The Legacy of Callisto Part 2: The Shadow of Sorrow

by Tabard

Encountering a pair of unusual travelers on the road, Callisto finds herself a 'guest' of the city of Sparta. With the threat of invasion looming, she becomes embroiled in the city's politics while at the same time attempting to unravel the mystery of a strange new religious cult, and their all too familiar leader. NOW COMPLETE

21. Chapter Twenty: Soul, Strength and Faith

Chapter Twenty: Soul, Strength and Faith

Sentos was sagging wearily in his saddle by the time he rounded the final street corner, and the city's council chambers loomed hard against a dull grey afternoon sky. His horse whinnied softly at the sight of the stark, imposing building, and he patted its neck in a soothing manner.

"Come on girl," he said. "Just a little further now." The animal snorted in response and moved forward at an exhausted plodding trot, it's bone numbing fatigue a mirror of his own.

The ride back to the city from Thermopylae had been taxing, a restless headlong charge north, but Leonidas had ordered him to make all speed to inform the Ephors of the events that had taken place there. As the dull clip-clop of hooves echoed off the buildings, more memories of Leonidas came flooding back to him. His King had been lying wounded atop a blanket beside a roaring camp fire, his brow soaked with sweat despite the chill of the night air as he gripped imploringly at Sentos' arm, and even the recollection of it still made the Spartan captain want to weep.

Had he had the choice he would never have returned. He would have remained at the Hot Gates, along side his comrades in arms, closer than brothers to him, and faced the Persian horde that had descended on them. He would have fought to his last breath if his King had not ordered him away. That order had been given though, and he had had little choice but to obey. He was a Spartan after all, and in the end, was duty not more important than his own personal glory. Thermopylae would be remembered, of that he was certain. Songs would be sung, and tales would be told in the grandest Spartan tradition, but Sentos himself would not be a part of them. Instead, wounded as he was, and of little use in actual battle, the role of messenger had fallen to him.

The ache in his thigh throbbed in tandem with the ache of misery in his gut, and he glanced down at the nasty horizontal slash that had cut across his thigh. Held together with thick, ugly strands of twine, the wound was beginning to mend, but slowly, and he doubted he would ever be able to place his weight fully on the leg again.

With a disgusted grunt, he reined in his horse before the council chambers. What use was a lame warrior to anyone? When the time came for him to be remembered after he had crossed the Styx, what would people see in their mind's eye? Sentos the first captain to King Leonidas? Sentos the great warrior who had stood shoulder to shoulder with the rest of the brave three hundred at Thermopylae? Or would they instead remember him for what he would soon be? Sentos, the limping, shambling figure, who had lived far beyond his usefulness?

He sat astride his horse like that for a little longer, lost in his own thoughts, until eventually the animal stirred and he looked about himself curiously. Normally there would be Helot attendants already emerging from the outer chambers, ready to take his horse and gear from him. Today though, there was no one. Not entirely sure what was going on, he dismounted from the animal, wincing as he was forced to place his weight on his wounded leg. He gripped the animal's bridle, doing his best to maintain his balance as he steadied himself, then turned to look around once more. Still nothing moved.

Now he was thinking about it, he remembered the long ride through Helot town, and how strangely quiet that had seemed as well. The usual crowds of people going about their daily business had been entirely absent, and the only people he had been able to catch sight of were members of that odd religious order that had been growing in popularity of late.

"Hello?" he called loudly, his voice echoing off the stone. "I seek an audience with the Ephors. Is there no one to attend me?"

At first there was no answer, and Sentos was about to stride off up the steps to the enter the council hall himself, armed or no, when the front doors to the building opened to meet him instead.

A young soldier, dressed in the blue cloak of one of Demosthenes' men emerged, hurrying quickly across the open ground toward him.

"Finally!" Sentos sighed, "Someone to..."

The man waved his hand in a chopping motion that indicated for him to be silent.

"You should leave," he hissed cautiously as he drew nearer. "Right now, before anyone sees you!"

Sentos squared his shoulders, incensed at the lesser ranked man's attempts to give him orders.

"I will do no such thing," he replied. "Not until I have spoken with the Ephors and relayed..."

"Just stop!" the man cut him off sharply. "King Demosthenes already knows you're coming. He even knows what news you bring, though I don't know how. He wants you in there, so that he can use you against them."

"Them?" Sentos said, bewildered by the man's words. What in Tartarus was going on, and what was this Spartan jabbering about? He had not journeyed all this way to be met only with riddles and nonsense.

"The Ephors," the man replied. "A lot has changed since you departed captain, and none of it for the better. Please just go, before you are..."

"Orestes!" called another voice from the doors, and the Spartan in front of him sagged slightly.

"...seen," Orestes muttered under his breath, before turning to face the heavy set soldier standing at the council doors.

"What are you playing at?" The man shouted at him. "You were sent to fetch Captain Sentos, not stand there gossiping like some old tavern maid."

"I was just bringing him now Captain Gracus," Orestes said, his voice deferential and respectful, but with an odd hint of tension around its edges.

"Well be quick about it," Gracus replied. "The proceedings are about to begin, and King Demosthenes wants him present before they do. You've already failed our King once this week, and he was lenient then. Another failure would be a further black mark against your name, and I doubt he would be so forgiving a second time."

With that, the big man, Gracus, turned and stalked off back into the building, leaving Orestes to curse softly under his breath. He cast a glance back over his shoulder at Sentos.

"You should have left while you had the chance," he said before stalking off toward the waiting double doors.

"Now..." he shook his head regretfully, "...now I don't know what's going to happen."

"I don't understand," Sentos said, moving as quickly as he could to catch up with the younger man, the wound in his leg complaining bitterly at such rough treatment. "What's going on? Why are there no Helot attendees? Why are you trying to disobey your King's orders?"

Orestes stopped and turned to face him again.

"Have you ever been frightened?" He asked unexpectedly.

"I am a Spartan," Sentos replied defensively, his back turning rigid at the strange question. "I have learned to control my fears since I was a small boy."

"That wasn't what I asked," Orestes said.

"I have felt fear many times," Sentos said impatiently. "But never to such a degree that it has impacted my ability to do my duty."

"Then all I can say is, you're very lucky," Orestes replied, "because right now, I'm so terrified, I want to run screaming for the hills."

With that, he span on his heel and began to march back toward the council chambers, Sentos falling in close behind.

As he entered he moved to hand the sword buckled to his side to one of the guards lining the entry passage, but the man waved him away. Sentos frowned darkly. Carrying weapons on the council floor was only allowed when the Ephors were to sit in judgement of the most heinous and violent criminals. Captured warlords and the worst of the city's violent criminals were the usual sort, and for a moment he wondered if Demosthenes had managed to capture Callisto. He had not quite understood King Leonidas' fascination with the woman, or the lengths to which he had gone to protect her from facing Spartan justice, but it was not his place to question the orders of his King. His duty was only to follow them, no matter what they were.

His idea of this being about Callisto was dashed almost immediately as he stepped out onto the council chamber floor. Instead of seeing the familiar form of the blonde warrior woman standing bound and awaiting a sentence at the centre of the council floor as he had expected, he was stunned to see King Demosthenes himself standing there, unbound, but no less on trial. He was surrounded by a circle of guards in blue cloaks, apparently assigned to guard him should he attempt to escape. Their leader was the heavy set Spartan Sentos had first spied only minutes before by the name of Gracus. Seated all about the rows of stone benches were more of Demosthenes' own men, all armed as was the custom for the trial of violent individuals. A smaller contingent of soldiers, this time wearing the red cloaks of Leonidas' soldiers that matched Sentos' own, stood attendance to the Ephors, their spears held sharpened and ready. Even the Ephors themselves were armed, their ceremonial daggers lying unsheathed in their laps, rather than hidden within the folds of their robes.

Sentos suddenly felt uneasy, although he was uncertain as to why. Perhaps it was the air of tension that stretched across the chamber tighter than a drum skin, or maybe it was the almost complete absence of the red cloaked soldiers of Leonidas. Beside himself and the few men guarding the Ephors, there were perhaps only ten or so more present; a tiny number when set against the two hundred or so of Demosthenes men. Those ten were seated around Leonidas' unoccupied throne, and all of them were watching the stands around them warily.

The sight of the empty throne stirred the guilt in the pit of Sentos' stomach, but he did his best to ignore it. He still had his duty to perform and he could not afford to be distracted now.

"Captain Sentos," the oldest Ephor by the name of Nestus said, standing and gesturing to the floor in front of him. "You bring us word from your King's ill considered foray at Thermopylae I understand."

Sentos stepped forward until he stood separate from either Orestes or Demosthenes, a quiet but surprised series of murmurs echoing down from the stands at the sight of him. Sentos could hardly blame them for it. His read cloak was torn and travel stained, his armour dented and covered in dust and bloodstains. He had not stopped in his head long dash North to collect himself. The news he carried was too grave, and the time too short.

