8. Ares

8

ARES

Thirty Years Ago

S itting with his back against the stone wall, Ares gritted his teeth and pushed through the throbbing pain in his fingers. Just a few more hours, then the damn thing would be done.

He could feel a bead of sweat forming just above his brow and figured he had about five seconds before the damn thing dripped from his forehead and landed on the precious wooden box he had been carving for the last two days straight. His fingers were raw, and the calluses he had were beginning to crack open and bleed everywhere. He couldn't have that. Nobody wanted to buy a hand-crafted wooden box with blood smeared across the surface.

Frustrated, Ares placed the box down next to him and used his hand to wipe the sweat off his forehead. He watched as the liquid rolled down his hand, clearing a path of dirt along the way.

Dirt.

It was everywhere.

All around him. Sand, dirt, empty plastic bottles. Everyone's trash. Nobody saw. Nobody cared. This was their life. Living in homes that they had put together themselves.

Those who were good at building made their homes out of stone and clay. Others less knowledgeable used whatever solid scrap metal they could find. And those who were even less fortunate or too elderly to fix their homes lived under boxes or whatever other structure they could find.

Ares and his family lived in a home they had built out of stone and clay. It was a skill that his grandfather, God rest his soul, had taught Ares and his father. It wasn't much, but it served its purpose. It kept them out of the scorching sun and provided some protection against predators or would-be bandits.

Turning his attention back to the wooden box that sat next to him, he picked it up and tried to imagine what it would look like once it was completed. It would be painted black and white, with geometrical carvings all across the lid. The sides would be painted in such a way as to hide the hidden compartments he had specifically designed for the box. Three of them. Hidden chambers that would protect whatever secrets or gems the owner did not want others finding.

Beautiful.

The secret box would be beautiful and majestic and sell for a lot of money. Well, a lot of money for Ares, anyway.

Picking up his tools once again, he continued carving into the wood ignoring the pain in his hands. The market was in six days, and he still had three more to finish. He could rest when he got this one done and the next one started.

"When is he coming home?" a small voice asked in Arabic.

Ares lifted his head toward the voice and smiled at the tiny human. "Soon. Are you hungry?"

The young boy nodded, then sat down in the sand next to Ares. Ares placed the jewelry box out of the way, then pulled a small piece of bread out of his shirt pocket. Food was scarce, and he only had two loaves left to last them until he could sell his boxes at the market.

Staring at the hungry brown eyes before him, Ares broke off a piece and handed it to the little man.

"Here. Eat. When you are done, you can help me gather some wood to make a fire," Ares explained in his native tongue.

The young boy nodded as he took the bread from Ares's hand. "What about you?"

Placing the remainder of the bread safely into his shirt pocket, he gave the kid a smile.

"Oh, I already ate. Had some beans before I started work on the box," Ares lied, nodding toward his work in progress.

Trusting that Ares would never lie to him, the little boy nodded and then bit into his dinner.

"Is it almost done?" the boy asked.

Ares picked up the box and held it out in front of the boy. "Well, I still have to make the top, then I have to carve the designs into the sides, then paint it. So, it should be done in a few hours, I think."

Ares was being optimistic. In reality, he had no idea how he was going to finish all this work by the end of the night. He may have to settle with selling just eight boxes. He had hoped to sell ten at the market. That should give them enough money for food for the next two weeks, but realistically, he didn't think he would be able to finish the remainder of the boxes in time. He would have to find another way to make up the shortfall in cash.

He hated being this poor—having to struggle so hard each day just to make sure that he had enough food to eat and make it to the next day. Something had to change. He needed to figure out a way to make some serious cash. Selling hand-crafted jewelry boxes and helping his dad build carts was no way to make a living.

Using the anger he felt at the world, he picked up his tools once again and continued working on the jewelry box. His family depended on it.

Two hours later, Ares put down the box and yawned. Curled up next to him, the young boy slept on the cool night sand. Gently, Ares brushed some of the hair out of the little man's eyes.

