn half the night had passed in waiting but he knew it hadn't. They still needed to wait just a bit longer ...

Elwan finally signalled to Hakeem and they left to circle around for the guards. It was Hakeem's turn to show what he had learned. The remainder of the men waited, clutching their bows. If anything went wrong, the attack would be aborted.

There was no noise from disposing of the guards and Hakeem and Elwan carefully crept back to re-join the men. At a gesture from Elwan, the men spread out to choose their targets.

* * *

The four women would never forget that night also. Two had been stolen from a local village and the two others were sisters, Artemisia and Hemera.

When Artemisia and Hemera were captured by the bandits, and all their travelling companions killed, their safe, pampered, world as daughters of a wealthy merchant had come to an end. Hemera was almost sixteen and Artemisia was fourteen.

It had been a brutal time, but they had survived, and they were more fortunate than the other two women. Hemera had been chosen by the leader and Artemisia by his second in command, Atys. They had a child each and loved their children. They had adapted themselves to their fate. That night, the new life the sisters had made for themselves also abruptly and violently came to an end.

Without warning, arrows began shooting out of the darkness and the men were running, crying and dying. It took moments to realise what was happening … they were under attack!

The four women quickly grabbed the children and hid in the rough shack Amynta and Hêbê shared. They didn't know who was attacking the camp or why or what would happen to them if their men lost the fight.

The men of the camp were unprepared and surrounded on all sides. They wore no armour and most only carried their xiphoi (short swords). They couldn't see their attackers and could do little but cower under cover.

From inside the hut, the women could hear men screaming and shouting in pain and rage, the "prrt" of short bows and the noise of the arrows finding targets. Atys gave a mighty call to charge, and the women could hear the sound of running feet and the clash of weapons and yelling.

Then, for a time, there was silence.

They had managed to quiet the two children to sleep when they heard a loud voice giving orders in Greek and men calling out to each other. The attackers were systematically checking the camp.

They were taking their time. They could hear a big man approaching the cottage. They would be found!

"Persus, stop!" their leader called out. "Women and children are hiding in there. Wait for me to come."

The two sisters, Artemisia and Hemera motioned for the others to be silent. Hearts racing, they moved to place themselves between the others and the door. They were allowed belt knives and they drew them and waited.

Then there was a gentle knock to the door. "Hello inside! Is any man in there with you?"

Hemera considered what to say and decided on the truth. "No, but who are you?"

"Soldiers from Malea, Lady. My name is Dekadarchos Hakeem. May I come in and talk to you?"

"You're going to anyway."

"That is true." As the door opened cautiously, the light of the campfire showed the shadowy outline of a bearded face, peering tentatively from cover.

When he was satisfied, the soldier moved slowly and cautiously into the doorway, crouched behind his shield as he scanned for enemies. He braced himself as he pushed the door flat against the wall with his hand. Then he stealthily moved in, checking each corner for signs of ambush. Satisfied, he left his shield by the door.

"What is going to happen to us?" Artemisia asked, her voice quivering, as the man carefully inspected them and the hut.

"If you cooperate with us, nothing bad, I promise. You and your children are under my protection. Please put your knives away."

Behind the big man, another brought a lamp. They saw in surprise that the new man was an elf.

"Elwan, let the men know we will be staying here tonight. Secure the camp and set watches. I want a guard sleeping outside this door, someone you trust."

He turned to the women, "If you have any wants, let him know, but wake him gently."

"What happened to Atys?" Artemisia asked her voice flat, and face expressionless; she knew the answer. Hemera placed a hand on her sister's shoulder.

"A bandit? I'm sorry Lady, they are all dead."

Artemisia held herself stiffly in Hemera's arms, the tears would come later.

"I am sorry for your losses, even though I …" His words hung awkwardly.

"My sister loved her man," Hemera looked at the large man in the light of the lamp. "But you will find the rest of us shed few tears for these men."

"Then glad I am that I could rescue you. I will see that you are united with your families and will give you all the assistance you need."

"Are you making fun of us?"

The dekadarchos looked stunned.

"We have been gone for years. You know it is too late. How can you even talk of families? They will curse us, call us sluts. Our children will be called bastards. Most likely, they will beat us and cast us out! Better you had left us or killed us if you are going to send us to our families."

"A pox on your families then!" The man shouted.

In an instant he became terrifying. His face was murderously angry in the shadowy light cast by the lamp. He looked around jerkily, his fists clenched, as if looking for something to strike. The children woke and began screaming.

With difficulty he calmed himself and lowered his voice.

"I apologise, Ladies. My anger is not with you or your children. You must think me a fool. I had an unusual upbringing." He sighed heavily, blushing deeply. "I should know. I do know … that it is the way, even amongst my own people. If you allow, I vow to do all in my power to help you."

"Why?" Hemera asked, taken aback.

The man drew himself up stiffly. "I killed your men. Your family will not help. I am honour-bound, of course," he said indignantly. "I will not fail you."

Hemera was too surprised to reply, but as she looked closer in the light of the lamp and it came to her. The sergeant was dressed as a Greek but he was a Shantawi!

She had heard of their obsession with honour. In a happier time, she would refuse his help, but pride was something she had long forgotten.

"How many men have you, Sergeant?"

"I have eleven men, Lady. We are fortunate to have taken no casualties."

"Eleven men!" Hemera was incredulous. "There were twenty-five of them."

"Yes ma'am, I know. Please stay in here for your own protection till the morning. We will be making a late start after breakfasting."

With that, he turned and was gone.

* * *

Hakeem's men would never forget that night, too.

It had been decided by Hakeem and Elwan that they would spend the night at the bandit camp rather than moving through the forest in the dark with women and children and plunder.

The main group was in the next cabin congratulating each other. Two of the men were sharing out the remains of the bandit's food. Isokrates's was counting the coins the men had found. His eyes were sparkling in the lamp light, as he arranged the money into neat piles. It was a fortune, and there was a lot of other plunder … wagons, animals and kit.

"It is so much money!" Isokrates said breathlessly as he counted.

"And there are women next door as well." Nikodemos nodded with approval.

"No one will touch those women," Hakeem said loudly from behind; he had appeared suddenly out of the night outside.

"They are bandit's whores! What does it matter? And why do we have to divide this money up with the others at the fort?" Nikodemos complained, twisting around.

"Nikodemos, do you have any complaints about my leadership so far?" Hakeem asked softly.

He stepped back and crouched a little, ready. His eyes were cold, carefully watching the man.

"No sir!" A thoroughly frightened Nikodemos replied loudly, springing to attention.

"Good," Hakeem smiled, straightening up, but the smile didn't touch his eyes. "You will all do exactly as I say. I hope to make you rich, but this is not why we are here. Remember this and you'll get on fine with me."

He gestured to the pile. "Now, isn't it good of these nice bandits to put all their loot together so we can take it from them?"

The other men laughed a bit shakily, grateful to break the tension.

"If those women are whores, which I doubt, you will have more than enough money to afford whores, but when you get back to town, not here, and not when you are on duty." He looked around the room balefully searching for dissent. "Or you can try your charm, but all of you will treat all women, whether they are whores or not, whether in the hills or in the town, properly." He paused "Am I understood?"

Everyone rose to attention, shouting loudly, "Yes sir!" in unison.

Hakeem turned his back and went to check the sentries.

Isokrates smiled at Nikodemos who looked thoroughly chastened.

"Careful around Hakeem, you know what he's like."

Nikodemos had nodded ruefully. Hakeem had done more than his share of the fighting. He had silently killed both the bandit sentries. He had shot three or perhaps more, and killed three others quickly and efficiently in the brief hand to hand fighting. That was more than enough to make them fear him, if they didn't already, but what had happened after, none of them would ever forget.

Hakeem hadn't allowed any to surrender and, without hesitation or any obvious concern, he had efficiently and mercilessly went from one of the enemy wounded to the next.

Now he left the hut to check on Persus who was on sentry duty. The young man was hidden in the shadow, staring out into the night.

"Are you all right?" Hakeem asked Persus gently. He was said to have had a Persian grandfather, hence his name.

He was Hakeem's age and almost as big. He would make a good sergeant one day.

Persus looked back at him. His eyes had a haunted look.

"I couldn't do that, what you did. Will it always be like that?"

"Persus, you did fine," Hakeem said earnestly. "It was my decision not to take prisoners. I was happy to take care of it myself."

"Take care of it?" Persus shuddered. "How can you talk like that?"

Hakeem sat in silence for a long time till Persus thought he wasn't going to answer.

"Persus, what would happen to any that we took as a prisoner?" he asked softly.

Persus let out a big breath and grinned at his own foolishness. "They would hang," he admitted.

Hakeem nodded. "There are two reasons to capture bandits. One is to get information through torture. We have Elwan, and I won't allow torture.

"The second reason is entertainment.

"It entertains people to watch criminals be judged and condemned and then hung. The bandits might face their deaths with courage and defiance or not, but in the end everyone will see their lifeless bodies on the scaffold, and know all of their bravado was futile. It makes the judges feel important and powerful. They pretend they don’t, but they treat them like trophies.

"Keeping a wounded bandit alive just to hang him as soon as he can stand is not a kindness, and I won't pretend it is. I won't pretend there is any less blood on my hands if I bring a man back for someone else to kill.

"I won't play with men … bandits or no.

