posted 05 July 2005 02:08 EDT (US)
Times have changed. The republic is young but strong. Enemies surround her, and many young men are called to fight on battlefields far from home, for causes they do not understand. Many will never see their homes, and those who do, find that things can never be the same. These are the tales of Gaius Decimus, called Ultor the Avenger; exiled by his people, doomed to wander the earth, leading his men across the world, forever in search of a home they could not return to, seeking revenge against the man who condemned him... IV The Affairs of Other Men Anaximander of Sparta let out a war cry as he drove his spear deep into the Athenian hoplite, impaling the young man through the chest. “Come, you bastards! Push through them!” Thick jets of blood shot out of the wound as he pulled his spear free. Anaximander turned his head as the crimson splattered the side of his bronze helmet. He grunted, and raised his shield as members of the enemy phalanx stabbed forward with their spears. The dull clang sent shockwaves up his arm, but a life of merciless discipline continued its influence, and he did not budge under the attack. The mass of Athenian hoplites broke upon the Spartans like water upon rock. The phalanxes of scarlet cloaked warriors were relentless, more a force of nature than an army of men. The discipline was absolute, the fighting mechanical. Five thousand Athenians versus five hundred Spartans. May the gods have mercy upon the Athenians. “Bring up the right flank! We’ll circle around and slaughter them!” Anaximander called to the herald, who immediately raised his horn to give the signal for movement. The Spartan war chant began as the complex maneuvers started, precision turns and marches encircling the frightened Athenians. The militia officers tried to rally their men, reciting oaths made to Athena and the Olympians, proclaiming the glory of the reborn Athenian Empire. “Ha!” Anaximander spat as the Athenian line broke, peasants barely large enough to hold a weapon and a shield collapsing in on one another, trying to save their own lives from the unstoppable Spartans. “Surrender already and spare us the effort!” A pompous Athenian officer was within range of Anaximander’s taunts, riding upon his white horse. He raised his sword, and swung it at Anaximander’s shield, crashing upon the protective weapon with a dull thud. “Surrender to you dogs! You fools! Our reserves shall swarm you! Our archers shall cut you down with --” He was cut off by the point of Anaximander’s spear. The Spartan stabbed the weapon through the bottom of the Athenian officer’s throat, blood gushing out of the Athenian’s mouth. His eyes rolled into the back of his head, and he fell from his horse. The animal thrashed and tried to get away, routing into the mass of Athenian soldiers, causing more chaos. The screams ensued, and Anaximander knew that the battle was won. It was then that the fire began. A thousand flaming missiles soared through the air, and struck like lightning upon the Spartan soldiers. Anaximander turned to the horizon… there were thousands of archers, so many that he couldn’t even begin to get a good idea of the number of assailants. He spun around, looking for an escape route, but the archers were lined up along both sides of the battlefield. “Damn!” Anaximander screamed, rage tempering his iron discipline. “What the hell have I done?!” A burning arrow hit the man in front of him, the flaming head setting fire to his scarlet cloak. The Athenians were still scrambling, and not all of the Spartans realized what had happened. “They’re firing on their own men,” Anaximander muttered. “Sir! We need to do something!” One of the younger warriors called out. Before Anaximander could remind him to remember his training, an arrow struck him in the face, killing him instantly. If they stayed they would be annihilated. “Herald! Signal the retreat, now! We need to get out of here or we’ll be wiped out! We can’t fight them at this range - - not like this!” As the herald blew upon his horn, the thunder of a thousand horses drowned him out. The western gap, where Anaximander planned to lead the retreat, was now filled with heavy cavalry. Black horses, raising the banner of Macedon. The Companions charged. “Now! Now! We need to fall back now!” The Spartan army abandoned the battle and took flight. The Macedonian cavalry ran down their ranks as if they were mere ants. The site of guaranteed victory was now littered with the corpses of scarlet clad men. Anaximander led his men from the battlefield, trying to drag as many wounded with him as he could, trails of blood dripping from their near dead bodies. The glory of Sparta is not what it once was. * * * Three horses road over the horizon, the sun setting in front of them. The riders were clothed in animal skins and traveling cloaks, looking like common vagabonds from a distance. Their skill in riding revealed them to be otherwise. “Tell me again, Decimus,” Marcus Quintus asked, “why are we roaming Greece when we should be sitting at home enjoying the prime of our lives?” Sextus Valerius, the second traveler, laughed heartily. The hardened veteran slapped the young Quintus upon the back, “Do you yearn for home so much, Quintus? Where is your sense of adventure?” “I had pretty girls at home waiting for me, Sextus. Gorgeous girls, with perfect curves, and long dark hair, and beautiful eyes and the desire to bed an up and coming young man such as myself,” Quintus said. “Up and coming you may have been, but you have been gone from your home for quite a long time, a member of a lost legion! I wouldn’t be surprised if all of those pretty girls have moved onto another more ‘up and coming’ man.” Quintus glared at Sextus, “You enjoy ruining my fun, don’t you?” Sextus smiled, “Its how I enjoy myself.” “Quiet, the both of you,” Gaius Decimus spoke. He rode a few steps ahead of the few men, surveying the land in front of them. He pulled back the horse and stopped. “You know, Decimus, you have barely said a thing for the last few days. As a matter of fact, you have been some what off ever since