A Soldier's Duty

Author: Lysis (Originally written 2006)

A series about Hephaistion's experiences as a young officer that begins after the battle of Chaeronea and ends when Philip is assassinated. (Originally written in 2006, revised, etc.)

Warnings: Slight war stuff

One

It was a fine, warm day toward the end of harvest season. The smoky scent from the late afternoon cook fires filled the air and Hephaistion closed his eyes for a moment smiling. "Hmmm, honeyed lamb." He imagined his favorite meal as his mother would have prepared it for he and his brothers and father – roasted lamb, carrots, fresh bread, olives and if they were lucky pomegranates and apples. However, he knew it was more likely he would be feasting on tough rabbit or possum along with some onions and an apple or two that night.

The bloody conflict of Chaeronea was behind them, and Hephaistion was working on his kit. The army was bivouacked just outside Pella in the great meadow near the lagoon and sea fed lake that emptied into the Hellespont. They had come lately from the army's headquarters at Dium where Philip had held feasts and games honoring the victory and sacrificed in gratitude to the Dioscuri, Apollo, Ares, Athene, Zeus; all those gods who wear the face of war as well as their others.

Hephaistion liked the life in camp. To him its simplicity was a joy. He reveled its smells. They belonged to the world of men: leathery, salty, sweaty, and completely masculine. He stopped a moment listening to the smithy's rhythmic ringing on the anvil as weapons were forged or repaired. Further, afield there was the busy industry of the troops drilling, training with their weapons, the neighing of the horses in the stalls, dogs barking, the endless chatter of men working on their kit, laughing, joking, singing bawdy songs, sharing outrageous tales of whoring, drinking and brawling and bravado.

Word had come of problems in Illyria they would be called out soon. He smiled to himself, when had there not been problems in Illyria? It seemed his entire life as a solider had been part of battles for the borderlands. They were as constant to him as the yearly Dionysia. Sometimes these "battles" were nothing more than skirmishes that he felt were held just to keep each side in mind of the other. However, he knew in the past, when his father had been young as had the king, they had been desperately violent. He reflected they were no doubt as bloody still, but not nearly so desperate. Both Alexander and his father had taught the Illyrians what it was to anger the might of Macedon.

He would be ready. Chaeronea had taught him a lot it had been his first pitched battle. Oh, but he had seen hard battle before then and had no fears when Chaeronea had come. When Alexander had been regent, they had quelled the Maedi rebellion and Alexander had showed his genius and intent for glory by renaming the Maedi's captured city Alexandropolis. He glowed with pride for a moment recalling how brilliantly Alexander had led them against an enemy that no doubt thought a sixteen-year-old youth would be easy to break. Well, they would never make such a mistake again.

Still, a pitched battle was different. The mass of warriors on both sides, the intent in every man's eyes full of pride and courage. Demois and Phobos, Ares' son had ruled the field in a way he had never before experienced. He recalled how his heart had pounded so in his chest as though it would come up through his throat. His horse had gone down just when the corp had reached the Sacred Band. He had almost tumbled head over heels and felt his gut clench when the deadly song of the Sacred Band's swords flew through the air above him nearly singeing his hair - he had felt Demois breath in his ear and known fear. However, he had not given into Phobos', no he had regained his feet and gone on to battle the Thebans as though his blood was on fire. He had not even known he had been wounded until Ptolemy after the battle had pointed out that he was bleeding from a good-sized gouge in his left thigh.

In contrast, the hill raids he'd fought in prior had been so different, almost simple, compared to the great, bloody rout of Chaeronea. Hellene against Hellene, it hadn't sat well with him, even though he'd understood why. He chided himself for his thoughts: Hephaistion, your duty is to follow your King wherever and whatever he commands. And indeed he would, he admired the King, immensely.

Mentally he tallied up his kill list; five that he was sure of, he thought on them, those men whom he'd sent into Lethe's arms. Again, he offered a silent prayer that their passage would be easy.

One had been older, almost his father's age, with a thick graying beard and fierce, black eyes. When he'd directed his stallion, Kastor's powerful front legs into the man's chest, repelling him, he'd known even before he heard the crunch of the armor, – the light had gone from the man's eyes, almost as though a candle had been snuffed.

Five men - he, a nineteen year old youth had killed five members of that venerable group. Three he had single-handedly dispatched, all warriors in the Sacred Band. Briefly, allowing no more than a flutter of memory he thought of the other, the golden-haired warrior. He shivered again, thinking of it. He had so looked like Alexander. It had been a difficult experience gutting the young blond-haired solider and watching his red blood seep out upon the crushed lavender and herb scented earth. Yet that was war, and killing that man, well, it was necessary. It had helped him meet his fear.

Will it be my turn one day? He stopped his work on his javelins, setting the wet stone down, and thought for a moment, hand to cheek, wondering. Is there some solider sitting in his camp somewhere who one day will think of me, remembering how I fell beneath his blade? Will I even have the chance to know it's hit me when it happens? He studied the wet stone lying on the ground before him as though it could give him answers. Who will mourn my passing? Will I have a wife? Will she make the libation offerings over my grave will there by a child who might have called me father who will cry for me? He laughed a little and shook his head to rid it of such melancholy thoughts. No, the Fates have wound for me a long skein for me. And… and if I do meet my fate so young, well, it is the life of a solider.

At this he set aside his javelins, satisfied they'd been cleaned and honed he picked up his sword and prepared to work on it. His thoughts drifted back to a conversation he'd had that morning, just before he was relieved of his watch.

In truth, he'd rather go back on the field at Chaeronea than go through that again. Just thinking on it, he could feel his heart start to pound. It had been like jousting with a viper.

To be continued….