Hi all. I finally finished all the artwork for the prologue of my book. The prologue is also revised a little. I am done with Chapter One of my writing, but still need to work on a few artworks, will post them next week. Stay tuned! As usual, I really appreciate any feedback you can give. Or if you just like it, leave a message. I really appreciate all your encouragement. Thank you for reading and enjoy!
Hey buddy. Good for you to join me now. Don't mind the dim lights and the smokey air. And the small but raucous crowd here, normally they are good-natured, normally. Here, I saved you a front row seat. The fight's not finished, but my girl Monika isn't doing too well. The slender redhead, the one in golden bikini, that's her. No, she is not my lover, but my fighter — I train her for these catfights at the club. And that tall brunette in silver over there, with that cocky look on her face, that's Juliana. She's a newcomer from Russia, one hell of a fighter, aggressive, ruthless. She's been punishing my girl for good part of the past half hour.
Come on Monika, move your feet just like we trained, don't let her corner you against the wall. But my fighter's all worn down. I don't know how much longer her feeble defence can hold out against the onslaught of her tormentor. This is a demolition on the mat. I just don't have the heart to watch it any longer. You have to forfeit the match, Monika, while you are still standing. We talked about this many times before, countless girls forfeit when they can't go on anymore. There is no shame in that. But much as I hate to see her taking abuses like that, I know there is no quitting in this saucy girl. Her indomitable spirit, you can see it in her fiery eyes when she talks to you. I nicknamed her Hysmine, you know, that female spirit of combat in Ancient Greece. And she brings that tenacity to each of her fights. While she is not the winningest catfighter in the club, the others here are all wary to face her. A fight with her always becomes a struggle for survival.
But this time it's different. She's really outclassed. Look at her clenching her teeth behind those bruised lips, her disheveled auburn hair flying about, and those claw marks on her breasts and belly, she is a wreck. And her legs, those lethal legs, her weapon of choice, now visibly quivering from fatigue. It's just a matter of time before she succumbs. I would throw in the white towel of surrender for her, but this is not a boxing match. Juliana finally catches her, seizing her by her hair, ramming her back hard against the wall in a loud THUD. Watch out for that knee! A little too late. That vicious smash to the gut shatters her. Keeling over, she drops down and rolls to the centre of the mat. The poor girl is all curled up, wincing in pain. Her strained face is flushed red with veins popping out on her forehead about to burst. She just got the wind knocked out of her. That dogged Russian doesn't let up. She straddles my beaten girl and holds her by the hair, trapping her head between the legs. Juliana's assertive movement tells me she's going for the kill. Fear flashes across Monika's panic-stricken eyes before her face disappears into the silver thong of her captor. The brunette tenses her body, and cinches in with her strong thighs. She yanks a handful of that auburn hair, pulling Monika's head up towards her, while sinking down her weight, driving her sex hard onto the face of her hapless foe, burying deep her nose and mouth. I don't think Monika has caught her breath yet after the hard knee to the midriff that toppled her. She flails her limbs meekly. And Juliana is staring straight into her. Is my girl submitting? I can't tell from where I am sitting. But a hint of sneer on the Russian's face suggests she is. That sick bitch is clearly enjoying it and she’s not letting up. Come on Monika, slap her, scratch her, kick her, anything...just BREAK FREE! I hold my breath in empathy of her agony. What must have been only a few seconds feel like an eternity, but Monika, beautiful Monika, her fire finally extinguishes as her body goes limp underneath. It's over...
A raw display of savagery, the way Juliana just snuffed her out. They call this move the Amazonian Kiss of Death, as it was purportedly used by the ancient Amazons to smother out their rival in single combat. Such experts of psychological warfare were these mistresses of catfighting. If you survived the move, that is if the victor let you live, you were enthralled to her under the invisible chains we moderns call Trauma. The scent of your conqueror, unique to every woman, would forever linger around your mind. If ever a thought of revolt surfaced, that familiar smell of defeat would have you tremble in your knees. That's when you knew she didn't just beat you in a fight, she owned you — for life. Juliana, you cruel bitch! Why did you have to smother Monika out in such a way? She was already at your mercy.
