Pherenike - Chapter 125

“Flattery—nonsense. My purse was running dry, so I slipped away for a bit… By the way, that liquor you brought the other day—what a hit! We only meant to sample a sip each, as you suggested, but everyone ended up well and truly drunk. You said your wife made it herself, back in her hometown?”

“My wife was raised in comfort; there’s not much she knows how to do. It was my mother who brewed that, with what little skill she has. The liquor turned out especially good this year, so she told me not to have a drop, just to hand it all over to my superiors.”

“Your mother must be a real master. The moment Timo tasted it, he sent a whole jar straight to Lord Agilon.”

“I’m embarrassed to say.”

“You’ll have your mother to thank before the year is out.”

The gate guard smiled quietly, then leaned his head on the decanus’s shoulder and asked,

“Strange, though—I don’t smell any alcohol. Sir Kosmas, you didn’t have a single drink?”

“It’s not like I’m on watch every night. Getting drunk once in a while wouldn’t hurt, but still, someone ought to keep a clear head.”

“What difference does it make? Even when the decani stand watch together, by dawn you’re all nodding off by the fire. You could have let yourself relax just this once, Sir Kosmas.”

The gate guard, now at the guardhouse door, replied.

“Would it really not be a problem?”

“Of course nothing would happen. Argo is quiet, Paetusa is obedient, Lykke is peaceful…”

“Our king is wise, after all.”

‘Argo is quiet, the prince is obedient, Lykke is at peace—our king is wise.’ It was a phrase that had passed from mouth to mouth on many a night, with wine flowing. It started as a covert toast among those who had hidden their Paetusan accents and put down roots in Lykke.

But soon enough it was on everyone’s lips, a refrain that lulled the city into a comfortable blindness.

The decanus sent his men into the post ahead of him and took one last look at the peaceful Lykke night. But just as he turned back, he saw a body lying on the ground, blocking his view.

“Timo!”

He rushed into the guard post, shaking his fallen companion with panic. Then, all at once, he noticed the strange silence. The once cheerful chatter, the rattle of dice on stone, the jingle of Timo’s purse heavy with silver coins—all of it was gone.

They weren’t drunk, he realized—they’d been poisoned. The decanus’s face drained of color as he looked up to see three men standing in the post: the young gate guard who’d entered with him, an older decanus he’d just been laughing with, and one man whose face he didn’t know at all.

In fact, all the faces he recognized were on the ground. He saw, almost in slow motion, the stranger’s knife cut the throat of the unconscious officer. The young gate guard, who had always shown him the utmost respect, approached him with a slow, deliberate step.

“Lazaros…”

“Lykke is peaceful, the king is wise—what harm in a night of drinking?”

“…”

“But see, it’s sobriety that brings trouble. Sir Kosmas.”

A hatchet crashed down on the decanus’s back as he tried to crawl away.

“This is the misfortune of the wise.”

The fools who drank themselves senseless would die peacefully, as if falling asleep like children.

It didn’t take long to tidy up the post. The lively sounds that had spilled from the window, patched with wood, faded away. Not a single scream had pierced the night. The sleeping men died painlessly, knowing nothing. Only those who carried weapons were left breathing. As in every land, really.

Men armed with swords and axes stepped out into the night. Like crocodiles gliding through the darkness of the Salonica River, more men appeared, one by one. In the heart of Lykke, the Paetusan dialect was whispered in the shadows.

Slinging an axe over his shoulder like any Paetusan centurion, Lazaros recited his lord’s decree:

“As the ruler of Paetusa, not as the son of Epicydes, I forbid three things: Any man who loots a civilian home shall see his own home in Paetusa plundered. Any man who kills a civilian will be judged and executed as a murderer, not honored as a soldier. Any man who r***s a woman shall live out his days as a castrated slave. Let not your crimes be excused by the chaos of war.”

“Let not your crimes be excused by the chaos of war,” the men repeated, swearing the words.

Lazaros took a dark green cord from his coat and handed out Paetusa’s insignia. Just hours ago, the Lykke guard captain had been their superior; now he bowed respectfully to a mere gate guard to receive his cord.

Those with the green cords on their left arms fanned out into the city. Along their path, women emerged from darkened houses and painted their doorframes with lamb’s blood.

By morning, rumors would spread from the lips of women hiding their origins: The King’s brother never harms innocent citizens. Just lock your door and mark your home, and no harm will come to your family.