chapter nine

I pull the gambeson over my shoulders, and tug the chainmail over it. Over my calves and thighs, I strap the greaves tightly in place. Then I buckle the rusty cuirass over my chest, attaching the pauldrons over my shoulders. The process of wearing an armour is tedious and painfully stifling in the heat. I rotate stiffly to fasten the bracers and wrench on my leather gloves.

It is common practice to train in full gear, but I do not think I will ever get used to it.

Much like a duck, I waddle from the armoury into the training yard. I fumble the helm over my head, pushing the sweat-wet strands from my eyes. In the clearing, eighty warriors brawl. It is not a training, but a preparation for war. The commander brandishes his scimitar, the stroke finishing in a golden arch over his shoulder like the wing of a phoenix. For brief moment, I pause to relish in the grace and strength of his fight. He moves like a lion, the sort of powerful feline elegance of a predator, and with every blow intended to kill. His opponent loses his sword and his footing, falling to his knees. His chin would tilt, forced by the gold edge pressed to his skin.

I am not alone in my admiration. Soldiers flock to the display, hands full of unfinished chores and their eyes revelling in the art. It could not be called anything else.

The fight ebbs to a small recess. The training men rest along the dirt, lifting water pouches to their lips as they listen to their commander's words. I strain, but I would hear nothing but the incoherent syllables, too foreign and distant to discern. These are the men that had been selected to join the war. The bivouac, I learned, was a battle camp in Roussillon, bordering region to France, and would form an army of soldiers from varying militias across Spain.

I become restless. I shift the plates over my chest and draw a long breath. It does little to still the strike of my pulse, thumping against leathers. I will my legs to move.

Waddling through the soldiers, I find my way to the commander. He had stopped talking, and was now thumbing a dent in his helm as the other soldiers rest. He did not notice me. I move into his view, and watch as a brow arches in question at my invasion.

"Sir," I thrust my chin, "I would like to join the troop. I want to fight."

Another brow would raise. For a second, I thought he looked angry. The ridges of scar tissue bristle along the flush of his dark skin. It is a terrifying sight. The gambeson beneath my armour grows heavier with the dampness of my sweat.

"Boy," he says, after a pause, "Perci is it? The boy that came with Cavallero."

I blink, surprised. I did not think he would remember.

"Ay sir, that's me."

"I remember you, the Roman." He considers me for a minute. "You are small but fast. You could make for a fitting scout." I could not help the gratification that slides beneath my skin, prickling and giddy in feeling.

"Thank you, sir," my voice escapes roughly.

"Do not thank me," he laughs, "if you want the position, you must take it from another."

The soldiers around me have grown quiet. I notice Elymus in the peripheries of sight, tense and confused. The armour seems to close in on me, suffocating, like lungs drawing breath. Just as he looks like he might interrupt, I lift my shoulders in defiance, braving what I hoped to be a confident smile.

"Of course." The words roll smoothly from my tongue.

I had not expected a warm welcome, I had predicted a fight. My sword rests heavy on my hip. Months had taught me that every opportunity must be earned. If I wanted to fight, I would have to demonstrate that I was worthy, worthier than another.

I would not pick my own opponent, nor would the commander. Freckle-faces rises from the throng of men, coming behind me to rest his hand on my shoulder. He turns me around roughly, to face the mockery in his eyes. "I will fight you," he volunteers. This is his opportunity; he will humiliate me and win the praise of his commander—two birds with one stone—and he would gladly fight for it.

"Then it is settled." The commander beckons a hand, amused. On with it.

The yard clears as men move away. I unsheathe my sword from the scabbard, dancing the weight of it in my palm. A familiar doubt jumps in my throat as I measure my opponent.

Freckle-face is the only one from my band of tormentors that had been selected. And it was not without reason. He is abnormally tall and impossibly lean. It is not the typical physique of a soldier; he did not have their meaty arms and swollen midriffs. The stretch of his gangly limbs are covered with sinewy shredded muscle, contours rippling between the protruded joints and bones where fat was scarce. In a fight, I knew he was fast, and he was strong. I would not have the advantage of speed.

It begins with the clash of swords. It is a thin angry sound, like the cry of an anguished animal. Our swords meet again, then again. In his pride, he assumes the offense, striking ceaselessly with a swiftness and curtness of an angered snake. But it is one I would parry again and again in routine, then a duck, and the edge of his blade would slide against my helm, the steel hissing as it passes.

I dart forth and slice at his torso, but he would block it mere inches away, and push away my blade. He is starting to learn, I will not be so easily beaten. He widens his stance.

It is difficult to fight in armour, a dexterity lost to the thick, clanky metal. My body at first, had been strained and wooden, but now a fluidity begins to find my body, warming to the fight. There is a rhythm to it; a beat to the song. My body listens and I lunge.

Steel reacquaints sharply.

The fight continues. I am better, I think, whilst his cuts are precise and harsh, they lack in skill. Thrust, sweep, block. Yet it is inevitable. I begin to tire. Freckle-face is strong, his next blow send tremors down the length of my blade.

