The Vevellis Chronicles:
The Crescent and the Cross
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CHAPTER 1 SAMARIA 1440 AD Vergotis rested both hands on his knees as his aged body gave way under the relentless pace the high-energy Nicola and Antonis had set. But he did not mind, and a smile broke across his face as he glanced ahead on the path that meandered next to the summer-dried riverbed. Taking in a deep breath, he felt the oppressive August heat fill his lungs, and shook his head as he glanced up to see the sun had not yet risen to its mid-morning height. Resigning himself to his weakness in letting the boys persuade him against his better judgment to do this trip, he tugged the rein, and the stationary mule obediently followed along the path. The smell of dry heated rocks with a faint hint of pine relentlessly assaulted his senses as he strove vainly to catch up with the boys. “Don’t go too far ahead, wait for me,” he shouted. Their father had asked him to take them to see one of their ‘estates’, for soon, they would be men and it was time for them to know about the family holdings. It was on one of his regular trips and he saw no harm in it. Besides, how could he refuse his benevolent master such a mundane request? A quick sail from Chania and back; what is the harm in that? All had gone according to plan until the journey back from Frangokastello. The boys, full of youthful exuberance, asked if they could quickly visit the narrow gates in the Samaria Gorge. The fastidious old man instantly refused, with a litany of reasons as to why they couldn’t. Undeterred, they persisted and in tandem, flipped effortlessly between Nicola’s relentless energy and Antonis’ reasoned logic, until the genteel Vergotis consented. |
Now, he found himself under the searing Cretan sun, walking along a near-dry riverbed with sheer rock faces either side as they narrowed to the width of three men. Looking up to take in the natural splendour, he shook his head and chortled to himself. At least it won’t be long until they reach their destination and turn back.
The finicky old man started to relax and began to take in the vistas. It was the first time in his sixty-plus years that he had ventured into the gorge and grudgingly admitted that it was wildly beautiful. Though, he always felt more at home in the safety of a farm or fortified house; adventure did not appeal to him.
Nicola could not hold his excitement as he bounced along the path, jumping from rock to rock that lay strewn on the ancient gorge floor. He always felt happiest when on some sort of quest, especially with his younger brother Antonis in tow. “Vergotis,” he shouted.
The old groom looked forward along the path in trepidation as he waited to hear what they wanted.
“We are going to climb up the rock-face here and walk down to the village on the higher path.”
The groom eyed the clear footway some thirty feet above and gulped at the sight of the sheer face, but before he could protest, the boys were already climbing. Helplessly, he watched, frozen with his outstretched hand as the two deftly navigated their way through the tree-peppered outcrops towards the path overhead.
“You see, it’s fine,” shouted Nicola.
Vergotis’ bland smile was lost in the distance.
“We will see you down in the village. Bet we get there before you do,” said Antonis.
Forlornly, he waved his hand at them, certain they would. Realising the futility of giving them instruction, he turned his mule around and started the trek back to the fishing village at the bottom of the gorge.
Looking down from their vantage point, Nicola placed his hands on his hips and theatrically breathed in a deep lungful of thyme-infused air.
Standing calmly next to his brother, Antonis noticed how the kri-kri effortlessly clung to the sheer rock-face above him.
“If those old goats can do it, so can we.” Nicola pointed out. “Let’s climb up and walk down the ridge of the mountain.”
Antonis looked up and a murmur of trepidation entered his throat. Though not as extrovert as Nicola, he was no less brave and admitted it would be fun to walk down along the ridge. He saw his brother wasting no time, take off his shirt, and begin to scale the perilously smooth rock-face.
Nicola’s straight blond hair flopped over his shoulders as he pulled himself up onto the small outcrop of rock; as the elder, it was natural to take charge. His shoulders began to glisten in the sun from the exertion of the climb. His torso was muscular, like a full-grown man’s, not a boy’s, one month off his fifteenth birthday.
Antonis inhaled deeply then took his first steps up the slope. The boyish physique and wavy black hair in stark contrast to his brother’s, even though less than ten months separated them. His slender limbs however, belied the fact that he could keep pace in speed and stamina, if not in strength.
