Chapter 37 #2
I could hear blood rushing in my ears, and my stomach twisted tighter and tighter with each word. His hand drifted lower and I struggled against him. I wanted to scream. To disappear. To die. Anything to not be in this body, at this moment.
Bang.
The great doors of the hall slammed open, and every head turned.
A group of warriors strode inside, their torsos bare beneath dark blue cloaks, arms painted in silver and black spirals, the symbol of Sidon’s war caste. Their faces were painted in white masks that split down the center.
The head Sidonian emissary stood from the table, his robe sweeping behind him, his hands folded as if nothing at all were amiss.
“A gift,” he announced, his voice cool and composed. “To honor your marriage, Your Majesty.”
Menelaus stiffened, his hand still hovering near me.
The emissary gestured, and the warriors stepped aside.
From the gap, one man stepped forward, huge and broad-shouldered, his skin slick with oil that made him glisten like a beast delved from below.
His head was half shaven, the remaining hair braided tight and matted, with beads of bone.
A harsh scar split across his face, cleaving one brow and dragging his mouth so that every expression looked like hunger.
In his fist he carried a crescent-shaped blade, its edge glinting wickedly.
He watched me, there on my knees … and leered.
The emissary inclined his head. “A fight. Blood on a blood moon. A magnificent spectacle to match the magnificent beauty of your bride.”
Cheers split the air, crashing against the vaulted ceiling. Menelaus released me, his attention already drifting away, his grin widening at the Sidonian’s tribute and the promise of violence. “We shall fight!” he cried out, raising his goblet again.
The sudden release sent me sprawling forward. I crawled away from his throne to mine, my palms slick against the stone and my knees still aching where they’d hit the marble. My breath caught as I forced myself upright with unsteady legs and a face hot with blood I could not cool.
Relief slammed into me so violently my stomach lurched. I nearly doubled over as bile rose, the sour taste burning the back of my throat. It was too much, my terror giving way to reprieve, my humiliation curdling into something that made me want to retch.
I’d been saved, not by mercy, but by their lust for spectacle. I’d been saved, for now.
I pressed a hand to my ribs and drew in a shuddering breath. Gods, I didn’t know whether I wanted to collapse into sobs or rise screaming, raking my nails across the leering faces that had just watched their queen debased like a whore.
The emissary lifted a goblet, the torchlight catching on the fine embroidery of his robes. “Your Majesty,” he said, “tell me, whom will you choose to face our champion?”
Menelaus straightened, bloated pride puffing his chest. He looked down the line of Spartan guards, clearly debating between them like dogs in a pen. His finger hovered in the air, then started to descend toward a younger, muscular soldier near the wall.
But a voice cut through the tension, low and unwavering. “I will fight.”
Achilles stepped forward, not from the rank of soldiers, but from the shadows behind them, unbidden, unarmored, and unmistakable. My heart panged at the sight of him. Watching him, I felt the fragile mask I wore tilt, threatening to slip and let the whole room see the splintered thing beneath.
The emissary blinked, fear sparking across his face. “Captain—”
Achilles’s lips curved, not in mirth, but in something colder.
“Surely your champion deserves more than a half-grown boy wet behind the ears,” he said to him, his tone edged with mockery.
“Let me fight him,” he said, turning toward Menelaus, his voice ringing around the room.
“Unless we’re worried about how short the show might be. ”
The crowd buzzed like flies over meat.
Menelaus’s eyes narrowed as he took in his captain. The silence stretched. Then his mouth split wide, and he bellowed a laugh.
“Why not?” he said. “If Sparta’s lion wishes to show his teeth, let him. Our guests deserve a true spectacle.” He leaned forward, his grin feral. “Prove to them what it means to stand in a Spartan hall and why they should worship me.”
The nobles shouted their approval, a fevered roar that shook the torches in their sconces.
The emissary stood straighter as whispers quaked through the chamber.
Achilles, they murmured. Sparta’s undefeated. The general of legend.
To pit him against Sidon’s warrior was to unleash a god against a mortal. And judging by the slight grin on his lips, Achilles was very aware of that.
At last, the Sidonian emissary smiled. “Very well,” he said, smoothly. “It seems our gift will be tested by the best Sparta has to offer.”
Achilles paused at the center of the hall, beneath the high vaulted ceiling and its glittering constellation of torches. He reached for the hem of his tunic and peeled the fabric over his head and cast it aside.
Light spilled across his broad shoulders, sinew drawn tight, a long scar etching pale across his ribs. Sweat gleamed along the ridges of muscle, the rise and fall of his chest measured, contained, as though he held back the violence that lived inside him with every controlled breath.
My heart jolted once, traitorous in my chest …
and then the cold set in. Gods, I must be dying, for the sight of such glory should have seared me, should have set me ablaze.
Instead, it hollowed me out, left me shivering beneath my silks, as though frost had taken root in my veins. The more he shone, the more I froze.
The Sidonian warrior grinned, but it seemed false.
Achilles raised his sword in salute. Not to the king. Not to the guests.
To me.
My pulse stumbled. Heat pricked at the back of my neck as I darted a glance toward Menelaus, sure he would rise, hand at his blade.
But he only grinned, eyes flicking between us with amusement, as though the gesture were nothing more than a show for his court. He lifted his goblet in return, pleased, untroubled … seemingly blind to what lay beneath.
The banquet floor was cleared in moments. Benches shoved back, goblets abandoned. The nobles surged forward for a better view, the way Spartans always did when blood was promised. The marble gleamed, wide and bare, a stage made for violence.
The Sidonian stepped into the center first, lifting his curved blade high, striking it against his palm until the rhythm echoed off the stone like a drumbeat.
