Chapter Twenty-Seven
Ares stands tall, spear in hand, as though channeling some power into the earth. He squeezes his fist tighter around the spear, digging it into the ground, and with the other hand, he beckons Eros.
“Help me,” he says, gruffly. Eros goes to his side, and I watch Ares grip his shoulder, hard. Beneath Eros’s cape I see the glow of the metal band, and I taste acid in my throat. There it is: he’s drawing on Eros’s ischyus , his life-force.
Out on the horizon, I see a spark among the boats, quick as a struck flint. And then another spark. Fire . Flaming arrows, being launched by the Athenian forces. And then one lands, and spreads. My eyes widen at the speed of it: in what seems like mere moments, a whole boat is aflame. I’ve heard tell of this weapon the Spartans have found—a secret knowledge that no others in these lands have mastered. Living fire , our people call it. Fire-arrows that cannot be quenched with water. I see traces of more arrows now, darting in wide arcs between the ships. The sea-winds are high and merciless—that will work to our advantage, if it spreads the flames.
I shiver. Doubtless, were these troops to make landing, they would wreak many horrors on the Athenian people: the men would die, the women would be carried off as slaves. And yet, they are mortals like any others, and a death of fire is a horrible way to die. I’m grateful that I’m too far away to hear the screams.
But now something else is happening in the water: dark spots begin to mark it, currents twisting with unnatural purpose. The water stirs, spiraling in on itself, like wine swirling in a cup. The movement grows faster, vortexes forming wherever the dark spots appear. I hear Ares growl below his breath; nearby, Nemese shifts her stance.
Where our ships get too close, the swirling pockets catch at them, making them rock violently. Their prows pull sideways, sails flapping uselessly, and the water becomes a spiraling trap, drawing them toward the blackness at its heart. The vortex swallows one ship, and then another. I imagine the women of Athens, praying that each lost ship carries someone else’s husband, someone else’s grief.
It seems that hours pass like this.
“They are well-matched,” I hear Eros say, his voice grim.
Too well-matched. Out in the distance, water and fire bend to the gods’ will, striking one ship here, another there. It seems to sink into a slow rhythm as each side grows warier, understanding their opposition’s weapons and honing in on their defenses. There are so many boats, so many men. Life taken from one side, and then another. This will not be a quick battle, that much is clear. My heart feels heavy as I watch.
How much of the day has passed? I can hardly tell. I turn my eyes to the birds wheeling above the cliffs, grey gulls against a pale sky. I close my eyes, listening to their cries, waiting for the sounds to transform into something else—some kind of wisdom, or even comfort.
Humans , I seem to hear amid the squalling.
Blood.
Sorrow .
But I don’t know if it’s really the birds I’m hearing, or a voice of my own, lodged deep in my heart.
Eros stands by his father’s side, hour after hour. It seems to me I can see the strength draining from him as Ares draws it in and channels it toward the men. I see the shadows grow around Eros’s eyes, and the dullness that clouds his skin.
“Can’t you rest?” I ask him. “Even a short while?”
He looks at me.
“Poseidon will not rest,” he says. And I know what he’s thinking. Poseidon’s victory means more than the fall of Athens. More even than the fall of Olympus. It means a new, worse danger for us. For me.
“Can you fly?” Ares turns to his son. I see Eros nod, though I wonder if he truly has the strength to stay out there for long. Surely not while Ares drains him like this.
“Come, then. We will see their campaign better at close range.”
He unfurls his great white wings, making ready to fly out over the bay as Athena did. Eros looks back toward me.
“Go,” Nemese says. “I’ll stay behind.”
I want to protest, but I swallow down the words. If I tell Eros he has not the strength to go, he will not listen. It will only make him fight harder. But still, when they are airborne and gliding through the grey air, I say it aloud:
“He is drained. This takes too much from him.”
Nemese turns, and it shocks me a little to see the strain in her face, too. Her eyes are lined with a dark weariness, her cheeks surely more hollow than they were this morning.
“It depletes him,” she agrees. “But the men will pray to him tonight, and the prayers will be fervent. He will recover. You’ll see.”
I suppose she is speaking from experience. She has been in wars before.
I look down at the cliffs and rocks, the fortifications where the archers and their comrades on the ballistae stood this morning. Now that the battle has drawn out to sea, they can stand down. But for how long?
“How many ships do you think are out there?” I turn my eyes to the horizon again, trying to gauge the size of Poseidon’s fleet. Nemese shrugs, not bothering to turn her eyes my way.
