Chapter Twenty
Wishing he could stay in his dreams with her for awhile longer, Styxx laid her necklace down and reached for his wine. "Enter."
An Athenian soldier he'd never seen before came inside, leading a small group of similarly dressed men. "Prince Styxx?"
"Yes?"
"We heard you were arriving any day now, and wanted to welcome your army home."
"Thank you." Styxx cocked his head as he realized that the sounds outside had grown much quieter.
A bad feeling went through him as he glanced over to his weapons and armor on the other side of the tent, near his pallet. In that instant, it dawned on him that one of his dekarmatoli should have escorted these men into his tent and hadn't.
Styxx narrowed his gaze on them. "So what can I do for you?"
"In short, Highness ... you can die." The leader leapt forward.
Styxx rolled from the chair. He punched the first soldier hard in the solar plexus, knocking him back. As he twisted past the second one, the third one slid a dagger into his side before he could outmaneuver him. Styxx hissed in pain then kicked him back. But it was too late. The first one had recovered and stabbed him in the back.
His ears buzzed from their hatred and his pain. Styxx sank to the ground while they rained stabs down on him. Warm blood rushed over his skin until it coated him.
Their leader kicked him over onto his back and raked his bloody body with a contemptuous sneer. "A homecoming present, prince, from the commanders who weren't victorious in the war." The soldier used his dagger to pin Styxx's sword hand to the ground.
Laughing, they left him there to die.
His breathing labored, Styxx stared at the Thracian dagger buried in his palm and choked on his own blood. After everything he and his men had been through, after all the attacks and battles they'd survived against enemies, it was their own allies who annihilated them on their home shores.
And not for glory or for family.
For petty fucking jealousy.
September 3, 9530 BC
"Careful, Highness, drink slowly."
Styxx groaned as someone lifted his head and gently poured water into his mouth. Then that person laid his head back so that he could see Galen's concerned, grizzled face. Of course Galen was the one tending him. Who else would bother?
His old tutor had a deep cut down his left cheek, but otherwise appeared whole.
Styxx squinted against the pain and brightness of the light coming in through heavy drapes. "The men?"
"About half survived."
Half?
Half ...
He winced at the mental pain of their loss. That news cut him far worse than the daggers the cowards had used on him. "Did you get the ones responsible?"
"Not enough of them. I did manage to capture one of the men who attacked you. I bled him dry and got some information from his traitorous tongue."
"And?"
"They were mercenaries. The coins used to pay them were from all the Greek city-states, including Didymos. You were their primary target. Our men were only a bonus." Galen pressed something into his uninjured hand then withdrew.
"Continue," Galen shouted.
Styxx's bed was lifted and moved forward. Galen had placed him inside a litter to be carried home. Grimacing in pain, he opened his hand to find Bethany's necklace in his palm. Thank the gods, Galen had saved it. Leave it to his mentor to know it would be important to him.
He held it to his heart and closed his eyes then thought of his men who'd been ambushed and killed. Anger consumed him that he'd let his guard lax. Why had he not been more vigilant? Armed? Why had he given them freedom to wench?
Because they'd finally made it home where they were supposed to be safe. These were the people they'd all fought and bled to protect.
Grief and agony shoved his anger aside. No one could be trusted. His uncle and father should have taught him that.
His own mother.
Would Bethany one day turn on him, too? The thought kicked him hard, but he refused to let these beasts destroy his faith in the only woman he'd ever loved.
Styxx rapped on the frame of his litter. After a few seconds, the men outside set it down.
In spite of the pain, he sat up. As he started to rise, Galen appeared by his side.
Galen scowled at him. "What are you doing?"
"I don't deserve to be carried."
"Highness-"
"I lapsed my guard and my men died for it. I will not lie here and be coddled when I should have died with them."
"Styxx!" Galen snapped, but Styxx refused to listen as he pushed himself to his feet and did his best not to stumble as he left the litter.
"My horse!" Styxx shouted.
Galen pulled him into his arms and held him close. "I know the pain you carry, ???æ???G?έvoς ??o?? ?æ?ός," he whispered in Styxx's ear. My beloved son ...
That single endearment choked Styxx and brought tears to his eyes. It was the first time in his life anyone had referred to him as such.
"I've carried it myself," Galen continued, "but dying now will not bring them back."
I'm not going to die. He knew that with bitter certainty. And he would not be carried on the backs of men who were injured and grieving themselves.
A young shield-bearer brought Troian to him and held the horse by his side.
Styxx embraced Galen like a father then withdrew. "My men deserve better." After thanking the boy who'd brought him his horse, he ignored the shocked looks on the faces of his litter-bearers and soldiers as he slowly pulled himself up into the saddle unassisted.
Ignoring the pain, he kicked his horse and rode to the front of his troops then wheeled around to face them. One by one, he swept his gaze over the grim expressions of men who should have been returning in high spirits. And as he scanned them, he noted that Gaius wasn't among the survivors.
His gut clenched tight.
He wanted to say something, but words failed him just as he'd failed to keep his people safe.
All of a sudden, his men began chanting his name and cheering for him then as a single unit, they went down on one knee.
Styxx couldn't understand it. He definitely didn't deserve this honor after they'd been slaughtered on home soil.
"Good men," he said, his throat tight. "I vowed to all of you when we left Didymos that I would never forget the sacrifice I was asking each of you to make. That I would never be capricious or careless with your safety, and I failed all of you. For that, I beg your forgiveness."
Tersus, one of his advisors, kicked his horse forward. "Highness, you didn't fail us. We were drunk on victory when we were attacked. You were the only sober man among us. It was our duty to protect our future king. Your father will have us whipped for our dereliction that almost got you killed."
"No one will be punished for what happened," Styxx assured him. "You have my word on that. All of you have suffered enough." He bowed to his men. "Now let's go home to our families and pray we never have to raise our swords again."
September 3, 9530 BC
Exhausted and aching, Styxx lay on his pallet in his tent. The physician had just finished checking his bandages and left him to rest for the night. But he couldn't relax or sleep. Over and over, images of being attacked, of battle, and a thousand other things he didn't want to remember tortured him.