Dawn was coming. The sounds of the camp slowly entered Prokles' consciousness, reaching into his wine-addled brain, and dragged him back to wakefulness. His head ached, his stomach lurching.
The night was a blur. He'd stumbled, campfire to campfire, drinking everything he could lay hands on, wishing to drive all the thoughts from his head, until he'd succeeded, blacking out.
He wondered where he was, and cracked open an eye. He was in a tent, he saw, on a pallet. That was something, though neither were his own.
His stomach heaved, so he lay still again.
Memories came, washing into his consciousness like corpses on the shore.
Lysandros. He'd watched along with a hundred others as his commanding officer had shamelessly fucked a Spartan captive right there in front of them, making an example of him...
He'd felt like it was he who was being tortured.
He wished he had been on the floor, bound, a rough hand grabbing at his hair to gain greater purchase; he wanted to be ridden by the giant polemarkhos, wanted to be possessed by him.
How many nights had he released his sorry lust into his own hand, biting his lip until it bled to prevent himself from crying his commanding officer's name aloud?
The drunken memories kept coming...
He'd watched the men visiting Lysandros' tent that night, where the Spartan was held captive, where he'd been turned over to the men for their use...
Prokles was drawn to the scene of the crime like a blowfly to something rotten; watching through a gap in the leather as the Spartan had been used by everyone... he had been ashamed, enthralled and disgusted in equal measure, his loins afire, his mind a whirling mess of jealousy and hatred.
In that pre-dawn morning, three soldiers were gathered at the entrance to the tent, huddled near the dying embers of a fire. They were talking in low voices.
One chuckled in a ribald way, drawing Prokles' attention.
'Our Polemarkhos was very pleased with himself last night.'
'Drunk as an eastern King,' another agreed. 'Did you hear him joke, "The Spartan has finer hair than my wife, and a tighter arse.'"
They all laughed, but Prokles rolled to his knees and vomited, retching the pitiful contents of his stomach onto the floor of the tent, before staggering to his feet. He ran into the nearest of the three men as he emerged outside. The soldier laughed and shoved him away with good humour.
'Go wash. You stink, blondie.'
In an unfocused rage, he groped at his waist, clumsily unsheathing his knife, waving it at him - the soldier shook his head, and said dismissively, 'Piss off!'
I should kill him, he thought wildly - but then he had another idea. A better idea.
He turned, and unsteadily wove his way towards Lysandros' tent, and the Spartan.
Prokles stormed into the space that smelt strongly of his commanding officer - his musk - but overlaid with new, filthy smells - sex and sweat...
What happened next was a blur:
He grabbed the muscular Spartan from behind;
