Fallen Eagle

1st Week of April, 1460

“Ai, ai, ai, Master is quite upset with you.”

Markos’s voice floated in from the stone parapet where he lounged in a careless sprawl. Most of his weight rested on its inner ledge, but one leg dangled into empty air, as if a stray shift of balance wouldn't just send him tumbling the five meters down to the courtyard stones.

“Is he now?” Zeno murmured. He did not look up from the latest report he was finishing, neat lines of ink outlining the new guard rotations upon the walls and gates of Mangup.

Markos tapped the letter in his hand with theatrical delicacy. “Inquire of my nephew why news of the Crown’s army’s movements was not made known beforehand,” he recited in an exaggerated, cultured tone that mimicked Philemon’s speech almost perfectly. “As military aide he should possess more than enough knowledge of the situation to discern their next moves and provide timely updates on the matter.”

Zeno’s quill paused only long enough for his eyebrow to rise. “Did you not inform him that I have been excluded from the military strategy meetings?”

“I did,” Markos confirmed easily. “I always give him… thorough reports on your disposition and current activities.” His voice curled around the word like a cat around a ball of yarn, eyes glinting with mischief.

Zeno knew precisely which activities he was alluding to.

“I trust not all activities,” he replied dryly, the quill already moving again. “A full account would incriminate you as well.”

“And what if I am?” Markos rose in one fluid motion from his precarious perch, swinging himself fully back into the roof’s terrace. His voice dipped into a low, sensual challenge.

“Then you are a fool,” Zeno said, finishing the last alteration on the rota with a precise stroke, “and will likely soon be replaced by someone more professional.”

“Oh, you are no fun at all.”

Markos pouted as he stepped behind him, snaking his arms around Zeno’s shoulders and leaning his full weight against his back. The rustle of fabric and the warmth of the body beneath it pressed insistently against Zeno’s spine.

“Once, you would at least react to my touch, dear Zeno,” Markos murmured into his ear. “Do you not love me anymore?” He affected a wounded tone, though the amusement beneath it was clear.

“Unlike you, who has nothing better to do all day-”

“I am supervising you,” Markos interjected, lending the word a mock importance that made it abundantly clear he knew how flimsy it was and didn’t care.

“-I have several tasks to attend to,” Zeno continued, unbothered, “both to maintain my cover and to further our master’s goals.”

He held out the sheets he had been working on and flicked them toward Markos, who caught them easily and began to read with obvious reluctance.

“Ugh. Guard rotations. What a dreary tedium.” Markos wrinkled his nose as though the ink itself smelled foul.

Zeno watched his petulant display from the corner of his eye. He had long since grown immune to the slave’s theatrics. “They are necessary,” he said, turning back to the narrow window slit to cast a habitual glance over the inner ward below. “Without them we cannot have-”

“A favourable guard rotation we can rely upon to open the gates. Yes, yes, I know.” Markos waved a hand airily, reciting the words like a lesson oft repeated.

Zeno’s gaze swept the surroundings for any sign of stray ears. His old prickle of paranoia had eased since much of the garrison’s high command had left the capital to fight the war. Even so, he found it difficult to fully shake the habit of watching for shadows that listened.

For all his faults and ostentatious nonchalance, Markos shared that caution in his own way. The slave might flirt with danger on a balcony ledge, but he did not spill top-level secrets when there were people about.

He only spoke now because they were alone atop one of the older stone towers of Mangup’s inner keep, the violent wind drowning out the sound of their words and jests.

“I notice,” Markos said lightly, “that every man on this list is one of the compromised guards under our master’s employ.”

He spoke as if arranging such a thing were simple. As if getting the gate sergeant, the key holder, and the gate sentinel to be all on Philemon’s payroll were not a delicate manoeuvre that had taken a week of groundwork.

“It took quite some doing to be left in charge of the guard rotations for the outer fortress,” Zeno replied, keeping his tone level. “Especially when the Doux can spot ulterior motives coming from an ocean away. Something you seem to be undervaluing.”