Nicola paused halfway up the climb and looked up to the top of the ridge then turning to look down, saw his brother nimbly following. “We’d better pick up the pace, Vergotis will start to panic if we take too long.”
Antonis laughed. “So considerate, Nicola. But he is such a fussy old woman.”
Nicola murmured agreement and turned back towards the ascent then felt a slap on his left calf, announcing that his brother had caught up. “Come on, you big lump.” And with effortless ease, he surged up the cliff face, leaving Antonis behind, who had paused on the small outcrop to draw breath and peer up the gorge.
Beauty spread before Antonis, leaving him speechless. He focused on the old fig tree, standing as it had for centuries; a number almost too great for his fourteen years of life to comprehend. His gaze followed above the line of the trees as the gorge narrowed to a point, the sheer rock faces reflecting the azure sky through its light sprinkling of quartz. The sun bore down on him and he started climbing once more.
Craning his head upward, he saw his brother reach the summit and quickly disappear from view. Letting out a snort of defiance, he was not going to let him think he could not keep up, and promptly picked up his pace to join him. As he reached the crest, he padded his fingers around to find a good grip, and finding one, he braced himself for the final exertion. He yelped as a sharp pain seared his scalp and felt himself hauled bodily up by two rough hands that scooped him under the armpits and yanked him fully onto the top.
The sight that greeted him made his heart leap into his mouth. His brother stood sullenly in the shadow of a spectral-looking bandit. Antonis nervously sucked in every detail as he tried to process this new development and looked around to see who had grabbed him. Large bellies pulled in by wide leather belts, filthy beards, and lined puffy faces told him they were threatening but not frightening. He gagged from the foul stench of his breath, when one laughed loudly in his face.
“Well, well, well, what do we have here? A couple of lost little boys? I wonder if anyone is looking for you right now?” said the spectral leader whilst looking at the latest arrival.
Antonis’ mind raced into overdrive. Does he know who we are? Who are these people? Can they be reasoned with? The last thought had a calming effect on him and he again took further stock of his surroundings in detailed precision; a lithe teen flanked by his two bodyguards. His larger brother stood morosely in the shadow of the tall thin leader, whose dark beard framed his hawk-like face with large, black malevolent eyes. Their captors’ unkempt worn boots in stark contrast to the polished supple leather of their own. The situation seemed almost comical. “What is your name? How dare you do this! Let us go immediately,” he said. The clarity and firmness in his voice surprising even himself.
The bandit chuckled. “You’re a feisty one. Very well, my name is Michalis. Now, tell me your father’s name and for your sakes it better be worth it.”
Antonis swallowed hard and the sound seemed to reverberate audibly. Fear began to grip him as it dawned on him this outlaw was not bluffing. Now, he regretted having persuaded Vergotis so effectively. His eyes relented as he reasoned that brains would have to outwit brawn. “There is no reason to be angry with us. Our father is wealthy, Andreas Vevellis of Chania. As long as you don’t harm us I am sure he will be willing to pay handsomely for our safe release. You can send one of your men down to the village with a ransom note, where our groom is waiting for us. I can sign my name to it so he knows it’s genuine.”
The bandit listened to the young boy, betraying no emotion in his cruel obsidian eyes.
Nicola followed his brother’s voice intently, his impotent rage at the situation paralysing him. But as the leader absorbed the words, his grip slowly began to relax on Nicola’s shoulder, who sensed an opportunity. Cautiously, he fixed his eyes on his brother opposite, to give him an unbroken signal, careful not to arouse suspicion to the men flanking him. Their gazes connected for a brief moment, and taking that as the signal, he sank his shoulders lower as he implemented his hastily thought out plan.
To the bandits, he appeared broken, as he sagged under the brigand’s hands.
Slowly and very carefully, Nicola reached down and pulled the small dagger that was in his boot, the one he used to peel figs with, and with lightning speed and all the force he could muster, stabbed the two-inch blade into the side of the bandit leader’s knee, who screamed in pain and fell writhing to the ground.
