Disclaimer: I do not own PJO, HOO, or TKC.
Chapter II Summary: Annabeth deals with an ugly man. Percy inspects his city. Grover has a conversation. Jason ponders the war.
II
ΤΗΕ DAUGHTER OF ATHENS
The seas rocked the boat, forcing all of the occupants on said boat into one another with indifference. Annabeth, when they had first fled, had not accounted for other refugees accompanying them. Most, she assumed, would stay and die by their husbands and sons, chained pets as they were. Instead, even some of the men most desperate for 'freedom' had come upon their ship. It was packed to the brim with refugees.
Annabeth's hands twitched on the dagger she had brought with her. The amount of people on this boat had crammed her into a tight spot. On one side, she was pushed against an older man, who seemed far too interested in her body in this terrifying time; on the other, she was pressed against her family. Matthias hugged her legs, but otherwise looked void of emotion. The boy, she assumed, would become quite the Stoic. The man behind her, in stark contrast, was an Epicurean, no doubt about it. He bumped into her again as the seas shifted, but the man assumed she was a fool, since the seas were shifting the way opposite his body went.
If he so much as thought about putting his hands on her body, Annabeth was sure she would stick her dagger into his large belly. She had taken her time observing the boat. The man was alone, for whatever reason. She had learned this by the fact of his not having talked to anyone since he stepped foot on the boat after she did.
Annabeth traced her finger along the leather hilt. It was her father's dagger, a sica she had taken from him after he had sold her off, never to be concerned with her again. Once, the young girl had loved her father very much. He would play with her, let her sit on his lap as he read over documents. Yet the moment she had found her brain – she was quite young, given that she was a daughter of the goddess of Wisdom, - he had distanced himself from her.
No longer did he let her sit on his lap, for now she begged to be able to read. No longer did he play with her, for now she begged to learn to fight. No longer was she permitted in his study, for now she begged to advise him.
Her own heritage – the mother who had delivered her to her father, her godly blood – qualified her to be distanced as such. Hellen, not a particularly bright woman, was never kind to Annabeth, but Annabeth could not say she was unkind either. Annabeth was something to be ignored, since if, Hellen believed, she even entertained the notion of wanting to read or fight, then Annabeth would gain credence. Thus, her father's wife, not even a decade her elder, had let the girl whine and beg for the seven years she had known her.
The world was truly unfair.
The man bumped into her again.
His hands had pressed against her hips, perhaps in an attempt to "steady" himself.
Annabeth's fingers grasped her father's dagger. Matthias, who by this time had slipped into his mother's legs, was no longer a burden. Her ankles spun, and she found herself pressed into his smelly stance.
The man smiled down at her. She smiled sweetly up at him. Annabeth might have never felt a stir of lust bubble up inside her once, but she could act. She would have to act. Now, tomorrow, a week from now, even till her deathbed.
She advanced a bit, pushing him back. They were approaching the side of the boat, but even he did not know this, too consumed by his desire for her figure and hair. Their feet pressed against boards of a dark brown, so stained by the sea and whatever other shits that had befallen the poor, unassuming deck. Boards creaked beneath his weight.
"Hello little girl. Such pretty blonde hair."
"Thank you, sir, noble…?" She left the question hanging in the air, begging for his surname. Was he of any importance? If so, it might change what she had to do. What she wanted to do.
"Uglianus, my dear girl." His teeth were broken, his fat head bald. For the sake of the gods, he was a damned Roman. He was a waking nightmare of hers, the overly intrusive man who would come to take her maidenhood. In those nightmares, she was unarmed, sometimes even bound.
But this was reality, and in reality she was neither bound nor unarmed. Here on the seas, in the darkness, she was bound by nothing but her own intelligence, which she felt was approaching on limitless. Her hand gripped the hilt tightly, then she pressed herself away from him. They were at the edge now, and less people gathered here. Those who did were asleep, leaning against the rails. It was the perfect opportunity.
The extra space she had given herself allowed room to unsheathe the blade. Before he had a chance to react, she thrust her dagger, with inhuman speed and power, into the heart of the Italian. His eyes widened in shock, frozen in that dying state.
Annabeth shifted the two of them, her curved blade caught in his heart. No one around seemed to recognize what had happened. Otherwise there would have been shouts, gasps of shock at the truly unladylike actions Annabeth had just taken. He leaned against the railing of the boat, clutching his heart, his huge weight floundering in death.
Annabeth slid out her blade with a delicate hand. His body tumbled over the edge, landing in the water with a loud splash. That final sound he gave drew the attention of the rest of the crew, however. It forced Annabeth to quickly sheath the bloodied blade, and place her hands over her mouth. It was once more time to act.
"H-he fell! Someone help!"
A few women rushed, beckoned by her panicky voice, to the edge of the crappy boat they all stayed on, searching for whomever fell. The rest seemed to bear them no heed, too consumed as they were by their own problems. All they could see was the dark waves, which had already swallowed the body. Light crests, barely visible in the moonlight, hit each other in chaotic dances.
"I-I-I can't even see him!"
Annabeth slowly moved away from the crowd. No one noticed her absence. The salty air, and the sea spray that he had left on her, was a far better smell in her opinion than his sweaty musk. She unsheathed her blade, studying the blood that was painted along the sharpened edge. Her dainty finger ran over it. The bronze metal blade broke her skin. Red blood, her godly blood, smeared with his mortal blood. Perhaps this mixing ruined her blood, but as long as her wound did not touch his dead blood, it was okay.
The dagger slid against the inside of her brown tunic. She flipped it over to the other side, repeating the process. It was clean enough.
Sheathing the blade, she came to the sudden realization that he was her first kill. She had wondered, running to safety in the docks of Athens, what it would be like if she was forced to kill someone. What she would feel, what she would experience. Would it scar her? Her brothers were too young, Hellen too weak. It would be up to her – a fourteen year-old girl – to defend her family if harm were to come its way. She had stressed, wondering if she would have what it would take.
Apparently she had stressed for naught, as her conscious bore no guilt at disposing of that man. She, to an extent, had enjoyed it. Annabeth did not think it would become a happy pastime, a terrifying vice, like it was for some Spartans; she also did not believe she would be opposed to taking another life that threatened her.
The crowd around the edge of the boat subsided as they realized their combined mass was causing the boat to list starboard. Scared women and interested children moved back into their pre-ordained positions. Annabeth turned to reapproach her family, finding Matthias and Boethus chatting to one another about the King of Asia.
"I hear that his walls are taller than even Babylon! Wider! And there are five of them!" Boethus was an energetic learner, soaking up interesting factoids here and there, but never fully digesting any issue. Shallow but deep, his learning was like a large puddle. Matthias, the future Stoic, focused on learning one thing at a time, and learning it well. His Greek was fantastic, and he had learned all three major dialects quite well for a boy of seven. His learning was like a well. "And that he is immortal! They say he killed Chandragupta with his bare hands, tearing his spine out of his body!"
"Boys," Hellen interjected, her only strength was that she was a good mother, who knew how to raise proper Athenian boys. And her beauty, Annabeth surmised, but she herself was nonplussed by it. "Let's not talk about that right now." She gave Annabeth what the younger girl assumed was a sympathetic look. As if she understood that becoming the King's wife was a great burden. Yet the older woman got it wrong. Annabeth was not frightened of the burdens, but rather the chains. The burdens were not the chains, just an added weight.
