Acula

by Robert D. Armstrong

  “Yes.” I replied.

  “They’re never exactly the same, are they?” He asked.

  “No, not really,” I replied.

  “Neither are men; all men are different. But this matters not,” he said.

  “As life goes on, we put things inside us…Love, happiness…pain…”

  Father paused.

  “Deception.” He stared at me as he said this, and his eyes made me feel uncomfortable.

  “Addiction,” Father glanced at the drunken soldier laying on the ground.

  “Grief.” He looked beneath him, his long, dark hair forming a veil in front of his eyes. He began slowly twisting the sword in the sand.

  “Anger,” he said. I could hear his calloused hand tightening around the handle of the sword.

  “It’s how man interrupts these things into his core that shapes him, not the mold you were given at birth. If you allow weakness to corrupt your composition or if you deny accountability…you become fragile… breakable,” Father explained. I paused, pondering his words for a few moments.

  “Do you understand?” he asked.

  “Yes I do, Father. But…I, well, what if a man allows his composition to be corrupted. What then?” I asked.

  “Well, now…this is the most important part. The fire here beneath us here, this builds the sword, but it is different from the fire that builds the man,” Father said.

  “A man’s fire?” I asked.

  “The fire inside us can reshape.” He leaned forward and tapped my chest where my heart was. “That’s your fire. It’s what shapes you, it’s what you’re made of. The will to change, to recognize your faults.”

  “But…you can melt down a sword and make it stronger,” I posed.

  “Yes, but then you have a completely new sword. You erase the scars, the wear and tear of that sword, and start over. That’s what makes a man unique; he can remember his past, his mistakes, see his scars. These are the things that give a man perspective, then strength and resilience, but you must recognize corruption inside you,” he explained. “Your fire has to burn hot enough, but it can melt corruption. This is what makes a man more powerful than any sword.”

  “I understand,” I said, nodding my head.

  Father picked up the freshly made sword with his thick mitten glove, leaning it against a nearby tree stump. He walked over and grabbed one of the first swords we’d made for the Persians, hidden beneath the sand. This was a true bronze sword.

  He smashed the new sword against it, breaking in half.

  “Now, what will you be made of?”

  Chapter 3

  The Awakening

  “Wake up, everyone, wake up!” a Persian guard yelled.

  It must have been two or three hours from dawn. Father jumped up to his feet, while I was a bit slower to roll to my knees and then stand.

  “I need every Greek to come with me. Now!” the guard ordered. Several other guards poured into the room, lifting people off the ground. “Let’s go!”

  “What happened?” Father asked one of the Persian slaves.

  “The Greek navy defeated the Persian fleet at Salamis, they say, a huge win for your people,” the small Persian man said. “Unfortunately, this isn’t good for you.”

  “By the gods. We’ve won! Poseidon be praised!” Father said, cheering on the naval victory. Suddenly, a guard clubbed my father over the head as several others joined in, beating him. During the melee, Father looked over at me and shook his head. But before I could react, I was shoved to the ground and shackled.

  With the help of his men, Xerxes’ guard captain Arshad—a cruel and terrible man I’d grown to know only too well over the past year—herded all the Greek slaves into an isolated room, about twenty of us huddled together. Most of us were nude or wearing rags. I knew death awaited us. The guards chained us to the floor, but then they left.

  Arshad poked his head back inside the tent, smiling. I had never liked him; he always smelled like perfume and wine, and he wore gold jewelry across his face and dark makeup around his eyes. He always seemed to derive such pleasure from our torment.

  “Strength, my son. Strength,” Father said, but then he slumped over slowly from exhaustion. We were about eight paces away from one another. I could see bruises already starting to form from where he had been beaten.

  A young Spartan slave named Runin peered over at me in his shackles. “I wouldn’t be worried if that was my father.”

  “Why not? We’re all chained to the floor,” I said. Runin was the only other Spartan slave in the camp, so he knew of my father from the old wars.

