The face was thinner than his, showing the creases of age and hair a sheet of grey. How had this happened? How had he aged so much? His fingers reached up and he ran them across his cheek; leathery and tough.

“What happened?”

“Are you alright, Sir?” The servant knelt beside him and he felt a hand rest on his shoulder. He should have felt comforted by the tender touch but instead anger flooded into him.

“What happened?” He yelled, “How did I become this?” He snapped to his feet, leaving the boy still crouched and in shock at his master’s outburst. Metrius looked down at him, “How old am I?”

The boy was unable to answer, befuddled by the strange behavior and lost for what to say. Metrius grabbed him by the shoulder and shook him roughly, “How old am I?” He repeated, bringing his face close to the Agathon’s.

“Fifty four.” The words were mumbled as fear now showed.

Metrius took a step back and caught his balance on a tree behind him, “Fifty four?” It was barely a whisper. Colour had drained from his features and his knees buckled to drop him to the ground.

Silence fell.

As he tried to regain his thoughts, a young man came running up the slope. Barely dressed, he was lean and swift; a body that displayed a muscular form.

“Sir, the battle is about to start?”

Metrius looked up, trying to register the new addition to the situation; yet another piece of an ever growing puzzle, “Battle?” His words were like those of the recently bereaved. The man simply looked at Agathon in puzzlement. Rising and walking over to the messenger, Agathon whispered to the man and the two looked down at their fallen hero. Eventually, the Agathon walked over to him and place an arm around his waist, lifting him, with much straining, to his feet.

“Sir, we must get you ready.” He looked up at the courier, “Tell King Romulus we shall be there shortly.”

When the man was gone, Metrius turned to Agathon, letting the boy strip him ready for combat, “What battle does he speak of?”

“Sir, forgive me for saying this,” Answered the servant as he picked up a large aspis shield and handed it to Metrius, “whatever illness has struck you this morning, whether drink or worse, must be dismissed.” His head was bowed, as if to be ashamed of speaking to his master in such a way, “You fight shortly and such a manner will cost you your life.” Without raising his gaze, he lifted a helmet and spear and knelt before his Metrius.

The boy was right. Whatever god had cast this curse on him must be dismissed. The time for battle was upon him. More sure of what to do, he followed Agathon towards the battlefield.

At the end of the track, walking along in full battle gear, Metrius stepped out into the openness of a field that had been hidden from above.

And before him, and army waited.

Row upon row of helot, shields gleaming, spears raised, lined themselves up in their formations. They were like the stalks of wheat: never ending, standing tall and proud. Across the arena of death, not far away, a similar wall of enemy awaited. Facing each other off, their eyes locked in defiance and grimness, the air was filled with their singing: hymns of the phalanx warriors that rang out their challenge.

As he made his way towards the back formations, the soldiers began to part, like the waves of the sea opening for a prophet of the gods, and all began to bow their heads. Their hero had arrived.

For my other stories/parts go to:

http://www.xomba.com/short_story_list_metrius_and_others