Origin: Eternity's End

by Uneeb Qureshi

  She shrugged at the idea, “I suppose everyone has those ambitions don’t they?”

  “If America is ready for an African-American President then they’re surely capable of a woman president.” He smirked and warmed up to her, “I’ve known almost every President that came through the White House, you helping me on this goes a long way toward our support or anything else you may need.”

  He handed her a card, it bore a name and a number but no address then walked away.

  “Our people are forever indebted to you.” He waved to her as he boarded another vehicle and drove just around the block.

  Chapter 13

  Northern Winds

  Upper Manhattan Safe House

  Monica and the others were brought to a safe house elsewhere in the city. Sheppard joined them again shortly after with Mekias and the others.

  Monica awoke and saw Mekias being tended to by a medic. She rushed toward him and tugged on his shirt elated in happiness.

  “Mekias…why did you leave that night! I told you to wait for me!” She pushed him around in anger but felt closer to him with each push, he was the only friend she had in this whole mess.

  Sheppard sat on the couch across from the two.

  “Monica I’m sorry about what has happened. I should have taken more precaution before I let you return to Earth.” He did not know what else to say, he had not cared for others for some time but he felt unusually drawn to the two archaeologists. “You are welcome to return to orbit should you not feel safe here, but in the meanwhile I will put Agent Mensah in your charge.”

  Monica did not hear a word he said, like him she was strong and determined to keep those closest to her safe. In a way Sheppard saw in her something he had missed a long time ago.

  Monica grew annoyed, “I hate you. You think the world is all just some sort of sick game for you? You knew something like this would happen, and yet you put us in that danger!”

  Every legionnaire in the room’s eyes grew wide at that comment. Most looked to Sheppard for a response, but he was as shocked as they were.

  “I don’t think life is a game, far from it…”

  “Really? Because all I see before me is someone who only cares for himself.”

  The words shook Sheppard. She had only known him for few days but she could read him like one of her fossils. Most would not dare to imagine Sheppard as an exile, but he was just that. A wander, a nomad at heart. The only thing he cared for in this world was his own redemption.

  Monica sat back down and wiped the tears running down her cheeks. Inside she was happy Mekias was alive, but her life as she knew it was long gone.

  “You know…I knew a man who put himself before others, and was as brave and determined as you. He treated all those around him like family. And you’re right, I’ve never felt drawn to anyone so much as to consider them mine own…”

  He was not sure if she knew where he was heading with this line of reasoning, “But this man made me realize that family meant more than anything. And that was what I was running from, family. I was running from the reality that I never had a real family.”

  Monica did not know how to respond.

  “Do you know who I speak of?” Sheppard asked, she shook her head, “I speak of Lee, my Legion’s prime general.”

  The Battle of Marathon

  Marathon, Ancient Greece

  The warm Mediterranean breeze flew in from the coasts across the hilly plains of Attica. It was summer in the northern climes, and the soldiers of the Greek city-states had since returned to safer territories.

  A small Greek scouting party rested on the hilly plains of Marathon, tired and beaten from several days retreat from Eretria. The Persian armies had razed the ancient city as punishment for their role in the Ionian revolt.

  Rallied by their victories, the Persian armies were preparing to mount an assault upon Athens next. The mountainous regions of Attica hindered advances by sea, but one coastal plain remained viable for invasion, Marathon.

  A young, charismatic man stood overlooking the hills. Faintly able to see the seas on the horizon, his wavy brown hair hung to the side in the warm breeze. He was no stranger to war, scars decorated his arms and back like battle standards. They were displayed both proudly and menacingly.

  He was a Spartan in origin, or at least his standards marked those of the Spartan elite, but in fact was not a Spartan citizen. He was Sciritae, a free citizen of Sparta subjected to different standards than his peers. Unlike the helots the sciritae were semi-autonomous, serving Sparta at its desire as wards of its state.

  His people inhabited Skiritis, the inhospitable mountainous areas nestled in northern Laconia. Their homeland bordered Arcadia, between the rivers Oenus and the Eurotas.