Juliana loosens her grip, and drops Monika's head onto the mat. The Russian checks her with a cold look, before planting that killer ass on her face again. She doesn’t want to leave any doubt of her triumph, as she anchors her weight down and swivels her hips atop the unconscious girl, directing her limp head in between. The room falls dead silent with only Juliana's panting breath. Everyone is stunned over this sequence of domination that only a professional fighter could dish out to my Monika. There were no screams of pain, no muffled cries of surrender, just pure cold-hearted brutality. Juliana wanted to make a statement, and she has impressed.
And there lies my sorry Monika, flattened beneath Juliana. Her face engulfed between those round cheeks of the Russian's bottom. She's done, out cold. Never have I witnessed a catfighter being put out with such authority — until now. Probably the most humiliating beatdown in club history, and my girl is on the receiving end of it. A nauseating feeling. We don't get many KOs here, since this is an amateur club. Most girls submit long before their breaking point. But, this fight — people here are not going to let me forget it for a long time to come. And Monika, my fighter, I just can't erase from my mind that last look in her eyes, right before she succumbed. It was a look of despair — and lament, if I know her well, and I do. A lament on how she let herself down, and how she let me down. But it's okay, you foolhardy girl. You did your best. I knew from the day that dreaded Russian strut into my gym that she was out of your league. She was taller, stronger, and most of all, professionally trained. I could tell from her springy steps. She was looking for trouble, and she had you marked out, to make a name for herself by beating you, my Monika, champion at the fight club. But you, headstrong as always, ignored my advice and fell straight into her trap.
As my mind swirls in these thoughts, the exploding sound of a nice round of applause snaps me out my stupefaction. Juliana is flashing her victory smile to everyone in the room. Then why is she still suffocating Monika? Come on bitch, get off her already. We all know you won, be satisfied! But the Russian brunette doesn't stop her gloat. Her eyes wander across the room, searching, before finally fixating on mine. Her cocky look disgusts me. What do you want from me? Yes, you've proved your point. You are better than my best catfighter, I admit it. Now just let her go! But Juliana breaks out a devilish grin at me. She reaches back, finding one of the knot that holds Monika's golden thong around her hip. Oh no you are not going to do that, you fucking slut. She’s defenceless! Now I finally realise, this Russian isn't out to beat Monika, she wants to humiliate my champion.
Doing just what I feared, she pulls on that bikini string with only the tips of her fingers, slowly loosening the knot as if unwrapping, for everyone, a precious gift. All this she does without taking her gaze off me, taunting me, showing me in her own way how much she wants me to regret for passing on her. God I want to wipe that smirk off her face! She came into my gym months ago, asking me to be her trainer, and I shunned her. Bitch, I didn’t reject you because you can't fight. I turned you down because you were up to no good. And you showed your true colours tonight.
Juliana has now unfastened Monika's bikini string on the other side. And she slips her hand under the detached thong, reaching for that forbidden spot. I turn my head away, can't bear a look. But that cursed wall of mirror on the far side, it reflects all the evils this bitch is doing to my champion, right between her sprawled legs. Monika's flimsy thong droops dangerously loose from all that finger activity, just barely veils over her privates. All this is turning Juliana on too, as she reflexively gyrates a little atop Monika's face. She turns her head, following the direction of my stare and catches me looking in the mirror. Damn, there is no getting away from this she-devil. Her demonic gaze through the reflection sends chills down my spine as she violates my Monika at her most vulnerable. This is a personal affront. I am so sorry, Monika. It is me she wants now, and she is using you to get in my head.
