An Inheritance (part 1)

The Story of Isocrates

In northern Boeotia, many score fallen littered a battlefield which was only recently vacated by the victors. Now for the vultures, this was a banquet. The evening sky was full of a kettle soaring, perusing the carnage below, and their brethren already at work.

Squawking and posturing, hungry birds vied for choice positions; the smallest were the white pharaoh’s chickens. The diminutive scavengers were not powerful enough to rip open the flesh of large carcasses, human or otherwise. Instead, they concentrated on the more tender areas, thrusting their bright orange heads into eye-sockets, mouths, and anuses.

The defeated had been stripped of their armor, and were left in tattered, and bloody chitons, exposed to the gluttonous horde. And the pharaohs were not dining alone. There were cinereous, and griffon vultures as well, each much larger than the pharaohs, and able to rend flesh with ease. The cinereous – or blacks, as they were commonly known – were covered in ebony down, hence the moniker. But the griffon vultures were the most aggressive, the rulers of the wake.

Nearly four-meters from tip to tip, a griffon’s wingspan more than doubled the height of the average man. They had tawny bodies, with tow-colored heads, and fearsomely hooked beaks, of a straw hue. With crop fully gorged, a female griffon shrieked, and nipped angrily at a nearby cinereous – a simple display of dominance. The other bird shrieked in return, then leaped away cowed. Satisfied, the griffon vulture spread its wings, and launched itself upwards.

Weighing a full half talent, female griffons were larger even than their male counterparts. The huge wingspan was necessary to lift so cumbersome a load. Once it gained the right altitude, it soared awhile, circling the battlefield nine times, not needing to flap, carried on the thermals. Eventually it broke from the kettle and flew northward.

As a hatchling, the griffin had been born into a volt that roosted far to the south, on the slopes of Parnassus, near Delphi. In adolescence, it was struck by wanderlust, and in wandering happened upon a new, larger flock. A flock that disregarded random carrion; birds with a taste for human flesh. Most of their meals were provided compliments of a certain Boeotian chief.

Crossing the Pindus, into sandy Phthia, the griffon flew over a palace-and-citadel. Utilizing the natural defenses of the mountainous geography, the dwelling overlooked an escarpment. A man approaching the palace looked up as the giant bird passed, and for an instant their eyes met.

Ch. 1

Encountering the vulture as such chilled Isocrates to the bone. His hand shot to the talisman he wore about his neck; an apotropaic eye. His clothing was animal hides, a bear-fur mantel over his shoulders.

The vulture continued north, and Isocrates watched until it disappeared in the distance, his gaze lingering on the empty horizon. After a moment, he collected his thoughts, turned, and continued his ascent. The farms in the lowlands behind him had given way to stacks of limestone shelves. Barren, and boulder strewn, the only foliage was yellow-green scrub.

Now from up ahead came the sound of barking, loud and deep-throated. From over the hill, a Molossian hound bounded into view, big enough to dwarf a wolf in comparison. The dog kept barking, rushing straight for Isocrates, who raised his arms defensively. He was flung backwards in the collision with the dog that weighed more than he did.

They rolled down the hill, a tangled ball. When they came to a stop, he was flat on his back, with the dog on top of him. Pinned as he was by the huge beast, he was powerless against the slimy tongue assault that followed.

“Stripe!” Said Isocrates, a wide smile across his face. “My, how you’ve grown!”

The brindle hound went on licking, its rough tongue coating his face in warm slobber.

“Okay boy, that’s enough!”

The dog paused, with great dewlap dangling above its captive; Isocrates was showered with more drool. He squirmed beneath the animal’s weight, and after a few more licks, it reluctantly let him up. The dog seemed as if it were overwhelmed, moving about frantically, whilst wagging its tail, and whining.

“Glad to see you too boy.” Said Isocrates, wiping slime from his face with a forearm.

He playfully ruffled the dog’s ears, then ran a hand over its chest, admiring the musculature.

“What have you been eating?”

Isocrates had gotten Stripe when he was a boy of twelve, and the dog was a freshly-weaned pup. At fourteen, he had had to go away for his five-year mandatory military enlistment, which he had recently completed. He had been called home once, for a family emergency, a year into his term. At that point in time, Stripe had not been fully grown, having gotten taller, but with a much slenderer physique. Four years later, save for the markings, the dog looked a different animal entirely.

Together they continued up the hill, eventually reaching the stone wall surrounding the palace-grounds. The dog ran through the open gate, then paused and looked back, waiting for Isocrates to follow.

Those gates would be shut in the event of an attack. Residents of the surrounding countryside could amass here, protected by fortified citadel. This had never occurred in Isocrates’ lifetime; the region enjoyed a relative peace. It had not always been so idyllic.

