Time Immemorial

What's Past is Prologue

Olpae, Greece – Protectorate of Athens

Earth

426 BC

The Peloponnesian War

Akakios knew that if he stood, he would die.

From his perch atop a rock overlooking the great Ionian Sea, the young boy could see the jagged coastline winding its way past the coves and isthmuses he used to play in as a child. He could remember catching trapped shellfish with his father in one of the tidal pools, or challenging his older brother to see who would swim the farthest into the great sea before turning back in fear. Now at the wise old age of ten, Akakios decided he was too old for such childish games. Besides, his father was long gone, his life claimed by the war, his soul now resting in the fields of Elysian with those of other fallen heroes. His brother, also a volunteer in the Athenian infantry, had not been heard from in some time.

The war had changed many things, it seemed, and none for the better. Still, it had always seemed so distant to Akakios, over hills he had never trekked and beyond rivers of which he had never heard.

Until today.

Hoping his brown tunic juxtaposed against the rocky shoreline would provide him at least some measure of camouflage, Akakios pressed himself flat against the top of the rock, eyes glued to the waters below. Silence was essential, though he couldn't prevent a small murmur of awe from escaping his lips.

Passing not more than 100 yards in front of him was a demon of the sea, a ship that resembled the triremes of his people. Though slightly smaller, this ship was no less menacing. With two large masts that boasted rectangular, crimson sails, the wooden vessel easily spanned 100 feet, bow to stern. Both the fore and aft sections of the boat curled in an elegant fashion, a sharp contrast to the menacing eye painted prominently on her port side. No less than 150 Spartan soldiers crowded the deck: oarsmen, infantry, and archers at the ready.

The denizen of the deep glided silently past Akakios, its only sound slipping from the 70 oars cutting the warm waters as one. Then the ship slid by, leaving nothing but curling eddies in its wake. Akakios watched the spot out of which the final oar slipped. Several heartbeats later, the water was cut into once more by another bow.

More ships! the boy thought. He counted 12 boats in total, all stealthily joining the lead stalker in the hunt. Twelve ships, about 150 men each… Akakios was no slouch when it came to academics. He excelled in arithmetic – that is, on the days he didn't skip out on his lessons. 1,800 enemy troops, he concluded.

One by one, the young Athenian watched as they passed, not daring to move until they had progressed out of sight. Finally, he exhaled. It was only then that he realized where the ships were headed. He stood atop his perch, eyes on the horizon. No, there was only one possible destination for these enemy craft: the strait that led to the village of Olpae, his home town.

Akakios frowned. These were 1,800 Spartan sailors! Ruthless and merciless killers, the Spartans were undoubtedly the finest warriors on land, but everyone knew the Peloponnesians lacked maritime warfare capabilities. It was his people, the Athenians, who excelled on the sea. But with the war at Olpae's doorstep…. This is exactly the surprise the enemy needs to turn the tides of battle, Akakios realized. He had to warn his mother.

Leaping down from the rock, he ignored the pins and needles that shot up his legs upon landing and sprinted the two miles inland to the village. He slowed upon arriving. Though the town only boasted a population of a few hundred, it was exceptionally empty this summer afternoon. Entire families had fled to the capital, Athens, for protection or to join the war effort, leaving only a handful of residents remaining. It was a ghost town, desolate, eerily hushed. But that was not what stopped Akakios mid-stride.

He cocked his head and listened. It was the din that cut through the heavy stillness that caught his attention. There: a clash of metal. Seconds later, a scream. Drums.

The war had arrived.

As quick as his small legs could carry him, he rounded corners – left, right, left again – until he reached his house: a modest clay and stone dwelling overlooking the sea. He sprinted up the dirt path and threw open the front door.

"Metra!" Akakios cried. "Mother!"

No answer. He had only left home several hours ago… where could she have gone in that time? Scampering fervently around the house, the boy found no one. Panic began to well up inside him until he saw the corner of his mother's favorite rug folded over, as if someone had run over it in a hurry. Akakios mentally berated himself for forgetting. A swift casting aside of the adornment revealed a hidden door set discretely into the floor paneling. He opened it and descended a rickety wooden ladder, taking care to close the hatch above him.

Akakios was plunged into darkness. He had been in this subterranean cellar but once, having been shown by his parents as a small child. "Keep this place secret," his father had told him. "Tell no one about it. If for any reason your mother or I… if something should happen, you are to come here and hide. Do not leave until you can hear nothing but the wind outside. Understand?"

