WHAT OTHERS ARE SAYING ABOUT

'SWORD OF MARATHON'

A friend said he just devoured this book. The book devoured me instead. A great adventure story and so much more: it immersed me into Ancient Europe, Greece & Persia...The book is a river ever increasing in speed, strength and cross currents until I, the swimmer, am trapped, happily. Damn You Jack England! Can't wait for your next one! - Michael Mckay

I was looking to try something a bit different to my usual reading genre, so I thought I would give this book a try - by page 5, I was hooked!...The English is rich and there are good layers of complexity. Full of war, history, violence and sex... I can say one hundred percent that I loved it! - Sara Bagshawe

Take two Northern barbarian princes and place them in 5th century BC Athens at the time when Darius of Persia is about to teach the pesky Athenians a lesson and you have yourself the makings of a good story. If you can write as well as Jack England can you have the makings of a terrific story...Athens, its leaders, its citizens, Luke, his comrades, his lovers - all are brought vividly to life. Life at sea, the sounds and the smells of the marketplace and the terror and exhilaration of battle come bursting through the prose. - Gerard Casey

SWORD

OF

MARATHON

By Jack England

Published by Jack England at Smashwords

Copyright 2012 Jack England

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Title Page

Prologos

Papyros α

Papyros β

Papyros γ

Papyros δ

Papyros ε

Papyros ς

Papyros ζ

Papyros η

Papyros θ

Papyros ι

Papyros ια

Papyros ιβ

Papyros ιγ

Papyros ιδ

Papyros ιε

Papyros ις

Papyros ιζ

Papyros ιη

Papyros ιθ

Papyros κ

Papyros κα

Papyros κβ

Epilogos

About the Author

Map of World

Map of Italia

Map of Balcian Sea

Map of Steppe

Map of Euxine and Aegean Seas

Map of Attica and Euboea

Map of Roads to Marathon

Map of Marathon Plain

PROLOGOS

ANDROKLES WAS PROUD of his grandfather, Leukos of Olbia, known to everyone as Luke. Although the white-haired old man never said anything about it, the entire Greek city of Thuria knew that Luke had saved Greece from the Persians sixty years before.

So the townsfolk forgave the old man whenever he drank too much at the annual wine festival of Dionysos. He would celebrate old comrades and the memory of his lost wife, who some said had fought the Persians too.

It was early evening when Androkles and Luke left this year’s daylong festival. The old man followed his grandson, leaning on his ebony walking stick, which clicked on the paving slabs of the roadway. Luke smiled at fond memories. He noticed how Androkles had grown up, almost to his shoulders now; he wondered where the time had flown.

Behind them lay the temple district, where younger revellers would keep the festival alive until the final celebration at dawn.

Despite the temple-subsidised attractions of free wine and free prostitutes, a gang of youths, recently off the boat from Athens, also left the party. Their leader thought an old man and a young boy would show little resistance if the gang helped themselves to whatever they could extract from the well-dressed pair because, as General Pericles said back home, wealth belonged in the hands of the people. With such principles granting them a moral right to rob the rich, the gang would restore the cash balance in favour of themselves.

Three of the gang, including the leader, sprinted ahead to the end of the street via a dockside alley, while the other four trailed Luke and Androkles into the cool shadows thrown down by the town’s villas. These creamy-white buildings flanked the galleys in port, which creaked up and down on long jetties. A sea-borne breeze whispered into Thuria and filled the air with tendrils of aromatic jasmine oils, fruit-laden wines, and exotic peppery spices. The three who ran ahead appeared in silhouette, beyond Luke and Androkles.

What’s in your pockets? said the leader, as he wielded a knife in his right hand. Its blade flashed when he stepped into a slanted light beam, while a waft of his unwashed clothes wrinkled the old man’s nose. Luke swiftly pushed Androkles down into an alcove, set within a villa wall, straightened up to gain three inches, and pulled a rapier blade from his walking stick. He tossed the blade’s ebony scabbard against the villa wall and it clattered down onto flagstones. The old man’s blue eyes glittered and a grim expression settled on his face. He thought about how Androkles had lost his parents in similar circumstances to these; that same kind of thing would never happen again.

