Chapter 22.
The young warlord’s black eyes surveyed his men in the darkness. The shrill cold was biting, yet his focus ignored the pain. They approached the barricades of Rhoma. No man spoke. The silence was gripping. Chroniclus lead the men, Arbicos merely walked amongst them, his mind was empty, his body but a shell acting on instinct.
Amidst their ranks a harem of horses was lead through the bitter night, he wished to send message to Athenia the moment his army had cleared the invaders from Greece. He kept Annabelle close, for his fallen brother’s sake, he knew Arbephest would have wished her to be kept well.
His troops only realised they were at the fortified town when they cast gaze upon the silhouettes of its derelict blockades. A deathly calm enclosed the entire countryside, in the twisting flickers of firelight an endless stream of snow could be seen plummeting down upon the frozen grass, blanketing the earth as the dispersing flower buds did in the warmest months of the year.
His men were each covered from head to toe in masses of linen and furs, it did little to deter the chill however. Many of his troops shivered in the dark morning hours, some of them made brash movements, trying in vain to warm themselves. Upon sight of Rhoma’s entry a number of armed Athenians rushed out to greet Chroniclus, they too were covered in whatever scraps of cloth they could gather.
“Does warlord Arbicos march with you, captain?” Chroniclus was well known amongst all Athenian warriors, he was a leader, a certain heir to Arbicos’ title should the young man ever fall in combat.
“He marches with his troop, do you hold rank?” Arbicos’ three thousand five hundred warriors began to slow upon hearing Chroniclus commune with the huge bearded male from Rhoma.
“My name is Ureles, I’m one of Arbephest’s troop captains, Phelan requested I should await for our warlord’s presence.”
“Where is Phelan?” The young warlord’s deep voice spoke out before Chroniclus could answer, at the sound Ureles stood to attention.
“He waits at the armoury, warlord, Arbephest’s troops are ready to march on your command.” Arbicos nodded without looking at the male.
“Take me to him. Chroniclus, have our men and the horses gather within the walls, find a fire, warm as many of them as you can, but be ready to have them in formation the moment I give command. Keep the mounts fresh.” The towering captain nodded.
“In the walls!” He roared out across the men. Arbicos made haste with Ureles into the streets of Rhoma. They snaked in and out of the small clay structures, amidst the snow laden streets, until the large armoury complex rest before them.
“Phelan!” Ureles yelled out at the structure and the young Athenian immediately appeared, he was bare chest, much to Arbicos’ surprise. He donned Arbephest’s belt and his legs were covered in some breed of animal fur. He marched before Arbicos and stood to attention.
“Warlord, Arbephest’s men are prepared as you ordered, we are ready to march with you.” Arbicos nodded lightly, speaking, he looked between Phelan and Ureles.
“They are your men now, Arbephest was a brother to us all, but he’s gone, you must take command -” Whilst he spoke there was a sudden uproar between the streets of the abandoned town. The young warrior could hear profanity being bellowed in his own tongue, yet there was another voice, spilling some unknown gibberish into the air.
“Phelan! Where is Phelan?” Becoming more audible, several Athenian warriors fell into view, they were part of a pulsating mob, what they surrounded however Arbicos could not tell. “Throw him out, Dacos!” From amongst the men they pushed forward a struggling individual, one of the warriors tripped him and the tall, slender, light brown skinned male crashed awkwardly to the snow covered floor.
The mob pinned his face to the ground and stood on limbs to restrain him, many of the men suddenly noticed Arbicos was present and their focus immediately fell away from Phelan. “We found this bastard in the woodlands, warlord, he was watching Rhoma, he didn’t see us sneak up.”
“Look at its skull!”
“Is it a man?” Arbicos looked upon the male, the elongated skulls of the invaders still caused a feeling of confusion to surge through him.
“Raise him to his knees.” A few of the men violently jerked him up, standing on his calves and feet to pin him. They each stood in silence as the barrage of snow continued to plummet down from the heavens. Arbicos looked at the man for some moments, who himself gazed into oblivion. The young warrior approached, lowering himself, “from where do you sail?” The invader continued to stare blankly at no one. Phelan stepped forward and stood by Arbicos’ side, suddenly the invader looked up at the belts around the warrior’s waists, he then glanced between the two of them. “Do you understand anything?” Arbicos leaned towards the male just slightly and he immediately spat in the warlord’s face.
As Arbicos recoiled Phelan burst forth with a bronze blade and with a low grunt drove it up into the floor of the stranger’s mouth. He began to spasm where he was held and gurgled horrifically before the young male pulled his blade free, causing an eruption of blood to spray upon the white spread of snow beneath him. “Burn the body.” He commanded the mob, “Ureles, I’ll sound the bell. Let’s prepare the men.” Arbicos stood for a moment dazed, he was not shocked, he simply did not care anymore, he had grown cold.
