Disclaimer: Katekyo Hitman Reborn! belongs Amano Akira; this fiction has nothing to do with mythical names or real historical events

Prompt: Xanxus/Squalo—roles; 'you're the woman here'

Credit: Thank you so much for Creedkeeper, Emotive Gothika, Selena's_Magick and Noreht who kindly beta-read this fic

Warnings: amputation; yaoi lime; het voyeurism with OC; shota paedophilia with OC

Author's Note: This fanfic uses British English (single quotations for normal speech)

In the canon series, Squalo cut his own left hand, but in this fanfic, another man cut off his right arm.

Cultural Background:

The story takes place in the ninth-tenth century BC, two centuries after the Trojan War. The cities are governed separately rather than as one nation (the unification of Greece is under Alexander the Great, centuries later). Eretria is located in the island of Euboea. Sardis is the capital of Lydia, which would later be conquered by the Persians in 498 BC The First Persian War broke out in autumn 490 BC, with the destruction of Eretria as its prelude, and continues with the Persians confronting the Athenians at Marathon. Map of Ancient Greece: plato-dialogues dot org

The festival for Dionysus is in the month of Elaphebolion (end of March). The most famous festival in honour of the god of wine and theatre was called 'Greater Dionysia,' involving theatrical plays as well as processions in Athens from sixth century BC onwards. The festival for Dionysus in this fic is none so grand; elaborate drama props and performances had not been invented.

Hermes = god of theft and travel as well as the messenger of the gods

Criophorus = 'Bearing a Ram'—one of Hermes' epithets

Argeiphontes = 'Slayer of Argus'—one of Hermes' epithets

Selene = goddess of the moon

Helios = god of the sun (Helios Hyperionides means Helios son of Hyperion)

Eos = goddess of the dawn

Hemera = goddess of the day

Nyx = goddess of the night

Boreas = god of the northern wind

Notus = god of the southern wind

Hypnos = winged god of sleep

Somnos = winged god of death

Hephaestus = god of blacksmith

Cydoemus = the personification of the din of battle, confusion, uproar and hubbub

Androktasiai = the female personifications of manslaughter

Dis = another name for Hades, god of the underworld, which later evolves into 'Dis Pater' in the Roman world

Tartarean hound= Cerberus, the triple-headed dog who guarded the underworld

Pluton [lit. the rich] = an epithet of Hades, god of the underworld, because precious metals are located underground, where Hades resides

Themis = goddess of justice

Eilythia = goddess of childbirth

Apollo = god of healing, prophecy, poetry and music who also becomes a solar god later

Artemis = goddess of the wilderness and hunting who also becomes a lunar goddess later

Gaia = the earth, a primordial being who was parthenogenetically gives birth to the sky, the mountains and the sea, and then couples with the sky to produce the titans, the giants and many others

Uranus = the sky, the father of the titans and the grandfather of the gods

Tyche = blind goddess of fortune

Acheron = muddy river of sorrow in the underworld through which the dead need to cross

Pyriphlegethon = river of blazing fire in the underworld

Horn of Amalthea = Horn of Plenty / Cornucopia; Amalthea is the nanny goat who nursed baby Zeus

Condylos = a middle joint of finger unit of measurement, i.e. 38.6 mm

Plethron = 100 Attic feet, i.e. 29.6 m

Dichas = half foot, i.e. 14.9 cm

Chitoniskos = a knee-length chiton

Chiton = a woollen, linen or silk tunic, usually fastened with a girdle called 'zone' as well as brooches

Himation = a rectangular piece of cloth, frequently made of wool and can be used as a unisex mantle (usually slung over the left shoulder) or a female veil

Chlamys = a rectangular blanket-like woollen material, pinned at the right shoulder and often worn as travelling cloak by young men

Exomis = a tunic made of two rectangles of linen, which were stitched together from the sides to form a cylinder, leaving enough space at the top for the head and arms, seamed at the left shoulder so the right hand passed through the head opening

Karbatinai [sgl. karbatinos] = shoes of undressed hide, brogues, made of a single piece of oxhide, so that sole and upper leather were all in one, and tied on with thongs

Peplos = a simple sleeveless dress of made of wool, linen or silk, made of one large rectangular piece of cloth, but was formed into a cylinder and then folded along the topline into a deep cuff, creating an apoptygma, or capelet-like overfold

Xystis = a charioteer's chiton which covered all the way to the ankles

Proknemes [sgl. proknemis] = greaves

Petasos = large brimmed hat

Talaria = winged sandals

Hydria = a water jug with three handles

Eromenos [pl. eromenoi] = an adolescent boy who was in a love relationship with an adult man, known as the erastes. The term for the role often varied from one polis to another. In Athens, the eromenos was also known as the paidika; in Sparta they used aites (hearer),a term also used in Thessaly; in Crete the boys were known as kleinos (glorious)and if they had fought in battle with their lover, as parastathenes (one who stands beside). Eromenoi were generally males aged twelve to seventeen. Upon reaching the age of maturity (ca. eighteen years), the eromenos would cut his long hair and become eligible for taking on the role of erastes and courting and winning an eromenos of his own.

Erastes [pl. erastae] = an adult male involved in a pederastic relationship with an adolescent boy called the eromenos. Erastes, 'lover', was in particular an Athenian term for this role. Other terms were, in Sparta, eispnelas, 'inspirer,' and in Crete, philetor, 'befriender.'

Intercrural sex = a type of intercourse in which a one places his penis between his partner's thighs, and thrusts to create friction.

Luddu is the native Lydian name for the Greek (and English) translation 'Lydia.'

Achilles, the greatest of Greek hero during the Trojan War, was sulking in his tent and on the shore in Book I of The Iliad. Patroclus is Achilles' best friend, brother-in-arms and … uke!

Crying and bragging were regarded less negatively than they are now: ancient Greek heroes tend to weep and boast on their achievements more than modern heroes do.

In Ancient Greece, it was common even for a peasant to have a slave.

Ciconian women = the women of Cicones, a Thracian tribe which allied itself to King Priam in the Trojan War. When Orpheus returned from the underworld, failing to bring his beloved Eurydice back, he was so immersed in grief that he refused feminine advance and invented pederasty. Offended and broken-hearted, the Ciconian women tore him into pieces and scattered his remains into the river.

The pattern of the flight of birds was considered an omen. Hawks were regarded as Apollo's swift messengers whereas eagles were the birds of Zeus. It was a good omen if the birds flew from left to right, a bad omen if in the reverse direction.

Necros = corpse—the Greek translation for 'Mukuro'

Striges = winged demoness with avian talons who fed off the blood and entrails of children

PROLOGUE

'HELL NO!'

'Since when do you defy my order, scum?'

Squalo offered no further verbal reply, but his furious gaze fixed on the bleeding man lying on the floor before him.

His boss and himself were in their forties; even Xanxus' Liger and Squalo's Heavy Rain Shark were not invulnerable against intricate traps and a superior number of enemies. An invasion from the Capra Famiglia cost the Varia serious wounds. The enemies were taken down in the end, but they left a parting gift: a time bomb. Under Fran's supervision, the remaining Varia members and their subordinates had been evacuated from their headquarters. However, amidst the chaotic battles all around, nobody had noticed that Xanxus' gravely injured legs and liver prevented him from moving. That is, apart from one silver-haired man.

'I said get out of here!' Xanxus repeated his demand with a glare.

