Chapter 1.09a

The cold air was hitting the Greek's chest. It hit his beard and dark hair when a shiver caught the man suddenly, like an electric shock.

He had been in front of armies, in command of huge fleets, at the most luxurious court of both worlds, but nothing equalled the spectacle that stood before him.

His eyes were all a glint, as only the eyes of those who are flying for the first time can shine.

As for the other Earthlings, those who came from his future, they had been utterly stunned by the existence of magic, but it had not been so for him. He had lived in an age when magic seemed to have hidden behind every dark corner, crawling close to men at all times, but impossible to catch, the exclusive prerogative of the myth.

But finally putting it into practice was a unique emotion.

Perhaps now Themistocles would feel the same euphoria as Icarus when he put on his precarious wax wings and pushed too close to the sun. Elios punished him by making him fall into the depths of the sea.

Now, who knows which divinity - Themistocles turned to observe Maximilian - would have thrown him directly into Hades from heaven.

Above clouds and mortality, Themistocles watched the rising sun, beautiful and melancholic, shining on his golden chariot.

He looked around, counting the soldiers again, just to be sure.

Maximilian said that it is possible to change appearance with magic or with skills. If one or more Ahalis had infiltrated us in disguise without attacking before being sure that the pacifist decree of the Harbingers has expired, it would have been a big problem.

But that hadn't happened. Themistocles had done more checks out of pure paranoia, but nothing seemed to have had any results.

The Ahalis had to be more than sure they could defeat them without even trying too hard. And now they waited, all in silence - Themistocles threw another look at Maximilian.

Oi, if you look a little longer, you’ll take a photo, bollocks.

It was one of the things Maximilian would typically say. But, instead, he too was silent; Themistocles went over the plans he had explained at least a dozen times during the week - but he also looked at Maximilian out of the corner of his eye, waiting for the man to say something absurd, to speak in his usual way.

Themistocles looked around, somewhat worried. He had too many things to keep an eye on and many more to find an answer to.

For example, he didn't know how strong the Ahalis really were. He didn't have much information about their enemies, but he feared them nonetheless. If they had humiliated over and over again a people like the Vanedenis, they had to be dramatic adversaries, as resistant as demi-gods. It was hard to tell what awaited them on the other side of the day.

But the idea of fighting alongside warriors of legendary lineage inflamed him with impatience. Still, not everyone was as impatient as he was. The Londoner seemed lost in thought; he had barely smiled at Strith as he helped her put on her terrifying new armour; the little girl now looked like a hostile and dangerous humanoid.

The overwhelming aura that this artifact seemed to generate really didn't help. He saw the girl tightly grip the hilt of the red sword, her head hidden by the dragon skin. Only her eyes were exposed to show her uncontrollable agitation.

That was a moment, Themistocles reflected, more than unique for the Vanedenis. Everyone on the ship and the civilians who had been hidden in Maximilian's tower had never set foot on a flying boat. And the rest of them, who lived in the villages south of the Border, the great chasm that split Kome into two parts, had never crossed the skies on one of those ships; perhaps they had never even seen them. Only Lady Goldith and a few other nobles had free access to the vehicles that allowed them to leave Kome. The fact that Maximilian had made such a thing possible again gave them not only new hope but also a newfound dignity. It was Koicer, the second Vanedeni hero, smuggler, and partly also a carpenter, who had invented duffer bags and flying ships.

Even the greatest wizards had not been able to scan the depths of magic created by simple men among the Vanedenis.

Themistocles sought in the eyes of his companions the light he imagined would have been found in the eyes of their ancestors. And he saw something...

Something incredibly intimate in their eyes, a courtship with death that awaited them, which they knew they could not avoid even with the greatest hero they had ever seen. A promise of greatness summoned their souls on the eve of the most crucial battle, the opportunity they had long sought. The Greek saw them turn their hopes towards the man near the bow. The warriors’ eyes did not dwell even for a moment on the girl who already was a [Hero], but rested fearfully and respectfully on the man, on a miracle one step away from being a god.

The promise of greatness that Maximilian promised was so alive now, so true. And the Vanedenis were ready to take on the dirty work, the one that no one wrote in the history books, but which was used to build empires in order to transform that promise into a legend. They were determined, ready for anything.

How many stories would be woven that day, and how many threads would be cut by the Parcae? But, on the other hand, the Vanedenis were not so different from the Greeks, who had always lived in the hope of emulating the deeds of war narrated by the aoidos. Thanks to the Harbingers, Themistocles had been able to rebuild his glory and not make the same mistakes that had led to exile in his previous life.

But, he thought, it must not have all gone wrong if other Earthlings knew him as the saviour of Western culture.

Now, he believed that his call to arms should be worth something similar among the Vanedenis, but not only that: he lived such an adventure with the one who was full of glory, the man of a thousand deceptions in one body. Didn't his heart feel the extent of that event? Themistocles stroked his bearded chin. He had just realised that perhaps that was always his greatest quality: to seek what would tip the scales, that would brutally turn them in favour of his people.

And, whether he liked it or not, the Vanedenis and Maximilian had become his people. The culture of the Vanedenis was ready to change radically in the face of the impossibility, no longer so impossible, of the miracles performed by the Londoner. The people of great Heroes were ready to embrace a new war, the last and the most important, against their most potent enemies. And they would have done it according to their tradition: crossing the sky on flying ships.

But, if the ancient ships of the Vanedenis could levitate along a stretch of about ten kilometres for no more than a couple of hours, these new boats consumed much less mana, allowing for more extended transport: it had already been six hours since they started their air reconnaissance. The cold initially disturbed them before Maximilian created a microclimate inside the ship.

Under Themistocles's advice, he had left the temperatures low enough not to let the warriors relax too much. The Londoner was using his magic to fly two ships, the one on which the Greek's feet were firm and the one beaten by Tukker's feet, and to maintain a favourable climate for the soldiers.

The two boats sailed in parallel, almost as a single entity. It was a choice dictated both by the ability to respond better to unexpected events and to simplify the work for Maximilian. He was using all his energy to keep the two giants of wood and steel in the air. It was also challenging to find someone who wanted to learn to fly a ship, handling a rudder that had been the prerogative only of the ancients.

