In the ancient days of Greece, before that great nation had become a single unified whole, the land was wracked with war upon war as succession of local lords and kings tried to claim the country as his own. Combat was brutal, the losers could expect no mercy, and to the victors went all the spoils...
Perhaps no other warrior or leader of men at this time had enjoyed more of the spoils of war than King Themistocles, lord of all the Argos. It was his soldiers who had just smashed through yet another city that had refused to pay him homage, destroyed yet another walled citadel in which its citizens foolishly thought they would find protection, slaughtered and enslaved yet another unwilling population. If the people would not serve him willingly, Themistocles believed, than he would force them to serve his needs.
But Themistocles was no effete silk and luxury king; he led from the front, fought side by side with his men, slaughtered as did they, and shared in all the travails of a soldier. He was a mighty warrior, endowed with great strength, endurance, and rage, and could wield spear and sword better than any other man in his army. By the end of any battle, he was as covered with sweat, grime, and blood as even the lowliest recruit, having hacked his way through all the same dangers his men did. Themistocles' men loved him not just because he brought them victory, but because he did it fighting right alongside of them.
He was now walking briskly back to his tent, having just overseen the destruction and looting of the Temple of Apollo. The sun god, as arrogant as his priests and other servants, always had plenty of gold hidden away in his temples. Themistocles felt that after having destroyed a people who were supposedly under Apollo's protection he was then free to help himself to that gold, having earned it fairly through right of conquest.
As he walked back to this tent thinking of how nice his wine would soon taste, Patroclus, his chief general, joined him.
"My lord," Patroclus said, with the tone of a long loyal friend rather than a mindless servant.
"Patroclus, the men fought well today, as always," Themistocles said with a slap on his friend's shoulder. "Make sure the men get an equal amount of the gold from the temple, as well as other goods from the city. Oh, and make sure there are enough women to go around so one woman is not shared by more than three men."
"Yes, my lord, I will do so. And what of you, sir? Have you not taken any prizes?"
Themistocles stopped just within the opening of his tent, and turned back to look at the smoldering city. "Prize? This is my prize," he said, sweeping his arm towards the city. "All of this is mine. The men can have some measure of what is already mine, my friend."
"Well, sire, the men wanted you to have something," Patroclus said as they now stepped into the dark tent.
"Oh?" Themistocles said. "And what was that?" Patroclus gestured towards the center of the tent. Themistocles turned; as his eyes adjusted to the dark, he could make out a figure tied to the center support of his tent. He took a step forward to view his prize better; the figure suddenly flinched, and in so doing revealed the face of a beautiful woman, with long, black hair flowing down over her shoulders.
Themistocles looked at Patroclus, and smiled.
"The men found her hiding in the temple," Patroclus said. "They thought you would find her...entertaining."
The king's smile grew until it looked like a silent snarl. He drank some wine deeply, his gaze now fixed hungrily on the woman before him.
"Please tell the men that they were right," he said to Patroclus, "and that their king loves them and deeply appreciates their thoughtfulness."
Patroclus saluted and quickly left the tent.
Themistocles sipped his wine, and then stripped out of his blood-soaked linen armor. He washed the filth of battle off his face and his muscular, chiseled upper body, then slowly walking around the woman to get a good look at her. She was young, most likely not older than 19 years old, and had a lovely face that was now half-hidden behind the lockets of curly hair hanging in front of it. She was dirty, smeared with soot and grime, but the exquisite beauty of her face shone through all that nonetheless. The king was certain that earlier in the day her hair had been well-coifed and tightly bound up, but after the exertions of her day it was now a tangled mass, some hanging in her face, some trailing behind.
As lovely as she was, Themistocles rather thought he preferred to see his vanquished looking so very defeated.
Her equally exquisite body was only partially hidden by her now-ripped, sheer white gown she wore. Themistocles could clearly see her left breast and her entire right hip and leg, and these parts of her body were smooth and well built. But what actually intrigued him the most was the robe itself, because this indicated she was a servant of the god Apollo, and was therefore a virgin. Themosticles licked his lips like a hungry beast as he circled his prize, much like a tiger just before he pounces on his prey.
The king had enjoyed many such prizes on his conquests. He had taken hundreds of women as his personal slaves, even selected a few to be legal concubines, but this...this woman was going to be something special. Not only was it rare to find a virgin of this age, but he felt a special thrill race through his body at the thought of defiling a servant of Apollo. The god had not protected his people when Themistocles' army arrived at their city, nor had he protected his temple from being sacked, nor had he prevented her being captured, nor would he now intervene as Themistocles took the god's servant and made her do his wicked will.