"I do," he said, unsure of any formal method of address, having never spoken on the council floor before. "I beg the council's leave to speak."

"You need not beg of us my friend," Nestus replied. "We do not approve of your King's decisions, but you were only doing you duty to him by carrying them out."

"Duty," he heard Demosthenes sneer angrily at that. "What would any of you know of duty!"

"Not a word from you!" Nestus snapped, whirling on the spot to point furiously at Spartan King, his ire sudden and fierce. "We will get to you in due time, then you will have the chance to say your peace. Until then though, you will conduct yourself with the appropriate decorum and be silent!

Sentos watched as Demosthenes gave a slight nod, as if he were granting them a favour rather than following an instruction. He did not speak again however. Instead his back straightened and he lifted his chin imperiously. Nestus' response was to glare at him. Demosthenes did not even seem to notice. Eventually the old Ephor turned his attention back to Sentos, and with seemingly great effort, managed to force an encouraging smile across his face.

"We would gladly hear any news that you bring us," he said earnestly. "What has transpired at Thermopylae, and what has become of Leonidas?"

Sentos could not help but notice the absence of Leonidas' title when the old Ephor spoke. It was an omission that made him bristle at the blatant disrespect on display. Nestus and the others may have been Ephors, but Leonidas was a King of Sparta. It was a position he had been born to, not a title he had been awarded, and nothing could strip that position from him. To speak of him as if he were anything less, as if he were just some common soldier, as Nestus had just done, was the height of insult. Sentos was not the only one in the room to take umbrage either. A low rumble of discontent ran through the assembled Spartans, and, strangely enough, the first hints of a smile began to tug at the corners of Demosthenes' mouth.

Frustrated, angry and confused as he was by everything going on around him, Sentos was not exactly sure how to continue. He stood in silence for a moment while nearby, some members of the audience he seemed to have unexpectedly acquired stirred uncomfortably.

Summoning up his courage, he took a deep breath and began to relay his tale as best as he could manage.

"We arrived at the Hot Gates after a hard day and night's march," he began. "The evening before our arrival, we made camp with the Athenian forces Leonidas had managed to secure an alliance with before our departure..."

Nearby, Demosthenes gave a disgusted snort, but remained silent. Sentos glanced at him curiously but did not allow the distraction to stop him.

"King Leonidas ordered us into the pass there at daybreak. We had our first encounter with the Persian forces not long after that."

Nestus lifted a hand to his beard, stroking it thoughtfully as he listened.

"Go on," he urged.

"For the first day, King Leonidas' strategy proved sound," Sentos said. He could still remember the feelings of exultation he had had, watching the Persians throw themselves at the Spartan line in wave after wave, only to crash futilely against their shields and spears like breakers against a cliff face. "The Persian forces were unable to break our lines, and the pass was held. The Athenians set traps and ambushes, staging hit and run raids in an attempt to thin the Persian numbers still further."

"If all was going so well, then why have only you returned?" Nestus asked, his voice filled with concern.

That same concern was echoed in the quiet whispers that went up from the Spartans gathered around the chamber. Sentos swallowed. His tongue seemed to fill his mouth more than usual and his throat had run bone dry as the memories began to turn painful.

"The second day, we did not fare so well," he said thickly. "In the morning we got word that Xerxes' elite, the Immortals, were taking to the field. A thousand of his best trained warriors marched against us as the sun rose. The Athenians were nervous about them, and many of the local farmers and fisherman who had sided with us fled when the news came down. A few remained however, willing to die to protect their lands and families."

"And..." Nestus prompted him.

"We held to the pass. Leonidas refused to be drawn out by their presence, despite the perhaps ill considered advice of some of his officers." Sentos remembered the heated discussions well. He had wanted to break from the pass, to meet the Immortals on the open field and scatter them, believing that to do so would have shattered Persian morale in turn. Leonidas had stuck doggedly to the battle plan, refusing to let recklessness draw him from their apparently unassailable position in the pass.

"The first day has given us confidence," Sentos remembered him saying "but even the cliffs by the sea give way to the ocean given enough time. Our men are already tired, and there is still no end in sight..."

His words had given Sentos pause then, and they continued to do so even now. There was indeed, still no end in sight.

"The Immortals were on us by mid morning," he continued eventually. "We stopped their advance dead in its tracks, as we had all the others, but our casualties were beginning to mount. Our line was becoming too thin, too stretched, and the Persians just kept coming. By mid afternoon, we no longer had enough men fit for battle to hold the entire pass. That was when the news came down that Xerxes himself had come out to face us."

Nestus and Demosthenes both stiffened at that. Strangely, it was Demosthenes who seemed worried, while Nestus seemed positively elated by the news.

"You engaged him in combat?" the old Ephor asked, trying to hide the anticipation in his voice. Sentos nodded.

"King Leonidas asked the Athenians to join us in a full charge into the Persian ranks. We would be the vanguard, the spear tip thrusting for the head of the serpent, while the Athenians would be our shield." He paused still able to remember the heady stench of sweat and blood in the heat of the battle, and the way his spear and sword arm had ached at the shoulder from the constant fighting. It had been the heaviest combat he had ever seen, and for the first time in his life, Sentos had felt the fear of death begin to uncoil in the pit of his stomach. Even now, the shame of that memory almost drove him to silence.

"And you killed him?" Demosthenes interrupted, his voice tight and even, his lips a thin pale line as the blood drained from them.

Sentos shook his head.

"We did not. The attack was a failure. The Immortals came on us in the heat of the battle, their numbers as strong as they had been that morning, as if they had never even lost a man. Their assault was withering, and the Athenians broke before it..."

A grim smile spread across Demosthenes' face at that. Sentos was bewildered by the reaction. It almost seemed that the man was revelling at the news of their defeat, as if it were exactly what he had wanted to hear all along. Regardless, Sentos had been ordered to inform them of all that had happened, and so he pressed on, doing his best to put the discomfort Demosthenes was causing him to one side.

"...As the Athenians will to fight failed, the battle began to turn against us," he continued flatly, reliving each terrible moment with crystal clarity in his mind's eye. "Leonidas led us on bravely despite the odds we faced, and we were within a spear's throw of Xerxes himself…"

The room had fallen a deathly silent now, as all waited with bated breath for his next words.

"...and that was when our King fell," he said, his voice cracking slightly at the memory. The room erupted in cries of both anguish and outrage. Nestus and the other Ephors glanced around the roaring hoard of Demosthenes' men uncomfortably, while Demosthenes himself looked on with a small, victorious smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

As the cries and anger began to die down, Sentos opened his mouth to speak again.

"The wound was grave, a sword thrust from an Immortal that took him through the side. At the time we thought it serious but not necessarily fatal. Still, it was clear that the battle was lost and we retired back to the pass, taking our King with us, and leaving theirs still drawing breath."

He sniffed slightly as he remembered the desperate rearguard they had fought as they had fallen back, the Immortals pressing hard upon their heels. It was then that he had taken the sword cut to the thigh that was beginning to throb mercilessly the longer he remained standing. He shifted his weight with a slight grimace of pain before continuing on.

"Upon our return to camp, we discovered the true extent of King Leonidas' injuries," he said, his voice heavy with the weight of misfortune he was about to pass on. "The wound was a mortal one, and even King Leonidas himself knew he would not survive the night. So, he gave what he considered his final orders. He said that the battle was lost, and commanded that the Athenians should withdraw while they still could, or else be utterly crushed by the Persians. He and the rest of his guard remained behind, to buy time for the Athenian retreat and to make the Persians pay dearly in blood and lives for every inch of ground they wished to take."

He paused glumly, his gaze dropping slowly to the floor in shame.

"I was ordered back to Sparta, the one voice that could relay what had taken place. I do not know what fate has befallen them since I departed."

"But I do," Demosthenes spoke up unexpectedly. Nestus shot him a silencing glare, but Demosthenes continued on regardless, turning to address the whole room. "Brave King Leonidas, and his noble three hundred, who so courageously rode out to face the enemies at our gates, are dead, betrayed to that fate by their own leaders, and now slaughtered to the very last man."

The assembled soldiers howled in dismay at the news, the room erupting in a cacophony of angry shouts and Sentos felt his stomach turn as the other man spoke. Was it really true? Was the last of Leonidas' three hundred men? We're the rest truly all dead?

"How do you know this?" he asked, forgetting the correct formalities of addressing a man of Demosthenes' rank. "I've come here straight from Thermopylae, without sleep or rest the entire time. News such as that could not have traveled ahead of me."

The Spartan King turned to face him, apparently not having noticed his lack of protocol.

