Torch
By Soft Cell

I'm lost again and I'm on the run
Looking for love in a sad song.
With your avenger eyes and your catlike ways
I can hold you.
You are a fool for me to be cruel.
I'm leaning on this bar listening to you sing
And your sad song rings in my ears and I start to cry.
He's searching
she's showing

See him held in a deep deep spell he knows she's glowing.
I can find within my mind a way to go

I can look deep into your light and shout
Hold me
hold me
hold me
hold me
hold me.
I hear the saxophone and it tears my soul
And we're feeling old
feeling so cold

She is the torch and she is the theme

She could be a dream but - oh boy - is she real.
Try to avoid her eyes
to avoid her words

They will hit you with all that you feel.
He's searching
she's showing
. . .
See her eyes they are bright tonight.
See the stars coming out tonight.
See the moon looking down tonight

See how they light your way tonight.
See my eyes they are bright tonight.
See my hands reaching out tonight.
Hear my words they are dynamite

See how they light your way tonight.
See her eyes they are bright tonight.
See her eyes they are bright tonight.
See how they light your way tonight.

The crowd roared, a deafening wall of sound as the chariots raced around the Hippodrome. Despite the cloud of dust and shattered debris left in their wake, they careered round at breakneck speed whilst jostling for position. The cries for Corinth and Cyraenica sang out loudest, as their respective teams headed the charge around the track. The cheers changed to cries of anguish and alarm as the Athenian hot on the leaders' tail took the corner too wide and lost control, hitting a wall in an ear-splitting crash.

In a clear lead as they passed the final lap of twelve, the Cyraenican and the Corinth driver were locked in a desperate battle, neither giving an inch as they cracked the whip above the heads of their 4-horse teams. Seemingly inseparable, they watched each other and the track ahead like hawks looking for anything that might give them a smidge of an advantage.

The blonde-haired Corinthian gritted his teeth and took the inside of the turn, only to be matched by his opponent. Time for an old hunter's trick, he thought to himself, and having the merest of leads, he yanked the reins as he took the next turn. A gasp hit the crowd as the Corinthian chariot, instead of taking the turn tight to the inside, pulled across his opponent who instinctively swerved to avoid the obstruction. No longer locked together, Iolaus pulled his team round and thrust forward knowing his opponent couldn't catch him now.

The crowd began throwing laurel crowns to him as he headed down the last few turns. He half-cocked his head upward, giving a boyish grin to the crowd as he waved a hand at them, his other hand vice-like on the reins. Crossing the line at last, a few 'crowns' landed on his chariot; One even landed on his head that he proffered and threw back to the crowd who cheered in approval.

A shower of laurel crowns descended as the racing team slowed to a trot, one of which seemed to be caught by the wind as it flew towards the heroic charioteer. Which thudded home, the laurel leaves drooping off the disguised discus as it hit his head.

"Ares! Ares! Come out you bastard!" Xena called out, sending her chakram around his temple and randomly destroying anything in its path.

"You rang?" The God of War hailed his one-time protégé, appearing by her side and snapping his fingers to restore all his damaged/destroyed offerings and goods.

She gave him a full on glare, whipping her chakram out and resting it none too gently against his throat.

"Ooo - a light shave on the beard please, maybe a trim off the back?" he remarked casually, unfazed by Xena's ire.

"Okay, let's have it," she said icily, "Why'd you have Iolaus killed?"

"Well, hate to rain on your parade Xena, but I didn't want him dead," he answered with a smile that made the warrioress' fists itch.

"Oh really? So you and Hercules aren't sibling rivals and want to be best friends after all? Perhaps I've heard it wrong?" She inclined her head slightly with a look of idle curiosity, daring him to disprove her.

"Nope, nothing I'd like more than to have Bro' taken out. But his little friend is hardly a major issue. Anyhow, Curly was working for me."

"Of course he was," Xena came back, her tongue heavily in cheek. "The words 'wouldn't piss on you if your trousers were on fire' don't spring to mind?"

"Seems someone's got hold of a large consignment of Black Powder and is planning to send a rocket large enough to hit Olympus."

