The Odyssey - exploits of Nikos Xenakis

( Whilst I'm waiting for approval, thought I'd start a few little writings - enjoy )


“Where is the Greek?!”

The others mentors were beginning to lose patience.

“Do we have to bring Tabai in one this. It’s his ‘guest’ after all?”

“No. I’ll go fetch him.”

So with that, one of the inner circle of the Tulum assassins set off to bring one of their own back to where he was supposed to be lending his ‘wisdom’ to some freshly blooded adepts.

Wisdom, she scoffed as she found the Greek asleep on a ruin with his hood up like he was some kind of cat.

The wisdom he could impart would be how to make ale disappear from a bottle.

A litany of curses fell from her lips as she crouched on the bough of the tree from where she observed him and loaded her pistol; wrapping the gunpowder and loading the barrel.

A well placed shot.

Nikos awoke with a start, looked down and noted the newly created hole in the stone just shy of his manhood.

He knew who was responsible. A particular ‘colleague’ who had a predilection for chastising his ‘less than hurried’ attitude.

“Eleanor!” He called as he pushed himself up to stand and soon found her glowering from her perch. “You missed.”

“Rather you’re incredibly lucky!”

He loved daring to tease her, even if the last time he had aggravated her he had to make a run from the beach to his temporary quarters after he awoke stripped bare as the day he’d been born. It had backfired on her part, she was expecting him to make his ‘shame’ as stealthy as possible, but he’d be damned if he was crawling through the undergrowth nude and risking one of his most precious possessions to the whims of jungle snakes.

Most of the assassins on Tulum could now say they had seen one of the most skilled assassins of the Hellenic Order in his birthday suit.

Nikos was shameless indeed. How very Mediterranean of him.

Thrusting her pistol back into its holster she took off with the agility testament to her training.

The Greek couldn’t resist the chase and set off in hot pursuit; his own formidable free running skills turning the jungle and the ruins therein into his personal playground.

She knew him too well as she lead him on in this game of cat and mouse. She’d bring him back to his responsibilities and he wouldn’t be any the wiser until it was too late.

Sometimes she lost sight of him and she hated to admit that whilst she was highly capable in her own right, Nikos had been playing this game of assassins longer than her.

Maybe he should act like it then, she thought bitterly as she swung from branch to stone plateau where a cluster of adepts stood about waiting for their afternoon training.

Had she lost him? She looked about and kept her ears primed. She couldn’t hear him.

A kiss upon her cheek and the Greek rounded her and took attention at the centre of the ancient Mayan platform.

How did he-? What?!

“First lesson – if you can steal a kiss from a woman, you can steal anything from anyone.”

The gathered adepts didn’t know whether it was acceptable to laugh as they noted the deepest shades of anger flush Eleanor’s face.

Nikos looked over his shoulder, “wouldn’t you agree Eleanor?”

It was his infernal smile and wink at her that made her draw knives and launch herself at him.

So, for their afternoon lesson, it turned into an observatory study of two senior assassins; one on the offensive and the other trying to keep his throat in one piece and preventing his balls from being fashioned into ammo pouches.

( Orange text is characters speaking Spanish )


“You suit it.”

Nikos looked disgruntled under the heavy wig he was adjusting upon his head before moving to tug at his sleeves, his collar and his coat. How these officials didn’t die of heat exhaustion in this apparel he would never know.

His companion snickered as she pulled the body of the Spanish ambassador into the deep foliage; they hadn’t killed the poor bastard, just taken his clothes for a game of play pretend.

“I am reputably gorgeous,” Nikos began as he washed the black from his eyes and removed his piercings and rings, “even in this carnival costume.”

“At least you’re invited to the party ambassador,” she mocked courtesy before moving a strand of stray blonde hair back behind her bandana, “all the fine wine and fine women. Although don’t go crying Opa during a toast.”

Then, his cohort handed him the keys she had filched off one Spaniard’s hired entourage the other side of town. Templars always underestimated the teamwork of assassins, if they had had any sense they would have had the Spaniard bring his own escort from Havana, not have men meet him here.

It also definitely would have ruined the opportunity the assassins had taken to start a casual civilian scuffle which had given Nikos enough of a delay to ‘detain’ the ambassador.

“I’ll try and restraint myself, but sometimes I do have the irresistible urge to break plates.”

With a laugh, his fellow assassin, a promising adept by the name of Marie, made herself scarce at the sound of armoured personnel descending the banking towards the correctly outfitted Nikos.

“What time do you call this?” He spoke, gesticulating with his hands in the typical Latin fashion, “we’re going to be late for the governor.”

