Demi-God

Lucian's breath came in measured heaves as he jabbed at the air, his wooden spear a blur of motion. Drakon's voice cut through the sounds of the forest with the sharpness of a blade.

"Left thrust, right thrust! Feet wide and keep your eye level!" he barked, eyes scrutinizing Lucian's form. "Shields up!"

Sweat dripped from Lucian's brow, stinging his eyes. He blinked it away, trying to focus on the imaginary foe before him. The weight of the shield in his left hand was starting to feel like a slab of iron rather than seasoned wood.

"Keep that shield higher, it's no use by your waist!" Drakon snapped, stepping forward to smack the edge of Lucian's shield upwards with the flat of his hand.

"Dammit," Lucian muttered under his breath, readjusting his grip and raising the shield. "How much longer?"

"Until you stop asking stupid questions," Drakon retorted. "Alright, take a breather. You're not going to learn anything useful if you pass out on me."

Lucian lowered his arms, allowing the shield to hang by his side as he took in deep lungfuls of the cool morning air. Drakon walked over to where his belongings were strewn across a fallen log and pulled up a bottle, popping the cork with his teeth and spitting it out. Wine sloshed into his mouth as he tilted his head back.

"Why are you drinking early in the morning?" Lucian asked.

Drakon lowered the bottle, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. A satisfied burp escaped him. "None of your damn business when I'm drinking. You should be focusing on your training, not my habits."

Standing up, Lucian couldn't help but challenge the man. "I've already trained a lot today."

"Ha!" Drakon scoffed, taking another swig. "Not enough, boy. You'll be doing running drills next."

"Again?" Lucian groaned, dropping his spear and shield with a clatter against the ground. "This is the third time this day."

"Running builds stamina," Drakon said, as if explaining to a child. "In armor, you'd tire out in less than a minute without proper conditioning. On the battlefield, it's stamina that separates the living from the dead."

"Great. Just what I needed to hear."

"Cheer up. The faster you run, the sooner you can lift another kind of bottle."

"Right," Lucian replied with a half-smile, picking up his gear.

"And why are you such a whiner now? You’re a slave. So do what I tell you."

"Excuse me. But you can’t just order me like that. You’re an ex-Spartan, remember? And I only follow the citizens of Sparta."

"You know the only reason why you’re not doing hard labor right now is because of me, right? We can end this training and you can go back tending the field. It’s really up to you."

Lucian sighed and picked up his shield. "Fine. Training it is." He cast a glance toward Drakon, adding, "You stupid old bag."

"What’s that?"

"Nothing."

"Good," Drakon grunted. "Now, back to training."

Through the thick foliage, the distinct bark of a Spartan instructor sliced through the morning air, commanding the young warriors with an authority that made even the trees stand to attention.

"Left, left, left, right, left! Keep those shields up! Knees higher!"

"Sounds like they're getting worked harder than us," Lucian mumbled, watching intently as the young Spartans moved in unison.

Drakon lumbered up behind him, a swig of wine still fresh on his lips. "You wish you were out there with them?"

"Maybe," Lucian admitted, giving a half-hearted nod.

"I don’t recommend it."

"Why not?"

The envy was there, itching beneath his skin, but so was the knowledge of what their training entailed.

"Know how a Spartan earns his first stripe?" Drakon probed, leaning on a tree opposite Lucian.

"By being the best?"

"Ha! They kill slaves. Helots like you, for sport."

"What? Is that true?"

"Yes, it is. There’s this thing called Krypteia where young warriors sneak out at night to hunt and kill helots to prove their worth. It's a sick game they play, all in the name of training."

"And they don’t get punished for this?"

"They do, only if the Spartan gets caught."

Lucian's grip tightened on the branch. "Did you...?"

He couldn't finish the question, but the look in his eyes said it all.

"Of course, I did," Drakon replied without hesitation, his face hardening as he took another gulp of wine. "It’s part of becoming a Spartan soldier."

"I’ve heard of this, but I never believed it was real."

"It's as real as the wooden weapon in your hands," Drakon said, nodding toward the sword at his side. "It's a cruel world we live in. Survival depends on the strength and savagery of the soldier."

"Does it haunt you?"

"What does?"

"Your kills?"

