"We do have some tents, however," Nestor is saying, "as you can plainly see. The auxiliary sleeps under canvas. They don't mind. They're not used to comfort anyway."

Alexos thinks they probably do mind, especially on stormy nights in winter. But he doesn't say this to Nestor. He just adds it to his growing list of things he hopes to change when he becomes king.

"Look!" Leander says excitedly, pointing in the distance.

"What?"

"The defenses! Remember?" And he starts quoting the pa.s.sage they'd all had to learn in school, the famous command of Olympian Zeus: "Thy ramparts shall be of earth and wood, but never of stone."

The others join in and they recite the rest in unison. "Nor mayest thou shield thy sight from the face of thine enemy; for it is meet that thou shouldst see the hatred in their red-rimmed eyes by day, and the flames of their torches by night, these thy sworn enemies, whom once thou loved as brothers."

But memorizing those lines in cla.s.s has not prepared them for the actual defenses, which are almost comical: flimsy wooden barricades running along both sides of a patchy strip of trampled gra.s.s where the battles presumably take place. The posts are set well apart from one another, leaving an opening wide enough for the soldiers to gaze upon the famous red-rimmed eyes of their enemy, wide enough even for a slender man to squeeze through and walk over into the enemy camp. Just inside these pitiful blockades are two facing ditches set with angled pikes. The whole thing looks positively ancient, like something from a thousand years ago-long before Troy, before civilization even. And it is all the more ridiculous when set beside the sprawling, modern military town it is supposedly there to protect.

"That was most impressive, gentlemen," Nestor says with a smile. "I see you have been well taught. Now, unless you have any other questions, I propose we ride on down there and get out of this unspeakable heat."

Everyone in the stable yard looks up as they ride in-the grooms and the blacksmiths shoeing horses, the fellow with the handcart taking horse droppings out to the dung pile, the three others pitching hay from a wagon, the half-dozen soldiers waiting for their horses to be brought out, and a few men who are leaning on the fence because they apparently have nothing better to do. They watch with something akin to horror as Alexos is unstrapped from his saddle and hauled down from his horse. They continue to stare as he stands, supported by t.i.tus, while his brace is set and his cane fetched and put into his hand.

They think they're being subtle, but they're not. Leander, annoyed, picks out the worst offender and goes on the attack.

"You!" he shouts at a ginger-haired lad with a face covered with freckles. "Carrot-head!"

The boy recoils. "Sire?" he says.

"Keep your eyes to yourself."

"I will, sire."

"Good. Now go get us some water. And when you've done that, I want you to clean my friend's boots." The boy disappears, and all over the stable yard, the staring stops and men go back to their business.

"Thank you," Alexos says, dropping onto a bench with a groan of relief, grateful for an excuse to sit down and rest before walking across the compound to see his father.

"Bunch of oafs," Leander grumbles.

"You were pretty hard on that boy, you know. Everyone was staring; he wasn't the only one."

"Yes, but he was the worst. And I understand that you don't want people bowing and sc.r.a.ping and all that-but his jaw was actually hanging open"-Leander demonstrates-"like he'd just seen a two-headed pig!"

"Well, I do put on quite a show. Ah, Nestor-what news?"

Nestor squats in front of Alexos, his elbows on his knees, so the prince won't have to rise or look up at him as they speak.

"We've been given a guest room in the officers' compound. They'll bring in cots. I'm told the room is rather small for so many. It'll be crowded."

"That's all right. It's only for one night."

"That's what I told them. There's still some question as to where you'll be housed, however."

"I'll stay with everyone else."

"I'm afraid that's up to the king."

Alexos shuts his eyes and sighs quietly. "I see. Thank you, Nestor."

"I'll have the baggage sent over. Shall we stay while your boots are cleaned?" They exchange a knowing smile. Nestor has not been fooled by Leander's little ruse.

"No. The rest of you can go ahead."

"Very well, my lord. I'll leave Pitheus behind to accompany you."

Alexos nods, though it seems ridiculous that he should need personal protection when he's surrounded by his father's army. Still, rules are rules. At least Pitheus knows to shadow him from behind, and to do it subtly.

Carrot-head is back now, quite impressively managing to carry a heavy pail of water, a net bag filled with wooden cups, and the rag and polish he'll need to clean Alexos' special riding boots. After serving out the water none of the boys really wants-they all carry waterskins when they travel, so they aren't particularly thirsty-Carrot-head kneels at the prince's feet and goes to work with a will.

"I never thought I'd actually get to meet the famous prince Alexos," he says with an ingratiating smile, apparently hoping to make up with flattery what he's lost through rudeness.

"Famous?" Alexos says. "For my beautiful hand at the lute, you mean? Or is it my prowess for mathematics that goes before me?"

Blood rushes to the boy's face. Leander comes in for the kill.

"Just to be clear, Carrot-head: you still have not 'met' the aforementioned famous prince. You are cleaning his boots. They are not the same thing."

"No, my lord. Of course, you are right. It's just that we are all so delighted and honored to have the prince here, that in my excitement I was presumptuous." Then, having apologized, he is more presumptuous still. "May I humbly ask, Your Majesty, if you will grace our presence for long?"