"Let's just get to Sounion first, okay boys?" Her father's wife finished. "Keep quiet until then."
"And how long will that be?"
Matthias's question was not whining, but a smoothly stated inquiry of a proper Stoic statesman. He looked between Annabeth and his mother, an act that garnered him a great deal of respect in Annabeth's mind. He had always respected her as much as he had mother or father, often turning to her for answers when he knew his parents would have none.
"A few hours. As the sun rises," Annabeth replied. Her eye turned from her younger half-brother to gaze out to the East. The land of the King of Asia. But not now, as her view was hemmed in by the mountains of Attica. The moon shone brightly from behind her, tugging the sun up behind it, eventually. But at the moment, in the dark night sky, ever star was illuminated.
THE KING OF ASIA
The city was unlike any other in the world. When he had widened the river, pressing it outwards with nothing but bare strength of will, it had flooded the grounds to the core. He had let the grounds flood for ten years. For ten years, the river deposited the materials it had acquired downstream upstream, creating fertile farm lands.
Now, farmers used the lands for a hippikon on either side, growing corn, olives, and grapes in abundant varieties and quantities. The farmers made their mark on the land with lush green, gold, and purple mosaics of their crops. It would soon be harvest season for wheat, and the plants showed that that was true. Mules, horses, and oxen all worked together to plow lands already harvested. The dead husks of corn stalks lay upon the ground in those fields.
Between the great but familial farms of wheat, olives, and grapes, sat smaller farms for lentils and lettuce, onion and garlic, chickpeas and beans, and a multitude of herbs and oil-seeds. Marking boundaries between the beautiful farms stood rows of fig, apple, almond, and pear trees. The variety of the plants, the mixing of the lands – all this was gorgeous to him.
Perseus had been raised on a farm, taught how to work lands by a caring woman, an eager cyclops, a Cynic satyr, and a wise centaur. For a hundred years he had observed the lands he worked on, taking detailed notes on the patterns and movements of nature. Unrestrained by human lifespans, he had learned a great deal about the workings of the world. The experience had served him well, as he now stood outside of a city most Cynics would die to live in.
Though some would still criticize the excesses. Perseus enjoyed philosophical debates with the best philosophers of the time, but they did not have the wisdom he had. For two hundred years he had lived, and for two-hundred years he had seen. He knew nature and he knew men. They were not usually harmonious. They had to be forced into a rhythmic tune that continuously pulled and pushed, rubbing against one another, creating friction and heat. It was not a slow dance, but a fevered dance of Dionysian revelers.
The tune of men working rang out from all directions as he neared his goal.
Along the river churned dozens of large wheels made of the sturdiest wood. The flowing river pushed them round and round, a slow, natural cycle. The wheels were attached to large brick buildings, which turned the power of the river into a wheel that would grind down the wheat into a more usable food. Further upstream, where the city tapered off, the wheels were used instead to saw wood.
Downstream, where the mouth of the river once spit out its contents into the Thalassa, stood a mighty port. Pentaspastos sat on both riverbanks there, the men below struggling with strained muscles to winch up crates of the latest cargo to grace the port. Dyes and wood from the West and South, gourds and coffee from south of the Sahara lifted upwards, into the sky, on the North bank; cranes lowered outbound cargo on the South bank, such as wheatseed, silk, Eastern spices.
The river itself had decided it was unsatisfied with the way its mouth was at the beginning of the construction. Thus, over the ten years of relentless flooding, it had pushed out a diaulos Westwards. It was an amazing thing, watching the river eat into the great sea. The powers of the Earth were continually astounding to Perseus, for constantly they strived to awe him. It was why, far after the last human left this world, Earth would continue to survive.
Past the cranes, past the barges and cargo ships, past the cargo, past the docks stood a lofty wall, built of thick, dense stones. Large blocks of sandstone piled up, reaching for the sky; two ends converged at the riverside, reaching for one another. They would never touch. Instead, to block the river when an armada was foolish enough to try to take his city, massive wooden doors, lined with metal reinforcements, were pushed outwards. Then they would sit on large grated gates below that could be winched upwards. No armada, however, would be able to reach the walls, much less be foolish enough to take them.
Perseus had laid the foundations of the walls the moment the flooding had stopped. For five years he and his men had labored around the clock to build the greatest walls the world had ever seen. Sargon, Babylon, Pergamum – none would come close to the walls he had meant to create. Thousands of laborers, all eager to worship their king in whatever way they could, put their hearts, minds, and bodies into the work. Many had died – the official count was around fifty more than two-hundred – but many more had had their whole lives altered due to devastating injury. Nearly a thousand had lost limbs in the process, and the cost to maintain their families' wellbeing was exhaustive on his coffers.
However, the expense in both coin and people was worth it. Five years after construction on the walls had finally ceased, not a single warship dared threaten Perseaopolis. And the walls were so thick and impenetrable that they drew people seeking shelter, new lives, from all around Mesopotamia. The merchants and traders had come. Here in Perseaopolis, their profits were pre-ordained.
His leather sandals beat against limestone steps. His leg muscles propelled him up each of the twelve steps, to his goal. A few men on the steps bowed, obviously newer converts or the most devout of his followers. Grover called them worshippers.
Most workers, however, used to the nonchalant attitude the King bared, paid him no heed but for a few respectful greetings. They had work to do. Their King, they knew, understood this, and they knew he would rather them work to build his empire than to bow to him. Many of these men had built the walls that now sheltered them, having worked side-by-side with the King.
The men were as not as clean as most men deeper in the heart of the city, down the road from the docks, were. These men at the docks were not those who would grace the bath-houses at the beginning of the day, but at the end of it. Bronzed, strong arms, many with scars or missing a few fingers, contracted and relaxed. Veins popped as the arms they were curled around struggled to lift cargo onto carts.
The pace of the docks always calmed the King. It was as orderly as any docks would be, with segmented jobs. Crane workers would use the pulleys to haul up cargo from the barges – Perseus had decided to tour the inbound side. From there, haulers would shift the cargo boxes into large piles, coded by type of contents. Caravans of wagons would reach the end of the docks, taking the cargo boxes into their backs to cart them into the markets. Each time the wagons returned, they took with them bags of gold and silver, of gems and minerals, that were used to purchase the goods.
The order was undulating, like the waves that always calmed him so much. The heaving, the turning of bodies, the lifting of boxes. It was a good rhythm.
"My King! Come! Come, see what our ledgers say today!"
A heavily accented voice, thick with sands, beckoned him over. Kipkirui, or Kip, as Perseus had taken to calling him, was a lean man, dark with respect to his skin, who towered over the crowd. His height was a true advantage as dockmaster, for it allowed him to survey and direct the workers to the weak points in the line. Kip was a diligent man, from the eastern coast of Africa. Perseus still knew nothing of how he had come into Tyre, only that he had been a faithful follower of Zoroaster until he learned of Perseus. Kip had taken a knife in the back for the King once, an assassination attempt in the docks of Tyre after he had defeated the Ptolemies.
