Chapter 7.
He knew he was not dreaming for he could see only darkness as his slumber was disturbed. Just before the glorious rays of the sun’s light dawned all across Europa, Arbephest sat abruptly upright and sprang from his bed grasping at his short sword that rest against the stone wall of his chamber. The sound of crashing woodwork startled him out of his wits though as he stood prepared to slay anything that might be about to intrude his abode his senses rapidly returned and he recognised the alert sound of Phelan’s voice.
“Phelan? What’s up, lad? I’m awake.”
“The vessels are encroaching, warlord, the men are ready to march on your command, I’ve informed your parents you come to them. Talia pleaded you should visit before you make leave. They’re coming, my lord.”
“Make haste to my parents and inform them my visit will be brief, ensure the men marching have each filled their stomachs and are capable of anything that might be demanded of them.”
“Yes, warlord.” Phelan turned about and sprinted down the granite walkway leading into Rhoma whilst Arbephest laced his warrior garbs upon himself. Tying the leather satchel together he looked over his skin drearily, and for a fleeting moment wondered to himself what life might have been if he had not known war, and did not stand ruined as he did. Without concluding his own thoughts his imagination dissipated, he turned about, crotch piece and heavy warlord’s belt secured. He set out towards his parents near the heart of Rhoma.
Arbephest’s mother was a stout framed bull of a woman, though with a face of beauty, his father was a small unimpressive man in stature, yet there was no one whose company Arbephest preferred than that of his father’s. Approaching the clay house he was warmly welcomed in by Phesten who stood eagerly in his doorway, delighted to see his son.
“Sit down, lad.” His mother said with a loving a smile, her eyes darted towards her husband, and rolling them she raised her eyebrows causing Arbephest to grin like a small child. Talia turned away to test the ingredients simmering away in her bronze pot.
“Where’s your wife, son?” Phesten looked up grinning at Arbephest, unaware of the warlord’s troubles with his love, “I’ve told you not to turn up here unless you bring that beauty along with you, you’re lucky your old man didn’t get inside first.” He clapped his hands together and rubbed them for a split moment before Talia whirled around in an abrupt outburst and gave him a heavy slap to the back of his head.
“Watch your tongue, moron, you think such a beautiful woman would take a second glance at you?” She shook her head, turning about.
“No, but she might take a second glance at the size of what hangs between my legs!” The old man burst into laughter and Arbephest smirked before his mother gave him a glaring look. Reduced to a smile he watched his father imitate the actions of mounting a woman over the table of their small home before Talia gave him another heavy slap to his head and he slouched onto one of the wooden stools that surrounded the simple table. “Lucky you were blessed with the strength of this old mule than that of your father, my boy.” Phesten grinned again as Talia took a third swing at her husband, this time he ducked and burst into laughter once more.
At a young age Arbephest was often teased for his mother being the masculine figure in his family, however jokes about him gaining his strength from a woman did not last long. He quickly surpassed his peers in strength and his unbound fury put rest to any man that dared speak a foul word against his family. Talia’s essence was his own, he fought for his country as when a mother fights to protect her new born in nature.
Talia was aware her son’s time was short and hastily shared the stew out into clay pots, pushing the majority of the mixture into Arbephest’s. They split a loaf of crusted bread and with wooden spoons set upon the meal like a pack of wild animals. It took some time for someone to speak up between the great mouthfuls of succulent food.
“How’s Anna been of recent, lad? Much time has passed since her last visit.” His mother always took great pleasure in having Anna under her roof, for she took a keen interest in anything Arbephest did. He did not wish to admit however that recently her actions towards him had become their most distant, they had scarcely spoken since Haedra had fallen pregnant with Arbicos, as though she had been making a statement of her disdain towards his inability to reproduce.
“She’s had much work to do with the townsfolk lately, I’m sure she means no harm by it, a mere overlook. I’ll be sure to bring her along with me next time I visit.” He took a mouthful of water and continued to chew at the filling bread.
“We heard the stories of Arbicos’ loss, son.” His father spoke sincerely with a mouthful of food, instantly gaining the attention of Talia’s unimpressed gaze.
“If I could cut out the tongue of every bastard-”
“Watch your own tongue under this roof, lad!” His mother erupted at the sound of her son’s words cutting his sentence short. There was not a man on the planet who would have dared speak to Arbephest in this way, nor was there another person in the world whom he would so unquestioningly obey. He stopped chewing for a moment and took a swig of water from the burnt clay chalice.
“If I could cut out the tongue of every beggar,” he looked up briefly at his mother with a smile on his face, “who cared to whisper of another man’s business, Greece would be full of towns of men who could not speak.”
“How does he fair?” His mother said, watching her family wolf down the greatly satisfying meal.
The image of Arbicos hanging lifelessly from the olive tree had been troubling Arbephest’s mind since he had seen it. “He perseveres.” He lifted the water tankard without looking at his parents. His food was finished. They sat for some time in silence whilst Phesten finished his own meal. The moment his wooden spoon clattered empty against the table he stood up, there were no more comical looks upon his face nor ridiculous actions left to enact.
“I’ll be outside, lad.” Phesten spoke quietly, placing a hand upon his only child’s shoulder. The moment he left Arbephest looked up at his mother who was staring into his eyes. She knew not how to show affection to her boy, she had taught him everything there was to know about self respect and hardiness, traits she informed him every man should uphold if he was to be worthy of being called a man. It was the goodbye from his father that Arbephest feared more than anything in the world.
“You’ll be fine, son.” His mother said after much time spent examining his face, as if to get a lingering memory to picture should she ever lose him.
Phesten was already whimpering as Arbephest stepped outside the small home, he was squatting against the clay abode’s wall unable to control his emotion. Arbephest stood for a moment before Phesten rose, grasping his son, he hugged him tightly.
“Goodbye, my boy.” He quietly blubbered. Arbephest swallowed down the knot in his throat though he could not reply to his father for fear of succumbing to the weakness of tears. He would never grow accustomed to his father’s actions before he left to war, and as much as he longed to, he knew not how to tell his father how dearly important to him he was.
After a moment Arbephest gathered himself, he grasped Phesten’s arms and forced his grip from around him, “I’ll return before you know it, old man.” Through a crimped face his father looked at him with tears streaming down his cheeks. Arbephest nodded after meeting his gaze just briefly, then turning, made his way towards Rhoma’s armoury to collect his weaponry.
Not once did he look back at his home nor his father, his mind could only be fixated upon one thing now. The only emotion that controlled his actions was that of a merciless, unbridled wrath that seeped from his pours and charged him with a fervour to see the blood of his enemy stained upon the floors of Greece.
The Echoes of Solon Page 14