By the Sword

by Christian Kachel

  Spoils of Olympus I:

  By the Sword

  Christian Kachel

  © Christian Kachel 2014

  Christian Kachel has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 2014 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  This edition published in 2018 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  For Katie, Brett, Diana, and our little one on the way.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Chapter 1

  The dream is a recurring one but I wish it were more frequent. I’m visited by my father and we speak of where he has been. I’m told of the horrors death has in store for the unrighteous, and he urges me to always defend my house and enjoy life’s pleasures. My father certainly lived by the latter, sometimes to the detriment of the former, but I decided long ago that, overall, he was a good man.

  I hear familiar voices now…then laughter…something jostles me…I’m awake. My head is heavy, my mouth is stale. The events of last night pass through my mind’s eye as a procession of chronological debauched images: meeting my mates to drink wine- that explains my hangover; a few rounds of dice- that explains my light purse; a fist fight that I believe we won- that explains my sore cheek; a quick hop over to our favourite brothel for a victory romp- that explains the warm body next to me; and now my mate is half drunkenly recounting our exploits- that explains my consciousness about an hour too early. All in all, a good night- father would have been proud.

  “How’s your cheek feeling, lover boy? I can’t believe that peasant decided to grow a pair and sucker-punch you,” taunted Patrochlus.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be looking out for things like that while I’m predisposed fighting some deviant on your behalf?” I weakly responded.

  “Don’t worry, I broke his nose about three times over after I stopped laughing.”

  Patrochlus is the mouth of our wretched little band- a mediocre fish in the mediocre sea of Ilandra, a city on the Ionian coast of Asia Minor. He’d gotten us into altercations before, knowing full well his mates would be there to clean up the mess. I can’t say we necessarily minded; the problem being it was always at a time of his choosing- nothing like a surprise fist fight to make the night lively.

  Hearing Patrochlus’ voice, Alexandros walked in from the adjacent bedroom with the slimmest of cloth covering his groin and added, “That little imp needed a stepping stool; we should buy him a drink next time.” His stout physique needed all the room the narrow doorway allowed. With more body hair than a bear cub, Alexandros was truly a sight this early in the morning. He was short, stocky, loyal, and jovial- all in all, a good friend. Seeing him standing in the doorway with his bulbous features and impressive gut hanging over a piece of cloth stretched to its ripping point brought a smile to my face.

  “Did you wake to find you pissed on your girl again Alex?” I retorted.

  “The way she screws, like being with a warm corpse, I should have,” he responded laughingly.

  Poor girl, I thought to myself. “Where’s Nearchus?”

  “He went home last night,” Alexandros responded.

  “You know what happens when Leanna finds out he’s been here with us,” Patrochlus answered. “The lad’s thoroughly whipped with nothing to show for it- forced to return home to a cold bed with only his hand for comfort.” While Patrochlus’ characterization would sound mean spirited to most, he was truly saddened by our more responsible friend’s celibate situation. Someone not doing exactly as they wished was inconceivable to Patrochlus- he would have called himself a true epicurean, if he knew what that meant.

  With that, our bedmates began stirring, “You boys still talking about that stupid fight last night?” Patrochlus’ female companion asked, sounding a bit annoyed.

  “I’m a lover not a fighter; let me feel good about my rare feats of soldierly.”

  “If you love better than you fight, your victim must have been a sickly Persian eunuch,” she quipped.

  “Of the most deformed kind my dear,” he laughed as he gently smacked her half-exposed rear.

  For all our bantering, the four of us really did enjoy each other’s company, and waking up recounting the previous night’s antics were some of my favourite memories growing up. We all understood our lower lot in life, and our mischievous adventures made it all quite tolerable. I got out of bed and threw on my tunic. This wasn’t the first time I’d woke up here. The room was sparsely decorated with two beds side by side and a small table between them gingerly supporting an old vase with dying wildflowers from the coast. A faint hint of their pleasant odour could still be detected among the cheap perfume permeating the small room- masking the sordid acts that frequently transpire here. At the foot of each bed was a chest containing our bedmates’ personal items, along with our payments from last night to be sure. I stretched, thanked my female companion, and the three of us began our familiar walk home. As we exited, the head of the house, Eurydike, saw us out.

  “Good night I trust boys?” she asked with a jealous smirk.

  “It would have been better had I the pleasure of bedding you last night my lady,” said Patrochlus with his usual insincere charm. Eurydike was the kind of person it worked on best.

  “In my day, you young pups wouldn’t be able to handle a siren like me, not even the three of you at once.” She was probably right. Walking down the alley she yelled, “You boys remember who takes care of you and don’t be going to those disease-ridden shacks down the street- you’ll wake up pissing lava.”