"But pater," a younger Akakios had whined to his father. "I do not like the cellar. It is scary and it smells of old shoes."

His father had laughed. "Akakios, sometimes we must do the things we wish not to, things that may scare us." He had given his wife's hand an almost indiscernible squeeze before smiling mischievously at his son. He had bent down and tussled his son's hair. "Now, you would not want me to tell your brother that you are scared of the cellar, would you?"

"Ou!" the little boy had protested, smiling. "I am not afraid of anything!"

Akakios snapped back to the present. That had been the day before his father had left for the war. He had been six years old. And in the four years since, he had discovered he was afraid of many things. Not the least of which was the cellar —

Hands appeared from nowhere, grabbing him from behind and covering his mouth. He was yanked back deeper into the inky shadows. Despite his struggles, he was pinned tight against his adversary.

"Shhh, quiet now," a soothing voice cooed. "Eustom ekhe…be still."

Gradually, Akakios ceased his resistance and grew reticent, recognizing the soft touch of the hands now stroking his hair as that of his mother.

"Metra! Where were you?" he cried, somewhat accusatory to mask his alarm "I was looking—"

"Akakios, you must be silent!" his mother, Sappho, whispered tersely. She was beautiful; her long, wavy, brown hair flowed freely passed her waist, loosely tied back; her skin was as smooth as the finest cream in all of Greece; but perhaps her most stunning feature was her incredible sapphire eyes for which she was named. None of her people shared in this trait, save Akakios; most had brown eyes. But it was her blue eyes that had won her husband over years ago. She remembered him teasing her, claiming Aphrodite Herself was jealous of Sappho's eyes, punishing her by fixing her with a husband like him. The memory brought a sad smile to Sappho's lips.

"Metra, you do not understand," Akakios continued. "I saw ships, 12 ships, 150 men each, heading this way!"

Sappho snapped to face her son, forgetting about the war. "You did not go to the shoreline, did you?" she asked.

Akakios, hearing the anger in his mother's voice rise, hung his head in shame. "Nai, metra," he muttered quietly in the affirmative.

"Feu, ô sunteleia…" she cried, throwing her hands up in exasperation. "What am I to do with you, Akakios? I told you, the outer boundary of Olpae is no place for a boy of ten – especially not in these times!"

"Nai, metra," came the soft reply.

Sappho studied her son. A spitting image of herself, blue eyes and all, he had all her features and his father's bravery – and recklessness. "Deuro, come here," she said gently, regretting her previous outburst. She pulled him into her arms. Akakios was all that was left of her family, and she had no intention of losing him to this godforsaken war, too. "Twelve ships, you say?" she asked, remaining quiet.

"Yes, 12," her son responded, perking up slightly at the prospect of an important contribution that would please his mother. "There were 150 Spartans in each, making 1,800 soldiers in all."

Despite the disparity of their current predicament, she couldn't help but smile. "Very good," her son's math tutor and biggest fan said with a wry smile. But her glee quickly subsided. So it was true. Some of her own traitorous people had supplied the enemy with enough supplies and manpower to begin a naval fleet. This did not bode well for her people. With the Athenian army already crumbling against the superior force of the Spartans all across Greece, the added power from the sea was all that was needed to completely finish the Athenians off for good. And the fact that this added power had arrived at her doorstep did not sit well with Sappho.

The mother listened to the sounds of the battle outside. Louder had the noises grown. Soldiers must have invaded the town by now. The Athenians were losing and losing big. Her people needed a victory, and soon.

Akakios read the fear in here eyes. "What if… what if the Spartans find us?"

"The gods will protect us."

Akakios looked away, unconvinced. He was ten now; did his mother really expect him to still believe in Zeus, Apollo, Athena, Ares, Poseidon, and the countless others that supposedly shaped their world?

Sappho read his discontent. "Besides," she whispered playfully, nudging his shoulder with her own, "your mother can put up a fight the likes of which the Spartans have never seen."

This seemed to earn a smile from Akakios, who grinned and nodded.

"What are we to do, then?"

"All we can," she replied confidently, her mood turning suddenly serious. "You and I must ensure that at least a small portion of our culture lives on. Deuro. I have something to show you."

The boy allowed his mother to take him by the hand and lead him to the very back of the cellar. Though his eyes had adjusted to the dim light, he allowed her to hold his hand anyway, grateful for the reassuring company. He imagined the other boys his age would have laughed at him, but he didn't care.

