( he arrived this time last year. after leonidas of sparta, demophilus of thespiae, and their men fell at thermopylae; after the naval battle of artemisium, and after the fiery destruction of athens, he arrived. a fog had descended upon the island of salamis, where the allied greeks had retreated, as the priests and soothsayers erected pyres of cedar for a hecatomb. to zeus, lord of the lightning, they begged for his guidance. to athena, the hope of soldiers, they appealed for her wisdom and strength.
light rain fell, mingling with the soft prayers and the brays of the cattle. the flames flickered as the wind swelled, and the fog thickened to the point that the greeks could hardly see the light of the pyres. like the trickle of a stream, confusion began to spread through the ranks. each of them had been plunged into an intolerable darkness. confusion turned to fear and panic, and it was a waterfall that almost overwhelmed them. was this death?
but with a final gust of wind, the fog lifted, and a figure appeared through the misty gloom. in the dying glow from the pyres, his eyes gleamed grey, and his smile was as sharp as a spearhead. it's said that the constellation procyon β the fox that zeus cast to the sky β shone the brightest in the sky that night, though it was too late in the year to be so visible. thus the man was known as teumessian, and was considered by all as an emissary of pallas athena.
almost immediately, he proved himself a peer of odysseus when he advised the athenian general themistocles to deceive the persians to sail into the straits of salamis. in the cramped waters, the great persian fleet was destroyed by the greeks. the achaemenid emperor xerxes withdrew to anatolia, leaving mardonius to command his army and bring the greeks to heel. after repeated rejected peace offers, athens was razed to the ground by the persians.
a year passes, and the greek alliance and persians now meet near the city of plataea in boeotia. the greeks camp along the foothills of mount cithaeron, while their enemies defend the level ground below the ridge. for eleven days, the two sides have committed to playing a waiting game, harassing the other side's supply lines. they are two boxers, sluggish and exhausted, throwing feint punches to gauge the other's strength and intention. on the tenth day, the persians poison two water springs, forcing the greeks to gather fresh water from the nearby asopus river. during each attempt, persian arrows rain down upon them. supplies are dwindling, and soon the greeks will need to retreat.
like a viper in high grass, he's kept himself hidden, watching and waiting. the last thing he wishes is for his presence to distract and hinder the natural course of events. in the dark and still waters of history, he must be a pebble, neither noticeable nor disruptive with his ripples. he's not the boat or the current that dictates its path, but a guiding breeze. that's easy when the greek commander, pausanias of sparta, does not seek his counsel, being neither impressed by nor grateful for this emissary with eyes that glint like the moon on the sea. and perhaps it's preferable to remain this hidden. he doesn't wish for his presence to distract and hinder others.
but, if anything is going to be accomplished, his ripples must be larger. he needs a boulder. so, at the dawn of the twelfth day, while the soldiers and cicadas slumber and the wind still carries the coolness of the night, teumessian of athens strikes out from the greek camp. the wine-dark sky masks his departure, and his horse's hooves are soft on the grass as they trot to the farthest region of mount cithaeron where other enemies of persia camp. not being from greece, they have no membership in the greek alliance, but they've sworn to serve alongside them to defeat the persians. but, as they aren't greek, pausanias of sparta does not trust them, and so they're sequestered on the far side of the foothills.
it could be said that he was led to her the same way birds are led south. it's instinctual and automatic, words that do not yet exist, but that he knows and feels as he jumps off his horse and guides it through the narrow winding path of tents and sleeping bodies. or perhaps he knows to look for the biggest tent and start there. it takes but a moment to find it being guarded by a half-asleep spearman, who is startled awake by his horse's soft snort.
the sentry is bewildered by the unexpected early morning visitor. in his dress, he appears greek, wearing a white chiton that falls above the knees, a blue woolen chlamys clasped at his broad shoulder with an insignia of an owl, and brown leather sandals. secured on his horse is a bronze helmet, cuirass, kopis, and bow and arrows. his smile is warm and bright, a harbinger of helios and his horse-drawn chariot coming over the horizon soon. what's more bewildering and unexpected, however, is when the early morning visitor bends his head in a slight bow and speaks the sentry's mother tongue, )
O son of Scythia, grant me an audience with thy princess. I carry a message of the utmost urgency.
