Chapter 1 #3
Aziza splashed her cousin back. “Ares doesn’t seem to mind my philosophizing, does he?
” She’d won enough of his favor, anyway, to earn that title at the age of twenty.
Archa—head of all the female warriors in their town, which had earned her a Therion dagger.
Then two years later, in their district, which meant a Therion sword.
As of the match last month, in their whole clan. She’d been able, then, to replace her redforge spear with her current one, her pride and joy. She was one of only a handful of women in all of Ares with a Therion spear.
News she burned to share with her sister.
It had been too precious to say over a recording.
But not something she wanted to share here, now, either, with everyone around.
Yet with everyone around, someone else could say something.
And even if Photina hadn’t noticed the distinctive sheen of her new weapon—which clearly she hadn’t, or she would have mentioned it already—she would see the new clasp on Aziza’s cape, when she dressed.
That the owl in the circle now had the serpent clutched in its claws.
Artemisia shook her head, backing away. “You’re overthinking something again, I can see it in your eyes. When your body grows old and fat, we’ll ship you off to join the Learned of Elystria. You’ll be right at home.”
Sending another splash toward her cousin at the insult, Aziza laughed. “Never!” She reached for one of the bars of soap on the ledge behind the waterfall.
Photina had stripped off her travel-stained tunic and stepped under the sluice as well. Quietly, she said, “You know, if ever you want a man, you’re going to have to start losing now and then. Not against the other women—they’d never believe it of you. But against them.”
Aziza sighed and tipped her face into the water. Not that the rush of it over her ears did anything to drown out her sister’s voice.
“I’m serious, Zee. No man wants to vow someone who’s better than him at everything he holds dear.”
Rubbing the soap into a lather, Aziza rid her body of the ring’s grime. “Maybe I have no interest in a man who would want me to pretend to be something other than I am.”
“Oh, grow up, Aziza. You’re twenty and five, old enough to know how the world works. We all pretend to something or another at some point in our lives.” She leaned close, eyes intense. “If you ever intend to be Galenos’s woman, you’re going to have to let him win. It’s the man’s place. His honor.”
Aziza slapped the soap back onto its ledge and prayed the lukewarm water cooled the flush before it could stain her cheeks. “Who said I wanted—”
“I’m your sister.” Photina leaned closer still, her voice barely more than the splashing water. “You think I don’t know your heart? That I haven’t always known your heart, little owl?”
What was she to do but change the subject? “Speaking of owls…”
“Zee.” Photina groaned and grabbed her shoulder, gave it a shake. “Ignoring me won’t solve your problem.”
“I don’t have a problem.” Aziza looked over, down the two inches necessary to catch her sister’s eye. “I do have an owl. With a serpent in its claws.”
Her sister sucked in a sharp breath, eyes going wide. For a pulse, two, she just stood there, hand on Aziza’s shoulder. Then she let out a muted squeal and pumped a fist in the air. “I’m so proud of you. You entered the match last month after all? How did you not spill the news in your letter?”
“It was a challenge.” She grinned at her sister, knowing she really was proud. As Matri was. As Patri would have been, had those wretches from Clan Neptune not stolen his life too soon. He’d always said she’d be the archa of all of Ares someday.
How she wished he could see her now.
The clan’s archa was usually a woman in her forties, one who’d not only been trained, but who had fought far longer than one three-year cycle, who had raised children, who had trained them.
It was the teaching of others, they always said, that made them true masters.
Able to win in the ring and pass the tests of discipline and strategy necessary to guide and assign every female fighter in Ares.
Most didn’t even attempt to compete until their children were grown.
To earn the title as a maiden…she still couldn’t quite believe it.
Well, until the week’s missives arrived for her from all over Ares territory.
Thus far, all her decisions had been rendered by crystal, but in a month, she’d get to travel to the clan’s seat to meet with the four archons—leaders of the male warriors—for the first time.
An honor. A responsibility. One with which any man—by which she of course meant Galenos—ought to be impressed. Right? He’d certainly seemed excited for her.
Of course, if he joined a logade, if he asked her to speak vows with him, she’d have to give it up.
Photina stepped out of the water stream, clearly reading her mind, given the look she gave her. “Are you sure you should have competed? Accepted?”