"Well, pardon me if I don't burst into tears," Xena commented dryly.

"What goes up, must come down," he replied, gesturing a finger up and then back down in an arc. "Like I said, Curly was working for me and had a tip that whoever was letting this rocket go was at the Olympic games."

Xena pursed her lips tightly at this, knowing Hercules would only save his Olympian family for the sake of mankind. "Where is Hercules anyway?"

Ares stifled a yawn at the mention of his half-mortal brother. "He's negotiating with Hades for his return - probably anything between a few months and a few years. Depends how much Herc can persuade Demeter to let Persephone stay down in the Underworld longer than the 6 month turnaround." He rubbed his hands gleefully and blew on them. "Hope you're prepared for a cold winter!"

Xena sighed impatiently. "And of course, this would mean you need someone else to go to the Olympics now."

"Hey - there's a thought!" the God said in mock surprise.

"Yeah, yeah, like I hadn't worked that out already," she growled. "But only because I have nothing better to do."

"I wouldn't have it any other way," he smiled. "Of course, there remains the problem of how to get you into the Games, as only Prostitutes and Virgins are allowed to watch..."

"No," was Xena's very definite reply to this query.

"No?" his raised eyebrow met a steely look in return. " Well, as you know wealthy women can be Chariot owners - and as you have no-one to ride for you..."

"Well, rules were meant to be broken," Xena smiled...

This was not quite the view of the Chair of the Olympic Committee for scrutinizing competitors. A puffed-up jobsworth in a big hat, aided by a few nondescript scribes and a nervous junior were behind a big desk designed to put the frighteners on competitors. This competitor wasn't having any of it, however - she jabbed a finger testily at the Chair's chest to emphasise her point. "Now look - it says clearly in the rules that anyone rich enough can own a Chariot to race in The Games - be they man or woman!"

"Yes, yes, yes," the man said airily. "But this means that you can choose any of the Charioteers available. Not that you can ride it yourself.

"And dressing up as Xena isn't impressing anyone," he added with a scornful sniff, taking in her leather armour and weapons. "It's not big and it's not clever."

"Really?" Xena raised a quizzical eyebrow, and was about to say more on the subject when Ares popped by.

"Bored now," the God commented and produced a fireball from thin air.

There was a silent pause, broken only by the fluttering of a somewhat charred hat fluttering down and landing on the ex-owner's smoking shoes.

"You might want to reconsider that decision," Xena remarked casually to the junior official, who looked on nervously at the two gatecrashers. Neither of them looked overly perturbed at the disappearance of the senior official - one was smiling like a hungry cat, the other was blowing a few sparks of a finger.

"Er, er," the rapidly promoted official stalled, frantically searching the scrolls of rules and regulations for something to ensure he wasn't promoted in a more definite but permanent fashion. He tutted as he turned over a scroll and giggled nervously. "Oh dear, oh dear - look at that - it's down here all the time. Just that I mistook the word 'women' for 'centaurs' for being disallowed."

One of the scribes quick on the uptake grabbed a quill and hurriedly amended the scroll.

"What a stroke of luck," the Warrior Princess commented dryly. "I'll pick my Chariot then?"

The official hastily gestured her through at the veiled query and the God of War vanished with a curt nod. A set of statues cut in grey marble marked the entrance to the stables from the Scrutineers' tent - Hercules, athletes, wrestlers, 2 and 4-horse charioteers, the Gods - Xena gave them a cursory glance before passing on through.

As her figure departed from view, one of the statues moved slightly. The discus thrower released its head from beneath the furled discus arm and gazed curiously after her. "Oh, Xena, Xena - you've come back to play," it murmured, before shaking off its grey overcoat and disappearing in a fiery exit.

The light chariots lined up more or less alongside each other, the drivers visibly reining in the horses but subtly stealing a foot's lead here and there. Xena had had some experience in using light chariots in Britannica, but preferred the extra mobility a single horse like Argo gave her. She did know horses, however, and chose the nimblest of the beasts available at the stables, figuring that agility would be of more use than strength and stamina.

