> The Wrath of Alexander the Great

CHAPTER 2
     
      When the news of Sajan's escape reached General Bousardis on the mainland, he kicked the contents of his command tent and disciplined every officer in sight. He ordered a full search of the island but figured it was little more than an exercise; the storm decreed there was only one place where Sajan and his getaway boat could go. To the east. Bousardis stood on the mainland shore and cursed as the waning storm carried his prisoner off to the Cilician coast.
      He recalled his first officers Cleon and Zeno from the field. The two seemed fastened at the hip and were notoriously loyal to Bousardis. The general conferred with them in his tent. The rest of his staff kept their distance. No one dared speak when the General's mood was this foul. But Bousardis's scowl would eventually turn to a confident smirk, like it always did. I've chased down rascals more dangerous than this back-stabbing sea-captain, he thought. Bousardis allowed his soldiers to think it was the captain he wanted. No one need know that if what he had been told was true, it was the man who had snared the captain that he was after.
      Then the orders were given. "Mobilize the garrisons at

Tarsus and Beilan. All horsemen to the march. We leave at once. With a little luck, we'll have the son-of-a-bitch back in forty-eight hours."
      His men nodded enthusiastically. Their general was as capable as they came and had been successful time and again on the march and on the battlefield. Bousardis made his own luck and Alexander knew it too.
     
      The sturdy boat proved even faster than expected as the storm bore the harbor skiff relentlessly toward the mainland coast, though the twenty hour open ocean journey proved a punishing ordeal for both craft and crew. Even though they were running with the wind and water, the harbor skiff was built for speed and not for a storm-whipped open sea and the incessant pounding of wave after wave. The beaten thing’s skeleton began coming apart at the seams and Barkane had been forced to order Sajan to the rudder while he and Markatt bailed non-stop and struggled to keep the boat in one piece, tending sail and wedging dislodged ribbing back in place with junk and cordage. The non-stop work served to keep them warm and Barkane hoped the heavy rudder work would exhaust Sajan so completely that he could be nothing but compliant when they reached the mainland. Unfortunately for Barkane, that would not be

the case.
      The boat gave out just as the men gave out for despite the warmth of the season, the relentless rain and wind had sapped every ounce of heat from the men’s bodies and by the time the rocky shoreline finally emerged out of the blowing mist, their teeth were chattering in their heads.
      Even with minds numbed by the unending noise of the angry sea they could see the approach was as unwelcoming as the island of Cyprus far behind them. The coast in these parts consisted of unbroken hills that sloped steeply down to the shore in a line of rock that stretched for leagues. Now darkness was falling fast and Barkane knew they must make landfall soon: There would be an army of men after them any minute, probably led by General Bousardis himself because the Greek army, like armies everywhere, didn't take kindly to mutiny or jailbreaks.
      Barkane was growing anxious; they had been out in the weather too long. The rough trip had chilled them to the bone and left them with little energy to spare. Despite their deteriorating physical condition, instead of going directly ashore, Barkane ordered Sajan to tack south along the shoreline for hours. Sajan pointed out a dozen suitable places to go ashore and cursed loudly when Barkane ignored him, the commander's eyes scanning the endless rock.
       

As they sailed south, the wave action came from their starboard side and the boat rose and fell at an uneven rhythm that began to disorient the exhausted men. Hour after hour of rocky shore had all looked the same to Sajan but with only a shadow of daylight left, Barkane finally nodded his head toward a rock formation jutting from the sea like a granite spike.
      "There!" Barkane said. His other lieutenant, Helyar, would be waiting there with equipment and horses. Though he would have preferred a full battalion, Barkane’s mission required such secrecy that a multitude of Carthaginian soldiers on Alexander's soil was out of the question. The elders at Carthage had assigned Barkane his most loyal commando, Markatt, and, after much political wrangling, the experienced Helyar. Markatt was of the clan that controlled the Carthaginian Navy and Helyar of the equally powerful clan who supplied and organized the High Cavalry of Carthage. Both men were veterans and high-borne and so Barkane was unworried. Helyar and his family were as pedigreed as they came and the man knew his business; he would be lying in wait safely nearby.
      The abused skiff was now just barely holding together and both Markatt and Barkane knew the captain would have a tricky time bringing the thing in. The wind still howled

and the rain lashed their backs as Sajan drove straight at the shore. Wild whirls of spindrift soared over their heads as the rocks drew closer, the unfriendly nature of the coast revealing itself; to either side of the granite spire unbroken walls of rock stretched as far as they could see.
      A shivering Sajan shouted over the wind, "There is no suitable landing!"
      Barkane only shrugged. "Do your best, Captain," he said.
      "I can’t get us ashore without risking the boat."
      "The boat is unimportant," said Barkane.
      Not to me, thought Sajan, but he only glared back at Barkane and cursed. Sajan was no fool. He knew he was Barkane’s prisoner, though for what he could not fathom. He had sustained himself across this ugly ocean with thoughts of escape by means of the flimsy skiff.
      "Zeus’s piss!" he said. "Stand by, then, you bastards, to drop the yard and raise the rudder block!" Barkane grinned at Markatt and they readied themselves for what would prove to be a rough landing. The captain was going to ride the running surf right up the rocky beach, so they would have to let fall all sail and get their weight to the back of the boat at just the right moment. Sajan squinted through the rain at the rapidly approaching rocks, looking

for an opening. He saw none.
      "Slow us down!" he shouted, and Barkane and Markatt lowered the yard halfway down the mast. "Steady..."
      The high rocks loomed above their heads and the crashing of the waves against the jagged walls of stone before them roared in their ears. Sajan’s fists were white-knuckled about the tiller-arm and his breathing fast. Markatt swallowed hard and Barkane gritted his teeth.
      But Captain Sajan was good. His frozen hands stayed steady on the tiller and at the last second he shouted, "Port!" and threw all his weight into it and the rudder bit to port as Markatt and Barkane yanked the yard down and the sail collapsed as the boat rode a wave, then drunkenly slowed in front of two great rocks in about a fathom of water, the bow digging into the sea and shoveling in a barrel’s worth of seawater and then the captain lunged with the tiller back to starboard again and the boat rose and lurched forward through a gap in the rocks that Barkane had not even seen. Suddenly the boat was surging through white water thrown up by the rising beach, screeching and growling over the first of the rocks. It slipped sideways and tilted and then surged forward again until it wedged itself into a jumble of rock and rudely lurched to a stop, sending all three men tumbling forward. Barkane and Sajan

smashed into each other at the prow but the unlucky Markatt slipped on the deck and flipped overboard into the surging water - and the safety of the beach was still fifty paces away. Suddenly Markatt was spinning underwater and flailing for the surface. He held his breath. Am I upside down? Then he broke the surface and gasped for air. The boat! He reached for it - a hand was there. Barkane. Barkane grabbed Markatt and just as he did he caught the look of alarm in Markatt’s eye. Markatt yanked him hard to one side just as an oar came crashing down where Barkane’s head had been just a moment before.
      Sajan. Even though the boat spun dizzily amongst the rocks his sea legs were sure and he had seized his chance. Barkane yanked Markatt into the boat and spun to face the recalcitrant captain. Sajan, oar in hand, backed into the bow as the boat twisted and groaned against the rocks beneath them and another weighty wave surged over the boat.
      The sea was pushing the boat to the beach, the hull crunching off every rock on the seabed. When Sajan saw the beach suddenly so near, he cursed and flung the oar at his two captors and leapt off the boat into the boiling surf. The water was only waist deep now and Sajan swam and stumbled as wave after wave threw him toward the beach. Barkane shouted over his shoulder, "The bags!" and then he

was over the side in pursuit. Markatt staggered and cursed in the revolving boat. He managed to grab hold of the two canvas sail bags. They clanked with the sound of metal on metal. Markatt clumsily threw himself overboard with both bags and struggled for the beach.
      There, Sajan was already free from the sea and moving as fast as his tired body would carry him up the steep slope. Barkane was behind him but moving faster. He wasn’t surprised that the captain made a break for it for Sajan’s reputation preceded him. Barkane figured the captain wouldn’t get far before Helyar revealed himself and nabbed him. But where was Helyar?
      The soaking slope was littered with loose stone of all sizes and it wasn't long before both exhausted men were reduced to pawing their way up on all fours. Sajan was breathing as hard as he ever had and paused only once to look back down to the churning sea below. He saw Markatt emerge from the white froth of the surf and drag the heavy canvas bags ashore before collapsing in a heap on the sand. The harbor skiff was left to the sea and the rocks. The thing flipped and a section of it broke away. The small craft was finished and Sajan cursed Barkane.
      Sajan seized a stone as big as he could lift and flung it down at Barkane but Barkane was ready and he side-stepped it easily.