we found you - -” Decimus cut Quintus off, “Quiet I said.” There was a moment’s silence, and then he said, “We will spend the night here.” “Here?” Quintus asked. Decimus rode ahead, over the top of the hill, and started to descend. Quintus and Sextus followed him, and the lights of a city were revealed. “Oh. There,” Quintus noted. Decimus nodded, and gestured for them to follow, “Welcome to Megara.” Megara was once a powerful city. It lays opposite the island of Salamis, which Megara herself used to count as a possession… until Athens took it. When Athens began its bid for empire, it crippled Megara’s economy by cutting off Athenian trade with the city. Megara found herself siding with the Spartans in the great war… but things have changed since those days. Alexander has come and gone, and with the Macedonian’s death, there is no common enemy for the Greeks to hate. The old rivalries have returned, and Megara has suffered for it. Decimus and his friends rode into town and went to the nearest inn, searching for a meal and lodgings. What they found was a den of drunkenness and loose women, a hive of thieves and fallen soldiers. It reminded them of home. A lute player sang an ancient poem, about some Ithacan king or another, and Quintus found himself entranced by the vivid lyrics. He sat down in front of the poet, listening intently. Sextus sat at a wooden table and ordered himself some wine and fish. The waitress sat upon his lap, and whispered something into his ear, while taking the man’s hand, and putting it upon her chest. He shoved her away, and then stared blankly at the table. Sextus let out a heavy sigh, and remained silent for the duration of the evening. These travels had been hardest on him, Decimus thought. During the days in Cadwaladur’s bondage, Sextus used to speak of a family: a beautiful if stern and difficult wife, and a young son, only four years old, but already so strong. It is better that they think I am dead and move on, Sextus said, than keep hoping that I will return one day. It was all he spoke of the matter, and would not answer any more questions, only responding with a grunt or a nod. Quintus and Decimus were young men, expected to return home from the campaign in Gaul to work on their fathers’ farms, then marry some girl and raise their own families. But Quintus was too restless to settle down already, and Decimus knew that his destiny lay elsewhere. Sextus however… Sextus had lost everything, and when he had finally achieved his freedom, he did not return home to the ones he loved… Decimus had asked his two friends to follow him across the world, leaving behind their homes, their families, to join him on a mission that may have been a hallucination. To be honest, he did not know where he was going, just vague instincts to head to the east. Decimus doubted himself constantly, and had been ready to abandon it all and return home when he saw Megara. He needed to be in Megara. This was where his destiny had taken him. Mars, if it had truly been Mars and not a figment of Decimus’ imagination that is, wanted them there. One day they would return home, Decimus vowed. One day he would bring Sextus back to his wife and son, and make up for the difficult yoke he now asked his friend to carry. Decimus ordered some wine and a loaf of bread. * * * Anaximander drowned his sorrows in the drink. Yesterdays battle was an absolute disaster. He failed his men. Years of training were worthless because he could not execute simple strategy… And the arrival of the Macedonians’ Companions? What were Athenians doing consorting with the bastards of Alexander? Anaximander spat and slammed his cup down onto the wooden table. The scum. The Greeks may have their differences, but they were always united against foreigners. Especially against Macedon. Did honor and tradition mean nothing to the men of Greece? Even the scarlet cloaked Spartan warriors were not what they once were. A generation ago, Anaximander and his men would have stood their ground and fought the onslaught to the last man. But a generation ago, Anaximander thought, he would not be little more than a mercenary captain, selling out the services of the Spartan army to the city of Megara. He drank more of the cheap wine. “Hey, you! What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” Anaximander looked up to see a bulky drunk grabbing a young man by his tunic and pulling him up into the air. “I wasn’t doing anything, friend. Nothing at all. Why don’t I buy you a drink?” The young man responded. The poet who had been singing stopped during the commotion, to look at the confrontation taking place among his audience members. The entire inn was drawn in by the commotion, and even the jaded members of the Megara militia found themselves watching, waiting for one of their own to beat the life out of this pup. A gorgeous waitress, her chest damn near spilling out of her clothing, pulled on the intoxicated soldier’s arm, pleading with him, “Gyras, please, he didn’t mean anything by it.” “Yeah, Gyras, I didn’t mean anything by it,” the man noted. “Shut up!” Gyras the drunk backhanded the woman, sending her crashing to the floor, blood trickling out of a busted lip. “Don’t talk to me unless I ask you a question, you fat cow!” The waitress sobbed, muttering how sorry she was, and that it would never happen again. “Say you’re sorry.” “What the hell did you say?” Gyras asked the impudent young man. “You have one more chance,” he replied, still held by the collar of his tunic. “Apologize for hitting her, and promise you will never touch her or speak to her again.” “Or what?” It was all over in a few seconds. The young man’s arm came up like lightning, and hooked Gyras’, breaking his grip on the tunic. The young man’s other elbow then came up, and snapped Gyras’ forearm in two with a loud, sickening crack. Gyras screamed for an instant, before the back of the young man’s fist came right back at Gyras’ face, and dropped him to the ground silently. The young hero had perhaps three seconds to breathe and contemplate his action before the entire inn exploded. Two militiamen leapt out