Night fell, the great bonfires were lit in both opposing camps, the wounded gathered off the battlefield then tended to, the men ate and drank thier fill of thier spare rations as they spoke in hushed tones of what had transpired on the battlefield today and what was to transpire tomorrow in the same bloodstained place.

Alaric and Darius stood hunched over a map which lay on a low table. Several torches about the tent they were in lit the interior while throwing wildly dancing shadows on the floor and walls.

Alaric's finger traced a line on the chart then looked upwards at Darius. "Athens?" he asked to which Darius nodded in answer.

"Athens. We have not lost Sparta, my--" He paused, nearly choking on the next word, "lord. We still have the element of surprise on our side." Darius began to pace but stopped to look up as a hand drew back the tent entrance and Methos entered. "Where have you been?" he roughly asked.

Methos glanced from one to the other before replying, "Out about the camp. How else does one find things out?" He moved over and tore off a hunk of bread, never bowing to Alaric or showing any deference to him or his position. He then sliced off some pungent cheese and begin to eat, unmindful of both sets of eyes on him.

Alaric rubbed at his temples again. He was tired, and felt weakened by the effort of the day yet they still had to try and find a way through the Roman legions which lay between themselves and Sparta's gates.

Methos' continued insolence was a constant irritation to him, one that he would not tolerate for much longer. But for now he felt too ill to do anything about it. He rubbed at his temples then sat down heavily. "About Sparta--" he began. "How do we get through thier lines?"

Darius' clear eyes glittered in the torchlight as he noted Alaric's visible signs of weakness. "We slip past them."

Methos paused his eating then looked directly at Darius. "Brilliant!"

Darius grinned and shrugged then looked back at the map.

"Explain to me how you intend to do that, Darius!" Alaric demanded. "What, are we going to turn invisible and vanish into thin air?"

Darius loudly laughed at the thought, then turned to his king. "We are at that--but not before we leave Rome something to remember us by." He smiled and rubbed his hands together. "Methos, collect a few men together, have them strip themselves and carry only the barest minimum of weapons."

Methos smiled and the shadows caught themselves in his dimples. "And then gather ashes and cover themselves, of course."

Darius nodded and glanced back at Alaric. "What we are going to do is something that will leave them talking for many years. A handful of men shall scale Sparta's walls when the moon--" he looked upwards at where the sky would be if he could see it. "When the moon is under cover of the clouds. Then they shall burn Sparta down from within and throw open her gates."

Alaric's eyes grew wide as he finally understood the implications of the action. "And this will create a massive diversion so that the army can slip away."

"That's correct." Methos interjected. "There is one slight flaw in the reasoning though. Should it rain, we will be in a very bad situation indeed."

"There have been worse situations that my men have gone through and won, Methos," Darius said with an edge to his voice. "This is no different to them. They will obey and do whatever I--"

Alaric angrily interrupted him. "You? It is my army, my men!"

"They follow me. And they do as I command," Darius calmly stated the facts to his king. "You lead us, true. But I command them." He shifted his eyes to Methos. "Go prepare the men."

Methos laconically stood and stretched, then slowly walked past Alaric. "Watch him, Alaric. He'll kill you," he whispered to him as he went by.

Darius eyed him suspiciously as he left. "He'll need to be watched more carefully and I don't trust him," he thought to himself. "He could prove to be my undoing yet!"

And Methos wasn't worth the risk, Darius had decided. No one was going to ruin his dreams of an empire.

Especially not a former slave.

Bending down, he blew on the crack which held the stone in place as he worked both hands and fingers against it, removing the plaster and mortar that had held it in place for centuries. It was harder to remove than what he remembered it ever having been before--he grinned to himself. Of course it's going to be harder--it hadn't been bothered in centuries; there's never been a need for it to be disturbed.

Until now, that is.

The stone moved apart from the others. Darius pushed in and it ground across the other stonework occassionally catching itself on it. Soon, a distinct gap was showing in the wall, he pulled the stone outwards into his hands where it fell with a heavy plop.

Reaching into the opening in the wall he felt around for a moment until he felt the cloth enshrouded object he was searching for and withdrew it into the light.

