The warrior's march
Good, cold, days! Here I bring you a little story that I shared in the writers group, I hope it entertains you.
The spear was broken, the shield was dented, the hoplite bathed in blood. The Spartan kingdom had been defeated by its northern neighbors, with great shame the queen would have to pay a great tribute in slaves and cattle. And the great loss of soldiers... The sons of Ares gladly accepted death, but when the shields returned home carrying the dead bodies to announce defeat, the cries covered the songs of worship to the gods.
The cycle had to be restarted, the army had to be prepared, the generals had to be selected, the lances had to be forged and the shields hammered. The machinery of the kingdom began to move from the most humble thing offered by the citizens, the young men.
A recruitment edict ran along the banks of the Eurotas, calling all young men older than fifteen winters to march toward the capital, prepare to serve their kingdom, and regain the honor the gods had denied them.
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Nikeiklos had finished burying his father. He would no longer see his golden mane camouflaging among the wheat, his powerful legs stained with mud when he fed the pigs, nor hear his deep voice that he always used in a calm tone, or enjoy his perfect male body when they bathed together in the river.
Two weeks after his eighteenth birthday, the war was over and it had brought him as a gift the corpse of the great lion, curled up on his shield, with a half helmet covering his head, a stabbed belly, and a side-to-side hole in his right eye. His spear had been lost and his sword had not been drawn.
The young lion's mother, pregnant with her fourth litter, had cleaned and polished her husband's shield to sleep, hugging the cold iron on the bed. In part, she felt calm; her husband had died in battle and now he would find himself on his way to the Elysian fields, covered with flowers and the praises of Ares himself. On the other hand, his eldest son had not yet married, and a young man who is in the prime of life hardly ever does the work of plowed land and cattle. A tear rolled down the cheek of the lady of the house. The scent of her husband slowly disappeared from her bed, as his soul detached itself from this world.
When Nikeiklos' younger sister saw her father's body that afternoon, she took some valuables from the house and fled. She was not heard from again until a few years later, when an uncle of hers identified her in a coastal town, pregnant and holding the hand of a perioeci fox. So deep had the girl fallen that not even a Spartacus citizen had wanted to fill her belly.
The little ones in the family were sad too. Their father accompanied their ancestors beyond the river of souls, but they would never see him again in this world. Within a few winters, they should be left to do military service in some nearby city, and they would be ashamed of not having been instructed in the art of the sword or throwing the javelin. Their fellow citizens would believe that they were raised by perioecis, or worse still, that their father held them in such low esteem that they had been delegated to slaves.
Even the family slaves mourned the loss of their master. How much strength, energy, and virility lost in such a futile war. The weaver will remember the cold nights when the great lion slipped into her bed and flooded her interior with his warm seed. The young boy from the stables, a horse the age of Nikeiklos, will never forget his lord, who had been like his father, so close that they even used to masturbate together every morning. Even the oldest farmer, a lynx who had started out serving the father of the deceased, would miss his master's caresses, his hanging genitals, and his tight insides when, at least three times a month, he raised his tail to receive the seed of his most loyal lackey.
The whole world revolved around the loss. The tears turned to blood that dripped from the house to the sown fields. A wounded heart that pumped and spat out suffering, creating a huge ghoulish effigy that obscured everything with its shadow. Absence was a web that twisted and strangled the whole family.
The huge red canine, Ares, sitting on his mortuary chariot smiled as a thread of bloody slime trickled between his jaws as he saw the battlefield adorned by the mutilated bodies; the cries of mortals existed and inspired them to kindle hatred in the hearts of men and feed the infinite bonfire of war with their lives.
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The royal herald arrived early that summer morning. A young wolf, mounted on a spotted horse, roamed each farm and village proclaiming the warlike order of the queen. All the young men had to present themselves to arms to reestablish the honor of the children of the insatiable Androphon.
Nikeiklos's mother hugged her young lion. The boy felt the fur of his chest wet with tears, but before he could hug his mother, she turned her head away and hit him with a closed fist in the place where she had shed her tears. The female's face was flushed, and furiously she ran to her room and a few seconds later she returned with her husband's shield, gave it to her eldest son, hitting his chest with the metal and said, "Come back with this shield or on it!"
Before noon, the boy had hung the huge shield on his back and sheathed his father's sword on his belt, along with a small skin filled with water and a bag with some loaves of bread and dried meat. Ready to leave his home.
The first step off the farm was strange. The dirt on the road felt warm and dry, the bare soles of his feet were light and insensitive to the small rocks that barely sank into his skin. His clean clothes smelled of lavender and his fresh fur gave off soft hues of wildflowers; his mother had forced him to take a bath with his brothers as a farewell.
