The Reign of Olympus (Shadows of Olympus #3)

Chapter Twenty-Three

Ajax makes the leap from a small incline, and the juddering impact draws the breath from my lungs. It’s all I can do to hold on. He flies down the thin paths that seem built not for horses but for goats. No other horse could keep its footing like this. The path shifts below us, sending stones skittering, my teeth rattling, my jaw clenched tight as my hands hold hard to his mane.

Down on the valley floor, there is a layer of white dust over everything. It hangs in the air, and over the men themselves, who move like ghostly creatures in this grim landscape. The generals are attempting to establish order, calling names, taking inventory, shouting with hoarse voices to make themselves heard. But I hear the hollow bravado in their tone. The residue of fear is still in their voices.

Men are wiping the sand and dirt from their faces and their weapons. Some are looking for their friends, ones who have not answered to the names the generals are calling. Some are tending to the wounded. But as I ride, barely noticed, at the side of the path, I see that even so, it is not as bad as it might have been. Eros and Nemese really did stop the rockslide in time for most of these men at least. But there are unlucky ones. I see them dragged to the side of the road, friends standing over inert bodies, or using their water rations to wipe the dust and scree from their dead comrades’ faces. My heart quickens.

“Yiannis Demou?” I ask one group, and then another. “Yiannis Demou, of Sikyon? Have you seen him?”

They shake their heads, unsure what I, a woman, can be doing among them. But they are too distracted, too busy salvaging what they can, to give it much thought. Finally one man points to a group of men by the side of the road. When I turn my eyes, fearful, I see Yiannis among them.

Unharmed.

I’ve almost reached him when I feel a hand on my wrist. It’s Eros, his hood thrown low over his face. Of course he followed me down here. He does not need a horse to do it. Though I cannot see his face, I can feel him looking at me, and I can feel what he’s feeling. The fear for me that’s pivoting into anger.

“You did not tell me.” He speaks low, but I would hear it through a crowd of hundreds. “You did not tell me he was the boy you were to marry.”

So—he has recognized Yiannis. A ripple of shame goes through me, followed by defiance.

“And what of it?” I say. “He needed help. It’s simple.”

“Psyche!” A voice cuts through the press of men. Yiannis has seen me. As he turns I see his face is streaked with dirt, and worry. A couple of the men beside him turn, too, but soon turn back to their wounded friends. It occurs to me that Eros is doing what I saw Ares do in Nafplion: diffusing attention from us, so as not to stir the men’s interest too much. Or perhaps they’re just too preoccupied.

That’s when I notice the boy beside Yiannis—the same features, but in a younger, still-soft face. Timon is older than when I last saw him, but there is something of the young boy in his eyes still. Especially now, as Yiannis dabs at a gash in the side of his cheek. I pull myself free of Eros’s grip and step forward.

“ Psyche .” Timon stares, full of disbelief. “Yiannis told me about you, but I thought he was…” He stutters. “I did not think to see you again.” When he blushes, he looks more a boy than ever. I remember him like this, back in Sikyon, when his brother and I were courting. He was so shy of women then, and especially of me. Yiannis used to tease him for it. But there is no teasing now.

Timon tries to stand, but no sooner is he on his feet than he winces and bends over, vomiting into the dust. Yiannis goes to help him, but Timon waves him away.

“His injuries?” I say, keeping my voice to an undertone.

Yiannis glances at me. “He will be all right. Mostly it is shock.” There is a new urgency in how he looks at me. “But next time, he may not be so lucky. You must help him.”

This is not the wry, teasing Yiannis from Sikyon, or the one I saw last night. This Yiannis is tight-lipped, his voice hard-edged. This time he is not asking me, but telling me. I glance behind me. Eros has faded into the crowd, it seems, but I can feel his presence somewhere, blending into the shadows. Is he within earshot still?

“I…” I look away. “I’m not sure that I can. I want to-”

Yiannis comes closer, grips my wrist. The touch startles me, but I don’t want to invite Eros’s attention, so I don’t step back. Instead I angle my body to shield us both from his view.

