Nosferatu had fed well the previous night. He strode north along the beach, miles flowing past in the darkness. It appeared that he had come back to land farther up the coast from where he’d been pushed out to sea. Instead of jungle, lush grassland stretched out to the interior of the continent. Several times he saw villages ahead and made slight detours to pass around them and their barking dogs unless he had to feed.
He continued up the coast like this for almost a full moon, feeding twice more. The grassland began to give way to rocks and desert, and early one evening, shortly after he set out, he saw a two-story stone tower on a finger of land enclosing a small natural harbor. Several boats were anchored in the cove. They were of a type he had never seen, with an upthrust, curved prow and a tall mast in its center. They were made of wood planks, not reeds, and as large as the barges that hauled stone on the Nile, but sleeker.
There was light in the windows in both levels of the tower and Nosferatu could see a pair of guards with bows on the top. As he got closer he could see that there were several stone-and-wood buildings at the base of the tower. Soon he could hear voices coming from one of the buildings. Nosferatu halted and contemplated the situation. He was hungry, but not desperate. And these men had ships. Pulling his cloak tight around his lean body, he walked forward.
One of the guards spotted him and called out a warning. Nosferatu halted and held up both hands, empty palms out. Several men scrambled out of the building and came up to him, swords drawn. They spoke in a strange tongue, but once again, the universal language worked as Nosferatu drew out several gold pieces from his purse and offered them.
The men took him into the building and offered him food and drink, which he made a pretense of consuming. What did catch his attention, however, was a piece of hide staked to one wall. A map was drawn on it. Seeing his interest, one of the men walked him toward it.
The man pointed at a spot near the bottom of the map, then pointed down at the ground, indicating that was where they were currently located. Nosferatu put his finger on the spot, then ran it up along the coast, around through a narrow strait and into the Middle Sea, along the coast until he reached what he knew was the Nile. Then he pointed at himself.
The man nodded. He pointed to a spot above Egypt along the eastern edge of the Mediterranean, then at himself. “Phoenicia.”
Nosferatu had never heard of the country, but he knew much had changed while he slept. How much, he hoped to find out. Jingling his purse, he indicated himself once more, then Egypt.
The man frowned and called out to one of the others. The man who came over was weathered by the sea and old. He had a scar running down one side of his face, disappearing into the collar of his dirty shirt. The first man pointed at Egypt, then said something as he indicated Nosferatu.
The old man shook his head and spit. He pointed to a land on the north side of the sea, west of Egypt’s location. Apparently that was where he was going, Nosferatu realized, as the two men argued some more. It was closer than he was now. Nosferatu opened his purse and paid the old man.
While the legend was that the Three Hundred had died to the last man in the Gates of Fire at Thermopylae in 480 B.C., the real number was actually 299.
Three hundred Spartans had indeed marched with King Leonidas against King Xerxes and met his massive Persian army of 150,000 men in battle in the narrow pass.
The Spartans had held for four days, allowing the rest of the city-states of Greece to mobilize and eventually defeat the invaders. It was an event celebrated in song and onstage across Greece, no place more so than in Sparta. There was one who knew the truth of the Three Hundred. One who still walked the face of the Earth over 125 years after the famous battle. He was the Three Hundredth, and he was not a man. He stood on the parade field of Sparta, just as he had so many years ago, and watched as the army mustered for battle, just as it had so many years ago, and so many times since.
Vampyr had fought at Thermopylae as long as possible, before slipping away into the night, leaving his comrades to be massacred to the last man. Even now, years later, he saw no point to the famous last stand. Yes, it eventually led to victory for the allied Greek cities, but not long after, those same city-states had fallen once more into battle among themselves in the First and then Second Peloponnesian War. Men who had fought side by side against the Persians were within a few years lining up against each other in mortal combat.
Such was the folly of humans, and such folly was fodder for one who lived on hatred and blood.
Vampyr remained in Sparta because it was the first place he felt at home among the humans. The rest of Greece viewed Sparta as a bizarre enigma. While the arts were celebrated elsewhere, only martial prowess was rewarded in Sparta. The entire city-state was set up to support the army. From 404–371 B.C. Sparta had ruled most of Greece, despite being heavily outnumbered and never being able to field more than ten thousand men. The strain of this rule, though, had taken its toll, and over the past fifteen years, the kingdom had relinquished much territory back to the locals.
Sparta was located in the southwest, connected to the rest of Greece by a narrow isthmus. Vampyr had wandered there after being able to stow away on a ship leaving Crete over a thousand years earlier. He’d hidden his tube in a cave on the southern shore of Peloponnese and gone into the deep sleep for over five hundred years, hoping to have enough time pass for his rule in Crete to be recalled only as legend.
When he awoke he traveled around Greece, taking in the burgeoning civilization, before settling in Sparta. At first he did so out of black humor, as the people there claimed to be descended from Lacedaemon, a son of the god Zeus. Also, he was able to feed with relative impunity because of the way the classes were stratified. There were the Spartiates, who could fight and vote; the Perioikoi, or freemen, who did not have the vote but were graciously allowed to fight and die for the state; and the helots, who — while technically not slaves — were only slighter better off than if they had been, and on whom Vampyr could feed relatively unnoticed.
Three lochoi of Spartan warriors were lined up in formation in front of the Hellenion — the temple — preparing to depart for war against Pylos on the western coast of Peloponnesia. It was just before dawn. Vampyr had fought in so many campaigns he actually had no clue what real or imagined cause was behind the upcoming battle. He had changed his identity six times over the centuries, earning his way each time into the ranks of the knights through feats of arms, rather than by family as most did.
The squires and battle train had departed before dawn, as they rated no fond farewell. The families of the knights who made up the ranks of the lochoi stood in the shadow of the temple, stoically keeping tears at bay. The boys of the agoge — training barracks — not old enough to come on the campaign, stood in their own formation watching their fathers, older brothers, and uncles prepare to leave.
The commander of the expedition, Acton, turned for the road leading west and the women began to sing a hymn to the god of battle. Row after row of Spartans stepped from the grass field onto the dirt road and headed to the west.
Battle. Vampyr had grown to love it over the years. He’d honed his skills until he was the most feared warrior in Sparta, and thus in all of Greece. That combined with his inherent abilities made him practically invincible and his leaders were inclined to grant him latitude regarding his strange behavior. He was never around during the day unless there was to be a battle, and then he was completely garbed in armor from head to toe, with a cloth wrapped across his eyes to guard them from the light. He’d explained that he had a defect which did not allow him to expose any part of his skin or his eyes to the light, and such was his prowess with arms that the other Spartans gladly allowed him this idiosyncrasy.