Chapter 149

“One day, I’ll be just like him!” Secrian declared with a surge of confidence, his voice filled with a vibrant hope for the future. “Untie the ropes! We’re heading back to the river mouth!”

As the fishing boat departed, Lysias’s gaze lingered on the patrol captain who had taken charge of them. “Are you citizens of Amendolara?” he inquired.

The captain glanced at him, his reply crisp and precise. “No. We are citizens of the Thurii-Amendolara Alliance.”

“Ah, my apologies,” Lysias said, inclining his head politely before continuing. “May I ask about the condition of the Crotoniate soldiers you’ve taken captive?”

“I cannot tell you their precise location; that is a military secret,” the captain stated, his tone firm and official. “But I can tell you that they are being treated well. Lord Davos has even ordered the physicians to tend to the wounded. However,” he added, a hard edge creeping into his voice, “if your negotiations fail, their situation may become far less comfortable. I have heard that the Thurian senators are strongly advocating for them to be sent to the mines.”

A jolt of alarm shot through Lysias. Sending prisoners of war to the mines was a death sentence. He vividly recalled the fate of the Athenian army after their disastrous Sicilian expedition against Syracuse; some six thousand captives had been forced into the stone quarries, and within a few years, nearly all of them had perished. The thought filled him with a gnawing anxiety.

After a short while, the mounted soldier returned, leaning in to whisper a few words into the captain’s ear: “Take the long way.”

The captain understood at once. He turned to the Crotoniate delegation and announced, “The Senate has agreed to meet with you. Let us be on our way.”

The party made their way through the ruins of the port district and into the main city, where a sight so astonishing awaited them that the Crotoniate envoys could scarcely believe their eyes. In stark contrast to the desolate silence of the harbor, the city proper was a maelstrom of activity, a vibrant, thrumming hive of humanity. Men, women, and children, of all ages, were toiling with a feverish intensity. Some cleared away ash and rubble, hauling away shattered stones and tiles. Others, on freshly cleared ground, were already tamping down the earth and driving foundation piles under the direction of skilled artisans. A great many more swarmed along the city walls, erecting wooden scaffolding and laying new courses of stone and brick. There were also those mixing mortar, transporting timber, and pushing carts laden with food and water. The entire city of Thurii had been transformed into one vast construction site. Here, under the open sky, its people toiled, their bodies drenched in sweat, their spirits filled with a passionate zeal to rebuild their home. So engrossed were they in their work that as the Crotoniate delegation passed through their midst, almost no one bothered to lift their head for even a glance.

Though tens of thousands labored in unison, the scene was not one of chaos. A remarkable order governed the clamor. Lysias noticed that men with red ribbons tied around their heads seemed to play a crucial role, directing and coordinating the workflow in their sections. The true orchestrator of this colossal effort, however, was a wiry, sun-weathered old man who moved restlessly through the site. He would constantly patrol the grounds, pausing when he spotted a problem to consult a set of blueprints, then conferring with the small group of men who followed him like a shadow. Moments later, someone would be dispatched to correct the issue.

“Who is he?” one of the Crotoniate envoys asked, his curiosity piqued.

“Heracleides,” the captain answered. “A disciple of the great Greek architect, Hippodamus.”

Heracleides, after completing the warehouses and inns in Amendolara, had been overseeing the construction of the great road to Thurii. But when he heard the Senate was planning to rebuild the city, he had personally volunteered to design and lead the reconstruction. Davos had agreed without hesitation, adding a few of his own requirements for the new city’s design.

For Heracleides, this city, which held the memory of his greatest triumphs and had been his home for twenty years, was a place of complex emotions. He knew it intimately; he could have walked its every street with his eyes closed, recalling the rise and fall of the terrain and the precise curve of the riverbank from memory. He poured all of this passion and knowledge onto the page, completing the blueprints for the new Thurii in a single, sleepless night.

Davos had been immensely impressed. Since then, Heracleides had spent every waking moment on the construction site, his energy seemingly inexhaustible as he meticulously supervised every detail. His passion for the work was infectious, inspiring the citizens who were already motivated by the prospect of rebuilding their own homes, and the pace of reconstruction accelerated with each passing day.

The Crotoniate envoys, of course, could not have known the reverence in which this wiry old man was now held in Thurii, nor did they recall the name Hippodamus. They offered a polite, noncommittal sound in response and turned their attention elsewhere.

Lysias, feigning a casual air, asked, “There must be over forty thousand people working here, wouldn’t you say? Thurii surely did not have so many. Are the people of Amendolara among them?”

“There are some of our citizens from Amendolara, yes, but the majority are freemen and slaves,” the captain replied. He looked at Lysias, seemingly reading his thoughts, and made no effort to conceal the truth. “You must be wondering why they all work with such fervor. It is not only because they might one day become residents of this city. It is also because Archon Davos passed a temporary decree in the Senate: ‘Widowed Thurian women are permitted to marry freemen, provided the woman consents of her own free will.’”