from their tables to attack the young man, another grabbed a ceramic jug as a weapon, throwing it at the man’s head. He dodged, and the wine jug hit the wall with a loud crash. He charged at the first two attackers, and hit them with the same brutal efficiency that subdued the drunk they called Gyras: a punch to the sternum of one, a kick to the kneecap of the other. They both fell, not dead, but certainly out of the fight. The third militiaman had grabbed a stool by now, and broke the wooden object over the man’s back, sending him to the ground, grunting with pain. “Damnit, Sextus, Decimus, a little help?” He moaned. The one called Sextus rose to his feet slowly, moving like a bear. Two more militiamen jumped into to attack him, but he stopped them cold. His massive arms grabbed the one on the right, and used him like a battering ram to attack the one of the left, then he tossed the man like a rag doll, putting him through a thick wooden table with ease. The militiamen, despite how drunk they were, and how ineffective they might be in a legitimate battle, now realized they needed to up the ante. Swords were drawn. It was then that Decimus entered the fray. Anaximander almost missed his movements as he left where he was sitting. Three men were dropped unconscious before Anaximander could find the one called Decimus again. He broke the arm of a sword wielding man, and then finished him off with a blow to the kidneys. More and more of the inn patrons joined in on the brawl, against the three outlanders, Sextus, Decimus, and Quintus. The odds were damn near three to one now, and while in most circumstances, Anaximander would’ve placed his money on the outsiders, the militiamen were armed. Anaximander stood up, and tightened his fists, “Damn me, all this talk of honor and glory, and I am going to sit back and let this happen?” The Spartan warrior grabbed a wine jug, and immediately broke it over the head of one of the militiamen. “Come now, little Megarans! Challenge a Spartan!” The Megaran soldiers froze as they saw Anaximander standing before them, the terrifying red cloak wrapped about him. It was all the time the Spartan needed. A lifetime of discipline and training took over, and the fighting spirit filled him. The young Quintus and his friends, the bear Sextus, and the one with the scar across his eye, Decimus, joined in and the battle was full heat once more. The Megarans tried to surround the four, and soon, Anaximander found himself fighting back to back with Decimus, the young wolf with the scar across his eye. “You three are indeed bold ones,” Anaximander said. “Bold isn’t the half of it!” Decimus replied. * * * A few minutes later, the inn was in shambles, and only four men remained standing. Blood dripped from open wounds, and bruises stung and became swollen. Anaximander was breathing hard, but the adrenaline still flowed in his blood. “That’s right…” the one called Quintus said as he gasped for air, “Don’t ever mess with us.” He then fell onto the ground with a pained groan, running his hands through his shaggy hair. The tall Sextus folded his arms across his chest, “You said you wouldn’t cause trouble this time, Quintus.” Quintus looked up at him, “So I lied… Besides, we won.” Quintus then turned around to see the beautiful waitress, the one this brawl had started over, coming to him. She knelt beside him and clasped his head to her ample chest, “You brave, brave fool! I swear, I shall nurse you back to health! I shall take care of you until you are better than you were before!” Quintus smirked to his comrades, “Like I said, we won.” “Indeed you did, outlanders,” Anaximander said. He turned his eyes to Decimus, who had gone back to finish his loaf of bread. “What of you? You fought fiercer than any man I’ve seen, and I have seen many a hero.” “I’m no hero,” Decimus said quietly. Anaximander could swear that he saw Decimus look at something upon the inside of his forearm. “Not yet, anyways.” Decimus nodded as he swallowed the tore off the last piece of bread, and looked to Anaximander. “I am Gaius Decimus, this is Sextus Valerius, and the troublemaker is Marcus Quintus. We are travelers from the west.” “And I am Anaximander of Sparta, the protector of these people,” he gestured to the groaning men lying on the floor of the inn. “Now come, you have already caused enough trouble in Megara. Follow me to my camp, and we shall eat and drink in honor of our great victory!” * * * “We’ve been here about three months now,” Anaximander said as they entered the camp. “The Athenians began to mobilize a militia as well as hire mercenaries and call up soldiers, stationing them about ten miles outside of Megara.” “That doesn’t sound suspicious at all,” Quintus sarcastically remarked. “The kings and the council authorized me to lead my men Megara and ensure that the Athenians would not become hostile.” “You were ‘authorized’ to come? You were not sent?” Sextus asked. Anaximander cleared his throat, “Yes. In recent times… the Spartan military operates in a fashion similar to… independent contractors.” “You’re mercenaries,” Decimus said. The Spartan was silent for a moment, and then continued walking towards his tent. The three Romans followed him as he pulled open the flap, and stepped inside. Within the tent was a massive rectangular table, with at least ten places set. “This is the officer’s tent. Sit and eat. You are my guests tonight. If you need somewhere to stay, talk to the servants, they’ll take care of you.” Anaximander then left the three and exited the tent. Quintus looked at the other two, “Was it something I said?” Sextus shook his head, while Decimus followed after Anaximander. Quintus decided to take up the Spartan’s hospitality, and ordered himself some wine and fish. * * * Decimus found the Spartan overlooking the Corinthian Road. The camp was located atop a hill that formed the Megara Pass, connecting the major powers of Greece. The sun had long set, and the man was staring up at the stars. The Spartan’s discipline was apparent even as he stood at ease. His posture was perfect. It looked as if motion was simply not an