Chapter Thirty-Three
My heart quickens. Arrows rain down from the cliffs above, but they don’t touch him.
“God’s teeth!” One of the men beside me says, incredulous. “There’s a child in that boat.”
The blade hangs against his neck. I know it’s the blade, Poseidon’s blade—I remember it from my dream, even though it’s too far away now for me to make it out properly. But it flashes again, finding light on this sunless day and flinging it back, blinding, against the waves. My nephew is two heads shorter than the men who stand behind him, but next to him they are dull shadows. The blade on his chest flashes once again, and the one under my robe grows hot against my skin.
“Haven’t you heard the rumors?” Another man turns. “He is a god-child, and a powerful one. Poseidon’s own. They say the sea-god will let no steel touch him.”
So Poseidon truly has recovered the other blade, like Dimitra said—I don’t know why I doubted it. If I go through with this, he really will have everything: both surviving blades of power. A doubt flickers inside me.
But then I remember what the sea-god will not have. If he meets my terms, he will not have Athens—nor Sparta, nor any other mortal city to take by force. He will have no more mortal bloodshed in his quest for power. On Olympus he may do what he likes, but he will leave us alone. Still, I hesitate. I picture Eros’s face, his disappointment. But what loyalty do I owe to the gods; what have they ever done besides wrench from me everything I loved? If they ever had any claims on me, those were due to Eros. But now even him, it seems, I cannot trust.
Nikos’s boat has passed beyond the range of the archers in the cliffs, but now it is in range of the front lines on the beach. I had not thought arrows could be so loud, but so many of them releasing all at once becomes a roar. I feel paralyzed as I watch, my mouth dry, but Nikos barely flinches. He has a shield in one hand, but he does not duck his head behind it. What has Poseidon promised him? He is so cocksure, so certain that he is immune to these dangers.
He springs from the prow before he even reaches the shallows, as though the boat is a cage he grows restless in. The water rises to his chest, but he strides through it as if it were air, and now the thrashing grey waves seem to part around him. I hear the hush move through the men before me. Surely every gaze is on him now, this strange youth, too young for battle, too unnatural not to fear. He strides in front of the great fleet, finally reaching the shallows. As he steps onto the shore, a murmur seems to pass along the ranks.
The water is following him.
With each step he takes up the dark sand, the water drags itself higher, swallowing the ground beneath it. As if the sea were a great mantle, fastened to his heel.
“By Hades-” the soldier nearest me breathes sharply; it is an unholy sight. But Nikos walks forward, steady as the tide, and the boats behind glide with him.
“He’ll drown us all,” another soldier says.
“He’s making us retreat,” the one beside him murmurs, and it’s true. The water is rising, and though Poseidon’s men are still in their boats, ours are not, and they cannot fight thigh-deep in water. They’re being forced backward, and soon there will be nowhere for them to go unless they flee into the streets, into the city. Still, they are brave men: the archers rally, pulling new arrows from their quivers, bracing to fire again.
“You must let me through,” I raise my voice, and the men turn again to stare at me.
“Go out there? Are you mad?”
“I told you, I have a bargain to make. You said it yourself, the boy is the son of Poseidon, and I have something he wants. If you value your lives, you will let me through.”
They are honest men. They would prefer not to let a woman run toward death, even a madwoman. But I hold their gaze.
“I come here from Athena’s hill, from the summit the priestesses guard.”
I see the flutter of uncertainty in them, of wariness and disbelieving hope. What if it’s true? What if I really am some envoy of the gods’?
“So be it.” The general speaks at last. “Let her through.” He doesn’t meet my eyes. But the men part, still staring, and I dig my heels into Ajax’s flanks. We weave through the men, and as Ajax picks up speed the phalanxes in front of us pull apart, their commotion alerting those up ahead. I swallow down gulps of briny air as we charge on, through the masses of men, through shouts of confusion that I ignore. Instead, I keep my sights on one figure only: the slight, blond boy ahead, who walks with the sea at his heels. Does that blade burn against his skin the way this one burns against mine? Soon, he must see us.
“ Nikos !” I holler through the chaos. But he does not hear me.
The beach is shrinking. The water has swallowed the archers’ mound, throwing the Spartans’ formations into confusion. They are regrouping as best they can, but they’re losing their advantage. The men in Poseidon’s fleet no longer need their hands for rowing, and have drawn their bows, too. Soon the beach becomes a hail of arrows. Ajax whinnies as the men around us jostle and shout. Cries of pain come at random around us, and here and there a man keels over. Where are our gods now? Athena, Ares: if this is them coming to our aid, then I shudder to think what it would be like without them.
