Bear School Astartes

On the cliff, the outline of the Spartan Camp is etched by a circle of lit torches. Sentinels stand expressionless at their posts, ever vigilant.

Some mountain dwellers sit in trees and highlands in the countryside; they are professional javelin throwers and night watchmen on the perimeter. Although they are not pure-blood Spartan citizens, as soldiers, they are still respected.

Within the camp, Spartan soldiers sit by the fires, occasionally letting out a dull laugh. They’re either sipping the thin and somewhat pitiful black broth from their kykeon cups, or sharpening their spear blades.

A few others are naked, as their slaves cautiously smear ointment on their muscular but hungry bodies, then use scrapers to rub away the dirt.

Stantor sits beside the fire in the camp’s center, exhausted and hungry, feeling somewhat restless. Unable to sleep, he rises from the darkness and, accompanied by a few other sleepless soldiers, heads to the fire to pass the time and get through the night. ”Sing me a Tyrtaeus poem,” he murmured, ”I want to hear his war song.”

Two Spartan citizen soldiers across from him cough, clearing their throats, then begin to sing, with their most unrefined voices, a war song composed by Sparta’s greatest poet from three hundred years ago.

This is rare, for Spartans to exhibit exceptional prowess in the arts. Athenians even found it ridiculous, for they believed Spartans before never, and in the future will never, value the arts.

They only know to deprive lives using weapons, nothing more.

Now, Stantor, with a face ashen with gloom, hastily stops the soldiers from singing, saying, ”Stop singing before the spirit of the great man rises from the Netherworld and pulls out your tongues, stop it.”

He gazes downward at the Adrestia hugged tightly to the shore like a limpets. That bothersome mercenary has lingered here for almost two weeks.

She did well, yet she evidently underwent apparent and formal Spartan-style training, now ingloriously mixing mercenary combat tricks.

This makes Stantor dislike her.

But regardless, there are more troubling matters at hand.

The worsening rumors are accurate; Pericles from Athens has dispatched a powerful heavy armored infantry southward, aiming to break Sparta’s control over this land. Soon, Spartan legions will march north, confronting the enemy.

Sparta’s allies have been summoned, preparing for war.

In the camp, some discuss Athenian heroes, others about the approximate enemy forces, while many rumor that this time Sparta will surely be defeated, the morale in the army greatly dispirited, like a stomach tortured by constant hunger.

A series of hurried footsteps transmitted from outside Stantor’s tent.

Stantor abruptly raises his head, shouting sternly, ”Guard!”

A figure approaches the fire and continues moving towards him. As he stands to draw his short sword, the figure stops and throws a heavy object in his direction.

As the object lands beside the fire, the burlap sack ruptures, revealing a meticulously crafted full-cover metal helmet.

”Divine Artifact!”

One of the Spartans whispered in amazement.

In a country that delights in martial prowess to the utmost, a divine artifact is the object of every Spartan’s dreams.

As the figure draws near, Stantor raises his head. Cassandra lifts her eyebrows, boldly and confidently staring at him.

It’s this kind of gaze, more Spartan than actual Spartan citizens.

Stantor detests this gaze appearing in the eyes of a foreigner.

”Mercenary?” he growls deeply.

”The spy implanting, grain-plundering Icarus is dead. This is his divine artifact, still bearing the blood splashed from his neck.”

Cassandra, seeming unaware of Stantor’s hostility, sits by the fire nonchalantly.

”I’ve recovered over ten carts of grain they seized, so you and your soldiers can dine well right before the Athenian attack, nourishing and resting yourselves.”

Stantor stands, his expression a mix of emotions. ”Are you saying you saved us? Saved the entire battle in Megaliss for Sparta? Is that what you mean?”

He suddenly bursts, shouting angrily, ”You want us to bow before you, show our gratitude?”

”I merely wish to meet with the Spartan ’Blood Wolf’.” Cassandra gazes at the fire, speaking softly.

Stantor pins his eyes on Cassandra’s profile, flickering between light and shadow under the fire, after a long silence chuckling suddenly.

”In front of the Spartan General can’t stand a cowardly waste. Alright then, mercenary, I’ll give you a chance.”

”The Athenian heavy armored infantry will soon come to contest Megaliss, and I’ll recommend you to become a part of this glorious battle. Offering you the chance to fight for Spartan warrior glory as a mercenary! It’s as simple as that.”

”Achieve success in battle, receive rewards, and meet the ’Blood Wolf’!”

He initially thought Cassandra would tremble with sweat streaming, because the confrontation in the phalanx against mercenaries’ lone combat, the brutality isn’t on the same level at all.

However, Cassandra surprises him again.

She agrees very straightforwardly: ”I’ll go.”

Thus the entire camp cheers for this woman’s courage and fearlessness.

-----------------

Not long after, Spartans conducted their pre-war sacrificial rites in their camp.

Below the cliffs, the rumored Athenian heavy armored infantry corps treaded a long snake of rising dust on Megaliss land.

According to the war etiquette of the time, they too were conducting pre-war sacrificial rites, a process that would not be disturbed by either side, otherwise it would be sacrilege against the gods.

Sparta offered a sheep to the gods, the priest slashed the bleating animal’s throat. Once it ceased struggling, announcing that the gods were very pleased.

”Alright, Barnabas. You constantly nagging Cassandra ’bring more bread’, ’bring more water’ is outright like a mother hen.”

On the Adrestia wandering in the shallows, Lann leans on the ship’s side, observing the rising twin plumes of sandy dust on the distant beach.

And stops Barnabas, pacing around anxiously beside him.

”Cassandra is a mercenary now, but she’s been a Spartan since childhood. She’s strong, didn’t you also say she’s no ordinary person? So you and Phoebe need not worry so much.”

”But that’s war! Lann! War!”

Barnabas’s thick white hair flares like a lion’s mane, his concern for Cassandra is genuine.

”That is the manifestation of Ares’ divine power on earth! Even if Cassandra tames the bird of gods, even if her body is not of the ordinary, but...”

Speaking, Barnabas glanced at Lann.

”But why not help her, Lann? Having someone look out for you is always better than being alone, especially on the battlefield. Besides, you...”

You’re not ordinary either.

Barnabas finally voiced what weighed in his mind for several days ever since Lann said he wouldn’t join Cassandra on the battlefield.

While Lann continues to lean on the ship’s side, quietly watching the battlefield on the beach.