Chapter Text
“ἀξύστατον ἄλγος ἔπραξεν.”
“[As if] she alone made a wound that shall not close.”
-Clytemnestra, Aeschylus’ Agamemnon, 1467
Kassandra was tearing into a loaf of bread, when the bandits burst through the door. Their talk halted, and the group froze just inside the warehouse that acted as their base of operations. The bodies of their comrades littered the ground, spread-eagled in pools of clotting blood. One dripped from the second level, as if perched there by a shrike.
“Who the fuck are you?” the bandit leader barked. His hand gripped the hilt of his battered weapon, and all six of his men drew their assortment of daggers, spears, half-rusted axes, and creaking bows.
Kassandra did not look up from where she sat at the table in the centre of the warehouse. She dipped a piece of bread into a platter of oil, and ate it. “The locals put out a call on the message boards for the services of the Eagle-Bearer. And so,” she gestured with the remainder of the loaf at herself, “here I am.”
“The Eagle-Bearer,” one of the bandits whispered in hushed awe.
“Bullshit,” the leader sneered. “My father watched the Eagle-Bearer compete in the Olympics over a decade ago.”
Kassandra shrugged and took another bite. “Appearances can be deceiving. Your friends didn’t believe me either.”
One of the bandits fired an arrow, but his hands shook so badly it went skittering well over Kassandra’s head, and lodged itself in a sack of grain. Kassandra paused to glance over her shoulder at it. Olive oil dripped down her fingers. She licked them clean. “I see your aim is as poor as your wares. Though, I suppose one of those things isn’t entirely your fault. You did steal the grain, after all.”
Drawing his sword, the leader growled to his men, “Kill her!”
Four of the six rushed forward, the other two nocking their bows. Kassandra picked up the plate of oil and threw it at one bandit, where it shattered on his head, enough to make him pause and grip his face in startled pain. An arrow careened through the air towards Kassandra, and she jerked out of its path, simultaneously drawing her gilded sword from where it hung at her hip.
The first two bandits died before they could even take a swing, falling to the ground in broad sprays of blood. The third thrust his spear, only to meet air as Kassandra stepped around his attack. He shrieked as she chopped off one of his hands, dropping the spear to clutch at the bloodied stump of his wrist. The fourth was only just straightening from when she had thrown the plate at him. Her sword burst through his chest, sliding through his leather armour as if it were no more than a roll of parchment.
Kassandra planted her foot on the back of his knee, and kicked her sword free, pulling it slowly from his body. Her breathing had barely increased.
“Now,” she turned towards the leader, “About this grain shipment -”
One of the remaining archers fired. She ducked, saying, “Hold on a moment! I want to talk -!”
The other fired as well, and this time his shot flew true. She moved, but the arrow pierced her thigh through a gap in her pteryges , sticking into flesh and remaining lodged there.
With grit teeth, Kassandra bit back a snarl of agony. Glaring balefully at the archer in question, she snapped the shaft in two and pushed the arrowhead free. “Alright. For that?” she flung the broken arrow aside and began to advance. “You die first.”
All three of the remaining bandits were backing away. Their eyes grew wide. The leader pointing a trembling finger at Kassandra’s thigh, where already the wound was beginning to knit itself whole as if it had never been. “What the fuck -?”
Kassandra stabbed the archer through the throat, grabbing his shoulder and swinging his torso around to use as a shield against the final bowman. She shoved the body forward, freeing her sword, and knocking the archer down. A horizontal slash, and the leader’s neck opened to her blade. The last archer was still struggling beneath the deadweight of his comrade, when Kassandra planted her sword through his heart.
Silence, but for the distant waves of the ocean outside and the whimpers of the spearman bleeding out behind her. She staggered upright.
“Malákes,” Kassandra groaned. She hissed, feeling the wound in her thigh finish sealing itself shut without the faintest trace of a scar. Cleaning her sword of gore, a fine gold-link chain dangled around her wrist. She glared at it, and it gleamed bright despite the shadows of the warehouse. Upon a narrow plate between the links was embossed the image of a staff entwined with twin snakes.
“Couldn’t you make those less painful?” she grumbled at the chain.
It glowed softly in reply.
Sighing, Kassandra tucked the chain back beneath her bracer so that it was once again hidden from view. She knelt down and pawed through the leader’s armour until she found what she was looking for: a ship’s manifesto inscribed upon a wax-faced tablet. She stood, cocking her head as she read the tablet. “Looks like the shipment is all accounted for. Most of it, at least. Time to collect, and then -- home.”
She strode from the warehouse and onto the docks, where Ikaros and her crew were waiting upon the Adrestia. She did not look back.
Over ten years, and still the war raged on. Athens and Sparta like two giants locked in a seemingly endless conflict, trampling the lives of lesser polities in their path. Bad for the world. Good for business. If you were the land’s most sought-after mercenary, anyway.
Most thought she was a legend. Some that she had died years ago in Naxos. Or in a battle in Boeotia. Or that she sank beneath the waves when engaging a pirate fleet, all of them food for Poseidon’s wrath. Or that she had ascended Mt. Olympos to join the gods on high, admitted to their ranks upon her mortal death like Herakles. And yet, the message boards never failed to invoke her name, like hopeful prayers beseeching aid.
“Why do you even keep doing this?” Stentor asked upon her return to their home in Sparta. “We don’t need the money. I am more than capable of providing for this family.”
Kassandra refused to rise to the bait. She tossed the small bag of drachmae onto the dining table. “I like helping people. Besides, it’s not like I’m good at much else.”
He bared his teeth in a mean smile. “True. I’ve seen what disasters occur when you step within arm’s reach of a loom.”
Her answering glower only seemed to please him, so Kassandra rolled her eyes. “Where’s Myrrine?”
“Where do you think? The garden.” Stentor limped across the room. An old wound earned years ago in battle had earned him an early retirement, much to his dismay.
Kassandra jerked her chin at him. “I can get more oil from the doctor, if you need -?”
“I’m fine,” he snapped. Stopping at the window, he opened one of the shutters, admitting the early afternoon light and the sound of muted birdsong. He leaned his elbows against the lintel with a grunt of pain, masking a wince and the stiffness of his movements. “Fucking Athenians,” he spat through the window. “I should be out there, fighting for Sparta, and what am I instead? A useless bureaucrat.”
“You do valuable work for the polity,” Kassandra said, her voice soft. “More than you realise.”
He snorted. “I’m nearly fifty years old, Kassandra. I don’t need your coddling.”
“That’s not what I -”
“You think I don’t know how I got this position?” he interrupted, casting a resentful glower in her direction. “You think if I hadn’t been brother to the great Eagle-Bearer, the ephors would have let me anywhere near them?”
“And if it had been Nikolaos to get you the post?” she countered.
“Nikolaos is dead.”
“I know that!” Kassandra snapped. Closing her eyes, she breathed deeply, tempering the flare of anger that burned in her lungs. “I know that.”
They had burned his body four years ago. Not long before that, she had done the same for Herodotus. And earlier still for Barnabas. All around her, loved ones dropped like the leaves in autumn, while she remained, caught in a stasis like a fly in golden resin. The chain wrapped heavy around her wrist. Some days, she wondered how she even managed to pick up a sword.
Kassandra cleared her throat. “I’m going to check in on mater.”
Not waiting for his reply, she left out the back door. Clouds partially concealed the sky, dappling the earth in shadows cast like a net. Sunlight slipped through, bold and flossy rays. Among the vegetable garden, Myrrine puttered. She used an old padded leather breastplate to guard her knees from the hard ground. She worked slowly yet methodically. For a moment Kassandra lingered just out of sight, studying the wiry frame of Myrrine’s shoulders, the snowy crest of her bowed head.
“I’m home.”
Myrrine’s silver head jerked. She looked around, squinting in Kassandra’s direction. “Ah! So, you are! I didn’t hear you, lamb. Come,” she waved Kassandra over. “Help me up.”
Kassandra did so. She gripped Myrrine carefully beneath her arms and lifted her up so that she could stand. Myrrine held onto her daughter’s forearm to steady herself as they walked over to the eave-shaded bench against the wall of the house. With creaking joints Myrrine lowered herself onto the bench, and Kassandra sat beside her.
“This bench seems to get lower every time I sit in it,” Myrrine said, rubbing at her knees.
“You shouldn’t work yourself so hard in the garden.”
“Bah!” Myrrine waved Kassandra's concern aside. “You grizzle like an old woman. And I would know!”
“Oh, I don’t know about that. I could have sworn I saw a few young bucks eyeing you up at the training grounds last month.”
Myrrine gave Kassandra’s armoured shoulder a playful swat. “As if my old bones are interested in that nonsense. Now, tell me about your latest adventures.”