option for the soldier. “It wasn’t always like this.” Decimus said nothing. The wind was cold, howling as it blew across the Pass. “We were the most fearsome warriors in the world, revered and honored even by our enemies. Our name was legendary,” Anaximander turned around. “But now we have become mercenaries. We offer the heritage of our fathers to the highest bidder, getting ourselves involved in battles that are not our own. “The old men might think Agesilaus to have been a hero, one who revived the traditional ways and ensured Sparta’s survival – even surviving Alexander’s megalomania – but I can see the truth. “It all ended with him. He could not protect Sparta, he could not take Persia, and when it all fell apart, when the Corinthians and the Thebans finally grew spines, what did we do? Did we take back what was ours? Did we restore our honor? “No. We whored ourselves. We fell in love with the legend of the Ten Thousand and whored ourselves to whoever could pay.” Anaximander shook his head. “And now, only a few generations later, I am sent to halt the combined might of Athens and Macedon with only five hundred men.” Anaximander looked back out to the horizon, to the stars, “Do you know of the greatness of my people, outsider?” Decimus shook his head. “The Persians came from the east and nearly conquered us all. The cities fought as they always have, fighting the enemy while battling each other at the same time… but this war was different. Greece was threatened. Not just Sparta, not just Athens or Corinth. The old enemies fought as brothers. Ha… even the Athenians displayed courage befitting the heroes of Troy. “The Persians came with a million men. One million men poised to invade Greece. The fools. They should have brought two million. They knew that Sparta was the entry to Greece. We met them at the gates. King Leonidas and three hundred Spartans challenged one million Persians at Thermopylae. And do you know what happened?” Decimus shook his head. “They all died. To the last man. Every last Spartan was killed. But gods, they more than made the Persians bleed for it. Twenty thousand of the barbarians fell, and the invincible army was crippled. On the final day at Thermopylae, as the last Spartan fell, the Athenians defeated the Persian navy at Salamis. “Each Spartan that died bought the Athenians more time to win at Salamis,” Anaximander said. He stood taller now, his voice wavering just a little bit, betraying emotion. “That is my legacy. I am the descendant of heroes.” The Spartan then looked to the ground, lowering his voice, “And this is how I repay their sacrifice.” Gaius Decimus said nothing. He only folded his arms across his chest, pulling his wolf’s skin cloak tighter around his body. Anaximander turned around and looked at the Roman, “Fight me, Gaius Decimus. Fight me as hard as you can.” * * * Anaximander cast off his robe, and straightened out his clothing. He pulled back his long, dark hair into a ponytail, and tied it off. The Spartan cracked his knuckles, and dropped into a fighting stance. “What?” Decimus said, a little startled. “Fight me.” “I’m not going to fight you, Spartan,” Decimus said. “Then you do not honor me, outlander.” “Honor you? You want me to beat the hell out of you and consider that honor?” Anaximander nodded, “Yes. It is our way.” Decimus sighed, and ran his hand over his face, rubbing his eyes. He nodded, “Okay. Alright.” Decimus unclasped the chain that kept his wolf’s skin cloak around his neck, and dropped it to the ground. He took a deep breath, and a calming spirit came over him. He closed his eyes. They say that the calm in the storm is the worst part. Not because the winds are strongest, or the rains are the hardest, but because of the quiet. There is an eerie peace in the heart of the unstoppable fury of the storm, the pure, unbridled rage of nature. The most destructive elements are the most serene in their hearts. When Decimus opened his eyes again, Anaximander was on the ground, clutching at his side. Decimus’ knee was still raised, an instinctual counter to Anaximander’s charge. A simple grapple and a throw, and the Spartan was cast onto the dirt. “Ha, I knew this would be worth it!” Anaximander laughed. He lunged from the ground into a double leg takedown. Decimus was caught off guard, and brought to the dirt. Anaximander moved quickly, and locked Decimus into a full nelson, a hold that could easily break the Roman’s neck. “A Spartan is trained from age of seven to master the art of wrestling. I can apply a thousand crippling holds and chokes with ease, subduing any attacker. You may have strength and speed, but you do not have skill. I sense a spirit in you like a Spartan warrior, like a hero of old, perhaps Achilles himself,” Anaximander tightened the grip, and Decimus coughed, his vision fading. Decimus tried to curse at the Spartan. Had he not slain entire legions of the undead? Had he not even laid hands upon a god? Once again, Decimus doubted himself. “Submit, and I will teach you all that I know,” Anaximander said quietly. Submit was a word that did not appeal to Gaius Decimus. Submission was not acceptable after the hell he had been through. At the mere mention of the word, every single scar and mark that the monsters had made burned him. The rage that compelled him through Mars’ gauntlet, that had allowed him to strike a god… the rage that made him invincible… filled him. Decimus’ legs gave out. Anaximander loosened his grip, “Fool, I don’t want to break your ne- -” Decimus sprang back up, his knees bending and then pushing off the ground. He drove his skull back into Anaximander, head butting the Spartan. With his grip already loosened, so that he would not kill Decimus, it was now broken by the sudden attack. Decimus freed himself, pushed away from Anaximander, and spun around, his fists raised and ready to attack. He lunged at the stunned man, and swung. Anaximander’s hand came up, and caught the fist, stopping it dead. His nose streamed blood, and there was a smile upon his face, “Good.” He nodded again and again, “Very good.” Anaximander released Decimus’ hand, and