"Every warrior has ghosts, boy," Drakon muttered, staring off into the distance. "Mine is a crowded gallery. But does it haunt me? No. It’s etched into my soul, a part of what I've become."

"How about your first kill... do you remember who it was?" Lucian pressed.

Drakon's eyes lost focus, as if gazing back through the years to a memory he'd tried to bury. "I do," he said. "And it’s not something I’d like to remember."

"Why?"

"Because the one I killed was my best friend," Drakon confessed.

"Your... your best friend was a slave?"

"Enough chatter," Drakon snapped, pushing himself upright. "Back to training. We've got running drills."

"Drakon—" Lucian started, but the older man cut him off with a sharp glance.

"Running, now!" he barked, pointing towards the open space where they'd been training earlier.

Lucian hesitated for just a moment longer, searching Drakon's face for some sign of the story hidden behind those eyes. But the shutters had come down, and the Exiled Wolf of Sparta was once again cloaked in his armor of stoicism.

With a resigned sigh, he picked up his spear and shield and set off at a trot, leaving the subject to rest as he'd been commanded.

——

Lucian and Drakon stepped between the throngs of people in the market, the stench of livestock mingling with the aroma of fresh olives and baked bread. Lucian dodged a merchant peddling his wares and glanced sidelong at Drakon, who seemed unusually tense today.

"Remind me again why we're here?" Lucian grumbled, wary of pickpockets and eyes that lingered too long on them.

"Because I need wine, and plenty of it," Drakon replied, scanning the stalls with a hawkish gaze.

"Why can't you fetch it yourself? Afraid to get your hands dirty now?"

Before another word escaped Lucian's lips, Drakon suddenly stiffened, his eyes locking onto a figure across the square. With a hasty duck and a clank of armor dulled by years of battle, the older man vanished behind a row of stone pillars.

"By the gods," Lucian muttered under his breath as he wove his way through the market crowd to where Drakon had concealed himself. He crouched beside the grizzled warrior, whispering, "Why are you hiding like a thieving helot?"

Peeking out from their hiding spot, Drakon gestured toward a burly Spartan soldier inspecting a display of swords. "That oaf there," he said. "I may have... shared a night with his wife."

Lucian stared at Drakon for a moment, then shook his head with a snort. "Now, I see why you want me to buy you some wine; it's so you can't be seen by that Spartan man."

"Exactly," Drakon nodded once, his gruff exterior cracking into a sly grin. "Now get me some wine, and make sure it's strong enough to wash away my sins."

"Gods help me," Lucian muttered, pushing off the pillar and making his way to the nearest wine seller.

The store was a cramped space, shelves laden with clay amphorae sealed with beeswax. Lucian selected a robust red, paid the merchant with a few heavy iron Pelanors, and turned to leave—only to hear a woman's shrill voice slice through the afternoon air like a well-aimed javelin.

"Drakon, you bastard, I see you!"

Lucian's head whipped around in time to see the old man barreling through the market like a runaway chariot, scattering goods and curses in his wake. Spartan guards, drawn by the commotion, sprang into action, their crimson cloaks billowing as they gave chase.

"By the gods, I hate that old man," Lucian growled, clutching the wine amphora like a lifeline as he followed the path of destruction left by his unlikely companion.

Drakon's breath came in ragged gasps as he darted through the streets of Sparta, ducking low beneath a clothesline strung with drying tunics and skirts. He cursed under his breath each time his pursuers' shouts pierced the relative quiet of the alleyways.

"Damn it all," Drakon grumbled, risking a glance over his shoulder.

The woman, her face flushed with rage, was flanked by her burly Spartan husband, both cutting through the crowd like sharks in shallow water.

"Keep running, you coward!" the woman shrieked, shaking her fist at him. "Wait ‘till I catch you!"

"Should've been more discreet," Drakon muttered to himself, turning sharply to avoid a stack of clay pots. His eyes flicked to a lace garment fluttering delicately in the breeze, hanging just within reach. With a mischievous glint, he snatched the underwear from the line, holding it to his nose with a perverse grin before stuffing it into his belt and picking up the pace. "Ahh…the scent of a young woman’s underwear."

"Disgusting old lecher!" came another scream from behind.

"Should pick your battles better!" Lucian called out, hot on his heels but lagging just enough to avoid being lumped with the old warrior's misdeeds.

