UNCHAINED

Arkti Bay (Pserimos), March 493 B.C.

The sky is an almost silver grey; the sea a crystal blue. We approach the jagged and desolate island of Pserimos, located two-and-a-half miles north of Kos and less than eight miles from the western coast of Anatolia. The eastern shoreline of Pserimos is an almost perfect Chevron; with its apex at Arkti Bay. The spiny isthmus of Cape Roussa lies in the foreground to the south. The impressive peak of Mount Vasiliki stands proudly to the north.

On the far horizon to the west, lies a sliver of an archipelago (Plati), and further west, is the rugged and spectacular relief of southern Kalimnos. A small fishing village, constituting a ramshackle agglomeration of less than a dozen single storey dwellings lies a short distance inland from the shores of Arkti Bay.

A Persian trireme (Audacious) is moored in the bay, a half mile from the shore. The villagers assemble on the beach, closely guarded by a detachment of armed Persian sailors. The three canoes that ferried them ashore are beached on the gritty sands.

***

The populace of the fishing village ranges in age from suckling babes to adults aged in their middling sixties. A mere few hours ago, they numbered forty-one souls, each hoping to gaze with wonder upon the next day’s sun. Ten of their number will never see another dawn again, and, for the survivors, their lives will be forever tarnished by this horror. The last of the ten victims, a lithe and happy-go-lucky soul named Tyraes, recently turned twenty-six, is forcibly dragged to the Butcher’s block by two burly sailors and forced to kneel, facing the weeping villagers.

The women, old and young, bow their heads and weep solemnly, as they clutch bewildered and terrified children close. A young mother, Aiya, slim and pretty, with pale olive skin and fierce brown eyes steps forward, oblivious to the threat from the levelled spears. Her three year-old daughter, Daera, clasps her hand tightly as she sucks her free thumb, blinking and uncomprehending. Tyraes fixes his gaze upon them, bitter tears streaming down his cheeks, as the point of a heavy bronze nail is pressed against the rear of his skull.

Tyraes meets Aiya’s gaze. In these last precious moments, she is more beautiful than ever. She will assuredly be so when they finally meet again in the next world. He glances quickly at Daera and grins. Until now, he could never have imagined a world without her, and a searing sadness is tinged with fleeting joy;. “Until we meet again, I shall keep the flame of love alive…” he mumbles softly.

Istryax is a man bereft of any such sentiment. A colossus, standing in an excess of six-feet, muscular, scarred, and brutish, he is as cruel and as merciless as his master. He raises the heavy iron hammer. The hammer falls. Blood erupts in a sickening vent from Tyraes eyes, nose, mouth, and ears. His lifeless head slides off the Butcher’s block. Aiya kneels and hugs the dumbstruck Daera for dear life. She sobs disconsolately. Tyraes’ lifeless corpse is dragged away, to be dumped with the other nine victims, all childhood friends. There is a twisted logic to such cruel pageantry.

An ominous shadow falls across the blood-drenched Butcher’s block. A grim faced and tight-lipped Annassarias, Captain of the Audacious, surveys the distraught villagers with an icy disdain. “You bear witness to King Darius’ justice! You aided and abetted this vile traitor, this dervish of the seas…”

Aiya glances up at the Persian Commander, her eyes burning with hatred. A village elder, Caertas, wiry and proud, with pale grey eyes, steps forward. He glances quickly at the young mother and child and clears his throat. “This fiend is no friend of ours!”

“You know his name, old man!” Annassarias roared.

Aiya rises and starts forward. Two sailors step forward and menacingly level their spears. Annassarias waves them back, beckoning the young mother to him. Aiya pads the thin sands without fear, leading little Daera by the hand. “If we knew, would it have spared us this terror?” the woman hissed.

Annassarias ignores her. “I shall return at the new moon” he gestures airily to the pile of corpses. “You have been warned, traitors” he said chillingly.

Aiya steps closer to the ogre. She lashes out, stinging the man across the cheek. She steps back and spits in his face “Monster! Murderer!” she hisses. The two sailors grip her tightly, flinging little Daera to the sand.

