Chapter Sixteen
As one, the Spartans raise their shields to form a wall. The men are gone, replaced by a shimmering, seamless plane of bronze. But for all their perfect alignment, all their quick thinking and presence of mind, they’re at a disadvantage. The men charging toward them are coming from the high ground on both sides, while the Spartans are stuck at the bottom of the canyon.
My heart pounds. The attackers seem to be coming from everywhere, and they’re charging like madmen. They run, not with any kind of order, but in a frenzy like wild beasts. Their war-whoops are piercing, and their spears glint in the sun. They don’t slow even as they approach the wall of shields.
“What is this? Who are these men?”
It’s not what we were led to expect. Weren’t we supposed to ride into Nafplion unopposed, and call their sheepish regent to account? We thought the very sight of the Spartan army descending on them would cause the town to quake with fear and remember its true allegiance. But now the robes of the attackers billow as they charge, and what they lack in Spartan unity they seem to make up for in raw blood-hunger. They seem to have no strategy, no thought other than to fling themselves upon their enemy.
The only thing to our advantage is that we have archers, and they do not. They are armed with spears alone. But with the shields forming an outer wall, the Spartans have been able to gather their mounted archers toward the center of the phalanxes, from where they now let their arrows fly. They are keen shots, and each one seems to find a mark. It checks our attackers, but not enough. Even when a comrade of theirs is felled by an arrow or falls, bleeding, across their path, they pay no mind. And unless an arrow strikes them in the neck or in the heart, they seem all but impervious, ripping the shafts from their arms and shoulders as if they feel no pain, and charging on relentless. I realize that they are not even armored—no breastplates, no helmets, no linthorax, even. They wear only loose robes, like priests. What madness is this?
“You have to do something!” I call out. “You have to help them!” Despite their strong wall, the Spartans are falling. They cover it well—new men move instantly to fill the gaps in the shield—but I can see the bodies on the ground.
Nemese glances at me.
“Who do you think is holding their shields strong? Who do you think is guiding the archers’ aim?”
I suppose she is right. But it’s not enough.
But even as I think it, I see something. The Spartans’ arrows—they’re glowing. Suddenly, they seem to carry some spark of light with them as they soar over the heads of our foot-soldiers and rain down among our attackers. And as they hit the ground, I understand what the light is. They are fire-arrows, and where they bury themselves in the ground, the fire takes root. It is not like ordinary fire, either—within seconds, the flames are the height of a man. They seem almost to have a mind of their own as they spread, moving toward the flames of other arrows, connecting with each other to form a different kind of wall. A corridor of flame.
Yet even so, the attackers do not fall back. They keep charging, right into the fire itself. Some make it through; others do not. I see them drop to the ground, coughing, writhing.
“What are these men?” I murmur, appalled. They seem barely human. I’ve heard it said that the Spartans do not fear death, but this , what I’m seeing—this is something else. It is as though these robed men have forgotten death and pain, or never heard of them at all.
“I do not know,” Eros answers, his voice grim. “I hardly know if they are men at all.”
I have never seen anything like it. Perhaps the Spartans haven’t either. But the corridor of flame makes a pathway for our men now, all the way to the gates of Nafplion. With the onslaught slowing they’re able to advance, gaining higher ground as they near the gates.
I hold my breath, but the gates do not take long to give way. The city did not have time to man all the defenses there, perhaps—they’d thought the ambush would hold the Spartans back for longer, or else they sent out too many of their men in the attack.
Our vanguard is already flooding into the city, the rear guard still fighting the wild, robed men. But from this higher ground with the city wall behind them, they have a greater advantage, and the screen of flames still stands. Something else is happening, too, an eerie change coming over our attackers. I watch how their movements slow, as though they’re emerging from some kind of stupor. As though they have finally remembered that they are mortal. What is this? What mania overtook them, before, and why does it wear off now? Slow and confused, they become easier targets—some falling to Spartan steel, some taken prisoner. Some turn and run. A few, when they see what’s coming for them, fall on their own swords. And all the while, our vanguard pours through into the streets of Nafplion.
It is not long before the awful scene begins to dissipate. The corridor of flame dies down. And soon, the valley before us is clear—no living soul remains, only the bodies of the dead.
Hoofbeats, measured and steady, ring out behind us. I turn, and see Ares guiding his chestnut stallion toward the slopes, and a narrow mountain path that leads downhill.
“Come,” he says as he steps the horse past us, not breaking stride.
*
Inside the walls, there’s chaos. The Spartan soldiers are too disciplined to run, but everyone else is—women and children, mostly. There is shouting and screaming, and the high voices of frightened children, rising up from the streets and from inside houses.
My voice comes out hoarse.
“What are they doing to the people?”
“Restoring order, mainly.” Nemese looks over at me. “The Spartans are very disciplined. They are not much given to rape.”
Not much?
But then Ares drums his spear on the ground, and a voice drifts through the air—or if not through the air, exactly, then through my mind.
I seek compliance, not fear. Bring me any who have word of the new cult.
I can almost feel his words burrow into the men’s souls all around us. I don’t think they heard the words as I did. But they obey them, all the same.
“There,” Ares says aloud, and I see what he’s focused on: a great temple in the center of the city, with a carved marble god outside its doors, and the ashy remains of a slaughtered bull. I suppose that’s where he thinks to find Deimos. My heart begins to pump faster again. If Deimos wished to flee, he’ll have had ample time, amid the chaos and clamor of our arrival. But if he is still here, then he has chosen to make a stand.