"I know how to make it quick. No, it was better for them."

He looked at Persus, his face and voice expressionless.

"If there was any chance for them, I wouldn't have done it, but once we fought them, the decision was already made. I do my own killing, Persus."

"I suppose you are used to it by now."

"I have never killed a man before tonight." Hakeem shrugged. "Now Elwan and I are going to scout around. When we return, we say 'elf' and you say 'friend'. Please try not to kill us, if you can."

Persus tried to summon a weak chuckle. "I suppose it's what they deserved."

Hakeem paused. "Deserve? I don't know what they deserved, because I don't know their story. Judging them is not our job. Bandits kill and steal and rape. Our job is to stop that, and so we did."

He gestured out to where the pile of bodies was, a little away from the encampment.

Persus looked back at Hakeem as he moved away. Hakeem could not be faulted for the care, even the love he showed to his men, and yet he could be absolutely terrifying.

* * *

Aeton watched his friend lost in thought. "Hemera and the other girls have sent an invitation for you to go to their house for dinner," Aeton said, carefully watching Hakeem's reaction. "They were very specific. You are to come by yourself."

"Don't look at me!" Aeton laughed as Hakeem's looked at him with panic in his eyes. "It's just women! Surely you don't need someone along to protect you."

"No," Hakeem said, laughing weakly. "Of course not."

Hemera, by tacit agreement, was 'off limits' while Hakeem was around. Hakeem probably had never realised it. Aeton would be one of the first to go calling on Hemera, once Hakeem had left.

It was sometimes easy to forget Hakeem was still so young and he had been raised well away from women. Aeton was fairly sure that all the women had given up on Hakeem by now, but they were all very fond of the shy young man.

They would definitely wish to say goodbye and they were not above teasing him while they still had the chance.

* * *

The events of the time in Malea already seemed so long ago. Hakeem's friendship with the elf went beyond anything Hakeem had ever experienced, and now he would not see him in this life again.

 

Chapter 6: Conducting a War, and Summoned Home

After their catastrophic defeat at Pergamon, a serious blow had been struck against Troian strength. Troia had conquests and numerous satellite holdings which now stood vulnerable and many of the nearby smaller holdings were just as keen to pledge loyalty to Helios.

Helios's plan was simple: push his advantage rapidly. He didn't expect to be able to successfully hold large tracts of Troian territory or besiege her strong points. He would push the Troians as far as he could, and then offer them a generous peace. This would be a peace he hoped they would feel honour-bound to accept without the sort of bitterness that would trigger endless wars. For Helios, there was more profit in peace than in a war.

To fight a war and show mercy changed greatly the way the war was fought and paid for. Most kings can only afford a small standing force of professional soldiers.

A militia could be raised for defence, but the simplest way to pay a large attacking force is through plunder and extortion. Using plunder, money from selling slaves and drafting peasants from villages to fight, a conqueror can raise an enormous army.

As he shows success, others join from near and far for a share in the booty. A victorious army can become like a landslide. It gathers men and wealth as it travels, unless the defenders can somehow stop them or start to make the victories costly.

If Helios wanted to preserve and liberate what he had conquered, his campaign could soon exceed his resources and if his men thought they wouldn't be paid, his army would simply fall apart.

Except that the Troians had not shown a light touch on those they conquered. They had maintained control with their formidable army. Once the army was defeated, what the Troians believed was a fledgling empire fell apart with terrifying speed.

Helios was seen as a liberator and those oppressed by Troia gave whatever they could to help his campaign. Many cities and towns fell without a fight, joining Helios and his allies. New allies joined to regain land, to seek revenge, or to end the menace of Troia, so they did not need to be paid.

His army was able to reclaim the plunder that the Troians had accumulated, and there was wealth for all without sacking those he hoped would become friends.

He could pay for supplies and didn't have to strip the countryside bare. By the time Helios entered the Troad, he rode at the head of a large force and the Troians were in complete disarray.

Samit had taken over the command of the army from Evagoras. Hakeem became Captain of the Royal guard, which was not just a great honour. It was a great opportunity. He got to work with Samit, Helios and their advisers. He learned about armies, morale, money, logistics, intelligence-gathering, strategy, momentum and the diplomacy that made up such a campaign.

He learned how to take a stronghold without a fight or with minimum loss of men. He learned the strategies of surrounding and neutralising a strongly held position, or outflanking a defence. He had access to libraries and maps of old campaigns.

Hakeem loved to learn and had a natural grasp of anything military. Helios found him a valued aide, despite his youth.

After the declaration of peace, Hakeem was sent as the military advisor accompanying the ambassador to the Troian court. He continued to learn more of the complex strategy and politics that brought the miracle of peace to the troubled region.

Hakeem would have liked to be able to bring the news of Elwan's death to his family and make sure they were cared for. He had known them from previous visits, but it wasn't till eighteen moons after his friend's death that Hakeem was able to travel. He received a formal summons to appear before the new Grand Abbot in Karsh, Father Maluch. Omar, the abbot of the nearest chapterhouse, had also requested to meet with him for some unknown reason.

A summons from the Grand Abbot could not be ignored, and this time King Helios and Samit ordered him to go. He was put on leave for a year and Helios proclaimed he would be promoted to the taxisarchos (cavalry commander) in charge of the Shantawi and allied mercenaries on his return.

 

 

Chapter 7: A Reluctant Princess, a Coming of Age, and Leaving Elgard

Elena slammed the door, threw herself on her bed and wept.

The pain was almost physical.

The door was opened tentatively by her maid, but before Iona asked anything, Elena yelled, "Leave me!" and buried her face deeper into her pillow.

She mustn't let anyone else see that they had gotten to her.

Elena, soon to be of age, was a princess of the fabulously wealthy kingdom of the Eastern Elves. She was her father's heir, destined to be a queen. She was mentioned in the ancient Elvish Prophecy as the one who would be a great queen and destined to give birth to a daughter who would lead to a resurgence of elvish power.

She could look out of her window and see the richness of her lands and the majesty of the vast city-fortress. She could wander the palace and see the exquisite tapestries, the mosaics, the huge gilded statues and rich decorations. She could see the halls thronged with richly clad elves: merchants, servants, soldiers and dignitaries. She was born into almost unimaginable wealth and power.

And yet she was so desperately unhappy.

But she must not let her stepmother know the poisoned words had found their mark. It would only give the Queen another way to hurt her.

It felt she was drowning in shame and anguish. The intensity, she knew, was a memory of how her stepmother had hurt her when she was so little and helpless.

She was an adult now. She had been taught by the priestess that every time she faced the feelings and defeated them, she got stronger. She knew all that, but still she struggled with the power of her stepmother to give her pain.

All she could do for the moment was grit her teeth and wait for the feeling to pass, like a great wave, as she knew it would.

She was no longer a small elf-child, she was no longer so vulnerable, but still, by the Great Mother, it hurt! She had overheard, as she was supposed to overhear, her stepmother saying to her friends that she had the body of a boy. Xanthe gleefully said that if she wasn't the Princess, no man would be interested in her. It was exactly what Elena feared and she burned with shame.

Some said Elena looked more like her mother as she grew, yet Elena knew she would never be as beautiful as her mother. She had heard so many stories about how beautiful and loving Hera was and it was Elena who had killed her.

Elena was only six when Xanthe had told her. She remembered not knowing where to run or where to hide. Xanthe said her father hated her because she had killed her mother.

And Xanthe was so hard and cold when she said it.

At the time, the small girl, Elena, had thought she deserved such horrible treatment. Now she realised Xanthe had plotted to do it in that way and had chosen her moment when she could hurt her little stepdaughter the most.

Her mother had wanted to give her husband, King Cyron, a child, but Hera had a weakness of the heart. Her healers advised her it would be very dangerous, as elves are wise in such matters. They wanted to give her medicine to prevent a pregnancy but Hera, named after the beautiful Queen of Heaven, would not hear of such a thing.

As her pregnancy progressed, it became obvious that her life was in serious peril but by that stage the pregnancy was advanced. She refused to end her pregnancy and kill the baby she felt quicken inside her.

Hera died giving birth to Elena. Hera, known for her beauty and loving nature, gave her life for the child she bore.

Perhaps finding out she killed her mother was worse, if anything could be worse, than when Elena first met her father.

From small, Elena knew her father didn't like her, but never knew why. Her earliest memories were from when she was four. She knew that she had no mother, and her father had never seen her, not even once. He did not live at Elgard then.

She was told he was busy extending his kingdom, but she also heard he visited the city several times but had never come to see his daughter. She knew that there was something shameful about having a father who didn't want to see you. As a small child, she only knew she was bad, but she never knew why.

Her father had only one living relative, his half-brother who was a soldier and had never married, so she was alone in the royal quarters and was raised by servants.

Ailya, the servant in charge of the little princess, was the closest she had to a parent. All the servants doted on her, she loved them, and she was happy, for a while.

The memory of the return of her father was burnt like a wound deep in her soul.

She was playing hide and seek, she remembered, with one of her favourite young maids. She couldn't remember much else about the maid as she never saw her again.

They were both laughing and running around excitedly. The maid was calling her by her pet name, "Elly the eel" … she remembered that. She was called that because they said she was quick and cunning in chasing games, even for a small elf-girl.

