Bad Omen

Thunder crawled across the sky as the first few heavy drops of warm rain spattered through the trees to land upon metallic helmets, breast plates and shields; A rare event on the island of Sicily, and a bad omen amongst the God fearing Greeks - but a bad omen for which side?

As the deluge became heavier, Arementes was reminded of the sound of hollow applause, as if an audience of wraiths had gathered in the gloom and were showing their appreciation at the start of a play that was about to begin. All that he could hear above the din was the thudding of his own heart as he gazed through the silent trees upon what was soon to become a theatre of death.

The rain felt good, but for an archer, he knew it to be bad. The wetness would cause strings to become slackened and they would lose much of their power, fingers would slip from arrow shafts; their effectiveness would be lessened and vision would be reduced. But, it was too late now, for the archery company had been moved to this spot over-night to wait in ambush for the day’s conquest.

The Spartans had already mustered their army and everybody knew; once they committed to a fight, they would never back down. But, despite the misfortune of the weather, Arementes’ unit would still be close enough for an effective strike into the Spartan flank. It was just matter of waiting for the opposing forces to pass them by upon the open plain.

He glanced around at his fellow bowmen where they crouched, ready to let loose. He saw many nervous faces amongst the trees, rocks and wild bushes. His comrades and friends that he’d known for many seasons readied their weapons of disruption and made various attempts to cover them from the rain with cloak and leaf. To the front was a double line of hoplites to protect the archers if the enemy tried to attack them in the trees. These men were also well hidden with their massive spears safely kept low in the undergrowth ready to rise up against any Syracusan cavalry.

Arementes recognised this as being the harmony before the chaos and so he took the opportunity to relieve himself behind a nearby tree. The smell of his bowel mingled with the stench of fear throughout that wood and it was only made slightly less pungent by the cascading rain.

The Athenian forces, along with Sicilian units from several cities, were lined up near the bottom of the valley, enticing their opponents to attack by giving them the advantage of higher ground. This of course was why his unit now lay in wait in a copse of trees upon the left flank. Somewhere across the opposite side of the plane, there was another group of archers who were at that same moment laying among the grasslands readying an ambush of their own.

Up the hill, and just out of sight upon a natural low-lying plateau, the Sicilian capital of Syracuse resided. The Spartan forces had emptied the city and formed ranks upon the ridge, (also with their own contingent of native allies) and it had come to this; a battle for the city and a show of dominance for the victor that would echo throughout all of Greece… and the Isle of Sicily for a prize.

For Arementes, a fight with the legendary Spartan warriors was not a thing to be relished. He was quite prepared; as were his comrades; he was sure, to run if the enemy turned to meet them in retaliation against their arrows. He had purposefully hung back and chosen a spot close to the rear of the archer’s ranks so that he could flee if things went badly. He had his father’s business to think about, when eventually the old goat lay on his pyre, and a wife to find who could bear him sons, so he would not throw his life away so easily for the sake of a dithering general, nor would he die for the glory of Athens.

At least, that’s what he told himself, for in reality, he was scared for his life and wished he’d made something better of it before having to join the army. The main Athenian force was far too distant for his liking, and they could offer no protection if they were to remain static; as was the plan. Having made their way to the wooded copse with trepidation under the cover of night, the men had not had much heart for small talk or low whisperings and the mood had been dour for most of the day. Eventually, the time had come that they had been prepared for. It was time for war.

***

It began with a distant trumpeted call from somewhere over the ridge, a single high pitched tone, answered by a resonating horn from within the ranks of the Spartan army. All at once, it seemed to Arementes that a whole nation of men shouted as one, in a battle cry to shake the heavens. He prayed to Athene that this day would be short and the battle would be over before he and his unit found themselves impaled upon Spartan spears. He prayed too, that he would live to raise a family and that he would survive this day… for their sake. As he looked up, he saw his companions were also praying to whatever patron God or Goddess was listening.

The Spartan army eventually began its march down the valley to meet the Athenian horde with a professional trampling of sandaled feet and clanking of shield and spear. They made steady progress and after what seemed like too short a time, their ranks had begun to pass the archer’s positions just below the half-way point of the valley’s hillside; their bronze armour glistening in the rain. Arementes’ heart was nearly battering its way out of his chest as he fidgeted in anticipation of what was to come, and sweat broke out of his skin to mingle with the rainwater.

All too soon, the captains gave the pre-arranged, silent order for the archers to ready their bows by way of simple hand signals, and keeping low and out of sight; five hundred archers silently withdrew their arrows from a quiver at their hip and began to notch them to their bowstrings. Arementes’ hands shook as he loaded his bow. He watched as line upon line of veteran soldiers passed them by; so close.