Just give us your money, old man, and we’ll be on our way, said the gang leader. The other gang members formed a crescent around the doorway. Like priests gathered around a sacrificial altar, each pulled out his own knife, while the old man transferred the stick blade to his left hand.

The greatest sword-smith in Babylon folded this rapier seven times, he said, while his right hand pulled out a second blade from a scabbard hidden deep inside his tunic. The blade of this butcher-sword rang as it bared itself in the cool evening. Although it was shorter than the rapier, the edges of this sword shimmered with a much more deadly intent.

However, this sword was folded by the god Thor.

Two of the younger thugs looked at each other, backed off, and then bolted. They would never have heard of Thor, thought Luke, but the look on his face probably told them all they needed to know.

A couple of actor’s swords, said the gang leader.

Everybody acts, said Luke, who felt much looser in his frame now that this sword, Fenrir, was released from its usual hiding place. As the gang members realised they were up against more than the typical old man, most of them slinked away, one by one, unable to bear Luke’s calm other-worldly gaze. He moved the sword points between those who remained. Soon, the gang leader stood alone, rooted by the kind of pride that men could die from.

Go away. Disappear, said Luke, who stepped towards his would-be assailant. The gang leader cracked and ran. As his steps faded away into the hubbub of the festival above, Luke slid his butcher-sword back into its scabbard, sheathed and then slipped the rapier under his arm, and pulled Androkles back to his feet.

What was all that stuff about ‘Babylon’ and ‘Thor’? said the boy.

We need to go home, Androkles, before misplaced vanity tells those idiots to find some spears and come back. We can talk about this in the morning.

Androkles found his grandfather in their walled orchard just after dawn, where Luke drank fresh apple juice pressed by his own hand. When Androkles sat down on a wicker seat, Luke handed the boy a cup of juice, which Androkles sipped.

Through yards of apples trees, they could see the familiar outline of a middle-aged man with scrolls under one arm and honey-covered bread in the other. He was moving round the fountains, exchanging brief words with a servant, who held even more scrolls. The man waved vaguely in their direction, whilst eating in haste. Then he crossed the garden and entered the villa by the kitchen door. Shouts could be heard as the servant called for a horse.

Herodotus must be late again, said Luke and then chuckled. Luke had been the bodyguard of Herodotus for many years, since they had been in Athens together. Since moving to Thuria, there was little need for such an arrangement, but their relationship had endured and was rather more like family.

Androkles settled down to his own honey-smothered bread and waited for his grandfather to speak.

The citizens of Thuria know me as Leukos of Olbia, said the old man, and your great-uncle Hal may answer to the name of Haleos of Olbia too, but I’m afraid we’ve both been living a rather complicated lie.

Androkles widened his eyes, because his entire upbringing, fully involving both men, had been anchored in the truth, with lies being punished in the Persian style by a rod of oak. He looked up into the face of his grandfather, but the old man looked away. Luke stared instead into the waters of a stream that trickled through their garden via a pair of culverts built under the villa’s walls.

My own people in the far north knew me as Ludwig, because I grew up as a Gothic freeman on an icy northern shore, where snow lies for several months each year, and the sea washes up onto cold hard pebbles.

So you’re not from Olbia? What about Great-Uncle Hal? Does Herodotus know? Luke took another swig of apple juice. He put a finger to his smiling lips and bade the boy calm himself; the morning light glinted in his silver stubble.

Pericles used to mock Herodotus in the council chambers of Athens, Luke went on. Pericles claimed that Athens’s glory rested with the navy ships of his Delian League and his army phalanxes, rather than the glorified heroes of a troubadour’s fanciful stories. Pericles is a politician and it’s within the nature of such people to tell lies. To my great shame, I told lies too, to protect Herodotus from the mob — sent by Pericles to kill him — and concealed many other truths as well, from many people, including you. Our little clan, here in Thuria, has been well respected since we arrived and my hope is that such respect will continue. I hope you’ll forgive me too, after I tell you the whole truth.

Herodotus writes the truth, said Androkles, hotly. Only Pericles says he lies. The people of Thuria know the truth, don’t they?

"Herodotus writes what he believes to be the truth, though I think, now, that someone should record the real story. How are your letters?"