Phelan disappeared for a moment into the armoury, from within the warlord heard the gong of a single bell echo out through the streets of Rhoma. Some moments after it was followed by a second, and then a third. Phelan returned to the entrance with a shield in hand, he held it to his bare chest and stood with his eyes shut. Arbicos watched him. Confused, he stood quietly. For much time the young warrior did not move, until all at once an enormous outburst of cheering and hollering disturb the quiet. Shields and swords clashed and furious bellows filled the town, for Arbephest!
Arbicos suddenly felt fuelled, he could feel the rage amidst the streets, the testosterone, it coursed adrenaline and confidence through his system. Phelan stepped forward and stood before him. “We planned to salute Arbephest at the sound of the bell, warlord, his men will assemble now.”
Arbicos nodded at the young man and reached forward his arm, they clasped briefly then walked together in silence towards the gates of Rhoma. Thousands of men joined them marching through the streets uniting a sound of crunching snow beneath them. There was such a powerful buzz in the air, a feeling of immortality, as though they could march out against any army, any number of men, and stand victorious at the end of the bloodshed. These men were Athenian warriors, they were the sons of Hephaestus.
The resistance formed just beyond the northern barricades of Rhoma as the first strands of daylight protruded with a great struggle through thick pink clouds and blustering snow. Six thousand men, stood in four split ranks of fifteen hundred. The central troops were lead by Arbicos and Phelan, the outer two by Chroniclus and Ureles. Arbicos requested Chroniclus lead at Phelan’s outer rank to support the boy.
Arbicos commanded the central ranks to stand one hundred men wide and fifteen deep, the outer ranks stood seventy five wide and twenty deep in anticipation of becoming surrounded. He believed he outnumbered his enemy, but knew it paid well to underestimate no one.
The young warlord leapt upon Annabelle’s back and trotted her along the front line of his army, he looked at them through his lost eyes for some moments then began to nod his head. “This is no longer about ridding an enemy from our territories, Athenians, these men took one of our brothers, for that, let us take all of theirs.” The crowd roared despite the warlord’s lack of enthusiasm, he had never been one to give speeches. He leapt down from Annabelle, handing her reigns over to be lead back to the harem. Returning to the lead of his men his deep voice rumbled across the countryside. “Forward march!”
“For the Hellenes!” Chroniclus bellowed, looking back at the troops, he huffed deeply. For the Hellenes! They joined his wild cry. The winds were against them as they began their trek, the falling ice was bitter, yet Arbicos kne
w once his army collided with the invaders the cold would be forgotten.
Forward march! The warlord’s words were echoed by his captains, he knew he could not rile his men as Arbephest did, he never could, his mind was far too astray. He had always forced himself to celebrate in victory with them however, despite his dark thoughts binding him down.
This time round Arbicos had no intention of charging down to the beaches at the Northern Pinnacle. He would not have his men die at the hands of these cowards before they had even reached their enemy’s lines. He wished to march out towards the shores and scout the hillsides that lead down to the beaches before he made his move.
“My bollocks will be frozen before we reach the Northern Pinnacle! How will I fight with frozen bollocks?” Arbicos heard an eruption of laughter scatter through his ranks at the warrior’s words, though he scarcely found humour in anything. Still, he was pleased they were keeping a high moral, despite the foul weather, and ill atmosphere after the loss of Arbephest.
For much time they marched through the darkest parts of the morning, the majority of his soldiers chatted amongst themselves, many joked, more complained of the cold, others told stories of battles, some the legends of the Hellenic past, none would believe they were marching to war.
An unknown distance across the Hellenic countryside the reverberation of chatter abruptly ceased. Each man leading rose an arm to command the halt of their men. Scarcely visible for the light was still bleak, and for the thickness of the gusting snow, the smallest flickers of firelight could be seen scattered across the dark horizon. “They dare march out to meet us, warlord?” Phelan shouted furiously, it was difficult to see, but Arbicos knew it must have been an army.
“How many do you think, Arbicos?” Ureles spoke loud and clear, scanning the horizon himself to judge his enemy’s advance.
“I couldn’t say, crouch low, let them come closer.” He yelled. At once a wave of six thousand warriors fell upon one knee, their shields enclosed, their spears prepared.
“They match our numbers certainly, warlord.” Arbicos nodded, he expected there to be many. He had no true idea just how many. In those early hours, in the faded light, the fires of his enemy tricked him into believing they were equal.
The Echoes of Solon Page 34