Sajan flung another and then another and Barkane simply dodged each one without missing a step. When Sajan realized he was expending more energy lobbing rocks than he was climbing he turned uphill again. Stone kicked from the captain’s sandals ricocheted past Barkane’s face. Barkane almost had Sajan's feet when the rocky slope finally gave way to level ground covered by scrub. Sajan disappeared over the sharp rise just fingers from Barkane's grasp but Barkane hadn't sailed all this way to lose the man.
      Barkane could feel his muscles failing. He had been soaking wet so long he could not remember dry and he was without sleep now for - What? Two days? He couldn’t remember. Fatigue was clouding his brain. He put his head down and willed himself up, his body so drained it seemed he wrestled with every pebble on the slope. In another unthinking moment he made the top of the rise and pulled himself over.
      Sajan crouched there, doubled over with his hands on his knees and gasping for air. Without hesitation, Barkane dove for him but at the last second Sajan whirled around with a heavy stone in hand and swung it with what strength he had left at Barkane’s head and the rock smashed into Barkane’s cheek just as he tackled Sajan and pulled the

bigger man to the ground. They slammed into the mud together and the breath exploded from each of them. Barkane got the worst of it for the big captain landed on top of him. Barkane scrambled away, and then, despite his weakened state, he was back on his feet and hovering over the captain, his fist prepared to deliver a blow. But the exhausted Sajan made no effort at defense. He lay on his back, his hair strewn across his face like wet grass after a windstorm and his eyes clenched shut against the raindrops falling all around. Barkane could see the man was so spent he could hardly draw a breath yet alone lift his arms in defense.
      Barkane was spent as well, but not that spent. He had energy for one last blow and was determined to deliver it just for good measure when he heard a voice shout, "Hold!"
      Barkane thought his tired mind was playing tricks on him. His chest heaved so loudly from the exertion of the climb he wasn’t sure he had heard anything at all. His right hand had Sajan by the throat; his left was clenched in a fist to strike. The storm drained water over his head and off his face for what seemed like the hundredth hour in a row. Would the rain never cease? He heard the voice again. It spoke Greek.
       "I say, hold!"
       

Barkane crouched over Sajan just paces from the edge of the hilltop and with great effort lifted his head to the voice.
      He was surrounded by a semi-circle of horsemen. Ten of them? Barkane wasn’t sure but he could recognize the silhouette of armed warriors through the heaviest veil of fatigue. A dark thought crossed his mind. Had General Bousardis made his way here so quickly?
      One soldier in the middle of the pack he had not one, but two bows - one slung over each shoulder. They poked up high over his head, giving the man the appearance of a giant insect. Barkane could barely hold himself upright as the soldiers moved in around him and the voice spoke again. 
      "Take these two children to camp," it growled.
      Then a blow to Barkane's head sent a spark across his eyes and his mind went to darkness.
     
     
      Barkane awoke to daylight and a thundering headache. He squinted against the light and winced from the pain at the back of his skull. The horizon appeared off-kilter until he realized his head lay sideways on the ground. He was on the grassy plain above the sea, the plain rolling and covered in a brittle coat of sun-burnt summer grass.

Stands of thick forest spotted the plain as far as he could see. Though the sun was high, horizontal bands of mist still lingered in the low places; passable grazing country even in the summer heat.
      Surrounded by a dozen men, he lay on well-beaten grass, his hands bound tightly behind him. A painful pressure ran the length of his skull and everything smelled of dirt. Then he realized a foot was pressing his cheek into the earth. An empty water-skin lay just in view and Barkane vaguely remembered drinking from it in the night. Breakfast fires burned nearby, the still humid air holding the smoke close to the ground. Barkane frowned at the fires. They were in a thin wood that provided cover but smoke gave away one’s position. Did these soldiers not care? The men talked idly in an easy Greek coastal accent and nodded to each other as Barkane came to life.
      Barkane was furious with himself. The men on horseback had surprised him. The elders had paid good money for intelligence on this mission and his desolate landing site had been selected specifically because no one should be around these wind-whipped shores this time of year. The coast here served as a springtime fishing destination only and should have been well abandoned by midsummer. What’s more, Barkane had been exhaustively briefed about troop

deployments up and down the coast – his mission demanded it - so he knew there should be no troops in the area. Yet here they were.
      Barkane tried to sit up but his head was shoved into the ground again by his unseen oppressor and Barkane groaned as he felt another painful bump on his face. His long hair was matted with dried blood and stuck to his cheek. That sting of pain was from Sajan and his rock. Barkane's right eyebrow was so swollen the edge of it impeded his vision and he knew he would have a black eye for weeks, but he could see well enough and that was good news. Jumbled in a pile just a few feet away were his canvas equipment bags from the boat, his weapons, and his faded red quiver.
      "Thinking of leaving us so soon?" Barkane heard a voice above him laugh and the other soldiers joined in.
      Barkane told himself to be alert and gather what information he could. The stormy night had passed and the thick air stank of horses and urine. Numerous campfires stilled burned and one featured a steaming vat surrounded by wine jars. He was in a camp with twenty threadbare tents and lean-to’s. Bundles of javelins and arrow-packed quivers leaned against the tents. Barkane recognized the tail construction of the arrows immediately and the hair rose on

the back of his neck. The feathers were cut close to the shaft and ran for five fingers or more along the tail. Those were long-range Persian arrows. In a camp full of Greeks?
      As to the rest of the camp, shields and spears were stacked in undisciplined piles and horses were tied to posts and tent-poles in haphazard fashion. More horses milled about in a makeshift paddock in the distance. One wouldn’t want to have to abandon this unorganized camp in a hurry, thought Barkane. Some of the soldiers were armored in traditional hoplite gear; bronze chest plates and shin-greaves like Barkane’s. But most wore only tunics and studded leather battle skirts and only a few wore a sword at their hip. None seemed to have been assigned any duties for the day for they merely wandered and talked in groups and, from the sound of their accent, they hailed from the Thracian coast. Thanks to his upbringing and years of action all over the Mediterranean, Barkane's Greek was impeccable and he could assume many accents but Markatt's Carthaginian accent would be unmistakable.
      Sajan was nowhere to be seen but Markatt lay prone on the ground nearby. He, too, had been knocked over the head and was still out cold but breathing well, as if steeped in a good night’s sleep. He and Barkane had been separated by

a prudent distance and both were surrounded by soldiers, not a smile among them. But as far as Barkane could tell, that was the only intelligent step his captors had taken. As soldiers, they had made three inexcusable mistakes. Firstly, they left their weapons and their camp fully visible to their captives where Barkane would never reveal so much information to a potential hostile. Secondly, they had let him sleep. The sun told him it was nearly noon. Sleep! When he needed it most, by the gods! Had it been him, he would have kept an unknown prisoner exhausted, hungry, and most of all, thirsty. Thirdly and most damning, the centerpiece of their camp appeared to be, of all things, a makeshift wooden and skin vat surrounded by wine casks and Barkane detected the scent of grape must in the air. Were they really that interested in fermenting wine? It would get worse, as Barkane would soon learn.
      There was still no sign of Helyar though Helyar had been sent ahead to meet Barkane on this supposed-to-be-deserted coast. The storm must have made it impossible for Helyar to warn Barkane of the troops here.
      The overcast sun made a weak shadow but Barkane could read it well enough. His oppressor stood above him with one foot ground firmly into Barkane’s neck. Barkane heard the man speak again, this time to another soldier nearby.
       