“Run!” He yelled.
Quick as a flash, the two boys sprinted down the high mountain path towards the end of the gorge. Fear making them alert and agile as they leapt on the loose rock with a nimbleness that would have made the watching goats envious.
“After them, you idiots, and make sure you keep them alive, especially the big one,” bellowed the stricken leader.
The boys were already out of sight but the brigands knew there was only one place they could go, the village at the bottom of the gorge, and unless they grabbed a boat, they were stuck there, as no roads led out of it.
The path was relatively straight, without too many branches, or loose rocks in the way. Before long, they crested the peak and ventured down towards the village, their legs aching and their lungs beginning to burn. The path widened and the trees became sparser as the mountain ridge flattened towards the village.
“What have you done, Nicola?” screamed Antonis, as they ran into the village.
“What had to be done. There is a time for talk and a time for action, and it’s better than finding out if he was going to keep his word,” replied Nicola.
Aghia Roumelli was really a collection of white-daubed one-story homes more than a formal village. There were two shepherd huts at the end of the gorge on the flat plain that sprang into a pebble beach and splayed its way into the crystal-clear Libyan Sea.
The boys were panting so much when they arrived at the tavern they couldn’t relay what had happened. Vergotis was wide-eyed with concern as he saw the children run towards him, instantly regretting his decision to let them go alone. A slight man, fussy, yet caring, he thought of Antonis and Nicola as his beloved surrogates.
“We had a little incident,” said Antonis, who had recovered more quickly than his brother. His tone was measured, belying what had just occurred.
“What kind of incident?” responded the worried groom.
Before Antonis could reply, Nicola blurted out the events without pausing to draw breath.
Vergotis listened intently to the deluge of information pouring out then looked around nervously, and knew they needed to leave at once. It took all his self-control not to panic. “Quickly, get your horses, we need to get on our boat now.”
He hurried the boys, giving them no more time to rest. For their part, they obliged and hastened upstairs in focused silence to grab their clothes and knapsacks.
The tavern was a low-slung building, the eating area on the ground floor arranged around an open-hearth fire. To the left, was a staircase that led up to the second floor, where there were five rooms for guests; basic, but functional. It was deathly quiet. The innkeeper and his wife were present but apart from them, the place seemed devoid of life.
This worried Vergotis, for he knew it wouldn’t be long before the bandits found them. “Hurry,” he yelled.
He saw the boys come out of their room but as turned to the door, was presented with the two fat bandits in the doorway. His body tensed, yet he maintained a calm composure and nodded once, in a tentative greeting. “Afternoon, gentlemen.”
“You with them?” barked the one on the left.
Vergotis raised a weak eyebrow of incomprehension and turned to the boys—by this time at the bottom of the stairs—the panic now palpable in his eyes.
As the boys stood there, they saw their groom’s face turn from fear to a surprised grimace as he looked down and saw the point of a sword sticking out through his stomach. Over his left shoulder, they saw the smiling foul face of the bandit as he twisted the blade into him. Antonis let out a scream of terror as his hands splayed across his body. Vergotis crumpled to the floor and Nicola, ashen-faced, pulled his brother, and ran through the door at the back of the room.
They entered a luscious walled-in garden, from whence there was no escape. In desperation, they ran to an orange tree growing in the corner, their only chance of clearing the wall, and started to climb it. The other bandit rushed after them, grabbed them off the branches, and threw them unceremoniously to the ground, winding them both.
With a grunt and a shuffle, the leader appeared. Blood ran down his left leg and his face even paler than before with all the exertion. “You fucking brats. There isn’t going to be any ransom. I’m just going to stick you both, and very slowly.” Michalis bared his teeth like a wolf closing in on its kill.
The boys backed fearfully up on the ground as the three men stepped closer.
“Excuse me. Don’t you know it’s the height of bad manners to disturb a gentleman having a bath?” spoke a deep gravelly voice.
