Jago (Part One)

After the disappointment of not having the support I thought I would receive from the great and wonderful power the ancient coins gave to us, I began to reflect on how we all came together and how diverse we continue to be, going different directions and still needing each other. Let me tell you how I met all of the people in our group and how they came to be immortal.

It was around 330 BC and the lands were running wild with battles and wars created by Alexander the Great.   Thracian Troops would accompany Alexander when he crossed the Hellespont to make war with Persia.  Jago’s tribe was one that was enlisted by Alexander to fight.  To make a long story shorter, there was a battle and Jago’s battalion lost on that day.  He was the last survivor on the battlefield.  Eve and I happened upon him when we were crossing the hillside on the outskirts of the battle after observing the fighting from afar.  We heard moans coming from a position to our left as we carefully made our way in the thick of the night to avoid harassment from Alexander’s troops.  We mainly did this for Eve’s protection since most of the soldiers hadn’t seen a woman in months.

When we finally found Jago, he was semi-conscious clinging to life.  He was partially covered by a fallen comrade, hidden just enough not to be lanced by the opposing soldiers.  No one took prisoners in those dark days.

Eve is a strong woman, so she was able to support Jago’s weight as we carried him to a safe place to camp for the night. I carried our supplies and tents on a sturdy cot that I had placed two rear wheels on for pulling our small load.  We both cleaned his wounds and administered advanced medical attention to speed along his recovery. (Where I came from these things were common knowledge – of germs, bacteria and infection).

We traveled two more days with Jago piled on the cot amid our belongings, until we found a safe place to setup our tents so we could sit for a while.  Once situated Jago began to speak as much as his state of recovery would allow.  Even though he was weakened, Jago had a sense of humor, enough to make both us laugh and wonder who this man is and how he came to be on the battlefield. 

Eventually he was strong enough to sit and eat with us and he told us a bit about himself.  He told us he had sixteen brothers that would abuse him on daily basis because he was the youngest of the brood.  His mother was the fifth wife of his father and she bore the man three daughters until Jago was finally born – the youngest of his entire family.  Jago thought that joining Alexander’s army would give him the respect of his brothers and father once and for all.  Many of his brothers joined the Ctistae to become philosophers and priests, but he wanted to show his father that he was strong and able to take control in order to hopefully gain control of his tribe.  But, this was Jago’s first battle and his last.  He laughed when he talked about how he raised his sword for the first time but the other guy was faster and attacked first, leaving Jago on the battlefield to die.  He joked and said he guessed he should have ducked instead of attacking.

Eve and I grew to love him over the weeks he was with us.  He seemed to be growing stronger until one day he had trouble getting up to join us by the morning fire.  Eve felt his head and found he was burning with fever.  His condition centuries later would be related to malaria, unfortunately untreatable in the time period we were in, especially in Jago’s frail state of recovery.   Our new and loved friend Jago was slipping away into death’s hands and we were helpless to heal him by conventional means.

“Joseph,” Eve came to speak to me at the campfire by our tent, “Jago is dying.  You saved me from dying - can’t you save him by giving him the medicine?  He deserves to live, Joseph.  He deserves to see more tomorrows.”

“Eve, it worked for you and for me, and we tried it on one other person that died horribly from ingesting it.  What if it doesn’t work for him?  What if he takes the medicine and bloats, then suffocates horribly like the last person we gave it to?”

“I only know that he will die regardless of giving or not giving it to him.”  A tear rolled down her cheek.  “Please, Joseph.  Please try.” She pleaded on his behalf.  “Please, for me.” 

I pulled the thick clay jar from a hidden pocket  beneath my robes and looked into her eyes. “It frightens me that he may die painfully because of this”.  I held up the jar and looked at it.

(TO BE CONTINUED . . . .)