Here the Hard Times Begin

Content Warning: Gore, Physical Violence, Mentions of Slavery

I often used to believe that my carefree days ended in the Lion’s month of my twelfth year. My father, a man who would have no idling son as his own, enlisted one of his old generals with the task of beating me into shape. The man was Aischylos, who served under my father in the King’s army; he was a stout fellow with a limping gait, and I always thought his short, stocky build and unshorn striking black hair (of which he had much) looked particularly appalling in contrast to my father’s tall frame, elegant movements, and finely trimmed golden-red beard. I never understood how men so different in both appearance and temperament got along so well, and yet they were friends to their deaths. He was the first man my father thought of for the task. After all he had done for Aischylos, and indeed, perhaps from a certain restlessness from being out of the field for a time (for Aischylos was recovering from what would have been a mortal wound, had my father not carried him off the battlefield himself), Aischylos readily agreed to the task of instilling discipline in me.

I quickly grew to hate him. His treatment of me seemed a cruelness sent by the Gods as some punishment for an unknown insolence. I made many sacrifices and uttered countless prayers of repentance to Zeus in the hopes of better treatment, but none ever came.

I was up at cock-crow every morning, marching here or there or doing push-ups with stones on my back, and was not dismissed until the sun was well past its zenith and I was ready to drop dead. Each meal I was given—for he was in charge of those as well—left me just full enough to stave off the violent hunger pangs I worked up toiling away at all his ridiculous exercises: running laps about the garden; lifting heavy rocks; throwing those long javelins that he loved so much (I amused myself by supposing this was his way of compensating for falling short in other respects). Though my stomach always nagged at me, never truly full, I recall the thirst the most. My breath quickly became ragged from the dry summer air as I ran the same fifty paces over and over. While I never would have willingly given that man the pleasure of knowing how spent I really was, he could always tell. At twelve years old I had not yet learned the art of saving face.

He hollered at me from the sidelines, telling me I must work for my wine; no man is simply handed what he covets. Watching him sitting upon some rock in the shade shouting at me in the sweltering heat did nothing for my resolve. It only made my burning throat throb stronger. I would think fondly upon the days before he came, when I was free to ride through the countryside upon my beautiful chestnut pony (whom I only saw then when Aischylos deemed the day fit for riding lessons), play war-games and knucklebones with my friends, and pass quiet evenings reading from my Mother’s scrolls.

Now I know how foolish that self-pity was. It is true that a man does not know his fortune until it is gone. That thirst which I believed was the worst I could ever experience was nothing. If I had a great enough need, I could have called for the slave-boy, and he would have brought me a cold cup of wine from the cellar mixed with water. I could take Aischylos’ beatings well, and appeal to my mother if he decided to go to my father. She always had a soft spot for her only son, and my father could never say no to her. Truly, my greatest hardship was enduring an overzealous tutor; one, who, I must admit, taught me how to thrive upon the scarcity one encounters in war. He may be the only reason I still live now.

Now…now I am all alone, and I am sure I will die soon. Now I know real thirst. The throbbing stopped yesterday. My throat simply burns. It feels as though every breath is fire, scalding an inner barren wasteland, too far gone to become rejuvenated even from wine that I will never taste again. I have passed little urine, which has become orange and painful as it trickles out. I find myself once more looking to the heavens for Zeus, praying for salvation, yet all I see is the cloudless sky and the unforgiving sun blinding me.

Even so, I would rather this be my end than what would have been with Eukeldes’ men. I overheard many things I should not have standing outside Eukeldes’ tent that God-cursed night, among them what he would do to those who remained loyal to the King. And I heard the screams of the soldiers they flayed alive. But perhaps I still should have stayed and died a noble death that night. I see that now, with a clear head and nothing to do but think. All week, every waking hour, I have returned to that night. Even in sleep I am not safe, for the faces of the dead haunt my nightmares. It was my fourteenth birthday.

The day itself was nothing novel, aside from some congratulations from my friends and a small gift of knuckle-bones from my father, which he knew I enjoyed playing. It marked a year since I had travelled to the war-camp with him to serve as a squire in the King’s army. All men of repute send their sons to serve the King upon his campaigns so they may learn the art of war first-hand, though our duties never surpassed waiting upon his generals or standing watch over the camp. Even I, the son of the King’s most valued general, had no greater honour than serving the King himself his meals. But to me it was enough: just to be in his presence inspired great awe. I would have died for that man. Or so I thought.