“What?!” Lysias exclaimed, utterly astounded.

“You must understand, Crotoniate,” the captain said, a faint, knowing smile playing on his lips, “even before your massacre of its citizens, Thurii had already lost over ten thousand men in the war against the Lucanians. The city was filled with widows. I heard they were even considering a law to allow polygamy, that’s how desperate they were for men. But now, all these freemen are working themselves to the bone, trying to impress the Thurian women as they rebuild their homes, hoping to win their favor. Think of it: if a freeman succeeds, he not only gains a wife but is immediately granted the status of a preparatory citizen and given a house. He may not receive land right away, but if he joins the army and fights for the Alliance, that will come in time. I tell you, these fellows are lucky beyond belief, having their pick of so many cultured and beautiful Thurian women. Why, back when we were in Amendolara—”

“Captain, don’t start complaining again,” one of his soldiers interjected with a laugh. “Your wife is the most famous beauty in Amendolara! A Persian woman, no less! Don’t you know how much the other citizens envy you?”

“Ha! Ha! Ha!” The captain laughed heartily, unabashed. “Of course! Of course! My wife is the most beautiful woman in all of Amendolara, second only to the Archon’s wife! Beautiful and cultured! I was complaining on your behalf, for missing out on such a golden opportunity!”

“My Lucanian woman suits me just fine!” another soldier declared, thumping his chest with a blissful expression. “Passionate, tall, and well-endowed right here… a Greek woman can’t compare!”

As the squad of soldiers devolved into a boisterous and increasingly crude debate over whose wife was the most beautiful, Lysias lost interest. To a traditional Greek aristocrat like him, the decrees enacted by the Thurii-Amendolara Alliance were nothing short of heretical. In Croton—a city founded centuries ago, where the power of the clans and phratries was deeply entrenched and immovable—such laws would be unthinkable. Yet, he had to admit, for a people who had lost their homes and a vast portion of their able-bodied men, these measures were an undeniably effective way to rapidly restore the city-state’s strength. But a renewed, powerful, and prosperous Thurii—a Thurii bound to Croton by a blood feud—was the last thing Lysias wished to see.

Consumed by these troubling thoughts, Lysias followed the escort out of the city. On the way to the military camp, they were “coincidentally” led past more than a dozen squads of soldiers engaged in training exercises. It appeared to be a kind of game. Two sides of about fifty men each—a full company—were armed with long wooden poles tipped with cloth for spears and crude wooden planks for shields. They charged and thrust at each other as if in a real battle. The contest only ended when one side was forced back across a white line drawn on the ground with lime powder. As punishment, the soldiers of the losing team had to squat with their hands behind their backs and hop around the training field.

The scene was intense and fiercely competitive; it was obviously a simulation of real combat. Lysias personally witnessed several soldiers suffer injuries from the wooden poles and be led off the field for treatment, yet the morale of the men remained sky-high. They cheered and shouted encouragement, each man eager for his turn to compete. Their ferocity and desire for battle were plain to see.

“Is this how you normally train?” one of the envoys asked.

The patrol captain chuckled softly. “We train once every five days. A session lasts from dawn until dusk and includes many different drills. This is just one of the less strenuous exercises.”

The Crotoniate envoys exchanged uneasy glances. The intensity of the Alliance’s military training was clearly far greater than that of their own citizen-soldiers, who spent the better part of their days at the palaestra. Lysias didn’t entirely trust the captain’s words, but it was evident that the Amendolaran forces were a rigorously trained, battle-hardened army. Otherwise, they could not have defeated Croton’s host so decisively, even with the element of surprise.

Upon entering the camp, they were led to the large central tent. The patrol captain went inside to announce them, leaving Lysias and his delegation to wait outside.

Just then, a man emerged from the tent. Lysias glanced at him and felt a flicker of recognition. The face was familiar, but he couldn’t immediately place it. The man, equally surprised to see Lysias, froze for a split second before his composure returned. He offered Lysias a slight, enigmatic smile, then turned and walked briskly away.

Lysias stared after his retreating figure, racking his brain, trying to remember who he was.

“The Archon will see you now.” The patrol captain’s voice came from behind him.

Shaking himself from his thoughts, Lysias steadied his nerves, lifted the tent flap, and stepped inside.

…

After escorting the envoys, the patrol captain led his soldiers out of the camp. The moment they were clear, his stern, official expression melted away into a broad grin. “Well, brothers, how was my performance?”

“Captain Olivas, you were brilliant!” one soldier praised him. “So serious and professional! You were like a completely different person!”

“I thought it was a bit lacking,” another soldier offered his critique. “You slipped up in the middle and started joking about women. It was quite out of character for your role!”

“What?!” Olivas’s eyes went wide with mock indignation. “Xenothemis, you were not paying proper attention to your duties today! You must be punished!”