With a chuckle, Kassandra leaned against the wall and allowed her legs to splay so that the both of their knees knocked together. Sunlight washed over their ankles. “You’ll never guess.”
“Bandits again?”
“Bandits again,” Kassandra confirmed. “This time, they stole a grain shipment for Korinthia.”
“It seems imagination is as in high demand as food these days,” Myrrine said dryly.
“War makes beggars of us all.”
“I’m assuming you killed these unimaginative bandits?”
“Every last one.”
“No incidents?”
“None,” Kassandra said. Then, she paused. She must have had guilt painted across her fact, for Myrrine narrowed her eyes.
“What happened?”
“Mater -”
“Kassandra,” she said in that warning tone.
Groaning, Kassandra looked up towards the thatched eaves. “One arrow. One. It wasn’t a problem.”
Myrrine waggled an admonishing finger. “That magic staff of your father’s is no excuse for laziness.”
“Laziness! There were seven of them!”
“And you tried to talk them out of it, did you?” Myrrine asked. When Kassandra’s lips pursed, Myrrine shook her head. “I worry for you, lamb.”
“There’s nothing to worry about. The staff -”
“- is beyond our understanding,” Myrrine finished for her. “I’d rather its limits not be tested on my daughter.” She took one of Kassandra’s calloused hands and laced their fingers together. “I envy you your gentle heart. But you must be careful with it. I fear it will be the end of you one day.”
Kassandra squeezed her mother’s hand. “I’m here now. I’m alright.”
“And praise the gods for that.”
Together they sat for a still moment. Kassandra could hear Stentor rummaging around in the house behind them.
“I almost forgot,” Myrrine began, breaking the silence. She let go of Kassandra’s hand to reach into a fold of her clothes, pulling out a wax-sealed scroll. “A messenger came by yesterday with this for you.”
“Hmm?” Kassandra took it. “Stentor didn’t mention anything.”
“Probably because he’s happy to have you back.”
Kassandra snorted with laughter. “You always did have a good sense of humour.”
Using the blunt nail of her thumb, she broke the seal. When she unravelled the scroll, her nose was hit with a waft of perfume. She didn’t even need to read it to know who had sent it. She wrinkled her nose and held the scroll further from her. “Alcibiades.”
Myrrine’s eyebrows rose. “The Athenian general?”
“He’s an old friend,” Kassandra said. Her brow furrowed as she began to read.
“A powerful friend to have,” Myrrine murmured. “I can tell from your expression it isn’t good news.”
Folding the scroll until it was small enough to be tucked beneath her armour, Kassandra heaved a sigh. “He never could keep himself out of trouble.”
“At least tell me you’ll stay the night?”
Even as Myrrine said it, Kassandra rose to her feet. “I’m sorry.” She leaned down, cupped Myrrine’s face in her hands, and kissed her brow. “I’m sorry,” she repeated more softly this time.
Myrrine grasped Kassandra’s bracers, holding her there for just a moment longer. This close, Kassandra could count every hard-earned line on her mother’s face, could see the paling edges of her hazel eyes.
Myrrine let her go. “Come back to me, lamb.”
Kassandra stepped away. “I promise.”
It took Kassandra four days and three nights on horseback to travel to Elis. High above, Ikaros trailed after her. He had to come down for more frequent rests on her arm these days. The plumage of his face and wingtips were mottled with grey.
“You look as tired as I feel, old friend,” Kassandra said, expertly guiding her horse with her knees further along the dusty road.
Ikaros fixed her with a malevolent yellow glare.
“My apologies,” she amended, her tone full of mock solemnity. “The grey makes you very distinguished.”
Sunlight faded, and shadows lengthened. Kassandra’s horse -- a gelding she had not taken the time to name yet -- plodded along, sturdy and alert. She crested a hill, and pulled back on the reins.
“Woah, there.” The horse stamped a foot, and she patted its neck.
In the valley below sprawled a military camp sporting Athenian colours. Using the flat of her palm to shield her eyes from the setting sun, Kassandra searched for a matching Spartan force, but found none. Odd that Athenians should be allowed to camp here without fear of retaliation.
She turned to Ikaros. “Think you can track down Alcibiades for me?”
Ikaros let out a piercing chirp.
“Well, if you don’t I suppose I could always track him by scent. The man must buy all of the East’s perfume singlehandedly.”
Spreading his wings, Ikaros took flight. It did not take long for his keen eyes to spot the strategos entering the command tent. Kassandra took her horse around the side of the encampment, dismounting and slipping, unseen, through a gap left by a crooked beam in the temporary walls. Swift as a shadow in the rising night, she crept to the command tent and entered, shutting the flaps shut behind her.
Alcibiades’ back was turned to the entrance. He stood over a low-slung table, uncharacteristically clad in heavy armour and a weathered travelling cloak. “How many times do I have to tell you?” he said without turning. “Leave the wine at the door. You’re dismissed.”
Kassandra crossed her arms. “If I’d known there would be wine, I would have gotten here faster.”
At the sound of her voice, Alcibiades whirled around. A broad smile split his face in two. The years had treated him kindly, and he had lost none of his boyish good-looks, diminished but a whit by a clean-cut beard. “Kassandra! Oh, but you are a sight for sore eyes!”
With outstretched arms he crossed the tent to embrace her. She gamely accepted a kiss to either cheek, even going so far as to return one of her own. “You’re looking as hale as ever. And a beard!”
He chuckled as she thumbed the whiskers on his chin. “I thought the position called for a more dignified look. Though, I may soon have to do away with hair altogether. I’m going grey, Kassandra. Grey! The horror!”
“How can you even tell?” she asked. “Your hair has always been so pale and fine.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere, my dear. Come in! Come in! No wine yet, I’m afraid, but the night is young.” He stepped back and motioned for her to join him at the table.
She followed. “What’s this I hear about your execution by trial?”
The table was heaped with documents and a scale weighted with gold talents. Alcibiades rounded it in order to slump into the chair opposite with theatrical aplomb. “It’s only to be expected. You know how Athens is -- crawling with ambitious men.”
“I know. I’m looking at one of them.”
“You always were a big flirt.” He grinned at her. Then, he leaned back and propped his feet atop the table. His heel nudged a bag of gold. “The joyless lot are accusing me of vandalising the sacred hermai.”
Kassandra leaned her hip against the table’s edge and remained standing. “And did you?”
“As entertaining as that would have been, the consequences of such an impious act are far less amusing.” He stroked at his beard in what she realised was a force of habit. “No, this was most surely done to frame me, and remove me from the ongoing Sicilian Expedition.”
“And you want me to find out who did it, so you can clear your name,” she said.
He blinked up at her. “Clear my name? Oh, I’m afraid we’re well beyond that. But I would very much like to exact some good old-fashioned vengeance upon the cur behind it all.”
She huffed with laughter. “Of course, you would.” Straightening, she asked, “Where should I start?”
He held up a finger. “First, you can divest yourself of that armour. Second,” he held up another finger, “You drink wine with me. Third, we -”
“I meant: where do I start with your case,” Kassandra said before he could go any further. “Who are your rivals in Athens? Which ones are the most likely to want you dead?”
He held up his hands and shrugged. “If you’re wanting an exhaustive list, then you’ll definitely be here all night.” He waggled his eyebrows for good measure.
“Just the shortlist will do,” she sighed.
“You really are no fun, you know that?”
“So far, you’re the only one who thinks so.”
Though a quick smile played around his mouth, his eyes were canny and piercing. “All these years, and you haven’t changed a bit.”
Kassandra tried to ward off his scrutiny with a disarming grin of her own, to very little effect. “Work keeps me young at heart.”
“If only we were all so blessed.”
A chill raced down Kassandra’s spine, as if a cold breath had trickled across the back of her neck. Instinctively, her hand flew to the hilt of her sword.
Alcibiades sat up in his seat. “What is it -?”
“Shh!”
Widening her stance, Kassandra bared a few fingers width of her blade. She could sense more than hear the rustle of footsteps, the creak of well-oiled armour, the hiss of a blade parting the cloth of the tent’s back wall, directly behind Alcibiades. Without a word, Kassandra leapt into sudden movement. She sprang over the table, drawing her sword and pushing Alcibiades out of harm’s way. He toppled sideways from his seat with a high-pitched cry that would have been amusing had Kassandra not been staring down an assassin.
The lithe figure had their face obscured by cloth and a hood. Knocking aside Kassandra’s blade, they scrambled into the tent, intent on pursuing Alcibiades, who was crawling away from the ensuing scuffle. Kassandra stabbed downwards, only for the assassin to roll over, her sword hitting the chair and lodging its edge into the rich limewood. When she tried to pull her sword free, the chair clung fast.