The Varia swordsman wouldn't budge from the floor he was sitting on, even though the injuries on his shoulder, arm and chest would still allow him to escape. For eight long years, he had only been able to stare helplessly at the impregnable shell of ice which confined the raven-haired man; he was not going to lose him again.

The air sweltered; Xanxus brought forth his Flame of Wrath. Predictably, compared to his usual ones, this flame was diminutive in scale and power—a dying man's final attempt.

Squalo did not even blink when Xanxus' fist was an inch away from the pit of his stomach.

Gradually, the flame died down. Xanxus' fist opened and his index finger crooked back and forth towards himself twice. Only then did the Varia leader find better luck with his right-hand man's obedience.

Obliged to follow the unspoken 'Come here!,' Squalo knelt. His broken ribs tormented him as he bent, but the strokes of the older man's breath on his jaw line compensated for the agony.

It seemed like his boss was about to say something, but the Varia's second-in-command was familiar with the other's awkwardness in conveying words of comfort. Hence, he did him a favour by sealing Xanxus' lips with his own.

As the seconds ticked by, memories of youth swam through their minds—how often they beat each other and quarrelled for petty things, and how often those fights ended up in bed or sofa or car hood or private jet seat or cruise ship cabin or swimming pool or sandy beach or alleyway or… Yet, for the two men drenched in blood, there was no moment more precious than now.

Judging from his considerable loss of blood, Squalo knew that his chance of survival, even if the bomb did not detonate, was not that great. He might pull through if Lussuria's healing power was at hand but the okama was on a mission with Belphegor and Leviathan in another town right now.

As Squalo rested his head on Xanxus' shoulder, he felt an inflating and deflating diaphragm underneath him, but the breathing weakened by the second. For one of the rare occasions in their lifetime, his boss did not refuse. Perhaps the older man was too tired to bicker or perhaps his wounds were even more serious than they seemed ... it didn't matter now. At least he'd die in a battle at Xanxus' side, thought Squalo, and what jackpot could fucking compare to that?

The Sword Emperor closed his eyes with peace of mind. Slowly, gradually, something he had never seen before, yet somehow not unfamiliar, visualised in his mind.

CHAPTER I

The Torture Chamber

'Once again, let me ask you, scum, where is Prince Xanxus?'

'Scum.' Why did it sound so differently from the one spoken by the Prince of Lydia?

Despite his thought, no word came out from the silver-haired man's mouth. Hands and feet shackled to the four parts of the wall, skin covered in bruises and injuries, starved and dehydrated, the man still held his pride.

'It seems that punches and lashes are too light for you,' his torturer observed, speaking in a falsely soft-spoken manner as he threw a spiked whip into one corner of the small, musty room.

There was only a single barred window located high on the stone wall, from which a small allowance of air made its way back and forth from the outside world. In the dancing flame of torchlight, the prisoner could see the man in grey chitoniskos now drawing the sword from his belt, its blade of iron glinting in demand for blood.

A broad grin graced the torturer's face, animosity laced throughout his voice. 'Let's see if the Fates will still allow you to lead the Eretrian army with one less arm, General Squalo.'

The so-called Squalo flinched not. He had long known how this man, seven years his elder, grew contemptuous of his achievements. Unlike many other boys of his age, Squalo son of Polymedes had always devoted his spare time to martial arts, particularly sword practice. The reward of his labour-coated skills was the appointment to be the general of the entire army some fifteen months ago, on his twenty-third winter. The man who stood before him, Aristomedon son of Neocles, had trodden down the military path long before Squalo had, but became his mere adjutant.

Now, Aristomedon deemed, came the long-awaited chance to get rid of the boulder in his stream. Swinging the sword with all his might, Aristomedon sliced Squalo's right arm without hesitation. The cut was swift, yet its pain engulfed the prisoner's whole being; it overwrote the stiffness and soreness of his body from being tied up so long. There was no time for the chopped flesh and bone to dangle from their former host; they simply dropped. No scream. No groan. No plea for mercy. Only ragged breathings and blood—the spatters of blood that tainted the wall and floor crimson…

… and the shatters of the dream of becoming the greatest swordsman in the world.

'What a pleasant thing your miserable state is to look upon!' spat the beefy Aristomedon triumphantly as he trampled the arm that had been separated from the rest of its owner's body. He laughed heartily upon seeing the spirit of life in Squalo's eyes die down as the bloodied flesh from the chopped arm scattered on the floor. But this was not enough. He came closer and breathed next to the younger man's ear, 'How is it to have a subordinate feast upon your defeat, eh, General?'

The dispirited man gave him no response. Hence, Aristomedon whistled to summon the dungeon guard dog. Trained to prevent prisoner escape to the point of ripping the prospective escapees to pieces, the ferocious dog was strictly fed raw meat alone. Soundlessly, he trod the cold stone floor and within seconds, he was already outside the torture chamber.

Cold sweat dripped down Squalo's skin when he noticed a pair of black eyes and a coat of brown slipping inside. It was for this purpose that Aristomedon had purposely left the door unlocked. With sheer delight, the vice-commander of the army kicked his general's severed arm near the canine's maw and declared, 'Your dinner, Sklerophagus.'

The hungry dog accepted the meal with enthusiasm, and the true owner of the flesh could do nothing but watch. Incisors shredded every sinew, ignoring the blood that spurted with each gnaw. Sklerophagus devoured the meat in situ and carried the bones outside with him as chew toys after he finished.

Yet, this was not enough. Aristomedon poked the tip of his blood-bathed sword onto Squalo's throat, and then slid it slowly down to the prisoner's wounded arm, where the disjointed part was, piercing at one particular tendon. More sweat drenched Squalo; still, the tormented man refused to admit defeat.

The door of the torture chamber flung open, revealing the figure of a middle-aged man in a woollen chiton embellished with gold embroidery. At any other day, he was a king who reigned with a mild temper; the expression he wore now, contrarily, was that of such obvious resentment and fury. 'Aristomedon, what madness is this?! Who gave you the permission to impair my general permanently?!'

Aristomedon's countenance blanched as fear seized him; it was no secret that the dauntless son of Polymedes was the king's favourite officer. 'Pardon me, my liege. As expected from our glorious general, this man proved to be most adamant and I lost my temper.'

But King Imbrasus was beyond irate: his most outstanding product was irreparable. He roared, 'GUARDS!'

The moment the four armed men came into view, he beckoned one of them, 'You, send a medic over here now!'

The soldier spurred his feet while the king addressed the remaining three, 'Bring this ingrate to the agora, tie him down and pour five cauldrons of boiling water over his body tomorrow at noon! Make sure our people are watching and let them learn that no man of hubris is welcomed to my hall! No meal is to be given to him until then!'

The king's tongue spoke no idle confabulation; each word had its own distinct weight. Hair stiffened with fear, Aristomedon lowered his body to hold the middle-aged man's beard and kiss his feet in a supplicating manner. 'O my godly king, most honourable son of Autophontes, I beseech you: would you show some mercy considering that I have served Eretria all these years?'

His lord peered at him with an unquenched displeasure and announced, 'Six cauldrons it is then!'

Aristomedon's pleas remained audible, drifting through the hall, even after the guards dragged him away from the torture chamber, away from King Imbrasus' sight. They ran into the royal medic, who was escorted by the other guard.

'Stop his bleeding!' instructed the king as soon as the medic entered the torture chamber.

The man opened his medical bag at once and began to work. The potion he used to coagulate Squalo's blood stung so much that the general had to clench his jaw.

