New Chapter Excerpt

I said I would have something new to share with you, and I meant it.

The following is an excerpt from the first half of a chapter told from the PoV of Artabanus, royal uncle of King Xerxes. Although it's not my best work (it's a WIP), I still think it's interesting. But I'll leave you--the reader--to decide. Comments are welcome. In fact, I could use some feedback.


Babylon, 483 BCE


The city is dying.

Seven stories below the temple of Marduk a sea of humanity tossed about in helpless rage and despair. The structure that had served as the center of Babylonian religion and politics for centuries would soon be no more. Xerxes has seen to that, Artabanus thought.

He was still in shock. Xerxes, the eldest of Queen Atossa and the most agreeable of her sons had seemed a far better choice as king than the impossibly arrogant and entitled Artobazus, eldest child of all the royal wives and by far the most violent. Three years ago King Darius had come to the same conclusion. Disgusted with his eldest son's erratic behavior, he decreed that Artobazus was no longer worthy of being his heir and ordered him out of Babylon where the prince had been serving as Viceroy. He then had Artabanus and an honor guard of one thousand escort Xerxes north from Susa to the satrap of Babylonia, where the youth would take his brother's place.

That had caused a tremendous uproar in the palace--there were two older boys besides Artobazus in line for the throne--but the king was undaunted. "My son Xerxes is an intelligent and judicious youth. He will make me proud," he told the court. Artabanus had agreed, and for the first time in years had real hope for the future, even as rebellions had raged within the empire. But by the end of that year the king's life was spent, and Xerxes had left Babylon grim-faced and determined, riding hard and fast towards the south to take up the crown of Persia.

He had to hurry. Prince Artobazus was pressing his claim, he recalled.

Artabanus had stayed behind, acting as Viceroy in Xerxes' place. News of nephew's accession a month later came as a relief, especially when he heard that the other royal children--including Artobazus, who had arrived in Susa too late to make his claim--had conceded the throne to him. By the time Artabanus arrived in the capital to pay homage to his new king however Xerxes was gone, marching west to deal with the rebels in Egypt. When he returned home a year later the prince Artabanus had known as Viceroy was dead, and a stranger sat the royal throne, cold and full of anger against the rebellions that had plagued his father and now plagued him.

"I will make them pay," he had vowed atop his splendid throne of gold when heard that the satrap Zopryus had been murdered and that the people of Babylon had risen in revolt. The news had arrived during an audience with Artabanus and other court nobles, and the audience quickly became a war council. "I will teach these fools what it means to disobey a servant of Ahura Mazda and their rightful king!" He had meant every word, and the ruthless destruction of the city he had once ruled so lovingly was the proof of it.

The war in Egypt changed my nephew, Artabanus thought sadly. He is no longer the same quiet, thoughtful boy I watched grow up in Persapolis. It broke his heart to think of it. So instead he watched the deconstruction of Babylon's mighty temple, here in its shadow, atop Nebuchadrezzar's tiered gardens.

A servant held a fringed parasol over his head to protect him from the blazing noonday sun, another fanned him with ostrich feathers, and yet another stood by with a silver tray holding a goblet brimming with chilled wine in case he felt thirsty from the heat, yet he felt cold. He also felt restless, and instead of sitting at one of the couches laid in a circle nearby he stood along the garden's southern wall.

There he watched as men in loin clothes stepped around the remains of broken brick, hurling dozens of ropes over another corner of the temple and then stretching the hemp taunt. The denizens at the base of the processional stairway responded with a wave of protests. They punched and kicked, threw rocks and cursed, but a wall of Persian guards held fast and the tide of people broke upon their spear and shields. Some dropped to the ground. Even from this distance Artabanus could make out merchants and warriors, farmers and beggars. They had all worshiped atop the brick mountain known as the Etemananki, a massive seven-storied ziggurat that housed the gold statues of their gods and much of the city's wealth. The rebellion had cost them their temple, their statues, their wealth... Even their gods it seems, Artabanus thought.

“Jericho fell too,” his elderly Jewish secretary Daniel said quietly beside him. He had been recording the event--at Artabanus' request--but now he had stopped to watch, misty-eyed. “The Children of Israel circled the city seven times and the walls came crashing down, never to be rebuilt.”

The Etemenanki has seven stories. Is that why its temple falls?

"Your family has lived here for generations. This must be very difficult to watch," Artabanus answered carefully. The old man's family had lived here for at least three generations, he seemed to recall. Daniel looked startled. “Years ago my forefathers were dragged here in chains and forced to serve as they did in Egypt. My people suffered under the shadow of this very temple. Then the Lord sent Cyrus to free us. And now the temple that my ancestors were forced to worship in is no more. I feel relief. My people will no longer suffer at the hands of the black-haired Babylon." The secretary seemed to remember himself then, blinked back his tears, murmured an apology and resumed his work. Artabanus felt for him.

His people were not the first to find fault with Babylonia and its fortress-like city. Nations had shed blood over these fertile plains; the Babylonians most of all. It was hard to believe the city was meant for anything but bloodshed and war. No matter where you turned there were gates and walls, garrisons and bridges and lines waiting for permission to get from one side of river that divided the city to the other. There were few places that offered a sense of peace and tranquility here; the famed gardens of Nebuchadrezzar was one of those few.

They were a true wonder, these gardens. Five stories of colorful brick rose high above the city like a rectangular pyramid open to the sky, every tier covered in trees and bushes and flowers fed by water pumped up through an ingenious irrigation system. The intoxicating smell of exotic desert blooms perfumed the air, and birds of all sizes and colors chirped and rustled about the lush green grasses looking for fruit seeds or pinching rainbow-colored flowers for nectar.

Ten years ago when Artabanus served as a Royal Judge he came to these gardens to escape the hustle and bustle of the dusty, crowded streets. The gardens were always a peaceful place, and offered spectacular views: desert to the west, mountains to the east and fertile plains to the north. The searoad leading south was partially obstructed by the Etemananki, but Artabanus had always enjoyed watching people make their way up and down its steps, their eyes shining with religious fevor and their arms full of offerings. Today he had tried to escape the streets crowded with angry mobs and the wails of the people, but of course it turned out there was no better place to watch the end of Babylon than here in this small paradise.

It seems there is no escape for me.

He could not say how long he was there. A minute? An hour? It seemed he couldn't pull himself away. Not until the sun reached its zenith did he turn to leave. That was when a movement to his left caught his eye. Artabanus turned towards it with a worried frown, unsure if it was his own gaurd or a band of angry Babylonians. It was worse. Four stories below a small contingent of soldiers was just starting to climb the gardens' large, brick steps. Their rounded felt hats and pointed caps proclaimed them a mix of Mede and Scythian soldiers. In the middle was a man dressed in Scythian trousers and tunic, covered with gold bracelets and earrings the glinted in the sun. His ribbed, square-shaped tiara proclaimed him of a high-ranking Persian.