It was a miracle that they hadn’t already been discovered. He took heart though as it began to appear as though the Athenian ambush tactic was going to work and he felt as though the Gods themselves were keeping his troop hidden. Arementes saw his senior officer ahead of him as he awaited the signal from his general in the valley below, at which time he would loose his arrows. He could see by the grim, unwavering stare on his face that the order was nearly upon them and Arementes took a deep breath, wishing his hands would stop shaking.

Finally, the order to attack came! Golden banners throughout the wooded copse were raised and the trap was to be sprung. Archers at the front remained upon one knee, while archers to the rear stood tall to draw their bows and unleash a hail of death and confusion through the trees and into the Spartan flank. Arementes stood, and on shaking legs he pulled with all his might at the string of his bow, knowing that his arrow couldn’t fail to hit a target amongst the square ranks of the enemy, as long as it didn’t hit a branch on the way through…

Suddenly, a great roar shook the woods… from behind

! Shock and adrenalin flooded Arementes’ system even more than it already had and he turned in time to see a cavalry charge about to hit them from the rear! Screaming war cries, the Syracusan horses mixed with many Spartan troopers charged over a small ridge which until this point, had hidden their approach, and his plan to avoid close combat had disappeared in an instant. He brought his bow to bear upon one of the leading horsemen in a vain attempt to stave off the overwhelming charge, praying that the others were doing the same, and pulled his arm back to shoot in one quick motion.

The horseman however, was quicker by far and had already launched his spear… Pain erupted through his every nerve as Arementes’ body was pierced and he was lifted into the air from the force of the throw. As he flew for what seemed like longer than he should, a thought dropped into his mind before he slammed into the hardy, unyielding tree that he had defecated behind earlier; Ridiculous! How can I be the first casualty?

And then a second thought hit him with nearly as much force as the spear; By Athene! I’ve been killed by a woman!

***

Arementes hung from the tree like a piece of game meat, skewered on the thick shaft of a Spartan Spear, unable to move or utter a sound. The pain had gone now. Its brief explosion throughout his nervous system had been cut short as he hit the tree and his spine had shattered and merciful darkness had taken hold. His consciousness however had since returned, and it seemed like a cruel trick from the Gods, as if they wished to mock him as he died.

Red liquid and rainwater ran down the length of his body, dripping heavily from his feet. He could smell the faeces as it wafted up from below, mixed with the rusty smell of his own blood and urine and that of his comrades that lay twisted, broken and dying all around. He managed to move his head slightly and saw through the trees, directly across from his position, fire burning in the grass where the other would-be ambushers had hidden. They too had suffered the same fate it seemed and Greek Fire would burn the wettest of grasses.

He could hear the sound of battle joined down in the valley below as the two opposing forces had come together without a single arrow being shot, and just like his unit, the Athenian army would most likely be lost.

Lastly, he spied the remnants of his fellow of archers mixed with around one hundred or so Hoplites who were routing up the rise and into the hands of the Spartans. They would be taken and made into slaves… but they would be alive

! If only he had been nearer the front. He cursed his cowardice for had he not delayed for a position to the rear, he would have foregone the dubious honour of being the first casualty of this war.

Forcing his head back around to the right, he saw… her!

His murderess! She was still sitting atop her steed surveying the butchery that her cavalry had wreaked upon the poor archers with a look of satisfaction across her face, and what’s more – she

was giving the orders! To Arementes’ addled Athenian mind, a woman on the field of battle was unheard of. Even among the Spartans, who for some unknowable reason treated their women with a level of equality, it was unthinkable, but to have one sitting there, brazenly barking orders to hard men who hurried to obey her commands… was absurd!

Maybe it was because he was dead, or as close to it as is humanly possible, he wasn’t sure, but he was surprised that he looked upon her, not with anger, hatred or loathing as he might have expected, but with simple admiration. She was not a big woman, nor was she scarred with years of service and hardship; but in her night black armour, she was darkly handsome with an air of authority about her that said she had seen and done things that most men could only dream of, and her last minute ambush of the Athenian amateurs was masterfully timed and brilliantly executed. It should be worthy of the highest honour the Spartans had to offer, and to be revered by these natural born warriors deserved a measure of respect, whether you are a Spartan prince… or a piece of meat hanging from a tree!