The chamber was larger than he had anticipated. He watched silently as Sappho lit a small torch, illuminating the immediate area. What lied in front of his eyes was all the treasure of Olpae that remained: a dozen of its people staring back at him questioningly. He saw the same fear in their eyes he held in his heart.

"Who are these people?" he asked.

"Brothers. Sisters. Fathers, mothers, sons, daughters, cousins to someone, somewhere. They are all that is left of our home, my son. And until this battle is over," Sappho said, eyes looking upward toward the sounds of war, "we will welcome them as family. Our house is theirs."

"But ti?"

"Because what is a culture without its people, Akakios? Nothing more than a place on a map. And no memories ever came from a map."

Her son nodded in understanding.

"Good," Sappho said. "There is something else I wish to show you." Rummaging through a cobweb- and dust-laden chest behind her, she pulled out a small object.

Eyes wide with anticipation, Akakios admired its craftsmanship. Made from types of metal and glass the boy did not recognize, the item – whatever it was – was beautiful. It looked so foreign, so out of place.

"What is this…?" he breathed, eyes glued to the object as Sappho handed it gently to her son.

She smiled at his awestruck demeanor. Her reaction had been the same when she had first laid eyes upon it. "A keepsake, handed down through my family for generations." Sappho bit her lip in thought and sat on an old chair, pulling the boy near her. "This is very important to me," she whispered, as if the object held a secret she wanted no one to hear. "And very important to all Athenians. We must not let it fall into the hands of the Spartans."

"What does it do?"

"I will tell you someday, when you are older." She leaned in a little closer and noticed how the strange metal reflected in her son's blue eyes. "Do you think you could keep it safe for me until then, Akakios?"

The boy's chest puffed up, proud, as a wide grin spread across his face. He nodded, excited at the prospect of this new responsibility.

"Good," his mother beamed back, her own blue eyes twinkling a little more. "If you can do this, someday it will be yours."

"Makarios esoio…" he whispered to himself, mesmerized by the small article in his hands. Before he became completely paralyzed, he wrapped it in sheep's skin and tucked it safely into his belt. "Mother, I am sorry I went to the shore today—"

A sharp crack from above drew all eyes to the ceiling above their heads. The distinctive shattering of wood was followed by creaking and heavy footsteps, the floorboards above giving slightly under the weight of at least six pairs of boots stalking, searching above.

The enemy was in the house.

No one dared move. The Athenians listened intently, praying they would not be discovered. Following the sounds of the footfalls with her eyes, Sappho's gaze fell on their destination: the hatch, secret no more since Akakios had hurriedly removed its rug cover. The footsteps ceased and silence loomed. Then, the bang-bang-bang of a boot against the inset door. Hollow.

Akakios felt himself retreating slowly away from the ladder down which he came, knowing what was to come next. After an excruciating spell of stillness, the hatch was violently yanked upward, and light streamed down from above.

"Bask ithi!" Sappho yelled to the thirteen others. "Run!" She grabbed her son's hand and took off toward the far reaches of the cellar, so fast that Akakios' feet barely hit the dirt. Too fast. They were going to run full speed into the back wall – but they continued on, into the stone edifice. A hidden tunnel! His metra was full of surprises today.

Soon, all fourteen had made it into the underground passageway, away from the threat that seemed to nip at their heels. Illuminated only by the small torch Sappho carried, the tunnel was barely tall enough to stand in and not wide enough for two men abreast. Dirt and brick lined the walls, with wooden support beams every ten meters or so and the occasional exploratory tree root finding its way through the low ceiling.

"Speudete!" was the only word spoken, a hushed but terse command to those following Sappho. "Hurry!"

Then, after what seemed like an interminable flight through the corridor, a glorious burst of sunlight indicated their sudden departure from the tunnel. The hidden passageway emptied its travelers out from a hillside into a clearing on the outskirts of Olpae.

"Hepeo proterô," Sappho urged everyone. "Quickly. We must get clear—"

The distinctive sound of metal being unsheathed cut her off. A handful of Spartan soldiers surrounded them, as if they had been lying in wait. And with an air of finality, six additional enemy troops – those that had driven them from the house – emerged from the tunnel and brandished their swords, blocking their one remaining exit. Akakios didn't know how the Peloponnesians had anticipated their escape. He had once heard the warriors had been blessed by Ares Himself, so skilled were they in the arts of tracking, capturing, and killing their quarry. The thought didn't comfort the boy.

