ΚΑΤΑΡΧΗΣ Chapter 3: III, a percy jackson and the olympians fanfic

"Rabbits need dignity and, above all, the will to accept their fate." — Richard Adams, Watership Down

III

Perseus and Meleagros offer up different visions to the troops. Perdikkas blanches at both and schemes with the Queen mother. In Athens, Annabeth's new life is revealed to her, while in Babylon Thaïs and Ptolemaios discuss strategy.

THE BODYGUARD

The Babylonian heat scorched everything it touched. Anything that hadn't been scorched was trampled by the bivouac set up by the Makedonian army. Scrubs, sand, rock, brush were all flattened underfoot of thousands of horses and men. To the banks of the river, every possible bit of space was taken up by a Makedonian soldier here, a Makedonian cavalryman there.

Men pissed in the open, their flaccid cocks streaming hot piss down the embankment. They shit in long, linear trenches dug into the fertile mud. The stench was overpowering. If there was food to be wasted it would be rotting in the river, but no man wasted food here. Still, chicken heads and pig legs were pilled up with the manure of the horses. Its stench intermingled with the shit, wafting out of the camp to mix with the rot emanating from Babylon itself.

The river endured it all. The blue river wound down from Anatolia, curved its way into Mesopotamia, and would eventually empty into the sea. It had endured far worse than the host currently trampling its banks under ignorant feet.

"Perseus! You have come in time!" The bushy-haired man made his way through the crowds of soldiers all streaming towards the platform at the center of camp. As a rock created an eddy in a stream, Grover parted the liquid mass of soldiers. He walked with that odd limp of his and was unadorned. Dressed only in a tunic, Perseus wondered if his friend had slept too well and too long the night before. It would explain his absence at the Council. "He talks as if he's Perikles, and refuses to shut up. He's got the men in an uproar."

Grover was an old friend, made when Perseus was just a boy. They had grown up in the forest together, had learned to fight together. Grover had traveled with Perseus to meet Alexandros. For so long they had shared in each other's triumph and had comforted each other in their losses.

"Of course he does. What's the crowd size?"

"More than a decent amount. I'll estimate a thousand by now, and he only just started."

Grover struggled to keep up with Perseus's footsteps. Perseus had quickly bolted ahead of Grover, anger propelling him towards Meleagros. The somatophylax was faster and more agile than Grover by leaps and bounds, but there was an unnatural spring in his step today. He gripped his doru, having left the hoplon and his helmet with Ethandros. Full battle armor might not sit well with Meleagros and the rest of the infantry.

"Fuck."

"Exactly."

Men greeted him with nods and waves as he passed into the heart of the bivouac. The further in he got, the smellier it got. He could tell the men wanted to leave this shithole. He had known that since he had joined Alexandros's army. No matter how much booty they had secured, these men wanted to go home. They wanted out of the Persian ways of Alexandros's court and wanted to go back to their families. Perseus couldn't blame them much. The somatophylax had come to Alexandros's side explicitly for the purpose of fighting his way through India — the rest of the army had not.

Alexandros had left their families behind to conquer the world, expecting his men to follow without question. It was his right as King, after all. And they did follow him to victory after victory — and ultimately to many thousands of deaths. They were tired. Alexandros was dead. Now was their time. So Meleagros, to them, represented their freedom. Home.

Perseus believed he had a decent enough alternative option for them.

The men grew more crowded as the duo marched deeper into camp. Many joined them, and they joined many others in advancing towards the center. The podium was large but wooden. Larger than the Pnyx, it was where Alexandros was going to give a speech detailing the plans for the invasion of Arabia. Meleagros stood on the stage now. Though Perseus could not yet see him, he could hear Meleagros's voice, a rougher accent from Northern Makedonia. Words were not yet distinct in Perseus' ear.

He was able to hear his fellow soldiers chatting. Their words did not fill him with confidence. They rumbled about Rhoxana, about their disdain of Alexandros's changes, and more than a few hortations for a return to Philip's days. Fortunately for him, he heard no ill will towards Alexandros himself. No one was going to speak ill of the dead, especially not of Alexandros.

"And Perdikkas thinks himself in charge! Because he received a ring! He thinks himself a king by way of a ring! Should we give ourselves to gaudy generals that strut around bejeweled?"

The men that now encircled Perseus and Grover chortled with laughter. Grover had guessed a thousand men joined Meleagros by the time Perseus arrived. By now perhaps a thousand more had joined in. They swayed back and forth, crowding against each other as they strained their necks for a view. With the hot sun at full effect and stuck in the middle of the sky, the crowd paid for their proximity with rivers of sweat. It beaded up on their foreheads and cheeks, along their unprotected arms, and no doubt underneath their cuirasses.

Sweat rolled down Perseus's body as well, but the fury boiling inside him must have kept him energetic. He shoved his way through the throng of soldiers. A few were offended but quickly realized who he was. The crowd began to part in front of him. "Make way!" a variety of voices shouted.

"We are not going to lie down in front of Perdikkas and kiss his feet. He takes us for granted, he takes us for fools. Perdikkas and the somatophylakes want to march us down to Arabia, then to Carthage, then whatever is past Okeanos! I wish to hear them dare speak to us like they deserve our lives!"

Meleagros continued on his tirade against Alexandros's generals. But as he opened his mouth to speak again, no words came out. His eyes widened slightly. Perseus stared up at him with a smirk when he stepped out of the crowd finally. No doubt, Meleagros had not been expecting to be followed by any of the senior officers.

"Meleagros!" Perseus had hopped onto the platform and Meleagros had shut his mouth. "You called?"

There was an uneasy bout of laughter from the crowd. They had seen his spear. Most of the soldiers were armed with their secondary weapons, the stabbing xiphos or slashing kopis. Meleagros was not armed with anything but perhaps a dagger. After Malli, even Perseus could feel the men's fear.

He lifted the spear up, noticing Meleagros flinch, and jammed the point into the wood floor. No matter that he would either have to sharpen the point again or get a new doru, he had gotten his point across.

"Perseus, have you come to do your master Perdikkas's bidding? No — isn't your dictator Ptolemaios?"

The crowd chuckled uneasily, no longer feeling free to express their opinions. Masses, untamed, often tended towards the most appealing reward. They would holler and yell for blood without a reasonable man to stand up and say "Hold!" Perseus appearance was not just surprising to them, but was an easy way to quell untempered anger. Without Alexandros, this army was too easy to manipulate for one's own gain.

"I do my own bidding. I have always done my own bidding." Perseus moved forward, a few steps towards the center middle of the platform. Meleagros moved to counter. "But I don't do my own bidding on my own behalf. Tell me, comrade, for what goal do you morph the men's grief into anger?"

"They can be in both grief and anger!"

"I asked for your goal. Don't skirt my question."

The two men were circling each other now. Around them, the troops fanned out in an uneven circle. Each radius was not like the next, making the amphitheater oblong. It must have been half the bivouac coming to see the debate. Grover had not lied, Perseus had come in time. It felt like one of Perikles and Kleon's great debates at the Pnyx. Except instead of trying to sway potters and poets, Perseus and Meleagros were fighting for the allegiance of battle-hardened soldiers and subsequently the fate of the world.

"My goal is to ensure that Makedonia rules Persia, like these men have fought and died for! We must have a Makedonian king, and these men will help ensure that smooth transition."

"So you use them?"

"I fight with them. For the same goal."

Meleagros kept his cool, staring down Perseus with an unflinching gaze. His eyes were hard set, his brow furled. While Perseus's sudden appearance had shaken the officer's plans, they had not broken them. Perseus was now but an obstacle. Unluckily for Meleagros, Perseus was very good at being an obstacle.

"So your wish is for Arridaios to rule?"

"A proper Makedonian King."

"Unlike Alexandros, I suppose?"

Men murmured around him, their soft words making their way to Perseus as nothing more than mumbled sounds and a few standout "what?"s.

"What do you mean?" Meleagros's confidence faltered again. Internally, Perseus smirked.

"It's just — didn't you say at the council meeting that you didn't think Alexandros was legitimate?"

Meleagros glared at him now, furious. He was losing the crowd, and it showed. Meleagros had tried to overexploit discontent with Alexandros's rule but had forgotten that that discontent was fleeting and infinitesimally small compared to the army's adoration of their king.

"You have long been critical of our King, may he forever enjoy Elysion. But that crossed a line. Are you trying to convince them that you should be the one to choose the next King? You who doesn't believe Alexandros should have been our King?"