For his good deeds, Perseus had asked Kip what he wanted. The intelligent man had replied "I wish to be a man of letters and numbers." And so he became one. Now he ran the docks with a ruthless efficiency. Although he was a devout believer in the idea that Perseus was the incarnation of the Creator, the King had no doubt Kip would make him work as hard as the regular dock workers in order to ensure the greatest amount of coin passed through these lands.
Even religion had its limits, it seemed.
"Ah, my good man."
Perseus put a smile on his face, easily done, and quickened his step. The two friends grasped each other's forearms, similar smiles boring into the other's face. The darker man bowed his head in quick reverence.
"My king! The good spring has done wonders on our scrolls! Take a look!"
One of the great innovations of Kip was a board of wood, with two indents. One larger indent was for square pieces of papyrus, bound by pigskin strips, that were easy to flip through. In the other indent, circular, sat a bowl of ink, with a movable cover. An ingenious design that allowed for the African man to take notes without worry of wax melting under hot suns, or having to retain information until he could find a scroll in his office, rarely used as it was.
The other great innovation had been the efficiency of Perseaopolis' docks. The man was truly a brilliant mind.
Perseus' eyes, irises more green than blue as he concentrated, studied the numbers on the pages. Black markings showed the King of Asia that the cargo loads were indeed much greater than they had been for the past few years, but one thing stood out.
"You see that, do you not?"
The King nodded his head, studying the quantities of purple dye and Roman grain. They had dipped. The advent of war between Karthage and Rome had dipped the loads already, not considerably, but noticeably. However, the war had mostly been reduced to petty skirmishes in Sicilia, and no one had truly expected more. The Romans were already fighting against rebellious allies in Italy, they did not have the ability to create more war.
Apparently, however, these numbers indicated something else. The decreasing quantities of purple dye meant that the Karthaginians were afraid to send out more cargo ships, fearing piracy; the decrease in Roman grain meant that it was going somewhere else – the rains had been good this year throughout the Thalassa, so there was so assumption of crop failures.
"That will mean more than just lost inventory, my King." The Africa man flipped through the papyrus, showcasing some other Karthaginian and Roman items that had sunk in stock. "I just came from the outbound side, as well. Purchases are down too."
The two friends shared a look. Perseus noticed the weary lines that etched into the man's face. Perseus had many friends, he could not stop himself. They helped him, advised him, and he in return offered them aid and positions of merit. But it hurt to see them age, wither away, and leave him, to see them get impaled in battles that Perseus had led them into.
"I am calling council tomorrow at midday. We will lunch and talk about this."
Kip nodded in agreement. "We must get on top of this."
Perseus glanced around the docks at the men working diligently. The early morning sun beat down upon them all, sparing no-one, disregarding class and age and gender. It caused glistening sweat to appear on shaved foreheads and haired ones, on bronzed, dark, and pale skin.
"We will." Perseus nodded to his dockmaster. The two men grasped arms, their farewell mimicking their greeting. Both forearms were strong, but Kip's was leaner than the King's. "I'm going to head down to the markets, see what gossip I can accumulate there."
"Gossip," the younger man snorted. "Is like a swift breeze on a hot day. Cools you real quick, but is gone before you can blink. It is not an indicator of anything changing."
Perseus' eyebrow raised. Kip, a man who spoke many words, was never out of wisdom. "Yet sometimes it can predict a coming storm when the breezes gather in number and strength."
"Don't get too caught up in them," Kip warned his King. "Else you might become your feared courtiers - so easily taken by any soft summer breeze."
The two men stared each other down, then shared a solid laugh. The joke was not even that funny, nor something inside that the two men shared, but the days had been stressful as of late as more and more Hellenic refugees poured into his city. Both men needed a mental crack now and then.
"I will try not to! Good day, my friend. Don't overwork yourself!"
"As my King commands."
The two parted amicably. Kip turned his back to his King after one finally reverential head bow. Perseus watched his friend work with a slight smile playing on his lips. For all of his vigor, Kip was nevertheless getting older. No, not to the age where Perseus would have to think about a replacement — Perseus did not even wish to think that far ahead. But Kip would soon need an apprentice to work whichever side Kip was not.
Kip's shouted commands faded away as Perseus made his way down the steps to the markets. The gravel gradually disappeared, replaced by larger, cobbled stone. The main thoroughfare that hugged the walls had four differentiated lanes. Two were for foot traffic, one going each way; two were for wagon traffic, one going each way.
Perseus was not going into the city alone. Walking the riverbank was one thing, for the river itself guarded him. Deeper into the city, he would need a guard. The walls, not by coincidence but by frequency of this route, held one of his elite guard quarters. Perseus made his way there first.
The door to the wall was unassuming, made out of the best materials for defense and not a speck of embellishment. The only thing that signaled the door was of any importance was the presence of two armed guards, their bronze armor gleaming in the early morning sun. The spears that the men would have held in battle were foregone in the city. Instead the men favored the shorter xiphos, or dual wielded kopis, or a Dacian falx. The shorter blades gave the men greater maneuverability in case a fight were to break out. Patrol guards, however, were armed with blunted shafts and large shields, in order to keep the peace in case of the occasional riot.
"My King." The men in front of him shifted in respectful greeting. Both men looked young, perhaps no older than twenty and no younger than eighteen. They were men, a light stubble forming on their faces giving that fact away. The young beards resting on their faces also belied that their heritage was not Hellenic, but maybe Persian or Thracian. No Hellenic warrior ever let a beard grace their face. They considered it barbaric.
"Men," Perseus replied. "I'm going to visit the top. Wonderful day for a bit of spectating, wouldn't you agree?"
The men looked uncomfortable in his presence. They were tense, but not shaking. They were not uncomfortable due to any nefarious ideas – one or two guards had gotten a bad thing in their mind a few times – but rather because they had not interacted with the King before. It explained why Perseus did not remember their face.
"I-I would, sir." The man to the Immortal's left spoke with a shivering voice. Perseus waited, watching the two young guards. The still stood in front of the door, petrified by Medusa herself it would seem.
The awkward silence that fell over the three of them refused to leave the party. A fourth member of their little group. Perseus' foot tapped the ground expectantly.
The sound brought the two men out of their reverie. They figured out that the royal in front of them was not here for idle chit-chat with two young guards, as much as Perseus appreciated their service. The guard to the left of Perseus moved to open the door, while the one to his right stepped out of the way. The wooden door creaked open, already slightly rusted at the hinges.
"Good men," Perseus commended them as he stepped over the threshold. When both feet had crossed, he turned to the men. "Are you boys citizens?"
"No, your grace." The speed with which both men talked, their words tripping up like a storming crowd, was a cute bit of reverence which made Perseus's cock twitch. Usually he did not like bearded men, but these boys were young enough that the beards, barely there, did not bother him as much.
Their words confirmed his suspicions. Neither were Greek.
"Well, you boys keep guarding the door like that, and you may well earn your citizenship sooner rather than later."
The King sent the two guards a wink, but neither responded the way Perseus wanted them to. No matter, there were many other fish in the sea. Men without young beards dusting their soft faces.