"Go tell Helios his other guests are awake." At that moment Barkane felt the man’s foot relax - another mistake. Let us see what this bastard is made of, thought Barkane. Despite the fact that his hands were tied tightly behind him, Barkane suddenly twisted in the dirt and whipped a leg into the ankles of his oppressor, taking the legs out from under the man and he fell to the ground and Barkane was on his feet before anyone had a chance to think. The stunned man tried to get up but Barkane's swift kick to the side of his jaw snapped his head back and sent him to the dirt once again as the others finally came to his aid and then Barkane was surrounded by a dozen soldiers with swords and daggers at the ready.
      Barkane froze in place. Just paces away, his oppressor, his beard as long and thick as Sajan's, rose from the ground with a groan and leveled a malevolent glare at Barkane. Wiping the blood from his unruly beard, the man angrily seized a sword from the soldier nearest him. He stepped toward Barkane and aimed the sword in his face, the tip hovering just a hair from Barkane’s nose. Barkane didn’t move a muscle and didn’t look at the sword; he focused on the man’s shoulders, for the experienced Barkane knew his opponent's shoulders would signal where the sword went next. But the man only snorted, and stepped over to

the sleeping Markatt. The man hovered over the inert body of Markatt and spun the sword purposefully in his hand.
      "This one's not so lively," the big bearded man said. He lowered his eyes at Barkane and waved an arm at all the men milling about.
      "When they're not soldiering, the rest of this miserable bunch are farmers and herdsmen. But me?" The man’s smile turned to a sneer. "I have nothing better to do." Blood dripped from his mouth as he raised his sword.
      Barkane spoke at last, his voice low and his words measured. "I swear by Herakles if you so much as touch him - that will be your last act on this earth."
      The man paused as the soldiers all around exchanged anxious glances. A younger man stepped through the crowd, his beard thin, betraying his youth. Unlike the others he was fully dressed in expensive armor from head to toe, foregoing only a helmet in the summer heat.
      "Let it be, Sestus," the young man said.
      The angry bearded one, Sestus, turned his glare to the young officer but the young officer only glared back, standing his ground. Finally the rough-bearded Sestus sighed and stepped over to Barkane.
      "Sergeant Argon has chosen to spare you. It is only because we are not done with the two of you yet." The man

slid his finger across his throat with a grin before turning and walking away.
      The young Sergeant Argon put his hands on his hips and watched him go. He took a long drought of water from a goat-skin and spat to the hot soil at his feet.
      "Where in all the heavens is Helios?" Sergeant Argon said to no one in particular though one of the soldiers immediately trotted off. Argon picked out four men and told them to keep "the prisoners" on the ground. "The rest of you follow me for drills."
      There was a communal groan but the rest of the men begrudgingly followed the well-dressed sergeant over a rise, picking up weapons as they went and Barkane would hear the clanging of metal and the barking of orders in the distance for the rest of the afternoon.
      After a few more minutes a rail-thin older man appeared with a bowl of meal and more water. The man fed the bound Barkane and poured water down his throat as helpfully as he could though the food and water spilled down Barkane's chest. "Never let it be said that Greek hospitality is not the finest," the man said and he laughed, introducing himself as Stefanos. Barkane nodded politely and thanked the stick-like man. Barkane liked the man, if only because he carried a quiver and bow over his

shoulder at all times.
      "You are welcome," Stefanos said and he left and then Barkane was surrounded again by soldiers who looked bored and unsure with their weapons. He spent the rest of the day waiting in the dirt in silence and it gave him time to think and observe.
      Helios was a common enough Greek name and Barkane was sure now they were from Greek Thrace. Neither he nor Markatt had been killed, but then, neither he nor Markatt were Persian. Not that that even mattered much these days. Alexander’s march over Persia had shifted alliances so radically no one knew who was on whose side any more. Carthage was technically not part of this conflict though she was the daughter-city of Persian Tyre. Would these Greeks bother to make the distinction? And Barkane had not yet seen Sajan in the camp. Where was the wily captain?
      Barkane took to surveying the Greeks’ camp again. Some of the soldiers were cooking over fires, others repairing the tents roughed-up by the storm. Even with all the recent rain, the latrine pits stunk and the paths to them were well worn. The fire pits were choked high with ashes and the tent poles showed no signs of fresh earth where they entered the ground - all was worn smooth. These troops had been here awhile.
       

This coastline was a no-man’s land between Alexander’s secure garrisons to the north protecting his back as he advanced into Persia and his forces to the south, busy laying siege to the island fortress of Tyre. All other opposing Persian forces had reportedly run off to the east.
      Barkane was puzzled. Perhaps this bunch was an independent mercenary band from the disputed Greek coast hired by Persia's King Darius. Whose side were they on? Barkane would soon find out they were on no one’s side but their own.
      The camp was flanked by a steep hill on one side and a stand of tall trees on the other. They could easily be trapped in here by an enemy who knew what they were doing and these troops presented a juicy target: They had horses, one for every man. Barkane counted thirty, most corralled in the temporary paddock that was not only downhill but also upwind of the rest of the camp and Barkane shook his head. All that odor would mask any other smell – such as smoke, a change in the sea wind, or most importantly, the approach of other horses. In open country inattention to details like these could get a regiment killed in a hurry. Worse, though the soldiers had ringed their tents in a tight perimeter, the paddock lay outside that perimeter so that the horses were unprotected.
       

 One look at that paddock had convinced Barkane escape from his current captors would be a simple matter. He only hoped that Helyar would have concluded the same. If he was still alive. Survive until nightfall, Barkane told himself. Then Helyar should make his presence known.
      Late in the day, Barkane watched as the thin one, Stefanos, and three other men assembled a hunting party. He noticed that while their spears and swords lay everywhere in disarray, the men seemed particular with those Persian long-arrows. And when the Greeks produced their bows from carefully secured leather cases Barkane's jaw nearly dropped to the ground. Those bows were as familiar to him as his own hands: Persian recurve composites, the most powerful bows in the world. The bow's ends bent away from the archer, multiplying its power. Fabricated of wood and bone and sinew, in the right hands, a recurve composite could send an arrow through even the thickest armor. And though the Greeks handled the famous Persian weapons clumsily, Barkane noticed they left all other weapons behind. The men disappeared over the hill talking of game birds and deer and the image of another deer leapt into Barkane's mind. Another deer, another expedition, another strange land, and long ago for Barkane was but nine years old when his mother first proposed the trip to his father.
       