"I have other..." he paused, as if searching for the words. "...Means," he said finally, and for a brief instant, Sentos thought he saw the lengthening shadows in the room flicker and twist unnaturally. Demosthenes was already turning back to the furious audience once more.

"Do not be overly saddened my friends!" he shouted up to them. "For their deaths have not been in vain! Xerxes' hordes have been shown the sheer force of the Spartan will for freedom, and even as we speak, they retreat, bloodied and battered to lick their wounds, and stare into a suddenly uncertain future."

The tone of the crowd changed gradually as he spoke, slowly beginning to fill with righteous cheers and shouted praise for Leonidas and his brave men. Out of the corner of his eye, Sentos noted Nestus and the Ephors shifting uncomfortably. They did not like what was happening here, and a strange churning feeling in his gut led Sentos to feel the same way. Something about all of this felt wrong... ugly... a mockery of grief, rather than a true reflection of it.

"Make no mistake though!" Demosthenes was continuing to shout over the cheering and roaring of the crowd, his own voice raising to a fever pitch. "Xerxes and his countless armies are not defeated. Leonidas' sacrifice has bought us only time, but no more than that. We must not waste what he has given us! We must seize it now, and with both hands if we are to forge..."

"SILENCE!" Nestus bellowed above the chaos, and the result was as if someone had thrown cold water over a hysterical mob. Slowly he began to descend the steps, his long robes rasping dryly against the cold stone floor. Demosthenes watched him approach, a narrow smile edging his face as Nestus drew to a halt in front of him.

The two stood in silence for a moment, and then Nestus lashed out, his hand catching Demosthenes across the jaw in a dismissive, back handed slap that cracked loudly in the sudden stillness. The smile never left Demosthenes' face, but his eyes turned cold and calculating.

The deathly hush continued to fill the room as Nestus drew himself up to his not inconsiderable height.

"This council did not give you permission to speak," he hissed icily.

"I no longer recognise this council's authority over me," Demosthenes replied.

"As you did not recognise it on the mustering fields?" Nestus said. Sentos frowned at that.

"What happened?" he whispered back over his shoulder to Orestes, but the other man gave a tight shake of his head, indicating for him to stay silent.

"I followed the laws of Sparta," Demosthenes' reply was firm and unwavering. "They were traitors to us and to our city. King Leonidas ordered them to war, and they disobeyed."

"Wanton butchery is not the law!" Nestus snapped, his voice cracking loudly. "They were not soldiers! Most were not even armed!"

"Spartan law is clear nevertheless," Demosthenes said. "Traitors must be executed, and as King, it was my blood born duty to issue that command."

Nestus took a deep, calming breath, but his hands were still clenched into fists at his sides.

"You are no King," he said, eyeing the bronze clasp at the other man's shoulder. "Leonidas was worth ten of you."

"And where is he now?" Demosthenes sneered back. "Dead, and gone, and by your order."

Nestus did not answer, instead turning his back on the other man and returning to his seat on the long bench among the other Ephors. Demosthenes watched him go, that same tight smile returning to his face.

Orestes crossed to Sentos' side as the Ephors deliberated.

"You should sit down," he said. "That leg looks painful."

"I'll manage," Sentos replied, but even as he spoke, he could feel the pain in his leg growing worse. He was not sure how much longer he could actually remain standing, even if he really wanted to.

"Pride for the sake of pride is worthless," Orestes said, proffering his shoulder to the larger man. "Let me help you."

Sentos gave a small nod, and let Orestes lead him to the benches beside Leonidas' empty throne.

"An inspiring tale, and well told by the way," Orestes whispered to him. "In its telling though, you may have just doomed us all."

Sentos frowned in confusion as the younger man helped him down to a seat.

"What are you talking about?" he said.

"Just that you may have given Demosthenes exactly what he wants, and for some of us, that's the last thing we wanted him to have," Orestes said.

Sentos shook his head in frustration.

"I don't understand any of this," he said. "What's happening here? Why is King Demosthenes on trial?"

Orestes glanced at him sideways.

"You think that's what this is?" he said softly, then turned and stared out over the crowd warily, his eyes finally coming to rest on Demosthenes himself. The King was watching the Ephors intently and did not appear to notice Orestes' sudden scrutiny.

"I don't blame you I suppose," the younger Spartan muttered, flicking his head toward the Ephors. "That's what they believe it is as well, more fool them."

Before Sentos had the chance to ask what he meant, Nestus was turning away from his colleagues and standing once more, his voice raised to address the entire chamber, even as he stared at down at Demosthenes with a look of utter disdain.

"Demosthenes of the Line of Akellus!" he announced loudly. "You have been brought before us here to stand and await judgement for the crimes of murder and defiance of the laws of Sparta. What do you have to say in your defence?"

"I reject your accusations!" Demosthenes shouted back and turned once more to appeal to the crowd around him. "These men – if they can even be called such – claim I have broken the laws of Sparta! I have done no such thing! Indeed, I am the only man in this room to have upheld our most basic of tenets! Those who I ordered killed were traitors to us! To our city, and to our most sacred of beliefs! They defied a direct order, given to them by their rightful King, and in doing so, have cost that same King his life!"

A murmur of agreement went up in the stands, and slowly he began to build in volume as Demosthenes continued to speak.

"And yet there treachery was as nothing when compared to these men!" he sneered, whirling to point an accusing finger at the assembled Ephors. "These so called rulers, who, at every turn, have shown themselves to be cowards, unfit to hold their most honoured of titles!"

"You accuse us of treachery!?" Nestus replied, his voice filled with outright astonishment. The red cloaked soldiers at his back stiffened at that, their grips on their spears tightening, and Sentos instinctively reached for the hilt of his own sword. The atmosphere of the room was quickly descending toward violence.

"I do!" Demosthenes snapped back forcefully. He turned back to the crowd again, his tone now one of reasoned appeal. "If I have committed any crime, it is to have lain indolent for far too long! That I will admit to being guilty of."

A chorus of denial echoed out of the crowd, but Demosthenes raised his hands in a calming gesture.

"It is true my friends... my Brothers, if I may call you that..."

Sentos felt the hairs on the back of his neck raise at that. He heard that term somewhere before, and again he thought of Leonidas, lying before the campfire, his life slowly ebbing away. He had told Sentos a strange tale that night; some crazy story of gods, monsters and the people who followed them. The captain had not believed it at the time, nor did he now. None of it could really be true... could it? His hand tightened around his sword hilt as the creeping feeling of wrongness he had had ever since he arrived outside finally began to overwhelm him. He could not tear his eyes away from Demosthenes though, so enraptured was he by the King's words.

"I sat idly by..." Demosthenes was continuing, "...as our law were subverted, our traditions defiled, as these men gave away all that it was to be Spartan on a silver platter! And all the while, better men than they or I, gave their very lives to defend it!"

The crowd of blue cloaked Spartans continued to roar in denial of his words, assuring him that he was being too harsh upon himself, that he had in fact done everything in his power to stop what had happened. Demosthenes accepted their words graciously, using them as fuel to carry him up to an almost fever pitch as he barrelled heedlessly onward.

"I watched as they allowed those Persian dogs to take liberties with our hospitality!" he cried. "I watched as they allowed them to accuse us of conspiracy and murder, and I did nothing! I watched as they surrendered us to those very same Persians, without consultation or question or even negotiation, and still I did nothing! I watched as brave, dead, King Leonidas marched to war on our behalf with only three hundred men to support him, and I continued to do nothing! But when it came to the Helots... when that final injustice was laid before me, and I watched these men, these oh so 'wise' leaders of ours, surrender not only our freedom to our enemies, but our very dignity to our slaves... I could stand it no more! All I did then was what any free thinking Spartan would have done in my place! I took it upon myself to defend us from the chaos that was and still is consuming the world around us!"

He took a deep breath, suddenly reining in his pitch, and when he spoke again, his voice was calmer, more earnest, almost appealing.

"I ask you now... no I beg of you now... to all do the same. The Persians will return, and when they do, they will sweep aside all armies that stand against them! We cannot afford to stand divided and now is not the time for half measures! Not just Sparta, but all of Greece will fall and fall soon if we do not act! Perhaps not to the Persians, but if not to them then doubtless to some other foreign power! We cannot count on others to save us! That was brave Leonidas' mistake. He trusted in outside influences, allegiances with other cities, wandering warlords and all to his ultimate ruin! We are not politicians! Ours is not the Athenian way of endless talk! We are soldiers, born and bred for one purpose; to fight! If others will not save us, we must take it upon ourselves to save them! Together as Spartans one and all, we can forge a new Greece! A stronger Greece! A Greece that will stand proud and mighty, not divided and fractious. I implore you all to heed me! Don't let the sacrifice of brave Leonidas be in vain! He has taught us that if we do not stand as one, we will fall as many! Let our legacy be the former, and not the latter!"