Megabyzus....

Character Profile: Artabanus

While writing the Owl & The Eagle I've tried to present both sides of the Greco-Persian conflict in an equal manner. This is sometimes hard to do since the Ancient Persians did not leave a whole lot of writing behind, unlike the Ancient Greeks (most of our information on the Greco-Persian conflicts comes from the latter). Still, I've come to realize that the Persian prince Artabanus (the uncle of King Xerxes and according to Herodotus one of his trusted advisors) is by far one of my favorite characters on either side of the conflict in The O&E.

Unlike most of the figures in Herodotus, Artabanus is not driven by ambition or alternative motives. When Xerxes announces that he plans to personally lead his army against Greece, it is Artabanus alone who begs him not to. He tells the king he has a bad feeling about the invasion, and that it is too problematic of a campaign anyway. Xerxes ignores this advice, and sends Artabanus to Susa to watch the capital while he's away. In the end Artabanus ends up being right, and Xerxes is defeated in Greece.

In my mind's eye, Artabanus looks very much like the Persian noble in the picture above. He's tall, well-built, and is both dignified and regal. He is fair of skin, with dark coiffed hair and large dark eyes that shine with intelligence. He grew up loving even the most arcane knowledge and is somewhat of a "bookworm." He is also a good listener and of a mild temperment, and this makes him a good arbitrator when conflict arises.

Artabanus loves his family dearly, especially his two grandchildren who are all that remain to him of his favorite son Darius (who was lost at sea during the first Greco-Persian war). He is quick to smile, yet his large dark eyes are always sad, for he holds in his heart a terrible secret, a secret that if ever revealed could jepordize his entire family, including the Great King himself...

**Note: If you're interested, check out the September/October section of my archives and read the story from the POV of Artabanus.

My Ego

I've been tagged by Wynn! This is the first time anybody has tagged me. It's kind of exciting, actually! At any rate, the topic is "Eight things about Me" (I rounded it off to ten just for fun).

1) I'm a Leo. Meaning I love attention, think the center of any universe should be me, and am overly proud.

2) I'm also a Sheep/Ram. At least according to the Chinese Zodiac. This means that I'm spoiled (true) and surprisingly shy (true).

3) I love to write. I feel like I can never write enough, and am happiest when I've written something I'm proud of.

4) I love languages. I took five years of Spanish and almost five years of Japanese (I continue to self-study both). I also took French, and have tried to learn a bit of Russian, German and Mandarin. I'm also thinking of learning Ancient Greek to help with my novel The Owl & The Eagle.

5) I've lived in Japan and am a lover of almost all things Japanese. I've thought about publishing some of my emails from Japan since they're always about some interesting place I went to or some experience I've had (examples include going to a ninja restaurant, trying to fish for my dinner, getting caught in a typhoon, and attending a fashion show).

6) I love history. Most of my reading material is historical. In fact, my idea for "The Owl & The Eagle" came from reading "The Battle of Salamis" by Barry Strauss. I also read a lot of historical fiction novels, and enjoy reading books by authors like Scott Oden, Steven Pressfield and David Anthony Durham.

7) I love Greek Mythology. My love for it started in 1st or 2nd grade and is still with me. My favorite Greek goddess is Aphrodite, and my favorite Greek god is Hermes.

8) I love Fantasy novels. Robert Jordan and George RR Martin are my two favorite Fantasy authors. I like that their stories are about characters and not just a string of plot points.

9) I love wrestling (yeah, you read that right). It's just a soap opera with hot guys. My favorites over the years include Bret Hart, The Undertaker, and HHH.

10) My real name isn't Megumi, but when I was in High School I didn't like to give out my personal information to strangers on the Internet (I still don't). So, I decided to adapt the Japanese name Megumi for my "online persona," and still use it today.

So there you go. Now you know a little more about me. In other news, my first novel The Owl & The Eagle continues to progress, and will hopefully be finished by late summer. Maybe I should make that a birthday present to myself...

I tag anyone who's read this blog and wants to participate (^_^)

Herodotus In Film

I'm always on the look out for material that can help me understand the Ancient Hellenes better. I feel like there's never enough. Yet when I want more information I usually turn to books or articles, since TV and movies tend not to be overly accurate or helpful. I was pleasantly surprised however when I watched the PBS special Greeks: Crucible of Civilization Special Edition. This nearly three hour documentary covers the amazingly rich history of Ancient Athens from the 6th century BC until the fall of the polis, using actors and a host of prominent historians to walk us through the events of the time. Among the more notable historians that appear in this film are Barry Strauss, Victor Davis Hanson and Paul Cartledge, all names that should be familiar to people studying Ancient Greece. These men lend a sense of legitimacy to the documentary that a lot of similar films lack. Yet what really sets this work apart is the director's ability to take the viewer back through time, showing us a glimpse of what life might have been like for men like Themistocles and Pericles.

Instead of offering cheesy acting or dialogue, the director hired professional actors and even real local specialists to simply act out different events. He also had cinematic shots of the modern city of Athens subtly painted over to make it look like more archaic, so when the shots appear on screen it's like you're seeing the city as it might might have been thousands of years ago. Especially impressive is the aversion of studio-made sets. When the film portrays men knocking olives out of trees, you know that those are real olive trees in the Attica countryside. When you see a spectacular shot of a trireme, you're looking at a real ship (the one built a few years ago by scholors). No expense is spared, not corners cut...but that's not to say the film is above reproach.

Despite its name, the documentary rarely focuses on any city-state but Athens, and almost never mentions men or battles that don't have anything to do with it. The oversight of events like Thermopylae is especially cringe worthy. Yet if you opt to listen to the Director's Commentary, the director does mention that he chose to have the film revolve around only a few select men (all Athenian), so a piece about Leonidas and his accomplishments would admittedly be akward. Still, it would have been better to change the documentary's name to Ancient Athens: Crucible of Civilization, thus making the absence of certain battles and historical figures less conspicuous.

This misnomer can be forgiven though once you realize the director's complete commitment to making this film as good as possible. Not only did he use professional actors and real locations, he also hired an orchestra to make a stirring and riveting soundtrack. This beautifully compliments the story telling in its richness and detail, making the experience of watching the film even more pleasant. So if you love Ancient Athens and want to see a detailed and complete picture of the early years of the polis, rent or buy this DVD. And hey: it's hosted by Liam Neelson. What more could you ask?

