This is what true power means the kind that can send entire armies fleeing in terror. I was still far from reaching it, but even now, I could feel myself crossing a threshold the line separating mere mortals from those who stand above them though I remained human still.
Another squad emerged on my path. Without breaking stride, I tore through their ranks, leaving behind only screams and collapsing bodies.
"Human! You will pay for this!" one of the centaurs roared. He was armed with a spear, his light armor clinging to his body like a second skin. I hadn't had time to wrench my weapon free from my previous foe the spear had sunk too deep, and I was forced to leave it behind.
The centaur charged at me, his spear leveled for the kill. I saw the tip rushing toward me. At the last moment, I seized the shaft with my hand, halting the assault. He pushed against me with all his strength, but I held firm, then suddenly yanked him forward. He lost his balance. Stepping in, I struck upward with my shield, smashing into his jaw. A dull crack echoed as the centaur's body crashed to the ground, his teeth scattering across the dirt like falling rain.
I stood alone among the dead. Panting heavily, I gripped my blood-slicked weapon. In battle, I was learning to master my battle trance, steering it rather than drowning in it. My helmet helped shield my mind, like a barrier standing firm between reason and rage.
"Damocles! Geron commands us to rally! We've wiped out all their squads!" shouted one of the Spartans as he ran up to me.
I hurried after him and soon found myself amidst the battered remnants of our army. Our numbers had been cut almost in half. I learned that one of our enomoties had been completely surrounded and destroyed. The surviving units had suffered heavy losses, but they had managed to break through.
Now, amid the haze and blood, above the exhausted faces of the warriors, the shouts of two Spartans arguing fiercely over our next move filled the air. Only the elders or high command had the right to judge a lochagos' actions but now, unfortunately, he commanded us all.
"We must retreat," said Geron, his voice burning with fury. "We need to get the wounded and the fallen's bodies out of here. Return to Sparta."
"Spartans do not retreat," Alcaeus replied firmly. "We still have enough strength to complete the mission and return victorious."
"We'll only fertilize this cursed land with our corpses if we go any further!" Geron snapped.
Alcaeus shot him a grim look.
"I've had enough of this bickering. Everyone up! March forward!" he ordered, his voice as inevitable as a death sentence.
The wounded Spartans, gritting their teeth against the pain, rose to their feet, leaning on their brothers' shoulders to stand in formation. No one complained. No one begged for mercy. I could not challenge Alcaeus the law forbade it. We were on campaign, constantly engaged in battle. Even if I killed him justly, it would be seen as treason.
"Calm yourself, Damocles. I'll handle this," Geron said, gripping my shoulder firmly. "You're still young. You have much yet to endure. Let me bear this burden."
It seemed my inner turmoil had not escaped his notice. He understood that I had been just a heartbeat away from drawing my weapon.
I looked at Geron with new eyes. Even his constant arguments with Alcaeus now seemed different they were proof he cared. He cared about the lives of the warriors. Despite all the battles, the bloodshed, and the losses, he still saw us as brothers. And seeing us squandered by another's folly pained him deeply.
I gave him a short nod, accepting his words.
As if to confirm that worse was yet to come, heavy clouds gathered overhead. Rain began to pour down, and the earth quickly turned to a viscous, porridge-like mud. Still, we pressed on, undeterred, each man burdened by his own heavy thoughts.
At some point, I noticed fresh hoofprints in the muck.
The tracks should have revealed their movements, but instead only confused us. The centaurs knew their land far too well, using it to their advantage. I could guess at their plan: wear us down, destroy us slowly. Yet if the scouts' reports had been correct, there should have been around a thousand of them here, with about five hundred warriors. They would have launched a full-scale assault already if they had truly sought a swift victory.
It felt as though we were being led somewhere. But where?
Suddenly, the sound of pounding hooves erupted from all sides.
"Form a circular phalanx!" Alcaeus barked. It was the only order that could save us.
Once again, volleys of arrows rained down from every direction. Yet our phalanx held firm, a wall of shields and bristling spears. Not a single arrow found its mark.
But the centaurs did not relent. Clad in leather armor, wielding spears of their own, they charged. Despite their strength and speed, they could not break the Spartan formation. Their assaults faltered against our wall of spears. Many of them fell, skewered clean through.
Melee erupted. Their massive bodies made them clumsy in close quarters, while we fought with brutal efficiency, pushing forward inch by inch, reclaiming the battlefield with blood and steel.
"Ἄσω δίσνορα!" came a shout from within the centaur ranks and they began to retreat.
Though the enemy had lost dozens in the attack and we had repelled them, we too had suffered. Several Spartans fell, their old wounds from previous battles finally claiming them.
"Move out! We will find their settlement!" Alcaeus cried.
"Enough of this madness!" Geron said, stepping into his path.
"You dare to stand against me?" Alcaeus sneered.
"I honor the laws of Sparta," Geron replied calmly. "But you are no longer worthy of the title of Spartan."
There was no greater insult in Sparta. A warrior earned his honor through blood from the earliest days of his life. There was nothing more sacred.
Alcaeus paled with rage.
"I declare you a traitor and sentence you to immediate execution!" he roared, gritting his teeth.
They were ready to lunge at each other when suddenly, a sword pierced Alcaeus' chest. One of the Spartans standing nearby had thrust his blade straight through him. Gently, he caught Alcaeus' body and lowered it to the ground, clasping his hand tightly.
"Forgive me, brother," he whispered.
"You..." Alcaeus gasped, blood filling his mouth, and then he moved no more.
"I will accept whatever punishment is due," the Spartan said, calmly removing his helmet and breastplate. "But allow me to die in battle. I will lead the next charge."
Geron stepped toward him.
"Why?" he asked quietly.
"Alcaeus was a good commander. I knew him all my life, as he knew me. We fought side by side through countless battles. But something changed in him this past year. He began to indulge too much, trained less and less. I tried to bring him back, but he no longer listened. He was once a great Spartan, and everyone knew it," the warrior's voice faltered. "Please… do not stain his name. Tell them he fell in battle."
He dropped to one knee, trembling, and closed Alcaeus' eyes.
Geron stood silently, then gave a slow nod.
"Very well. It shall be as you ask."
I stood apart, wordless as did the others.Had something truly corrupted him? It no longer mattered. The threat before us remained and we had to survive it.