"It was a mistake, a slip up. You've had your fair share as well. Should I bring up Malli to remind you?"

Perseus flinched. He made a mental note of that. Even Meleagros, the stubborn fool that he was, was smart enough not to bring up Malli. Knowing he struck a nerve, the second-in-command smiled maniacally. Oh, if Meleagros was not dead by dusk, Perseus would make sure he did not survive the night.

"Malli? Malli?! Malli where you sat in the back, in the third wave? Malli where I was under enemy fire from all sides, with our King wounded? Malli where you ordered your wave to hold off from saving the King? That Malli?"

Meleagros faltered once more. Perseus's second-in-command had apparently done absolutely no preparation for any antagonism. That was all well and good for Perseus, as it gave him the advantage.

"And now you want to place an imbecile King on the Throne. A King who would need a permanent advisor. Preferably you, I suppose?"

He had Meleagros backed into a corner now. But, like any cornered animal, Meleagros fought back with ferocity.

"Better me than Perdikkas. And better an imbecile than a half-Baktrian mutt!"

Perseus was not surprised but was still taken aback. Such language was normal for Meleagros, but only when drunk. It was the type of language that had nearly gotten the man killed by Alexandros, after the Battle of Hydaspes. It could get him killed here too. Perseus scanned the crowd and found Grover was staring at Meleagros, an odd stare plastered across his friend's face. Following Grover's line of sight, Perseus watched Meleagros curiously, keeping mindful of time.

"Calm yourself. Don't forget your rank, Meleagros. I don't know whence or from whom you think you got the power to critique the King in such a manner, but it won't stand. I won't stand it. And I doubt they will stand it either." Perseus gestured out to the crowd, but failed to look at them. Instead, he kept his eyes fixated on Meleagros's movements.

"I offer them power! I offer them freedom! They will stand for it." Meleagros spoke with power, projecting his words in a desperate plea to a crowd he was steadily losing. His speech was like his movements. Each sentence was exaggerated, with dramatic crescendos and pauses. And on top of that, Perseus' subordinate's face was turning redder by the second. Meleagros was mad and desperate. Good. Perseus had him right where he needed him.

With a quick nod into the crowd, Perseus advanced on Meleagros. The older man stumbled backwards, no doubt expecting to be cut in half. To show him that he meant no harm, Perseus raised his hands while walking forward. His head quickly checked the crowd. Grover was gone.

"And when you have their loyalty, what then? Will you send them home or keep the kingdom for yourself? You will be regent for Arridaios, and the imbecile King will listen to every word you say. You always wanted power. You will never give it up. You will never," Perseus bellowed to the crowd, "give these men the freedom they want. The freedom they deserve. Never."

Meleagros glared underneath Perseus's gaze. The commander of the infantry had a head on the older man, so Meleagros had to glare upwards. He tried to shrug underneath Perseus's advance to no avail; deciding it was not going to work, he spit on Perseus's face. Sticky, wet spittle stuck all over Perseus's cheeks, nose, and because he had closed his eyes in time, his eyelids. A hand and forearm lifted to wipe off the fluid.

"It seems the baby is throwing a fit."

Perseus heard footfalls of increasing intensity behind him. Gear clamored with each step, spears tapping against shields, cuirasses scraping pteruges. Meleagros saw what Perseus heard and his eyes widened. He struggled harder to slip out of his commander's grip, a cornered rat. Perseus gave Meleagros a sly grin, then whacked at his knees with the back of his kopis. Far stronger than Meleagros, this hit caused a buckling of the knees. Meleagros fell into a kneeing position. Without breaking pace, the guards held the now-disgraced officer to the floor. A circle of dorata surrounded the supplicant.

"Dike will curse you for this. Nemesis will avenge me." Meleagros glared up at Perseus from between two dorata, but said nothing else.

A commotion ran through the crowd, which had held so still for so long. Perseus did not even need to check out the disturbance to know it was not a threat. Grover had read his mind perfectly. Meleagros's supporters were being subdued; Perseus's sword would get bloodied even more tonight. The thought made him sad; executions were his least favorite of all things. Perseus's dislike of them, however, just made his blood boil when his hand was forced. Still, executing twenty men would not make his soul rest any easier. Not that it currently did.

"Mighty Zeus expects justice. I am but his servant."

"You are Perdikkas's errand boy, from now on. You seal your own fate!"

"The Moirai have their own path laid out for me. Neither you nor I have any claim to know what it is."

Meleagros did not respond; his men did not scream out as they were dragged away. Perseus turned his head. Like the noble Greeks they were, some even walked solemnly in front of their captors with their heads held high. Perseus turned back to Meleagros. Only a moment before he had been driven by extreme determination; now he was plagued by indecision.

Meleagros had not been a friend, but he had been a comrade in arms for the past six years. They had fought against a common enemy, during which time he was mostly a valiant warrior. But he had insulted not only his King and his King's family, but also a close friend of Perseus's. If he really was to ensure Alexandros's legacy and Rhoxana's life, he would have to act without hesitation.

Perseus turned round, walked away from Meleagros and his men. He grasped his spear that was still stuck in the wood. The cornel wood shaft felt strong in his hands. Perhaps his earlier fear that he had broken the spear was unfounded.

A yank upwards proved him wrong. The spear tip broke off, having been lodged in the wood, and the shaft snapped in his tight grip. He had spoken too soon. Yet for a moment Perseus considered jabbing the broken wood into Meleagros's neck to let him bleed out. With brute strength, he could get the rugged shaft all the way through if he wanted.

Perseus took a deep breath and shook his head. Too savage and barbaric, too cruel a death for a Greek.

"Spear," he commanded. One of his men stepped out of the circle, handing Perseus an unbroken spear. The wood was as strong as the spear Perseus had had. The weight was no different either. He looked down at Meleagros. The man held no fear in his eyes, accepting death nobly.

"Chaire."

"Chaire."

Perseus thrust the spear straight through Meleagros's brain, the tiny tip easily piercing the hard skull. Perseus found resistance, but he had punched a spear through so many men wearing more armor than this that the extra effort was minimal. Meleagros's eyes rolled back into his skull, blood trickled down his forehead, his body fell backward. Perseus pulled the spear back out of his skull. The men in the circle parted to let Meleagros's dead body flop back.

Without taking his eyes off of his dead comrade, Perseus handed the spear back to the soldier. He did not bother to clean off the blood. He slid next to Meleagros's head and closed his eyelids. Perseus reached a hand into his pocket and deposited a drachma onto Meleagros's chest. He tried to think of words to say; nothing came to mind. There was not enough respect for Meleagros in life to wish Elysion on the man, but nor was there enough animosity to pray for the Fields of Punishment or Tartaros.

In the end, he chose neutrality. "Let the Ferryman guide you."

Standing back up, Perseus turned towards the crowd. The men were not against him, but they certainly were not happy about that display of power. Alexandros had just died. They were all still in as much grief as ever, and with the line of succession unclear, they were confused as to whom to follow. This display of power must have confused them as much as it scared them.

Remembering Ethandros's words, Perseus flinched.

Was he giving off the impression that he was, in fact, the leader? Only Alexandros had ever exercised the power of capital punishment. For Perseus to take that power and claim it for himself was a major statement. Perdikkas would not be happy.

Perdikkas was a matter for later, however.

"It has been a long day." Perseus's spoke softly. There was no fight left in him. Thoughts of Alexandros and Meleagros and the ensuing power struggle consumed all of his energies. He wondered how many more of his former comrades he would have to kill. A long, raspy breath escaped him. He turned to the crowd. He lied confidence with his voice.

"We have lost too much. Our King, who crossed the world and conquered it. A friend to us all. A man we all love and respect.

"But he is gone now. This empire he held together will crumble if we let it. Understand that if we stand together, we will preserve everything we fought for. Everything our brothers-in-arms died for!"

Perseus's voice got louder, but there was not any enthusiasm in it. If this is what it took to quell a revolt in the army, he dreaded the wars to come.

"Go back to your tents. Grieve. Cry until you have no more tears to spend, then cry without tears. Then rest. The time will come where you are called upon to perform your duty. And when that time comes, we will be home-bound. I promise you."

Perseus gave his men directions, and they obeyed. Thousands followed the same paths to their sleeping grounds as they had for the months spent camped outside the walls of Babylon. The fact that they obeyed without hesitation made him breathe easier. One complication down, and from it arouse a dozen more.