Things just take a turn for the worse. Juliana's temperament changes quickly. That sensual look on her face suddenly becomes malicious as she digs her claw in deep, her arm quivers with power. I wince at the thought of the pain Monika must feel in that ultra-sensitive area, but the poor girl hardly twitched a finger. She’s utterly decimated. Please, Juliana, don't hurt her anymore. I am sorry she insulted you before the fight. And I am sorry I brushed you off. Please, just end your cruelty…
Our eyes meet again. Hers full of swagger. Mine is of dejection, as I slouch low in my seat, helpless to stop Juliana from ravaging my champion. My nightmare would not end there. The Russian begins to slowly pull on Monika's dangling thong, stripping away her last ounce of pride and dignity. I can see in the mirror's reflection her tight slit, barely visible between those ivory thighs. It's clean-shaven, but burning red from all that rough handling. No one ever got stripped nude in this fight club before. Never. These are amateur fighters we have, not porn stars. They have real jobs during the day. Monika works as a personal trainer in my gym. It's bad enough these male (and female) perverts gawk at her perky breasts and tasty buns all day long. But many are in the crowd tonight. How can she look them in the eyes tomorrow? So please Juliana, I am begging you, stop your games, show her some mercy: cover up her body.
But Juliana holds that thong in her hand and hoists it high in the air like a trophy, displaying it for all to see. It's a personal gift I gave to Monika right before her fight with Nicola. And she wore it when she beat her for the championship. I was so proud of my Monika that night. Does Juliana know this? Is she toying with me? I would snatch it back if I could, but club rules, no interference until winner walks off the mat. No, she couldn't have known all this. She brings Monika's thong in front of her, examines it closely before gently brushing it against her own nose, taking in a deep breath, savouring the scent her conquered opponent. Many catfighters like to do that: lay claim to intimate items from their vanquished foe, mementos of their conquests. And what could be more intimate to a catfighter than the undies she wears to a fight. It reflects her taste and style. It highlights her assets. And most importantly, in covering her privates during the fight, this delicate piece of clothing becomes her — a symbol of her womanhood. To lay claim to it is to take possession of her, as a fighter and a woman. This, in short, is why catfighters fight. But Juliana surprises me. She nonchalantly twirls Monika's thong with her fingers and flings it across my face, like a piece of garbage to be disdained. I can see the contempt in her eyes, as if that whole fight with Monika was beneath her stature. With that simple toss, she trashed away Monika, and everything about her past: her hard work, her victories, her prestige at the club, and most of all, ME. The Russian has made it clear: from now on, Monika the fighter is no more. There is only the naked girl she trounced on, Juliana's bitch.
I quickly seize the thong in mid-air. No one else must get a hold of it. It's soaking wet, drenched in Monika's sweat. That pungent scent of hers, familiar to me during each workout, when she caught me in a headscissor, or when she sat on my throat. It might put off some people, but I’ve grown very fond of it. Over the years, Monika and I, we've developed a special bond, a bond between a trainer and his fighter. But tomorrow everything will change. Fighters, they are a special breed, proud and pugnacious by nature. It's their pride that gets them going, allowing them to overcome intolerable pains. Each victory adds to it, and each defeat chips away at it. But there is a breaking point, beyond which a fighter loses that fiery spirit for good. Juliana, you’ve broken my champion. And when she wakes up tomorrow and watches herself in video replay, you will have broken her for good. She will never be the same fighter again. I really hate you, Juliana! At these thoughts, my heart sinks low and tears well up in my eyes. I clutch Monika's golden thong tightly in my hand, trying desperately to grip onto the memories of her past glories.
Juliana must have taken notice. She finally dismounts from Monika’s face, drags her by the arms and dumps her at my feet. I cringe at the sick work of destruction laid before me: Monika's naked body, with scratches and bruises all over, spread-eagled, and motionless. Standing over her is Juliana, in all of her splendour, with one foot atop those beaten breasts, kneading them, crushing them. Her overbearing posture and that boastful look she wears made me shut my eyes. I will not give her the satisfaction of rubbing her victory in my face. But my attempt to flee is foiled by snickers in the crowd. As I force myself to a peek, Juliana has already folded Monika in half, with her naked ass lifted high up in the air above her head. Kneeling from behind, she spreads Monika's thighs wide apart, exposing full-frontal her shame to me, and to everyone else in the room. At such close range, we can detail out every crease and fold of that pink pussy. And Monika's stretchy fuck-hole, yielding to Juliana’s fingers, brazenly opens wide under the harsh lighting, giving away her innermost flesh. The room suddenly seems too bright to me. I blushed. My face is burning. I don’t know why. We fucked a few times over the years, yes, but Monika is by no means my lover, nor my significant other. Yet I still blushed. Am I empathising with her, the embarrassment she would’ve felt if she were conscious? It’s a good thing her unruly hair spreads all over her face, hiding her identity. Is it because I don’t want other men (and women) to get up close and personal with her the way I have access to her? Their prying eyes infuriate me. I want to poke all of their eyes out for ogling my Monika! Why do I feel such possessive impulse over her? … Could it be over these years my heart has grown more attached to her than I realise? … Is she more than a fighter to me? ... Maybe, just maybe, I LOVE her? No, it can’t be… My head is spinning, drowned in the process of self discovery.