“Maláka!” Kassandra swore.
She left the sword in the chair, instead diving forward to grapple with the dagger the assassin wielded. The assassin kicked and squirmed, but Kassandra pinned them to the ground.
“Who sent you?” Kassandra demanded, holding the assassin’s wrist in a vice-like grip. “Stop struggling and start talking! You’ve already lost -!”
In an instant, the assassin’s arm went slack. Startled, Kassandra did not have time to register that the assassin had dropped the dagger from one hand only to snatch it up in another. A slash of bronze followed by blinding pain. The dagger slipped beneath a gap in the neck of Kassandra’s armour. With a roar, Kassandra lashed out, batting the knife aside.
She did not know for how long she rained blows down upon the assassin with her bare fists. She heard something snap, and could feel an ache in her knuckles, masking the sensation of something dripping from her hands. Her chest burned like fire, like the pit of Hephaistos’ foundry.
“Kassandra. Kassandra.”
Slowly the haze lifted, but the pain remained. Panting, Kassandra rocked back on her knees. She was straddling a very dead women, though it was difficult to tell with the current condition of the assassin’s face. Alcibiades watched warily from the side as Kassandra wiped her hands clean on the assassin’s cloak, then began to rummage around for clues.
“Nothing,” Kassandra grunted in disgust. “Though her armour’s marks her as Athenian, which we already knew.”
She winced and clutched at the long horizontal gash beneath one wing of her collarbone. With shaking fingers, Kassandra dipped her hand beneath her armour to feel the wound. When she pulled her hand away, it was painted with red. She could feel the chain around her wrist burning bright and hot, hot enough to make her hiss. And still, the wound remained.
“Are you alright?” Alcibiades asked.
“I’m fine.” Kassandra could hear the harshness in her own voice. With an unsteady inhalation, she rose to her feet, discreetly wiping her hand free of her own blood. She could hardly remember the last time she had bled for this long. The realisation unsettled her more than it should have.
“Sorry,” Kassandra began. “I -”
Alcibiades held up his hands to ward off her apology. “It would be incredibly churlish for me to resent a social faux pas after you thwarted an attempt on my life. Besides,” he gestured to her blood-spattered face, “red is most definitely your colour.”
Swearing under her breath, Kassandra wiped at her face with the half-cloak draped over her armoured shoulders. She leaned down to pick up the assassin's discarded blade. Bronze. Old yet sharp. Nothing at all special, but for a glistening film glazed over the edge. Kassandra gently ran her finger along it, only to snatch her hand away. Her fingertip ached as if pricked by a needle.
As she inspected the blade, Alcibiades crossed to the table. He scraped off a message on a wax tablet and began writing a list of names with a stylus. “This,” he said, “is a short list of people in Athens who might want me dead.”
She was tucking the blade beneath her belt where it looped around her back, when he handed her the tablet. Her eyebrows rose. “This is the short list?”
“In Athens, yes.”
“I’d hate to see the long list.”
The front flaps to the tent opened. Both Alcibiades and Kassandra tensed, turning to see one of Alcibiades’ soldiers walk in bearing an amphora of wine. The soldier froze in his tracks, staring at Alcibiades, the dead assassin, and Kassandra still half-smeared in blood.
Without offering an explanation, Alcibiades cocked his head at Kassandra and said, “Wine?”
By day she healed. By night she bled.
The staff, transformed, seared around her wrist like a constant flame, a link of coals against her. She could feel the slow knit of skin across her chest as she rode across Greece, only for the sun to dim its chariot on the horizon and her wound to reopen itself like a door with broken hinges swung open by a breeze. As if the knife were slicing across her chest, laying bare the wound anew. Trickle of fresh blood and more worrisome fluids. On the fifth night, Kassandra was forced to change the bandages once again. She recoiled and swore at the smell of puss and other secretions.
She could hardly sleep; the pain was too fresh. When she arrived in Attika, she swayed in the saddle. She ignored the strange looks cast in her direction, tugging her horse to a halt in the middle of the main thoroughfare into Athens. A merchant behind her swore loudly, but Kassandra paid no heed to his rude gestures in her direction. Instead, she dug out the list of political enemies Alcibiades had given her. Sighing at the sheer number of names, Kassandra dug her heels into the horse’s flanks and clicked her tongue, “Éla!”
Before Kassandra had even knocked on the first door, she had run out of patience. All of the people on the list had tempers worse than Ares, and the mere mention of Alcibiades’ name was enough to earn her a brawl that spilled out onto the streets. Exhausted, Kassandra moved sluggishly. From each scuffle she emerged more bruised than before. Her eye was swelling up, and a cut across one eyebrow bled down her face. All along, the chain around her wrist burned, struggling to heal her while that one thrice-cursed wound remained.
One by one, Kassandra crossed names off the list, leaving a trail of bodies behind until -- finally -- there were only three names left. Dusky night was sweeping over the city. Kassandra winced and rubbed at her breastplate where beneath the wound had ripped open at the seams. She urged her horse down another street before dismounting. Approaching the entrance to one of the more respectable buildings she had visited that day, Kassandra was barred entry from the premises by a pair of armed guards.
“Androcles is not to be disturbed,” one of the guards said, his voice gruff.”
“So, Androcles does live here. Good. That will make things easier.” Kassandra nodded to the door flanked by a collonade behind them. “I need to speak with him.”
The other guard curled his lip. “Are you simple? He said -!”
The wound was beginning to bleed through its gauze again. The pain lanced through her chest. Kassandra’s eyes darkened. Without a word, she seized the guard by his throat, cutting him off mid-sentence. He choked around her iron-glad grasp, his toes scrambling for purchase as she lifted him from the ground.
“I have had a very shit week,” Kassandra growled. “So, why don’t you do me a favour and get out of my way? Hmm?”
She cast him aside like a child’s doll. His body crashed against a nearby pillar and slid to the ground, unconscious, leaving cracks in the painted plaster and a great dent in the stone beneath. She turned to the remaining guard, who stared at her, pale-faced.
“Up-Upstairs,” the guard stammered, pointing towards the house.
“Thank you.”
Kassandra strode inside. The house slaves paid her little attention apart from giving her a wide berth as she walked. She took the steps two at a time. Beneath her armour, a trickle of blood ran down her chest between her breasts. Gritting her teeth, Kassandra quickened her step. She opened the only closed door on the second story and entered the private chambers within.
A man looked up from pouring himself a cup of wine at the far side of the room. Barely dark and already his face was bleary with drink. He set down the amphora of wine and took a long drink from the ornately painted kylix. “Do I know you?”
“I should hope not.” Kassandra continued walking forward. “I’m looking for Androcles.”
The nearer she drew, the further away he tried to get, staggering back until he was nearly up against the fresco-scened wall. “I - ah - I am Androcles. Though -”
She drew her sword.
Androcles yelped and dropped his cup, which splattered wine across the ground. “Whatever it is -!” he said, cowering, “I’ll pay you double!”
Kicking aside the cup, Kassandra said, “I don’t want your money. I’m after information.”
“Whatever I can tell you, I will! Of course. Within reason, I mean -!”
She cut off his babbling. “Alcibiades was framed for destroying sacred statues. Know anything about that?”
The moment she said the name, Androcles’ face contorted into a look of hateful disdain, and he spat, “Alcibiades! You really think I’m going to -!”
She tightened her grip on the hilt of her sword.
“Alright!” he yelped, cringing away from the intensity of her gaze. “Alright, yes! It was me! But -!” he held up his hands as if to ward off her fury. “It wasn’t my idea! A messenger from a Spartan camp came to me months ago offering gold to anyone who could strip Alcibiades of his military rank.”
“And you were only too eager for the chance of drachmae and the opportunity to have Alcibiades killed.”
Androcles shrugged and offered a tremulous smile.
“Ugh.” Kassandra sheathed her sword in disgust. “Where exactly can I find this Spartan messenger?”
Breathing a sigh of relief, he stood up straighter. “He came from Gylippus’ camp. Last I heard, they were redeploying from Lakonia.”
“Lakonia?” Kassandra repeated, incredulous. “So, after all this, you’re telling me I have to go all the way back to Sparta?”
“Uhm -?” he trailed off, nervously watching for any sign of sudden movement.
“The gods really do have a shit sense of humour.” Stepping forward, Kassandra grabbed the amphora of wine. “I’m taking this. Oh, and sorry for your pillar.”
He blinked as she turned and walked away. “What pillar? Hey! What pillar?”
