The Flame of Destiny
The Secret City

Ligeia, Central Caucasus Mountain Range, 207 AD

Stop!” shouted the guard, “stop you little scoundrel!”

The girl paid no heed to the big man, she sprinted past him. Furious, he swung his spear, but she was too quick and he hit the hand of a king’s statue, shattering three fingers.

“Dammit, you’re not getting away,” he called as he chased after her.

But she did. She ran around a wide column, raced past the marble statues of ancient warrior royalty, and darted into a dark corridor before he managed to raise his spear again.

This was not supposed to happen. “Stop,” he moaned but only succeeded in halting himself, “you’re entering the chancellery!” Cursing and puffing, he wearily followed her into the torchlit halls of power where even he was not allowed to enter.

A door flung open and a white-robed man emerged blocking the entire passage with his tall stature. His robes and long red beard fluttered momentarily before they froze into place giving him the appearance of the giant statue of Zeus of the Great Hall. “What’s all this commotion?” he thundered.

The guard bowed his head nervously and removed his helmet which was adorned with black eagle feathers. “Archon Diokles, your illustrious grace, my sincere apologies,” he said breathlessly, “but have you seen the little intruder? She’s from the old town.”

“An intruder? A girl? In the best-guarded section of a secret fortress city?” laughed the Archon. “I’ve seen a lot of strange things in my life but this…” he shook his head.

“I saw her with my own eyes,” stammered the guard.

“Have you been drinking?” Diokles interrogated sternly, his eyes seeming to look right into the poor man’s soul. Before he could begin to stammer an answer, the Archon’s attention faded. He stepped back into his room, slamming the door shut with a loud thud. The guard looked confused at the creaks in the steel reinforced oaken door, perplexed but somewhat relieved.

Still smiling Diokles sat down on a Spartan wooden chair and looked across his heavy desk at the young girl, her face still blushing from exertion.

“Darling Samira, my little pupil,” he said calmly, “just in time for today’s class.”

All the severity had gone from his face and he looked like a friendly grandfather. “Let’s review some history. Can you tell me when the Age of Empires started?”

“After the Age of Heroes, master Diokles,” replied the sharp young girl, her deep blue eyes sparkling and bright. “More than five centuries ago.”

“Good answer! That was when Alexander III of Macedon, the last of the great heroes carved this city from the rocks. He banished the wild men and evil creatures to the inhospitable wilderness in the north, beyond the mountains, and thus ended the Age of Heroes.”

Samira looked at him with her big curious eyes, “Master, do you think the Age of Empires will last forever or … will the heroes come back one day?”

“Why not?” he smiled. “Some believe Alexander himself will come back one day. Mad King Mithridates of Pontus fell for false prophecies and fake omens and called himself the new Alexander. Then these Christians, these fanatics in their underground temples, they’re waiting for the second coming of their great hero, the Messiah. Many believe the heroes of old will come back to rescue them and bring their people to new glory.”

He looked Samira in the eyes. “But that’s a fool’s belief. The wise men of the civilized world know that the Age of Empires will last until the end of days and reflects the cosmic order of the universe. The empires are only ever getting bigger, soon the world will live under one ruler, one Caesar, and there will be eternal peace and prosperity. We’ll fight only for sport and hunt just for fun. Who needs heroes then?”

The girl looked confused and disappointed, that world didn’t appeal to her. Her master told her little good about these empires of the Romans and the Parthians. And she knew nothing at all about the empires further east. “But what do you think?” she insisted.

“What do I think?” scoffed Diokles, with a look as if he wasn’t sure if he should reprimand her for excluding him from the wise men or congratulate her for spotting his doubts. He leaned back and scratched his beard. “If I’ve learned anything in my life, it is that the future is as capricious as the curls in my beard. We’ll need heroes again, soon....”

This prophecy of danger and adventure was more to her liking and her eyes gleamed brightly.

“The empires want heroes to make war,” he continued, “and the people want them to make peace. The Caesars and Shahs crave heroes to defend them against peasant uprisings and slave revolts, while the common folk need their heroes to get rid of tyrants.”

Samira wasn’t sure she understood half of his rant and frowned while slightly tilting her head, as she always did when she was thinking deeply.

“What I mean,” continued Diokles in his deepest voice, “just like in the stories of old, heroes will invoke the greatest triumphs and the most painful tragedies. They’ll make the world explode in pride and tremble in fear.”

“Can I become a hero?” Samira asked shyly.

