Erhalten Sie Zugang zu diesem und mehr als 300000 Büchern ab EUR 5,99 monatlich.
- Herausgeber: Clink Street Publishing
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Serie: The Sacred Band Trinity
- Sprache: Englisch
The legendary myths of Ancient Greece and Arthurian Britain are brought together in the search for a prized relic of limitless power born from the love and grief of the goddess Pallas Athena herself. The descendants of the Sacred Band of Thebes - one hundred and fifty male lovers and the bravest of warriors - have sworn an oath to defend the relic and protect it from falling into the wrong hands...an honour shared by Six of the direct descendants of King Arthur's Round Table of Knights. Challenge comes from the Knights' own former brethren, the Six that believe in an alternative vision of control and order for the world. Both factions have been at war over the centuries...and now comes the opportunity for each to realise their destinies.
Sie lesen das E-Book in den Legimi-Apps auf:
Seitenzahl: 179
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
Das E-Book (TTS) können Sie hören im Abo „Legimi Premium” in Legimi-Apps auf:
Ähnliche
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
The Battle of Chaeronea
338 BC
‘Upon whom now shall we bestow the title “Lord of all Greece?”’ came the solemn words of Chares, casting a steady but forlorn gaze across a sea of thirty thousand Macedonian spears. There was a time not so long ago when the aged Athenian general would have welcomed a horizon teeming with the banners of his rival northern kin as the hot-blooded thirst for war took hold like a venom, spurring even the most fragile of infantry to grasp the hilt and slash and stab in a frenzy, drunk on rage, adrenaline and passion.
Lysicles tugged gently at the reins of his horse, contemplating his response. ‘Was there ever a chance? A challenge? A rebuke from Athens or Zeus himself against King Phillip?’ eventually came the rhetorical salvo, laced with both fear and anger. ‘The moment that obsequious snake Philippides paid homage to this Macedonian swine I felt the beating heart of Greek warriors. Decades of war, for some families three generations of men taking up arms to defend their lands from Greeks and Persians alike, let down by silk-clad, gluttonous bureaucrats, sitting in their palatial abodes, all too willing to kneel before those who will promise them a steady stream of wine!’
Chares snapped from his despondency for a brief moment and pointed.
‘I hear Phillip has risked the life of his own 18-year-old son in this battle? There, on the left flank.’
‘Yes, Alexander. Quite the strategist some say. Destined for greatness, say others,’ Lysicles retorted.
‘Perhaps deservedly so – to engage the left-flank is to engage the formidable. Sons of Ares. The Lions of Leuctra.’ Chares continued with a glimmer of hope that maybe this torn battlefield might yet yield a trophy scalp.
‘Perhaps. I care not for Thebean blood or the so-called legends that flow within,’ came Lysicles’ crass reply. ‘Still … if given the choice …’
Archelaus held his shield high, absorbing the blows of bronze blades crashing down upon it. His knees buckled at the second hit, sending him to the ground. ‘Where is he?’ Has he fallen?’ Knowing the third hit would undoubtedly break not only his shield but his spirit, the relief of meeting Charon on the shores of the River Styx began to seep into his veins. This calm was split by a flash of blue light glimpsed in the corner of his eye, quickly followed by the weak last cries of several Macedonian soldiers.
The outstretched arm of Damon greeted Archelaus, hauling him to his feet. ‘What kept you?’ Archelaus softly mocked as they embraced.
‘I can’t watch you all the time …’ Damon managed to stutter out before slanting heavily to one side, clutching his side.
‘You’re injured.’ Archelaus fussed, placing his hand over Damon’s wound, trying to stop the blood now welling between his fingers.
‘Can you stand?’
‘Do I have a choice? Look at us. We’re overrun!’
‘How many of the Band are left?’
‘Hard to say. I saw Dwight and Egor both fall. Dinis and Dimitri fell back to the Well with whoever was left. A last stand.’
Archelaus lifted and steadied Damon over his broad shoulders ‘Fall back. Band of Thebes, fall back.’ he bellowed with all he could muster. Damon winced as Archelaus twisted his body in a frantic series of swipes and thrusts from his sword, cutting down adversaries in their path of retreat. A careless deflection of an opposing blade split his weapon, but the broken tip was all that was needed to pierce the throat, setting off a quick spray of blood across both their faces.
Breathing heavily on his neck, ‘You never were the best when it came to a blade.’ Damon wheezed, ‘… so clumsy!’
Archelaus managed to crack a quick smile before refocusing. ‘Some cover please? Give me a chance to have you retreat in one piece.’