The three men spun around to see a man in a huge granite bath in the shaded corner of the garden under the vine trellis.
Michalis noted instantly that he was a warrior; his armour and sword clearly resting against the stone wall, but out of reach. He gave a thin smile as he scanned for any other threats and studied the man; only his head and shoulders were above the soapy water, and he had large, almost feminine brown eyes. The rest of his face was angular and defined, a roman nose over a square jaw with a full mouth. His dark hair was cropped short in the Genoese style yet his accent was definitely Greek. He had the outward appearance of someone you didn’t trifle with, along with a slight mocking expression, which infuriated the leader. Anyway, what did it matter? they were three, he was one, and unarmed. “Mind your own business, I have no quarrel with you,” rasped Michalis.
“Aye, that you do, and I should mind my own business; however, it does strike me as rather unjust to see that it takes three grown men to kill two little boys. You see, my sense of fair play just will not tolerate it.”
The three bandits guffawed in unison.
“So, what are you going to do about it then, splash us with your bath water?” challenged one of the fat brigands.
The warrior calmly rose, stepped out of the bath, and kept rising to full height. A good head taller than the largest bandit, he was a bull of a man and his measured movements made him all the more imposing. His right hand was holding a wet wash towel, the only visible weapon, apart from the impressive one nature had given him. “Ready for your splash now?” he mocked.
With speed that surprised the boys, the two fat brigands rushed at the bather, swords raised for killer blows on either side. It seemed an eternity to the youngsters.
The warrior did not move, keeping his arms firmly to his side.
The left sword aimed for a disembowelment and the right to cleave his head from his shoulders. As the left blade closed for the killing blow, he reacted. The speed was mesmerising, despite his size. He stepped to his right and gripped the bandit by his sword wrist. With a deft touch, he used the attackers force against him and threw him into the side of the huge stone vessel knocking him temporarily unconscious. The other attacker swished his sword in the now vacant space and landed in a heap next to his comrade. Before either could react, he dispatched them with two perfunctory slashes to their throats.
“Well, looks like we have evened up the odds,” he said to the remaining man.
Michalis knew he was beaten, attempted to kneel, begging for his life. The warrior released his pose for a split second but before he could do anything, Nicola sprang behind the kneeling man and stabbed him with full force into his throat. The bandit leader crumpled to the ground, gurgling in his blood.
“That’s for Vergotis,” snarled Nicola.
The venom and composure of the boy surprised the warrior who was still standing there, naked. He walked over to his pile of clothes and armour resting in the corner and rapidly dressed, being more than curious to discover what this was all about. “It’s over now,” the huge man said. “So, tell me, whose boys are you and who is this Vergotis?”
“We are the sons of Andreas Vevellis, and Vergotis was our father’s groom, whom those bastards just murdered,” Nicola spat out.
“Who are you?” inquired Antonis.
“Alexis Sartis, and I think it’s time I took you two home.
The finicky old man started to relax and began to take in the vistas. It was the first time in his sixty-plus years that he had ventured into the gorge and grudgingly admitted that it was wildly beautiful. Though, he always felt more at home in the safety of a farm or fortified house; adventure did not appeal to him.
Nicola could not hold his excitement as he bounced along the path, jumping from rock to rock that lay strewn on the ancient gorge floor. He always felt happiest when on some sort of quest, especially with his younger brother Antonis in tow. “Vergotis,” he shouted.
The old groom looked forward along the path in trepidation as he waited to hear what they wanted.
“We are going to climb up the rock-face here and walk down to the village on the higher path.”
The groom eyed the clear footway some thirty feet above and gulped at the sight of the sheer face, but before he could protest, the boys were already climbing. Helplessly, he watched, frozen with his outstretched hand as the two deftly navigated their way through the tree-peppered outcrops towards the path overhead.
“You see, it’s fine,” shouted Nicola.
Vergotis’ bland smile was lost in the distance.
“We will see you down in the village. Bet we get there before you do,” said Antonis.
