The Stoic Spartan

A “stoic” Spartan experiences the 5 stages of grief after the death of his friend.

• Short story

								
The mélas zōmós reminds me of Crispinus.
His corpse lay motionless by the stony shore of Lake Vouliagmeni, the gaping lips from his neck bleeding the same thick and deep red ooze bubbling in my bowl. It is a taunting reminder. Why now? This imagery has spoiled my appetite, not that I ever had an appetite for black soup, it is worse than normal. 
This isn’t right. 
I notice I’ve delayed my feast, my warrior peers eyeing me across the table. They also noticed I wasn’t right. 
I force the spoon into my mouth, every slurp gliding down my tongue but not my throat. I gulp countless times with my saliva to disguise how it is starting to taste like what it was. It tastes like death.
Why would death have taste?

After supper, I journey back to my tent. 
“Commander.” A Spartan called. 
I am not used to this new title. 
When the Athenians circled us into Vouliagmeni four months ago, we lost many Hoplites, and I was the few surviving soldiers of Enomotia amongst Pentekostys, now titled 'Commander.’ I happened to be the last apt candidate of Enomotia to rival our late commander’s title. I should be honoured. Albeit indiscreet. 
For a man had to die for I to rise. 

Used to the cacophony of clanking metals and grunts on the camp, whenever I entered my sanctuary, silence spread. I can’t tell whether it’s calming or disarming, either way, I sigh, to hear myself, to hear anything. When I sit down, I make as much noise as possible.
It’s strange. We stood victorious over Athens, yet nothing seemed to change. My status did. Yet…nothing else. We’re all still here, sharpening our dory spears, combing our locks and oiling our skin, ready for our next battle. 
What now? What else do I have to do? If not to rise in title. If not continue fighting until I remain. We’ve been battling Athens for as long as I’ve lived a Spartan— when my parents decided not to throw me off Mount Taygetus. 
When is it over? I never asked. If I ask, it would mean my curiosity. Curiosity is not pertinent to a warrior, only bloodlust, and to be in love with death. That was what we were taught. And there is pain. I remember not how I acquired it, perhaps a delayed reaction from the latest spar, perhaps my body finally gave in to the grueling routine. I am getting older. They will have to replace me soon. Albeit, I feel a pang in my chest, it has lingered for quite some time. 
I shake my head. I must be exhausted. Silence is contagious to the mind. 
When has it always been this quiet? 
Crispinus would prattle until I forget my own mind. But atlas, he died in battle. As he should.
“Commander, may I interrupt?” A rough voice chimes.
“Come in,” I answered. A warrior enters. 
“There are reports of Athenians suspected to have hidden amongst the villagers. We are ordered to scout the surrounding areas, sir.” 
“I understand,” They’ve hidden within the villages we conquered. So they haven’t surrendered, flaunting their precious lives. These Athenians, they should know when to quit.
“Commander,” He calls me, and I turn around. “Are you alright, sir?” He queries suddenly. I am taken aback. 
“Why would you ask me such a question?” Is this a test?
“Apologies, you looked…” When I took a step closer, he recoiled. 
“What?” I challenged. Who commanded him to test me? Do the Lochos doubt me? Have they also noticed I wasn’t right? Was I not subtle?
“No, nothing, sir. Apologies.” He steps back, head down. I know a single challenge from someone of my status influences the strongest Spartan warrior a coward. Coward.
“Let us go.”

There are too many children here. 
Every Athenian villager I trot my horse past looks up at my garrison and I with contempt, some of their eyes colorful, but all the same dark. But, not the children. Their eyes are soulful, innocent, ignorant of what we Spartans would do to their home, looking at us with sheer curiosity. That is war, what must be done to declare power within victory.
However, children— future warriors, scholars, poets and whatnot. Athenians or Spartans, children always appeared human to me. And I know of a human boy who would have loved to be a scholar or poet. 
No. Why must I remember him upon the sight of children? I look away. Just then, in the corner of my eyes, I saw something—
There is a child in the far distance, small frame draped in a worn tunic, peeking behind a portico. My breath hitches. That sun-kissed skin and dark hair, those short specific curls, soulful amber irises, and celestial nose. He can’t be…
“Wait here!” I pardoned myself, trotting away from the bloc. “You there! Child!” I called. “What is your name?” I await a voice, one I shall recognise. The child reveals himself from the pillar, his eyes facing mine, as he was already staring with curiosity.
“I don’t know.” He said. What a shrill voice, and oddly raspy, once like him.
“You don't know? Did your parents not give you a name?” I pressed with coerce. 
“I don’t have parents.” I expected him to stammer, but he persisted, standing before me bravely. 
“What do the villagers call you?”
“They don’t know me.” So he doesn’t belong here. 
“Are you Athenian?”
“I don’t know.” 
“Where did you come from?”
“I came from Vouliagmeni.” He announced, pointing his little finger east from here. Vouliagmeni is east. How perplexing. So he doesn’t know his name, parents, nor his race, yet he knows Vouliagmeni. 
Something isn’t right.

I brought the boy back to my tent, uncertain why I did. Between investigating him or simply…keeping him, I don’t quite know why. He looks like an imitation, and I strongly bear every intention to prove he isn’t.
“Sit here,” I instructed. He sits where I gestured. 
“Why am I here?” He asked. I understand, children are curious. I was curious once. Our boy-herder used to indulge our curiosity until we became too old to waste time. But right now, my curiosity matters more. For safety.
“Boy, how old are you?”
“Eleven.” No.
“No.” Because he looked precisely like him at eleven years old, every detail, the height, frame, and the hair. The accuracy of his appearance is…interventional. “Show me your arm.”
“What—“ I snatched it before it he could protest, unveiling his sleeve. My eyes instantly land on his upper arm, a scar, the familiar shape of an open fig. This isn’t right, there is no plausible way he could have this scar, not of this silhouette. I should know, I was the one who inflicted it during our childhood spar! 
“Who are you?” I yank at him. “What are you?!” 
“I-I don’t know!” He squeaked. 
He seems scared, arms shielding his small frame. Of course, he can’t be anything more than an unknown boy, as I am so much bigger, and the man I mistook him for was bigger than both of us. This boy…he is so small and weak.
He can’t be him. 

When dawn breaks, I awake.
To my surprise, there is a child in the corner of my tent, sitting with his knees to his chest. Ah, the boy I took. I had offered him a woven mat, and he stayed there. I doubt he slept at all last night. I understand, he is scared for his life. His persistent gaze as soon as I stood, neither contempt nor curiosity, none of the looks I would expect from my enemies.

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