Finally, his speech drew to a close and he hung his head, no longer the proud defiant individual of minutes before, but instead a humble man awaiting his fate.

Sentos could not quite believe what he had just heard. What Demosthenes was proposing was insanity, and to invoke Leonidas' name in its defence made the hairs on the back of his neck bristle with anger. Was Demosthenes truly being serious? Did he really expect Sparta to launch a war of conquest against the other Greek city states so soon after the loss of three hundred men at Thermopylae? Did he honestly believe that such a strategy would unite Greece against the Persians? It was nothing short of madness!

"Pretty words," Nestus said, regarding the Spartan King steadily as he did so. "But in the end, they cannot excuse your abominable crimes. This council's judgement remains unswayed. You are guilty of the crimes you have been accused of, without a shadow of a doubt, and your punishment is as it always was..."

He nodded to the two guards in red cloaks flanking him, and the men descended the steps to the council floor, crossing to Demosthenes and seizing him roughly by the arms. Demosthenes did not resist, but the crowd began to stir restlessly.

"Take him away," the old Ephor ordered. "To the mustering fields where so many of his victims still lie, then execute him and leave his corpse among the Helots he so brutally massacred. Let them judge him on the banks of the Styx, as is only fitting."

The two men nodded tightly and turned with Demosthenes, beginning to frog march him out of the room as the crowd started to jeer down at them.

Suddenly, the line of blue cloaked soldiers led by Captain Gracus – the men Sentos had thought were set to guard Demosthenes – closed ranks and lifted their shields, their spears dropping into a striking position. They barred the red cloaked soldiers' path like a field of hardened wood and steel. The two soldiers escorting Demosthenes froze in their tracks, seemingly uncertain as to what they should do next.

"Stand aside Captain Gracus!" Nestus called to them angrily. "That is an order."

"You cannot command me," Gracus replied, then nodded toward Demosthenes. "Only my King can do that."

A rumble of approval went up from the audience, and Sentos began to straighten from his seat, only to feel Orestes' hand grip tightly to his arm and pull him back down into his seat. The younger man shook his head at Sentos.

"Don't," he hissed. "You cannot stop what's about to happen."

"The Honoured Ephor ordered you to stand aside!" One of the red cloaked guard snapped, stepping forward toward Gracus. He did not manage more than a single pace when Gracus' spear lashed out, splitting the other man's leather breastplate and taking him hard in the gut. The guard gave a pained gasp of surprise and stumbled back a couple of feet before collapsing to the ground with blood seeping between his fingers.

For a moment all fell silent, and then suddenly, in a single bloody clash of sword and spear, Demosthenes' men felled the second guard too. Before anything could be done to stop them, they swept past their King to surround the low platform on which the Ephors were now seated.

The few of Leonidas' guards remaining at the Ephors' sides charged forward to meet them, but the element of surprise and sheer force of numbers on the side of Demosthenes' men were against them. Sentos tried again to stand, to run and help his comrades in their defence of the Ephors but Orestes continued to cling grimly to his arm.

"You can't save them," he hissed. "Better to live for the future, than to die needlessly in the here and now."

Sentos had never felt more worthless in his entire life. First Leonidas and now this. He did not understand what was happening anymore! Despite his confusion though, he knew Orestes was right. Even if he were to go to their aid, his leg and the number of Demosthenes' men would only result in a quick death, and in the end what would that achieve?

The coup itself lasted less than a minute. Soon, all of the red cloaked guards were dead or dying on the council chamber floor, and the Ephors had been made to kneel on the cold stone tiles of the platform, a ring of sharpened spear blades surrounding them. In the stands, the majority of the crowd were looking on in eager anticipation of what was to come next. Sentos could spy a few here and there who looked as disgusted by this turn of events as he felt, but also like him, they were powerless to intervene, their numbers simply being too few or too scattered to mount any kind of resistance.

"It would appear you made an error in judgement, Honoured Ephors," Demosthenes said, stepping up onto the platform with them and all but spitting the word 'honoured'.

"And what error would that be?" Nestus sneered back. "Not ordering your death sooner?"

A spear haft from one of the surrounding guards caught the hold man hard across the shoulders, driving him to all fours with a shout of pain as he went.

"Your error was in assuming that this was my trial," Demosthenes said smoothly, moving to squat in front of Nestus. "It was, in point of fact, yours."

Nestus tilted his head back to glare at Demosthenes, his eyes blazing fiery hatred from beneath his thick bushy eyebrows.

"You do not frighten me, Demosthenes" he growled defiantly. "You are nothing more than a petty tyrant with delusions of grandeur, the same as Xerxes, whom you fear so much!"

He turned his head to regard the room angrily.

"To be a Spartan is to be a warrior who does not court war!" he shouted. "A person of pride and strength, who remains humble and does not flaunt his power. Here now at this moment, you are making a choice to abandon that! If you follow this madman, if you let him sway you with a few well chosen words that turn your own fears to suit his needs, then you are destroying Sparta as surely as Xerxes will! Should that be the choice you make, then may Ares curse you all to burn in Tartarus for an eternity!"

"Ares!?" Demosthenes snapped, then straightened suddenly, his arms spreading wide as he gestured to the chamber all around them.

"Ares!?" he said again, almost laughing this time. "Look around you old man? Don't you feel it? The world has changed! Ares has not been watching over us since Marathon! We are dead to him, and so I say, that he too is dead to us! Do you not agree my Brothers?"

A resounding shout of agreement went up from the crowd, and Demosthenes turned back to face Nestus once more.

"Enough words," he said. "You are, all of you, guilty of betraying Sparta to its enemies, and surrendering the very rights and traditions that make us who we are. Now it is time for your final sentencing. I believe you already know the punishment for such a betrayal."

Nestus straightened his back, and stared at Demosthenes with eyes like ice.

"I believe I have seen you administer it enough," he said.

"Then you should know that I take no pleasure in this," Demosthenes replied his voice suddenly soft and regretful. "You were all of you true Spartans once. Maybe in the afterlife, you can be so again."

He glanced up at Captain Gracus and nodded curtly.

"Do it," he said.

Gracus returned his nod, and gestured to the rest of Demosthenes' soldiers surrounding the Ephors. The men stepped forward, three to each Ephor. Two of the three crossed the hafts of their spears behind each Ephor's neck, pushing their man forward so that he was kneeling with his head toward the floor. Then, the third soldier came stepping forward, each one drawing their sword and holding it above their own Ephor's neck, poised ready for a downward strike. Demosthenes himself stood above Nestus, the blade of his own sword shining wickedly in the light filtering in from outside.

"On my order..." Gracus barked loudly, and the soldiers fingers visibly tightened around their various weapons. "...execute!"

The silence was deafening as the swords fell, and five separate heads rolled sickeningly across the stone floor.

Demosthenes turned back to face the crowd, his sword, now stained with Nestus' blood, thrust high above his head.

"Justice is done!" he shouted. "Spartan law has been sated, and our pride restored! Now, there is much that must be done and little time to do it. So that we can save Greece from her enemies, first we must save her from herself! Are you with me my Brothers!"

A dull rumble of agreement went up through crowd, and a slow chant began to echo of the walls.

'Demosthenes!', 'Demosthenes!', 'Demosthenes!'

The last living Spartan King smiled, and thrust his bloodied sword even higher.

"ARE YOU WITH ME!" he bellowed.

The crowd went from low rumble to a full scale eruption, the chanting growing louder and louder with each passing moment until it boomed like thunder from wall to wall.

Sentos grimaced at the sight and sound of it all. He could feel his stomach lurching sickeningly as he eyed the heads of the Ephors littering the council room floor. Was this really what Leonidas had been fighting for? Was this really the Sparta they had been trying to save? Nestus' eyes seemed to stare back at him accusingly, and slowly he looked away, his gaze finally falling on Orestes next to him.

"A dark day," the blue cloaked Spartan said softly.

"I don't understand," Sentos muttered, his voice hoarse and miserable. "What has become of us? When did we become so hate filled? How this even happen!?"

Orestes looked at him, his expression one of complete and total despair.

"The same way these things always happen," he said. "Because we let them."

---

A thin layer of drizzle hung in the air beyond the window. Athelis sighed as he watched Ithius and his wagon roll into the yard from out of the dull gray forest beyond, the wagon's wheels caked with mud from the dirt trail that led up to the small woodsman's cottage in which he now found himself.

Nearby, from out of the shelter of a rickety thatched lean-to, a short squat man with a barrel chest and thick arms crossed the rain slick cobbles of the yard and began to help a group of particularly weary and ragged looking individuals down from the wagon. Some of them were carrying bags, or sacks of clothes, food, or maybe even valuables salvaged form their former life. Others had little more than the clothes on their backs, but one and all, they each wore the same expression of loss and fear. Athelis knew how they were feeling. He had felt the same way when he had awoken after the battle at the tomb, only to find Callisto comatose, and his one hope for revenge seemingly dashed to pieces.

