The Reign of Olympus (Shadows of Olympus #3)

Chapter Fifteen

“That was on purpose,” I say, still coughing. Eros stands beside me. He doesn’t dispute it, just whistles for Ajax, who trots gently over.

“Are you all right?” He lifts me up on Ajax’s back.

“He has no right to treat me like this,” I seethe, even though I know the words are meaningless. The gods don’t think mortals are born with rights at all; whatever rights we have, are the rights they give to us.

Eros swings himself up behind me, and Ajax walks on.

“I don’t deny it,” Eros says, his voice quiet and measured. “I will try to speak to him again. But…”

But this is how the gods are, his voice reminds me. They think mortals far beneath them, and see little value in us. I know he’s right. None of this is surprising. And most days, I know better than to complain about the way of the world. But today something bursts from me.

“Why are they like this?” I say. “Why do the gods care so little for us? Why do they treat mortals the way they do?”

I feel Eros behind me, his steadiness, his silence in response to my outburst.

“I have no good answer,” he says at last. “But I think you mystify them, and they do not like it.”

I scowl. That makes no sense.

“What’s so mysterious about us? They can see everything we do.”

Eros pauses.

“Yes, they can see it, but they do not understand it. The way you resist your mortality: you know, all of you, that you must die, and yet you keep on building, creating. Expanding. Living. They do not understand why you don’t just give up.”

I shiver. When he says it like that, I’m not sure I understand either.

The sun moves on through the sky. My back grows tired, my legs too. From down in the valley, among the marching men, the wind carries the faint sound of drums and horns. At least I am on horseback—down there, most of the men are walking; only the cavalry and the generals have mounts. Their feet must be rife with blisters, their muscles and tendons screaming. And yet they show no signs of needing rest, of breaking rank. I do not wish to call it discipline . It is more than that, I decide. It is strength of will.

It is only at dusk that we stop at last. Down below, the men are settling into small encampments, and fires are being lit. Ahead of us, Ares and Nemese have halted their horses. We draw up and Eros helps me down from Ajax’s back, but as soon as my feet touch the ground, I stumble.

“What’s wrong with the girl?” Ares frowns.

My legs feel weak. In fact, my whole body feels weak. Eros studies my face with concern.

“You have not eaten all day. I should have realized. When was your last meal?”

I think of the stolen bread, but that was a whole day and night ago. And before that…

His frown deepens.

“Sit.” He is curt now, the way he always is when he blames himself for something. He turns to his father. “She must eat. You know that.”

“Very well,” Ares says, impatient. “So she will eat.”

He brings his spear down on the ground—once, twice; I feel its tremor from here—and further up the slopes the underbrush shakes. There’s movement there, in the darkening woodland. And then a deer bounds out. I see her silhouetted against the dusk, her quick grace, her white patches glowing in the half-light. It’s unexpected and beautiful.

She stands frozen, staring at the figures before her. Does she know what they are? Can she tell they’re gods?

Then suddenly, I hear her. Her thoughts—clear as water, running down the hillside to meet me.

Hunters, she’s thinking. Death. She’s afraid.

My children, she thinks.

I want to shout for Ares to stop, but his bow’s already drawn, the arrow already loose. By the time I know what’s happening, the deer is felled.

Not long after, it’s sizzling over the fire.

I’m wild with hunger, and yet the smell of it turns my stomach. I look down the mountainside at the pinpricks of light, campfires lit by mortal men. I suppose we are not so unlike the deer, we mortals. A god can rattle us from our safe havens with the shake of a spear, and our lives can be snuffed out just as quickly.

“What is it?” Eros stands nearby, and I hear the frown in his voice. “You must eat, Psyche.”

I do need to eat, and surely it is worse if the creature died for nothing. I offer up a silent apology to the deer, and tear a strip of meat from the haunch as best I can without burning my fingers. But somehow, I’ve lost my appetite.

*

I feel self-conscious, undressing in the lamplight in our tent.

The panels of silk seem to breathe gently in the night air. But the tent being lit up from within, I worry that someone outside will be able to see. But there is no one out there, only Nemese and Ares, and they are ensconced in sumptuous tents of their own.

I look at Eros who has stripped off his robes already. He’s glowing. The new worship, and I suppose this elixir, must be doing their job.

“You’re staring at me,” he smiles. I flush. What is this effect he has on me, that I still feel like a newlywed sometimes? Then I notice something on his upper arm, an adornment I’ve never seen him wear before, a narrow gold circlet that sits around the band of muscles there.

“What is that?” I nod. Was he wearing it last night?

He glances down at it, and then back at me. Does he hesitate just a little?

“I wear it for my father,” he says. “It helps augment his powers.”

I frown. “How does you wearing it augment his powers?”

“You know my own powers are diminished these days,” Eros says, his voice stilted. He’s not enjoying this explanation. “But the ichor in my veins is still young. While I wear my father’s band, he may siphon some of that youth. Agility, speed, quickness of thought—all of these and more.”

I stare. Siphon ? As though he were a vessel to drink from? A thought strikes me.