“What,” scoffed the old scholar, “haven’t you heard me? Who wants that?”

“Can I,” she asked undauntedly.

Diokles frowned and looked at her for a while. “Why not?” he said rising from his chair. “Do you think Hector and Achilles were simply born as heroes?”

“No…” said Samira thoughtfully, “but they were born of royal blood, whereas I …” She looked at her plain linen tunic and the dirty, ragged pants that she had outgrown months ago, and sighed.

The old scholar stared out of the window, over the shining temples and great villas of the fortress city. In the distance, above the clouds, was the white peak of mighty Mount Kazbek with its sacred fire.

He turned and looked her straight in the eyes. “But you, my little Semiramis,” he said in a grave voice, “you were born of the fire.”

She glowed with pride even though she had no idea what he meant.

This cozy, warm feeling faded over the next months. What had he meant? she pondered as she gazed wistfully at the white peak. She felt no fire, no comfortable glow, only a longing for something she never had. A hunger that drove her on; keeping her awake at night and feverishly active from sunrise.

With Diokles on one of his long journeys, she had to break all the rules and hide alone in the citadel if she wanted to learn anything new. It became ever more dangerous but she couldn’t stop. She just hoped that there would come a day that she could simply be among the pure bones of the highborn families and wouldn’t have to sneak around like a thief.

The loud clatter of iron spear tips that struck shields shook her out of these thoughts. Her eyes descended from Mount Kazbek to the courtyard of the citadel far below her. From her vantage point on the top balcony the training ground was tiny and the children looked like ants.

“Keep it tight together,” shouted the brawny sergeant, “shields overlapping dammit.”

Two groups of boys and girls, some of them not even seven or eight years old, faced off in the sunbaked square. Following the sergeant’s instructions, they quickly closed the gaps between their round shields. The wicker boards were tailored to their small stature, and standing shoulder to shoulder they formed an impenetrable wall.

But the shields were heavy for their tender muscles and soon enough the sergeant’s rasping voice boomed again “shields up! How many times do I need to repeat? Any Sarmatian kid can shoot a poison arrow through this gap from fifty paces. Do you want to die squirming in terrible pain?”

The citadel on the acropolis was the highest building in the hidden fortress city of Ligeia. Even the great temple of Artemis stood in its shade. It towered over the great temples and the hall of the High Council that encircled a large square, the ‘agora.’ Only the ‘rock’, an enormous mountain of black stone that rose almost vertically towards the sky, straight like a spear, soared above it.

The rock formed the core of the city, the foundation on which all the buildings rested. Like mushrooms on a dead tree trunk, the villas, temples and ramparts of Ligeia hugged the black stone. But the top part was free from construction. A peak that rose into the clouds. It was inaccessible for humans. Only eagles found shelter on the steep black cliffs… or so the citizens thought.

“Alexander!” shouted the sergeant, “you little worm. That didn’t hurt! Be worthy of your name and get back on your feet. Go stand next to Zoe.”

The small boy slowly got on his feet and limped back to his spot in the shield wall. He turned just in time to deflect another blow.

These were the children of the city’s elite, the pure-bones, and here in the Agoge, they learned how to fight. The survival of their polis depended on their martial skills. That message was rammed into their little head time and again. The only purpose for their existence was to defend their city and the vital trade routes through the great Caucasus Mountain range from the wild horsemen to the north.

Unconquered since its foundation five centuries ago, Ligeia ruled the surrounding lands from its secret base perched high in the mountains. Like eagles, her warriors swooped down and ambushed hapless intruders. Marauding warlords and barbarian generals had seen entire armies wiped out before even locating the city. The mere whisper of her name caused dread and fear. The two mightiest of empires, Rome and Parthia, left the city well alone. They gladly paid the gold that Ligeia required to protect their civilized lands from the brutal savages of the wild northern steppes.

The last thing these young hoplites were expecting was someone watching them from above. And yet, from the high balcony, just below the steep black rocks where only eagles dare, two sparkling deep-blue eyes peered down at them.

Young and skinny, dressed in tattered gray rags, Samira watched every move of the would-be warriors below. She was no pure-bone. Her parents were poor and no warriors. Sure, like everyone else in the city, they worked in the business of war. They repaired armor and served wine to the officers. They weren’t slaves, but there wouldn’t be any glory for them or their children. They stepped aside and bowed deeply when real warriors passed and groveled in the mud when the infamous Eagle warriors deigned to look at them.

