After the terrifying blaze, the heavens wept. A torrential rain fell upon the scorched earth. But the gods were not yet done. The forest once devoured by fire and thought forever lost began to stir. Trees clothed themselves anew in green, flowers pierced through the ash, and the air filled with the fragrance of life. By the next morning, it was hard to believe that an all-consuming inferno had raged here just a day before.
But what drew the most wrath was the deed of the Athenians, who had set the forest alight. Their crime had insulted Hera, the mother of all living things. When she saw the sacred trees engulfed in flames, fury seized her.
The cause of it all was the death of the brother of the coalition army's commander. Driven mad by grief, he swore vengeance. Blinded by pain, he gave the order to burn the forest. For this cruel act, punishment soon found him delivered by his own comrades.
After the fire, the besieging army was forced to retreat. Robbed of morale and their belief in victory, they fled to their ships. The coalition lost every battle that followed. Their numbers dwindled. Even the Spartan army though victorious returned not in triumph, but burdened by loss.
Victory had become our sorrow. The war claimed nearly fifteen thousand Spartan lives. Of the entire army, only five thousand returned. In exchange, nearly fifteen thousand enemies fell.
In one of the final battles, the King of Sparta himself was slain. A true warrior. A true man. He fought to the last. Even when enemy spear and sword pierced his flesh, he did not fall. He remained standing dead, with eyes wide open, fixed on the enemy. Only kings die like that.
The Gerontes the elders of Sparta decreed that the throne would pass to his son. He was only twenty-six. By law, he could not ascend the throne before the age of thirty, so rule passed temporarily to the Council of Elders.
When it became known that the Athenian army had fled and abandoned the city, the Council declared that our commanders must be punished for "reckless" military decisions. We were summoned to the court. At first, they thanked us for our bravery, but then issued a formal reprimand. According to the Council, our tactics had led to excessive losses. Absurd. And yet, no matter how I wished to object the number of the dead spoke for itself.
Still, along with the reprimand, I was given a special spear. Its shaft was carved from the wood of an ancient oak, five hundred years old. The spearhead was forged of fine steel, shaped by blacksmiths blessed by Hephaestus himself. A worthy weapon.
I was also granted the restored helmet of a fallen veteran. Its surface was scarred and dented a witness to countless battles. It had seen death and glory, but remained strong, fit for war.
For valor and service to Sparta, we were all granted full citizenship despite being underage. The young king himself declared it would be a mistake to leave us as mere youths. From that day forward, in his words, we were warriors of Sparta.
But the truth lay deeper. For the next four years, there would be no new generation of warriors. The war had claimed too many lives. Every soldier counted now, until the ranks could be rebuilt.
I was granted a small house on the outskirts of Sparta, along with a vineyard a single plethron of land. A few helots were assigned to tend the property. I was also ordered to report to a new military camp. I learned all of this while still in the infirmary, as the orders were delivered. There was no choice. I could neither object nor refuse. I accepted with a weary sigh.
The city of Sparta was hauntingly empty. Most of its citizens had perished in the war. I hadn't seen it in ten years, and yet it seemed untouched by time. The same harsh laws. The same austere, disciplined air.
Sometimes I think perhaps one day, I will go to Athens. Despite everything that happened between us.
The Spartan army refused to relinquish its chance for victory. They sought to strike down the remnants of the enemy forces now that their rear was secure. But then, a messenger arrived from Olympus. Hermes himself. He bore the will of the gods: the war must end immediately. It was a command, and the king and the Council obeyed.
I could barely comprehend the sight of the god. He looked like something from legend almost as if he had stepped straight from the myths, or from the very game that first told his tale. He wore a white tunic and sandals laced with golden wings, allowing him to run with the speed of wind. Tall, slender, nearly three meters in height, he seemed something impossible among mere mortals.
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To even think of fighting such a being, one would need a strength no less than divine. But now, the purpose was clearer than ever.
When I finally left the infirmary and visited the house assigned to me, I spent only a single day there. It was nearly barren bare walls, sparse furnishings, a few pieces of furniture. Two women and one man, helots appointed by the state, tended to the home and garden.
The very next day, a Spartan came to me with orders: I was to report to the camp.
In Sparta, the camp was not just a military post it was family. These were the men you had trained with since the age of seven. Those with whom you had shared bread, pain, and blood. Strangers were rarely admitted into such ranks.
My only solace was that Damippus was also stationed there. We were the outsiders the youngest, barely known to the others in the unit. But even so, many had heard of our valor, of the blood and glory we had earned.