Mercenaries and Muster

The day grows impossibly hot as your ship is anchored in the deep waters off of the Matapan peninsula. You descend into your skiff and draw ever closer to the small harbour at Tainaron. The glare off the glassy sea forces you to squint as you take in the unimpressive landscape: muted yellows and greys of the midday glare, rocks, not a tree to be seen on the bare mountain peaks, more rocks, overwhelming silence, and stillness. The myriad goats dotting the landscape are motionless, attempting vainly to rest in the meagre shadows provided by field walls and stone-built structures. Then, suddenly, a shift: your boat is noticed, and the landscape comes alive. Shouts, and movement, and the sudden realization that the goats are not goats at all, but thousands upon thousands of men, watching, and waiting…for you .