Blood had been sprayed up one side of her body and along her mount’s flank, probably from some other nameless victim; though he couldn’t for the life of him think what weapon could make a man explode in a fountain of crimson as the unfortunate, unknown soldier must have done. Her age was hard to determine. She looked young but her bearing gave her maturity and her eyes had much knowledge behind them. Her black hair, matted with the same blood which was not her own, framed a face of near perfection and her dark eyes glittered with the thrill of the kill. Her nose was almost cute

as it tilted upwards and her full, red lips were curled at the edges despite the serious tone of the orders she was giving. Quite beautiful

, he thought.

Arementes coughed up more blood as he laughed. Here he was, hanging like a fish in a smoke house making an appraisal of the woman who had just killed him. Athene may have deserted him this day, but the Gods, it seemed, were not without a sense of humour. Or maybe it was just that there was nothing left for him to do in this world but appreciate the last sight he would ever see.

He watched on helplessly as the woman sent Spartans and Sicilian horsemen to position themselves at the edge of the copse until eventually, she found herself alone. What is she up to?

He was beginning to find it hard to focus, but he kept his faltering gaze upon this warrior woman who commanded men, for she had dismounted now and found a place upon a log not fifteen yards away from where he hung. There was something amiss with this whole situation, and Arementes discovered that he needed to know at least some of the story of how a woman could become a leader of warriors.

She had not looked at Arementes once since he had regained consciousness; there was no reason to as he could pose no threat, but now she was pulling something out from inside her cloak and fiddling with it. For some reason, despite his terminal state, he needed to linger for a few more moments just to see what she held in her hands and what it could mean. There was something not right about that strange crackling sound that now emanated from in front of her and there was a mysterious, soft red glow that reflected back from her black armour. What could it be? Why did she need to be alone?

Darkness now encroached upon the periphery of Arementes’ vision. The scene within the grove was beginning to move away from him like a well-lit painting being taken by unseen hands down a pitch black tunnel, yet still he focused on the darkly clad woman with a fever coursing within his near empty veins. I must know!

He said to the Gods. Please, I must know!

As if in answer, the woman shifted in her seated position and turned around, looking down to her hand. In it, she grasped some sort of black, moulded oblong thing with a puzzling red light on the top and a long, thin protrusion that bent as she turned. The crackling noise then disappeared and she did the strangest thing; glancing over her shoulder to check if the coast was clear, she leaned forward and spoke into

the black box as if whispering into a lover’s ear. She spoke in a very quiet and yet, strangely eloquent manner; “Number two, gather your men together and Rendezvous with me in the centre. We’ll hit them from behind when we’ve re-grouped.” The crackling immediately returned and a small voice came back at her from within

the box in an equally articulate tongue, but higher in pitch;
“Very well… number one. I’ll meet with you in two minutes.”

Finally, at the end of his saga, Arementes had gained his understanding of this whole situation. At last, he now saw some of the truth of whom, and what this woman was. As his vision blackened and his heart stopped pumping his useless blood onto the earth, his mind gave vent to its final notions before shutting down forever… Aaaaah, now I understand. This woman is come from the future! She had already seen our ambush and moved against it... Brilliant!

He closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift into the nether realm and into the arms of whichever God would take him, be it Athene or Hades. In the last second before oblivion took him, and out of nowhere, his very last thought in this world suddenly occurred to him… How in the name of Zeus did I know that!?

***

The woman known by the Spartans simply as Octavia replaced her crude two way radio back within the pocket of her cloak. There were many more advanced ways with which to communicate, but this seemed like the easiest thing to hand at the time.

She mounted her stallion and was about to join the men, when she remembered her spear. “A Spartan without a spear is not a Spartan,” she said to herself, tilting her head from side to side, mocking their silly saying. But, with a roll of her eyes she wheeled her horse around and trotted back to her first kill of the day.

She noted with some amusement at how the body hung from the trunk of a tree a good six inches off the ground and commended herself on how good a throw it was to hit him dead centre of the chest. As she took hold of the solid oak shaft to retrieve her weapon, she paused as she studied the corpse before her. There was absolutely nothing remarkable about his facial features and his hair, now exposed to the elements was worn in the traditional Athenian style. But there was that in his expression that she had never seen before on the face of a dead man… She could only describe it as a look of utter confusion crossed with total frustration, as if his final thoughts had been some sort of unfathomable question to which he will never now know the answer.

With no time to ponder this small phenomenon, Octavia shrugged and wrenched the spear with some effort from both tree and flesh. Rearing her horse in order to make a quick turn, she flicked the weapon once to be rid of its gore, and rode away to lead her men onto the battlefield… and to victory.

Arementes’ body fell to the ground and into his own filth with ne’er a coin for his eyes to pay the Ferryman for the journey across the River Styx.


To be continued……..

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Texte: Original cover art work by myself
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 04.09.2011

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