walked away from him, “Now come, you have much to learn.” It began two hours before dawn the next day. They ran ten miles. “From the age of seven, Spartan boys are taken from their homes and begin their training. They are never allowed to rest, never allowed to become soft. Discipline is their essence, fighting their purpose. They are living weapons, yet they are not barbaric,” Anaximander said. Decimus was forced to hold his body in a push-up position for the past two hours. A dagger stood poised at his belly, ready to gut him if he flinched. Behind Anaximander, fourteen Spartans stood at attention, attired in their full battle dress, arms at hand. “They are perfect. They carry out orders without hesitation, even if it means certain death.” Anaximander then kicked out at Decimus’ elbow. Decimus grunted, but held his position, feeling the point of the blade dig into his flesh. The Spartan leaned down close to Decimus’ ear, and whispered, “But the beautiful thing is… to a Spartan warrior, there is no such thing as ‘certain death.’” Anaximander kicked again, this time to knock away the dagger. “Get up, it is time for unit drills.” * * * “You are no general,” Anaximander said coldly. Decimus lay curled in the fetal position on the muddy ground. He was shivering and trembling uncontrollably. He was bleeding from cuts all over his body, a gash on his forehead dripping crimson into his eye. He hurt so badly. It was raining, the water a deep cold that chills the inside of one’s body. He wanted to get up, to prove that he was more than this, that he was the champion of Mars who had slain the unending legions, that he had laid hands upon the god himself. Nevermore than now, at the mercy of this Spartan mercenary captain, did he doubt himself. Gaius Decimus, the great and grim warrior, always stoic and strong, confident and indomitable… was broken like a child. “You may have the potential to be great, but you have failed in developing it,” Anaximander said. “You may be able to kill a hundred men by yourself, but I can show you how with ten loyal men, you can defeat ten thousand!” Decimus said nothing. Anaximander crouched low, “Have you learned nothing in your life, Gaius Decimus? Have the past two years been for naught?” Decimus heard something different in Anaximander’s voice. This was not the voice of the Spartan who had worked him relentlessly for the last month. “Forget the two years in the legion. Useless time, orchestrated only to bring you closer to your destiny. Your year in Gaul, transforming from a mere farmer’s son into the wolf. Your month of war. Your months of travel, wandering to find a place you did not know, guided only by a nagging sense that you would eventually end up where you needed to be? The battles you fought, the challenges you faced, all conquered by the same warrior that could not be killed. “Yet you are useless to the world if you cannot lead the armies into battle. There are greater things planned for you, but you do not see them! “Do you know why you were betrayed? Do you know why no one came to your defense? Why only two men out of the hundreds you knew searched for you? “Because you are not great. You are a cowardly child who has flashes of brilliance. If you expect to transform yourself, to even approach the destiny that the gods have written for you, you must become great!” There was a flash of lighting, and in the harsh light, Decimus saw Anaximander as another. It was not the Spartan standing over him, but Mars himself. The thunder cracked, and it was Anaximander again. His voice returned to normal. “Stand up. If you fail again, I will kill you myself, for you will be of no use to me.” Decimus forced himself up to his feet. He trembled for a moment and Anaximander correctly him by striking him with the staff of his spear. Decimus stood straight. It began again. * * * Decimus did not eat that night. His portion of a rather watery soup went untouched. The soup itself was not meant to nourish him, rather, Decimus had been encouraged to steal. At first, he refused. He would not lower himself to that of a common thief. Then his hunger caused his performance to fail, and he suffered Anaximander’s wrath. He stole some bread and meat the same night, but as soon as he ate it, Decimus was shamed. At was at this point that he remembered how Quintus, Sextus, and he had acquired their horses, formerly of the Macedonian Companion Cavalry. Stealing food felt a little better after each bite. But that was not the issue this evening. Anaximander’s words kept him awake, restless. Before arriving in Megara and submitting to the Spartan training regimen, he was so sure of himself. The combat against the demons had steadied his resolve, prepared his spirit. He had proven to himself that he could conquer anything… but he still lacked his confidence. Something important was coming, and Anaximander… no, Mars himself, did not think Decimus was ready. And so he could not eat. As the entire camp slept, including his two friends, Decimus stayed awake. After midnight, Decimus left the tent, and took up his arms. He held the Spartan shield and spear, and went through the maneuvers. In his mind, he played out a thousand different battles and situations. He made decisions about where to send men, what tactics to employ. He trained until the sun rose. The first battle came three days later. A few hundred Athenians hoplites and light cavalry lined up in battle formation ten miles outside of Megara. Three hundred more peltasts, slingers, and other light infantry joined them, and were attacking anything that came out of the city and headed east. Anaximander mobilized the camp, and marched them out. Decimus went with them. Anaximander forced Quintus and Sextus to remain behind, despite heavy protests. These were matters that they were not yet ready to understand, he told them. Only after Decimus told them to stay did they finally agree. Gaius Decimus was not allowed to wear the attire or armor of the Spartans, but Anaximander did provide him with a spear and a shield. Among a sea of crimson warriors, he was clad in the skin of the wolf. Upon making