Spartan Beast (The Hellennium Book 2)

by P. K. Lentz

  “Why can't we just keep doing this?” she asked after the show. “I think I want to live here.”

  The following dawn marked assembly day. While Demosthenes and Thalassia walked the nearby coastline, surveying it with an eye for defense, stopping once on a secluded beach to pass some time in a less practical way, the male citizen body of the Naupaktan democracy debated the very existence of Naupakos as a free city. Arguments were made and heard all morning, through the afternoon, and nearly to the setting of the sun before ballots were cast.

  The result was brought by messenger to the two outsiders.

  By a wide margin, it had been decided that when a Spartan herald came demanding reply to the order of submission, he would be denied an audience.

  When next the Spartans came, they would come for war.

  * * *

  9. ...considering

  In the half-month after the vote, normal life in Naupaktos was all but suspended as the efforts of nearly every man, and not a few women, were directed toward the construction of defenses. Limestone was cut and smashed and mixed with sand and gravel and water according to Thalassia's instructions to produce large quantities of liquid stone. Even the building of ships, a thing for which Naupaktos was renowned, was halted that the timber might be used to build frameworks into which the stone might be poured to give it form while it set.

  By such means the existing walls of Naupaktos were strengthened and new ones built along the coast, the front from which invasion must almost certainly come given the difficulty of the inland terrain on all sides. Well underway all along that coastline was a network of small, well-placed forts, simple gray boxes sized to hold ten men or fewer. Dug well into the earth, the structures protruded barely half the height of a man and had in place of windows only a slit running the length of the structure, no greater in height than what a bowman needed to fire with some accuracy at the terrain below.

  Some of those archers would wield their own bows, but plenty, when the day came, would be equipped with superior weapons being made by Naupaktan craftsmen: shield-piercing gastraphetes and its lighter cousin, the khiasmon, or cross-bow.

  Engineers, meanwhile, were building even larger mechanical bows to be wheeled up onto the clifftops overlooking the sea from where they might launch at any fleet which came into range shafts the size of small trees tipped with fire or keel-shearing lead.

  This day, Demosthenes rode the coast inspecting the incomplete defenses of Naupaktos with an attacker's eye, looking for weaknesses which might be exploited. If fortune was with them, the invaders would come overconfident and be taken by surprise, but such assumptions were not safe; Sparta had no shortage of loyal Helots who looked and spoke just like Naupaktans, and were in fact their kin, an abundant source of spies who might even now be helping to build the defenses. Never mind the fact that much of the construction was of necessity being done in plain view of the large number of ships which passed every day through the Gulf of Corinth.

  Already they had uncovered spies, or rather Thalassia had with her sharp eyes and innate ability to perceive deception. One suspect had been arrested, and under somewhat forceful interrogation had given up the identities of three accomplices who were subsequently captured and confirmed as agents of Sparta. All four were Messenians, and since it was the habit of Naupaktans to be lenient with their brethren, the spies presently waited out the conflict in chains instead of facing execution.

  Surely there were more. Thalassia made regular rounds among the men engaged in the city's preparations in the effort to detect them, while all who possessed knowledge that was particularly sensitive were made to swear oaths in her presence.

  Though the bulk of their time was given to the Naupaktos' defense, Demosthenes never allowed Thalassia to forget, or rather pretend to forget, his greater purpose. Not far from this coast, in rows of amphorae inside a cavern fit to serve as home to any withered sea-hag, she cultivated a great many varieties of fungus. For the sake of his health, Thalassia said, it was not wise for Demosthenes even to visit the place. He merely took her word for it, without doubt or reservation, that the time was not far off when her plague could be tested.

  Today she rode the coast just seaward of Demosthenes, matching his leisurely pace on her own mount. Here by the shore, a breeze alleviated the heat of summer which made the city streets cloying these days. Fortunately, they spent little time there, for if the coming battle touched the city, it would likely mean Naupaktos was already lost.