And out there, Juliana is laying claim to my girl. No! Monika is mine! You won't take her from me! My thoughts are defiant, but out on the mat, there is the reality. And reality stings. It's a tug of war for Monika, and she is in control. I helplessly watch as she fondles Monika, traversing her fingers through that no-longer-private terrain, skimming across ridges and crevasses, then up the slushy mound before kissing the jewel that sits atop. Heading back down, she glides along the fringe of the deep chasm and turn the corner upon reaching the edge. Three times she sweeps back and forth, before wandering over and twirling around that dark abyss, the depth of which she will plumb only when the time is right. She has taken into possession everything in her fingers' path. My body grows weak at each of her strokes, pushing me ever closer to the brink of despair. And when she plunges in and gives a long hard lick with the flat of her tongue over the entirety of her marked domain, I crumbled. She has broken me. Light-headed, I collapse from my chair and drop onto my knees in front of Juliana. Hearing only my own ears drumming, I turn paler than death. A trembling seizes over me, as my heart relinquishes its hold on Monika, and surrenders itself.
Juliana rises above me, holding me by the hair at her waist level. She lifts my face and our eyes meet for one last time. But mine shirk away at once from her piercing gaze. Instead, I stare blankly into her flat abs, gleaming with sweat. Her abdominal muscles tense almost hypnotically with each breath she takes. And her silver thong, giving off a slight sheen under the dim lights, is wedged high into her slit from all the punishment it dished out. I shudder at the thought of that breathless face-sit she subjected Monika to. Suddenly, I realise I hate everything here: the stench in the air, the glaring lights, the loud murmurs of the people who used to be my friends. And most of all, I hate Monika, the cause of all my misery. Look at her, lying supine on her back, snoozing like Sleeping Beauty...no, more like a sleeping whore, with her ass high up like that, legs spread far apart over her head. You had it easy, Monika! Juliana smothered you out early. But see how she tortures me? I am here suffering for your vanity. You deserve to be owned!
And Juliana would not stop flaunting her claim over us. She examines Monika's raised ass, before contemptuously spanking those inviting cheeks, leaving across them fresh marks of shame. She turns around to check my reaction. But I have none. My heart is numb. I am hers and she’s hers; since when does a piece of property fret over the mistreatment of another piece of property. Seemingly gratified, Juliana stamps her foot firmly over Monika's pussy, and forces my lips upon her toes. She is declaring herself the ultimate victor. My body instinctively wants to revolt, to rise up and drill my tormentor down to the mat, and show her who's the boss. But my sapped spirit acquiesce without a struggle. I kiss the foot of my mistress at her command. A fusillade of camera flashes showers the three of us as Juliana poses for the Polaroids. My mind shuts itself down from this utmost humiliation. Not sure how long it's been, but finally she skips off the mat to sign autographs, leaving behind Monika and I, frozen in our places. Salty tears begin to stream down my cheeks, almost blinding my vision. But I can still make out, through those veils of degradation, the arrival of the medical personnel. Taken aback by the ungainly sight that is Monika, they unfold her with haste, lift her lifeless body onto a stretcher, and carry her out the room. As she fades into a blur, I collapse onto the mat, and slip into oblivion...
...
...
