CHAPTER THIRTY
THE PAEAN OF THE VILLAINS of Winter began with a flourish.
The extravagant stage production by Professor Ilaria surpassed any theater in their region.
The peninsular mainland of Greece was cradled by the Mediterranean Sea, but instead of meager paint strokes and eloquent canvases to replicate the archipelago country, James would be submerged in exotic water.
He would emerge with his breastplate glistening with actual imported Mediterranean seawater from the coast of Greece.
The stage floors mechanically opened and closed after the water scenes, hurriedly wiped dry behind the curtain between pivotal battles.
His aureate armor of Olympus was replicated from Greece’s Age of Bronze–with beautiful greaves that protected his fine ankles in hard alloy, and a gorgeous Achaean-shield of ox-hide, before it would be replaced with a circular Trojan shield after the first intermission in Act II.
Even his weighty sword was wrought silver, borrowed from the historical European museums. As Apollōn, he slashed through the bronze armor of the Greeks.
The grand ships were made of Populus and Abies with the oars built of fir and the massive ships’ hulls constructed from poplar.
The crisp white sails were square and blown with industrial-sized fans.
The enormous ships were accurate in size and girth, and at the sight of them, James understood why Homer had referred to the ships as ‘chariots of the sea.[11]’
He knew then why Homer spoke of the death-drenched waters as ‘wine-dark sea.[12]’
Professor Ilaria spared no expense.
She demanded perfection.
Most of all from James.
Minutes before the recitation, he could feel her looming presence.
The students were petrified to make an error, terrified they would misplace a word or enter the scene on their left foot.
Seated in the front row, they could all see her situated beside the provost, but even behind the curtains she always made her watchful presence felt.
James focused on the full-sized orchestra pit of harpists and lute stringers reinforced with a set of violins, cellos, oboes, and flutes in the first tier of the theater. The harmonious instrumentalists signaled his grand arrival.
For Act III, the entire stage was bathed in majestic gardens of narcissus plants and anemone, lush orchids and poppies, the walls woven in ivy, a field of pomegranate flowers spread across the length of the stage.
As his face was clouded in powder by makeup assistants, and his lips were rouged, his golden bow of Apollōn was strapped against his back by the costume assistants, and his quiver filled with fatal arrows that James longed to pierce into the raving, whistling crowds.
One of the infernal sound crew members squeezed James’s firm shoulders after Act III. “Do you hear that? They love you out there.”
“I cried when you shielded Hektor with your body.”
“Shh! It’s the final Act. Places, everyone.”
Someone whispered to him. “Best of luck, James.”
“You’re brilliant, James. Your breastplate really makes you look like an Ancient–”
James ignored them, checking his watch, fury rising unfathomably within him. 5:21 AM.
It was the grand conclusion. James suppressed his raw panic for Elliott. He couldn’t bear it if Elliott’s body was dragged out bloodied onto the stage. He would collapse to his knees in naked, violent grief if Elliott was killed.
Did Elliott make it to the Eisenhower Woods in time? Was Elliott still there waiting for him? Did Lucien kill him already?
Everything was a blur, foreign to him. He forgot words. He couldn’t recall lines. The white static roared in his ears.
Then, he measured his breath, and performed.
–
Vulgar hope swelled in James’s chest as he ran out of the amphitheater into the cold, icy dark.
Elliott’s body hadn’t been brought in for the grand conclusion and while an ocean of murmurs of confusion and whispers of perplexity arose, the show had to go on.
James made certain the performance recommenced by starting his dramatic monologue and entering towards his spike mark, forcing the other actors to leap into their roles, and coercing the lighting crew to dim the lights as though the body was brought in.
Quick on their feet, the stage managers instructed the running crew to hurry to the costume storage, dress a mannequin in beauteous robes, douse the mannequin with blood, and haul it out as though it were Elliott’s dead body.
By 6:35 AM, after fiercely shaking hands and accepting mountains of florals and banquets, bowing for fifteen minutes straight to rabid, tearful applause, James was sprinting through the pines of Eisenhower Woods.
Everyone else decompressed and they took their breaks after the physically intensive play.
While it worked to James’s advantage that he was outside in a canopy of darkness, it was also a disadvantage that the woodlands were unlit by the sun. The only ounce of visibility was the lightening sky and a few sparse flashlights abandoned on the path of the sacred ground.
James trampled over the memorial flowers, he didn’t care to see who they’d been left for, or what kind of flowers they were. Even though he briskly showered after the recitation, and he’d dressed into new clothes, he was sweating through the material already.
Swearing beneath his breath, he couldn’t hear anything.
He picked up one of the flashlights, roaming the beam of light over the woods.
Ahead of him, he saw a streak of blood on the snow.