Eiranaios rose from his seat after a hearty lunch of fish stew. The cook had not been stingy with the spices this time, and the broth still lingered on his tongue. His belly was warm, and his arms carried enough strength to put the meal to use. The afternoon sun slanted low across the mercenary grounds, painting the training field in long, golden streaks. Dust rose up in waves as Ajax excercised the horses, their legs blurred in full sprint as they thundered past, racing in great fervor under the influence of a full belly, their coat of dyr gleamed as if rubbed in rasp seed oil. Other mercenaries having the same thought as Eiranaios had also been on the field swinging and hacking with great fervor.He walked to the yard where a wooden dummy stood beneath the sun and took up his training sword, its edge long dulled from daily practice.
He swung, steady and sharp, the blade hissing through the air. Each strike landed with a heavy thunk against the wooden frame. He was sweating before long, his shirt clinging to his back, but his mind felt calm with the rhythm. Strike, recover, step—again and again.
From behind him, Demetrius appeared, his sandals crunching the dirt. The lad was bright-eyed and eager, hardly more than fifteen summers, but sharp with his errands.
"Master Eiranaios!" Demetrius called, cupping his hands. "Your uncle has returned. He asks that everyone gather at once."
Eiranaios drove his blade into the dummy one last time and let it hang there for a breath. He pulled it free, marched to the rack, and rested it among the other tools beneath the shed.
"Understood," he said simply.
Together, he and Demetrius made their way across the yard toward the wide clearing where the men usually gathered. Already, the company was assembling, men clattering in from the barracks and the stables. Some carried spears, others swords, but most had only the look of curiosity painted across their faces.
Stellos, his uncle's right-hand man, had already barked enough orders to herd the lot into a loose circle. Damos, one of the older fighters with a bald crown and more scars than he could count, waved at Eiranaios from the side.
"Over here, lad! Hurry along," Damos shouted with a crooked grin. "You move with the speed of my dear old granny—though she's been dead ten years."
The men burst into jeers and chuckles at the old soldier's words.
Eiranaios smirked faintly, rolling his eyes but giving no reply. He took his place near the front, his arms folding across his chest.
A moment later, Thersandros appeared. The man carried himself as if the whole world owed him an audience, tall with broad shoulders, his beard streaked with gray. He clapped his hands for quiet, and the chatter died down. Nearly two hundred men now stood gathered, the company whole.
"I have returned from the inner city," Thersandros began, his voice carrying without effort. "There I was granted an audience with Centurion Ceaphas. He has given me a task, and it is one I have chosen to accept."
The men leaned in, curious.
Thersandros paused, letting the silence settle before continuing. "Ceaphas seeks to employ us, not here in Attica, not in Thebes or Corinth, but across the seas. He has commissioned us as part of the Athenian army. Two hundred strong, sworn under the king's banner."
At once, murmurs broke out. Men glanced to one another, some frowning, others smirking in disbelief.
It was then that a burly figure pushed forward from the crowd. He was missing a front tooth, knocked out years ago in a tavern brawl, and bore the name Bion. His arms were thick as tree trunks, his tunic stretched across his chest.
"Across the Aegean?" Bion said loudly, scratching at his stubbled jaw. "We've never marched so far. Our range barely stretches past Eleusis, and that's but a stone's throw from here. Across the sea is another matter entirely."
Several men nodded at his words, voices rising with agreement.
Thersandros lifted a hand to still them. "That was my thought as well. I nearly refused the commission outright. But when Ceaphas named the pay—five thousand gold drachmas—I thought twice."
The number struck like a hammer. The murmurs returned, louder than before, men jostling one another with wide eyes. Five thousand was no mere wage—it was fortune.
Thersandros allowed a sly grin. "Five thousand, enough to last us years if we're wise. And more besides, for the spoils of war shall be ours. Whatever we strip from the field, whatever we seize from the enemy—it is ours to keep."
That brought a roar of approval. Spears rattled against shields, voices boomed, and even the most cautious among them could not help but cheer at the promise of loot.
Eiranaios stood among them, but he did not cheer. Something in his gut felt strange. The pay was too large, the promise too rich. He stepped forward and raised his voice above the noise.
"Uncle," he said, calm but firm. "What kind of work commands such gold?"
The crowd hushed again. Thersandros looked at him, his gaze steady.
"Not the front line, boy," Thersandros answered. "The Athenians have their own hoplites for that. No—they want us for the work behind the line. Cleaning the battlefield, patrolling the camps, guarding the rear. We are to bolster their numbers, to make the army appear larger than it is. We shall be the hand that steadies the spear."
Eiranaios frowned. "And where is this army bound?"
Thersandros's tone grew heavier. "To the walls of Troy."
The name hung in the air, unfamiliar yet weighty. The men shifted uneasily, whispering among themselves.
To Eiranaios, the word rang faint bells in the back of his mind. He could not place it, not clearly. In his other life—his life as Lou Chen, the overworked programmer in modern China—he had heard it once, perhaps in a story or a history lesson. But the memory was distant, clouded.
Still, he kept the thought and committed the name to memory.
Thersandros spread his arms. "I wondered at it as well, so I sought more. I went to the temple of Hermes, to that rat Diomedes—who speaks much when his purse is filled. He told me a foreign ship had come from beyond the Aegean, carrying the word of Agamemnon, overlord of Greece. Agamemnon calls upon the city-states to gather their arms, to lay siege to Troy, with Sparta at the vanguard."
The men muttered again, this time with less cheer. The promise of plunder remained, but the thought of foreign shores and long campaigns gave pause.
Bion spat to the side. "So we march not for Athens, but for Agamemnon. A high king we've never seen."
Damos let out a chuckle, patting his round belly. "Gold spends the same, no matter whose banner it comes under."
Another man barked, "Aye, but can it buy us a boat that doesn't sink?"
The company broke into laughter, rough and loud.
Thersandros raised his hand once more. "Enough. We have three days to prepare. Supplies must be packed, arms sharpened, and every man ready to march when called. Those unwilling may leave now, but they leave with nothing."
Not a soul moved.
The promise of coin and spoils was too much to cast aside.
Eiranaios stayed silent, his arms crossed, eyes low.