“Sorry sir,” the lead guard apologised as the unit swallowed the Greek and began on their route to the white houses of Port Royal, “there was a scuffle on the streets, we had our duty as-“

He was cut off by a dismissive noise from Nikos, “don’t give me excuses,” he waved a hand, “I don’t want to stay in this uncultured pigsty any longer than necessary. The sooner I am back in Cuba the better.”

He grumbled and complained near all the way there. Nursing the rift between the Spanish and the British was going to be easy, and a critical objective to weaken their united position against ‘the other’ consisting of pirates, assassins and any viable to join either of the former.

As much as the Greek liked getting his blade wet, this kind of objective was much more pleasant. He could flirt, get drunk and act unashamedly and all the better for weakening the ties between the two imperial powers of the Caribbean.

It was so fun that no wonder it was illegal.

Semiha was sat by her loom with her daughters either side of her, both five years old and sharing their mother’s Turkish complexion. They were like three dark eyed angels with silken hair wound in braids.

She had been attempting to teach them the very basics of weaving all morning and the patience of sage with which she had been born had been the only thing stopping her from giving up in exasperation. Her belly, round with the promise of a new addition to their family, was also proving itself rather troublesome today.

However, when Erato managed to move the comb correctly and Aysun followed her sister’s lead, their mother was over the moon and renewed in her purpose that they might have a small patterned cloth by the end of the day.

“Now, we just do that aga-“

Hands over her eyes and she sighed through her smile. The familiar scent of wood smoke and spice always gave him away when his footsteps did not.

“Papa! Papa!”

His girls launched themselves at him like demons on springs and were soon upon him like locusts.

“I’m sorry my love,” he laughed as he was forced to pull away and secure Aysun’s precarious perch on his left shoulder and left Erato into the hold of his right arm. “Did I-“

“I’d just gotten them settled,” she began as she stood and turned from her weaving; brushing down her simple linen gown, “here’s me thinking that I would’ve been able to get any teaching done today.”

Nikos smiled at his beloved with a sheepish demeanour that she couldn’t stay annoyed at even if she had wanted to.

The kiss they shared, innocent before the eyes of their daughters, melted any last hope of having any love lost over the loom.

“Σ 'αγαπώ.”




“Σ 'αγαπώ.”

The dream, whilst pleasant, had Nikos wake in the middle of the night with a heavy feeling of melancholy and he had sought to remove himself somewhere he could see the moon in her entirety – hung out across the waves like a pearl suspended against a backdrop of velvet.

He didn’t weep, the tears had been spent a long time ago, but he still felt the tightness about his heart as he sat upon the edge of one of the higher ruins; isolated from the others who resided upon Tulum for the meantime.

“Φεγγάρι μου. Μου λείπεις.”

Nikos wasn't a man made to harbour hate, that much was certain.

Yet, there were a few who held such special venomous privilege.

Slavers, in particular. The Greek had a very bad relationship with those in the trade of human life.

Any contract that filtered through to the assassin bureaus that concerned such matters were almost without fail passed to Nikos. A speciality you could say.

With an formidably consistent success rate.

He always found a way to weave such a thing into his schedule of terrorising the imperialists on sea and acting unashamedly in port.

A busy and scandalous schedule no doubt.

“For a white man you fight with strong conviction for our cause,” Anto had once remarked as they broke the slave shackles of a number of men and women pressed into bondage upon a plantation in Tortuga.

“Slavery isn’t isolated to this day and age mate,” the Greek had responded with his characteristic smirk even if his tone was more serious than usual, “it’s a staple of men with delusions of superiority.”

Anto had canted his head at that remark.

“Don’t seem so surprised,” Nikos snickered, rolling a dead guardsman into the thick cover of cotton crop, “big words I know, but I can read believe it or not.”

“Well, aren’t you a mystery.”

"And your humour is so dry I almost offered you a drink before I remembered you don't partake in the golden nectar.” He returned a grip on the shoulder of one of the freedman before moving onto another, "or have any fun for that matter."

The Maroon wasn’t the type of man to laugh, although the small, gruff noise in his throat was as close to an exclamation of humour anyone was ever going to get.

From that day on the plantation, the assassins had gained two prospective members and Nikos bolstered his crew with five men who had proven to be some of the most fearsome raw fighters he’d ever seen.

Abebe, Baraka, Awotwi, Masego and Kofi.

Upon The Trident all men were equal, and it was this one fact that their relaxed captain was particularly strict.

It never ended well when such boundaries were tested.

Never.

( Ikan is a character of Voidmon )


“You say this is common practice for the Hellenic Order?”