Fortunately, two soldiers had volunteered and now managed the ships with great skill, as if they had not learned a little more than a week ago. Above all, Deider, the pilot of the vessel on which Themistocles and Maximilian travelled, had shown a propensity for the art of navigation and almost immediately received the class of [Helmsman].

Themistocles approached the majestic trunk of the mainmast, surprised to think if one day he would ever lead an entire fleet of sailing ships away from Kome. Who knows if one day he would be forced to be tied to that trunk to prevent himself from being bewitched by the songs of the sirens.

He approached Maximilian and asked him a harmless question to test the ground. First, he had to make sure that the man was in the right state of mind; Leurer's death had left a wound that still had to heal in the collective psyche of the village. If Maximilian had lost ground to the shadows in his soul, it would have been a disaster. And it was a well-founded fear. Themistocles imagined that any distraction would make him less effective.

"Maximilian, can you explain to me how these two solid and heavy boats can fly in such a stable way?” Themistocles saw him surprised by his inquisitive attitude. Moreover, they both knew how Maximilian enjoyed torturing him with idiotic answers most of the time, which had led Themistocles to ask as few questions as possible unless strictly necessary. Since Eudokia had arrived in the village, obtaining answers had become a much easier undertaking. Despite the woman being next to the Londoner, her intervention was unnecessary because Maximilian seemed strangely happy to explain the complexity of his work.

“It wasn't easy at all! There are about ten levels of magic that are activated by a single trigger, a kind of activation that allows everything to start and then work in unison."

The Londoner moved near one of the edges of the bow on which he was standing.

“They are Enchantments, as they call them in this world, or magic, spells, whatever you like, and are distributed irregularly along the hull. Now, bollocks--"

Themistocles was about to breathe a sigh of relief upon hearing his usual exclamation.

“Some idiot might have reduced the weight of the boat, used levitation and combined it with telekinesis. I understand that this is how most wizards work when they throw themselves into the air. However, this would generate huge, gigantic problems with actual weight and perceived weight. Hence, the spatial and temporal distortion, on a physical level..."

For more than a minute, Maximilian spoke in terms that no one understood, from the Vanedenis to the Earthlings to Eudokia, who was more educated and cultured than all of them put together.

“Oi, ball and chain, do you understand? No? Well, bollocks, what are you asking then? Next time, look in a packet of snacks and see if you can find some brain as a surprise."

Themistocles did not bother to interpret the barbaric language that Maximilian loved to show off, but he asked another question. He knew that doubting the man was foolish, but too many lives were at stake today.

"Are you sure the Ahalis won't be able to enter your tower and kill all the civilians inside?"

"The only certain thing is death. And that's not even always true!"

It seemed that Maximilian was refusing to cooperate until Eudokia put a hand on his shoulder and spoke for him.

“No risk, Themistocles. Not even one of the famous Earthlings bombs could destroy the tower. There aren't people of high enough level to knock it down."

And Maximilian added: “Not among the Ahalis, at least. I checked them when I did the recon. Unless they have some legendary artifact that I'm not aware of. But, having rummaged through all their stuff, I can say with certainty that they have nothing that powerful."

It was the first time Themistocles had heard of this reconnaissance among the artifacts of the Ahalis. A flash of disappointment ran across his face.

"Why didn't you take their weapons?"

"Because if it were interpreted as an act of hostility, then the Harbingers would have killed me on the spot, idiot."

Themistocles had been so angry for a moment that the rationality of Maximilian's response left him momentarily puzzled.

May Athena guide my hand and make my soul firm and steady.

Themistocles heaved a sigh and saw a couple of soldiers with a strange instrument they were holding close to their eyes with their hands. They gestured for him to come closer.

“Yikser, Lucchith.”

"Commander. We have seen the first signs of movement around Ankon. The Ahalis are getting closer."

Themistocles felt the old, dear adrenaline rush through his veins. Neither Cimon nor Aristides had been able to extinguish it, nor death itself, nor the unhappy destinies prepared by the gods. And with the glorious and multiform Maximilian at his side, it was time to command armies in battle once more.

"Prepare the grapples for the first assaults."

"The bat-grapples", Maximilian corrected him. Themistocles, as always, ignored him. But it was then that the Greek saw something shine, or perhaps go out, in the other man's eyes. The mystical intimacy that united them was a transcendental bond, the remarkable friendship of two soldiers ready to die together, the trust of a father with a son and the intimacy of a married couple.

There was something about Maximilian that had left Themistocles disgusted. It was as if he had seen death, two empty sockets of a skull, in his gaze. There was an immense emptiness.

Yet, Themistocles became convinced that he had had a vision and that it was not real. He thought again about the sailing ships on which their feet rested. The Londoner had built an incredible mechanism, a set of levers and pulleys capable of making their men descend from the clouds at astonishing speed. And it wasn't all, no: this device was capable of lifting them as it had first brought them down.

Not only had they littered the village with deadly traps, magical or otherwise, but they had decided to flank their enemies with the highest-level people.

Themistocles had planned a friction guerrilla, but with them comfortably to sail on flying ships, supported by the Londoner until they would need it and with large reserves of food and with the Ahalis on the ground in general terror of not knowing where their enemy was. Only a fool would take risks when they had a sure win an inch from their nose.

His gaze touched the pink fingers of Aurora, and he thought of the many tribulations of the weeks before. He had drawn on a reservoir of strategies learned in the later period of his life when his serum-laden joints could no longer endure the harsh bivouac of war. Yet, there was so much that he had collected, first at the court of Artaxerxes, then from his subordinates in the cities where he had ruled.

His time in Greece had taught him how to fight the foreigner, but his time in Persia had prepared him for everything else. He had learned Persian and all its dialects, so tricky to write. He had questioned the myths of Asia Minor, priests of recluse deities and military commanders too arrogant to follow their ancestors but humble enough not to forget the teachings of their predecessors.