Character Profile: Themistocles

"I am not of the noble Grecian race,
I'm poor Abrotonon, and born in Thrace;
Let the Greek women scorn me, if they please,
I was the mother of Themistocles."

--Plutarch

Thems--as I like to call him for short-- is by far the most exciting yet difficult character to write about in The Owl & The Eagle. This man has so much charisma and ambition it's ridiculous. He is poisounous charm, foxy intelligence, shrewd merchant and zealous patriot. He's always looking out for number one, and doesn't care much about who he has to step on to stay at the top. He is the cult of personality, which makes it exceedingly hard to grasp who the real Themistocles is.

In my story, Thems does indeed have the bulldog face and curly hair of that famous bust you see above, but there's a twist. In my mind's eye he's a carrot-top, with orangish red hair set off by a pair of small, hazel eyes that see sharply. He's quick to laugh and most insults roll right off his back; he's used to them. He's managed to dodge ostracism and Persian arrows so little frigthens him except for failure, or worse, fading into obscurity. It seems he takes little seriously but he's always calculating and factoring things into his plans, because he is blessed with uncanny forsight. He is impatient and often blunt, which tends to rub some people the wrong way. The commoners love him though, because he is willing to converse among them and speak up for them, even though it's usually to his own benefit...

O&E: Ostracism

Hello everyone! Here is another snippet from my novel "The Owl & The Eagle." It's still a WIP but I thought it would be fun to put up. Enjoy!

Athens, 481 BC (E)

The man shook with fear and fury. "I swear I did nothing wrong!" His dark beard was neatly trimmed and his robes the best he had, a Phoenician-dyed purple himation over a muted green chiton, but his eyes burned like a thief caught with a fist full of gold. Six thousand men stood back and watched his performance. "I would never betray Athens to Aegina. Never!” He gestured wildly with one hand , the other gripping his himation to keep a coil of it from flying off his arm. Themistocles watched from the front row with the other nine members of the Board of Generals. The men of Attica were tightly packed in the city's marketplace, jostling each other to get a look at the three men standing trial before them. They had watched men splutter and make excuses for near half the day; this was the last of them, and by far the most guilty.

Themistocles began to scratch out a theta on the black terracotta shard that had been placed in his hands as soon as he entered through his demes' designated gate. The sound of each chisel was like the call of a hissing fury to most men, jarring to the ears. To Themistocles it was like the plucking of lyre’s string. He hummed as he worked.

"I demand a trial! I demand my accusers stand before all men and declare my so-called crimes to the men of Attica and the gods above and below!" The man was soundly booed. One heckler even launched something at him which bounced off his head. Themistocles guessed it was a sandal. He added a rho to the shard's surface and changed his hum to a whistle. "There's the man you should be ostracizing! Right THERE! Themistocles of Phrearrioi. He’s the one with too much power! Kick HIM out!" Themistocles looked up from his work just long enough to favor the man with a smile, then added an alpha to the arching letters with cherry vigor. "For the love of all the gods don't DO this to me!" My father died at Marathon! My great uncle sat in council with Cleisthenes, who was my ancestor. This is a slight to their memories!" "Enough!" the archon bellowed. He was a large man with large facial hair to make up for the lack of hair on his head. "Take your place among the other candidates, Thrasylaus. Then men will decide which of you villains is to be ostracized. The majority of shards with the person's name on it will be the one."

By the time the archon had finished this proclamation Themistocles had finished writing out the name, ending with a flourished sigma. Not the best hand-writing, but at least it was legible. There was no mistaking the name. Themistocles waited for the servants to make their rounds with wicker baskets and added his shard to the pile. The process took quite some time, but it was always worth it, even as the sun blazed down on their heads. It was agony for the three men standing on display, however. Themistocles knew how hard it was to stand there; he had done so twice before and narrowly escaped. He admired the two men who faced the crowd calmly, their faces dignified and betraying none of their fear. They were Boetian sympathizers, or so their enemies claimed, but their crimes were far outstripped by the Alcmaeonid, who was accused of being an Aegian sympathizer. Thrasylaus looked ready to leap through the crowd and make his escape, as if there were not 6000 men ready to stop him. The whole affair was far more entertaining than any drama. Themistocles wondered if his playwright friends were taking notes.

When the name Thrasylaus was announced as having the majority of votes, the Alcmaeonid began to shriek louder than ever. "It's the merchant's vile son! He's the one who did this! Rid Athens of him!" Ignoring him the archon explained the rules: that the man must leave Athens within 10 days, that he could not return for 10 years, and that upon his return his citizenship and property would be retained. The man stood slouched in defeat. He did manage to spare Thems a chilly look though. Don't blame me. Thank your wonderful ancestor. It was Cleisthenes who created the new 10 demes of Athens and with it the delightful concept of ostracism. No doubt it was meant to help rid the Alcmaeonid prince of his enemies. The irony of it being used on his relatives thirty years later was rather amusing. Thrasylaus did not appear to see it that way. "You'll pay for this, Themistocles!" He glared around the agora. "All of you! Athens will pay for this!" He was dragged off between Scythian guards dressed in furs despite the abhorrent heat of late summer.

Writing In The Nude

Neat header, huh? What I mean to say however, is that instead of showing a somewhat polished draft of a chapter or a paragraph, I thought I'd share with all three of my readers what my writing ideas look like in it's rawest and unadored form. Below is a copy of some ideas typed up. Some are taken directly from books with names and such changed, others are quotes I'm trying to work into the story, and one paragraph is from what I saw in a Goolge Earth picture of Athens. My point? Does your writing ever look like this? Thoughts and paragraphs and tangents all mixed on a page?

Sparta was cupped between the rugged palms of the Taygetus and Panouias mountains, the Eurotus river trickling between their knuckle bones, pooling into the palm of the valley before continuing south to spill into the sea. Ancient agora northwest of Acopolis. Trees and vegetation clung to the sides of the massive rock that stood sentry over the city, clustered around the base like gossiping women around a well. Spreading out from it, blocks of houses were stacked along the hills, cutting the city into odd geometric shapes. There steady hum of daily life was always present.

"Yes Sir." Bulis could tell he was a member of the Cryptia. They all had a look: lean and gaunt with iron-cold eyes. Spartans only smiled when they had relatives killed in battle or killed an enemy. The Cryptia always seemed to be blood-soaked and pleased at being blood-soaked. The youth gave him a salute and loped down the hill, a wolf in search of wondering sheep (Cryptia boys described in wolf metaphors).

[Piece taken from GRRM's "Feast" --]"Used to be you couldn't throw a stone in (Athens) without hitting a (Pistradid). Now there's not even wives and children left."

