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Something had upset his petulant niece to the point of silence. He had yet to decide if this was a winning development or not. But he looked forward to finding the reason.
He was done with this Medusa debacle; he wanted it over. It was a relief to find so many questions in need of answering.
###
The skies over Salamis thundered.
Ariston’s eyes searched the horizon as he lay on the sand, his head propped on his elbow. He was pleased to see the storms rolling away from them – towards their incoming foe. Tonight they would enjoy clear skies, warm fires and good company. Tomorrow they would fight.
How he wished it were morning.
One day closer to honoring his word to Hades, of fighting for Athens.
Themistocles’ plan would succeed. It had to.
The Athenians had lured the Persian king Xerxes and his battered fleet to the mouth of the straits of Salamis. Tomorrow their enemy would venture in, to confront the reportedly divided Greek troops. There the Persians would move into the straits, forcing the warships and their battle into close quarters.
Xerxes had no idea that the Greeks’ disharmony was a farce, industriously circulated to entice the Persians into Themistocles’ carefully laid trap.
Once the Persians were in the straits, there was no escape.
And while the Persians had proved themselves skilled in battle, the constant battles and irregular supplies had diminished their numbers greatly. With three hundred triremes, the Greeks were still outnumbered by the Persians, but not at unbeatable odds.
Ariston and his troops were eager and ready.
News of the loss of Thermopylae had struck morale low.
But the stories of brave King Leonidas and his fearsome Spartiates as they staved off Xerxes had rallied all. With no more than fifteen hundred men, the unflappable Spartans had held their own against both the Medes’ attacks and the Persian Immortals. Indeed, to hear his men speak of the battle, Leonidas and his Spartiates had earned the respect and glory of all of Greece.
If Xerxes’ gold had not purchased a Spartan traitor to guide Xerxes into Leonidas’ camp, Ariston wondered if the warrior king and his troops might not have found a way to victory.
Alas, treachery had won out.
Treachery often does.
The men sat about their fire, sharing stories and wine.
“Morning will decide our fate,” Pamphilos was saying. “The Gods have made our commander immortal, or so it would seem. Surely that bodes well for the rest of us?”
The men laughed.
“The Gods honor us with such a leader,” Ophion, one of Ariston’s most ferocious soldiers, spoke loud enough for those nearby to hear. “Ariston serves them proudly. He cannot fall, Olympus forbids it.”
“Any man might lead as I do,” Ariston called back, “if they have the warriors I have.”
A cheer went up from the men, eliciting a smile from him.
“However, your flattery will not keep you from your time on the oars, Ophion,” Ariston added. The men laughed heartily, and Ophion shrugged.
He was proud of them, these valiant soldiers who’d fought for him.
When he had fallen at Athens, Chariton had proclaimed his death imminent. But Pamphilos and his crew would not desert him to the sea. His second had bound him, in his mats, to the deck and had Chariton ply him with tinctures, herbs and broths while they sailed to Salamis.
When he’d entered Hades’ realm, he did not know.
But returning to the living was more painful than leaving it. He woke, tied to the deck with festering wounds. When Chariton had come to the tent for supplies, he’d cried out at the sight of Ariston regarding him with clear eyes.
“You were dead,” Chariton had whispered.
