The Echoes of Solon

by D S S Atkinson

Chapter 5.

  All across Europa the earth shook with tremendous power, far to the south west Arbicos steadied his flustering mount with a mighty draw upon her reigns. She reared up violently, nearly dismounting him from his light leather saddle.

  The warlord and his nephew had made impressive ground since arriving in the hastily constructed port that now rested along the southern stretches of Athenian territory. So strange it was that the sea had separated the Athenians from the rest of Greece with such ferocity, yet the land had settled. It seemed the makers themselves had rearranged the earth with purpose.

  The young man raced across the remaining fifteen miles from Phelai, his excitement soared for thought of resting eyes upon his love and their child. He knew now the sight of Cele’s streets were just beyond the forest his mount approached, a forest that upon any other occasion he would have guided his steed around, yet he could not wait any longer.

  Distracted by the tree line he scarcely noticed the earth take a further turn into chaos, a terrifying rumble resonated from deep beneath the green field his mare galloped across. It felt like the very interior of the world was being torn apart by some ancient power, the earth beneath him jutted abruptly causing the entire field to sink with a great yawning shift, the collapse forced Arbicos’ steed to buckle upon its knees with a wild snort.

  “Hold!” The young man raised his arm instinctively to command an army, however the only man in his company was Listos. Arbicos looked around desperately for his kin, steadying his mount, but could only watch in horror the sight of Listos being thrown from his horse. Yelling aloud he landed awkwardly in a heap upon the soft green grass. The mass of muscle that enveloped the giant steed’s limbs and abdomen throbbed, she crashed awkwardly to the ground nearly crushing the boy. Much to Arbicos’ relief he immediately sat upright, unharmed. He stared with a gawping mouth to the warlord’s west.

  With shattering force a horrendous rip suddenly tore the land before his very eyes asunder. His horse awkwardly jolted about to face the fiery crevice striking him with a stunning paralysis, he watched the enormous crack erupt, parting the earth, with it a gargantuan explosion of molten heat and lava surged violently upwards bursting through the crust. Without a moments hesitance the warlord’s nephew upped from his awkward fall and ran towards the giant tear much to Arbicos’ disbelief.

  “Wait!” He yelled to Listos, though the boy’s curiosity flowed far beyond his wariness of the danger. His fast paced charge came to a sudden pause just feet away from the enormous tear, he rose an arm to fend his eyes against the heat gushing upwards from deep beneath.

  Shaking his head Arbicos approached his kin dismounting some distance away, he lead the horse slowly towards the split land, leaving her some meters back for fear the sight would cause her to scare.

  “They say these partings have been splitting the world apart, uncle. The prophecy tellers in Cele say of a force will sweep the world from top to bottom. They say that Hades is returning from the underworld bringing armies of the fallen with him, he’s opening the land up to complete his final strike.” Listos looked at Arbicos, a wild look in his childish eyes suggested his imagination had taken the whispers of stories he had heard to places far expelled from reality. Arbicos smiled lightly at the boy, it had been the first time in a long time he truly felt amused so excited he was. To hold his wife and first born in his arms was something he had dreamt of since first laying eyes upon Haedra.

  “You’ll make a fine prophecy teller yourself someday, Listos, perhaps something to consider should the requirements of your father’s trade ever run short.”

  “You don’t believe the prophecy tellers, uncle?”

  “Do you see armies of fallen marching from this hole in the ground, nephew?” A crushing realisation came across the boy’s face, though it lightened back up as another question filled his flourishing mind.

  “What of Hades, and the makers?” At the sound of this name Listos noticed his uncle’s face immediately fall from its mocking look.

  “Hades was the betrayer of a king long past our time, Listos, his tale only made more fascinating by men with imaginations like your own. His story is ageless, like many queens and kings of our past, yet they are each as much servants to the makers as you and I.”

  “So you do believe in the makers at least, uncle?”

  “At least? Of course I believe in our makers, Listos, don’t speak such nonsense unless you wish to be stricken by Athena herself.” The boy winced his face in confusion.

  “You believe in the makers but not the legends of our past, uncle? How can you set them apart?” Arbicos laughed lightly at his nephew’s words still staring with amazement down at the roaring gape amidst the Hellenic field, he had to squint awkwardly for the diminishing heat was still such.