He and his allies had always thought that the Persians did not have a culture as advanced as democratic Athens did, but they were wrong: Persia was just different from Greece. He had understood this almost immediately when he had had to face the invasion of a herd of cheetahs. Fortunately, in the accounts of remote Persian tribes, he had found complex and highly effective mechanisms against swift and deadly predators.

After a week of exhausting hunting, they had managed to kill most of the animals while the rest of the pack had escaped. Now that knowledge had come in handy: he had set up traps similar to those used during the hunt, but larger, which could easily contain the mighty bodies of the Ahalis.

The most exciting thing was that he didn't even need Maximilian to create some of the more elaborate traps. After all, the biggest problem was the disparity of numbers. Themistocles believed that once they pitted their elite units against enemy ones, they would triumph. In this regard, he glanced at Todd, wrapped in a cloak that changed colour with the first rays of the sun. Maximilian had showered him with artifacts at lower levels than the abomination built for Strith, but still more powerful than the whole rest of the creations he had provided to the soldiers.

Todd had two long daggers, straight as arrows, on his hips. Whether he knew how to use them, only Strith, Eudokia and Maximilian knew, the only people who had seen him train. Now, Themistocles did not like the man, but he had to acknowledge that he felt a shiver down his spine as he looked at the cloak that could disguise him and the two deadly blades that would cut even a dragon's skin. Or at least a dragon not at its best, Eudokia had said. May Hades be prepared to welcome Todd in his arms if he tried to escape or do anything else that would jeopardise the success of this enterprise.

"Anna, light up dummies one and two," ordered the Athenian.

The girl moved, taking with her a tangle of hair, wild and feminine at the same time. She had progressively stopped caring for it, concentrating on daily meditation and plant care, as well as physical training. And now she embodied the ideal aspect of a [Druid] much better.

“Oi, hippy girl, good luck. Once we’re done with this circus, we'll take you to the barber to celebrate.” Maximilian’s joke greatly relieved Themistocles. The Athenian truly hoped that all was well. They had been testing that tactic for a whole week.

Anna had considerable control over insects and animals, but her not too high level did not allow her to control highly intelligent life forms; at best, she could communicate with them. However, this was not what Themistocles was interested in. During training, they had determined that she could control small insects as she pleased. The clearings near the village were filled with a kind of reasonably large beetle, with a very resistant carapace, which came out of their burrows only at night and, when flying, made a deafening noise.

Anna had gathered hundreds of these insects during the week leading up to the battle and, thanks to her skill, had managed to make them fly even in the sunlight. Their wings produced a peculiar metallic sound that, Themistocles hoped, would deceive the Ahalis, making them think they were in the vicinity of a soldier hiding in the trees.

Now, Themistocles watched from the boat what the first attack would be, mentally reviewing the position of all the traps they had placed and which should have kept at least half of the enemy warriors occupied if everything went right. But, in fact, they had created so many that they could have captured an entire army.

"Todd, Strith, it's your turn."

Some of the soldiers had asked Themistocles why he had decided to send so few people for the first assaults.

The Athenian would have gladly avoided sharing strategic information, if only Tukker had not let the details of the military action slip out. He was convinced that a good plan, in order to work, had to rely on a small number of people who knew everything and an even smaller number of soldiers who would carry out the first skirmishes. Each unit added to the project would become a crucial node at which an excellent stratagem could be blocked.

The reason why Todd and Strith had been chosen to start the dances was their level, higher than any other warrior. The unique training they had received made them the right people to defeat the first enemies without endangering the lives of the other soldiers and - above all - of Maximilian. Themistocles gestured to one of the soldiers, who illuminated the other with a special lantern the other ship once.

"Get ready to intercept fugitives."

Mummer and Tukker would be their backup plan, along with Matthew. The boy who in the early days was lanky and incapable had acquired a skill capable of attracting enemies and their attacks to him: and what better than that to prevent the Ahalis from surviving the first fights in order not to report the Vanedenis' tricks to their companions? Themistocles saw Strith glance at him and turn around, take a rope offered by one of the soldiers and jump off the ship.

Todd took another rope and, with a moment's hesitation, jumped too, not before having cast a glance towards the Londoner. Maximilian stared in mid-air in front of him, but Eudokia nodded to reassure him.

Themistocles hoped the landing would go smoothly.

Maximilian had explained to him that the woman's armour and Todd's cloak could glide smoothly. Not fly, but ride the air to lighten their landing. Therefore, the ropes they held in their hands were not used to descend but to ascend; additionally, the properties of her armour and his cloak made the two virtually impossible to spot.

"Begin preparing to rewind."

Themistocles took one of the artifacts the soldiers held in their hands. The other Earthlings had called it a spyglass. Had he used it during his battles against the Persians, many Greek lives would have been spared. So he began to observe the silent descent of the two.

There are only a couple of enemy units approaching them, both of them at great speed—five warriors and five women, probably with magical powers or assassin training, Themistocles thought.

Another person would have found such a moment unnerving, but not the archon and strategos of Athens.

The problem with going so fast?

The Ahalis hit the ground with a lot of force to accelerate, therefore sacrificing mobility for acceleration. As a result, stopping becomes difficult, even after realising something is wrong. Same as for cheetahs.

Themistocles had faced many enemies and had survived fierce fighting techniques: he had opposed the chariots of the Persians, indestructible and deadly - but not for him and his men. He needed preparation and disciplined soldiers to defeat them, and the Greek lacked neither.

"Ground traps activated by the Ahalis."

He heard Vierer, the communications manager, give the warning.

He had asked Maximilian to make a minor Enchantment to link the use of the traps to the parchments that had been handed to Vierer. The traps had both an automatic and a trigger mechanism in case the Ahalis tried to jump them. The devices they had planted half an inch above the ground were short iron spikes tied to a platform that would direct them at full speed towards the Ahalis' legs.

"They've all fallen, [Commander]. Strith and Todd already killed three of them."

Themistocles remained motionless. "All?"

“Yes, [Commander]. They are all on the ground, and the iron spikes have destroyed their feet. It seems that--"

Themistocles looked better with the spyglass.

