* * *
Not once did he let up his efforts, his eyes were still red from his dismay and he huffed phlegm through struggling breaths yet he could not stop. The muscles in his legs were numb and those in his upper body ached from battle, it was with great relief that the earliest sights of Rhoma’s blockades came into view.
He knew he was not pursued for he had not heard the sounds of his enemy’s horns for much time, but they must have been preparing their armies now, to retaliate for the loss of so many men on the shores of the Northern Pinnacle.
Stumbling to a limp at the outskirts of Rhoma, the gate guards rushed to him.
“Warlord? What’s happened?” They yelled manically, watching Arbicos collapse to the ground lifelessly. He struggled to talk in between deep breaths.
“Where’s your guard captain?”
“Warlord Arbephest sent Theleos to Egypt, my lord, we expect his return in the coming days.” Arbicos looked up at the men hopelessly.
“Can any of you ride a horse?”
“I can, warlord.” One of the Athenian troops raised their hand. They each glared in confusion at the belt of their makers that Arbicos clutched.
“Good. Ride to Athenia, inform king Peremes that warlord Arbephest has fallen in combat, invaders rest unchallenged at the Northern Pinnacle, and a second warlord must be chosen to lead armies south and out of Hellenic territory.” The men’s jaws dropped at his words.
“Arbephest?-”
“How did he fall, warlord?” Arbicos winced with pain, struggling to stand up, the lactic burn in his legs near paralyzed him.
“He fell at the hands of cowards, Athenian, go, ride to Athenia!” The male turned about, obediently running towards the town gates. “Where is the first lady of Rhoma?” The guards shook their heads.
“It’d be impossible to say, my lord, at first light she arranged the evacuation of Rhoma. People are saying she ended the gathering when she heard warlord Arbephest was missing. Perhaps she awaits his return in their home” the young male nodded his head drearily. “Is an evacuation truly necessary, my lord?” The warlord did not look at the men as he began towards Rhoma’s blockades.
“I fear it may be,” he mumbled.
“Where’s Arbephest’s body, warlord?” Arbicos halted, looking down at his kinsman’s belt, stricken in some dark trance.
“Little was left,” his words trailed away quietly, “spread word in Rhoma, these invaders have murdered your warlord.” The remaining guards nodded and ran themselves towards the entrance of their home. Arbicos began to hobble around the town’s blockades towards the granite walkway leading up to Arbephest’s dwelling. He dreaded what he knew was required of him.
Phelan stood at the entrance of the small granite structure. He grasped his spear and shield tightly, immediately bowing his head at sight of the warlord of Cele.
“Warlord.” Although Phelan was aware of who Arbicos was, he himself did not know the young soldier, so merely nodded at the man in acknowledgement.
“Is Anna within?”
“Yes, warlord, she’s been awaiting Arbephest’s return. Arbephest ordered me to escort her since war has overcome us. Is he still on duty?” Realising he had asked a question the young male flinched and stood staring outwards at the red sky. Arbicos stood in silence for a moment.
“How does she keep herself whilst resting?” He spoke after a moment. The boy simply dashed his eyes towards the man, seemingly confused. From within Anna’s quiet voice called out Arbicos’ name in a questioning tone.
“Remain here, lad,” with that said he stepped into the first chamber of the stone home. Arbephest’s wife was not within this chamber so he made his way through into the resting chamber to see her sat upon her bed. He stood just inside the room and stared at the floor.
“What is it, Arbicos?” She said, standing from the mattress. The warlord scrunched his mouth and shook his head as she made her way around the bed to stand before him.
“Arbephest is dead, Anna.” She stood for some moments staring at Arbicos through her enormous hazel eyes, then they suddenly welled with tears unleashing a waterfall down her face, though she did not make the impulsive wails associated with a person crying for sadness. “I’m truly sorry,” he said softly, “your name was the last word he uttered.” In silence she stepped over to the young male, and as though simply needing some kind of comfort in the wake of the news he had put upon her she seized him. For some time the warlord stood with his arms resting flat by his sides. The only woman he had ever embraced was Haedra, the thought of touching another had never crossed his mind in his lifetime. He forced himself to comfort the first lady, raising an arm to hold her waist and a hand to hold her head. She pressed herself against him and wept quietly .
