It was less than a day’s march up to the allied works, which were primarily a series of breastworks made of pointed stakes lashed to pine logs. In most places the ground was too hard and the allies too poorly equipped with picks and shovels to make much of an impression.

It amazed him how lightly these men dressed even in freezing temperatures. It was not exactly the winter of Navarre, but it was cold and rain added to the misery one must feel gathered and waiting for spring—or for a breakthrough.

Men from all over Hellas, with shields painted with a dozen or more sigils, resided in their different camps, plying their slings and bows and stone-throwers to little effect. Some eight-thousand Macedonian foot soldiers were hemmed inside of Lamia, the city above the famous Hot Gates that blocked the inland route to the plains of Thessaly to the north and commanded the passes into central Hellas to the south.

The walls seem immune to the stones they heave, no bigger than my head. I should present a design for a trebuchet. That will find favor with…

No, no! We are sworn to make no impression, particularly where the waging of war is concerned.

He heard the creak and ‘woosh’ of a bolt thrower and saw a large dart flying for the walls. Then Augulus turned his head and pointed. “That is the Strong Lion right there, the tall young commander supervising that dig to the left on the shoulder of earth—good spot, looks like the only suitable place for an emplacement. The enemy will have the benefit of plunging fire. I’d be a Thracian wife getting beat for the wood nymph’s sins before I manned that death pit—unless Old Alex asked.”

Sebastian wondered out loud, “When should we approach him?”

“Our runner is already up there city-boy. Come, we’ve been announced.”

“You said it’s a death pit.”

“That it is. Be quick about it and stand to the left. Let this Aetolian pig stand right.”

When they reached the circular entrenchment, where wooden works were being thrown up above to prevent an assault by the footman within the walls, he got a closer look at Leosthenes. He was a young man with kind intelligent features and curly blonde hair. He had a body as tall as Menander’s and as thick as Doryklus. Just now he was pulling a beam into place beneath the stone-thrower, the ropes of which were as yet uncurled.

An aide gained the general’s attention, and as the handsome young man looked into Sebastian’s eyes he was stricken with the thought that this fine knight of the ancient world would not see the spring. At some time in mid to late winter this man, this last hope of the allied Hellenes, the only one who seemed capable of placing aside grudges and animosities to fight the common Macedonian threat, was killed by a stone cast from Lamia.

Augulus was now pushing him forward to speak with the general. Sebastian was not nervous at all as this man’s bearing was kindly and obviously possessed of supreme patience.

He walked up to the man who was yet bent to his work—like the abbots of early times who set a good example of toil for the brothers—intent on savoring this timeless moment with this great man of war, in the months before his untimely death.

You are honored by God, Sebastian, being granted an audience with a lost soul of good stature out of haughty antiquity.

He stood patiently before the bent and toiling god of a young man, waiting for his audience, with Augulus behind him and the cruel Aetolian captain Kieton as well. Leosthenes however did not seem to be a man that kept a visitor waiting, so he stood, brushing off his hands and smiled down at Sebastian, obviously pleased to be sought out by a learned man of the communities in this harsh wintry backland. There was a distant creaking in the background as he bowed slightly and introduced himself, “Greetings from Menander honorable”—oh God!

Leosthenes angelic head burst open like a rotten apple caught beneath the rim of the abbey’s ale cart wheel! A warm mist splashed Sebastian like a Cuban storm burst and something brushed his shoulder and made a sickening crunching sound behind him even as Augulus pulled him aside to fall in the iced-over mud.

He looked down now into the gaping stump that was once the neck of Leosthenes, general of the allied armies of Hellas, dead a month or more before he should have been. Augulus’ dirty paw of a hand was checking him for wounds. He was then rolled onto his back among the screams of soldiers and cheers of the enemy on the walls above while Augulus spoke—and drooled copiously—down into his face, “That rat bastard of an Aetolian just bought the mountain—look at that mess!”

Sebastian was already near to retching over the sight of Leosthenes. “No really, that is quite all right. I will trust to your observances.”

The old maimed warrior then looked searchingly into his eyes as darts and sling stones peppered the works about them. “We thought they just had hand-weapons. Those pricks have been busy up in there! Let’s get you back to Menander—this is huge skull-fucking news!”

He was being pulled to his feet and they were rushing back down the hillside toward the men who were coming up fast. The Aetolians howled with rage and ran to gather the body of their leader and exact revenge. The Agrianian’s for their part seemed to be bemused by some technical point concerning the siege, which they appeared to discuss in matter-of-fact style in their own language as they guided him to safety.

They are like a clutch of brothers discussing the head on the latest batch of ale. How God molds us in such different forms according to his whim.

It is a wonder—oh angels in heaven no!

He bent on the muddy trail and heaved up his breakfast of cheese and barely as the nauseating reality of that which he had just experienced overwhelmed his body.

What is this? This unfortunate slaughter is affecting me worse than the killing of Doryklus or the slaughter at the Erythraen gates.

His left wrist where the sun-fire wire had been threaded began to burn and feel somewhat heavy and he pitched dizzily toward the ground…