“But it’s thanks to your strong steel that the Eagles are so mighty,” said Samira to her father in the smithy, “they should be respectful.”

Her father, Georgios, would simply sigh and shrug his shoulders while he kept pounding the steel of another breastplate.

They had no hope of ever becoming an Eagle warrior, let alone an Archon or a member of the High Council. There would be no education for Samira, as there was only the Agoge that place was off limits for impure-boned street scavengers like her.

Perhaps that was for the best her father repeated time and again. “Fighting sounds glamorous, but it’s arduous and dangerous. Glory and bravery are illusions, stories for fools. In the end, warriors just want to live and keep their body in one piece.”

She’d tried to believe him, she did. But something told her that she was different. She wouldn’t be like her parents. It was as if a fire burnt inside her, she would make her own destiny. Perhaps that was what Diokles meant.

“Why can’t I be like the heroes of your stories,” she asked her mentor on one of his rare visits, “or like the mighty Eagle Warriors with their gleaming armor and powerful bows.”

Diokles simply smiled at her desire and said, “Why can’t you indeed? Nobody’s life is written down little one.”

From that day, she followed the pure-bone kids and hid outside their classrooms where she listened to tales about heroes, great battles, and faraway places. She clung on to every whisper that she managed to pick up through the cracks in the ceiling. Later, in bed or when helping her mother in their tiny house, she would try to remember what she had heard. She recited the stories aloud to the delight of her little brother Jaro.

Even more exciting were the fighting classes. But getting past the guards in the citadel wasn’t easy and she took great risks to reach her observation post. Yet she didn’t want to miss a single lesson! The sounds of the clanging weapons made the hairs on her skin rise in thrilled excitement. Only when her heart pounded in her chest and sweat rolled off her back, did she feel alive.

After watching the children in the courtyard for a while, Samira jumped up. She grabbed a wooden stick and a small round shield. In her mind, she repeated what she had seen below. Then she darted forward. Round and round she ran on the small balcony, slashing at invisible enemies and parrying invisible spears.

Parry, slash with sword, push with shield, parry again, jump forward, roll backward… And again… and again… and again.

Below, in the courtyard, the sounds died down and the young hoplites collapsed in the shade. They munched on grapes and sipped cool water while Samira kept running and slashing. Streams of sweat ran down from her face and her tightly braided hair was all tangled up.

At the other end of the balcony stood a heavy stone vase. She placed a large juicy melon that she had nicked from the morning market in the old town on top of it. With a small knife, she cut the shape of a face in the fruit, adding short curly hair, a curly beard, a scar on the cheek, and angry-looking eyes.

“There,” she noted with satisfaction, “just like that man from the High Council that my father hates so much.”

She attached a wooden shield to the statue.

“Now you’re mighty Achilles,” she whispered, “but beware, I’m great Hector, prince of Troy!”

She knew the ancient stories almost by heart. While the rich boys favored the mighty Achilles, the strongest warrior of all time, she preferred Hector, who stood up for his younger brother. Or she played the beautiful and brave Penthesilea, who fought better than any man. Only with the help of the mighty gods did Achilles defeat the Amazon queen and the Trojan prince, she thought bitterly.

From the other side of the balcony, she sprinted towards the fake Achilles and repeated the old Homeric words as loud as she dared. “As Hector spoke he drew the blade that hung great and strong by his side, and gathering himself together he sprang on Achilles like a soaring eagle which swoops down from the clouds.”

She jumped up high in the air and plunged down, striking the wooden shield with full force. “Even so did Hector brandish his sword and spring upon Achilles,” she whispered, ending her dramatic act.

Just like the shield of Achilles resisted Hector’s blows at the battle of Troy, so the wooden shield didn’t break. But the fake Achilles lacked the thick neck of the ancient warrior. The shock caused the melon head to tumble off the vase. It dropped on the balcony and rolled towards the ledge.

“Oh no!” shouted Samira and ran after it. She dove towards the melon, arms stretched out, fumbling for the melon.

But it was too late. Her hands caught air and the large, juicy fruit rolled over the ledge, falling down sixty feet.

“Oh no…” she moaned in despair.

With a loud splash, the melon exploded in the middle of the courtyard.

Juice and bits of fruit were sprayed all around staining the walls.

The sergeant choked in his cup of wine.

A boy shrieked as his shirt was stained by the juice.

The young warriors jumped up in surprise.

“Where did that come from?” shouted one.