'Look at you,' remarked the king, heavy at heart, his anger subsided and was replaced by compassion, as he glanced at the prisoner's amputated arm and swollen face, owing to the number of punches he had received earlier. 'On one hand, so strong-willed; on the other, piteous.' The middle-aged man sighed before continuing.

'You see, Squalo, I have no son. The Olympian gods have blessed me with six charming daughters, each no less graceful than their queenly mother. Rather than having a stranger to rule beloved Eretria, wouldn't it be far better if my son-in-law is a man who can and does appreciate the beauty of Eretria, a man who truly loves the entirety of Eretria, rather than merely the Eretrian throne?

Now, you may not be an Eretrian by birth, but you are as good as one. As a baby, you were found at the mercy of the waves on the shore by some fishermen. Poseidon the Earthshaker must love you so dearly to keep you safe and sound. Some even dared say that you were born out of the union between the sea god and a mortal woman or a nymph. Happy is he whom the deathless gods hold dear! Not only have you been endowed with such opulent beauty since birth, but you are also showered with talents towering the youths around your age as you grow up. Your achievements, Squalo, are no mere trinkets to Eretria: you have conquered several regions along the shores of the Peloponnese. No son of man snatched victory from you in a single combat. You have even become the general of my entire army at such a young age, rising from a mere fisherman's adoptive son into what you are now. I'd even bet a thousand drachma that no Achaian soldier has not heard of your illustrious name.

Now think of this, lad: my eldest daughter, Callipylia of the slim ankle, is at a marriageable age. Beauteous as she is, many a suitor has sought for her hand; yet, nobody won my favour, for I have set my eyes upon you.'

At this point, Squalo's eyes widened: never had had it occurred to him before that his lord king had intended to make him Xanxus' future brother-in-law. After all, the throne of Eretria had never been handed down to a non-royal blood throughout the ages.

The king continued, 'Let me speak a word of counsel to your heart. Immeasurable kudos you have brought upon this kingdom and you can continue serving Eretria. What need of you to lay your loyalty in a barbarian whose skin differs from ours, whose tongue speaks harsh words and whose gods are none but empty idolatry before the goodly race of Hellas?'

Why, Squalo asked himself, why indeed need he be loyal to Xanxus at any rate? His lord king was generous enough to offer him the throne of Eretria, along with the eldest princess. Furthermore, the foreigner's wellbeing should not have aught to do with him. What for? He questioned himself again. The copulations? They were no more than evanescent pleasure; surely there are many fish in the sea who could easily replace him. The friendship? Did Xanxus even consider him as a friend? So why?

'My lord king, with all respect, why did you plan to entrust your second eldest daughter in this foreigner's hands if he displeases you so much?'

'O son of Polymedes, are you not familiar with political marriages, young as you are? Be that as it may, as a general, surely you know about the Lydians' military strength? Allying ourselves to them is tantamount to guaranteeing our victories in the upcoming wars. A mere woman is a cheap price to pay for such alliance.'

Squalo stared in disbelief. Was this the true nature of the king he had served heretofore? Or perhaps this was the proper nature of all kings?

'Heed my words, lad. You have a bright future lying before you; why ruin it? Just tell this old man where that blasted foreigner is and you shall be freed.' The king grasped his general's intact hand as he spoke.

'His whereabouts is unknown to me.' Squalo gave the same answer.

A look of anger and anguish filled the older man's countenance. He clenched his fists momentarily, before raising his palms into three short claps. In response to this, the door swung open to reveal the figure of a blacksmith. In his sturdy hand, nestled a prong of which end glowed like ember.

'Give answer or this tongue of red-hot iron shall question you,' warned the king. Behind him, the blacksmith came closer, the metal in his hand sizzling vociferously.

'I cannot tell you what is not within my knowledge; all I know is that the Prince of Lydia never laid his hands on any of your daughters.'

When the heated iron marred the skin of Squalo's stomach with a strident hiss, the former general bit his lip so hard that it bled. Not daring to remove the metal until the king gave him the permission, the blacksmith did his duty with downcast eyes, silently lamenting the demise of Eretrian hero.

Afterwards, King Imbrasus heaved a deep sigh and closed the black door behind him, leaving Squalo in the company of silence once again.

Squalo gritted his teeth. He had refused to show his agonised state before any other man, but now that he was alone, he could weep to his heart's content. The stinging cuts and bruises on his skin—he had received more than two hundred lashes before he lost count on them—could only hurt him on the surface. So did the excruciating wound from his detached arm. These wounds were shallow enough compared to the one in his aching heart. He had promised both himself and his late father to be the strongest swordsman in the world. Being nothing more than a dismal remnant of his former glory, would he ever be able to return to be the man he used to be, a lord-of-war whom others feared above all men? Now, thanks to the absence of his dominant arm, the aspiration would surely become no more than a broken dream.

The son of Polymedes discoursed within himself. He still did not know why he took Xanxus' side, why he trusted this man or why he had become so attached to this foreigner. Truth be told, the ex-general failed to understand how a single man weighed over his entire homeland. And yet, he found his heart devoid of regret. All the bite marks he received from Xanxus would wash away in time, yet the shared passion within them would remain indelible from his mind.

Squalo gazed at the dungeon ceiling for a while before resigning to close his eyes. Whether he liked it or not, his devotion for the foreign prince had grown usuriously.

Xanxus, the Prince of Sardis, was betrothed to the fair-tressed Callithoe, the second eldest princess of Eretria. The prince was supposed to claim his bride and then carry her off to Sardis. However, this changed when the youngest princess, the rosy-cheeked Callipolyxo, was murdered. As the only foreigners who were admitted to the palace at present, Xanxus and his escorts became the main suspects of the assassination.

Squalo recalled the first time they met.

###

It was a warm sunny day in the spring when the leaves begin to reappear on the vine, in the month of Elaphebolion when Squalo patrolled down the agora. Being the day before the festival of Dionysus, the marketplace was more packed than in ordinary days, since many wealthy people bought meat and wine for the sacrificial offerings. Amidst the busy vendors who were attending to the buyers who crowded around them, pointing at the products they wished to purchase, there surely must be some who became easy victims to pickpockets.

Nothing was out of the ordinary until he heard a woman screaming 'THIEF! THIEF!'

Squalo hurried off to the screamer's direction. 'Which one is the thief?'

'He was clothed in black and he went that way.' Face blanched at her sudden misfortune, the woman in bright brown himation pointed at the alleyway between the Temple of Hermes and a pawnshop further down the road.

Into the dark alley, the general ran, but nobody was within his sight until he emerged from the alley's other end, where he bumped into a man whose raven-coloured hair was adorned with avian feathers and was wearing a peculiar vesture that was unmistakably black.

'YOU!' Squalo demanded while grabbing him by upper back portion of the fabric, 'Return the woman's money at once!'

The man turned to face him, displaying scars across his face. He seemed to be two or three years older than Squalo. There was a quizzical gleam in the man's eyes, but all that mattered to the army general was that this stranger dared to parry off his hand in resistance.

'Looking for trouble, scum?' A vexed remark took wing from the stranger's mouth.

'You're the one who's looking for trouble here, creep!'

Squalo aimed his fist at the stranger's solar plexus. Unexpectedly, the raven caught the fist and held it firmly with pure strength.

Just as Squalo raised his other hand to punish the bandit, four knives flew passed him, two by his strings of silver hair and the other two landed near his feet. Behind the scar-faced man were four others.