“ Nikos !” I scream again, but he’s too far, and the din around me is too enormous. But as I watch his face I see a shift in it. Something’s going on: he’s not looking at the beach or the soldiers, but beyond all that, up the hill toward the city. I glance behind me but see nothing. What is it he’s seeking?
My nephew raises a hand and beckons. I can see his face from here, bright and lively, like a child at play. In another world he might be a boy gesturing to his dog. But then from behind me I hear a strange sound, distant but getting closer, a sort of rumbling hiss. Ajax’s ears prick forward and a feeling of dread flutters over my skin. Then, suddenly, coursing down the road I rode down only minutes ago, bursts a great channel of water. A river hurtling toward us, trapping us between it and the sea, thundering as though some tremendous dam has broken high in the hills of Athens. It bursts down the center of the beach, toppling men either side, carrying others in its wake. It bounces, leaps, flares, galloping like horses made of foam and spray. Men are shouting, stampeding to get out of the way, but it’s too sudden, too fast, and the ranks are too crowded for them to flee fast enough. More and more lose their footing and are swept up shouting, their shouts drowned out as the water submerges them, flashes of helmets and breastplates as the grey river takes them. In the panic, more men are pushed toward us, the crowd surging, clamoring for higher ground. But when the rush of water reaches Poseidon’s men it forks, diverging around them, leaving them untouched. It almost seems to bow at Nikos’s feet, before sweeping our soldiers mercilessly onward, out to sea.
I glimpse my nephew’s face. He is watching it all, but not in horror. I have never heard of any mortal, not even the most powerful god-child, performing such a feat. Is the blade helping him in some way? I stare at his expression, wide-eyed but unafraid. He hardly knows what death means; how can he understand that this is more than a game to be won; that he is extinguishing something so fragile in these many mortal lives?
When the river finally subsides, Poseidon’s men have drawn their blades. The water has cleared a path before them—and now, with a roar, they charge. My hands shake on the reins.
“Ajax, come on!”
We push through the men. The knife in its sheath burns hot against my chest. Up here, I may be safe from the Cycladic blades, but I am a good target for their arrows. Does Zeus’s knife offer some protection to its wearer? Perhaps, but I dare not count on it. I just need to get to Nikos, one way or another. I need to make him listen.
The heat from the blade surges again. I put my hand to it.
“The blade the boy wears is a brother to you, is it not?” I say aloud. “You must help me summon him.”
If somehow the knife hears me, I cannot say. It glows with the same warmth as before. But I draw in all the breath I have and hurl Nikos’s name into the air, until it seems my lungs will burst. And I see him go still, and slowly turn.
My lungs burn from the effort; my heart skitters. Arrows fly overhead. Nikos’s gaze lands on me, and I steer Ajax toward him as he yells to the archers that surround him.
“Do not harm her! She is my kin. Give her safe passage!”
The blade roars hot against my chest as I ride through the flanks of men. Nikos’s orders are no guarantee of safety, not when so many arrows fly around me from both sides. But I have come this far. I press onward, as Nikos strides to meet me.
“My mother said you would not come,” he calls as I swing down from the saddle at last. “She said you would not join us. But she was wrong.”
The wind ruffles his bright hair; his eyes move like a swift-changing sky as he smiles at me. He is happy, I realize with a chill. Not the grim satisfaction of a warrior, but the pure, easy pleasure of a child.
“I am not here to join you, Nikos,” I say. I feel the weight of the city behind me. The noise of battle still raging. I feel the shadow of the great hill, and of Athena’s temples. Who reigns in Olympus, which god ascends its throne: this is not a decision that should be in my hands, nor one that should be bought and sold.
But I will sell it, even so. I will sell it to protect my own kind.
“I am here to bargain with you,” I say.
Nikos looks at me, his bright face now confused; hurt, even.
“Bargain? I don’t understand.”
Behind me I hear the clash of steel. I gesture at the shining knife around his neck.
“Your father has recovered his lost blade.”
Nikos nods, unable to hide the sheen of pride.
“Yes. But for today’s battle, he lets me wear it. I was chosen.”
Chosen . The word plucks at my heart. To be chosen by the gods, in my experience, never augurs well.
I wrap my hands around the leather cord, and from under my chiton pull out the blade I wear. Nikos’s eyes widen, seeing the twin of his own. I feel another pulse of heat sear through my hand, as the blade, too, recognizes its kin.
“Our victory is assured now. Father will rule unopposed.” My nephew’s voice is merry as he holds out his hand, waiting for me to place the blade in it.
“It’s not like that,” I say. “I am prepared to give Poseidon the blade—but only if he follows my conditions.”
Nikos laughs, a quick, bright burble.