Not in Athens, no. It was Hippias who had led the charge against Athens ten years ago. He was dead, or so rumor claimed, but there were other Pistradid out there, and Themistocles would not rest until democracy was secure. ::Thems for attacking Sardis or not?::

Like all youths in the barracks Pauanias was enthralled by war stories, especially about the battle of champions. The winning of Tegea and the triumphant return of the bones of Orestes to Sparta was almost as good as Homer, only for some reason Sir Somebody, the only living witness to the events, refused to speak of it. "We won," he would tell the youths gruffly whenever asked for war stories. "Now leave me alone."

They had argued over the eclipse for hours now. Another eclipse will occur by the time we decide what to do, Themistocles thought impatiently as men continued to argue moot points. "Aegina, my friends? Think bigger. Think farther east. Rumors of a massive bridge spanning East and West has arrived with our shipments of timber from the Black Sea, and its said the Phonecians are re-arranging their fleet, with ships coming from Sicily. A little odd considering their ongoing war with Syracuse. I think we need to get serious about an invasion. "Listen not to this forked-tounge snake-oil merchant. Darius' son now sits the glinting golden throne of Perisa, and means to storm our shores with more ships than Hippias led to Marathon ten years ago. They've been humiliated by a far smaller power and will remember our part in the Ionian Wars. Our chances are grim; let us be frank. They won't spare us or our fine cities. The best thing to do is humor the king and give him earth and water and let him forget about us. It's his pride we need heal, a far easier thing to do then heal the scars of our beloved lands should they be scorched and pillaged by Persians." "Are you an Alcemoid or a Pistradid!" Nikandros blazed when he snatched up the Speaker's Wreath. "I did not watch my friends die around me on the Marathon plain only to bow to the Persian king at the first sign of adversity. I owe their memory better!" "As do I!" another man called out. When Cimon stood up and swagggered up to the speaker's circle he glinted with gold and silver. He looks like a damned tyrant, Themistocles thought. He even doned the Speaker's Wreath like a crown. "My father died doing what he thought was right for Athens. For all of Attica. I will not shame his memory. I shall lead troops beyond these very walls and smite the enemy in combat. "All by yourself, Achilles?" someone from the something deme shouted. A wave of laughter rose up, but the boy ignored it. "It would seem I have no choice, for I am the only man hear born with a spine." Oh, very good. Themistocles thought as the crowd broke out in angry shouts. A swaggering youth could bring the challange out in any man. And despite Militides end, there were still enough men in the audiance who admired the general. Themistocles was not one of them, but he added his voice just the same.

"All Hellenes pray for a fair fight, Dieneces. That is all one needs to win the day." "I pray for the odds to be stacked against us," the wolf laughed. So what when we win the victory will be all the better."

Marathon September 1 so have Thems visit Marathon with family and participate in events. Slaves fought at Marathon as well.

The Maze That Is Writing

How many of us writers have started a plot thread only to have it go nowhere? What I mean is, you have a great idea for a character and you write and edit several chapters on it, only to realize it simply won't work in your story. I'm struggling with that now. I have all sorts of interesting events (based on real events according to Herodotus) to weave into my story but I swear tying one event to another is difficult. I believe very much that there needs to be good transition in a book, and all the events in my story take place within a few months, even though in real life they may have been spread out over a couple of years. These events can work together in a shorter time period if I simply make the transition smooth and believable (Herodotus doesn't really give time tables much anyway), but somewhere in there things get tangled. Ack! There's got to be a solution...anyone?

Stuck

I'm struggling over how to flesh out certain events in my story. They're major events in history, but because Herodotus is sketchy about chronological order at (or at least he has to go back and forth in time to tell various stories) it's hard for me to make events clear. I also keep toying with different ideas to make the characters relevant to the plot. Pausanias will not be a shining hero for quite awhile. How do I tell the story from his POV in the meantime? Is he a squire to King Leonidas and witnesses certain events? Do I need to let his POV go and focus on a different Spartan character for the first book? It's so frustrating because I've written a lot with Paus and am trying to make the plot character driven, not just about action. Does anyone else have this problem? It really stalls my writing process...

New Salamis Info!

According to the New York Times, a recent discovery was made on the famous Archimedes Palimpsest, which sold for 2 million dollars at auction in 1998. It turns out that underneath the writings of Archimedes (which were written over by a Medieval monk) there was even MORE writing--the writing of Hyperides, that is. The best part is that it may contain new information on the battle of Salamis, the famous ship battle that look place in 480 BC between the Greeks and the Persians! According to Hyperides, there were 220 Greek ships involved the the confrontation, a number that was previously sketchy.

Since I'm writing about this EXACT time, this is pretty awesome stuff. I hope they discover more. (^_^)

Pausanias 2: Preview

As promised another part of my story, told from the POV of Pausanias, nephew of King Leonidas and son of Prince Cleombrotus. Hopefully it's good. ^_^; This chapter takes place after the meeting of allies at the Isthmus of Corinth, but before the Spartan embassy makes its way to the Persian court (I admit the real-life timeline is changed a bit to make the story flow better). Enjoy!

Tegea 481 BC (E)

He could see the bronze of the needle glinting in the sun like a tiny, pulsing star, see Helios's rays slide along the thread as his father sewed him back together. "Most were killed," Sir Bulis reported as Prince Cleombrotus looped the thread again. Pausanias could feel the skin on his neck being pulled together with a lasso of fire. It was so painful he wanted to wretch. "Only one or two escaped. This was a planned ambush, though I don't know how the Messenians got all the way over here or could have known we were coming." "I'm going to find out," the polemarch growled, intent on his work. Around them the bodies of their attackers were strewn about the dusty road, their surprise attack quickly smashed under Spartan spears.

Prince Cleombrotus had been marching the regiment hard and fast, south and west and south again, past grassy knolls and scrappy villages, trying to make their way home to Sparta as fast as the march would allow. The polemarch had been in a helpless rage. He was furious with the Eurypontid king, you could tell in the way he muttered to himself, though for the sake of the troops he could not openly critize a commander. Cleombrotus was so caught up in thrashing the Eurypontid king in his mind he failed to see the real enemy right in front of them.

