‘The man to whom you owe your life,’ answered Talos, smiling, ‘and your aching head. His name is Karas.’
‘He looks better to me,’ complained the giant, sitting near the extinguished fire. ‘You see that there was no point in worrying?’
‘What news do you bring, Karas?’ asked Talos.
‘A lot of news. Important, too: the Athenians have routed the Persian fleet near the island of Salamis; the Ionians passed over to their side, and the Great King was forced to retreat. Athens is in the hands of its people again, and they are rebuilding it, but most of the Persian land forces are still in Greece; it seems that they’re preparing to spend the winter in Thessaly and relaunch their attack next spring. Your people,’ he said turning to Brithos, ‘are sending embassies to all of their allies, in an attempt to muster all the available men for the battle that is foreseen for next spring.’
‘So,’ said Talos to Brithos, ‘you’ve got several months to get ready.’
‘Ready for what?’ asked Karas.
‘You’ll know when it’s time,’ answered Talos. ‘Now go, you still have to do what I’ve asked.’ Karas left with his cloak and his pack.
‘Well then,’ Talos continued, ‘what do you think?’
‘Perhaps you’re right about this,’ said Brithos, ‘but what did you mean a little while ago when you said something like “we’ll leave together for the north”?’
‘I meant that I’m coming with you.’
‘I don’t understand—’
‘I have my reasons, but in any case I’ll be useful to you. You know that I’m capable of fighting.’
‘With your crook? I don’t think that you realize . . .’
‘Wait,’ Talos interrupted him. He moved aside a cowhide that covered the cabin floor, lifted a wooden trapdoor, and extracted a grease-coated sack. Inside was the great horn bow.
‘Where did you get such a weapon?’ asked Brithos in awe. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it in my whole life.’
‘This is another thing that I can’t tell you. All you need to know is that I can use it, and use it well. So, you’ll be the heavy infantry and I’ll be the light infantry: together we’ll form an army.’
‘Then what I heard was true – that someone on this mountain was armed with a bow and arrows.’
Talos smiled: ‘Karas is to blame. He wanted to use this bow one day when we went hunting. He struck a deer without killing it, and the animal escaped with an arrow stuck in it.’
Brithos stared at him. His curiosity to know who this Helot really was had become even keener. How could he possess such a fantastic weapon, worthy of a king? And furthermore, know how to use it so expertly? And the Helot’s idea that he take up his arms once again for a solitary war had begun to call his spirit away from the thoughts of death that had dominated it.
‘All right, Talos,’ he said after a long silence. ‘If you can get me my weapons, we’ll leave as soon as you wish.’
Talos smiled enigmatically. As Brithos began to nod off, still under the effects of the drug, Talos left to return to his own home.
‘We’ll see each other tomorrow morning,’ he said. ‘In the meantime, don’t move from here for any reason.’
‘Of course not,’ said Brithos, feeling that he had returned from the Underworld. The desire for life had begun to flow again in his veins. He lay down on the goatskin pallet and abandoned himself to sleep.
Next morning at the first light of dawn, he awoke. The cabin was deserted. He took in his surroundings, rubbing his eyes, and started: he wasn’t alone! A fully armed warrior was standing in a dark corner of the room. He looked again and realized that it was a suit of armour: the armour of his father, with the crested helmet and the great shield of the dragon.
*
In the centre of the village, the heads of each family had been assembled and lined up against a wall by a group of Persian soldiers. An officer surrounded by several servants and accompanied by an interpreter was imparting the requisition orders.
The army of the Great King that had remained in Thessaly needed wheat, now that their defeated fleet could no longer supply them. One of the older men, a peasant with grey hair, implored him. ‘Sir, how can we survive if our whole harvest is taken away from us?’
The officer, a Mede with long curly hair, turned to the interpreter. ‘Tell him that we’re not here to discuss things. Those two wagons must be filled with wheat. If there’s anything left for them that’s no concern of mine. I’m only worried about bringing the wheat back to the camp, as I was ordered.’