  These types of establishments are never in nice parts of town, and ours was no exception. We stumbled and laughed down the dirt streets moist with dew, emptied chamber pots, and brackish water. The buildings were mostly wood with the filth of the dirt street staining their outer walls up to the height of a man’s knee. The food sold in the carts on either side of the street was spoiled to the point that even Alexandros wouldn’t touch it. It was now the middle of summer and the flies were everywhere. They mainly swarmed around piles of livestock dung throughout the streets. As children, we would wait till a member of our group wasn’t paying attention and swiftly nudge them directly into these steaming messes as a joke. Many of the faces we encountered in this neighbourhood had the true look of despair that only years of utter destitution could bring. Their clothes dirty and in tatters, their frail, weathered hands extended out for alms. Some of them were ex-prostitutes left caring for a child. They would nurse these crying infants, sometimes covered in grime, along the streets during our morning walks home. To say we didn’t sometimes look at these un
fortunate souls with some introspection would be a lie. I wondered whether my recent bedmate knew this horrid fate was more than a possibility for her.

  The cacophony of misery combined to create a pungent odour that began to wreak havoc on my already fragile stomach. Alexandros and Patrochlus were talking about some type of thievery scheme, as they are apt to do, when I made the mistake of looking one of these vile street creatures in the eye. Seeing an opening, he shoved a rancid piece of goat meat in my face and asked for a coin. I immediately gagged and vomited- to the delight of my two companions. After the laughing subsided, Alexandros gave the urchin a coin for the spectacle and we continued on towards our homes.

  Leaving the seedy neighbourhoods behind, we entered the neatly drained thoroughfares of Ilandra proper. The city is quite pleasant, with a number of public fountains and baths, a small amphitheatre, various outdoor markets, columned building facades, temples to Zeus and Poseidon, and a deep water port. A hint of salt water brought a distinct character to our coastal air that lost its potency the further inland one travelled. We passed by a familiar fountain to grab a drink, splash water on our faces, and make ourselves somewhat presentable for our triumphant return home. It was about three hours past sunrise and the city had been bustling since before daybreak. Much of this activity was from merchants, fishermen, and travellers using the port on the western border of the city or the Ionian road connecting much of the coastline on its eastern edge. Ilandra was always prosperous under the Persian King Darius II and our Satrap, Spithridates, but the tangible atmosphere of the city, along with all the other Greek Ionian ports, was simply euphoric since the Battle of the Granicus River twelve years earlier, featuring the heroic slaying of our Persian governor during Alexander’s first victory over the Persians. He was one of us, and now, all the world was Greek. Alexander installed his father’s trusted general, Antigonus ‘The One Eyed,’ to administer Asia Minor after the Battle of the Granicus, with Asander installed as our Satrap. We had known them as ruler for over ten years, but now the machinations of civil war were forming after Alexander’s recent death, with Antigonus challenging Perdiccas, Regent for Alexander’s two successors.

  As children, we made my older cousin, Leandros, take us to see the army of Greeks marching through Ionia after defeating the Persians at the Granicus River. Alexander’s army marched south after their victory to liberate the Greek towns along the Ionian Road. Thirty thousand Macedonians and another twenty thousand Greek mercenaries and auxiliaries spanned a five mile distance, confidently marching towards a Persian enemy who, despite their initial defeat, had hundreds of thousands more men to field against them. On our way, we could see the dust being kicked up by the moving serpent of warriors miles away. We first came upon the army about three miles into its five mile procession, running about two miles non-stop to get a look at the head of the snake. There, we saw first the heavy Macedonian phalanx of veterans with their eighteen-foot-long sarissas disassembled in tow. These hellish weapons formed a combined instrument of death when assembled for battle, with the front row of the phalanx bristling with spear points from the next five rows behind it. Foes that dared face this leviathan had to first hack their way through a thousand-toothed monster while avoiding impalement and trampling along the way. If they were formidable or fortunate enough to pass through this gauntlet of wood and iron, they found themselves standing opposite a heavily armoured veteran of the Greek wars, sword in hand, ready to bury it deep within the foe’s stomach.

  At the front was the elite Companion Cavalry, of which Alexander led at the very apex of the march. The Companions looked like gods to us with iron, polished brass, leather, cloaks, and plumes. Scurrying ahead, we saw this moving weapon of destruction’s leader. It was the first and only time I would ever lay eyes on the God King himself. Compared to his Companions, Alexander was short in stature yet sat atop the proudest and most magnificent black beast any of us had ever seen. He was clad in a white linen and polished bronze cuirass, flowing red cloak and bronze helmet with red plume. An additional two ornate feathers upon his helmet were the only markers distinguishing him from the rest. No other show of human importance could ever match what we saw that day. All four of us, including Leandros, who was a teenager at the time, were ready to follow this man into the dark void of Hades. We shadowed the army for a couple more miles before Alexandros began complaining of fatigue and Leandros decided to take his gang of brats back home.

