The Wandering King by Stephen Bradford Marte

Author:Stephen Bradford Marte [Marte, Stephen Bradford]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

“Oh son, what unbearable pain I'm in!

But you sleep serenely

in the blue darkness of the night,

lying down in this cheerless brass-chest.

Oh fair little face,

nestled in your purple cloak,

you don't feel the salt

of the scudding waves over your hair,

nor the roaring wind.

Thank god, you don't feel the danger

And you don't sense my despair!

Sleep my baby!

And let the sea sleep!

And let this torment end...”

Theo began slowly at first, but with each line spoke more confidently as if gaining inspiration just by looking at her. As he continued, words poured from his mouth like honey from a pot. At first Stesilaus looked at the Lacedaemonian like he was touched by madness. Then she began to sniffle and wiped tears from her eyes. To let us all know she approved of Theo’s poem, she reached out her dainty fingers for him to hold in a big calloused hand.

If Theo had thrown the girl over his shoulder after he’d finished the poem, he might have gotten away cleanly. Instead he stood there basking in the applause of the marketplace like he’d just won the poetry contest at the Pythian Games. His foolish pride would cost him dearly.

It was then that Admeistius returned with sixteen Corinthian hoplites from the city guard. While the crowd cried out in alarm, the hoplites surrounded the platform pointing their spears at Theo, who stood calmly holding Admeistius’ staff with both hands, ready to parry any thrusts. Thankfully he did not attempt to escape or attack. If he had, he would have been skewered from all sides.

Stesilaus dropped to her knees in a supplicant’s pose. The crowd fled in all directions—giving the hoplites plenty of room, forming a ring around them. No one went too far. Things could turn bloody and like hunters encircling a wild boar all wanted to be in on the kill. Pretending to snarl and spit like a cat, Theo stomped his left foot forward, banging it loudly on the wooden platform, scaring the Corinthian hoplites back a step. The crowd gasped, then laughed nervously, while the hoplites remained in the strike position—shields emblazoned with a pegasi raised, glittering spear tips poised pointing a ring of death at the lone Spartan.

I admit I was not helpful. All I wanted to do was avoid getting caught by my father. What was the sense in dooming myself along with Theo when he was behaving like a madman? For all their reputation as poor soldiers, these sixteen Corinthians appeared to know their business. I saw no reason to throw myself at them armed only with a dagger. Instead I stayed where I was in the back of the assemblage watching to see what happened.

The captain of the city guard, a grizzled looking fellow about Othryades age with an unkempt grey beard and his Corinthian helm pushed back on his head, cried, “Hold! Relax men. No need for any bloodshed. Everyone calm down. Girl. Come down from there. You’re going with Admeistius. You. Lacedaemonian. You’d better get back to your people. Off you go.

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