In fact, nobody payed attention to a group of Dwellers working a field with their short scythes and dusty old weel barrels, not an uncommon site in the somewhat arable land in these parts. It was Pausanias who noted their too dark skin, their overly beant posture. At first he told himself it was impossible: Messenia was stades and stades off, on the other side of the mountains. There was no way they could be all the way in Tegea. It was impossible. Yet when he looked again he saw their dog-skin caps, and then he know for certain. He stopped the march with a shout of "REBELS!" Everything happened at once, to fast to be afraid or even angry. The enemy, realizing their cover was gone, quickly amassed and charged, armed with nothing more than rusty field tools and savage courage. They knew their lives depended on surprise, the breif respite before the Spartans raised their shields and lowered the spears like some rudely-wakened hedgehog. Though they were fast, the Spartans were faster, and managed to cut down the rebels before they could do any serious harm. They were not fast enough however; more than one Spartan felt the cold bite of a rusty blade, including Pausanias, who took the worst injury. He hadn't even felt it. Only when the blood started gushing from his neck, staining his cloak an even deeper red so that it almost looked brand new did Pausanias know something was wrong. He had never never taken true wound in all the mock battles the army staged. He had been whipped, beaten and bullied like all boys in growing up in the barracks, but strangely iron was shy to his touch. Or rather the Spartites wielding it had no desire to stick him, even with blunted practice spears. Yet now suddenly the world grew red with pain, and an invisible harpy sucked the energy right out of Pausanias's body. The last thing he remembered was falling to the earth, and his fathers words coming back to him. "You all treat my son like a woman," Prince Cleombrotus had accused the royal mess one night. "He'll never learn to bleed!" Now he had. Finally the surgery ended.

"Well, that's it." His father sighed and handed off the needle and thread to his helot. "I've now stitched up every single member of my family." He straightened and cracked his back, then turned to address his servant. "Boil that needle in oil tonight and clean the instruments. If they don't shine, I'll beat you bloody." The helot nodded and backed away. It didn't matter that their own attendants had proven fast loyalty when they could have helped their bretheren; they were all the same to the youngest son of King Anaxandridas. Cleombrotus turned and thrust a finger at Pausanias's own helot, Endymion, who was holding the clay bowl full of the wine and vinegar used to cleanse the wound. "You! I don't want that wound getting infected. You change that bandage every day and keep the linen dry and clean. Sniff it every night for infection." Trembling, Endymion nodded. Cleombrotus frightened most Spartans, and the helots were terrified of him. Still, what the youth said next took real courage, especially now. " M-master? Sh-should we not b-bleed him to take the f-fever down?" Prince Cleombrotus looked both furious and baffled that the youth would dare talk to him. "My son's bled enough!" "B-b-but the ma-maesters say-" The polemarch's face purpled with rage. "Boy, you'd better run or I'll..!." Endmyion dropped his bowl and fled like a hare. Dazed as he was, Pausanias was glad. Prince Cleombrotus's threats were never empty.

With shaking hands Pausanias took the cloth out of his mouth and staggered to his feet. None of the men who had clustered around him helped him, but none was expeceted. The world spun and Pausanias gagged. His cloak was stained with blood and sweat and grass stains now, and he felt as if wild oxen had run him over. I cannot show weakness. I am an Agiad prince. Euryanax would want him to be strong. "You must never show weakness. You are a prince of the Agiad line," his cousin would often tell him after a whipping in the agoge. "You must always be brave." Anger helped. He was furious with himself for being so weak, furious with his father for treating him like a scab he could not pick off, furious with Prince Euryanax for not being there. But Euryanax was far to the West, solidifying a proper fleet for Sparta should Persia attempt to sail into Laconia's ports. That night Endymion tried to coax him to eat with black broth and hard cheese, but Pausanias was so sickened by the sight of pig's blood he pushed the bowl away. Or rather tried to. He was so weak he could barely sit up. "You need to get better, Master," Euryanax protested, spooning up the broth as trumpets sounded the call to evening prayer. "Here, just a little?" Pausanias finally accepted it, too weak to protest. By the time he had managed to down some food and stagger towards the assembly prayers were over. "Next time you skip Mass I'll strip your back bare!" Sir Amompharetus promised him as we walked past. He was Prince Cleombrotus's right-hand, and a cold man in all things, having no sympathy for anybody. The stench of burned animal fat from the sacrifice that clung to the elder's cloak made Pausanias fill sick all over again, and he retreated back to his tent to lie down.

Later that night, as Pausanis stood sentry--he had not been spared that-- a bent-back helot approached loaded with woolen blankets. "Master Bulis says it's not uncommon to get the chills,"the old man relayed. "The wound will heal better if you are warm, he says." Pausanias might have refused if only to impress his collegues, but his tent mates were all fast asleep, their feet blistered and bloodied from the forced march. "Tell your master he has my thanks." He was sorely tempted to wrap himself up right then and there, but firmly handed the blanket over to faithful Endymion, who had refused to sleep for fear his master would turn feverish. When his duties were finally over Pausanias kicked the next boy awake, then handed off his spear and shield to his helot. "Before you polish these, find out where my father's tent is, and see if Sir Bulis is on sentry duty there. I mean to return that blanket. Don't argue with me! I cannot show weakness. I am an Agiad prince."

Halloween Treats!

Happy Halloween, everybody! Today I'm dressed as a Greek Goddess (how my co-worker and MC for our costume contest got the idea I was princess Diana I have NO clue) and thought I'd post the begaining of one my O&E chapters (it's a WIP btw). This is from the POV of Themistocles, the smart yet devious think tank behind Athen's new fleet. Enjoy!

Isthmus of Corinth 481 BC(E)

The Acrocorinth rose above the coastal plain like a pair of taut breasts, with nipples black and hard. No wonder Aphrodite is their patron goddesss, Themistocles thought as the ship split the muddy sand beaneath its hulk. It was the very first trimere built from Athen's silver funds, named The Owl and rowed by hard-bitten men from Ionia who drank wine neat and slurred their words. They were refugees from Aristagoras's rebellion ten years ago, men who rose up against Persia only to see the city-states smashed to pieces. When they heard about the Athenian victory at Marathon, they had come flocking over to Attica in droves in hopes of fleeing Persian fire. But without Attican citizenship they were nothing, and spent their days in taverns and fist-fights. Until Themistocles came along. "Pull the oars of my ships and some day you'll be heroes," he had promised them. And here they were.

The Owl's pilot laughed heartily when Themistocles let him in on his geographical discovery. "It rarely snows in Corinth, but when it does the peaks look like they're weaning," he told Themistocles with a grin. He was dressed in corse leathers and his beard was salted with white hairs and sea salt. "How far is it to the Arcopolis from here?" Themistocles asked him as men below the hulk manuvered the ship between other vessels on the crowded beach front. The ship gave a sharp lurch beneath his feet. "Acrocorinth," the pilot corrected. "About a handful of stades, no more. Beware General: Corinthians may be festive, but when it comes to their polis they can be as prickly proud as any Spartan." Great, thought Themistocles.