Turning his head, Perseus forced a smile towards Grover. It was not a graceful smile, nor anything near enough to assure his friend. His assistant gave him a concerned look, but Perseus waved his friend's gaze off his bearded face. "No, not now. I just need time to sleep. Rest a bit. Then we will meet with Ptolemaios together. There is much to discuss."

Grover nodded, and Perseus could sense his reluctance at being excluded from Perseus's emotions. That would come, in time. Perseus had to process the loss on his own for now.

The white plaster along the walls was completely barren but for his wardrobe and armor stand. A lonely bed sat dead center. It stared out along the banks of the Euphrates, across the city, and into the wastelands of Mesopotamia. The view was incredible, Perseus could not deny. The platform that overlooked the city was filled with columns, towering sandstone structures whose glory put everything Pella had to offer to shame. Perseus wondered what that royal city looked like now; the amount of booty flowing back there must have changed something, hopefully for the better.

For so long Pella had been a backwater in Greek society, barely a provincial capital compared to the marble beauty of Athens or the gilded temples of Korinth. It was a city filled with the poor, desperate masses. Coming from a small town in the hills of Makedonia, Perseus had never seen anything more shocking.

When the realization came — he forgot which city it was in, but one of the Persian ones — that all of these cities were more or less the same, he had ranted with the King for hours. Why, he remembered asking a million different ways, why was there so much bad in the world?

"It is simple, my young Perseus," the King had replied. With his signature smile adorning his face, where you could see how much more he knew, Alexandros' fingers ran down Perseus' cheek. Then only an infantry officer, Perseus tensed. Mix-matched eyes and golden hair, the King gave off a divine feel. Although the King claimed descent from Zeus, Perseus thought he bore a much closer resemblance to the statues of Apollo.

"Suffering is not simple."

"Not simple to endure, no. That is our challenge, you see. Suffering must be endured if we are to achieve anything great. Tell me, have you read Homer?"

Perseus ripped his gaze, so freely given, away from the King. "I cannot read," he whispered.

The King's hand fell from his soldier's cheek. "What, did my mother teach you nothing? I have to admit I am ashamed of her."

It was a jesting tone, nothing rude or malign meant of it. But the subject was always tricky for Perseus. The generals around Alexandros were learned men, the aristocracy of Makedonia. On the other hand, Perseus was little more than a rural farm boy-turned soldier. Olympias had desired him due to his athleticism, but the Queen had little regards as to his education.

"It is not her fault. She gave me a much better life than the one I was living, and she taught me what I needed to know. How to fight and how to lead men. Everything necessary to support you."

"Yes, yes, of course." The King spoke with subdued, distracted words. "But still, reading is an important skill. Come by my tent every night, and I shall teach you letters."

"I thank you for your gift, my King," Perseus said, bowing slightly. If there was more light in the room and less tan upon the younger man's cheeks, there would be an obvious blush. "I will strive to serve you for it."

"Yes…" the King trailed off, looking up Perseus' half-nude body, "I suppose you shall." He poured two cups of wine out, then cut them with water. "But back to your initial anger. It is attractive, that passion. But focus it on another issue. Suffering does not deserve your attention, perseverance does. Akhilleus says as much in the Iliad. Book Twenty-Four.

'For such is the way the gods have spun (destiny) for wretched mortals: to live a life of suffering, but they themselves are without sorrow.'" The King handed Perseus the cup and took a sip from his own. "'For two urns are set on Zeus' floor of gifts that he gives, the one of evils, the other of good things. To whomever Zeus who delights in thunder gives a mixed lot, that man meets now with evil, now with good; but to whomever he gives only from the urn of sorrows, him he makes to be degraded by man, and evil hunger drives him over the face of the sacred earth, and he wanders honoured neither by gods nor by mortals.'"

Perseus looked away from the city that was nothing but an empty capital for a dead king . He would be out of here soon enough.

Ethandros had walked in with his ariston earlier, but Perseus waved him away. If he ate or drank anything right now he would throw up. Meleagros's face fluttered in his mind's eye. It was not that Perseus held any particular care for the man, or that his death brought him great shame. Meleagros had been a nuisance for too long, a nuisance Alexandros would have dealt with if it had not meant a revolt in the army. Perseus was lucky to have built up enough support and trust with the infantry that they would fall in line behind him. It was only his first offense against them, after all. He had to tread carefully from now on if he was to ensure Alexandros's legacy.

His legacy rested with solely Rhoxana and her unborn child. Securing her place would mean convincing the army. Convincing the army meant countless hours of speeches and promising them mountains of gold and, yes, going home. He did not know how to secure them their ultimate goal without ruining Alexandros' empire. There were not enough fresh recruits coming in from Makedonia to fill the current ranks, the Persians were not entirely — enough.

Perseus sat down on his bed and took a long breath. In through his nose, out through his mouth. He had the weight of the world on his chest and it was showing through his overwhelming fatigue. As much as he knew he had to, Perseus had no desire to go talk with Ptolemaios tonight. He was too tired; sleep had evaded the young general for too many nights. Eventually he had collapsed in his room one morning this week, passing out from lack of sleep. Ethandros found him many hours later, still asleep, leaned against the side of his bed with nothing but the floor beneath him. Perseus knew he needed sleep and craved it desperately; all of his prayers to Hypnos had gone unanswered.

Stress of the future, and a longing for the past, kept him up at night. He worried not for Alexandros's future in Hades. Elysion was his final destination, where he would find himself peace finally. Perhaps Hephaistion was there as well. Aphrodítê herself knew how much the King missed his best friend. She also knew how much Perseus missed his King.

Perseus remembered the first time he had seen Alexandros, atop the magnificent Bukephalas. After spending most of his early life in Pella and the woods of Makedonia, Olympia sent Perseus to her son, to serve as his officer. It was in the plains along the banks of the Jaxartes River that Perseus had his first taste of combat alongside the already-storied King against the mythical Skythians no less. From afar he could admire Alexandros's tactical brilliance and his willingness to lead the charge. The King was a model for all men in battle. But up close, the King was absolutely beautiful. Jaw-droppingly so, even.

Alexandros was skeptical of him at first. Not that he blamed the King; Perseus had missed out on all of the Persian campaigns and too many Makedonians were not pleased with the King's vision of cultural integration of his empire. Over time, Perseus had ingratiated himself with the King, proving himself a loyal companion and ardent supporter of his vision.

For six years, Perseus followed Alexandros around India. Through the deserts of Gandhara and the Jungles of the Indus, they created the greatest Empire the world had ever seen. During that time they drew even closer; Hephaistion was not happy with their relationship at first but had warmed to Perseus as well.

Wind blew in through the colonnade, hot and dry. Only a faint scent of the Euphrates was carried along with the wispy desert air. Perseus took another deep breath. It was time for a nap, if that was at all possible. His whole body ached from head to toe. His mind ached most of all, the weight of too many cares causing a head-splitting headache. So Perseus pushed himself off the bed, walking over to the dresser. He pulled out a water jug he had carried from home, a gift of his mother's, depicting Akhilleus killing Hektor on one side, and Perseus killing Medousa on the other. Ethandros had refilled the water jug after Perseus drank the whole thing in one fell swig, having stormed in from the bivouac dripping in sweat.

Perseus poured himself a fresh cup. The water flooded his throat, refreshing the desert it had become. He chugged the cup in one fell swoop. Instantly, his head began to feel better. It was one of the odd things he had learned about himself in the aftermath of Malli. Headaches, sores, aches, they could all go away with a fresh cup of water. Not all of them at once and the relief was temporary, but it was a useful tool. He wondered which god had blessed him with this gift. Perseus prayed to most of them, Athena, Zeus, and Poseidon above all, so perhaps one of them had given it to him.

Perseus poured himself another cup, his free hand blindly fumbling with his waist-belt. The taste was not the best he had ever had — a stream in India held that honor — but it was refreshing nonetheless. The cup found its way to the dresser once more while his waist-belt dropped to the floor. He tugged the peplos upwards and off his body. The white fabric piled up over the waist-belt.

If he had been in a more melancholy mood — more melancholy than he currently was — he would have traced his scars, the chiseling of his muscles, tanned to brown by constant warfare in the heat of Helios. He would have remembered the battles in which he had gotten each, would have shed tears over the scars he had gotten for defending his King. A King he had eventually failed, unable to protect him from Thanatos at the end.