( still bewildered and overcome with drowsiness, the sentry can only reply in a shutter, inquiring as to who carries the message. teumessian of athens says his name, his voice clear and loud enough to alert whoever's asleep in the tent of his presence. )
[ boeotia suits them. the broad, sweeping plans north of the foothills is more hospitable than the rocks and sand of salamis. a year ago, smoke from the sack of athens had stung the eyes and burned the lungs. the unforgiving ridgeline cut lines of sight. jagged stone and scrub made for poor riding. they'd lost good men fighting skirmishes on the shore.
here, below the graceful slopes of mount cithaeron, there's room to breathe. it's not the steppe, but it doesn't have to be. home is built around the hearth. the painted tents and hide-covered wagons break from the monotonous lines of the hoplite camp. the smell of bronze and oil gives way to leather and wool. where the grecian encampment functions like a machine, this is something else entirely β an organism, vibrant and breathing and still a little wild.
the spartans are suspicious at best, disdainful of the irregularity they see in a warband made of outsiders. they demand separation. offer begrudging respect when black sea riders drive persian cavalry off supply lines. the athenians treat them as a curiosity, intrigued by the novelty of their patterned riding pants and the gold inlays on their gorytoi. they ask questions. share the nightwatch. the corinthians, for their part, are practical. if scythian archers want to make a game of antagonizing persian patrols, then may the gods bless their sport.
riders in scale armor leave the foothills at dawn each day to needle at the enemy. harassing achaemenid cavalry, disrupting their water runs, taunting king xerxes' infantry from the hills and running them ragged through the plains. they know this enemy. darius the great had been darius the ass around their hearthfires.
it isn't enough to turn the tides of war. but it shifts the balance, eases the persian boot from the collective neck of the coalition forces.
it helps buy eleven days.
then, the twelfth. dawn.
outside the largest tent, a sentry stares bewildered as teumessian of athens requests an audience in a perfect skythikΔ glΕssa.
inside, there's the rustle of leather. the tent flap opens. there stands a woman. a tumble of wild black hair, gold hoops glinting from her ears as she turns towards the sound of his voice. her dark eyes are sharp and seeking β catching in the first rays of light before recognition brightens them. her gaze becomes a banked forge then, all warmth and coal, crinkling at the corners with something like amusement.
the spearman, bowing deeply, calls her lady anrΔ. rumors of the one known simply as syΔva-keΕΔ haunt the persian camps. the greeks prefer what is half-bastardization and half-mythologizing: amazΕn skythΓs when they saw her ride, then andromΓ‘chΔ when they saw her fight. some day, she'll be known only as andy.
the scythian princess, summoned from her sleep by the man who will outrun her for a hundred lifetimes. her very own hippomenes. he who cannot be caught. here, on the banks of the asopus river, she doesn't carry the burden of those lifetimes. she doesn't chase. in this lifetime, she is still tousled from burrowing beneath layered furs, half-dressed, no scale or bronze β entirely inappropriate for hosting an emissary of wisdom herself and no more troubled by that fact than teumessian was when he strolled uninvited through her camp. ]
Let him pass, Varkasha. [ roughness from sleep softens her usual edges, making the small wave of her hand almost lazy. ] And tell RaxΕ‘aka and DΔtivΔ they won't be needed this morning. [ wryly then, as she turns to duck back inside her tent: ] Our guest is a master strategist. He can negotiate with my hair and my armor.
( without another word, they go in, the mortal and immortal; both a god to many. but, though the shrines and altars are now in ruins, and the libation poured nevermore, deference lasts, even when rituals do not. their legends brand the earth, already ancient history to the first settlers. mountains, rivers, and deep canyons are vestiges of their reign and testaments to their power. in the sky, beyond the sight and imagination of mortal men, they live in eternal splendor: the sun and the moon, the morning star and the evening star, the silence and the storm. the soul remembers what the mind does not.
little light pierces through the wool material and into the tent, the air warm and sweetly perfumed as hay or ambrosia. the low ceiling forces him to bow his head, a seemingly reverent gesture in the immortal's sanctuary. but his worship is neither submissive nor fearful as his hand catches a strand of her black hair, long as a horse's tail and soft as silk, and he rubs it between his thumb and forefinger. )
Thine hair grew long again. That explains why the Persians still breathe. ( he releases her hair, and wistfulness softens his tone; a bard reciting legends of days past to weary travelers. ) I remember when a mere whisper of thy name shook the earth. How armies fled at the sight of thee! Thine axe cut down men with the ease of a farmer reaping his grain. Rivers ran red with blood as if by God's hand. Carrion birds followed thee, their provider of feasts. But now β ( discontent marrs his face, phantasmagoric with shadows and sharpness. his words scald and fume as when a blacksmith plunges a glowing piece of hot metal into a bath. )Now the soldiers only tremble with laughter in their camps. "A woman commander? What a farce!" It's sport to them, lobbing insults as javelins. Each Greek and Persian alike shares in ridiculing and pitying the warriors of PΓ³ntos Γxeinos.
