Ch. 2

Kephalos gleamed in full copper panoply. He sat astride a red and white warhorse, commanding three lokhoi of Eleusinian infantry. His cuirass was engraved with the insignia of the House of Aenicles, depicting a serpent and a basket. A javelin came flying at him, but he managed to save himself by deflecting the missile with his shield.

“You must do better than that, you spawn of Pelops!” He berated the enemy horde.

A cavalryman’s shield was smaller than the cumbersome hoplon, but the deficit in coverage was made up for by the difference in weight; Kephalos was quick and agile. He and his men were fiercely engaged with an enemy unit near the center of the battlefield. Off to his right, a fellow hoplite was trading sword blows with an invader.

The Peloponnesian soldier shot an armor-plated shoulder into the sternum of his opponent, knocking his wind out, and throwing him off balance. Another soldier came running at Kephalos, screaming and thrusting a pike up at his face. Kephalos expertly parried the attack with his trusted shield, then raised his kopis, and chopped.

The weapon cleaved down into the warrior’s right clavicle, spraying Kephalos with the soldier’s hot lifeblood. The man cried out, and immediately dropped his weapon. He followed the pike to the ground, and he laid still.

Kephalos looked up to see his comrade struggling with the same foe as before, and still receiving the worst of it. Digging his feet into the flanks of his mount, the animal sprang forward, running down the man’s attacker.

“Many thanks, my lord!” Shouted the hoplite.

“Thank the Great Mother.” Replied Kephalos, looking down at the soldier from atop his fidgeting mount. “Be that She see us victorious!” With that, Kephalos headed off.

The clouds above the battlefield parted enough to allow a horizontal ray of sunlight to penetrate the gloom. Kephalos was riding with intent now, focused on a particular foe who had just caught his attention. Before him there, a fellow prince, twenty meters off.

* * *

Antiphoebus rode in a silver-plated chariot, drawn by a mare the color of smoke. He wore an elaborate eagle head helmet, the broad beak jutting out over his brow. Brandishing a razor sharp xiphos, he cut a swathe of destruction, while his driver, Regulus, maneuvered the craft to-and-fro.

“You are like Hera with the reins.” Said Antiphoebus to his driver.

“And you are Trophonius with the blade, my lord.”

“Then pray ye not fall into snare.”

Regulus smiled at the remark, but Antiphoebus went silent; something else had caught his eye. Then Regulus noticed what had captured the attention of his passenger. A royal Epirote on a red-and white steed was charging their direction. And so the Mycenaean prince’s blood boiled, and his was the cursed ichor of Tantalus.

Above, the gap in the clouds closed up, and Helios was occluded once again.

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“Ride.”

The single word from his master was all Regulus needed to hear. He jerked the reins, and the chariot shot forward. And the distance between them was like the gap in the heavens, disappearing in an instant.

Shining Kephalos, with gore drenched kopis. Quick and agile, he struck, but not quick enough. His enemy was quicker. In his final moments, Kephalos closed his eyes, and offered an apology to the Goddess for his failure.

Antiphoebus’ attack was precise, seizing upon a split-second opening in his opponent’s defenses. His xiphos flashed, and the Epirote prince lost his head. The red and white warhorse continued on, galloping away with headless rider. Antiphoebus thought about capturing the steed, having appraised the animal’s fine quality. But he was of another bent, and instead bid Regulus halt.

Descending from the chariot, he retrieved the decapitated head that lay on the ground still strapped in its helmet. He gripped the helmet-with-head by the horse-hair crest and held his trophy high in display.

“And so all your princes!”

* * *

“And this is the will of the gods?” Miones questioned Iaeiros upon the plateau.

The High-Prince was stricken with grief, having just witnessed his younger brother get decapitated.

“Their will is not ours to question,” answered the seer, “nor ever fully to understand.”

“I understand the dirt before me is soaked, with the blood of my brother. Yet here I remain, on high and hidden, whilst his remains are treated pitifully.”

The High-Prince was referring to the actions of Kephalos’ killer, who had dismounted from his chariot, and was now holding the severed head aloft.

“It is required I rescue his psyche, from the clutches of dreaded oblivion!” Miones continued, fearing for his brother’s posthumous journey.

For every man has a place on a level in Hades, save for those murdered, or denied proper burial. Those poor souls are doomed instead; to forever wander.

“You would expose self to harm, and risk the entire battle? Risk the very fate of the Great Mother’s abode?” Asked the seer.

“I fear the day lost, whether I fall or not.” Answered Miones, as the invaders were fighting as if possessed.

“Then see the remainder saved,” Iaeiros pleaded, “sound the retreat, and salvage what is left.”

“You would have me run from one place of hiding here, to a new one behind fortress walls at Eleusis?”

“There are times that call for bravery, and times that call for wisdom. Have faith, Kadmiloi; the entire world shall be as Eleusis, when the Megaloi Theoi return.”

Miones stood there weighing the seer’s words. Iaeiros had been his teacher, and mentor, all his life, which was more than three decades. He had come to greatly value the old man’s counsel.

The High-Prince recalled his vows, and bridled his rage.

“We retreat!” He called out to his signalers, who began waving flags, to convey their lord’s order.

* * *

The clouds above Iakobos went back together, and the ground he and his men had only recently gained began to be lost. He too had the serpent and basket on his cuirass. His helmet hid the better part of his face; aside from his beardless chin, all that you could see were his eyes. Miones’ sole male heir, Iakobos commanded a lokhoi of cavalry, and twice as many infantrymen.

Iakobos was lethal with his kopis; many an invader had been felled, yet they kept advancing. Upon the slaying of his uncle Kephalos, soldiers had fallen into disarray, and needed some help fast. Iakobos charged in with his cavalry, to deliver his fellows from their precarious predicament.

So, the tide was turned; the invaders were put on the defensive, but the turn did not last long. Soon, Iakobos and his deliverers were in need of deliverance, but there was none to be had. When the call to retreat was received, the Eleusinians were relieved. But retreat was not easy, it never is, and dozens more fell on the way back.

Once they reached the acropolis, the retreating soldiers were able to take up defensive positions, making further pursuit impossible. The hallowed grounds were enclosed by walls of granite, a cubit thick, and seven high. The fleeing Epirotes were like a flood through the gate in the eastern wall.

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