Iliad Battles

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There is no explicit sex in this 'snapshot' in time. I realize this is not my usual fare, but while reading the Iliad, I kept getting images of a potential story. Good or bad, this is the result. All I hope is that those of you who take the time to read, find something to enjoy. I wish to thank everyone who helped contribute to and edit this story, per their wishes, they remain anonymous. This story is totally fictitious; any resemblance the characters might have to persons living or deceased is purely coincidental. No part of this story may be published at any other site without the express permission of the author. © Sept. 15, 2009.

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'Yargos thought, "Early morning is the perfect time of day," as he stretched contentedly. With his sleeping wife curled up at his side, he lay watching a bright beam of sunlight pouring through their bedroom window.

Every now and then a speck of dust or a piece of lint would slowly filter down through the rays. With no knowledge or understanding of warming air currents, Yargos was mystified when one of the particles would suddenly change course or float back up.

And for a brief moment he felt a touch of fear and sat up, thinking, "The gods are at play again." But quickly realized he was out of their reach, safely back home in Greece, far away from the evils of the war on Troy.

With a sigh of relief, Yargos lay back down and listened. He could hear his two sons playing outside, and the sound of their laughter warmed his heart.

For the first time in a long time, Yargos could finally feel the horrors of war giving way to the comforts of home. Seeping into his soul, they were once more becoming the realities of his life.

As every nerve in his body began to unwind, Yargos smiled, "Life is good." But then he frowned. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear a familiar voice calling his name.

Visibly irritated, Yargos wondered, "What's going on? What's he doing here?"

Then the peaceful tranquility began slipping away and in his mind, he questioned, "Why can't they just leave me alone."'

Suddenly the dream ended as Yargos was rousted awake and looked up into the face of his commander.

Still half asleep, Yargos desperately clung to the lingering emotions. But try as he may, their effects were already fading as he sat up, then vanished entirely with the harsh, but sobering command, "Dress for battle."

The predawn air was freezing, causing Yargos to shiver with the thought of how the hard leather and cold metal would feel against his skin. After donning his gear, he noticed the hairs on his arms were standing from chill bumps.

But having fought in enough battles over the years to know that the 'God of War' would search out and prey on any weakness, Yargos shook off all negative thoughts. Then he grabbed his shield and fell in with the other warriors as they began the march to the battlefield.

When the Greeks reached their destination in the early morning darkness, they immediately took their assigned positions. And in the process, made so much noise Yargos could barely make out the familiar sounds coming from across the open field.

But what he heard was enough to let him know, 'The Trojans are also preparing for battle.' And he sadly thought, 'Nothing ever changes.'

Then with a deep sigh, Yargos stepped forward and took his place in line. After jamming the bottom edge of his shield in the soft dirt, he dropped to one knee and slipped his arm through the support loops while drawing his sword with the other.

Crouched behind their shields, they now waited, anxiously longing for first light… but dreading the arrival. Because with it would come the only weapon they could not see or defend against… enemy arrows, silent killers that struck without warning.

That fear brought back memories, and he realized, 'That's why I helped cut down the trees years ago, before the first battle. No sense providing aid and comfort to the archers, they love anything with height.'

And having fought in all the battles since, Yargos didn't need to see the field to know how barren it had become. He had been there every step of the way and watched as even the undergrowth was slowly trampled or hacked away by warriors whose only concern was staying alive.

Other than a rare patch of grass, Yargos knew nothing remained but dust… lots of dust, along with signs of death.

When the war first started, he was able to recognize certain spots where close friends or heroic comrades had fallen, and their blood had darkened the ground. But now, after so much time and so many battles, the old stains had either faded or washed away… only to be replaced by new, so numerous they blended together into one giant blotch.

Worse yet, Yargos knew, 'Both sides are still strong. This war will last a while longer.' But for him it had already lasted far too long as he realized, 'Many more will die… and the soil will become even darker before it's over.'