  “Your father was asked to fight at the battle of Thermopylae, they say. I’m sure he told you.”

  “…no,” I replied.

  “King Leonidas himself called for your father to fight. But perhaps word arrived late,” Runin suggested. I looked at the ground, away from Runin.

  “I didn’t know…” I said.

  “Quite the honor. Out of only three hundred Spartans, the king called for your father.”

  “Silence!” Arshad yelled from across the room. I thought about how Father never talked about the battle. No doubt he wanted to die a Spartan’s death. I wondered why he hadn’t fought that day. He was no coward, so there had to be another reason. I wondered if I’d live to have the chance to understand his decision.

  As we waited, I conjured up an apparition in my mind. I thought of the red griffin on my father’s shield swooping down with its claws, tearing into Arshad, ripping his body in half as we cheered. The thought was comforting as I attempted to lie to myself.

  I wanted to cry, but instead I became angry. I wanted to be back home, running through the wheat fields at my leisure. I wanted to listen to my Aunt Zella’s songs while she picked olives, or train with my father and neighbors in Spartan combat.

  I missed seasonal feasts with my Uncle Icar. He would bring back droves of yellowfin fish with dried figs, raisins, and pomegranates, along with gossip from our former homeland.

  All that was over.

  After some time with us standing idle, a strange man entered into the room, accompanied by Arshad. The newcomer was very tall, gaunt, and had a bald head. A long purple robe covered much of his body. Xerxes was known to keep odd company, but this man was unlike anything I’d ever seen. I noticed his fingernails were yellowed, very long, and thick. His skin was pale to the extreme, his lips were blood red, and his deep set eyes were a cold light blue. He had a frightening smile that stretched the length of his face as he entered the room with Arshad in tow, like a shark chasing a blood trail. He smelled musty, even rancid, contrasting with his wealthy, expensive-looking cloak.

  “Fresh stock,” Arshad said, gesturing his hand across the room at us.

  They inspected us for several minutes. The exotic buyer looked at our skin, under our feet—he even made us squeeze our fists as he observed the blood vessels in our forearms. His eyes lit up with excitement when he saw me, and I could see the red veins pulse in them, those cold blue irises seeming to peer right through me. I wasn’t sure why I was appealing to him over the others. He kept glancing back at Father, then me.

  Even as he examined the other slaves, he would glance back at me with a determined, almost longing look. Father watched him like a hawk; I could see his shackles under tension as he pulled at them. His eyes were vacant, just like on the day he’d killed the merchant.

  “See anything you like?” Arshad asked.

  “Oh, I do, as a matter of fact,” he said. I knew he was talking about me. His accent was very thick, and it was unlike anything I’d ever heard. Then, shouting could be heard outside the tent. The strange man and the guard stopped, looking at each other in confusion. Then they ran to the exit to have a look.

  “What it is?” the strange man asked.

  “Greeks! The Greeks are attacking!” Arshad yelled with wide eyes, exiting the tent.

  Father smiled at me. “By the gods, our countrymen have come for us!” I could hear excitem
ent in his voice like never before. After more than a year in slavery, we might have the chance to escape!

  The strange man walked out slowly but then darted back inside. He moved like a blur, stopping right on top me, hanging above like a bending tree. “I was going to buy you, but there’s no time for that now.”

  “No! Noooo! Away from him!” Father demanded.

  The man’s eyes turned red. He began to salivate. He leaned in, and all I remember was a loud snarl, then a visceral rush of power and speed. I tried to pull away, but I couldn’t move. I felt a warm sensation on my neck as I heard liquid siphoning. I heard Father yelling at him as the other slaves wept.

  “Get off of him!!!” Father yelled.

  Even though he was shouting at the top of his lungs, Father’s voice sounded muffled, so far away. My vision gradually blurred. Then I began to feel cold, but no pain. I could hear Father screaming in terror as the man moaned in pleasure. He drained the blood from my neck as his dark cloak eclipsed my lanky frame beneath him.

