AFTER ILIUM

AFTER ILIUM

A Modern Tale

by Stephen Swartz

(Read the entire novel via Kindle: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B009SDW1KC)

Chapter 1

“Rage, O Goddess, sing the rage of Achilles, murderous, doomed, that cost the Achaeans so many losses, who sent down to the House of Death so many sturdy souls, the souls of great warriors, made their bodies carrion, food for dogs and birds, while the will of Zeus pushes ever to its end....”

  The meaning of rage was becoming clear to him. His lips were dry and cracked as he mumbled, his mouth tasting of dust. And yet he was more concerned with his own fate than with those of ancient heroes, or remembering the opening words of Homer’s epic poem. 

  Was he meant to be carrion, food for dogs and birds? Under the hot sun he soon could be. He just wanted to go home, see his mother and father again, one last time before he died. He did not want it all to end on a deserted coastal road in northwest Turkey. He did not want his broken body buried a few steps from where he would let go his final breath, only a short drive from the ruins of Ilium.

  With eyes closed tightly against the gritty dirt, he saw mostly darkness. At the edges, bronze light tried to sneak inside. A cloud of dust hovered around him, collected by the tepid air and assigned guard duty. He felt his body pressed against the tire tracks in the dirt. The surface beneath him was warm, wet with his perspiration. And his blood, he suspected. 

  At that moment, a vibration rose under him, the ground shaking, growing stronger. He suddenly realized what was happening. He broke through his stupor and, at the last moment, summoned what energy remained in him and thrust his weakened body over onto his side.

    His eyes popped open, immediately fell shut against the bright sunshine. The sun was hot on his face as the vibration continued. A rough noise grew in his ears. He knew he must go further. One more time, he urged himself, and rolled over again. Then again—and found himself dropping into a shallow ditch filled with the same beige dust that covered everything in this dry Mediterranean landscape.

    A vehicle rumbled past him, seemed to halt. Its loud, banging engine gave him hope. It must be a bus—one of the regular routes that wound along the coastline. The bus waited a short distance away, its engine sputtering then settling into a harmonious rumble. He heard the door creak open and some people bound out, chattering. They ran to him, kicking up dust but blocking the sun with their bodies.

    The men’s voices were gruff, thickly accented, their breaths heavy as they pulled his body out of its spontaneous grave. They were careful as they laid him on the dirt road. He could no longer open his eyes because of the blinding sun overhead. He felt someone searching his pockets. Another person dripped water on his face and wiped it away with a gnarled hand. A thick finger with rough skin and a wart forced his mouth open and water followed—a warm, awful liquid he could not swallow.

    Then he was floating, as though angels had gathered him in their arms to take him home. He kept his eyes shut, feeling the sun burning his face. Several hands lifted him into the air. He levitated over the dirt road—up the slope he had been about to mount before he collapsed—and into the welcome shadow of the bus. Voices, curious cackles, shot at him from the bus windows, words he could not recognize. He was taken aboard after some anxious discussion in the strange language, and the bus lurched into gear, backfiring as it pulled away.

    Perhaps, with some good fortune, he might return home, even if it took years. If the gods would allow it. Just knowing he was on his way made his heart warm with hope. As his body fell limp against the floor of the bus, his lips, cracked and bleeding, twisted uncontrollably into a soft, thankful grin, a silly mask he could not control.