“Your brothers. Did they wear these, too?”

Eros nods. “It’s why my father always has his auxiliaries. At least,” he amends, “it’s part of why he has them.” He looks at me. “Even the gods don’t like aging, though they do age. Older gods get overthrown, just as old kings do.”

I think of the stories. Ouranos, overthrown by his son Kronos. Kronos in turn overthrown by his own son.

“And is this common among the gods?” I’m still staring at the gold band. Eros shrugs.

“It depends. My father uses them when he rides on a campaign. It allows him greater strength, greater stealth, than if he rode alone.”

I’ll bet it does. And I’ll bet Eros’s vicious brothers, the twins, didn’t like it one bit.

“Does he make Nemese wear one, too?”

Eros looks uncomfortable at the words.

“I am glad enough to do it. It is an efficient use of strength.” He hesitates. “I assume Nemese wears one, but I do not ask. And I am sure he does not make her, either.”

“And what does she get in return?” I demand. She said today she chose to accompany Ares because it was a good alliance . I’m starting to wonder exactly what that means.

Eros looks toward the door of the tent, and I have the feeling he’s deciding how much to say.

“She is here for her mother.”

The goddess Nyx? A primordial power? What does she care about any of this?

“Nyx grows weaker,” Eros says quietly. “It has been going on for centuries. Ever since Prometheus brought fire to your people, they are pushing back the night. Little by little, they sleep less, they dream less. They no longer fear the night as they once did. And all of this weakens her.”

I frown.

“And what is to be done about it?” What he describes may not be good for Nyx, but it is surely good for us mortals. “Prometheus’s gift is given. It cannot be taken back.”

“It was not his gift to give,” Eros reminds me. “It was stolen from the halls of Olympus.”

I scoff. Not everything in this world can belong to the gods.

Eros sighs. “In return for Nemese’s service my father has undertaken that, in his lands, the night will be sacrosanct. Except in the temples, no torches are to be lit. The night will have dominion as it did before.”

“But-” I think of the short days of winter, of the endless darkness of those nights. How will the night hunters do their work, or the women cook the early morning bread?

“So we are to live like bears in winter?” I demand. “Leading shrunken, lightless lives?”

“ Resting ,” Eros shoots back. “As the gods intended.”

He does not understand. Just as when he kept me in his palace, he did not understand how I felt like a prisoner no matter how much he called me his guest.

“Rest is not rest unless it is chosen,” I snap. I used to think Eros had changed so much since I first met him. But sometimes I wonder if he has really changed so much at all.

*

The morning dawns, cool and fresh. Outside our tent, the sky is pink, moving toward orange. I peer down the mountainside toward the encampment of men, curious to see what their morning activity looks like today. But instead I see something that sends a chill over my limbs.

“What’s this?” I turn to Eros. I can just about make it out from here: the line of men who’ve been taken aside, and the other men who stand over them. I cannot see it well enough to be sure, but Eros confirms it for me.

“They’re being flogged,” he says quietly.

There’s no way I could hear it from here. I must be imagining the crack of the whip, the cries of anguish as it lands.

“ Why ?” I demand.

Eros grimaces.

“It could be any of a number of things. Laziness; gluttony; insubordination. My father-”

“Rewards discipline,” I finish. “I know.” All this, in the name of the gods. I’m not sure who I blame more: the generals who command this, or Ares, who promotes it.

“It isn’t right,” I say, my voice choked.

“It is how things are,” Eros answers. His face is tight; he does not like this either, but he does not see why I should find any surprise in it.

Soon the ugly spectacle is finished, and the men go back to whatever they were doing before. Perhaps by now it is commonplace to them to march with a flogged back, along with their cut and blistered feet. But my heart lies heavier this morning. I feel the truth more forcibly than ever before: that it is not gods who fight the wars of men, as we are led to believe. Rather, it is men who fight the wars of gods—our people who die for their battles, their causes.

From up here, the men are only blurry dark shapes, a river of bodies. And yet each small speck is a person—with a lover, perhaps; a wife, parents, children.

We ride in silence. I stare down at Ajax’s glossy mane; at the dust raised under the horse’s hoofs. When the men break to rest, so do we, and this time, I remember to eat.

We’re drawing near to our destination now. It comes upon us all at once, rounding a bend: a port city nestled in the curve of the bay, sand-colored buildings against the cool blue of the sea and the warm blue of the sky. I hear Nafplion is known for its cosmopolitan ways, used to traders and merchant-ships. It seems so innocent. And yet for all we know, Deimos lies in wait inside its walls.

The valley beneath us has grown shallower; the men are not so far below us as they were. I can make out more of them now—they are less like ants and more like people. I wonder if they can see Nafplion from their vantage point too, and whether the sight of their destination brings relief or fear.

Then, out of nowhere, there is movement—sudden, startling, as though the hillside has sprung to life. Everything is tumult and chaos, noises in the distance.

I grip Ajax’s mane as shadows, shadows in the shape of men, seem to leap from the valley walls.

Our men are being ambushed.