Then he would sidestep a weakened slash, and I would stumble.

He rams the hilt of his sword into my knuckles. The pain is sudden. I lose grip of my sword, the weapon falling from my fingers. Shit. But I knew better than to hesitate. I drop with it, lowering myself to the ground and returning it to my clutch. The next attack is predictable.

I roll away from his sword—it would connect with air. Then quickly, I pounce forward and swipe at his feet. He dances away, but he would falter.

Hastily, I rise. Harder, faster, I swing my sword with a clean precision. I note his confusion, there are moves he does not recognize from our shared training. No, these are learned in sacrifice of sleep, technique borrowed from dog-eared pages of my manual. I realize then, I had the advantage of unpredictability. His defence is limited to the moves imparted in training. I did not know how much longer I could match his intensity, and I must win now.

I feint right, and attack. As expected, he blocks it, the blades crossing at the middle. Now. I roll my body down his blade, spinning on my feet with my sword still pressed against his. It is an unpractised, impractical move, and almost senseless to give your back to your opponent. But for a second, he is trapped. Forcing his blade to the ground in a flick of my wrist, I raise my sword and thrust. His body tilts back, losing balance.

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The edge of my blade would meet the underside of his chin. My body thrums, finding triumph in his burning eyes, dark with hatred and humiliation. He would not yield, fists curl at his side, he would not yield because I was the runt and I was laughingstock, if he surrenders, what does that make him? Pressing my blade harder into his skin, I watch with a silent satisfaction as a bead of blood swells and traces the column of his neck...

"Stop." The commander's voice is final. The haze of the fight breaks away at the command. I lower my sword.

"The position is yours," he says to me. There is no amusement on his face now. I would like to imagine he is impressed. The commander would not bother to look at Freckle-face. It is how he realizes he has lost his worth, and had become another soldier left to dust the barracks. The look he wears is devastating.

"Sir-" he begins.

The commander has already moved on. "We leave in two days," he tells me.

***

I slink into the stables, losing a tightness in my chest. I had threaded through the dispersing crowd, evading the bite of Freckle-face's resentment, ghost maws that closed over my skin. Like a minnow against the tide, I slipped away from the crush and into the sanctity of the vacant stalls. It is serene for a minute; I rub away the gooseflesh along my arms.

Yet the moment is evanescent. Loud footfalls chase my steps. I sigh—what now?

Turning, I am almost perturbed to face Elymus, still in his fighting armour. He drops his helm on the floor, with eyes that tell me he is not done fighting. I cross my arms in dismay. "How can I help?" I ask. He does not seek me often or at all, in these months, the words that pass between us have been singular and spaced with weeks.

"You cannot go," he says tersely, "tell the commander you are injured, or you're sick. But you are not going. I won't allow it."

"Are you my master?" I laugh.

"You are a woman," he says unkindly, "war is the business of men."

My voice draws tight. "Have I not proved myself? I have fought as a man and trained as a man. Even your precious commander knows it. How can you not?"

"Swinging a sword in a yard with those boys does not equip one for war. It does not make you loyal to Ares," he growls. An urgency overtakes him. It is an unfamiliar countenance; one I grow apprehensive to. "This will be his tribulation. This war will be his sacrifice."

Not his commander—his god. And it is fear, I recognize, that is the creature in his eyes, tangible and alive in those sepia irises. My anger dissipates to smoke.

"His tribulation," I echo.

"Yes," he affirms, "This will be a violent war. Every moving part will be designed to challenge him, however trivial. Every decision he executes—right or wrong—is his alone, and every external factor will play its unforetold part. This war, it will not end well—that is the only certainty." His aggravation breaks into something raw. "I am not sure I will survive this. It would be easier without burden of a proud nymph."

"But you are immortal."

"No," he says slowly, like spelling the letter of a word for a child, "centaurs are not immortal." He peels off his gauntlet, and reveals, on the gauze around his forearm, the red blossoms of unmistakable mortal blood.

"How can that be?" I think of Arctus, whose stories extended over mortal lifetimes. "Your father..."

"There are ways one finds immortality," he answers vaguely. "Do you know the story of Alcestis?"

I shake my head, confused. "I do not."

"That is a story for another day. I will tell you another." He dips his chin. "Three centuries ago, Ares disappeared in the Melissani caves. The nereids say, that is where his body lays still, how his body burns with a growing power, but his soul would be elsewhere. It is a common phenomenon among the courts of the nine skies, when deities undertake the Ether Tribulations—trials, for lesser fae to achieve higher power and position amongst their pantheons. It is rare for a Hellenic god to do so, but it is not unheard of," he explains, "These trials, they can be of body or mind, arbitrated by forces beyond our comprehension. He is the god of war; it is fitting that his judgement will manifest as one. It is not about victory, but how he overcomes the flaws of humanity."

The nine skies, that is the realm where the Ancient Chinese gods reside. Is this how myths pass through mortal ears: exotic lore that tickles the fringes of imagination in passing? It is like tasting the figment of a fruit—sweet in the mind but you could not hold it as much as one could hold the wind. With every sentence, a thousand questions are borne.