Forlornly, he waved his hand at them, certain they would. Realising the futility of giving them instruction, he turned his mule around and started the trek back to the fishing village at the bottom of the gorge.
Looking down from their vantage point, Nicola placed his hands on his hips and theatrically breathed in a deep lungful of thyme-infused air.
Standing calmly next to his brother, Antonis noticed how the kri-kri effortlessly clung to the sheer rock-face above him.
“If those old goats can do it, so can we.” Nicola pointed out. “Let’s climb up and walk down the ridge of the mountain.”
Antonis looked up and a murmur of trepidation entered his throat. Though not as extrovert as Nicola, he was no less brave and admitted it would be fun to walk down along the ridge. He saw his brother wasting no time, take off his shirt, and begin to scale the perilously smooth rock-face.
Nicola’s straight blond hair flopped over his shoulders as he pulled himself up onto the small outcrop of rock; as the elder, it was natural to take charge. His shoulders began to glisten in the sun from the exertion of the climb. His torso was muscular, like a full-grown man’s, not a boy’s, one month off his fifteenth birthday.
Antonis inhaled deeply then took his first steps up the slope. The boyish physique and wavy black hair in stark contrast to his brother’s, even though less than ten months separated them. His slender limbs however, belied the fact that he could keep pace in speed and stamina, if not in strength.
Nicola paused halfway up the climb and looked up to the top of the ridge then turning to look down, saw his brother nimbly following. “We’d better pick up the pace, Vergotis will start to panic if we take too long.”
Antonis laughed. “So considerate, Nicola. But he is such a fussy old woman.”
Nicola murmured agreement and turned back towards the ascent then felt a slap on his left calf, announcing that his brother had caught up. “Come on, you big lump.” And with effortless ease, he surged up the cliff face, leaving Antonis behind, who had paused on the small outcrop to draw breath and peer up the gorge.
Beauty spread before Antonis, leaving him speechless. He focused on the old fig tree, standing as it had for centuries; a number almost too great for his fourteen years of life to comprehend. His gaze followed above the line of the trees as the gorge narrowed to a point, the sheer rock faces reflecting the azure sky through its light sprinkling of quartz. The sun bore down on him and he started climbing once more.
Craning his head upward, he saw his brother reach the summit and quickly disappear from view. Letting out a snort of defiance, he was not going to let him think he could not keep up, and promptly picked up his pace to join him. As he reached the crest, he padded his fingers around to find a good grip, and finding one, he braced himself for the final exertion. He yelped as a sharp pain seared his scalp and felt himself hauled bodily up by two rough hands that scooped him under the armpits and yanked him fully onto the top.
The sight that greeted him made his heart leap into his mouth. His brother stood sullenly in the shadow of a spectral-looking bandit. Antonis nervously sucked in every detail as he tried to process this new development and looked around to see who had grabbed him. Large bellies pulled in by wide leather belts, filthy beards, and lined puffy faces told him they were threatening but not frightening. He gagged from the foul stench of his breath, when one laughed loudly in his face.
“Well, well, well, what do we have here? A couple of lost little boys? I wonder if anyone is looking for you right now?” said the spectral leader whilst looking at the latest arrival.
Antonis’ mind raced into overdrive. Does he know who we are? Who are these people? Can they be reasoned with? The last thought had a calming effect on him and he again took further stock of his surroundings in detailed precision; a lithe teen flanked by his two bodyguards. His larger brother stood morosely in the shadow of the tall thin leader, whose dark beard framed his hawk-like face with large, black malevolent eyes. Their captors’ unkempt worn boots in stark contrast to the polished supple leather of their own. The situation seemed almost comical. “What is your name? How dare you do this! Let us go immediately,” he said. The clarity and firmness in his voice surprising even himself.
The bandit chuckled. “You’re a feisty one. Very well, my name is Michalis. Now, tell me your father’s name and for your sakes it better be worth it.”