The first one, who was probably the eldest, wore effeminate draperies and a pomegranate pink blindfold. Strangely enough, he carried no walking stick. He did not even seem to have any trouble seeing through the blindfold. But then what does he wear the blindfold for? Squalo wondered.

Another, which was the tallest of them all, wore an iconoclastic hairdo and a thin moustache. He was the only one among them to wear beard and was slightly younger than the blindfolded man. His body was draped in a chlamys travelling cloak.

The third figure was a beautiful lank golden-haired youth of eighteen. Judging from the knives in his hands, he was the one who had just thrown the former four knives.

The last one, who was hooded in frog-like attire, was a mere child who could not be more than twelve years old. At the first sight, Squalo considered the possibility of him being a hostage, but then, he decided that the little boy's posture was far too relaxed to be one.

'You've brought accomplices,' snarled Squalo, 'Bah, not that it matters anyway. I'll be through in all five of you a few minutes!'

With a flick of his nimble fingers, Squalo picked the nearest knife that was embedded onto the wall behind him and sent it flying back to its owner.

The tallest man moved swiftly to shield the one with the avian feather, who apparently was their leader.

The youth—Squalo's target—dodged, and the knife barely missed his cheek by a condylos. The metal circlet on his head glinted so brilliantly in the sunlight, but not as bright as the smile, or sneer, to be precise, that only visited him when he found a worthy opponent.

'By order of the King of Eretria, all of you are to hold back force!'

The two opposing sides halted their steps. Turning their heads, they perceived a throng of officials in palatial uniforms, two of which were bearing the flags of his employer's family crest. Squalo recognised the speaker: the man who stood foremost of the line was none other than the royal chamberlain himself.

The chamberlain hailed, 'Welcome to Eretria, exalted son of Xanthias who delights in wild beasts. My master, the King of Eretria, has ordained us to escort you to the palace. I see the grace of heaven vouchsafed you in great abundance while crossing the salty sea on your way here. How may I serve you?'

The chamberlain glimpsed at Squalo, who was still standing with utmost indignation. 'General, you are also required to bow to the prince.'

'What prince?' Squalo scoffed, 'He speaks with the tongue of a commoner!'

With his usual pompous voice, the chamberlain gestured towards the leader and made his reply, 'This man here is the Prince of Lydia as well as the guest of our lord king, and must be treated as such.'

A comprehension dawned on Squalo; if the stranger was indeed of no Argive origin, no wonder his accent was coarse like a peasant's rather than eloquent like a nobleman's. Nonetheless, he had no intention to honour the man with whom he had just quarrelled, denying the royal guest even the smallest apology for his wrong accusation about the theft. Thence, the Eretrian general departed with no more words.

CHAPTER II

A Reception for the Lydian Prince

The Prince of Lydia and his followers were escorted with respect to the Eretrian palace, where King Imbrasus welcomed them with his hospitality.

That night, the king was giving a banquet for Dionysus. The hall was filled with men of various ranks, from the king himself to the low palatial officers as well as the foreign guests. Succulent meats were skinned and dressed so as to provide a magnificent banquet. Fresh fruits were sliced and punctiliously arranged to bedeck gold and silver platters.

Xanxus watched in silence as the royal steward supervised two nude servant boys heaving a large dinos jarful of ice into the hall, from which one of them then drew out a psychter wine cooler. Into a krater, the mellow wine and gleaming water from a hydria were mixed. With a kyathos, the diluted wine was ladled into many an oenochoe and served to the guests' stemless kylikes silver cups.

The king stepped forward with a phiale sacrificial vessel in hand and poured a libation to the gods. However, even during incantation of prayer, Squalo found it impossible not to steal a glance every now and then at the guest of honour. The men who sat near him commented how stately Xanxus looked despite the scars on his face. Squalo clenched his fists; to him, Xanxus looked stately because of those scars. When their eyes met, a smirk graced Xanxus's lips and Squalo pretended to pay his attention to the hung tapestry on the wall behind Xanxus. It was rich in colour, a culmination of meticulosity depicting Dionysus, the satyrs and the maenads with the canopy of luscious grape vines looming over them.

As was customary, the only females present were hired companions known as hetaeirai. At the centre of the mosaic floor, a dozen of these hetaeirai were playing auloi, while a dozen others set their nimble feet in a rapturous dance in accompaniment to the melodious tunes. Not far from them, on a stool by a pillar of the close-fitted roof, sat a bard, waiting for his turn to entertain the guests when the dance was completed. The song that the bard had chosen began with a hymn to the gods and continued with the great deeds of Theseus.

Squalo had been requesting refills more than his usual drinking capacity when the bard sang about the retrieval of Aegeus' sword and sandals from under a huge rock at Troezen; the killing of Periphetes at Epidaurus; the outwitting of Sinis at Cenchreae; the sow of Crommyon; the execution of Sciron; the crushing of Cercyon at Eleusis; the punishment of Procrustes; the slaying of the monstrous bull at Marathon; and the labyrinthine combat against the Cretan Minotaur. Squalo had to excuse himself for lavatorial relief when the bard sang of Theseus' fight against the fifty Pallantidae, and when he returned, the song had progressed to the hero's war against the Amazons.

The more Squalo stole occasional glances at Xanxus, the more irked he became—frustrated because the prince's lips were too far to touch, in the opposite side of the room. He could only demand the refill of his cup even more frequently when the bard sang the tale of fellowship between the Athenian Theseus and the Lapith Pirithous. Originally, having heard of Theseus' illustrious name, Pirithous had decided to test the hero's might by stealing the latter's cattle at Marathon. At their first encounter, the two men were astonished by each other's beauty. Pirithous declared himself Theseus' slave, but Theseus offered him his friendship instead.

Again, the Lydian Prince found the Eretrian general's behaviour amusing, and another smug grin lingered on his scarred face, aware though he was that this gesture has set the King of Eretria's nostrils to flare indignantly. The king had presumed the grin to be a sneer of mockery to Theseus' labours, if not the Greek culture on the whole, no doubt; for soon, the middle aged ruler rose from his cushioned seat and announced, 'Let the bard cease singing.'

Then the king of the land turned to address his raven-haired guest, 'Come. You must have far more laudatory heroic stories, o son of Xanthias, exceeding in strength. Keep them not for yourselves; even the noblest deed dies if suppressed in silence.'

No trace of fear drained the foreigner's countenance. He merely snapped his fingers and one of his followers, the golden-haired youth with an orihalcon circlet on his who had thrown the knives towards Squalo earlier that afternoon, rose from his seat. 'May I borrow a lyre?'

'How malapert! The king asked the Prince of Lydia to tell the story, not his attendant!' one of the officers mouthed a stentorian stricture.

Xanxus began to speak in Lydian language, but after just one sentence, all the Achaeans in the hall showed no sign of comprehension. Hence, the foreign prince switched his Lydian speech into Archaic Greek and challenged, 'Still want me to tell the tale?'

'As you will,' said the Eretrian king, 'May it please you to appoint one of your men who is more familiar with the Argive tongue.'

Thus, with a reverent bow, the bard handed the boy his lyre. It was not long before the youth's dainty fingers plucked each string flawlessly and began to sing. His voice was so clear and pleasant that a hush fell upon the crowd, absorbing all who listened like an engulfing storm. Many eyes were drawn to him, and many hearts craved to embrace the beautiful face of his, each wavered with desire to hear his enrapturing voice moaning when they grinded his fragile body underneath their own.