"But he is so young," Barkane's father had said.
      "He is as tough as a boar, this one," his mother had said and the young Barkane beamed. She convinced his father to take the nine-year old overland to the mountains on one of his winter trading expeditions. "There will be snow up there, son," his mother had promised him and the excitement in her eyes made him giddy.
      The expedition consisted of Barkane's father, his three sons, a group of other merchants as ambitious as his father, and two dozen pack-mules and horses. Such a big group was prudent protection against thieves and the elements for the trip was a frigid one. In the dead of winter it was cold and snowing in the heights. So different than the low lands along the coast below, thought Barkane. He had caught glimpses of winter occasionally in the mountains from afar, the peaks brushed white on the sides that faced away from the southern sun. All was white and clean up here, magical to Barkane to be in the midst of it, trudging along on horseback through one mountain pass to another.
      For the young Barkane this trip was a rare treat to play in the freezing white stuff; to hold it, to taste it, to toss it around like magic sand. His father laughed at the way the boy opened his mouth and chomped at the

snowflakes as they fell. Most children were content to allow the flakes to land peacefully in their mouths. Not Barkane. He lunged at every one that came near and snapped them up like a lizard snatching dragonflies. The snow made the world seem pure and silent and magical. But the whitest of places could be the deadliest of places, though a young boy could hardly have known.
      At length the snowy passes led them past a wide bowl that opened out below them. The sun shone brightly and the snow all around sparkled.
      The young Barkane looked out across the white vastness of the bowl nestled between the snowy heights. His father told him the snowy bowl concealed a wide lake, frozen maybe only a few weeks a year. Barkane was just thinking he wanted to see the lake in the summertime when, in the distance, crossing the bowl, he made out three figures trekking across the ice, one large and two small: A doe leading two fawns. He was watching them stepping gingerly across the snow when his father pulled his horse next to Barkane’s. He, too, was watching the deer in the distance. He told the boy, "The ice will be young and thin out there. That is a dangerous place to be."
      No sooner had the words left the man’s lips when the ice gave way and the big doe suddenly lurched forward and

fell head first into a maw of crumbling ice and freezing water! The young Barkane wasn’t the only one to cry out. The others had been watching the animals, too. The group watched in horror as the two fawns darted after their mother and in another moment they had slipped into the icy water as well. Barkane felt the breath leave his chest. All three deer splashed around in panic in a widening pool of blackness in the middle of all that white. Their kicking hooves only broke the ice around them and widened the pool.
      "Father!" Barkane screamed and the whole train halted. Barkane looked to his father but his father didn’t move. He only stared grimly into the distance at the struggling deer. Only Barkane did not know there was nothing any of them could do. The water was too deep and the ice too thin.
      Two small heads and a big one jerked and spun in the water and Barkane watched as the big doe suddenly lunged up and managed to get some footing on the ice. She scrambled up to safety and Barkane’s heart leapt at the feat but only for a moment. The two fawns tried to imitate their mother but their heads barely rose from the water. They only managed to kick at the edge of the broken ice and then fall back again.
       

Everyone silently watched the deer struggle in the ice. One of the men said, "They can’t last long in that cold."
      Barkane watched the doe frantically run in circles around the hole poking her head at her babies who nudged their noses back at her. She slipped and fell but struggled back to her feet and Barkane could feel her urging them on.
      "Father, help them!" Barkane whispered, fully expecting his father to turn their horses to the lake and gallop to their rescue. But neither his father nor any other man moved. His father could see the anguish in his boy’s eyes and he pulled his mount close to Barkane’s.
      "It is too dangerous, son, the ice is too thin for man or horse." He put his hand on his son’s shoulder but the gesture and the danger meant nothing to Barkane for the boy had killed deer already, and goats and pigs and chicken and cattle, with his father and his uncles and his household’s servants. But that was for food. To the boy, those deaths were so necessary as to not be deaths at all. Not like this.
      He looked down the train and saw that not a single man moved. His father tried to soothe him, "Son...", but Barkane bolted from his horse and sprinted through the snow to one of their mountain mules.
       

"Son!" his father cried out to him.
      But Barkane had seized a rope from the equipment hooks and was sprinting down the hill toward the lake. He could hear the cries of his father and the others behind him: "Stop, boy!" and "Stop him!"
      Barkane left their voices behind and their cries of warning were absorbed by the mountains. The deep snow exploded from his boots at every step and sprayed up in his face and up his cold-weather trousers. He had eyes only for the deer; the mother still prancing, the fawns’ heads still bobbing. He was at the bottom of the hill in no time at all and then he could feel the sudden hardness and unearthly flatness beneath his feet.
      He was on the ice.
      Too thin for man or horse, but not for me, he thought. I weigh nothing!
      Now that he was closer he saw that the two fawns were weakening, their noses now barely above water. He felt energy flow through him like never before and it frightened him for he had never felt panic but knew it now. Barkane’s lungs pumped for breath and he willed his arms and legs to go faster and they did.
      Run!
       

He never considered that a terrified father on a horse might be behind him when a blow to his back sent him flying and his face crashing to the ice. Snow filled his nose and mouth and fire flashed across his eyes. He heard a cracking in his nose and then there was blackness and cold.
          When he came to he was back at the edge of the lake in the snow, his fur cloak soaked in blood. Was it the deer’s? His father and another man tended him.  When his father saw his son breath normally again and open his eyes he pulled the boy to him and held him so tightly Barkane thought his skeleton inside would crumble to pieces and he felt his father shake and a shudder pass through him as a fear as cold and black as the underworld rippled up his father's spine; that that cold and black lake had nearly taken his son.
      Barkane's eyes were blurred and he sat up and rubbed the tears from them and he shrieked in pain when his fingers rubbed against his shattered nose. His father was talking to him but Barkane could make no sense of what the man was saying. He looked over his father's shoulder to see the doe still standing in the middle of the lake and staring into the black pool and the pool was still; the fawns were gone. Barkane’s mouth hung open stupidly and he stared at the pool. Blood flowed from his nose and his

mouth and down his chin. The men made him press a hunk of snow to his face and hold it there.
          In another few moments, the men had Barkane up the snowy hillside back on a mule and the procession was moving again.
      Few words were spoken.
          Barkane huddled in his furs and his face bled down his neck and into his clothes despite the efforts of his father and the other men. Barkane’s nose had been broken from the impact with the ice and the boy knocked out cold. Before the boy had reached the thinnest of the dangerous ice, his frantic father had ridden him down.
      His father rode next to him now to keep a close eye on his son but Barkane refused to look at him. Barkane could see the rope back on the hooks of the mule in front of him. His father knew his youngest son well and knew no words would comfort him today so he rode on in silence.
      The troop made their way along the pass and up the next ridge and soon the lake receded behind them. Barkane looked back at the doe now deep in the distance, the black hole beside her a dark passage to the netherworld below.
      Barkane’s head pounded with pain. No one else looked back. The men were quiet and his father was quiet and Barkane hated them. He could feel his hate take him like

the panic that took him as he had run down the hill and he imagined himself killing his father, killing them all. They had let the animals die.    
      Tears flowed from his eyes and rinsed the blood from his face.
      They crossed the ridge and headed down again and as the ridge rose behind them Barkane glanced back a final time to see the doe reluctantly step away from the watery tomb. She began moving off across the lake alone and Barkane could see the brave thing was limping. She was injured, too, and he cursed a curse that a nine-year old shouldn’t.
      Those were different hills and different times. Barkane was a man now and had found different troubles, too.
      Markatt eventually awoke, oblivious to his close call earlier. The soldiers kept him and Barkane separated by a few paces in the shade of the trees and both veterans used the opportunity to close their eyes and rest. The two of them had seen so much duty together Barkane counted on Markatt as if he were his own brother. Helyar, Markatt, and Barkane had once been thick as thieves during their teenage training years and unlike Helyar, Markatt was at peace with the fact that Barkane had excelled at everything military