The captain now ordered the ladders to be lowered so his passengers could disembark. He was a Phalerum tough by the name of Androcles , a bulky man who had made his living both as a fisherman and a bouncer at his father's tavern. He was surprisingly good at training men to row, but he was a greedy sot as well. Themistocles had been unimpressed when he had tried to haggle over passage to Corinth right. "Oars break, ropes snap, sails tear, and leather hole coverlets need fixin'," he had argued. Themistocles refused: "That's not my fault." "The Corinthians ain't cheap," Androcles protested, "and last time we sailed to Corinth my men broke ten oars." "Train your men better then," Themistocles had told him, "or I'll find someone who will and you can go back to your glourious job as a bouncer." The tough had given him a sullen look, but knew he was beaten.

Themiostlces watched him now as he took the satchel of silver from Nikandros's fat fingers and tucked it neatly into his vest. "Keep your men out of trouble and you'll receive a bonus when we return," Nikandros promised. "Remember: your men are the face of Athen's new navy, so I excpect them to act like it." To prove he wasn't bluffing he produced another satchel of coins and jingled the metal within. "They'll behave themselves, or by Posidon's trident I'll make them row all the way to the Pillars of Herekles and back without a break," the captain vowed solemly. He practically drooled at the sight of all those owls. And why not? A man could get well and truly drunk off of the money he's being offered.

As they made their way down the swaying ropes to the sand below, Themistocles noted the names of other ships beached nearby. There was the Thetis, the Amphitrite, the Lioness, the Sea Horse, and two Corinthian patrol boats aptly named Aphrodite and Aries. Further along the western beach side were two unstable looking tubs, Castor and Pollux, beached slightly apart from the rest. Themistocles got a chuckle out of the names Rape and Pillage--until he recognized them for Aegian ships. So Aegina is going to be on the right side of justice this time, he though wryly.

There were only three of them representing Attica: Themistocles because he represented the navy, Cimon because he represented the land nobles, and Nikandros because he funded both. The man chosen by the Corinthian government to host their small embassay was jolly and fat as Nikandros, dressed in bright robes and gold jewlery that clinked and clacked whenever he moved. His auburn beard and hair was shot with white, but he maintained a youthful air. "Aletes, son of Bacchis at your service," he piped as they made their way off the sandy beach and onto the busy waterfront where their host was waiting. "Aletes? As in of the old royal family?" Cimon sounded impressed even with his clipped tone. The rolling of the ship had turned his face an unhealthy shade of green, but now he wrapped his purple hitomon around him deliberatly and stood very straight, nose in the air. "The very same," the Corinthian said proudly, "though we have not been in power since Periander's tyrany." He grinned. "Come. I have arranged for my finest chariot to take you to my estate just outside the town, and tommorow I'll guide you to the Acrocorinth where you can be greeted by our archon. The assembly is two days from now, so you're just in time." Themistocles elbowed Cimon out of the way so he could walk astride their host as they ambled towards the gold-lined chariot being attended by a lone servant. Around them robeless men hefted clay jugs and crates full of various city-state goods, while merchants haggled loudly about prices. "I see some of the other delegates have already arrived," Themistocles had to shout to be heard over the clatter of commerce. Behind them Cimon muttered conspiculously, rubbing his arm, while Nikandros waddled after them in his verdent hitomon, panting. "Those that intend to fight." Aletes shrugged, then abruptly changed the subject. "At any rate your Excellencies, I hope my lodging is to your liking. My baths are wide and deep, and my lady servants should be to your...liking." He favored Themistocles with a sly smile. "Bought them from a Carthiginian slave-trader. The girls are from Libya. Very exotic and very frisky." They piled onto the chariot, barely fitting, and their host signaled the charioteer to snap the reins.

Corinth was older than Athens, though not so ancient as Thebes, and situated on the narrow Isthmus between the Pelops and Attica. To the east dusky mountain chains rose up above the coastal plain, creating a peaceful enclave. To the west were the mountains of the Pelops, silent and brooding across a narrow strip of sea. They wound their way north and west then north again, following the stone highway's serpant-like path. I wonder if I spat into the wind if it would land in Sparta, Themistocles thought as the Pelops seem to inch closer and closer. He would have to try it sometime.

The multi-columned estate was hidden in a dense olive grove along the crowded Periander Road, hidden within a canopy of gray-green leaves. As the chariots turned out of traffic and onto the private causeway, Themistocles caught the musty scent of olives baking beneath the parched dome of Uranus. The uneven cobbles beneath the wheels bounced the chariot around, their host forced to apologize for the uneveness. Shadows danced along their forms as the horses trotted beneath the silver-green leaves that sheltered them from the summer sun. Male slaves wearing nothing more than a sheen of oil knocked the fruit from their branches into wicker baskets, chattering in the lilting Corinthian dialect. "I head the olive crop in Corinth is good this year," Themistocles called over the rumble of chariot wheels. Aletes laughed. "In truth it is a normal year, but with Prince Gelon fighting Phonecians in the west there is no competition from Syracues." "Is there cooperation though?" Themistocles asked, trying to maintain his balance when the chariot suddenly lurched in a small dip in the road. He did not care much about the Western colonies of Hellas, but if the Persians cut off Attica's resources from the Black Sea, they would need Sicilian grains and metals. The man took his meaning. "If the Spartans--whoah!--if the Spartans called Sicily to arms, they haven't shared it." "So Sparta is here!" Cimon said excitedly. Anything and everything Spartan facinated him. Themnistocles answered for their host. "No, son of Militides. Sparta is in Laconia. Here is Corinth." He ignored the younger man's scowl as their host pulled on the reins to stop the silver-maned horses in a sunny patch just outside the mansion. The house was impressive enough: the pink-veined colums were wide and flat, great marble shoots growing out of their foundations. "The Pelopponnesian League will be represented at the assembly, I take it," Themistocles continued as they stepped off the chaiots. Bare-foot Men in simple tunics and caps ran foward to help them--it took two strong men to help down Nikandros-- then unhitched the horses. "Aye." Aletes did not sound happy about. Themistocles was not surprised. Relations between Corinth and Sparta had soured after the coastal city had refused to follow the Mad King's plan to make Isagoras tyrant of Athens some thirty years ago. By default that meant equally strained relations with city-states like Elis and Olympia. If the Corinthian wasn't happy though, Cimon surely was. "The Pelops in this war will make all the difference," he told them. "We of Marathon, together with the Spartan army leading the way will beat the Persians back." "We will," Themistocles agreed, " though I should remind you Cimon that you weren't at Marathon." And I have no intentions of letting Sparta lead us anywhere.