  Suddenly, a group of Spartans barreled in the room, sword and spear at the ready. I fell to the ground on my side as the strange man dropped me. Blood dripped from his face on my chest as he licked his fingers.

  “Soldier, unchain me, I’m a Spartan!” I heard my father’s voice call out. My vision returned briefly, enough that I could see his eyes begin to boil; he appeared more wicked than the monster above me.

  CLANK!

  One of the Greeks began cutting slaves loose. My father was first.

  “Sword! Give me a sword!” Father demanded.

  I was losing consciousness.

  I went into a trance. Father reminded me of a Greek hero from the mountains of Olympus, standing there facing the monster. Light from the heavens shined down on him as he confronted Hades’ hell spawn. They were gigantic titans above me, good versus evil.

  I wanted to cry, not from the pain, but because I wanted to embrace my father one last time before I died. I could feel life slipping away from me as I struggled to stay awake.

  Everything sounded distorted as the man lunged at the other Spartans. He bit under the helmet of one of them, tearing out his throat and slashing the other several times, digging into his eyes, blinding him. It was all so fast. Father picked up his shield and spear.

  The Greek slaves around me could feel it in the air; they began to cheer for my father. They knew him. Even if the monster had killed 100 Greeks, he was still in for a fight.

  My father stood in front of the monster, blocking the exit. His stance was true, shield out in front, spear forward. The monster snarled at him, showing a large set of fangs. They circled one another. Father lunged towards him, running down the man aggressively, thrusting at him with his spear.

  The man hissed, dodging Father’s strikes, lashing out with his claws. His movements were inhuman; he somehow darted around the flank of my father’s shield, cutting his face. They circled again, stepping over slaves and the Greek soldiers. Father glanced down at me at one point. I watched him bite his lip in anger, then furrow his eyebrows forward at the monster.

  I heard my father breathing heavily. Then suddenly he lunged forward, thumping the monster with his shield. The impact got under his body, knocking him into the air.

  He landed hard, tumbling end over end. His cloak flipped over on his face as my father thrusted his spear into his gut several times. “Arrrrrrghhh!” Father yelled. Black blood poured out of the monster as he lay motionless.

  Father was a Spartan if I’d ever seen one. Descended from Hercules himself!

  “Preturias! Preturias! Preturias!” The Greek slaves in the room cheered my father’s name. One of them called out to him, “The monster slayer!”

  “Look!” a slave called out, pointing at the monster. To my disbelief, he rose from the dead. Then he darted out of the tent like the wind, blowing Father’s hair back. Blood from his stomach flung across the room from the explosive moment. Several more armored Spartans entered the room. “What happened?” they asked as the gust blew by them.

  Father had a look of disbelief on his face. “That’s not possible!” he said.

  He glanced at the exit, then back to where the body had been. He did this several times, and then he snapped around, looking me over.

  “Acula,” Father whispered. I remember him scooping me in his arms, embracing me. I tried to sit up, but I was too weak. Tears rolled down his face as he tried to speak. I just smiled at him. I went unconscious, but the last words I heard I understood, and they made my heart soar.

  “We’re free, my son. We are free.”

  ***

  I woke up in a sweat from a nightmare. I felt like I was on fire, burning and screaming. I looked around, feeling in the darkness. Wood pressed against my fingertips. I was inside a box of some sort. I could hear a mule or horse trotting. The smell of fish was in the air. “Hey!” I yelled.

  I couldn’t hear any Persian voices, so that was a good start. I came to the realization that what had happened with the monster was real.

  “Father? Father?!”

  “Yes, Acula, I’m here,” he said in a low, comforting tone.

  Eventually, the wagon stopped. I could hear Father and another man talking. “You have the blanket?” Father asked.

  “Yes, of course,” responded the other man.

  “Acula? Can you hear?” he asked.

