It’s My Duty - Chapter One - “The Rooftops”
Posted on | April 12, 2008 |
Certainly, it could be said that stealth must be employed here- Spartans have never been known to be forgiving or kind. If there is one thing that I have learned while I remained among their midst, it’s that Spartans employ a kind of psychological control that I’ve never witness before.
From the rooftops I could see quite far, and yet I remained inconspicuous to the average person. Children played their games below, and their loving mothers carefully watched over them. It must be said that within Sparta there is a feeling of security and peace, and were I a citizen of this city-state I’d probably feel the same way, for everywhere one turns there is a muscle-laden bronzed man, clad in light armor and arms. From above I could see everything.
I had been born and bred to be quiet. I moved unseen, unheard, and my strike was swift and deadly. Some may label me as an assassin, but to be an assassin you must kill without moral or ethical attachment. I do not kill in that way. I kill with emotion, with reason, with attachment. I kill because I love those that I slay.
It is a tortuous gift, one such as a mine. Each time I kill I am overcome with a wave of emotions- love, anger, hatred, torment, sadness, and eventually, depression. Each is a stage that I must endure for the greater good. Each is a stage that I must endure for my own sanity.
The guards below had finally turned their backs. I could see hordes of them gravitating towards the city center- something must be going on right now. The soldiers pressed on calmly, as if this was a routine. Surely this did happen often, as all of the guards away from their posts at once could present quite an opportunity for more enterprising types.
A glance towards the city gates to the west confirmed my suspicions: the guards remained at the gates, steadfast in their resolve to ensure that the city remains enclosed and secure. Well, perhaps secure enough.
I placed my hands on the edge of the roof and swung my body over the edge. Now hanging, I placed my feet against the wall and thrust, while at the same time forcing my body to wrap around itself. As I fell I reached out and took hold of a lower ledge, bringing my free-fall to an abrupt halt. Now hidden between two buildings, I let go and fell the remaining few feet to the ground below.
Not a bad way to decent from a building.
People walked past the alleyway that I resided in without noticing me inside. No, what was there to notice about a man dressed as everyone else? Even so, from within the shadows I could render myself almost invisible.
I waited for the right moment to join the Spartan crowd. I could not help but watch the crowd as it passed by- mothers guiding their children, husbands embracing their wives. I continued to watch the crowd until a large group, possibly a large family or group of close friends, came marching past. I joined them unnoticed, and made my way with the crowd until I came to the clearing I was observing from the rooftops a few minutes prior.
The same mothers were there, along with their children, still idly playing and enjoying their lives. There was one child I had been observing in particular – a boy that was 5 or 6 years old at the most – and I had decided that today he would be the one I would choose.
I reached into my pocket and retrieved two circular orbs that had been given to me by a friend of mine in the orient. The orbs themselves were nothing spectacular, but rather it was what they could do that was most interesting. Apparently these orbs, when thrown upon the ground, exploded into a huge cloud of smoke. Enough smoke, apparently, to conceal a man crafty enough to use the distraction to his advantage.
And so I would. I thrust the orbs to the ground, ensuring that each hit approximately ten feet from each other, and rushed into the resulting haze. I grabbed the child and retreated into the crowd, which was now panicking due to the confusion. It was not for a few moments that I heard the cries from the mother. Her calls for her child echoed predominantly throughout the street, and had I not already scaled the walls of the building I was occupying earlier I would surely have been noticed and apprehended.
I set the child down, my left hand covering his mouth. He was afraid- his blue eyes pierced me, as if they knew what was happening next. My right hand reached towards the sheath behind my back and retried my freshly sharpened dagger. He began to breathe heavily, almost hysterically. Tears streamed down the side of his face. He knew he was going to die.
“Fear not child,” I whispered to him, “for in your death you shall find salvation. The Olympians do not waste the life of a boy. You shall find peace in the events of today.”
As I drew my dagger I entered my period of hyper-awareness: the mother still cried for her child, the crowd still screamed and scurried about like a bunch of chickens with their heads chopped off, and the boy was still crying. His years touched my hand, and I could feel the swell in my eyes.
I thrust down. The deed was done. The mother still cried, and the crowd still moved, only now the boy did not fret. His torment had ended, while the torment that would soon plague this city was just beginning.
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