That thought had made him yearn for home, which in turn once more triggered his memory of the beginning, when homesickness had been his biggest enemy. But eventually, like everything else, even that yielded to the boredom of the war's daily grind.

'How depressing,' Yargos thought, realizing, 'it's to the point that the horrors of battle have become a refreshing relief.'

But for now, his attention was focused on the task of staying alive as he crouched behind his shield in a tiny space, wedged between others.

Yargos knew from the warmth of his shield that the sun had finally broken the horizon. The metal wall they helped form was already absorbing more and more of the early morning rays.

Glancing down, Yargos could see that the arm strapped to his shield was beginning to turn red. But in spite of the rapidly rising heat, he continued to keep his outside knee braced into the sandy soil, maintaining his defensive stance.

Yargos knew the position was designed for maximum protection while providing the strongest support. If any of the shields were forced backward, they would be braced by the leg and shoulder of their bearer.

But for now, strain from the weight of his helmet was rapidly becoming Yargos' most pressing problem. To ease the pressure on his neck, he rested his chin on his upright knee.

As sweat began to drip from the nose guard of Yargos' helmet, he noticed the drops were forming a dark spot in the dirt by his foot. He couldn't help thinking, 'Damn! This is worse than being in an oven,' but at the same time, kept those thoughts to himself.

Like the others, Yargos knew any verbal sound in the lines before 'the call to battle' would be met by instant death, swiftly delivered by those standing behind them. Besides, no warrior would tolerate complaining. That was reserved for women, kids, kings, and old people.

The wall of shields was doing a good job as it repelled wave after wave of enemy arrows that had commenced arriving with first light. But like always, several of those arrows were finding small openings between the shields. Yargos had learned long ago not to lift his head. Over the years he'd seen too many young soldiers sprawled on the ground with a feathered shaft protruding from one of their visor slots.

It was always the same; curiosity would get the better of them and they couldn't resist a peek at the battlefield. A few paid the ultimate price. The more fortunate now wore an eye patch as they crouched in line waiting for the order to advance.

Experience told him, 'It will come soon.' Commanders on both sides waited patiently, anticipating a lull in the arrows bouncing harmlessly off the intricate designs of the interlaced shields forming their protective barrier.

Trying to keep his mind off his escalating discomfort, Yargos thought of home and pictured his two sons. 'They're old enough now to be in military training. The oldest will probably be joining us soon.' With that he felt great pride… but also, a deep sadness.

Yargos frowned at the sudden mental image of kings and warlords. 'Damn them,' he thought to himself, 'it's their war and they could care less. Coddled by servants, they sleep in elaborate tents and guzzle wine nightly while being pleasured by their slave girls with song and dance.'

But it was the repugnant odor of death that bothered Yargos the most as he realized, 'If I live for an eternity, I'll never get used to the smell. It rises from the very ground itself, from the blood stained soil, constantly filling my nostrils… and the heat only makes it worse.'

Suddenly he caught sight of something buzzing the soldier who was now in front of him, but would soon be on his right when the battle started.

Yargos could see that it was a bee, and curiously watched as it landed on the back of the soldier's helmet. The warrior visibly relaxed, evidently thinking it had flown away. Suddenly the bee crawled off onto the soldier's neck and immediately dropped its barbed stinger into the thin strip of bare flesh.

'Well trained… and smart,' Yargos thought as the warrior flinched, then stiffened, but never changed position. He continued to hold his shield with one arm, and his sword drawn and ready with the other.

The bee kept struggling until it finally pulled loose and left its stinger sac still pulsing in the tender flesh. Yargos couldn't help thinking, 'better you than me.' But both warriors knew that after the cry sounded, it would quickly fall out and the pain would soon be forgotten in the heat of battle.

Then, it was time. As the sound of arrows hitting the metal shields grew faint, Yargos knew from past experience the order would come. And it did.

From training and experience, he and the other warriors immediately lifted their shields overhead as they stood and with a loud battle cry, faced forward.