visual contact with the Athenians, Anaximander brought up the Spartans into their battle formation. They had an extra two hundred peltasts and light infantry joining the army. Anaximander walked out to parlay with the Athenian officers, and took Decimus with him. “Speak only when I tell you to. Retain your composure no matter what happens, do you understand me?” Decimus nodded. He instinctively felt for the short sword hanging from his belt, and the dagger ready at his back. Just in case, he reasoned. The Spartan training could not completely remove his treacherous resourcefulness. Two Athenians were waiting on horseback. They dismounted, and nodded politely to greet Decimus and Anaximander. Anaximander stood taller than both of them. He held his bronze helmet at his side, the tall red plume coming up to his shoulder. He did not offer courtesy. “You are not welcome here, Athenian.” The larger Athenian spoke now. He was dressed in the traditional armor of the ancient city, in armor that looked brand new. He was the leader of this force, apparently. “Pardon me, officer of Sparta, but we have official business with the city of Megara.” “On whose authority?” The second Athenian, a smaller man, more portly, now presented a scroll of papyrus, “By order of the Second Hellenic League, the city of Megara has been deemed in violation of League regulation. They have not submitted their required tribute in monies nor men. By refusing all attempts at diplomatic solution, the member states have resolved that military force may be levied against the city should its obstinate attitude continue. Dated the twenty fourth of Skirophorion- -” Anaximander cut the man off, “Megara is member of no league nor alliance. It is not bound by your petty laws and regulations.” “Megara was a founding member of the First Hellenic League. The Second League’s constitution clearly states that all previous members have been generously allowed membership in the new league. Therefore, our laws hold,” the smaller said. “I think, friend Teukros,” the larger said, “the more important issue, is why a Spartan army is defending Megara.” He gave a condescending look to Anaximander, “Tell me, officer of Sparta, why are you involving yourself in affairs that do not concern you? Please do not tell me that times are so bad in great Sparta that she has turned her warriors into mercenaries.” He sneered, his lip curling over his teeth, “Again.” Anaximander nodded slowly, biting his lower lip. “Tell me your name, Athenian.” “I am Heraklides of Athens.” Anaximander smiled, and bowed politely, “I shall look for you on the battlefield today.” He turned and went back to the army, Decimus following after. * * * “Well, they wouldn’t surrender,” Anaximander said as he stood in front of his troops. The men laughed. “Listen to your officers, follow my commands, and trust your training. I need not implore you to act bravely, or fight fiercely, for such words would be wasted upon you,” Anaximander spoke. He paced in front of the hushed warriors, continuing his address. Decimus could not believe the silence. There was no murmuring, no nervous chatter. Every last soldier, from the elite Spartan warriors down to the peltasts and Megara militia, were completely silent as Anaximander spoke to them. “Remember what you protect. Remember that Megara is not just a city we have come to aid. It is your honor. If they fall, we fall. “Some of you might wonder why we are fighting for another city. The Athenians there call us mercenaries, nothing more than hired weapons. But know this: This is your war. We have the power to defend the weak, and for us to idly stand by and not interfere would be an affront to the gods. My comrades… my brothers… my friends… Stand tall and fight bravely. Know that you are the sons of Sparta, and find joy in it!” Anaximander put his helm upon his head, and stepped into the front line, at the corner of one of the phalanxes. Decimus walked into position with him. The silence was broken by a single baritone voice. Anaximander started to sing the paean, and lead the march into battle. He beat his spear upon his shield, and instantaneously, every Spartan joined in singing, beating their shields simultaneously with their march. As if by instinct, Decimus knew the words, though he could never recall hearing the song before. They neared the Athenians and halted, still singing. The Athenian Heraklides pulled back the reins on his horse, pacing in front of his soldiers, crying out any enthusiasm that he could come up with. Though they were almost within missile rang, Decimus could not hear a word Heraklides was shouting. The song of the Spartans drowned out all other sounds. Decimus could see the Athenian hoplites trembling. Heraklides raised his sword, and signaled for the peltasts to attack. Javelins were launched into the air, the afternoon sky darkened by the flying missiles. “Shields!” Anaximander called. Instantaneously, the Spartan soldiers raised their shields, locking them above their heads. With a dull thud, Decimus felt a javelin impale itself into his shield. The first volley stopped, and Decimus lowered his shield. More than three-fourths of the javelins didn’t even past the first line of the Spartans. Decimus pulled the missile free from his shield, and quickly tied it to the back of it. His thoughts flashed back to his legionary training, and of his own lethal marksmanship with a pilum. Heraklides raised his arm, and signaled the charge. The Athenian trumpets bellowed, barely heard over the paean. The hoplites overcame the peltasts, lowering their spears for the assault. The distances closed. “On my signal!” Anaximander cried out. The dust was rising, the clouds blinding the battlefield. The thunder of the Athenian charge challenged the Spartan paean for dominance, but even that could not drown out the war song. “Stand fast!” Decimus could see the silhouettes of the Athenians slowly forming in the dust clouds. “On my mark! Ready yourselves!” He saw the first break through. “Now!” Anaximander shouted. Suddenly, the Spartan lines broke, splitting the phalanx, forming an opening