The door shut behind Perseus, and he trudged up the stone stairs that zig-zagged back and forth up the square tower. It was said, throughout the lands that touched the Thalassa, that there were a thousand steps up to the top of his walls. That was a gross exaggeration. The steps, each half a pous in height, would have climbed to the top of Mount Olympus if that were indeed the case.
No, instead there were perhaps two hundred or so. The walls themselves climbed nearly two plethron into the sky. They towered over even Nebuchadnezzar's walls, though in width they were the same and in number they were less. So far it remained to be seen if they were more or less impenetrable. Hopefully it would always remain as such.
Perseus clambered up step-by-step, a few guards bustling past always moving out of the way out of respect. When he reached the entrance the guards, by now alerted to his elevating presence, opened up the hatch for him on the outside. His callused hands pressed into the dark iron bars that surrounded the hatch-door. His arm muscles did the rest of the work in pushing him up.
The unobstructed sunlight that greeted him rudely blinded his eyesight. Temporary as it was, Perseus' brain began to consider whether or not this was a security flaw. Before he could even finish his contemplation, however, the blindness subsided and a few nervous guards revealed their shifty movements to him.
"Checkers, so early?"
"We-we weren't abandoning anything, m-my King!" The youngest of the guards quickly manipulated his mouth, trying to send out the right words. Words that would not land them in probation. The other guards behind him hid their smiles. They were older, some veterans of Perseus' wars of conquest, perhaps of these very lands; they knew what to expect from their King.
"No? Then why do I find you so defensive?"
The young guard's lower jaw dropped upon his ears understanding the older King's question. Perseus could tell by the way his hands shook on his longbow that he was new, therefore unsure of what the King's sharp tone meant. His friends behind him, not backing him up, knew exactly what the King was doing.
"I…"
The petrified look on the guard's face was shattered, shock taking to it like chisel to stone. Perseus clapped his hand on the young man's back.
"Do you not think I know where the rest spot is?" Perseus' words left his mouth on a deep laugh. He turned to the guard's chuckling companions, sending them a conspiratory smirk.
"Carry on, men."
The guards pounded their bows on the ground in response. Perseus' hand slid off the shocked guard's back. He had a smooth back, his muscles lean from archery practice, no doubt. The King was reluctant to let his hand leave.
At any rate, he did, moving once again from another potential bedwarmer to the dull life of a king. The men behind him roared in laughter, pulling their comrade down to continue their game. The young man sent accusatory, snappy remarks against his veteran companions.
Perseus turned his body to view his masterpiece. The wide walls could accommodate a chariot, just as Babylon could. There was, however, no need for a chariot, but there were spots for large polybolos and scorpios. Gastraphetes lined the walls, nearby the heavy bolts to load into the crossbows. Always at the ready stood barrels of flammable oil and tar, for dipping arrows into or for dropping in of themselves. Only two hundred men manned the wall on any given day, specialists for manning the anti-siege weapons mostly. But the wall was always ready to be quickly reinforced by a large number of inexperienced archers – hoplites or peltasts untrained in archery – who could use the gastraphetes instead. It was a plan created by his general, Zhang, who unfortunately ruled over Persia for Perseus now. Zhang had not even seen Perseaopolis yet. Perhaps the King would have to command his friend here.
Mechanics, working on the large weapons, ensuring that they were always ready to function at a moment of notice, greased the large gears and repeating mechanisms of the polybolos. The sun, rising from the East, cast a bright light that illuminated the dusty limestone walkway. From the West, the ocean breeze ferried in a salty air that would serve a continued disturbance to the walls if they were not so maintained.
Instead, the salty air only carried good memories, not complications. Memories of being on a boat in the Euxeinos Pontos, of fishing for anchovies with the woman who had raised him, of feeling the sea respond to his calls for the first time. These memories always filled him with a sense of being home, a feeling he did not normally feel, even in a city named after him, that he had built with his own hands. That was the true reason he came up here every morning, an hour or so after the sun first rose.
The King of Asia gazed down at the Western shores of his empire. A land had grown out of the overflow of the river, pushing Westward. Perseus wondered how long until it ate even more of the land. Until it consumed the Thalassa whole.
"My King, you called for us."
Perseus recognized the voice, and he did not have to worry about turning his head. The Persian tongue gracing the Greek words gave away who the man was. There was also the fact that the question was not phrased as such, but as a statement. The man knew his King. There was no doubt in his mind that he was needed.
"Spitamaneh," Perseus turned to the man serving as his primary guard. Behind him stood Nicias and Philip, the rest of his morning retinue. "You read my mind – per the usual norm, I suppose."
The gruff man only nodded slightly. Spitamaneh was, as his name suggested, clear-minded. He was not a man of many words, nor did he need to be. He offered advice when advice was needed, and kept quiet when it was not. He wasted no breath, no unnecessary twitch of muscle.
"We are to go to the markets. There is a rumor I need to chase."
"Shall I summon Grover, my King?"
Perseus shook his head, eyes seated in his skull, stuck staring out at the calming blue expanse. There was no need for his friend now. He would converse with him later about the gossip of the market.
"Let him sleep. The Gods know that he deserves it."
Perseus could feel Spitamaneh nodding at his side. The man was, more likely than not, impatient to get moving. As unwaveringly loyal and obedient as he was, the captain of his guards was a man of action, who enjoyed moving through crowded markets or even helping out farmers far more than he enjoyed staring at the endless sea.
He would only have to wait a little bit longer. Perseus closed the lids of his eyes, and took in one final, deep breath of the salty air. The taste gave him energy and power.
THE COUNSELOR TO THE KING
Grover was used to being summoned at an early hour. His King liked to spend time strolling through the early morning markets, or the fields, or the training grounds, with him. They spent so many mornings discussing everything from philosophy to construction to the economy. It was a ritual, done nearly every morning. There were times when it grated on his nerves, but by midday he silently thanked the King for the early wake up. Every early morning he still cursed the King.
His routine was simple:
Wake up, upon hearing the summons of his King.
Groan, turning about in the woolen sheets he insisted on using.
Finally stand up, then make his way into clothes, usually one of the rattier, older outfits he had made many years ago.
Eat a breakfast of fruits and wheat.
Go to his King's side, usually already at the markets.
No matter how many times this process was repeated, it still was a terrible, terrible thing to Grover. He was not, as one might expect, one who could wake up at the earliest crack of sunlight and be happy. His King was one of those people, it seemed, but his King had inhuman stamina, so he was not counted among the small list of people who enjoyed to wake up.
Therefore, when Grover did not receive a summons in the morning, he was confused. Confused, but not particularly upset. It was a welcome change of pace to wake up at the midday hours when he had expected to be awoken long before. He woke up easily, slowly, letting himself drift back into the dreamworld more than once just to feel that sweet sensation of being able to sleep when one normally would be awake.
He had feasted on a mighty breakfast of beans, lentils, wheat, apples, pears, and many other fruits. He had chatted with some of the servants, discussing their daily lives in an easy tete-a-tete not dictated by a busy schedule. One servant's wife had just successfully given birth - and lived to tell the tale. A beautiful young boy, he was told. Another believed he had saved up enough money to purchase a dowry.