He observes the scepticism in my expression, and sighs, "your humanity has corrupted you."

I shake my head again but his impatience flickers. "This is a test for gods to experience mortal adversities. Do not meddle in such affairs. This war is too important, there is no leniency for ambiguity or your feminine sensibilities. If you know what is best for yourself, do not get involved." Lines in his face deepen. "Stay, in the camp, where it is safe."

I scowl, yet his words would resonate. The face he wears, bitter and guarded, there is a boy behind it all, a child with stars in his eyes and a god in the constellations. It is one I mirror after all. He would give his life to war, as I would give mine to the harvest.

"Stay," he repeats.

I sigh. "I am leaving," I reveal, hoping it would console him. Roussillon will be my escape. I had always intended to cross through France—there was but one clear path to Greece. But then I realize from how his face tightens that he misunderstands my words as defiance.

He shakes his head in frustration, and reaches both hands around my shoulders. "Do not be stubborn." Suddenly he is too close, the heat of his breath across my face. "Can't you see," he says, "I'm trying to protect you."

"I don't-"

"I care for you, Persephone," he says abruptly, with thawed dusky eyes.

My mouth closes.

The same cold eyes that had witnessed the unjust of my abuse and torment, they are warm as summer now. Not a word had passed through his mouth then. No, he could not seem weak before the men that worshipped at his feet—dare my reputation sully his image.

In a different time, he had worn another face. In Rupit, he had been the dutiful son that scrubbed the floor tiles with me, someone I could have come to care for. Here, the men praised his presence and washed his feet and his head grew too large. His mouth would share their crass humour over the fire, and they would guffaw their approval. My brothers in life, he named the men that beat me, my brothers in death.

Yet he slides his hand from my shoulder and along the slope of my neck. Almost in a caress. Like I was something soft to be held with care. It rouses an anger that paints my cheeks. He mistakes it as a blush. "Persephone..." he whispers.

I step away. "Do not put your hands on me."

Elymus is always quick to anger. It is one of his fallacies.

His eyes become ore. And gentle hands become fists. His centaur temper would rear. "You would rather hear rosy lies." The words are acrid on his tongue. "I am the only one who will tell you the truth, and you punish me for it."

"This conversation is over," I declare.

We are not destined for pleasant partings. But this time, I could not draw my eyes away.

***

There would be a feast the next evening. At the centre of the camp, a crooked flame burns into the sky. Bowls brim with meat stew and platters pile with fruits and cheese. Wine would flood from goblets and seams of mouths. But it is the heady sound of celebration that renders men drunk. A king is happy, and a happy king provides! A soldier would produce his vihuela, and music sprang from each pluck of his fingers. A ballad of glory for the past and the future. The stars would twirl, come alive in his song.

I sit quietly on the pavilion steps, watching from a distance. Over their laughter, I sip my stew in silence. The venison is too gristly, but it fills my belly with a settling warmth. I chase it down with wine—sliced apples and oranges slide like ice down my throat.

No, I had never been one of them. The men join shoulders and a howl. I am close enough to smell the wine of their breath, but there are worlds between us. The bruises in their ego are raw and deep. Their mouths are sharp as pikes. Perhaps it is in my nature, to steal from others. It is a solemn reality: to own nothing truly mine. Just as mercy will not be in theirs.

It fortifies my resolve. I think: it is time to leave. When my duty takes me to the borders of Spain, I will disappear. Then perhaps, it would all become one bad dream on a restless night. I am strong, I tell myself. I look down at my palms, thickened with strength. I will not be helpless again.

In the glow of the fire, they burn a rippling red.

I pick up my goblet, half-filled, and pad softly back to my barrack. It is still and empty, lit only by small squares of starlight along the high walls. The sounds of the feast become distant things. In the fullness of my stomach, sweet lingerings of music and spirits, my grace loses to slur. I grapple clumsily at the walls, seeking the sconce for candlelight. When the glow of the flame fills the room, I startle.

Something small and black sits astride my bed. Still as death. Still as my pulse.

Theros.

The thought passes like a strike of a storm and I would wretch it from my mind just as fast. I could not move, dare not. The ocean is in my ears and the salt is in my eyes, stabbing, stinging like the wrath of a hive. But they would not betray me, even now, because it was not black, but a dark wet red. And it was not small because how could something so small cause an ache so large and consuming?

The cup in my hand would meet the floor. I would not hear the sound. I would not feel the wine wetting my feet. I would not see the shadows that slither over me, drunk and fattened by stew.

I would not think the pain that fractures the night would break from my chest.

From the bed, over the brown-clotted sheets, small glossy eyes hold many secrets. They will not say, the fear he felt beneath their boot as his bones splintered to dust. They will not say, how the night had seemed so bright in the pain as they ripped the hair from his body and then how dark when they did the same with his head. They will not whisper, farewells between the creases of sleep, or apologies because the girl is now alone. No, they are silent and lovely, glittering black silica. No, these are things that the dead do not say.