The lad sang how the Prince of Lydia had a passion for travelling and met each of his followers in a different island. Together they then ventured to faraway lands. But when he intoned the rodomontade of the taming of a strange beast called 'liger'—a mixed breed between a lion and a tiger, one of the bibulous banqueters mocked the song, 'No such beast exists … hic … If it does … hic … I would be Hephaestus in disguise … hic.'

This remark was well-accepted, and soon the others followed his lead. After one recited a portion of the drinking song and another improvised its next part by varying, punning, riddling, or cleverly modifying the previous contribution. Before long, the capping verses evolved into numerous skolia, and what which began with the extolment of the divine virtues or heroic men turned into the exchange of bawdy jokes.

'Please excuse this rowdiness, son of magnanimous Xanthias. At any other day, we Argives pride ourselves in enkrateia or "self-mastery", which presumes an attitude of moderation and self-restraint in all matters. However, tonight's banquet is held in honour of Dionysus, the god of wine, merry-making and madness; as tradition necessitates us, drunkenness is a must on this day.' The king stroked his long beard.

Xanxus curtly nodded, raised his kylix and proposed, 'To Dionysus.'

All who were present raised their kylikes and drank too. As the hours of the night immersed even deeper into darkness, the bacchanalian mood inspissated into pure orgy. The banqueters became bolder in groping the hetaeirai.

Squalo stared disdainfully across the room. Despite the number of cups he had drained, Xanxus still seemed sober, while Squalo himself was at the brink of inebriation.

Frustrated because he could not triumph over Xanxus in this field, Squalo sought for another option. He pulled a white-armed hetaeira onto his lap. Those who knew Squalo wondered if he was tipsy; they had lost count of the number of women—mostly the palatial maids—who had shared the general's bed, but he had never exhibited debauchery in public before. Even as he fondled her breasts and explored her womanhood with his fingers, his gaze never left the Prince of Lydia.

The Prince of Lydia himself, meanwhile opted to seduce one of the nude oenochoi wine bearers. The oenochoe jug slipped from the inexperienced boy's hand and would have crashed against the floor had the prince himself not caught it. Some wine splattered from the jug's rim, dribbling on the young boy's fingers.

'You must not waste the drink.' The prince told his captive so silkily that Squalo could hardly believe Xanxus could emit such voice.

Carefully, the prince laid the oenochoe on the table, while his other hand brought the boy's hand onto his mouth, sucking each finger as though it had been a rare delicacy. The teenage boy's worry gradually dissipated into enthralment.

The servant boy moaned briefly, but then he bit his lip. Withal, it was conspicuous enough that his abdominal muscles tensed up while Xanxus was attending the five digits of his right hand one by one. The boy closed his eyes, and would have kept them so if it had not been for Xanxus' call, 'I want more drink.'

The boy relinquished the couch with the pang of disappointment clearly shown on his face. Nevertheless, the moment he handed the prince the cup, his prayer was answered. The Lydian commanded, 'Pass it to me through your mouth.'

The boy trembled, but did as he was told—albeit not quite successful. The prince's tongue claimed him so ferociously that the liquid inside his mouth was bound to spill, laving his uncovered skin. The prince's kiss travelled downwards, chasing the crimson wine. When the merciless tongue reached one of his pectoral nubs, the young boy quivered even more; his thirteen-year-old self had never experienced such curious pleasure that hardened his phallus before.

And yet, his erection was nothing compared to the monumental flesh he saw when the Prince of Lydia removed his lower article of clothing.

The raven-haired prince made the hazel-eyed youth sit on his lap, parting the young thighs a little to flank his manhood. Pish, he shall make a good doll to King Imbrasus, thought Squalo. He is not engaging himself in an anal copulation with a boy or a cuntal copulation with a woman in his future father-in-law's presence; surely he shall obey the old man forever and ever.

On the opposite side of the room, Squalo was pounding the hetaeira to stand in all four on the floor and penetrated her from behind like a dog in a leash, unashamed not to seek the shadows of privacy for his dalliance. He thrust and thrust like there would be no tomorrow—everything he had, he spent them all that very moment. The bitch whimpered, but Squalo's attention was directed to opposite side of the room rather than to her.

'Submit yourself to me!' he heard a hiss from the Lydian mouth as the latter kept thrusting back and forth in-between the oenochoos' inner thighs during their intercrural congress.

'Yes, my lord,' subserviently, obediently, willingly the servant boy answered, unaware that the demand was not actually intended for him at all. The inexperienced boy could barely hold for two minutes. His back arched as his milk-white semen drenched Xanxus' fingers.

Nobody minded what they did, given that everybody else was also busy with their own sport. Hither and thither, hands groping others' bodies, hips shaking in tandem, and lascivious moans filled the hall.

CHAPTER III

Wrestling: the Arena and the Bed

The sun's chariot was passing its highest course across zenith when the Crown Prince of Sardis approached the General of Eretria practising shadow boxing alone in the palaestra the following day.

'What do you want, son of a noble?' Having just recovered from one of the worst hangovers in his life, the silver-haired man did not bother to conceal the sarcasm in his tone, and this was not unexpected to the raven-haired one.

'A rematch,' answered the foreigner simply.

That day was a festival day. In honour of Dionysus, most workers were relieved of their duties so that they might participate in the god's procession or watch it with their family or have an excuse to be legally drunk with their friends in broad daylight. Since the majority of the palatial officers were away, there was very little chance this rematch would be interrupted.

'You box and wrestle, do you not?' enquired the silver head after thinking of a way to humiliate the prince without taking the spoiled brat's life and risking his own neck—nobody, in all his life, had ever defeated him in a sword fight so far.

A predatory sneer now adorned the self-contented face Squalo hated so much.

'Then we shall do kato pankration. Victory in this competition depends on one competitor acknowledging defeat. Just raise your right hand with the index finger pointed when you are ready to admit defeat. Biting is not allowed, neither is gouging,' asserted the general as he removed his exomis short tunic and threw it to the nearest stone bench. Under normal circumstances, he would have done this in the apodyterion, but the undressing room was located near the main entrance and his patience did not extend that far; he wanted to crush Xanxus at the earliest opportunity. 'We Achaeans compete in the nude. Not only it's a symbol of showing that no weapon is concealed, but it is also considered an art of its own.'

When the Prince of Lydia removed his attire, the general of the Eretrian army quickly averted his eyes; he felt a strange urge to gulp at the sight of his adversary's pin bone. Xanxus' body was no less exquisite than that of the golden statues that bedecked King Imbrasus' hall—each line was seemingly supple and each muscle was sculpted to perfection. Yet Xanxus was no work of art; he was a living being. His trophies of victory—battle scars of various shapes and sizes—were etched across his skin.

'Also, before competing, each athlete needs to rub his body with oil and dust.' Squalo beckoned Xanxus to follow him through the north portico.

Like many other palaestrae, this one was centred around a rectangular courtyard, oriented precisely to the symmetrical cardinal points. Along all four sides of the palaestra are colonnades with adjoining rooms for bathing, ball playing, undressing, seating for socializing, observation or instruction, and equipment storages.

Squalo led Xanxus to the elaeothesium, where olive oil was stored in bigger two-handled amphorae jars as well as in smaller spherical aryballoi flasks. Again, when the gleaming oil laved Xanxus' skin, Squalo was struck with a desire to touch the other male. But he dismissed the thoughts from his mind and bade his adversary to proceed to the conisterium to dust themselves, so that their bodies became easier to grip.

