Someone had peeped on us; there would be hell to pay for sure.

You little turdnuggets must be floating under a lucky star was all Suicide said. He conducted us to the rear of the formation. Dienekes stood there, silent, alone in the predawn shadows. We took our stations of deference on his left, his shield side. The pipers sounded; the formation moved off. Dienekes indicated that Rooster and I were to stay put.

He held stationary before us. Suicide stood on his right, with the quiver of sawed-off javelins he called darning needles angled nonchalantly across his back.

I've been examining your record, Dienekes addressed me, his first words, other than the summons two nights previous to follow the serving boy to his home, ever spoken directly to me.

The helots tell me you're worthless as a field hand. I've watched you in the sacrificial train; you can't even shave the throat of a goat correctly. And it's clear from your conduct with Alexandros that you'll follow any order, no matter how mindless or absurd. He motioned me to turn, so he could examine my back. It seems the only talent you possess is you're a fast healer.

He bent and sniffed my back. If I didn't know better, he observed, I'd swear these stripes had been waxed with myrrh. Suicide kicked me around, back to face Dienekes. You're an unwholesome influence on Alexandros, the Peer addressed me. A boy doesn't need another boy, and certainly not a trouble collector like you; he needs a mature man, someone with the authority to stop him when he gets some reckless stunt into his head like tracking after the army.

So I'm giving him my own man.

His nod indicated Suicide. I'm sacking you, he told me. You're through.

Oh hell. Back to the shitfields.

Dienekes turned next to Rooster. And you. The son of a Spartiate hero and you can't even hold a sacrificial cock in your fists without strangling it. You're pathetic. You've got a mouth looser than a Corinthian's asshole and it broadcasts treason every time it yawns. I'd be doing you a favor to slit your cheesepipe right here and save the krypteia the trouble.

He reminded Rooster of Meriones, the squire of Olympieus who had fallen so gallantly last week at Antir-hion. Neither of us boys had any idea where this was going.

Olympieus is past fifty, he possesses all the prudence and circumspection he needs. His next squire should balance him with youth. Somebody green and strong and reckless. He regarded Rooster with wry scorn. God knows what folly has inspired him, but Olympieus has picked you.

You will take Meriones' place. You will attend Olympieus. Report to him at once. You're his first squire now.

I could see Rooster blinking. This must be a trick.

It's no joke, Dienekes said, and you'd better not make it one. You're treading in the steps of a man better than half the Peers in the regiment. Screw it up and I'll spit you over the flame personally.

I won't, lord.

Dienekes studied him a long, hard moment. Shut up and get the fuck out of here.

Rooster took off after the formation at a run. I confess I was ill with envy. The first squire of a Peer, and not just that, but a polemarch and king's tent companion. I hated Rooster for his dumb blind luck.

Or was it? As I blanched, numb with jealousy, a picture of the lady Arete shot across the eye of my mind. She was behind this. I felt even worse and regretted bitterly that I had confided to her my vision of Apollo Far Striker.

Let me see your back, Dienekes commanded. I turned again; he whistled appreciatively. By God, if there were an Olympic event in back-striping, you'd be the betting man's favorite. He had me face about and stand at attention before him; he regarded me thoughtfully, his gaze seeming to pierce straight through to my spine. The qualities of a good battle squire are simple enough. He must be dumb as a mule, numb as a post and obedient as an imbecile. In these qualifications, Xeones of Astakos, I declare your credentials impeccable.

Suicide was chuckling darkly. He tugged something from behind the quiver at his back. Go ahead, take a look, Dienekes ordered. I raised my eyes.

In the Scythian's hand stood a bow. My bow.

Dienekes commanded me to take it.

You're not strong enough yet to be my first squire, but if you can manage to keep your head out of your ass, you might make a half-respectable second. Into my palm Suicide placed the bow, the big Thessalian cavalry weapon that had been confiscated from me at twelve, when first I crossed the frontier into Lakedaemon.

I could not stop my hands from trembling; I felt the warm ash of the bow and the living current that coursed its length and up into my palms.

You'll pack my rations, bedding and medical kit, Dienekes instructed me. You'll cook for the other squires and hunt for my pot, on exercises in Lakedaemon and beyond the border on campaign. Do you accept this?

I do, lord.

At home you may hunt hares and keep them for yourself, but don't flaunt your good fortune.

I won't, lord.

He regarded me with that look of wry amusement I had observed on his face before, at a distance, and which I would come to see many times more close-up.

Who knows, my new master said, with luck, you might even get in a potshot at the enemy.

Book Four. Arete

Chapter Fifteen

The army of Lakedaemon marched out in twenty-one dif-ferent campaigns over the next five years, all in actions against other Hellenes. That pitch of enmity which Leonidas had sought since Antirhion to maintain focused upon the Persian now found itself of necessity directed against more immediate targets, those cities of Greece which tilted perfidiously toward playing the traitor, allying themselves in advance with the invader, to save their own skins.

Mighty Thebes, whose exiled aristocrats conspired ceaselessly with the Persian court, seeking to reclaim preeminence in their country by selling it out to the foe.

Jealous Argos, Sparta 's most bitter and proximate rival, whose nobles treated openly with the agents of the Empire. Macedonia under Alexander had long since offered tokens of submission.

Athens, too, had exiled aristocrats reclining within the Persian pavilions while they plotted for their own restoration as lords beneath the Persian pennant.

Sparta herself stood not immune from treason, for her deposed king, Demaratos, as well had taken up the exile's station among the sycophants surrounding His Majesty. What else could Demaratos' desire be, save reaccession to power in Lakedaemon as satrap and magistrate of the Lord of the East?

In the third year after Antirhion, Darius of Persia died.

When news of this reached Greece, hope rekindled in the free cities. Perhaps now the Persian would abort his mobilization. With her King dead, would not the army of the Empire disband?

Would not the Persian vow to conquer Hellas be set aside?

Then you, Your Majesty, acceded to the throne.

The army of the foe did not disband.

Her fleet did not disperse.

Instead the Empire's mobilization redoubled. The zeal of a prince freshly crowned burned within His Majesty's breast. Xerxes son of Darius would not be judged by history inferior to his father, nor to his illustrious forebears Cambyses and Cyrus the Great. These, who had vanquished and enslaved all Asia, would be joined in the pantheon of glory by Xerxes, their scion, who would now add Greece and Europe to the roll of provinces of the Empire.

Across all Hellas, phobos advanced like a sapper's tunnel. One smelled the dust of its excavation in the still of morning and felt its yard-by-yard advance rumbling beneath one in his sleep. Of all the mighty cities of Greece, only Sparta, Athens and Corinth held fast. These dispatched legation after legation to the wavering poleis, seeking to bind them to the Alliance. My own master was assigned in a single season to five separate overseas embassies. I puked over so many different ships' rails I couldn't recall one from the other.