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Leander snaps, quite beside himself now. "What's wrong with you? No, you humbly may not! It's none of your business!"

"I am terribly sorry, my lord. I only asked because we are looking after your horses, and we'll need to arrange things according to your plans. If you're off again this afternoon, we'll just wipe them down and feed and water them, but not-"

"We leave tomorrow, early," Alexos says, tired of this conversation.

"Very good, Your Grace. We'll have them all bridled and ready to go first thing in the morning."

"You do that," Leander says. "And if you say another word I may have to cut out your tongue."

The groom ducks his head and doesn't speak again, just attends to his work. And he does a good job of it, too. By the time Alexos' boots are gleaming and the groom has slunk away, he has his strength back, more or less.

"Well, I'm off," he says without much enthusiasm.

"Shall I come with you?"

"No, I have Pitheus. And to be honest, I need some time alone to prepare myself."

"I understand."

"But I'd like you to stay with me tonight-wherever my father decides to put me."

"Of course."

"I'll send for you when it's over."

Leander nods agreement and gives Alexos a sympathetic smile. "At least you're all buffed and shiny for your conference with the king."

"Oh, I a.s.sure you, Leander, my father will not notice my boots."

18.

EKTOR IS STANDING WHEN Alexos comes in-always a dangerous sign. The way he leans forward, his large hands gripping the corners of his worktable, he looks like a wild beast ready to pounce.

"What in the name of Zeus are you doing here?" he says. His voice is so abrasive it would have felt like an a.s.sault even without the stinging words. And for a moment Alexos is powerless to speak. Then suddenly rage is rising in his belly.

"Why, thank you, Father," he says. "I'm delighted to see you as well. And how nice to find you so pleasantly housed, even here on the borderlands-every comfort, stylish decorations, my goodness!" He looks pointedly at the fresco on the wall opposite the entry door, his head c.o.c.ked with feigned amazement. "And what exactly are those frolicsome maidens meant to be-wood nymphs?"

Ektor is stunned. This sort of thing has never happened before. "I have no idea," he says, almost defensive. "That's been there since my great-grandfather's time. It's nothing to do with me."

"Charming, though-all that ivory skin, soft eyes, flowing hair . . ."

"Alexos!"

"And the whole day off from fighting to enjoy it all. How very nice for you."

There is a long, cold silence while the king recovers from this unthinkable exchange. "Well, if you've come to see blood, my boy, then you ought to have been here yesterday. By the G.o.ds, I should have had you strangled at birth! Now sit down and tell me why you're here."

"No need. I won't be long."

"I said sit!"

Chastened and more or less returned to sanity, Alexos pulls up a chair. His father sits too, folding his hands on the table and waiting with exaggerated impatience while Alexos does his thing with the brace and leans his cane against the table.

"By ancient tradition," Ektor says in his lecturing voice, "just as we declare a truce every night, we don't fight on the feast days of the G.o.ds. Today, as it happens, is dedicated to Hephaestus, which now that I think of it is rather fitting-that you should arrive on his particular day." This is a jibe and a cruel one. Ektor delivers it with a smile.

"Because Hephaestus is a cripple, you mean? Like me?"

"Indeed. And yet he is also immensely powerful."

Alexos can't think of a response. Nor does he know what his father intended by that business about Hephaestus, except obviously to wound him. He speeds on to his business, the sooner to be gone.

"I've come with a simple request," he begins. "And as I believe it's the only favor I've ever asked of you, I hope you'll do me the kindness of granting it."

"I'll decide when I know what the favor is."

"All right. I want one of your men transferred to the Royal Guard on special a.s.signment to me. I a.s.sure you, Father, you won't miss him."

"I'll be the judge of that. Who is it?"

"One of the warm bodies in your pitchfork brigade."

"The auxiliary?"

"Yes. Though I'm told this particular warm body has both a homemade lance and a knife. I don't suppose that makes a difference."

"Alexos, I can't transfer a peasant to the Royal Guard!"

"I would think, as king of Arcos, you could do anything you like. And since I ask you as a personal favor, the only one I have ever-"

"Oh, you are so tedious!"

"Just transfer the man and I'll go. He's nothing at all to you."

"Does he have a name, this peasant with a lance?"

"He does. Peles of Attaros."

The king gapes. "That fellow? The runner?"

"Yes."

"He's in my auxiliary?"

"He is, though he's not yet eighteen. Apparently your recruiters dismissed that as a technicality. He'll be eighteen eventually-if he lives that long."

"b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l!"

"My thoughts exactly. And seeing as he was the champion of the festival races, you might make an exception in his case-bend the rules, give him some sort of promotion."

"Ha!" The king is half amused, half amazed. "Peles of Attaros, in my auxiliary!"

"If you'll just write out the order, I'll see to the rest. I know you're a busy man."

The king takes a tablet and stylus and hastily begins to write.

"What will you do with him when you get him home?"

"I want him to help me with my running style."

Ektor stares at his son, appalled.

"That was a joke, Father."

"It wasn't funny."

"No, I suppose not."