The lonely road wound along the banks of the river. The trip to the capital would take him three days, or at least that is what he remembered from the first time he walked it years ago with his father. In another time, two lions walking slowly on the path of the warrior. Today, a warrior advancing on the route of duty.
As night fell, Nikeiklos observed a small fire in the distance. As he approached, he met a family of perioeci merchant lynxes who offered him a comfortable place and a warm meal. The caravanner's son stared at him and smiled throughout the evening, his eyes reflected the desire for carnal pleasure.
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The next day, the lion dressed and emerged from the tent of his young host, who had helped him throughout the night to stain his fur with the male juice of another species. After saying goodbye to him, he continued advancing down the dusty road, accompanied by the burning of his bowels and the thick liquid that the lynx's passion gave him.
In the afternoon, the young lion caught up with another pilgrim. A very tall and stout ram a few years older than him. He was also a citizen, the son of a crippled veteran who could no longer fight. Together they walked throughout the day, sharing and comparing the exploits of their parents. That day, Nikeiklos knew the pain and shame of a man who had not been able to achieve death on the battlefield, not even a thousand years of peace could be consolation for a warrior who cannot defend himself.
That night, the two travelers shared their food. The lion offered his bread and the ram some wine. When the bonfire went out, the moon was still high in the sky, and both young men were wide awake. With the gods as witnesses, they explored their youth in the vast, silent darkness.
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Sunlight hit the cat's face the next morning. Nikeiklos was alone, he could still feel the intimate taste of his companion in his mouth, but there was no sign of another person, not the crushed grass, the hoof prints, or the hole he had made the night before with his huge spear.
The last day of the walk was transformed into a reflection of the lion's mood. A few hours after starting the walk, the clouds covered the sky and the cry of thousands of years fell on the dry land and the warrior's fur, moistening his body and clothes, cooling his skin, blurring his vision, and slowing his gait. The footsteps of the young man sank into the mud, filling his nails with grime, and leaving huge footprints that quickly flooded with water. The journey in the rain was eternal, his vision was so reduced that he could barely see beyond the extension of his arm, and the sound of the drops hitting the shield occupied his head, slowly consuming his sanity.
In the distance, the lion heard a voice calling him. As he approached, he met a woodpecker, another citizen, who offered him lodging on his farm. The stables smelled of horse manure, but they were dry, and he could sleep on the straw.
Between the neighing of the beasts and the rushing sound of the rain, Nikeiklos ate his last loaf in silence. In a corner of the stable, the young man could see the huge silhouette of another lion, and after trying to make conversation a couple of times with the stranger, he fell silent. A while later, he watched as the huge cat patted next to him, inviting him to come closer. The young warrior accepted the invitation without hesitation and snuggled up next to the stranger, with whom he slept throughout the night.
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Nikeiklos woke up alone again, on a mountain of hay. Beneath his shield, the man found a reddish bronze spear and a slightly dented helmet that fit perfectly on his head. Before leaving, the lion thanked the farmer and asked about the spear and helmet. But the man told him that the only thing he kept from his soldier's days was an old engraved leather loincloth, and that if he wished, he could take it with him.
With his new outfit, the warrior returned to the road, ready to travel the last stretch of his journey. The sun was shining again, and a cold wind accompanied him as he walked, making him more agile with each step he took on firm but somewhat damp ground.
In the distance the enormous capital city could be seen, the bustle and the frantic movement of the people indicated the preparations for a new campaign. The metal of the forge howled with each hammer blow, the hundreds of bags of bread and cured meat, filled a line of carts that was lost in the horizon, and a sea of perioeci tents extended in the outskirts of the wall.
The young lion passed through the city gates and headed toward the barracks. There he met the same veteran who had instructed him in his childhood, a tall, skinny dog with a docked tail and a blinded eye. His former teacher assigned him a unit and indicated where he would sleep. After receiving his orders, Nikeiklos went to the temple of Ares, where with the help of a priestess, he lit a candle at the feet of the great destroyer of men.
That same afternoon, all the men were called to form before their queen. In front of her, hundreds of shields and spearheads glittered, awaiting her orders. The faces of the soldiers were covered by helmets, the national robes covered their bodies, and their movements were synchronized. Their particularity no longer existed, the individuality was a single mass, a crimson wave that would hit the Hellenic lands once more, for the honor of mortals, and the enjoyment of the immortals.
On the long marble table of Olympus, the banquet was served. The nectar filled the glasses of the deities who gathered to be spectators, and perhaps participants, of the bloody spectacle that was approaching.
Only Hades, sitting on his dark throne, licked his lips, anticipating the massive arrival of new citizens to his kingdom.