Back onto Spartan lands Kassandra rode, and the smell of old blood followed her like a cloud. She had given up on fresh rags for gauze. Age-blackened blood encrusted the cloth wrappings beneath her armour. Smaller scrapes and bruises healed in time, but with every passing day the wound on her chest seemed to lengthen and deepen. It arced towards one of her shoulders now, as if eventually it would cleave her clean in two.
Dark circles ringed her eyes. She had managed to sleep a day or so ago, when exhaustion overcame her and she could barely stay atop her horse. She had tethered her horse to an olive tree and slept in the shade of its boughs. Until night fell. Until the wound returned, and with it pain fresh as a blade of grass.
Kassandra tracked Gylippus’ military camp to the port city of Kotronas. The sea bristled with ship masts and glinted with light. In the fading afternoon light, Kassandra guided her mount through the streets of Kotronas in search of a blacksmith.
She found one, and when she approached he lowered his hammer. His brows drew down. “You look like death itself, misthios. Are you sure it’s my services you require and not that of a healer?”
“I’ve already seen a healer,” Kassandra lied.
He gestured towards her with his hammer. “Must not have been a very good healer. Perhaps a priest of Asklepios?”
“Or,” she countered, “you sharpen my sword, take my gold, and stop brooding like a hen?”
With a shrug, he held out his hand for her sword. She passed it over, hilt-first, and he jerked his head towards a pile of scraped leather on the ground. “Sit, before you keel over.”
Nodding gratefully, Kassandra sat down with a groan. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the wall behind her. “I don’t suppose you know anything about the Spartan camp nearby?”
“I supplied some of their equipment not a few days past. They wanted me to join them, but I’ve never been much for sailing. This is a nice sword.” The blacksmith turned the blade over beneath his appraising eye before setting it to the nearby grindstone.
Kassandra frowned but did not open her eyes. “Sailing? To Sicily?”
He grunted in affirmation, but said nothing as he began to pedal the grindstone.
“That makes sense,” she murmured.
The gentle sound of stone scraping over polished iron. The warmth of the afternoon paling along the horizon. Kassandra did not even feel herself slip into sleep until she awoke with a jerk and a gasp.
The blacksmith was beating a spear-ruptured breastplate back into shape. He glanced up at Kassandra as she grasped at her chest with a wince of pain. “I let you sleep. You seemed like you needed it.”
Glaring out at the setting sun, she grumbled, “You should have woken me.”
He shrugged, then nodded towards her sword, which was balanced against a weapon stand. It stood out like a sore thumb among the array of other weapons, gleaming like gold-rich ore veined across rock. “That will be two hundred drachmae .”
Kassandra stood and walked over to pick it up. “That seems light. Did you rob me while I was asleep?”
“I make it a store-wide policy to not steal from sick and injured women.”
She snuck an extra fifty coins into the pouch that she handed over as payment. She left before he could discover the truth and complain about her generosity.
The Spartans made their camp at the docks near the warehouse. Their fires were numerous and lit up the night air with a honey-warm glow. Kassandra stuck to the shadows, and Ikaros soared high overhead. She climbed atop the warehouse and counted soldiers patrolling the perimeter of the docks, engraving their rounds in her mind even as a fresh burn of pain made her grit her teeth.
Find the command tent. Track down who sent the original message. Quick and easy. She had infiltrated camps like this countless times in the past. Granted, most of them did not contain quite so many soldiers.
She waited for a gap before dropping from the warehouse roof to the ground. She checked the sky. Ikaros was barely visible, circling over a tent near the middle of the encampment. Making her way around the fringes of the camp, Kassandra worked her way closer, hiding behind supply crates piled high with goods ready for travel, pausing to let a pair of patrols walk by, lurking in the black shadow of tents and weapon racks as she crept forward.
The tent in question was larger than the others, with two guards stationed at its entrance and braziers flaring bright with coals at each corner. Here the soldiers were most numerous. Hundreds of them asleep in their tents or seated on the ground outside, waiting for the far-flung dawn, for their ships to whisk them off to yet another theatre of this war.
From her hiding place behind a weapon rack, Kassandra craned her neck. She counted men. She sought an opening. A turned head, here. A sleepy mumble, there. Ikaros wheeled overhead, finding nothing.
The wound on her chest blistered. It cut deep and true, and though Kassandra fought back a gasp, she jerked a hand to her chest, knocking the weapon rack to the earth with a great clatter. Swords and spears clanged to the ground, loud as thunder in the quiet night air.
All heads turned in her direction, and she desperately scrambled back into the shadows. Soldiers swarmed like a hive knocked loose by a stone. Shouts and commands, the tramping of feet and the unmistakable rasp of weapons being drawn, of shields being hefted. Kassandra rounded a corner, only to find herself facing over a dozen men, well-trained and armed to the teeth. She drew her sword, but her arm trembled. Fire raced from her shoulder to her fingertips. Every Spartan soldier in the vicinity pointed their spears in her direction, and she crouched, tense and waiting for the attack.
“Stop.”
A voice rang out, commanding yet self-composed and all too familiar. All of the soldiers froze. Their stances relaxed. They lowered their weapons. Puzzled, arm still raised to fend off blows that never came, Kassandra watched from the ground as the soldiers made way for a short, slender figure, parting like the sea before a bladed ship’s prow.
Eyes wide, Kassandra pointed an accusing finger and croaked, “You!”
Unsmiling but self-satisfied, like a sculptor seeing a block of marble finally take shape, Aspasia folded her hands before her and nodded sharply. “Good. You’re finally here, and we have much to discuss.”
Notes:
NOTES:
1) When handing over the staff to Layla, Kassandra seems to reach forward and unhook it from her wrist. That and for ease of use, I’m making the staff able to be transformed into a chain-link bracelet
2) Herodotus died in 425 BC
3) The Sicilian Expedition during the Peloponnesian War lasted from 415-413 BC. I'm taking a few liberties with the gap between the end of the game and the Sicilian Expedition, since the game did not technically end with the Peace of Nicias in 421BC (and since Herodotus was still alive by the end of the game).
4) This story follows the "canon" ending of the books wherein: Kassandra let Nikolaos live, she killed Deimos, she spared Stentor, and she spared Aspasia. The only divergence to this is that Kassandra kissed Aspasia in their last confrontation as well.
5) the complete quote from Aeschylus’ Agamemnon is “μηδ᾽ εἰς Ἑλένην κότον ἐκτρέψῃς, / ὡς ἀνδρολέτειρ᾽, ὡς μία πολλῶν / ἀνδρῶν ψυχὰς Δαναῶν ὀλέσασ᾽ / ἀξύστατον ἄλγος ἔπραξεν” in which Clytemnestra rebukes the Chorus for blaming Helen for the deaths of so many men at Troy.
Chapter Text
“ἀλλ᾽ εἶ᾽ ὁπλίζου, καρδία: τί μέλλομεν
τὰ δεινὰ κἀναγκαῖα μὴ πράσσειν κακά”
“Go on, arm yourself, my heart: why am I poised
but not enacting the awful and necessary evil?”
-Euripides, Medea, 1242-1250
The soldiers let Kassandra keep her weapons, but only because of Aspasia’s orders. When four of the Spartans tried to disarm her, they had immediately backed away when Aspasia waved her hand, curt and imperious in that familiar way of hers. Somehow muted and self-contained all at once. Even so, the soldiers watched Kassandra warily, as though she were a wild animal that had wandered into their orderly camp, set to snap her teeth and snarl at a moment's notice. With reluctance, Kassandra had sheathed her own weapon and followed Aspasia into the tent she had been so intent upon infiltrating not moments earlier.
Once inside, Aspasia dismissed the guards that had attempted to follow, leaving the two of them alone. Kassandra lingered near the entrance, while Aspasia, utterly unconcerned at having a lethal mercenary not two paces away, ushered Kassandra in with an inviting gesture.
“I was beginning to wonder when you would arrive,” she said, “You had me worried.”
“And you have me confused,” Kassandra countered, refusing to budge from her spot.
Aspasia’s mouth quirked in a warm smile. The tent was illuminated with soft lamplight. There were broad streaks of silver in Aspasia’s hair, like wings, like veins struck through black quartz. “I see that after all these years nothing has changed between us. How comforting.”
Kassandra bared her teeth in return. “You’re still the same. A snake in human disguise.”
Aspasia arched an eyebrow rather than rise to the bait. She combed over Kassandra with a gaze dark as sun-glanced obsidian. “No more broken spear?”
“I gave it to Herodotus years ago, long after it lost its power.”
Aspasia hummed a lilting note under her breath. “Then it must be something else,” she said, reaching up to touch Kassandra’s face, “to keep you so well-preserved.”
Kassandra jerked away, but not before the backs of Aspasia’s fingers brushed against her cheek like a brand. “Is that why you want me here? To steal what artifact I might possess? What happened to finding your ideal philosopher-king?”