“You must, Psyche,” Yiannis says in a low voice. “I’d give him my commission in a heartbeat, but the men won’t allow it without orders from above. Do you understand?”

His eyes flicker toward the caved-in pass ahead. “It was more than an accident, wasn’t it? There may be gods on our side,” he goes on, “but there is some opposite power against us too, which is much to be feared.” He locks his gaze on mine. “I must do all I can to protect my brother. And I need your help.”

Behind him, Timon glances over at us, wondering about our conversation.

“I need your help, Psyche,” Yiannis repeats.

Yiannis was there when Sikyon fell. He heard the screams. He saw the rocks fall, saw them crush family, neighbors, friends. He was there when those souls were plucked from the earth, sent to the Underworld before their time.

“I understand,” I say. “I promise.”

*

The dust settles, little by little. In the distance where the air is clear, Athens still looms, cutting its sparkling silhouette against the sky. There are watchtowers up there, perched on those great forts. What do the watchmen make of all this? Do they too believe this was the work of the gods?

Among the generals, a decision is made. Despite the arduous climb up and over the mounds of fallen rock ahead, the men will carry on along this path. Backtracking is not an option.

The sun climbs to its highest point, shrinking our shadows to nothing. Up on the mountain passes, there is an eerie stillness, and the three of us ride in near-silence. Even the horses seem to tread more lightly.

Eros rides behind me, saying nothing, but it seems to me that I can feel his thoughts: his displeasure, his stony attempt to feel nothing. He considers jealousy beneath him. Anger, too. So he will not tell me what he really feels—but I can guess.

“I’m sorry I did not tell you who Yiannis was. I did not want you to misconstrue it.”

He doesn’t answer right away, but I feel Ajax drop back a little, so that we no longer ride so close to Nemese.

“You berated me,” Eros says, “for failing to tell you about a past relationship of mine. And yet you hid this.”

“It’s not the same,” I say. I don’t turn around to see his face. I can feel the warmth of his legs around mine, the warmth of his body enclosing mine, and yet I wish, for right now, that we rode separately.

“For one thing, I did not marry him. I did not spend years and years with him. And I don’t have family who still think I should be married to him.” I can feel Eros behind me, how his chest stiffens and tightens. “And what’s more,” I say, “I was trying to protect him. He and his brother are only in this situation to begin with because of what the gods have wrought among our people. Your mother, for starters.”

“Are you ever going to forgive me for that?” Eros says, after a beat. “For being her son? For a while I thought you’d moved beyond it, but I see I was wrong. You make me out to belong to some enemy race, as though I should spend my days atoning for their wrongdoing.”

His words sting. I glance down the mountainside. I think of those unlucky ones dead in the quake, who will be burned tonight and their ashes carried back to Sparta.

“The earthquake,” I say stiffly. “Was it Deimos who caused it?”

I feel the silence behind me. He is choosing how to answer.

“I don’t know,” he says at last. “I do not believe my brother has acquired such power. Not so much, and in so short a time. But I suspect it was the work of some god—and if not his, I don’t know whose.”

I think of what lies ahead: Athens, the rumors of approaching ships. If Deimos has sent them, then does he sail with them, and does he carry the blade? Or is he teasing us; are we running two steps behind him like we did at Nafplion, or in the wrong direction altogether?

I cannot fathom what his plan is. If he wanted to attack Eros—and me, for that matter—he could have done so before now. As soon as I picked up that icon in the Nafplion temple, he knew where we were. And yet so far, instead of pursuing us, he evades us.

If Ares is right and Deimos is on the isle of Hydra…I feel a glimmer of foreboding. Even though I do not care at all for Ares, I will admit that he is brave to go there alone. It’s surely clear by now that Deimos is not going to give up the blade of his own accord. If Ares or anyone else is to take it from him they must use some great agility, or bargaining, or trickery.