The poor kid. He needed a better life than this. He wasn't going to allow this sweet, innocent little child to grow up in the same futureless environment as him. No, sir. He was going to make a change. No matter what it took, he was going to get them all out of this shit-hole existence they called a life.

"Where is it?" an angry voice shouted, startling both Ares and the sleeping boy lying next to him.

Instinctively, Ares pulled the boy behind his back, creating a shield between the boy and whoever was coming their way.

"I-I don't have it. I'll get you your money soon," Ares heard his father's terrified voice say in Arabic.

"Time's up. We gave you two extra weeks to pay your debts; now it's time you paid up," the angry man growled.

Two large men turned the corner, shoving Ares's father into the dirt before their house.

"Oh, who do we have here?" one of the men asked, spotting Ares crouched down on his knees.

"It's just my son," Ares's father stuttered, attempting to get to his feet. The second man shoved him down onto his knees once again.

"On second thought, I think we will take your son as payment. We can always use some extra hands in the mines."

"N-no. No! You can't take him. Please! Give me two more days, and you will get your money," Ares's father pleaded, once again trying to get to his feet.

"Fuck you, old man. I tell you what the rules are. I'm taking your boy, and there is nothing you can do about it."

Panic began to set in. Ares knew what happened to people who went to work for the mines. Many became sick and died from infections; others… they never came back. There was no way he was going with these men. He needed to stay here. Take care of his little man and take care of his father. His mother had died years ago, and his grandfather shortly after that. They were all that was left. Just the three of them. Ares needed to stay.

"No!" Ares's father shouted, jumping to his feet and striking the man with his fist.

The second man tackled his father and began punching him in the stomach.

"Run, Ares! Run and hide!" his father shouted in between blows to the face.

"Father!" Ares cried, torn between running to help his father and keeping his little brother hidden behind his body. So far, the men hadn't noticed the little guy quivering behind him. Ares could feel the boy pressing his face into his back, trying his best to hide behind his older brother.

"Run! Now! Ares!"

With those haunting words, Ares spun around, grabbed his little brother, and took off into the darkness.

"Run!" Ares heard his father shout one last time before he heard the gut-wrenching sound of his father's skull being crushed in by what Ares could only imagine was one of the many large rocks that rested outside their home.

Fear.

Adrenaline.

Terror.

Ares wasn't sure what was driving him that night as he ran off into the darkness surrounding their home, being guided by only the light from the stars and moon above their heads.

His heart was pounding, his fingers were bleeding, but he dared not stop. He had one mission now—to protect his little brother from the monsters who pursued them.

Ares ran all night, never daring to stop or steal a glance behind, too terrified of who or what he might see chasing after them.

Was it fear? Or perhaps the guilt of leaving his father behind to die? Ares was too terrified to look back and face the harsh realities of the split-second decision he had made in the horror of the night. No man should ever be forced to choose between saving the life of their parent or their sibling. The result would be a lifetime of guilt and torment.

When morning finally came, he stole some rice from a local woman who was preparing her husband's breakfast over an open fire. After scarfing down their food, they managed to sleep for only an hour before continuing their journey across sand, rock, and sea.

It would be twelve months later before Ares finally found a place that felt safe enough to start a new life. They still lived on the streets and slept under bridges, but Ares did what he needed to do to take care of himself and his little brother.

Over time, Ares learned the skills that would put him on a path to becoming one of the greatest criminals in Europe. He became an expert at picking pockets, stealing from unsuspecting victims, and even learned how to sweet-talk ladies and wealthy gentlemen, often convincing them to open their wallets to him and give him what he wanted.

He became a master of disguise, adapting to his surroundings and taking on personas and mannerisms to suit his needs or circumstances. When fiction didn't work, Ares resorted to the other valuable skill that he learned quickly while living on the streets—resolving matters with his fists. While Ares was not the tallest of blokes, his wit and determination often made him the deadliest of opponents.

While Ares never would have considered himself a violent person when he was a boy, it didn't take him long to realize that it was easier to get what he wanted when people's lives were in danger.

Little did he know the path he was on.