I got this idea to actually connect these unrelated musings into an actual story. Of course, this was before I had read Crime and Punishment and also before I started becoming depressed, so the writing style may not exactly be like my current writing style. Still, I someday hope to complete an extended narrative like this one (was intended to be)
This was written around the time we were studying Sophocles, so there is some Sophoclean influence in the Greek culture I tried to describe and the names.
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CHAPTER ONE.
Achilles looked at the ocean. It appeared as if he were in a dream – the ocean had almost a magical view to it. The water seemed to rise out from below the horizon, a majestic mist that would soon blot out the setting sun. But it seemed too perfect, the setting sun turning the whole sky a ruby red, all the while some kind of steam rose from the ocean to give the whole sky a dreamlike feeling. It was all too much. He almost expected an apparition of peace, prosperity, and pleasure to emerge from the haze, to tell him that they had conceded, that all would be peaceful from now on, and that no more innocent lives would have to be sacrificed to the Gods of War.
Of course, all good dreams have to end. Nothing in this world can ever be perfect. If we reach the ideal of perfection, what use is there to living? Everything would have no goal, no purpose. It would all be in vain. We would just live our lives feeding off of our good fortune. So in a way, perfection in a way is like a mirage. We try to move towards it. We try to grasp it in our hands, to feel it. Yet when we move closer to it, it always seems to disappear. Maybe that is a good thing. It gives us a sense of mystery to the ideal. With the mystery comes open interpretation. We are free to play and shape the mould that is our image of perfection. If we were ever to reach perfection, that mould would change from soft clay into metal. Something that is rigid, unshapeable, something that can only decay from its zenith state. Maybe it is the fear that once we find that perfection, it would disappoint us that keeps us from more aggressively pushing for it. So, Achilles woke up from his trancelike state to a full color view of the Centron triremes. There were two – no three hundreds of them. Just then a disturbing thought entered his mind. How did the Centrons even know how to build triremes again? It was the State policy to burn captured ships.
Achilles turned back and began to run down the road. Of course he was facing away from the sun, and running into the twilight. Darkness made him sleepy. It was a strange feeling, being overwhelmed with the nervousness of facing the invasion. It was his first and possibly only chance to show himself. Despite all this, he began to feel drowsy and pensive. It must have been the spectral scene he had just been witnessed a few minutes ago. Though the rise of the Centron triremes through the mist was almost like a hammer smashing a window, the shattered fragments of that dreamscape had magnetic properties. They began to recollect, the whole-again image wrapping itself around Achilles’ body.
Of course, it was when he was a child. He was still under the instruction of Heraclytus. He was a well-traveled man. He had avoided the collapsing pillars of the First Greek Republic, lived under Roman hegemony, and now returned to tell his tale. It was on that day – the day Achilles received a letter of admission to the military Academy. For some reason, this day struck out more than any other in his mind.
“Heraclytus?”
“Have you a question, my student?”
“Why are the Greeks stuck on Crete? I’ve heard so many tales of the old Republic, the one that was on the mainland. What happened?”
“Normally I would never tell anyone. Everyone has some kind of treasure, whether it be concrete or abstract. I guess you could say this is my treasure. The Gods have blessed me, Achilles. I profess; I must be the last man alive that still remembers the old days. All the others are dead or have been traumatized by the experience.”
“Just over seventy years ago, I was working as an apprentice in Delphi to an ironworker when it came. Nobody had expected the rains to come so soon, or so suddenly. They say that while the Oracle was praying to Zeus, a bit of mucus fell on the sacred circle. Poor man – he had a cold, and his nose was running like the Styx. It was bound to happen anyways.
In his rage, Zeus gave the man what he wanted – rain, he made sure that he would give us so much rain that we would never need to ask again for a thousand years. It rained for two weeks straight, torrential rain that pelted the walls, rain that drenched a man who stood outside for one second, rain that bit by bit ate away at our great Parthenon. We were blessed that he only flooded us for two weeks. Although our crops for this year were ruined, it was still possible to rebuild. That was when the second flood came.
The Greeks were once aggressively at war with the Centrons. Achilles, my student, what have you learned about the Centrons?”
“I learned that they were a barbaric tribe of men who wore pelts for clothes, and sacrificed their prisoners of war to their war god. My parents told me that the Centrons had once invaded the First Republic, and after a long struggle they were forced to give up. The Greeks could not bear to witness the savageness of the Centrons, and in the end they voted to surrender to them. Most of the Greeks went in exile to the east, while some of them sailed to the Aegean Islands, where we live now.”