Upon hearing Archelaus’ command, Damon gripped his companion’s upper arm tightly and raised his own fist in salute. A shimmering blue band circled his wrist just at the moment two Macedonians launched a direct frontal assault, both their spears in full charge, only to splinter within inches of Damon’s forearm. Their momentary perplexity was enough for Archelaus to summon a flash of blue flame and hurl it, melting both bodies.
‘We can’t keep on like this’ Damon confessed in a weakening tone.
‘We can! We’re not far from the Well … and support. I hope.’
‘Phillip will get what he came for. We have failed. The Band has …’
Damon’s apparent capitulation was interrupted by the chant of the famed Theban war cry. ‘We are the Lions. We are the Lions.’ A rallying shiver went down their spines, as they heard the voices of brothers in harmony echoing back to the great general Pelopidas and join with the shower of sparks of blue flame across the cindered sky, deep into the Macedonian phalanx, despite knowing its meaning and inevitable outcome.
‘We should get to the Well now!’ Archelaus commanded.
‘We can’t leave the Band!’ spat Damon, fingers fumbling wearily over his short scabbard. ‘We m-must … stand …!’ he muttered, panting.
‘Well. Now.’ snapped Archelaus.
Their feet slid through the mud of the battlefield, the cries of their brothers slowly fading. A few isolated spears and abandoned shields bearing the double-headed dragon insignia of Cadmus protruding out of the ground entranced Damon as he slipped in and out of consciousness. Youthful memories were evoked, the stories of old – uttered around crackling campfires to aspiring young men and women of Thebes.
‘Cadmus is Father to us all’ dictated one scholar. ‘Slayer of the fabled Dragon of Ares sent as punishment for drinking from his sacred well’. The youngest in the audience would always give an audible gasp upon mention of the word Dragon. ‘An act that would have seen the unleashing of the full wrath of our God of War had it not been for our fair Maiden of Wisdom Athena and her cunning intervention.’ Gasps would turn to reverent smiles and nods of approval once the Daughter of Zeus made her appearance.
“Sow the Dragon’s teeth!” She would say,’ continued the scholar, ‘Let the spirits of the Spartoi, undead warriors of fury, descend upon you and prove your valour to my brother.’ The teeth were sown deep into the earth, and from them sprang forth the armed animated corpses … putrefying facial flesh exposing full teeth and mandibles, bare-boned fingers rattling against rusted spears with a hiss of malice coming from behind dented and scratched shields.
‘How can one man defeat such an army? An army of the undead?’ Cadmus would cry. This is when Athena meekly presented to him a jewel, a ruby of deepest crimson, and placed it firmly in our hero’s hand. Nothing more was said, and our Maiden disappeared back to the heights of Mount Olympus, leaving a fear-stricken Cadmus opposing the dreaded Spartoi.
The jewel was heavy for such a small token, no power or magic visible as Cadmus attempted to control the shaking of his hand to inspect it. All that could be noticed was its incandescence, which caught the lifeless eyes of the Spartoi, even to the point where weapons were lowered, crumbling chest armour fully exposed, mesmerised. Resisting the temptation to plunge his own sword into the nearest vulnerable foe, Cadmus quickly calculated that little could kill what is already dead … save the dead themselves? Without hesitation, he threw the object of their apparent desire casually over his shoulder, an act swiftly followed by a collective howl of lust from Spartoi warriors. Rushing past him in blatant disregard, the live corpses threw themselves at the jewel, mindlessly scrabbling at first, then becoming more resentful of each other as greed took hold.
‘Limbs were severed. Spines crushed!’ theatrically gestured the scholar, his enthusiasm for such a grisly tale starting to unnerve some of the mothers and fathers in the audience. ‘All consumed by the most uncontrollable aspect of the human psyche – desire. Our Founder needed but watch, as his enemy ripped itself apart until none stood.’ Children’s eyes, wide with wonder, mused over the cautionary tale of their evening’s entertainment.
‘Did Cadmus get to keep the jewel then?’ called out a curious girl from the front row.
‘Ah yes, yes he did,’ the scholar responded, resuming his seat after regaling them with such drama. ‘But not before our Maiden of Wisdom returned with a gift far greater, one born from the love and the pain experienced by Athena herself …’
‘Was it a sword?’ cried a boy, eagerly interrupting. ‘No. A spear?’ shouted another, as smiles and laughs began to break from the adult members of the audience.
‘Neither,’ the scholar confirmed. ‘It was but a small statue, feminine in shape, no more than a hoplite’s foot high’.
‘A statue?’ mocked the same girl who had inquired about the fate of the jewel. ‘I would have kept the jewel!’ she proclaimed, triggering a playful rolling of eyes from her parents.
‘And such is the nature of us mortals,’ the scholar intoned heavily. ‘We see only the prize, not the beauty, and alas, poor Cadmus proved no different’.
