My brother has already achieved imperishable fame, the lady responded with heat, which is more than can be said for any of you. No, it is simple justice I seek. This child you stand ready to murder is not the issue of this boy, Rooster.

This statement appeared so irrelevant as to border upon the preposterous.

Then whose is he? Actaeon demanded impatiently.

The lady hesitated not a moment.

My husband's, she replied.

Snorts of incredulity greeted this. Truth is an immortal goddess, lady, the senior Medon spoke sternly. One would be wise to consider before defaming her.

If you don't believe me, ask this girl, the child's mother.

The Peers plainly granted no credence whatever to the lady's outrageous assertion. Yet all eyes now centered upon the poor young housewoman, Harmonia.

He is my child, Rooster broke in with vehemence, and no one else's.

Let the mother speak, Arete cut him off. Then to Harmonia: Whose son is he?

The hapless girl sputtered in consternation. Arete held the infant up before the Peers. Let all see, the babe is well made, strong of limb and voice, with the cradled vigor which precedes strength in youth and valor in manhood.

She turned to the girl. Tell these men. Did my husband lie with you? Is this child his?

No… yes… I don't…

Speak!

Lady, you terrorize the girl.

Speak!

He is your husband's, the girl blurted, and began to sob.

She lies! Rooster shouted. He received a vicious cuff for his efforts; blood sprung from his Up, now split.

Of course she would not tell you, her husband, the lady addressed Rooster. No woman would.

But that does not alter the facts.

With a gesture Polynikes indicated Rooster. For the only time in his life, this villain speaks the truth. He has sired this whelp, as he says.

This opinion was seconded vigorously by the others.

Medon now addressed Arete. I would sooner go up barehanded against a lioness in her den than face your wrath, lady. Nor can any but commend your motive, as a wife and mother, in seeking to shield the life of an innocent. Nonetheless we of this mess have known your husband since he was no bigger than this babe here. None in the city surpasses him in honor and fidelity. We have been, with him, more than once on campaign, when he has had opportunity, ample and tempting opportunity, to be faithless. Never has he so much as wavered.

This was corroborated with emphasis by the others.

Then ask him, Arete demanded.

We will do no such thing, Medon replied. Even to call his honor into question would be infamous.

The Peers of the mess faced Arete, solid as a phalanx. Yet far from being intimidated, she confronted the line boldly, in a tone of order and command.

I will tell you what you will do, Arete declared, stepping squarely before Medon, senior of the mess, and addressing him like a commander. You will recognize this child as the issue of my husband. You, Olympieus, and you, Medon, and you, Polynikes, will then sponsor the boy and enroll him in the agoge. You will pay his dues. He will be given a schooling name, and that name will be Idotychides.

This was too much for the Peers to endure. The boxer Actaeon now spoke. You dishonor your husband, and your brother's memory, even to propose such a course, lady.

If the child were my husband's, would my argument find favor?

But he is not your husband's.

If he were?

Medon cut her short. The lady knows full well that if a man, like this youth called Rooster, is found guilty of treason and executed, his male issue may not be allowed to live, for these, if they possess any honor whatever, will seek vengeance when they reach manhood. This is the law not merely of Lykurgus but of every city in Hellas and holds true without exception even among the barbarians.

If you believe that, then slit the babe's throat now, Arete stepped directly before Polynikes. Before the runner could react, her grasp sprung to his hip and snatched forth his xiphos. Maintaining her own hand upon the hilt, she thrust the weapon into Polynikes' hand and held the infant up, exposing its throat beneath the whetted steel.

Honor the law, sons of Herakles. But do it here in the light where all may see, not in the darkness so beloved of the krypteia.

Polynikes froze. His hand sought to tug the blade back and away, but the lady's grip would not release it.

Can't do it? she hissed. Let me help. Here, I'll plunge it with you…

A dozen voices, led by her husband's, implored Arete to hold. Harmonia sobbed uncontrollably.

Rooster looked on, still bound, paralyzed with horror.

Such a fierceness stood now in the lady's eye as must have informed Medea herself as she poised the steel of slaughter above her own babes.

Ask my husband if this child is his, Arete demanded again. Ask him!

A chorus of refusal greeted this. Yet what alternative did the Peers possess? Each eye now swung to Dienekes, not so much in demand that he respond to this ridiculous accusation, as simply because they were flummoxed by the lady's temerity and did not know what else to do.

Tell them, my husband, Arete spoke softly. Before the gods, is this child yours?

Arete released her hand upon the blade. She swung the babe away from Polynikes' sword and held him out before her husband.

The Peers knew the lady's assertion could not be true. Yet, if Dienekes so testified, and under oath as Arete demanded, it must be accepted by all, and by the city as well, or his holy honor would be forfeit. Dienekes understood this too. He peered for a long moment into his wife's eyes, which met his, as Medon's image had so aptly suggested, like those of a lioness.

By all the gods, Dienekes swore, the child is mine.

Tears welled in the lady Arete's eyes, which she at once quelled.

The Peers murmured at this defilement of the oath of honor.

Medon spoke. Consider what you are saying, Dienekes. You defame your wife by attesting to this 'truth' and yourself by swearing to this falsehood.

I have considered, my friend, Dienekes responded.

He restated that the child was his.

Take him, then, Arete directed at once, advancing the final pace before her husband and placing the babe gently into his grasp. Dienekes accepted the bundle as if he'd been handed a Utter of serpents.

He glanced again, for a long moment, into the eyes of his wife, then turned and addressed the Peers.

Which of you, friends and comrades, will sponsor my son and enroll him before the ephors?

Not a peep. It was a dreadful oath to which their brother-in-arms had sworn; would they, seconding him, be impeached by it as well?

It will be my privilege to stand up for the child, Medon spoke. We will present him tomorrow.

His name as the lady wishes shall be Idotychides, as was her brother's.

Harmonia wept with relief.

Rooster glared at the assembly with helpless rage.

Then it is settled, said Arete. The child will be raised by his mother within the walls of my husband's home. At seven years he will enter the Upbringing as a mothax and be trained as any other blood issue of a citizen. If he proves worthy in virtue and discipline, he will when he reaches manhood receive his initiation and take his place as a warrior and defender of Lakedaemon.

So be it, assented Medon, and the others of the mess, however reluctantly, agreed.

It was not yet over.

This one, Polynikes indicated Rooster. This one dies.

The warriors of the krypteia now hauled Rooster to his feet. None of the mess raised a hand in his defense. The assassins commenced to drag their captive toward the shadows. In five minutes he would be dead. His body would never be found.

May I speak?

This from Alexandras, advancing to intercept the executioners. May I address the Peers of the mess?