Out of nowhere, a great angry warrior came in bronze armour. Only later, Elena guessed he had come to her quarters unannounced. Everyone stopped whatever they were doing, frozen, and bowed to the King in fear.

To the four-year-old girl, he looked huge. She remembered she was so frightened it took her a few moments to remember the King was also her father.

He was in such a rage! He shouted something about "princess" and her "being his daughter." He said something about how he wanted her treated, she remembered that. She thought her father would hit the maid she loved.

The maid had thrown herself trembling at the King's feet. Elena felt it was she who was wrong, and yet it was the maid who was going to be punished. Was it her playing and making noise? Was the maid supposed to stop her?

She was overcome with terror, unable to move. When he turned his anger on Ailya she wanted to run to her defence, this was her Ailya! To her abiding shame, she ran to her room instead and hid behind a couch.

Eventually a shadow appeared at the door. The King came to the doorway. She cringed away, behind the couch up against the wall. Cyron didn't enter; he just stood at the doorway and measured her with his piercing eyes.

"Well daughter, have you grown so wild you have no greeting for your father?"

She thought he would come in and hit her then, and her heart was racing.

"No words for me, I see," he said. "Not much of a homecoming then."

She had felt like begging and begging, "please tell me what I have done wrong!" but he turned his back and walked away.

It was only later that the little child understood. As Elena thought back now, she felt the drowning wave of shame and anguish at the thoughts of that small child.

The King didn't love her.

Elena knew she was bad in some way and he was angry at anyone else who loved her. That was what she thought as a small child.

He was forbidding the maids to love her.

From that day on, most became aloof and formal. There were still some, those closest to her, who were brave enough to love her and she loved them in return, but the little girl understood now, it had to be a secret.

In public, she had to seem aloof and they too had to act their part. Only in private could they show their feelings. Elena had learned that a princess, even a very small one, had to hide her feelings.

The next day she was summoned to her father's presence. She had to wear her best dress which was a light blue. Her soft yellow hair was brushed and brushed till it was silky and glistened. Everyone had told her that her hair was her best feature. She remembered it was tied with a gold bow at the back, and she was allowed to wear the small silver elf-tiara that was one of her favourites.

She had to enter and curtsy and murmur "my King" and not look up till spoken to.

She remembered there was a strange dark-haired woman sitting next to the King. She was in a beautiful dress, with lots of jewels. The woman held a small bundle wrapped in a blanket, and behind them stood a dark-haired boy-elf about eleven or twelve. She had never seen dark haired elves before and she stared at them before she realised she was being rude.

That was the day she met her stepmother, Xanthe and Xanthe's son, Nikan.

"Are you well daughter?" the King asked.

Elena was too frightened to speak. Besides, she didn't know what the question meant. She later found out it was a meaningless question that adults asked of each other, and she was supposed to say that she was 'well'.

As the time stretched, she heard her new stepmother sneer. "What a stupid child!" and the boy standing behind their chairs sniggered.

She felt again then what was to become a very familiar wave of shame.

"This is your new mother," the King said. Elena didn't know what to do, so she curtsied to Xanthe and bowed her head.

"We are coming to live here in the Palace."

"Does that mean I have to go away?" the little girl asked, frightened by the idea. She knew her father didn't like to be near her.

"What a silly question," she heard Xanthe say. "I told you she was stupid."

Elena managed to look up at the King, despite her fear. "My King, can Ailya come to live with me when I have to go, so I won't be so lonely?"

Cyron never answered her and Xanthe ordered her led away. She remembered seeing Nikan staring at her, with a sneer on his face.

Now Elena was almost eighteen and she felt again the shame of that small child, but now she felt pity for that little girl who was also herself and, not for the first time, she felt anger.

She knelt and said a prayer to the Great Earth Mother, Erya for strength. After that she felt better and managed to assume her cool, haughty mask enough to call for her servant, Iona.

"I heard what they said," said the young girl, bustling in with water for Elena to wash her face. "It's horrible and it's not true! You're beautiful! You don't look like a boy at all! There's nothing wrong with your breasts, you are tall and slim, and that's all. They shouldn't be so mean to you all the time, it's not fair!" she said indignantly and breathlessly.

"Well, I thank you." Elena was amused despite herself, for all Iona's opinion was worth. Yet somehow the silly girl helped her feel better.

Ailya, Elena's nursemaid and governess was dead these last two years. Elena's stepmother, Xanthe, had deliberately given her Iona, who no one listened to and was known to be inept.

Elena was determined to be forbearing with the girl. She would prove Xanthe wrong! Besides, she had no need for more people to dislike her, even if it was only a silly and clumsy servant.

Elena couldn't help but smile back at her maid. She certainly couldn't fault Iona over loyalty. And she could be company, whatever her other faults.

She knew that was what others would say. What a princess she was! She was so friendless that she craved what company servants could give her.

Her father, when he returned, had brought Xanthe, a widow. His marriage to Xanthe had brought the last of the Eastern Elvish land's under his control and a duchy that gave him open access to the Black Sea. Xanthe and Cyron did not seem to love each other. Elena as a child assumed this was normal in a marriage.

Xanthe also brought Nikan, her son. Elena shuddered as her thoughts turned to Nikan.

Cyron wanted a son and was pleased to at least have a stepson. Nikan was clever enough to know how to flatter and impress the King.

But it was the small bundle in a blanket that her stepmother carried that was to capture Elena's heart more than she could ever have imagined. No one bothered to tell her what it was. She remembered her sense of awe as the maids introduced her for the first time to her new baby half-sister, Seléne.

Seléne was tiny and perfect. She was fair, like every elf-child, but had dark hair, unusual in an Eastern Elf. The newest Princess of the Eastern Elves was busily engaged in sucking her thumb and as Elena looked down at her baby sister in wonder, the tiny little princess looked back and smiled at her.

Xanthe was not interested in being a mother of small girls. She preferred parties, gossip and all the frivolous trimmings of royal life, but Elena had found someone who she was allowed to love.

She spent every moment she could with her sister; she loved her, she protected her, and she told her over and over that she was pretty, that she was smart and that she was, above all else, a good girl and that everyone loved her.

Elena never wanted Seléne to feel the way she felt.

Elena smiled to herself as she cleaned herself up and her thoughts turned to Seléne. If it weren't for her sister, she didn't know how she would have survived. Dear Seléne!

Elena was the substitute mother for her half-sister, more than four years younger. They were sisters and best friends. Seléne always seemed more confident and outgoing even though she was younger. It was Seléne who gathered around her a small group of true friends.

The control always seemed tighter on Elena. She was required to learn music instruments, elf history, languages and etiquette. They controlled who could be her friends; after all she would be the Queen one day!

Elena felt that was only an excuse to make her life miserable and maybe to some extent it was.

The only true friends Elena could have were Seléne's.

Elena would so often come to her sister, down and dispirited. Soon they were both in hysterics over Seléne's imitations of the members of the court.

Dark of hair, as Elena was fair; Seléne would be shorter and fuller when she grew into womanhood. She was just fourteen and already fuller in the important area of breasts, which her lanky sister was so lacking in.

Seléne was the best thing that her stepmother and father brought. For all that happened, after Xanthe and Cyron and Nikan came, she could not say she regretted their coming … because they brought Seléne.

Elena, as she got ready, thought of her stepmother. It took a long time for her to understand Xanthe and how subtle she could be. Elena felt inherently full of shame. Xanthe merely confirmed her shame and pretended to be forbearing of the hopeless stepdaughter she was burdened with. She never seemed to tire of telling her friends and Elena how awkward, ugly and stupid she was. Elena, back then, thought Xanthe was showing good-natured tolerance towards her.

One day, Xanthe over-played her hand. While Ailya was away, Elena was so pleased to hear from Xanthe that there was to be a children's fancy dress party. Xanthe even supplied her with a village girl costume! When she arrived in excited anticipation, she walked in to find herself in a grand function and Xanthe was ready to pounce.

She claimed she had told Elena the child's party was cancelled. She said Elena looked so cute and insisted on parading her around in front of the guests, while Elena, in anguish and shame, was completely humiliated.

But Elena's memory was better than that.

She was perplexed, she couldn't resolve it with Xanthe, who seemed to delight in the girl's 'silly' mistake. Finally a maid told Elena there never was any plans for a children's party.

Elena didn't have to be told to keep that a secret.

Elena realised then that it was fortunate that her father insisted Ailya remained in charge of her care. Behind the scenes, Xanthe would have given her unfashionable clothes, incompetent maids and stupid tutors. She realised her 'friends', the children of Xanthe's friends that Xanthe had chosen for her, were secretly taught to despise her, and her stepmother who pretended to be her friend, was really her enemy.

It was a very subtle game and it took Elena a while to understand how it was possible for Xanthe to hate her so much and why. Xanthe doted on her son Nikan, who could do no wrong. She planned to have Nikan as a king. But what was she to do with her stepdaughter, who was named the heir?

Elena had one weapon and for a while, she used it. She was the Princess! She was the Heir! She was the One Foretold!

In the end, they could do nothing about this, or so she thought.

They tried to look down on her, but she could turn the disdain back on them. Pretending it didn't hurt, she withdrew behind her mask. She went through a period of being the spoilt princess, made worse by the deep unhappiness within.

Only a few knew Elena's arrogance was pretence, a weapon against her enemies.

