Drakon peeled back the blood-stained bandage, grimacing slightly as it pulled at the scabbed flesh. "Skin's knitting back together. Few more days, you'll be good as new."

His rough fingers prodded the wound, checking for heat or swelling.

Lucian shrugged back into his tunic, the coarse fabric chafing against tender skin. "It's fine. I need to get back to training."

"Like hell you do," Drakon grabbed two wooden practice swords and tossed one to Lucian. He caught it reflexively, the weight familiar in his palm. "Let's see what you've got then, hotshot."

Raising his sword, Lucian settled into a defensive stance, muscles protesting at the strain.

Drakon mirrored him. "Ready?"

Lucian nodded.

They began circling each other, probing for weaknesses. Drakon moved first, his blade whipping towards Lucian's ribs. Lucian parried, grunting at the vibration ringing up his arm. He countered with a slash at Drakon's thigh, but the older man easily evaded, sidestepping.

Back and forth they danced, swords clacking. Sweat trickled down Lucian's back, his breaths coming faster. He could feel himself tiring, muscles screaming, wounds throbbing. Drakon pressed his advantage, hammering Lucian's guard with multiple blows.

CLANG CLANG CLANG!

Lucian's foot slipped on a patch of damp leaves. Drakon lunged, smashing his sword against Lucian's with brutal force. Unbalanced, Lucian stumbled backward. His heel caught on a gnarled root and he crashed to the ground, sword flying from his grip. Dust billowed around him, catching in his throat.

The old man stood over him, shaking his head. "You're not ready, kid. Few more days rest, then we'll talk."

He reached down a calloused hand. Lucian hesitated a moment, pride warring with pragmatism, before clasping it. Drakon hauled him to his feet.

Lucian retrieved his fallen sword, frustration welling in his chest. "I can't wait any longer. I need to train, get strong enough for the army."

"The army ain't going anywhere," Drakon settled himself on a fallen log. "Rushing in half-cocked is a good way to get dead."

"You don't understand," Lucian hurled the sword to the ground, where it landed with a dull thud. "General Brasidas is expecting me. I've got to prove myself, earn my damned freedom." His fists clenched involuntarily.

Drakon sighed. "The world won't end if you take a week to heal."

Lucian followed Drakon's gaze to where Damon stood in the distance, laughing with his cronies. The sight made his blood boil. "It's his fault I'm in this mess."

"And I promised you we'd get payback, didn't I? But first things first. We need to be sure it was him who set fire to your crops."

"How?" Lucian demanded. Revenge seemed very far away.

A slow smile spread across Drakon's weathered face. "Back in my army days, when we needed information, we'd use the most effective tool to make an enemy talk."

"Which is?"

Drakon raises his bottle. "This little fella right here."

Understanding dawned. Lucian felt a grim excitement kindling in his chest. "So we make them drunk and they’ll talk?"

"Now you're getting it." Drakon slapped him on the shoulder. "Let them lead us right to the truth."

"But I don’t get it, how can wine make them squeal?"

"Trust me, wine can make even the tightest-lipped Spartan sing like a choir boy if he drinks enough. We just need to be patient."

"Can’t we just snatch one of them and beat them until they spill out the information?"

"See," Drakon reached out and pulled Lucian closer, wrapping his arm around him. "That there is a mistake."

"How so?"

"Torturing the person will only give you more lies. It doesn’t achieve anything. He’ll only give you false information, and we don’t want that. We want quality information, and the best way to do that is bring their defenses down through drinking. And luckily, I’m here."

"Considering your talents in that area, I believe you."

"Yeah, that’s it. Remember, you can’t win every battle through the edge of your sword. Sometimes you need to know how to have a good time. I have learned a lot of things from people, just by having a normal conversation with them."

"I hope you can pull this off."

"Hey," he pointed a finger. "I got that Persian info from a prostitute did I?"

"Yes, but I don’t think prostitutes are the best source of information."

"You’d be surprised what information they can get just by laying in bed with the right person. Everybody talks when they feel safe, content, or... distracted."

Lucian looked back to where Damon stood, oblivious. One way or another, he'd have his vengeance. Damon would pay for what he'd done. He’ll make damned sure of that.

