IThe Last of the Myrmidons
The dead men with the black armor stood in line, waiting for Charon. In their right hands, they held coins, forged of gold, but which held no monetary worth. In their left hands they held their scarred, black helmets. They did not speak as they stood, though their eyes met and quickly turned away. Falling ash made no mark on their armor; it merely blackened it further. Their time to gather onto the boat approached and the men, in silence, reflected on the choices they had made in life. Charred earth lay beneath their sandals, and drops of blood remained, staining the ground where they had fallen. But the earth lay still now. Though their bodies remained, they were not truly there. The men, unbound by the rules of the earth and the laws of Hades shuffled across the hard ground. As Charon’s boat slid onto the river’s bank, they stepped forth to be ferried to the golden fields, eager to meet the ones that they had loved and protected.
As he had done in life, the officer with the scruffy black hair stood in the final place in line. Shuffling his gold coin nervously in his palm, he followed
the marching line of the dead. But the boatman, whose duty it was to bring them across the Styx and Acheron, raised his bony fingers towards the sky and motioned for him to stop, indicating that the man who had sacrificed the most would not be joining his brothers in arms. Charon curled his fingers and pointed to the vast mountain of Olympus located behind the man, and with a deft push, steered the friends and brothers out to the river, leaving the single warrior on the shores of Greece. The last Myrmidon cast his coin onto the ground, where it fell softly, cushioned by the burnt powder. In his heart, the warrior knew he would no longer have need of such things.
The mountain called to him.
From the shore he watched as the water of the Styx gently rolled against the departing skiff. The boat, made of stripped pine, moved ahead, sending trails of auburn like rusted metal down the river as it passed. At his feet the calm water reflected his heart, yet the dark ripples resonating from the boat moved like creatures from the deep.
Marching alone along the dark path, the man thought deeply on his life. Long before his arrival, the footsteps of others had compacted the dirt road. Snaking from the beach to the open canvas of the forest he followed the winding trail. He noticed that the green, summer limbs of the trees he had known well in life were but falling ash, black as a thief’s cloak. Above him, the mountain loomed. With each step he took, the crest of the peak swallowed more of the sky, and soon, the shadow of the beast engulfed his black armor in darkness. Pausing just before the threshold of the climb, he breathed in and felt the cold air fill his lungs, knowing that once he reached for the first rock, it had begun, and no retreat would be permissible. Steadying his feet on the small boulders which had crumbled from the ridges above, the warrior studied the path. An impossible distance. But not to him. Not to this man. It was only impossible if he believed it so.
The man upon the hill chose which rock to grab, carefully.
Only the most watchful eye, passing below the peak, might catch a glimpse of him. He climbed judiciously, but with strength. There was no stopping for comfort. He climbed, though the sinews of the muscles in his
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back throbbed with pain when they pushed against the leather straps of his armor. But he was brave in the fact that he merely continued. Days passed between handholds. Years waned along ridges. Centuries tore through the world of men below with each precipice the warrior overcame. The man still climbed, though he could not see his aim. It was only when the man crested a shallow ridge did his view open to expose the temple, still sitting far above in the distance. It was at this moment that he noticed the other climbers. Men camped along the route, some moved slowly with dread, but their faces meant nothing to the Myrmidon. The men recognized each other as warriors only by the state of their armor.
One man wore the trinkets and adornments of a vast empire, and yet he was so young, hardly older than thirty. His gaze was endless—it searched the land below, yearning for more.
Another man wore sheets of iron. Woven in a manner unfamiliar to the climbing Myrmidon, they bore three gold lions in the center of his cherry breastplate.
The final man was elderly, but a colossus in stature, and he wore a cloak of crimson; his eyes alone could stop armies. His bronze shield bore the Greek letter lambda, and he spoke but one word to the warrior in black. Andreia. Courage, or fortitude. In return, the Myrmidon uttered one word, Phrater, which means kinsman, or brother, before continuing his ascent up the mountain.
The Myrmidon continued to do his duty in death as he had in life, and not once did his eyes meet the ground far below. With his world in his hands, his heart drove each grasp, but he did not consider how high he would need to climb. He only considered the next decision, the next correct route to take.
The man continued up the slope, ascending to the holy glimmer of the heavens. Mount Olympus. And, as he reached the ancient temple and saw Zeus, the giant figure cast a great shadow upon the hall. A warm evening breeze curled around the white pillars and sang through the halls as the god beckoned him to approach. Mountain seamlessly melded with earth and the
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sanctuary sang with grace as the wind whistled through the architecture. Never before had the warrior seen such grandeur or opulence. He had spent his life atop soil and rock.
When the Myrmidon finally arrived at the end of the hall, he kneeled before the great god Zeus. Flames reflected from his armor against candlelit galleries of Olympus. Zeus sat silent as the man approached the throne of marble.
And outside the window, white swallows swung carelessly and surfed the breeze. Clouds drifted across the blood-red sky as the waning sun made camp beyond the horizon. Fractured red light fell through the windows and scattered upon the wall of the mountain fortress.
His armor, unlike the others who had made their stories known on the mountain, was plain. No gold adorned the steel; no medals hung upon his breast, nor commendations upon his sleeve. He did not need those merits of bravery. Proof of his courage was in the scars that etched his armor, which ran like streams throughout his various gear. And his valor spoke. It spoke through the scarred valleys of his shield. Fire molded his mettle. His arms, steady from the burden of combat, kept his helmet firmly mounted in his left hand.
He was a Myrmidon. One of the ant-men.
The warrior kept his head bowed until the god addressed him. Zeus had created all, including Ares, warlord of the heavens, to whom this man had pledged his identity long ago.