The interpreter translated and added, ‘You’d be better off cooperating, peasant, these men have orders to requisition the wheat at any cost. Their army needs provisions, and they won’t hesitate to kill you all if you resist.’
‘But you, who are a Greek—’ beseeched the poor man.
‘I’m not a Greek,’ interrupted the interpreter, annoyed. ‘I’m a subject of the Great King and so are all of you. Everyone in this whole country, who has dared to defy his army, will become his subjects. What must I tell my commander?’
The wretched peasant lowered his head. ‘The wheat is underground, beneath the floor of that cabin over there. It has just been threshed.’
‘That’s good,’ twittered the interpreter with his lisp. ‘I see you are a wise man. Well then, get moving, you don’t expect the soldiers to load the wheat, do you?’
The peasant muttered something to his companions in a low voice, then led them towards the cabin.
‘Very good,’ said the officer, contentedly stroking his beard greased with nard. ‘They seem reasonable enough. They’ll have to get used to the idea that they have a master. This spring, we’ll have it out with those others, those damned Athenians and those bastard Spartans—’
He never finished: a whistle was heard and an arrow pierced his collarbone. The Mede collapsed, vomiting blood. His soldiers gripped their weapons and glanced around fearfully: nothing, no one.
Suddenly, from behind a hovel, a man armed with an enormous bow sprang into the middle of the village. He swiftly released an arrow, then darted behind a thick oak tree. Another soldier fell to the ground, run through.
‘Let’s get that bastard!’ shouted one of the Persians, advancing with his sabre unsheathed. The others, enraged, followed him, only to abruptly draw up short, incredulous: from behind the tree emerged a fully armed hoplite, gripping a shield emblazoned with an open-jawed dragon. On his helmet three black crests swayed, moved by the warm mountain wind.
From behind the shield appeared the archer who shot another arrow like a lightning bolt, taking immediate cover behind the hoplite. As another of the Persians fell heavily to the ground with his neck run through, the hoplite tossed back his great black cloak and hurled his spear with enormous strength. A Scythian among the group, as agile as a leopard, swiftly dropped to the ground as the spear found its mark in the shield of the comrade behind him, tearing through his corselet of pressed linen and ripping into his stomach. The wounded soldier writhed screaming in the dust already splattered with his blood.
The remaining six lunged at the hoplite all at once, shouting to give themselves courage. Leaping suddenly from behind his cover, the archer tripped two of the enemy who tumbled forward. Pouncing on the nearest one before he had time to recover, he crushed the man’s chest with one of the horns of his bow.
Meanwhile the hoplite sent another to the ground with a great blow of his shield, and ran through the third with his sword. The three survivors, terrified, tried to flee but found themselves surrounded. The villagers, recovered from their shock, began to pelt the soldiers with a thick shower of stones. They were soon beaten to the ground and finished off by the savage blows of the enraged peasants.
‘The interpreter!’ shouted the archer. ‘He must not escape!’
The villagers looked around: from under a large straw basket, a strip of fabric betrayed his hiding place. He was dragged into the centre of the small dusty square, and br
ought before the two mysterious figures who had appeared so suddenly from nowhere.
Wriggling out of the grasp of the two men who held him, in a fit of unsuspected energy, the interpreter threw himself at the feet of the hoplite, embracing his knees.
‘I’m Greek, I’m a Greek like you are!’ he gasped with his lisp. ‘Sir, spare me, take me from the hands of these animals!’
The stench of that great sweaty body nauseated him, his nostrils being used to delicate oriental perfumes, but his terror of being torn apart by the enraged peasants kept him wrapped around those powerful legs.
The hoplite kicked him sharply, sending him rolling. Pale, dirty, dusty, the wretch closed his eyes and awaited the killing blow.
‘Get up,’ the commanding voice of the hoplite ordered. ‘Are there other groups in the countryside requisitioning wheat?’ he asked.
‘Will you save my life if I tell you?’ asked the interpreter opening his dazed eyes.
‘I don’t think you’re in any position to bargain,’ interrupted the archer mockingly.