“I see. Very typical response, very toned down, very euphemized. Like eating a cake without any garnishing – pretty much the cake base only. You obviously know the basic story, and the basic facts about the Centrons, but the details… they are rather sparse and inaccurate.
We Greeks suffer from a horrendous arrogance. Ever since the creation of the Republic, when the ideals of democracy were firmly instilled in us, we have thought we were the blessed people, the ones the Gods have set apart to guide and lead a planet of savages towards the truth. When we lose, we try to avoid saying that we lose. What kind of political leader would like to outright admit a loss? We tend to bend the truth, as if we were trying to sugar-coat a terrible bitter medicine. When that fails, we blame others!”
Heraclytus broke out into a cheerful laughter. Something inside him sparked nostalgia; a small part of that conversation reminded him the prosperous days of the First Republic. For a second, he seemed as if he was standing on the steps of the Parthenon, orating to an audience, as he had in his prime years. Then, as suddenly as this overwhelming surge of warmth overcame him, it left him. He was again an aged, exiled criminal of the truth. He started coughing and had to reach for a jug of water.
“Where was I again? … Right, I was at the part where the Centrons invaded. Like I was saying, the second flood was not natural. It was not of pure and pristine water, but was of the crimson banners of the Centrons… Oh, I forgot to tell you who the Centrons really are.
The Centrons, the mortal enemies of the Greeks, are fair-haired peoples that live to the North. <unfinished>
CHAPTER TWO - MILITARY ACADEMY.And so, with the consuls of Heraclytus, Achilles enrolled in the military academy. He had no trouble fitting in with the environment – “It was like I was born to do war” – he would later remark. Within a few weeks, while the other new students were still trying to learn the ropes, Achilles already was trying to sneak into the more advanced classes, hoping to grab some knowledge.
It comes naturally that with great talent comes great envy, and many enemies. Achilles was in no way immune to this. Creon and his cronies caught particular notice of Achilles pretentiousness. Inside, Creon did admire Achilles’ natural military planning ability, but to keep his image – to remain the tough enforcer of his peers, he had to put on a mask of loathe. One of his cronies suggested to “shut down” Achilles once and for all – and almost like a chain of dominoes, all plans feel naturally in place. It was almost as if an ethereal force had compelled Creon to go forth with this plan, as if a greater part of his mind than his conscious, the part of the mind that represents innate animal simply directed him to act. He had no memories of agreeing to the plan, yet he knew the basic details. They would corner Achilles, and disable his legs.
The plan was to take effect on a cloudy day, one where the clouds were so black to show the certainty of the forthcoming storm. The waves crashed against the precarious cliffs near the Barracks; the wind screamed through the long grass. If one listened carefully enough, one could hear thunder in the far off distance. The first-years had just finished basic swordplay training, and Achilles was one of the last ones to be heading back to the Barracks. Creon noticed this; he motioned to his cronies to enact the plan.
Achilles was caught unawares. His wooden sword had broken during training, so he had to find the other piece, which he eventually found among a patch of unusually tall grass. By the time he picked up the fragments of his sword, all the others had headed back, that is, all the others except Creon and his cronies.
“Going somewhere, Mr. Showoff?” taunted Creon. The rest of his gang snickered, as if on cue. “No teachers to protect you now… it’s just you… let’s see how well your brain handles the blade of my sword!”
Just then, the wind picked up. Creon rushed at Achilles with his sword. Instead of aiming at the neck, or at the heart, more logical places to aim a killing blow, Creon aimed at Achilles’ right calf. This put his height advantage at a disadvantage, and Achilles was easily able to deflect the blow with the longer fragment of his broken sword. Creon’s gang soon followed suit. Even if Achilles could deflect every single block, the force of eight other boys would be enough to knock over and restrain him, and his arms and legs. Then they could begin hacking away at… but at that moment, as if some part of his real character enveloped his mind and his body, Creon halted.
“Stop! My men... this is not a fair fight, nine men against a cripple. I don’t care if we all loathe him. A fight is not a fight unless it’s fair. That is why I will fight Achilles alone. Don’t worry… the plan will still be carried out.”
“Pah! Wooden swords can’t do any damage to his…” began one Creon’s gang.
He stopped mid-sentence because of Creon. He took off his leather helmet, and was in the process of removing his leather tunic, and his undershirt.
“My parents were the greatest warriors in Sparta. That is, before the tragedy. In Sparta, real fights, duels, were fought bareback, with no armor. Protection is for the weak, the timid. If you hide behind a wall while catapults are hurling rocks at it, it doesn’t matter if the rocks only make a dent in the wall. If you stay passive, and hide behind that wall, it will eventually break.