Antonis swallowed hard and the sound seemed to reverberate audibly. Fear began to grip him as it dawned on him this outlaw was not bluffing. Now, he regretted having persuaded Vergotis so effectively. His eyes relented as he reasoned that brains would have to outwit brawn. “There is no reason to be angry with us. Our father is wealthy, Andreas Vevellis of Chania. As long as you don’t harm us I am sure he will be willing to pay handsomely for our safe release. You can send one of your men down to the village with a ransom note, where our groom is waiting for us. I can sign my name to it so he knows it’s genuine.”
The bandit listened to the young boy, betraying no emotion in his cruel obsidian eyes.
Nicola followed his brother’s voice intently, his impotent rage at the situation paralysing him. But as the leader absorbed the words, his grip slowly began to relax on Nicola’s shoulder, who sensed an opportunity. Cautiously, he fixed his eyes on his brother opposite, to give him an unbroken signal, careful not to arouse suspicion to the men flanking him. Their gazes connected for a brief moment, and taking that as the signal, he sank his shoulders lower as he implemented his hastily thought out plan.
To the bandits, he appeared broken, as he sagged under the brigand’s hands.
Slowly and very carefully, Nicola reached down and pulled the small dagger that was in his boot, the one he used to peel figs with, and with lightning speed and all the force he could muster, stabbed the two-inch blade into the side of the bandit leader’s knee, who screamed in pain and fell writhing to the ground.
“Run!” He yelled.
Quick as a flash, the two boys sprinted down the high mountain path towards the end of the gorge. Fear making them alert and agile as they leapt on the loose rock with a nimbleness that would have made the watching goats envious.
“After them, you idiots, and make sure you keep them alive, especially the big one,” bellowed the stricken leader.
The boys were already out of sight but the brigands knew there was only one place they could go, the village at the bottom of the gorge, and unless they grabbed a boat, they were stuck there, as no roads led out of it.
The path was relatively straight, without too many branches, or loose rocks in the way. Before long, they crested the peak and ventured down towards the village, their legs aching and their lungs beginning to burn. The path widened and the trees became sparser as the mountain ridge flattened towards the village.
“What have you done, Nicola?” screamed Antonis, as they ran into the village.
“What had to be done. There is a time for talk and a time for action, and it’s better than finding out if he was going to keep his word,” replied Nicola.
Aghia Roumelli was really a collection of white-daubed one-story homes more than a formal village. There were two shepherd huts at the end of the gorge on the flat plain that sprang into a pebble beach and splayed its way into the crystal-clear Libyan Sea.
The boys were panting so much when they arrived at the tavern they couldn’t relay what had happened. Vergotis was wide-eyed with concern as he saw the children run towards him, instantly regretting his decision to let them go alone. A slight man, fussy, yet caring, he thought of Antonis and Nicola as his beloved surrogates.
“We had a little incident,” said Antonis, who had recovered more quickly than his brother. His tone was measured, belying what had just occurred.
“What kind of incident?” responded the worried groom.
Before Antonis could reply, Nicola blurted out the events without pausing to draw breath.
Vergotis listened intently to the deluge of information pouring out then looked around nervously, and knew they needed to leave at once. It took all his self-control not to panic. “Quickly, get your horses, we need to get on our boat now.”
He hurried the boys, giving them no more time to rest. For their part, they obliged and hastened upstairs in focused silence to grab their clothes and knapsacks.
The tavern was a low-slung building, the eating area on the ground floor arranged around an open-hearth fire. To the left, was a staircase that led up to the second floor, where there were five rooms for guests; basic, but functional. It was deathly quiet. The innkeeper and his wife were present but apart from them, the place seemed devoid of life.
This worried Vergotis, for he knew it wouldn’t be long before the bandits found them. “Hurry,” he yelled.
He saw the boys come out of their room but as turned to the door, was presented with the two fat bandits in the doorway. His body tensed, yet he maintained a calm composure and nodded once, in a tentative greeting. “Afternoon, gentlemen.”
“You with them?” barked the one on the left.
Vergotis raised a weak eyebrow of incomprehension and turned to the boys—by this time at the bottom of the stairs—the panic now palpable in his eyes.