“Tee…” Groaning, Aziza rotated under the stream one more time and then stepped out too, reaching for the stack of towels. She tossed one to her sister and scrubbed a second over herself.
“There’s a reason the title goes to older women. How will you ever balance those responsibilities with fresh vows? With babes?” Photina scrunched her hair in the towel, though she hadn’t gotten it fully wet.
“The same way the archons do it. The same way you’ll do it, between babes. With Matri and the aunts to help.” All true, when one’s man was just another soldier, or when he retired to the fields or the schools or the craftsmen’s tables.
But a logade? Joining a logade took a man from his clan for the rest of his days.
And without a clan, who did a woman have to help her raise her family?
That was why a hoplite and his woman didn’t raise their own littles, why they sent them back to their clans after they were weaned.
One of the sacrifices one made in exchange for the honor that would follow those children forever, a laurel on their heads.
She spun for her cubby, pulling out the garments she’d worn here this morning, before changing for the weekly match. A few swift moments and she had the gold shorts and bandeau on.
Thoughts, questions that were irrelevant anyway. Galenos didn’t want her for his own. If he did, he’d have asked her out for a tryst years ago.
Photina let out a long, slow breath. “I’m not sure that’s how I plan to do it at all.
” She spoke slowly, deliberately, each word sounding as carefully selected as the apples they’d stolen from the temple’s orchards as girls—before the oracle had invited Aziza into his gardens whenever she pleased, giving her leave to take those apples for herself and her sister.
Aziza froze with her ankle-length chiton raised halfway.
Met her sister’s eyes. She yanked the fabric over her head with a swift movement then, so she could lean close.
“You can’t be serious. Our family—we are not…
we are not helpers.” She looked around, praying to Ares that none were about.
She respected the women who chose service instead of fighting—she relied on them, as every warrior did.
They were the ones who kept the fires going beneath the baths to warm the water, who did the laundry, who cooked the meals served to the entire town each day in the commonhouse.
They were the ones who wove the cloth and sewed the garments and polished the armor.
Necessary, vital components of Aresian society, just as the farmers and teachers were—there for one purpose.
To allow the fighters to fight.
Photina’s blink went long, her lashes a dark fan across her cheek. “Sometimes…sometimes I tire of war. Season after season, year after year. I’ve served my time, Zee.”
“And you’ll be given your leave. When you vow, you’ll be released from duty for two years, and likely more, as you bear your babes. You’ll only have to do one campaign every three years, and only for a few months—”
“I know the rules.” Her sister sighed, lifted her gaze again.
“And maybe that will be enough. But what if it’s not?
What if, when they call me up again, I don’t want to leave my littles and the home I’ve built with my man?
What if I just want to stay here and feed people?
” Her chin angled up, all challenge, even as she claimed to be tired of that way. “Would you be ashamed?”
She might as well have punched her. Aziza let out her breath in a huff and reached for the wide bronze belt that went over her light-gold chiton. “You know me better than that. There’s nothing you could ever do to make me love you any less. To make me any less proud to be your sister.”
Photina pulled her own chiton on, emerging from the neck with a small smile. “Well, before, sure. I knew that. But now, my baby sister is the clan archa.”
Aziza let the mood lighten, especially since another cluster of women entered, chattering and sporting matching bandages on their arms. All just returned, apparently, from the praetorium, where they’d paid their obligatory visit to the blood-takers.
Aziza tied her sandals up her calf, fastened her red cape around her shoulders, and braided her wet hair back from her face while Photina did the same.
“Ready?” Her sister’s garment reached the knee in the front, swooped longer in the back—her preferred style.
Aziza’s was ankle-length all round but had a slit on the left side all the way to her belt, showing her gold shorts…
and more importantly, her first-blood mark.
The angular key design of their family tattoo encircled her thigh.
Her sister’s encircled her bicep, where she’d taken her first slice during an official sparring match at fifteen.
Aziza clicked her spear, its shaft in its smallest form, to her belt and sent her sister a wink. “Ready.”
Artemisia swooped in, also dressed for the day, and linked her arms through both of theirs. “Me too. Let’s see which of us is fit to be the king’s woman.”