Between Lions and Men

29: let the bloodstained spoils be

Ithaca

"What is it you are doing?" I find Aias and about ten others engaged in a hopeless battle with some thirty of theirs. Aias has a large beam and is quite knocking over the enemies. Hecktor is in close battle with three but he's rapidly retreating himself.

"Do you want to tell Peleus we returned without his companion?" Aias growls, "Not even your tongue would get you through that speech, I reckon."

"What---?" I turn and look where he indicates. Menoetius is not ten yards from us, lying in a pool of his own blood, his body nearly broken in two, dark hair blood caked, black eyes staring blankly ahead. "No." They did not let him die? They could not let him die. "Where is the armor?"

"Already taken, we've fought over his body the better part of this hour. Hecktor intends to tear him apart and feed him to dogs, and put his head on a spike. See? He's nearly cut the head clean off already."

I dive into the fray. I get close enough to reclaim the corpse. Hecktor is beaten and bloodied, a massive scar across his face, fresh from Menoetius' knife no doubt. I smile at that. The knife is still in the stubborn dead man's hand. I smile at that as well. Stupid man. Of course he lies dead now. That is usually the fate of any man who goes against Hecktor in single combat, as I'm sure he did.

"Why do you not fall back---I see," the goddess is at my side, in her countenance of another soldier, though none seem to note her.

"He'll defile the corpse," I say.

"He will at that---you must take him back for burial," she says, shaking her head. An arrow flies narrowly past me, I'm sure by her hand. "Did you order them to march on the wall?"

"Never," I say, turning where she gestures, to a group of men trying to break through the enemy line, towards the walls. They are mostly led by a man, taller than Aias, with dark glasses obscuring his face and no rank on his uniform----my heart misses a beat as he turns our direction. Brutal Ares, happily leading my men into the bloody carnage.

"I'm going to go and deal with that," the goddess says, annoyed, a spear materializing in her hand. "Focus on this battle before you. You must reclaim the corpse."

I obey. But Hecktor is dogged. They are as determined to claim him as we are, despite our supposed treaty. They out number us three to one. Aias and I are like madmen. Despite our injuries from the previous day we both battle on, but as one gains ground the other quickly loses it. Menoetius's corpse is no closer to our line than theirs, for as soon as we stagger past it they are pushing us back again. And again. I have no bow or arrows anymore, no weapon save a bayonet that I took from one of their dead hours ago. My feet are heavy and my head ready to spin with fatigue.

"Ithaca, tell me you have some clever words to win this?" Aias looks no better than I. His own jacket is ripped, the bullet proof vest long gone, he has a rock in one hand he's smashing in heads with, and a knife in the other. By now Menoetius' body is long since cold, as it lies there, broken and bloody, innards smashed out onto the cobble stones as we trod past him. His dark hair, straighter than my own, and the soft bronze skin reminds me of that of my son, even though I'm not that far his senior. I imagine my own boy, leaping into battle, only for them to drag his corpse backward. What sentimentality is this? I should lack it in battle, it does me no good. But the urge to scoop him up in my arms, and wipe the grim from that still face, exists all the same.

"I have none," I sigh. We could turn tail and run but I'd sooner not; we'd be killed as well. Hecktor looks as worn as I, but that angry light of the gods burns in his eyes. Wicked Ares had his time with us all today I think. He is gone now, as is his sister, my own goddess.  

"Auto---boy, here---to us," Aias drags me from where I stand, two others of our own move swiftly to take my place.  I hold up a broken slab of wood I had as a shield as Aias drags me to the boy. Boys.

"Did they multiply?" I ask, pointing to two boys crouched behind a dumpster, they are both in uniform with caps pulled over their hair.

"I care not, Auto, you must run to Captain Peleus, now, and tell him that his comrade has fallen at Hecktor's hands, and now we still fight around his body," Aias says.

"You, go and run to Colonel Sparta, that if Captain Peleus will not come we need some cover for a retreat," I say, to the other.

Both boys nod and go as they are bid. And I turn, weary, and return to the fray of the battle.

"Even if he knows, he has no armor," I point out, "You already lost that."

"I lost nothing, a god must have done it, Sergeant Menoetius did not fall readily, he fought twenty men at once, I witnessed it myself," Aias says.

"Well, now he lies dead, and we die trying to reclaim him," I say, "And it will be near an hour before we get any relief from either side. Even if Captain Peleus is summoned he has no weapon or armor. If I had my bow that would be one thing, ten archers on these rooftops and the day would be ours."

"If I had some rest that would be one thing," Aias grunts, "Peleus will come now."

"I don't see what he can do with no armor," I growl. That armor was made by the gods. And now Hecktor has it? That is beyond the worst thing that could happen. The man is a force unto himself, rivaling Peleus in his stamina and cruelty. Evidenced by the battle we are waging to prevent Menoetius' head from going on a spike on their city walls.

"Do you think Auto has gotten there yet?" Aias asks, he's panting heavily and bleeding from I don't know where. It's been how long since we sent the boys? An hour? Perhaps close by the height of the sun who I am loathe to use as a judge.

"If he has, it doesn't mean we are free," I growl.

An inhuman scream fills the air. At first I think it's ringing just in my head. Then I realize it's all around us. It is the scream of absolute pain. Of pain that is so terrible there is no name for it nor any cure. Of a pain that knows only death will cure it.

The enemy forces slowly back away. The moment they realize the source of the sound, and the terrible anger behind it, they begin to fear.

We sweep in. Aias takes Menoetius' body in his arms, doing his best not to break him further.

"Goodnight, sweet prince," I say, softly, closing the staring eyes. I kiss his forehead for the sake of the father who is not burying his boy nor carrying him to safety one last time. "We'll take you home."