and despite many troubles of his own making, had advanced fastest and furthest of the three. The young Helyar had complained that Barkane used his rank to "order his friends around" but Markatt didn't mind. "He has always ordered us around," Markatt had said.
      Markatt's family was navy, Helyar's cavalry, and Barkane's army, but Barkane was only an adopted son of the Barca clan and not Carthage-born. His father had been a Greek colonial governor who had run afoul of some murky Greek politics and been forced to flee his home island with his family. No other colony would take them in. Barkane's father was trusted by Carthage, so the city took his family under its wing with a single condition that would have the most far-reaching of consequences; one son to the military.
      Helyar reminded Barkane of his mixed heritage often as Barkane was promoted even higher than "true blood", as Helyar had put it. Barkane never took the bait and Markatt chastised Helyar but the proud Helyar's resentment lingered. Still, Helyar always took great pride in his own skills, which is why both Barkane and Markatt knew Helyar would show up eventually. It was only a question of when.
      A party of soldiers finally came for the two prisoners late in the day. They were lifted roughly to their feet and marched through the lean-to’s to an inner circle of more

tents. Barkane scanned the woods but saw no sign of Helyar. He did see a thicket of bees' nests and a couple of men trying to smoke the things quiet in an effort to squeeze out some honey. If the men were more industrious they would also wring some wax out of the hives for wax was a useful material, thought Barkane. Pliable, waterproof, and nearly invisible, the stuff was used throughout the Mediterranean to seal cargo against the elements. Useful, indeed.
      They were taken to the center of the tents and then he and Markatt were made to stand and wait. Barkane watched as the hunting party he had seen depart in the early afternoon returned with so many grouse and rabbit they could scarcely carry them all. Apparently they had mastered those composite bows. Dinner pots were boiling and the evening meal on everyone's mind by the time a man finally emerged from the largest tent. The man rubbed his eyes, straightened his hair, and belched loudly. He wore a lieutenant's armbands. His shoulder harness and chest plate were more sophisticated than the rest of the crowd, though not as expensive as the younger Sergeant Argon's. He carried a helmet crooked under his arm and, unlike the others, his sword hung comfortably at his side. He approached Barkane and Markatt as other soldiers gathered round under the darkening sky. Barkane noticed the thin man

Stefanos in the crowd and the angry thick-bearded one, Sestus. The long afternoon had done nothing to calm Sestus. He glared over his unkempt beard at Barkane but Barkane ignored him and put his attention on the lieutenant. The lieutenant's eyes were bloodshot and Barkane could smell the sweet smell of wine on the man's breath from three paces away. The man ran his fingers through his thinning hair and sighed. These two strangers were the last thing he needed.
      He was Helios of Hebrus and a reluctant leader preferring wine to war, wine to work, and very nearly wine to women. Every day he asked himself the same question the rest of his Greeks did: How much longer are we to be trapped in this godforsaken wilderness? He squinted even in the waning light and shook his head in another vain effort to ward off his daily hangover. He was flanked by two men. One was the young Sergeant Argon. The other was Captain Sajan, and he was grinning from ear to ear.
      Helios wasn't one for flummery. He cleared his throat and addressed Barkane directly, gesturing with a thumb at Sajan next to him. "My friend here tells me you are a convict sentenced to death under Greek law," Helios said.
      Barkane did not answer but he winced at the reference to Greek law. Sajan was clever. For Greek soldiers on the

march, Greek law superseded all others and local law be damned.
      Helios continued. "And I am informed you are a troublesome prisoner." Over Helios’s shoulder the big-bearded-Sestus nodded in satisfaction.
      Barkane looked first at Sajan. "This man is a liar," Barkane said. Then Barkane turned to Sestus. "And this man barely fit for service."
      The soldiers gathered around gasped in unison while Markatt only rolled his eyes. He was used to Barkane's fearless defiance. Markatt would rather be a bound prisoner than to be on the receiving end of his commander’s biting tongue.
      "What!?" Helios was flabbergasted at such nerve. Sestus surged forward but Helios threw out an arm and held him back. Barkane stood unapologetic and seemingly unconcerned.
      Sestus reluctantly backed off but his eyes bored into Barkane as if their stare alone would kill him. Helios sucked in a deep breath and then let it whistle out again through his teeth. Hadn’t he been through enough? Now he had this to deal with; yet another military matter for which he found himself responsible with no training, no orders, and damned little experience. He cursed his poor

fate for the thousandth time and felt the anger growing in his chest.
      "Wine!" he said and a wineskin was produced at once. Helios took a long swig and wiped his mouth, stepping closer to Barkane.
      "You are as foolish as a child," Helios said.
      Barkane jerked his head dismissively at Sajan. "Not as foolish as you if you are so quick to take the word of this villainous baggage."
      This further insolence sent Argon’s sword singing from his scabbard so loudly it sent the hairs on the back of Markatt’s neck vibrating with the sound. Again Helios put a hand up. Sajan started to speak but Helios stopped him. "Hold your tongue, sailor," Helios said.
      But Sajan could not help himself. "He is the villain!" he blurted. "Listen to the mouth on the man! What would you expect from a pirate and a..."
      One of Helios’s soldiers knocked Sajan hard in the back and the captain fell to his knees in mid-sentence.
      Helios glared at him on the ground. "Silence!"
      Sajan wasn’t grinning anymore.
      Helios was beside himself with worry for every one of his men knew the danger of their predicament, a predicament not of their own making. If they were discovered here,

their lives would be forfeit. With the exception of a few like Argon and Sestus, his men were not made for warring. But for the mischievous Fates, they all should be home by now enjoying breezy summer evenings with their families on their farms, modest as they might be. Helios missed his wife so badly he ached. His baby girl, his little boys, and his oldest, a daughter - she a blossoming teen as beautiful as her mother. Damnable gods! We're trapped in a land as dangerous as it is far away!
      Helios pulled his thoughts back to the bound prisoner before him. He thought the man stood there awfully calmly given his compromised circumstances. The prisoner wasn’t inordinately tall nor wide but his limbs looked as strong and wiry as a wolf's. He wore sturdy sandals and a worn overshirt of thin leather studded with plain metal disks; light and effective armor. His accent was unfamiliar. Sicily? His hair was long, his chin unshaven. Who was he? "A pirate from Carthage," the so-called captain had said. If so, what was he doing here?
      "Carthage, is it?" Helios asked Barkane.
      The mention of their home city unnerved Markatt. It was not as if Barkane wasn't in the habit of speaking his mind, it was just that Markatt knew he wouldn't give these strangers any information he did not want them to have and

he watched as his commander, predictably, said nothing.
      Helios stepped closer.
      "You will tell me who you are and where you are from."
      But Barkane simply stared into space, ignoring Helios as if the man hadn't spoken a word. Helios shrugged his shoulders and sighed. He wanted only the truth and as he was unskilled in these matters he resorted to intimidation.
      "If you refuse to speak when addressed, you invite torture and worse," Helios said.
      This time Barkane laughed, happy to change the subject. "Torture is for the desperate," he said. He knew that if you tortured a man long enough he would tell you he was Apollo himself.
      Argon had been willing to give the strangers the benefit of the doubt but his patience had worn thin at last. He thrust his face in Barkane's.
      "Who are you?" Argon demanded.
      "It is no business of yours," said Barkane.
      Helios stepped between them.
      "It is my business. How do I know whether you are with the Greeks or the Persians?"
      "What if I said I was with neither?"
      Helios cringed for Barkane's words hit home. That was the position his Greeks were in: A most dangerous position

for anyone. Helios cursed the ground for the thousandth time.
      "Besides," Barkane said, "there are far greater threats to your health than I."
      "Is that so?" said Helios though in his heart he knew it was true.
      Then Sestus spoke. "Make them fight it out," he said.
      Helios's men all nodded and Helios brightened at the suggestion for he had no better idea.
      "Cut him loose," Helios said.
      Argon objected, "But, sir..."
      "Cut him loose."
      The thin Stefanos stepped forward and Barkane's bonds were cut free. Barkane stretched his wrists and felt the blood rush back into his hands.
      Helios turned to Barkane. "Since the only language you seem to know is insolence, you leave me little choice."
      And to his men, "Make a gauntlet," he said, "and we shall have some entertainment. Another skin of wine!"
      A buzz of excitement ran through the men and they began spreading out in two parallel lines just paces apart. Sajan's spirits lifted. He had been thinking he could maybe make a break for it in the middle of the night and steal a horse from the paddock down the hill but surely here was an

