THERE, BUT FOR THE GRACE OF GOD, GO I.
Chapter One: No Love Lost
The army in opposition stood three thousand strong. Upon the white dust and crushed-pebble sand, and below the cloudless expanse of blue with its blinding yellow sun, the potential for a blood sacrifice at the alter of glory deepened with the shadows on the rocks to the east.
Agamemnon, King of Kings, his position represented by his magnificent arraignment and his splendid armor, spoke in confidence to the older king of Thessaly. They spoke of terms and chance and settled to fight this war in the ways of their ancestors. It was true that Agamemnon could not be mistaken for anything but what he was, what he'd become as his lust for all things powerful grew into an obsessive hunger- however he was no fool when it came to the acquisition of his conquests.
"Boagrius!"
Spears were slammed against shields and the men lined hundreds deep roared as their champion distinguished himself, scars and all. The Thessalian king seemed pleased with himself, his pale eyes and smirking lips barely suppressing the glee of his belief in the superiority of his man.
Agamemnon nodded as if to concede that this Boagrius was indeed a sight to strike fear in the heart of any warrior, but what seemed his natural arrogance wasn't about to fail him now.
He turned his head and bellowed, "Achilles!"
His call to arms was met with silence. There was no flash of blond hair or polished armor in the oppressive sun. The inpatients of the horses and the given sounds of creaking leather, scraping metal, and harsh collective breathing of an army at rest filled the flat plain and swelled in the absence of the cheers that had just echoed across it.
Several steps behind the dueling kings, the generals and advisors of both sides of the conflict observed the events and temperaments of the two rulers and their soldiers, shielding their eyes from the sun as they did their best to plan for the worst.
Nervous titters of laughter peppered the defending army as the Greek champion remained unseen. With mocking graciousness, the king of Thessaly comforted, "Boagrius has this effect on many heroes."
Agamemnon sneered. "Careful who you insult old king."
A rider sweating heavily beneath his armor pulled his horse short of his liege lord, his head bowed as he reported, "My king, Achilles is not with the army.""Where is he!"
"I sent a-a boy to look for him." He abased himself as low as he could upon his horse, adding belatedly, "My lord."
The wait was long and the day grew warmer, baking those with more armor and burning those with less. Many found themselves blinded if they raised their eyes; the glare of weapons, armor, and the sun itself collecting around the glittering throng. Here, death was temporarily put on hold to await a single man, the greatest single bringer of death in generations.
Hours later, when it suited the absent warrior to join them, the men gave way as Achilles the Invulnerable rode through them and to the field of battle. Cries of "Achilles, Achilles, Achilles!" were taken up by the Greeks, who spared no praise for their own hero.
Agamemnon wetted his lips as he met the eyes across the distance of his rival, sparing him a black smile before turning back to his business.
His boots firm in the sand, his spear and circular shield in hand, he stalked with a grace that spoke of muscles in places normal men did not have them, passed the huddle of heat-flushed man and two-horse chariots.
"Perhaps we should have our war tomorrow, when you are better rested." Agamemnon provoked the passing man. "I should have you whipped for you impudence!"
"Perhaps you should fight him."
The golden lion, his bright eyes hard and glittering with a sort of insane boredom, turned to remove himself from the grainy field.
"Achilles," pleaded one general as Agamemnon caressed his pride and Achilles gave his back. "Achilles, Achilles!"
In respect for the older general who had many times shown him self to be wise and fair, Achilles paused and listened though his face was impassive and hidden beneath his harsh cut of his helmet.
The general began to speak twice but held his tongue until he was sure it was concern, not desperation, which guided his words. "Look at the men's faces. You can save hundreds of them. You can end this war with a swing of your sword. Let them go home to their wives."
Behind them, Agamemnon was shaking his head, thoughts of his due, his frustration, his inability to understand how this route of persuasion could possibly yield results from cold blooded Achilles.
From the silence the scrape of a wooden shaft thrilled through the dry, thick air. As Achilles gripped his spear and weighed it in his palm, shifting its balance, he spoke with a gravelly purr. He did not spare even a flicker of his blue eyes for anyone, leaving the statement open and impersonal.
"Imagine a king who fights his own battles." His spear wavered in the sand as Achilles walked away, leaving the point buried in the white earth. "Wouldn't that be a sight."
The King of Kings watched the man glide away in a hum of temper and disgust. His voice quiet, Agamemnon reflected, "Of all the warlords loved by the gods, I hate him the most."
With the gathered army of Greece behind him, like a forest of glimmer spears, Achilles drew his sword with a flick of his wrist. Every man with eyes to see him held their breath as the metallic zing rebounded between the two armies.
Boagrius twitched in what was clearly anticipation. His hard, scored features, reddened and weathered, contorted as he turned to his shield brothers and threw up his arms, roaring like a wild beast. This instigated a near riot among the men who took back the strength they'd lost at the terrifying sight of golden Achilles. This man, their champion, was a monster, pitted and nearly naked but for a striped red and brown loincloth, he displayed for all to see his history of triumph.
As the giant turned back his chest was heaving, his muscles rippled, his blood rushed within him so fast and hard that his pulse pounded beneath his skin, and his eyes narrowed against the sun to focus on his mark, his enemy. His victim.
With the first spear, Achilles sacrificed his shield, his stride unbroken. The second spear passed over Achilles and broke on the white sand. Close enough now to smell the reek of sweat from the man and see the muddy trails left by fresh sweat on his chest; Achilles met Boagrius's eyes as the savage of a man drew his sword. Switching course with divine speed and precision, Achilles thrust his sword between the neck and shoulder of his opponent, withdrawing and walking several steps before the man at his back stumbled, dropped to his knees, and fell forward. The last thing Boagrius's eyes did see before they closed forever was a world of white rushing up to meet him.
Victorious, but in defiance of that victory, Achilles stalked the front lines of the Thessalian's. The cheers of the Greek's were white noise to him as he paced the cowed ranks. Sharp eyes searched for one soul courageous enough to stand and fight him, to defend the honor of his brothers, his family, and his country. When no man moved to taken him on he raged, "Is their no one else?"
"IS THEIR NO ONE ELSE?" It seemed to anger him to the point of passion when all held their silence. He marched the line again, his boots stirring the blood dripping from his sword with the gravel into pink mud. His very stance dared any brave or impetuous soul to their death.
To his side stepped the king of Thessaly. "Who are you soldier?"
Defeat had shattered this king, broken him in some unspeakable way that could be seen with the eyes but not understood by the mind. A familiar tightening around his eyes and mouth and a distinct lack of pride and entitlement in those gray eyes gave his creased, weary face a look of humility that Achilles had seen far too often of late. There were no delusions in the eyes that met Achilles' with a question.
His answer: "Achilles, son of Peleus."
"Achilles? I'll remember the name. The ruler of Thessaly carries this scepter." He took another step forward and held out the emblem. "Give it to your king."
Achilles turned away in disinterest saying, "He's not my king."
"If not for your king, then who did you fight for?" The monarch inquired to his back.
He didn't turn, and too soft for even the wind to catch Achilles the lion whispered his reason for all, "Alexandros."
TBC...
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