“From the sky!” came the incredulous reply.

“Someone’s there!” shouted another pointing in Samira’s direction.

More fingers pointed in her direction.

Samira remained calm. She had anticipated this moment for a long time. She had even dreamt about it.

Don’t panic, the sergeant is an honest person. He’ll ask me how well I can fight. And then, then I’ll show him that I have trained harder than any of the rich kids. They will applaud and accept me in the Agoge. So just stay calm, this is your moment.

More and more people looked up to the tiny figure on the balcony.

“Don’t just stand there you idiots!” shouted the sergeant, “catch that intruder. I want her in chains!”

One look at the sergeant’s face, red with anger and spit flying from his mouth as he shouted, shattered her dream. How could I have been so stupid?

In an instant the courtyard was empty. She heard doors open and close. From all directions, the sound of running feet approached. Archers appeared in the open windows. The entire school was after her.

Time to run!

She put the wooden sword in her sash and threw the shield over her back. She grabbed the bag of fresh dates that she had stolen from the market - these are for my little brother. She ran to the other end of the balcony, jumped on the base of a pillar and pulled herself on the tiled roof.

She lay still for a moment, hoping the noise would go away. But it didn’t.

Guards streamed onto the balcony where she had practiced. Footsteps closed in from the other side. The roof that ran to the rock and her best way to get away from the citadel was blocked, she would have to jump onto the next roof and reach the rock from there. She had never done that before and the gap was awfully wide.

“Stop!” an angry voice shouted. She turned and saw five teenagers armed with spears walking uneasily on the slippery tiles.

“You won’t escape this time,” said the one in front. He was at least a head taller than her.

“Don’t look so surprised,” said an older girl, “we know who you are, slave.”

“I’m no slave,” Samira shouted defiantly, fighting back her tears. Oh, if only Diokles were here, he would tell them.

“Not yet,” smirked the bully, “but my father will take care of that. Your whole black-bone family will be sent to the mines when he’s done!”

He lurched forward and reached out to grab her by the neck.

Anger consumed her. A fire raged across her body as if lava flowed through her veins. She lashed out with the wooden sword putting all her strength in the stroke.

The blow was so powerful that the boy’s arm was thrown aside like a straw, barely deflecting her swing. The wooden sword hit his jaw with a loud crack.

The youths eyed her in astonishment.

Still shaking with anger and fueled by her inner fire, she sprinted to the edge of the roof and jumped the impossible distance. “I did it!”

She jumped over an even deeper chasm and made it to a protruding slab that was perched above three hundred feet of vertical cliff. Samira crouched down and took a moment to catch her breath. She was on the ‘rock.’ These cowards would not dare follow her here.

And they didn’t. “Only eagles live there,” called someone from below, “we’ll grab her when she climbs down.”

But Samira didn’t climb down. Her small feet found grip in the tiny, barely visible notches of the near vertical cliff and she climbed to a small ledge that ran almost horizontally across the rock face. She circled partly around the massive rock until she reached a flat stone, the size of a bench. She collapsed with a sigh and started sobbing.

What have I done? Did they really recognize me? Oh… how could I’ve been so stupid? I’ve put my family in danger! Will they really send us to the mines?

The sun shone brightly and she absorbed its warm rays like a hot shower. It helped a little to put her racing mind at rest. Don’t worry, said her rational voice. Of course, they don’t know me. I’m a child of the old town where these pure-bones never set foot. They were just trying to scare me.

The view from the rock was breathtaking. The majestic Kazbek dominated the horizon with its mighty snow-capped peak. She always felt a strange attraction to this rocky giant, as if it spoke directly to her heart.

Soon the cone will be completely covered with snow, she thought sadly. I wish Diokles was back in town and we could hike to the top one more time before the snow is too deep. I want to slide from the glacier, I want to bask in the heat of the Original Flame. I want to feel the cold of the snow. But where are you my teacher, my uncle? You’ve gone for too long. I feel so alone. Thick tears rolled over her cheeks.

Diokles, was a distant friend of her parents but she liked to call him uncle, as if that made her related to the distinguished Archon. He was often away traveling, visiting strange lands and running important errands. But when he was in the city, he never failed to visit her. He told her about places that even the pure-bone teachers had never heard of. He explained her how to pronounce every letter of the alphabet and told her to practice reading, which she did by candlelight in her bed, until her head slumped and she relived the stories in her strange and wonderful dreams.

