"In contrast," continued the teacher, "Athens was a city of great art and education. Unlike their war-hungry Spartan neighbors, the Athenians did much to influence modern society…"
Nathanaël was only half paying attention to the lesson. Page 319 of the textbook had a photograph of a statue of the goddess Athena, which he was painstakingly copying in his sketchbook. Besides which, he'd heard this story before.
He'd heard it as a kid, when his mother first told it to him, and he'd heard it repeated time and time again throughout childhood—although always with a polar slant to the telling.
"Fearless warriors," his mother said, excitedly, "who so valued their state, it was said, that their mothers kissed their sons goodbye, shouting 'Come back with your shield, or on it!'"
His mother was an author by trade, and anthropologist by profession. Her research on Ancient Greece was her pièce de résistance. She was always bringing home some new fact or figure she'd uncovered, to the great delight of her two boys.
"Nathanaël!" the teacher cried out suddenly, slapping her ruler across his desk, "Are you paying attention to my lesson?"
"I am, ma'am," he responded, though it was not the truth.
"Really?" she asked without asking at all. A cruel, disbelieving smile spread across her face, "Then you won't mind me testing you, I suppose?"
"Certainly, ma'am."
The teacher thought for a brief moment, and then posed the question: "In which state was democracy practiced?" as though it was terribly unlikely that he would guess even so simple a query correctly.
He replied, "You said it was only Athens, ma'am, where Cleisthenes established a direct democracy in 508 B.C., but the truth of the matter is that Sparta adopted range voting in the 700s, and was, arguably, a democracy as well."
Only the teacher was stunned. She hadn't even mentioned Cleisthenes—though she later convinced herself that she had—and she certainly wasn't expecting an answer of that depth and understanding.
The other students, conversely, let out anguished groans at the interruption, and the lack of a better show. Things were always more interesting when Nathanaël didn't know the answer. They enjoyed the way he spluttered and turned red in the face when defeated, and adored the way he would sink lower and lower in his desk chair, or duck his head in shame as he retreated to the dark confines of the principals office when truly humiliated. It was humorous, albeit sadistic. There was entertainment in it. When he knew the answer, there was none of that. The teacher simply returned to her lesson—perceptibly more flustered than before, true, but not to a comedic degree—and he returned to his sketch. They yawned. Perhaps tomorrow would be better.
Nathanaël took pains to ignore the rest of the lesson. The more he listened, the more it upset him. This was not the way his mother told it, and though he had to admit he liked this version better, her tale was all he was reminded of. His mother liked to make things personal. She saw the faces of her neighbors in ancient pottery; she saw the general's horses in automobiles they passed on the streets; she saw the two city-states in her two sons.
"Nath, Nath, Nathens…" his brother had spluttered, before he had quite lost his baby voice. "Nath, Nath, Nathenssssss."
"And what does that make you?" Nathanaël shot back, once he had grown old enough to speak his offense.
"Spa-Spa-Sparioch," Arioch said, accepting his favored delegation.
Perhaps if the stories weren't always so slanted, Nathanaël wouldn't have minded the appellation so much, but his mother was quite biased. She admitted her preference loudly and clearly, and it filled her every tale. She deplored the dreary, pretentious governing body and artistic populace of the Athenian state. She was a woman of action. She lived for passion, bloodshed, victory and defeat. She longed to try her hand with sword and shield, and take up arms against a corporeal enemy with the passion and conviction of the Spartan army—and she hoped her boys would someday do the same.
That was probably why she married my father, Nathanaël thought. He knew nothing of the man, other than that he was of some authority in the Great War, and that his gloves and sword rested on the mantelpiece. He'd died from an unknown infection, likely caused by his wounds, shortly after Nathanaël's birth, and his mother had rarely spoken of him since. She did little more than comment, from time to time, that he was very brave and well respected by his troops. Still, being older, Arioch claimed to have some memory of him, and was oft to sing his praises in the form of personal victories. He boasted at having been the favorite child of both parents during his father's life, and Nathanaël, remembering nothing, couldn't argue the point.
As the boys had aged, the divergence between their personalities had only grown greater. To his mother's dismay, Nathanaël had grown to be quite a frail young man, always more interested in the arts or his studies than he was in making play. Arioch, in contrast, was enamored by the physical. He was a star athlete during the school year, and nary a summer day was spent indoors. When there wasn't a ballgame in progress, he was always keen to start one. The very second he was of age, he marched down to the recruitment office, and enlisted in the army. He shipped off before he had even finished his studies—and long before even the tiniest hint of war had appeared on the horizon—leaving Nathanaël alone, and yet somehow still inferior.
His mother's praise did not stop just because Arioch was gone. She bragged about him to the woman who lived next door, and to the butcher down the street. She discussed him with the reverend in church, and the editor who published her books. She raved about him to the merchants in town, and the parents at school, and anyone else who would lend her their ear. When there was no one else around to listen, she would take Nathanaël aside and fill him to the brim with the contents of Arioch's latest letter, and what incredible adventures he was having in training.
Nathanaël looked up. The teacher had stopped talking, and the other students were already busy packing their desks. Following their lead, he hurriedly stuffed his belongings into his tote and left the room as quickly and quietly as possible. Today was a big day. It was his birthday, in fact. It was the same birthday that had taken Arioch away from him. It was the day he could officially join the army.
He'd thought long and hard about this decision. In less than four months, the school year would be over, and he'd have his degree. If he enlisted today, he'd ship out within a month and he'd never receive it. If he waited even a day, though, he was sure to hear nothing but grumbling from his mother. It had been her dream to see her sons off to war, and she didn't appear to want to waste so much as a day on something as silly as a certificate. He hadn't even been old enough to sign up and already he'd been feeling her prodding for weeks prior. That, combined with her constant laudation of Arioch had left him in such low spirits, he heavily contemplated running away after every conversation he had with her.
Of course, that begged the question, 'Where was he to go?' The answer was quite simply that he had nowhere to go. He had no income, no friends to take him in, and no marketable skills with which to earn a living. If he truly desired both his mother's praise, and the freedom from her roof, there was only one logical option available to him: he had to enlist. He had to join the army that very day.
The news spread quickly, as local gossip often does. Some were surprised at the decision, while others nodded thoughtfully and proclaimed that it was 'bound to happen.' Most, though, were of the opinion that a tragedy had just occurred.
"It's terribly sad," said the pretty brunette who sat behind him in class, as she mourned the loss of yet another potential beau, "Nathanaël is a lover, not a fighter."
"A shame," said one socialite to another, as they broke bread in the garden, "That boy isn't cut out for war."
"Never seen a worse fit for an occupation," the shoemaker noted, as he handed off a pair of new black spats to the man who lived on the corner.
But his mother only smiled and congratulated him on the conviction, helping him to pack his bags and make the necessary preparations for his departure. For just under a month, he was treated with the same respected an admiration Arioch had received his entire life. He was cooked only his favorite meals, spared the 'indignity' of doing any chores, and heard nothing but praise escape his mothers lips. But, when at last the honeymoon was over and he found himself shipping out early one Saturday morning, his mother adopted her best Spartan disposition, and kissed her son goodbye, shouting "Come back with your shield, or on it!"
Nathanaël made an effort to smile at the remark he knew she'd been waiting so long to utter once again, but he felt no joy in it. As she disappeared out of sight and emptiness welled up in the pit of his stomach, for the first time in weeks, he allowed himself to feel afraid. No matter what naïve optimism his mother possessed, it did not change the reality of what he was about to face—and no matter what antiquated fascination she had with the ways of the ancients, he reminded himself that in this day and age, there were no shields on the battlefield.