Before Isocrates was born, his father, and his father before him, had fought and defended these lands from encroachment. Seated on one of the few passes through Mount Othrys, the area was prized, so the threat persisted. Man is ever covetous after that of his neighbor.

The dog allowed him to catch up, then sprinted off again, across the courtyard to the palace. It stood beneath the portico, staring at the door. Shaking his head, Isocrates walked up to the door and knocked. He was about to knock again when it swung open, and a familiar face greeted him.

“Master Isocrates!” Said an old man, smiling with toothless grin.

“Agapetus!” Said Isocrates, extending his hand.

“Get over here!”

Isocrates was pulled in for a hug.

“Those old bones still have strength, I see.” He said in response, held tight in the old man’s embrace.

Having served the household since long before Isocrates’ birth, Agapetus had become like family. He started to follow the old man into the house, with Stripe close on his heels.

“Your father wishes to keep him outside.” Said Agapetus, blocking the dog’s entrance. “You know better than that!” He scolded the animal.

“Since when?” Asked Isocrates.

“Since he became so large he started breaking everything.”

Stripe had his ears pressed flat to his head, and his tail slunk low in defeat. He looked up at Agapetus with a pitiful stare.

“Go on!” Shouted the servant, pointing a finger out the door.

The dog barked once – not threateningly, but to show its displeasure – then it ran off, out of the courtyard.

“You’ve grown taller.” Said Agapetus, as Isocrates entered the house.

“I should hope so. We all grow up eventually.”

“That we do, and then we get old.” Spoke Agapetus, smiling. “Your whiskers are filling in; your chin is nearly hidden.”

“Almost.” Said Isocrates, nodding his head.

“Your father is in the mill.”

“I’ll go to him, then.”

“Pardon my saying so, master, but I’d imagine you’d seek to make self presentable first.”

Isocrates looked down at his disheveled appearance, from several days traveling, and his recent reunion with the overzealous hound.

“I’ll have a bath drawn,” continued Agapetus, “then head to the kitchens and see something choice put on.”

“I can draw my own bath, don’t bother. But the trip to the kitchens…” Isocrates’ words trailed off as he began licking his lips, and rubbing his belly.

“Of course, master. On my way to the kitchens, I’ll see that your father gets news of your arrival.”

“Tell him I’ll meet him in the andron.”

“Oh, he’ll be so delighted!”

With that, the old man headed off, while Isocrates went for a bath. Along the wall to his right hung a finely stitched tapestry, an elaborate depiction of a boar hunt. He continued on past it on the way to his room.

After his travels, the warm bath was soothing, and he left it feeling quite refreshed. Having grown out of all of his childhood garments, he was forced to visit his older brother’s wardrobe, and to borrow something that fit – a fine woolen robe he had always admired. He made his way to the andron, finding his father there, seated at a table across the room, with a cup of wine in hand. His father rose immediately upon his entrance.

“At last, you’ve arrived!”

Patriarch of the House of Gregorios, Kleitos was in his mid-forties - but to Isocrates, he never changed much. Since as long as he remembered, his father’s beard had had the same patch of grey at the chin, and he bore the same penetrating stare. That stare had instilled him with fear as a child; it still caused him to shift uncomfortably as he stood there. Unconsciously, he looked away, glancing about the familiar room.

The wall straight ahead was dominated by a wide and deep-set hearth. Within the hearth a stack of logs supported a brightly burning flame, which bathed the room in a warm and golden glow. That flame had burned continuously since long ago, when it was first lit by his great-grandfather, Gregorios. A pair of stuffed wolves stared menacingly from a corner, in another, a mountain-lion, paw raised and frozen in mid-swipe. On the walls were the mounted heads of deer, alongside various weapons.

“Greetings, father.” Said Isocrates, crossing the room.

The two clasped hands.

“How was your journey?”

“Uneventful, which I guess means I had a good journey.” He answered, the whole time attempting to gauge his father’s mood.

“A safe one.” His father added.

“Indeed.” Said Isocrates, looking away to avoid that stare.

The room’s centerpiece was an enormous boar’s-head, mounted above the hearth. The infamous Bistre Swine of Othrys, slain over a half-century prior. Over the course of seven years, dozens of brave men sought out the monster, to stand against it. Those merely gored were the lucky ones.

Two sets of tusks curved backwards up from its mandible, the front pair were biggest, nearly a meter in length. It so happened to be Gregorios who led the hunting-party that finally brought the hog down, gaining him much local favor. It was said that when the carcass was dragged back to the village, there were not any scales big enough to weigh it. To settle the issue, they weighed it in pieces; it added up to forty stone. In commemoration, Isocrates' grandfather had commissioned the tapestry that hung in the hallway, ever since.

“Still no news from Origines?” Asked Isocrates, looking from the boar to his father; unsure which stare was most intimidating.

“You would hear sooner than I.” His father replied.

