"Ajax came up bearing his shield in front of him like a wall - a shield of bronze with seven folds of oxhide - the work of Tychios, who lived in Hyle and was by far the best worker in leather. He had made it with the hides of seven full-fed bulls, and over these he had set an eighth layer of bronze".
Homer, The Illiad, scrill7, line 181
It was a dream, but also not. A delirium, perhaps.
Or a memory that drips blood and lead.
He was called Tychios — a forgotten name, buried under weapon codes and militia acronyms. Former armorer of the Red Brigades, now he modified anti-riot shields for Serbian paramilitary troops. He hadn't fought anymore for a long time. He forged. He reinvented. He re-injected myth into monolithic ceramic and silicon carbide ballistic plates. Yet, every time he welded the edge of a bulletproof plate, he saw that worn, ancient... sacred artifact again.
It wasn't like those similar to the Full Tactical IIIA ASVP bulletproof vest without a man-band, of the Le Protecteur brand. The ones he modified were complete bulletproof vests that included the navy blue lining and a ballistic pack. The general shape had always been specifically designed for external use, modern and close-fitting. The markings on the chest and back were reflective to be visible even at night. The ballistic performance of these systems was exceptional with very low deformation on impact. The material used also guaranteed protection against blades.
The artifact he had seen had inspired him, however, it was as tall as a man in prayer. Heavy as a condemnation. Curved, blackened, spirally engraved.
He had found it half-buried in the mud, during a dirty operation near Vukovar. There, among saponified bodies and dismembered remains, it emerged — like a rotten echo of another war.
In the center, engraved in the metal: a winged figure — half woman, half beast. Eagle wings. Human face. Armor chest. The feathers were blades. The eyes, slits. It didn't look. It judged.
"It's him," he murmured, trembling. "The original shield, that of Ajax."
But not the one in museums. This was alive. Dirty. It still had pieces of flesh on it. A greenish patina enveloped it like sacred mold.
He took it away. In silence. He hid it.
He restored it in his workshop in Mitrovica, among disassembled grenades and rifles embroidered with Serbian seals. But every time he touched it, the welding flame flickered.
"Seven layers of leather... one of bronze... and now Kevlar," he whispered. "I'll make it new."
But the dream returned.
Always the same.
In his disturbed sleep, he saw him, the giant, naked in the rain. With his body covered in mud and fury. And his cousin, nervous and perfect, almost listless behind him... they were watching him through sleep, dream, and wakefulness. Both sons of wrath. Both sons of brothers, the grandfather of noble lineage in common.
Voices roared in the flame:
"No shield can contain the rage of blood."
And in the dream, Tychios was no longer a simple craftsman, a dirty modifier of dirty weapons. He was a priest. Now a murderer. Now a herald of a return.
"He will come. To take back the shield."
Finally, he wrote in his diary with blackened fingers:
"Metal screams if you betray it.
And the shield, honored...
has never forgotten."