Strith and Todd are tearing that unit apart with incredible ferocity. May Ares of a thousand battles be merciful to me for such a worthless spectacle. Who would have believed they could fall into such an ambush.

"They are all dead. Give the signal for the ascent."

"Yes, [Commander]."

Yikser and Lucchith activated one of the machines that would bring the two warriors back on board in less than two minutes.

“The Ahalis, like many of you, have abilities that can detect danger, but at the speed they have to run to charge, it's impossible to notice anything. Even if there were experts in traps down there, it is not a single mechanism but an entire area full of small traps that can prove very dangerous for them. In addition, the four-joint structure of their legs, unlike the three-joint human one, makes them less stable when a limb is injured."

The explanation came from Eudokia, whom Themistocles thanked with a nod of the head.

Strith and Todd boarded the ship. Only the bloodstains on the armour and cloak testified to the battle.

It almost feels like we haven't just fought the first clash.

Themistocles didn't like that feeling. If they hadn't already decided to manage the raids in a very precise way, he would have come down himself to wet his lips in the blood of the enemies so that everything could seem more real, instead of a play in the theatre.

Even a giant would have been uncomfortable seeing a small enemy put up no resistance.

They didn't have to wait long for another fight. This time, there were four units, and Themistocles gave the order to Anna to activate two different groups of mannequins.

May Athena Pallas help me. How can they be so foolish?

More than once, he had believed he was the most brilliant man in all of Hellas, but he had never underestimated an enemy commander in battle. If he had sinned of hubris, it had always been in politics, when there had been no arrows that could have killed him, but certainly not on a battlefield.

The two groups had already split up. However, they had the same composition as the first: five women skilled in magic and five men warriors.

[Commander's Eye]

It was a skill with no lengthy cooldown, so it could be used quite liberally. In this way, Themistocles could roughly observe the level of who was in front and their potential in battle.

"No elites."

"Shall we send two units, [Commander]?"

Themistocles saw Vierer ready to send the signal to the other ship.

“No, at ease, soldier. We don't send anyone."

He turned to the [Druid].

“Anna, make the beetles move away from the two groups. Make them stop a hundred meters from the traps."

They didn't have to wait long for the same scene to repeat itself.

"They are on the traps. Both groups have fallen on them almost at the same time."

Themistocles almost sat down. He hated this kind of battle because they made him relax too much.

"[Commander]?"

“Nobody move. We don't know how fast they are and if the traps will stop them."

And not only that, Themistocles thought, we must be sure that Maximilian's blend of bone and magic works.

“Their wounds don't heal, [Commander],” Vierer peered intently at the city beneath him with the spyglass. The artifact allowed him to see clearly beyond clouds and onto the ground.

Themistocles approached the edge of the ship and also brought the spyglass close to his eyes. The Ahali swallowed potions, one after the other, in a vain attempt to heal the deep wounds. The mixture of elements created by Maximilian mimicked some of the most fearsome properties of the advanced undead: the inability to recover from injuries without a cleric or paladin at hand. To counteract the spontaneous necrosis caused by the mana with which Maximilian had soaked the pulverised bones and the rotting flesh with which the pikes were sprinkled, a more varied group would have been needed, ready for any eventuality. Without healing classes, they would die without any chance of salvation.

However, healers, clerics, and paladins were classes so specialised and unique that only a few nations had them. Out of the three healers were the least rare but at the same time the least effective. Themistocles was surprised at the naivety of those troops and their unruly behaviour. They were big and scary even from the far eye of the spyglass, but none of them could get up and stand.

Could it be a trap to make us show ourselves?

"Launch the artillery and signal the others to prepare to launch themselves so as not to let anyone escape."

It might be good to let them go back to scare the enemies, but that would work against us. The more their souls are imbued with the same mad courage that has already eliminated these units, the easier it will be to take them one by one until we are forced into a confrontation with the remnants. Let's see if they are pretending and are able not to die from simple stone-throwing.

Vierer motioned to some archers who put away the bows they held tightly with pale knuckles and pulled out some duffer bags. They threw the stones with little attention, using a couple of skills to make sure they more or less hit the trapped group.

They didn't have to wait too long.

From that height, even simple stones became deadly bullets.

"They are all dead."

Themistocles was used to dangers of any kind, and the inclement teachings of the myth had led him to be paranoid beyond all measure. A self-respecting Greek commander would always have to fear the wrath of a fickle deity in a battle. Perhaps the Harbingers weren't as demanding.

There wasn't much to suggest this was a trap. The Ahalis were too powerful, and only if they had spies closely watching Maximilian and somehow understood the real threat, then such a ruthless and cold plan would have made sense.

Yet all the signs pointed to Themistocles that this was not the case, that they were simply poorly organised.

“Themistocles”, Eudokia approached the Athenian, “I know what you are thinking. Their forces are not used to strategy, not anymore. Not in the south, at least. "

The woman had promised herself not to interfere in mortal affairs, but the confusion on Themistocles's face seemed to have prompted her to intervene. Moreover, the woman had an unnatural need to acquire and dispense knowledge.

The Athenian nodded.

But he couldn't get rid of this awful feeling that something was deeply wrong. They had just killed thirty soldiers without suffering a single loss, but if his mind as a man of omens and haruspices did not deceive him, something - or someone - was not in the right place.

Strith approached the man while the first rays of the sun now shone on Kome, although the Curtain, even at that height, threatened to tear them to pieces if they moved in the wrong direction.

“What’s the plan?”

She did not address him as the others did, with the title [Commander].

Themistocles would never get used to the girl's lack of discipline; this was one of the reasons he could not tolerate her presence easily.

Themistocles sighed. The important thing was that she recognised his role.

“The enemies seem to be more foolish than expected. We continue to do what we are doing now, avoiding groups that are too large or too close to possible reinforcements. For now, the priority is to maintain absolute secrecy. Should they spot us, we will bomb them from above with everything we have, and we will resupply to bomb them again."

Themistocles went to Deider and took the helm in hand, motioning for Vierer to signal the change of course to Tukker on the other ship.