I hated the heat of the camp. Even back home, I would spend as much time as I could in the summer by the river or in the shaded woods to get away from the warmth. But here, on the brink of one of the Asiatic deserts, I could not escape it. As such, I often volunteered for the overnight sentry duties which nobody else wanted. I didn’t see why; at night, there was a pleasant cool breeze from the east, and the stars never failed to dazzle me with their splendour. ‘Truly,’ I thought, ‘they must be a sign that the Gods are looking down upon us, guiding us towards our destinies’. But I did not tell this to the other boys, though I was friendly with them. I knew somehow they would not see what I saw.

That night, as usual, I was standing watch. I was stationed on the western side of the camp, which, to my displeasure, blocked the cool eastern wind from blowing by me. This was particularly bothersome as that night was, strangely, unbearably hot. I longed to feel relief. I decided to go and speak to Chrestos, whom I knew was on duty at the eastern side, to see if he would not mind exchanging stations.

When I arrived, I was surprised to find Chrestos was not there: nobody stood guard. I began to feel incensed—who would put the safety of the camp in jeopardy like that? Then I remembered that the western side remained unguarded because I had left it so, and my embarrassment tempered my anger.

That end of the camp was right next to Eukeldes’ tent, who, aside from my father, was one of the King’s top generals. Its size matched his importance, and was one of the most splendid in the entire camp. It was not uncommon for many men to gather there in the evenings. Eukeldes enjoyed the pleasures of good wine, beautiful women, and the thrill of gambling, and did not mind sharing it with his fellow soldiers. I assumed Chrestos was tempted from his post by the drinking and dice-throwing that he must have heard standing right outside, though I was confused by the lack of any such noise. There were many shadows flickering in the torch-light spilling out from the tent, but they were not tossing dice or drinking from goblets. They simply stood there, still as one of the sparse palm-trees in the night I found to be totally windless, even to the east. I considered turning back and perhaps reporting Chrestos’ absence, but then I would have gotten in trouble for leaving my own post and thought better of it. Besides, I could not seem to pull myself away from the strange, stoic figures in the tent. My curiosity overtook me, and I tip-toed close to peek through the flap.

The tent was full, much more full than I had expected; men were packed, standing nearly shoulder-to-shoulder. They formed a circle around Eukledes, who was atop a crate overturned to act as a dais. The men looked up at him without a hint of gaiety in their eyes. The flickering torchlight revealed the creases in their faces and the mouths set in frowns. Eukledes spoke to them just loud enough to sound commanding, without alerting anyone outside. I had to strain my ears to hear him.

“...insolence can go on no longer. We are calling upon the wrath of the Gods by allowing barbarians to take the land they gave to us.” Resounding murmurs of agreement.

“I promise, if you follow me, we will all find great glory. The plan is set, and the men wait on my signal. We will bring the tyrant to his knees and relieve him of his cowardly head. He will bring us no more shame.” I saw Chrestos in the crowd, listening and nodding his head.

Immediately I understood Eukledes’ treachery. We were stationed near the Asiatic desert as a result of having lost a battle with insurgents further inland, pushing us to the fringes of what used to be one of our colonies. Many felt bitter about it and blamed the King, who called for a retreat when he saw the battle could not be won. These men were fools, who would have died in combat and lost the land to the rebels anyways, had the King not made the hard call.

I had heard Eukledes on other nights standing guard outside his tent, drunk, boasting of how he would never have let the barbarians triumph over us. I knew he was a prideful man and did not think much of it at the time. In fact, I thought him rather stupid. Now I understood better.

I stood there for what felt like an eternity, listening to Eukledes explain his plan: how he had men loyal to him stationed about the camp, how he would storm the King’s tent in the dead of night, and what he would do to any who opposed him. I thought of my father in the tent next to the King’s, and horror overtook me as I listened to what his fate would be, but I could not force myself to run away and alert them. Fear held me in place. It held me in place, too, when a man happened to turn his gaze to where I stood, looking through the tent, and cried “SPY!”