‘But he was a hero. No Greek could ever match him in battle! He was like Perseus, Hercules, Bellafer…Bellapher….Ber….Ber…’ a boy tripped over his tongue trying to recall his trio of heroes.
‘Bellerophon,’ the scholar completed. ‘And you are quite right, young master. Cadmus was indeed a hero. He was strong, quick, skilled with both spear and shield, and had the honour of drinking from the Well of Ares, upon which our very State is founded. But … all heroes have their weaknesses, don’t they?’ came the rhetorical response. ‘For all the strength that came from this Well that runs deep beneath our feet, we mortals always crave for more’.
Cadmus had created the envy of all of Greece in Thebes. Strength, wisdom and power through its people, enough to keep all its rivals in effective servitude. Cadmus, of course, could take his pick of the loveliest of companions, and when that time came, the young Lord of Greece didn’t settle for any woman that stood before him, but rather, one that was looking down upon him. In an act of defiance to his own deities, he importuned Athena for the hand of the daughter of Ares, the ethereal Harmonia. Knowing her vengeful brother would never allow such a union, Athena prepared herself to become the bearer of bad news to her beloved champion, when a surprising turn of events unfolded before her. Ares, perhaps flattered by this mortal’s beguilement, agreed to Cadmus’s demands. Harmonia was presented to Cadmus as his faithful wife, a gift to the greatest race in all the land, and blessed their marriage with the very jewel that won Cadmus his glory, set in a necklace adorning his cherished daughter, worn during the nuptials and forever henceforth.
‘But our Gods are endlessly playing games with us,’ warned the scholar, leaning forward and wagging his finger in warning. ‘For what appears as appeasement is rarely done without an ulterior motive. Yes, Harmonia was beautiful, but goddesses never age and can grow to be the envy of us mere mortals. The Lady of Thebes saw her once-great husband tire and weep like the first flowers of spring as the years flowed by. She found comfort in other suitors, younger men who now threatened Cadmus’ very throne. Our Founder could no longer contain his grief at not matching his spouse’s lust and youthfulness, and eventually, both his will and his heart caved in, as many an old man does, to power-hungry stallions so eager to take his place. He cursed the day he dared impose his demands upon the gods and passed across the River Styx a spiteful and saddened man.’
‘So, our great hero died upset because of a woman?’ guffawed one of the boys, before turning to his friend who sat next to him. ‘Told you. Girls are nothing but trouble!’ the two giggled, only to be given a clip around the ear by both their mothers, who sat directly behind them.
‘Sir…?’ came the meek voice of a girl with her hand up, addressing the scholar. ‘What about the Sacred Band? My Uncle Alessandro has just been called up as a fighter, just last month … surely they wouldn’t have fallen when Harmonia arrived?’
The scholar sat back and turned to look through the small arched window by his side, framing the Temple of Eros that sat high in the Catherian Mountains overlooking the Citadel of Cadmea. ‘Your uncle brings your family great honour for earning such a selection, for the Band is said to represent all that is pure in Thebes – love, loyalty, sacrifice and strength. But no matter what their virtues, their service is to the king of our land, whoever may be sitting on the throne. That is both their blessing and their curse’.
‘Damon … Damon.’ called Archelaus, waking him from his reverie. ‘We’re almost back at the citadel. We can get to the temple before the Macedonians and …’
‘We’re cursed Archelaus.’ Damon deliriously blurted, pushing his heavily built companion away to arm’s length. ‘Thebes. Cadmus. Ares. This is what becomes of us. It was foretold! We Greeks … always wanting more, grasping at what cannot be touched, trying to control what cannot be controlled ….’ His words faded as his breath drained out of him, only to fall back into the arms of Archelaus.
Setting Damon down to his knees in an attempt to ease his suffering and sorrow, Archelaus pressed his forehead to his and placed a comforting hand under the side of his jaw. ‘We made an oath; we swore to Athena herself, remember? We stand, until struck down by spear or blade or … a lightning bolt from Zeus himself.’ Archelaus said with a slight chuckle upon hearing his own words. Brushing Damon’s dark, matted curls of hair out of his eyes and fixing him with his gaze – ‘We’re not forsaking that oath now. I am not abandoning you. You understand?’ As they embraced tightly, through fresh tears Damon saw over his partner’s shoulder the Temple of Eros, bringing a moment of clarity and relief as he recalled everything the two of them had achieved together. Archelaus opened his eyes to meet the standards of Macedonian soldiers slowly marching towards them, helmets casting shade across all but their parched lips and stubble.
A solitary figure appeared through the haze on horseback, looking majestic against an orange sky. His stature was difficult to determine, but his blond hair was long, and his complexion still beardless. A gesture of his hand brought his mercenaries to a standstill, his steed tossing his head restlessly, only to be calmed by ‘Steady, Bucephalus.’