‘Yes, there are. A group of soldiers with an officer will be at the village of Leucopedion tomorrow. I was supposed to meet them there. I don’t know of any others.’
‘Very well,’ said the archer, smiling. ‘You will meet them as planned!’ The interpreter’s large protruding eyes bulged. ‘And so will we, naturally. And now,’ he said to the peasants, ‘Tie his hands behind his back so we can take him away. We’ll put him to good use.’
‘Who are you?’ the one who seemed the village leader asked, drawing closer. ‘Tell us your names so that we can remember you.’
‘You’ll remember anyway, friend,’ said the hoplite, washing the tip of his spear in a small trough. ‘For now it’s better that you not know our names. Get to work instead: get rid of these corpses, clean all traces of blood from the earth, burn their wagons and wipe out their tracks. You can keep the mules if they’re not branded. If any Persians arrive tell them that you haven’t seen a soul. Hide a part of your wheat and keep it in reserve. They may try again.’
The archer took hold of the interpreter and they dragged him off in the direction of a hill to the north of town, as the crowd of peasants watched them from the village square.
After crossing the hill, they descended into a small valley sheltered from inquisitive eyes. Tied to an olive tree was a mule with its head drooping, flicking its tail every so often to chase away flies. The hoplite took off his armour and loaded it onto the mule along with his companion’s bow, then covered everything with a heavy cloth.
‘You fought magnificently, Talos,’ said the hoplite. ‘I never would have thought you could use that weapon so well.’
‘This weapon is deadly,’ answered the archer, gesturing towards the bundle on the mule’s back. ‘As old as it is, it’s still tremendously powerful.’
‘Keep in mind, though, that these men were mediocre combatants: with the Immortals it would have been completely different. My armour is designed for fighting in a compact formation, protected on each side by my comrades’ shields.’
‘That’s why I insisted on coming with you,’ said Talos. ‘You need an archer to cover you from behind and to scatter the enemy when they attack you in force.’
They retreated behind a large rock and sat in its shade waiting for night to fall.
*
The next day, at dusk, a satisfied Lydian officer was leading a few men from the village of Leucopedion with a good-sized load of wheat and barley, when he heard a cry for help in his own language, in an unmistakable Sardeis accent.
He thought he was dreaming. ‘By the Great Mother of the gods, what’s a man from Sardeis doing here?’ His men, too, had come to a surprised stop although they couldn’t tell where the cries were coming from since the path before them passed between two rocky crags and then curved sharply down towards the ford of the Ascreon torrent.
The officer sent a pair of soldiers ahead to see what was happening, but after passing the gorge the men did not return and no amount of shouting would bring them back. In the meantime, the sun had set and it was getting dark. As the officer was about to give the command to advance in open order towards the gorge, another cry for help was heard coming from the peak of the impending cliff to the left of the pathway: all turned in that direction, gripping their weapons, just as something shot through the air with a sharp whistle and one of the soldiers dropped to the ground with an arrow in his forehead. Before his comrades had recovered from their surprise, another soldier collapsed, struck full in his chest.
‘It’s an ambush!’ shouted the officer. ‘Take cover, quick!’ and he flung himself at the base of the rock, imitated by his men. ‘There can’t be many of them,’ he panted, ‘but we have to flush them out from up there, otherwise we won’t be able to pass. You go that way.’ He gestured to three of his men. ‘And we’ll go this way. Whoever they are, we’ll trap them between us and make them regret this joke bitterly.’
They proceeded to follow orders when from behind them resounded such a chilling cry that their hair stood on end. The officer reeled around and had only the time to see, on the cliff’s peak, a black demon heaving its spear at him before he collapsed, cursing and vomiting blood, run through from side to side.
The apparition barrelled down from the cliff, still howling, and hurled itself at the terrified survivors, helpless against the arrows that continued to rain from above sowing the ground with cadavers. The few surviving soldiers fled into the forest.
