The Echoes of Solon

by D S S Atkinson

Chapter 6.

  North of Cele a fuming Arbephest galloped Annabelle hard across the planes of Greece, his fury boiled such that the terrifying earth quake that shook his home some time past had not fazed him in the slightest. Pathetic bastard. Wasted skin. His irritation fumed at thought of his king’s words.

  Upon leaving the heavily guarded town of Athenia he knew not where else to turn than to his fellow warlord. He strained Annabelle greatly, urging her ever faster towards Cele. At sight of the town’s ancient streets the warlord slowed her up, she panted heavily for breath, snorting wildly for air. Arbephest leaned forward from the light leather saddle and stroked his hand through the mare’s thick silvery hair. He took no pleasure in pushing her to such limits, however he knew she was more than capable of his requirements. Rest now, Annabelle, he whispered to her in his tongue in hopes to calm her breathing further.

  The warlord was shocked at how quiet the streets of Cele were, lazy bastards. Amidst the first walkway he dismounted his steed, landing with a heavy thud upon the earth. Grasping at her leather straps he lead Annabelle in between the clay houses until he took sight of an Athenian soldier.

  Immediately recognising his scarred face the young male stood to attention and nodded at Arbephest who did not return the gesture. “Where’s your warlord, boy?”

  “He took a hasty leave after returning from Europa, my lord, people say,” he paused for a moment in hesitance though quickly continued as Arbephest’s burning eyes turned focus upon him, “they say his wife has passed in the nursing house.”

  “Passed his child? Speak sense, lad.” The soldier paused again, only frustrating his warlord further.

  “She’s dead, my lord.” The rage that burned within Arbephest suddenly resided for an immediate feeling of overwhelming pity ensnared him. The warlord knew the location of Emartes’ nursing house and with a gentle tug lead Annabelle through the streets of Cele towards the large clay complex. Sat upon a wooden stairwell that lead up to the house entrance, Arbephest identified the bandage dresser who had tended to many of his own wounds in the past.

  “Ptorios?” He released the leather mount straps, looking upon the male. His eyes were still smeared with blood where he had attempted to wipe away his tears with drenched hands. “Where is Arbicos?” The Athenian shook his head slowly, his lower lip quivering.

  “Cilimus said he rode south east, my lord, warlord Arbicos would not allow him to follow.” Without a thought Arbephest span about and leapt back upon his mount, turning her head he prepared Annabelle to trot, but steadied her for a moment, looking again at Ptorios.

  “What of Haedra and their child?” The dresser shook his head speaking with a lifeless monotone.

  “She bled to death. Emartes cut a baby from her stomach after she succumbed. A boy, alive, though frail, I knew not until it was too late.” For a moment Arbephest became stricken in thought. He was certain he knew of his kinsman’s destination for he had shared the special place of solemn with the young man in harvests past, yet if he should pursue Arbicos he may lose precious time attending to the dangers Tuth had informed him were falling upon Europa. At a whim he made his choice, with the lightest gesture he urged Annabelle forward, breaking the silence to head south east.

  Some distance away in the midst of the Hellenic countryside a lone tree stood. A giant said to be as old as time itself, planted at the first harvest when Hephaestus and Athena sprang life into Greece. It was the olive tree under which Arbicos and Haedra had been wed not so many harvests past.

  Have strength, Annabelle, so unusual was his relationship with the mare, at the sound of his voice she was stimulated, appearing to understand each word that was uttered. He did not need to snap at her reigns nor whip her, she galloped with such tremendous power, aware of the urgency in his voice.

  To the south east of Cele, far from any forests, to the west of the country’s shoreline the green plane rested. Arbephest shunned any idea of the makers and the stories spoken of them, yet had heard upon many occasions that this field was the field of Elysium, where the spirits of the dead gathered to serve the Hellenic makers. Despite his refusal of his people’s beliefs, to merely be upon these grounds caused him a feeling of unexplainable unease.

  Annabelle galloped with great stamina. Arbephest could only put thought to one troubling factor, though he needed his peer’s assistance, he too needed to rest his anxiety that Greece was not on the dawns of an unimaginable invasion, that Tuth’s words were merely exaggerated whispers.