Aspasia lowered her hand and answered, “The search continues.”
Kassandra snorted. “I told you they’d be in short supply.”
“All in good time.”
Aspasia crossed the tent to sit upon a low-backed chair, one of a matching pair before a table set with food and drink. Another larger table was laden with missives, an inkwell, a simple but well-carved, well-used reed stylus, and a bronze oil-lit lamp. One of the nearby cots -- another of a matching pair -- had its blankets disturbed, and Aspasia was, Kassandra finally noticed, wearing a simple sleeping gown and a pair of silk-embroidered slippers. Her loam-black hair was unbound and curling gently at the glimpse of her collarbone.
“I woke you,” Kassandra said. She did not apologise.
“You did.” Aspasia pointed in the vague direction of the other chair. “I would offer you a seat, but I know you would not take it.”
Just to spite her, Kassandra strode over and dropped herself gracelessly into the empty chair. Aspasia only appeared amused at her belligerence, and Kassandra realised too late that she had done exactly what Aspasia wanted.
The wound seemed to ache with a deeper twinge, and the muscles of Kassandra’s jaw bunched. Stubborn and resolute, she refused to get up again. It would only amuse Aspasia more. Instead, she spread her feet and leaned back in the seat, trying to appear as nonchalant as her hostess.“So, here you are. Playing the role of puppeteer once again. Do you ever grow tired of being so predictable?
Aspasia smiled softly. “Do you?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Well, you’re here, aren’t you?” Aspasia gestured with one hand to the tent. “Yet again doing someone else’s dirty work. Tell me, Kassandra,” she leaned forward in her seat to rest her forearms against her knees, and her eyes gleamed dark and warm as smoke-infused glass, “Haven’t you ever dreamed of being more than a lackey?”
Kassandra scowled. “I’m no one’s lackey.”
“Oh? Let me guess: Alcibiades gave you a list of his political enemies, and conveniently put Androcles’ name at the bottom?”
“He -” Kassandra floundered, “-may have done that, yes. But he is a friend, and I help my friends!” she insisted. “I used to think he was one of your friends, too, before I realised you were incapable of such things.”
“Am I not your friend?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Why? You let me live.”
“I should kill you now,” Kassandra said darkly.
“But you won’t.” Aspasia sat back in her seat, fingers laced. “Indeed, when last we met, you kissed me.”
“I am not in the habit of kissing my friends.”
With a voice repressing laughter, Aspasia said, “Alcibiades would beg to differ.”
“You’re -” Kassandra bit back whatever thought was intent on escaping her mouth. “I don’t know what you are. Apart from a pain in my --! Wait -” Kassandra pointed an accusing finger at Aspasia. “Did you organise those bandits to steal the grain shipment from Korinthia, too?”
Aspasia’s face screwed up in confusion. “Did I -? What?”
“Nothing. Nevermind.”
“Contrary to what you may believe,” Aspasia said, “my influence is not and never has been all-encompassing.”
To that, Kassandra did not immediately reply. She watched as Aspasia crossed her legs, the movement fluid beneath a layer of pale linen. “Then you’ll be pleased to know that I killed Alcibiades’ would-be assassin.”
For a fleeting moment, Aspasia faltered. A mere hiccup in her usual poise before she became implacable once more.
Realisation dawned, and Kassandra said, “You didn’t send the assassin.”
Aspasia was studiously not looking at her. “No. I did not.”
“Well, it certainly wasn’t Androcles. The man’s as spineless as a mollusk. All I had to do was wave my sword, and he nearly shit himself.”
Aspasia frowned at a space just over Kassandra’s shoulder as she thought. “In this instance, I am inclined to agree with you. All I did was -” she tilted her head “- encourage Androcles to take action. I never intended for that action to be drastic, so to speak, else I would have picked someone else for the job.”
Drastic. That was one way of putting it.
“How am I supposed to believe that? How am I supposed to believe anything you say?” Kassandra said, her eyes narrowing. “All roads lead back to you. They always do.”
Something very much like indignation flashed across Aspasia’s face, and she sat up straight in her seat, chin lifted and brows lowered. “You think I wanted Alcibiades dead? He is Perikles’ nephew. He lived with us. I practically raised him.”
“I take back what I said earlier about you never changing,” Kassandra drawled. “Motherly sentiment is very new for you.”
At that, Aspasia’s face darkened. Her lips pursed.
Kassandra bared her teeth in grim satisfaction. “Have I struck a nerve?”
“You speak of things about which you know very little,” Aspasia replied coolly, and though her tone was calm and even, her eyes glittered dangerously. It sent a thrill of satisfaction racing down Kassandra’s spine.
“Then, enlighten me.”
For a moment Aspasia remained silent. Her fingers tapped against her knee in a considering manner as she weighed what she would say. “I wanted Alcibiades away from Syracuse for his own safety. I received troubling news from the warfront. A few ships were blown off course from the main body of the Athenian fleet on their way to Sicily. They disappeared into the Strait of Messina and were never seen again.”
Kassandra shrugged. “So, what? Lots of ships meet their doom at the hand of the currents there.”
“Yes,” Aspasia murmured, lowering her voice and glancing at the tent entrance as if afraid of being overheard. “But not all ships awaken a long-slumbering creature from the deep.”
With a snort, Kassandra shook her head. “And I’m to believe that they were swallowed by Skylla and Charybdis?”
Aspasia tilted her head to one side. “Would that be so strange? After what you’ve seen? What you’ve done? I cannot risk this creature raging across both land and sea. And there's only one person I know capable of stopping it.”
Kassandra paused. Absentmindedly, she traced the edge of her armour at her neck. Beneath, the wound pulsed in time with her heart, a steady bruit of pain. She knew more than her fair share of monsters and creatures of legend. In her experience, these kinds of jobs never paid enough for the trouble they were worth.
Sighing, Kassandra shook her head. “Gods, I can’t believe I’m saying this.” She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. Her voice was muffled somewhat by her hand. “If I agreed to hunting down this creature, what would you have me do?”
The light of the lamp flickered across Aspasia’s face, golden-hued against the darkness of her skin. She was alight with zeal, with the prospect of having Kassandra caught in her snare once more. “Seeing as I no longer have my former sway within Athenian politics, I cannot be sure if Athens meant to unleash this creature, or if it was happenstance. But I do know this -” she sat forward and drew closer, close enough that Kassandra could see the crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes. The motion made one of the loose sleeves of her robe slip down her right shoulder, revealing skin. “Whatever that creature is, breaking free of its cage has rent a great wound in the flank of the world. We must put a stop to its fury, and heal whatever damage it has done before it poisons the very earth.”
“I don’t like the idea of a creature of myth running free. And I like the idea of any side having such a beast under their control even less,” Kassandra mumbled. Her eyes were drawn to Aspasia’s bare shoulder. When she realised she was staring, fixed, she grit her teeth and glowered. Her voice grew hard. “Why are you really here? What do you have over this Spartan General? There must be something.”
“Would you believe me if I said I was a trusted advisor?”
“No.”
Aspasia shrugged, leaning back in her seat once more and plucking the robe back into place. “Fair enough. My advice has proven useful, though that is not the only reason. Like his father before him, Gylippus is prone to greed, and I am not a woman without means.”
“Why?” Kassandra asked.
Aspasia blinked at her. “Why does greed exist? Or why am I woman of means?”
“No. Why are you buying the ear of a Spartan General?”
“What if I told you it was Alcibiades who suggested to Sparta that Gylippus be put in charge of the army?”
“I -” Kassandra’s brow furrowed. She shook her head. “That makes no sense. Alcibiades sides with Athens.”
“Alcibiades sides with Alcibiades. He's an opportunist,” Aspasia said. “He sees the writing on the wall. He’s already as good as defected.”
“Because of your meddling!” Kassandra snapped. “And stop avoiding my question! Why are you here, Aspasia?”
Rising to her feet, Aspasia crossed the tent to the table and began to sift through the sheets of parchment, all without looking at her. “I’m to accompany the Spartan forces to Syracuse.”
Legs spread in her seat, Kassandra crossed her arms, cocking her head back with an amused expression to study Aspasia’s back -- the elegant line of her neck revealed between black locks. “You never struck me as the fighting type, yet now you want to sail right into the fray.”
“Oh, I’m not the fighting type. That’s why I have you.” Aspasia picked up a stylus and held it out to Kassandra. “You should write a letter to Alcibiades.”
The amusement drained from Kassandra’s face. “Wait - what? What letter? And what do you mean ‘you have me’?”