I can transcribe all of Homer from memory.

After breakfast, I want you to go and buy plenty of scrolls and ink. We’ll straighten things out when you get back. The old man slipped a hand inside his tunic, then passed Androkles a gold coin, with its iconic image of Darius the Great. Despite the great king’s death two generations before, the money of Darius still lived on, even in those lands which had long resisted his armies. The old Persian king bore spear and bow, stamped deep into the metal, though the pockets of a thousand men had smoothed the coin’s edges.

Get plenty of quills, too; we could be at it for a while. Haggle. Bring me back some silver in change.

I heard that you killed Darius the Great, to save Greece after the Battle of Marathon.

Did you hear I assassinated the Queen of Caria, too, after she set Greek against Greek at Salamis? Maybe. Though, perhaps you could avoid believing everything you hear, Androkles, if you want to discover the real truth. Now get going!

After a good lunch, lubricated with white wine from their vineyard, Luke contemplated his good fortune to still be alive after so many years of throwing dice against various walls of chance. Despite his comfortable surroundings, his life had been bloody. He would rather have thrown the dice one more time than unburden himself like this to his innocent grandson; but perhaps this opportunity had presented itself for a reason?

Androkles poised an excited quill over fresh goatskin parchment, while his grandfather sat back in a chair. The old man pondered what his opening lines might be, then decided to follow a military lesson from Miltiades, his former commander and a general of Athens. He would charge straight towards the enemy, at full pace, to take Androkles off his guard.

A white bird flew over the villa’s walls and perched upon the peak of the garden’s tallest apple tree. The bird whistled a song, as it bobbed up and down on its whispering branch, and the account began.

My mother was Princess Godelvia of Gotland, a distant land in the far north, where the Ice Gods live. She gave birth to me at midnight in a temple grove on a sacred island of the goddess Freya, who you know as Aphrodite, the Goddess of Love.

The old man let that nugget settle with Androkles, who kept his eyes down, taking notes as quickly as he could.

This was nine months after a Mother Night festival held on the winter solstice, when it’s dark for most of the day. The sun rides above the horizon for just a few hours, so there’s little else to do except drink herb-flavoured ale and make babies. My father was Lord Adalwolf of the Angelwolf clan and I was the product of their illicit passion.

Androkles sucked in his breath.

As Godelvia was High Priestess of Freya at the time, and supposed to remain a virgin until her twenty-eighth year, such a sacrilegious birth carried the punishment of both mother and child being stoned to death by the high king, who was her father of course, and my grandfather, King Gotleib. If the king failed to uphold the sacred laws, then he too would be stoned.

Is that why we call them barbarians? said Androkles, unable to remain silent.

Greeks can be a lot worse.

Am I a Greek or a barbarian?

You can decide that, Androkles, once you’ve heard the rest of this tale, because I should’ve died, there and then. King Gotleib attended my birth, in the most sacred of Freya’s holly tree groves, to ensure the priestesses slit my throat. But the Goddess overwhelmed the king with love at the sight of his baby grandson; he ordered those witches to let me live before summoning Lord Adalwolf. To hide my birth, the king invented some spurious crime and banished the Angelwolf clan from Gothaven. He sent them across the Balcian Sea in nine longships — with my father leading the tribe, plus my mother and me — to a forested coast with a sheltered bay and some good fisheries.

Were people there already?

Native tribes apparently gave us some trouble at first, but our clan contained a great swordsman, Bearwolf, an earless giant who possessed half a nose and the sharpest blade in Gotland. After a few skirmishes with Bearwolf and our chosen warriors, the Balcians learned to tolerate our presence, so we formed the new Kingdom of Angland, with my father, King Adalwolf, as its first ruler. We built a stockade around our first fortified town and called it Angholm.

So, I’m a royal prince! said Androkles.

Kings are chosen, under Gothic law, I’m afraid. Sons of kings take precedence, of course, due to the quality of their blood, but sometimes a king might spawn nothing but a rats’ parcel of unworthy sons. The tribe then decides if someone else is better, because the word ‘king’ only means ‘leader of kin’, rather than ‘lord of heaven’. So if you want to be a Gothic king, Androkles, you must travel to Angland, if it still exists, to claim your kingdom. I’ll come too, and so will your great-uncle, if you want us along. We could both do with one last great adventure.