  “Yes—why must I be inside this box? I want out!” It was the middle of summer. The heat and smell were unbearable. I imagined some fisherman had dumped his spoils into the crate.

  “Acula, you need to do as I say, okay?”

  “Please. Just help me out of this, Father.”

  Father opened the box, but he threw a blanket over me immediately. They pulled me out of the box and carried me for a few minutes. “What?! Please, Father, what is the meaning of this?” I asked. I didn’t mean to sound outraged; I was genuinely baffled by their behavior.

  He didn’t respond.

  They carried me about twenty paces, and then I heard a door open. Father was speaking to an old woman in a tongue I had never heard. I couldn’t understand much of it. It sounded Greek, but the accent was far different. Father sat me down, removing the blanket from my body.

  I looked up and saw four sets of alert eyes staring at me. The old woman and Father continued speaking in the old tongue while two other young girls watched on. The girls were hiding behind the old woman, peering around her at me.

  “Please tell me what this is. What is going on?” I asked. “Why must I be treated like a leper?” I was being kept from sight, and I noticed that everyone had been careful not to actually touch me. The blanket had been their protection.

  “Let me sort this out. Be patient, Acula,” Father said, sternly gesturing with his index finger. I immediately shut my mouth. Father was not one to play games after a warning. I noticed Father had recovered his shield from the camps.

  He continued speaking to the old woman. I noticed her stone home was littered with spices, herbs, ancient talismans, and bones from various creatures, some of which I didn’t recognize. One of them looked like a giant lizard with claws; it must have been the length of a man.

  This woman must have been a witch, judging by her house. Her hair was long and grey. She had big, dark eyes and was missing most of her front teeth. Her movements were almost bird-like; her eyes snapped around intensely, and then her head followed, soaring from one thought to another.

  “Acula, this woman is here to help you, please just let her take a look.”

  “Help me what? I feel fine, Father.”

  “That’s the problem. You shouldn’t be,” he said.

  The old woman stepped closer, peeling my left eyelid open. She tilted my head back, forcing her fingers into my mouth.

  “Ahhhh-hhh!” Her fingers tasted horrible, like she had been carving a sickly goat or sheep. She pulled at my front teeth, then spun around, speaking aggressively to Father while pointing at him.

  “What is sh
e saying?” I asked. He turned away from her, staring at me. His eyes danced around the room before speaking. “Do you…do you remember the man that bit your neck?” he asked cautiously. I touched the spot on my neck, but it felt as smooth as baby’s skin.

  “Yes. Why…why did he do that?” I asked.

  “The one who bit you…The same you and he now,” the woman said with a thick accent, intensely pointing after each word she spoke with her wide eyes.

  “No. That was a monster,” Father corrected. He stared at me for a moment, then he bit his bottom lip. “When the Greek soldiers freed us, they let us have a wagon. We loaded you up, but then the sun came up…Acula…this will sound foolish, but…” He stopped and shook his head.

  “Father, tell me,” I said. His eyes began to glaze over, but then he gritted his teeth.

  “Your skin, it began to smoke as the sunlight touched it. Then, it caught fire,” he replied.

  I slumped my head in disbelief. “How?” I remembered having a dream I was on fire, but maybe it had been real. I began to panic, and I jumped up to my feet.

  “What are you doing?” Father asked, moving towards me.

  “Get away!” I said, running towards the door.

  “Stop!” one of the girls yelled.

  “Acula, no!” Father and the others chased me, but no sooner had I stepped foot outside than my entire body was engulfed in flames.

  “Nooooooo!” I yelled as Father tackled me in the blanket. I began to fight him as he covered me.

  “Stop! Acula! No, stop moving!”

  “Ahhh-hhhhhhh! Help me! Father, please! What is this?!”

  The pain was unimaginable. I had experienced burning once before during a family feast while playing too close to the fire, but never anything like this. This was penetrating heat like nothing else. I felt it in my bones, my eyes, all the way into my soul.