Chapter five: At the Crossroads We Stand Still

The journey to Koropi was paved in destruction. The Persian’s had spared no one, as Enyo and Herite’s small army passed through entire villages; nothing left standing. Homes had been engulfed entirely in flames, some still putting up a fight to stand, unwilling to join their neighbors who were all but a pile of cinders lying lifeless upon the blackened ground. All around them lay the suffocating stench of death as their inhabitants lay either dead or slowly dying. And then there were the most unfortunate souls who found their bodies nailed to a stake, soaked in oil and left to burn alive until their flesh peeled itself from their bones. They were left as an example, leading a line from the entrance to the village all the way to its exit, not a single body recognizable upon its crucifixion and no one had been spared. Enyo looked upon the faces of men, women and children; some no older than the age of three, pinned to cross beams and left to slowly die.
They bloodied the ground on either side, juxtaposed almost perfectly from one end of the village to another. Herite seemed disgusted, but Enyo lacked surprise, merely keeping her focus on the road ahead. And then she stopped, holding her hand out in front to halt Herite and his men, her eyes scanning the road picking up the sound of . . . life. She heard him from afar, crawling upon the ground, a pool of blood trailing beneath his belly. If he could ever be deemed to be human, it would amaze her. He had been slathered in castor oil and set aflame, but the fire refused to swallow him, leaving only a figure of mangled flesh behind, but one that still retained the tiniest speck of life. He crawled into the middle of the road and collapsed in front of their horses. He struggled in vain to push himself onto his arms, his skin blackened and charred. With a copious amount of pain, he managed to look toward the sky, his eyes all but burned from their sockets as he turned his attention in the direction of Enyo, his face retaining a hope and more than anything, a desire for escape. Enyo stepped from her horse, drawing her sword as she knelt in front of him. With a swift movement, she brought the blade down upon his neck, severing the main artery and ending his life.
“It would have been a disservice to allow him to continue on in pain” she said simply, noticing the look upon Herite’s face.
He nodded unarguably, looking down upon the man’s body and shaking his head in disgust.
“These Persians are like dogs-they deserve to be slaughtered as such” he spat, venom all but present in his tone.
“Perhaps,” Enyo answered, “But time is only wasted pitying the dead. This is not the only village they’ve been through and I imagine many more will have suffered before we’ve seen the end” she finished, once again climbing to her horse.
Her assumption was not farther from the truth. Persia held mercy for no one. Every village they passed through held a new concept for “torture”, almost as if the notion became adopted as a hobby. They had finally settled along the path of a small settlement by the name of Boyra, the last destination before reaching Koropi. The town of Boyra had retained its structure; the blaze of fire had not claimed it, yet the air was filled with a silence that was almost too much to bear. The town itself housed a village, bordered on the right by a dense marsh and on the left by a still moving river, left secluded under a crowd of aging willow trees. Had they not been following in Persia’s wake, Enyo would have held the assumption that Boyra had been left all but untouched, and yet nothing stirred. The breath of life had been sucked away and it was not until they had moved past the docks of the river that Enyo found herself almost hating being human. The Persian’s had adopted a method they named “the boats” and Boyra had given them the perfect opportunity to set it in motion.
“Scaphism” Enyo muttered, casting her eyes to the ground.
Boyra’s people had not fled: they had been eaten alive. The boats of the village, once harbored by the river, had been nailed to the trees over the docks encasing the town’s victims all but naked inside them from the neck down. As Enyo moved closer, the strong smell of milk and honey embedded inside her nostrils, forcing her to cover her nose with her hand. The sound of buzzing could be heard wafting from the direction of Boyra’s citizens, as a black cloud of insects lay hovered over the boats.
“By the gods” Herite muttered, coming to join her. “What hell is this?”
“Scaphism” she repeated. “A Persian delicacy; they encase their victim inside a boat, hang them over a tree” she said, pointing to the willows.
“And the smell?” he asked.
“Milk and honey” she replied sniffing the air, “It’s unmistakable.” “They force it down their throats . . . up to the point of nausea. It gives off a smell that attracts all manner of insects. After that, it’s just a matter of waiting to be devoured” she finished, dropping her gaze. “As for them, she said, motioning to the victims, “they’ve been here for days. Chances are they’re long since dead.”
“Chances are?” Herite asked, horrified.
“I never said it was a quick death” she replied, looking at him.
As she returned to her horse, Herite remained rooted to the spot.
“These Persians, they fight only defenseless villagers; people who cannot ever hope to defend themselves. I want to see how capable they are in the midst of a real army” he growled.
“You call this a real army?” Tyrus mocked, leaning forward in his saddle.
Enyo cast him a glance that said “Don’t start.”
“Oh, no, no, no” he began, “I want to know. Nothing can amount to a Spartan army running full force down a battlefield towards their enemy . . . and the look of terror on their faces when they know they’ve been outmatched is just short of pure perfection. So tell me Herite, you call this a real army?” he asked, his face scrunched into a sneer.
Herite turned to face him.
“Forgive me if I do not revel in the excitement of murder, as you do” he answered, returning to his horse.
As Herite pulled ahead, his army following obediently behind him, Enyo slowed until she came to ride alongside Tyrus.
“It would you do well to keep quiet” she snapped “You may just find yourself beneath my foot again . . . and I may just find myself relenting a little slower. Don’t forget who’s in command here” she finished, riding to catch up with Herite as Tyrus cast a look of venom.
Herite had decided it was best to stop for the night and rest. They had strayed from the main road down into a forest clearing and deemed it a reasonable location to set up camp. They had traversed far enough to stay on top of the Persian army and Herite believed they’d arrive in Koropi shortly after morning. Tyrus had remained silent the rest of the day and had retired as soon as he spread out his bedroll. Herite’s men found sleep to be easy, each drifting off until only Enyo remained awake. She sat stoking the fire, watching how easily it was to control the flames. She could seize its life at any moment she desired or allow it to live and watch it dance. Her entire life, she decided, was one giant flame, always being consumed for a purpose other than her own. It had brought her here to this very spot, had changed her life, killed her family, scarred her memory with death and destruction and now . . . it was at her mercy. As she continued to stoke it, Herite came to sit beside her, casting his own eyes to the center of its core.
“You aren’t like other Spartans I’ve met in the past” he said quietly, drawing up his knees. “And, I’m not just saying that because you happen to be a woman” he quickly added.
Enyo smiled.
“You mean I’m not like Tyrus” she began.
“You display a sense of respect that he does not have. One I imagine he’ll never have” he answered.
“I was not born a Spartan, but that doesn’t mean we are all like Tyrus” she added, prodding the fire once more.
“If you were not born in Sparta, where do you hail from?” he asked, curious.
“I was born in Athens; raised by a farm wife and a simple fisherman; both long since dead.”
“My condolences” he muttered softly.
“I don’t need your sympathy” she stated, finally ending the fire’s life and getting to her feet. “You should get some rest. Koropi is first on the list tomorrow, and if you want any chance against this army, you’ll need your strength.”