As dusk descended upon the city, the chase showed no sign of abating. Drakon had taken to hiding in shadows, moving from one secluded spot to another. He could hear the steady tromp of sandals on stone.

"Psst."

Lucian, whose own breathing had become labored from the pursuit, spun around. There, squeezed between two large jars outside a potter's house, was Drakon, his chest heaving.

"Are they still out there?" he whispered.

Peering down the street, Lucian saw the couple scanning every shadow, every possible hiding place. "Yeah, they're still hunting for you," he replied, crossing his arms.

"Good. Help me sneak out, will you?"

"What? Why would I do that?" Lucian scoffed, shifting his weight. "I'm not your accomplice in this...this farce."

"Come on, think of it as part of your training," Drakon said with a desperate chuckle.

"Training?" Lucian rolled his eyes. "There's nothing about sneaking a thieving adulterer past his victims that constitutes 'training.'"

"Please, Lucian," Drakon implored, gripping the edge of the jar. "I taught you how to hold a sword, didn't I? Time to return the favor."

"Taught me to hold a sword while drunk more like it."

"Oh come on! Don’t do this. I got you out of that labor work. You owe me."

"Fine," Lucian finally grumbled. "But if we get caught, I'm claiming I was under duress."

"Fair enough," Drakon agreed with a relieved sigh.

Lucian made a wary glance down the street before wrapping Drakon in a large white cloth he had pilfered from a nearby stall. The old warrior leaned heavily on a staff, his disguise as an aging helot complete, but the mischievous glint in his eye remained.

"Couldn't you have thought of something better than this?" he grumbled, adjusting the cloth to give himself more breathing room.

"Unless you've got a magic trick up your sleeve, this is what we've got," Lucian shot back. "And keep that staff steady; you look about as frail as a bulging wineskin."

"Charming as ever," Drakon retorted with a snort. "Let's just get this over with."

Lucian led the way, trying not to appear rushed despite the urgency thrumming through his veins. They were almost to the end of the street, the evening growing deeper, when a voice cut through the air.

"Stop! You there, with the elder!"

Lucian stiffened as the Spartan soldier they'd been evading strode towards them, his wife a few paces behind, her eyes scanning the vicinity like a hawk. With a steadying breath, he turned, putting himself between Drakon and their pursuer.

"Good evening, my lord," Lucian said. "I must get my father home; he's not well."

The Spartan ignored the pleasantries, stepping closer to scrutinize Drakon's hunched figure. "What’s your father’s sickness?"

"Uhm…the summer fever. It's taken a toll on him. Been burning up and shaking like autumn leaves in a storm."

"This man...he seems familiar."

"Age has a way of changing us all," Lucian replied, hoping the dim light would conceal Drakon's identity. "We really must be going."

But the soldier was relentless, reaching out to pull away the cloth. In an instant, Drakon sprang to life, his hand shooting out like a viper. Two fingers jabbed fiercely into the soldier's eyes.

"Ouch!" the Spartan howled, stumbling backward, hands clawing at his face. "You sniveling oaf!"

"Run!" Lucian barked, grabbing Drakon by the arm.

The two men bolted down the street, the clamor of the outraged soldier and his screaming wife fading behind them. They dodged carts and leapt over stray dogs in their path. Drakon kept pace, surprisingly nimble for a man of his age and condition.

"Dammit, old man, only you could cause this much trouble over a pair of undergarments," Lucian cursed between heavy breaths.

"What can I say, I love me some young girls. Remind me to tell you about the time in Athens with the—"

"Save it," Lucian cut him off. "We're not clear yet."

The sounds of pursuit had died down, but they didn't stop running until they were well beyond the market, hidden by the cloak of night and the uneven terrain leading away from Sparta. Only then did they slow, chests heaving, laughter bubbling up uncontrollably at the absurdity of their escape.

"By the gods, how I hate you," Lucian muttered, half-joking, half-serious as he looked at the old Wolf.

"Ah, but you love the excitement I bring to your life," Drakon replied with a roguish grin, tossing aside the staff and unwinding the cloth from his body. "Admit it, you'd be bored without me."

"Perhaps," Lucian conceded, cracking a smile despite himself. "But next time, let's avoid involving the entire Spartan guard, shall we?"

"Next time," Drakon echoed, winking. "There's always a next time."