Elena learned to become a player in the Queen's court with its diversions for the bored aristocracy. She even started to gain some of the other player's admiration, but in the end it felt shallow and pointless.

For someone spending their whole life hoping for approval, it was a shock to find so many people whose approval she despised.

The more her father saw her spoilt behaviour, the more he disliked her, never for one minute suspecting his own role in it and he gave her no chance to join with him in the more serious business of the Court.

Elena didn't expect her father to like her. From very young, she became clever at avoiding him. She learned his habits, his visits on holy feast days. She knew when there would be small family dinners and she had found lots of secret hiding places. To her relief, she would hear Xanthe telling the maids not to bother, as they tried to look for her.

If she heard his voice, she would melt away. A few times she accidently walked in to catch her father enjoying spending time with Seléne, chatting with her, both of them smiling and laughing.

If she could, she would leave before she was noticed, otherwise her father and Seléne would both became stiff and awkward in her presence, and seem relieved when she quickly left.

On the few occasions she met her father outside of formal occasions, he might ask her an awkward question about her studies or horse riding or archery which everyone knew she loved, but she had learned early how to give her father polite and meaningless replies.

Occasionally when she was riding or practicing her bow, she caught him staring at her from some distance. She didn't know why he would do something like that. Perhaps it was to make her feel uncomfortable.

Her father had most time for Nikan. Nikan knew how to flatter and impress his stepfather. Nikan was seven years older than Elena. He started out as a bully, and as his behaviour was tolerated, he transformed into a sadist, a man who felt pleasure and arousal when he had others in his power, especially young girls.

Whenever he could, he made Elena's life miserable. When Elena was small, a maid had caught him trying to fondle her. Elena remembered being beside herself with shame and terror.

It was to Xanthe she tried to explain what happened, but was simply told not to be silly. Soon after, Nikan 'found' the maid 'stealing'. He was delighted to watch the maid get whipped and sent from the castle.

In a few weeks, now, it would be Elena's eighteenth birthday.

The very last thing she wanted was the sickening pretence of a celebration. She hoped Xanthe and her father would agree.

"No, child!" Xanthe had smiled at her. Her stepmother seemed to be in a friendly mood at the mention of a grand ball. "You are the heir to a powerful kingdom. This is your coming of age! It is a big event and many important people will be called. Don't worry, Elena. I have a surprise for you."

Elena's confidants, Iona and Seléne, the maids she liked, all her tutors, Seléne's friends and even the Great Priestess of the temple would not agree with her. Of course her eighteenth had to be celebrated!

The palace was abuzz with excitement for weeks. Everyone wanted to be invited. Elena, at the very centre of it, felt sick in the stomach at the thought of it. She wished they would all go off and have their wonderful party without her.

But when a gown was sent to her from Xanthe, it was exquisite. It was red, the design was unfamiliar, but the quality was in no doubt.

Seléne and Iona confirmed how pretty she looked in it. Elena was surprised by the generosity, as she had received no new clothes since Ailya had died, and there was not much she had that she hadn't outgrown.

Perhaps Xanthe wanted her to look her best after all. She felt the beginning of excitement over the ball and hurried to thank Xanthe.

Xanthe was talking to Cyron. Cyron saw Elena uncharacteristically happy and was struck by the resemblance to Hera, but on this occasion it brought a smile to his lips. He looked forward to seeing her in whatever dress she seemed to be so excited about. He realised that Elena had grown into a beautiful woman.

On the afternoon of the celebration Elena, Seléne and two of Xanthe's nieces from Seléne's circle were getting themselves ready and doing Elena's hair. Iona hurried in looking very troubled.

The dress was Hera's. Xanthe's maid was hurrying to tell Elena that.

This was unbelievable! To give Elena a dead woman's dress! Not even a human peasant would wear a dead woman's dress.

How clever! Elena had no money till she was 18. She had no other dress suitable to wear, Xanthe had seen to that and now she couldn't wear the only suitable dress she had.

Seléne was shocked and angry at her mother's wickedness. "What are you going to do?"

Elena felt elated and somehow dizzy. "Make sure that our 'mother' or her maid cannot pass a message to me without witnesses. I will wear the dress!"

Seléne and her friends were scandalised but excited. This would really blow up in the face of the Queen. Everyone knew the Queen had given Elena the dress.

The maid came in with an 'important message' while Elena was surrounded by the other girls. If she told her in private, it would be Elena’s problem to deal with, no matter how angry and helpless Elena felt.

In front of witnesses, in public, the maid would face other’s outrage as well so when Elena demanded she pass the message in front of everyone, the maid turned and fled.

After a while, Xanthe herself came with demands to see Elena on her own.

Elena refused, there wasn't enough time to get ready as it was, and the other girls backed her up. If it was urgent, tell her now in front of everyone, or it could wait. Xanthe's bluster didn't work in getting Elena alone.

The banquet was laid, the guests all seated, and the time had come for her father and mother to lead her into the hall and present her as an adult. Cyron waited with a pale Xanthe. Elena swept into the hall, looking the image of Hera.

Elena came up to Cyron and offered a tentative smile. "Is something wrong Father? You surely must love the dress Mother gave me. Exquisite isn't it?"

"What is the meaning of this?" Cyron, demanded angrily.

"I tried to tell her," Xanthe started.

"What, Mother?" Elena enquired innocently.

"It's your mother's dress," Xanthe hissed, appalled.

"What! It's my mother's dress!" Elena shouted. "You make me wear a dead woman's dress to my coming of age?"

She made sure her voice would carry clearly into the large banquet hall just beyond them.

"You have given me no other clothes to wear. Is this another of your cruel jokes?" Elena demanded loudly.

Cyron tried to hush his daughter. "I was not aware of this," he said, looking furiously at Xanthe. Elena simply looked coldly at her father, her tone quieter, almost menacing. "And were you not, my Father? Ever have you raised a hand to protect me?"

Cyron looked abashed. "This is not the time, Elena. You will shame me in front of my guests."

"No, Father, you shame me. You let that slug try to rape me when I was seven, and what did you do? You made him your favourite and whipped the maid who protected me. You forced me to watch as I 'needed to learn how to dispense justice', or will you say that was Xanthe's idea, father?

"Oh of course, I dreamed all that up! Have you asked the maids? Have you asked my young cousin what he's like? For that matter, have you asked your own daughter, Seléne, what dear Nikan attempted to do to her?"

Xanthe tried to say, "Don't talk to your father like a spoilt child. You're a princess!"

"Thank you, Mother," Elena replied, starting to raise her voice again so she could be heard. "Remember the fancy dress you made me wear in front of everyone? There was never a plan to have a fancy dress party. It was another of your cruel tricks to make a small girl feel humiliated. You take every chance. You try every trick against me! When I got this lovely dress, I thought you had changed.

"To think I loved you once. Well, you planned this, so I will not be ashamed to wear this dress of my mother's. Let's meet our guests!"

She marched forward quickly, not waiting for them.

Protocol meant the parents must precede her and present her to the guests. By her being the last to enter, they gave her honour, on the occasion of her coming of age.

Elena continued gracefully into the room without pause, and moved to stand waiting at the table of honour. The guests were stunned. She was not announced. She had been tricked to wear the dress of a dead woman. This was unbelievable! She was the heir. This was a dreadful scandal!

Worse still, time stretched agonisingly as the audience waited for her parents to follow. The guests looked increasingly uncomfortable. A murmur started and was getting louder and louder. Why did they delay? What were they doing? Raised voices could be heard outside, arguing.

Elena stood by her chair waiting, impassively. Finally the royal couple entered stony faced, pointedly not looking at each other. Elena took a breath and her voice carried clearly across the great ball room.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the King and Queen!" she announced.

Everyone stood, though they should have stood for her.

"Well, it seems I must announce myself. Thank you all for coming to this occasion of my coming of age. Let us begin," Elena concluded and, smiling serenely, she sat.

Her parents were not given the chance to introduce her. But for the moment, her parents were stunned speechless by what had happened. They couldn't do anything in front of the audience, lest they appear to argue in public.

The servants scurried to serve, the musicians tried their best, but the grand party could only regain a strained air.

Elena, looking radiant, sat at the head table, beside the discomforted king and queen. Elena was the perfect hostess, caring for the guests in any breaks, getting up to circulate and make small talk between the courses. The fact that she didn't eat a mouthful or drink even a sip of water was lost on no one. Only Seléne and her cousins knew they had smuggled fruit from the kitchen earlier for her.

Back at the table with her parents, she made no conversation. She had a fixed half smile on her lips. She sat there, staring ahead, beautiful and proud, like a queen, but it was as if she were a queen made of ice.

Once the last dessert was served, the speeches would be made, starting with her father. But as the desserts were still being put on the tables, Elena rose to her feet.

"Well, my parents may not wish to speak at this time, but I have an announcement. Today, I celebrate my coming of age. I must leave the court soon to take up residence on my mother's estate which I now inherit. The lodging will be modest, but for the first time, I will have an income."

There was a loud murmur. The estate was nowhere near suitable for a princess! Does she mean she has no allowance?

"It seems that my mother's clothes were preserved at her death, including this exquisite dress. I now realise how sensible this is in a case such as mine, as I have been given none other. I look forward to receiving the rest of her effects, as is my right. I apologise for wearing such a fine dress poorly. I have been told I am awkward and boyish."