just large enough to fit a man. The Spartan peltasts came up from the rear, filling the gaps, and launched their javelins. The front line of Athenians stood no chance. The second line fell over the corpses of the first. Another salvo of missiles cut through the dust cloud, dead men falling with spears stuck through them. The Athenian infantry was too stunned to halt the charge. They pushed through the dead, spears lowered. “Reform the lines!” With perfect precision, the peltasts fell back and the Spartan phalanx locked back into position. The Athenians closed to within fifteen feet. “Attack!” Anaximander roared. The spears were lowered. The crash shook the heavens as the Athenian hoplites broken upon the Spartan lines like water upon rock. The rear lines trampled the front, trying to push forward against the immovable wall. Anaximander called out orders and various cries of encouragement, but the sounds of battle were deafening. Decimus caught an Athenian spear upon his shield, and pushed it back. The soldier stumbled for a moment, and Decimus stabbed him in the thigh for the mistake. The point nearly pierced through his leg, and Decimus almost broke the spear trying to pull it out. The order was given to drive forward, and the phalanx started to push against the mass of Athenians. The Spartan threw their weight behind their shields. The unbroken line of shields, emblazoned with the crimson lambda, moved like a enormous monster, a beast out of the age of Titans brought back to cast down the Athenians for merely daring to challenge the might of the Spartan army. A cloud of missiles flew overhead from the peltasts at the rear, the javelins coming down from the sky onto the Athenians. For an instant, a gap appeared in the Athenian line, as three men who stood together on the front were felled by falling javelins. An instant was all the Spartans needed. The Athenians broke and started to run. The Spartans followed, continuing to advance at their methodic pace, not allowing the rout to break their discipline. At the rear, Heraklides was forming up his cavalry, and cursing the Macedonians. The Companions that Macedon had pledged were conveniently absent after being sent to attack a Megaran caravan. Heraklides would have to make due with only a hundred or so Greek cavalry. Leading the horsemen himself, he took them to the left flank. e raised his sword and signaled for the slingers to advance with the peltasts. He sent the light infantry to the right flank to protect the missile troops, and to be ready to trap the Spartans when his own cavalry charged. He would trap the impetuous Lacedaemonians and finish them this time. With or without the allies, he would not allow them to escape this time. Heraklides signaled the archers, and readied his charge. The arrows came in droves. Decimus caught a pair of missiles upon his shield as he watched the man next to him take an arrow in the shoulder. Blood stained his crimson cloak, but he barely grimaced underneath his helmet. Decimus reached across and broke the arrow off of the man, garnering a nod of respect from the Spartan at his side. “Stand fast! They will not break us!” Anaximander shouted. As the Spartans drove back the bulk of the Athenian infantry, slingers hurled rocks at the crimson cloaked soldiers, joined by peltasts. The light infantry attacked the Spartan left, and the left phalanx was forced to turn to engage. The center phalanx, where Decimus was, broke from its rigid formation, still holding shape but trying to fill in the gaps made by the left flank’s maneuvers. A stone hit off of Decimus’ helm, stunning him and ringing his head. He muttered something about being cursed with so many blows to the head, but he could not finish his thought before he heard the sound of the cavalry horn. The Athenian cavalry came up on the right, led by Heraklides, shouting out cries of encouragement to his men, his sword swinging wildly. The Spartan right tried to reform to block the charge with their spears, but the horsemen were upon them too fast. The Athenians broke through, scattering the men. The right side had transformed into a mob fight, and the chaos threatened to spill into the center. Seeing that the Athenian hoplites were starting to regain their composure and prepare another attack, Anaximander knew that he could not abandon the center to join the hand to hand fighting on the right, nor reinforce the left against the light infantry. Anaximander called up the peltasts. The center phalanx let them pass through, and the javelin throwers moved to engage the reformed Athenian hoplites. Anaximander then split the center phalanx into two. He turned to Decimus, and screamed at him, “Take this half to join the left flank! Funnel the Athenians back to the center and then reform as part of the left flank! Trap them against their hoplites and their own cavalry!” “But --” Anaximander struck him on the side of the head with enough force to nearly knock him off his feet, “Damn it, Decimus! Lead them!” With that, Anaximander left with the right half of the phalanx, to join the battle with the cavalry. Decimus was unsure of himself, wishing that the burden had fallen on another. He then saw the Spartans looking at him. “Sir! Orders!” He looked ahead and saw the left flank in a pitched battle, the phalanx formation already abandoned for hand to hand combat. He didn’t have time to hesitate. “Quickly, to the left of the fighting, then reform and turn into them! We need to drive them to the center! Go!” Decimus then ran, without checking to see if they would follow. He need not have doubted. They circled around the left flank, stopped dead just beyond the battle, and turned back in, lowering their spears. Decimus took a deep breath, and then tightened his grip around the shaft of his spear. He marched forward, and started to sing in a loud voice, greater than the fury of the battle, chanting the paean. The men at his side joined in, and the warriors of Sparta joined the fray. Heraklides swung his curved sword, striking the faceplate of a Spartan. The blade crashed upon the helm, splitting it, and cutting deep