What was Bearwolf like?

Hal and I spent many days at sea with Bearwolf and other kinsmen, catching fish and travelling to traders around the Balcian coast; we were seafarers to the bone. We traded with Saxons mostly. We also spent many days being battered by Bearwolf with wooden weapons in woodland clearings. We even joined a few battles, in the rear, of course, once we were older. By sixteen summers I knew a hundred ways to kill a man, including three ways with my thumbs; my body also ached with ten thousand bruises. The old man pressed some of the muscles in his forearms, in remembrance. The best thing Bearwolf taught me, however, was to avoid fighting wherever possible, or at least to stay calm, though you can generate rage in the other man if you lack alternatives — it opens him up for an easier kill.

Great-Uncle Hal just laughs and smiles.

These days, of course, Hal is very fat, but back then his strength always shocked his opponents; the fools never stopped underestimating his red hair. With great agility and skill, he would get under his opponents, drive them up into the air and skewer them on their way down with his sword, Lokir. He could also shoot a deer in the neck with a slithering arrow at one hundred yards, without a thought; I never really got the hang of archery myself.

You were brilliant with your swords last night. The old man smiled at his grandson’s good manners.

For years, Bearwolf aimed to kill us ten times a day. However, before we left his training school, when our younger brothers joined the lessons, we almost killed him most days too. By then, our tribe had become the chief amber traders amongst the Goths, so they needed us on the rivers, as well as the seas. We would buy fine insect-filled stones from the Balcians, and collect other gems that we combed up ourselves on our beaches. I still remember the north-eastern winds that would whistle and slice through my cloak, and the bitter darkness that could only be navigated by stars. Luke shivered. Each spring, Angelwolf ships would set off for the land of the Gerroians, deep into the European continent, south, and then east via the River Istula, until we reached the high steppe. We lost a few clansmen over the years, to various brigands on the rivers, but my father always brought back enough silver to keep us in finery and food throughout the rest of the year, with enough left over for sails, weapons, and other tools to maintain Angland’s freedom. But, he always hungered for more wealth and power. I think he looked forward to the day when King Gotleib would die, and the lords of Gotland would elect a new high king. He intended to be that man, to take Queen Godelvia back home in style.

You were still banished? Luke nodded.

Anyhow, my father wondered who the Gerroians were selling our amber to, up on the steppe, and what they were getting for it — he suspected they received gold, whereas we only got silver — but the Gerroians were very suspicious and never let him wander beyond their trading town of Bugratis; my father wanted to cut out the Gerroian middle-man and get their extra profits for ourselves. He needed spies to find out what was happening to the amber and who it was being sold to, so he could contact them and set up different arrangements. Luke paused and surveyed the trees. The white bird still watched him. How’s your scribbling? he asked Androkles.

Herodotus wants me to travel with him when I’m old enough, to help him finish off his scrolls. He’s been teaching me every day and now I can write quicker than he can. Go on, grandfather.

I was always a natural linguist, the best in the tribe, and perhaps the best amongst the Goths. Raimund, our shaman, said he had never seen one so gifted, so my father decided I was to be used to contact whoever was buying the amber stones from the Gerroians. Prince Hariwald — your uncle Hal — would be my backup, as he was fairly good with languages too. With five other brothers, there were plenty of other heirs to the kingdom and this was to be our test of manhood to see if we were warriors worthy of kingship. And so, in my seventeenth year, the king took Hal and me with him up the River Istula and onto the steppe. Deep into Gerroian territory, before reaching the usual Gerroian trading town, my father unloaded us over the side of the boat and our quest began. I still remember that last touch of his hand on mine. Luke gripped his own right hand with his left. ‘A real king needs to know real fear and his achievements must be impressive,’ he said before he dropped me into that cold river, ‘which is why your test of manhood needs to be harder than everyone else’s. Bring back Hal alive.’

The old man reached around his neck and pulled up a pendant. Androkles could see a perfect spider embedded within a smooth globe of clear dark amber. A silver clamp attached the gem to a leather thong. He had marvelled at his grandfather’s pendant many times.