That evening the commander of the Persian detachment camped near Trachis noted that two squads and a Greek interpreter had not re-entered. He dispatched groups of horsemen to search for the missing soldiers but they returned late at night without having found a single trace; the men had simply disappeared.
In the last few months of that torrid summer and into the autumn many other strange and inexplicable happenings were reported in the villages spread on the slopes of Mount Oeta and Mount Kallidromos, and along the banks of Lake Copais.
The most incredible of these incidents occurred when a group of Paphlagonian soldiers in the service of the Great King were surprised by a cloudburst and sought shelter in an abandoned temple dedicated to Ares, venerated by the Greeks as the god of war.
The building had been violated and looted months before, but strangely enough the statue of the god was still on its pedestal, intact with its gleaming armour and carrying a great shield with the image of an open-jawed dragon.
One of the barbarians immediately thought that it was a pity to leave those splendid things at the mercy of the first person to come along. He drew closer to the statue with the intention of completing the looting that his comrades-in-arms had evidently left unfinished in the spring, when to his immense surprise he saw the statue turn its head towards him, its eyes shining with a sinister light in the darkness of its helmet.
He had no time to react, or even to cry out: the god Ares smashed his shield into his face with such force that it broke his neck. Then the god gripped his enormous spear and flung it at the others, piercing the throat of one of the Paphlagonians and nailing another to the doorpost. At the same time, from the crumbling roof of the building resounded dreadful cries, certainly inhuman, and a deathly rain of arrows felled a number of the soldiers to the ground, lifeless. When the survivors, mad with terror, related the incident to their commander, they were not believed; rather they were punished severely – it is well known that the Paphlagonians drink immoderately and when drunk are capable of any excess.
Certainly many of these tales seemed incredible and exaggerated, but such incidents multiplied instead of subsiding as is so often the case with unaccountable events. It was thus that among the Phocians and the Locrians, and even among the traitorous Boeotians, and in every village between the summits of Mount Kallidromos, the massif of Helicon and the disease-ridden banks of Lake Copais, news spread of the solitary hoplite who would appear suddenly along with an archer who had a strange, rolling gait. The
y were as quick as lightning and as relentless as fate itself.
*
‘I’m sure that he’ll show up,’ said Talos to his companion, all bundled up in a dark cloak. It was late autumn and the evening wind threatened rain. The two men stood in the shelter of an ancient olive tree laden with fruit. Thirty paces away was the Plataea and Thespiae crossroad. Not very far from there, at the foot of a little hill that hid the Asopus river bed, was a shrine with an image of Persephone carved in olive wood. Talos pointed it out. ‘Karas knows it well, it was he who described it to me. This is the first full moon of the autumn, so we can’t be wrong. You’ll see, he’ll be here.’ After some time, as it was beginning to get dark, a massive figure appeared on the road from Plataea, perched on an ass that swayed beneath his weight.
‘It’s him!’ exclaimed Talos.
‘I think you’re right,’ agreed Brithos, sharpening his gaze. The rider spurred on his ass, forcing it off the road and urging it towards the shrine next to the crossroad. He tied the animal and sat down on the base of the sacellum. Talos and Brithos exited their hiding place.
‘Ah, here you are,’ said Karas, getting to his feet. ‘I was afraid that I’d have to wait here and get soaked; it’s about to rain.’
‘Let’s go, quickly,’ said Talos taking his arm. ‘Let’s leave here before someone comes by.’ They pulled the ass after them, along a path tucked behind the hill, towards the valley of Asopus. They entered an abandoned pen that shepherds must have used some months earlier, before the horde of invaders had passed. Since then there had been no sheep to look after. They took off their cloaks, spread them on the ground, and sat down on them.
‘You’ve turned the whole region inside out, from what I’ve heard,’ began Karas. ‘Wherever I stopped I heard tell of the hoplite with the dragon and of the archer who accompanies him. Some even speak of supernatural apparitions. The old men say that the hoplite could be Ajax Oileus, come back to help his people and to combat the nations of Asia like at the time of the Trojan War.’
‘What about the archer?’ asked Talos with a smile.