Now he was here, idling in the middle of a forest on the edge of Spartan territory while outside, Ithius had begun to run himself a little refugee camp for fleeing Helots. It was nonsense really, a complete disaster just waiting to happen. Take the squat man for instance. Athelis knew his name was Drogo and that he was, relatively speaking, something of a big wig in the Helot community, but beyond that he knew nothing about the man. Ithius seemed to trust him, but how far could that trust really stretch? Could any of them truly be trusted at all? With every fresh Helot brought here, the chances of their being discovered were heightened exponentially. All it would take was one – just one – agent of Pelion's cult or Demosthenes' Spartans to creep in here and they would suddenly have a whole world of trouble bearing down upon them.

Sitting here playing humanitarian games was not the way forward. They should be out there making plans, fighting back, and yet none of them were.

And nor was he.

He slapped his hand hard against the window frame and let out a frustrated grunt. Why was he so afraid? What was it that was suddenly holding him back? He had never felt so uncertain before. He had always known exactly what it was he wanted, what it would take to make it so that he did not see Corrina's face every time he fell asleep at night. Now though, the answers were not so clear, and that frustrated him no end.

A low, pained moan sounded behind him, and he turned to the narrow, uncomfortable looking bed on which Callisto lay. Her condition had not changed since they had dragged her, limp and unconscious, from the tomb of Lycurgus. If anything she looked even worse than back then. It had only been a few days, yet her eyes were sunken, and they darted back and forth beneath their lids in the same manner they had been doing ever since her swim in the Pneuma lake. Her skin was pallid and clammy, shining with a thin layer of sweat that soaked her hair too.

He crossed to her side and placed a hand tenderly across her brow. She did not so much as flinch, lost as she was in whatever nightmares were plaguing her.

"I..." he began, then paused, swallowing as he tried to think of the words. Every time he did this, he just could not seem to get them right.

"...I never got the chance to apologise before," he said. "I wanted to tell you that I might have misjudged you, but you didn't give me the chance, and then..."

Outside the room he heard the sound of the cottage's front door banging shut and heavy footsteps on the floorboards outside. He withdrew his hand quickly and crossed back to the window. At his back, the door to the room opened and Ithius walked in, his cloak still dripping rain water.

Athelis cast him a backward glance then went back to staring out of the window.

"Any sign?" he asked.

"None," Ithius said from behind him. "None of the refugees have seen anyone meeting Monocles' description on the road North."

There was a brief pause, and Athelis felt his heart sink a little. Monocles had been his paymaster, and a strange little man he had been too, but in the end Athelis had grown quite fond of him. He hated the idea that something bad might have happened to him.

"Maybe he already got clear," he suggested, but deep down he had a feeling that that was not the case.

"Maybe," he heard Ithius agree. He could already hear in the other man's tone that he suspected the same as Athelis. There was silence for a couple of minutes, then the floorboards creaked softly as Ithius crossed to Callisto's side.

"Any other news?" Athelis asked steadily, still not turning around.

"Nothing good," Ithius answered, his voice sounding tired and defeated at the same time. "The Ephors are dead, and Demosthenes is now the sole power in Sparta. Apparently Demosthenes is shouting to anyone who will listen that the only way to stand against the Persians is if they unite Greece under one banner. A Spartan baner."

Athelis snorted.

"Good luck getting Delphi to agree," he said. "They've never been warriors, and the Athenians would sooner cut off their own feet than march to war under a Spartan led coalition."

"They won't have to agree if Demosthenes conquers them," Ithius said tiredly. "There's talk of taking the army North, to wage war and make any who won't ally with Demosthenes do so by force if necessary. Because Demosthenes is playing off the invasion fears, it's getting a surprising amount of popular support from the nobility and such..."

"That's madness," Athelis said as he watched the rain outside begin to worsen. "A war now wouldn't strengthen anything. It would only make the whole of Greece weaker when the Persians do finally come for us again."

"It does make sense if your goal isn't to win a war, but to end Greek lives," Ithius said darkly.

"So you think that's what the Followers were after all along?" Athelis asked. "Play the political game and turn the situation to their advantage so they can start a civil war?"

"I do."

Athelis rolled his eyes.

"And you played right into their hands, what with your little populist revolt, didn't you?" He gave Ithius a round of mock applause. "Great going there chief."

Ithius fell silent for a moment, and he spoke again his voice was tighter.

"Rumour has it that the Followers are finding a surprising amount of converts from the temples of Artemis and Ares," he continued eventually. "People are scared and uncertain, grasping at anything that might give them some kind of hope..."

Athelis felt his stomach turn at that, but he managed to hold his tongue this time. The last thing he needed right now was to get into a fist fight with Ithius. The former Helot's voice trailed off, and Athelis could hear floorboards creaking again as he shifted his weight.

"Any change?" he asked. It did not take a genius to work out that he was talking about Callisto.

"None," Athelis replied.

"One of the men I just brought in is a healer. He's a little odd, not as frightened as the rest, but he seems to think he can help."

"Best send him in then," Athelis sneered back. "The sooner he fails the sooner we can try something else that doesn't work either."

"Do you have a problem with something?" he heard Ithius say sternly.

"Yeah," Athelis snapped, rounding on him sharply as he did so. "You!"

"Me?"

"You," Athelis nodded, then gestured out of the window at the yard beyond. "Demosthenes betrayed you, put your best friend on the path to self destruction, murdered your people, and all to pave the way for this power play of his, and you're just sitting here letting him do it!"

"You think I should be fighting back?" Ithius said, his voice tight and controlled, but Athelis could sense the growing anger inside him. "Mounting some kind of a resistance effort so that more of us can be slaughtered like pigs before market day?"

"At least then you'd be doing something useful!" Athelis said

Ithius' jaw muscles stood out beneath his skin as he clenched his teeth together in an effort to hold his temper.

"My people aren't soldiers Athelis. They're not like you or me. They proved that at the mustering fields. Those of them that tried to fight lost their lives there. The one's that are left... they just want to run... to find somewhere safe..."

"Don't be naive Ithius," Athelis interrupted. "There's nowhere that's going to be safe for any of you now, and you know it too! Demosthenes isn't going to stop searching for you all. You have to fight back."

"With what!?" Ithius finally snapped, his voice rising angrily. "They aren't warriors! Not a one of them! They're bakers, farmers, servants, and tailors, and you're telling me I should send them out against battle trained Spartans? They wouldn't last two minutes!"

"Horse shit!" Athelis sneered. "It's not about how well people fight. You've been in enough battles to know that. It's about how well they are led! Your old friend Leonidas just proved that at Thermopylae."

"Maybe if I had some help," Ithius growled back, "from... oh I don't know... some experienced mercenary lets say... someone who's seen war from all sides, and knows how to fight it. Someone who could help plan and strategise; someone who didn't spend all their time just moping about in..."

"Don't start with me," Athelis cut him off flatly. "I didn't just play right into the Followers' hands. Your war with Demosthenes isn't mine, Ithius."

"I've been having trouble trying to work out exactly which war is yours," Ithius shot back. "Remind me again why you came to Sparta in the first place? It clearly wasn't for a love of history."

"I don't need to listen to this," Athelis said dismissively. "You aren't my commander. You can't tell me what to do. You have to pay me for that privilege. My average rate is twenty dinars a day, plus expenses."

Ithius fell silent for a moment, then nodded slowly to himself.

"You're right of course," he said softly. "You'll be gone by sunset then?"

"I..." Athelis paused as the words suddenly sank in. "What?"

Ithius folded his arms and regarded the Athelis sternly.

"You heard me," he said, louder this time. "You're of no use to me lurking in here like this, and I'm certainly not about to pay for the 'privilege' of your company. I don't have time for freeloaders taking up space and supplies. We're already having to ration what food we have, and I could support three children on the amount you pack away at every meal. I expect everyone here to earn their keep Athelis, you included. If you can't do that, or aren't even willing to try, then I want you gone."

The two of them stood, glaring at each other in silence for long moments, until Callisto let out another pained groan. Athelis flicked his head toward the unconscious woman.

"What about her?" he said. "You going to waste 'space and supplies' on her?"

"I owe her my help," Ithius replied. "I don't owe you anything. Besides, why do you even care? It's not like she was paying you."

Athelis wanted to lunge for the other man, to throttle him there and then. Instead he settled for an even glare.

"I don't care," he said. He was lying of course, but he was not entirely sure why.

Ithius cocked an eyebrow at him, clearly not believing him either.

"Gone by sunset remember," he said firmly, then turned and headed for the door. "I'll send in the healer," was the last thing he said before the door swung shut behind him.