My mother gave me this jewel before we left Angland. The old man stood and pulled the pendant up over his neck. He placed it over his grandson’s head and squeezed the boy’s cheek between thumb and finger.

Luke fell back into his own creaking chair and sighed. He waved his hands to encourage Androkles to resume his note taking.

Pretend to be a great writer, like Homer, and when you’ve got enough notes, write it up as a legend, or an epic tale. Make me sound like Achilles and make Great-Uncle Haleos sound like Ajax. Do it well, Androkles, and I’m sure Herodotus will be impressed. He may even add a few of your scrolls to his histories.

PAPYROS α

LUKE SLITHERED INTO the water, waist deep, weighed down with weapons, a water skin, and smoked-meat food supplies. Hal followed him into the river; he splashed his elder brother and fell against him.

You’re supposed to be a chosen warrior, said Luke.

I’m testing your strength.

The three ships moved on, southward, into the morning dimness, without another word from their crews. As rowing oars slipped into the river, water dripping from their blades, the red sails disappeared upstream. The route narrowed, as the dragon-prowed ships worked their way upstream. The river would cease to be navigable in three miles, at the trading town of Bugratis.

The boys scrambled up the riverbank, now travelling on their own.

Their father wanted them to scout out the steppe beyond Bugratis and a nearby town he had learned about the previous year. He thought the amber might be travelling there first, after it was sold to the Gerroian king. He would meet them back on the river at the same location, in one week’s time.

Find out who they’re selling our amber to, Adalwolf had said the previous evening. You’re amazing with languages, Luke. Try to find out their names and where they’re from, and see if you can bring one of them back to the river. We can try to work out a mutually satisfactory arrangement to get around the Gerroians.

The brothers jogged towards a dip in the hills in the east, as their musty clothes dried in a steady wind.

Within a couple of hours they were in the hills and had reached the saddle of land spotted earlier.

A bridleway emerged from the grass, scattered with hoof marks; the smell of dried horse manure percolated the air. Luke left the bridleway and started to climb the right-hand hill, where an ancient cairn formed a beacon on its summit.

What’s our story, if we get caught? said Hal.

The plan is to avoid getting caught, said Luke. He fell to his stomach as they approached the cairn, his body thumping onto the ground.

Get down! We could be seen for miles on a crest like this.

Hal dropped to his belly and they both crawled the last thirty yards to reach the rocky summit. This won the prize for the highest point for miles, in any direction. The smells from the steppe, so different from the coast, swept up and over them.

A brown smudge to the south indicated Bugratis, the known amber trading town. From there, the River Istula meandered northwards towards them. Luke spotted three tiny red sails, as his father’s ships emerged from a bank of dense river mist.

He’s got them rowing hard, he said, as he rubbed the stiff muscles of his lower back with his hand.

I’d rather be rowing hard on those boats, said Hal, than up here resting with you.

We’ll be floating home in a week.

As Luke looked beyond Bugratis, the Istula faded into a vast green heath, with large patches of swamp; this filled the southern horizon. As their father had suspected, about a full day’s walk to the east lay another town, rested up against the same southern swampland.

This town had to be their target.

Luke squinted into the low morning sun. He could see a ragged line that cut through the trees, heading east out of Bugratis. This cut across the green steppe just north of the marsh, guiding a yellow trail, like a sweeping arrow, towards the distant eastern town. Although they were located too far away to see details, there seemed to be movement on the road, with occasional glints of metal.

Cattle or horses? said Hal.

Warriors, said Luke.

After marching down from the hills, with the sun going down, but with their target town still a couple of hours away, the brothers found themselves a place to rest in the bank of one of the steppe’s many languid streams. Stumpy willows and wizened elders lined both banks of this stream; the sky above darkened into deepest blue, speckled with stars.

Without a fire, which would be noticed, trepidation gripped both boys as the night progressed. Most Goths regarded home as whichever ship they currently sailed on or whichever haven they currently drank in. These two young warriors found themselves a long way from anything resembling either a sailing ship or a beer hall.

Hal slept. Although he tried to keep watch, Luke’s tiredness took hold and his eyes closed.

During the night the goddess Freya visited Luke, as she had many times before, in her unclothed beauty. Copious blonde tresses of hair fell to a willowy waist.