Archelaus’ mind clicked over in a frenzy while still holding Damon tightly. The mounted figure cocked his head to one side while inspecting the two soldiers in front of him, all the time caressing in small circles a small red gem on display over his tunic. Archelaus’ eyes grew narrower, his teeth grinding, summoning his strength to his left hand in a blue flame ready to strike. But the chance was never granted.
The mounted figure dropped from his horse and removed his helmet as he walked through his own men towards the two bodies lying blood-soaked, but hands still gripping each other where they fell. A respectful nod was all he could allow himself in front of his victorious subjects, despite aching to offer more. He then cast his glare upon the Citadel of Cadmea, and the Temple of Eros beyond.
CHAPTER 2
Al-Khums, Libya
20th May 2011 AD
Adam had travelled to North Africa twice before, and on both occasions confessed to being disappointed. Despite a passion for history, the family holiday to Tunis when he was eight years old denied him a trip to Carthage in favour of a tired package-deal hotel complete with a chipped-tiled, scummy swimming pool and enough sun-crisped tourist skin to last a lifetime. A college school trip the second time around held high hopes, with an itinerary that included the fabled Pyramids of Giza, Karnack and the Valley of the Kings – only to be greeted by the dense smog of Cairo and the glow of the fast-food golden arches actually casting some light over Cheops’ last remaining Wonder of the World.
Dusk was settling in on this cool spring evening, with Adam growing increasingly uncomfortable, having lain on the hot sand for nearly four hours, sheltered by a few isolated desert palms and only the sea breeze for company. He’d been observing the crumbling ruins of Leptis Magna intermittently for several days now, watching trucks moving to and from the site, disappearing behind the high canvasses that enveloped the Basilica of Septimus Severus.
While there was a time when many would come and visit this well-preserved site honoured by the Roman Emperor nearly two thousand years ago, it was now strictly off-limits. One need only hold their ears to the ground and listen to the occasional tremble of missiles and machine gun fire evidencing the bitter civil war that had consumed the country since February. Not one for modern journalism, Adam had picked his way through several articles, from the BBC to Al-Jazeera, to try and form an unbiased view of the situation, although he just found himself lamenting the loss of so many significant historical sites each time such conflicts escalated from here right across the northern Sahara into the Middle East.
‘This is not for my own academic pleasure. This is not for me,’ he would play over and over in his head, reciting the same words given to him by his father just before departure. She needs help. Something has gone wrong. The moon’s first light had just bathed the site when an atypical vehicle arrived– polished, pedestrian, as if it had not seen anything but tarmac before now. It was heavily guarded on both flanks by two more suitable vehicles from which armed soldiers appeared, immediately conducting a brief survey. Out of the protected car came a well-presented figure, hard to make out with the naked eye, but met promptly by a decorated militant with a warm handshake, then escorted behind the canvas. Adam reached for his binoculars, fiddling with the focus, trying to determine the approximate number of armed guards and the means of entry before choosing his cue. A single flare in his right pocket was drawn while he rose to his feet, the cap clicked off, erupting in sparks of brilliant white before being dropped by his side.
The response was immediate – guards shouted in Arabic and began to move in unison towards the decoy as Adam scrambled down the bank as inconspicuously as he could, rolling quickly to the side of canvas. A momentary hesitation as muffled voices from within the tent tried to assess the commotion outside. A chance to slip underneath and head straight for the cover of the solid wooden desk pressed up against one of the broken, ruined columns.
Adam caught his breath and rolled his broad shoulders to help shake off his tumble into the tent. He listened carefully to whatever ongoing conversation was still taking place among those within, thankfully and not entirely to his surprise, now mostly in English.
‘And these carvings say what exactly?’ the well-dressed gentleman enquired, leaning in between the desk and the column to inspect them, letting Adam assess him better – pressed suit, trimmed beard and native complexion, walking with a small wooden staff no higher than his breast.
‘Well, as our resident expert, Mr Hussin, we were hoping you could tell us. And why exactly have you asked for this site to be ring-fenced by my men?’ the decorated military man replied. He went on to ramble off-topic about the significance of the National Liberation Army and the movement of the people in defiance of the corrupt dictatorship that had poisoned Libya, a rambling that appeared completely inconsequential to Mr Hussin.
‘The woman?’ interjected Mr Hussin. ‘You said you’d apprehended a woman?’
‘The English girl?’ the militant snapped back. ‘She was found at this site by my men a week ago. Claimed she was a British tourist, but not many regular tourists take out four of my men armed only with a stick.’ he continued with a hint of embarrassment. Adam smiled inside upon hearing this account—sounds like Karen to me.—he thought.
‘Where is she now?’ asked Mr Hussin.
