Chapter Fourteen
It’s dawn, and down in the valley the soldiers are rising, making their ablutions, readying for the long march ahead. Praying. They do everything in unison. There are so many of them—even more than I imagined. Sparta is famous for its army, of course. They say that’s why the city has no wall around it, the way other great cities do. They say they have no need of one. Our men are our wall, according to their king. But today those men will leave the flat plains of Laconia behind, and begin their ascent to the lower passes of the Parnon mountain range.
Eros hoists me up on Ajax’s broad back, and down in the valley, I watch the gathered battalions move with precision, breaking off into new formations. It is hardly to be believed that so many men can march in such perfect alignment, as if all of one mind, like a colony of ants.
“My father rewards discipline,” Eros says, seeing my gaze.
Rewards it , I think, and demands it.
“Is that how you and your brothers were raised?”
He glances at me, but says nothing.
Gazing over the city, my thoughts drift to yesterday again.
“You said the Messenians had attacked five temples in as many nights. Was much blood shed?”
Eros tests my seat on the horse, ensuring I’m secure.
“Enough,” he says. “There were some other priests who died. And a handful of worshipers, too, I’m told, caught in a fire the rebels set.”
I think of bodies, flames, screams.
“And the rebels themselves, of course. Those who were caught died quickly.”
When he says that I can’t help remembering Nemese last night, the traces of red on her beautiful hands and on her shining robes.
Eros jumps up behind me, taps his heels lightly against Ajax’s flanks, and we move off. I glance back at the sprawling city of Sparta as we leave it behind.
Discipline . It can make people do anything you want them to—until they snap. Until they turn on you.
Ahead of us ride Ares and Nemese. Ares rides tall, his back straight as a spear, his gold breastplate gleaming, and a mighty sword sheathed at his waist. His chestnut stallion is many hands taller than Ajax—a mortal man would look like a child atop it. And beside him, Nemese, sitting high on her white mare, her hair gleaming in the sun. When she turns her head to look down the mountainside at the marching troops, I inspect her profile once again—the sharp, unyielding lines of her face; her fearful beauty.
“There’s been no word from Olympus?” I turn my head to ask. “Of me, I mean?” I’m still nervous about what Hermes will have done—most of all, what he will have said—after discovering my lie. I suppose he would not be the first god to turn Olympus against me.
“Not that I’ve heard,” Eros says, his breath warm against my neck. It makes me shiver; I lean back into him, feeling his chest against my back, and his warm thighs either side of mine. Despite myself, memories of last night flood back to me, turning my cheeks flush.
The mountain passes are austere in their beauty—like the Spartans themselves, perhaps. The land up here is not lush like the pasture land near Sikyon, or thick with the damp earth of rivers or sea-beds. It is full of brush and scraggy grass, stunted trees on which no olives fruit. Sometimes the remains of a dead animal lie in our path, felled by some bigger creature or dead from exposure, its carcass well picked over now. All that’s left are bits of fur or gristle, or on the older ones, only the sun-bleached purity of stark white bone. Over it all, the blue skies are high- vaulted, unparalleled in their clarity.
*
The men march without rest until the afternoon, and then, sometime when the sun is past its midpoint, the generals call for them to halt briefly and share some bread. Up here, though, there is no talk of bread. The gods don’t need to eat—they do so for pleasure alone, and won’t trouble with mortal food unless it’s the very finest of fare. I’m riven with hunger, but I keep it to myself. I don’t need another reason to make Ares sneer at me, or Nemese shake her head. To them, everything mortal is weakness.
Ares gathers the other two to an overlook near the rocky edge, leaving me to sit here by myself. I can see the god of war gesturing, pointing to the horizon. Whatever he’s pointing out is too distant for my eyes to see, I suppose—and whatever he’s saying is certainly not for my ears. I look down over the ranks of mortal men below, who from here might as well be ants: they, too, must be wondering what lies ahead. What their gods have in store for them.
I find my thoughts turning back to my sister, as they often do these days. Is she dead, her final words to me some fantastical delusion? Or was it real, and she is mother to a god-child, alive somewhere under the protection of the sea-god? It is an extraordinary thought. Not so long ago, I would have dismissed it outright, but these days it seems to me that many things are possible. I’m told Ares himself is to sire a mortal child soon: Eros said he’s been boasting of his liaison with the queen of the Amazons, and the child he has put in her belly. It seems that not all god-children are born through accident. For some, it is more calculated. If a god produces a great enough hero, that child can subdue more territories in his name, and win him greater followings in the mortal realm. Some gods still find the idea distasteful, mixing their immortal blood with ours, but others feel differently. But the idea makes me feel ill: mortal children seeded like weapons. I wonder if it means we are coming to a time of war. Why else would these gods be in such a hurry to breed heroes to fight for them?