Hey buddy, where am I? Yes, I remember now. Thanks for staying with me. You don’t want to know what I just went through. My head feels like it’s going to split. No, don't worry, I will be alright. Just give me some time. There is a bar around the corner. I think I am going to need a few shots of whiskey to wash down the bitter taste in my mouth. So you like catfights? Come, I will buy you a drink and we can talk more. Oh look, I forgot to introduce myself. You will have to excuse me, my mind is still all tangled up. I am Stefanos, and I am Greek. I was born and raised in Athens before immigrating here as a teenager. And I will be turning 33 in just a few days. Come to think of it, I will spend my birthday with Monika. I suddenly miss her very much. Anyway, how did I get involved with catfighting, you ask? Well, that's a long story. Here, grab a beer first while I collect my thoughts. You know we Greeks are always very proud of our long history. When I was growing up, just like all the other young boys my age, I was fed a healthy dose of Ancient Greek epics and mythologies. “Courage and honour, temperance and perseverance, heed those lessons from the Iliad and the Odyssey." My father used to always tell me, "These books will guide you for the rest of your life." But whenever my mind roamed free, it tended to only dwell on scenes like when Athena destroyed Aphrodite in front of her lover Ares and brutalised her delicious tits; or when Hera bitch-slapped her step-daughter Artemis and taught her a lesson in obedience; or when Odysseus conquered that sultry enchantress Circe and fucked her hard in her own palace for a year before being dragged away by his crew. I guess I didn't take in the right lessons my father wanted me to learn. But it wasn't just the classics that captured my fancy. There was a comic shop down in the Piraeus (the port city of Athens) that I used to go quite often after school and on weekends to buy comic books with my lunch money, and then read them afterwards by the seaside. I remember one fateful Saturday morning that forever changed my life. I went down to the Piraeus as usual, flipping through my favourite comic in the shop when I heard a hoarse voice from behind me.
"Reading that American trash again, boy?"
I turned around, it was the owner of the shop, a portly old man in his seventies with a distinctively long grey beard. Papa Aoidos, that’s what we all called him because he was so good at telling stories (I never found out his real name).
"Wonder Woman is my favourite comic, Papa Aoidos!" I didn’t think his comment was fair.
"Then you must know her origin, Stefanos. Where is she from?”
"Of course, she is an Amazon from Themiscrya.” That was too easy for a big fan like myself.
"Do you know the real history of these Themiscryan Amazons?” The old man pressed on.
I didn’t think I understood his question. "No...you mean these female warriors actually existed?"
“Yes, of course they did, in ancient times, long before recorded history, before even the Trojan War, during the dark ages of myths and legends. Have you heard of the Attic War, my boy?"
"No…” I wasn’t sure whether I should be embarrassed for my ignorance.
“Young man, you really ought to know the history of your own people better." He grew a little impatient, “Do you ever wonder why there is no mentioning of the Athenians in Homer’s epics when we were the strongest polis in Ancient Greece?"
“I don’t know, Papa Aoidos. I never thought about that.” I got a bit tired of the old man’s didactic tone, but something about the fighting Amazons aroused my curiosity.
“It's because Attica was ravaged by those cursed Amazons some two hundred years before the Trojan War, in a brutal conflict that we now call the Attic War. So when Agamemnon rallied the Greek troops at Aulis, Athens was only a tiny village at the time, but a shadow of its former glory." The old man explained and was eager to tell me more, "Melissa, look after the shop for me, would you? I have much to teach this young lad here."
Melissa, his granddaughter, was doing her homework by the counter. She was about my age, a very pretty girl with long shiny black hair. She always wore a short tank top and a pair of fit blue jeans that accentuated her features really well. I had a secret crush on her back then, but I was too shy a boy to talk to her. As the old man clasped my hand and pulled me out of the shop, she gave me a sweet but mischievous smile, teasing at my misfortune of having to be her grandpa’s latest target.
"Come boy, let's go to the seaside where we can have some peace.” The old man grabbed his cane at the front door and urged me on. I followed as he lumbered down the street faster than I’d ever seen him. Luckily the oceanfront was only one block away. Arriving there, we sat down by the ruins of the ancient Themistoclean Wall. It was a really secluded place back then, unlike the tourist trap it is today.
I let the old man catch his breath a bit before asking, “So Papa Aoidos, who were these Amazons? Were there others besides the Themiscryans? And why did they attack Athens?"
