A month had passed since Eiranaios first set foot in the mercenary quarters at the urging of his uncle, Thersandros. At first, his days had been measured in aching muscles, bruised ribs, and the taste of dust on his tongue. Now, though the pain had not lessened, his body had begun to respond. The weight of a sword no longer felt like a foreign burden in his hands. The leather of the shield straps no longer burned into his forearm quite as cruelly. His breath, once ragged after a few exchanges of blows, now lasted longer, steadier.
The company—two hundred men hardened by campaigns across the Greek world—had accepted him, not with ceremony, but with the quiet fraternity of men who lived and bled together. At first, they had tested him, some with mocking laughter, others with deliberately rough sparring. But Eiranaios did not falter. He did not complain, nor boast, nor lash out in youthful arrogance. He took each strike, each tumble into the dirt, with the cold patience of a man who had already seen death, though they could not know how. Slowly, that silence earned him respect. To the older mercenaries, he was no longer just "Thersandros' nephew," but the younger brother they had all, in their own way, taken under their wing.
The mornings were the harshest. Long before the sun crested the horizon, the horns would sound. They drilled with spear and shield first, learning to move as one, each man's defense becoming his neighbor's salvation. They practiced breaking enemy lines, enduring long pushes with shields locked, legs burning and lungs screaming for air. By midday, when the sweat had soaked through tunics and armor, the drills shifted to swordplay, wrestling, and horseback maneuvers. Ajax, the burly stable master with arms like oak trunks, had taken particular interest in Eiranaios' horsemanship, making him repeat the same exercises until his thighs cramped and his palms blistered from the reins.
"Again, boy," Ajax would growl, shoving the horse forward with a slap to its flank. "You ride like a sack of barley falling off a wagon."
"And you curse like one too," Lycennia would retort from the sidelines, ladle in hand, earning laughter from the men.
Lycennia had indeed refused to be left behind when Eiranaios joined the company. She had argued, scolded, and finally threatened to starve him if he dared think he could go without her. In the end, she came along as the company's cook, and it surprised no one how swiftly she managed to command the respect of hardened killers. More than one mercenary learned that crossing her tongue was a sharper wound than any blade, yet her food kept their bellies warm and her laughter filled their nights with something resembling home.
That morning had been no different. After the dawn drills, Eiranaios found himself rubbing a welt across his forearm where a spear shaft had struck him during a shield wall exercise. Lycennia fussed over the mark as they made ready to head toward the fish market. She had been insistent that the men's diet needed change, and Eiranaios, perhaps still weary of boiled grains and goat stew, had supported her idea.
"Fish," she muttered as she adjusted the shawl over her shoulders. "About time these brutes tasted the sea instead of the same goat bones boiled to leather."
Eiranaios only gave a small nod, accustomed to her chatter. She did not need answers; she only needed to be heard. Along with them came Ajax—his massive frame filling half the street as they walked—and Demetrius, a thin youth whose eyes carried the quiet resignation of one who knew his life was mortgaged to debt.
The path to the western gate wound past taverns and narrow alleys, where the air was thick with the mingled smells of smoke, sweat, and spilled wine. They passed the White Stallion Inn, notorious among the mercenaries. Owned by a woman said to have once been the lover of a highborn lord, its shutters were painted with a horse in mid-gallop. From within came the sound of a flute and muffled laughter, promises of pleasure veiled behind silk curtains. Ajax grunted as they passed, muttering something about wasting coin better spent on weapons, while Demetrius looked away shyly, ears reddening.
Then, the smell of the sea reached them, sharp and briny. The market near the docks was alive with noise—the cawing of gulls overhead, the cries of fishmongers lifting up their wares, and the wet slap of fish against wooden tables. The air was thick with salt and scales, so pungent that Lycennia covered her nose with her shawl.
She bargained fiercely with a merchant, her voice rising above the din. Eiranaios left her to her trade, knowing she would never let herself be cheated, and wandered with Demetrius toward the seawall. There, beyond the clamor of the market, he gazed out at the waters of the Athenian port.
What he saw gave him pause.
More ships than usual dotted the harbor, their sails pulled tight as they rested at anchor. Some bore the markings of Thebes—sharp, black sigils painted across their hulls. Others carried the emblems of Thessaly, and in the distance, he recognized Spartan craft, their crimson-striped sails like bloodstains against the horizon.
For a moment, he frowned. As the son of a merchant, he had been trained, if only in passing, to recognize such things. Ships meant trade, but this—this gathering seemed more than commerce. His eyes traced the banners and counted the vessels. Too many for mere goods. Too many to be coincidence.
Still, after a while, he let the thought drift away like the tide. He was not a statesman or a general. He was merely a young man trying to grow into the shadow of his uncle's company. What did it matter to him if the city harbored more ships?
"Eiranaios!" Lycennia's voice snapped him from his thoughts. She waved, fish basket in hand, face set in triumph. "Come, carry this. Highway robbery, the price of fish these days!"
He and Demetrius returned, Ajax already scowling at the haggling she had endured. Together they hefted the baskets, Lycennia grumbling the entire walk back about how Athens' markets were worse than thieves on the road.
When they returned to the quarters, the men cheered at the promise of fresh fish, and Eiranaios, after helping Lycennia deposit the catch in the kitchen, sought out his uncle. He found Thersandros not in his usual place but was instead told by a soldier that the commander had been summoned to the inner city.
The words settled uneasily in his chest. Summons from the inner city rarely meant good news for mercenaries. It spoke of politics, of war councils, of decisions made in marble halls that would send men like them bleeding into the dirt.
Eiranaios lingered outside his uncle's study, staring at the ledgers still laid open on the table—his father's records, debts, and trades unfinished. His hand brushed against the parchment, and a strange calm filled him. The life he had inherited was one of burdens, both of family and of steel. He had chosen this path, but now he wondered: would Athens soon demand more of him than training and brotherhood? Would the gathering ships and his uncle's summons draw them into something far greater?
He did not yet know, but as the sounds of laughter drifted from the mess hall where Lycennia scolded soldiers into helping peel fish, he felt a change incoming.