Do you trust me? she said.

Have I honoured you enough in your temple groves, my Lady?

I will keep your brother safe.

What will I do if we get caught?

Believe in me.

Freya dissolved with the hues of sunrise.

PAPYROS β

LUKE AWOKE WITH a blade jabbed into his throat and the bitter tang of horses in his nose. The blade almost severed his windpipe when he tried to sit up.

The silhouette of a man on a black horse, at the end of a lance, rasped out some orders. Although unintelligible as words, these orders were clear in their intent. Lie there, they said, and stay still. Luke stole a rightward glance. Hal remained asleep with a second blade resting on his midriff.

At the end of this lance a helmeted man perched upon a brown horse, marked with a white patch on its forehead. Both horses stood in the rippling stream. Several more dark-haired men encircled the boys on both riverbanks, their horses amongst elders and willows, as the water trickled by. Luke had failed his first real test as a warrior by failing to observe the primary rule of surviving in enemy territory — always set a watch.

He determined never to diverge from Bearwolf’s rule set again, no matter what excuse presented itself. He looked around to execute Bearwolf’s complementary rule — observe everything, all the time.

Creaking black leather trousers and quilted black jackets encased all of these steppe riders, topped off with iron helmets. A variety of weapons hung down from each horseman’s saddle, which included a recurve bow and two quivers of arrows per man.

A dappled grey horse and a furred dark cloak set the group’s probable leader apart. This man’s stubbled face expressed puzzlement. Above him, puffy white clouds drifted through an otherwise grey-blue sky. A few black crows jostled in nearby trees. They called out in anticipation of a possible feast, their grating caws setting Luke’s teeth on edge.

The lances were lifted slowly at a soft command from the leader. Luke reached out to rock his brother awake. Hal jumped up, though Luke’s hand held him down.

Lie still, said Luke. Father’s test is over.

Although the sun had burnished the faces of the steppe riders, their eyes sparkled. More incomprehensible Gerroian orders suggested that Luke and Hal should get up. Now that the shock had passed, Luke could detect word boundaries within the rough flow of this new tongue. A section of his mind set to working out whether it was Balcian, Saxon, or Gothic in its construction, or something completely different.

As the boys rose to their feet, a pair of horses in the stream stepped backward, their rear hooves slurping into mud. Their two riders dismounted and stabbed the metalled butt ends of their lances deep into the riverbank. Other spear points came in from six directions before the dismounted riders walked over and searched Luke and Hal. One of the men had a mouthful of broken teeth which, no doubt, contributed greatly to his foul breath.

When the men found handfuls of dried sausage hidden under the boys’ grey cloaks, they tossed these up to their comrades, who set about a bonus breakfast with enthusiasm.

As their search continued, the men also discovered Gothic daggers and short swords of the finest quality, earned before Luke or Hal could leave Bearwolf’s training circle. With grins from one to the other, they removed the boys’ adornments and prizes before handing them to their captain, who tossed all the clanking weapons into an empty leather arrow quiver attached to his saddle.

The leader’s initial puzzlement gave way to a slow smile. Hal had received a silver bracelet from his mother before their journey south, with embedded amber stones, which the men twisted off his wrist. The leader held this and Luke’s spider pendant up to the sky, to watch the amber stones glow, and then pocketed the treasures deep inside his cloak. He patted them, for good measure, as the metallic hoard of other steel treasure grew.

More orders followed. The two men on the ground pushed Luke and Hal up onto the horse with the white forehead patch, before strapping them together. Hal faced forwards at the front, with Luke’s arms wrapped around him from behind.

The two men then leapt onto the other horse, also one behind the other, like an iconic image of the heavenly Alcis twins, a pair of brother gods which Gothic fathers would carve upon the cradles of twins. As cradle heirlooms moved through Gothic generations, many attracted this mark, which included Luke’s own cradle, later used by Hal, and followed by twin boys and three more sons. With no sisters, it was a much-battered cradle, but Luke clung onto its image, back home in Angland, as the horses started to move.

The captain led his troop at a slant towards the main road, down the banks of the gurgling stream, and then turned left at the road towards the eastern town. Without much previous horseriding