Heart of Fire

Chapter 2 - Memories in Bronze-5

"Gods. All his teeth?" Stefanos took note of the chewing he was able to do at that moment, and was grateful he was as fast as he was.

"I'll say it again, Stefanos," Pandarus added, throwing a clean bone down on the table. "You were always one of my best students, and from what I can see, war has kept you strong."

"And I'll say it again, my friend. The answer is no."

Over the next few days, Talos' condition became worse, and Stefanos raged at his own incapacity to help his father.

In returning to Argos, wandering its streets, and hearing the familiar bustle of his childhood deme, Stefanos' memories, which he had buried deeply, had become chaotic in his mind, churned like the sand of a seabed when waves crash upon it, over and over.

He had decided to help Kratos train at the gymnasium for his upcoming competitions. There was still some time for the latter to get to Olympia for the Scrutiny, the time one month before the Games when the Hellanodikai decide who is eligible and worthy enough to compete.

Stefanos decided to help his friend for all they had been through over the years, and he could see how much it meant to Kratos. Besides, it passed the time, distracted him from darker thoughts, and helped him to stay fit for battle as he hoped to be heading for Persia soon.

However, he realized as the days passed and things got worse at home, he could not leave his father.

One day, after training with Kratos, and visiting the baths, Stefanos' steps led him to the Heraion outside of the eastern walls of the city. He did not enter the sacred precinct, but sat upon a boulder outside the sanctuary, his eyes taking in the gathering of buildings, the temple of Hera where smoke rose from the altar which sat before the aged columns.

He remembered his mother, Hermia, then, and how she had appeared in her white priestess' robes. He used to walk out to the very spot where he sat at that moment, surrounded by spring wild flowers, to watch for her, ready to walk home with her on the days when she returned home.

The wind whipped across the plain as Stefanos sat there, Zephyrus out of the mountains of the Peloponnese to the West. He sat there exposed, his head in his hands, staring at the Heraion, at the ground, at the sky above, tormenting himself with thoughts of happier, carefree times of which there had been too few in his life.

He had spent many more joyous moments in the shield wall during his life, revelling in the skill and strength that made him a terror on the battlefield to his opponents, and a strong ally to the men beside him.

"At least I have that..." he said to himself, suddenly missing the feel of his hoplon and doru in his hands.

For a moment the wind stilled, and the air grew cool around him, the light brighter, almost blinding.

Stefanos hopped down from the boulder into the grass, sending a snake slithering away. Then, he almost collapsed.

My son... I have missed you.

His mother stood before him, her once-white robes dirty and tattered, her skin as pale as chalk. Her face looked down at him pitifully, and she reached out to him.

"Mother?" Stefanos shuddered, backing away until his back was against the boulder. He closed his eyes.

Do not fear me, the shade said. How I've missed you, my son...

"Get a grip, Stefanos," he told himself, before opening his eyes to reassure himself it was just his own imagination.

When he looked up again, it was still there, watching him, mouthing words he did not want to hear.

"Why are you here?" he asked.

Talos' time is near, Stefanos. Your father will pass from the world soon. You must...you must...

"What must I do?"

Ease his passing...lighten his heart... The shade smiled sadly. Make peace with him, Stefanos, for he has loved you since the day you were born, even more than the very fires of his own forge...

Stefanos shut his eyes tightly, fighting the unfamiliar sting of tears in his eyes. He pressed the muscles of his back into the rough edges of the rock behind him, opened his eyes, and found himself alone again, the heat of the sun beating down once more, the wind wrapping itself about him. He stared at the distant Heraion as he stood up, brushing off his chiton, and turning to go back to the city.

He picked his way through the crowds of men, groups of boys playing, and packs of stray dogs and cats at their heels. After a time, his footsteps led him to his father's workshop, a place where he had spent many hours watching, and listening to his father speak at length about smelting, sculpting, and the beauty of bronze.

Stefanos opened the doorway to see the workshop dusty, cold, and unused. His nostrils filled with the familiar tang of molten bronze, his ears with the hammer and tap of tools to shape it. He could see his father's strong hands shaping the hard material into things of beauty and his heart was filled with a longing to see that man again, a man he had admired and looked up to like the heroes of the past.

The dark reality of that quiet workshop robbed him of the memories, and he was left staring at the unfinished lump of bronze on the dais at the centre of the room. He presumed it to be the last thing Talos had been working on, and moved toward it to pull the sheet off.

Dust fell all around him and he waved his hands to clear it away. When it settled, he stared at the unfinished bronze of what appeared to be a warrior, the feet bare, greaves leading up to solid thighs, a leather skirt and muscled torso. But there it ended, unfinished, unpolished and rough.

"Must be an Ares commission?" Stefanos said to himself, picking up the sheet and placing it back over the bronze. He walked over to the anvil where the heavy hammer lay, and slipped his fingers around it. It did not feel right in his hand. It had been too long. He was not his father.