He bared his teeth into a jagged sneer. Achilles followed with no armor or shield, only his sword in hand.
He touched it briefly to the floor, the traditional salute, then swept it upward in challenge.
The crowd hummed with anticipation, the sound building, a hive alive with hunger.
“They’ll talk of this fight for years,” Menelaus murmured, leaning close, his voice affectionate again, like he had forgotten his quarrel with me. “Our lion against their dog. Watch closely, my beauty. Watch why they all fear Sparta.”
My fingers tightened against my gown.
The fighters moved as one, two blurs colliding at the heart of the hall.
The Sidonian struck first, his blade whistling high, fast enough to shear hair from Achilles’s head.
Achilles ducked, his counterstrike swift as lightning.
Steel clanged against steel, the sound sharp enough to rattle teeth.
Sparks burst, scattering across the marble like fireflies trapped.
The court gasped. Servants froze with jugs tilted mid-pour. The dancers shrank to the edges of the room, their anklets chiming nervously as they huddled together.
The Sidonian pressed hard, fighting like a wolf gone rabid—elbows cracking, knees lashing, kicks meant to cripple.
But Achilles absorbed the blows, his body fluid and adaptive, answering each move with punishing precision.
A slash to the thigh. A graze across the ribs.
A nick along the forearm. Small, calculated wounds that slowed the beast.
They circled, their feet sliding against wine-slick stone, blades flashing in arcs of silver and gold. The torches threw their shadows wide and monstrous, as if gods themselves battled above us.
The Sidonian lunged and his blade kissed Achilles’s shoulder. The sound that left Achilles was not a shout, but a hiss … like a serpent striking. Blood welled bright against his bronze skin.
My stomach plunged. The sight of his blood unraveled something in me. I pressed a hand hard against my mouth, desperate not to cry out, to betray myself before them all.
Beside me, Menelaus chuckled darkly. “Looks like our golden boy bleeds after all,” he murmured like he was savoring the words. His fingers brushed my wrist, gripping hard. “Don’t faint now. Watch. This is Sparta.”
The crowd leaned forward as one, the tension thick enough to choke on. Someone shouted a cheer. Another cursed Sidon’s name. A chant began—low at first, then swelling: “Achilles. Achilles. Achilles.”
But the man at the center of the hall did not bask. He stepped back once and drew a steadying breath. His chest rose and fell calmly as if he was letting the pain sink into him like a weight anchoring him to the earth.
Then he surged.
His movements sharpened, something more than soldier, more than man.
He pressed forward with relentless rhythm, strikes blurring into one another until steel sang like a lyre string plucked too fast to follow.
The Sidonian staggered, forced back step by step, his smile faltering beneath the ferocity.
Achilles spun and swept behind him, and his blade carved deep across the back of the man’s knee. The Sidonian collapsed with a howl, but he wasn’t finished. From his sandal came a hidden dagger, flashing toward Achilles’s throat.
Gasps tore through the hall.
Achilles bent backward, his body arching like water poured from a jug. The dagger missed by a breath. He seized the Sidonian’s wrist, twisting hard until a wet crack split the air. Both his dagger and his sword fell as the Sidonian howled.
Blood slicked the floor beneath them. Both men shone red, sweat and gore mingling. The stench of iron thickened in the air.
The Sidonian staggered upright, trying to feign laughter through bloodied teeth. He raised his fists, beckoning.
Achilles threw his blade down and met him mid-leap. They crashed down, the marble shuddering. Achilles straddled him, fists hammering into his face until bone gave way. The Sidonian’s roar broke into a wet gurgle.
The hall fell silent but for the sound of it, flesh on flesh, vengeance in motion.
My heart was battering, fear and awe tangled so tightly I could scarcely tell one from the other.
Achilles finally rose slowly, blood dripping from his knuckles, and his chest heaving.
The Sidonian twitched once at his feet, then stilled.
The captain bent down and grabbed his sword, raising it in the air as gasps shivered through the court.
The emissaries shifted, their stillness finally cracking.
Menelaus leaned close again, his voice thick with delight. “Our lion always devours.”
Achilles suddenly brought the blade down again and again, hacking at his chest without mercy until the Sidonian’s body was nothing but ruins.
The silence that followed wasn’t shock, it was worship. For a long heartbeat, no one moved.
Menelaus burst into laughter, a thunderous bark that cracked the hall wide open.
He surged to his feet, the rage that had gnawed at him all night gone as if it had never existed.
“Behold!” he shouted, his voice thick with triumph.
“Sparta’s might! Sparta’s lion! Is there any man in this world who does not tremble before us? ”
The nobles erupted, stamping their feet against the floor as their voices clashed together in exalting cheers.
At the center of it all, Achilles lifted his sword high, crimson dripping down the blade, his chest heaving with the violence still singing in his blood. “Sparta!” he roared. The crowd took it up, chanting his name, chanting our land’s name, and the air throbbed with their voices.
I sat frozen, my heart pounding so wildly I thought it might burst. Relief flooded me—he had survived—but it tangled with a horror that made my stomach roil. He looked like a god, radiant with blood, terrible and beautiful … But I was cold. So very cold.
Menelaus sank back into his throne, his laughter still rumbling in his chest. He leaned toward me, his breath heavy with wine, and his words this time meant for my ear alone. “Come, my beauty,” he murmured. “Let us go celebrate.”
My heart plummeted, crashing against my ribs. The taste of bile stung the back of my throat. I knew exactly what that meant.
The cheers of Sparta thundered around me, but inside, the last place that could feel hope simply went dark.