The Earthlings had told him about walkie-talkies and telephones, but Maximilian had said that, although it was possible to create them, it was one of the few things that would take him longer than expected. Not even the Londoner had any idea how the natives of the world had solved communication over long distances. For the first time, he seemed to have found something complicated to replicate.

Maximilian...

The Greek looked at his companion. Although he had lived alongside taciturn men, it was never a good sign to see a person accustomed to talking suddenly shut up constantly.

It had been a few days since Maximilian hadn't been the same, since he hadn't been able to save Leurer. What had happened to him was a mystery to which only Eudokia had an answer. His behaviour had gradually become cold, detached.

There was a frozen grey fog on their great hero's face as if he had lost a piece of his soul.

Themistocles broke his train of thoughts when Vierer announced the presence of two more units of five Ahalis each, as had happened before. That the Ahalis still hadn't noticed the losses was strange, and, if this had happened, it was absurd that they had not yet increased the units present in what Themistocles assumed were reconnaissance groups or their vanguard.

That the Ahalis were trying to ambush them did not matter to the Athenian: this was his first real battle literally in a lifetime, and if there was anything he would never accept, it would be a defeat.

"We continue to Ankon, then to the enemy village," he proclaimed, returning the helm to Deider and heading for the ship's rail.

The boat held a speed of about 15 knots. Any [Captain] who possessed skills related to their ship could have done better with a breath of wind.

Themistocles had given the order because he had to make sure that his bad feeling wasn't about Maximilian's tower. It made no sense to waste time checking if the Londoner himself had guaranteed him the indestructibility of the building, corroborated by Eudokia. However, if an average Greek was paranoid, Themistocles was the most Greek of all Greeks.

Less than ten minutes later, they began to glimpse Ankon. With his telescope capable of penetrating the mounds of white clouds, Themistocles saw the entire army of Ahalis wandering around the village with confused expressions on their faces.

He needed to know what they were saying, what their plans were.

He narrowed his eyes and concentrated on the movements of the Ahalis' lips. Although the Harbingers guaranteed perfect understanding of the language and simultaneous translation from the Vanedeni language to their native one, there was a slight discrepancy between their speech and lip-reading. Maximilian had called it a bug, an imperfection in the Harbingers' magic that had made lip-reading very difficult, if not nearly impossible. But, of course, this would have been true if Themistocles had been a fool unable to learn Persian and speak it fluently in less than a year.

"Silence," he ordered to stop the buzz that was rising on the ship. Seeing the Ahalis raiding their property was causing a lot of discontent.

“Most of those we sent have not yet returned from scouting. The rats hid well. Has anyone made any progress with the tower?"

Themistocles almost let out a laugh. Pathetic animals, huge and powerful, each of their male enemies was about two meters tall. Still, the average warrior was even more towering, with a body as powerful as a gorilla.

“Send the fast units in search of bodies or to recall those who have completed their task. We are here. If they refuse to face us, they will lose by divine will."

The Greek nodded. Thanks to another stroke of luck, he had captured crucial information from the enemy ranks.

Themistocles rolled his eyes as he saw some Ahali women start running as if Hermes had put wings on their feet.

Maximilian had counted among them, with relative certainty, about six hundred warriors. How the Londoner could have performed such a miracle was a mystery to him, but he had decided to accept yet another piece of information without doubting him in the least.

It would have been tough to think of living this new life without Maximilian. But his old life, that he had lived with fatigue and honour; he would never sacrifice his traditions for the comforts of a future he had only heard of.

After all, their technology and their education had not provided a world of certainties: he saw it now, on the worried faces of the Earthlings who sought salvation in him, in an obsolete human being.

When thinking of strategies, Themistocles imagined that he had to fight against Ares and Athena. And that allowed him to play a different game than everyone else's. Themistocles foresaw, calculated the worst fate and prepared to suffer it.

Themistocles too had opinions, fixed points: it would have been impossible to prepare for a battle otherwise. A blind trust had to be placed both in one's abilities, above all, but also in those of others. Once again, Themistocles had bet on himself, as he had done when he faced Xerxes, and on Maximilian, considering how powerful and fundamental he was to their strategy.

And now Themistocles thought that, even if he had had the warlord himself to confront him, as long as Maximilian remained healthy, he would not have feared, he would not have been afraid.

…

The real Ahali reconnaissance team was now on the move. And they were not about a dozen warriors slowed down by men, but single scouts, all women, with a much lighter and more flexible muscle and bone structure than their male counterparts. They reached speeds of eighty-five kilometres per hour.

"Two scouts already in position," reported Vierer.

"Raise the traps."

Not all traps were stationary. Some were made to be activated remotely. Themistocles had already predicted that thanks to the relatively little wooded terrain in the region they were on, they would have a perfect view from above. And so it was.

"Both down, [Commander]."

Two poles had been driven into the ground long before the battle. They seemed harmless, but they were activated by simple magic, the responsibility of another Vanedeni, Recheller.

So few knew the full extent of his plans, like the mechanism he had asked Maximilian to build. The Londoner, of course, immediately understood what this device would be used for. And he had, fortunately, raised no objections.

Themistocles wondered what the limit would be, what would be too much to ask if anything violated their agreement. But when he knew for sure that the place they had ended up was not a joke of the gods, that he should have helped as much as possible, he had decided to take advantage of Maximilian's skills as never before, even in his previous life.

With his spyglass, he took care to check the result.

Well, both warriors had been cut in two at the waist, leaving them screaming to the ground, facing a terrible death. Themistocles quickly alternated the spyglass on both of them, trying to figure out if they had a way to communicate with their superiors or with the other scouts. Still, the terrible pain seemed to drive them both crazy, leaving them groping in search of the other half of their body, which had been catapulted about ten meters away from them.

A little bit of steel wire created by Neri that could wrap itself around the posts seemed to have worked wonders.

The Vanedenis seemed to fear the speed of the enemies so much; was it possible they hadn't considered using obvious strategies like the one Themistocles had just put into practice?

The problem with them was not the strategies but how many men they had left to put them into practice.