Perseus undid his sheets, sliding into the bed. He pushed those thoughts from his mind, trying to breathe them out in order to just sleep. Twisting onto his side, pushing one hand underneath his pillow, he reached the other hand out to trace the empty space next to him.

THE SIGNET-BEARER

Perdikkas was not in a good mood. Not only had Perseus reaffirmed his control of the army, but he had faced more defiance than he had expected from the other officers. Ptolemaios he had expected to resist, but the chilliarkhos had not the forethought to predict the reactions of the other officers. For so long he and Leonnatos had worked to gain an understanding of the rest of the somatophylakes that they had forgotten about the rest of the officers. Meleagros's defiance on the issue of Rhoxana's baby was an issue, one that would need more than just Perseus's spear through his head.

Perdikkas knew he had the rest of the somatophylakes's backing on Rhoxana's child's legitimacy. Perseus would fight to the death for Rhoxana; the boy was as loyal as he was stupid. The rest might not go that far, but they all knew their chances of success in the coming conflict rested on firmer ground with Alexandros's son ruling.

The coming conflict. Immortal gods he hated thinking in such terms. If he kept planning as if conflict was inevitable, it would become inevitable. There was no reason that the coming conflict had to happen. If he kept an eye on the two most ambitious generals — Ptolemaios and Lysimakhos — then Perdikkas knew he could keep a firm grip on any potential conflicts. Kleomenes could be easily swayed into keeping an eye on Ptolemaios. Lysimakhos could be kept in Thraki, dealing with those rampaging barbarians till he grew old and grey. The conflict was most definitely avoidable, and his power could be secured fairly easily.

Of course, there was one other loose end that needed to be… tightened before his power would be absolutely secure. Thus why he was currently making his way to the chambers of the Queen. She had summoned him with a vague message on "other claimants." There was no doubt in Perdikkas's mind about what she had meant.

The hallways of Nebuchadnezzar's palace were always so disgustingly overwhelming. They lacked character and color and were too inducive to infighting. The building itself meant power. To inhabit it gave one an air of authority that was ill-suited to men. Perdikkas had seen it first-hand in Ptolemaios on many occasions.

Perdikkas halted in front of the Queen's door, her two guards crossing their dorata in front of the door. They were good men, the Queen's guards. Alexandros had hand picked the best fighters in his empire to serve as her personal guard; whether that was a sign of his love or his paranoia, Perdikkas could not say. The King had so often feared plots that did not exist and was not above murdering those who could pose a threat. As the two guards opened the door to the Queen without a word passing between any of them, the Signet-Bearer realized the Queen might have as much a ruthless streak as her deceased King.

The expansive room leapt into view once the doors were completely opened. Drab hallways made room for exquisite mosaics and etchings. Blue tile lined both walls and ceiling, only breaking off for golden lions and horses. It was the largest room in the palace, a gift Alexandros felt he had to bestow on a bride he would soon abandon. Not that Perdikkas truly minded — big, gaudy rooms were not his style. What he craved was far grander.

"Perdikkas," came the soft words of a Persian accent. Before the Queen could make herself viewable, Perdikkas bowed his head to the floor. After murdering Kallisthenes over an argument about proskynesis, the King had settled for the head bowed. 'Let me greet you before you see me,' he had said. Well, no one wanted to argue with a sword against their throat.

"Rise," the Queen said. Perdikkas lifted his head and smiled softly at the Queen. She had garbed herself in black silks and fabrics, garments that she would wear for however long she wished the Empire to be in mourning. Her feet were bare, her hair was in a loose bun. It was all appropriate. Showing too much concern for mortal pleasures now would be uncouth, to say the least. There was one concern that he had, that the whole empire had, sitting underneath her dark garments. A round protrusion held Alexandros's heir, getting riper by the day.

"My Queen," Perdikkas began. "I received your summons, and came as quickly as possible. First of all, let me tell you how sorry I am for your loss. You know, as much as and more than any of us do how painful this is."

She gave him a soft smile in return for his words, but did not say much else. Understandable, given that the two rarely interacted. If he was being honest, Perdikkas did not think he had seen the Queen since before they had begun planning the Arabian campaign, around three months ago. Besides that, he had interacted with her only sparingly. Perseus was really the only somatophylakes that the Queen had a regular interaction with, yet Perdikkas refused to hand over such a job as he now was doing to the boy-soldier.

"And as much as I would love to be able to sit and grieve for months on end, we cannot. Our King left us with too great a task, which you obviously understand since you have summoned me. A wise move, my Queen."

"Thank you, kind Perdikkas," she spoke in a Persian accent that had wilted in the Babylonian sun but failed, like a weed, to completely die. "Would you like some wine?"

"A generous offer my Queen. I will gladly accept."

Though Perdikkas knew he held the power in this relationship, there were still reasons to tread lightly. The Queen had more backers, powerful backers, than even she realized sometimes. If there were just a few misspoken words or too big an insult, Perseus or any number of the still-powerful Persian leaders could rain fury upon him. And of course, her father was not an insignificant force still.

Rhoxana called for a slave to come pour them each a kylix of wine. Just as the Queen preferred, the wine was cut with a jug of water. The Queen directed him into a chair, and he sat once she sat. Sipping his own drink, Perdikkas waited, slightly impatient, for the Queen to speak. She sipped wine at a far more leisurely pace than Perdikkas, a pace more appropriate for a woman.

"I have two sister-wives sitting in Susa at the moment. Two sister-wives that Alexandros visited recently." She paused. "Two sister-wives, who, my sources tell me, are pregnant."

Rhoxana left her cup alone, staring at Perdikkas. Her words confirmed what Perdikkas already suspected. Alexandros had gone to Susa to meet with his wives and take petitioners from the Eastern part of his empire only a few months ago. It was not much of a shock that they might be pregnant, though it was unfortunate.

"And you wish for me to…" Perdikkas trailed off, expectantly.

The Queen stayed taciturn and turned her head away from the conversation. Continued silence left Perdikkas feeling uncomfortable, but he needed orders from the Queen. This was not something he could do on his own authority.

"Don't make me say it, it's too horrid." The Queen's voice was muffled by her hand over her mouth, showcasing her discomfort towards the issue. Normal, considering that a woman ordering an execution — a woman ordering much of anything but wine — was entirely uncouth.

"I have to know what you command."

Perdikkas stared into her face, truly gorgeous, blessed as it was by Aphrodite. The Queen looked to be contemplating her options.

"You say it."

"What?"

"You say what you think must be done. I'll tell you if I agree."

"You want them out of the picture, secluded somewhere."

The Queen did not respond, but Perdikkas did not think she would have.

"You want them dead."

Now, the Queen nodded. She said nothing, but the nod was enough. Perdikkas knew what needed to be done.

"Very well then. I will have men deal with them in Susa," Perdikkas said.

"No." The Queen turned back to face him, her eyes harder and more determined now than he had seen them since she entered the room. "Bring them here."

"Here? To the palace? Is not the whole point to get them out of the way?"

"My men will deal with them, Perdikkas. Bring them here, so I can be assured they are dead."

Nothing said today had shocked him more than this. The Queen was normally so quiet and reserved, not one for courtly politics, and not one for these types of moves.

"Do you not trust in my abilities, my Queen?"

"I trust in you, Perdikkas, but very few other men."

"But you trust your men?"

Rhoxana nodded her response.

"If my Queen commands it."

His Queen had commanded very little, actually. Perdikkas assumed that was to assuage her soft consciousness. Death was best left to men, Perdikkas believed, but the Queen got her way. He needed her child if he was to survive the coming war.

"You may rise, Perdikkas. Thank you for your assistance today, it was much appreciated."

"Thank you for your audience, my Queen." He bowed his head once more after rising from his chair, paying his respects. "Let me know if there is anything at all you may require."

She smiled softly at him. "I require very little. But thank you for your offer." Two guards helped him out of the room. Turning back to glance at the Queen one last time, Perdikkas saw her knitting on her bed.

Women, he thought. Not a care in the world.

THE DAUGHTER OF ATHENS

Two weeks.

Thirteen days, to be exact.

That's how long she had to be free.

Relatively speaking.

Her father had come home from work in a fit of excitement this afternoon. Accompanying him was the announcement Annabeth had dreaded her entire life.