easier opening. Barkane might have a mighty reputation but the man was smaller than he. This would be an easy fight. Sajan reasoned that back on Cyprus the bastard Carthaginians had taken him by surprise and, in any case, there had been two of them. Here was a more level field. Without the hulking Markatt to aid him, Barkane would soon be pounded into the ground. He girded himself for the fight as the crowd murmured and jostled into position, and for the moment, the horse paddock down the hill was forgotten.
      Helios's regiment numbered thirty troops total and all were present spare two sentries; one on the rise overlooking the main body of tents and one at the opposite edge of camp. Neither watched the horse paddock, yet another blunder Barkane, in the form of Helyar, would make Helios regret. Not that sentries would matter much tonight. Helyar was trained as a forward cavalry scout nearly from birth. No sentry in all of Persia was a match for the likes of him.
      The corral was just down the hill, and as enclosures go, the Greek's was a cursory affair; just enough scraped-together tree limbs to keep the horses in place. Now that evening had come, the corral was quiet and the horses relaxed. They took little notice of the man emerging from the shadows and then slipping comfortably into their midst.
       

Helyar at last.
      Certainly the man knew horses. His clan had been raising them for generations as the favored supplier to the vaunted cavalry of Carthage, a cavalry that consumed thousands of horses every year. Helyar, like his father and grandfather before him, had been raised to serve in that cavalry and had done so with distinction. Of fine family and sturdy stock, he was as ambitious as he was capable. He had acquitted himself well on campaign and the General Staff immediately snapped him up.
      Afraid of being too hasty, Helyar clucked softly as he stepped expertly through the sleepy herd so as to keep the animals at ease. He had lain in wait for hours, then moved, then waited, then moved, and then waited again, ever cautious of sentries, but he had seen only the sentries on the hill and no sign of any near the horses all day, though he was finding it difficult to believe. So suspicious was he of a trap that he eventually reconnoitered the area for a fourth time. Only when he realized he was running out of time did he make his move.
      He glanced up the hill. He had spotted Barkane and Markatt only from a distance, captive but still alive. He wasn't sure which of the others was the prisoner Barkane had come for, the sea captain, but figured Barkane would

point the man out soon enough. The crowd up the hill was pre-occupied with some sudden commotion no doubt involving Barkane and Markatt so he decided the time was right. Meanwhile, the lone sentry posted up the hill turned from his duties and craned his neck to get a better view of the upcoming fight.
      From his hiding place in the brush, Helyar had previously identified five premium horses and now he located them easily and led them out the gate. He assembled five sturdy bridle-sets from an unruly pile on the ground just outside the paddock. Then it was back inside where he looked for one horse in particular; the alpha stallion. Helyar had had no trouble identifying him. The stud kicked and bit at the other males, successfully lording it over the whole herd.
      Up on the hill the crowd was oblivious to Helyar working down amongst their horses. Everyone was watching Helios as he supervised the fight preparations, directing more men to one side to even out the gauntlet. Then, swigging generously from a wine-skin, he lowered his voice to Barkane. "Sorry, friend, I'm afraid I have no other way of resolving the truth here."
      Barkane only grunted his disapproval. "This won't resolve the truth, but you can be sure it will resolve a

thing or two."
      Barkane was aghast. A fight? Were they adolescents? From the way the Greeks were behaving it was obvious they hadn't the slightest idea as to what was coming their way soon and the ignorant Greeks would pay with their lives for General Bousardis was coming as surely as the tide.
       Barkane watched Helios turn to Sajan. "Good luck, sailor," Helios said, but there was no kindness in his words. Barkane winked at Markatt and Markatt shook his head as Barkane and Sajan were ushered to a place in the middle of the two lines of men. The murmuring of the crowd grew louder.
      Down the hill Helyar slipped back to the other end of the paddock where he had gathered an armful of kindling into a pile. Above the pile, he tilted a small cask of oil against two thin sticks which, together, supported the weight of the cask. Once the fire was lit, the sticks would burn through and then collapse, dumping the cask and its flammable oil into the fire - but not immediately; the delay would give him time. He pulled a flint from his belt, put it to stone, and moments later the small fire sparked to life.
      Helyar ran back to the main gate and slipped the rails from the front posts, throwing the gate wide open. He

strode into the pack of horses and threw a leather line over the alpha stud’s neck and led the protesting beast out the gate.
      The horses behind began to mill nervously about, aware that the stud was leaving, but not yet overly excited. That was about to change.
      The sun had edged over the rocky horizon now, the sea a line of black beyond the hills. The Greeks' campfires lit the area as darkness was falling fast.
      Helios ordered a man to place a knife in the center of the long gauntlet. The man ran to the center and Barkane cringed as the soldier stabbed the blade directly into the earth. Barkane imagined the gritty soil grinding away at the honed-edge of the knife. That was no way to treat a weapon.
      Wine-skin in hand, Helios addressed the thirty-strong crowd.
      "It seems we have one man’s word against another. Who is to know the truth? We let the daughter's of Zeus decide."
      The men all cheered Helios's reference to the Fates. To their credit, Barkane noticed nearly all of the men looked upon him with pity because Sajan was wider, taller, and thicker. His unruly head of hair and his flowing black

beard made his appearance all the more fearsome. To a man the Greeks figured that this would not be much of a match; that the mouthy one would be lucky if he got in a single lick before he died at the hands of the obviously more powerful Captain Sajan.
      The Greeks began shouting insults at Barkane. "Helpless as a spring lamb, you!" said one, "...and just as dead!" shouted another. Helios took another long draw of wine.
      But Helios and his men were no matter to Barkane. What mattered to him for the moment was the fight and only the fight. He sucked in long breaths, preparing his limbs and his mind for battle.
      Sajan was directed to one spot and Barkane opposite him, both men ten paces from the knife embedded in the soil between them. Helios nodded to Stefanos, who, like Barkane, was never far from a quiver of arrows.
      "When my arrow hits the ground, begin," Stefanos said. He drew an arrow from his quiver with a flourish and the crowd murmured with excitement, the anticipation of blood in the air. Many of them unconsciously fingered their weapons.
      "My money is on the big blackbeard!" shouted someone and the rest of the crowd laughed and shouted its approval.

Sajan flashed a confident smile.
      Barkane scowled at them all. He saw the smirk Sestus wore through his thick beard. The man was beside himself with the prospect that the son-of-a-bitch who had embarrassed him was about to get his. You are all weak and you are all vile, thought Barkane, which was Barkane’s way when it came time to fight. He had been trained by the best, that emotion was good - when it worked in your favor.
      He stared past the knife at Sajan crouched at the ready. The captain and every man in camp had their eyes on Stefanos, waiting for the arrow to drop. Every man but one: Markatt. He recognized the look in his commander’s eyes. Battle. Markatt was the only one who knew the outcome of the fight was already decided.
      Helios's men elbowed for position, too interested in the show to notice the horses coming to life down at the paddock. They were convinced the burly captain would crush the other man quickly, that the occasion would be more a beating than a fight. "Don't blink. You might miss it!" a soldier was heard to say and everyone laughed anew. More than one of them noted Barkane’s black eye and swollen lip and concluded the much bigger captain had bested the smaller man at least once already.
      Their minds raced with the excitement of the moment.

