He was long in the saddle. His joints ached with fatigue, but salt air meant the sea was near and also the journey’s end. The tireless horse briskly trotted through the thick beech forest. Red faced goldfinches cheeped from a branch. In a muddy glade, wild boars grubbed for roots. 

He ascended a steep rise. The high hill provided a panoramic view. In the distance, a vast, deep blue circle shimmered in the sun, the Tarentine Gulf. A small, walled city hugged the shore, the port of Temesa, his destination. 

At the hill’s bottom, a holm oak stood amid thick grass. A young man stood atop a branch, a noose around his neck, the rope’s end tied to the branch. Tears fell as he disconsolately sobbed. 

“HOLD!” he cried. “Don’t, boy.”

The youth leapt. The rope tautened while he capered at the end, both hands frantically yanking at the noose. 

The rider unshouldered his bow, drew an arrow from the quiver, nocked it, pulled back the string, and fired. The arrow flew straight and true. The rope split. The youth hit the ground with a heavy thump. He put his heels to the horse’s flanks. 

“Ho, Barak.”

The horse cantered down the hill. The boy lay weeping. The rider dismounted, unhooked a water skin from the saddle, and propped  up the youth.

“Here, drink.”

“I don’t want water. I want to die. Why did you stop me? I almost succeeded.”

“Drink I said.”

The youth reluctantly drank. He ceased his tears and caught his breath.

“Better. What’s your name, boy?”

“I’m Telamon, son of Plutarkos, a noble of Temesa.”

“I’m Melkart of Tyre, a merchant. I’m going to your city to find passage back to Tyre. Lad, why in Ba’al-Hammon’s name did you try to kill yourself? You’re young. You’re not sick or blind and your father’s wealthy. Why are you being foolish?”

“Because of Alceste, that’s why.”

“A pretty name. Well, just because some girl doesn’t fancy you, that’s no reason to commit suicide.”

“You don’t understand, Melkart,” Telamon sobbed. “She’s going to die. The ephors have voted to sacrifice Alceste to the daimon this year.”

“A daimon. You mean a ghost, lad?”

“Aye. The spirit of Thrakontas. Every year the most beautiful girl in Temesa must go to his sanctuary at night so Thrakontas may wed her. Their screams are piteous. In the morning, the girl’s family may gather her remains for a funeral ceremony.”

“What! A virgin sacrificed to a ghoul every year? Why not just refuse to provide them to the beast?”

“Nay, Melkart. T’will only cause more trouble. Thrakontas was stoned to death ages ago for raping a girl. Afterward, his spirit haunted Temesa, murdering men, women, and children. The Pythian oracle foretold the slaughter would only be averted if a shrine was built to Thrakontas where a virgin would be dedicated to him every year.” 

“I heard rumors you Temesans have odd customs, but this goes against the gods themselves. T’is barbarous and must end.”

Telamon stared incredulously. “How? Didn’t you hear me? Thrakontas is a daimon, a wolf in a man’s form. No mortal can fight him and live.”

“A daimon can be slain like a man. Come, Telamon. Guide me to Temesa.”

“I dare not. My father will beat me if he sees me.”

“I’ll drop you off before we reach the city. Come.”

Melkart mounted Barak and helped Telamon up behind him. The big horse easily carried both. 

“The left fork’s quicker.”

Heavy woods gave way to the coastal plain, filled with small farms, vineyards, and fruit tree copses, figs and apples. Temesa was built by a river’s mouth to handle trade from the interior and the sea. Rich from commerce with the Rasenni, Oscans, Latins, and Sabines, Temesa was protected by high granite walls and graced with marble temples and mansions. 

“Let me off here.”

“Aye, but first tell me where Alceste lives.”

“With her father, Polites. You can see his blue and red mansion from here. My father thinks it’s in bad taste.”

“I’ll hie there. Shall I tell Alceste you still live and love her?”

“Aye, pray do, friend Melkart. Yet tell me. Why are you doing this? You’re a Tyrian, a stranger with no kin here or guest friends. Still, you’ll protect Alceste. Why?”

“I am Melkart. I’ll see no woman wronged. May the gods keep you until we meet again, Telamon.”

“A friend’s farm is close by. I can hide there a few days.”

“This won’t take more than a night.” 

Telamon waved farewell and ran down a hedge lined trail. Melkart set Barak to a trot. Farmers bent over their crops rose to gawk as the big foreigner passed, his blue-black hair and beard the same color as the huge horse he rode. 

Confident in her wealth and power, Melkart rode through Temesa’s open, unguarded gates. The streets were crowded with people of many tribes, even swarthy Phoenicians like himself. He went straight to Polites’s mansion and entered the courtyard. 