He also listened to her when she told him about the places she had visited inside the city. He didn’t mind that most of these were off-limits for her kind. Quite the reverse, he made her feel proud of her investigations and his questions roused her curiosity and drove her to look ever further.

Letting her gaze go down, she first saw the acropolis with its great temples and the enormous council hall around the large Agora. Lower still, close to the rock, the silver and golden ornaments that adorned the domus of the rich and powerful shone in the afternoon sun. Flush with ‘protection’ money from the amber, fur, and slave trade, the lords of Ligeia, the shrewd Archons and mighty Strategists, lived like princes.

Way down was the old town, separated from the acropolis by a low brick wall. It was a sprawling mess of small alleys and steep stairways, lined with high and narrow houses patched on all sides to keep them from collapsing.

In one of those houses, her father was tinkering on a shield while her mother was surely soothing Jaro, her sickly brother. She could see the street but the house where they lived, close to a smelly leatherworker’s shop was just out of view. She stretched her neck as if that would make a difference.

Her gaze was attracted by something else though. A procession of horsemen was winding through the small streets of the old town like a twisting serpent. A man in the long white, silver-lined robe of an Archon rode in front. He was followed by tough warriors in shining armor, a rare sight in that part of town.

“They’re heading for our house,” Samira whispered excitedly to herself, “this must be Diokles, he finally came back! And he’s coming to visit us, what an honor.” Her heart beat faster and she forgot her troubles at the Agoge. I can show him my latest sword-trick she thought… I can recite him the verses of Homer that I memorized while he was away. He’ll surely protect my family if I tell him what happened.”

Nimble as a cat, careful not to stray from the shadows, she climbed down from the rock onto the roof of the great temple of Artemis. Here, among the terrifying sculptures of monsters and serpents, no one dared come and she could descend onto the Agora unnoticed.

She crossed the busy square, mimicking the quick, short strides of a hurried servant-girl, and reached the narrow servant’s staircase that snaked down for hundreds of yards, directly to the old town. She descended quickly, taking three steps at a time. She jumped on the slide that was used to evacuate the garbage of the rich folk, and skidded past the surprised slaves and servants. Just before the slide disappeared into a vertical shaft she jumped off, rolling in the dust.

Ignoring the pain from new bruises, she sneaked towards the wall separating the upper city from the old town, ducking into a dark alley at a safe distance. Peering out of the shadows she scanned the only gate in the wall at this side of the town. As usual, the guards looked the other side, and weren’t alert. They try to keep the poor out of the upper city, but once we’re in, they don’t seem to care, thought Samira.

Leaving the alley, she ran straight at the wall. It was only a few feet high from this side. She put one foot in a crack and an instant later she crawled over the top.

The descent on the other side was much higher. From the top of the wall, she jumped down on the roof of a shabby building. It was six feet and she fell through a couple of dangling washing lines, stopping just before the edge of a balcony that dropped fifteen feet lower.

This wall ain’t much of a defense if people build their shabby houses right against it, her father had once said. It suited her just fine, because these shacks gave her a way to go down.

A woman shouted after her as she climbed towards the street. Samira didn’t care, she was in the old town where chaos reigned! Here she was free to do as she liked. Quickly she ran on.

She darted through narrow alleys, skidded over muddy streets, and ran past noisy smithies and foul-smelling leatherworkers. As she flashed past the flagrant food stalls in the Armenian quarter, she grabbed a small roasted skewer, barely slowing down. “I’ll pay you tomorrow,” she shouted, “no time now.” She dove into a maze of alleys and after many twists and turns entered the slums of her quarter.

A dozen paces before their small house she slowed to catch her breath. It’s not fitting to greet Diokles sweating and panting. She put her hair back into a neat bun with a small hairpin and walked on. A guard stood in front of the door, watching over the horses. Funny, she thought, I know Diokles is a senior Archon but I have never seen him with such a retinue.

Ignoring the grinning guard with his shiny breastplate, she opened the door to her house and quickly stepped in.

As soon as she entered, the guard followed her in the house and closed the door behind her with a loud bang that made her jolt up in surprise.

Aside from the smithy, their house had only one room where the whole family was gathered. Her mother Ophelia was sitting down and looked at her little brother Jaro on her lap, slowly caressing his jet-black hair. He was crying softly. Georgios was further away, investigating the black nails on his feet, and didn’t even look up as she entered.