Imagined scenarios of the fight to come flashed through their minds; of the two combatants circling each other, slashing at each other. Each frightened of the other, yet, having no choice and so fighting hard nonetheless. The two would circle again and again. The punches and slashes would be fierce and many. The grunts. The feints and strikes. The energy! The combatants would sigh and strain and gasp for air from their exertions and the crowd would "Ooh" and "Aah". And when one of the fighters falls into the crowd, each soldier thought, I will be the one to throw the man back into the fray. Finally, the wiry Carthaginian would be vanquished, crushed by the power and violence of his bigger, black-bearded foe. All would nod their heads with respect and recall an instance where the beaten man had pulled off an admirable move or defense, futile as it ultimately had proven. The dead man had fought well, they would say. They would slap the big winner on the back and say he won a good fight and then they would drink and dispose of the dead man in the morning.
      But the men were about to discover that such scenarios were mere fantasy when it came to Barkane. Stefanos’s fingers released the arrow and it dropped to the earth as if made of stone. All eyes turned to the knife.
      Sajan had already surged forward as the arrow was in

the air. Rules? What rules?! Let them condemn me later!
      The fight was on.
      The crowd watched as Sajan spurted forward, dove to the ground, seized the blade and then rolled safely to his feet, the knife securely in hand. His mouth spread open in a wide grin and he shouted, "Ha!" and shook the knife above his head to the roar of the crowd. But that roar was short-lived as everyone stared in shock at Barkane.
      He hadn't moved.
      He hadn't taken a single step. He stood as still as a statue with only his fists clenching and unclenching in a regular rhythm. His eyes bored into Sajan as if nothing else existed on the whole plateau. Argon's jaw went slack. What was this? Sestus pushed his way to the front of the crowd and the tall Stefanos peered over the heads of those in front of him.
      But Barkane's unorthodox demeanor meant nothing to Sajan, though it should have. The captain was no stranger to brawling - what sea captain was? Unfortunately for the captain, he had not Barkane's training and discipline nor the man's temperament. Sajan knew only that he had the knife and Barkane did not and so he brandished the knife triumphantly, as if Barkane were already dead.
      But Barkane knew that a weapon could be as much a

weakness as a strength. When one had a knife, one felt compelled to use it so for the knife-wielder's opponent, defense was a simple matter. What else would a man with a knife do? Kick? Tackle? Punch? Of course a man with a weapon would do nothing of the sort so Barkane knew he had to worry about one thing and one thing only. The knife.
      Sajan advanced on Barkane without fear. As he did so, the crowd found their voices again and the roar erupted anew, even louder than before for there was bloodlust in it now. The captain would be making quick work of the unarmed and foolhardy stranger, that much was clear.
      Barkane was about to show the two lines of Greeks screaming their lungs out that looks could be deceiving and that in hand-to-hand combat, as in war, fortunes could change as unpredictably as the wind. All was equal until someone reached for an advantage. That was the moment of opportunity, as an experienced tactician like Barkane would know in his very bones.
      Barkane let Sajan approach. Ignoring the shouts from all around them, each fighter eyed the other as Barkane simply pivoted in place as the big captain side-stepped around him in a wide, cautious circle.
      Finally, Sajan lunged with the knife...but no! It was only a feint, a probing maneuver, and he backed away

immediately. The crowd reacted and a hint of a smile appeared on Argon's face for he noticed Barkane hadn't even flinched at the ploy. Helios drained another swig from his wine-skin.
      Sajan returned to circling Barkane and Barkane simply did as before, shuffling in place in the dirt, his eyes never from his foe.
      "Slice him!" someone shouted. "Take his head off," shouted another and Sajan felt the crowd behind him and that gave him strength and spurred him forward. It was an inevitable mistake for he was not as patient as Barkane. He lunged this time for real. The crowd gasped as Barkane sidestepped at the last moment and then Barkane had first one arm and then the other whipped behind Sajan's neck and Barkane was behind the captain in the blink of an eye. The captain stabbed away at nothing but air in front of him! Barkane had Sajan's head and shoulders in a lock-grip and squeezed the captain's throat and the captain cried out and bent over to get Barkane off of him and when he did Barkane darted around and brought his knee full force up into Sajan's face and Sajan fell clumsily to the earth, blood pouring from his nose.
      A great "Whoa!" gushed from the crowd and, as before, Barkane ignored them and made sure of one more thing; that

Sajan still had the knife.
      His face bloody, the captain rose to his feet with hate in his eyes. The stinging blow to his face unhinged him and he charged immediately. Again Barkane let him come only to twist away from the oncoming knife at the last second, grab the captain's weapon-arm again, and, lowering his shoulder, Barkane upended him, sending the captain flipping head over heels to land painfully on his back.
      This brought another "Whoa!" from the crowd but this time there was no delay from Barkane. He stepped forward as Sajan tried to roll to his feet, seized the man's knife hand at the palm and as everyone watched in surprise, Barkane, with a single movement, snapped the captain's fingers back unnaturally toward his forearm. The captain cried out in agony and the knife popped free from his hand. Barkane elbowed Sajan in the back of the neck and Sajan tumbled to the ground clutching his fingers in pain.
      Barkane stooped and picked up the knife while Sajan struggled to his knees and then to his feet, flexing the wrist Barkane had bent so painfully. Now they stood just paces from each other, Barkane twirling the knife in his hands. To the astonishment of the crowd, Barkane tossed the knife back to the ground at the very feet of the fuming captain.
       

The crowd gasped and Stefanos and Sestus both took another step forward. Argon held his breath and Helios paused mid-sip.
      Barkane and Sajan stared at each other without words while the crowd chimed in once again.
      "Take it!" someone said, and, "Here's your chance again!" shouted another.
      But Sajan was suspicious of a trick, as well he should be. He looked at Barkane, then at the knife, and then back at Barkane again. Waiting in silence, Barkane said nothing. He let the time pass while the crowd grew louder.
      Down at the paddock, the flames of Helyar's fire crackled and grew and the horses started snorting and bucking. They looked about in alarm for the stallion.
      For Sajan, the promise of the knife so close proved too much - he suddenly lunged for it and in another second he had snatched it from the ground and was bringing the weapon up as, just as suddenly, Barkane had swiveled his arms, pivoted his hips, and threw all his weight behind a mighty kick that landed exactly where and when it was intended; at the hinge of Sajan's jaw just as the man straightened to strike. The punishing kick jerked the captain's huge head sideways, sending saliva spraying and stunning him so that he staggered and Barkane was on him

again. Whack! This second kick to the captain’s head knocked the sense from it and the big man stumbled back, the knife spilling once again from his suddenly unresponsive fingers. But Barkane was there again and the thud of his foot striking Sajan’s head a third time in as many seconds made the whole crowd groan and then the flurry of kicks was over as Sajan slumped to the ground gasping for air and cradling his head in his hands. He quivered feebly, then went still. A trickle of blood oozed from Sajan's beard as Barkane hovered over the fallen man. Barkane's hands were still balled into fists, though he had not thrown a punch.
      Helios, Argon, and their crowd of soldiers stood in stunned silence while Barkane, ever cautious, stooped and carefully checked Sajan to see if the man was neither faking nor about to expire. Satisfied, Barkane picked up the knife and matter-of-factly walked over to Markatt.
      Sestus was the first to regain his senses. "Trickery!" he shouted. "You call that a fair fight?"
      Barkane scoffed. "There's no such thing," he said and he cut the cords from Markatt's hands and it was Markatt's turn to rub his wrists in relief.
      But Sestus wasn’t giving up that easily. He turned to Helios. "He doesn’t walk out of here just like that!"