Sappho's eyes watched coldly as the ten or so Spartans hurled the Athenians to their knees. There they knelt, a spread out line of 14, silent and fearful. All eyes save Akakios' were fixed on their watchful captors; the boy's fell over the town just up the hill. He watched as Spartans on horseback galloped through Olpae, lighting fire to every structure in sight. Smoke billowed thickly into the sky. Craters and pockmarks dotted buildings and roads, while Athenian soldiers fell repeatedly to Spartan warriors.

The scrape of feet on gravel drew their attention. All of the small group's eyes, Spartan and Athenian alike, were drawn to a newcomer. The man, dressed ornately in a commander's armor, strode angrily passed Sappho and her group toward one of her captors. She studied him. He bore the typical dark hair of the Mediterranean people – his cropped short – and olive skin. He appeared to be relatively young for a field commander – perhaps near forty – but his decorative bronze and leather breastplate left no question of his importance. Under his breastplate was a black tunic made of the finest silk and lined in gold. His crimson cape trailed him as he stormed over, giving him an air of godliness. Like his fellow Spartans, he wore black sandals with laces that were wrapped around the calf and covered by metal greaves, and matching metal forearm protectors. In one hand he held a magnificent bronze helmet with plumed feathers atop. In the other, he held the shield of the Spartans, marked flagrantly with the letter lambda - an isosceles triangle without its base - in reference to their homeland.

As the newcomer ended a conversation with one of his men, Sappho noticed he had an additional something none of the other Spartans bore, something far more terrifying than his audacious cloak, helmet, and shield: a look of pure rage, as if he was appalled at having been disrupted for these mere commoners.

Apparently, the captive kneeling at the end of the row must have seen the same, for he began to pray to Zeus himself. "Lissomai, Zênos Olumpiou—"

Hearing this, the Spartan commander wordlessly unsheathed his sword from his back as he strode toward the man and promptly decapitated him in one swift blow.

Sappho tried to cover the eyes of her son, but it was too late. They kneeled in stunned silence, watching now as the commander handed his sword to one of his subordinates. "Clean this," he ordered. "No Athenian blood should be allowed to tarnish such fine metal." And then to the line of now thirteen, "Does anyone else believe the gods will save them?"

Sobbing to Sappho's right caught her attention. A woman, presumably the recently deceased man's wife, began to cry uncontrollably. The Peloponnesian leader immediately began to march in her direction, eager to quell this nuisance. Seeing this, Sappho did the only thing she could think of.

"Who are you?" she demanded of the man, in a voice that belayed her fear.

"Ou, metra," Akakios whispered, seeing the soldier stop dead in his tracks and turn in their direction. "Please, mother, be silent…."

The commander accepted his newly cleaned sword back from his lieutenant. "I am Commander Nikandros of Sparta, son of Kleisthenes and commander of the division that now controls your village," he responded assertively, intrigued by this person, this woman, who dared to speak to him.

"What do you want with us?"

"The same that all we Peloponnesians want: for all Athenian scum to die."

"Es Haidou baske." Sappho hissed, spitting at his feet. "Go to Hell."

A sharp backhand to the jaw threw her to the dirt.

"Mother!" Akakios yelled, jumping to his feet and closing the ten feet between them. Before he could kneel beside her, though, a Spartan soldier grabbed him by his arm and hoisted the boy off the ground like a feather.

"Ou!" Sappho screamed, seeing this. She, too, leaped to her feet and attacked the soldier. Blessed by the God of War or not, this Spartan bastard was not about to take her child away from her. But soon both she and Akakios were again on the ground in a heap as the behemoth of a man simply pushed them away. The ten other soldiers laughed in enjoyment.

Commander Nikandros smiled. Pathetic. He approached the protective mother, crouched fiercely over her son like a cornered feral cat. As he circled her, she scurried around on her hands and knees, not turning her back to him. Her eyes glared at him heatedly. Nikandros' smile vanished, though, as he caught sight of those eyes.

Akakios watched the sun glint off the commander's sword as it was brought toward his mother's head. But it did not take her life. Instead, Nikandros used the instrument to tilt her chin upward toward him as he studied her. To his mother's credit, she showed no fear, only hate.

"You are Spartan," Nikandros concluded, surprised. "Only we Spartans possess blue eyes here in this region, and even still, only the most blessed of us."