That was an interesting story. Grover was intrigued by the idea of saving up money. What would the man have done had he failed to make the money, or if he needed the money he had saved up? Grover decided he would ponder those things more later.
But when lunch was finished - or breakfast, depending on one's diction - a herald arrived from the King. Apparently his Nobility had decided that Grover deserved a long sleep for once. The Counselor to the King did not disagree. Now, however, Grover's presence was needed in the King's study.
And thus his feet fell atop stone floors, thus his legs moved through high stone halls, thus his head stared at the wooden Alder door of the King.
The two guards on either side of the door remained motionless as he approached them. The King's door was knocked upon. Grover waited.
"Come in," his King replied. The dark wood swinged inwards, guided by a bare, tanned hand. Grover stepped across the threshold, into the wide room that the King called his chambers.
Stone walls ran up to the high ceiling, meeting at joints of wooden trim, and them squaring out. The room was perhaps a kalamos and a half in width, and two kalamos in length. A door at the right - Grover's right - could lead into a far more spacious personal library, where Perseus would do more of his pleasure reading instead of work. The study itself was mostly bare of singular scrolls, save for the few that were deemed pertinent and important enough to keep in dueling scroll-shelves on either side of the King's desk.
Old scrolls were sent to the room on Grover's left, which housed deeper shelves, filled with decades worth of scrolls and stone inscriptions. The air in there was musky, as there was no sunlight or external factors permitted to graze the highly secretive and important room. Sunlight could damage the scrolls, and outside eyes could steal them. Others might think a room like that needed more security than just being in Perseus' study, yet there was no greater security than the King's might.
"My King," Grover said, breaking the first word.
The sea drafted in from the outside. The King's desk was situated in front of large windows, the preeminent display of such engineering, that could be closed in the case of a heavy storm by both glass and wooden shutters. Perseus, not normally a man of excess, had demanded such things be a part of both his study and his bedroom, which stood on the other side of his personal library. It was calming, an enabler of learning, he had said.
What the King wanted, the King got.
"Grover, my friend, take a seat."
The King did not look up from the scroll he was perusing. His tone was not comforting. Instead of the happy, carefree - as much as any King could be carefree - tone that Perseus often used when conversing with his closest friend and advisor, his words now were bound tightly together, delivered as stone slabs.
"I have a feeling I will not leave this room happy."
"Depends," Perseus responded as Grover took one of the circular, backless chairs that flanked either side of the desk. "Depends on whether or not you think this news portends an opportunity for good or bad, or if it is not an opportunity for us at all."
"And what," Perseus's words had eased some of the tension in Grover, but not much. He had often vehemently disagreed with the King over issues such as invasions and wars, for Grover was a pacifist to a fault and not at all inclined to foreign relations. "Is this news?"
"Rome and Karthage's war is getting hotter."
"And?"
Grover was no fool, he understood the consequences that this could have on the merchants and traders in the market district, and subsequently the craftsmen and farmers. There would be repercussions throughout Perseus's empire due to an actual war between the two growing lands. But Grover also understood the economy was not necessarily Perseus' main concern. No, the King left the smooth running of the economy and his lands to people more suited to such things - Kip and himself, among others. These reports concerned the King far more because of the implications it would have on his goal.
Rome had been steadily expanding, taking control of more and more of Italia. The Republic it had put in place did not scare Grover as much as the other Diadochi did. But the fact that they now seemed to be eying not just Karthaginian-controlled Sicily, but also Syracusan territory was indeed a cause for concern.
Karthage, on the other hand, was an impressive overseas empire in of itself already. Since it had focused more on Ispania rather than Libya, it became an important trading partner instead of an adversary.
Rome was a far more secluded trader than Karthage. The economic ties were not there for Perseus to consider offering aid to the Romans. He might seek to offer aid to the more economically-inclined Karthaginians.
"Kip first showed me the signs of decreased grain and dyes, amongst other exports." The King leaned back into his chair, grabbing a cup of wine from his desk. The dull metal goblet flew to his mouth, carried by his hand. "The markets told me of other things. A large numbers of rumors from the West. Through the hay, I found my needle.
"The Romans brought an army to Sicily. They mean to take the whole island, I presume. Both — or at least one — of the Roman consuls have made their way to Sicily."
"Do you mean to make any move for or against these parties?"
The metal goblet tapped on the wooden desk. A dull thud, thud, thud repeated in a boring rhythm. Grover could tell that the King had contemplated this very subject for a while now. Since he had first heard about the issue, probably. But the King would not make a decision on his own. He was a man of ability in many fields, but he was not a master of any but the physical. In the mental arenas of politics and planning, he knew best to leave the creation of ideas up to others. And then, once they had come up with a varied number of plans, Perseus, using his best skill, would pick the one best suited to the task.
"No."
The answer shocked him. The King, even if he suspected the majority of his council may agree with him, rarely ever made singular decisions. The few times he had made them, they had had mixed results. Something about the struggle, as unimportant as Grover thought it truly was, had switched something in the King's brain.
"No? Without consulting the council?"
"No."
The paucity of words painted a picture of the certainty of the King. He had no desire to get embroiled in a war so far West. As Grover had no desire to get embroiled in any wars whatsoever, he understood the sentiment. There would, however, be voices that would shout vehemently in favor of some sort of interjection or warning.
"The merchants will dislike that idea, Perseus." The name changed as the conversation got more serious. It was an odd dichotomy. In less serious yet more formal settings, even in private, Grover would use "my King" to address the man he had known from the immortal's appearance. Yet in a more serious yet less formal setting, Perseus was to be used, a slip from the lofty attitudes of royal life back down into those days when all they cared about was the land and the sea. Simpler times, one might say.
"They will."
The King had turned back to another scroll, obviously bored with the subject already. A council meeting would have to be called, but it seemed that whatever information the King had discovered in the market was not serious enough to merit a response from Perseus' empire. And yet…
"Your grave tone suggests that this is not an easy decision for you, yet the paucity of words suggests otherwise. Bring the matter before the council, and let them mull it over in their brains."
The King's fingers drummed against the handle of his now empty goblet. Once consumed, the King, Grover knew, would have not more than one glass a day.
"The matter is trivially unimportant, and thus my word is enough. I thought I would have to call a council, but I do not believe so anymore."
The gravity with which the King had been approaching this situation made Grover think his old friend believed truly otherwise. Time to play the counselor who gave hard advice. Most counselors would be killed for it, but Grover was trusted for it. "Might I suggest a warning? Tell the two to back down, make peace, otherwise you may have to get involved?"
Perseus smirked, his lips twitching upwards at one end, letting a low, soft chuckle escape. "A warning? Am I a father to two squabbling children?"
Perseus would play the part of father well, Grover assumed. The King, though he often seemed to fuck girls with the express intent of getting them fat with his child, had never had any children of his own. The gods, in exchange for his immortality, had taken away his ability to reproduce. Not that the King himself ever knew that, of course. Perhaps the King assumed something was amiss by the cause of the gods, but Grover doubted Perseus expected such nefarious intervention.
"You might have to be, if both of these upstart children get greater ambitions than Syracuse or Ispania."
Grover ran a hairy hand through his head of thick curls. They brushed through his horns, curved like a hyperbola, and ended up out the back of the tunnel of hair. The King, sitting against, mirrored his actions.