“Why do you ask?”

Eleanor looked down at herself, covered in pig’s blood.

“No reason.”

“Don’t you trust me?”

“Not in the slightest.”

Nikos responded to her bitterness with his charismatic sweetness and, in the dying light of the day, they balanced each other out in some odd way. He shared a perch with her and she pulled at the blood that was starting to dry into the coarse fabrics of her old training garments. God forbid her robes had been forced to get into such a state as Nikos had first suggested to them all. For authenticity he had remarked. Authenticity would be her making him clean every drop of the damned liquid off with his tongue.

She was quiet for the time as she stewed in her malignant thoughts.

Nikos noticed.

“Are you keeping sore silence because I caught you?”

The younger assassin went to strike him with her bloodied palm but he blocked and deflected the blow with an infuriating snicker. The second strike managed to leave a red smudge on his temple but didn’t wipe that grin off of his face.

“What?” He protested once he caught hold of her arms to prevent her ripping his face of his skull, “how are you supposed to learn if I don’t help you expose your weaknesses?”

“Nobody needed to learn this way!”

Nikos drew in breath and lifted a hand that forewarned Eleanor that he was about to commence a long-winded explanation so she cut in for him.

‘Thank God’, the Greek had thought, ‘I didn’t want to repeat that whole thing again.’

“Oh don’t worry, I heard your drunken explanation as much as the next assassin,” she began swaying a little where she sat, slurring his words and gesticulating wildly as she imitated him; “’it’s an ancient Hellenic practice. Back from-from…a long time ago. The Spartan forefathers etcetera etcetera, they used the blood of their slain enemies in the foothills blah blah...The practice of assassins to be able to evade captors whilst injured and cover their tracks, and also to be able to locate injured prey, teamwork against the odds’ aaand it’s all Greek to me…”

Her hands fell into her lap and she righted herself again, looking at the Greek mentor with her customary dead-pan expression. “A practice which meant half the Order got to escape being splashed with swine blood and the others have extensive washing duties to be presentable tomorrow.”

Nikos was quiet, meeting her stern gaze with raised brows. He clicked his tongue.

“Precisely.” He reaffirmed proudly and was answered with a growl of exasperation. “And that was a terrible impression.”

“Truly. Not enough slurring.”

The Greek couldn’t help but laugh at her seriousness, and his light mood eventually caused a slight upturn of the stoic Eleanor’s mouth. It didn’t last long, but it had been there.

She sighed and looked at the sunset bleeding onto the waves. “I still can’t believe Tabai allowed you to do this.”

Nikos shrugged and noticed that far below a novice had taken refuge in a glossy clutch of foliage; their reddened robes a symbol of their status as prey in this game. He smiled, the junior assassin only had to make it until sundown and then they’d succeeded in their evasion.

“He’s a practical man,” he soon continued, “managing the boar population and teaching the adepts some much needed lessons in cleanliness and stacked odds.” He weighed them up in his hands, “two birds and one stone, win win.”

Eleanor looked at him sceptically, as she almost always did. “Xenakis. If Tabai hadn’t alluded to you being one of the European Masters I would never have guessed by just listening to and looking at you.”

Nikos chuckled.

“Never?”

“Never.”

“Well, ‘master in all but name’ I suppose has its drawbacks when it comes to recognition.” Pulling a leaf apart in his hands idly he followed her gaze out to the sea and sun, “but I could do without the responsibility.”

“How can you be such a thing?” The woman beside him shifted, folding her arms and looking puzzled, “surely possessing the skill deserves the rank?”

The Greek casually shook his head, “don’t have the correct temperament; you need both skill and demeanour to be a Master.” Brushing his hands together the bits of leaf fell down to where the novice was still crouched, “Ikan is closer to the correct personality they want than I am.”

“Ikan?” Eleanor’s voice pitched.

Nikos nodded and Eleanor blew a raspberry.

“Don’t misunderstand me, he gets good results but some of his methods are…” she tapered off, trying to find the words, “well…’very traditional’.”

“You mean barbaric?”

“Well I-“

“I said he was closer anyway,” Nikos gladly ended any opportunity to discuss Ikan’s particular liking towards punishment with a smooth transitional sentence,“other end of the spectrum but I’d rather be able to talk to the adepts than put the fear of death in them.”

They fell into a thoughtful silence.

“Lonely bastard,” the Greek started and Eleanor rolled her eyes, “no wonder he’s so close to his whip.”

“Oh stop it-“

“Rumour is he calls it Susan.”

Some obscene gestures followed full with not so subtle innuendo.

