Aidan's+story

=__ITHACA FALLEN__=

Ithaca was weak. Odysseus had fallen, and his great city with him. His people fought amongst each other as their city crumbled beneath their feet. The streets were rampant with disease, and a cruel king named Achnalas ruled the people with an iron fist. He spent all the money in the treasury on pointless, unjust wars. The people feared him more than the gods themselves, as he murdered all known opposition. Years ago, a hoplite commander named Cyrus rebelled against King Achnalas. He, with his phalanx, stormed the city and quickly gained numbers and popularity. But as the others before him, he and his army was quickly slaughtered, thus beginning a time of raids and murders that would last for over two decades. Cyrus was killed in a raid along with his wife and the rest of the village. The sole survivor of the brutal attack was Cyrus’s young son, Syrar. Syrar was found by a lone hoplite named Phinaeas who cared for Syrar until he was twenty- five. Syrar was haunted by his memories of the tragic day for the rest of his life. He wanted revenge on the King, and he would kill him at any cost. Phinaeus warned him of the dangers and begged Syrar to remember what had happened to his father, but Syrar was determined to assassinate the King. “It is because I remember what happened to Cyrus that I want Achnalas dead.” Syrar said grimly. “Then may the gods and the kings of old help you, praise you if you succeed, and pity you if you fail.” And with that, Syrar left, his armor gleaming in the midday sun. Raising an army was the least of his worries. Though it would be hard to form one, it would be near impossible to maintain one. He had never fought a battle, nor had he ever killed a man. He knew this must be done by himself. His spear in his hand and a short sword at his belt, he left for the palace. Meanwhile, Achnalas was sitting at his throne. His hair and beard had grown gray with age. He had grown increasingly paranoid in the past few years and never got out of his armor, his spear perpetually at his side. He had grown wary of his guards, always standing there, perhaps waiting for their chance to strike. Though he had grown old, Achnalas was anything but weak. He had always been a superb fighter. Suddenly, a red-faced messenger came running to the King with grim news. The messenger wore old, beaten up hoplite armor, and carried a spear and a short sword. “My lord,” He said with a worried tone. “I have terrible news. I overheard your guards plotting to assassinate you. I came here as fast as I could, sir. You must kill them. They cannot be trusted.” “You are a good man, sir.” Proclaimed the king. “I thank you for this news, and I shall take actions against these beasts. What is your name soldier?” “I am Syrar. I serve under the general Phinaeas.” “You and the general shall be handsomely rewarded for this warning. Please come to the palace tomorrow you should bring some of your fellow hoplites with you, should you be seen by my traitorous guards.” This had worked better than he had expected. He had one day to find a small army, and he knew exactly where he’d find them. Achnalas’ guards were sitting in a field near the palace when Syrar came to them. “Fellow Ithacans, listen intently for I have horrid news! The king, Achnalas has lost his mind! He means to murder the ten of you!” The guards were appalled. They stood there, gaping as Syrar weaved his masterful tapestry of deceit. They hung on every word, as had Achnalas, but what he told the guards was at least a half-truth by now. One of the guards stepped forward. Unlike the others who were wearing lamellar armor, he had a bronze cuirass, and his weapons were made of iron instead of bronze. “I am Phenaphyr, their general. Any information you have for us, tell to me. Why would the king want us dead?” Syrar had not expected them to ask this. “As you know,” He stuttered “Achnalas has become increasingly paranoid in the past few years. He feels like he cannot trust you.” “How do you know of this?” Phenaphyr gasped. “I overheard it while walking back from the war.” Syrar knew that the army had just came back from a war yesterday. “I hid in one of the Cyprus trees, and listened. I did what I was taught was what any good hoplite would do for a brother in arms.” “Not normal, but indeed noble.” “We go there tomorrow he will be expecting the ten of you. Exact your strike then.” “Many thanks. But what is your quarrel with the king?” “Many hate him. I need no better reason than that.” He was about to leave when Phenaphyr grabbed him. “No, sir. You indeed do need better reason than that. What quarrel do you have with Achnalas?” Syrar sighed. He did not like to speak about Cyrus.“The King murdered my father when I was an youngster. That memory has been seared into my mind. I want justice for my father. Is that not reason enough?” Phenaphyr nodded.“We shall fight.” The next day was as clear as Syrar’s intentions. //Eleven warriors against one paranoid king. This should be nothing.// He thought to himself as they marched down the roads to the palace. This was an ordinary sight to the citizens. This had gone on every day for as long as they can remember, and according to them, as long as Ithaca existed. This, of course was not true. Odysseus needed no guards, and nor did the other Ithacan warrior-kings. But Achnalas kept the citizens in a state of blissful ignorance to keep them from revolting. So far, this had worked brilliantly, but the citizens were not what Achnalas needed to worry about right now. The eleven kept marching, every step bringing them closer to their king’s assassination. Achnalas was overjoyed to see Syrar at first, but his joy faded when he saw the ten men that came with him. They were in full armor, weapons drawn, ready to attack. Achnalas knew that he’d been tricked. The guards knew. “What is this? Syrar, are you one of these traitorous dogs?” “We are patriots, sir. You are the traitor.” “Why, soldier, do you fight me?” “Look back twenty-five years. A man rebelled against you, and paid dire consequences. He was Cyrus, my father. You will pay for the spilling of his blood.” Achnalas' eyes widened. He remembered this incident well. He spared a child, as any king would, but he shouldn't have. //I could have killed him then. Why did I not?// His mercifulness might cost him his life. Against the ten guards, he was safe. He could kill them easily, as he knew their weaknesses. He knew nothing of Syrar. He only hoped he fought as his father had. Syrar, however, was given this advice from Phinaeus before he left: “Never fight like your father, Syrar. His fighting has been branded into your memory, and so has it into Achnalas' memory. Fight as I taught you, Syrar. The King knows me not. Do not hesitate to strike when his back is turned. Remember, this is no game. Nothing is too low. Win by any means necessary.” The first guard charged with great vigor at the king. As soon as Achnalas dodged the guard's spear, He went in with his own, piercing the warrior's bronze breastplate. Eight of the nine remaining guards rushed towards Achnalas, but were cut down in a frenzy by the king's swift blade. Only Syrar and Phenapyr remained. Syrar was the first to charge, narrowly missing the King with his spear. The King then proceeded to snap the shaft of the weapon in two. Syrar drew his sword, and made a slash to the King's left side, attempting to decapitate him, but it was swiftly blocked by Achnalas' new iron sword, cutting Syrar's old bronze brand apart. Syrar rushed at Achnalas head first, ramming into his stomach. He was knocked off. Then Phenaphyr stormed in towards the King, his sword of iron as well. He fought like a lesser god, but if indeed he was, then Achnalas was Ares himself. It was a spectacle like none had ever seen in the history of warfare, even more than the landmark duel between Achilles and Hector. But as Hector died at Achilles' hand, so was Phenaphyr brought down. But in his last effort, he managed to throw his sword over to Syrar, who got up from the marble floor, and rushed in towards the cruel Achnalas. He remembered well what Phinaeus had told him, and plunged the sword just below the King's helm. Thus ended the day of Achnalas. Syrar never crowned himself king, for he had other intentions. He spent the rest of his days striking Achnalas' name from history, for, as he believed it, the cruel man should not be remembered. But had he not, he might have kept a powerful lesson, and reinforced the words //Those who do not listen to the lessons of history are doomed to repeat them.//