——

Night fell over the Syssitia, the communal dining hall filled with boisterous laughter and raucous singing. Damon lounged on one of the worn wooden benches, a cup of strong wine in his hand as he grinned at his companions.

"Did you see the tits on that new slave girl?" Stefanos cackled, tearing off a chunk of bread. "I'd love to get my hands on those."

"Careful, you'll make Damon jealous," Alexios snickered. "We all know he's got first pick of the slave girls."

Damon smirked and took a long swig of wine. "Damn right I do. And I choose the feistiest ones - more fun to break them in."

The men roared with laughter, pounding their cups on the table in approval. Around them, other groups of Spartans ate and drank heartily, the smell of roasted meat and stale sweat hanging heavy in the air.

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"Remember that redhead from last week?" Damon said. "She fought like a wildcat. Took three of us to hold her down." He chuckled. "But she learned her place quick enough."

"I heard she's still got the bruises to prove it," Nikos said with an ugly grin.

Damon shrugged. "They heal. And they should be grateful we give them any attention at all, filthy helot scum that they are."

He gazed around the Syssitia, noting the rows of simple tables and benches, the stuffed wheat sacks that served as cushions for their battle-weary bodies. Shields and spears hung on the walls, always within easy reach should the alarm be sounded.

Stefanos raised his cup. "To being Spartan!" he crowed.

"To being Spartan!" the others echoed, draining their cups dry.

Outside, Drakon turned to Lucian.

"You sure about this, old man?"

Drakon nodded. "I've never been more sure of anything. And don't worry about me - I've faced far worse than a bunch of drunk Spartans."

"But the guards..."

"I know them," Drakon said. "Fought alongside them, years ago. They know what I'm capable of." He clapped Lucian on the shoulder. "Wait here. I won't be long."

"Ok, good luck."

As Drakon approached the entrance, the two guards straightened, their eyes widening in recognition. "Drakon," the taller one said. "It's been a long time."

"Nikias," Drakon greeted him. "Alexandros. I'd like to join my brothers for a drink, if I may."

The guards glanced at each other, then bowed their heads in respect. "Of course," Alexandros said. "You're always welcome here."

Drakon inclined his head in thanks, then pushed open the heavy oak door. Silence fell over the Syssitia as every head turned to stare at the newcomer.

He raised his wine bottle and smiled. "Hello there, fellow Spartans. Mind if I join you?"

Damon's friends leapt to their feet, their hands instinctively reaching for weapons that weren't there. "How in Hades did you get past the guards?" one of them demanded, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

Drakon shrugged, his smile never wavering. "I know them. We've spilled blood together on the battlefield. They remember that."

Damon studied the old warrior for a long moment, his blue eyes calculating. Then, with a dismissive wave of his hand, he said, "Let him join us. It seems we have a celebrity in our midst."

The others sat down slowly, their postures still tense. Drakon ambled over to the table and set his wine bottle down with a thunk.

He surveyed the spread of food, his eyebrows raised. "Well, would you look at this feast! You boys mind if I dig in? It's been a long time since I've had a proper meal."

The men exchanged glances, but no one protested. Damon just stared at him and said, "Help yourself, old man."

"Much obliged."

Drakon tore into a hunk of bread, following it with a strip of roasted chicken. He ate with gusto, washing it down with deep swigs from his wine bottle. The others watched him, some with amusement, others with disdain.

After a few minutes, Drakon leaned back, patting his stomach. "So," he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, "what were you lads talking about before I so rudely interrupted?"

The Spartans looked at each other, then continued their meal in silence. Damon took a slow sip of wine, his gaze never leaving Drakon. "What are you really doing here?"

"Like I said, I just want to have some fun with my fellow Spartans. Is that so hard to believe?"

Damon set his cup down, the metal ringing against the wood. "Actually, yes. It is hard to believe." He leaned forward, his elbows on the table. "I think you have an ulterior motive for coming here tonight. Something more than just 'fun'."

Drakon clutched at his chest in mock offense. "You wound me, Damon. Truly." He shook his head. "I thought you might want to get to know me better, that's all. One legendary Spartan to another."

"And why would I want to do that?" Damon's eyebrows shot up.

The old warrior shrugged. "No particular reason. Just thought it might be interesting." He reached for his wine, but Damon's hand shot out, gripping his wrist.