“What? Do you want me to pat you on the back and say ‘good work’?” Markos laughed in a high, grating tone.

“I want you to mention it in your next report to Philemon,” Zeno said, rolling up the last of his parchments. “Instead of erotic tales or whatever other nonsense you usually pour onto the page. Perhaps then he will not make impossible demands such as expecting me to divine the Crown’s next manoeuvres from thin air.”

He rose from his perch on the opposite balcony and headed for the stairwell that coiled down the tower’s side.

“One does wonder,” Markos mused behind him, “why you were excluded from the planning in the first place.”

Zeno halted with one hand on the stone archway. He turned back, eyes flinty. “Other aides from the rebellious houses were also excluded. A simple measure to prevent leaks. The Doux assured me it was nothing personal.”

“But you,” Markos said softly, “were disowned and exiled from your own house.”

“And yet I have clearly not earned the Doux’s trust as much as I thought,” Zeno answered, heat creeping into his words. “Perhaps he already suspects me of treachery, because you and that fat tub of lard treat his castle like your own playground and are so casual with mentioning our plans.”

“Careful, Zeno.” Markos’s languid smile finally slipped, replaced by a faint frown.

“I will say the same.” Zeno closed the distance between them in a few measured steps, stopping close enough that Markos could not mistake the steel in his gaze. “I am risking life and limb to see this plan through. I have the most to lose in this whole affair.” His jaw tightened. “My sister’s life.”

Markos’s eyes flickered, then his pleased, feline smile slid back into place. “Then you will be happy to know that our lord chose to divulge another interesting piece of information in his letter.” He tilted his head. “A new agent to assist us in our plotting.”

Zeno’s fingers curled at his sides. “You mean?”

“Hello, brother.”

The voice floated up from the stairwell below. Arsinoe climbed the steps with measured, quiet strides. She wore the same white toga as the last time he had seen her, but now an expensive silver necklace clasped her throat, catching the pale sunlight.

“It has been some time,” she said.

Zeno turned on his heel, surprise jolting through him like a blow.

Markos slipped aside as he made for the stairs. “I will leave you two alone to catch up,” he said in his sing-song voice, bowing with a small flourish. “Do try not to attract any undue attention.” And then he was gone.

“Why are you here?” Zeno demanded at once. Even as the words left his mouth, he knew his tone was harsher than it should have been. Their last reunion had pained him, thought he'd never admit it aloud.

“Because Master does not trust you,” Arsinoe answered. Her pale face remained still and doll-like. She was a hollow caricature of the sister he had once known.

“Even with your life hanging in the balance?” Zeno could not keep the scoff from his voice. “He is blackmailing me with you. If I fail him, your life is forfeit. Did you know that?” Some small part of him still hoped she might come to her senses.

“Yes,” Arsinoe said. A bitter smile tugged at her mouth. “I am aware. I am also aware of who took care of me all these years, and who abandoned me.” Her tone was calm, emotionless.

“The things I have heard of what he does to you…” Zeno shook his head, pity in his gaze. “How can you believe he is taking care of you, sister?”

“Don’t you dare look at me like that.” Arsinoe’s voice cracked like a whip. Fury twisted that porcelain mask into something murderous. For a heartbeat Zeno thought she might actually draw a blade and try kill him, so venomous was the look. “I did what I had to in order to survive,” she spat.

“And I will do what I must as well,” Zeno replied quietly.

“We shall see, brother.” Arsinoe’s eyes glittered with a cruel gleam. “I will be keeping a very close eye on you, to ensure you remember what is at stake.”

She lifted her hands to the silver necklace and unclasped it. The chain slid away, and the skin beneath it was bared, the sight taking the breath from Zeno’s lungs as nausea rolled through him.

A rough red scar gouged across her throat, ugly and raw.

“And to remind you,” she murmured, “that it is not only my neck on the line.” Her gaze pinned him in place. “But yours as well.”

