Xanthippos felt the firm, muscular shoulder of the man on his right against his own. Timocrates' sweat-slick flesh held reassurance. Their shields were large and round, but their position, strapped to the left arm, meant they could only cover half of the body. Timocrates' shield overlapped the exposed right half of his body in this position, just as his would cover Cleon to his left. In other armies, the whole line would gradually slide to the right as each man sought to cower behind his mate's shield, but these men bore the Lambda on their shields, they were Lacedaemonians, Spartans. They held their place.
For two days they had fought, denying the Persian horde entrance into the bosom of Greece. Their blood and the flesh of friends clogged the narrow pass of Thermopylae. But now it was over, their king dead, their position encircled there was no hope now. Nothing left to do but sell their lives dearly and join their king at the breakfast in Hades he promised them. For Xanthippos this was the worst part of combat. The "Hymn to Castor" had been sung, in a moment they would charge the Persians with no regard for defense, seeking only to take as many lives as possible. In this moment time stretched, thoughts raced. He knew fear: Spartans were not barbarians to charge drunkenly, fearlessly. Fear of the enemy could be mastered. His true fear was of failure. What if he should fall before his friends? His shield would not defend them.
He felt the men next to him tense and move before he realized that he had as well. Hours of drill allowed them to anticipate the pipe's call to charge. He wanted to turn to them...to these men whom he had known all his life...these brothers...to say goodbye. But he knew no words were needed, they knew his heart as well as he did. He shifted his heavy shield, flexed his thighs like a sprinter as he moved to charge. White-hot agony rippled from the poorly bound wound in his thigh as the still-embedded Persian arrowhead bit into his flexing muscle. He bled anew, but he caught his lips between his teeth...they would charge in silence, but for the pipes...
Xanthippos awoke in a grove of olive and vine. Fruit hung heavy on each, luscious and ripe. The air was cool from the freshness of the sputtering spring beside him. He looked into its waters; the gently rippling surface reflected a face he hardly recognized. His fingers slid across his cheek, feeling for the long scar from temple to chin. That scar had marred his face from his youth, a badge of honor, a wound received in combat. Now it was gone. Suddenly he realized that the pain was gone, he looked to his thigh. The skin was clean and unmarred. His rough hands ran over his chest, over the soft, fresh linen tunic. The tunic was scarlet like his own, but no Spartan would wear a woman's tunic: only a woman would wear soft linen instead of coarse homespun wool. His body too was slick, anointed with oil...perfumed like a Corinthian whore. Had the Persians captured him? He had heard of some of their more perverse ways. He almost laughed at the thought of a soft, white Persian noble "taking advantage" of him.
He was startled as the water in the middle of the pool bubbled and churned. Instantly he assumed the fighting stance he had learned as a boxer. Slowly he watched as raven tresses broke the surface of the pool. Then the dark blue doe eyes, blinking away droplets. The eyes...they were the color of the pool's tepid water. He somehow sensed that a man could drown in either; he suspected that the eyes were far deeper. His attention was so wholly focused that he didn't realize that she had risen completely from the water until she stepped forward, toes rippling the surface.
"Bye the Twins..." Xanthippos stood slack-jawed.
A broad smile blossomed across her face, which he noticed for the first time was beautiful beyond compare. He realized suddenly that he couldn't really see her, not all of her, each of her features demanded so much of his attention. It was as if his human eyes could not take all of her in at once.
"I am for you, Xanthippos." His eyes focused solely on her slick red lips, teeth like perfectly matched pearls.
His head swam as her lips rushed to meet his. At their touch he found himself taking her lips eagerly, like a babe to mother's breast. Drinking passion from them like none he had ever known.
She stood back. His eyes took her whole form in now. Something had changed with that kiss. She appeared human, but the most perfect woman he had ever seen. His gaze sliding up her alabaster thighs, the swelling of her hips, her tight, slim waist. His eyes lingered at her breasts; they were magnificent. Her nipples were taut and pink. Her clavicle perched above in the flowing curves of a Skythian bow.