The Vanedenis in Ankon would have had no hope of victory without the Earthlings. But, despite being a handful of powerful warriors and skilled swordsmen, the continent's wars had deprived them of their most precious resource: difference.

Not that the variety set up by Themistocles was enough. They had no wizards capable of reinforcing their back lines. They did not have a real rear-guard nor a unit capable of scouting, not considering Todd. The only variety that the Athenian possessed was Maximilian; his uniqueness was all that the Athenian needed. There was not much to be desired when a person could overturn an intra-continental conflict on his own, recreate artifacts of incredible power, and so on.

After a few minutes, Themistocles set off more traps and killed more than half of the scouts. It was truly unique how easy it was to get rid of those enemies when not in close combat. No longer used to guerrilla strategies, it seemed that everything in front of them could bring down Ahalis as a slap does with a fly.

However, some scouts had reached the furthest units. Then, a couple of them turned around: they were trying to warn the rest of the army. This meant two things. First, the enemy had no way to communicate remotely; second, that they would have to kill the scouts as soon as possible.

"Anna, activate the traps on their right and left."

Allowing all those soldiers to come together and wait for them, waiting for the Harbingers to do their dirty work in case the Vanedenis didn't come forward was a good strategy. But Themistocles was born long before all these fools.

"Todd, go down and search for the scouts, get a copy of the activation mechanism for the traps."

He looked at Themistocles with mouse-like, pitch-black eyes. A plethora of emotions passed over the man's face. Terror, fear, resentment, rancour and resignation; in the end, there also seemed to be a flash of heroism, which manifested itself after a glimpse towards Maximilian.

"Even if you are not as fast as the enemies, still try not to get caught, please."

Themistocles indulged in a few words of comfort. On the battlefield, stupid civilian fights made no sense. Here they played with people's lives, and the Athenian's life also depended on Todd's moves.

Maximilian awoke from his torpor, even if he was not the Maximilian that the Athenian had known until a few days earlier.

“He isn’t as fast as the enemies? Themistocles, but what do you think I did with him? He has so many white muscle fibres in his legs. I mean, to be precise, I changed all his muscle fibres, not just from red to white, but their composition in general. Todd is now one of the most incredible sprinters in this world. Unless they have scouts with skills to boost their run, Todd is probably faster than them."

At that point, the Texan relaxed and jumped from the ship as he had done not even half an hour before. His actions would speak for him. He had already eliminated a group of enemies on the ground. It was time to show what he could do against Ahalis not weakened by the traps.

"Maximilian, didn't you say that the most powerful scouts among the Ahalis are above level thirty?"

"Yes, my dear strategòs."

"And how can Todd hope to fight against people who have been on battlefields for years, who have trained for so long, without being brutally slaughtered?"

"Do you think a monkey at level thirty will be able to stop someone I have trained?"

Strith looked at the sky as rays of sunlight caught the reddish and purple hues on her armour, making her glow like a god.

Themistocles seemed to receive the message directly from the gods and set his eyes on the spyglass to witness what Todd was capable of.

What he saw went far beyond his expectations.

Todd had not just started running on the ground, but he was jumping from place to place in a swoop, not respecting the laws of physics, the few that Themistocles knew and the many that he did not.

It was a breath-taking spectacle, to say the least, which also made the Athenian commander aware of his flaws and his inadequacy in the face of such mastery.

Todd hadn't waited to glide gently to the ground this time, but he had accelerated, fast, faster and faster, towards one of his first targets, a scout who was still a few minutes' run away from her allies.

“The dimensional leap he is making does not diminish the moment of the fall”, commented Maximilian. Themistocles did not immediately understand the meaning of those words.

However, when he saw Todd land with his feet on the back of that half-ape and completely destroy her spine before rolling to the ground to cushion the fall, he understood what Maximilian had meant.

Soon after, he merged with the surrounding nature, becoming invisible and impossible to perceive without special abilities.

Themistocles realised that they had limited time before the Ahalis command centre decided to fortify their position within the Vanedeni village. He did not know exactly what means they had, and the Vanedenis had a limited number of ammunitions. As absurd as it was, if the Harbingers had really intervened, they would risk having to face their enemies face to face in a final battle, which would be their end. He then gave orders and prepared various attacks and raids, setting off multiple traps in multiple points.

It was not the time to be subtle, but to provoke a reaction from the enemy, to throw them off balance. The goal was to slaughter as many single units as possible so that the final fight would be a trifle. In an ideal world, Themistocles thought, they wouldn't even need to fight but would simply let little more than a handful of elite soldiers remain. And then bombard them to death with devastating rains of stones.

But there was something in the air, a baleful wind that didn't belong to the morning breeze, to the thin, thin air above the clouds, telling him to hurry. His sixth sense as a veteran commander said to him that they didn't have much time, that there was something wrong, deeply wrong with what they were doing.

Themistocles took the reins of the conflict.

He was somewhat reckless when he saw a group of as many as forty Ahalis invade the village. He sent some [Stormbreaker Warriors] to deal with them, but it was a hasty choice. Two of them were killed.

Their first losses in the conflict.

All in all, his decisions weren't that bad. After a few hours, his forces had managed to halve the Ahali soldiers.

It was now noon.

Almost all the soldiers of the Vanedenis, at least the best-prepared ones, had seen the enemy blood and had finally bitten the flesh of the enemy with their steel. As Themistocles watched them, he felt that the time had finally come when the clash would become real. It was a presence he felt behind his neck, deep in his stomach and on the most sensitive part of his throat, high up, near his tongue.

It was then that he felt the unavoidable need to do something, however ethereal and elusive to the wrinkles of concreteness.

"Soldiers!"

He raised his voice to attract the attention of the ship beside them as well.

There was an inevitable confusion in the eyes of the soldiers. The categorical order not to make noise, to avoid being discovered, had just been transgressed by the same person who had given it. “Soldiers! Warriors! Comrades!" Both the Vanedenis and the Earthlings turned to the [Commander]. Only Maximilian persevered in looking into the void, again speechless.