“You would give a god orders? You cannot mean it,” he says.
The air howls, and half-formed shapes seem to descend from the sky, swirling around us. I shield my eyes from the grit, already knowing what’s coming.
When I open my eyes again, they’re here: Athena and Nemese, Eros and his father—and one other. Ares has an arm locked around the young god’s throat.
Deimos .
Their eyes are all on me.
“No,” Ares says, his voice a growl. “She does not mean it.”
I feel Eros watching me, but I can’t meet his eyes. I had expected something like this—I just thought I’d have more time. Five gods, ranged against me. But at least I’m the one holding the blade.
The mist they brought with them when they descended hasn’t lifted. Instead it forms a kind of circle around us—one, I suspect, that screens us from mortal eyes. The sound of clashing swords and shouts seems hazier now, not quite of this realm.
“How came you by that knife, mortal?” Athena asks, her voice cold and dangerous.
“He gave it to her, of course,” Deimos spits. “You are a fool, brother, and you have always been a fool.”
Ares squeezes his hand harder around Deimos’s throat, stifling the words. But it’s enough to make Athena turn her sharp gaze on Eros, and for Nemese to ask, “What does he mean?”
Dread pools in my stomach as I finally look at Eros’s face. When he looks back, his eyes are so raw, so sorrowful, I can hardly bear it.
“He’s wrong,” Eros says quietly. “I did not give Psyche the blade. But I did steal it from him.”
Athena stares; I see her hand clench tighter around her spear.
“Last night,” Eros says. “I followed my brother to Hades. I had found the entrance he was seeking; I bribed the guardians. They were to alert me if he breached their realm. When he did, I went after him. I saw him fight Cerberus,” Eros goes on. “And I saw both badly wounded. Before Deimos had time to recover, I pulled the knife from the beast’s throat where he had planted it.” He glances at me. “I wore my cape; it was dark. I thought perhaps Deimos would not know who it was. But it seems he guessed well enough.”
Deimos sneers; Ares grips him harder, then turns to his other son with barely contained fury.
“And yet you did not come straight to us? Or to Zeus?”
Eros meets my eyes again, just for a moment.
“I told no one.” He hesitates. “I meant to. I planned to. But I…I wanted to ask Zeus for something first.”
“You wanted to threaten him,” Deimos sneers.
Eros throws him a look.
“No! I just wanted…I wanted a reward.”
If Ares didn’t have his hands full with his first son, I sense those hands would be around Eros’s neck now.
“And what reward was that?” he hisses. Eros meets his eyes.
“It does not matter now.” His gaze drifts to me, and I know there’s more to the story. I just don’t know if I’ll ever get the chance to hear it.
Athena folds her arms. “What matters is that the blade is here. I have alerted my father. He will come for it.”
“Hand it over, little harlot.” Ares takes a step toward me, but I back away. Nikos glances at me, and I see for the first time something like fear on his features. He doesn’t understand. None of this was supposed to happen.
“I’ve made my choice,” I say. “And I will not give this blade up to any god, while they let my people be slaughtered.”
The air smells of brine and blood.
“We can take it from you, girl,” Ares growls. “Don’t think we won’t.”
I set my jaw and face him. These gods could snap me like a twig, any one of them. I know that. But I’ve had enough of being afraid. I’ve had enough of what they think they’re entitled to.
“You could kill me easily,” I admit. “But don’t think I won’t kill you first. I do not seek anyone’s death, but I will not be answerable for what happens if you try to wrest this from me.”
Ares seethes, but I see the flicker of uncertainty on his face. He does not step closer. And despite the rage I see on Athena’s face, neither does she. I can’t read the expression on Nemese’s face, or on Eros’s. Deimos just hisses at me. I know I don’t have much time. They are not afraid of me, not really—just confounded by a circumstance they hadn’t foreseen. But if Athena speaks the truth, then Zeus will be here soon. I turn to Nikos.
“Do you understand? I am on your side—but ours is the side of men. Of mortals. Will your troops withdraw and leave Athens in peace, if I give you this blade?”
He stares back at me, his blue eyes wide and dazzled.
“I…don’t know. I cannot answer for my father.”
A salt wind blows over our faces, stinging my eyes and buffeting my hair. Inside our circle of mist, what little I can see of the sea begins to churn, harder and faster. It is barely any color at all now, just a roiling white. And then, from one moment to the next, I see a figure in it, or think I do. A cloak the color of midnight, shimmering like sea-foam, hiding whoever’s beneath in shadow.
“No, child,” the figure says, in a voice that makes the skin on my neck prickle and grow tight. “You cannot answer for the sea-god. But he will answer for himself.”
And the figure walks out of the sea.