Self and Sparta

A former commander, now hunted, writes a woman of a different social class. They met as adolescents while attending mandatory ethics training. Their instructor was a political subversive.

Many have lauded me a hero. They tell many stories, and some of them are true.  I will let them believe that I am a hero because of the passion and inspiration it seems to engender in them.  But what is not known is how I felt about my actions.....my leadership. It is not known that I was sickened and shaking and weak in the legs even in the planning stages of our assaults.  Labeled a grand battle tactician, it is assumed that I live for and love war.  But if you can remember, way back then, when we sat with our friends and our guides in the woods, at the fire pit, it was words that I loved, words that edified me, words that I rushed to use to make you laugh, to get your attention, to have your company.  But now,  it is words  I use to incite hate and rage in my men.  Like a keeper of fighting dogs or bulls in the arena, I am the tormentor who first saddens, and then numbs, and then enrages his fighters.  But instead of whips and cages I do this with words that instill fear and warn of awful things done to them and their families.  And like dogs they consume my words, always looking to please, so that maybe they'll get a crumb of praise and recognition from me.  And I hate what they do...... what we do.  I hate the mangled bodies on both sides, of those on the other side who uphold the code and we, who will no longer live by it.  And perhaps, what I hate most, more than the sights and smells and roughness of uniforms and gear, are the sounds of this stupid business.  Endlessly I hear machines clanging and racking into place, the inarticulate grunting of commands from inarticulate men, the anger and fear in voices, the smashing of things, and, worst of all, the sobbing, the all too often sobbing, of my men, of their men, and of those who get in the way.