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shoved her toward the well while the other two hefted thick paving stones into their arms.
    “I don’t recall there being time for any unscheduled swimming, not while there’s an entire city to be sacked,” I said, lowering my sword as I strode into the garden. “It appears some explanation is warranted.”
    Six heads swiveled toward me, and I’d swear relief flashed over the woman’s face. “This foul bitch murdered our captain,” the first man said, his eyes widening as he snapped to attention at the lion emblem of Alexander’s bodyguard on my golden helmet. His face was smeared with sweat and pockmarks, and his breath might have killed us all. “We’ve arranged for her to greet Charon the boatman on her way to the river Styx.”
    Thracians were famed for being stubborn as mules and slightly less intelligent. A well-trained dog might have found a way to kill their captain and leave the world a better place.
    I waved his boast away. “What I don’t understand is how a mere woman murdered one of your bravest commanders,” I said.
    The man’s lips turned into a sneer as I removed my helmet and ran a hand through my sweat-matted hair. “You’re Hephaestion, right? Shouldn’t you be off protecting Alexander’s manhood?”
    A second Thracian leered at me. “Protecting it by letting Alexander hide it up your arse? We hear he succumbs to your thighs every night.”
    The slur wasn’t the worst I’d heard, but it made me want to bash some mercenary heads together. Apparently this one needed to learn that I didn’t take kindly to insults.
    My sword was at his neck before he could blink. Men revered Alexander for his royal blood, but I still had to prove myself. I didn’t begrudge these Thracians their right to learn who I was the hard way.
    “I have a better idea,” I said, keeping my voice low. “How about I hide this blade in your throat and save the rest of us from having to listen to your flapping tongue. A mealymouthed Thracian mercenary doesn’t get to insult Alexander,” I continued, reveling in his quick transformation from leering bastard to terrorized foot soldier as my sword tip nicked his neck. I leaned in close. “Would you like to take back what you said?”
    Of course, the cowardly ass nodded, fairly pissing himself in the process.
    “Perhaps the kyria  . . .” I paused, waiting for her name.
    “Timoclea,” she provided.
    “Could better explain how she sent the Thracian commander to his death?” I asked. Timoclea’s brown eyes strayed to the well, and a slow smile spread across my face, although I kept the point of my sword cozy with the Thracian’s throat. “Let me guess. . . . Their captain never learned to swim?”
    She lifted her shoulders in an elegant shrug. “The brute killed my slaves and cornered me in the house. . . .” Her voice trailed off, and I could well imagine what spoils the Thracian commander had availed himself of once he had her alone. Her chin jutted in defiance. “When he demanded the silver, coins, and jewels, I told him I’d dumped them into the well when you Macedonians arrived outside the city.”
    “And then you accompanied him here?” I leaned forward so I could see down the well. It was wide and deep, but there was enough sunlight to make out a jumble of paving stones and, beneath them, what appeared to be a man’s leg, pale and fat like a dead trout. I grimaced and glanced back at Timoclea. “I believe you may need to dig another well.”
    “What she needs is a grave,” the first soldier growled.
    Gods, but these Thracians were thick-skulled and dim-witted. I wished I had a second sword to scratch this one’s throat. Where was Apollo with his plague arrows when you needed him?
    Timoclea shrugged. “He leaned too close to the edge to catch a glimpse of my emeralds and pearls.”
    Yet the paving stones atop his body were the work of a crafty matron. No doubt Hades was cursing the arrival of an ugly lout who only ever had a woman