In the middle of the room, she saw a man in flowing white Archon robes and gray hair. He was looking in the other direction and she couldn’t see his face, but she recognized his posture. He’s here! In her joy, she failed to notice the depressing atmosphere and didn’t heed the armed soldiers.

“Master Diokles,” she called out, “how wonderful you’re back. At last.”

The Archon didn’t reply. He slowly turned around.

The air seemed to grow thick and a feeling of dread crept over her. Before he had half turned she knew something was off and her stomach became a lump of stone. It was very wrong. Instead of a kind smile and a long curly beard, he had an ugly scar and a mean grin. This wasn’t Diokles!

Instinctively Samira stepped back. She raised the wooden sword above her head and stepped into a fighting position.

The Archon’s grin only widened. He nodded and two strong hands grabbed Samira’s arms from behind. It was the warrior stationed near the door who had followed her inside. There was no escape from his iron grip.

The man with the scar slowly approached her, “you won’t need these where you’re going little darling,” he spoke with a measured and piercing voice. He yanked at the wooden sword and shield that she stubbornly clung onto. She clenched her fists until her knuckles turned white, but had to let go when the guard twisted her arm.

“Look at me,” commanded the Archon roughly pulling her chin up and leaving her no choice but to stare into his cold eyes. She shivered as the blood drained from her face and a cold fear descended over her body.

But then she remembered who he was and her anger returned, chasing the fear away, letting the angry fire run through her veins. Diokles would never allow another Archon to hurt me. She looked defiantly at the man, her blue eyes gleaming like embers.

For a moment the man recoiled and the smile was wiped of his face.

Samira tried desperately to pull herself away from the brute behind her but his grip was too tight.

The Archon regained his calm and smirked. “You have chosen well, Egon,” he said to the soldier behind her, “look at those eyes. This girl alone is worth fifty slaves. She can easily pass for a pure-bone.”

Then he nodded and Egon to let her go. Samira looked confusedly at her parents and ran to her mother who put her arms around her. “Don’t listen to him,” whispered Ophelia, “he’s an evil man.”

The Archon grinned at the embracing couple. “So, after this brief interruption let’s proceed,” he said turning his gaze back to Samira’s father. “Again, my sincere congratulations, Georgios. This is certainly the pinnacle of your long and distinguished service to Ligeia. You and your family have the honor of being selected to become the guests of the noble house of the Underdeep.”

“You mean hostages,” replied her father defiantly. His eyes flashed with anger and Samira hoped with all her heart that he would do something. After years of hammering in his smithy, her father had the arms of a wrestler. He could have easily become a hoplite, he held an eighteen-pound aspis shield, like an Archon held his stylus. But strength is worthless without power. Georgios lowered his eyes and his body seemed to shrivel before the Archon’s authoritative gaze.

“I honestly think the term guests is more appropriate,” said the Archon softly, “your plight is infinitely more fortunate than that of the hundred slaves that will accompany you. Your ‘pure bone’ sacrifice will ensure peace for another generation.”

“But we’re not even pure bone,” objected Georgios.

“Of course not,” grinned the Archon, “that’s the beauty of it. Don’t you see? Do you genuinely believe the great families of Ligeia will send their own children to the Underdeep?”

He eyed mischievously at Georgios, “but you and your family look the part and you know our ways well enough. I can assure you, it’s in your best interest to play your role. They love pure-bones down there and they’ll accept you as one of them. Here in Ligeia you’re a worthless servant. In the Underdeep, you can be a prince.”

“But why?” asked mother. “Why do you send people to that dreaded place? Why do you let this injustice continue? You’re supposed to protect us.”

“Ophelia, is your name, right?” said the Archon and offered Samira’s mother his best smile. “You know why, my dear. It makes perfect sense if you think about it. Sending a couple of wretched servants, a few dozen slaves and some bolts of silk every few years is a lot cheaper than risking war with such a dangerous and cruel foe.”

“When do we get back?” asked Samira softly.

“You still don’t get it, do you?” laughed the Archon. “How charming.” His faced turned serious again, “enough questions now, bind them and load them up!” he ordered the soldiers.

Jaro screamed. Ophelia sobbed softly. Georgios stared at his feet. There was no point in resisting. The soldiers were too strong and there was nowhere to go.

It’s all my fault, thought Samira, fighting vainly against her tears. I should never have painted his face on that melon. I shouldn’t have shown myself at the Agoge. That is why we are punished and sent into darkness. Will I ever see the city again? Will I ever see uncle Diokles again?