"Here, read this."
The other man gave it a glance, and instantly looked up. "A
poem? Poetry is effeminate. No real man writes poetry."
"Homer wrote poetry."
"Homer was a blind man who couldn't fight anyway. What else could he do? All that the Blind Bard had the ability to do was sit in front of an audience and pluck away at his lyre while singing about the heroes he could never join."
"He couldn't join them because they fought the war about five hundred years before Homer was born anyway."
"Eh. He could have been a hoplite or something."
The first man tried another tack. "Well, being a poet's just fine. Ovid, Virgil, Catullus, Horace, all of those old Romans -"
"Catullus wrote love poetry. What sort of real man writes love poetry to anyone, especially a woman like Clodia?"
"Whatever. That was a bad example. Anyway, what about Virgil, Horace, and Ovid? Mythology and heroism are good topics for poetry, just like what Homer wrote."
"Yes, yes,
dulce et decorum est, pro patria mori. Any man with a good classical education knows of the great poets. All right, that's fine," the other grumbled. "What poem do you have to show me?"
"Look at it. Here," he said as he thrust the paper into the other's hand. "It rhymes in both Greek and that provincial language, English."
The other looked up. "Nobody cares about the English!"
"They're actually rather nice people. Shut up and read."
And so he did. After about thirty seconds, he looked up and stared at the poet. "What's this about? I can't make anything of it. What's all this
half a league and
valley of death stuff?"
The poet smiled. "In 1747, we were still in the Krakow War, remember?"
"Yes, I remember scanning the newsrags every day, looking for news from the front. The battle of Singidunum was one of the most excellent things I've ever read about."
"Exactly: Singidunum. It was about five days in all, remember?"
"Yes. The first days, the Krakowians tried to break through: flank attack, flank attack, then straight up the middle. On the fourth and fifth days, we came in from behind and ringed them -" He looked back up at the poet. "Ohhh...straight up the middle..."
"Correct. The only cavalry in the entire enemy army charged up the valley between the two ridges and into the teeth of our guns, then charged back, losing men the whole way in a futile blow. There was a French expatriate there, named Bosquet or something, who was standing next to our strategos, Dodismos, on the ridge above the valley. He said something like "it is magnificent, but it is not war."
"Well, that clears that up." He continued reading. "You know, this isn't bad at all."
Half a league half a league
Half a league onward
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred:
'Forward, the Light Brigade
Charge for the guns' he said
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
'Forward, the Light Brigade!'
Was there a man dismayed?
Not though the soldiers knew
Some one had blundered:
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die,
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volleyed and thundered;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.
Flashed all their sabres bare,
Flashed as they turned in air,
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army while
All the world wondered:
Plunged in the battery smoke
Right through the line they broke;
Roman and Hellene
Reeled from the sabre stroke
Shattered and sundered.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volleyed and thundered;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came through the jaws of Death
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them
Left of six hundred.
When can their glory fade?
Oh, the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made!
Honor the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!