My fellow Historians; welcome to this book reading. As some of you may know, I am a mytho-archaeologist of, if I dare be so bold, some renown. As part of my latest venture, I have been funded by the London School of Economics and the Museum of London Archaeology, to which I owe them a vast amount of respect and thanks for their diligent help, in translation, historical and contemporary sources, and other innumerable aids provided that I cannot even begin to list, but Id like to make special thanks to Professor Stefani Fettler, whose help on site I cant thank enough. During this reading, I have translated of the diaries of Phrixus the Broken, which I discovered in the ruins of Nokalakevi in the Church of St George in Kldsubani, Georgia. This attempt to prove the existence of the Golden Fleece have proven plentiful for the amount of source material unearthed from the ancient Kingdom of Colchis, but for the purposes of ease, I have taken the liberty of changing the dates to that of our current calendar as near as I can guess.

Who am I? My name is Phrixus. I am of the line of the Argonauts, descended from... one of them. The stories of my family's blood vary and change to the whim of whomever the speaker is. Truth is, I don't particularly care. It doesn't particularly matter to me, although I'm sure you'll find that a shock. Or you won't care. In which case, it doesn't matter anyway which one I'm descended from. I'm rambling, forgive me. I'm old. I don't want to be, but who does? Living a long life is all well and good, it's just a shame that those years you have are at the wrong end of your life. I'm writing this, because I feel I have a story to tell. Whether anyone listens, or if I'm just a bumbling fool who has gone past the stage of talking to himself and now writing to himself is something that only the Fates themselves can see. Those old crones have a lot to answer for, I'll give them that.

Stories. Fantasy. Myths. Legends. History. They're all the same, really. Scratch deep enough in History, and you'll find something that was said that wasn't true. Don't expect anything different here. This is MY history. MY fantasy. This is how I saw the Fates unravel their thread for me. Believe me, believe me not, I don't care. I expect I'll be in Hades grasp, my passage paid to Charon with shattered skulls and bleeding bodies.

I'm not a proud man. I'm an old man. And old, proud men don't exist. You either live long enough to see your pride leave you, or it kills you. I'm not sure which it is, for even though my heart still beats, and I can still suck a little more life unwillingly out of the air around me, I am now little more than a shell.

Normally, when telling a story, you'd ask where to start. It seems obvious in this instance, I suppose. The beginning.

~ beginning ~ My name is Phrixus. I am of the line of the Argonauts, descended from Jason. Or maybe Calas, or his brother Zetes. I don't know, it matters naught to me. Only that I am of that line, and hence, I am determined to bring it glory. I am nearly fifteen winters old, the same as my friend Irenaus. We were both from families that had enough money to send us to the Barracks, where we were trained with Eutychius, a Spartan who had come with his father after exile from those lands. His father, Eutychion, pretty much taught us everything we knew about fighting in the Hoplite Phalanx, our shields rim to rim, spears poised to deal death. Only time I ever heard him say anything about his exile was when we once got drunk on goat piss wine and sat on the banks of the Phasis to see the Sun set. Something about refusing to kill a slave, although I think there may have been more to it than that. Ive never felt the need or courage to delve deeper into it, and hes never brought it up since.

There was no mother or wife who came with them, although Eutychius slab muscled chest and his arms thicker than my own thighs attracted plenty of female attention - and male, too, if I'm honest, but offers from both genders were kindly, but firmly rebuffed. Eutychion was a strange man, but one I feared, respected and loved dearly. If I could choose a father, I'd have chosen him. My father, Phrixus the Elder, was nothing to write home about - paying his way through the required militia training as the head of the wealthy merchant family. I however, could not be prouder to join up in the manner of my forebears - shield and spear, the bronze plates on my linothorax polished to glimmer in the sun, facing down the cretins of the outer world.

Our own version of the Agoge drilled us well. We didn't do much, if I'm honest - it was hardly a case of war being on the horizon, as the family made their profits trading with the local tribes of horsemen who brought in their hardy livestock for breeding. Myself, and the other noble sons spent our summer practising during the day, while Eutychion prepared for any sort of possible combat - raising our shields to protect against a rain of rotten vegetables and fruit, or if he had woken up in a particularly ill mood, all manner of faeces. Even a cat once. Poor Niketas didnt even realise what hit him until it tried to claw its way up his leg in outrage; Eutychion had us running miles the next day when the lad broke ranks with an infuriated feline trying to sink its fangs into his pride and joy, but it still brings a smile to our face. We were ready in case a war ever came, but it never did. We were traders, and lived off these lands, bartering with neighbours all the way on the other side of the Bosporus and beyond.

However, this would change, for no story ever begins with peace and harmony. Kuji, our old King died in 290BC, and he gave his throne to the Kartlian King, lacking a proper son and heir to his throne. This attempt at binding our peoples together against the ever increasing threat of the southern kingdoms were worrisome, and that our