“How is that?”

“You were stationed north of here, which is closer to wherever he is.”

“How long before you give up hope?” Asked Isocrates.

“The last I heard he was somewhere on the fringes, near Macedonia.”

“How many years ago was that?”

His father did not answer, and instead took another drink.

Origines was Isocrates’ older brother, who he had not seen now going on nine years. His brother had never returned from his five-year enlistment. One had the option to re-enlist, which was in fact quite common. But soldiers who did, tended to visit on occasion, or at least stayed in touch by messenger.

“If word concerning mother didn’t drag him home, I doubt that anything would.”

“Perhaps that news never reached him.” Said his father in protest.

“The news found me; it would have found him as well. That was four years ago, how long has it been since he stopped communicating?”

“I heard from him a few times during the first two years he was away.”

“Then it’s been seven years, father? I would think it time now we let him go.”

“Perhaps he’s swept up in the turmoil surrounding this upstart Tagus.”

“Origines always seemed passionate about the cause, but that would not have kept him away for this long. And you speak of Tagus Hypatos as if his actions are less than praiseworthy. Before he seized power, the tribes were broken. Now we are banding together against the invaders. What is the matter with that?”

“I’ve come to distrust any a man who reaches for the scepter.”

Isocrates was quiet a moment before responding, “Would you rather that our people continue to fight amongst themselves?”

“His three years as Tagus have been violent as ever.”

“The tribes needed first be unified. The chieftains didn’t just bow down.”

“His methods are often excessive. Now they’re calling him Lord of Vultures.”

Upon his father’s mentioning vultures, Isocrates could not help but to be reminded of the one he sighted earlier, but he thought nothing of it.

“So I’ve heard. It is said that they follow him in the thousands, enough to block Helios!” He said, envisioning such a flock.

“I’ve seen enough of them.” Said his father, and with a final swig he emptied his cup.

“Not thousands at a time though. It must be a sight to behold!”

“Sounds rather ominous, if you ask me.” Spoke his father, refilling his cup, and doing the same to that of Isocrates, which was only half empty.

“If they feast on your enemy, then the omen is good.”

“If.” Said his father, laughing dryly.

The scent of frying onions now hung on the air, wafting in from the kitchens. Isocrates’ stomach growled loudly, in long anticipation of a home cooked meal. The cherry-wood table was old but sturdy, with a crudely etched sword, the size of his palm, etched on the surface.

“Remember when you caught Demetrios in the act of carving this?” Asked Isocrates, tracing the outline with his finger.

“Of course I remember, I was furious.”

They both smiled.

“What of Demetrios?”

“Being Demetrios.” His father answered, shaking his head.

Isocrates smiled at his father’s response, but saw that he was not laughing.

“What has he done now?”

“Disregarding protocol, running with rascals, allowing them to drape him off; getting discharged.”

“Discharged?” Asked Isocrates, surprised by the revelation.

Now Demetrios, his wayward little brother, had a penchant for mischief. But getting discharged was no trivial matter.

“I took care of it.” Said his father, a look of disgust crossing his face. “I had to personally go and visit Chariton’s keep, and put lip to arse before he was reinstated.”

“What did he do?”

“If you ask him, nothing. But he and his pack of ruffians were caught with pilfered steeds.”

Isocrates sipped his wine, unsure what to say.

“Chariton had him transferred to a different post,” His father continued, “but just give him time. He’ll find the lowest ilk there to fall in with.”

“That is Demetrios.” He agreed, and they both took a drink and were silent a moment. “How is Carnaea?” He asked, inquiring of his sister.

“She was here with her husband just this past autumn. In all this time, she’s yet to conceive.”

“Has she visited Gaia’s shrine?”

“She’s visited every shrine, and every midwife here to Pharsalos.”

“Perhaps she should head to Macedon, and consult Adrastos’ midwives.” Said Isocrates in jest.

Macedon was the seat of a vast northern empire, stretching from Illyria to western Thrace. Adrastos, known as the Grand Basileus in his realm, had many children, from many wives.

“There could be merit in that plan. He expects yet another child.” Said Kleitos.

“My guess is that he prays it is not a boy; he has enough claimants for his throne.”

“This one could be his awaited heir.”

“You mean it’s by his first wife?” Asked Isocrates, surprised.

His father nodded in the affirmative. Though Adrastos had sons, by lesser-wives, the Basilinna had borne only daughters.

“We don’t need chaos on our border.” Isocrates began. “If she were to give him a son, that would mean stability there.”

“Stability equals strength, and strength is the last thing you’d wish for your enemy.”

“Has Adrastos broken the treaty?” Asked Isocrates.

“No, I speak in general. Adrastos has shown himself to be a man of peace. But the son does not always follow after the father.”

Isocrates grew quiet again.

(to be continued…)