That night their host treated them to a lush banquet in his spacious garden, the scent of honeysuckle and hyacinth heavy in the star-speckled air. A singer recited odes to Aphrodite and Dionysus, and recounted the poems of such famed locals as Arion and Eumelus. The dusky Libyan girls followed up with a dance, their hypnotic sway appraised by all. They dined on slivers of succulent goat shanks, bowls of cured olives, plates of fresh goat cheese and flatbread and saucers brimming with honeyed wine. By the end of the night Themiostlcles could not recall how much wine he took in, or who he danced with (one of the girls had particularly alluring eyes). He fell asleep on the stone walkway...and woke up in a cold sweat. His head and heart were racing. His stomach roiled like the sea in a storm. The dream was already fading, but a sinister thread remained: the image of a hundred foot Persian standing over the slain body of Theseus, his massive sandled foot on the hero's head like a conqueror. Themistocles recognized him: he was the first man he had ever killed, not only in battle but in life, a Persian who had looked more fit to be at court than at battle. His wicker shield had not protected him against Themistocles's sword, the man helpless before his enemy's wrath. Now the Persian was no longer a frightened, helpless archer but a fearsome giant with blue-green eyes that saw Themistocles, and the giant had laughed.

Archippe

I promised I would put SOMETHING up this week. So here's a chapter told from Archippe's point of view (Themistocles's wife). It's not really edited as much as it could be but I just want to put it up. Enjoy!

Archippe pushed her way though the teaming crowd on the edge of the city's south side, her male slave elbowing lesser people out of her way, while her handmaidens slapped at them with fans and parasols. Archippe paid no more heed to the dregs of the city than a clod of dirt at her feet, but like the dirt she went around them. Athen's marketplace had been closed off for another emergency assembly, but the merchants and farmers crowded along the parimeters of the city, refusing to lose business. The mass was mostly made of men too young to participate in the proceedings of the assembly; few respectable women were about. That was why Archippe had chosen a nondescript robe of white linen and plain blue sandals with small heels to hide her identity. Her swag too was a simple sky blue cloth of gauze. She would have added a cloak as well, but the summer heat was oppresive as it was, the sky blazing blue above the stilted temples and toated hills, Helios's fiery rays drying everything they touched. Still, she was clearly of high birth, enough so that people picked up the hems of their robes and parted way for her whenever she came near. Archippe could only hope her disguise was enough to stop tounges from wagging. Already her mother had made her feel like a street hussy for going out. The old coot had flown into one of her dramatic rages this morning, no doubt a result from her Megarian ancestory.

"You should be spinning thread not plots," she had shrieked from one of the second story windows as Archippe prepared to leave the house. Her mother was dressed in black, though Archippe's father was still alive--the two had hated each other since before Archippe was born--and her weathered face was screwed up in dissaproval. "I'm just going to buy a new decanter," Archippe shouted back with barely surpressed impatience. It was only half a lie--they did need a new decantor--but it appeased the crone not at all. "I'm no fool, but you are. A woman has no business with the outside world!" When Archippe had spun on her heel and ordered the back gate opened anyway, her mother was livid. " You are NOT my daughter!" she declared with a flailing of her short, bony arms, and slammed shut the wooden shutters painted clay red. Well tried to slam them. The right shutter was heavy and stuck and so the old woman had to be content with only slamming one.

Now under the guise of shopping Archippe tried to catch what was happening with the six thousand men gathered in the city's center. Athens was the largest city in Hellas, built around a gleaming limestone rock that jetted far into the sky, but over the years men had filled the once lush olive groves with rows and rows of buildings that soon resembled a mouth full of crooked teeth. Everywhere citizens were pushed against each other, trying to manuver between narrow allies and busy throughfares. The agora was the worst. Market and government assemblies made for a seething mass of humanity. It was proving difficult to navigate today. Even the top of the Acropolis was filled up with boys and non-citizen men trying to watch the assembly. War and battle and glory and all that other male nonsense was like a festival to them. Archippe cared little for iron pagentry; it was the fate of Attica that concerened her most. Would they go to war? Would they capitulate to the Persian? She had to know. And so did everybody else. Everywhere she looked youths were trying to climb up on columns or statues to get a better view of what was happening. Archippe would not do that, nor would she try taking shortcuts through back allies or temple porches to avoid the crowd--that would be unseemly-- but as she edged closer to the agora's center she ran into a pack of rowdy youths staring down a wall of Cynthian archers. This could be bad.

Many of the boys were dressed in long crinsom robes pinned at the shoulder with round bronze clips, their hair tied back in short pony tails and wearing raw-hide sandals in the Laconic style. To act and dress Spartan was the rage among young men between fifteen and thirty, and they even used slang words like "mothax" and "tremblers"--whatever those meant. Archippe could admit to herself that she thought the trend rather dashing, but her husband thought it was foolish. "They've never even seen a monkey Spartan," Themistocles had complained just the other day. "Those ugly rock-heads don't smile--I don't even think they CAN smile." His own scarlet tribal cloak made him look rather Laconian, so Archippe had made sure to point that out to him. "I'm sure their cloaks are in far better condition than mine," Themistocles retorted, " since their wives know how to wash clothes." Archippe had slammed the door of the womens' quarters in his face so hard she broke one of the hinges.

Now the youths tried to move past the gaurds, kicking up dust and puffing up their chests in an effort to seem threatening. The archers seemed more humored then scared,their slanted eyes bright with amusement and their smiles marred by bleeding gums, but more than one boy got an arrow knocked at their heart for the effort. Cynthian archers were deadly accurate; the deliquents wisely stepped back.

Leaving the trouble makers to their trouble, Archippe led her group towards the western end of town, hoping that there was room near Ares Hill. I could at least get a good view there. Ares Hill had several tiers of stairs leading up to the houses and apartments at the top, and if it couldn't afford the same view as the Acropolis, it was still close enough so that the booming voices of men could still be heard. As they got closer to the hill however, Archippe could see it was even more crowded than on the south side. Great. All this way for nothing. She could see the crude wooden bleachers set up on the far lawn of the agora and wondered if Themistocles was sitting on splinters. She hoped so. Most likely he's talking to the assembly about how great his stupid ships are. As of late she had heard little else from him.