The stereo sound of the sweaty masses within the Hippodrome that hit Xena as the Charioteers were given the off unnerved her slightly - she'd not heard such a cacophony of concentrated cheering and general noise since the battle of Corinth. Her exterior remained as icy calm as ever, keeping within the pack as they all scrambled for position.

The familiarities of the chariot soon came back to her and she made the most of her horses' agility, swiftly moving through the mad scrum of packed chariots. If there wasn't a gap, she made one - barging past some involved in their own private battles, winging others out of her way and seemingly creating a bubble of invulnerability around her as she charged forward.

The Cretan had a clear lead as they ended the lap, the pack hot on his tail. After more than a few hair-raising crashes that seemed to centre on Xena's chariot in one way or another, the flurry of horses had thinned out a bit. One driver unwisely tried to pass her on the inside, but she cut him up a treat on the corner - she went through, he didn't. The rest of the pack took note of this and tried to take her on the outside, but the agility of Xena's horses gave her ample breathing space. Having established the pecking order in the pack, she made every effort to catch the Cretan, cutting corners and sticking rigidly to the inside.

As they hit the next corner, the Cretan caught a glimpse of her and stepped up the pace, increasing the lead again despite Xena's best efforts. Something was nagging away at her mind about the Cretans as she coaxed her team tight around the next corner endeavouring to make up the lost ground. The final lap loomed as they careered around the course at breakneck speed, the drivers that had their race ended the previous lap scrambling for safety as the pack of chariots headed their way again.

When she hit the final turn, Xena knew she wasn't going to catch the leader, and it came to her suddenly what she was trying to think of about the Cretans - their almost legendary Heavy chariots. "Huh - no wonder I never even got a sniff of him," she muttered to herself.

As she was mulling over this, a discus came her way at phenomenal speed. Catching sight of it as it span her way, her hands grabbed the edge of the chariot and swung her body above her hands before letting go and somersaulting in midair, the discus flying harmlessly underneath. Landing safely on her chariot again, her sharp eyes picked out the trajectory of the discus and where it must have started from. Ignoring the applause of the crowd who adored showmanship of any sort, she pinpointed the place in the Hippodrome and leapt nimbly from the chariot it slowed to a halt.

If she was expecting her adversary to be still waiting for her in the auditorium, Xena would have been disappointed. As it was, she expected nothing less - though the adulation of the delighted crowd at the presence of an Olympian athlete as she scrambled amongst them hardly helped - and finally found her goal. Namely, an empty space with an olive-covered discus marking it.

She glared at the item as if it would make its owner return, until she turned it over in her hand to find a message: Throat a little 'horse' ? Try the local symposium...

Having more than a suspicion that someone was playing games with her, she treaded her way carefully to the Symposium nearby the Olympic Games perimeter, keeping her eyes peeled for any familiar faces from her past and her ears alert for any useful snippets of conversation. It seemed that the only topics of conversation were the Games and the local vineyards produce this year. There was an old hag in the corner who seemed to be part of the philosophy circle. She was telling tales of woe that might turn lesser people's hair white, yet no-one was paying attention. She sidled up to Xena, who didn't look overjoyed at her company. "Death! Death! By Fire and Water, shall you perish!"

"Well, I'll have to give that a miss then," Xena said dismissively. The other patrons of the symposium looked on with amusement, the Warrior Princess being hassled and bothered by the old woman to no avail.

"Woe! Woe! And Thrice Woe! Death shall you meet where you met her first!"

"Thankyou and goodnight," Xena replied tersely, 'helping' the old woman out of the tent. "She's an old misery, isn't she?"

"Depend not on water to defy Death! Trust in Poseidon!" was the woman's wailing cry as she was kicked out of the Symposium to a round of applause by everyone within.

"Well. Ale please," Xena requested and the Barmaid quickly obliged. A seemingly casual glance and sniff revealed nothing out of the ordinary and she swigged the beverage heartily with no ill effects. She shrugged, and drank again - though as she tilted the goblet back, her eyes caught a glimpse of something at the bottom. Words of some sort - you and just could be made out. Hastily taking another swig to reveal the hidden message, she emptied the mug and stared at the message in astonishment and horror. You have just been poisoned

Totting up her options quickly, she laid the goblet on the counter and cast her eyes over the bar, beckoning the barmaid over. "Another?" the girl asked.