“Enough,” she says.
“And what of the Spartans?” I say. “Will they fight tomorrow?”
Nemese spares me a brief glance.
“If Poseidon’s troops breach these shores,” she says. She frowns out across the water. “And I fear…”
But she thinks better of it; her voice trails away. Still, I know what words were on her lips. Though the Athenians are doing a good job keeping their enemy at bay, she does not believe they can beat them back alone.
I stare down at the empty grey beaches, imagining them flooded with boats, with soldiers. The city under attack. The image is so clear I almost wonder if it’s a vision, something that must come to pass, but then I blink and it’s gone. Still, it chills me.
I think of Yiannis and Timon, and of the hundreds more just like them who have come here. I think of the Spartan boys, sent away from their homes at seven years of age; trained to uniformity, to fearless obedience, for the whole of their lives. Are Deimos and his blood-flowers really so much worse? Do these young men even know what they’re doing, or what they’re dying for?
I think of the bodies on the cliffs today, and the blood-streaked sea; the glimmer of metal breast-plates sinking beneath the waves. That could be Yiannis tomorrow, or Timon. I know I can’t do much, but if there is some little thing I can do to help them, then I must.
The wind surges over the cliff, buffeting my hair and face, and I step away. Nemese doesn’t notice, her eyes still locked on the distant battle. I walk over to Ajax, who has taken shelter under a tree in the lee of the wind. Usually he would be grazing now, but he, too, seems to know that something bigger is at stake. His dark, limpid eyes meet mine as I approach. From his saddle hangs a leather quiver: Eros’s spare arrows.
“I won’t take many,” I assure him.
He snorts into the cold air. I don’t know whether it’s acceptance or a rebuke, but when I reach carefully into the quiver and draw out four arrows, he doesn’t make a fuss.
I’m careful to take the cedar-wood arrows, not the birch. It’s death I’m in the market for today, not love. I tear some leaves from the tree, pluck a few of my own hairs, and then carefully bind a leaf around each of the arrow-heads, sealing each one like a parcel. I don’t dare to leave them exposed, not when I know what they can do. The mere touch of those tips is instant death to any mortal creature.
My footsteps are soft on the path down toward the vigil house. From behind it, I see the two robed priestesses standing guard outside its doors, spears by their sides. The bronze gong catches the low light, glowing like a pale sun. I step off the path, my footsteps silent in the grass, and skirt the vigil house and its guardians. Instead I make my way through the wooded parts of the hillside where I found Dimitra and Nikos last night. Twigs crack underfoot as I move through the narrow paths. The memory feels like a dream—Nikos and his golden hair, my sister and her dark, watchful eyes. The earth smells dry, and a network of cracks runs beneath my feet. Closer to the base of the hill, the pines give way to olive trees, their trunks thickly swirled, their leaves a furze of greyish green, tinged with silver where the light strikes.
I let memory and instinct guide me through the streets. They’re quiet: most everyone seems to be inside, doors and windows closed as though to block out an ill wind. There is the smell of aged stone, of chalky dust kicked up in the roads, and over it all a metallic tang, almost like the taste of blood. I feel the city’s spirit drifting through me like a sad song—the grief of the women, tamped down, folded away into cedar chests, grief to be unpacked later. On my way toward the city walls I glance backward down the rows of doorways, the many homes. The people of Athens will pray hard tonight, and all that prayer will swell Athena’s powers.
For the gods, we mortals are their greatest resource, endlessly self-renewing: in war, they may lose some, perhaps many, but the population replenishes itself somehow. Grief brings forth new life, and while there is mortal life, there is worship, and the god’s following continues.
But for the mortals? For us, it is a different story.
I pull up my hood before walking into the Spartan encampment, but it cannot conceal the fact that I am a woman. That alone is a noteworthy sight. They think me a whore, I suppose: nobody challenges me, though a few call lewd things my way, or frank proposals of business. I weave a path among the camps, looking for the cavalry.
“Psyche! Khaire !” A voice greets me—familiar, but not the one I’m looking for. I turn to find Timon staring at me, half-startled, half-pleased. The wound from the rockfall has crusted over, but his eye is still purple and swollen shut, and the deep cut across the top of it shows a hard seam of black blood. I feel the arrows’ weight in my hand. When Eros returns tonight, I’ll speak to him about Timon again. If Poseidon’s men do make it to these shores, I must do what I can to keep him from the front ranks.