Amongst the confusion, there were shouts of denial and Elena smiled warmly to each one.

"While I didn't know the origin of this dress before today, my parents did. It only confirms what they have said many times. I nonetheless, accept its ancient meaning."

There was a din of confused murmurings. What was this? Many were looking around puzzled.

The ancient High Priestess struggled to rise, a look of horror on her face. Suddenly it was very clear, to the old lady. "No! It was never your fault!" she shouted loudly, appalled.

"Dear Reverent Mother, I thank you for your kindness," Elena smiled at the old woman. "Please don't anyone be distressed. This is a burden that I long have carried. I will return to my parents the cost of raising me, as soon as I can afford to do so." Her father stood up with a shout but Elena merely raised her hand and her voice rang out. "Please Father; it pains me to be reminded so, at this time, but let me answer while my courage lasts.

"And last, I am my father's heir.

"I know this has never been the wish of either my father or his wife. So let it not be so. In full honour in front of these witnesses, I release my father from this. Father, in front of these witnesses, name who you wish to be your heir. On my honour, I will abide by your wish."

Pandemonium broke out. Everyone was talking at once.

"It has to be you, because of the Prophecy," Cyron growled still standing, looking shocked.

"Dear Father," Elena laughed. "Is this not my second sin? I will make amends. Why, I only need be Queen for one hour. I will sign the papers now. You are free to choose."

Xanthe was whispering urgently. "No … not him," Cyron said irritably. He sat, as if tired. "… It will be… Elena." He said heavily.

Elena was stunned by her father's reply. She shook her head, bewildered, as people left their tables to gather around her jostling and shouting encouragement. The noise was rising to a tumult. She raised her hand again, drawing herself up to be every inch the princess she was.

"My friends, Lords and Ladies, I am touched by your confidence. This was not the outcome I expected, but I am no coward to avoid my duty to our people. My father is the greatest ruler of his time. I promise, you will never find his daughter lacking!"

Everyone stood clapping enthusiastically. By clapping harder they wanted to make up for how she had been just treated. When the applause died down, she smiled and surveyed the sea of faces.

"I'm sorry to bring such solemnity to such a joyous occasion. It is time to dance! Who will dance with me?" Behind her, her father started to get ready but Elena never saw him. She pointed to the Persian ambassador "Mr Ambassador, you are a diplomat to say I am beautiful. For that, would you do me the honour of the first dance?" As she walked with him to the dance floor, she reached up and kissed him on the forehead.

Cyron plonked himself down, it was as if she slapped him in the face, but why would his daughter want to dance with him? He was stunned. On this one night he was faced with how cruel he had been. Worse, he had left her at the mercy of Xanthe and Nikan. The intensity of their hostility to Elena would have been only too apparent, if he only cared to look.

He was a busy king and had reunited the ancient land of the Eastern Elves. So it was too easy to say he had no time to think about her. But he made time for Seléne, he had time for Nikan. He had time for his subjects, but not his eldest daughter, his heir.

He hadn't been able to reconcile his feelings towards Elena. It was simpler to blame her. Any prejudice was fed by subtle poison from Xanthe. He now presumed Xanthe had poisoned Elena against him. He had dismissed his wife as frivolous, but failed to see how devious she was. He looked to enemies beyond his borders, and neglected the state of his own house.

He only had himself to blame.

Now the party was in full swing and there was Elena, beautiful, gracious and glowing. He saw some of the quality he had been blind to. He saw his daughter, now as a beautiful woman and yet a stranger. He was a great king, but suddenly he came face to face with an appalling folly.

Xanthe's clever scheme had blown up in her face. She sat and wondered how it could go so far wrong. It started as a clever trick to get Elena to wear an old and unsuitable dress. She remembered Elena coming almost pathetically grateful to thank her, but it was in front of Cyron. Poor foolish child! She was like a lamb to the slaughter, what chance did she have?

And now, Xanthe was publicly branded as wicked and spiteful to the heir and her influence would be seriously diminished. Her son's 'weakness' was revealed and Elena was reconfirmed as the future Queen. Surely Elena couldn't have done this knowingly?

But there was more to come, the ancient High Priestess limped painfully to their table. "Are you totally wicked? How could you do this?"

Xanthe was shocked to be spoken to like that. "I will do as I please!" she said, looking angrily at the old woman.

The old crone fixed her eye on the Queen. "So you admit it!"

Xanthe smiled and nodded; it was silly to deny it.

She knew Cyron had kept much of Hera's clothes and possessions. There was a large portrait of Hera in that very dress in Cyron's study. It looked so much like Elena that it had given her the idea.

"I admit it, and I don't care."

"Do you not? You know she is the one foretold. You utter fool!" Xanthe was about to explode, but the priestess hadn't finished. "It was almost 1500 years ago when Penelope saw herself responsible for the death of her mother. On her coming of age, she wore her dead mother's dress, as a sign of her shame. She banished herself from the palace, renounced the right of being a daughter to her father, and repaid her father what he had spent raising her.

"And you have tricked Elena into the same thing.

"You have shown to the world how you both have been treating Elena. You will divide our kingdom, one against the other. I warn you!" she said fixing Xanthe with an angry stare.

"She is favoured by the Goddess. For your own sake, do not dare to raise your hand against her. Elena may not return now until Cyron has died, but when she does, you as her accuser must be the one who is exiled. Didn't you think?"

Xanthe was aghast when the meaning sank home, but Cyron exploded loudly at his wife. "You evil woman, leave my sight! You have plotted against me and my heir. Leave now, before I strike you!"

The guests were caught frozen, half way through the celebrations, at his shout.

Elena herself paused, and then announced in her clear voice. "I'm sorry. It seems my celebration is doomed to be spoiled. I would have liked to have a little longer. After this, I am banished; didn't you know?

"My mother's death in childbirth is seen as my fault, so I was given my mother's dress to wear at my coming of age. Now I have to leave the palace till my father dies, and I have to return to him the cost of raising me. That's the great surprise they planned for my coming of age. I feel very sad, but I must accept such things.

"Best I go quickly. Sorry I won't see you again."

Elena turned and almost ran out, leaving everyone in confusion. Her guests stood in shock, horrified. It was impossible to believe what had been done to her, but they had all been witnesses.

Her father had no chance to talk to her.

From that moment Xanthe and Nikan were in disgrace.

* * *

If Elena was interested in power, she would have stayed. Instead, Elena made plans to leave the palace as soon as she could.

The quantity she would take, even with Hera's belongings, was pathetic. It was another sign of Cyron's shame. He tried to send gifts for her, but they were all returned. Nor would she take any expensive items of her mother's. She refused all other offers of help and was waiting for a motley escort from her mother's holdings. Before marriage, her mother had not been a rich woman. She also decided to take Iona, the incompetent maid that had been foisted on her by Xanthe as a final act of defiance.

It was three days later when Cyron summoned his daughter. He had with him his half-brother, Hector. Hector was in command of the legions, the second most powerful man in the kingdom. He was a good part of the reason for Cyron's success.

Hector was also devoted to both of his nieces, and was one of Elena's greatest supporters, second only to Seléne.

"You wished to see me, my King!" she announced as she swept in. She was wearing a well-remembered dress of her mother's. Cyron felt a lurch as if in Hera's presence, but this 'Hera' was as cold as ice.

"What have you done to your beautiful hair?" he asked, shocked.

"Oh, my King, do you like it? I'm told by everyone that I look like a boy. I think you would have preferred a son, so I cut my hair to please you.

"It was an ancient custom for royals to cut their hair short at the loss of a King. While I never knew my mother, I can grieve the loss of both my parents now."

"Please sit." Cyron indicated the chair, not knowing how to respond.

"Why, I prefer to stand," Elena replied brightly. "What business do you have of me?"

"I thought we could talk." Cyron started.

"Well, that's nice. That's what we are doing now. When will we finish talking? I know you dislike my company, and I don't want to trouble you unnecessarily."

"Elena, I'm your father," Cyron tried to say.

"So you have called me to tell me that! Well, you said you regretted having me as your daughter. Do you think that Xanthe didn't delight in telling a small girl such deeply hurtful words? I suppose you want an apology. You know, I find it difficult to apologise for being born.

"At least, though, in this we agree. I'm sorry I'm your daughter too, but wait! Don't we forget? It is corrected! We can move on."

"Put that nonsense about not being my daughter aside."

"Nonsense is it?" Elena shouted. "I am publicly shamed at my coming of age. Don't say it was none of your doing! Mother dearest has never tired of quoting how often you have blamed me for my mother's death. Do you think she would have dared such a thing otherwise?

"I have accepted the punishment. Why a newborn baby, so young, to be condemned for murder! And my own mother, too, how black my crime, you are right to find me so disgusting.

"What do you want of me now, to go back on my sworn word? Great Holy Mother, do you never tire of humiliating me?"

"Elena, I've made an awful mistake." Cyron said.

"What a cruel trick you play. You wish to make this exile harder for me." Elena drew herself up and looked at him coldly, her eyes glittering with tears. "But somehow your words fail to touch me."

"Elena, I'm sorry!" Cyron cried out, clutching at his desk.

Elena looked at him coldly. "You can't be serious!"

"The other night, you looked so beautiful; you looked like your mother." His voice caught in his throat.

