Across dry plains they marched, two astride. A great trail of dust in hot pursuit, nearly as hot as the gleaming sun that bore down upon the shining column of bronze clad men. Their red plumes bobbed up and down like winds blowing through crimson grass. Stern faces, browned by the very sun that shone upon these ancient lands, looked ever forward, crossed by the equally bronze backed cuirass of the brother in arms ahead. Their shields held decorations of many a mythological creature: three headed hell hound, snarling, its fangs barred; the furious gaze of the serpentine haired she-beast that could turn even the boldest warrior to stone; the horned visage of the man-bull of legend, who could take many an army of men on its own.
Among the throng so did march young Elasus, a shining example of youth, filled with the anticipation, and tremendous anxiety, of future battle. It was the first time that he was of age to serve the polis, a shining beacon of prestigious civilization in all the lands, the jewel upon mankind’s achievement, so jealously regarded by those that would eagerly seek its downfall. And against those, this very, sun beaten day they marched.
The faithful prophecy that propelled them onward into martial contest had come to them during the blessed feast of the strongest of the pantheon, lasting fourteen days and nights. Wine flowed freely, as nature’s blessing had indeed been bountiful that year and so did the roasts, served in great quantities as the oxen had grown fat from plentiful grain, harvested from the golden hills that rose up towards the polis like pleading hands reaching for its greatness. So too could the gods be pleased with offered wine and oxen a plenty and in return they bestowed upon the hallowed oracle the prophecy. Elated were the merrymakers when one of the white robed handmaidens rushed down the marble steps of the great temple that sat upon the highest hill and, in near breathlessness, brought forth the message:
‘’Champions of the gods
These great men be
Finest sons of the beacon of light
Before them
All foes shall flee
Under sun kissed heavens
They shall march
And run down their nemesis
In thunderous charge
The hills will quake
The temples of their false gods shake
Their doom draws ever near
Hurry, do not fear
Take up weapons for righteous cause
Or the blessing of the gods
Forever be lost’’
With the words spoken, the handmaiden fair fell to the earth, the excitement of it all gripping her heart firm. Swiftly she did recover, tended to by young Elasus, a farmer’s son by birth and trade who too had indulged in the bountiful feasts, but now a righteous warrior upon a blessed warpath.
Determination swelled his heart as he thought of the beautiful Melita, the emerald eyed maiden that came to and met his gaze. Continued attempts afterwards to swoon the handmaiden that very night had held little results, so duty bound was the tender of the holy, the oracle. But where charisma and wine induced courage found little purchase, a display of trophies and plunder gained through martial prowess might make for a change of heart. The sun’s golden glow grazed the hills that early morning as Elasus stole from his parental home, donning his father’s plumed helmet, bronze cuirass and weathered pole-arm and shield. A citizen of the polis, so to had his father’s duty be to stand in the phalanx and meet any foe with steeled courage, though rarely he spoke of it, lest deep within a jug of wine.
Daydreaming as his sandaled feet carried him on, Elasus was swept from fanciful fantasy as the leading man cried out. Of in the distance he saw it to, a rolling dust cloud, much akin to their trail could be seen behind the hill. It came as little surprise, Elasus’ throng had been too numerous to go unnoticed and sightings of movement in the low brush and in the late dusk did suggest scouts. Not long until the enemy did appear, spired helmets reflecting the sun’s rays, purple plumes dancing in what little wind there was. Truly, the prophecy must have rang true, this meagre opposition offered little a daunting sight, so few in number. The lines were drawn and Elasus found himself in the phalanx’ forward ranks, his shield covering his neighbour, a gruff carpenter, and his neighbour’s shield him. With deep breathes and gaze affixed upon the approaching foe who so boldly advanced, Elasus’ waited anxiously, his hand gripped upon the paternal spear. The command bellowed out and Elasus rushed forward as the two lines clashed in an ear splitting collision. Elasus yelled a terrific battle cry as his spear lunged forward, finding purchase in an opening of the opposing wall, piercing the neck of a young man much as himself, his soul cast down to the underworld before his time. Elasus yelled and stabbed as if a man possessed, blood of friend and foe alike dripping from sweated brow. Yet the foe would not yield. Though their numbers did so rapidly decrease, they held firm.
It was than as if the gods themselves crashed down upon the bloodied, dusty plain, so rumbled the earth. A yelp of horror came from the rear lines which made even Elasus avert his gaze from the foe. A costly mistake. As a line of chariots, uncountable in number rounded the hill and came thundering towards their ranks, a spire helmeted foe’s spear pierced through Elasus’ side, making the young warrior fall to the dusty earth. The foe, thirsty for blood, could not finish his kill as another spear pierced his neck, making him sink to his knees, another soul for the ferryman. Elasus gasped for air, crawling backwards, dragging himself along as one hand clutched his side. He found himself in an underbrush as the chariots, so cunningly flanked, crashed into the lines of the polis’ men, breaking and scattering the warriors. Chaos and confusion paired with the clamour of battle and dust filled air did the rest and before the sun sunk behind the hills, the army of prophecy blessed men laid scattered and eviscerated upon the plains.
As night fell and the cries of wounded and dying brothers in arms became less as the victorious foe reaped their butcher’s rewards. A fate spared for young Elasus, though perhaps a mercy it would have been, as he laid within the underbrush, fading in between the dreaming realms where Melita dwelled and the agony filled reality of the cried filled night.
A blessed warrior perhaps, for Elasus did see the dawn emerge once again. Whether it be a favour of the gods or willpower alone, so did Elasus rose, the wound that pierced his flank bleeding steadily. For how long he clambered and limped across the slaughter filled plain and into the verdant, rocky hills, he could not tell, his mind filled with agonizing pain and drifting between this realm and the next. His blurred vision did finally see a great black plume of smoke arise in the distance. Cresting the hill, Elasus sunk to his knees at the dreadful sight before him: The golden fields of wheat were black and smouldering and strewn about laid the oxen so fat, their blood flowing like crimson rivers down the scorched hills. The polis was ablaze and the clamour of pillage and slaughter rang far and wide.
Upon final legs, dazed young Elasus drew forward, limping and stumbling in between the burned fields and into the streets of the plundered polis. Akin to a spectre and as pale as well, Elasus moved near unnoticed, his peripheral, ever decreasing vision, bearing witness to the atrocious fate of a polis sacked.
He found himself upon the highest hill on the great plaza, now stained by blood, before the holiest temple, its riches now spoils for the plundering victor. Upon the steps laid the bodies of the devout and amongst them she sat, purple robes splattered by blood and stained with soot as she cried into her hands. Elasus looked up as the oracle lifted her face from her lacerated hands, cackling maniacally as her violet eyes found the browns of Elasus. ‘’The temple of the false gods did shake.’’ She laughed. With mouth opened, dumbfounded, Elasus finally fell, his vision turning black right after, for a final time, he looked into emerald eyes.