There is a hum of activity around us, but though it is the eve of battle, the men are for the most part sober, their Spartan discipline still in evidence. I hear the sharpening of blades, the polishing of breastplates, as Timon makes his way over.
“You’re looking for Yiannis?”
I clear my throat. “For both of you. I have something for you. But where is your brother?”
“He and the other riders meet with their strategos .” Yiannis may be occupied for some time, then. I hesitate, not knowing whether to entrust the arrows to Timon. But I should not be here, and the longer I am absent, the more likely it will be noticed.
“Will you take these?” I hold up the arrows. “There are two each for you. Two is not many, I know, but they’re not ordinary arrows. Use them sparingly.”
Timon looks at me, bemused.
“You must be careful not to touch the tip,” I say. “Once this draws blood, even the smallest drop, your enemy will lie dead at your feet.” I look him in the eye as I hand them over. “I do not know if you will find yourself in combat tomorrow. I pray that you don’t. But in case you do…use them wisely.”
Timon stares—first at me, and then at the arrows he’s clasping loosely in his hand. His grip tightens.
“I understand,” he says, finally. We look at each other for a moment. The wounded eye makes him look older, and yet I still see the young boy in him.
“I am glad Yiannis found you,” he says after a while. “He never forgave himself, you know. For what happened in Sikyon.”
I look away. I don’t know what to say to that: it no longer feels like my place either to judge or to forgive. It’s true that Yiannis failed me that day. But few people know how to say no to a king, and young boys follow the example of their elders. Was he a coward then? Perhaps. But I do not think he is one now.
“It ruined him.” Timon pushes his point. “He was different, afterwards. You must know that he loved you.”
I feel a wave of heat behind my eyes, and again I feel myself avoiding Timon’s earnest gaze. His words are unexpected. If I’m honest, I never took Yiannis for someone of deep emotions. When we were engaged, I knew he liked me, I knew he desired me. But, love?
I shake my head. Ghosts and memories. The past haunts us all, but there is nothing to be done about it now.
“Remember,” I tell Timon. “If the arrow draws one drop of blood, it’s over. Unwrap them only if you mean to kill.”
Timon nods, his face somber. “I’ll remember. Yiannis says he wishes to die a great hero, but as for me…” He shrugs. I hear the unspoken words: to stay alive would be the better prize.
“Psyche?” I turn at the sound of Yiannis’s voice. “What are you doing here?”
He looks tall in his armor, his stride confident. His promotion suits him. But at the sight of me, his expression changes, creasing into a new kind of vulnerability. He glances at Timon, and then takes my arm, steering me to one side.
“Have you come with news?” His look is hungry. Not hungry for me, as in those long-ago courting days back in Sikyon. Hungry to hear word of something that will help him.
“Have you secured a promotion for Timon?”
I look away.
“I still hope to.”
Yiannis drops my arm, disappointed. It stings. Does he understand that I want this for Timon, too? I have known so many sleepless nights over the men, women, and children that perished in Sikyon; I vowed to do all I could to stop such suffering from touching anyone I care about again.
“I brought you something,” I say. “Your brother will show you.” I’m still not able to meet his eyes. He’d probably give up those arrows in a heartbeat in return for Timon breaking bread with the cavalry tonight.
“And what happens tomorrow?” he says, his voice rough around the edges. “Do we fight?”
I can feel him studying my face. Perhaps I am not worth much to him now that I do not have the influence he thought. I finger the Shroud around my neck. It seems to me the amulet is not much use to me now. Better some other stone, some other magic. Something that could protect those that matter to me.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “The Athenian fleet holds the invaders at bay for now. But they are a strong army. I don’t know if the Athenians will keep their advantage through the night.”
Yiannis grimaces, and looks at me with a cooler eye than before.
“They said your mother was a witch. Have you not a little of her sight?”
She was not a witch , I think. She merely lived too close to the gods.
“If I knew, I would tell you.”
Yiannis steps back from me, some bitterness in his once bright eyes.
“Better you don’t. Better no one knows the hour of their death.”
“You’re not going to die,” I insist, my voice fiercer now. I look up, finding his eyes at last.
“Everyone does,” he says, after a beat. “Remember? You’re a mortal too, Psyche. Even if you seem to have forgotten it.”
His words are meant to wound me, I suppose. It doesn’t matter. I don’t blame him.
“I haven’t forgotten,” I say quietly, and turn to go. Weaving my way back, I will two short prayers into the ether: Stay alive .
Two prayers. One for the boy I once knew, and one for his brother.