  Now Demosthenes stared down the track at an unfinished stretch of wall meant to block off a break in the cliffs where the land instead rose gently from shore to heights. He halted his mount as the germ of an idea struck him.

  He pointed down the coast at an inlet where the sea lapped a sandy shore on which triremes might beach without much difficulty. Drawing up beside him, Thalassia turned to follow his gaze from beneath the drawn hood of the black cloak for which she had no need except perhaps to shield her hair, in which she took as much pride as any Spartiate male.

  “Those men working on that unfinished fort and stretch of wall down there,” Demosthenes said. “What if we had them simply lay down their tools today, leaving the scaffolds and materials in place?”

  He needed explain no more of the idea; Thalassia understood. When she turned her pale eyes back upon him, they bestowed credit.

  “Not bad,” she said, “...considering your origins.”

  “Origins?”

  “When I came to this place, I never guessed I would find someone who...” She pondered, then resumed, “who was not just a means to an end. Someone who could know what you know, see what you've seen and...”

  Demosthenes felt sure that her pause was an affectation; she already knew what would come next.

  “...not run away,” she finished. “Or hack me up and bury me under a rock when you had the chance.”

  “We are not speaking of defensive walls, are we?”

  She shot him a bemused glare. “Maybe not entirely.” Aiming her hooded gaze back down at the beach, she said, “It's an excellent idea. They will see the unfinished wall and land their ships there. And we'll be waiting. I should have thought of it.”

  “Once in a while, I have a good idea of my own.”

  “You have many good ideas.”

  The compliment creased Demosthenes' brow. “You've turned kind again. And mistaken me for some other man whose ego is in constant need of stroking. Alkibiades, perhaps.”

  Thalassia scoffed. “Go stroke yourself, Athenian. See if I ever compliment you again. Anything impressive you'll ever do is down to my influence anyway.”

  “There's my Jenna,” Demosthenes remarked of this Thalassia whom he knew better and, if he was honest, felt more at ease around. This creature was not kind or reflective but playfully arrogant—and with better cause for arrogance than any hundred swaggering fools one could find among the kaloi kagathoi of Athens.

  Rather than answering, Thalassia gave him the frown of one constantly forced to humor an imbecile.

  * * *

  10. Glorious duties

  In the days following the failed attack on Eris, Styphon found himself the object of silent stares from his countrymen. They seemed unsure what to make of him. On one hand, he had participated in what most must see as a courageous effort against a creature universally feared—a good thing for Sparta.

  On the other hand, he had lived. Every Spartan boy knew the tale of Orthryades, sole survivor of a battle with the Argives, who had killed himself in shame for having been the only one denied the honor of sacrificing his life for Sparta.

  By the fifth day, minds were made up: the looks were largely ones of respect, accompanied by words to match.

  Then, today, Agis had come to him with some rather momentous words of his own, ones which Styphon was shortly to share with Hippolyta, assuming Agis had not done him the dishonor of speaking first to his wife.

  On his approach up the hill to the door of his home, Styphon received no g
reeting, which struck him as odd. Typically Hippolyta would see or hear him and appear with a wave, a smile, a kiss. His heart froze, then pounded harder in sudden apprehension, mind filling with visions of walls painted with blood, floor strewn with the limbs of butchered corpses, the vengeance of a wronged she-daimon.

  He had his war-gear with him: spear in one hand, shield on his back, breastplate and helmet in a sack of oilcloth. Crouching, he set them down as silently as he could, keeping only the short sword at his hip, fingers tight around its handle. Breath held, he cautiously approached the door, pushed it open just far enough, stopping short of the point where he knew it would issue a familiar squeak, and he slipped through.

  The megaron, formerly the modest dwelling's one and only room, stood empty. The hearth fire smoldered. No blood. No vengeance, unless Eris's vengeance was to begin with a kidnapping.