He felt terrible under the awkwardness of the situation and for knowledge that the suggestion leading to his kinsman’s death was his own. Give me what I want, Arbicos, amidst her whimpering sobs the warlord could scarcely make out her words, he pushed lightly upon her shoulders looking up.
“My lady?” He whispered. She stared into his eyes with tears still streaming down her face before suddenly leaning forward to kiss his mouth. In a moment of shock the warlord abruptly retracted and pushed her away, she slunk awkwardly to her knees, holding her hands to her face she wept. Arbicos stood perplexed, for some strange moments he made effort to understand the first lady’s actions but he was oblivious.
“Anna...” In the moment words simply evaded him.
“Do you remember his face?” She sobbed.
“Of course -”
“As it was, when we were young.” The first lady began to huff, causing the young warlord to feel restless, he shook his head.
“I didn’t know his face...”
“For thirteen harvests I watched that face die,” her lower lip trembled, her eyes fell to oblivion, “he couldn’t even give me something to remind me of what it had once been.” She wiped at her cheeks though fresh tears continued to gush.
“It wasn’t his fault, Anna... we are as the makers choose.”
“Not his fault? Athena didn’t make him march to war! She didn’t ruin everything that made him the man he was.”
“He marched to war for his people, Anna, to uphold his nation, but first for you. The man would have stood alone and fought an entire army for his country, for you, Anna.” Arbicos stared at her for some moments through his reddened woeful gaze, though she covered her face and wept quietly. Unable to see how he could quell her pain he subtly turned about and left her alone in the stone abode.
Standing just outside, Phelan looked at Arbicos with a sorry expression. “Is he truly dead, warlord?” It was obvious the young guard had been listening in on the two conversing. Arbicos released another heavy sigh, he did not want to admit it even now but he nodded repeatedly before speaking up.
“Slain in the night.” He turned his unscathed head to meet Phelan’s youthful gaze. “What’s your rank under Arbephest?” The young prodigy stood to attention.
“I’m a warrior of Greece, my lord, but one day I’ll stand a warlord and lead our country to victory against any nation that dares invade us.” Arbicos nodded repeatedly as their discourse was interrupted by a loud whimpering coming from within the stone abode.
“What’s your name?”
“Phelan,” he looked briefly at Arbicos, then into Anna’s home. Arbicos continued to nod. He reached out his arm holding the belt that carried the emblem of the Athenian armies: The sons of Hephaestus.
“Take this belt and rally the soldiers and veterans amongst Rhoma, tell them you bring word of the warlords of Greece. A war has been brought to our shores and all of Europa, Libya and Asia, call all men of the Athenian military and any who are of physical capability to arms. You will lead the resistance of Rhoma, when I return to the north of Greece I want your army ready to march with mine. Go, earn prominence amongst your people.” With excitement and dread in his eye Phelan nodded at Arbicos, he did not don the belt
in front of him for fear of insult, instead he turned and sprinted down the granite walkway as fast as his legs could carry him.
Arbicos himself stepped down from the granite platform to begin a further ten mile trek by foot towards Cele, though from behind he heard the quiet thudding of hooves trotting across grass. The young male turned about to find Annabelle stood before him. She stared through her black eyes standing in silence. The warlord exhaled deeply, approaching the mare he knew his kinsman had once been so fond of.
I’m sorry, Annabelle, He whispered to her, stroking a hand down her muzzle. She snorted lightly. I’m sorry, Arbicos stared into her eyes and for some time simply petted her in some strange efforts to comfort the mare, he was sure she knew of this melancholy. Before long he stepped away from the golden palomino to pursue his route home. The steed lowered her head neighing aloud. She trod by his side and kept her neck low, he was amazed by her inquisition, it was clear she wished to assist him.
The warlord grasped her reigns, leaping upon her saddle, and without the slightest command necessary she exploded into gallop travelling south east towards Cele. The day was still early and there was much to be done, he knew his town was alive with troops that would take little effort in assembling, and with the return of Chroniclus felt re-assured he could lead his people to liberation.