"I'm sorry to look like my mother. Xanthe told me it's another reason you hate me. But you see it's difficult, because I never met my mother. As for beautiful, I think we understand one another perfectly. I am an adult now, I don't appreciate lies."

"Don't call me a liar!" Cyron growled.

"Then don't lie." Elena's eyes flashed "My whole life you have avoided me, why the interest now when I'm leaving?"

Cyron bowed his head. He looked broken. For once he looked his age, tears started in his eyes. "I have a picture of her … in that dress … I've always loved it … I loved her … I can show you."

"Well! Good! Keep the picture then. You have made portraits of the others but none of me. That can be your portrait of me, old man.

"You won't see me again in this life. I will let neither you nor your wife humiliate me again." She turned, a maiden made of ice. "Why did you call me here? Do you hate me so much that you won't let me be? Don't you understand you have won? You don't have me as a daughter. I will go away. I have offered to renounce all my inheritance." Tears began streaming down her cheeks.

"Elena, I am sorry, I've been wrong," Cyron pleaded.

"So what must I do now, feel sorry for you? Well, seeing you only gives me pain. I remember hurt on hurt. Did you know … I once loved you both? What a fool I was, but of course I was only a small child.

"Now seeing you, being here, brings back to me all the pain you've caused. Did you know that the sight of you brings me pain? Did you not wish I was never born? Did you not hate me? Did you not blame me? And now you want me to feel sorry for you as well? May I go now?" She turned to leave.

"Elena, please don't go."

"No, King, as I will never call you Father again. Will only my death please you?

"Deny that you blamed me time after time for my mother's death. I can't see what I did, yet I was blamed. No matter, I wore my mother's dress at my coming of age, I accept the punishment. Don't ask me for pity as well. Just let me go." With that, she turned and left.

"Well," Hector turned to his older half-brother, who was also his best friend. He was one of the few people who could criticise Cyron with impunity. "Don't say I didn't warn you again and again. She was such a sweet and trusting girl. I must say, you and your wife did some amazing work."

"Is it too late, do you think?" Cyron asked his friend.

"What, for you and her? For the sake of the Gods, she is a woman now! Do you wish to return milk that has spilt or repair a jug shattered into a hundred pieces?

"Is it too late for her? I believe deep down there remains still that lovely, trusting child that you and your wonderful wife have tried so hard to destroy.

"But you haven't told her! She will find out from the wrong people, despite how secret you think it is."

Just as they were speaking, Elena was outside, finding out from the wrong people.

Xanthe and Nikan and some of their few remaining friends lay in wait for the princess as she left her audience with her father. "So what do you think?" Nikan asked with a nasty smile. Gone was even a superficial pretence of friendship.

Elena looked at him blankly. Nikan and Xanthe turned to each other with incredulous smiles "He hasn't told you, has he? This is so delicious!"

"Told me what?" Elena, confused, found herself surrounded by a circle of leering faces.

She had done great damage to them and Xanthe relished this chance at spite.

"Well, darling daughter. It's the moment you have waited for. At last, the Prophecy is invoked and you are to travel to meet the father of your child to be, the identity of this charming prince has been revealed."

Elena felt a lurch inside herself. She had somehow put the Prophecy out of her mind, there was no sign it was ever going to be fulfilled, yet this was the most important of all elvish prophecies.

As a child, she had dreamed of who her prince might be. He was to be a lost prince of the Western Empire. He was to be a great warrior. She and Seléne would often play a game describing what wonderful men they would save themselves for.

Now, ringed by the grinning faces of her worst enemies, she had an awful sinking feeling. She went pale and desperately steeled herself not to show a reaction.

Then, they gave her the name.

It hit her like a blow. She barely prevented herself asking if it were true.

She managed to say levelly, "I see, thank you for telling me. Now, if you'll excuse me I mean to discuss this with my father." She tried to sound as if the news was only of mild interest, rather than being absolutely crushing.

Disappointed at her reaction, they nonetheless howled with laughter. It was going to happen to her and there was nothing she could do about it.

Hector heard the 'click, click' of her boots down the hall. Uh, oh, he thought. She was making a lot of noise for an elf walking. The door burst open. Elena was trembling with rage as she faced her father.

"I thought you could never humiliate me again. I was wrong! Now I'm eighteen, you send me off like a lump of meat. Djorn the Grey! I'm to be sent like a brood cow to become pregnant to a man almost three times my age. He has a wife, so I'm not to marry him and he's only a local landowner. Then I'm to return here to have the baby, to prove my shame to all.

"I am to be Queen and have no chance to hide my humiliation. You seek to totally destroy me. Am I to be given no chance? I will be despised! You want my rule to fail!

"No one will marry me after that and then what? Am I to kill myself? Well, I won't give you that satisfaction. You were playing me before. I clearly underestimated the depth of your hatred. Why do you hate me so?

"Congratulations old man, I almost believed you."

Cyron could only shake his head helplessly. She spun on her heel and slammed the door.

Cyron was appalled, "She hates me!"

Hector paused before hurrying after his niece whom he loved. "Yes, she does hate you, my king and my brother. I think you have given her good cause.

"All I can say is she is good at it, don't you think?"

Hector had to make haste. He noticed with pride that Elena kept control as she marched to the privacy of her quarters. It seemed everyone knew what was happening, and was watching her intently.

Hector pushed past the maid who tried to bar him entry into Elena's private quarters. He called "Elena!" and she whirled to face him, her face white with fury. "You know it's not your father's doing. It was an event triggered by your coming of age," Hector started.

"Liar!" She screamed at him, beside herself with rage.

"Elena!" he called sharply. "Neither I nor your father are lying to you. Do you forget that I am your friend?"

Elena stopped, frozen, for an instant, then with an "Oh", her hard cold manner dissolved into tears. Like a small child, she ran and flung herself into his arms. She clutched desperately at his shoulders and buried her face into his chest.

"Please, please, don't you hate me too, Uncle! What am I to do?" He stood there and comforted the young girl. Her tears went on and on and he found himself crying too.

Always busy with the King's wars, Hector was named after the hero of the final desperate defence of Troia. He had never married, he had no children of his own, but he loved Elena and her sister Seléne deeply as his own.

Unfortunately, he could not talk sense into Cyron who was mad with grief over the death of Hera. When news of Hera's death reached them, they were on campaign. Something in Cyron had died that day.

Cyron buried himself in his work. He refused permission for Hera's room to be cleaned out. It became like a mausoleum. The first few times they returned to the palace, Cyron would sit there by himself for unknown hours. Hector once came in search of him in the middle of the night, to find him just sitting there in the dark, not making a sound.

Hector wondered about Xanthe. Her offer of a marriage of alliance was too good to refuse. She wanted to be Queen, and hoped her son could be the King. Did she come determined not to love Cyron, or was she given no chance?

Whenever Hector could, which was not often enough; he spent time with the two girls. He took Elena and Seléne camping, hunting, fishing and swimming. Whenever he visited, he brought presents, things little girls would love. Remembering all this, Elena knew that here was someone else who loved her.

Hector stayed with Elena until she was cried out and ready to sleep. He tucked her in her bed and kissed her. As he left, he saw Seléne waiting, distraught, outside Elena's room.

He hugged the young princess and murmured, "She's better than I would have thought, but she's sleeping. Her maid's with her. Don't let her be alone for the next few days."

Seléne guiltily told him about her complicity with Elena's plan. She and her friends had no idea all this would happen, it seemed a bit of a game.

Hector shook his head. "It's not your fault. She decided to fight back in the only way she could. It cost her dearly, but consider what she accomplished all in one stroke: Xanthe's power is all but broken. Nikan is revealed for the snake he always was. Your father has come to his senses, though far too late. She is seen as a brave heroine and has been confirmed as the future Queen.

"She's a lot smarter than most realise. She knew exactly what she was doing. Now, some empty-headed fools will despise her, for what her duty demands of her. I doubt she will ever be able to marry.

"She has been so strong for so long. Now she has to face far worse. Those that really matter though, will see her as the princess who was given nothing, yet sacrificed everything. I think she will make a great, if somewhat tragic queen."

* * *

Elena conducted herself with formal dignity in the days before she was to depart. Now she would be travelling, not to her mother's home, but to the region of Anatolē adjoining the Black Sea. One day, she would be the Queen and she was determined to show herself to be worthy in every inch of her being.

She would have to face one of the worst humiliations a woman could be asked to undergo. Then she would have to return to the reactions of others. All that was left to her was to act in dignity.

Soon after she re-emerged, from her room that day, she was ambushed by Nikan. In front of an audience, he asked her what she intended to do. She looked at him coldly and spoke loudly and firmly. "Are you simple? I will do whatever is required of me for the good of my people."

Before she left, she had to attend an official dinner, held in honour of the event, where the High Astrologer would announce his findings. When she came in and tried to sit at one of the lesser tables, her father himself came down to shepherd her to a seat at his right hand.

When she hesitated, he asked, "Do I have to beg?" He even got a small smile. "No, my Lord, at least not in front of all these people." She paused. "You meant what you said?" The king nodded. She felt a little better.

Unfortunately, she had also meant what she had said to him.

Cyron gave a speech, publicly admitting she was blameless, and saying she must always be treated as his heir and his daughter, no matter what she said. He couldn't prevent eventual self-imposed exile, but she had agreed to return whenever the kingdom needed her.