"It's a long story, my dear boy. Let me trace back to the very beginning. Originally, there was only one race of the Amazons, the Tauri, dwelling far north of the Black Sea, in the frozen lands around Lake Maeotis (modern day Crimea). They were a small tribe of Scythians, but made up exclusively of women. Their hair were jet black, just like all the other ancient races in Scythia and Greece. One day, as the Sun God Helios was driving his golden chariot across the sky, he saw Neaera, a Tauri warrioress with unsurpassed beauty. He instantly fell in love, but she fled from him. Helios pursued her relentlessly northward, across the frozen plains, until they reached the icy glaciers. There he finally caught up to her and subdued her. For six months each year, they made heated love. And together, she bore him twelve daughters, known as the Heliades (daughters of Helios)."
"And they were all blondes, I guess?" A smarty-pants at my young age, I could not help but interject.
"Indeed, just like the Sun God himself. And when the golden-haired sisters grew up, each a remarkable warrioress, they returned to the Tauri. But the austere tribe elders would not accept these exotic beauties. In search of new land, they headed south, across the Black Sea, and founded Themiscrya along the Thermodon River. Hence the birth of the Themiscryan Amazons. In time, they grew to be the largest Amazon tribe. But ages passed, our Greeks ancestors had made no contact with them. All until that fateful year at the Eleusinian Games (in Eleusis just west of Athens). These sacred games were held once every four years when warriors across the Greek world tested their might against one another. But this year, the Amazons from Themiscrya came to participate. The Greeks marvelled at these foreign female warriors, as they were more accustomed to the submissive women of their own race, weak and docile, relegated to doing only household chores. So when the blonde-haired Queen Parithyia appeared before them in all her beauty and vigour, they tripped over themselves to challenge her for a wrestling match, hoping to have a chance at taming her wild spirit. At last, it was Prince Diokles of Athens, a formidable warrior, who drew the straw. The contest was hard fought, one for the ages, but the prince eventually succumbed to the young queen. Conceding far more than the match though, Diokles fell head over heels for Parithyia. Yet she spurned him along with countless other Greek suitors, for you see my lad, the queen's virginity is sacred to the Amazons. Finally, the foolish prince was overcome by lust. On a hunting trip, he tried to overpower her by force. But Parithyia thwarted him, and this time she did not show mercy on him. The prince was brutally castrated for his transgression. Disgraced, Diokles turned his infatuation for her into a sickly obsession for revenge and humiliation. He schemed day and night, until one evening, with the help from a mysterious sorceress, he took into possession the queen’s perizoma — "
"What's a perizoma, Papa Aoidos?"
"A small piece of undergarment made of coarse linen and leopard skin, my boy. The Amazons wore it to cover up their shame when hunting or wrestling."
"So it's like a thong?" My interest piqued at the thought of these ancient beauties, half naked, battling for supremacy.
"Yes, Stefanos, exactly a thong, the most closely-guarded piece of clothing on a woman. And Diokles dangled it right in front of a boisterous Athenian crowd, claiming it as a trophy of his victory. The vengeful prince weaved a fantastical tale of his supposed rematch with the Amazon queen. Every move of the fight he described in vivid detail, until ultimately Parithyia cried her surrender. Without mercy, or so Diokles boasted, he stripped the defeated beauty and conquered her, taking away her virginity. None of it true of course, but the naive crowd cheered, ready to believe anything. And they all gawked at the lost pride of this foreign queen, clutched in the hands of the Athenian prince, deprived of its womanly mystique. Imagine the outrage, my boy, when Parithyia found out about this in the Piraeus where the Amazons encamped. For five centuries since the founding of the Amazon nation, no man had ever laid eyes on an Amazonian queen in nude and lived to talk about it. You see, the Amazons viewed the chastity of their queen as divine authority, and what Diokles did was the ultimate humiliation for Parithyia. Enraged, she picked up her bronze sword and stormed out. But there stood her trusted companion Hekate. She reminded her how vastly outnumbered they were in Attica. At last she convinced the livid queen to return to Themiscrya first, so she can raise an army to reclaim her honour. Meanwhile, back in Athens, Diokles capitulated under the pressure from his father Creon, the wise king of Athens, who thought it foolish to bring death upon thousands of people over such senseless pride. So the prince sent forth an apology and invited Parithyia to talk over the terms of peace on neutral ground. The place chosen was Delos, an island in the middle of the Cyclades, sacred to the harrowing spirits of the Hysminai. Have you been to Delos, lad?"
