Chapter Eleven
Eurus, it turns out, is not as interested in making landfall as I am. I bind my hands tighter in his mane.
Please , I think, as loudly as I can. You must stop here.
I feel his resistance. I am not his master, after all.
Only think , I remind him. Once you leave me down, you will carry no one at all. You will be entirely free.
The wind whistles and keens. Below us, rain is pouring over the great expanse of Sparta. They are inland here, not at all used to this briny sea-wind. I hope this will not harm the harvest. As we begin our descent, cutting through the cloud-line, the rain bursts upon us, and I think with a moment’s regret of the soft, dry journey this would have been had Zephyrus taken me instead. In a moment I’m soaked, head to toe; I can barely see a thing through the sheets of lashing grey.
Make for the outskirts, I think to Eurus. We must not be seen.
The rain will offer us some cover, at least.
When the ground finally rears up it seems to come from nowhere, and I cling for my life as we finally touch down, transitioning forcefully from a glide to a thundering gallop. Only when Eurus’s hoofs finally slow does my heart begin to calm, too. I bend my head against the horse’s great mane, managing slowly to unclench my fists. I feel dazed, disbelieving. I made it .
I slide from Eurus’s back, the feeling of earth under my feet once more. I wipe the rain from my face and try to take in my surroundings. We are in a clearing, surrounded by a small copse of woods. The heart of the city lies to my right.
Shaky-limbed, I push a little way through the trees, and hear Eurus’s tread behind me. In just a few paces the tree-cover wanes, and I stop short. There are people here. An open square, with stalls at the far end: a market. I would not have thought to see one so late in the day, but perhaps the customs are different in Sparta. The rain has taken them by surprise, though. The bare earth is muddy and flooded in parts; a few bedraggled people, those who have not fled for home, are clustering under the shelter of some of the stalls.
The smells are taunting me, spices and warm grain and roasted meats cutting through the rain-heavy air. Suddenly my legs feel weak. How long has it been since I ate? That bite of an apple in Hera’s garden…how long ago was that? And before that? I can hardly remember.
I turn to Eurus, his storm-grey eyes, his breath coming fast after the descent.
“It was a long journey. You must be hungry, too.” Only as I’m nearing the stalls do I remember I have no coin, nor anything to trade.
The nearest stall is selling bread, its warm scent drifting insistently my way.
I have never stolen anything, not even as a little girl. Dimitra did, once or twice—out of daring rather than necessity, just to prove she could. She was nimble and fearless and never hesitated. I am not Dimitra, but perhaps I can borrow a little of her brazen ways tonight.
I inch closer. The stall owner doesn’t even see me—he’s talking with a friend.
“My marching days are over, my knees can tell you that much.”
His companion laughs.
“Look at us, eh? Too old even for the reserve.”
The reserve? They must be talking about the army. If war is coming to Sparta, that will be Ares’s doing. But I’m distracted from the conversation by the scent of the bread. The loaves sit on a shelf to my left. They’re small and flat and round, just the right size for travelers. I take a breath—the stall-keeper’s eyes are still not on me—and slip one from the table. Then, emboldened when no one so much as stirs, I take a second—this one for Eurus. He would prefer barley grain, I suppose, but I won’t come by that here. A heady feeling, not just hunger, surges through me as I weave back toward the trees. A twinge of guilt, a twinge of triumph. I don’t exactly feel proud of myself, but I’ve done something I’ve never done before. I almost laugh.
You’ve taken greater risks than these, Psyche.
I chance a look back, and see the stall owner frowning, inspecting his wares. He’s noticed the space where the two loaves were before, and glowers as he scans the thin crowd.
“Be warned, brothers. Someone has light fingers tonight!”
I slip behind the tree cover, back to the clearing and to…
But there is only twilight, and dark trees. Where is he?
“Eurus!” I hiss, and then try again, this time in my mind. Eurus!
A bolt of briny wind hits me, and I look up into the sky. There—against the tree-line, rising into the sky: a dark, shimmering cloud in the shape of a horse.
*
I wade through the puddles and the mud-churned streets, toward what must be the center of the great city. The rain and wind have eased now that Eurus has taken his leave, but everything feels waterlogged in its aftermath, and my sodden cloak is heavy on my shoulders.
It’s busy, and gets busier the closer I get to the center. The city reveals itself in fragments: open doorways, the smell of cooking fires, the sound of voices. The buildings speak of might rather than magnificence. I remember Corinth as being a beautiful city, but I would not call Sparta beautiful. Everything here is built for utility and purpose, for strength and endurance. Even the people in the streets have the same look: their clothing is simple and uniform, no thread wasted on vanity.
With the rain past, the city hums with activity. So many doors open onto the street, and in this neighborhood every house seems to be hosting some gathering or other. From some, I hear music playing, though it seems to me a somber sort of music. A woman steps outside her door to place an idol in front of her home. Ares, I see at a glance. Of course.
“Is there some celebration tonight?” I gesture at the open doorways, the busy, bustling households; the light spilling onto the street along with the music. She looks at me as though my ignorance leaves a bitter taste in her mouth.