The cloth crumbled away at his touch and he gently laid the long object on his bed, then reached over to grab a candle for better lighting. His eyes looked upwards at the ceiling light and he nodded to himself that he needed the better lighting of electricity rather than the dim canldelight. He flipped on the overhead light, blew out the candle and carefully unwrapped the object.

Inside the cloth was an ancient sword, short and squat in design similar to Roman blades but it was definitely not Roman in orgin. The grip and pommel were intricately engraved and wrapped in gold wire which was made into elaborate animal figures and depictions of gods and men.

Darius ran a hand upon the grip as he fingered the design, then followed the blade upwards to its' tip with his fingers. He curled he fingers into a fist and brought his hand back, his face showing near disgust at the thought of even picking it up.

Greyson had been a good swordman when he trained him--how much better had he become now? Darius felt that perhaps just in case Greyson should show and want his head, he should at least be prepared. He reached down and slipped the sword into his hands, swinging it in an arc to get the feel of it again.

It felt--it felt--unnatural! To be even considering using it went aagainst everything that Darius had been for centuries and taught others too. It would bring him down to the level of savagery that he now was beyond, and the thought of him fighting another sickened him.

He glanced it over a final time, replaced the fragile cloth over it again and returned it to its' hidden niche in the wall. He then replaced the stone; the wall looked as it had before without a trace of what was hidden inside or that the wall had been disturbed. No one would have ever thought that the wall held something very precious and rare and that was how he wanted it.

What should he do about Greyson?

"Perhaps," he said outloud to the walls, "the question should be what can I do?"

Italy

Grayson sat apart from his army, his horse slowly picking his way through the now demolished village, which had been ravaged, and it’s villagers either killed or rounded up until he gave the orders that determined their fate. His eyes glanced at the bodies which lay upon the ground in a jumbled pile, an occasional woman or child mixed in with the men and boys that had died.

Smoke rose skywards from the burning wreckage of houses that had once stood proudly around a small square. On one end of town a sheep and goat pen stood but instead of holding animals, it held the remaining women and children and it was to the pen that he directed his horse.

Soldiers scurried about their duties pausing to give a quick salute as he passed; some still were seen fighting those who continued to resist between the alleys and streets. One could hear the fighting better than one could see it but it nevertheless was evident that this battle was still not quite over with.

His hose carried him around the parameter of the pen; he eyed the wailing and sobbing women with a jaundiced eye. Ignoring the pleas for mercy from the prisoners, his attention was drawn to a young woman who sat impassively in a corner of the pen, nursing a child from her full, ripe breast, rocking the child as she did so. She intrigued him; for all the commotion that was going on around her, she seemed to have a quiet sort of dignity and calm.

One of the guards came up to him, saluted, and then asked what the next order was in regards to the prisoners. Instantly, one side of his mouth curled upwards in a cruel half grin then replied as his eyes shifted from one prisoner’s face to another, “ Kill them all when I leave the area but leave one alive so that Rome shall know who did this.” He stretched out his arm and pointed at the woman in the corner. “Bring her to me. Now!”

She was brought to him immediately and he bent down from his horse to cup her chin in his hand turning her face this way and that to get a better look at her. The child in her arms began to stir then cry, drawing Grayson’s attention to it. His eyes flew from the child to the woman, then back to the child. He softly smiled at the baby as he touched its’ cheek gently.

His face turned towards the soldier who held the woman in place. “Bring her to my tent,” he ordered in the guttural Goth tongue, then glanced at the woman and spoke in his native Latin that he had spoken when he had been younger and mortal. “No need to fear me, lady. You shall live as your child shall.” He gave her a half smile, and in a flash of movement, scooped the child out of her arms and into his own and galloped away.

Once he was out of range of hearing the mother’s pleas for her child as well as the screams of the women and children as the soldiers slaughtered them, he stopped the horse and tended to the child who wailed loudly and fiercely for its mother. He clucked his tongue at the boy, hushing it in a quiet tone in Latin while rocking it into a quiet calm. Soon he had boy gazing solemnly at his face, while one hand clutched at Grayson’s long, thick braids that swung with each movement of the horse as he made his way towards a lone spot that looked south.

When he arrived, he picked the child up so that he was eye to eye with him then turned the child around to face southward. “Look upon this world, little one,” Grayson half whispered to the child. “All that you know, all that was before now will soon be gone.” He turned the child back towards him. “Look at me.” His voice rose in volume as he continued, “I am the destroyer of it all!”