Still kneeling, the man remained still. Zeus broke the silence of the mountain, with a voice that tore the very fabric of the air.
“Here, young soldier, I have called you to confront you, so that you may recount the morals of your actions — the consequences of your chaos.
“I summon few warriors to climb the treacherous slope. But when I do, I expect that they will choose their grips carefully. In their hands, they put their trust in the crumbling stones, as they make their way to judgement.”
Zeus leaned back upon his throne.
“The stones themselves judge each movement, each life, and some stories they deem
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unworthy to tell. It matters, above all things, which stone they grab, and which stone crumbles under their grip.
“The stones know more than the man does of himself. And though a man reaches and strives for the peak of the mountain, he does so with hope in his heart, and with the weight of his armor on his back.”
Zeus, appearing as a towering god above the halls, took his place above the man in question. With sharp words, like barbs, his voice was a storm which rumbled and echoed throughout the artwork.
“Tell me your story,” Zeus commanded, his arm outstretched and his palm facing up.
Gently placing his sword and shield on the cold floor, the officer stood up with his back straight and his chest high, though his body ached. His eyes, black as an obsidian sea, shone in the god’s light. “Though it is long, and full of suffering, I was but a soldier… I lived a soldier’s life,” replied the hollow voice of the Myrmidon.
Zeus paused.
“And this suffering, was it of the soldier, or of the man?”
“It was the suffering of both,” the Myrmidon replied. “Of the soldier’s spirit that develops from the broken soul of man. My experience of love and hate and of war is universal, and cruel.”
Zeus nodded in agreement. “But the man who picks up his sword and shield, when asked, he knows a different part of the earth.”
The god continued.
“The man who does not, however, will forever in the caverns of his heart know that no matter how great a life he lived, no matter how ferociously he loved, and no matter how professional his career, he fell short of a mark”
Zeus contemplated this before continuing, allowing his words to echo.
“He yearns, because he knows that no matter how astute his political observations, no matter how close he felt to the gods in his philosophy, he will still, on the cold stone of his deathbed and before the long night takes him away, reflect, and notice a gap in the things he could have done. He never put on the line that which is absolute: his life. He never had to hold his dying brother and reassure him that all will be fine, watch
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the light fade from his eyes and take its place in the midnight sky. Those who remain die in peace, but peace of the external while the storm rages within. I watched you perform these acts, but I also watched as you left him there, where his blood mixed with the scorched sand of the battlefield. I watched as you walked to the nearby stream and you washed his life from your hands and helmet, and I saw how your eyes followed the crimson veins of the washed blood in the river as they drifted away.”
The Myrmidon’s head bowed a touch further. The god persisted.
“And later I watched as you sat quietly in the dawn, in times of peace, near a different but all too familiar stream, which burned blue, like diamond, but which harbored the same quiet desperation as before.”
As the Myrmidon stood quickly, his eyes betrayed his stoic image. In the corners of the warrior’s eyes, his muscles contracted with the pain of memory.
Zeus continued.
“The river held the worst kind of desperation: the kind that nestles deep within the muscles of a warrior’s back, which knots, and sleeps there. Only those who are left know this. But the man who avoids this responsibility, the one of war, expires with the knowledge that death will reveal the truth of his life; he will know that there were heavier things he could have picked up but chose not to. Things like the sword. The shield made of hardened oak.The weight of the dead. But of all these powerful things, he will not know the heaviest: the weight of a small child’s hand placed softly in his. He will only understand the absence of hope and guidance he could have given to a soul. He never gave a piece of himself to those desperate for faith and happiness.
“But you, you were able to push the dark thoughts of yourself far enough down, so that your knowledge of the malevolence of the world did not show through your eyes and corrupt.You could do this because you acquainted yourself with those heavy things. You needed to perform the impossible: to laugh and smile and play but to always remember the blood in the river. The great dichotomy of all things—of life and of death.”
The man replied, “These desperations I carry here in my heart, they are mine to keep. They are the charge of men. And I must apologize, Zeus, for I am a modest soldier. I cannot, though I would cherish the ability, begin to
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speak like the gods. I know the world through my simple lens, my simple life. I will explain to you the things I have learned but I will not be able to do so like the great philosophers of our time. Perhaps, it should have been them meeting you, god of gods, rather than me.”
Zeus answered,. “I know these desperations, Myrmidon. I bear them in my heart also — the hearts of gods feel the same sting as that of mortals.We feel the same intimate pain, of family and of loss. Though we are eternal, it only means that we contend with these things for much longer. It only means that we are given more time to resolve that which cannot be resolved, for neither the hearts of men nor gods have the capacity to do so.”
The Myrmidon’s voice wavered. “What, then, should I have done? Should I have loved with less passion? Prayed with less piety? Killed… with less remorse?”
“No,” replied the god. “From Mount Olympus I watched, and though I only saw your actions, you lived honorably.Tell me, though, how does a mortal carry himself in such a way through these painful trials?”
The Myrmidon was silent. Deep in thought, he questioned the violent life he had led.
Finally, the soldier replied. Some fragment of wisdom returned, granted to him by a mentor, so long ago.
“He endures. And he listens, above all, to that which guides his heart.”
Zeus confronted the Myrmidon’s first apprehension.
“Time is what we have then, and it is a creation of the gods, so I have much time to listen.Tell me the story of your life, and recount to me the lessons you learned in your mortal experience.Tell the god of all gods all the hardships that men must undertake. From Olympus we saw, but we may never understand. It is true — the men in black are a creation of mine, but I am torn by fate and time; did I alleviate the sorrows of mortals by creating these men, or did I create more heartache? That, my son, is why you are here.”
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