"You have convinced me."
"Of what, my King?"
"I shall hold the council meeting."
Internally, Grover smiled in reaction. The idea of a warning was not so much for the sake of the warning itself, but rather a reminder that there were better ways of solving a crisis than by an impulsive response. The council, for starters. And, Grover realized, he would have to figure out what exactly had so disturbed the King about the reports.
THE TRIBUNE OF THE SOLDIERS
The letter sat finished on Iason's desk, perched on top of other scrolls that needed to be read as the siege of Agrigentum continued outside the desk. Quite boring, sieges were. A waiting game of considerable folly, comprised of nothing but boredom. It was said that Alexander let his men slaughter thirty thousands of the Tyrians after the city had resisted for six months.
At this point, only a few months into a far lesser siege, Iason did not yet blame Alexander for his actions.
The war had been stale, and the consuls had promised with their arrival to add a new fire. They had sailed their fleet to the south of Sicilia, with four legions, and had quickly driven the Karthaginians and their Sicilian allies back into the walled town of Agrigentum. Fifty thousands were said to stay inside those walls now. With no way out, they were trapped; with no way in, the Romans were stuck in an endless siege.
The approach to Agrigentum from the East was blocked by the Hypsas river, so the Romans had set up camp from the banks of the river in the North to the sea in the East. The work to seize the grain from surrounding farms had been the most action the young Roman had seen in his life. Yet he was suddenly a tribunus militum. The Gods were a funny, humorous sort.
Iason rolled off his cot with an undignified thump. The odd movement was something he had learned was bound to wake him, every morning, without fail. From his spot on the grass floor, he would press up twenty times, just to get his energy levels up.
Up and down, up and down, up and down, up and down, up and…
Iason sighed on the nineteenth exercise, sitting with his body as flat as a board, on the soft grass, slowly dying. Up. With the final thrust, he catapulted his body into a standing position to get himself dressed for the day.
A mailed tunic, a plumata worn by his grandfather against the Samnites, went over a softer, woolen one. Leather manica, to protect his forearms. Metal greaves over his shins. The balteus over his waist, which he stuck a gladius into. Caligae onto his feet. His domed helmet he left on his cot, next to his new, purple paludamentum.
With reverence, he lifted it up. The fabric was silk, given to him by the consul Lucius himself. Iason's hands had trembled in delight and honor as the item was placed into his hands. Now, he could wear it to his first council meeting as tribunus militum.
Once the paludamentum was attached, Iason could not help but feel as though the fabric belonged there.
A lone tear fell from his eye. His mother would be so proud.
Iason missed her.
His hands next reached for his helmet, the bronze half-sphere was dull inside the tent, as devoid of light as it was. Outside, however, it would shine as bright as Apollo. Iason placed the cool metal on his head. With a sigh, he closed his eyes, breathing in the newfound confidence.
"ATTACK! ATTACK!"
A shouting man's screams echoed up and down the camp at first sunlight. The hoarse hollers broke Iason out of his reverie. His mind went into overdrive. Hannibal Gisco did not have the men to attack their camp of nigh forty thousands. He barely had the men to defend Agrigentum!
But these were not the screams of madman; his fear was audible through the scratchy throat. Thus Iason gripped his hastae roughly. Though he now had no need to form up with the maniples, he would carry his spear as a bearer of courage, like the aquilifers would bear the sigils.
He burst out of his tent and into early morning suns. Both light and heat beat into him with a passionate determination of any siege. The rows of tents arranged as far as the eye could see painted an impressive picture. Yet between the rows, a panic had overtaken the camp. Soldiers ran back and forth, looking for the enemy they could not yet see. A few officers, of no particular ability or differentiation, mixed in with the turbum.
"Halt!" Iason's voice was not as low as one would hope for an eighteen-year-old tribunus militum, but it did some trick. A few soldiers nearby, those who had heard, stood in place. Their feet grounded into the earth. "What's the situation, soldier?"
"Not good, sir!" The soldier must have been at least a year or two Iason's elder, but he did not seem displeased with answering to one younger than him. Good. "Gisco has attacked the soldiers in the field, like a damned barbarian!"
It was smart, not barbaric, Iason thought, but his words were given no voice. The soldiers in the field were unarmed, of a decent number. Easy pickings, and the numbers fleeing back into camp could cause a welcome distraction for the Karthaginian general. The camp had only pickets as defense, the commanders not heeding Iason's pleas for more entrenchment. Now they would pay the price for their negligence.
"Gather more men, meet me at the commanders' tent. Disperse!" The imperative in Iason's command did not go unheeded, as the obedient men fled to gather more companions. Iason would need perhaps two hundreds of men to complete the action he had planned.
The tribunus militum considered the fact that, at best, Gisco had five thousands of men under his command, if that. Therefore, the attack would be less than that, since men would have to stay to man the walls. The troops out in the field were probably his best and most mobile men, who could cause chaos and panic as the Romans made camp.
A fire here, a fire there - before they could react, the Romans would see their whole camp burn before their eyes.
But the troops in the field, as shocked and as unarmored as they were, outnumbered their Karthaginian opponents. They would not be able to fight back, but could instead flee, warning their armed brothers of the dangers. It was their quick minds and quick feet that now gave Iason the opportunity to fight back.
"You all," Iason yelled out at the men who were hastily running out of their tents, armor half finished, eyes still thick with sleep. "Back, get on proper uniform!"
Noticing his paludamentum, perhaps, they quickened back, harkening on his command. They were afraid, no doubt, and confused; the confusion would rapidly lead into more panic. But in order to hold of the force attacking, though small in number, his men would need to be orderly. Order was the enemy of chaos, the only defense against it.
The consuls in their shining armor guided the men with an inspiring sense of calm as Iason jogged to meet them. Through prongs of soldiers hustling through the camp, preparing to engage with the hated enemy, through laborers hurrying to put out fires caused by the stampede of troops, Iason made his way to his superiors.
"Consuls," he greeted them with words and a bow. "By your leave I will take some velites, about two hundreds in number, and meet up with the enemy on a melee battle."
The two regal looking men, both elderly and distinguished in their bright purple paludamentum and shining armor, stared at him with a sense of indifference. "Why the haste, young tribune?"
Quintus was the one who asked, older than Lucius, having seen service against Pyrrhus, ironically fighting with the Karthaginians. He was nevertheless less wise than his younger counterpart, a bit brash with an eye on his future, fading, career. Another eye was, admittedly, focused on the present, but that view was not given as much attention.
"This is my first battle, sir. I aim to do well."
Iason spoke his words with a confidence awarded to men of true character. He meant every syllable, so it was not difficult to come up with the confidence. As much as Quintus's ambition and future-oriented thinking grinded on his nerves, Iason had, on occasion, glanced towards his future as well. He knew that his future depended upon being a strong, capable commander with experience of not just participating in, but also of winning battles.
Lucius, the man who had appointed Iason to the role of tribune, odd for one so young, watched Iason with the level of interest a metaphysist might have for an odd bird. He studied first the determination upon Iason's face, then the consul inspected the paludamentum. The older man nodded.