For a tense moment, the two men stared at each other, the air crackling with unspoken challenge. Then Damon smiled, a slow, predatory thing. He released Drakon's wrist and sat back. "All right, then. If that's what you want, let's drink."

Drakon grinned, raising his bottle high. "Let the party begin!"

The Spartans raised their cups in response, some more enthusiastically than others. "Let's party!" they chorused.

As the wine flowed and the laughter grew louder, Drakon caught Damon's eye. The young warrior was still watching him. Drakon just smiled and drank deeper.

Night moved on, as Drakon, Damon and his men continued their raucous drinking at the Syssitia. One by one, the others succumbed to the wine, slumping unconscious to the floor until only Drakon and Damon remained upright.

Damon let out a hearty laugh, his cheeks flushed from the drink. "Drakon, you old dog! Where do you come up with these perverted tales? That one about the Athenian sisters - I nearly pissed myself!"

He grabbed the wine jug and sloshed more of the dark liquid into Drakon's cup.

The old warrior waved a dismissive hand, a wry grin on his weathered face. He took a long swig. "Ah, that's nothing. Just one of my many escapades from back in the day."

His mind wandered to his youth, the women, the battles. Those were simpler times, before his exile.

Damon pointed an unsteady finger at him. "You know, I've heard stories about you. They say you're unmatched with a blade. I'd like to put that to the test sometime."

"I'd be happy to knock you on your ass," Drakon snorted, "but in case you haven't noticed, we're both drunk off our asses."

He had no doubt he could still best this arrogant pup, even deep in his cups. But he had no desire to start a brawl. Not tonight.

A sly smirk spread across Damon's face. "Speaking of asses...I saw you training that slave boy, Lucian."

Drakon tensed, but kept his expression neutral. He shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "The boy? I was just showing him a thing or two about gripping a sword. Doesn't mean anything."

"No, no, no. I watched you. You were training him, really training him."

"Alright," he raised his hands in surrender, "so I'm teaching him to fight. So what?"

"You know it's forbidden to teach a slave the ways of a Spartan warrior."

Drakon let out a harsh laugh. He leaned in close, his ale-soaked breath hot on the man’s face. "In case you've forgotten, I'm not a Spartan anymore. Remember?"

For a moment, they both chuckled. But then Damon's expression shifted, turning predatory and snapped his fingers. "That's why I took a little extra precaution with your pet rat."

"What?"

Two soldiers emerged from the shadows, dragging a bound and gagged Lucian between them. The boy's eyes were wide with fear above the dirty cloth stuffed in his mouth.

Drakon shot to his feet. But before he could lunge, Damon's blade was at his throat, the steel kissing his skin. "Ah, ah, ah. I wouldn't do that if I were you. Not unless you want the boy's blood on your hands."

"You knew?" Drakon’s fists clenched.

"I knew the moment you stepped foot in here. Had my men do a thorough sweep of the perimeter. Found your boy skulking outside."

Drakon's mind raced. He had to find a way out of this, a way to save Lucian and himself. But with that blade at his throat and his wits dulled by wine, his options were limited. "What are you going to do with him?"

"Him? What are you talking about? The real question here is; what am I going to do with you both?"

"Ok, scratch that. What are you going to do with us?"

"I’m still deciding," Damon stroked his chin. "But I've got a few ideas."

"Let the boy go."

Damon chuckled, pressing the blade slightly closer to draw a thin line of blood on his neck. "Or what? Are you going to beg? Because I think that would be quite a sight, seeing the great Wolf of Sparta on his knees."

Drakon's eyes narrowed as he stared at Damon. Not a word escaped his lips, but the tension in his body spoke volumes. He was trapped, with Damon blocking his only exit and two heavily armed Spartan guards flanking him on either side. Drakon quickly assessed his options, or lack thereof. He could try to fight his way out, but with Damon's sword pointed directly at him, it would be foolish to even attempt it. No, surrender seemed to be the only logical choice.

"You got me," he said, raising his hands. "I give up."

"Is that right? You won't get off that easily," Damon sheathed his sword and instructed one of his soldiers to apprehend Drakon. "We’re going to a place where Spartans traitors are thrown. To Mount Taygetus."