She turned and left without another word, her footsteps fading down the stairwell.

For a long moment, Zeno simply stood there, staring out through the open archway at the clouded sky above Mangup. A heavy sadness settled in his chest. All that he had sacrificed – the dreams and ambitions of reuniting with his sister and taking revenge for his parents - seemed so far away now.

The moment passed. He drew in a slow breath and let it out, forcing his shoulders to square, his expression to harden. In the quiet of his heart, he renewed the vow he had made the day he bent knee to Philemon.

He would make it out of this.

And he would make it out on top.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Check your straps, and place the heavy loads on your mules!” Leonidas bellowed to the fifty-man squad assigned to him. The levy men fumbled with their burdens, wrestling tent cloth and sacks of grain into place, trying to lash bundles across their backs or cram them into the rough knapsacks the Crown had issued.

“Tent poles, cooking pots, grain, and clothes on the animals!” Leonidas repeated, striding up and down the line. All across camp, similar scenes played out as other captains tried to hammer order into the shuffling mass.

The last four days of marching had seen the Crown army loop and turn several times over. A deliberate wandering meant to sow confusion and keep the rebel hosts guessing whether they meant to go north or east of the Principality.

Their pace had been even more bogged down by the lack of marching discipline in their levies. Men struggled to keep even spacing among the companies, stopped and rested when they pleased, and talked and chatted amongst themselves to stave off boredom. All behaviours that eroded the discipline and consistency of a marching army, and all behaviours that had been repeatedly punished and corrected by the hawk-eyed sergeants and Captains of the Principality.

They were using this slow, probing march to instill a semblance of order in their ragtag army, leveraging their experienced officer corps to enforce discipline.

Theodorus made his way toward his own company of fifty. The administrative headaches that came with his higher post – drafting daily reports for the Doux, meeting with other captains to discuss objectives, questions over pay and rations – had forced him to push much of the day-to-day work onto his second-in-command, a newly promoted sergeant as it so happened.

“Stathis,” Theodorus called, stepping into the eye of the storm that was an army rousing itself for the march. Mules brayed, pots clattered, and dozens of mutters went around. “Any problems?”

“Commander.” Stathis brought fist to chest in salute, his mail shirt glinting in the early light, dark eyes steady despite the dust around them. “No injuries to report, nor any new sick. No desertions tonight.”

“Just what I like to hear,” Theodorus said with a short nod. “Across the army the numbers seem equally acceptable.” Every morning, each company held a quick tally of heads and ailments before setting off, a simple way to feel the pulse of the host and catch trouble before it spread.

The relatively fair conditions and treatment of the army seemed to be paying dividends. Desertion was a chronic issue in medieval armies, even though the march was in its early stages, and a battle with the rebels hadn’t threatened to break out, it was an endorsement of their methods that they hadn't had too many deserters.

“Though they still manage to confuse themselves over how to properly wrap their footwear,” came a dry voice at his side. “No matter how many times I lecture them.” Captain Athanasios, the other officer under his direct command besides Leonidas and Stathis, had appeared with his helmet tucked beneath one arm, expression caught between irritation and amusement.

“Most of them were planting their fields a fortnight ago,” Theodorus replied, attempting to soften his mood. “We cannot expect them to become soldiers overnight.”

“I know, I know, commander.” Athanasios waved the concern away with a weary hand. “Still, you’d think it wouldn’t be hard for a man to learn which end of the cloth goes under his heel.”

Across the line, Theodorus watched as men tightened belts and adjusted straps, fastening their belongings – helmets, drinking skins, small bags of food – under the sergeants’ watchful eyes. Each fifty-man company had been divided into five dekarchoi, ten-man squads, and each had one mule assigned. The heavier equipment - grain, coils of rope, canvas, and iron pots - was already being heaved onto the beasts.

As the last of the tents were struck and folded away, Theodorus climbed slowly onto the saddle of his horse, Boudicca, the mare he’d taken from the Sideris estate all those months ago. His calf had already healed enough to allow for walking and light exercise like riding through portions of the day. His elbow, however, remained pinned in place, although pain had eased somewhat.