They returned to the courtyard shortly afterwards. Both contestants entered the ceroma—the sandy pit girded by a quoit for wrestling arena—where Squalo wiped the smile off of Xanxus' face through a hard kick to the pit of the stomach. His victory, however, proved to be more momentary than he had expected. Xanxus was too quick to recover from the pain and grabbed Squalo's leg to pull it toward his chest, lifting and turning to knock the younger man down.

As Squalo lay supine on the sand, Xanxus stepped between the general's legs with one leg and wrapped his opponent's legs at shin level around that leg. Holding the younger man's legs in place, the raven-haired man then grabbed Squalo's leg which he had crossed and stepped over, flipping the son of Polymedes over into a prone position before leaning back to compress the loudmouthed man's lower back.

But Squalo made a comeback by whipping one leg under the other to transition to stomach-up and slightly out to Xanxus side. Then the general reached with the near hand back to the prince's leg and pulled himself around behind the older man to gain control. Nevertheless, before he succeeded to reverse the opponent to the down position, Xanxus tackled him, and they both fell onto the sandy pit.

How long had it been since Squalo met such a challenging opponent? In wrestling, boxing and pankration, he was not as invincible as in swordfight, but very few men could fight on par with him. Judging from the laugh of excitement on the prince's side, he undoubtedly felt the same. The score of the match became the furthest thing from their minds; each only cared about conquering the other.

Grappling with each other in close hand-to-hand combat, Squalo must admit how difficult it was to tackle the Prince of Lydia: Xanxus never let him get perpendicular to pin his opponent. When he tried a surprise attack by reaching out his arms to lock up, the other wrestler pushed his outstretched elbow into the air and ducked under it and around the body to the first wrestler's back. He was not even allowed the chance to extend his leg to trip his opponent over it.

That day, witnessed by the limestone walls behind the stout columns that surrounded the courtyard, the general of the entire Eretrian army learnt perforce that there was more to the Prince of Sardis than a name.

Squalo was like a shark in the great sea. No fisherman in his right mind would dare to come his way. But this particular fisherman was insane. He would not relent despite the shark's sharp twists and turns, and when the ferocious creature bit, he bit back. Squalo was a fierce beast, but Xanxus was fiercer, and the two beasts contended on until the glowing sun immersed into the crimson horizon.

Xanxus' grapple brought Squalo down to his knees, one arm gripped behind his back, the other supporting his weight on the ground. His head was clutched by his adversary's formidable hand, and back secured by the older man's standing leg. The Lydian demanded, 'Yield!'

'Never!' His contender ferociously stated.

Hence, Xanxus bent. His knee pushed Squalo's popliteal space from behind, forcing the younger man's other knee to touch the ground. He still held the silver-haired son of Polymedes by the wrist, but now his diaphragm adhered to the general's back, and his face was so close to the other's nape.

The prince sat on the back of his contender, who was face down on the sand, and placed the silver head's arms on his thighs. The son of Xanthias then reached around his opponent's head and applied a chin-lock before leaning back to pull the son of Polymedes' head and torso.

A swift thought darted through the Prince of Lydia's mind, urging him to grab the General of Eretria by the hair and licked the general on the side of his neck.

The silver haired captive was caught unwitting—by both the grab and the lick. 'YOU—'

But Xanxus gagged Squalo's mouth, shoving two fingers of his free hand into it until they were well coated with the general's saliva. The more Squalo resisted, the harder Xanxus pulled his hair and the more intense Xanxus' body pressed against his own. There was no escape; they were sealing each other's exit with their own bodies. Dominance was something that the doughty general had never surrendered easily. Nevertheless, even his pride yielded to the combined force of the prince's and his own lust.

Xanxus bit the crook of Squalo's neck until it bled. The tongue inside Squalo's mouth rolled to pronounce 'Hey, you're the woman here!' but since his invader's fingers were still in there, his tongue only caressed Xanxus' flesh.

Damn, youshould be the woman here!

At last, the raven released his prisoner from the mouth gag, only to use his hand to stretch Squalo's rear opening and invaded the furled entrance.

Squalo's muscles contracted at the sudden intrusion. True, no soldiers of Hellas reached adulthood without ever experiencing being an eromenos, but the last time he had become one, he was sixteen. Most men turned from bring eromenoi into erastae at the age of eighteen, but he had proven his worth and been acknowledged as an erastes before his seventeenth summer. In addition, intercrural sex was more popular than anal.

The silver-haired son of Polymedes struggled again, but the foreigner held his both forearms behind his back and shoved himself into the crevice between the twin mounds of Squalo's buttocks.

The first thrust was tight—much too tight for comfort to sink in either of them. But with this handsome stranger, Squalo knew that 'reprieve' was something he would never get the chance of.

The second thrust was excruciating enough for virgins to shun sex for the rest of their lives. But Squalo was no virgin.

The third thrust was the most peculiar Squalo had ever experienced. The rough, the gentle, the good and the bad—he'd had them all. None of them managed to make him feel that the entire world, save for the two of them, disappeared … like this.

For a man who still held his pride high, moaning during sex might be humiliating. But Xanxus had made him forget everything, and for a man who had forgotten everything, moaning or not would not matter. Squalo's voice resounded loud and clear into high heaven.

Smirking in triumph at Squalo's expression, Xanxus nibbled Squalo's neck before carrying on to the fourth thrust, and the fifth, sixth, seventh … and so forth until thick white liquid relinquished them both and reality snapped back to silver-haired son of Polymedes, freeing him from the state of oblivion he had been in.

'You belong to me,' panted the older man, as he slumped onto his prey, letting their breath and sweat intermingle.

'Never! My body and my soul belong to Eretria. No one can change that, not even the king himself, should his heart deviate from its current course.'

Therewith, the general hurriedly let go of his embrace from the foreign prince's back. He could not forgive his own traitorous hands for clinging onto a barbarian so readily, and the moan after moan escaped from him during the copulation, on top of that. He gathered his clothes in attempt to scurry away as soon as possible. He did not want to see Xanxus for the rest of his life—although he knew this would be impossible. Even now, the prince's words taunted him again.

'Running away? You, the so-called strongest general of all the Peloponnese, are that afraid of me?'

Squinting, Squalo challenged, 'Hmp, can you still satisfy me?'

'Can you handle me?'

'Your room or mine?' snarled the son of Polymedes.

In less than five minutes, articles of clothing pooled near the bedpost of the general's private chamber. On the fifty-fifth thrust, despite what sounded like agonised screams, the recumbent Squalo bucked his hips to meet Xanxus' flesh above him in in-and-out rhythmic motions. On the ninety-seventh thrust, Xanxus hoisted Squalo's both thighs over his shoulders for wider access, deeper thrusts and even louder moans. On the one hundred and thirty-fourth thrust, Squalo tossed his head back, causing his long hair to whip through the air while riding Xanxus. Multiple rounds of coition straight after a wrestling match and skipping dinner exhausted them both; neither seemed to care when Hypnos enclosed them in his mighty wings.

The robe of Dawn had started tincting the dark grey welkin with its rosy colour when Squalo awakened. It was not difficult to distinguish another's breath in his room: Xanxus was sitting next to his reclining body, sipping some mellow wine.

Squalo's eyes automatically focussed on the fingers that held the kantharos goblet. The fingers that triumphed over him in fighting. The fingers that held the mysterious power to conquer him even mentally, making him covet them so. The fingers that had caressed him through and through.