  Later, we heard of all the historic battles after the Granicus and dreamed of being there with him at the planes of Issus, the siege of Tyre, the final epic battle of Gaugamela, the triumphant entrance through the Ishtar Gate of Babylon, the arduous conquest of Bactria and Sogdiana, and the battles at the edge of the world along the Indus river. Four years after the great army marched through Ionia, Leandros joined a mercenary outfit when he was of age and I bid him farewell at age eleven. We received occasional letters from him thereafter about his time in Babylon, his participation in the eastern campaigns, and his experiences in India. At first my mates huddled around every letter that came in, spending the rest of that day pretending we were there. As the years wore on, other extracurricular activities became more important to Patrochlus and Alexandros, but Nearchus and I cherished each correspondence. Growing up, Alexander was Achilles incarnate, whose military feats would make Ares himself green with envy. Then, a little over one year ago, our Heracles died a death not worthy of a dirt farmer, let alone our God King.

  News of his death spread throughout our world quickly via messenger, runner, horse courier, and fire beacon. Women wept in the streets. Every Greek town, village and city within the empire held their own funeral ceremonies to honour the most important man to ever live. Much confusion followed as to what would happen next and who would inherit the entire world. His generals, some childhood friends, others former companions of his father, Phillip II, divided the empire between them with Ptolemy taking Egypt, Antigonus retaining Asia Minor, Antipater retaining control of Greece and Macedon, and Perdiccas taking Asia while acting as regent for the two Kings- Alexander’s son, Alexander IV, and his half-brother, Arrhidaeus, renamed Phillip III, in Babylon.

  As we made it to our neighbourhood, we came upon Theon, a vile creature from our youth that followed his family’s trade of thuggery, thievery, and violence. Everything about him offended me- from his dirty clothes, his wild hair, his propensity for accumulating filth and canker sores around his mouth, and his facial tick that obligated him to lick his lips every few moments like some wretched lizard. Theon no doubt detected my disdain and returned the cold civility I strained to muster in his presence. Patrochlus found use for his lecherous tendencies on occasion and frequently associated with him in the hopes of establishing connections with Theon’s older brother, Ganymedes. Ganymedes was a powerful criminal and someone our band all respected. Theon attempted to impress us with some exaggerated tale of recent indecency, which received its usual response of disgust from me and dismissive silence from the rest. Theon was older than us and he and his band of menaces saw themselves as our superiors. Patrochlus saw his appearance as an opportunity to continue discussing his latest scheme with a dedicated criminal. The three continued to loiter while I took my leave towards home.

  Chapter 2

  My home was one of four apartments in a small building along a quiet street. I had lived there my entire life with my mother and younger sister, Helena. She was fifteen now and becoming her own woman. My relationship with her progressed from sibling torture, to systematic ignoring, to now, one of fervent protection from any perceived outside threat. She did not share my affinity for irresponsible behaviour and was fast surpassing me in maturity despite her youth. I entered our home to find her busy with house chores. She looked up to greet me and quickly resumed her work. My older sibling aura was wearing off and she was beginning to form critical judgments about the brother she once looked up to. Despite these new developments, we had a loving relationship and we both could do no wrong in
our mother’s eyes, as long as we tolerated her overt affections.

  Like many sons recently come of age, I felt my mother was too emotional and decided her public displays of affection were unacceptable. Like most mothers, she didn’t care. Her overt devotion to us enabled some of my irresponsible behaviour, for she would rather me follow in my father’s footsteps of debauchery and have me home with her than see me getting any ideas of joining a military outfit participating in foreign wars like Leandros. She willingly turned an eye to my merry band’s comings and goings, even extending her affection to them over the years. This was no easy feat given the amount reserved specifically for Helena and myself. My mother’s acquiescence, coupled with my father’s absence, threatened to stunt my maturity to manhood altogether had it not been for my uncle Argos, Leandros’ father and younger brother to my father.

  My mother always discouraged Leandros’ talk of joining the fighting abroad and forbid Argos long ago about voicing a syllable of encouragement to me as he did with his own son. Over the years, my mother received the arrival of a coveted letter from Leandros with joy to hear from her nephew and dread seeing Nearchus and I beam with envy over each scene recounted on the parchment. The threat of me leaving her began to seem more palpable now that I was nineteen and growing restless with the mundane repetition of working with my uncle Argos and raising Hades with my mates all inside the same ten square mile radius.

  Our home occupied one half of the first floor of a two story wooden edifice. We shared the first floor with uncle Argos’ wine and olive oil storefront. Our walls were primarily bare, with intermittent patterns painted on them running parallel to the floor. Our floors were sparingly adorned with two eastern-style rugs. Our front room contained two couches constructed of wood with a blanket thrown over each and a small table in between them. My mother always ensured incense burned in this front room to greet any unexpected visitors. Two bedrooms lined the far wall where my mother and sister shared one small chamber and I slept in the other. In the back of the apartment was the kitchen and rear courtyard that contained a small brick oven and shrine to Dionysius to ensure the good fortune of uncle Argos’ entrepreneurial ventures. Argos never questioned his responsibility to care for his brother’s family after my father’s death and we owed our continued livelihood to his generosity. Argos provided for us while my mother and sister tended to his apartment, located on the second floor of the building. They cooked for all of us each night and I worked with him most days at his store. My relationship with him grew after Leandros left for the great campaign and I became of more use to him with age- but his demeanour to me was always cold and condescending.