500 BCE, Ancient Greece (Patreon)

This is another preview for Theo's Journal, this time one of my absolute favorite illustrations in the whole pack, by my friend, Rockytheprocy, who you can check out here: https://www.furaffinity.net/user/rockytheprocy

This may be the last preview, so, if you want more stories like this, I'll be selling the whole journal, a collection of fifteen stories throughout history with fifteen colored images by two very talented artists, very soon!

 

Quite a bit was made about the fall of Rome, and the era that came after it, the so-called Dark Ages. I think this is a terrible misnomer, because I, personally, was extremely busy during this period. Glorious leaders like Emperor Justinian, Charlemagne, Pakal of the Mayans, Taizong of Tang China, and great warriors like Hua Mulan, Belisarius, Brunhilda, and Chandragupta were prevalent in this supposed darkest period of history. And if I’ve given you some new names to research, you are welcome. You’ll see that, as with all my clients, they were all nothing less than glorious; I have always maintained high standards.

While the loss of Rome was indeed tragic, if you want true despair, then look no further than the end of the Bronze Age. Now here was an era when all the light of history was nearly snuffed out. Great empires were laid waste in a matter of decades, destroyed to such an utter degree that writing itself was almost lost as an art. For centuries, I could find hardly anyone that showed ambition or potential, distracted as they were with staying alive in this new, terrifying, and savage world. But out of the darkness came a light, and I found a home again amongst the people who understood my particular fondness for an impressive body unlike any other; the Greeks. Fathers of philosophy and democracy, the Ancient Greeks also had an obsession with all things beauty and aesthetics, and that included the body. They would show their gods as muscular, sublimely perfect, and nude, to show off every curve and contour. These statues are everywhere. Really, I could not imagine a better place and time to vacation.

But, the Greeks had one particular quirk, shall we say, that did irritate me: they only wished to venerate the male form. The Ancient Greeks limited themselves to half the population, when I had seen just as much potential in women. And I would be loathe to limit myself as an artist, so I tried nudging the Greek people in the right direction. I did great work with Atalanta; she was an excellent client. But even as her legend grew, the Greeks proved disappointingly stubborn in this regard. I needed something more, a genuine threat to the Greeks’ worldview.

In short, I needed the Amazons. Hailing from the Central Asian steppes, I watched as this warrior tribe swept through Anatolia, amazing the Greeks with their skills with the bow and the horse. But, they were not my typical clientele. The Scythians, as they called themselves, were lean, and favored agility, speed, and dexterity. Their leaders lacked the ambition I typically look for in my clients, and were not enticed by my promises of strength, power, and glory. So, I respected their wishes and quietly left, promising never to bother them again.

Ah, but the look on Mr. De Fleureaux’s face was absolutely worth that. No, of course, since their chiefs were not willing to listen, I went to their women, instead. And here, I was much more successful. Primarily, I found Penthesilea, a wolfess that had a hunger for glory and battle that suited my needs just fine. She was an archer that loved the thrill of the fight, and under her, the Amazons would be a force to reckon with. Penthesilea soon grew larger and stronger than any man amongst her people, and there were other Scythian women that found this an attractive arrangement. Penthesilea led them as the daughter of Mars, a juggernaut of a warrior with legs as strong and wide as marble columns, arms strong enough to shatter any Grecian iron, and a torso that, shall we say, filled the contours of her bronze cuirass in the most pleasing of fashion, her strong, full chest giving myself a new appreciation for the term “breastplate.” She grew more bold and beautiful with every pound of muscle, her strength enhancing her looks.

I joined her on campaign, when she led an army of newly minted and musclebound Amazonian warriors against the Greeks at Sinope. The men were noticeably absent; Penthesilea scared them off, a not unreasonable reaction when she declared over the smoking ruins of Sinope, “Now I am Queen! I, Penthesilea, daughter of man-slaying Ares, will soak the earth with blood, so it will be stained red! I dare any of the limp-wristed men of Greece to reclaim their city, for they will break upon my body! All will know the unyielding strength of the Amazons!”

I may have taken things a touch too far. But, I had always intended for Penthesilea to be a rival, not necessarily to be defeated, but certainly to be fought. I was planning a glorious battle, a show of strength that would be remembered in song and art for ages. Enter stage left, Heracles.

You know this name, dear reader. Perhaps you know him as Hercules, but not a child in the West grows up without knowing the name Hercules. The strongest man to ever live, the son of gods, and the greatest hero of Greece. Is it any surprise at this point who molded him into a titan of heroic strength, who gave him the power to overcome his trials? They might sing of Athena and Hermes aiding him, but come now. Do you think either of them would mold such a perfect, magnificent body out of him?