One by one, the captains signaled their readiness. When the final acknowledgment came, the order rippled back through the ranks. The first trumpet sounded, then a second, clear over the murmur of the men and the jangle of harnesses.

The army lurched into motion like a single great creature, companies folding into marching columns by habit as much as command as they set off toward the southwestern hills.

As the march began to get underway, Theodorus could almost feel the relief coursing through the militia levies as they realized they were finally heading away from the frontier and the rumoured rebel musters. But with it also came confusion. They were backtracking, retracing roads they had already trudged over these last few days.

The second thing they noticed came even faster than the first - the pace.

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

The beats of the goat-hide drums were sharper now, their rhythm a notch quicker than it had been. The column stretched and tightened as sergeants barked for the men to close the gaps and keep in step. Curses flickered through the line as straps bit shoulders and half-secured packs shifted with each jolt.

The slow marching speed of the previous days had been no accident. First and foremost, it had been to make it seem as though the Crown’s host was committing itself toward one rebel stronghold or another, feinting at both the northern and eastern passes. With luck, it would hold the rebels in place for a few precious days, or at least make them hesitate, unsure what plan lay behind the Crown’s plodding advance.

But the slow pace had served another purpose as well. It had been time bought to hammer the host into some kind of order. They could have stayed a few more days hammering some sense of discipline in the capital, but urgency would be their greatest teacher. Men learn quicker on the eve of a battle than they do behind safe stone walls, and they had not been given the luxury of months to raise a proper army.

The Megas Doux had known of the rebellion’s imminence for weeks and begun quiet preparations as soon as he could, but there was only so much that could be done without betraying that they knew of the rebellion.

So the levies had been summoned in haste, dragged from villages and their spring planting. Some men had marched in previous campaigns, but they were usually cycled out in later musters, their service considered fulfilled. Most of those now under the Crown’s banners had not seen a battle line in years, if ever. Whatever they had once learned had gone soft with time, and given the usual level of muddle and disorder in any medieval host, they had likely not learned very much in the first place.

Now they had to rely on those same men to fight their war. They needed to be whipped into shape as quickly as possible.

Under the Doux's direction, and with Theodorus’s suggestions, a few modest reforms had been pushed through. The new transport system, with mules and carts shared between the dekarchoi, spread the heavier burdens more evenly instead of leaving each man to stagger under whatever he could carry. Sergeants had been instructed to watch for overloaded packs, for worn boots and raw shoulders, as carefully as they watched for dull spears.

In most campaigns, more men died from the road than from the enemy. Falls, broken limbs, festering sores, fevers bred in filth and exhaustion - these were the quiet killers of armies. And small changes could mean the difference between a limping, disease-ridden rabble and an army that could actually fight when it reached the field.

It wasn’t glorious work. There were no songs for better-packed mules, properly wrapped feet, or boiled water and dug latrines. But as the drums quickened and the Crown’s army picked up its true pace at last, Theodorus allowed himself a thin sliver of satisfaction. If they were to win this war, it would be as much by keeping their men on their feet as by any shining clash of steel.

“Stop!”

Captain Athanasios’s voice cracked like a whip from the head of his column. A heartbeat later the sharp call of trumpets blared near the standard-bearer, and the order rippled backward. The army ground to a halt in a series of practiced jerks and shuffles. They had gone through this drill often enough that even the newest levies knew what to do.

“Form up! Even spacings, shift your loads,” Christos called to his men. Around him he noticed faces drawn tight with strain and Gambesons dark and heavy with sweat despite the lingering chill of midday.

“Manos’s squad!” Athanasios’s roar cut across the murmur of the halted column. “Off to the side of the road. Did you think your sergeant wouldn’t notice you laughing and smirking while on the march? Fix your formation, it is horrid!”