Athelis stared at the door for a moment or two longer, his mind churning over what he had just said. Why did he even care what happened to Callisto? Practical reasons really. She had seemed to know a lot about the Followers, and had been actively trying to fight them. That had made them uneasy allies, and at her side, he had been able to do more damage to Pelion and his schemes in two days, than he had managed in the preceding three years. Necessity made for strange bedfellows on occasion, and there were none stranger than Callisto.

He crossed back to the bed and stared down at her, the reasoning bouncing around his head, but never really convincing him.

"I'm lying to myself, but then you knew that didn't you?" he said softly. "At first, I thought you were just like the man I've spent the last few years hating. You aren't though, are you? You're the only one who really understands I think; the only one who knows how much it hurts when the ones you love are taken from you."

"Not the only one, I can assure you," came a fresh voice. It was dry and cracked like withered parchment. Athelis looked up to see a travel worn figure standing in the doorway. His back was hunched and old gnarled hands clutched at a heavy looking walking staff. Athelis could not make out the man's face, hidden as it was beneath a ragged burlap hood, but something about that voice was achingly familiar

"You're the healer I take it?" he said.

"I have a little talent in that regard, yes," the man said, stepping more fully into the room, his walking staff clacking loudly off the floorboards as he made his way over to Callisto. With his back turned to Athelis He propped his staff against the bed, then gently, almost cautiously even, he reached out and lifted her wrist, placing two fingers across it and another two against his own neck beneath the hood.

"What are you doing?" Athelis asked, but the man did not answer. Instead, he stood still, his head cocked slightly to one side as if listening to some far away voice.

"Her pulse is shallow but steady," he said, sounding more familiar to Athelis with each passing moment. "She lives for now, but for how much longer..." he shrugged, "...that I cannot say."

He glanced briefly back over his shoulder toward Athelis, but kept his head lowered so that his face could not be seen.

"This is Pneuma poisoning isn't it?" he asked.

Athelis nodded then looked to Callisto.

"We've tried everything we can think of, but she won't wake up," he said, before shifting his gaze back to the old healer. "Do you know what it's doing to her?"

"All too well," he said. "You will not be able to wake her, because she is not really asleep. She is trapped within her own mind, inside a labyrinth built of her own fear, pain and hatred."

"Sounds lovely," Athelis said. "A veritable stroll in Elysium."

Callisto shifted slightly on the bed, her eyes fluttering briefly, and Athelis felt his heart leap into his throat. Was this it? Was she about to wake up? With a low moan, she settled again, her eyes returning to the same darting pattern as before. Athelis' spirit sank.

"Can you help her?" he said eventually, not taking his eyes off Callisto as he spoke.

"The Pneuma is a gift from the Olympians," the healer said. "It was sent down as a test. That is what this is; a test of will, of soul, strength and faith. No mortal hand can interfere or change it..."

As he spoke, the man's voice began to drift far away, as if his attention were beginning to wander.

"...but then that is the challenge is it not? To undo that which they have made, to defy that which they thought set in stone..."

Athelis' frowned again. The healer was talking to someone, that much was clear, but he was certainly not addressing Athelis. As he continued, he seemed to forget himself, his dry withered voice becoming deeper and clearer as if the cracked tones of earlier had been simple affectation. A slow, dawning realisation was beginning to creep at the back of Athelis' skull. This man was familiar, and it was a familiarity Athelis did not like.

"Hey," he said, taking a step forward as he tried to get the other man's attention. "Do I know you? I feel like I should."

The man began to chuckle, softly at first, but slowly it grew until it was a rich throaty laugh, far removed from the dry, hoarseness of before.

"Oh come now Athelis!" he said, his voice now sickeningly clear. Suddenly, it became as if a completely different man were standing before him. The hunched back disappeared in an instant, and where once he had stood wizened and malformed, now the old man was tall and proud. Slowly, he reached up to remove the hood that obscured his face. It was a dramatic gesture that was not really even necessary. Athelis already knew who he was facing. As the hood fell away, Pelion's smile broadened at the look of horror on his face.

"If am honest with you, I'm more than a little surprised," he said scornfully. "Surprised and also somewhat disappointed. I had thought you savvier than to be fooled by so simple a disguise."

He brushed at the sleeves of his ragged robes distastefully.

"I would have worn my ceremonial robes naturally, but they are rather conspicuous at the end of the day, and I thought it best that this little rendezvous be done in secret." He leaned forward, his voice now a smug conspiratorial whisper. "After all, one never knows who might be watching."

Athelis did not say a word. Instead he let out a guttural growl of fury and leaped at the other man, driving him hard against the wooden wall and pressing his forearm roughly across the old priest's throat.

"You!" he snarled darkly, already reaching for his dagger, only to realise he had left with his sword and the rest of his things in the room next door. With a frustrated grunt, he redoubled his efforts to choke the man to death. "All these years running and now you just waltz right in here, bold as brass!? I don't know what game it is you're playing this time, what angle it is that you're working, but I'll tell you now, I'm going to kill you before you ever get the chance to see it through!"

Pelion gagged and choked as Athelis' forearm ground harder and harder against his throat, cutting off the air millimeter by painful millimeter.

"...can't... breathe..." he managed to gasp.

"That's kind of the idea," Athelis said, a grim feeling of satisfaction beginning to settle over him as Pelion's eyes rolled desperately.

"Kill me..." the old priest hissed.

"Precisely what I'm doing," Athelis retorted.

"...kill me..." Pelion struggled to continue, "...and you lose... all of you..."

"What are you talking about?" Athelis snapped, but Pelion's eyes were already turning vacant, staring dully into the middle distance as unconsciousness began to set in.

"What do you mean we lose!?" Athelis demanded again. He leaned in close, his mouth no more than an inch or so from Pelion's. "ANSWER ME!"

Pelion's mouth moved slowly, but the only sound that emerged from it was a pained, wheezing rattle. With a final cry of pure hatred, Athelis stepped back, releasing Pelion and letting him fall to the floor, the old man's breaths coming in heaving gasps until he managed to cough loudly and his breathing began to return to normal.

"What did you mean when you said we lose?" Athelis said again, glaring down at him disdainfully.

"Exactly what I said," Pelion replied, his voice now sounding genuinely hoarse. "Kill me, and you ensure my Lord's freedom."

"Is that why you came here then?" Athelis said. "Guarantee Cronus' release from Tartarus by having me kill you?"

He cocked his head slightly in consideration of the other man.

"Funny," he continued. "I never really pegged you as the martyring type."

"Then you don't know me well enough," Pelion snapped back. "I would gladly die to see my Lord's will be done."

"But far easier to let other people do the dying for you?" Athelis sneered.

"And what would you know of pain?" Pelion snorted dismissively at him. "Of loss? Of sacrifice?"

"Corrina was my WIFE!" Athelis practically shouted, unable to keep his temper from flaring.

"And she was my daughter!" Pelion responded in kind. "I wasn't about to lose her the same way I did my wife. No one was going to take her from me! Not the Olympians, and certainly not you!"

"So you thought you'd just kill her instead!?" Athelis said incredulously.

"I sent her to my Lord's side," Pelion said, his voice ringing with righteousness and his eyes shining with the light of a man safe in his total conviction. "There she will be cared for and looked after in a way like no other. There she will be safe."

"Funny definition of safety you have," Athelis said darkly.

Pelion turned away with disgusted snort.

"You just cannot understand can you?" he said. "Hardly a surprise really I suppose. Such a faithless creature as you never could. Your only loyalty has ever been to yourself; to your own wants, your own desires and pathetic satisfactions. Is it any wonder I needed to protect Corrina from you? I could never have trusted someone so completely selfish with my daughter."

Athelis could not think of an answer. He had always thought there was some dark, unholy reason that Pelion had murdered his own daughter; that it had been some weird occult sacrifice. The truth, that it had in fact been done out of some insane level of fatherly protectiveness, was probably even worse, and made him feel sick to his stomach. Pelion had burned his daughter alive in a temple, not because he had loved his god too much, but because he had loved her even more.

"If you have so much faith in your Lord, why are you here now?" he asked eventually. "Aren't I supposed to be your enemy?"

Pelion gave a low, derisive chuckle.

"I hate to disappoint you Athelis, but in my Lord's grand design, you do not even warrant a footnote." He gestured toward Callisto's prone form on the bed. "She on the other hand... she has... well, lets just say that she has a role to play." He gave a philosophical shrug. "Whether for good or ill though,well, that has yet to be decided.""

Athelis' lip curled upward in a sneer of distaste.

"Then why did your friend Mortius decide to dunk her in the Pneuma?" he said. "Hard to for her to play that role if she's dead, or comatose for that matter.

Pelion gave a long suffering sigh.