“Our march to victory has finally begun! Finally, you Vanedenis will be worthy of the blood of your ancestors again, and you will follow the future heroes of your continent in battle! And we Earthlings will perhaps be able to call ourselves part of your admirable people. But our future is hampered by the darkness, by something glacial and intolerant that seems to descend on these two ships."

Themistocles felt that sensation, stronger than ever, threatening him as if it were pointing a blade to his side.

The soldiers looked at each other, bewildered. They were winning. The future of the Ahalis was in their hands. What was Themistocles saying? Why did he think there was something evil waiting for them? What deep and fearful darkness could ever creep into the furrows left by their enterprise?

“Who among you would have ever said that we would find ourselves here, looking down on our enemy, see what you didn't expect to see, without losing even a drop of blood? On the one hand, I am honoured to lead extraordinary people; on the other, I would not have expected to face the situation that hit us.

“During the training, we lie to the soldiers, telling them that they will find, even before sinking the sword into the enemy's heart, everything they need in their instructors. Well, the reality is different. There are some things we are never prepared for. There are monsters that we cannot think of defeating without facing them first. And, sometimes, the greatest monsters are found inside the hearts of the most admirable people."

Maximilian's glassy, empty eyes finally met Themistocles'. The Athenian would have expected an apologetic look, which did not come.

Then he understood. Themistocles understood. He understood what was in those eyes.

Maximilian was looking at the same masks he had observed in the early days, the same masks he wore to be able to stand next to all other people like a man, not a monster, and all of them were falling. He could feel it in the ether, in the air and his heart.

It was not a perceptible change in sight, touch or smell. It was a deep, underground vibration, capable of engulfing in anguish the heart of anyone who had insight enough to realise what was happening.

Crack.

Something in the mind of the Londoner had broken, and it had made the same noise as a terracotta pot shattering on the floor: everything that is contained inside escapes everywhere and floods the clothes, the floor.

Themistocles realised that he had not done enough, either as a friend or as a commander.

He could have asked Eudokia for advice, taken care of the situation, stayed up all night talking to Maximilian and… and a thousand other things.

Instead, he simply ignored the matter until it had become a real monster.

And now it was too late. The ship rocked under Themistocles’s feet. The ship began to lose altitude, second by second.

The first screams shattered the air. Then there were others.

That was what was odd about the air.

The web of cracks on Maximilian's personality was now too extensive to be easily repaired, either by himself or by Eudokia, and a glance was enough for Themistocles to notice. A careless glance, he reflected, if he had waited for the ships to crash before he understood it.

There was melancholy around the Londoner. Not on his face, but on his person, on his true being.

Themistocles had understood from the earliest days what he felt; no, better, what he was trying to do. He had met people like him. Similar, of course. It is difficult to compare anyone to such a divinity, but he had already seen the signs of it in far more mortal people.

It wasn't the terrible darkness Themistocles had spoken of. It wasn't ice and storm. No. It was a completely different disease: not being capable of being human.

Some soldiers, even the most cordial, as well as his commanders and, at times, friends, had suffered from it.

Some people overthink before acting, asking themselves such profound questions that they unhinge their centre, balance, and sanity. Once they have had enough experiences in mind and body, they begin to need masks, like actors, to stage a pantomime. They move their body not with natural instincts, but by whipping it with their soul, forcing it to adapt to a now crippled spirit.

Yet, in order not to arouse suspicion, to be considered worthy of living in a society, they have to dance and pretend, jump and dance, because this is their only way of finding a balance, a logos.

Logos. Something that the Greeks had declined in every possible form, a changeable and adaptable word, a liquid that filled all the spaces between what makes up the human being, putting him in the condition of existing.

People like Maximilian had lost it. They were constantly and relentlessly searching for it - but the Greek had never seen someone like him manage to grab it again without succumbing in the attempt. Those were people without anything to hold them together, with the constant risk that their pieces, however valuable, would collapse. Without his mask, Maximilian could not interact with anyone. He couldn't feel anything.

He couldn’t be human.

Themistocles did not know precisely what that titan had gone through, that man so magnificent and so foolish, to be exhausted in this way by events, to remain inert and paralysed.

But he knew that, whatever it was, this wasn't the time to let him relive it.

He jumped onto the edge of the ship, grabbing a rope to keep his balance and began to scream. “Soldiers! The clash with the Ahalis is near! Activate the rescue mechanism just before you hit the ground, and we'll have a safe enough landing to attack with all the heat left!

“All of you, remember who you are! You are not men, and you are not women or children! You are Vanedenis! No matter what absurd fate touches us, no matter who is with us or against us: we carry the name of your heroes aloft, we raise the memory of their deeds with the last sacrifice, we make the legend of your people resound eternally. So let’s make these beasts feel how your blood is boiling!"

He took the knife he kept in reserve at his side and cut his palm, running his bloody hand over the lower half of Vierer's face, who was closest to him. It was one of the gestures of the millenary tradition of the Vanedenis. The rest of the soldiers prepared to follow his example, having secured the ship's landing.

Themistocles met Maximilian's gaze again while the cry of the Vanedenis crushed the air.

…

Maximilian saw a couple of soldiers, whose names he did not know, activate the emergency mechanism that he had built, allowing the ship to land without destroying itself or killing everyone. He sighed.

He saw the Ahalis, far away from them, wondering what the hell was going on, and then began charging at the soldiers who were abandoning the ship. Maybe he should have put on the boats more weapons, some cannons. He ignored Strith and Todd, who were yelling at him.

What the hell are you doing? Why did you crash the ship? They said.

They wouldn't understand.

Perhaps, Themistocles.

Perhaps, he understood.

There were things the Londoner couldn't explain. There were things that even Eudokia, after hearing them, could not fully understand. She, who had lived much longer than an immortal being in that world ever had, had not fully understood. There was no wonder: after all, she was still a child in front of Maximilian.

Eudokia had lived several eras, mixed and passionate lives; she had known all the continents that dotted the planet - Kome, Epretos, Teiko, Forest, Sobek and Carilia - but she had also slept for most of her life.