“Don’t you know the king has given orders? The northern towns must be secured; our men march tomorrow, at dawn.”
I understand now. These families are saying their goodbyes. Their sons, the boys and men in their teens and twenties who make up Sparta’s full-time guard; and their husbands, the reservists, those who have completed their full-time service and are old enough to marry. All of them will be leaving tomorrow. But why? What have the northern towns to do with Deimos and the blade? If I know the gods at all, I cannot suppose these things are unconnected.
“Godspeed to them,” I say.
She just looks at me, wordless, and goes back inside. I had another question on my lips, but I must stop a passerby to ask it.
“Excuse me—I seek a temple to the god Eros. Can you tell me where to find one?”
He looks at me as though I am a fool.
“We do not have temples to Eros here. This is Sparta, or didn’t you know?”
I flush. He’s right: this city has no place for gods of gentle hearts; no desire to worship love or poetry; no music but the sound of war-drums.
He frowns, seeing my face.
“Well, there is one temple that way,” he points. “Uphill, near the training-grounds. It’s devoted to Ares and his sons. Perhaps you can make your offering there.”
It seems like the best I can do. I make my way uphill, mud sloshing in my sandals and the bittersweet sounds of the farewell gatherings still in my ears.
*
The Spartans may keep their towns and clothing austere and without ornament—but clearly, the inside of their temple is a different story. I gasp as I cross the threshold. The ceilings tower above me, and the torches throw pools of gold over statues, friezes, great expanses of marble and paintwork of red and gold. Only the tops of the walls and the ceilings are dark, from the soot of many years of incense.
“ Khaire , traveler.” A voice greets me, and I start. I had not seen him in the shadows. The red-robed priest approaches, and I bow my head. Water drips from my hair, pools on the stones beneath me.
“Greetings, holy one. I’m told this temple is dedicated to Ares and his sons?”
“Quite so.”
“All three of them?” Deimos and Phobos have always been war-gods, minor ones to be sure, but used to riding at their father’s side. For Eros to share space with them in a temple would be more unusual. But the priest sweeps his arm toward the front of the great room, pointing out the four tall statues there. The tall, towering one in pride of place is clearly Ares, but around him, I recognize the other three: the twins, their battle-shields painted with terrible, grimacing faces…and Eros, depicted with his usual quiver of arrows, but also with a helmet and a spear. It is not a great likeness, but I am not about to point that out to the priest. Besides, no matter how skillful the sculptor, no statue could ever capture the truth of him—the movement of his mouth, the dance of his eyes, the easy strength of his hands.
I unclasp the Shroud from around my neck, and the priest looks at me expectantly.
“I must make an offering, but it is one meant for the god Eros alone.” I hold the man’s eyes. I need him to understand that even if this request is unusual, it is important. But he looks at me askance.
Eros? I can feel him thinking. Of the four gods here to choose from, why pick this one: the afterthought, the least feared among them?
“Please,” I say.
My neck feels strangely bare and vulnerable without the Shroud around it. So be it—even if the gods were to take this moment to seek me out and find me, I do not think they would destroy me in a temple. As long as my message reaches Eros, that is all I need. I hold the talisman out to the priest.
“I beg you, bring it to the highest sanctum and offer it to Eros alone.” The innermost sanctum is for the high priests only. The rest of us may not witness the place, nor step near it. But at my request, the priest’s eyes narrow. Perhaps the talisman looks too humble for the request I’ve made. Or perhaps he’s waiting for me to put some coins into his hand as compensation.
“It’s important,” I say.
He looks at me a little longer. I cannot tell what crosses his face, but I do not think it is sympathy.
“It is not traditional,” he comments at last. “But the high priest gives word that the third son, too, is to be worshiped as a war god now.”
He slips the talisman into the pocket of his robes and turns away, his sandals slapping softly as he disappears into the shadows. It occurs to me that perhaps he will not honor my request at all—perhaps instead he will bring the necklace down to the agora when his vigil ends, and sell it to some dealer there. And yet there is nothing for me to do but trust him and hope for the best. I have given up my only thing of value, my only protection. It is a risk—but if Eros sees it, he will know to come at once.
My stomach turns over and my head throbs, reminding me forcefully of how long it’s been since I ate a good meal. Or slept.
Through the mouth of the temple, the very last of the dusk is giving way to night. The temple is empty. I walk to the front, where the four statues stare out with their sightless marble eyes, and I gaze back at the marble Eros.
Please come , I think, willing the words into the ether with all the strength I can muster. I am here, and I need you .
My limbs are stiff, my eyelids heavy. The priest does not return. Eventually I curl up on the floor, and listen to the oil lamps burn and sputter in their sconces, and watch the small pools of light they make in the darkness. It’s almost as though they’re breathing in time with my own exhalations. I gather my knees to my chest and let the chill of the stone floor seep into my bones. A halting sleep finally comes to claim me.
Until a blood-curdling scream rips through the air.