Akakios stared at the man. Nikandros, too, had ice-blue eyes, just like himself and just like his mother. Looking at the other ten soldiers, the boy noted that they, too, displayed the same trait. He looked to his metra questioningly. No, it could not be possible. They could not share the same blood as these murderers… could they?

Seeing the confusion in her son's gaze, Sappho hung her head. "It is true," she admitted quietly, more to Akakios than to Nikandros. "At the age of 12, I decided I was not meant to lead a life of violence and hate," she spat. "I ran away from Sparta and made a life for myself here." She had met her future husband then and had never looked back.

The boy's heart sank. "Ou… ti…?" These soldiers – these monsters – were his kin? The physical proof was there.

As if reading his thoughts, his doubts, his inner turmoil, Nikandros crouched down on his haunches condescendingly, now eye level with Akakios. He looked the young boy in the eye and studied him. "How old are you?"

Akakios remained silent, holding his aggressor's gaze.

"You must have at lease nine, ten years," the commander continued. "Our Spartan boys – your brothers – begin their military training at that age."

"Do not speak to my child," Sappho warned Nikandros. She received a backhand across the face as punishment.

"How would you like to join them?" the soldier asked Akakios, as if nothing had happened. "Deuro, come back to where you belong. Live the life you were meant to, become a soldier, a man. You belong with your people, not here." He extended his hand to Akakios in a patronizing manner.

Sappho watched as though the devil himself tried to strike a deal with her son, a deal he would not honor. She knew Nikandros' motive. He had no interest in her son. It was to demoralize her by getting her boy to side with the enemy, with a group that stood for all she was against. Sappho had raised her child to love the sciences, athletics, mathematics, art – not violence and war. "My child, listen to your mother," she said. "You may have Spartan blood, but you are not one of them—"

Another backhand sent her to the ground once more, a yelp of pain escaping her lips.

"Sigê nun!" Nikandros yelled. "Silence!"

Akakios watched in horror. No, these Peloponnesians were not his family. Those 13 people kneeling in a line behind him, those who had fled the house with him were. He looked up into the awaiting commander's eyes and gave him his answer. "Oupote. Never."

Nodding silently, Nikandros felt the denial settle in. Defiance from a little boy. Suddenly a fit of rage overcame him. He grabbed the boy roughly by the forearm and dragged him away from his mother, who protested vehemently. Two guards barely held her back.

"Kill this one, along with the others. Bind them, tie stones around their legs, then throw them into the sea," the warrior ordered as he approached one of his subordinates. "Save the mother for later; I have other plans for her," he growled, casting a fiery look in Sappho's direction. "She may be of Spartan blood, but she is no more than an Athenian whore now."

"Yes, sir," an underling responded, accepting the thrashing boy from the commander.

Akakios kicked and punched with his free hand, but to no avail. He had to escape, had to get all his people free. And just as he was handed over to another Spartan, the boy knew this was his only opportunity. As sis father had told him once, "Sometimes we must do the things we wish not to, things that may scare us." He looked to the sky, wishing for the first time in years that his favorite stars, the Pleiades ,or Seven Sisters, were there to give him courage.

With all the strength a 4 ft 10 in., 80 lb boy could muster, Akakios used his captive arm as leverage. Before the soldier could tighten his own arm against the movement, Akakios rammed his elbow into the only unprotected portion of the Spartan's body: his throat. Elite warrior or not, no amount of training prepared the man for a surprise assault from a boy.

Now free, Akakios went for the man's sword. But the foot soldier was not to be fooled twice. As Akakios lunged, the man simply grabbed him, turned him around, and pinned his arms against his body.

Nikandros watched from several feet away. This little creature had Spartan fight in him, there was no doubt. Was this one too much for his soldiers to handle? Disappointed, he strode over, hand on sword. He would kill the boy and the inept soldier himself. But as he neared, something on the ground caught his eye. Bending over and reaching down slowly, he picked the object up.

No! Akakios thought. It was the item his mother had entrusted to him only a short time ago. It must have fallen out of his tunic during the scuffle. What had his mother told him? "It is very important to all Athenians. We must not let it fall into the hands of the Spartans." And that was exactly where it currently sat.

Studying the item, Nikandros felt his displeasure turn to genuine surprise. Could it be? His eyes snapped around to the boy, who struggled against his captor more ardently than ever. "Where did you get this?" he demanded, grabbing Akakios' chin. But as he read the child's face, he knew.