Suddenly a shield went sailing through the air immediately to his right. Yargos' heart momentarily stopped, then beat excitedly with new passion.

Their greatest warlord would be fighting just a few feet from him. The discarded shield was his battle signature. He never used it. Instead, he always fought with two swords, one shorter than the other. But each strapped to a wrist by leather thong so that he couldn't lose or drop them. If one slipped from his grasp, with just a flick of the wrist it was back in his hand and he never had to take his eyes off the enemy.

'Some call him a god,' Yargos thought, 'but all that is godly about him is his fighting… which is ungodly. No man can do what he does. His moves are unnatural, the speed, the eye coordination. I swear I've seen him fly, and float at will. If he isn't an immortal… he should be. And never a single scratch reported to date… it's demonic, it has to be.'

With that thought Yargos shuddered, but thanked the gods this warrior was fighting for his side. He could not imagine what fear struck the souls of the enemy who found themselves face to face with what so far had proven to be a sentence of death.

Yet they came, one, two, three, sometimes four at a time to face him, all seeking fame and glory. Willing to trade their lives just to put a cut on his skin, that act alone would guarantee their immortality in song and verse. But if fortunate enough to kill him, that could mean glory, fame, and wealth, maybe even a lordship, granted from their king.

Suddenly wearing nothing but his personally designed fighting gear, their supreme warrior burst forth onto the field. With a sword in each hand and his own unique battle cry, he led their charge.

It was easy to follow him, but as they advanced, the line began to form a slight vee behind and to each side of the living legend. No one could keep pace with the speed at which he moved, or how rapidly he killed, and no one wanted to be close when his swords began their work.

Crossing the battlefield, Yargos could see the enemy's bravest pushing and shoving their way through the lines as the two armies approached each other. Fancying themselves the future heroes of poets and storytellers, they burned with passion to get in the path of the proclaimed ultimate warrior.

It was always the same though. Yargos found himself staring into the faces of those who were about to die. He shook his head and thought, 'Poor fools… never willing to believe their destiny nothing more than mere fodder for the death fires that will burn bright tonight.'

Watching the muscular body of their hero charge across the battlefield, Yargos recalled tales of his training. He didn't know how many, if any, were true, but could see bits and pieces of every story in the combined moves and style of his fighting.

It was rumored that his parents had purchased three special slaves, each with a different, unique fighting ability. Supposedly in exchange for freedom, they taught their new master's son everything they knew.

The first was reportedly a huge barbarian with light skin and fair hair from the far north. It was said that he fought with a bullish aggressiveness; carrying a great sword most men could hardly lift.

Next was a black warrior from deep in the southern continent. Solemn and quiet until battle, then with the roar of a lion he reportedly moved with speed and agility that stifled and silenced the hearts of his opponents.

The last, and most difficult to believe, was rumored to be a yellow skin slave with slanted eyes. He was supposedly from a country far to the east, a land that until then only existed in the rumors carried by caravans. Bought from the captain of a foreign trading ship, this warrior had been kept in irons. It was said that he was so agile, fast, and elusive that it took seven sailors to overpower and put him in chains.

Between battles, Yargos found it difficult to believe the stories. But during battle, when he witnessed the speed, heard the blood curling yell, and watched fear spread across enemy faces as the warrior of legend approached, all doubt was lost.

Yargos snapped out of his reverie as four of the adversary's bravest broke into a dead run with the intent to meet and disprove the whispered rumors. 'This is no immortal, he's flesh and blood, and by the gods, we will prove it.'

As the five approached each other, the lines of both armies slowed, then stopped. It wasn't uncommon. Like a great sporting event, temporarily the warriors became spectators, each side cheering for their gladiator… or gladiators.

With their helmets and breastplates shining in the morning light, the four made an awesome sight. The two on the outside carried long spears, held waist high and ready, while the two in the middle toted shields and battle swords. The most notable fact, and Yargos thought, 'Foolish', none of their faces showed fear… but, that soon changed as unexpected action and events immediately begin to unfold.