  “Our makers are our makers, nephew, do you truly believe the story of every king, queen and warlord of the Hellenes that caused something unheard of to occur?”

  “What’s so strange about it, uncle? My father says I should pay attention to all things the prophecy tellers say.” The young warlord knew his efforts would be hopeless at quelling the boy’s fantasies, nor did he truly wish to spoil his childish joy.

  “Well, Listos,” he hesitated in thought, “tell me of your favourite legend, and I’ll tell you what I think of it.” The boy did not pause for a moment, bursting with charismatic elation.

  “I can’t choose between two. King Zeus, and how he struck the Ardinos down by invoking the power of the elements -” Arbicos laughed again at his kin, turning to his mount he gestured the boy to follow. Whatever caused the explosion within the ground had retreated as quickly as it had viciously erupted, as if the pressure that caused it to burst had shifted onwards, and as much as it confused the warlord, his mind was focused upon just one thing. “You don’t believe in the story, Arbicos?” Listos went on, a little upset his uncle had not taken to the tale with as much enthusiasm as he.

  “A fascinating story, nephew, one I’m sure will be told until the last harvest, and the other?”

  “That upon death, as you walk to the fields of Elysium, Hades may call your name, claiming you beneath the world to serve him until the last harvest.” Though Arbicos smirked, this second story was something that had often troubled him in his dreams. When he was a mere child his father embedded in him a fear of the tale, should he not uphold the oath of the makers, at death he would be claimed by Hades, and be denied joining his loved ones in Elysium, unable to feel the warm touch of his mother upon his face once more nor hold his love in his arms for eternity. “Uncle?” Arbicos shook himself from his dreary state. He did not look upon the boy as he spoke.

  “Come, Listos, beyond this forest our home lays, and your aunt, and my child.” The boy nodded obediently making way to his mount which had not strayed far.

  “Do you think your name will be spoken of past your time, uncle?” Arbicos shook his head remounting his steed.

  “Perhaps someone will mention my name thousands of harvests from now, nephew, it’s not worth thinking upon. You’re very young, Listos, you have much to learn about life.” The warlord’s face fell vacant, his gaze drifted emptily for a moment before he looked upon Listos with a forced smile, “never let anyone tell you your ideas are nonsense, nephew, who am I to know what’s truly occurred in our past. I pray to Hephaestus each morning I wake and each night before I rest, Arbephest would smirk at me if I told him that, who am I to smirk at you.” The boy hummed lightly, as though he had gained a personal victory. He reached up and grasped the leather reigns of his mount. Heaving himself upon the saddle he yelled out across the now quiet countryside to Arbicos.

  “Does he answer your prayers, uncle?” Arbicos was already trotting away towards Cele.

  “I’ll know soon enough!” He smiled once more, but not at Listos. All that knew of the young warlord’s news commented on his first born being a son whose abilities in war would one day surpass even Arbicos’, yet he prayed each daybreak and sunset to Hephaestus
that the child should be a girl. He knew what war did to a man, if not physically, then most certainly mentally, he would not wish the misery of what he had known in his short lifetime upon anyone.

  Haedra’s face returned to his thoughts whilst he whipped stiffly at his mare’s reigns with excitement, yelling at her, he pushed her onwards into a gallop. She exploded with life causing the muscles in her enormous legs to pulsate with each powerful stride.

  They charged through the small tree cluster, with each towering trunk that was torn past it felt like another dark memory was ripped away. He headed for the light. The dangers of the flora did not once come to mind. He yelled at his mount with more enthusiasm than ever to clear the forest grounds.

  The only moments he would forget the world and rejoice in his existence were those spent with Haedra. She was a polar opposite to the warlord in mind and body, and it was for her, and her alone, that he had not ended his own existence long ago. The image of her pretty face and thick wild hair kept the sorrows of his mind at bay during the times of his deepest depression. The burst of her laughter would echo in his mind and banish the sounds of his father’s voice or the screams of the dying.

  He had fallen in love at first sight whilst walking through the green fields of Cele, returning from his first battle in Europa. Her lengthy brown hair that was strewn over her shoulders and chest as he marched past the wheat field had caught his attention, though it was not until she looked upon him that he was truly captivated. Her pale blue eyes, so rare to see in her people, locked onto his, and an enormous dimple suddenly sank into her plump cheeks for she became smitten by an uncontrollable smile. The beauty of her youthful face had not left his mind since that first memory.

