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Earth and Water Chapter Two Spartan Warrior |
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We resumed our former state while
the tent guards prepared a fire, working with the same sense of purpose with
which they stood their posts.After, when the last vestiges of Apollo's chariot
had disappeared from the twilit sky, a single torch made its way along the
beach, bobbing up and down, a lone light against the blackness of the sea and
separated from the mass of movement that was the Persian army. It came closer, a form becoming visible,
limned in the glow of the torch. A man
stepped into the firelight and marched up to where we sat.
He was a Spartan warrior, dressed
not in the tunic and chiton of our kind but rather caparisoned as a barbarian
of the Persian court. His long robes
were red and trimmed with gold. They
hung to his ankles and barely concealed the soft leather shoes covering his
feet. He was older, his long hair
graying yet still full. He looked at
both of us closely, taking in my poor outfit, multiple cuts and slashes, and
defiant stare. He smiled slowly.
"Cyrus," he inquired in a deep
rumbling bass. "What have you brought
for me?"
"A little gift, your lordship,"
replied the Persian marine, rising from his seat. "An Athenian soldier we took
today off Cape Artemisium."
"It looks like he's had a poor time
of it," said the Spartan.
"Yes sir," said Cyrus, "but I can
guarantee you, he fought like a man possessed.
There were many of my men who will never come home again because of it."
Demaratus raised his dark bushy
eyebrows slightly. "Thank you, Cyrus," he replied. "I'm sure you've learned
much from him already concerning the enemy's dispositions?"
"No, my lord," said the
Persian. "I thought you would enjoy that
more than I."
"Perhaps," Demaratus said. He turned to me then.
"I am Demaratus, son of Ariston,"
he said. "Welcome to the camp of the
Great King."
I remained silent, and he snapped
his fingers towards the guard who stood rigidly outside the tent entrance.
"Bring me a chair." It was a command. He was imperious, used to being obeyed, and
the soldier ducked inside, emerging a moment later with a camp chair,
beautifully worked and reeking of Eastern opulence. Demaratus arranged himself on its rich red
silk cushion. He continued to regard me
carefully.
"So you have no tongue?" he
inquired icily. "I had not been told our
marines had cut it out. A pity. We could have shared much."
Cyrus smiled.
"He can speak Persian, my
lord. He is...reticent."
Demaratus looked up. "Thank you,
Cyrus. I will deal with him from now
on. I am grateful for your efforts. You may return to your vessel."
"As you wish, my lord," replied the
big man. He bowed deeply and swept by
me, inclining his head and nodding slightly.
"May your gods protect you,
Athenian." Then he was gone, striding
into the night, his axe slapping against his hip.
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