Melkart dismounted. The mansion had bronze statues and painted marble columns. Miserable sobs erupted from Polites’s house. Slaves sat listlessly, their tasks undone. The women openly wept. 

A steward ran up, thin face lit with anger. “Can’t you see my master isn’t receiving anyone, you wretched, foreign commoner?”

Melkart grabbed the steward by the armpits and lifted him until their faces were level. “Tell Polites I’m come to save his daughter or I’ll shake you like a rat.”

Trapped in Melkart’s powerful grip, the steward could only nod. Melkart set him down. He scampered up the stairs. A stout man in late middle age soon rushed out, followed by the steward. He wore a wealthy man’s raiment, a fine linen himation and an imperial red stole, but his face was haggard and unshaven, the sparse hair uncombed.

“See here, you presumptuous foreigner, how dare you abuse my steward. The family doesn’t have enough troubles so you have to trespass, trying to cozen me–”

“Hold your tongue, Polites. I’m Melkart of Tyre, here to save Alceste from Thrakontas. Telamon told me of your plight.”

Polites froze like one of his statues. “Have the gods sent you?”

“Perhaps. We can speak better inside.”

“Of course, friend. Steward, see the man’s horse is well curried and fed. Follow me.”

Polites led Melkart past the open porch, the vestibule, and into the high-ceilinged great hall, the walls covered by brilliant murals, the floor with intricate mosaics. Light streamed through the open ceiling. They sat on curule chairs. A handmaiden fetched watered wine and honey cakes. 

“The sacrifice happens tonight?”

“Aye. Poor, sweet Alceste must go alone, dressed like a bride, to the daimon’s shrine outside the city’s walls and there await Thrakontas. Artemisia, her mother, is on the verge of suicide.”

“Tell them both to rest easy. I’ll go in Alceste’s place and meet Thrakontas in the shrine. I wager he’ll be surprised.”

  “He’ll tear you to pieces. In life, Thrakontas won at pankration in the Olympic Games. In death, he has a wolf’s strength and more. Big as you are, Melkart, you don’t stand a chance against him.”

“Pankration is just your fancy Greek word for dirty fighting. I can do that if need be. Even daimons die, Polites.”

“But why do you want to save my daughter? Did Telamon speak of my wealth? Do you want her for yourself so you can inherit my fortune? Is that your motive?”

Melkart laughed. “And break poor Telamon’s heart after I saved him from a noose? By the gods, wealthy men think alike from Tyre to Greater Greece. As I told Telamon, I am Melkart. I walk in honor before the gods and won’t see a woman wronged if I can help it.”

Polites considered this for a time. “Then I owe you a debt I can never repay. Come, let us swear to be guest friends here and now.”

They clasped hands and toasted one another.

“From now on, my home is yours. If I have any business in Tyre, I’ll seek you out first and offer the best terms.”

“And I’ll do the same, Polites. Now if you don’t mind, I wish to see Alceste. I’m sure she could use some reassurance about her fate.”

“I’ll have her and Artemisia summoned. Steward!”

Two women entered the great hall, dark stoles draped over their heads, already in mourning, shoulders bent with worry and grief. Melkart rose from his chair. Two great arms took the women in a gentle embrace. 

“Fear not, Artemisia and Alceste. I am Melkart of Tyre, Polites’s guest friend. You’re like kin to me and I’ll defend you like my own.”

The steward brought more chairs. They all sat. Alceste pushed back her stole. Even exhausted and worn, she was still stunningly beautiful with a pale, heart shaped face and thick, honey blonde hair. 

“I see why Telamon favors you.”

Alceste visibly brightened. “Have you seen him? How does he fare?”

“Well, Alceste. T’was Telamon who told me of your predicament. He sends you his love.”

“What use is love when I’m doomed to be ravaged tonight?” Alceste cried, suddenly disconsolate again.

Melkart took Alceste’s small hand in his own huge one. “Calm yourself, Alceste, my child. I’ll go in your place tonight.”

“You?” Artemisia cried. “Why would you do such a mad thing, stranger?”

“Quiet, wife,” Polites said. “Melkart’s my guest friend, close to kin. Don’t question the good fortune the gods have sent us!”

“Artemisia, my sister,” Melkart said, “your land’s afflicted with a daimon. Brave men fight evil wherever they find it. No ghost will lay a hand on your daughter this even.”

Artemisia burst into tears. “Truly Zeus Kassios himself must have sent you.”

She fell to her knees, hands held out in tribute. Melkart helped her back into her chair. Alceste bowed low to him as well. Melkart beamed at them.