The men in question flinched and peeled away from the main body of the column, trudging toward the rougher ground at the flank. The side positions were the worst place to march, with more loose stones and uneven ruts to twist your ankles in the less-trampled path.

One strike and you were sent to the flank, two strikes and you carried an extra load, three strikes and you earned extra camp chores, and four strikes… well, no squad had managed that many errors on a march. Not even on the first day.

It was a testament to how quickly the army was learning that this was only the third infraction since they had set out that morning.

Christos thought that might have to do with punishment rarely falling on a single man, but rather on his entire squad. If one man drifted out of line, all ten of them ended up in the rough ground.

Men began to discipline one another more harshly than any sergeant could, and they worked harder, not only to avoid their own discomfort, but to keep from dragging their fellows down with them.

“Pass me some of that miracle brew,” Agapios muttered, wiping his brow with the back of his hand, and Kratos passed him the wineskin. The stops also allowed the men to catch their breath, and they took advantage of it.

Christos watched the two of them chug at the drink they had been issued. It wasn’t plain water, more of a thin, cloudy gruel. It wasn’t a proper broth, but the captain - scratch that, the commander - had said it would help with cramping and keep them marching longer. That alone was enough for Christos to drink it, and the faint taste of meat certainly helped.

Their original militia company from Suyren had been split up and scattered among the various squads of the army. Faces they knew were now dotted up and down the long, snaking column. But somehow, lo and behold, the three of them had not been kept apart.

“Don’t chug too much of that stuff, old man,” Kratos said, breath a little short but still managing his usual bite. “We gotta ration it for another couple o’ minutes at least. Our dear compatriots look like they need it more than us.”

If Christos was beginning to feel the pace biting at his legs, then the poor peasants who’d been pressed into their dekarchos were already showing the strain. Shoulders slumped, mouths hung open, and breaths came in ragged gasps. One or two had loosened their belts without realizing it, and their packs bounced awkwardly against their backs with every step. Now they could take the time to fix it.

Agapios took a smaller sip than he clearly wanted, rolling the liquid in his mouth before swallowing. Then he handed the wineskin to a nearby levy with a dirt-smudged face and wide, anxious eyes.

“Here,” the older man grunted.

The youngster mumbled his thanks and drank deeply.

“I gotta say… where did they dig up these fools?” Kratos muttered under his breath, keeping his taunts quiet for once. “Our army ain’t looking too hot if they’re crumbling at the first bit of real effort.”

“I wouldn’t be bragging if I were you,” Christos said, not bothering to turn his head. His gaze stayed fixed on the hazy horizon, as if he might be the first to spot any sign of enemy banners. “You could barely manage the morning runs when you first arrived at Suyren.”

Kratos went a little red in the face, and not entirely from the heat. “Yeah, well, now I can, and them others can’t, so what?” he shot back, more defensive than truly angry.

“Looks to me,” Christos went on calmly, “that if you’d been tossed into an army without the levy training in Suyren, you’d be just as bad as them. Perhaps worse off.”

Kratos fell quiet at that. The words stung, but he didn’t spit back some thoughtless insult as he once might have.

“If the army had started at full tilt,” Agapios added, lowering his voice a fraction, “they’d be absolutely spent by now from the marching.”

Conversation was forbidden on the march, so they stole away these few words when they could. Breath spent on words was breath not spent on keeping pace, and even if the road so far had been smooth enough, no one knew when the Doux might order them up into steeper ground or over rougher paths.

“This feels like what the commander did when he took charge of the militia at Suyren,” Agapios continued. “He started us slow, let the men get some semblance of shape before he really pushed us.”

Christos nodded slightly. “I agree. But I don’t think these four days made much difference to their muscles. Might have been more to let them learn how to move as an army at all. Figuring out the spacing, the signals, quick obedience and reactions…God knows that we’ve focused almost solely on that since leaving Mangup.” He spoke half to them, half to himself, thoughts turning over as steadily as his feet. “Maybe that’s why he had us boys from Suyren split up and spread through the ranks. So we could pass on what we’d already learned and help the others along.”