She was to be married. Her father had found a wealthy enough family to marry her into, a family that had a well-off enough son for her to marry, a son that was brave enough to be her husband. Everything was enough for everyone but her. She wanted far more than what was enough for her family or for his family. She needed to escape.

Unfortunately for her, Annabeth's father understood her desire to bolt. Thus why he had hired guards to watch her door day-and-night. It was suffocating to hear them breathe right across the door to her room. There was no way she could think with their yawns interrupting her thoughts every other minute. Her plans were pig-feed now, her mental state scrambled.

Annabeth had skipped deipnon in vain protest. She had stormed out of the room after her father's announcement as if she were Hera in a rage over another of Zeus' affairs. Tears were threatening to fall, but she refused their egress. Her frustration needed an outlet, so she let it plan. Annabeth would not let her father win, not over her dead body.

Together, her and her whirlwind of emotions packed what was only entirely necessary. Excess would only serve to slow her down. If Annabeth wanted any chance of making it out of the city, she would have to leave before deipnon was over. Otherwise her father could shut the gates until she was found.

She had stuffed an extra peplos into her satchel, along with an extra pair of athletic sandals. Extra undergarments were unnecessary, as her breasts were too little developed for a breast-strap and underwear had always been uncomfortable to her. A rough map of the city had fallen into her bag right as her father knocked.

The satchel fell to the floor with an obnoxious 'thump'. Tears once again demanded to fall. She dabbed at her eyes again, trying to dry her well. She would not appear weak in front of her father.

But by the gods she wanted to rip out his eyes and feed them to him. Force him to taste half the shit he had forced her to take. She hated her own father. Gods above and Hades below she hated him. It was a sick and awful realization.

She balled and unballed her fists over and over again. Growling, she walked, stiff as a rod, to unlock the door. It opened with the same aggravating creak it had worked through for years. Her father stood behind it, cloaked in fading light. He wore a soft, sorry smile that she bought nothing of.

"Father."

"Anaïta Bethzatha."

"I told you not to call me that any more. My name is Annabeth."

"And the name you were given at your birth was Anaïta Bethzatha."

"Were you even at my birth?"

"You've asked this again and again, and again and again I will refuse to answer it."

Annabeth stood in the doorway, scowling at her father. Her father stood opposite, giving her a stern warning look. He looked as upset as her, though he was mad at her and she at him. The impasse continued for a while. Finally, her father broke it.

"You'll be meeting your husband tomorrow morning."

"I won't be."

"And why is that?" Her father looked her over, perhaps trying to take in any sign of a threat on her. Instead what he found was her knapsack, clutched firmly within her hands. Scanning the room, he turned back to face her. His pitying stare hardened into a glare, but just for a moment. She could feel the air and stress flowing out of him as he let out a sigh. "You're not going to run away."

"And why is that?" She mocked, adopting his own voice as her own. "You're not going to stop me," Annabeth added in her own voice.

"Because," Annabeth glanced down at her father's hands. She found them clenched, nails digging into palms. She took a slight step backwards, "you will do your duty to Athens. Antiphalos is a respectable young man, barely a dozen years your elder —"

"Barely a dozen years my elder?" Annabeth had always hated how high and girlish her voice sounded. It was a mark of her status, the high pitch of her voice signaled that she was in fact the lowest of the low in Athenian society, for a girl ranked below even slaves. Her father would have surely protested against that statement, but it was true. As a woman she might be above slaves, but as a girl she was below them.

"Anaïta, calm down, and don't yell. It's entirely unbecoming of you. You are a woman of Athens. You have a duty to uphold this democracy, a duty to provide the next generation of leaders for this great city." Annabeth refused to meet her father's eyes as he spoke. It was sad, the extent to which her father truly believed in the idea of Athens. Looking at his eyes revealed the tenacity of his conviction. He was not a zealot for his cause, but an emotional orator who could move an audience to tears with enchanting ideas of representation and a rule by the people. If she looked at him in the eyes while he spoke, Annabeth was certain her walls would crack. So she simply stared at the floor.

"Why do I have to do my duty to a city that refuses to do anything for me?"

"What?" Annabeth could not see her father's face, but she could see the confusion in his tone.

"I don't have the right to vote or be an official. I don't have the ability to make laws or pass judgement. Why should I fight to uphold this system if it does not fight for me?"

Though she made her argument to the floor, it still resonated with her father. She could hear him sigh once more, this time signaling his disapproval. "Athens protects you," he replied, his tone tired, "it keeps you safe, it keeps your belly fully and a roof over your head."

"I could go to Sparta and get all of that and more." Finding her strength once more, she looked into his eyes again. "Or Pella, or Korinth, or any number of other cities. Hades, I could go to Babylon and be Alexandros's whore and get more than just that!"

Her father fumed in front of her, his eyes growing darker. She knew that the comparison between his beloved Athens and the hated Spartans and Makedonians would cause him to erupt, or at the very least get close to erupting. "Don't you dare compare us to those half-barbarian Persian-lovers. Not in while you are in my house."

Annabeth opened her mouth to respond, but her father cut her off with his hand. "No. No more, lest I lose my sense of mercy. From now on until your marriage, you will have two guards posted at your door at all times. If you try to run, you will fail. You will do your duty, just as I have done mine, just as Helen has done hers. Do you understand?"

Though she said no more, Annabeth's insides were churning with hatred towards her father, towards Athens, towards "democracy", towards her "brothers", towards her stepmother, towards every one of the bastards that told her she could be nothing but a housewife. Every part of her told her to argue back, to keep fighting, to get in her father's face. She knew it would feel so good to keep going, to know that she was right. She also knew that doing so could make her situation much, much worse. Instead of fighting any more, Annabeth stormed to her bed and sat down. Her back faced her father, her arms were crossed, her breathing was deep and irate.

Her father closed the door, content to keep away from any more fighting.

The worst part about her day after that was when her father came by to drop off a few scrolls for her. He told her that he had come to terms with her desire to read, that he was not sure whether or not her new master would let her read, and that he hoped to ease her pain. If he had given her scrolls and books even just a day ago, Annabeth would have accepted them with far more enthusiasm. She would have seen it as a step in the right direction for their relationship, a sign that he was coming over to her side of the argument. It came too late, however, and all she viewed those scrolls with was scorn. The avid reader had not even bothered to pick them up.

She wanted to. A less rebellious voice in her brain told her that picking them up was not a big deal. Who would know if she read them or not? Who would know if she had accepted the olive branch? The firebrand in her replied that she would. It was not just a matter of scorning her father, or a matter of putting on an upset face whenever he rolled by. It was an internal matter, a matter of moral superiority. Annabeth would know if Annabeth caved in. The gods would know if she had.

The gods. Annabeth chuckled.

At the expense of becoming the next Sokrates, the young Athenian girl, soon to be a woman, allowed herself to scoff at the gods. How many nights had she prayed to Athena, to Artemis, to Hera, how many nights had she received nothing in way of response. They had forsaken her, the goddesses sworn to protect women and young girls. Even Zeus, the King of the Gods, the son of Kronos and the bringer of Justice, had forced Dike to look away from Annabeth's plight. She had never hated the gods as much as she did today.

Either Helen or her father, or both, assumed that Annabeth would be dangerous tonight. Helen did not sleep in their room, but did not go out. Annabeth could easily tell when her stepmother would sleep with another man because her path always took her past the exterior walls of their room. Through the small window Annabeth could both hear and see Helen depart. And it was not a one-way street. Many a night Helen had told Annabeth "go to bed Anaïta Bethzatha," to which Annabeth would always reply "that's not my name." Their quick, almost mindless conversation ended there every time.

There was no quick banter tonight. Annabeth could not sleep at all, so she would have heard her stepmother leave at any point in the night. For the majority of the night, Annabeth just brooded in her anger. She punched Helen's bed, threw pillows, yelled into the sheets. Her feet paced back and forth across the room dozens of times. She was so furious that she once contemplated tearing apart the scrolls, deciding against it because there was a part of her that was still curious about what was inside of them. Not that she checked.

Later in the night, when the moonlight gave her enough light to read by, her grey eyes scanned Sappho's scroll again. Her favorite stash of scrolls, Annabeth had spent a month of sleepless, Helen-less nights transcribing her father's collection of the poems. They were her favorites because they let her dream of a world where girls ran the show. They loved one another freely, with no worry about men lording over them…

But Sappho's reality was not her own. In fact, she wondered if it ever was reality. All Annabeth knew of Lesbos was the rarely-discussed massacre of Mytilene during the Peloponnesian wars. Women were not in charge, except for perhaps Amazon women, but they were more myth than fact. Once, when the world was new and intriguing for men, some brave soul believed in a place where women ruled. She wondered how much ridicule they got for suggesting such a thing.