  His people were native to Arcadia and served as the guardians of the Tegean road, making them strategic to Sparta’s defense.

  The man’s name was Lior, the youngest and brightest champion of the Sciritae. He wore his name proudly, for he knew all too well that he was different from his fellow Sciritae.

  He covered himself with the crimson Spartan cloak and took his place at a campfire with his men. The Sciritae comprised the Spartan army’s most elite light infantry, serving in the most extreme-left wing of the phalanx, the most vulnerable spot. In effect, each hoplite’s shield was designed to partially protect the man right of him leaving their left flank vulnerable to the enemy.

  The sciritae had served that formation since time immemorial. Lior himself made sure the Spartan trust in their peoples’ fighting prowess was not ill-advised.

  Lior’s scraggly beard was short and groomed as best as it could be in a time of war. His countenance was dull and emotionless, focused on the task at hand. When not engaged in battle his people served as scouts, travelling well ahead of the army, paving the way for the king. It was an honor reserved only for their people.

  Grunting, Lior turned away from a visiting Spartan messenger’s missive, returning to his spot by the fire.

  “We are to serve as scouts for the Atticans?” He asked the messenger.

  In reality the Spartans themselves held little regard for their Hellenic brethren. Lior’s party was sent ahead as a gesture of good will to Sparta’s ‘allies’.

  There was a general acknowledgment of the dullness in the plan. The messenger about-faced to return to Sparta. Lior gazed at his men, having only a handful with him.

  King Cleomenes of Sparta was soon to hand over the throne to Lior’s apprentice Leonidas. Many had believed that Leonidas himself was named after Lior for his tenacity and profound tutelage during the new king’s agolge.

  For his age he was youthful, it had run in his family. His family bore a proud lineage comparable to the line of the Agiad line of kings, who claimed lineage from Heracles himself. But Lior cared little for such things as demi-god’s and names, to him his family was everything, it was what he lived for.

  He had fought in many wars, civil and abroad not to bring honor to his people or his name but to ensure the health of his family. The rural country of Skiritis had given him a peaceful upbringing before his conscription into the Spartan army. But once he was drafted he held the duty in respect for his father and family.

  His mother had told him before she had passed away, “Remember courage with each step.”

  He leaned over with his spear, realizing he would not see home for some time. They would now be Athens’ first line of warning against further Persian encroachment. While sitting amidst the crackling blaze of their new encampment Lior’s ears caught an unusual sound amidst the winds. The clamor of metal and pottery was fast approaching.

  Lior picked up his spear and shield and crouched low into the shrubbery, he kept his eyes locked on the hills. It was dawn and the rippling amber light that filtered in through the trees made it harder to make out his prey. The hills would cause an echo, he thought. He picked up the nearest stone and launched it into the woods, it worked. The noise subsided and the echo disappeared, he di
screetly crept forward hoping to find a better ground.

  As he left the shrubbery he felt the edge of a blade scrape against his neck. The edge was sharp, and the cold metal brushing against his curt beard shaved many strands in the process.

  “Throwing rocks is dangerous,” His ambusher said, “You really should be more careful.” The man tossed the stone at Lior’s feet.

  Lior did not avert his gaze lest he provoked the man.

  “Be you of Persia or of Hellas?” The man asked Lee.

  Lee dropped his weapon and shield and laid both his palms on the ground in front of him. “I am Lior of Skiritis, I am of the Arcadian peoples.”

  The attacker removed his sword somewhat, and scanned Lior. “Spartan? Yes, by the look of it. Get up.”

  He stood up and faced the man. His attacker boasted a bushy black beard. At first glance his skin was just about as dark as the Hellenes, but he did not look like them. He must have come from the East or lower climes.

  The man’s hair was dry and untamed. By the smell of him he must have been travelling for days, yet his clothes barely concealed his lack of hygeine. His sandals were clearly worn from days of long travel.