“Stop it Xenakis!”

“Nikos Xenakis,” a disembodied voice spoke firmly, “I hear you are blessed with a son.”

The Greek belonging to that name looked up from his work upon the small craft bobbing beside the dock; shielding his eyes from the sun with a sweaty forearm.

“That I am,” he smiled to himself before putting his head back down to work , “fit and healthy.”

He heard a small chortle offset by insincerity and glanced up with a squint to try and make his eyes focus on the robed figure upon the dock before him.

“Our congratulations.”

Our? Nikon looked perplexed. There was only one figure that was coming into clarity.

“Aye.” He began tentatively, although trying not to think too much upon it and resuming his work, “and who am I thanking exactly?”

“Your brothers and sisters.”

The Greek had to pause in his fine handiwork and shook his head with an incredulous chuckle; wiping the sweat from his dark brow with the heel of his hand before looking up from his crouched position. “Only have one sister,” he smirked, standing and slapping a heavy rope into the hand that wasn’t shielding his eyes from the sun, “and if you’re her then what gypsy did you piss off Aellai?”

He was met with a sombre silence that Nikos filled with his own snicker, getting back to work, “that’s what I thought.”

“This will be our last attempt to return you to the fold,” the robed man continued in all his seriousness, thinking that perhaps if he stared into the working muscles of Xenakis’ back it would make his addressee acknowledge him with some kind of courtesy.

It didn’t.

“So this will be my last chance to tell you shove your order up your-“

“There will be no more protection from the Brotherhood for you-“

Nikos shrugged.

“-or your family.”

The assassin found an axe in his face before another word could slither past his lips.

“Even for one of you people that was dense,” Nikos laughed with a sharp malice beneath it invoked by the subtle threat to his own. He nudged the small craft in which he had been working with his boot, “your head would make sturdier material.”

“You would be one to talk of stupidity.” Despite this, the assassin still raised his hands in apology.

“I’m Nikos Xenakis,” the Greek smiled, “I do stupid in spades.”

A gruff sound from the cloaked man on the dock, “and that has never been as apparent as now,” he almost sneered as he pushed the axe out of his face with a look of distaste. His fellow Greek let him, withdrawing the weapon back into the boat.

“We wish you all the best,” a bow from the assassin, their customary gesture of nobler-than-Thou which Nikos did not return. “May your luck never run dry.” The man who had outstayed his welcome then departed with a flourish of his robes, but not before a last remark from the mildly irritated, mildly amused Greek.

“Didn’t your masters tell you I was born with horseshoes up my arse?”

So, with a chuckle, he resumed his work, hard and honest.

Work that blinded him to the bustle of the dock, and thus to the man who would come to destroy everything Nikos had ever held dear.




The Greek hadn’t welcomed the memory into his mind, it had come uninvited and had once more left him in a state of troubled wakefulness. He had no reason to feel melancholic at present he reasoned to himself as he idly rolled a real over his fingers back and forth. They’d pulled a good haul today from the Spanish, rich materials, rum and chests of coin bound for Florida, and they had sliced into port at Nassau to fight, fuck and drink.

But The Trident’s captain didn’t join his men. Instead he sat in his dim quarters pretending to look over maps that he had long since finished analysing. His mind, as aforementioned, was elsewhere entirely and brought to the present by his door opening and a thick shadow cast in the moonlight outside.

“Captain,” Kofi began, his voice strongly accented, “will you not join the men? You have been here for five hours since we docked.”

Nikos forced his mind to Kofi, the ex-slave born into shackles that he’d freed with Anto back in Tortuga. The man was a brute with a scholar’s heart and was more interested in reading, writing and all other such things than he was rum, wenches and gold. Nikos had been teaching him his letters and some beginning mathematics; lending him any books or such that he had for Kofi to indulge himself upon. ‘When I go to the cities and the towns of the world’ Kofi had often said in their small lessons, ‘I will go an educated man and I will tell them who my teacher was for they will want to know who taught ‘a savage’ to be a gentleman’.

Then Nikos would chuckle and pat the black man on a broad shoulder and tell him who the real savages were.

The coin dropped from Nikos’ knuckles and the Greek stretched with a false but well played smile upon his face. “Someone has to secure a future while the others piss it away eh?” He rested his head on his hand and gestured; “go, enjoy the pleasures Nassau has to offer. We won’t be seeing it for a few months after this.”

A pause.

“Ok Captain,” the deckhand backed out of the doorframe with an evident reluctance, “g’night Captain.”

“G’night Kofi.”

Then he was alone again, and for a moment he wished that he wasn’t.