"He is somewhat... overzealous would be the word I believe. There may have been a... a... misunderstanding." Suddenly, he cocked his head in the same manner her had earlier, as if he were listening again. "But there may still be some benefit to be gained from this," he muttered almost to himself, his gaze and voice far away again, his face slack with inattention. He continued to stand that way for close to a minute, then blinking sharply, his eyes refocused on Athelis and a dark smile lit his face.

"You want her back, don't you," he said. It was not a question.

"I want your head on the garden wall out there," Athelis said, motioning toward the window and the yard beyond. "You and your Followers, all in a neat little row. Cronus' too if I have my way about it."

"Aiming a little beyond your means, don't you think?" Pelion countered archly.

"That's why I need her!" Athelis shot back without missing a beat as he pointed toward Callisto. "She was going to help me put an end to you!"

"And once more, you reveal your true colours," Pelion said. "Everything has to be in service of you and petty needs. Even her. I do not think she would be pleased to hear that."

Athelis' fists clenched tightly and he felt his anger beginning to grow inside of him. Everything Pelion was saying was cutting deeper than he cared to admit. How could the old man no such much?

"I've been patient with you so far," he said, doing his best to hold his temper, "but if you want to make it out of here alive, I suggest you leave." He gestured to the door. "Right now."

Pelion held up a hand as if he were gesturing to a servant, and Athelis felt his stomach churn with rage. Still, he managed to cling to his temper though.

"Not just yet," the old priest said, and he held up a stalling hand as Athelis took a threatening step toward him. "Kill me, and lose your only chance to save her." he said quickly.

Athelis stopped and folded his arms firmly across his chest.

"Alright," he said. "I'm listening."

"I have something for you," Pelion said, reaching into his robes as he did so. "A peace offering if you like, something that may help you get what you want."

From his robes, he pulled an amulet, and not a particularly attractive one either. Though it appeared to be made of gold, it was mostly plain and unadorned, with a thick chain securing a large flat disc. The disc itself was without markings or ornamentation of any kind save one noticeable one. A large misshapen lump of what looked startlingly like obsidian had been set at the amulets centre.

Pelion handed it to him as if it were the most valuable thing in the world, and Athelis took it from him warily, lifting it to his eye line so that he might better inspect it.

"What is this?" he asked.

"The one thing that can cure her," Pelion said softly, his keen eyes focused intently on Athelis. "If you place it around her neck, it will draw her back to you."

"How..." Athelis began, then stopped short, staring at the amulet intently. Something about the obsidian gem set at its core drew his eye, and he felt a faint tugging sensation in the back of his mind, as if something were being stirred deep inside him. For a moment, the image of Corrina, cold, dead and burned flashed in his mind, and there was a lurching sensation in his stomach, as if he were suddenly falling.

With a great effort, he managed to wrench his eyes away from the amulet and back to Pelion.

"Why?" he asked, his breath catching in his chest. "Why give me this? Why help me save her if she's only going to try and stop you?"

"Did I not say her role is not yet fully decided?" Pelion said. "She may try to stop my Lord, this is true. She may also yet prove to be the key to his return."

"Then why shouldn't I just leave her as she is?" Athelis said, feeling frustration growing inside him.

Pelion's smile widened nastily.

"Because you want to see me dead, and my Lord stopped as much as she does," he said, then tapped thoughtfully at his staff.

"If memory serves, you and your soldier friends often used to gamble, am I right? Cards, cups, dice, games of chance and the like?"

Athelis nodded.

"I've played the odds before, yes."

"And that is all I am offering you," he said, nodding toward the amulet. "Just another game of chance. Another opportunity to play the odds. In the end, you may yet lose, but should you win, well..." he shrugged and headed toward the door, leaving Athelis to stare disbelievingly at the amulet once more. As he opened the door to leave, the old priest lifted his hood again, casting a final backward glance.

"... ask yourself this; is the gain not worth the risk?"

With that he was gone, the door swinging quietly shut behind him.

For long moments Athelis stood, the amulet hanging limply between his fingers as he gazed at it, being careful not to stare directly into the obsidian. He felt twisted and turned around inside. He did not trust Pelion, but at the same time, he could not ignore the logic of his words. Chance was not something to be sneered at. He had met Corrina by chance after all. The bigger question was, how much was Pelion stacking the odds against him?

Gingerly he held the amulet out at arms length, dangling it mere inches above Callisto's face. She stirred fitfully and her top lip curled back to reveal clenched white teeth. The amulet was cool and the gold made it heavy between his fingers. It would be so easy to just place it around her neck right now, to have her back in an instant, ready to side with him and spit Pelion and the rest of cretinous Followers like the suckling pigs they were. So, so easy.

Too easy perhaps.

With a sigh, a drew it back away from her again. Could she really be trusted, or was Pelion right? Would she ultimately turn on them, on him? It would hardly be an unprecedented move if she did, but then what other options did he have? If there was one lesson the last few days had taught him, it was that Pelion and the Followers were far more than they had first appeared, and certainly more than he could handle alone. He needed allies, and more of them than just Callisto.

With a frustrated grunt, he shoved the amulet inside his leather jerkin and stalked out of the room into the hall outside. There was no sign of Pelion, the priest long having departed, and Athelis cursed softly. How could he have been so stupid!? He had had the chance to end Pelion! Right there and then, and he had allowed the old man to distract him with talk of Corrina, and Callisto.

From somewhere down the hall he could hear voices from another room. It was the small front room that overlooked the other side of the clearing where the cottage was situated.

Squaring his shoulders he began to stride purposefully toward it. He knew now what he had to do. The Helots had never really been a threat to the Followers. They had just been a means to an end for them, but now, just maybe...

He shoved the door to the room open roughly and walked inside. A small table had been set up by the window that overlooked the forest beyond, and Ithius and the man known as Drogo were seated at it. Drogo was nursing a mug of ale, while Ithius examined and old tattered map spread out in front of him.

"...could head North..." Drogo was saying, but Ithius was shaking his head.

"Demosthenes will be waiting for us to try that, and besides, we might be leaving people..." he stopped suddenly as Athelis slammed the door shut behind him.

"What do you want?" Ithius said.

Athelis said nothing. He merely crossed the room to stand beside them, the amulet weighing heavy inside his jerkin as he glared down at the map.

"You should be using the forests to move around," he said simply. "Stick to the back trails and woodsmans' paths. Spartans never march without enough men to form a Phalanx. That's too many men on such small roads. The old wagon trails are no good though. Demosthenes will be watching them for certain."

Ithius glanced at Drogo then cocked an eyebrow at Athelis.

"And what's the charge for this service?" he said.

"That one you get for free," Athelis said. "Along with anymore of my help you need, but on one condition."

Ithius eyed him thoughtfully.

"And what condition would that be?"

Athelis smiled grimly.

"When the time comes, I want your help nailing every last Follower to the nearest wall," he said.

---

Pelion was not in the best of moods as he entered the main chamber of the tomb. The meeting with Athelis had gone as hoped, but he would never have had to resort to such desperate measures if not for Mortius' near killing of Callisto. Even now he was not entirely sure that the shadowy Soul might not have succeeded already. Pneuma was a potent thing, when all was said and done, and combined with Callisto's own powerful personal demons, it could easily prove lethal. Pelion still remembered what had happened to Soriacles. By all rights, Callisto should have been dead already, her mind little more than a scorched and blackened mess inside her skull. That that had not taken place stood as stark testimony to her resilience, and how the Olympians selection of her to be their champion had ultimately proven to be a more cunning move than even he had first thought.

He paused mid stride, studying the decapitated body of the Follower on the floor. Mortius' punishment for his failure had been swift and brutal, a true portrait of the shadowy figure's single minded ruthlessness. As he stared down at the head, a dull ache began to throb painfully between his temples, and he felt a gnawing presence beginning to eat away at the back of his mind.

"Calm yourself my Faith," came the familiar distant whisper of his Lord. "There is no failure in the service you have given. My Soul is formidable. He could be no other way or else I would never have chosen him. However, he works to his own agenda. You though, you have done well in achieving mine. The Callisto woman will yet belong to me. You need only to hold to your trust in me, to stay the course, and to give it time."

Pelion began walking again, attempting to make it appear as if there nothing untoward were happening.

Time may have been something they had now, but it would not always be so. With each passing day their enemies would be marshalling their forces. There plan was sound no matter the preparations their opponents made, but the longer they were given to prepare a defence, the less effective his Lord's plan would be.

"You doubt me?" His Lord rasped irritably, his voice like a swarm of hornets buzzing around Pelion's mind. "That would be most unwise. You are my Faith! There is no room for doubt. Only utmost obedience, and then, when I am free, your faithful service will not be forgotten."