Public sympathy for the princess was intense. Elena was surprised at the number who gathered to offer support. Some she didn't know, but for most of them it seemed heartfelt.

She was grateful, but a bit shy and surprised, that so many thought well of her. Some she was more cautious of, such as past members of her stepmother's court, who were rapidly distancing themselves from Xanthe. But to all, she was perfectly gracious and polite.

 

 

 

Chapter 8: A Man of Integrity, Girl Talk, and a Loving Family

Elena decided to depart almost immediately.

It was too early for a pleasant journey, but she couldn't face putting it off.

Also, to fulfil the timing of the Prophecy, she needed to have her daughter in her arms and present at the palace by a certain date. It didn't give her a lot of time and she didn't want to take any chances.

They had already crossed the snow-clogged mountains, enduring fierce snow storms and now they were making their way west, deeper into the north eastern corner of Anatolē, just south of the sea coast.

The Black Sea region of Anatolē is known for its stunning beauty, a region of charming mountain scenery, lush green forests, bays and rivers and waterfalls … except in winter.

The rain kept up day after day. Nothing would dry. It trickled down the neck of her coat. Even the elves had trouble lighting a fire. Many times, the travellers had to climb off to lead the horses, struggling through the mud and slush.

Even going to relieve herself would leave her feeling like a cold, bedraggled rat. Elena was sick of it all, sick of the smell of wet horses, sick of the rain, sick of her companions and especially sick of her empty-headed maid.

As the journey progressed, she fell deeper and deeper into bitter brooding.

She was the heir to the kingdom of the Eastern Elves. She was fated to be the great Queen whose coming was foretold in ancient Prophecy. She was to give birth to a daughter intimately tied to a resurgence of elvish prosperity and power. She was born into power and privilege, and yet her life was bitterly unhappy.

And now she was being forced into prostitution of her body.

She was sent to become pregnant to a minor chieftain somewhere deep in this god-forsaken forest. She was a virgin and her first man would be almost three times her age, already married and she had never even met him.

Her shame would be a public matter. It would spoil forever any chance of a favourable marriage and be an eternal stain on her rule. Still, Elena was an elf princess and whatever fate decreed, she would do her duty.

She had felt a brief sense of release, with her coming of age but just as she hoped to escape the palace, the trap had snapped shut again, firmly and horribly.

The deeply unhappy life that seemed to be the fate of Princess Elena simply wouldn't let her go.

There was a lot of sympathy for the princess amongst her battle-hardened soldiers and small retinue. Noble families act as if their servants are deaf and stupid, but there is many a sharp mind and a long memory behind an impassive expression.

Elena was reserved, but always fair and considerate in her treatment of servants. She certainly had a temper and a sharp tongue, but mostly saved it for her enemies. It was widely known how she had been treated over time.

Since the crisis of her coming-of-age party, she was increasingly seen by the palace staff as 'our princess'. To know what Elena had faced, and to see how bravely she went to her disgrace, broke their hearts.

They rode as if to a funeral.

Black Sea, black mood. Elena was not in a mood to be tolerant and each and every one of her companions heard her bitter complaints, and felt the lash of her tongue over the slightest problem, as if they were personally to blame.

They sympathised, even felt some guilt, but there was little they could do. Elena just wanted this sorry period of her life over. They, for their part, longed to leave their charge in the care of the Western Elves and get as far away as they could.

It was a gloomy trip.

* * *

Elena felt better after a warm bath, dry clothes and some stew, but she found no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't be gracious to these people.

She had only just arrived and already she could hear herself offending Djorn's family. They were her hosts and they seemed lovely people. At any other time, she might be delighted to have them as friends. It wasn't their doing, she desperately told herself. She had dreaded this moment and now her heart was hammering, her breathing was rapid and her mouth dry. She felt like disappearing into the ground, but being a princess, she showed no outward sign of her agitation.

"I didn't want an official welcome but it seems you give me no choice," she said, addressing Djorn.

What she really wanted to do was to run and hide, far away from anyone; far away from her sad awful life; far away from her shame. She felt desperate, frantic, but no matter how fast her mind raced, there was no way out.

Djorn was by no means an unattractive man. He still moved like a warrior and had maintained his fitness. In his youth, he had cleansed the surrounding hill country of bandits and thieves. He had attractive silky hair, dark as was not unknown in the Western Elves, though it was peppered with grey. For elves in rustic surrounds, he and his family were well-spoken and carried themselves well, and they seemed to be knowledgeable about events in Elgard.

"I don't need to spend time getting to know you. I am here to be serviced. You have agreed. I don't wish to pretend; for me this is not about love or pleasure." Her courage was almost giving out, even to herself she sounded cold.

Djorn coloured, but he maintained politeness. "My Lady, you are tired. You have had a long and difficult journey. I suggest we talk on this later."

"Very well," Elena stood up, businesslike. "If you just show me to your bed, so we can get this over and done with. The delay for me will only make things worse."

Djorn drew himself up and looked at her coldly. "Such an offer! Well, I must decline. As I said, we will talk on this later."

Elena went pale, and tears started in her eyes. She had gone too far!

What was she to do? She hesitated, head bowed, uncertain what to do, and then her courage broke and she fled to her room.

It was only moments later that Elena was sitting on the bed head bowed, feeling completely wretched. And she was receiving a rare scolding from her maid.

"What do you expect?" Iona demanded. "You were so cold and rude. I'm certain you caused his manhood to shrivel. Keep that up and you get no performance out of him."

Elena burned with shame, but she was also amazed. She had no experience of men, and no mother to guide her. All she had heard told her men were always ready to have sex with almost anything, any time and under any circumstances.

She didn't know such a thing was possible. Now she sat humbly, while Iona tried to tell her about male egos and how scorn from a woman could cause men, especially older men, to lose potency.

If he finds me so repulsive, what then? She felt a sense of rising panic. She would fail!

Her mission would fail! It was unthinkable.

Yet in a very small corner of her mind, it was almost funny. After all her despair and trepidation, Djorn was too bashful to start.

* * *

The next morning Djorn's wife, Eugenia was supervising the preparation of breakfast, with her maids. Elena walked into the kitchen to talk to her, moving reluctantly, as if to her own hanging.

She felt terrified of the older woman.

Eugenia glared at Elena, but her cold anger turned to confusion as she took in Elena's appearance. She expected to see a haughty, proud princess. Elena looked dreadful. It was obvious she had been crying and hadn't slept. Her head was bowed and she spoke in a small, desperate voice.

"Lady, I'm sorry; please forgive me." Elena tried to keep her voice steady and failed, bursting into tears instead. "What must I do?" she finished, sounding small and lost.

Eugenia's heart melted. It was hard for all of them.

It was hard for Djorn. It was hard for Eugenia, having her husband sleep with another, younger woman. It was hard for their children, some of whom were older than Elena. It was hard to welcome this young lady into her house, and not see her as an enemy, rather than this brave young woman.

But what was it like for this young girl, a princess, barely old enough to be a woman? She had saved herself for marriage or love, and now must lose her purity, under circumstances that would forever leave her shamed. Who were they to judge her for a little burst of anger?

She took Elena in her arms and comforted the young girl. Elena clung to the older woman, and sobbed and sobbed.

From that moment, they saw another Elena. Not the arrogant princess, but a shy young girl that hid beneath a mask: uncertain, polite and grateful for the smallest of kindnesses. They felt guilty for contributing to her shaming, but there was no choice.

A shameful incapacity arose for Djorn, which he had never had with his wife. He didn't want to talk about it and he became sullen and angry.

It was the final irony.

Elena had been determined to be the cold haughty princess to protect her pride. She planned to be completely passive, but this would do her no good.

Somehow, very strangely, it made her feel better about the whole thing. She realised it was also difficult for Djorn and his family. She felt less ill-used. She expected Djorn would enjoy her humiliation, and gain extra pleasure from it. That would be truly horrible.

Her respect for Djorn increased, though this didn't solve the problem.

Eugenia couldn't believe Elena took it all so lightly.

"It's because I'm so ugly. Perhaps we can use my face to scare the crows, or curdle the milk," Elena suggested.

Once, Elena caught Eugenia in the kitchen explaining to the other women how Djorn was finding it hard. "But it's not hard at all, and that's the problem!" Elena insisted with a mischievous smile.

The ladies broke into giggles that kept surfacing for the rest of the day, whenever they looked at each other. It was the sort of frank girl-talk that most men never guess happens.

Nothing could have been stranger than Eugenia teaching the younger woman how to appeal to her husband. Or Elena determined not to develop any affection for Djorn, yet at the same time almost having to seduce him.

She found it was simply impossible not to feel increasing affection for Djorn, he being the man he was.

To elves, the union of a man and a woman is a deeply spiritual thing capable of creating new life. As a result the time of losing her virginity is a special time in a woman's relationship with the Great Earth Goddess. Not that an elf-woman always lays with whom they would choose. Especially not if they are noble-born or wealthy.

Djorn was a man of the deepest integrity. Many would not have thought this way, but to him, to do this to Elena was abhorrent, despite the importance of a prophecy two thousand years old.

He became in the end fond of this lovely shy young woman, but still did not to want to sleep with her. It had to be right for her, for him and for his family.

Elena, who had no mother of her own, could not complain about the education she was gaining in the ways of men and women. In the end she loved her time with Djorn's family. She loved them all: Eugenia, all their family and even their servants. And she was falling in love with Djorn. Not as much as she would have hoped, but it was enough for her.