The rest of the night blurs in my memory. I must have run, for the next thing I remember I was lying on the ground somewhere in the middle of the camp. My head throbbed and my left hand was slick with blood. Carnage unfolded around me; camp-women ran screaming, the night rang with the death-cries of countless men, several tents were alight with flames, and the putrid smell of blood and sweat filled the rank, humid air. Somehow, I brought myself to my feet, just as a man near me was impaled with a javelin and fell dead to the ground. I turned, looking for a place to run to and saw a man’s nose being cut from his face. Some of Eukledes’ men held him as he let loose a gurgled scream of agony. Suddenly, I remembered my father. My stomach sank when I thought of the man without his nose, and that he might be the same. I found my bearings and ran to his tent. I do not know what I planned on doing. I just knew I needed to find him. I wish I had not.

Like everywhere in the camp, there were bodies strewn on the ground all around his tent. I had to hold back the vomit from crawling up my throat when I saw a man near the top of the pile. The skin on his face had been peeled off, exposing the sinews and muscle beneath. His mouth was pulled into a spine-chilling grimace, his eyes wide open in horror.

I did not recognize him until I saw my father’s tunic, which my mother had sewn herself.

I remembered my father’s gentle smile and the soft scratching sensation of his beard tickling my cheek when he kissed me as a boy. Then I looked at his glistening grimace and retched.

I wish I could say I stayed and fought, protected the honour of my king, and avenged the savage murder of my father. Instead, I fled. If my father had died, then surely the battle was already lost. I knew I could not return through the sparse palm-forest whence we had come. The rebels were there and would surely kill me, and so I retreated into the desert. I have wandered it for a week now with no food nor drink, and I now understand it is to be the place where my life ends.

O father, what would you think of me now? You who stood and fought till the last for your King! You who had such high hopes for me: sending me to be a King’s squire, to learn the craft of war, to surround myself with such noble men as yourself and become like them! Well, here I am, wandering this desert on foreign soil, where I did nothing more to help my King than gawk at his murderers. I am sorry, my father. I know I am receiving my just punishment. Take solace, at the least, in the fact I did not even consider, for a moment, joining Eukledes in his treachery. If I am a fool, at least I am one with integrity.

Each step I take becomes more difficult than the last. I raise my hand to my brow to wipe away the sweat, only to find there is none. The sand shifts below my feet and I stumble, falling face-first to the ground. I try to move my arms to lift myself up only to realize I cannot. There is no strength left in me. This dune on which I have stumbled is to be my grave.

I am unsure how long I have lain here. After a time, I hear something behind me, and distant voices. It must be Hermes coming to guide my soul. The blackness I see becomes light, but it does not make sense to me. Is the underworld not supposed to be a place of darkness? The voices grow clearer now. Is that truly what the souls of the dead sound like? It is almost as if…

I am startled to my senses by a cold trickle of water upon my face. Jerking my eyes open, I see that I have been flipped upon my back and am surrounded by a group of staring figures. I cannot see their faces, which, like the rest of them, are covered in rags. So I am not dead, not yet.

A rush of joy floods into me. I am saved! Here in this wasteland, Zeus has finally heard my prayers and has sent me salvation. The figures have water, clearly enough to spare if they are so careless as to pour it upon my face like nothing.

But this happiness is short-lived. I remember, now, one of my father’s many stories of being upon some campaign march through a land such as this.

“The only men one finds there,” he said, “are thieves and slave-traders who have managed to outrun the law, hiding themselves away in lands where no one dares follow. Not even the King bothers settle it, for they are a fierce bunch who will fight to keep their vast stretch of nothing; they certainly gave us enough trouble when we were simply passing through.”

After all, what kind of civilised peoples would wander this desert, covered in rags? I could have laughed, or cried, if I had more strength. I thought these men were my salvation. What have I done to deserve any grace from the Gods?

The men in rags hoist me over their shoulders and throw me into a caravan with men, women, and children huddled into corners. My heart screams to get up and run away from the bound captives in front of me, surely headed for the slave-markets, lest I become one of them. But my body does not respond. It cannot. I cannot do anything but lay here, all too aware of my fate, and my burning throat.

I think back to the days I spent with Aischylos, when I used to lament that the easy time of my life was over. I had food and drink should I need it, a warm bed to sleep in, my parents to love me, and a name not besmirched by my own cowardice. Now I have nothing, not even my freedom.

And I am certain it is here that the hard times will truly begin.