I think again of Hera’s garden, and the apple, and the vision I had. Part of me wants to tell Eros the truth of what I saw—but to what purpose? There is nothing I can tell him that would help me discover the true identity of that god. There is nothing I can take from that vision but shame. I came into the world through trickery. Through deceit and sleight of hand. It is not a birth story to be proud of.
They say children born of the gods make for difficult births. Mortal women are not built for it, and many of them die in the birthing-bed. For Dimitra, if her story is true, I cannot blame the god. She knew the risks, and took them on freely. But my mother…the god who beguiled her into laying with him did more than lie with her. He caused her death.
I stare over the mountain pass, out toward the horizon.
But had he not done what he did, I would not be here now.
I close my eyes, letting it all disappear for a moment—the mountainside, the rocky pass, the sun and shadows; what is past, and what is to come. With my eyes closed I hear the call of birds overhead, and I try to focus on them, to hear more than their squawking cries. Where is it now, that gift that I used to have? But though I concentrate, I can glean nothing of their thoughts. They’re just cries, alien and strange and lonely.
A shadow passes in front of my eyes, and I open them to find Nemese standing nearby, looking out over the pass. Eros and his father, it seems, are still in conference.
“You were not wise to come here,” she says, without turning back toward me. “You would have been better off staying on Olympus.”
Little does she know. I watch her for a moment, her majestic figure, her braid of fiery hair that trails down her shapely back. I think of the tapestry in Athena’s palace.
“And what of you?” I say. “Why are you here, joining on this hunt?”
She turns around, eyebrows raised, as though she can hardly believe my boldness. I don’t much care.
“Ares is not your father,” I plough on. “You owe him no debt. Is it to please Zeus, then?”
She blinks at me.
“You are not shy in asking questions, are you, mortal girl?”
I say nothing. Over by the trees, Ares is still talking. I can see the way Eros is listening to him, head bowed, the picture of the good son. I do not like it.
“Do you believe that Deimos will simply hand the knife over?” I turn back to Nemese—I didn’t mean to keep speaking, but the question tumbles out of me. She half-turns, glancing at me sidelong.
“I have seen him,” I persist. “I’ve seen the blood-hunger in him. I doubt he repents of his theft. Nor do I think he will give up the blade so easily.”
I feel Nemese’s curious glance roam over me. “Perhaps not.”
“But you are not afraid?”
She looks back out over the canyon. I assume she’s ignoring me and my impudence, but then, to my surprise, she speaks.
“Deimos respects his father,” she says. “He craves his approval. He was trained that way.” She glances over toward Eros. “They all were. Ares may yet persuade him. And if he does not…” She shrugs. “With or without the blade, I do not much fear Deimos. We were close, once. In our youth we were like brother and sister.” She is silent for a while then, looking out over the mountain pass.
“You asked why I came here,” she says. “It was a good alliance.”
I frown.
“Because you are a war god, you mean?”
“I am not a war god,” she says without turning. “Though some call me that. Vengeance, justice, and retribution: These are my strengths. They can fuel war. They can be what ends it, too.”
I consider that. I have learned to distrust when the gods speak of justice . Their idea of it is often different to mine.
“Isn’t justice about more than retribution?” I say. “If someone repents, for example. Must they still be punished?”
Her look borders on irritation now. I suppose I’m not the first mortal to voice such questions. But then, few of us get to ask the gods first-hand.
“If some other god intercedes for them, perhaps not,” she says shortly. “But mercy and forgiveness are not my domain.”
I have yet to find a god who does consider that their domain. But something in her words strikes me.
“If Deimos will not give back the blade…if he does not repent: what fate will Zeus command for him then?”
She sighs.
“Tartarus, I suppose. The great abyss.”
I breathe in the sharp mountain air. Tartarus . It is not surprising, I suppose. Zeus rules with an iron first. But I have not heard of gods being confined to the abyss since the days of the Great Uprising.
It seems Eros and his father have finished their conversation—Ares looks satisfied, at least, and down below us, the men have started to move on. Ares turns to where his stallion grazes and bangs his spear once sharply against the ground. The stallion raises his head as if a great gong had rung. Before I’ve even understood what’s happening, the stallion’s thundering toward us. I’m in his path. I barely have time to throw myself out of the way as he thunders past.
His hooves pound within a breath of my face, kicking up dust and showering me with grit.
“Onward!” Ares swings himself up into the saddle.
I’m too busy coughing to do more than stare, but there’s no missing the smirk he casts in my direction before he turns to face the path again, and continues on his way.