The proud watch-towers of Athens stand out clearly against the azure sky, and beyond them, the dazzling sea, and the spread of cream-colored stone. Down below, the men are climbing slowly, laboriously, over the caved-in section of the pass, shale and rubble unsteady beneath their feet. They must take the ascent carefully, so as not to cause too much displacement and accidentally bury the men below.

But when our men reach the great gates, something is amiss. The gates do not swing wide for them; the guards do not stand down.

“What is this? Has Athena failed to give the order?”

Nemese and her white mare disappear down the mountainside to find out what’s going on, moving so quickly that in mere moments I lose sight of them, and feel only the swirl of wind left in her wake. It does not take her long to return.

“They say the Spartan hordes are welcome only if they give up their weapons and leave them at the gates,” she reports.

Eros looks startled.

“This is how she thanks us?”

“Her caution is not unnatural,” Nemese shrugs. “Sparta has been plotting against Athens for years.”

“As has Athens against Sparta,” Eros answers, irritable.

“No matter,” Nemese sighs. “Your generals decline to let any of their men enter on such terms. They say the army will make camp outside the gates for tonight, and unless Athena and her people change their tune, I expect they will turn back for Sparta tomorrow. I fear the men grow mutinous.”

Eros sets his teeth. “Certainly, it is not the welcome we expected.” He turns. “Psyche, have you a firm grip? I think it is time I speak with my cousin.”

In moments, we are galloping toward the gleaming silhouette of Athens, so fast I cannot focus, my eyes blurring as the world rushes by, and I end up closing them to avoid the dizziness. The men on the Athenian watchtowers—do they see us at all? I suspect to them, we are just the rush of wind passing by. I feel my head swaying, and the bile rising in my throat, but I grip harder with my thighs, and wrap my fists in Ajax’s mane. I cannot say how we make it through the gates, only that no wall of wood or stone seems to stop us; perhaps we weave through the gaps between men the same way the wind does. And then we are inside, blasting through the city streets and past them, to the foot of a great hill. Surely this is Athena’s hill, where her sacred temples are. Trees fly by, then temples, and then we burst onto a high, airy summit, and Ajax comes quivering to a stop. I almost fall forward but Eros grabs me, keeping me in my seat, though the contents of my stomach threaten to leap free. He jumps free; my legs tremble as he helps me down. Slowly, shuddering all over, I manage to take in our surroundings. And a familiar figure cloaked in silver, who turns from her vantage point on the cliff edge.

Somehow, the goddess looks even more impressive in the mortal world than she did on Olympus. She shines brighter, stands taller. Though she still wears her cloak and not her war-armor, I see the flash of metal from a sword-hilt at her belt. She raises her eyebrows at the sight of us. Further down the hill there is a flicker of white, and in moments Nemese and her mare shudder to a stop beside us, and the flame-haired goddess dismounts.

“So our troops are to be kept outside the gates—what is the meaning of this, cousin?” Eros stands with his hands on his hips. “We diverted from our course to Hydra for your sake, lest you face my brother and his blade alone. It was no easy task to convince my father to do it.”

“I did not ask you to,” the grey-eyed goddess answers. “And I do not believe you came here for my sake. You want to find your brother, do you not? Well, I do not fear him, and my men do not fear anyone’s ships. The Athenians are the best navy in the land.”

“You should fear him,” I hear myself say. “If not for his own sake, then for what he carries.” She has not witnessed what the blade can do. If she carried a permanent wound from it, as Eros does, or seen a god bleed and die from it, perhaps she would feel differently.

“Presumptuous mortal.” Her eyes flash ice at me. “You are on my territory now. You are the one who ought to be afraid.” She turns to Eros. “And your father? He is not with you?”

Eros glances at me, what I take to be a warning look to keep me from further outbursts.

“He has gone to Hydra, as we planned. You are right that we mean to track down Deimos as quickly as we can; time is of the essence.”

“Speaking of time,” Nemese says, “they are here.”