She wondered aimlessly for a time, scratching her scalp irritably. It burned from the potent mixture that turned her hair blonde, though it was never strong enough to get her roots. As they wondered Archippe was jostled by a farmer trying to lead his cow through the crowd. She yelped and staggered into Daisy, who staggered into Corinthia. When they had righted all their white linen robes were covered in dust, making them look like a troop of beggers. Archippe gave her gown a dusting but the soil was deeply imbedded. "I hate crowds!" she hollared at no one in particular. Daisy mummered an agreement, Corinthia doing the same, but she didn't hear them. Crowds were the worse part of any city. Themistocles loved them, having been raised in the most crowded quarter of Athens, but she was used to sunshine and fresh air and more chattle than people. Her father's sprawling eastates were near the Cephisus River, where artisans paid top owl for the excellent red, buff or orange river clay used to produce Athenian pottery. She had dined on ox tounge and honey roasted tuna as a young girl, and had expected to eat them all her life. But her husband hated both, and so ever since they're wedding banquet it was lamb or fish for dinner. "How will our boys grow big and strong if you don't feed them better food," she had demanded of Themistocles one night. "What are you talking about, woman? Unless they're going to speak to cattle or go live under water I don't think they need your fancy country food. Lamb and fish are healthy enough, and certainly better tasting than tounge!" And that was the end of it.

I'll never get into the assembly this way. Maybe if I find someone to bribe they'll give me a full report...she stopped scratching her hair as a pin fell out of the braided coils atop her head. "Hades in hell!" she snarled, snatching it off the ground before someone could trample it. This day was not going the way she had planned at all, and the throng was getting worse, jostling her and her servants every which way no matter how they pinched and slapped at people. "Give over," she finally ordered.

Busying herself at the book stall while she tried to think of a plan, she randomly picked up a scroll and half hazardly read it. "Law and Order by Tyrtaues of Sparta." "Popular with the young men," the bookseller grinned at her. His teeth were an unattractive sheen of yellow, his eyes hidden by the shade of his flimsy straw hat. "Sold three of them this morning." Curious she unrolled a section and read out loud. "Do not be in love with life when you are a fighting man." She frowned and read on, but it was all about phalanx warfare and hairy-chested drival that made no sense to her. She picked up another scroll called Work and Days, then pretended to drop it. "Oops. I'm so sorry. Corinthia, you dolt! Pick that up at once!" Her slave did as bidden. Archippe continued to feign interest in Hestoid and picked up another copy of his work. She scanned the papyrus at random. "Women are a plauge to mankind..." She closed the scroll with a sharp clack. The bookseller laughed. "And a most welcome plauge," he told her, grinning lecherously. She scowled at him. Just then Corinthia stood back up and gave a quick shake of her head. No good. There wasn't even a way to crawl under the bleachers. Hydras and hellhounds there's not a space anywhere in Athens for a woman! Angrily Archippe dropped the scroll back into the wicker bin and snapped at her servants to move foward.



They moved to the side of the road where there was a small fold of space near a fortune teller. Most people avoided them when they could since they had an unsavory reputation, explaining the lack of people. Yet the woman behind the stall had a fleshy pale face and dark eyes, and her braided hair was carrot-red. Like Themistocles. She hardly looked threatening. Archippe frowned. Fate? The girl--she could not have been older than eighteen-- was certainly not the Pythia of Delphi. Her dark green robes were cinched too tight over her wide frame, and they were hopelessly wrinkled. The plank at the top of the stall had a picture of sticks spelling out the word Cassandra. Archippe had to smile. For that alone I should at least give her a chance. Before she realized what she was doing Archippe sat down on a bench that tried to give way the moment she touched it. She shifted her weight and put on her most winning smile.

The fortune teller did not seem to notice her at first. She fiddled with an array of twigs, muttering under her breath. Archippe cleared her throat. "I would like to ask a question about about Athens." The woman calling herself Cassandra did not look up. "Did you hear me? I said I want to ask about Athens." "Persia is coming." "I know that." Everybody knew Persia was on the march now. The assembly is a dead givaway. The girl looked up. " War is coming, and the women must act. I need only tell you how." "I don't understand. I should act? What should I do?" The woman looked up from her sticks and gave a tiny smile. "Three owls." "Outragous!" The girl went back to her sticks. "War is coming." "I know that, you heifer! I want to know the fate of Athens." The woman said nothing. Angrily Archippe ordered Daisy to take an owl out of the leather purse that accompanied her. "I'll pay you full if I like your answer." "You may not like my answer." "Then I leave." "Don't you want to save Athens?" "Not for three owls." "Is Athens worth so little?" Archippe knew she should have left then and there. Instead she said, "AFTER woman, not before!" The fortune teller stared at her sticks. Finally she took the owl. "Let's see what is in store for Athena's City."

Calmly, "Casssandra" gathered the slim twigs together, organizing them just so. Then with a sudden flick of her wrists she threw the sticks in the air and watched them clatter to the table top. Not one bounced off the surface. She's well practiced, at least. The fortune teller closed her eyes, humming to herself as she shuffled the wood around. Archippe watched, facinated despite herself. There were many ways to read the divine will of the gods. Everything from dreams to a sneeze could be inturprated, depending on the diviner you went to. This one claimed she could see the future through arranging twigs and seeing the pattern made from them. It was crude, but Archippe was desperate.

Finally the plump, beraggled girl looked down. A frown formed around her eyes. Then they went wide. "What?" Archippe followed that wide-eyed stare but could see nothing. She made her voice a command. "What!" The girl drew a shaky breath, not meeting her patron's gaze. She's afraid. "What do you SEE?" The girl swallowed. "The gods really do speak to me!" She sounded surprised. And afraid."What is it they say?" With an unsteady hand the girl began to trace the pattern of sticks. "Bare streets and deserted roads...wood around the rock. A rain of fire from the sky consuming the temples... men jumping into space to escape them. Men with rings and and foreign eyes swarming about the city like locus. The Owl and the Eagle taking flight. And here"--she stabbed a finger at a group of twigs-"a battle will be raged by land and sea. The word is spelled out clearly: Beware." Archippe leaned foward. She's right. Those sticks DO spell out beware. Suddenly it was an effort to keep balance on the rickety bench.

"I leave the city tommorow," the girl whispered, gathering up her fortune sticks. Several dropped from her shaking hands. "I don't understand," Archippe protested. "What does all this mean?" The girl clutched her fortune sticks to her chest. Her eyes were wide and urgent. "Flee. We must all flee. Flee to the ends of the earth!" Archippe felt a chill. " You mean Persia is going to destroy us?" For an answer the girl jumped up and ran from the booth. Startled Archippe rose to go after her, and almost fell of the bench when it shifted beneath her. Daisy and Corinthia caught her halfway to the ground. "Mistress! Are you all right?" Archippe barely heard them. It's just nonsense, anyone could see a pattern in anything. She shooed her servants away without answering and drew a shaky breath. That...mothax was just trying to swindle me. That's all. Only the girl was the one swindled: Archippe still had two owls left.