As they met, the two spearmen on the outside thrust with deadly aim at vital spots on their opponent's torso… but both spears pierced empty air as the great warrior leaped horizontally into the air. Clearing the ground neck high in a spiral spin, everyone could tell that he had anticipated the four's every thought and move.

One of the two middle soldiers, seeing the leap, automatically lifted his shield, leaving his lower legs unprotected. He fell to the ground screaming in pain as they were sliced out from under him. The other, looking on in horror, lowered his shield just in time to see the blade of the other sword coming over the top before penetrating into the hollow of his lower neck. He barely felt the slight side-to-side motion as the sword sliced through arteries and windpipe. The last thing he saw was his own blood spurting forth and splashing the enemy before losing consciousness, collapsing to the ground.

Completing the aerial spin, Yargos' fabled warrior landed on one foot, bringing both swords down across the two forward thrust spears, cutting both in half. The spearmen's surprise was short lived. As their enemy used his body weight to continue his spiral motion on the ball of one foot, his arms came straight out, both swords fully extended. That is the last thing the two men saw as their heads were almost severed from their bodies.

As he stood and surveyed the scene around him, everyone could tell there was no malice, pride, or joy in his heart. He was a warrior, this is what he did, and he did it well, without emotion.

Even after losing four men, the enemy was cheering as they looked at the blood running down their enemy's arms and chest. Then they abruptly stopped. As he hoisted his two swords over head in a sign of victory, they realized it wasn't his blood, but that of the fallen warriors.

The legend would continue.

Snapping out of their trance, both armies clashed in a loud clanging of metal to metal as swords met and shields repelled unwanted blows. Now fully engaged, neither side noticed as two more brave soldiers, after having stepped forward to engage the living god, joined their four dead comrades.

And so it went throughout the day. The battle would ebb and flow as fresh or rested comrades replaced warriors on the front lines. Young slave boys carried food and water to the tired as they broke for a brief rest.

Dead bodies were scattered over the battlefield except for the path of the great warrior, his trail of death was easily identifiable; two rows of slaughtered enemy formed a distinct line where he had advanced slow and steady all day.

When he broke for water, the front line would close up, protecting his back while slave boys doused him with water to remove the sweat and enemy blood that poured freely down his arms, neck, and chest. The mixture made it difficult to hold and control his swords as the handles became drenched with the combined fluids.

While toweling him dry, they sliced the ties from his wrist, replacing them with dry thongs, sporting freshly sharpened swords. Well rehearsed, all was done with precision and speed; this was one warrior who required no rest.

As the sun began to drop in the western sky, the two armies knew the battle was drawing to a close. Another day… nothing decided… the war would go on.

Hearing a trumpet blast, both armies cautiously stepped back with shields and swords still held high. There was always the possibility that someone didn't hear the final call.

But there was one that didn't retreat to safety. The Greek Warlord stood on the battleground alone, a proud solitary figure, surveying the carnage that lay around him. In a silent stance he let it be known that even though there was no winner today, none dared to challenge him now… that was a victory in itself.

As the retreating enemy watched and sulked off, murmuring curses all the way, he lifted his two swords overhead in a victory cross while fellow comrades cheered to the gods. This was their hero, alive, unscathed, and still facing down the enemy.

When the cheering tapered off, he lowered his swords and stepped over fallen bodies as he began to work his way off the field. Abruptly he came to stop, staring down at a prone body lying on the ground.

"I know you," he said to himself. "I have fought beside you many times. You are one of the bravest warriors I know."

Feeling sorrow, he laced his fingers together and using his longest sword for support, leaned slightly forward on the handle. Suddenly he dropped to his knees beside the dead soldier. Laying his forehead on the back of his hands, he took a silent moment to show his respect.

He visualized the death fires that would soon be burning as the dead bodies were heaved onto the piles, and he decreed, "No… not you. For your bravery and devotion, you shall be honored with the twelve days of feast and celebration reserved for the nobles."