In the end she just wished that she could stay there. She would have been content to be a much-loved junior wife to a minor noble in the forests of the Western Elves. She hated the thought of returning home to be the despised Princess of the mighty kingdom of the Eastern Elves.

But it could never be, because one day she would be the Queen.

 

 

Chapter 9: A New Horse, a Widow, and a Poisonous Drink

It wasn't till summer that Hakeem was able to finally set out from Kyme, the royal city of Aiolía.

To avoid seeing the devastation caused by the recent war, he decided he would go east of Aiolía, past the Lydian city of Sardis, and then on to a small enclave of Aioli before joining the main trade route which climbed the coastal mountains before heading across the central Anatolian plateau.

From there, he would follow the main trade route to Ikónion and the easternmost chapterhouse of his order, where he would meet with Father Omar.

After that, he swing north and east to Mazaka, in Kappadokia and then on to the Black Sea region where the widow of his blood brother lived. After visiting her, he would head south across the breadth of Anatolē to the Kilisian pass that led through the Taurus Mountains to Tarsos, the last outpost of Anatolē on the Kilisian coastal plain. Tarsos was the entrance to the fertile west coast of the Mediterranean which was currently held by the Persians.

He would travel parallel to the Mediterranean Coast for a relatively short while before heading west into the desert and the place of his birth.

Hakeem planned 30 miles per day or more of leisurely riding. With several long stops he would take a large part of the year allowed, just to reach his desert city home. For his return journey, he would board a ship from the Mediterranean coast.

He looked forward to the journey and the long periods of solitude, after his experiences in the war and its aftermath and he declined an escort. He was travelling in summer, and avoiding the really dangerous sections caused by the recent war.

In the few remaining dangerous stretches, he would stick to well-travelled paths and travel with caravans, which were always glad of an extra swordsman.

He should easily avoid any serious trouble, or so he thought. For a Shantawi tribesman, it was a great irony that the first problem Hakeem faced concerned his horse.

To the Shantawi tribesmen, horses are travelling companions, each with their own personality. Nadeer was one of a number of overly-generous last minute surprises Helios had for him. Hakeem's protests were ignored. Nadeer was big, strong and confident. He was trained as a war horse in the Keltoi region of southern Ibēría.

Perhaps Hakeem should have delayed his start, and given them both a chance to get familiar with each other but a Shantawi would never expect to have a problem with a horse!

Hakeem had two horses. His pack horse, Farah, was one of the smaller desert-bred horses known for speed and endurance. He spoiled himself by getting a good one, and Farah was a warhorse in her own right.

Part of the problem with his Iberian horse was that it expected Hakeem to give commands in some unknown Keltic dialect, and use body signals completely unknown to the tribesman. Nadeer was also used to a rider who held the reins in two hands. All this together convinced Nadeer that his new owner was a novice.

Then there was the question of dominance. With trained horses, the leader is supposed to be the rider. In the wild, it was usually am older mare.

For some reason Nadeer decided it should be him.

To make trouble more certain, Nadeer was ungelded, a stallion, bred for strength and spirit and he was travelling in close proximity to a mare. He just had to dominate and impress!

They were not long into the journey when the big horse at the worst possible time, set out to show Hakeem that it was Nadeer that was really in charge, whatever Hakeem may have thought about it.

He went out of his way to misunderstand, even commands given with two hands on the reins. 'Go forward' meant prance sideways, 'turn left' meant take your rider and his pack horse to the right through those prickly shrubs or the weeds that clung to your clothes, or try to wipe him from the saddle using that low hanging branch!

'Be careful' down this slope was a chance to show off. You don't really want me to slow down now do you? I've only just got a chance to gallop!

It got worse as Farah became increasingly unsettled by the big horse's antics.

Despite Hakeem being an excellent horseman, Nadeer was easily strong enough to throw or seriously injure him if he chose to. He was a big, strong heavy warhorse of 700 kg or more, over three quarters of a ton.

Nadeer's excursions through various shrubs and foliage were more playful, not the vindictive actions of an unbroken horse that truly hated being ridden.

Hakeem found the behaviour of his young horse amusing. He was dealing with a spirited horse, one that possessed a sense of humour. As Nadeer tried to wipe him off against a tree trunk for the third time in a row, he leant forward and stroked Nadeer's neck for a while, as if contemplating.

"Nadeer, is all this young horseplay really necessary?" he asked quietly. "Haven't you grown out of this sort of thing?

"It's going to be a very long trip if you keep this up, don't you think? I know you're not nearly as bad as you would like me to believe."

Nadeer looked back at him and snorted in disgust. His attempts to scare or annoy his rider weren't working.

Finally, Farah the old experienced mare showed she would only put up with so much from the youngster. She gave Nadeer a very firm and very painful nip on his rump. Nadeer looked shocked, and bowed his head and flattened his ears in submission. After this he toned down the worst of his excesses. He was also starting to realise that Hakeem was an excellent rider.

He still continued some of his bad behaviour on the next day. This was partly to show he didn't give in too easily and partly for fun. He played up a few times on the second and third day, just to show that all was not forgotten.

For strength and courage, a stallion (ungelded) is the best, but the gain is only slight and they are certainly a great deal more trouble. Most riders would chose a mare or geld their stallion (at two years old). The last thing a warrior needs is for a horse to play up at the wrong time, or want to 'announce' his presence to the enemy's mares when stealth is required. Yet some Iberian horse master recognised something extra special in Nadeer and decided not to geld him.

To train a war horse, the rider and his horse need to form an especially close bond. Horses are prey, not predators. They are superbly designed to run away from danger, and as swiftly as possible.

To get them to charge into battle needs superb training, and they need to have absolute trust in their rider. Hakeem patiently showed Nadeer his use of the reins two handed and then one handed. Then he started to teach him his own version of hands-free riding, guiding him with his knees.

He took many breaks and spoiled his horses with apples, grain, and regular brushing. Horses, like most animals, love to be brushed, and will sometimes gently nibble each other affectionately in the paddock.

Nadeer pretended disdain at each turn.

It was an act. In truth he was loyal and affectionate. As Hakeem was brushing him, he seemed to say, "Alright, if you really want to brush me, that's nice ... a bit more towards the back, ah … that's better."

Hakeem was nonetheless surprised and touched on the fourth day to wake to a fine morning drizzle with Nadeer standing over him in the light rain. He got up and gave the horse a huge hug.

Nadeer looked at him as if to say, "You don't think I was standing there to shelter you do you? Of course, I wasn't! No, no need to hug me, no need at all."

For a rider, to journey a long way with horses binds you to them with a special bond: they are your closest and sometimes your only companions. Most Shantawi tribesmen grow up in a saddle. They spend more time with their horses than with their family. The reverence with which they treat horses has been the substance of many famous jokes.

* * *

The central part of Anatolē is an uneven plateau surrounded by coastal mountains. As the road crested a coastal mountain path and began descending, Hakeem left the cooler mountain air.

The stately teak gradually gave way to scrubby pine and then orchards of olives and many other fruits. The rocky crags gave way to grey dusty volcanic soil, long cleared. This land had the typical Mediterranean climate with hot dry summers.

Hakeem didn't mind the sun but it was really hot in mid-day, so he changed out of his Greek uniform to don the robes of the Badawiyyūn (Bedouin) with his keffiyeh (head scarf).

On the seventh day, he had been up early, it was especially hot, and they had been climbing so he stopped at one of the small way-houses in a village at the base of a hill, to get some tea and give his horses a rest.

A smiling old grandma and her daughter, Sara, served him the strong black local tea under a large hemp-cloth awning. Several tables and chairs were set up, but Hakeem and a wizened old toothless man were the only customers.

For a couple of coppers, Sara's son, Petros, watered and fed his two horses while he rested.

It was like most of the villages in this rich land: wealthy and well kept. The main street was cobbled and banked very steeply up the hill, then branched. He could see almost a dozen of the pleasant houses made of sun-dried mudbrick. Their shaded small compounds were enclosed by mud, stone or brush fences, beyond which he could see plum and orange trees. A nearby, single story house had hay drying on its flat roof.

Most of the adults were away working in the fields or up ladders dealing with the plum harvest, but there was a continual din of chickens, children, dogs, lambs and goats. Along the main road was a steady trickle of pedestrians and hand drawn carts but also donkeys, donkey carts, and the occasional horseman.

It seemed a long time since he could rest like this, and he felt no hurry to move on. It was too soon to stop for his evening meal so he drowsed in the sun, sipping more tea, his mind wandering.

He felt better than he had for some time.

The voice of the boy, Petros, startled him. "That's a nice horse sir!"

He smiled "His name is Nadeer, the 'rare one'. He is a gift from a wealthy friend."

"Nadeer indeed, I've never seen his like. A gift fit for a king!"

"I wouldn't say as much. He looks far better than he is," Hakeem lied. "His size means he can't gallop very far. One of his legs is a little weak." Nadeer snorted and looked at him reproachfully. If any horse was smart enough to learn speech, this would be the one.

The boy smiled. A single traveller would do well not to appear too rich, though the land around the village was now peaceful thanks to the King. "Well, you could have fooled me, Lord. I would have thought he was a fine war horse." Hakeem merely nodded, absently.