"No." Xena said firmly. "One of those is enough for anyone. Local ale is it?"

"Oh no," the barmaid said innocently. "Came in with a special order from Troas."

Xena's lip curled in suspicion. "There's a Trojan saying – Beware of Greeks bearing gifts. You should be careful who you accept special orders from." She pointed to the assorted concoctions behind the counter.

"Retsina."

"Ouzo."

"Raki."

"White wine."

"Red wine."

"Methe."

The barmaid poured out decent measures of all the liquors requested and laid them out in a row of goblets on the counter. Her eyes widened as she saw Xena take each drink and gulp it down in one. They widened further still when the Warrior Princess ordered the same again, only in bigger portions. "You'll be sick!" she said in alarm.

Xena wobbled uncertainly on her feet, but gripped the counter firmly. "Drink." she said commandingly.

The barmaid shrugged and refilled all the goblets, which were then emptied almost as quickly as they were filled. Sure enough, Xena exited rapidly around the corner and found a more practical use for the spittoon that the wine tasters were using. She doused her head in a fountain close by, and grabbed a lackey passing who was carrying an armful of towels. Relieving him of the topmost item, she relinquished her hold on him and dried herself off.

It was of little surprise to find another message waiting for her on the towel when her malady had passed on: Try the laconica - it does wonders for hangovers! Whoever was twisting her tail was going to get twisted right back. Permanently. She stormed off in a foul temper determined to give anyone who even looked at her a bad time. The towel-carrier she'd ambushed watched her idly, as other competitors leaving the Hippodrome and other arenas helped themselves to fresh towels, then pushed the hapless servant into the fountain when the pile was empty. They were oblivious to a flicker of flame that briefly shimmered on the surface of the water before the body hit the water.

Passing the philosophers at the exedra, Xena paused at the snub-nosed funnel of the laconica rising above ground level. True to her word, she gave a man a smack that saw him crumple against a wall, after he tried to ask if she was going to steam the laconica up a bit. Feeling a bit better after the release of some pent-up tension, she took a towel down the steps into the laconicum. Knocked back initially by the wall of heat that hit her on the opening of the underground chamber, she took a place at random within the walled room and waited.

As she waited - and sweated some - the wisdom of leaving her leather armour on seemed in doubt as the heat rose steadily. The steam grew into a dense mist, broken up only by Xena swatting the air with her towel. There was a gentle scent in the steam too, subtle yet unmistakeable; The weight of both was making her drowsy despite her attempts to shake herself free of the lethargy striking her.

The drowsiness left her in a microsecond as the door slammed shut and something rattled on the outside of the door. The mist thickened almost immeadiately having no escape route, and visibility went down to nil. Xena's first instinct was to break the door, but the sight of nothing beyond her hand made that difficult. The slit windows weren't much help either, since they were letting steam out but it had nowhere to go, so it was just building up outside the chamber.

She looked up to the roof and remembered the funnel - pulling her sword from the scabbard, she thrust upward into the roof creating a decent sized hole that the steam sped into.

"So, steam rises," she mused, observing the steam ascending to the top of the funnel. "Time to give it a helping hand.."

With that, she let loose her chakram aimed straight up, which hit the target with a satisfying 'clang' before returning to its owner. Freed of its blockage, the steam fled upwards and out of the room allowing Xena to see the door again. Her sword made short work of the door's hinges, which fell to the floor with a crash. Moving through the space where the door used to be, she spotted some fallen seeds that hadn't been steamed with the rest

Picking a handful up, she squinting an eye at them. The perusal was to no avail, but the faint smell jogged her memory - Hemp! Something the Scythians used in herbal steam baths, if she remembered right. Pulling herself to her feet, she kicked the spear used to block the door and the door itself out of the way. The door tilted over to reveal another calling card from her tormentor: Tense? Steaming for action? Go to the Pankration, front row.
P.s. Who'd be a clam?

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