It’s Raining Men

Bodies strewn and strung on poles like memorabilia—a trophy for those who hadn’t yet perished. We are on the brink of a major loss, a loss that could turn the tide between the Greeks and the Romans bickering. The Roman’s advantageous attempt at halting us near the capitol has left us with a significant death toll, and it continues to climb. The Romans are growing impatient at our ramshackle housing units planted outside of their vast spread army. But as they grow impatient, we grow increasingly worried. A third of our troops have been left gaping at the mouth, the shaft of a spear planted through their rows of teeth. The battlefield has been tiptoeing closer to our camps, leaving a space of a mere three kilometers between us and the Romans. Sleep is minimal—snarls and growls from the Roman hellions circle us like vultures, waiting to strike.

The only comfort to my men are the bathhouses. Each soldier has been molded to drive and fight until death, but even they cannot escape the horrors that fester from the war. On the daily, I saunter past the steam curling in the air, the open maw of flickering candles and suds, and wonder of the debilitating nightmares that eat my troops alive. I can hear the agonizing moans from my warriors, the pleas for it all to stop. Man cannot shoo the burden of being mortal, and with that comes the mind of a temporary soul. Sometimes, I wish my men to be stronger, to be similar to my mindset. An impenetrable fortress is the closest comparison I can offer somebody when they ask what makes me so different; why I was chosen as the Strategos. But the bathhouses offer my soldiers what the battleground cannot: a chance to wash the splatters of blood and flesh away, offering the mind the solitude to grieve. My troops can appreciate masking their disgust on the battlefield and waiting until after hours to let the facade fall.

Today is no different as I complete my patrol around our encampment. As I just about pass the bathhouse, I hesitate before finding myself hoisting my tunic up and peering inside. The murmurs of the splashing water were comforting to a mind accustomed to howls and screams. I pass the rows of soldiers, their eyes downcast and expressions downtrodden. Soft sponges are being rubbed into every groove of their shoulders, and thick dirt and grime peel off like an onion. The exoskeleton of a soldier's demeanor is tough as nails, but when you scrub one down, he becomes as soft as a newborn baby's skull. I take one glance downward at the woman tending to the man closest to the gaping mouth of the outside door, and see tears springing from his eyes. They cling to his cheekbones and rivet to his trembling lips. I bend over the bath, aware that I am being eyed by every individual in the chamber.

“Soldier, why do you cry,” I ask gruffly, reaching my hand placidly to sit on his shoulder. His eyes widen at the sight of my sewn garments and gnarled helmet of iron wrought protection, and his response is nothing more than a grunt. I remove my hand as he scrambles up out of the bath, his eyes hardening to cloud any emotion but his chin still quivering with dancing drops of sadness.

“I do not cry for myself, I cry for my family. I cry for the Greeks sacrificing themselves for nothing, I cry because we are on the brink of a collapse. I cry because tomorrow, when we march and attempt to take the Romans full militia—it will be the last time I will ever fight for anything. My last breath, my last moment. So do not ask me why I cry Strategos.” With his last snappy retort, the soldier spools an outstretched cloth around his waist and storms off.

As his fingers graze the doorway, he pauses for one last dramatic statement. “I cry because the gods do not bless us and they have never done anything for us. As the leader of us all, why do you not fear them? You have never once thanked them, never once turned to them. So I speak for our people when I say damn you Strategos.” The chamber is silent—I hear the purr of the heat as the troops open gaping mouths. I am shell shocked at his outrage and confused at the burst of hatred. I exit the chamber and stumble on the lip of the entrance, pausing to pant and wildly dart to the nearest enclosed space.

I don’t pray because I think it to be foolish, but I had never once thought that my people would notice. I feel the burning of judgemental stares as I traipse and tremble to the nearest temple and try to calm myself down. A spring burbles nearby and birds lilt melodies only nature can decipher. I take a deep breath to collect myself and chortle at where I went for peace.

Of course I find myself at the temple—the place for the gods. I hesitate and peek inside, unsure what to expect. It is hollow inside the interior, petals from peonies lining the soil floor. It is empty, unless you qualify the swarm of mosquitos that nips at my face as I walk in to be company.

Maybe I shall please the people just this once spiritually.