Asapsia waggled the stylus back and forth like one might wave a cut of raw meat before a lion. “You ought to tell him you found out that Androcles was the culprit all along, and that you took care of all the others like a good girl. And that you’ll be accompanying me to Syracuse, of course. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to know the invasion will be in good hands with you there.”
With a wordless growl, Kassandra narrowed her eyes. She did not immediately move from her seat to take the stylus. Meanwhile, Aspasia waited patiently, hand outstretched, dangling the writing implement. A bead of black ink gathered at the nib. Finally, Kassandra shoved herself to her feet and stalked across the tent.
“If I find out that this is all some elaborate scheme cooked up between you and Alcibiades, I swear by all the Fates: I will -”
“-Have very strong words with the both of us?” Aspasia finished for her.
Glowering, Kassandra snatched up the stylus. “Yes. And my blade will do the talking.”
“I consider myself warned. You can rest easy. There will be no threats from me, Kassandra.” Aspasia stepped aside so that Kassandra could reach the table.
She had placed an actual sheet of fresh parchment on the table for Kassandra to use. Kassandra couldn’t recall the last time she had written on such high-quality parchment. For a moment she hesitated. The first letter she wrote blotted, and she swore under her breath. She etched each letter with painstaking precision. By the end, her fingers were stained with black blotches, and still the short note was dotted with words scratched-out and re-written and riddled with spelling errors. While Kassandra’s reading abilities were passable, she had never endured more rigorous penmanship lessons than Myrrine forcing her to learn the alphabet upon a worn wax tablet, when seven year old Kassandra would have much rather been taking hunting lessons.
Tossing the stylus onto the table, Kassandra handed the parchment over to Aspasia, who scanned the words with a critical eye.
“Stark. Simple. To the point and somewhat crude. Like a blade.” She reached around Kassandra to dust the written ink with sand, to roll it and stamp it for travel. “Like you.”
Kassandra had to bite back a surge of embarrassment and anger. “First you beg me for my help because I am the only one who can slay a beast of legend, and now you insult me? You always struck me as intelligent, but now I’m not so sure.”
For a moment, Aspasia appeared taken aback at Kassandra's sudden ire. If Kassandra hadn’t known better, she would have thought the emotional display was genuine.
Aspasia’s face gentled and she said softly, “Forgive me. I was only teasing.”
She reached forward and laid her hand over Kassandra’s. This time Kassandra did not flinch away. Aspasia’s touch was warm and unhardened by years of labour, so unlike Kassandra’s own long, rough-calloused fingers.
The contact lingered, crimson as the first slice of dawn, until the wound on Kassandra’s chest flared and she snatched her hand back. She turned away to hide her grimace of pain.
“My apologies,” Aspasia murmured, taking Kassandra’s actions for anger or perhaps revulsion.
Kassandra did not correct her. She could hear Aspasia’s footsteps, her hand sweeping back the tent’s entrance, the low, whisper-warmth of her words as she ordered one of the guards outside to carry the letter. Kassandra clenched her jaw and hissed through her teeth, stifling a louder sound that caught in the back of her throat as she bid the pain subside. The wound oozed and slowly -- slowly -- the pain began to dwindle.
By the time Aspasia had lowered the tent flap, once more enveloping them in their flushed solitude, Kassandra had managed to swallow the pain down and fight back the tremble of her fingers. “I’m surprised the soldiers take orders from you without a fuss, given your history with Sparta.”
Aspasia crossed the tent, but rather than approach Kassandra she sat upon one of the cots. “If you’re implying that they don’t know who I am, they do. Gylippus was very clear my word is second only to his, and his men are very disciplined.”
“Where is this Spartan general, anyway? Isn’t this his tent?”
“No.”
“Then which is?”
Aspasia removed her slippers, and arranged them neatly at the foot of the bed. “Not this one.”
“But -” Kassandra trailed off. She raised her eyebrows at the second, seemingly unused cot not far from its twin.
That amused expression returned, once more filling Aspasia’s face with warm, quiet mirth. She drew her legs up onto the cot and pulled the blanket up to her waist. “That is for you.”
“You can’t be serious.” Kassandra’s tone became flat.
Aspasia shrugged. “Sleep under the stars, if you wish. I cannot force you to do anything. I’ve instructed the men that you’re not to be harmed, so it makes no difference to me.” With a stifled yawn, she lay down, turning her back to Kassandra. “Whatever you choose, be sure to put out the lamp.”
Fuming silently, Kassandra stood in the centre of the tent, alternatively glaring at Aspasia, then at the only exit. Outside she knew there only waited a whole encampment of soldiers, who would gladly stab her through the stomach if not for the word of one woman, a woman as two-faced and trustworthy as a sphinx and just as deadly. Dim light flickered along the edges of the free cot, spread with pillows and sheets. Most nights Kassandra slept on a thin bedroll on the hard earth. A bed like this was a luxury she could afford, but which she rarely allowed herself. Too much travel. Ceaselessly roaming the land until her horse stumbled, until her own feet ached. One town after another, and always people in need.
The pain resurfaced at her chest, like someone running a fingernail beneath the wound and paring it back. Her hands squeezed into fists. Crossing the tent, Kassandra reached out to pick up the lamp, but paused. From the side, the lamp looked like any other, but from the top it was molded to resemble a pale, red-painted mask. Its eyes were tipped in flame.
Bending down, Kassandra cupped her hand around each individual flame, and one by one blew them out.
Water dripped onto Kassandra’s face. She awoke with a start to find rain hammering down on the roof of the tent. The tent was already largely packed. The chairs and tables and documents were gone. So, too, was Aspasia’s cot, until all that remained were the expensive rugs on the ground, and the cot in which Kassandra herself slept. Her weapons were still leaning against the ground.
A fitful night’s sleep had left her feeling groggy, yet better rested than she had been all week previous. With a creak of armour, she sat upright. She winced, shrugged against the pain in her chest, the wound sticking to its bindings. Wiping at her face, she grabbed up her weapons, stood, and strapped them back into place. As she did so, the fine-linked chain slipped free, glowing a soft gold against the skin of her wrist. She tucked it back beneath her bracer just as a helot entered the tent.
He paused upon seeing Kassandra awake, then pointed to the cot, “Are you finished?”
“What?” Kassandra blinked at the helot and then at the cot. “Oh. Yes.”
Without another word, he gestured to someone outside, and another helot entered. Kassandra stood aside as the both of them brushed by her and began to disassemble the cot, rolling up the blankets and the rugs.
She started to leave them to it, but paused with her arm holding open the tent flap. “Thank you,” she said. They glanced between themselves as if puzzled by her outward display of gratitude. Shaking her head, Kassandra ducked outside.
Almost immediately the rain plastered her hair to her brow and cheeks. Grimacing, she pulled at a fold of the red half-cloak draped around her armoured shoulders until it formed a cowl over her head. Water dripped from its oiled edges. Through the downpour, Kassandra squinted. Soldiers and helotes milled about, packing away the tents, bundling up bowstrings and spears in oiled hide. And beyond them lay the harbour spreading out to the open sea, red sails against grey skies.
Kassandra trudged in that direction, dodging around bustling helotes and glowering Spartan soldiers, distrustful of a misthios in their midst and not knowing who she truly was. Upon the shadow of a distant mast, Kassandra could see the outline of Ikaros, his watchful presence guiding her towards some unknown destination. She followed, and happened upon a wooden shelter at the docks, beneath which Aspasia sought refuge from the rain.
She was not alone. A man stood with his back to Kassandra, a crimson-crested helm tucked beneath one arm, and his cloak trimmed with a wolf’s pelt with its snarling head still attached. Aspasia caught sight of her as she approached, and beckoned Kassandra forward even as she leaned in to whisper something in the man’s ear. He turned as Kassandra joined them beneath the shelter, and nodded towards her.
“So good you could join us, Kassandra,” Aspasia welcomed her with a warm, gracious smile. Her clothing had not a drop of rain on them. She had no business looking so dry and composed while Kassandra felt like a drowned rat that had washed up on the shore. “Allow me to introduce you to Gylippus, the leader of Sparta’s forces in this endeavor.”
Gylippus looked the way Nikolaos had when he was young. Like a vision that had stepped right from Kassandra’s memories. He stood somewhat shorter, more barrel-chested, but no less straight-backed and proud. His dark eyes were sharp and keen as he noted Kassandra’s weapons. “So, this is your misthios?”
“Yes,” Aspasia said, at the exact time Kassandra growled, “No.”
Gylippus glanced between the two of them in bemusement. “I am no Athenian. You may speak plainly around me. If you are the Eagle-Bearer, then we must set sail at once.”
“And if I am not?” Kassandra asked archly.
