Sebastian made his way to the overlook halfway up the shoulder of the worn mountain on hands and knees. By the time he got there Polos had been watching events unfold with a keen roving eye.

Down to the left, a few bow-shots off, in a grassy plain perhaps two acres wide, bisected by the footpath they had been following since Athens, the Corinthians marched forward shield-to-shield. Troan and the Cretans were behind them, sending their arrows into the ranked enemy ahead.

The enemy formation was eight wide and four deep, and well ordered. Where the Corinthians were armored, like Doryklus, in bronze with a heavy bowl shaped shield, these men were armed after the ‘Iphicratic’ fashion with half-sized shields, longer spears and longer swords, some leaf shaped and some hooked forward, unlike the Corinthian swords which were no more than heavy daggers. The Corinthians were doomed, just Xiphokles’ bait.

The tall older brother rode out wide to the left with the savage Piraens, hurling their darts into the unshielded flanks of the enemy formation. Likewise his younger brother rode out to the right with the despicable Bilge Rats in his wake, bearing clubs and hurling rocks at the protected left flank of the enemy, circling to get in behind them.

Sebastian commented meekly to Polos, “It seems as if we are doomed to share the beds of these terrible men my young friend. This is a good plan. It seems the superior troops will be outmaneuvered and cut down to provide our captors with better equipment.”

For answer Polos made a squeak in his throat and pointed to the grove of oaks just below them. There, if one squinted, could be seen lurking skin-covered barbarians that seemed to be more filthy than the Bilge Rats, more evil than the Piraens, and more fit than the Corinthians. These barbarians wore hooded coif-like headpieces fashioned each from a whole wolf-pelt and their faces were painted a rusty red. He looked back up at Polos as the Bilge Rats and Piraens flanked the enemy formation, which had suffered some casualties due to the accurate fire of the Cretans.

“Yes, a good plan, except that Xiphokles has placed his best men in danger, and relies on his worst to close the trap. But still, the enemy does not even have a leader.”

In answer Polos nodded to the other side of the clearing. Sebastian followed his eyes and saw his answer: three large armored hoplites with Red Cloaks, and on their glimmering bronze shields the red L for the silent land of Lakonia, from where the Spartans hailed. These men were now roaring and charging into the flank of Xiphokles unprotected flankers.

At this sign the central formation of pike-men broke into three separate units to deal with each threat, and charged at a run into the enemy, skewering nearly half immediately. Men were screaming in agony, howling with rage, cheering with elation and wailing in terror all as one down in the reddening grass below. Then Xiphokles went down with a lance through his thigh.

He turned to agree with Polos on his assessment of the situation, and saw that the boy was already halfway down the hill to their rear twirling a stone in his sling.

Oh I must follow.

He was then shaken by a hideous outcry behind him and turned to see the hairy hide-covered fiends leaping from among the oaks and brush and hurling long deadly javelins with throwing sticks. The deadly missiles transfixed arms and legs, and heads, and the Bilge Rats and their cruel leader were no more. Just like that the battle had turned into a hunt. Only the Cretans managed a semblance of discipline as they slowly backed away firing at the men that bore down on them and killed them as they calmly plied their deadly trade. The Corinthians for their part were dying heroically, outmanned, outnumbered and outgeneraled. The remaining Piraens fled toward the Gulf of Corinth with the savage wolf-men that had sprang from beneath the oaks howling on their heels.

Oh my, I am alone and in their path. You stupid monk!

I am a monk no longer, and I never could run very well!

Sebastian began stumbling down the hillside as the sound of the sickening carnage behind him reached a crescendo and then died away to a hooting of sorts. He struggled onward not wanting to look behind him for fear of his life. Then came the thud of footfalls, headlong and pounding, the stride of an unstoppable Achilles closing in on him! And still he feared to look behind him and continued struggling onward on wobbling legs.

Hail Mary full of grace!

Then it came, the feeling of the wind caused by the racing body of his pursuer; a hard body that would thrust a hard object through his faint heart—and it blew by him as if he were standing still. It had been one of the Cretans having fled the battle—but the swift heavy footfalls of pursuit still come!

He turned in horror to see a Spartan in full armor, nothing visible of the face other than blazing eyes and braided beard, crimson cloak billowing in the wind, huge shield gleaming and crooked sword dripping red as he bore down on poor wobbling Sebastian, the only Franciscan Brother unlucky enough to be cut down by a bloodthirsty Spartan warrior!

He threw up his hands in despair and tasted blood—his own—as he was struck as if by a thunderbolt by that merciless shield.

He felt the breath driven from him even as his eyes were deprived of the light of day. Hitting the ground did not hurt. He tumbled numbly and blindly end over end. He came to rest still blind, deaf, and insensate of anything other than the pressure in his back. There was a beating of drums in his ears—no that is my heart. I yet reason and therefore live.

He then felt the rushing of waters coursing through his head and was brought to life by a loud cracking sound—no it was a pop.

His eyes opened as if of their own accord and he was looking up at the terrible blood-soaked visages of two Spartan warriors with their demonic helmets tilted back upon their heads. They spoke in an odd dialect—Dorian, I think—but he could make it out. “By Kastor what is he?”

“Some philosopher.”

“He runs like a plucked goose—he stirs.”

“I told you it was the ribcage being out of place. How do you like that trick.”

The one with his hand on Sebastian’s chest then looked down into his eyes. “Apologies school teacher, never get in between Kratoklus here and his quarry.”

“I’m Kresion. You weren’t with those fools we just butchered, were you?”

It hurt to speak but he did. “I am Sebastian, travelling to Delphi with my teacher. We were captured by those you slew.”

The man then heaved Sebastian to his feet, dusted him off, and pushed him along before him. “Okay Sa-ba-sti-on walk on now and we will hopefully find that your teacher yet lives. Imagine that Kratoklus; two smart men on the road in one day—and with a war brewing!”

Kratoklus spoke up with a bit less wit. “Why would anyone imagine a thing?”

“Because you big cow-fucking bull, it might learn you a thing or two about butchering foes.”

“That makes no sense.”

Kresion barked a sharp laugh. “Having a daydreamer and word-weaver like this around will give Menander someone to speak to, rather than wasting his breath on conversing with our dumbasses, when we’d rather wrestle.”

“Now that makes sense. Let’s find the other smart one.”

I can surely outwit these two.