As the boys stood there, they saw their groom’s face turn from fear to a surprised grimace as he looked down and saw the point of a sword sticking out through his stomach. Over his left shoulder, they saw the smiling foul face of the bandit as he twisted the blade into him. Antonis let out a scream of terror as his hands splayed across his body. Vergotis crumpled to the floor and Nicola, ashen-faced, pulled his brother, and ran through the door at the back of the room.
They entered a luscious walled-in garden, from whence there was no escape. In desperation, they ran to an orange tree growing in the corner, their only chance of clearing the wall, and started to climb it. The other bandit rushed after them, grabbed them off the branches, and threw them unceremoniously to the ground, winding them both.
With a grunt and a shuffle, the leader appeared. Blood ran down his left leg and his face even paler than before with all the exertion. “You fucking brats. There isn’t going to be any ransom. I’m just going to stick you both, and very slowly.” Michalis bared his teeth like a wolf closing in on its kill.
The boys backed fearfully up on the ground as the three men stepped closer.
“Excuse me. Don’t you know it’s the height of bad manners to disturb a gentleman having a bath?” spoke a deep gravelly voice.
The three men spun around to see a man in a huge granite bath in the shaded corner of the garden under the vine trellis.
Michalis noted instantly that he was a warrior; his armour and sword clearly resting against the stone wall, but out of reach. He gave a thin smile as he scanned for any other threats and studied the man; only his head and shoulders were above the soapy water, and he had large, almost feminine brown eyes. The rest of his face was angular and defined, a roman nose over a square jaw with a full mouth. His dark hair was cropped short in the Genoese style yet his accent was definitely Greek. He had the outward appearance of someone you didn’t trifle with, along with a slight mocking expression, which infuriated the leader. Anyway, what did it matter? they were three, he was one, and unarmed. “Mind your own business, I have no quarrel with you,” rasped Michalis.
“Aye, that you do, and I should mind my own business; however, it does strike me as rather unjust to see that it takes three grown men to kill two little boys. You see, my sense of fair play just will not tolerate it.”
The three bandits guffawed in unison.
“So, what are you going to do about it then, splash us with your bath water?” challenged one of the fat brigands.
The warrior calmly rose, stepped out of the bath, and kept rising to full height. A good head taller than the largest bandit, he was a bull of a man and his measured movements made him all the more imposing. His right hand was holding a wet wash towel, the only visible weapon, apart from the impressive one nature had given him. “Ready for your splash now?” he mocked.
With speed that surprised the boys, the two fat brigands rushed at the bather, swords raised for killer blows on either side. It seemed an eternity to the youngsters.
The warrior did not move, keeping his arms firmly to his side.
The left sword aimed for a disembowelment and the right to cleave his head from his shoulders. As the left blade closed for the killing blow, he reacted. The speed was mesmerising, despite his size. He stepped to his right and gripped the bandit by his sword wrist. With a deft touch, he used the attackers force against him and threw him into the side of the huge stone vessel knocking him temporarily unconscious. The other attacker swished his sword in the now vacant space and landed in a heap next to his comrade. Before either could react, he dispatched them with two perfunctory slashes to their throats.
“Well, looks like we have evened up the odds,” he said to the remaining man.
Michalis knew he was beaten, attempted to kneel, begging for his life. The warrior released his pose for a split second but before he could do anything, Nicola sprang behind the kneeling man and stabbed him with full force into his throat. The bandit leader crumpled to the ground, gurgling in his blood.
“That’s for Vergotis,” snarled Nicola.
The venom and composure of the boy surprised the warrior who was still standing there, naked. He walked over to his pile of clothes and armour resting in the corner and rapidly dressed, being more than curious to discover what this was all about. “It’s over now,” the huge man said. “So, tell me, whose boys are you and who is this Vergotis?”
“We are the sons of Andreas Vevellis, and Vergotis was our father’s groom, whom those bastards just murdered,” Nicola spat out.
“Who are you?” inquired Antonis.
“Alexis Sartis, and I think it’s time I took you two home.