Pelion did his best to stifle his thoughts. His Lord was right. He could not afford to let any kind of doubt cloud his judgement. Athelis would not disappoint. Of that he was certain.

He mounted the steps that led up to Lycurgus' sarcophagus, and stood quietly, his eyes sliding over the Pneuma lake as he waited.

"He comes to you..." His Lord hissed. "I crawl at the edges of his mind..."

There was a barely audible rustle from somewhere nearby, and Pelion narrowed his eyes as he listened carefully. It was a dry scrabbling sound coming from somewhere back toward the tomb entrance. It continued for a moment or two then was followed by a low, grunted curse, and footsteps muffled only slightly by the darkness around the edges of the chamber.

He turned to regard the room, bringing his staff down with a loud bang against the slab beneath his feet. The crack of wood against stone rolled off the walls and between the pillars, causing the footsteps to falter for a moment.

"I know you are there," he called out loudly. "You Spartans may be renowned warriors, but stealth is clearly not your greatest strength."

"Nor was it ever my concern," came a strong voice, edged with an infuriating level of self possession that almost rivalled Pelion's own.

A number of men crossed out of the shadows around the edges of the chamber, and Pelion felt every muscle in his body tense in involuntary nervousness. They were all of them big, well muscled and clad in the usual dark leather armour of Spartan soldiers. Each of them wore a blue cape, fastened with a bronze clasp and a similarly fashioned helm with a low cut blue crest. At their head marched a figure as tall as any of the others. He did not wear his helm, carrying it in the crook of his arm as if it were some kind of royal scepter. Unlike the rest of the Spartans, he also did not carry a spear. Instead, a heavy looking sword hung in a plain scabbard at his side, and he wore it with the easy grace of a man born to it.

"King Demosthenes," Pelion said with a sweeping bow, equal parts respectful and at the same time full of mockery. "I had not expected to see you here..."

He straightened, a dark look suddenly creeping across his face.

"...at least not so soon..." He continued, then cast a meaningful glance toward the men at the King's back. "...or so well escorted. Your instructions were to come alone."

"Surely you did not expect me to travel the roads unattended in the current climate?" Demosthenes said as he reached the foot of the steps and began to ascend them. "There are a great many who would be delighted were they to get word that I was travelling abroad of the city, and without escort."

"But that 'great many' are not here," Pelion replied, "and you will remember your place. In Sparta you may be a King, but among us you are only a Brother, no greater or lesser than any other. I am the Faith of our Lord, a first among equals, as is Mortius his Soul, and neither of us will brook disrespect to ourselves or our positions. Is that perfectly clear for you?"

Demosthenes paused on the steps, eyeing the old priest warily, then turned and gestured to his men to leave. Most of them turned on their heels almost immediately, but one man, broad shouldered and with a thick neck, glared at Pelion steadily. Demosthenes fixed the man with a commanding stare.

"Gracus," he said, his voice lowered with a hint of warning to it. The other man's eyes flickered toward his King, and he gave a curt nod before turning to follow the rest of the soldiers back outside.

As they left, Demosthenes turned back to face Pelion. His eyes were blazing hotly, and his jaw was set in an almost petulant line. Pelion did not flinch or cower and instead stared back at him, his eyes hard and unblinking. He would see to it that this upstart learned his place. A Spartan King was nothing compared to the Faith of Cronus.

Finally Demosthenes bowed his head and dropped to one knee.

"My apologies, Brother Faith," he said, not sounding in the least bit humbled. "But I cannot appear weak in front of my men. I am sure you understand the need for them to respect my position, my authority..."

"All of which are meaningless to me," Pelion interrupted him. "Remember who it was who saved you from the hopelessness and despair that had so crippled you. Remember who it was who gave you back that dignity you had lost, and promised you the world you desperately desired, but could not achieve on your own."

"Great Lord Cronus," Demosthenes intoned, as if reciting scripture.

"Yes," Pelion said. "There was an oath sworn too if I recall, in which you surrendered unto him all your worldly concerns. Your position, your authority; they all belong to him now, to bestow or to take away as he sees fit. Never forget that."

"I will endeavour to do so, Brother Faith."

Pelion shook his head.

"Do not 'endeavour'," he said. "Achieve."

Demosthenes bristled at that, but before he could answer, a strange flickering among the nearby shadows caught both their eyes. Suddenly, as if by magic, Mortius was standing before them both, the shadows peeling back off the customary sickle bladed staff at his side, and clinging all about him like an extension of the robes he wore.

"I would say our Brother has already achieved much," he said in that same strong, but strangely flat tone he had. "More perhaps than some others I could name."

The swipe was not so much thinly veiled as it was scandalously clothed, and suddenly it was Pelion's turn to bristle with indignation.

"So we are all here then," he said, doing his best to ignore Mortius' remark. "Can we just get this over with and move on to what lies ahead now that Sparta is behind us. The next stage of our Lord's plan awaits us, and I for one, am eager to move on with it."

Mortius turned to regard him, the blackness beneath his hood as unnerving as ever.

"Impatience does not become you Pelion," he said. "Or do you disagree with my choice?"

The remark was bait of course, a not so subtle trap. If he argued the decision it would suggest that they were not united, undermining the whole philosophy of the Followers being equals beneath their Lord, and that their leading Triumvirate were the first among them. However, if he did not challenge it, it would be an almost tacit admission that he did not hold the same sway as Mortius, which would in turn only serve to cement the other's already intimidating reputation within the ranks of the Followers.

"We speak as one voice," he said carefully. "We act as one will. His will. Demosthenes has been chosen..."

He paused and gritted his teeth.

"...by both of us," he finished tightly.

Inside his head, Pelion felt his Lord stir, causing the headache he was feeling to pulse harder and heavier.

"An uninspired choice by my Soul," he hissed, "This one is filled with fear that he cannot stand, nor truly face. He is broken, when he should be whole. Weak when he should be strong. Unfortunately my Soul has maneuvered most well in this matter..." he sounded almost proud "...you have little choice but to play along my Faith. This King of Sparta will do..."

The voice was already beginning to fade, but it had not disappeared entirely from Pelion's mind before one final remark was uttered.

"...for now."

Mortius was already turning to face Demosthenes.

"...have given more to our cause than any other Brother or Sister..." he was saying. "...and as such you have reached a level of esteem in the eyes of our Lord beyond that of any save ourselves," Pelion nearly laughed out loud.

Esteem indeed!

Mortius gestured toward him smoothly.

""In ages past, when our Lord still walked in the world of the living, the Followers held a triumvirate of power as foremost amongst them," the dark figure began to intone, his words a pitch perfect repetition of those he had spoken to Pelion in this very tomb only a week or so before. "Each point of this triumvirate, the Soul, the Strength and the Faith, stood as a cornerstone of our Lord's being. In the past we spoke in his place. We were voices for each distinct face of his multifaceted brilliance. I, as the Soul, am the apex of the triumvirate, and Pelion, as his Faith, guides the Brothers and Sisters of our fellowship in the Following of his will. One more position remains however, and it is time it was filled."

"I am adequate to the task!" Demosthenes announced proudly from where he knelt, and Pelion had to fight hard to repress a derisive snort. He could have thought of no better word than 'adequate' to describe Demosthenes if he had tried.

"I will not be a disappointment..." Demosthenes was continuing. "...I will lead the Spartan army forth, and we will carve our Lord's name into the very bedrock of Greece herself! The barrier will crumble, Great Cronus will be freed, and Olympus and Ares will fall. This I promise to you!"

"A heady promise indeed," Pelion sneered. "Be sure that you can fulfill it. Our Lord does not look kindly upon failure."

Mortius did not look at Pelion, but the old priest could tell he had scored a point against the Soul, as the shadows at dark figure's feet twisted and seethed in obvious irritation.

"But a promise that shows your dedication, your commitment, and your drive," Mortius pressed on in spite of Pelion. He stepped forward, reaching out a pale hand toward the kneeling Demosthenes.

"Now come," he said, his voice taking on that same flat tone of recital as it had before. "stand beside me strong Demosthenes, be my Brother in a way no other among the Followers is."

The Spartan King accepted his outstretched hand gratefully, and Mortius pulled him to his feet, as Pelion looked on grimly. This was not right and his Lord was correct. Demosthenes was the wrong choice. He knew that deep down in the pit of his stomach. The Strength should be strong, and Demosthenes was not. There was too much fear in him, and too much pride. He would lead them to disaster, of that Pelion was almost certain. It should be Callisto here in front of them! No, it would be Callisto.

He would make sure of that himself.

"Now we are as one," Mortius announced with great finality, "Together we are our Lord's Soul, his Strength and his Faith, our fates entwined under his watchful eye."

Neither Demosthenes nor Mortius noticed as Pelion muttered their Lord's final words under his breath one more time.

"...for now," he whispered.