The child began to wail loudly at the pronouncement.

Greece

Metal clashed upon metal, making it sound as if it were a chorus of voices, each voice competing for attention in the deadly battle of life or death on the plain. The cacophony of noise along with the frightened whinneys of the horses reverberated in the hils which surrounded the armies, making Alaric wince in pain.

His head hurt as did his sword arm; he lifted and slashed repeatedly at those unlucky souls who came close to him in the fray so that perhaps they could take his life then have bragging rights as to who slew the barbarian's leader when all had gathered around the campfire at night. Objects swam before his eyes and he shook his head to clear his double vision.

Clouds of dust rolled skywards as men fell to hand to hand combat. Soon the lines on both sides were so intermingled that it was hard to distinguish who was fighting for who until one looked closely at the differences in garb between the men. The salty smell of sweat, fear and blood that had been spilled upon the ground stung the nostrils of every man, but no one seemed to care. They were too busy trying to stay alive.

Constantine took another swipe over his face with his arm to rid himself of the sweat which kept creeping over his face from the heat and closeness of marauding bodies which formed a tight circle around him for his protection from the encroaching barbarians. His eyes swung left and right as his searched for sign of his co-general but with all the fighting going on around him he was unable to locate him. "Stilicho!" he bellowed but the sound was swallowed within all the other sounds.

The men who encircled him wavered and began to fall back into a tighter circle around him as the Goths surged forward until they finally broke through the line. Instantly, he was besieged by Goth soldiers and he retreated backwards in his chariotbut found that it hampered his movement. Jumping out, he slashed and parried his way across the field until at last he managed to wrap his hand through the mane of a horse running loose and vaulted upwards on its' back.

At the unfamilar weight, the horse reared skywards; he held on tightly with both knees and tight grip, taking advantage for a brief moment to take a look around to see how the battle went. Much to his disappointment, there was no apparent victory for Rome that he could see in that split second before the horse fell back to the ground. He pulled at the horse's mane and guided it away fron the fighting as he hacked, thrust and parried his way through the throng until he felt the familar prickling of his skin that signaled the presence of another Immortal nearby. No matter where he looked, he could not find the source of the sensation he was feeling.

Darius stopped in mid-motion as he too felt the sensation that crept through him while at the same time surrounded him in an aura of anticipation of the challenge that was sure to come. He pushed away the Roman soldier who continued to try and stab him while his eyes tried to seek out where the other immortal might be.

Swinging his head to and fro and try as he might, he was unable to pinpoint the location of where the other was. His face became a snarling mask in his disappointment and anticipation of the challenge that was not to be asked for and accepted on this day. He roughly kicked his mount in the ribs as he swung around and rode away. "By all the gods!" he swore loudly as he shook his sword in mid-air.

Methos sat high up on a hillside in a grove of olive trees, calmly choosing olives off the branch he held. Every once in a while, his eyes drifted down to where the fight which spread out below him; he studied with a practiced objectivity both the strengths and weaknesses of the opposing armies, shaking his head as he saw the forces rally then fall back--first the Roman army, then the the Goths.

Popping an olive into his waiting mouth, he slowly lowered himself and stretched his long, lean body out along the ground. As he chewed it occured to him that Darius would want a full accounting as to where he was during the battle. One side of his mouth quirked upwards, showing the deep dimple within his cheek as he thought about their agreemant.

He had agreed to fight alongside of Darius--but not risk his life. His life and head were too precious; he wasn't about to put himself at risk for a trivial fight as this. Instead, he would wait and see how this fight came off before deciding about joining in. His eyelids drooped heavily in the heat and he waved off a fly which buzzed about his face before sitting back upright to observe more of the happenings below him.

The hours drug slowly by as the sun rode across the sky marking the time's passage ans he drove his sword deeply onto the ground to create a makeshift sundial to mark the passage of time. He mentally ticked off the numbers of the Roman legions versus the Goths, while his mind registered the sounds of the heavy fighting. The information he collected would come in handy for bartering with Darius as well as Alaric for things he wanted. A slow smile spread over his lips as he thought about what he might ask for this time.

All was well, he thought to himself. All was well.