At daybreak, there was a knock on her door to give a fair warning. Rays of sunlight preceded her father as he opened the door and gave Annabeth her first glimpse of the guards. Their backs were to her, but she could still make out the rather regular armor they wore. There was nothing too special about it, just a hard shell of leather over their chest and another tube around their waists. They carried only swords on their hips, no shields, no spears. Not even a helmet. Annabeth had seen guards before, guards atop the Akropolis, decked out in heavy bronze armor and given a wide shield and pointy spear in order to ward off any intruders.

Her father stepped in, unarmored, wearing only his official khiton. It was too hot to wear any other clothes. Annabeth had only dressed in a khiton as well, though she expected to be dressed more elegantly before she was to meet her new master.

"Anaïta Bethzatha, I hope a good night's rest has calmed your nerves. Did you sleep well?" Her father ignored her pointed glare to take account of the room Annabeth had more or less destroyed the night before. She had refused to put the bed back together, refused to clean the pillows off the floor. Only the scrolls were transferred back to their safe location underneath Annabeth's bed. The scrolls her father had dropped off lay untouched by the door.

"I didn't sleep," Annabeth replied, though her statement was about as obvious as proclaiming that the sky was, in fact, blue. Her teeth grit against each other as she watched her father. He stood there, hands clasped behind his back, a smile straining to stretch properly across his face, continuing to pretend everything was alright.

"That's unfortunate. Usually, a good night's sleep calms my own nerves before a big meeting. Nothing like being well-rested." He was almost chipper. Annabeth's hands clenched, her fingers finding their now-familiar spot in her palm. The pain tried to replace the anger.

"Helen is waiting to dress you. She is very excited to help you reach your new status in life."

I'm sure she is, Annabeth thought to herself. Not having spoken a word to her stepmother since the loom incident, Annabeth had thought a lot about her. Not too many years ago Helen had been in the same position as Annabeth. Forced to marry a man far older than she, forced to bear him children. Yet Helen was naïve, a young woman who believed what she was told about men and women. So, when forced to give up her young, childish freedom, Helen never thought twice. That's what separated Annabeth from the rest of the women in Athens. She knew better. Knew what they did not.

Even if she knew better, the two hired swords outside of her door convinced her to act against her best interests. She followed behind her father. Each time she lifted her foot Annabeth felt like they weighed twelve talents. The day that had dawned in Athens was bright and hot. Clouds gave her no cover from Apollo's arrows.

Her stepmother waited for her atop the house, underneath the pergola. Her father and the two guards escorted them to the top of the oikos. The two guards stuck with them, despite her father saying that they would only be used to keep her from running out of her room. Her father had considered that she may jump from the pavilion and run like hell. The jump would not kill her, but it would surely immobilize her. No person thinking logically could honestly believe that Annabeth would try to jump. Maybe he thought she would scale down the walls, like some sort of assassin. The mental image of her climbing down walls made her laugh. Annabeth was never allowed the opportunity to train in such things, unlike her half-brothers. She doubted she had the strength to sprint away from a fat merchant.

It would hurt. Jumping, that is. But she figured it might hurt less than what was about to come.

Light streamed in from all the open sides of the open gazebo. Only the ceiling kept out any light. The ivy that had grown up along the tent-poles, unnoticed, had overtaken the roof; green leaves made solid roof-tiles in sunlight. The rays were shredded as they tried to make their way through the thick canopy, resulting in a flickering and psychedelic array of light. Her stepmother, and the metal table she sat at, were bathed in this light.

Besides her stepmother, a large piece of fabric lay in a purple blob. An assortment of buttons sat in front of the dress and some pins too. Next to the buttons and pins, in a ceramic bowl, sat jewelry Annabeth had only ever seen her stepmother wear on big, state occasions. Suddenly, it all felt even more real to Annabeth. Bile rose up in her throat and threatened to spill out. She did not want this. No part of her wanted this. Even knowing that there was no way out, Annabeth still scanned for another exit.

"I will leave you two here," her father spoke. His voice was muted in Annabeth's ears.

Annabeth did not know who he was referring to - her and Helen or the two guards. It was only his footsteps that retreated down the stairs.

Her stepmother spoke once neither could hear the clunking way her father went down stairs. "Annabeth, come sit."

Confused, grey eyes watched the older woman. Annabeth could not remember the last time any of her family members called her the name she had chosen for herself. She did not think they had ever called her that.

"I thought purple would look good with your blonde hair. Do you agree? I had it made a bit lighter so that it would show off your skin tone more."

Taking only small steps towards her stepmother, Annabeth responded. "What are you doing?"

"Hmm?"

"You're being nice."

Helen placed both hands on the table and straightened her back. "And is that such a problem?"

"Well, yes. Usually, you're a bitch."

With curious eyes Annabeth watched her stepmother tighten her grip on the table and flare her nostrils.

"I'm trying to be supportive. Of course, if you wish to be go-it-alone Annabeth, I can have the guards restrain you and I can force this dress on you."

Not much liking the sound of that proposal, Annabeth begrudgingly took her seat across from Helen. The older woman kept a stern eye on her.

"You're crude. Headstrong. Indignant. You would've made a better boy."

Annabeth could not agree with those words more. "Unfortunate that the gods did not. Perhaps you would have fucked both Malkolkmemnon and me."

Her stepmother's eyes flashed murderously and for a moment, Annabeth thought she might strike her stepdaughter. Then her hazel eyes flickered to the guards, suddenly thinking better of it. Oh, Annabeth wished her stepmother had just hit her. It would have felt so good. Victory always tasted sweet.

"Do you know why I hate you?"

"Because I am better than you? Smarter than you? Prettier than you were even at my age? Because, despite everything that I have done, my father still tolerates me?"

"And I wonder why that is. Truly, I do. No, the reason is much simpler."

"Good. I was worried there. If it had been a complicated reason I'm not sure your brain could have handled it."

"You're a fool." Annabeth could not tell if Helen had ignored her comment or responded to it.

"I'm sorry?"

"It's why I hate you so much. You read your scrolls, you plot your schemes, you take pleasure in messing up my household. But in the end you are the dumbest woman in this city. Do you notice how good my life is? How easy it is? I get whatever I want from your father with a flash of my tits or making him cum with my mouth."

Annabeth winced at the mental image.

"But you, Annabeth, you fight to make your life harder. You fight against your father, who is handing you a gilded life on a silver plater. You want to read? Fuck your husband right and he won't care what you do. Men are creatures of lust, girl, and even the most noble of men who claim that their lusts are directed towards boys — they are as fools as you."

Men don't care what hole they penetrate, as long as they penetrate it. Their minds are consumed by this animalistic desire to fuck. Instead of using it, you fight back against your biggest strength."

Helen stood up and walked around Annabeth, stopping behind her. Her hands gripped her shoulders, causing Annabeth to tense up. Helen leaned down into her stepdaughter's ear.

"You believe your mind is your greatest asset here, don't you? That's why you're a fool, doomed to living a life of pain. Your body is your greatest asset. Use it before you lose it."

Helen stood back up. "Now, let's get you into this dress."

THE COMPANION

As a young girl, living in the streets of Korinth, Thaïs learned a few things quickly. Most of those things had to do with men, the rest had to do with how women were viewed by men. Her mother had been a hetaira, her father an unknown merchant, politician, and general. When she was really young, only a few years of age, she dreamed of her father riding in so that she and her mother could finally be a happy family.

It only took a few more years before Thaïs realized that that was a foolish dream. No doubt her father cared little for her or her mother, and there was no need for another man in her mother's life. Living as a hetaira brought her mother a decent amount of wealth and a few constant male companions. Thaïs had gotten used to the constantly shuffling cast of men that frequented her mother. A few times she got to know them better, if they stayed for a few months; sometimes they stayed for one night, and she did not know them as well.

Her mother provided decently well for Thaïs, and living at the porneion meant that they had to worry very little in the way of rent. Living at the brothel quickly attuned Thaïs to the real world. And in the real world, sex was not something hidden by one's parents, but a way of life. Sex put food on the table and clothes on her body. Sex gave them a roof over their heads and access to high society. Her mother worked for magistrates of all levels of the Korinthian government. She attended their symposiums and their lonely nights.

