The Myrmidons

If I'm going to repost things from my LJ, there's always this one. If anyone has any market suggestions for where to send sequels, each just as long, I'd appreciate it.


The plague came out of nowhere. No one knew
What god or goddess sent it, and the signs,
When not ambiguous, were all too few:
The oak leaves still, the livers whole and fine,
From left and right the birds flew in straight lines,
   And worst of all, the tea leaves all refused
   To form a pattern readers could have used.

And so Aegina suffered under doubt
As well as spotted fever. Amid the death
And raw despair, a couple souls were stout
And tended invalids to their last breath;
But others, I report to my regret,
   Were drunken, rowdy, riotous, and rude—
   In short, a bacchanalic rout ensued.

The harbor, drunk with sailors, caught the mood,
And soon from there the tide of riot spilled
To sweep depopulated streets in flood
Until the city plain was all but filled,
A violent lake—except where good sense stilled
   The fires round two places, islanding
   Plague houses and the palace of the king.

King Æacus was long since past his prime
And, not as strong as once, in youth, he’d felt,
He couldn’t stop the carnival of crime.
His sons? Off heroing with club and pelt
And so no help with troubles he’d been dealt.
   They’re only known today for being hid
   In family trees, and not for what they did—

For hero means “he scatters wide his oats,”
And heroes’ brats are strewn across the nations
Like jetsam tossed from overloaded boats.
Son Telamon apprenticed that vocation
With the greatest of the generations:
   No lesser man than he—a drum roll please—
   The man, the myth, the legend—Heracles.

Soon after Telamon had helped the Herc
To conquer Troy, he spawned the Ajax who
Would later try to replicate that work.
Young Peleus sacked as well a town or two
Before he gave a fateful goddess woo;
   His son Achilles had his song of rage
   That still is read in this descendent age.

Thus, sonless, Æacus was forced to handle
The crisis, and he too old to wield a sword—
Which added to his shame, for the scandal
Of crumbling state will always hurt a lord,
Since he is judged by his domain’s accord.
   And so, as when mere anarchy is loose,
   He did what monarchs do, and prayed to Zeus.

( During a lull, he climbed the island’s peak ...  )

---L.