God knew they’d had to show more than a few men how to properly wrap their feet, how to lance and tend blisters before they turned ugly.

Agapios and Kratos both stared at him as if he’d suddenly grown a second head in the middle of the column.

“What?” Christos snapped, more sharply than he meant. “You think I said something stupid?”

“No. They think you are correct, Christos.”

The new voice came from their flank. A figure on horseback had drawn up alongside them, the mare moving at an easy canter to keep pace with the plodding column.

“Captain-” Christos began, snapping a salute before his brain caught up with his tongue. “Commander,” he corrected quickly, flushing under the grime.

Theodorus dipped his head in brief acknowledgment, a hint of wry amusement in his eyes.

The captain pretended the slip had never happened.

“Besides sharing the knowledge you have, it is also about something much more important,” he said, setting his horse’s pace alongside them. He made no effort to lower his voice, letting it carry to the men trudging within earshot. “To survive war, a soldier needs to be diligent, and that is shown in the quiet moments, the work that precedes a battle. You’ve been part of a siege, you’ve trained under me. You understand better what it means to be soldiers, even if only slightly. And that demeanour shows in the seriousness with which you conduct yourselves. You can set a standard for others to emulate.”

Several of the nearby levies grew thoughtful at that, the rhythm of their steps unchanged but their expressions tightening as they chewed over the words.

“Are we really that good as role models?” Christos asked at last, doubt creeping into his tone. He had seen enough men die under orders he had helped carry out that he was no longer sure he deserved the faith being placed in him.

The captain turned his head to look at him, and somehow caught a glimpse of what lay beneath the question. He always did.

“Don’t underestimate yourself, Christos,” he said. “You’ve grown much. The fact that you were able to piece that together just now makes that clear.”

Christos’s eyes widened, the praise catching him off guard more than any rebuke would have.

“The first step to becoming worthy of leading men into battle,” the captain went on, “is understanding not only what you must do, but why.”

Christos bowed his head, unsure how to answer. The captain nudged his mount away and resumed his slow patrol up and down the length of the column.

It was something Christos would not have thought twice about before, but now understood it a little better. The commander was trying to spot trouble before it brewed, to be seen, and to make his face and presence familiar to the men he was leading.

Perhaps the captain was right. Perhaps he was starting to learn something after all.

…

They reached a small stream that cut across the road, and the signal to halt ran down the line just as most of the new levies were beginning to wheeze for breath. Men staggered gratefully toward the water’s edge, but this was not the sort of lazy rest one might have expected.

“Get your water and biscuits refilled, check your footwear, and smear some lard on any sore spots.” Stathis spoke to their group, voice firm but not unkind as he walked the line. “Let me know if you feel any discomfort more on one side than the other, your load might be uneven.”

Across the trickling stream, other sergeants and captains were bellowing similar instructions to their own companies. Men squatted to adjust straps, shift packs, and test the weight on each shoulder while their officers made small corrections so everything would run more smoothly once they moved again.

Only after that did the men drop properly to the ground, getting to the important business of softening hard tack with water and steadying their breath. The more haggard-looking levies were quietly pointed toward the injury cart that was still free of wounded four days into the campaign.

This was a way to keep the worst stragglers from slowing the column, to prevent injuries, something Christos was starting to think was the Captain’s bane of existence, given the amount of effort he put into avoiding them.

After fifteen minutes, the call went out again. Waterskins were stoppered, boots laced, and the host rose with a large, communal groan as they got set into formation. Time for another round.

…

The column spilled down into the shallow valley, men and mules and carts spreading out along the banks of the narrow stream that wound through the grass. The sun was already dipping behind the ridge to the west, turning the water into a thin strip of dull copper. Orders snapped through the air as men formed up around their company banners, before being divvied up by their captains, all while the outer perimeter was being marked, the wagons and carts being pulled in a rough formation around the campsite.