( he speaks true, as the emissary of athena only can; but he damns, invokes, and praises, as a true worshipper only can. kings demand fealty, but gods demand flesh. rage over devotion, sworn by blade or teeth. a prayer soaked with blood. love and hate; a curse and a blessing. )
O princess of the Skolotoi. Ameretat, Laelaps, whoever thou may be, but always Bashert to me. Ageless and deathless; endless in beauty and power. What stays thine axe β mercy or weakness?
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light rain fell, mingling with the soft prayers and the brays of the cattle. the flames flickered as the wind swelled, and the fog thickened to the point that the greeks could hardly see the light of the pyres. like the trickle of a stream, confusion began to spread through the ranks. each of them had been plunged into an intolerable darkness. confusion turned to fear and panic, and it was a waterfall that almost overwhelmed them. was this death?
but with a final gust of wind, the fog lifted, and a figure appeared through the misty gloom. in the dying glow from the pyres, his eyes gleamed grey, and his smile was as sharp as a spearhead. it's said that the constellation procyon β the fox that zeus cast to the sky β shone the brightest in the sky that night, though it was too late in the year to be so visible. thus the man was known as teumessian, and was considered by all as an emissary of pallas athena.
almost immediately, he proved himself a peer of odysseus when he advised the athenian general themistocles to deceive the persians to sail into the straits of salamis. in the cramped waters, the great persian fleet was destroyed by the greeks. the achaemenid emperor xerxes withdrew to anatolia, leaving mardonius to command his army and bring the greeks to heel. after repeated rejected peace offers, athens was razed to the ground by the persians.
a year passes, and the greek alliance and persians now meet near the city of plataea in boeotia. the greeks camp along the foothills of mount cithaeron, while their enemies defend the level ground below the ridge. for eleven days, the two sides have committed to playing a waiting game, harassing the other side's supply lines. they are two boxers, sluggish and exhausted, throwing feint punches to gauge the other's strength and intention. on the tenth day, the persians poison two water springs, forcing the greeks to gather fresh water from the nearby asopus river. during each attempt, persian arrows rain down upon them. supplies are dwindling, and soon the greeks will need to retreat.
like a viper in high grass, he's kept himself hidden, watching and waiting. the last thing he wishes is for his presence to distract and hinder the natural course of events. in the dark and still waters of history, he must be a pebble, neither noticeable nor disruptive with his ripples. he's not the boat or the current that dictates its path, but a guiding breeze. that's easy when the greek commander, pausanias of sparta, does not seek his counsel, being neither impressed by nor grateful for this emissary with eyes that glint like the moon on the sea. and perhaps it's preferable to remain this hidden. he doesn't wish for his presence to distract and hinder others.
but, if anything is going to be accomplished, his ripples must be larger. he needs a boulder. so, at the dawn of the twelfth day, while the soldiers and cicadas slumber and the wind still carries the coolness of the night, teumessian of athens strikes out from the greek camp. the wine-dark sky masks his departure, and his horse's hooves are soft on the grass as they trot to the farthest region of mount cithaeron where other enemies of persia camp. not being from greece, they have no membership in the greek alliance, but they've sworn to serve alongside them to defeat the persians. but, as they aren't greek, pausanias of sparta does not trust them, and so they're sequestered on the far side of the foothills.
it could be said that he was led to her the same way birds are led south. it's instinctual and automatic, words that do not yet exist, but that he knows and feels as he jumps off his horse and guides it through the narrow winding path of tents and sleeping bodies. or perhaps he knows to look for the biggest tent and start there. it takes but a moment to find it being guarded by a half-asleep spearman, who is startled awake by his horse's soft snort.
the sentry is bewildered by the unexpected early morning visitor. in his dress, he appears greek, wearing a white chiton that falls above the knees, a blue woolen chlamys clasped at his broad shoulder with an insignia of an owl, and brown leather sandals. secured on his horse is a bronze helmet, cuirass, kopis, and bow and arrows. his smile is warm and bright, a harbinger of helios and his horse-drawn chariot coming over the horizon soon. what's more bewildering and unexpected, however, is when the early morning visitor bends his head in a slight bow and speaks the sentry's mother tongue, )
O son of Scythia, grant me an audience with thy princess. I carry a message of the utmost urgency.