  All he had done that expedition, all the strains his muscles had been burdened with for the hundreds of miles he had walked, the pains and aches of his body and mind and guilt for laying rest to the first men whose lives he had taken vanished in that moment of ecstasy.

  The young warlord’s heart raced faster the greater he urged his horse towards the outskirts of Cele. At last the faint clay tracks became visible past the final forested grounds of the wilds causing an immediate surge of adrenaline to pump through him. He was home.

  With an enormous grin upon his unscathed face he slowed his mount down to a trot, he wanted to savour this moment and remember it to tell to any who wished to hear, but most importantly his first born in a time when she or he was capable of listening. How above there were but four patched white clouds amidst the strangely red tinted sky of the blue world, and how the sun beamed gloriously welcoming him home. How the lightest breeze pushed against his back as though the Hellenic makers were urging him onwards to his love and their child. How the birds could be heard singing in the forest and the hasty trotting of horses hooves that matched his excited heartbeat.

  At vision of his town’s clay housing and crude street ways he noticed a town guard resting upon horseback. It was Cilimus, Cele’s oldest guard captain, a man who had rained much praise upon Arbicos to the king of Greece when his leader was still a captain of the Athenian army.

  In a time as brutal as that which the warlords of Greece stood, there were few men of the Hellenic armies that lived long enough to die of natural causes, rare was it to see a man still alive with grey hair donning warrior garbs. The old male was a warm character that Arbicos held a great respect for due to his sheer age and resilience. Raising an arm Arbicos waved at Cilimus, grinning uncontrollably. The veteran met his greeting, returning the gesture. He too waved at Listos, riding out to welcome the males.

  “Come, with haste, Arbicos, Haedra has recently been rushed into the nursing house, your first born comes! A son mightier than any who have stood before, I’m sure.” Arbicos nodded at the captain, still smiling.

  “Thank you, Cilimus, Listos, ride to your father’s and gather any family who aren’t aware, your aunt will want them all present.”

  “Yes, uncle.” His horse galloped out of sight between the walkways of his home and Arbicos himself made haste towards Cele’s nursing house. The town appeared unusually empty. The warlord assumed its inhabitants were likely in a heat of trading, he knew not of the regular occurrences amidst its hardened routes for he seldom walked the streets.

  “The warlord is here! It’s Arbicos!” A stable worker cried out. The Athenian steadied his steed and leapt down from the leather saddle. He landed, turning to walk towards the large clay complex though was immediately stricken by the sight of a reddened, bloody Ptorios near fall lifelessly from Emartes’ nursing house. With a look of stricken fear upon his face he stumbled towards Arbicos with bloody hands held high.

  “Ptorios?” The warlord stared at him with grave desperation. Tears filled the bandage dresser’s eyes.

  “I’m sorry, Arbicos,” he sniffed, “it’s Haedra.” The warlord’s own grief ridden eyes gazed intensely at the male.

  “What of her, Ptorios?” The dresser’s lips began to tremble, falling to his knees before Arbicos, he blubbered his words with bloody hands still held before him.

  “She’s dead.” Arbicos fell silent. His eyebrows sank, drifting into oblivion.

  An immediate searing pain burned through his gut. “Why?” He whimpered. No thoughts filled his mind. He scrunched his face staring bitterly into the abyss. The young male began huffing, looking up into the sky, water drowned his lost eyes. “Why!” He wheezed, “what have I done so wrong in my life? I uphold your oath!” With heavy breaths he turned away from the nursing house. He knew not how to react nor disperse the crippling agony, the only light he had ever known in this life of misery was no more.

  The broken male walked hesitantly back to the horse that carried him home and leapt back up on its saddle without speaking. He dug his heals at its ribs and forced it into a powerful gallop away from Cele. For much time Ptorios helplessly watched his leader charge away towards the horizon. Suddenly the dresser was disturbed by a yelling voice that called out from the nursing house in which Haedra had fallen.

  “The precision cut worked! The child is alive! A boy!” With a glowing face Emartes yelled out to Ptorios who turned abruptly about, yelling to his warlord, but it was too late, he was far away out of sight and sound.