“I’m glad to bring you cheer. There’s time before twilight. I’ll want a good meal and a place to sleep for a while. Best to eat and rest before a fight. Oh, and I’ll need your bridal veil, Alceste.”

Alceste stared at him quizzically. “Why do you want that?”

“To deceive Thrakontas.”

Artemisia burst into laughter. “You’re four times my daughter’s size, you big ox. How can you hope to fool Thrakontas?”

“T’will be dark. The daimon will expect a frail, young woman, not me. Just do as I ask.”

“Let’s do as Melkart says,” Polites said.  

Slaves served Melkart a freshly caught octopus, pounded, roasted, and sliced, served in melted goat cheese along with salad greens, bread, and watered wine. Melkart devoured the hearty Greek meal while Alceste fetched her long, diaphanous bridal veil woven of Aegyptian cotton from the gynaikon, the women’s quarters. 

“A fine piece of work. Very neat stitches. I’ll sleep after I check on Barak.”

When he was sure Barak was fed and resting easy, the steward led Melkart to a dark chamber where he laid on the low-slung bed, his lionskin cloak for a cover. Melkart slept untroubled, the peace of a just man’s rest.

***

The steward woke Melkart shortly before twilight. He rose, washed his face in well water from a brazen pitcher, picked up the veil, and went outside. Polites awaited him with Artemisia, Alceste, his family, and slaves. They bowed before him. Melkart embraced Polites, his wife, and daughter. The women covered his face with kisses, tears streaming from their eyes.

“I’ll go now. Can’t keep Thrakontas awaiting his bride.”

The veil in one hand, Melkart walked unarmed from the courtyard, ready to meet the daimon on his own terms. The streets were empty, gates, doors, and windows closed and barred. Families huddled by their hearths and prayed to the gods for the night to soon pass and Thrakontas to be appeased. Melkart went through the gates. The shrine was on a small headland a short distance from Temesa.  

“Hold, stranger. Where are you going with that veil?”

An older man hurried out. He grabbed Melkart’s arm. 

“So the rumors are true. Polites bribed you to fight the daimon instead of sending his daughter as the law and common decency requires. Shame on you both. What hubris before the gods!”

“Who are you, elder?”

“Why, I’m Plutarkos, son of Lycaeus, head of the board of ephors. I rule this city and I order you to take that veil back to Alceste so she can go fulfill her duty.”

“T’is no wonder your son hides from you. You’ll excuse me, Plutarkos. I’ve an appointment to keep.”

“Where is that wretch Telamon concealing himself? I’ve a right to know as his father. And where do you think you’re going? Didn’t I just say I forbid you to go?”

Melkart’s open handed slap caught Plutarkos full on the cheek. He fell to the ground in a heap, weeping miserably.

“I’m grieved to strike an elder, but you interfered. Stop treating your son like a slave. Fare you well, Plutarkos.”

Phoebus Apollo’s chariot passed the western horizon leaving only red and purple fading embers behind. Darkness swiftly gathered. Melkart sped to the shrine. Gulls and terns flew over the headland. Their sharp cries rent the air.

The round shrine was ringed by granite columns with a domed roof of red terracotta tiles. The murky naos or sanctuary held only a marble bed, the white marble heavily stained by human blood, the scene of Thrakontas’s repeated atrocities over many years. 

Melkart crouched low behind the bed so only his head stuck out. He draped the wedding veil over himself. The thin veil was easily seen through once his eyes adjusted to the darkness. 

Long moments passed. They became hours as Melkart waited. Fatigue stole over him. Tedium wore at his patience and resolve, but he fought the tiredness off and kept his eyes fixed on the entrance. 

In the night silence, feet softly shuffled through the sand, approaching the shrine. Melkart sobbed in the most high-pitched voice he could muster.

“Oh, woe! Aye, truly the gods have deserted me.”

A dark figure entered the naos. Clad in a shabby wolf skin, worn and rank from lying on the ground, his skin was deepest ebon, permanently stained by the black earth where Thrakontas uneasily rested until the time came to rape again. 

Melkart burst into sobs. The daimon stood by the bed. He scratched his forearm’s squamous skin with long, yellow claws. 

“Are you afraid, my poppet? Don’t be. I promise to be gentle with you, not like all those other sluts. Here, let’s see your pretty face.”

Thrakontas bent low to remove the veil only to receive a hard right uppercut straight to his jaw. The blow knocked him flat. Melkart leapt on top of Thrakontas. He punched at the daimon’s face with his left. Yet Thrakontas was slick and slippery like damp earth.

He wriggled with supernal slyness from Melkart’s grasp. Now he was on top, one arm wrapped around Melkart’s throat while he twisted his left arm behind his back. 