Under the burden of his guilt and misery the young male sought some solace. Where he had once been able to turn to the comfort of his love, now all he had was memory, though he did have something left of her. Their son.
Arriving at Cele he guided Annabelle through the streets and lead her right up to the steps of the house of Emartes, there, he leapt down from her saddle and turned to approach the derelict steps of the clay complex. Stepping forward, Emartes’ wrinkled face appeared in the doorway of the building.
“May I see me my boy?” The mere look of desperation upon Arbicos’ face almost reduced the priest to tears.
“Oh, Arbicos,” the aged man’s own face turned to a look of sorrow. “Your son would not take to any of the wet nurses. I’m so sorry, my child, he waits for you with your mother in Elysium.”
At these words the warlord halted, his face did not fall away from its natural look of emptiness. There appeared to be no life left in him. Emartes’ grey beard shuffled, stretching out a hand he rest it upon his leader’s shoulder.
“I’m sure there is good reason for the makers to grant them such paths, my child. Know that you gave spark to life, Arbicos, I know you have not had one yourself. You were forced to know the troubles of a veteran of war before you had a chance to enjoy the gift of childhood.” The priest spoke softly to the warlord who stood without focus, his arms slumped to his sides. “A great shadow attempts to cover our lands, Arbicos, you are a warrior unlike one any has ever seen. Perhaps the makers commit their actions so that you might save us all. Should you fall, our nation will surely, and had your wife and child been with us they would have suffered far worse fates than to die in the knowledge that she was giving to he that she loved most dearly everything he desired, and your son, of an age that pain and suffering were incapable of consuming the conscience. I beg you, warlord, do not let the fate of your loved ones trouble your thoughts, they are at peace, waiting to embrace you for eternity.”
Arbicos looked up through blurry eyes and slowly nodded before whispering, “thank you, Emartes.” The priest smiled at him through his thick beard and after some time stood in silence, with the trouble of age, turned away to return to the fire within his abode.
Alone, the warlord turned and rested upon the wooden steps of Emartes’ nursing house. He whimpered quietly to himself, holding his fingers to his eyes in efforts to hide his pain. He did not speak, little went through his head, with all of his will he avoided thoughts of darkness.
He closed his eyes and thought of Haedra as he had last seen her alive, before he marched to Arillia. A crushing feeling of regret pinned him, how he had been robbed of his last moments by his dearest’s side because of his commitment to the word of his makers. You and me will always be okay, he could not get the last words she uttered to him before he left her warmth out of his mind. For much time he rested, attempting in vain to gather himself, despite knowing war was upon the shores of his home.
The young man hung his head though was quickly disturbed, feeling a sudden chilly breeze cut through his short black hair and the sound of the lightest snort. Looking up, Annabelle too rose her muzzle and neighed lightly. With tears streaming down his youthful skin he lightly stroked the giant animal’s face, that for the softness and sheer curiosity of her nature caused him to smile at her.
“Arbicos?” The hushed voice of Cilimus suddenly disturbed the male’s dreariness, he looked up at his guard captain. He nodded slowly at the Athenian through crimped face and watery eyes.
“Cilimus,” the warlord spoke quietly in the early morning light, blinking away the water distorting his vision, “alert Chroniclus, tell him to command the troop captains to gather every soldier in Cele, and be prepared to march north immediately. Go then yourself to Athenia and inform king Peremes we march, request he assembles his men to march south in case these invaders have encircled our nation, and to send word for reinforcements from the Hellenic villages to assist in defending our coastlines. The south of Greece and all of Europa may already be under siege from the invaders.”
“Why don’t you march south yourself, warlord?” Arbicos continued to look upon Annabelle as he stood.
“Warlord Arbephest is dead, I march with his men to secure the shores of our home. Cilimus, a war like none this nation has seen since our makers roamed the earth is upon us, the Athenians shall lead all of the Hellenes to victory, now go, with haste, my brother.” Unaccustomed to being addressed in such a fashion the aged captain nodded at Arbicos and made for the barracks of Cele.
Everything the young warlord had once held most dear was gone, still his oath did not cease, drumming away in the back of his mind. It was all that was left. He would find his death in war.
The Echoes of Solon Page 23