Nikandros shoved Akakios back into the arms of his guard and stormed over to his mother, arms bound by two large men. "You!" he screamed. "You stole this from us!"

Sappho merely smirked and raised her chin higher. That was exactly what she had done, those many years ago when she had escaped. While it had belonged to all of Peloponnese, generations of her family had been entrusted to its safekeeping. She had heard stories of its power; few, though, knew its true potential. And while she had claimed her flight from Sparta had been one of personal freedom, in truth, she had taken it upon herself to make certain this object – sent from the gods themselves – no longer rested in the custody of the ruthless and unjust. It was too important: a symbol of something greater than all of them, a memory of long ago, an instrument of the divine. Generations had died for it. And Sappho – guardian like those before her – would, too, if need be.

Nikandros, enraged, threw Sappho to the dirt. He grabbed Sappho's hair and forced her head downward, exposing her neck.

"Sir?" a lieutenant asked.

"Kill them," Nikandros ordered, breathing heatedly and unsheathing his sword. "Kill them all. Now. This item is far greater than anything we can hope to gain from the rest of our lives. We must present it to General Eurylochus. Spartans, I hold in my hand that which will turn the tides of war!"

A colossal cheer erupted from the soldiers, strengthened only as Nikandros raised his sword above Sappho's neck. Akakios struggled as hard as ever before, but he could not save his mother from what was to come. His eyes watched on in horror.

As both the sword and the roaring crowd reached a climax, a brilliant blanket of light erupted over the town. White and soothing at first, it intensified and expanded until in encompassed the entirety of the town proper, only a mile or so from Akakios' current position. He watched it there, undulating in midair, as if it were a flag being carried on the wind. Akakios didn't know what it was, but from the way it shimmered and moved, he was convinced it was… studying them.

Nikandros, too, allowed his sword to fall to the ground as the breathtaking sight overwhelmed him. The Athenians, seemingly forgotten by the Spartans, sat mouths agape and eyes to the sky. In fact, so magnificent was the spectacle that swords no longer clashed in the village; troops from both sides of the conflict lowered their weapons in awe of the phenomenon above their heads.

Then, in a brilliant flash, the entity swarmed down upon the town, like a lion pouncing on its prey. Swiftly, it shot across to the clearing in which the small group of Athenians and Spartans sat before rocketing towards the heavens, gone. In less than a second, the silent ordeal was over.

Having shut his eyes against the intensity, Akakios heard nothing. Only the wind whistled where the ocean met the rocks below. Then, laughing from nearby: soft initially, then more animated, relieved. Murmurs of confusion were intermixed with sounds of joy. And from the town erupted a great cheer of victory. Akakios opened his eyes – a moment too late to witness a fading glow within the object, now carelessly thrown in the dirt.

He slowly turned in a circle, convinced his eyes had deceived him. There, on the earth in front of his fellow Athenians, lied eleven Spartans. Dead. Nikandros was among them. It looked as if they had simply dropped where they stood, while the Athenians had remained untouched. And from the resonating sounds of elation emanating from the village, the same had happened everywhere the light had touched.

As he stumbled over to his mother's side, Akakios pondered the event. Plopping next to her in the grass, he could produce no explanation. "What just happened, mother?"

Sappho was just as befuddled as her son. "I do not know, Akakios…" she breathed, eyes wide. Looking at her town around her, she saw spot fires still blazed within buildings, pathways were completely destroyed, and what had once been houses now laid as crumbled stone. But all that could be rebuilt. She was simply thankful she and her son were alive.

"I think the gods just saved us," she concluded, wrapping an arm around her son.

Akakios frowned. He had been a skeptic…. This certainly challenged his young mind.

While the others of his group were embracing one another in glee, some crying tears of joy, one woman kneeled apart from the rest, eyes closed. She prayed:

"I begin to sing of Pallas Athena, the Protectress of the village,

Who looks after matters of war, the plundering of cities, the battle-cry and the fray.

It is She who protects the chosen people, wherever they might come or go.

Hail, Goddess, and give us good spirits and blessed favor!"

Picking up the item from the ground, Akakios wiped it clean with care before folding it within his tunic once more. Whatever it was, his mother had nearly lost her life for it. He owed it to her to keep it safe for the rest of his life.

He listened to the woman pray. Akakios had no more answers than he did several minutes ago. But for the first time in his life, the boy accepted the unexplainable. And he was comforted.

Maybe the gods were watching out for them after all.

TBC