  The warlord did not let Annabelle rest until sight of the olive tree dawned upon him. He immediately noticed a single horse stood beneath its towering branches but there was no sign of Arbicos. Annabelle trotted forward while he scoured the horizon in search of the young male. As the details of the ancient tree became more distinguishable an overwhelming moment of confusion and shock struck the rugged veteran.

  A body hung from a thick branch by a chord of unidentifiable material, a sight unseen by Arbephest nor one he had ever imagined. He yelled out at Annabelle and she burst once more into gallop, rushing with an anxious fervour for thought he was too late, Arbephest leapt down from his mount before she had even ceased her movement.

  He ran to Arbicos, lifting him with a mighty roar. He withdrew his short sword and cut the leather strap that held its death grip upon his kinsman. Pinned against the tree from which he hung, Arbephest loosened the noose and the young male began to splutter. Blood and phlegm sprayed to the floor before Arbephest swung a heavy blow to Arbicos’ abdomen causing him to abruptly lose his foothold and collapse to the ground.

  “Get up you selfish bastard! Get up!” Arbephest’s gaze burned with a horrific malice, glaring at his peer he was disgusted by what he saw. His fix upon the male did not last long however, falling upon his back Arbicos burst into tears before his old friend causing Arbephest to look away.

  “She’s gone.” The warrior sobbed, glaring up at the reddening skies. Arbephest looked back at him frowning, he shook his head.

  “You have a son, Arbicos.” He looked at Arbephest drearily.

  “A son? I... Why did Ptorios not say?” With drowned eyes he laid back upon the fertile green grass.

  “He didn’t know, Arbicos, the child was cut from his mother after she died. Get up you moron,” he stepped over to Arbicos, and offering a hand hauled him back up to his feet. Shaking his head he turned away, walking to Annabelle. “I’m sorry for your loss, brother, no man should have to endure such a fate, but your son needs you in life, your country needs you, I do.” Mounting up, Arbephest sat and waited in silence for the young male to gather himself, had his neck not been so muscular the chord would have likely snapped it in two as he made his efforts to end his misery.

  The young man breathed heavily, he made no attempt to quell the pain where the chord had gripped him, he stood on the spot swaying for some moments in silence.

  Arbephest knew Arbicos did not take death lightly, though he was unaware of how important his wife’s life was to the preservation of his own, and as much as he wished to avoid pressing him with matters that were clearly of no current concern to him, the news he had to share simply could not wait.

  “Arbicos,” he turned Annabelle to face his peer, who continued to sway, staring without focus. “Get on your horse, brother, and pass me her reigns.” The male did not react causing Arbephest to sigh, he leapt down from Annabelle and approaching the lifeless form grasped his shoulders with a firm grip. The young male began to well once more.

  “What will I do, Arbephest?” He spoke quietly without looking at his kinsman.

  “You’ll get on your horse, Arbicos, and we’ll ride home, and you’ll hold your son in your arms as Haedra would have wished you to,” falling quiet for a moment in search of something that might comfort the young man, all Arbephest could think of were words that he himself did not believe. “If all that those old psychotic bastards whisper of, of the afterlife and our makers happens to be true, Arbicos, then Haedra will never leave you.
She is by your side now, she will be until your time comes to join her in this very field. She would not wish you deny yourself of the rest of your living days. She’ll be watching you with every passing moment as you raise your boy, give her something to be proud of, Arbicos.” Tears continued to gather in the young warlord’s eyes. He looked up at Arbephest, nodding quickly a number of times. “Come, mount up, hand me her reigns.” This time Arbicos complied. The battle scarred warrior took his leather chords, keeping his mount close, and urged Annabelle into a light canter to return home, though what home truly was now, Arbephest did not know.

  The day was becoming late. Arbephest had no desire to be caught by the shadows that lurked amidst the Hellenic wilderness upon a mount that had already been strained to her limits and a companion who was more lifeless than his mare. He urged the horses onwards, noticing the sheer peculiarity of the sky.

  Rarely did the veteran pay much attention to detail, yet he felt truly alarmed at the deep red canvas above him, it seemed the blue of the world was fading away and some great power was replacing it. He could never have understood such an anomaly, nor any that stood within the Pillars, so strange were the times.

