The threads of my thoughts wove
back and forth as the great ship surged beneath me and we marines rocked gently
with the ebb and flow of its power. I
thought of home, only a few days in the
past but as distant now as a year. I
thought of my uncle and my mother, standing bravely on the quay at Munychia,
waving goodbye as the fleet set sail, hiding their own fear in the poised pride
of the Athenian with a guise worn by many who yet trembled beneath for love of
their sons.
I remembered, too, the archon
Calliades. It was in his time, this
time, that the Persian enemy had finally come, sweeping like a tidal wave over
the shores of Hellas from their vast and
teeming lands to the east, bent on destruction and conquest, driven by the
arrogance of the undefeated. He had
arrived at the port to wish us well, overseeing the solemn sacrificial rituals
that had sped us on our way, good omens mixing with ill, a confused sense of
the gods' wishes.
He had tarried on the dock,
huddling with the other generals who were not sailing with the fleet but who
stayed at home, preparing the city and the port for the coming storm. Their multi-colored himation cloaks had
flapped gently in the breeze as they gave final admonitions and instructions to
Themistocles, the Navarch of the fleet and the leading citizen of our great
city, and bid him, I assumed, the best of luck, as well as the good sense to
bring the fleet back home, intact and victorious.
And, of course, I thought of
Andronica. Dear, sweet Andronica. Wonderfully impulsive as usual, she too had
come to Munychia, had run along the curving breakwater leading a host of others
and separated from her parents, who vainly fought to stay her flight, to follow
our ship all the way out through the narrow water gate, past the crennelated
battlements into the open sea. She had
waved to me wildly, passionately, her chin thrust forward, dark hair flowing in
the offshore breeze, her long, deep blue tunic clinging to her form like the morning
sun on the hills- illuminating, revealing, caressing.
But most of all, I thought of my
father, that ghost who existed for me only in shards of memory. It was his armor I wore, his spear I carried,
his honor I had sworn to uphold. He had
not come to see me off. He had not come
to give his blessing or beam with the pride of a man who had raised a warrior
citizen. He had not done so for many
years, for time out of mind.
He had been lost at sea when I was
but a boy, and all I had of him were the stories told by others - by my mother,
my uncle, their friends. But I didn't
need those stories, not really. I knew
my father. I knew what he was. A hero.
A champion of Athens,
a warrior beyond compare. I remembered
him that way. I remembered how he swung
his great sword and hefted the huge round shield that had so terrified me as a
child, demonstrating the proper thrust and parry of the hoplite in battle. I clung to those memories, as tightly as I
clung to my spear, and strived to live up to what I could no longer see, or
touch, but what I could feel with every fiber of my being.
It was these memories that finally
calmed me, that brought me back to myself.
I tasted the salt in the breeze and inhaled deeply, my lungs filling
with the scent of the ocean and the pungent smells of a warship at sea. There was the deep, woodsy smell of pitch and
oak, the musty scent of wet canvas and coiled lines, the odor of urine,of
tanned leather, of horsehair plumes, cornel wood, hemp, wool and linen; but more than anything, there was the
overpowering reek of unwashed men. One
hundred seventy rowers strained at the oars beneath me, their every exertion
pushing sweat from dirtied pores, their refuse oozing up from the hold washed
away temporarily by the breeze but always there, waiting to roll upon us all
like an irresistible tide. Nine other
hoplite marines besides myself knelt on the oaken deck of the forepeak,
contributing to the stink, while four archers spaced themselves behind, seeking
already the protection of our shields.
They, like me, oozed fear, anticipation, and determination.
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