The gods all have their hooded cloaks raised and I follow suit, concealing my face. But it’s more than that: as I watch Ares ahead of me, he seems almost to shrink—as though the cloak veils not just his body but his divine nature. He could pass for an old man now, a little bent, a little shrunken. He does not render himself invisible, not exactly, but he subdues that part of the mind that otherwise would be tempted to look twice.
“Hang back.” Ares turns on his horse, speaking over his shoulder. A raven perches on his shoulder as he rides on, approaching the doors of the temple. When he disappears inside, my breath catches. If Deimos waits for him…if this is all some sort of ploy…
But within moments, the raven flies out, circling easily above the doorway. No danger here, the swoop of its wings says. Deimos, if he was here once, has gone. But where? And to what purpose?
Nemese advances ahead of us on her white mare, and Eros kicks gently at Ajax’s flanks, following suit. When we get to the temple doors, we dismount and leave the horses outside.
Within, the temple is dark: No torches burn. But even in the dim light, I can see there’s something amiss. The walls have been defaced, defiling the delicate paintings beneath. They’re scrawls more than drawings, something a child might do. But they’re everywhere, marring the beautiful murals, the paintwork and the gold and marble.
“Look.” Ares gestures, and a torch ignites on the wall at his command.
I step closer, staring at the patterns of red ink that are suddenly illuminated, and the murals beneath. The murals are of Ares, of course: this was his temple, before his son overtook it.
Nemese traces one of the red scrawls with her finger.
“There are tales of this,” she says, her voice grave. “But since the time of Kronos, it has been forbidden.”
“Forbidden?” I look from her to Eros. Nemese points at the crude outline of a figure—a man or perhaps a god, legs akimbo, arms outspread. Red lines spill from him like water. I don’t understand, but it chills me to look at it all the same.
“If man drinks of a god’s blood, he will gain strength and courage, and cease to fear death.” She frowns. “It is an enchantment. A madness of sorts. The forefathers vowed not to practice it.”
My skin prickles. I think back to those men’s wild eyes, their mania. Not courage, but a strange absence, a void, where fear should have been. My stomach turns over.
“So all those men…they were under a spell?”
I had not noticed Ares move away, but now I become aware of his heavy tread moving back toward us.
“Nothing in the sanctum.” His voice is grim. “No sign of the blade.”
It’s hardly surprising. If Deimos is not to be found here, he would hardly have left the blade behind. Did he leave because he knew we were coming? I look again at the reddish staining on the walls. It shimmers eerily in the torchlight. Ichor : the life blood of the gods.
Ares strikes his spear against the floor of the temple, hard, and then again, and soon there is a shadow at the temple door: A man, panting. He is dressed like a priest, and he is old, his face lined, his eyes wide and rheumy.
“Glykon.” Ares addresses him, and the man’s eyes drop to the floor. So he is one of Ares’s priests, one of those who has accompanied the men from Sparta to serve as the god’s mouthpiece.
“What word have the people of Nafplion given you of my son’s doings?”
The priest shifts a little in his kneeling stance. “My lord: Our men dragged the regent from his palace. He says the new god arrived from the north: that his men came from the island of Hydra. They preached of a new deity, one who could give men a strength hitherto unknown. He called himself the Red God.”
A new religion, and a new name. Is it power Deimos seeks, then? From what the priest says, he has been building his following in the islands of the Saronic Gulf, north of here. I suppose it is as good a place as any to start.
“This kind of strength is forbidden,” Ares says, and the priest nods vigorously.
“As I told the regent, my lord. But he tells me the red god pierced his veins and scattered blood, and where he did so, the blood-flowers grew. He had the people harvest them.”
Blood-flowers?
“According to the regent,” the priest goes on, “this has been a town of zealots ever since.”
“Even my own priests?” Ares frowns. “The ones who kept this temple?”
The man hangs his head.
“I do not know, my lord. Killed, perhaps, or fled from here.”
“Or they betrayed me, too,” Ares says sorely. “Mind you learn the lesson, Glykon.”
“My lord.” The priest bows again.
“You may go,” Ares snaps. “Have one of your men bring some ewe’s milk to cleanse the temple.”
The man backs out of the temple, relieved to go.
“I thought Deimos would be here,” I murmur. Eros looks at me, shadows in his eyes.
“I thought he’d be waiting for you,” I say. “For us.”
“I know,” Eros says quietly.
If we’re not the target, or at least not yet, then Deimos must want something bigger.
“So where is he now?” Nemese says aloud. “Gone back to Hydra?”
Ares glowers. It’s clear how he feels about his desecrated temple. It’s also perfectly clear that he will not be discussing anything to do with Deimos in front of me. I take my cue, and move across the temple to look out one of its narrow windows, turning my back on the room behind me and letting the conversation die to murmurs. I stare out the window, gripped by the sight of a huge field of poppies, a sea of waving red petals. They’re a shade of red I have not seen before, darker than normal, yet eerily vibrant. I don’t doubt what they are. Blood-flowers , the priest calls them, and yes, they have that same, violent shade.
I startle at the feeling of movement, and a current of air beside me. It’s a raven—Ares’s raven, coming to perch alongside me. It ruffles its feathers, side-steps on the ledge, and as it does so, something falls to the ground. I bend to pick it up. A little clay figurine—a crude, simple thing, no bigger than a child’s hand. I lift it up, turn it over, and recoil. Despite the crudeness of its outlines, I recognize the figure it’s depicting. I would know it even without the smear of red across its front, or the white feather driven deep into the clay.
“Psyche,” Eros says suddenly from across the room. “Put that down.”