Spartan fighting relies on killing the other enemy before he can get a chance to strike. We are trained tough, so that we can handle harder blows to our body. It’s not that we are a stronger people – we just have the right mindset. We train ourselves not to worry about petty details. When in battle, we tone down our thoughts. Only the most important thoughts are allowed to exist. That is how a true warrior focuses on the battle. It doesn’t matter if you have a mortal wound. All that matters is how many heads you take. People won’t remember you for your stupidity in getting killed by the enemy. They only remember your achievements. That is why, in Sparta, we fight till the end. Surrendering is worse than dying. We train men, not cowards.
Achilles, I ask you, as your equal and enemy in combat, to follow the Spartan rules. As your equal, you have the right to a fair match. But if you don’t obey – then you’re not my equal. Then you are an inferior. At that point, I’ll call my men to pounce on you. So either way, your fate is set. Either face it like a man, or die like a coward. What do you choose?”
Without saying a word, Achilles copied Creon; he removed his helmet, his leather tunic and his undershirt. The only thing worse than being humiliated in battle was to be called a coward. Soon, the two combatants stood a mere three meters apart, on a patch of grass that was shorter than the rest. Creon’s gang stood by on his side, utterly silent. This was a match of honor, and his gang knew better to interfere. A rumble of thunder signaled the start of the duel.
Dimak, the head teacher of the Academy and mentor of the first-years, spied through a hidden slit in the walls of the Barracks. He saw two children locked in what appeared to be an important duel, for the combatants and audience were silent. Of course, it was too noisy anyways, with the chatter of all the other students changing and preparing for the day’s lectures. But he guessed that anyways. At that moment, he noticed that Achilles, and Creon and his friends were not among the students changing. And instead of feeling a compelling need to break up the conflict before anyone was seriously injured, he felt that he should let the duel run its course. He was very interested in the outcome… the battle of logic versus brute force. But in his mind, he already knew that Achilles would receive a serious beating. He was more interested in the aftermath than the actual battle.
“Students, I need to check the tides,” he lied, as he went outside to get a better view.
On one side, Achilles stood, slightly hunched over and slightly limping on his left leg. On the other side, Creon stood, his near-perfect muscular form, standing erect. Despite all of Creon’s insisting on a fair fight, to any bystander, the fight was anything but that. Achilles held the longer fragment of his sword in his main hand, the shorter fragment, which was actually the hilt, in his offhand. Creon stood gripping his sword with both hands.
And like a thunderclap, Creon struck Achilles point-blank across the face. Creon used the wooden blade to its full advantage. Instead of trying to slash, which would have been ineffective due to the bluntness of the blade, Creon slapped, or to more accurately describe it, attempted to crush Achilles’ face. The results of that one hit were devastating. Creon’s gang was even shocked, but they were more in awe at the strength of their leader. Achilles started bleeding from the eye, in the form of bloody tears, his nose started to spurt blood, and his lip was completely deformed, as if it had exploded. Yet he still stood in the almost same position.
Achilles’ counterattack was of a different style. His blade was shorter, in that he then gained the advantage of a faster attack, and he slashed. Creon had trouble blocking his attacks, which came with increasing speed and intensity. Yet instead of slashing Creon, Achilles decided to use his offhand weapon to stab Creon, straight in the middle of his chest. Creon doubled back slightly, but less than Achilles thought he would. He caught him completely unaware and raised his sword above his head, intending to crush Achilles’ skull…
But Achilles hid under a taller patch of grass, which helped to slightly slow down Creon’s attack, and obstruct his view. And when Creon finally saw the result of his swing, he was taken aback. Achilles had used both hands, and both of his weapons to block his attack. Of course, if Achilles had attempted to block his swing with one hand, he would have been easily overpowered. But with two hands, it was if his will to resist, and his strength, not only doubled, but quadrupled. Creon had never seen anyone block with both his hands before. In the stories that his mother used to tell him, he never once heard of a person that did what Achilles had just done. He basically knew two types of defenders from her stories – one type, which he was, that would block with only the sword. He also heard of another type of fighter, who would carry around pieces of square, or circular metal and use that to block swings, fighting with the other hand. But that concept of using a “shield” (which is what his mother told him what those men called those pieces of metal) was foreign to the Spartans. It went against the theory of maximum power. From what he had heard from his mother, shields were only used by cowards, men who would hide behind a barrier and wait to get slowly struck down. But the actions of Achilles were completely novel, in many cases. It was as if Achilles had the ability to create brilliant strategy on the spot.