Of course, “strongest man to ever live” is a bit of a misnomer. He is certainly up there, my top five, easily, but in his defense, some of those came after his time. He was born a white bull, a sign of his divine parentage to the Greeks. He already had extraordinary strength, but then, he met me, and he became truly legendary. Watching him was like watching a snow-capped mountain walk, swells of muscle rippling across his tectonic plate of a back under his white pelt, his arms rippling with massive amounts of beef… I have very fond memories working with him. I saw him in his twelve labors, and grow stronger with every heroic task, but one set him on a collision course with the Amazons. It came to pass that the snivelling coward that dared order around my client, King Eurystheus, told him to capture an enchanted piece of armor, forged by Hephaestus that, over time, had fallen into the hands of the Amazons, and was known as the Girdle of Hippolyta. Hippolyta, of course, being Penthesilea’s sister, whom Penthesilea recently killed in a hunting accident, and was thus incredibly attached to said girdle. This was going to be a fierce fight for Heracles, and the reputation of Greece and the Amazons both rode on it.

Now, I can see Mr. De Fleureaux looking at me, but I assure you, I had almost nothing to do with Heracles being assigned this task. But, however it came to pass, the two were on a collision course. I wasn’t overly concerned for either of them; my clients are awfully hard to kill, after all. I could sit back with relative ease, and watch a fight that would be a spectacle for all time. The both of them were heroes in the ancient sense of the word: people of such extraordinary skill, so much larger than life, that they invoked awe and wonder. Echoes of my dear Gilgamesh could be heard as these two titans met. There would be no clash of armies here, for both Heracles and Penthesilea loved their people too much. That, and they relished the chance to go against an opponent of equal strength too much to risk losing them to an errant arrow or spear, chucked at just the wrong moment in the heat of battle.

I’ll never forget the look of pure exhilaration on Penthesilea’s face as she ogled Heracles’ mighty arms, his hulking legs strong enough to support the heavens.

“You truly are the strongest man in Greece,” she said, preparing her massive bow. “But is that strength enough to handle an Amazon?”

Heracles returned with a grin. “Is an Amazon stronger than Atlas? The many-headed hydra? Or the giant Goryon? For I bested them all.” He held up his arms, biceps framing those ivory-white horns, his swollen chest scratching his chin. His heaving flanks flared out like wings, a rippling mass of muscle that could eclipse the sun. “This back has borne the weight of heaven and earth itself.”

Ah, but my dear Penthesilea was not to be outdone. Bearing her fangs in a toothy grin, she brought up both her arms, flexing them so her biceps rose up like the Taurus mountains, a network of bulging peaks from her thickly ropes forearms to her surging shoulders. “And these arms, son of Zeus, were strong enough to break the will of clever Theseus until he consented to marrying my sister. With these arms, I drew a bow that no man can bend, and with but twelve of my sisters, threw thousands of your countrymen into the depths of Hades, holding the gates of Troy against even mighty Achilles. And with these legs,” she brought one hand down to smack her bulging thigh, rippling under her armor, “I ran with Atalanta, capturing the stag of Artemis and shaming every man that dares call himself a hunter.”

No one handled theatrics like the Greeks. Heavens above, I’ve missed them. The boasting and flexing was a worthy sight all on its own, but the battle came. Heracles had shed off the cloak of the Nemean lion, relying on his impenetrable hide and rock-hard muscle to protect him. Penthesilea, a touch more pragmatic, wore a breastplate, even if the metal did groan to contain her own legendary physique. They clashed like the titans of old, the force of their impact shaking the ground beneath them. It was marvelous. Stupendous. This is what my art could do, this is why I am who I am. I am not an Olympian like Heracles claimed to be, but I assure you, I was, and am, a forger of Gods. My clients were living works of art, the extremities of power and strength, and I was watching a legend in the making unfold. 

They began taking out their wrath upon the environment. Heracles pummelled the ground, opening up the earth to catch Penthesilea, but the wolfess deftly side-stepped the bull. Her bow, strong and solid as a tree trunk, bent to her will and her will alone, her powerful arms tensed, an arrow flying past Heracles and embedding itself in the mountainside. She shouted her frustration, hauling up a boulder on her rolling shoulders as she threw it with all her strength, just to throw Heracles off his balance. 

The Greek champion responded with raising his shield, the boulder shattering against the enchanted shield and Heracles’ own stone-like arm. He raised the spear he had used to kill the Erymanthian Boar, and prepared to charge, his column-like legs carrying him through powerful, earth-shaking strides. Penthesilea fired her bow, arrows splitting trees and shattering the ground. When they clashed, it was like a meteor striking the earth. For days, they grappled, until at last, their energy was sapped, the both of them. But still, they gazed at each other’s magnificent forms, bloodlust still coursing through them, but also, a lust I was much more familiar with. They admired each other, as honorable warriors are wont to do. They would both survive this battle.

I’ll say this much of how the story ended; if you are a student of Greek mythology, then you know their attitudes towards romance and love-making. Thus, I will leave you to fill in the blanks. But let us simply say that broken beds followed the broken ground of the battlefield.

Heavens above, I miss the Ancient Greeks.