On the eve of his coronation, sleep proved a traitor.
I have guards, Alpheo had told himself into the dark of his bedchamber. Over a thousand spears in the street alone.
A thousand veteran shields ought to hold back any rabble, yet a single assassin with three inches of steel or a poisoned bodkin could turn the dawn of a kingdom into a slaughterhouse.
He had cursed the Archon to his withered face over the rite, fighting tooth and claw against the holy mandates. The old zealot had demanded it: a barefoot march from the lowest sea-gate of the outer wall to the high steps of the throne. Alpheo had haggled the old vulture down to a quarter of the city. Thinking back he should have showed the fucker the gate.
A quarter, he thought.Some thousands paces of naked flesh upon cold rock.He could do it, he was not happy about it , but he was more than able to stomach it.