But Achilles was still a child, and capable of making foolish errors simply because of his naivety. After that block, Achilles began to slash at Creon with both weapons. Creon suffered some light scratches each rotation of his blades, since his one sword was not enough to block against two perfectly timed slashes at once. But had Achilles really forgotten? Creon was a Spartan, a people who were renowned for their ability to survive pain. Achilles was trying to scratch a boulder with a wooden stick. Creon played the waiting game. He wanted to wait for Achilles to either get tired, or trip. And within a few more seconds of Achilles’ assault, he got wish. Achilles nearly tripped on a rock; it was not enough for him to fall over, but it was enough to make him lose his rhythm. Creon took his blade in both hands, and gave Achilles a rib-shattering hit to the chest, which caused him to double back and fall over in pain.
And now Creon strode over to the fallen hero, intending to end this duel, and Achilles’ military career. His sword was raised; he intended to shatter the bones of Achilles’ lower right leg.
“Well Achilles, though I do commend you commend you for not being a coward, I win. And now I’ll reveal my plan…”
Captain Dimak, who was hiding in the shrubs, walked out. He looked slightly disturbed, but had a twisted smile on his face as if Creon was a mouse who had just become caught in his trap.
“Well Creon, don’t you think you’ve punished poor Achilles enough?”
“Dimak… sir…”
“Don’t worry! I saw it all. Very nice job parrying his slashes, then taking advantage his mishap to strike. You could use some work controlling your strength, however. Like a cheetah, one must wait for the opportunity to pounce. Be like a cheetah. The masters of patience. Perfect accuracy. Perfect agility. Perfect strength. The magus opus of all beasts.”
“Thank you sir…”
“As for what you’ve done in the last ten minutes. It’s perfectly illegal and I should punish you all severely. How does thirty hours of slave work over the next week sound? But I came here for another purpose. I hope that you, Creon, have learned a lesson. True, you are a great warrior, you come from a lineage of Sparta’s most decorated and honorable soldiers. True, you’ve inherited the strength, agility, and cunning that your parents possessed. You’re probably one of the best students in the academy at duels. But, you’re forgetting the point of war. No one man can single-handedly withstand the assault of an organized army. If your belief that higher power always wins is true, then we should have lost every single battle of the First Centron-Greek War. Each battle, the Centrons outnumbered us by at least two to one. And add the fact that the Centrons, due to their harsher living conditions and difference in diet, are stronger and more agile than the average Greek is. We should have been extinct a while ago.
But what sets us apart is strategy. Not strength, strategy. Oh, I was a commander before in the Greek legions, many years ago. Sure, my men resented me for being able to stand on the sidelines and yell commands, instead of risking my life in the heat of battle. But a commander is much more important than ten, if not a hundred of my men. That’s right; I’d trade one hundred warriors of your caliber, Creon, for one brilliant commander.
That poor kid you beat up, Achilles, has the potential to be that commander. He has more potential than any of you. He may be the most brilliant first-year strategist I have ever seen. So you better treat him with more respect. He might just be commanding you in the near future. Look at the seas, Creon. They bubble with the currents of unease. The second Centron-Greek war is imminent. Last I’ve heard, the Centrons have already taken over Sparta. That’s right, your precious little home run over by those brutes. Isn’t that a righteous enough reason to fight?
I’ve already discussed with the top commanders; war at first sight. It won’t be many years – ten, maybe twelve, before the Centrons amass a large enough fleet to invade Crete. This sanctuary won’t be around much longer. So think, in twelve years, when you’re twice as old as you are now, you might just come face to face with the scum that your parents disemboweled daily. And Achilles might just be your commander.
If I were you, I wouldn’t expect any leniency from that man. If he holds back your rations, if he makes you sleep outside of a tent, if he makes you part of a suicide mission, don’t come crying back to me, or your parents. I probably will be dead by that time, and your parents…”
Creon’s face flushed a little and a twisted frown found its way onto his face. He might have also shed a tear…
“Martial law supports the commander, Creon. You’re just the worker ant. No matter how you try to skew things, if you disobey your commander, you can be executed, and at the very least sentenced to hard labor. So I’d think twice about making enemies with that man.”
Captain Dimak stood with the exact same stance and expression he had at the start of his speech. Only his face was slightly flushed and his breathing was a little tenser.
“Come on boys. Got a class to catch, right?”
Creon and his gang <obviously unfinished>
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