  “You can call me Babak.” The man said.

  Lior greeted him before picking up his weapons, “Be careful with those things too,” Babak said.

  Babak sheathed his blade, the ornate design and unusual shape of the blade was obviously far eastern. He wore a large pack on his back, littered with ornate pottery and metallic items. The source of the strange metallic clamor he had heard earlier.

  “What business, may I ask, does a Persian like you have in these parts?” Lior asked. He felt Babak harmless with the amount of pack items he was carrying.

  “Persian? No,” Babak said with a laugh, “I’m a…purveyor of fine gifts, a wandering traveler from many lands. Where I hail from is of no concern.”

  “In times like these,” Lior said raising his spear, “Where you come from is of everyone’s concern.”

  “I warned you,” Babak said, “Be careful with those things…”

  Lior stepped forward, with his shield and spear ready. Babak cleared his throat and unstrapped his sack. The enormous bag hit the floor suddenly with a large thud.

  Was he carrying stones? Lior thought as the large pack fell to the ground.

  The Sciritae warrior paid no heed and kept on his feet, circling his opponent. Babak cracked his knuckles and stretched out his back. He removed his sandals and stood still, unafraid of Lior. As the spear tip stood still between Babak’s eyes he shook his head.

  With split second accuracy he grabbed the razor sharp spear tip and with his other palm he quickly swung the center of the spear’s haft breaking it in two. Lior was shocked at the strength his opponent had, he took a step back to regain his footing but Babak did not hold back. He wrestled the shield from Lior’s grip and threw it to the ground.

  The Spartan warrior held the remaining haft of his spear in both of his hands and proceeded to swiftly strike Babak, first at the knee and next at the kidney throwing Babak off balance.

  Lior’s opponent caught the spear again just before it struck him in the temple and struck the haft again, breaking the spear into even smaller pieces. Seeing the futility of such small pieces both combatants threw the wooden fragments away and unsheathed their swords.

  Babak was well versed in the art of war; his sword form was nearly flawless. He allowed Lior no advantage in bladed combat, in so far as wresting his opponent’s blade and disarming him in the process.

  Babak was amused. He rarely met a man in his travels who was capable of putting up such a fight. He threw his blade down and taunted Lior forward into melee combat. The Spartan discipline kicked in, years of wrestling in school had trained Lior to anticipate anything. The two fought voraciously for minutes, grappling and returning blows with each showing no sign of pain or weariness.

  It was clear at the end that Babak had the better stamina. By the time Lior hit the ground the former master wrestler submitted to his opponent’s body lock. Babak’s brute strength was unbeatable in such a position. But surprisingly Babak let Lior go.

  They rushed to stand up in a low fighting stance with their arms at the ready. Babak let out a hearty laugh, “Well played young Spartan, the reputation of your people is well deserved.” He helped Lior up in a friendly gesture. Neither had had such fun in some time.

  “Now what may I ask is your name, young Spartan?”

  Lior was submitted in defeat and hung his head low, trying not to bear the loss of such a battle. He had broken off from camp minutes earlier. In the back of his mind he hoped his men were okay.

  “I am Lior, a sciritae of northern Arcadian descent. My people are a simple but hardy people that have served Sparta since time immemorial.” He picked up the hafts of his spear from the ground. It seemed futile to recreate his weapon. He holstered his shield. “Why did you not kill me foreigner?”

  “What would I gain from killing you? It would be one less interesting soul to speak with on this planet.” Babak smirked and picked up his belongings as well. “Regardless, I am not here to kill warlords today. I am merely returning to these lands. I have returned from the farthest edges of the east, where the people do have rather strange faces... I suppose I should be on my way then.” He walked over to pick up his belongings but Lior interrupted him.

  “No,” Lior said recovering his breath, “Please, for sparing my life I must invite you to dine with my men tonight. Though the hospitality is only what we can afford in such times of war.”

  Babak nodded, “Nonsense, a man’s hospitality is in his words and actions, not his provisions.”