  Then a sound: a quiet moan, from behind the curtain which separated megaron from marital chamber, old construction from new.

  He knew the moan as Hippolyta's.

  He stepped to the curtain, keeping hand yet on sword even as trepidation began to release its tight grip on his chest. He peered through a gap between curtain and door frame and confirmed it: no danger, no vengeance. Not today.

  There was only his wife, consummate huntress, in his bed with their slave, the hunted, both naked, grinding thigh to thigh, sex to sex, limbs so entangled that the Thracian's freckles became the quickest way to assign any one an owner. A few seconds' silent observation told Styphon that his wife was on bottom at present, Eurydike atop her, gyrating in the constant, fluid motion which had given rise to Hippolyta's moan. The Thracian's back was to him, while Hippolyta's reclining posture would have let her see the watcher had she been looking for one, which she was not. She was too busy climbing toward release.

  Her climax was near, Styphon could see in the fluttering of his bride's eyes, the way she chewed her lower lip, the whisper of her irregular, panting breaths.

  He watched for a short time, with no thought given to interrupting, as Hippolyta came, and Eurydike collapsed on top of her and rolled to one side for a post-coital embrace. It was then, as ecstasy faded and bodies and eyes began to shift, that Styphon carefully backed away, removing himself from the gap and backpedaling stealthily toward the door.

  He had already accepted Hippolyta's sexual pursuit of the girl as part of her character and a feature of the feminine world in which she was raised. Having now witnessed proof of the hunt's success, he accepted it still. It was perhaps not the most convenient of arrangements, having his new wife's state-owned concubine dwell under his roof and share his bed, but as far as inconveniences went, this was a mild one. He had his life, all his limbs, and even his honor, which for quite some time had been in question. If his wife, whom he loved and who loved him, wanted to part the skinny legs of the timid little Thracian bitch on a regular basis, so be it, so long as both lived up to their other responsibilities inside and outside the household.

  Styphon's responsibilities, of course, lay primarily outside. He had new ones now, of which he intended to tell his wife, once he had finished doing her the perhaps unnecessary favor of sneaking back out of his house to spare her any awkwardness. Not that she was likely to have felt any, he sensed, since it seemed doubtful that Hippolyta had an intention to hide the liaison from him.

  Perhaps he was doing the slave the bigger favor. Though he did not know her well by any means, Eurydike did not strike him as one to consider Hippolyta's attentions an honor.

  Outside, Styphon picked up his gear, making sure it rattled, then walked to the door as if he had just ascended the hill. On his arrival, the two females (both wearing a sheen of sweat in addition to hastily and incompletely donned garments) emerged from the bedroom. Hippolyta, smiling widely, greeted him with an embrace and a long and far more sensual kiss than usual, while Eurydike slinked off to the hearth with mussed red hair over downturned face.

  A certain glow in Hippolyta's expression, a mischievous glint in her eye, held promise that she would in fact share news of her conquest with Styphon when they had a private moment. But for now, it was Styphon's turn to share good news, news that actually had import outside these walls.

  “Agis has invited me to join the royal guard,” he announced. “Naturally, I accepted.”

  He did not bother to spoil the mood by mentioning the well-known reason that there were vacancies in that elite body.

  In an instant, Hippolyta's air of self-satisfaction fled her, and her features lit anew with genuine surprise and delight of the kind only to be shown in Sparta behind closed doors and among close confederates. She flung arms around his chest and squeezed, as if to lift him and whirl him around despite being smaller than he by half.

  “That is wonderful!” she exclaimed.

  There was more, and when his wife had detached from him, Styphon gave it: “I leave with Agis in ten days to conquer Naupaktos.”

  “They will bow before you,” she said, an expression of honest belief, not empty platitude. “Who could fail to?” She kissed his neck. “The ten days will be busy. Or the nights, at least.”