Argon, too, raised his eyebrows ominously at Helios.
      "They cannot leave," Argon said. The rest of his meaning went unspoken. They would give them away.
      Helios hesitated. The man had won the fight but Argon was right. It was far too dangerous to let the men go under the circumstances. He nodded and suddenly five swords were drawn against Barkane.
      Barkane ignored them. Glaring at Helios, he pointed at Sajan on the ground where he was being tended to by two soldiers who had him sitting up while they slapped water on his face.
      "I will take my prisoner where I please. What mandate do you have to hold me against my will?" he said. Barkane watched the two soldiers struggle to get Sajan to his feet.
      Helios shook his head at Barkane. "Superior numbers is my mandate."
      Barkane scoffed in his face and waved his arm at the crowd.
      "You? This rabble?" Barkane said.
      Sestus smarted at the insult but Barkane wasn’t done. He turned to all of them. "You are all dead men," he said. The comment unnerved Helios and Argon. And what happened next unnerved the rest of them. Barkane began laughing at them, his look a threatening one.
       

"You may as well be ghosts," he said. "Every last one of you."
      The Greeks looked at each other in alarm. Sestus and Argon put their hands to their hilts. Barkane took a step toward them and lowered his voice.
      "I know my territory troop deployment well."
      Barkane could tell by the reactions of the men that he had guessed correctly. "You are not supposed to be here."
      Barkane knew these men must be deserters or mutineers or worse. If they were strayed Persian mercenaries General Bousardis would crucify each and every one. Barkane did not yet know that the men were unwittingly both of these things and more.
      Argon's eyes never left Barkane’s face.
      "We cannot allow any of them to go," he said, his voice dark - as dark as all the other fearful eyes leveled at Barkane.
      Helios looked at Barkane apologetically.
      "It is true," Helios said.
      "It is too late," said Barkane. "Silver Shields are headed this way at this very moment."
      The mention of the Silver Shields sent a jolt through the crowd. The Silvers, as they were called, were Macedonia's most trusted and capable veterans; the absolute

elite and they acted the part. Only the Silvers were allowed to serve close to Alexander and his generals – like General Bousardis.
      "That is a lie," said Argon but Helios considered the news in silence and only stared at the ground.
      "They're coming for us," he whispered.
      "And for him," said Barkane as he pointed to Captain Sajan. "The Silver Shields want his head on a stick."
      Sajan had his senses back if still unsteady on his feet. He wiped the blood from his beard. "My head?" he said. "The Silvers would trade all our heads for yours!" and a grin of satisfaction spread across Sajan's face.
      Sajan proceeded to pronounce Barkane's name slowly and clearly, enjoying every syllable as if they were the most delectable of morsels. "Commander Barkane of Carthage," he said.
      It was one more surprise in a day of surprises for the Greeks. Helios turned to Barkane.
      "You are Barkane?"
      Barkane said nothing but suddenly it all made sense. Carthage. The officer attitude. The obviously seasoned warrior. His big Carthaginian friend.
      If there was any remaining doubt about Barkane's identity Sajan quashed them by rushing forward.
       

"Give the Silvers Barkane's head and you will be rewarded with anything you want," Sajan said.
      Everyone was hesitant.
      "If he is indeed Barkane, we absolutely cannot let him go," Argon said. "Perhaps we can use him to bargain with."
      Helios nodded his agreement.
      He unsheathed his sword and stepped forward and just as the loose lines of soldiers compressed around Barkane and Markatt the ground began to tremble and then rumble beneath their feet. Then came the sound of horses whinnying and the rumbling hooves became a roar and every man spun around to see their horses stampeding out of their paddocks and charging straight at the camp! The entire crowd erupted into a cacophony of confused shouts. The next moment found them all dashing through their tents just in front of the spooked herd of horses, Barkane and Markatt forgotten in the general panic as every man dove for cover. The frightened mob of horses galloped headlong through the tents upending everything in their path. Markatt managed to mouth 'Helyar' to Barkane and Barkane grinned even as he rolled out of the way of a pounding set of hooves and over to their stash of weapons and in a flash Barkane and Markatt were fully armed again with sword and shield and bow. Barkane slipped his pale red quiver back over his

shoulder and ran for Sajan.
      Helyar was on the back of the stallion, scanning the scrambling crowd for Barkane when a big hand reached out and grabbed him by the leg.
      "Making trouble, are we?"
      Helyar flinched and went for his sword but the big man on the ground only laughed in his face. Markatt!
      Helyar cursed. "Damn you, you joker, where's the prisoner?"
      "Greetings to you, too," grinned Markatt and pointed just paces away where Barkane was leading Sajan away by the scruff of his neck. For the first time, Helyar took in the burly, bleeding, black-bearded captain and his mass of unruly hair all covered in soil and blood from the fight.
      "What a filthy fellow!" Helyar said, though he himself was caked in horse-dust from head to toe. And then the three of them were dragging Sajan away through the confusion to their waiting horses below and while Barkane berated Helyar for "taking his accursed time", he said it with a grin.
      Argon spotted them out of the corner of his eye, but too late. "Helios!" he cried but Helios couldn’t hear him above the din. Besides, Helios had only one concern at the moment, as well he should.
       

"The horses!" Helios shouted to everyone at once but the horses were quickly disappearing into the night, scattering who-knows-where over the hills while Helios and Argon struggled to get their men’s attention.
      A few were collared but most sprinted off into the darkness while their pursuers hollered after them helplessly. Down at the paddock, Barkane and his men found things significantly quieter and Barkane complimented Helyar on his pick of horses.
      "Nothing but the best for Carthage, Commander," Helyar smiled. Barkane laughed and they put the ailing Sajan aboard a horse by knifepoint and then all were mounted and trotting away into the darkness with Helyar’s firm hand leading Sajan’s horse.
      Back at the camp, the excitement was over as quickly as it had begun. As Helios listened in seething silence to the muffled shouts of his men coming from all over the dark hillsides a pall of gloom fell over him. All any of his men wanted was to return home from this blasted war, back to their herds and farms, but how? The route home was blocked by Alexander's garrisons to the north and an end run around them meant a guaranteed lethal march through Persian territory. Helios knew their hiding out here in this no-man's-land couldn't go on forever. He had hoped something

would change to enable them to move on and now something had changed, but only for the worse. They were capable hunters and could live off the land well enough but no man among them was a bona-fide soldier. Not even the young Argon, despite his military ambitions and fine equipment. He hoped to be a soldier but the truth was he had little choice despite his family's high position back home; Argon was the fourth son and so his options were limited. Though as inexperienced as the rest of them, he had a good head on his shoulders and had been instrumental in their successful hiding so far. But the Carthaginian’s surprise arrival had spoiled everything and now the trouble-makers had run off.
      Helios flung his helmet to the ground in disgust. Argon stood nearby with his hands on his hips, a dark look on his face. Stefanos, Sestus and the rest of the men gathered around with shoulders slumped. They had secured but a handful of horses. They would be all night rounding them up and the prisoners were gone. Who knew what trouble that would mean? A feeling of foreboding overwhelmed them all. Would the strangers give them away? Sestus broke the morbid silence with an extended string of curses to the night air, all directed at Barkane. For once, Helios let the man's foul words be.
      "It is not a matter of life or death," Helios tried to

reassure his men. "Those Carthaginians were but a nuisance, so our problems are over."
      But it was a matter of life or death, and as for Helios’s problems, they had only just begun.
     
                                                                   _________
       

It did not take Alexander’s engineers long to realize that, shallow as the sea was here, they could build a narrow causeway, and foot by foot, extend it all the way across the sandbars to the great city of Tyre before them. The job required men and materials. They had both. One hundred thousand soldiers and another hundred thousand citizens up and down the coast that could be pressed into service. Stone and sand were plentiful. Lumber was available from the forests that, while not nearby, were close enough. The engineers organized their staffs and the plan was approved by Alexander himself.
      Within days lumber had begun arriving from inland and the first great stones maneuvered in place on the beach. It would take months, but no matter. Their orders were clear.
      Build a bridge to Tyre.