"You have leave," Lucius said. "Go, fight now. Fight well."
Iason gave two small nods of respect in the direction of each man, before hurrying off to the commander's tent. Along the way he scouted out other velites to join him in his mission. Thus he arrived at the large tent with around twenty or so clients.
Once there, Iason noted that the man two years his elder had truly heeded his orders. With him he had brought around a hundred lightly-armored velites, armed with light hastae, short bows, or gladii. As Iason's group joined with the legionnaires, Iason joined with the older man.
"What's your name, soldier?"
Iason studied the face of lightly tanned skin, shaved beard, and green eyes. It showed no fear or submission at talking with the tribune, but it did show respect and determination. Iason liked that, for he had no need of mindless underlings, but no need either for disrespectful elders. He knew what he was going to do, even if he had yet to do it. It was, not due to nepotism or favoritism, why he had been raised to his tribunal position.
"Dacotus, tribune."
Iason nodded at the older man. "I need a second. Are you that man?"
Dacotus only nodded affirmatively. Iason smirked. "We will win this battle, my new friend."
"It is determined," Dacotus replied cryptically.
Iason turned back to his assembled group of men, less than what he had hoped but enough to do some damage. Their armor was varied in the amount, with some men carrying more and others carrying far less. The happy medium was a leather muscle armor, but some of the skirmishers wore barbaric furs and others wore nothing but a loincloth.
"Men, the battle will be won, of this I am sure." Iason paused, looking into the eyes of his ragtag crew. He needed to make this quick. "Our goal is not victory but a speedy one. The enemy," Iason began to walk backwards, and the men followed, facing him. "Will try to break through the lines as a distraction, while their sneakier comrades push in to cause havoc. Our brave consuls will take care of the distraction, we shall cut down those who would wish to cause flame."
With those words spoken, Iason turned, breaking into a slight jog. His nerves, once calm, now shook with dangerous ambition. His first battle was closing in, his first life he would have to soon take. The thought made him sick.
He was tribunus militum. militum. Of the soldiers. For the soldiers, Iason thought would be a better term. His very presence was courage for his soldiers. His own courage was for them. He would not fail them. He would not fail Rome.
Iason pushed through the throng of scrambling men. His men behind him made themselves into a 'V' to be like an arrowhead pushing through the hide of a deer. They all ripped through the skin and fur as one, getting to the pickets sticking outwards like broken ribs.
"Through, through men!"
Iason and his soldiers jumped over the hump and through the spikes of pointed wood. Their mobility would serve them well. Outside the camp stood a thicket of shrubs and smaller trees on a field of burnt grass. A bit past the countryside were the farms and, beyond them, the city of Agrigentum pushed out of the ground, trying to leave the Earth behind.
"Dacotus," Iason called. His newfound second trotted into an even jog behind the tribune. Iason scouted through the early morning sun. To the southwest the main fighting was taking place. "Take a group of sixty men. Run down to the battle, then patrol back and forth. I will mirror you up to the ends of the camp."
The obedient legionnaire nodded. Both men turned on their caligae. Iason divided the men with an invisible wall extended from his hands, hoping that they would part in equal number and talent. Sixty or so joined with Dacotus, and sixty or so joined with him.
So far, Iason was stunned by the competency of the soldiers. For the whole length of three years, he had observed them with snide indifference, berating their disorderly conduct and barbaric practices. Those observations had given him his current command, a command over those he had severely berated.
Now, in stark contrast to his earlier findings, he was observing men who not only knew what they were doing, but could do it well. They fell into silent step behind him as his men snuck around the shrubs that dotted the land. In the distance, the echoing battle cries of courageous and wounded men mixed into large, lengthy, and chaotic scream. The terrifying sound of battle.
Iason and his men, their hearts beating as one, a quick drum, swept along the edge of camp. Their eyes darted three-hundred-and-sixty degrees around, their feet following the same motion as they searched for their prey. They were a hungry pride of lions, full of pride in their shared Roman heritage.
Their obedient, focused nature confused Iason. These were not the men he had criticized, as they seemed to have metamorphosed into true Roman soldiers with the latest night. Iason, however, could not think on this now. He had better things to occupy his mind with.
Dark shapes bounced through the shrubbery ahead of Iason. The tribune held up a leather-bound hand, causing the men behind him to halt. They took cover behind the bushes, their heads peeking out a little to see what their tribune had seen. The Karthaginians in their sight were no more than an actus away at this point. They moved at an angle towards the camp, closing the distance between the two groups while Iason's men did not. Iason's heart pounded against his ribs, begging for freedom.
His hand went to his hastae, figuring that he and his men might be able to form up into groups of three or five in order to take the fight to the enemy. Yet Iason had forgotten a crucial component of his armor in his haste to organize the chaos - his shield.
"Blennus!" He cursed underneath his breath. He would have to fight with his gladius instead, a weapon he was far less comfortable with. As a boy training in Rome, he did not like the short reach of the blade, and now he would also be without a shield. But a spear was not good for blocking, and without the shield he would need to block. The gladius was not much better, but the operative word there was that it was better.
Letting out a harsh breath, Iason unsheathed his gladius. He heard, but did not turn to see, his men follow his lead in getting their weapons ready. His heart beat against his chest.
Rush in blindly, hoping his men would follow?
No, Iason needed a plan. Something quick, easy to come up with. The three or five approach seemed to work. Swordsmen could come with him, and archers could pick their targets.
With his plan in his mind, Iason quickly moved around the bushes, as silently and blind to the enemy as possible. The words he gave to his men about his plan were quick, to the point. The men, whom only hours before he had consistently castigated for their lack of listening skills, nodded their collective heads in understanding. They followed Iason's orders almost exactly to a T.
Iason took his former position back. He looked at the Karthaginians, pulling closer to the pickets. A deep breath. In, out. This was it.
"GLORIA ROMAE!" Iason poured his words out at maximum volume. The velites behind him joined in his battle cry, all sixty men pouring their voices together.
The Karthaginians, suddenly startled, turn to watch the onslaught of advancing Roman skirmishers. Iason's men were behind him, he knew instinctively without having to look back. There was also the fact that his men's footsteps could be heard rumbling the ground behind him.
They closed the distance, switching roles with the enemy, as the Karthaginians now stood, paralyzed by appearance of the Romans. Overhead, pinned against a bright blue sky, arrows flew from Roman bows. They swirled around in the sky, falling with increased speed. Soft thuds and the sudden litter of Karthaginian bodies on the ground meant that the arrows found their targets.
Iason's heart thrummed against his ears at this point. It was time.
Iason's sword raised high into the sky as he finally met his opponent. The Karthaginian soldier he fell upon barely had time to feebly reach for his sword before the gladius fell through the light leather armor. Straight through the heart.
The man stared at Iason, eyes wide. He looked so afraid, so uncertain of his future, that it made Iason question what he himself looked like. What would it have taken for Iason to be the man he had just killed?
Iason slid out the gladius, now slick with thick blood. The Karthaginian collapsed on the small battlefield. This body landed with an undignified thud. Iason's heart thudded against his chest. That was his first life. It made him feel surreal.
