Black Legion: Gates of Cilicia by Michael G. Thomas Page B

run.”
    Crixus waved to a group of Laconians and a similar number of Attican officials. One of them was a woman, a well-known city politician called Erika Montoya. Xenophon had already seen her pubic addresses on behalf of the occupying power. She had been the first Alliance member to join the body, and rumour had it that her family was actually of Laconian ancestry.
    “This is the man you were telling me about,” explained Crixus.
    “Ah, you must be Xenophon, our resident war hero,” she said with a hint of bitterness in her voice.
    “No hero, just one of the few that survived the insanity of going to war with Laconia.”
    Crixus looked at them both, then placed his hands on each of their shoulders.
    “Very well. It was not my intention, but I accept. From today, Xenophon, son of Gryllus, will become the Prefect of the Inner Wards. You will report directly to me.”
    The woman glared at Xenophon, but he couldn’t tell if it was because he was in a more prestigious position, or because Crixus had made the decision without giving her a chance to give her approval.

    * * *

    Xenophon approached the barricades with caution. Behind him moved a force of security troops picked from the few ex-military that had joined the new government’s forces. Part of the debris mixed in with the barricade had been burning for hours, and it sent columns of smoke up into the sky.
    “Who goes there!” called out a man from the shadows of the structure.
    Xenophon stopped and examined the temporary wall. It was almost five metres tall and manned by nearly forty people. Behind it were hundreds more, as well as press and a mixture of citizens.
    “Prefect Xenophon of the Inner Wards. I want to speak with your leader.”
    “What?” shouted the man.
    “You heard me. Now bring me your commander!”
    There was a mixture of sounds as people moved about behind and inside the barricade. As he waited, he looked back at his guards. Each wore the uniform of the Attican Militia rather than Alliance and were all armed with Laconian weapons. He just hoped this wouldn’t turn to violence. A shape appeared along the wall and looked down at him.
    “Xenophon?” called the man. His voice was familiar.
    “Yes, who is that?”
    “Glaucon, you idiot. What the hell are you doing? Tell me you’re not working for them?”
    Xenophon strained his eyes against the bright sky to see the figure of his old friend. In the months since the surrender, he must have fallen on hard times. He wore ragged clothes and carried a bandolier across his shoulder.
    “I’ve been helping with the transitional party, and we’re working on re-establishing democracy as soon as possible.”
    “What? How exactly?”
    Another man appeared on the barricade and moved towards Glaucon. He carried a rifle in a sling.
    “Hey, what’s going on?” he called out to him.
    “You know Xenophon. He says he is helping with the transitional party.”
    “They’re all traitors,” snapped the man. “You’ve seen what they do to our own people. We have dozens in police cells because of people like him.”
    “No, that isn’t true. Let me up to talk,” called out Xenophon.
    A dozen more people appeared on the top of the wall, some pointing firearms, others simply waving sharpened metal poles. His own guards spread out and pointed their rifles at the silhouetted targets. Xenophon turned to them and lifted his hands.
    “No, lower your weapons. I am in charge here.”
    The men all wore visors on their helmets, each fearful of what the crowds would do if they found they were working for the transitional authority in the city. Three lowered their rifles, but the others stayed exactly as they had been, afraid to give up the safety their weapons offered.
    “Xenophon!” called Glaucon. “I know you think you’re helping, but it isn’t going to work. The Thirty are tyrants, nothing more. Until they are forced out, we will never have peace here. Go back and tell them we will not go until they