Christos rolled his shoulders, feeling the ache of the long day settle into bone and sinew, and guided his little squad toward the patch of ground Stathis had pointed out for them.

Beside him, one of the newer levies in their group stopped dead in his tracks.

“This can’t be,” the man gasped.

Christos turned to find the levy staring at the ridge line, eyes wide beneath the dust.

“What?” Christos asked, following his gaze.

The man swallowed. “This is… this is near the capital. Mangup is just over those ridges there.” He lifted a shaking hand to point. “This is near my village.”

Kratos whistled low. “Where are we, then?”

“North of Mangup,” the man said. “A couple hours’ walk, if that.” The words hung between them for a moment. Christos felt them settle in his gut like a stone.

Northwest of Mangup.

They had backtracked almost the whole distance of the last two days in a single hard march. It couldn’t have been just the quicker pace. The Doux and the staff had clearly chosen their roads with care during their trek northwards - which roads were dry and stable, which shortcuts could they afford to take. What had felt like aimless wandering now snapped sharply into focus.

Before Christos could dwell on it further, Stathis strode up, a slate in hand and duty written all over his face.

“Christos,” the sergeant called to their little knot of men. “The perimeter has finished being set. Make sure your tents are well out of the way of the main thoroughfares.”

He tapped the slate with one finger as he looked them over, then began calling out roles, before moving onto the next squad.

“Welp.” Agapios let out a sigh that was half resignation. “Guess I’m the cook today.”

The army had them rotating the roles among themselves, but the work remained the same. Each squad clustered around its own fire, tents pitched in a rough ring, with the animals picketed at one edge of the camp, near the communal latrine they had to dig. No one man was supposed to be stuck with the same misery every night.

“Yes, don’t worry,” Christos said. “Tomorrow it’ll be me.” He was technically in charge of their squad now, but that didn’t make him exempt from any of it. If anything, it meant he had fewer excuses. “You get the pots and supplies sorted. Make sure you don’t use more than our allowed measure from the sacks.”

Being a cook had turned out to be more stressful than they thought. The higher-ups had set strict times for cooking fires and similar rules for how much each squad could draw from the baggage train.

“I’ll make you a feast of gruel the saints themselves would envy,” Agapios muttered, but there was a glint of stubborn pride in his eyes as he trudged off toward the supply cart.

“Kratos, with me,” Christos said. “We’re on firewood.”

They left the bustle of the forming camp behind and picked their way toward the scraggly line of trees edging the valley. The light beneath the branches was dimmer and cooler, the sounds of shouted orders and clanking harness fading to a dull backdrop.

“They must’ve picked the paths well,” Kratos said after a while, breaking off a dead branch and testing its weight. “To make such good time in this country. Avoiding the steep climbs we usually have to take… that’s not easy work.”

“You’d know,” Christos said with a lopsided grin. “You’re such a fine shepherd.”

Kratos glared. “Better than ya. Don’t know how ya said that you were a shepherd for half yer life. Couldn’t even pet the damn animals last time ya tried back in Mangup.”

Christos’s frown deepened. “That wasn’t a sheep, that was a wolf.” His hands still bore the marks from the love bite of the damn beast.

He bent to gather fallen sticks, bundling them under one arm. “Even so, I’m impressed. That the army made it on their feet through the pace.”

“The goat trails used helped,” Kratos hefted his own bundle. “We managed to skirt the worst of the hills.”

When they had more than enough for the evening, they bound the bundles with cord and made their way back toward camp.

By the time they returned, the squad’s little corner of the valley was taking shape, the tents already up, canvas stretched taut.

“Get that wood stacked near the pit,” Christos directed Kratos, struggling to remember all the tasks they had been lectured on before setting off on the march during the week of preparation in the capital. “Then let’s wash our hands and get some water boiling.”

Cooking and drinking water in the night camps had to be boiled. It might seem like a waste of firewood, but the fires would have been started anyhow to stave off the cold, so it actually didn’t change much.