Unfortunately for Iason, his thoughts led him to distraction. He had become so distracted, so taken with the idea of taking a life, that he missed the Karthaginian running at him, spear down and shield at the side, ready to avenge his fallen comrade.
Nearly missed. With a speed Iason did not know he possessed, Iason hurled himself out of the way at the last possible second. The reaction saved his heart from being pierced, but the Karthaginian spear still cut at his unprotected bicep.
The pain was unimaginable, a hot, searing cut straight through the arm that should have held a protective shield. It burnt hot for a few seconds, but his body responded to the attack. The pain faded into the background as Iason took to his feet once more. He positioned them in a basic fighting stance as the Karthaginian circled the wounded tribune. Realizing that, due to the shorter weapon he possessed, Iason would have to get in closer, his feet ran at the spearman.
Yet there was no need. An arrow found itself lodged in the Karthaginian's unprotected neck, entering one end and the tip going through the other side. Like his fallen comrade, the Karthaginian's body thumped against the ground rather ungracefully.
There was nothing graceful about combat, Iason was quickly learning.
Iason's breath was hot and heavy, labored; his eyes scanned the battlefield for his savior, but could find no one. Well, no one fitting the description of his savior. His men struggled with their Karthaginian counterparts, some fighting more desperately than others. From seeing his men currently engaged with the enemy, Iason guessed there must have been around equal numbers of their men as his. Each man just needed to kill one of the enemy.
Iason had already killed his man, but he would be damned by the gods themselves if he did not kill more. His eyes spotted a lone Roman spearman, his comrades having been scattered like leaves in the wind, engaged with two prowling Karthaginians. Iason ran, his caligae jumping over bodies strewn on the ground like those same leaves caught by the wind. On his way to the man, now desperately fending off the two attackers, Iason stooped down to pick up a rounded shield carried by one of the Karthaginians.
With his newfound protection, Iason bellowed a mighty scream at the two bullying Karthaginians. However, unlike the last time Iason used his war cry, these Karthaginians seemed more aware. They did not flinch, turn petrified, or flee. One just calmly turned, spear in hand, lofting it above his head. The war cry had broken his surprise, rather than added to it. Too late, Iason picked up his shield to defend.
The heavy weapon lodged itself through Iason's shield, the point cutting across Iason's lip. Any more force, and the tip would have landed on the ground, taking Iason's head with it. Instead it just caused blood to pool in his mouth from his cut. As Iason's head cleared of fear, it filled up once more with pain. The shock from the spear-thrower had left his left arm numb. Iason could not move it, and it fell down of its own volition.
His eyes, dizzied, blinked in confusion.
He was on the ground, on his knees, his whole body weak.
The Karthaginian had decided that Iason was done for, and had killed the veles Iason had wished to save. He and his companion now walked away, searching for new prey. The blood in Iason's mouth grew thicker as his eyes found his dead man. He had failed.
The burdened of leadership pushed him into the ground, trying to hold him down. Iason's whole body was weak. But the battle was not done. His men were still fighting. Iason was still fighting.
With tremendous effort, his legs pushed upwards, against the pain and the burdens placed upon them. His left arm, cut by the spear but quiet since then, started to ache again. The searing pain worked its way back, taking over his shield arm. His nose picked up the unmistakable stench of shit, coupled with the metallic taste of blood. It was a sickening combination.
"GLORIA ROMAE!"
A lone soldier's shout echoed around the battlefield. His comrades soon echoed, their voices chasing the man's own. Iason weakly choked out his own addition to their culminating sound. His eyes squeezed tightly together, working through all the crazy emotions and feelings that were coursing through his body right now.
When they opened, his ears heard nothing but the soft breeze. Slowly, moans joined in, pitiful cries for help. Around him, his eyes took in dead bodies. Many velites sat, lifeless, on the ground, their bodies gone to the gods. But many more Karthaginian skirmishers roamed around as well. There was no discrimination amongst the dead.
The lack of sound meant that the battle was over. They had won.
The men who were left roamed the minuscule battlefield, putting out the life flame of those whose flame was already only flickering. The sound of plunging swords or thumping arrows slowly put down the sounds of pitiful moaning.
Iason spat out the blood that was sitting in his mouth, coughing the rest of it out afterwards. His right arm wiped off the excess blood forming on his lip. His left arm dropped the small shield that had completely failed at defense. His bicep started burning even further, and he took his first real look at his injury. The cut was deep, perhaps a digitus or so into his muscle. If Iason so wished, he could probably put his finger inside his arm and -
The thought alone made him nauseous. He closed his eyes once more and took a breath. The air still smelled like shit and blood. His eyes opened, and a young soldier, perhaps a year below him in age, stood at attention in front of the tribune.
"Situation report?"
Iason's voice was hoarse, tired. He felt physically and emotionally drained. It was not at all how he had imagined his first battle to be. He had not realized the chaos of it all, the desperation of it all, the lack of glory it all con-
"We have put down the enemy, sir, and sustained no more than a dozen injuries of our own."
The younger soldier seemed more ready for battle, more prepared for the aftermath, than Iason did. It made him feel pathetic. How was this boy, younger even than he, able to survive what Iason himself could not?
Yes, Iason may have survived physically, but was he the same in his mind? He felt forever changed, the Iason that woke up this morning was not the same Iason breathing so heavily now. Iason's mind drifted off to the letter he had written his mother. What was the point in sending it now?
"Good, good," Iason replied, half conscious. "Do we see any other groups moving towards the camp?"
Focus, the young tribune told himself, on the task at hand. Do not think ahead, not now.
"No, sir," the young soldier replied, his attention and discipline further breaking down Iason's previous report. The report that had led him to this. Iason felt guilty, having led men he had previously despised for perceived failings into their death. They had proved him wrong, and he had rewarded them by taking their lives.
"Very…" Iason coughed, his lip spilling blood into his mouth. "Very good. Let us make sure now, understood?"
Iason doubted that he had the strength to carry on, but this was a mission he had assigned to himself. He could not fail now. There were other tribuni militum out there, all vying for an opening that he too wanted. Succeed here, succeed there. Focus on the now, achieve the later.
Iason liked that motto.
The soldier nodded in confirmation of his understanding. The younger man turned on his heels, relaying the orders given to him, barking them out to his comrades. Iason walked over to the soldier who had died by his failings. His legs were regaining strength.
Iason's fingers grasped the spear, after leaning down to pick it up, that the man was carrying with him, the tip not at all coated in blood. The man had failed in his mission of killing one man, making him and Iason even. Iason let the spear fall from his fingers as his back straightened out once more.
His men began to move once more, walking more confidently down the line of pickets. Iason closed his eyes, took another deep breath, and moved to join them.
The day was not yet truly over.
A/N: So that was a long chapter. It took a while, too, so don't expect quick updates. Especially over the next two weeks. I have AP exams and work starting up, so I might be able to get one chapter out over the next two weeks. I want all of my chapters to be at least 10k words in length. There's a lot going on in this story, so a lot needs to be said. And I'd rather do one 10k word chapter than four 2.5k word chapters.
Anyways, as always, please comment your thoughts in reviews and follow if you are excited for more!
(This work is cross-posted on AO3)
Striving to provide Southern Hospitality the world over,
LoverBoi (yes, I'm a guy).