Maximilian, on the other hand, had never really rested. Even on Earth, he had found his ephemeral peace at the side of a woman.

He dodged the hilt blow Strith had tried to deliver, just starting to hover above the ship.

He had been afraid of experiencing that terrible feeling of loss again, now that he didn't have Paola with him. He had been afraid of seeing the people in front of him and finding his gaze pass by or linger as one does with inanimate objects, almost going through them. He had feared to see the front rows of the Ahalis penetrate the Vanedeni formation like a red-hot knife through butter and not to feel any emotion.

He could hear Eudokia's voice pierce his ears as she too hovered in the air, but Maximilian couldn't really distinguish the words. There was a fog in his brain that prevented him from living.

And, finally, it happened.

Memories took over.

…

"Paola hasn't answered me for a couple of weeks," said a university student Maximilian to his roommate.

“Bro, if she doesn't answer you, she's not interested. Stop tormenting her," shrugged Robert.

“But I'm not tormenting her! On the contrary, I met her, and she said that she likes me very much and that she had a great time with me!"

"So, where is she? Why doesn't she answer you, huh? The truth, Max, is that women do this from time to time. They take the piss out of you." Robert finished rolling a cigarette and put it between his lips as he rummaged in his pockets for a lighter. “There are things we have no control over: women's mood is one of them. Forget it, listen to me. If you continue, you only hurt yourself. Fuck, we're in London. It’s full of pussy. You completed three years in one, and you’ll end up getting your degree before me, even if I’m two years older. You also managed to win two scholarships for merit! Let’s do something more productive than studying and stalking pretty girls: let's go drink the scholarships money, come on!"

Robert didn’t manage to find the lighter and gave up searching for it. One less cigarette wouldn't hurt him.

Maximilian had been able to leave home only thanks to the money that his parents had set aside for him and the scholarships he had managed to win. He was a model student at the Imperial College, one in a million, competitive, brilliant and arrogant.

“Let's go in an hour, Rob, not now. Let's finish studying this chapter, at least. "

"Oh well, then we go."

To be honest, the chapter that Maximilian had under his eyes had already been studied, but he had no desire to travel by tube towards Borough Market.

It was a typical London day, grey and gloomy, just like his mood. He would have much preferred to stay at home and pray that Paola would answer his texts. Of course, she actually replied with a greeting now and then to his two or three daily messages...

Roberto saw his classmate staring at the book as if he were trying to find Paola among its pages, and he understood that staying at home would only benefit their marks' average, but indeed not their mood. And Robert, unlike Maximilian, had different priorities.

“Come on, or you will burn the book just by looking at it,” Robert got up from the kitchen table and went to his room to change.

Maximilian put his elbows on the table and buried his face in his hands, feeling the edges of his eyes sting as he tried to stop the tears.

There was something deeply wrong with him, something he could not explain, not even to Robert, whom he had been living with for three years.

He was less in touch with what he felt than others. His senses were sometimes muffled for weeks on end. Even with Robert, he sometimes suspected his brain was on autopilot. It was as if he were answering by following a script he had gotten somewhere, and this guided him when he was with the others, made him be nice, cheerful and always in the mood to joke. But he felt empty inside.

And the more he spent his university years on books. The more this feeling made its way inside him: that there was something different about him, profoundly different from the others.

While some people tried everything and more to prove that they were different from the crowd, Maximilian had tried to convince himself, sincerely, that this was not the case for him, that in reality, he was just disillusioned and that he was no different from the rest of the people. However, episode after episode, he seemed always to be able to choose the least popular option and make it the most successful each time.

Rob encouraged him because he knew him and perhaps because he was his friend, but most of the people around him had always been… sceptical of him. Unlike them, Maximilian found himself in the Faculty of Medicine almost by mistake, without the same "vocation" as his peers. When he gave air to his ideas about the university, about the profession and, God forbid, about society, there was always an uproar.

He always thought differently, consistently wrong. There had been one or two colleagues who also appreciated him for it, like a professor with whom he was now carrying out an extracurricular project. But it was not pleasant to live like this, always trying to be careful. And only those who live life as an outsider know that it is far less glamorous than in books and films, that tormented people are incredibly dysfunctional in some respects.

His dysfunctional aspect, Maximilian suspected, was the scarcity of his emotions, the difficulty he felt in being empathic. It was wrong to see someone cry and feel nothing, to know someone had died and not feel the slightest sadness, to see the joy of the people around him and rarely get excited by it. Feelings were an exception to him, not a rule.

He always felt out of place, always torn away from where he should have been. There was only one place where he felt perfectly at ease as if every piece of his ramshackle puzzle had suddenly found order: in Paola's arms.

He didn't know how to explain it, but he had felt what the romantic books call chemistry, an attractive force greater than reason and love itself.

It was as if he had been separated from that woman before he was born as if she were an ancestral half he would have to be reunited with.

From the first moment he had experienced the effects of his presence, Maximilian had been sure that he had found a fixed point in his life. The fixed point, perhaps. Everything he had never been able to feel had lit up beside Paola; instead, all the frenzy for medicine, for success, for being the best, had all subsided, leaving room only for the essential things.

But it had lasted twenty-four hours, and then she was gone, replying to his messages from time to time, sending him a greeting or a compliment when Maximilian was finally about to detox from her after three or four days of not writing to her.

"Bro, put the phone down!"

He heard screaming from the other room.

"Lazy Yankee," muttered the young Maximilian, putting the electronic device in his pocket, not before having checked it for the last time.

It had been ignoble enough to live his life knowing he was crippled, deep inside, in his soul; yet, the worst thing was having to discover a medicine that could cure him, something that would forever fill that void, a glue that would fill the spaces of his being as gold does with a broken vase in Japanese kintsugi.

She was the heart for the tin man he was.

And that was the first time that he had really understood that there was something wrong with him. He had needed a special woman like Paola to realise this.

Maximilian watched the young version of himself go after Robert, the first person from California he had ever met, many, many years before meeting Matthew.

Some memories were far too painful to relive. Never had a period of his life been so dark...

For this reason, for once, he had decided to look at his past as a spectator.

…