The response is slow

Not even Prince Anochises is arrogant enough to climb the steep path to the top of the citadel without a guaranty of safe passage, so there is a pause as a runner is sent ahead to insure the safety of the victorious men. From your position of honor at the head of the column, you can see how hopeless the situation is. The bound war-captains of the United Armies are a fit looking group of men and no doubt skilled warriors, but the ropes binding their wrists and the lack of weapons render them almost useless. Even so, the grim-faced Apollonian hoplites are taking no chances, making them sit their noble asses on the paved marketplace to ensure that none of them try anything stupid.

The wagons of plunder have come as far as they will, there is no way that oxen can make their way up the winding path to the gates at the top of the citadel. Those contents of those heavy wagons would have to be carried one at a time by porters up the steep path. However, now at the base of the Citadel, the columns of women chained to the wagons are led forward. You can see that these are no ordinary female captives, many are still partially dressed in undergarments or scraps of silk; all are young and exceptionally pretty. You are pretty sure that these are women from the slaver's select group reserved only for the use of the officers. Judging by the ribbons of white silk tied around many of these captured young women, a good number might even still have their virtue intact.

Four of the most stunningly beautiful young women (all with those distinctive ribbons) are led directly to the tent set up to shield Prince Anochises and his cronies from the sun, but the rest of the scantily clad prizes are allowed to move forward to the foot of the great spire. There the women are released from the coffles and given cloaks to cover their barely dressed bodies. You note that although the women are now free to move about, that neither the collars around their necks nor the manacles binding their wrists are removed.

Judging by the smiles on their faces, these once-free women of Athenapolis believe that their ordeal is almost over and seem willing to endure the shame of remaining fettered for a little longer. You can't blame them; your fate looks far worse than theirs. Some, but by no means all, of these rescued women move among the guards rewarding the spearmen from Apollopol with soft caresses and giggles as their rescuers steal kisses from them as they mingle. Others however are more interested in exacting their **** on the officers of the army that had captured them. Groups of these women move among the bound officers slapping and kicking at them as they kneel on the paving stones. One of these small groups heads your way and a short curvy brunette recognizes you as a Rider from your gear.

"Where's your drake, Rider?" She turns to her friends explaining why you've been selected to receive her special attention. "One of his friends lifted me from the street and draped me over his saddle like a sack of wheat. I won't forget that bastard's face and when I find him, I'll hang the piece of filth up from his ankles until his head bursts."

Spitting at you in contempt she kicks ineffectually at your shoulder with her slippered foot. You barely feel the blow but are briefly distracted by the flash of exposed flesh above her knee as her leg lifts free of her skirts. The noblewoman notices your interest in her legs and lifts her skirt up to mid-thigh. "You'd like to get your hands on this wouldn't you?" She mocks as she stands just a hand's distance from your face so close that you catch the scent of her sun-warmed flesh. "I wouldn't let a Rider like you touch me even if you were the richest man in Athenapolis." Her friends, emboldened by the sight, add their own barbs, hurling insults at you and the rest of their former captors giggling with excitement and relief.

The sounds coming from inside the tent erected for Prince Anochises are far less lighthearted than the banter of the excited women. Raucous laughter of men mingles with angry feminine protests coming from the three priestesses of the Temple of Helios and surprise and pleading from the young women of Athenapolis that he has apparently claimed for himself. From what you've determined from your brief interaction with the arrogant prince you fear that those poor souls are going to have a rough time with him and his cronies. A sharp high-pitched cry of pain followed by a loud cheer confirms your suspicions. You cannot tell from the sounds if Relia is one of the women being abused, but you have no doubt that her turn will come at some point. You chuckle sadly as you realize how absurdly hypocritical it is of you to object to Lady Relia's mistreatment considering how you first met. All the same, you've come to care for the proud noblewoman and knowing that she might at any point be held down and **** by that arrogant pig or one of his courtiers angers you more than it probably should.

The real question is not whether or not the prince will take Relia, but for how long Anochises will be amused by Lady Relia before he turns her over to his men and looks for new prizes to entertain himself with. You remember all to clearly the terms of the offer and the deliberate mentioning of the Regent's daughter. You pity that Athenian noblewoman, especially because most likely, unlike Relia and the Priestesses of Helios, the daughter of the regent's maidenhead will still be intact when she is led to the new King's bed. The Prince of Apollopol is a pompous ass, but worse than that he seems like a nasty piece of shit, even for nobility.

The prince from Apollopol is truly a cold-hearted slime who has an axe to grind with the free-Rider who almost upset his plan for glory. You consider trying to pull free, but now is not the time. Better to wait until you near the top of the citadel. You have no chance to escape, but throwing yourself from the heights might be a far quicker and less painful **** than what you can expect otherwise. Yet more piteous pleading comes from the tent sheltering Prince Anochises and his cronies followed by another squeal of pain and even louder raucous laughter and your fists clench involuntarily.

The High Marshal is sitting a dozen paces from you and the grim look on his face says that he too is aware of the situation. How could he have so badly misjudged the situation even after your warnings!? Seeing the defeated man sitting there angers you more than it probably should, but the sounds coming from inside the prince's tent are hard to ignore. Were you not bound and under the watchful eye of the men of Apollo, you'd pound is fat head in with your bare fists.

It is about then that you notice a small party descending from the heights. This is no sortie of mercenaries; these are grey-haired men are wearing long togas instead of armor and as they get closer you can see they are carrying wreaths of laurel. The emissaries are led to Prince Anochises and bow low before him before placing the crown of leaves upon his head.