Stefanos pounded the anvil once, the dead ring echoing in the workshop one time before he put it down and made his way to the door. Before leaving, he turned to look a last time at the dusty interior that had been lit by the fires of creativity and inspiration, then closed the door and went home.

"Father!" Stefanos yelled when he entered the courtyard, running past the olive tree and bursting into the kitchen where Cleo spun, surprised and putting her hands up.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Is he..." Stefanos panted. "Is he?" He could not say the word.

"He's as good as can be expected when the end draws near," she said, walking up to him and placing her hand upon his heart. "He's asked to see you as soon as you returned home."

Stefanos nodded, and took a few deep breaths before downing a cup of water.

"Where were you?" Cleo asked. "Not at the gymnasium the entire time?"

"No. I went to the Heraion...and then to father's workshop."

"I see."

Stefanos could tell that both those places haunted his sister as well, their measure and meaning morphing over time into something less than happy. He touched her hand, and turned to go to their father's bedside.

Stefanos found Talos sitting up, staring at his own hands, turning them over curiously, scrutinizing them.

"It's a strange thing to look at yourself and not recognize the person you have become," he said without looking up at Stefanos. "I've honoured the Gods all my life, enjoyed my daily toils. And yet..." he coughed roughly, spittle mingled with blood falling from his mouth. "And yet, the changes they have wrought upon me seem cruel reward."

"Father," Stefanos said softly, taking a square of linen from the table and dabbing at Talos' mouth. "Such changes are not wrought upon bronze, are they?"

"No!" Talos' face lit up, and he smiled. "They are not. Bronze, if cared for, is eternal, not this!" he said, pinching at the loose flesh of his arm. "Not this..."

Stefanos sat on the edge of the bed, hunched over, staring at the worn marble floor, rubbing his jaw slowly, listening to the shallow breathing behind him.

"I have always honoured Eris agathos," Talos said. "Good strife, is what makes a good man. It matters in all aspects of one's life."

"What are you getting at?" Stefanos sat up and looked at Talos.

"You are aner agathos...a good man. But you have honoured Kakochartos for too long."

"Kakochartos?" Stefanos repeated, his voice angry. Why can't he just say something kind? "My ponos, Father, has always been war. I have been on the front line of the battles of this world since I was nineteen. Twenty one years! How could I make statues when our people were slaughtered and enslaved at Hysiae!"

"Twenty one years of Kakochartos! Of exulting in bad things, of war, dissent, and destruction. You have lusted for bloodshed and battle, my son." Talos wept then, fear and regret layered over his face and the features of his body.

As the old man looked upon his son, it became apparent that he was not scared for himself, for the imminent approach of death and the long ride the Ferryman had in store for him. He was afraid for the son before him, and it tore him apart as surely Cerberus' fangs.

"When you embrace Eris agathos, you are creative, productive, an example to all mortals for the betterment of this world. I have always striven to make this world a better place, to leave behind beauty, for I have..." he hunched over, coughing blood, his hands gripping Stefanos' arm tightly, desperately. "I have been blessed by the Gods, in my skill and toils, in my beloved Hermia, and my faithful Cleo...and in you, my son...in you..."

"Father," Stefanos' voice shook, and he felt the veins in his neck and head pulsating so much he thought he would explode. "I've not known any other life. I don't know what else to do. The hoplon and doru are my tools, the thorax and greaves my clothing. I know I enjoy battle, and killing... It's what I am good at. It's who I am!"

Talos shook his head violently. "No. No!" He poked Stefanos in the chest. "Who you are is in here. A good man, with arete...kalos...aner agathos. You are all of those things. You have just wandered far from the path...but it is never too late."

"I told you. I don't know what else to do. What can I do for you, Father, to make you happy, to give you the peace of mind you want? Tell me what I can do?" His voice was almost a shout.

Talos did not flinch, however. Nor did he continue weeping. He gripped his son's arm tightly.

"Embrace Eris agathos, and the agon. You have always had philoneikia, the love of competing, and philonikia, that essential love of winning."

Stefanos stared at Talos, his racing heart slowing as his father's eyes sought his and locked onto them.

"Enter the Olympiad, Stefanos. Win. For you, for our family, for the Gods themselves. Win and redeem yourself. Shake off Kakochartos for something greater, nobler."

"The Olympiad? Father..." Stefanos shook his head slowly.

"Yes! And when you have won, and the olive crown has been placed upon your brow, I want you to commission the greatest epinikion bronze of yourself to stand in the Altis of the sanctuary for all time. When that happens, I will rest easy in Elysium."

"Father..." Stefanos looked at the old man before him, haunted by memory, by the shade of his own mother, by the faces of the countless men he had slain from Syracuse to Persia. They all stared at him now, expectant, mocking, pitying and vengeful.