  Smiling, she said no more, did not need to. There had yet been no signs of a child sprouting in Hippolyta's womb, making it imperative that as much seed as possible be sown there between now and his departure.

  It was no light responsibility to the Spartan state, this obligation, but neither was it an unpleasant one.

  Head hung, Eurydike breezed past them and out the door carrying an empty basket to be filled with vegetables. When the slave was gone, Styphon said dully, “Congratulations to you, as well.”

  Knowing his wife, or so he believed, Styphon rather expected the smirk of a conqueror. He got instead a strange, distant look, which quickly vanished to be replaced by averted eyes and a tight smile of near-embarrassment.

  He shrugged it off. One could only know a woman so well.

  “You saw, did you?” Hippolyta looked up, and there was the smirk. She jabbed her husband's chest with a finger. “I will not have you being jealous,” she warned. “You are my husband, and all I truly need.” Her hand found his genitals through the linen of his chiton, and then his hand. Before he had a chance to say anything, which he would not have, she said, “No point in waiting.”

  He walked with her to a bed still warm with woman-love and commenced his glorious duty.

  Ten days later, the preparations made, he marched north from Sparta with Agis and the royal guard. Eight hundred other Equals went with them, with as many Helots to carry their gear. In Arkadia, the force joined with two thousand further troops gathered from elsewhere in the Peloponnese.

  Wayward Naupaktos was to be brought to heel.

  * * *

  11. The Battle of Naupaktos

  100 days after the fall of Athens (September 423 BCE)

  Near the end of the sailing season, the Spartan fleet came. It rounded the Peloponnese and beached at Panormos, across the narrow straits from Naupaktos. The ships were triremes, Naupaktan observers reported back, not the sleek, oarless vessels that had taken Athens, nor some new, yet unseen design, but beaked, square-sailed triremes like those which had cut the sea for generations.

  Perhaps the newer ships had been deemed unsuitable for use this near to winter, or at all in a landing which was sure to be contested. But it did beg the question of whether some less revolutionary thinker than Brasidas were not in charge of this invasion.

  The same observers reported back that the Spartan hulls were empty, or laden only with supplies. A day later, the troops arrived by land, likely sparing their stomachs a rough ride on wind-tossed seas. The next evening, their campfires dotted the night on the rugged north coast of the Peloponnese across the strait from Naupaktos. Alert Naupaktan watchmen manning the barricades and forts along the coast captured or killed half a dozen Helots and an Arkadian trying to slip ashore on missions of reconnaissance.

  That evening, it was learned that King Agis commanded the Sparta
n force. The following dawn the Spartan ships, now numbering more than thirty owing to the contributions of allies, rowed east and put ashore near Panormos for the loading of the invasion force. The main architects of Naupaktos' defense waited tensely together on the heights to see what course the ships would set when they began their crossing. The two architects were armed and armored and ready to spill blood themselves this day, even if the shorter-lived and more fragile of them had reservations regarding the other. While they waited to see where the ships would go, he voiced them.

  “This is not your fight,” Demosthenes said to the other.

  “No more or less than it is yours,” Thalassia countered meditatively, keen eyes on the far shore.

  The sky was gray, storm looming, dangerous to sail, but none on this side of the waves dared believe a few clouds would deter the new hegemons of Hellas from seeing their will imposed.

  “It is a battle for men to decide,” he said, then quickly clarified: “Mortals.”

  She took her gaze from the distance. Her 'warpaint', the Mark of Magdalen, was like a spider with too many legs devouring her right eye. Demosthenes had let her paint him, too: a few strokes of oiled ashes around his own eye in crude imitation of hers. It was meaningless, he knew, and emphasized his bond with alien Thalassia in a way that made the heart yearn for simpler times, times when he could appeal to Pallas or Apollo for a blessing in battle and be halfway sure of receiving it. But now that he doubted those gods, or rather knew them to be false, what harm was there in adopting another empty ritual to replace the prayers used by most men to instill courage before battle?