Unconsciously, his eyes followed those fingers as they laid the bronze cup onto the bedside table. And when those fingers were heading onto his body, he then realised that fingers were not the only things that approached him. He had been staring at Xanxus' hand for too long to realise that the prince's torso was now forming a canopy above him. The scarred man was eyeing him with great interest. His fingers were now tilting Squalo's chin and bringing it to meet his lips.

Streaks of wine, diluted with water and saliva of the two men dribbled along Squalo's jaw line: Xanxus was transferring his drink into Squalo's mouth. Squalo would have protested, 'That's the most disgusting drink I have ever tasted!' if only Xanxus' gleam had not possessed the ability to swallow those words even before they were pronounced.

The taller man's mouth kept ravishing his partner's as his body descended to lie atop him, skin upon skin and breaths overlapping each other's. Sensing the other man's bulge prodding his thigh and his own hardening, Squalo pushed Xanxus away. 'The sky is dawning. I need to supervise the soldiers' morning exercise soon.'

But the foreign prince's fingers now grasped the local general's forearms overhead, his mouth descended on Squalo's body from neck downwards.

'Hey, I said—' But Squalo could not repeat what he said; not only did Xanxus' violent kisses aroused fresh waves of desires within him, but the older man's thrust was also overwhelming. 'Ahh… AAHHH!'

Meanwhile, in their shared room in the guest room suites area, vexed by the sound which disturbed his sleep, Leviathan muttered, 'The Eretrians surely are early birds; they have even risen from bed to strangle the chickens for today's feast.'

To which Lussuria on the neighbouring bed, who was also awaken by the noise, replied, 'I do not think that is the sound of a strangled fowl, dear Levi. It sounds more like the sound of sex … a very wild sex, to me.'

'You always associate everything with sex,' remarked Fran while rolling to the other side of his bed, 'What kind of sex would be this loud anyway, no matter how wild it is?'

Belphegor on yet another bed chose to cover his face with a pillow. His mumble was still audible, nevertheless. 'How dare they disturb a prince's beauty sleep!'

Xanxus' followers were not the only ones who heard the concurrent noise: more than half the occupiers of the residential quarters woke up for the same reason. When the loud voice did stop at last, the Sun's fulgent chariot was already high in the sky. That day, General Squalo was seen limping with numerous bite marks on his jugular area. Yet, none of his soldiers dared to breathe a word about this in his presence. No soldier of glorious Eretria would like to think that their mighty general was allotted with the receiving end during a sexual intercourse.

At night, Xanxus revisited his chamber. As much as Squalo intended to reject the older man's advance, when the prince's glorious dark hair swept across his abdomen in a long trail of pugnacious kisses, he no longer knew whether to say 'Dismount from me!' or 'Continue!'

There were no affectionate caresses, no words of love, no bond of some sort between them; only Xanxus' passion, of which heat dispersed the frosts of dawn, girded Squalo's body with its upsurges, and to them both, this was enough.

When morning came, just as sailors counted breezes, and merchants, coins, while shepherds, cattle, the silver-haired man counted the sinuous lines on his bedmate's scarred body. The avian feathers dangling from the Lydian prince's raven hair stirred as their owner breathed in and out in his sleep. The Eretrian general did not touch them, compelling himself to be content by merely watching. He knew that his relationship with Xanxus was bound to end the following week, when the prince set sail for his homeland. He also knew that Xanxus was supposed to and indubitably would court Princess Callithoe, to whom he was betrothed, later on that day. After one final glance at the sleeping figure, Squalo rose from his bed.

'Is that all? You're just staring at me and nothing else? Are all the races of Hellas who pride themselves in war too afraid to touch a sleeping unarmed man?' Xanxus' vexed voice took Squalo by surprise.

The nimble-footed general, however, did not turn back. 'I cannot be late for my soldiers' training every single day.'

The warlike prince spoke no further as his object of lust swept across the room, past the arched door and disappeared behind the white walls of the palace.

CHAPTER IV

A Woodland Trip

'Angle your shield higher; your stance is still full of openings!' instructed Squalo as he walked down the narrow aisle flanked by sparring soldiers.

Thousands of feet were trampling the verdant grass, heavy with strikes, blows and blocks. Amidst the cloud of dust, Squalo heard one pair of feet approaching his direction; their steps were faster and lighter than any of the soldiers in the field. The general swerved and perceived a palatial servant boy skittering towards him, his short tunic billowing in the wind and his leather sandals barely touched the ground.

'General Squalo sir,' the young boy addressed him, 'His Majesty has asked for your presence in the throne room.'

Thus, the son of Polymedes bade his lieutenant to lead the troop's practice and followed the boy back to the throne room.

Therein, the leader of people adjured, 'Squalo, I have a task for you. My six daughters and their handmaids will be gathering berries later today. Pick a handful of your most well-mannered men and escort these girls.'

The general bowed and did as he was told.

It was at the hour of midmorning that thirty maidens of ravishing beauty, well escorted by thirteen men of the highest martial arts skills, arrived at the foot of the Mount Soira. The woodland where these blissful maidens reaped the fruits that mother Earth yielded was the closest equivalent possible Eretria had to the Elysian Fields. Basking in the glorified morning sun rays, the dew on the grass glistened on the velutinous verdures. A number of butterflies flew past, adding beauty to the land with the resplendent colour of their lepidopterous wings. Upon discerning humans' presence, moles quickly dove into their holes, squirrels only dared to run round on the highest tree branches, while deer, which proved to be the commonest target in hunting, hid themselves completely from sight.

There was a small shrine, most ancient and richly grown with poplar groves, dedicated to Persephone deep in the wood. Rather than made of chiselled limestone, the sanctuary was fashioned by nature—a stony shelf with a rock cliff wall behind it, in which there was a shallow grotto-like sedimentation. Before this shrine was a small lake whereof water was so clear as to mirror the surrounding trees in undistorted reflection.

It was in this invigorating lake that the maidens took off their flowing robes and bathed, after hours of pleasant toil. Their maidenly jocularity had been filling the woods while they were picking the freshest berries their dainty hands could find. Now they splashed the water, shimmering with sunlight, to one another, tittering, as happy as dryads, while all cares were worlds away. The sound of their merry laughter as well as the sound of the spattering liquid filled the otherwise silent woodland, echoing even to the other side of the cliff, where Squalo and his subordinates stayed in watch with their backs facing the lake, ensuring no trespasser came their way and desecrated any of the royal virgins with either their concupiscent eyes or minacious hands.

The umbrageous arboreal shades of the woodland provided these men comfortable refuges from the relentless heat of the midday sun. The soldiers chattered amongst themselves, but their general silently watched the shadow of the flying birds.

It is too quiet. What trouble lurks behind?

Soon the shadows of the passing birds, of the swaying foliages and of the Eretrian soldiers were not the only ones which occupied the place. Dwarfish shadows of five men were advancing towards them. Notwithstanding, unlike these shadows, their owners of were tall and menacing, most especially the one with feathers attached to his raven hair.

'Why are you here, Prince of Sardis?' hissed the son of Polymedes as soon as their eyes met.

'I wish to see my wife-to-be,' answered the older.

Through the general's gritted teeth came the reply, 'Not while she is bare-fleshed amongst other maidens!'

'Nobody defies the will of the Prince of Luddu.' A ferine grin adorned Xanxus' mouth as he spoke.