They set the bundles down by the shallow fire pit they had scraped out of the earth and ringed with stones. Kratos went to fetch water while Christos knelt to arrange the smaller twigs into a careful cone. Soon enough, smoke was curling up into the dimming sky, and the first flames licked hungrily at the dry wood.

They washed their hands in the cold stream, rubbing away the worst of the dirt with handfuls of sand and ash before setting off to get some much-needed supper.

As part of the new camp routine, the foodstores were kept on central carts, not assigned to any one squad. Each cook picked up his allocated share, carried it back to their cauldron, and turned it into something edible with whatever their small baggage of extra grain and dried bits could provide.

At their fire, Agapios was waiting with a pot already set over the flames, steam rising in thin curls. He held a wooden ladle like a sceptre, face intent as he stirred.

“You’re just in time,” he said. “Any later and I’d have eaten all of it myself.”

“Careful old man,” Kratos said, grabbing his wooden bowl and spoon from where he’d tucked them into his pack. “I might find ya telling the truth, and there’ll be consequences.”

Christos took his own bowl and stepped up to the pot. A thick gruel bubbled within, flecked with darker bits of something that might have been dried vegetables or shredded meat from their allotted ration. It smelled… surprisingly decent.

Agapios filled his bowl, then Kratos’s, then his own. The three of them moved aside to sit on a fallen log, backs to a tent wall, legs stretched out toward the warmth of the fire.

Christos blew on the spoonful, then took a cautious sip. It was a step above from the usual tasteless muck the other men on their squad had managed.

Kratos cleared his throat loudly. “This gruel is too damn good, old man. Tell me where ya stole it from. I won’t judge.”

The corners of Agapios’s mouth twitched upward. “I used to cook for my son. Hard not to improve when you have someone as demanding as he was.”

“What about your wife?” one of the nearby levies asked between mouthfuls, drawn in by the smell and the talk. “Why the hell wasn’t she the one cooking?”

Agapios’s hand stilled on his spoon. His eyes dropped to the contents of his bowl, and the lines at the corners of his mouth deepened. “Because she’s dead.”

The roar of the fire suddenly seemed much louder.

Christos saw the levy glance away, realizing what he’d done. “Giving birth to my son.” Agapios finished with the calm hollowness of someone who had told the tale too many times

“You mentioned you were serving for your son,” Christos said into the silence, if only to keep it from swallowing them whole. “You don’t think he’ll have been called up?”

“No.” Agapios shook his head, more in defiance than denial. “He’s needed in the fields, or there’ll be no one to plant the crops.” His fingers tightened around the bowl until his knuckles showed pale through the grime. “They won’t take my boy away from me.” He whispered it like a vow to the flames more than to the men beside him.

A few heartbeats later, Kratos spoke up, his own voice roughened with the same stubborn edge. “They won’t take away my pops either. Or my sisters. Or even that bastard of a brother Marios.”

Christos glanced at him, slightly surprised. Until now, the only times Kratos had spoken of his family had been to complain or curse their names.

“They won’t take away my wife,” Christos decided, the words settling in his chest as he said them. He would protect the life he’d earned, and the unlikely love he’d found along the way.

One by one, around the fire, eyes fixed on the flames, each man offered up his own reason for fighting. Each promise another stick of kindling thrown into the furnace that kept them moving forward.

When the last voice had quieted, Christos raised his bowl slightly, as if in a rough soldier’s toast. “For all the lives we’re fighting for,” he said, pitching his voice just enough to carry to their little circle. “For all that will be taken from us if we lose.”

The men met his gaze and lifted their own bowls in answer. It might have been just foolhardy words, or more kindling for the fire that this war would burn with no thought or care for the men fighting it. But to them it was enough.

Up above, the stars pricked cold and clear through the night, distant witnesses to their oaths.

And somewhere beyond the ridge, a single shooting star traced a brief line across the sky and burned itself out.

Whether it was an omen for good or for evil, they could not tell.