His eyes remained hard and determined. “Then we must set sail at once. Every hour we waste is another hour the Athenians have an advantage over Syracuse. I cannot continue to tarry here, while Sicily suffers.”
Kassandra opened her mouth to reply, but before she could do so she heard a familiar flap of wings and small gust of air. Ikaros landed on her shoulder and chirped with a curious cock of his head. Rain dripped from his feathers and onto her bare neck. Sighing, Kassandra said, “Alright. Yes. I am the Eagle-Bearer. But I am not hers.”
She shot Aspasia a venomous glare. If anything, that only seemed to amuse Aspasia all the more.
On the other hand, Gylippus grew more solemn, more discerning, almost wary. “Brasidas spoke very highly of you, when he was alive.”
Ikaros began preening through Kassandra’s wet hair with his beak. Kassandra let him. “I’m surprised Brasidas would have spoken of me. Especially to a child.”
“I am not as young as you might think. At the time of his tales, I would have been nineteen or twenty years old.” He gestured towards Kassandra, her armour, her stature. “Yet you look exactly as he described, and not a day older.”
Clearing her throat, Kassandra jerked her head away from Ikaros’ attentions. “Stop that, you buzzard. If you’re hungry, go catch some fish.”
Ikaros gave a desultory screech before taking off in abrupt flight, scattering droplets in his wake. To Kassandra’s left, Aspasia stepped forward. “As you said, General, we ought to be off immediately. If there’s anything we can do to help -?”
“Unless you count dropping a trail of silver coins onto the ships to hasten the troops. Otherwise, no,” Gylippus answered in a dry tone, “That’s my ship.” He pointed to the flagship with its gilded dark-red sails. “You may board at your convenience, so long as that means ‘soon.’”
Aspasia bowed her head with a small smile. “Of course, General. Kassandra?”
Without looking back, Aspasia headed towards the ship, as if fully expecting Kassandra to trail after her like a loyal hound. The moment she stepped from beneath the safety of the shelter, a helot appeared as if from thin air bearing a parasol, its edges trimmed with golden tassels. He shielded Aspasia from the rain as she walked, trotting dutifully after her in the downpour. Kassandra glared at her retreating back. She had left her own ship two-day’s ride to the north at the port near her home. She had not been expecting to make a journey by sea, especially one of this caliber. Yet another one of Aspasia’s meticulously planned strategies, no doubt.
Gylippus was watching her carefully, gauging her every move. He had his hands clasped behind his back in that officious way so reminiscent of Spartan generals. It reminded Kassandra too much of Nikolaos and Brasidas both, and her chest ached. She could not tell if it was because of the wound, or some deeper stirrings of her heart for friends and family long dead.
Kassandra sighed, “If you have something to say, spit it out.”
Gylippus’ beard twitched in the barest trace of a smile. “Still Spartan after all these years, I see.”
“It’s difficult to wash all the red off,” Kassandra drawled. “And even then, it leaves a stain.”
“Good. I look forward to washing the world red together.”
With a last nod in her direction, curt yet polite, he turned on his heel and strode away, already barking orders at his lieutenants, who snapped to attention and scurried in his wake. For a moment Kassandra watched him go, before shaking her head and starting in the direction of the flagship. Narrow planks of wood bridged between the dock and the upper decks. Light infantry and helotes used them to wheel supplies aboard. Kassandra ignored the planks and instead leapt, light-footed and swift, from dock to ship, swinging her legs over the wooden barriers and landing on the bridge.
Twin-masted and hulking, the ship rocked and pitched beneath Kassandra’s feet. Her stomach lurched. They had not yet hit open water, and already Kassandra felt the blood rush from her face and the bile rise in her throat. She rushed to one of the wooden barriers and emptied her stomach into the ocean. One of the oarsmen belowdeck swore loudly at her.
Aspasia stood not two strides away, shaded from the rain by the ever-present helot . “How on earth have you survived as a ship’s commander all this time?”
Kassandra wiped the back of her mouth and straightened shakily. “It takes me a few days to get my sea legs back.”
Once more the ship rolled. She bit back the urge to vomit again. Aspasia watched her with a sympathetic gaze, though she made no movement to lend a comforting touch as she had last night. The rain-darkened deck was slick beneath her feet, yet she stood with far more confidence upon the ship than Kassandra could ever hope to muster. Surrounded by sheets of rainfall, she seemed shrouded in a pillar of warmth. She was cloaked all in wine-dark hues, as if the seas would not boil at her touch.
“How long to Sicily?” Kassandra asked.
Aspasia turned her head, glimmer of the ocean’s spray in her hair like a net of stars. Along the horizon, a storm darkened the skyline, streaked through with lightning. “Too long for my tastes.”
“Thanks. That’s very helpful.”
It took nearly twelve days to reach Sicily by open sea. And even then, they did not land directly at Syracuse. Instead, Gylippus ordered the ships over the top of Sicily to make their landing Himera to the northwest. Midway through the journey, the sky had cleared of thunder, though the rains continued until Kassandra could have sworn blue and blind she could not remember what being dry ever felt like. Meanwhile, Aspasia stepped off of Gylippus’ flagship looking as unruffled as ever.
Kassandra stumbled onto shore after the soldiers and helotes had already started making camp. She shielded her eyes with the flat of her hand. The sky felt closer to the ground here. Like she could brush aside cloud and sun with the back of her hand. Her head ached from prolonged exposure to the salt-swept seas. The first thing Kassandra sought out was a stream. Trips like that strained fresh water reserves, and from what Kassandra could tell they'd been lucky it had rained so much.
Some of the soldiers in charge of supplies had the same idea. As she approached a large creek not far from where they had disembarked, a number of soldiers were filling drinking skins with water and carting them back for the others. Kassandra crouched further along amidst the reeds and drank directly from the stream with cupped hands.
When the soldiers had left, Kassandra glanced around to check she was alone. She could spy Gylippus and his lieutenants not too far off. Helotes and soldiers alike milled about, but everyone was intent on unloading the ships and pitching tents, and none were paying attention to the lone misthios who had sloped off at the first available opportunity.
She remained crouched, using the river reeds for cover from any prying eyes. Tugging at the straps of her armour, Kassandra loosened it just enough to slip her hand beneath the breastplate and touch her chest. The wound had spread. What had started as a narrow cut perhaps a finger's length above her collarbone had extended to a gash that reached across one shoulder. The pain at night had grown such that she jerked awake the moment the sun fell, and could only catch a few precious hours of sleep once it had risen again. The gauze was tacky against her touch, and her fingers came away sticky with brownish stains.
She would need to change the bandages soon. If not for the blood, then for the smell.
“I imagine you must enjoy the feel of solid earth beneath your feet again.”
At the sound of the voice just behind her, Kassandra whirled around. In a flash of iron, her sword was drawn and set against the intruder’s neck. Her muscles tensed, her gaze hardened, before she realised she was looking into Aspasia’s eyes. Aspasia seemed more wary than surprised, as though she had known all along that this would be the outcome of their encounter here.
Kassandra lowered her blade. “You shouldn’t sneak up on me.”
“I thought you would have heard me,” Aspasia said, and though her voice remained calm, she exhaled a brief breath of relief when cold iron was no longer pressed against her throat.
“You have a surprisingly light step,” Kassandra admitted, sheathing her sword.
“So I’ve been told.”
Kassandra jerked her head towards the camp over Aspasia’s shoulder. “No serf to wait upon you hand and foot today?”
Spreading her hands open, palm up, Aspasia replied, “You’re not the only one who needs a moment of peace.”
“What do you want?” Kassandra countered.
“Do I have to need something to enjoy the pleasure of your company?”
In reply, Kassandra snorted and rolled her eyes. She tugged the straps of her breastplate taut, fitting the armour back into place and using the moment to discreetly wipe her bloodied fingers off on her half-cloak.
Aspasia watched her with eyes dark and unfathomable as the sea they had just crossed. “I understand you haven’t been sleeping well,” she murmured. “The oarsmen tell me you found a corner to curl up in belowdeck, but that you paced the bridge at night rather than rest.”
Crossing her arms, Kassandra refused to confirm what Aspasia already knew to be true. “You never stop spying, do you? Is it just in your nature? Were your parents like this, too?”
The line of Aspasia’s jaw tightened, though she replied as calmly as though Kassandra had asked after the weather. “I’ll have the helotes set up your cot with extra cushions so you can rest as soon as the tent is erected.”
Kassandra waved her away. “Don’t bother. It won’t help me sleep.”
“And what would?’
Rather than answer, Kassandra deflected with sarcasm. “Worried for my health, Aspasia? That doesn’t sound like you.”
“I need you ready for the battles ahead.”