  They trekked back through the woods, the dawn sky opened into the early noon and then the evening. Babak played instruments and showed strange magic from the east to his Spartan hosts. His dexter-ity and breadth of knowledge amazed the men present there.

  He removed a vicious cobra from a wicker basket in his rucksack and dropped it by the fire. The snake hissed loudly, bearing its hood and keeping its distance from the Spartans around it. The viper was clearly not native to the region, the hardened Spartans jumped at the strange creature. Babak then removed a mouse from another basket and watched as the cobra slowly followed and killed it.

  The men were amused. Many had not seen such creatures from the world over. But then again many had yet to leave Hellas. The snake poisoned the mouse with its sharp fangs and deep bite before swallowing it whole, its hood retracted in preparation for opening its jaw.

  Lior was fascinated by the creature’s resilience and agility, he had only heard of these beasts from stories.

  Babak explained his predicament and purpose in Hellas. He told them of his birth in the Ionian region of Anatolia. And his youthful ambitions that led him to travel away from his childhood village. Though his life made him seem like a historian of sorts, visiting foreign lands. He insisted however that he was wholly impartial to the military conquests of the day. Though it was hard for most of the Spartans to believe, Lior was convinced.

  Unlike them he found Babak fascinating because he knew of things in the lands beyond. Lior’s family was also not native to this region either. Their years of travel had led his ancestors to settle in Hellas. But he yearned to discover their true home.

  Lior was desperate to ask more but felt his duty paramount. He parted ways with his camp and undertook his shift to scout the mountainous region.

  The blustery winds upon the hills annoyed him, the day had been humiliating enough. He sat glumly on the inside of a natural formation of rocks in the hillside. He looked outward toward Eretria, vigilant for any land advancement by the Persian fleet. The sounds of hurried footsteps soon approached, Lior kept in the crevasse hoping to see the approaching threat before it found him.

  “Hyparchos!” The person yelled in a hushed whisper, the footsteps were now on top of the cave. Lior edged out to see the man, he sounded like one of his men. As the scout jumped down into t
he plains in front of the cave Lior raised his sword reflexively then sheathed it.

  “What news do you bring?” Lior asked.

  “Hyparchos Lior. I bring news of our forward camp. The Persian has escaped our men. We pursued him across the plains of Marathon but he had laid insidious traps for us. We lost him near Athens, he mentioned… the Temple of Athena.”

  Lior nearly threw his blade into the ground in frustration. More and more, this man was seeming like a spy. “Very well Demetrios. Take up this region to scout in the meanwhile, after night falls relieve yourself and return to camp, set up a night watch until my return.”

  He picked up pace toward Athens. From his position he would be able to reach Athens by nightfall. He was deathly tired from the battle earlier but was pushed forward by his honor alone. He would return with the Persian, dead or alive.

  By the time he reached Athens Lior could see few about the roads at night. Denizens travelled to the Temple of Athena. Likely they prayed for protection from the recent Persian victory at Eretria. Lior approached the temple and sheathed his weapons in respect for the priests and bystanders. Incense permeated through the air giving the unusual air a pungent and spicy aroma.

  Late night prayers were muddled with wishes for their loved ones returning home. The priests accepted harvests and offerings of food and drink on the citizenry’s behalf, giving them divinely to the statue of Athena that displayed proudly in the center of the temple’s floor. The wooden statue bore diaphanous wings at the feet and back, giving the goddess of victory the flight necessary to visit the battle herself. But Lior cared little for such things, he did not believe in statues.

  His cloak concealed his sword, but he kept a close hand on it. The temples denizens cried and prayed for victory against their on-coming foes. The priests chanted in ululating tongues, placing more incense and offerings before the statue. Lior removed his helmet and held it underneath his arm. He eyed a darkly robed man standing at the head of the crowd. The stranger was conversing with the priests and gave a strange foreign flower to the priest as an offering to the temple. The Spartan made his way through the crowd, causing a few rumors to begin spreading.