into the man’s face. The cavalry charge had temporarily broken the Spartan’s flank, but though the phalanx had collapsed, their fighting spirit had not faltered. The charge came to halt before he could push to the center, and his plans slowly unraveled. The hand to hand fighting was devastating his horsemen, and now the Spartans seemed to be rallying again. Gods, even the peltasts were driving back the hoplites at the center. This was not a good day. Gaius Decimus stood over a fallen enemy, his spear embedded into the man’s chest. He pulled the weapon out, thick jets of blood shooting from the wound. He broke the lines after the initial charge, and started the hand to hand fighting. The men were ordered to maintain a loose formation however, ready to move into position again at a moment’s notice. He found the officer in command of the left flank, and relieved him of his duty. His mind moved at an unimaginable speed. The entire battle played out in his head, a thousand different variations and scenarios ready to be called upon. An Athenian bum rushed him, and knocked his shield loose. Decimus reacted instantaneously, flowing with the attack, and knocked the man to the ground with his spear. He swung the giant weapon up into the air, and drove the bronze butt into the man’s back, impaling him into the plain. He pulled his weapon loose, and grabbed his shield. He leveled the spear forward, and charged into a pack of the enemy, roaring with the fury of Mars’ avenger. Anaximander tried to silence his hearty laughter as Decimus’ men overran the Athenian light infantry. The hoplites and support troops routed as Decimus turned towards the center, and drove mercilessly to the right, slaughtering all those who dared stand in the way of his fury. Instead, he tightened his grip around his short sword, his spear long since broken and lost. He held his shield close, and smiled grimly. It was a good day. The Spartans were overrunning them, and Heraklides was too proud to lead a retreat. The men needed to run for their lives otherwise they would be cut down by the crimson warriors. No, Teukros himself needed to run for his life, or else he would be captured and tortured and killed at the Spartans pleasure. He knew what the Spartans would do to Athenians – he heard the stories. His eyes went wide as the reformed left flank of the Spartans, under command not of a red cloaked soldier, but a wolf. Teukros’ horse neighed and went up on its hind legs. Teukros was thrown from his steed, and the animal took off, running for its life. The Athenian nobleman scrambled to his feet, and reached for his sword. He turned around to see Gaius Decimus lower his spear, and put the weapon through his chest, driving out his back. He solemnly cursed the day he agreed to lead an army to conquer Megara, and wished he stayed on the couch at his estate. Decimus snapped the spear when he tried to pull it free from the Athenian nobleman, the long weapon still embedded in his body. Decimus dropped the useless shaft, and drew his short sword, a weapon he was far more comfortable with anyway. The fighting was ferocious here, with the Spartans completely free of ranks and battling anything that came within range. Horses fell dead, cavalrymen cut down when they were knocked from their steeds. In the chaos, Decimus found Anaximander. The Spartan was surrounded, two wounded comrades lying at his feet and four Athenian soldiers closing in. Anaximander swung his shield at one, breaking the man’s neck. He then bounced back with his sword, stabbing into the ribs of the next, driving the blade deep. Anaximander yanked the weapon free, blood splattering across his breastplate. Another slash, and the third fell, his head cut from his shoulders. The fourth was smart enough to run away. Anaximander now saw Decimus, and called to him, “Ha! These dogs are driven before us like the cowards they are! Another bloody day for the sons of Sparta!” From behind Anaximander, Heraklides charged with his horse. He raised his sword up, ready to strike the deathblow on the Spartan. Decimus reacted quickly. He pulled loose the javelin he captured at the start of the battle, and tossed it to Anaximander, “Behind you!” Anaximander caught the javelin, turned, and smiled at the attacking Athenian general, “I told you I would find you!” The Spartan threw the javelin, and struck Heraklides in the chest. He dropped his sword, and slumped forward, his eyes glassy. The man’s horse turn and ran, Heraklides bouncing limply in the saddle. Seeing their general fallen, the last of the Athenians routed, fleeing for their lives, running back to their camp. The Spartans pursued them for only a few hundred yards, before falling back. Anaximander pulled off his bronze helmet, dropping it onto the bloodstained plain. Steam came off the man, his long dark hair flying as he shook out his head. Decimus pulled off his own helmet, and dropped his sword and shield. He was breathing heavily, and bleeding from several nicks and cuts. The two men sat upon the ground, and shared a knowing glance. Decimus ran his fingers through his long, dirty hair, and looked up at the sky. He took a deep breath. He suddenly felt very exhausted. [This message has been edited by Vasta (edited 07-20-2005 @ 01:08 AM).]
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“Another day at work for us, my men. We are outnumbered, naturally. I can’t recall a battle I’ve fought with you where the numerical odds have been even. Frankly, I would not accept it any other way.
Anaximander himself led the charge into the hole. The front line of the Spartans transformed into a triangle, breaking into the gap, and then reforming into a phalanx once inside.
Teukros, the short, fat Athenian nobleman, rode upon his nervous horse, terrified himself yet still trying to rally his cavalry to his side. He shouted out encouragement to his men, swinging his sword in the air, calling them to remember their oaths to the gods, to the Hellenic League.
(Plutarch, Lycurgus 22.2-3)
. Just be patient, keep writing. It's happened to me, I know the feeling. I'll actually have a look at it.