Still, for every excess that sex had bestowed upon Thaïs's life, the greatest gift it had given her were those lessons. Lessons which now served her exceptionally well in the world of high politic.

"Ubanlu, make sure the wine is aged properly. At least keep it five years old, Perseus likes it stronger.

"And Zakiti, what is the status of the pornai?"

"The porneion said they'd be here by the end of the second hour before nightfall."

"So late?"

"Thaïs, my dear, Perseus doesn't wish for any more company than us. Don't swamp the poor boy. He's got enough on his plate as is, scare him with women and he'll bolt like a frightened dog."

Ptolemaios reclined behind a table filled with flatbreads and cheeses, olives and figs, nuts and fruits. He drank water from a large cup to fight off the brutal summer heat. Both of them were dressed in the lightest clothing they had. Slaves waved large hand-fans back and forth to beat away the dry, late-afternoon air. Thaïs felt the heat too, sweat dripping off of her forehead. She grabbed the bottom of her dress to use as a napkin; the action revealed herself entirely to her lover.

"Are you trying to distract me from my argument?"

The hetaira rolled her eyes, staring at the ceiling hoping for an answer, and dropped the dress again. "If you were so easily distractible we wouldn't be having an argument. I can spend the whole day around you nude, knowing that not once would your cock get even a little hard for me."

"Now, now dear, you know that's not true." Ptolemaios took a piece of cheese and a dried fig from the table in front of him, a move which earned himself a reproachful look.

"We have guests coming, you can wait for them." She swatted away his hand as he moved to grab a grape. "And I know it's true because it's happened before. Not once did you even think about fucking me the last time I was nude all night." Her legs, tanned brilliantly from being out in the sun all the time, straddled Ptolemaios's lap. He turned over so that he could see all of her. His hands began to roam up her body, making her bite her lip in excitement.

"When was the last time that happened?"

"We were in Persepolis."

His hands halted on her hips. His eyes stared up at her disbelievingly. "Don't make a fool out of yourself."

"And how am I making a fool out of myself?"

"You were nude in Persepolis the whole night because we burnt the fucking city to the ground on your whim."

Thaïs giggled and wiggled over the general. He looked up at her with the face of a man who reprimands the naughty child, even though the man knows that he had done the same thing as a child himself. And Ptolemaios had — together, they had burnt that palace to the ground.

"Tell me it wasn't a fun night, and I'll call you a liar."

"Running through burning hallways as a massive palace collapses above you is not my idea of fun, my dear."

Thaïs could feel Ptolemaios shift underneath her, his cock hardening to her gyrations. Through a bit lip, she smiled at him and savored the feeling of control she had. Ptolemaios may pretend to be a man far more focused on politics than pleasure, but he was a man nonetheless. And she could control any man she wanted to with a flash of her cleavage or a view of her thigh.

"Sir, I hate to interrupt, but Perseus is outside."

Ptolemaios broke eye contact with his lover to lazily gaze at the soldier.

"Let him in," the commander spoke, annoyance apparent in his voice. "So that I can tell him to fuck off."

The guard walked back to the door, chuckling. The relationship between Perseus and Ptolemaios was well known throughout the army, and mediators between the two found that it was okay to be amused by the two in front of superiors. Thaïs leaned back, keeping herself on Ptolemaios's lap but pausing her movements. Her hands gripped his thighs instead of his chest.

"Should I move? I don't wish to scare him," she joked.

Ptolemaios said nothing, continuing instead to trace his fingers over her thighs. The two stared at each other right up until Perseus walked in.

"Every time I come in here you two are about to fuck."

Thaïs laughed, sliding into her entertainer mode. Slowly she disengaged from Ptolemaios's lap and twisted herself upright to greet Perseus. "Do you not expect it by now? Or is it always a surprise?"

The handsome young man strode into the room accompanied by an easy attitude and his close companion, Grover. Grover, neither as good looking, as magnetic, nor as athletic as Perseus, was nevertheless the brains of the operation. Though Perseus was by no means incompetent, his view of the world was instinctual. Just this morning, the disposal of Meleagros proved as much.

"It gets me every time. So I suppose now I am to blame. Fool me thrice and all of that." Perseus smiled at Thaïs despite his words, and the two hugged. His body, harder than any man's body she had ever touched, was warm. Overly warm, for she could feel the sweat that caused his shirt to cling to his abdomen.

"You need a drink, cool off a bit. Were you in the sun all day?"

"No, that was my job." Thaïs turned to give Grover a polite smile, but internally she bit her cheek. Grover had always landed on her wrong side. Socially inept, awkward, Thaïs continued to wonder why Perseus brought him anywhere. She understood the two were friends, but beyond that there was no reason to bring Grover to social events like this one. Yes, ostensibly it was a strategy meeting, yet if anyone was discussing strategy an hour from now, it would be the most drunken strategy ever concocted.

"Cleaning up Perseus's mess?" She and Grover embraced lightly, an embrace she quickly pulled out of to avoid smelling his odd stable stench for too long. Thaïs glided towards the wine, looking for an out.

"Don't I always?"

"I resent that." Thaïs looked over her shoulder to watch Perseus clasp his hands down onto Ptolemaios's shoulders. She watched the two men talk in muted tones, about what was apparently unimportant to her.

Calling for wine, Thaïs found herself her own seat to the left of Ptolemaios. Grover seated himself directly across from Ptolemaios and Perseus reclined to his right. The summoned slaves dumped wine into their cups. Grover, endlessly uncouth, went for grapes before even Ptolemaios. She tried to catch Perseus's eye to give him a silent reprimand on behalf of his friend, but the young bodyguard was stuck staring into his cup.

"I heard what happened this morning," Ptolemaios began, his voice more somber than it had been in a few hours. Thaïs worried about his mental state with Alexandros gone. Yes, there had been maneuvering and posturing between the commanders before Alexandros's death, but there was always a man amongst boys to calm the frenzy. Now, there was no more rope holding the crazed bulls back. All that was left was male ego and endless armies to fuel conflict.

"It was upsetting," Perseus replied. "But it needed to happen."

"Many upsetting things are necessary. It is our job to execute those things. No matter our thoughts."

"It was our job, once."

"What has changed?"

"We lost our king."

"That does not mean that we are without a duty," Ptolemaios said. His eyes were trained on Perseus', the two men locked in their pedagogic dialogue. Thaïs was accustomed to their conversations, and accustomed to the outcome. "We still have things to protect. To serve. Have you so easily forgotten our queen? Her son?"

"I have not, I apologize," Perseus said

"You feel lost."

Perseus traced his thigh with slow fingers. Thaïs could see his mind working through the scrunch of his brow. "I do."

"What did Plato call the state? A ship sailing through troubled waters? My boy," Ptolemaios still called Perseus, a grown man, boy, something that would have annoyed Thaïs but Perseus seemed undisturbed by, "we are adrift now. The crew is running the ship. We are listing back and forth, port and starboard, and we are in desperate need of correction."

"You suggest something, my dear?"

Thaïs' hand dragged across her lover's chest, stopping at his navel. He was trim still for a man of his advanced age, but was not a sculpture like Perseus. It mattered little to her. She was not a young hetaira like so many of the girls that tempted the boys in the army. There was no need to tempt them. She had what she wanted.

"Remind me again, who does Plato say should not run the ship of state?"

"You and your damn philosophers, Ptolemaios," Perseus grumbled. Thaïs watched his eyes roll.

"He told us to keep the crew from running the ship," Ptolemaios paid no heed to Perseus' aggravation. "You need to pay more attention to them, for they dictate any proper conversation. Know Sokrates or Plato or Aristotle, Protagoras or Anaxagoras or Pythagoras, and you can work any argument to your own ends."

"I'd rather not converse."

"Where you and I differ, and where you will find yourself foundering. Listen well my boy." Ptolemaios shifted himself more upright and Thaïs slid down his lap. Her eyes were transfixed on his face, the way it would harden in concentration whenever he discussed grand strategy. "What we sail is not a ship but a fleet. Alexandros was not a mere ship-captain but an admiral. We are his ship-captains. We still are."

Ptolemaios paused to take a sip of his wine and to let the meaning of his words sink in. For his part, Perseus stared back at his mentor with a blank, perhaps slightly bored, expression. It was not that the boy was dull — far from it — but, well, the boy did not enjoy philosophy.