  After much distance allowing his young peer to gather himself Arbephest explained all that had occurred since Tuth had arrived in Rhoma, to the moment the warlord arrived in Cele. He trailed the story to an abrupt finish at this detail however, to avoid the subject he knew already consumed Arbicos’ thoughts from delving him deeper into the darkness.

  Arbicos scarcely reacted while Arbephest spoke, the death of Tuth was clearly irrelevant compared to his own troubles, and mention of his king’s dismissal of Arbephest preparing the Athenian army brought little change. It was not until Arbephest began to speak, with reluctance, of the vessel above Rhoma’s temple that the young male’s attention was caught.

  “Marching home from Cele we came across a smallholding, a veteran and his family lived there. He too spoke of boats in the skies above Greece.” Arbephest slowed Annabelle down to a trot, the men would soon have sight of Cele and he wished for the warlord to speak on the subject.

  “What did he say, Arbicos?” The young male spoke drearily without turning his head.

  “I didn’t question him on the subject, I thought he was delusional.” Arbephest exhaled heavily through his nose, he felt wildly anxious and disturbed at thought of something he could not explain.

  Daylight was hastily fading, yet he noticed a figure far ahead of him upon a mount. Beyond him the borders of Cele rested in the shadows of the horizon.

  “Warlords!” Cilimus galloped his horse with a dire urgency struggling to slow her up upon approach of the men. “Word has arrived from Rhoma, my lords, Hellenic coastal scouts have been informed by fishermen that a number of enormous vessels, they’re sure are not Egyptian nor Hellenic, have been sighted off the northern most shores of Greece, at the Northern Pinnacle. Leteos says that Rhoma is in uproar, Arbephest, for they knew not where you were.” Arbephest glimpsed back at Arbicos, in the darkness of the night his injury was indistinguishable, still the scarred veteran shook his head in frustration.

  “How many vessels?”

  “They were far upon the horizon, warlord, they were certain of five before they fled ashore.”

  “Leteos is still here?” Arbephest had not stopped Annabelle as the aged Athenian approached. Cilimus turned his horse about and trailed.

  “He has ridden on to Athenia, warlord, another troop captain had made his way there from Rhoma in your absence, Halos, I believe.” Their mounts trotted amidst the streets of Cele. In every direction Athenian soldiers stood in arms, the streets were packed despite two thirds of Arbicos’ army being absent, still returning from Arillia. Arbephest looked about nodding to himself, he could feel the atmosphere alive with a thrilling fervour, it was the feeling of war.

  “Athenian, how is your stable stocked?”

  “We have a number of fine mares, my lord, this way.” Riding through the clay streets Arbicos remained lifeless, sitting slouched upon his mount. At the heart of the town, alike to Rhoma, the large complex rested. Arbephest leapt down from Annabelle. He immediately turned to assist Arbicos though the young male had already dismounted before his kinsman reached him. Arbephest glanced his way and nodded before turning about to look over the steeds. He heard the two Athenians talking outside while he examined the horses.

  “I’m truly sorry for your loss, warlord, the strength of your son at least shines forth already.” There was a moment of silence before he heard Arbicos quietly reply.

  “Thank you, Cilimus, return to your post now, I’ll see warlord Arbephest off.” Hearing the hooves of Cilimus’ mount canter away, Arbephest returned from the stable with a horse of his own. He lead it over to Annabelle before resting a heavy hand upon his mare’s cheek, she snorted lightly at his touch.

  “Rest, Annabelle,” he smiled, grooming her, a rare sight to see, his brutally ravaged face beaming amidst all the grimacing he did, still it was concealed by the darkness. “Arbicos, take good care of her whilst I’m gone, remain in Cele if you wish, I’ll see to the Northern Pinnacle. Peremes will surely grant me control of the armies now speak of this invasion isn’t just words. I hope you find peace with your son, brother.” With tears in his youthful eyes Arbicos nodded at Arbephest and the men grasped arms. Arbephest nodded a number of times to replace words before heaving himself up onto the leather saddle of his new mount. He felt uncomfortable upon its back, so used to Annabelle he was, yet he was without choice, and would rather his beloved mare get rest than run her down further. He whipped at the steed’s reigns to turn her about before urging her onwards with a great roar to the west, towards Athenia and his king.