“Of course you do,” Kassandra scoffed. She hooked a thumb beneath her breastplate to scratch at the edge of the wound on her chest that had just managed to heal over that morning. Its festering continued, and still the staff’s power fought to a standstill every day and every night. A losing battle.
Wrinkling her nose, Aspasia added, “And you need to bathe.”
Kassandra only grunted in agreement. “I’d kill a man for a hot bath.”
“I don’t think we need turn to such dramatic measures quite yet,” Aspasia replied dryly. “Let’s try asking our friends first.”
“What friends?”
In answer, Aspasia gestured towards a section further along the shore. There, Gylippus held forth with three lieutenants listening carefully. The horsehair crest of his helm nodded as he spoke. He did not pause even as Aspasia and Kassandra approached. One of the lieutenants appeared out of place. His armour set him apart from the others. As burnished and bright as Gylippus’, but where Gylippus was cloaked in wolf-trimmed red, this man’s shoulders were draped in a muted and muddied green.
“Corinth has sent supplies ahead of you,” the man was telling Gylippus. “Though we need to march south soon, else my army will run out of food long before we can properly engage the Athenians.”
“We’ll share until we can reinstate our supply chain in a few day’s time. I won’t let anyone starve, Hermocrates. Of that, you can rest assured.” Gylippus turned to one of his two lieutenants and said, “See that it’s done.”
“Yes, sir.” The lieutenant saluted and promptly departed.
Hermocrates nodded to Gylippus. “Thank you. Raiding towns for supplies is the last way to win the hearts of Sicily’s people.”
“No, over there. Don’t situate our backs to the hills,” Gylippus continued to deliver orders to one of his nearby lieutenants, pointing towards a ridge in the distance. He diverted his next question to Hermocrates, but did not look at him, instead surveying the insignia emblazoned across the shields and banners of the Sicilian troops. “What of the other city-states? Have you managed to turn them to our cause?”
“They remain skeptical. Show them a victory, and I guarantee they’ll join us.”
At that, Gylippus frowned, his expression fiercened by the severity of his helm. “I thought you would have support rallied for us well in advance of our landing.”
If Hermocrates was intimidated, he did not show it. Instead, he stood tall and replied, “I have arranged for auxiliary reinforcements, but the city-states won’t contribute citizens until they know they can trust you. This would not have been as much of a problem, if you had arrived when you said you would. We were expecting you days ago.”
“The fault is mine,” Aspasia said, graciously laying a hand over her heart. “I called in reinforcements before departing, and we had to wait.”
For a moment he appeared startled at being addressed by Aspasia at all, confusion written across his face. Then, craning his neck, Hermocrates looked out over the sea of Spartan soldiers making camp. “What reinforcements?”
Both Gylippus and Aspasia turned to look at Kassandra.
Hermocrates raised an eyebrow. “Her?”
Hands on her hips, Kassandra was unphased by his scrutiny. “Me.”
“I suppose you command a mercenary regiment?” he asked.
“No. Just me.”
For a split second, he seemed taken aback. Then he laughed, the sound loud and full-bellied. “You Spartans! Always with the humour!”
Kassandra and Aspasia did not reply. Meanwhile, Gylippus shared a brief word with his remaining lieutenant, sending him off with a brusque word before turning back to Hermocrates and asking, “What can we expect in the coming weeks?”
The smile quickly faded from Hermocrates’ face. He made broad gestures with his hands as he spoke, as if drawing the conversation in the air. “The Athenians have been moving aggressively south of Catana to renew their siege of Syracuse. They have built a wall across Epipolae and destroyed our palisade to the west.”
“How could they have moved so quickly?” Gylippus asked, and his voice carried a snap of displeasure. “They don’t have the leadership! Nisias is afraid of his own shadow!”
Hermocrates shook his head. “Not Nisias. He’s still reeling from some ‘bad omen’ where the temple of Athena in Syracuse was looted. But he’s received reinforcements since then. A new strategos arrived from Athens.”
Kassandra frowned and said, “That can’t be right. Alcibiades should be in Lakonia by now. He sides with Sparta.”
“No, not Alcibiades.”
“Then, who?” Gylippus demanded.
Lifting his hands in a shrug, Hermocrates said, “We don’t know. Our spies have been able to find out nothing. This new general fights on the front lines with the ferocity of a lion. Headstrong and bold and young. His troops think he is unkillable. God-touched.”
Kassandra tried catching Aspasia’s eye, but Aspasia was studiously ignoring her in favour of listening to Hermocrates and Gylippus speak. Meanwhile, Gylippus snorted. “Impossible.”
Hermocrates lowered his voice, and he peered over his shoulder before speaking. “I would not be so quick to discount it. I have seen strange things on the battlefield, myself. A sky darkened with arrows, streaking towards him, swept aside as if a great hand had descended from the heavens to protect him.”
For a moment Gylippus did not reply. He ran his thumb along the pads of his fingertips in a contemplative manner, then he said, “If your spies are not able to unearth anything, perhaps ours can.” He turned to Aspasia. “Do you know anything of this new Athenian general?”
Before she could speak, Hermocrates let loose a bark of incredulous laughter. “You cannot be serious. You think she will know something when she has only just arrived? Who is she, anyhow?”
In spite of herself, Kassandra’s hackles rose. Aspasia appeared entirely unconcerned by Hermocrates’ words, but her eyes had lost their usual warmth. She had gone cold and implacable as sculpted marble.
“I suggest you watch your tongue,” Kassandra answered coolly. “This is the lady Aspasia of Miletus, daughter of Axiochus, widow of the late Perikles, and now Sparta’s trusted advisor.”
Hermocrates’ eyes widened. “You brought Perikles’ consort to Sicily?” he said to Gylippus, as if Aspasia and Kassandra could not hear him.
“She has already proven herself instrumental in turning Alcibiades to our side, among other things. And can you think of anyone who would better know the inner workings of Athens than the wife of Perikles?” Gylippus retorted.
“I -” Hermocrates stuttered, then admitted begrudgingly, “I suppose not. Though I don’t like it.”
Kassandra snorted under her breath with soft laughter. “None of us do.”
At that, Aspasia shot her a warning glance, to which Kassandra bared her teeth in a fierce smile. Clearing her throat, Aspasia lifted her chin and addressed the others. “I do know the identity of this young Athenian strategos. He is part of why I came.”
“An ulterior motive? Shocking,” Kassandra muttered, low enough that only Aspasia could hear.
“Next thing you’ll be telling me is that he’s Herakles himself,” Hermocrates said dryly.
“Not quite.” Aspasia clasped her hands together, as if to keep herself from fiddling in a fit of nerves. Her knuckles had gone pale, but her voice was calm and her gaze level. “His name is Perikles the Younger.”
“Perikles the -?” Kassandra started to repeat, but stopped, her mouth dropping open in shocked understanding.
“And how do you know this?” Hermocrates asked.
Unyielding, Aspasia stood before them. She swallowed, her throat bobbing, and seemed to gather herself before saying, “Because he is my son.”
Notes:
1) Aspasia’s lamp is inspired by a 4th century BC Greek lamp held at the Carlos museum which you can see here: http://carlos.digitalscholarship.emory.edu/items/show/7210
2) The length of time travelled between Sparta and Sicily was roughly calculated using ORBIS, which you can play around with here: http://orbis.stanford.edu/ It’s not entirely correct to claim the Spartans and Athenians would have been travelling purely by open sea using triremes and other galley-types that were common during this time, but for the sake of my own sanity I made them not go the coastal route.
3) Hermocrates was an anti-Athenian politician from Syracuse who was vital in helping Sparta during the Sicilian Expedition. You can read more about him here: http://www.livius.org/articles/person/hermocrates/
4) As early as the 5th century BC, women would sometimes use a parasol in ancient Greece called a skiadeion (σκιάδειοv).
5) Yes, I know Perikles the Younger wasn’t a strategos until 406 BC. I’m dropping the Battle of Arginusae later on in favour of putting him into the Sicilian Expedition now for the drama.
6) The chapter title is a reference to the following:
“Παλλάδ᾽ Ἀθηναίην ἐρυσίπτολιν ἄρχομ᾽ ἀείδειν,
δεινήν, ᾗ σὺν Ἄρηι μέλει πολεμήια ἔργα
περθόμεναί τε πόληες ἀϋτή τε πτόλεμοί τε,
καί τ᾽ ἐρρύσατο λαὸν ἰόντα τε νισσόμενόν τε.”
“Of Athenian Pallas, protector of cities, I begin to sing,
awe-inspiring, who with Ares cares for warlike deeds,
the ravaging of cities and the war-cry and battles,
and shields the host coming and going.”
-Homeric Hymn to Athena (11)
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