'Nobody defies the honour of the Princesses of Eretria!' growled Squalo. He suspected, from the lustre in Xanxus' eyes, that an audience with the princess was a bait to provoke his anger into another fight. That bastard, why can't he leave me alone?!

The twelve Eretrian soldiers readied their spears, awaiting their commander's permission to launch the pre-emptive strike. Squalo himself drew his sword; this sort of enemy could not be taken out without the weapon he trusted most.

But, much to their surprise, Xanxus declared, 'Then you will keep me company until the princess finishes her bath and is presentable.'

The Eretrian men wondered if what the Lydian meant by 'keeping him company' was 'engaging themselves in a combat', but their assumption was betrayed. The prince simply took the empty space next to Squalo and settled himself under the same tree. His followers clustered under a different tree.

The Eretrian general did not let down his guard as he enquired, 'Could you not meet her in the palace?'

'I do as I please, scum,' snarled the spoiled prince.

Squalo offered no further reply. For a while, he let silence stretch out between them in what seemingly an unending amount of time. He condemn himself, his silly thoughts, for a part of him was secretly hoping that meeting the princess was the older man's excuse to meet him. He clenched his fists and diverted his attention to the prince's followers.

The golden-haired youth who had sung in the banquet was playing with his knives, occasionally stabbing the hooded child. Strangely enough, the child seemed to be immune to pain, even though he complained about the bully. The two older men ignored this as though it had been their daily routine.

Hence, Squalo remarked, 'How come a child becomes your personal guard?'

Xanxus cast him a piercing glare.

'What?' mocked the Eretrian, 'You are not going to claim that you merely babysit him, are you?'

'Fran has a potential, though he still needs training to control his power.'

'This "power" … does it involve invulnerability?'

'Ha, I see that you are not blind, scum.'

Squalo was unsure how much his own ears deceived him, but he thought Xanxus called 'scum' more fondly to him than before.

As a sweet fragrance arose in the air, there was a rustle amongst the greeneries. Princess Callithoe appeared, majestic and mien, like an Olympian goddess descending from the heights of heavens. Chiton gown of finest linen fluttering in the gentle breeze, she addressed the man her honourable father had appointed to be her husband, 'Winged words have reached my ears that you wish to see me, sublime Prince of Sardis.'

'Indeed.' Xanxus rose to greet her.

Feeling bars of lead dropping inside his stomach, the Eretrian general urged his feet to leave. He then accosted the banquet singer who was sitting underneath a tree with the rest of Xanxus' followers, 'Lad, we have not settled our little score the other day.'

The boy sneered and brought forth five knives, but Xanxus' tallest follower reminded him, 'Bel, it is not our lord's wish for you and that man to stand in feud.'

'Fear not, Levi. There are several ways to use a knife and this prince knows exactly how to do so without disrupting peace.' He turned to Squalo. 'Hey general, shall we have a contest of speed, accuracy, and, most importantly, courage? Place one hand on the grass; the other hand will have to do fifty rapid stabs to the ground between the fingers without injuring the skin.'

Squalo found no difficulty with that; in fact, his speed was impressive, for it was his childhood game. However, his mouth hung open when it was Belphegor's turn. The youth was a prodigy, born one out of a million. His speed made it impossible for eyes to follow, and given that no blood covered his fingers when he showed his hand afterwards, his accuracy was unquestionable too.

When Squalo was debating within himself whether to admit defeat, he heard the brat say, 'Victory cannot be determined this way. What about doing it simultaneously to each other?'

Suddenly the spring sun felt hotter than usual and beads of sweat trickled from Squalo's temple. He had never done such thing before; nevertheless, he would not back down.

Thus, Belphegor and Squalo's left hands were flat against the brown soil, while their right hands held a knife each and stabbed the earth. Belphegor did it with ease, but after just fifteen stabs, Squalo knew he had grazed his adversary's index finger. He saw no blood, but felt the friction during his action. He withdrew his knife and uttered, 'My loss.'

After sheathing the knife back to his belt, Squalo averred, 'You do have talent, lad.'

Belphegor's comrades were sure he would reply with something like 'Of course, I'm the genius prince, after all,' but instead, he said, 'So do you, general.'

This time, it was not a sneer, but a smile that adorned his face.

'Aww, isn't friendship a beautiful thing?' An unfamiliar voice made the hair on Squalo's nape stand up. It was, without doubt, a man's voice, but it was contorted to represent a woman's.

Squalo swerved. The speaker turned out to be Xanxus' other follower, and his manner of speech explained why his vestiary sense was so sissified—a silken deep purple himation with floral embroidery draped over a silk lavender chiton.

'It occurred to my mind,' the silver head addressed the blindfolded man, 'That you never carry a walking stick.'

'Of course not, dear.' He placed both hands on the cheeks in a manner of covering blush, though there was nothing to blush for. 'Aww, I'm not blind. This is just fashion; the cloth is thin enough for me to see through.'

Squalo decided he would never seek any habiliment advice from this man.

'By the way, I am Lussuria, son of Oeager of Lesbos. The one who has just competed with you is Belphegor, son of Euphorbus of Icaria. On my right is Leviathan, son of Abas of Astypalaea. On my left is Fran of Chios. We know nothing of his parentage. While hunting, we found him alone in the wilderness.'

'Still, you wouldn't have brought him along hitherto if he had not proven to be useful, would you?'

'You have keen eyes, general. When we found him two years ago, he was roasting a bear.'

But before Squalo had the chance to question how they could be sure that the child was the one who killed the bear, Xanxus' angry roar terminated their discourse.

'If you are about to prevaricate, princess, you might as well say no.'

Princess Callithoe grew pale in the face; however, with her small voice, she braced herself saying, 'I am an Eretrian, but you are a man of foreign blood. You come, I leave; you leave, I come—this is how I have been made, Prince Xanxus. What you wish, I do not; what you do not, I wish.'

Squalo scrambled to his feet, quickly assuming his position between the two royalties. Drawing his sword, he stated, 'A threat to her is a threat to Eretria.'

The Lydian prince glared at the Eretrian princess, then extended his arm. For a moment, everyone who was present suspected that he would produce a weapon and strike the terrified princess. When he opened his fist, however, it was a necklace that dropped to the ground. With no further attempt to explain himself, the dark-haired foreigner turned away and left, his followers going with him.

'What have I done?' the princess broke into tears and her knees gave her away to the none-too-soft cradle of the wild grass. Five handmaids rushed to her solace. 'I shouldn't turn down the gift from my betrothed—I know I shouldn't. On the other hand, I have come to despise small, winged animals since I was little, especially when I think of how their hairy legs could crawl over my skin. Even now, just to look at one makes me sick. And to think that the Prince of Lydia had obtained that necklace from a faraway land called Egypt…'

Girls! Squalo swore mentally. Was now really the time to prioritise fear for insects over politics? Why hadn't she thought that her immature behaviour could easily flare a war?

The Eretrian general stared at the rejected necklace. Its chains of pure gold and pendant of a blue lapis lazuli scarab beetle coruscated in the afternoon sun.

TO BE CONTINUED

To reiterate the note above, Squalo cut his own left hand to defeat Tyr in the canon series, but Aristomedon cut off his right arm in this fanfic. The reason: Squalo is not left-handed, so Aristomedon assumed that he'd get a bigger chance to win against Squalo in their future duels because of this amputation. For those who are curious about where Necros (Mukuro) goes, read my other fic called For the Love of Hell.