( still bewildered and overcome with drowsiness, the sentry can only reply in a shutter, inquiring as to who carries the message. teumessian of athens says his name, his voice clear and loud enough to alert whoever's asleep in the tent of his presence. )
He who cannot be caught.
no subject
here, below the graceful slopes of mount cithaeron, there's room to breathe. it's not the steppe, but it doesn't have to be. home is built around the hearth. the painted tents and hide-covered wagons break from the monotonous lines of the hoplite camp. the smell of bronze and oil gives way to leather and wool. where the grecian encampment functions like a machine, this is something else entirely β an organism, vibrant and breathing and still a little wild.
the spartans are suspicious at best, disdainful of the irregularity they see in a warband made of outsiders. they demand separation. offer begrudging respect when black sea riders drive persian cavalry off supply lines. the athenians treat them as a curiosity, intrigued by the novelty of their patterned riding pants and the gold inlays on their gorytoi. they ask questions. share the nightwatch. the corinthians, for their part, are practical. if scythian archers want to make a game of antagonizing persian patrols, then may the gods bless their sport.
riders in scale armor leave the foothills at dawn each day to needle at the enemy. harassing achaemenid cavalry, disrupting their water runs, taunting king xerxes' infantry from the hills and running them ragged through the plains. they know this enemy. darius the great had been darius the ass around their hearthfires.
it isn't enough to turn the tides of war. but it shifts the balance, eases the persian boot from the collective neck of the coalition forces.
it helps buy eleven days.
then, the twelfth. dawn.
outside the largest tent, a sentry stares bewildered as teumessian of athens requests an audience in a perfect skythikΔ glΕssa.
inside, there's the rustle of leather. the tent flap opens. there stands a woman. a tumble of wild black hair, gold hoops glinting from her ears as she turns towards the sound of his voice. her dark eyes are sharp and seeking β catching in the first rays of light before recognition brightens them. her gaze becomes a banked forge then, all warmth and coal, crinkling at the corners with something like amusement.
the spearman, bowing deeply, calls her lady anrΔ. rumors of the one known simply as syΔva-keΕΔ haunt the persian camps. the greeks prefer what is half-bastardization and half-mythologizing: amazΕn skythΓs when they saw her ride, then andromΓ‘chΔ when they saw her fight. some day, she'll be known only as andy.
the scythian princess, summoned from her sleep by the man who will outrun her for a hundred lifetimes. her very own hippomenes. he who cannot be caught. here, on the banks of the asopus river, she doesn't carry the burden of those lifetimes. she doesn't chase. in this lifetime, she is still tousled from burrowing beneath layered furs, half-dressed, no scale or bronze β entirely inappropriate for hosting an emissary of wisdom herself and no more troubled by that fact than teumessian was when he strolled uninvited through her camp. ]
Let him pass, Varkasha. [ roughness from sleep softens her usual edges, making the small wave of her hand almost lazy. ] And tell RaxΕ‘aka and DΔtivΔ they won't be needed this morning. [ wryly then, as she turns to duck back inside her tent: ] Our guest is a master strategist. He can negotiate with my hair and my armor.
no subject
little light pierces through the wool material and into the tent, the air warm and sweetly perfumed as hay or ambrosia. the low ceiling forces him to bow his head, a seemingly reverent gesture in the immortal's sanctuary. but his worship is neither submissive nor fearful as his hand catches a strand of her black hair, long as a horse's tail and soft as silk, and he rubs it between his thumb and forefinger. )
Thine hair grew long again. That explains why the Persians still breathe. ( he releases her hair, and wistfulness softens his tone; a bard reciting legends of days past to weary travelers. ) I remember when a mere whisper of thy name shook the earth. How armies fled at the sight of thee! Thine axe cut down men with the ease of a farmer reaping his grain. Rivers ran red with blood as if by God's hand. Carrion birds followed thee, their provider of feasts. But now β ( discontent marrs his face, phantasmagoric with shadows and sharpness. his words scald and fume as when a blacksmith plunges a glowing piece of hot metal into a bath. ) Now the soldiers only tremble with laughter in their camps. "A woman commander? What a farce!" It's sport to them, lobbing insults as javelins. Each Greek and Persian alike shares in ridiculing and pitying the warriors of PΓ³ntos Γxeinos.
( he speaks true, as the emissary of athena only can; but he damns, invokes, and praises, as a true worshipper only can. kings demand fealty, but gods demand flesh. rage over devotion, sworn by blade or teeth. a prayer soaked with blood. love and hate; a curse and a blessing. )
O princess of the Skolotoi. Ameretat, Laelaps, whoever thou may be, but always Bashert to me. Ageless and deathless; endless in beauty and power. What stays thine axe β mercy or weakness?