Annassarias raises a hand. The two sailors release the woman, who glowers at her husband’s murderer with naked contempt. Tall, slim, and imperious, with a thin scar on his left cheek, the refined Annassarias conjures a silk handkerchief from his tunic and cleans the spittle from his face. He turns to Istryax. “Get the men aboard their canoes” he rapped.

Istryax nods. He turns to the sailors. “You heard the Captain! Move your arses!”

The sailors dutifully trudge across the thin sand to the waiting canoes at the shore. Annassarias slips his handkerchief to his pocket. His fingers curl around the handle of the heavy Falcata, which hangs at his left hip. He steps forward and draws the blade, swinging it deftly in a vicious arc. Aiya is decapitated in a sickening vent of blood which showers the terrified little girl. Daera drops instantly to her knees and screams hysterically. Annassarias cleans his bloodied blade on the dead woman’s chiton and slips it back to his scabbard.

Annassarias turns away and pads to the waiting canoes.

***

Petra Bay (Patmos) March 493 B.C.

It is four hours after dawn. The sky is blue, with only the faintest whisper of a south-westerly breeze. The rugged uplands and fertile valleys of southern Patmos are a welcoming sight to any seasoned seafarer, for the natives are hospitable and generous. In contrast with many of their fellow islands which comprise the Dodecanese archipelago, Patmos is surprisingly green, its soils suited to arable and pastoral pursuits. Farmsteads dot the southern coastline, wherever the land is flat and fertile. A small and prosperous village stands at the north of Petra Bay.

Petra Bay takes the form of a wide crescent, with an enviable beach of golden sand to the far north. The hinterlands are rugged and majestic, comprising a series of domes, peaks, and valleys, dominated by Mount Illias. The shoreline of the bay can be conveniently delineated into north and south by a central spur of upland which encroaches on to its margins. At the far south of the bay, we see the Rock of Kalikatsou, an impressive landmark well-known to local and foreign sailors.

The island of Tragonisi, with its two distinct emerald peaks, lies to the south-east., less than a half mile out to sea. The crystal blue waters teem with small fishing boats sallying east for their daily catch. A large freighter (Calypso), measuring sixty-five feet by twenty-five feet, is anchored off the northern coast of Tragonisi, proudly flying the sigil of Heraklion. The native fishermen pay it little heed, for Cretans are a friendly race, closely allied to Sparta and the Peloponnesian League. They are no friends to Achaemenid Persia and their despotic tyrant, King Darius, contemptuously known as ’Kapelos;’ a market trader.

A small canoe paddles west toward the shoreline. A single passenger stands on the prow, surveying the bay and its hinterlands. Their face is obscured by the closely drawn hood of a light woollen cloak, dyed a vivid shade of blue. The visitor has come from afar; and their visit is an ominous portent to the most notorious of these islanders.

***

On the eastern fringe of a range of uplands which overlook the southern coastline of Petra Bay, stands a small farmstead with a large garden and several outbuildings, enclosed by a small stone wall. Two men stand at the far end of the garden, just inside the gate, gazing out to the bay. The taller of the two is devilishly handsome, with chiselled features and an unruly mane of blonde hair. His piercing blue eyes focus on the canoe and its passenger as they near the beach. The passenger leaps down from the boat and fishes something out their pocket, presumably a coin, which is handed to the nearest rower. The passenger gazes quickly about, then pads south, heading toward the Rock of Kalikatsou.

The blonde man is Koriolas, self-styled ’Lord of the Aegis,’ a notorious brigand and scourge of the Persians. He turns to his companion and smiles tightly. The short, gruff, and bearded Malchides is a trusted brother who bears a litany of scars on both his arms and face. He spits on the grass and eyes Koriolas searchingly. “Are we expecting visitors?”

“Whoever they are, they have not come with my blessing” Koriolas mused gloomily. He strokes his chin pensively. “Find out who sent them here, and why.”

Malchides nods and strolls to the gate, slipping out, and closing it firmly behind him. As Malchides paces south along the dusty track that leads down to the bay, Koriolas returns his gaze to the mysterious visitor, who strolls across the sand toward the distant rock.