I unsheath my xiphos and settle the blade into the ornamented patterns of the temple. I settle the pads of my greaves into the soft soil patch and cement the palms of my hands together. I close my eyes and for once, I look to rely on somebody other than myself. I don’t like the feeling of vulnerability; the nape of my neck prickles as the wind playfully coils my hair around my face. I have an uncomfortable feeling like a baby calf learning to swim by himself for the first time, and a realization tickling my brain that reminds me of the calf baying for his mother. I have never once looked to the gods for assistance, in fear I would lose my position and be laughed at. The gods are a staple part of our economy, but for a superstitious Strategos who only believes in blood lustrous thoughts and manslaughter, gods are petty beings. I have feared the concept of looking at them because I fear replacement. I know I am expendable as are most of us, but Greece is my bloodline—it’s my home. I may be expendable, but I am a Strategos who will do whatever it takes to protect my home. So, no matter how foolish I feel as my helmet sits discarded to the side of my body, my eyes clenched shut and hands lifted to the sky in a vain effort to protect my people, I wouldn’t change a thing.

“My people need you, we cannot win this war alone,” I murmur to myself, praying to whoever will lend an ear.

After minutes of prolonging my departure and perking up at the whispers of the wind, nothing is changing. Embarrassed, I retrieve my helmet from the ground where it rests and bitterly spit at the soil. It ruffles and bubbles over the saliva, dissolving into the Earth. Just like my empty prayers—whisked away and forgotten in the cacophony of other important people. 

 I plod my way through the camp, restless all night at what is to come tomorrow morning. I do not fear what will happen, I fear watching it all unfold. I can come to terms with the prospect of dying after stamping out as many Roman troops as my arms can dismantle and my spear can reach, but flashbacks of my haunting earlier rupture the peaceful ending. My people believe that I have cast this fate upon them, and that upsets me far greater than any other concept. It gnaws at my heart and soul as I bundle into my clothes, furrowing deep into the material in order to block out what they think I have caused. My eyes begin to droop but my mind stays racing. 

My mind continues to savagely provoke me all night until I toss and turn and find myself awake at the helm of the battle I have dreaded all this time. The time has come and I can barely lift my arm to slap my cheek to awaken myself.

“My men, we have come so far,” I drawl, my voice crooning into a soft lullaby as a yawn envelops me. But I must be strong for Greece, and for all of my people. “Look out yonder—the Romans dare kindle the fire of war. They weaved our hatred into existence; they have taken your brothers and sisters down on the battlefield and removed them from every last stake. Painstakingly too, not even a morsel of blood remains. They have mopped up their crime scene and tried to erase their gory footprint.” I pause as my troops gather closer, most of their eyes darkening to match the overcast skies. “We will never have a proper burial for what and how much Greece has sacrificed for an attempt to overthrow the Romans. They snarl and spit in our faces and taunt us, but we will overcome them.” Even though my voice grows spirited, I am weary at the thought of more fighting. “We WILL prevail and crush them. We ARE Greece!” The jumble of wails and shouts and growling that follows is enough to awaken my soul from its slumber.

I am ready to sacrifice everything for Greece—I always will. Even though the gods never did help anyways.

We march towards the battlefield, the sounds of war and triumph follow in our wake.

I see the Romans exiting their camps, eyes glinting with steel and fiery passion to end our lineage once and for all. But I turn my nose and fix my eyes on the sky. I frown as the sky is darkening by the minute, clouds billowing and building above us. But I cannot worry about the weather when I am about to die.

My troops begin filing into their lines, pointedly concentrating on the incoming Roman soldiers. I lock eyes with the first Roman and his nasty smirk says all—the Romans believe they will defeat us. I let out a wild snarl and I charge at him, my xiphos leaping towards his throat. He stumbles backward as my weapon glints and strikes gold. Blood gushes from his neck and his twitching helmet and head fall still to the packed dirt.

But there are too many Romans and not enough of my people. We fall back and link together, weaving until we are a bronze mass of terror. We will not win, but we will not go down without a fight worthy of a book. My people look up and begin to scream in terror; my interest shifts to the interstellar war suddenly occurring. I look up at the sky, entranced at the colors swirling and suddenly consuming the darkness. It is indescribable beauty—the sky is blanketed with vibrant hues of stars and spiderwebs of constellations.

The constellations move fluidly like human beings, as they begin to drop pirouetting bodies down to the ground. My fear grows to amazement as my once never to be seen troops blanket the battlefield once more. They shower and pierce the Roman army, the dead bodies collapsing the enemy's rank.

“My gods, it’s raining men.” The Romans scream and flail as they begin to be crushed to death by the weight of the bodies collapsing their ranks. I sheath my sword and gawk in amusement as the swirling tattoos of stars form a line and the sky begins to brighten to a crisp bluebird appearance.

The Romans have been obliterated in one fatal swipe from the gods.

We roar and cheer as we storm into their capitol, plundering what we want and joy precariously teetering on all of our faces.

“Thank you,” I turn to the sky. And for the first time, I am thankful for the help.