“A hero. Is that who you are?” he hissed in Melkart’s ear. “I’ll break your arm and neck. Then I’ll kill every living soul in Temesa for betraying me.”

Melkart brought his head down to his neck and twisted hard to the left. He broke Thrakontas’s hold and grabbed him by the waist. Before the daimon could fight free, Melkart hurled him with all his strength. 

Thrakontas slammed into a column. He gasped from the pain, but was instantly on his feet. Long claws ripped terrible gashes on Melkart’s chest. A strong right arm lashed out. The blow hit Thrakontas full in the mouth. A long canine was smashed out.

Fully enraged, Thrakontas threw himself upon Melkart. He punched again, but Thrakontas dodged the blow. Claws raked Melkart’s face. Blood streamed into his eyes, blinding him.

Thrakontas slipped behind him. He slammed into Melkart, shoved him to the stone floor. Knees planted in the small of Melkart’s back, Thrakontas grabbed his chin with both hands and pulled with all his might. Veins bulged in Melkart’s neck. He grew faint as blood drained from his head. 

“This hold won the Olympic Games. I’ll take your head off.”

A sharp stone hit the daimon in the back. The blow didn’t harm Thrakontas, but distracted him, momentarily easing his grip. With one explosive burst, Melkart rolled out from beneath Thrakontas, breaking free. He grabbed one of Thrakontas’s legs by the ankle with both hands and slammed it against the stone bed’s edge.

The leg snapped. 

Thrakontas threw back his head and let loose an animal cry of pain. “You hurt me. How could you? I’m a champion. I always win. Oh, you’ve hurt me so!”

Thrakontas limped from the naos. Panting, exhausted, Melkart leaned against the bed. He mopped blood from his face with the veil, recovered his breath, and followed the daimon.

Thrakontas was close, unable to move quickly now. He screamed at the sight of Melkart and limped toward the sea. Melkart doggedly followed, heedless of his pain and open wounds.

“You won’t escape, Thrakontas.”

Thrakontas threw himself head first into the briny water to swim away, but Melkart grabbed his broken leg and pulled him back into the shallows.

He spat out salt water. “Mercy, please. Let me go and I’ll never bother Temesa again, just sleep in the earth.”

“Craven wretch. Defiler of women. Face the gods’ justice.”

Melkart shoved the daimon’s head under the water, deep into the sand. Thrakontas fought and struggled with his remaining, fleeting strength, but he was no match for Melkart’s grim, unrelenting pressure. He gave one last feeble heave and lay motionless in the water.

Melkart shoved Thrakontas’s body into deep water for the current to carry away so seabirds and fish could feast as his rotting corpse bobbed on the surface.  He staggered back to shore. A boy in a dirty himation ran toward him.

“You won! You killed the daimon, Melkart. But you’re hurt.”

“Aye, Telamon. Bear me up.”

Telamon draped Melkart’s massive arm over his own thin shoulders. He wilted under the heavy load, but manfully helped his friend back toward Temesa.

“I hid by the shrine and saw you fight him. I threw the stone at him. You should enter the Olympic Games. You’d be the greatest pankration fighter ever.”

“You saved me, boy, throwing that rock. I’m in your debt. I need a doctor to stitch up these wounds.”

“Of course. I know one.”

When they reached the gates, word had already spread of Melkart’s feat, his miraculous victory over Thrakontas. Dressed in white finery like temple celebrants, men, women, and children with lit torches stood outside the city walls. They hailed Melkart with hosannas and alleluias, laurel wreaths raised high.

Patroklus stood in front with four other old men attired in imperial red robes of office. Melkart’s slap apparently forgotten, he opened his arms in greeting with a beaming, gap toothed smile. 

“Hail, Melkart. Champion of the city, Temesa’s protector, the hero who slew Thrakontas. All honor to you, our savior. And you, Telamon, my son, well done aiding Melkart.”

Melkart and Telamon stared open mouthed alike at Patroklus, instantly transformed from bitter enemy and persecutor into their benevolent patron. 

“Your father truly is shameless, even before the gods,” Melkart murmured.

“That’s how he got so rich and elected head ephor,” Telamon whispered back.

“Take my advice. Marry Alceste and use Polites’s  bridal portion to start your own trading business. I’ll provide you with contacts in Tyre and Sidon. Once you’re rich, buy your father out and take him into your house so you can beat him every day.”

“Gladly, Melkart!”

[Mark Mellon is a novelist who supports his family by working as an attorney. He writes two-fisted, hardboiled, blood and guts pulp fiction and has four published novels and over ninety short stories in the USA, UK, Canada, Ireland, Denmark, and Bulgaria. Learn about his writing at: www.mellonwritesagain.com.]