"Yes. My father took us there on a vacation trip just last year. But I didn't learn anything about the Hysminai. What were they?" My mind frantically searched for the term but came up blank.
"These were the ancient female spirits of combat, Stefanos. They were feared by all, mankind and gods alike. Warriors dared not set foot on the mysterious island fully armed, worried these spirits would turn them against one another. Only a few priestesses served these spirits, making Delos an ideal ground for warring tribes to swear pacts under oath. And so Parithyia sailed for Delos with only Hekate by her side. For days, nothing was heard from them, until finally news traveled to Themiscrya that their queen had disappeared and Hekate was captured alive by the Athenians. Enraged at the betrayal by the Greeks, the Amazons assembled their troops and summoned all their allies across the Black Sea. They elected Marpesia, the younger sister of Parithyia, as their new queen and leader of the coalition. A thousand ships were launched across the Hellespont, as the Amazons formally declared war on Attica and our glorious city Athens. So began the brutal Attic War, my boy, that lasted for six excruciating years. These golden-haired savages were ruthless. Thousands of our bravest warriors fell under their spears and arrows. But the impregnable high walls of the city withstood their repeated assaults. King Creon pleaded for mercy and peace. Nevertheless the Amazons would not be appeased, not even when Marpesia killed Diokles in single combat. In the end, as fate would have it, our city fell to the enemy through the betrayal of Princess Semele, the half-sister of Diokles. The massacre that followed was well-known to the ancients as the Rape of Athens. Just imagine, Stefanos, for seven days, houses burned, temples looted, women and children were taken as slaves while helpless babies hurled to the earth in the red barbarity of war. The streets were ladened with withered up corpses of men drained empty of their male essence. Oh, the carnage we suffered. It was the worst destruction brought upon our city in its entire history..." The old man looked to be shaken up a bit, as if he had lived through the experience.
Mesmerised by the tale, I was anxious to learn more. "Papa Aoidos, please tell me more about the war, and how they fought. Why did Princess Semele betray the Athenians? And what happened on Delos? Did the Amazons find Parithyia?" I bombarded the old man with endless questions.
“Slow down, my boy. Six long years of war...the sweat, tears, and blood...the love, treachery, and grief...oh how do I even begin? To tell the whole story would take weeks and months. Perhaps some day in the future, Stefanos. But for now, would you like to listen to the Hysminean Rhapsody instead?"
"What is the Hysminean Rhapsody?”
“It is an epic poem that took place in the aftermath of the war, a tale of fierce female combat -- long, dark, and twisting. When the Amazons sacked Athens and freed Hekate from her imprisonment, she recounted to them her ordeal, and they decided to go back to the sacred island of Delos in quest for their lost queen Parithyia. These were ten greatest female warriors surviving the war, led by their new queen Marpesia. The poem tells of their confrontation with the priestesses of Hysminai, the ensuing conflicts and their ultimate demise on Delos.” Pausing here for a moment, the old man hesitated as if regretting a bit his hastiness in offering me the tale. He looked me straight in the eyes and asked, “My dear Stefanos, this is a sombre epic that reveals only the darkest nature of women, with their uncontrollable lust, envy, and rage. You will never look at the fair sex the same way again. Are you sure you are ready to hear what is beyond your tender age?"
His words only added fuel to my fire. I nodded my head eagerly, innocent of what was to come. But there was a long break of silence. We just stared blankly off into the distance, where the deep blue Aegean glimmered under the morning sun. Cool ocean breeze brushed gently against our faces. Amidst the ancient ruins of that bygone world we sat, lulled by the soothing sound of waves crashing repeatedly into those ageless shorelines. Time itself seemed to have stopped.
Sudden squawks of two squabbling seagulls above our head broke the tranquility. As if yielding to a divine omen, the old man finally let out a long sigh, and with his husky voice, embarked us on our journey to the captivating land of catfighting.