"And as captains of a ship still sailing, each of us must make sure that we do not sink the ships we sail. Furthermore, we must remember that we are a fleet without an —"

"By the gods, can you speak in plain Greek instead of barbarian for once?" Callused fingers dragged through messy black hair, pulling at the ends. Thaïs, with her head resting on Ptolemaios' chest, smirked. She felt his chest push upwards and then fall back down with a long sigh.

"We will soon be given dominion over a part of this vast empire. Focus on leading it to glory, not on leading the whole empire to glory."

Perseus chugged wine. Ptolemaios made a face. "Are we not," Perseus began as the kylix fell back down to the table, "forgetting what you originally said, that we still have a duty to Alexandros' kingdom, and to his family?"

"The exact opposite, my boy. If you focus on the rest of this empire, you will steer your part of it astray. We can only improve what we can affect. Remember that."

"You make no sense, do you know this?" Ptolemaios chuckled at Perseus' childish reply.

"I will help him remember it, do not worry." Thaïs was as startled by Grover's words as her lover was. Both of them had forgotten about his presence at their meeting. He had been so silent. Thaïs curled her lips into an uncomfortable smile.

"I am sure you will," she forced out. "It is getting late, and we have dinner prepared. Let us eat."

"I have lost my appetite for all but wine today, my lady. I would be a rude guest and eat nothing." Perseus rose from the couch to a straight-backed seated position, whence he could finish his wine.

"Are you sure you don't wish to stay?" Thaïs asked over the cup of wine. Perseus simply shook his head.

"I would be an unnecessary burden." Thaïs saw through his words, and so did her lover. Giving her a pat on the side, Ptolemaios rose up.

"No need to force him. We will have food sent to their rooms."

"Well, I for one would not mind staying for dinner. I am positively starving." Thaïs winced outwardly at the possibility. Fortunately, Perseus clasped his hand around his advisor's shoulder.

"I wish to speak with you tonight, Grover. At length. We can have the food Ptolemaios and Thaïs provide there."

"I, well, I-I," Grover stuttered. One solid look from Perseus, though, and the soldier was convinced. He gave a mute nod and walked away to the door. Perseus turned to his old mentor. The two men embraced, a moment of intimacy that even Thaïs felt compelled to turn away from.

Separating after their long moment, Perseus gave her one last smile before following his friend out the door.

"My lady," one of the slaves said. "The pornai are here. What should I tell them?"

Thaïs looked back at Ptolemaios whose smile was predatory. "Tell them," she replied slowly. "That we would be delighted to have them."

A/N: Hi... So yeah, it's been longer than expected. I've barely budged this story, but finally Chapter III is done. This one was a doozie, the next few will be big too. As always, tell me what you think. Constructive criticism, Beta-reading offers, etc. Now, on to review responses. I usually dislike these in stories, but I think every once in a while a good review deserves a good response.

From: JC RH

I love these type of stories. They are so far in between because they are so hard to write and the number of fics that got completed are even fewer.

Thing is though, that these types of stories take a lot of time to write. As a result the updates are so irregular. And the story is pretty complex with complex names and places so it's hard to keep track of. It's not your fault. I can imagine the work you have to put into writing this. I would love to read this in one go. Again, as a result though writers get discouraged and abonden their work. I seriously hope you complete this story because the people that follow the story will be heavily invested.

Nevertheless this is a great start. If I got the gist right, I love stories where Percy is not a complete baffoon like he is always portrayed in fanon and the types of stories where it's effectively Percy and Annabeth against the world. So far, it's an amazing start. And from what I remember you got the most of the historical stuff right. Making Percy the 'Demon of India' and the person who saved Alexander was a great touch. It's a nice tweak to one of the most importnant even in history. Loved it. Can't wait for Percy and Annabeth to unite so they can present a united a front. Infact I would have loved it even more if Annabeth was already with Percy. Doesn't really need all that stuff where they meet and all that. The story is interesting as it is. That's not really a con though. I'll just accept that they were together for some time and it wouldn't be hard to believe.

It'll be hard to keep track of the names and the plot so I might just come back to read the new updates two at a time or so, but I'll definitely be checking out this story. It's a Greek historical polical thriller with two of my favorite character at the lead. I love those.

Tl:Dr. It's a great start and I seriously hope you will continue it and finish it someday. Just don't write this for the reviews course I don't think this is the type of stories you are doing it for the number of reviews.

First of all, thank you so much for this incredible review! I know how rare stories like these are, and especially in the PJO universe. That's why I decided to write this in the first place. I wanted to write a story I wanted to read.

But you are right — these stories are incredibly hard to write because they are much closer to books than stories. There's not just story-telling, but symbolism and theme and plot and foreshadowing, which makes writing and releasing serially a burden. I plan to publish everything to Archive of Our Own with pictures and maps at the end of each book, after some serious edits and reviews.

As to whether or not Percy is a "complete baffoon"... you'll have to find out. He's not the character the fandom portrays him as, but he's not a perfect character cause that would be boring. And "Percy and Annabeth against the world" is not how I'd characterize what's going to happen. Trust me, I love a good Percabeth story (check out my other stories, subtle plug). But this is not a good Percabeth story. It's a Song of Ice and Fire-inspired work. This is about realism, not epic. It's the fusion of epics such as the Iliad, my love of ancient philosophy/literature/culture/history, and the gritty realism of A Song of Ice and Fire. That's why Percy and Annabeth aren't together originally. They weren't supposed to be together till later but I decided against that. I'm really interested in exploring "Percabeth" v. Percy v. Annabeth and how these characters interact with each other and without each other.

Finally, thank you for the encouragement. This story is always in my mind. I'm probably going to major in Classics, so I don't think this story is going away any time soon. As for reviews... well, they're encouraged and encouraging but not my only encouragement.

I am removing the update "chapter", but here's the excerpt from that. It comes around Chapter X.

"Not that it was much of a fight anyways. Your city fell as easily as you, Hypereides. At least your accomplice has made himself much more difficult to find." Perseus smirked down at the broken orator.

"You are a man without honor!" Hypereides spat back. A few Athenians had helped him sit up straight, supporting his back with their arms. Blood streaked down his hobbled legs. "You took this city through villainy and treachery!"

"And you rose up against your king. Treason, dare I say."

"Treason! Treason against a conqueror and a tyrant! How dare you accuse us of such things when you stand here worshipping a dead man! A dead man who thought himself an immortal god!"

"Watch your tongue, old man, else I cut it out and force you to look upon it with your own eyes." Perseus' tone had gone as tense as his hands, which reached to his waist. They unsheathed a longer than normal kopis, the likes of which she had never seen before. It was a well-crafted sword, she assumed, but nothing like his armor.

"Threaten me with all the armies you and your barbarian friends have arrayed in Xerxes' lands! I shall look you in the eyes and spit on your face even if you were to march across the Hellenespont like that tyrant!"

"Tyrant? What about our rule has been tyrannical?" Perseus turned now to address the gathered captives. They were the families of rebels, so Annabeth thought he was preaching to the wrong people. "Has Athens not recently enjoyed the greatest prosperity of her lifetime? Has she not been happy and well-fed, safe and secure? Have not your ideals been spread from Illyria to India, because of what Alexandros had done?"

"And at what cost? Alexandros gave us safety and wealth, aye, and in exchange, we gave him our freedom." Someone from the crowd bellowed loudly in defense of Hypereides. Annabeth was too stuck on Perseus to care about who had spoken. The Demon of India placed his fingers on the bridge of his nose, shook his head, and sighed.

"Freedom to do what exactly?" He gestured with his arms, making exasperated movements. "Slaughter innocents and impose your will on those weaker than yourselves? You are all so foolish as to believe that Athens was ever pure."

"And, what, you are pure? You, who brought hundreds of men instantly to Hades! How many women have you made widows, or children fatherless? You were raised by satyrs and bears, then thrown onto the teat of Olympias. You know nothing of purity or of virtue."

His face twitched, Annabeth could see clearly. He had made a move the moment Hypereides had mentioned widows, but one of the ten guards held him back. They whispered something in his ear. His sword arm relaxed.

"There are very few of us who do. Very few of us who are pure all the way through. But I am not here to argue. I am here to discuss your terms of surrender." He spun his sword around his fingers, before sheathing it once more. "Now, shall we begin?"

Striving to provide Southern Hospitality the world over,

LoverBoi (yes, I'm a guy)