Theodoros trudged painfully through the sand of the beach. The midday sun highlighted the fresh olive and cypress trees which dotted the verdant green hills hiding next to the unforgiving deep blue of the Mediterranean Sea.
In one hand, he clutched a scroll, a missive taken from the body of a Hoplite commander he had the pleasure of slaying with his own spear. It detailed a cowardly attack which was to take place upon the next morning in which a small fleet of triremes were to make landfall to plunder the undefended wealth and women of Lakkas on the other side of the peninsula.
In his other hand, he clutched a soaked crimson fabric, the only barrier preventing his entrails from spilling out onto the coarse sand beneath.
He cursed Anekletos for forcing Theodoros to retreat from an honorable death. The wetness of his left hand assured him he would be standing at the gates of the underworld sooner than later. At least by warning his fellow Spartans he could retain some favor with the gods.
His chest burned, his feet were abraded and bleeding, and his head thundered as if the gods themselves were battling in his own skull. Yet he persevered, forcing himself to move step by step across sand, rock, soil, grass, and brush. He marched as the sun scorched and reddened his already tender skin.
That damn Athenian! If only Theodoros had moved faster he could have dodged the edge of his spear before it split his belly. Those cowards had caught the camp by surprise and surely by now he was the last survivor, albeit one whose life was fading fast.. He had to keep moving North.
He staggered up a rocky slope and lost his step and the rocks slid from under him. Making a recovery, he tried to make it up to his feet but to no avail. His right leg was met with a pain that nearly brought him to the brink of passing out from the shock. Grunting, he relieved the pressure from his dressing and dragged himself forward up the slope, reaching for a thick, sturdy branch ahead.
His vision began to blur towards the edges, and he paused for a moment. He knew if he lost his consciousness, he would not regain it. Exasperated, he turned over and screamed at the heavens.
“Gods! I have served you well with this life of mine! I have fought and sacrificed all in your name. Grant me only the strength to complete my mission!”
His fury and frustrated movement triggered another slide of the rocks on the slope, enough to bring the branch just out of reach. With a struggling push, he snatched the staff and brought it under him, hoisting Theodoros off the ground and onto a single leg, careful not to affect his lame leg.
“I thank you! My soul is not long for this world! When my task is done, do with it as you wish!”
Theodoros crested the ridge. A breeze of fresh sea air brushed his face as he looked upon the shoreline, the early fires lit down beneath as twilight began to take hold with the pull of Apollo’s chariot.
Victory! At this distance he would reach the coastal village before midnight. He took one step forward, his strength choosing that moment to betray him, collapsing his body and sending Theodoros tumbling down the other side of the hill. Broken, he lay on the grass watching the sunset, his wounds keeping him tethered to the earth.
A pair of hands slid from behind, pulling him up to a seat and embracing Theodoros. His hand reached up in protest and defense of himself, to which a woman’s voice shushed him, and placed her feminine hand on his.
“Who has come to claim my soul! Is that you Charon? I am not done yet!”
“Be at ease, brave Spartan,” she spoke unto him. “I am neither man nor oarsman. We are of the same blood,”
“Release me, for I bring a message of peril! Release me so I may arrive at the village of Lakkas and deliver this scroll to the warriors before the dawn,”
“I am afraid the only place you will be arriving is the realm of Hades. My sons are strong, and my horses are fast. We will deliver your message in your stead. For now, find peace within my bosom. You have done well,”
Theodoros wrestled with himself for a moment, then concluded his mind. A smile crossed his face, satisfied and his body relaxing all at once. He leaned there for a moment, gazing upon the twinkling of the stars beginning to appear above. At last, he unclenched his hand and released the tattered, blood-spattered scroll, letting it roll from his palm to the softness of the grass where he lay. Above, Apollo began his journey across the sky.
5711 Writing 