chapter six

Day came faster and slower than I remembered. But Helios buckled his winged stallions all the same, and pulled his chariot across the sky, no later than the day before and the day after. The glare from his golden chariot would break the surface of the ocean first, filling it with light. I watch him ascend that dawn, both electrified and petrified of what the day would bring.

Arctus would pack for us some supplies for our journey. He is sad he must watch the house while we are away. As I saddle my horse, he trots forth and envelopes me in a large musky hug. Arctus, I complained, but I wrap my arms around him as best as I could. I have never had a father, but I imagine this is what it might feel like.

Theros screamed from my shoulder, caught in his armpit. Get this bloody oaf off of me!

“Someday,” Arctus says wetly, “you will return, and you will tell me your story.”

“I promise,” I say with no hesitation. I cannot bear to think that this is the last time I will ever see the lovely centaur. It will not, I vow to myself. “Look for me,” I tell him.

Then we were on our way. Rai leading us in the front, while we trail behind. Elymus, despite being half a horse, chose to ride on a gray speckled garron. I wondered if that felt odd. Imagine riding a person. I shared that thought with Theros, who giggled. We rode until the village was only a distant speck behind us, and the greenery escorting our path turned to desert.

Then Elymus, who has not spoken to me all morning, sidles up to my side, the flank of his horse brushing my thigh. I did not have to have the power of foresight to dread the words that he would speak.

“You have a terrible destiny.” He says it with resolution, words passing through his mouth like gospel. I feel a shudder of irritation rattle through me at his insult, like the shake a snake’s tail. Since last night, he has been staring at me as though I’ve contracted leprosy.

“No, I do not think so.”

Stop talking, I will him.

But his mouth will continue to run. “Your name is famed. All the lesser divinities in the realm have heard of it. They say the oracles prophesized upon your birth, at the strike of Zeus’ wrath.”

“Then it is simply a rumour.”

“You cannot just ignore prophecies. That is the truth in them: all roads lead to one.”

I almost explode. “Don’t you dare reduce me to an ill-omened name. I have my free will, in my capacity of choice. I will simply invent it. Fate, in probability, may deem the sum of my actions unfortunate. That does not negate the good I can create. And I will shape my life as I see fit.”

"Free will is simply illusory. Our paths are set in stone. The incompatibility between omniscience and free will, which you deny, laughably and antithetical to your own divinity, implicates the inevitability of predestination. You spit at the feet of fate. That, is simply ignorance."

“Don’t be cruel,” Rai chastises, overhearing us. He turns over his shoulder, and I feel the sympathetic cut of his eyes touch me. I feel my blood boil.

“Gods and prophets and centaurs alike, know only half-truths.”

I turn and grab a browning apple from our store. In my hand the fruit swelled and reddened, ripening in an instant. A show and nothing more. But his eyes widen as I lead my prettiest pony into the limelight. I do not tell him of how the fruit moults and wilts as I release it from my hand.

“I cannot cause destruction even if I wanted to,” I lie. Mirages of charred corpses flash across my eyes. “Now what would you do, if that were your prophecy? Will you sit idle and succumb to it?”

He did not answer. That’s what I thought, I sniffled indignantly. Stupid philosophers, sitting on their high horse. This one, comes with his own.

So we continue riding. The scenery melts from desert to forests, then deserts again. We pass by large villages and small towns, and I let the picturesque view carry away the bitterness that still stung my skin. We rode until the sun arched across the blue and dipped westward, to where the dirt road ends. At times we would take small breaks, to drink and refill our leather bota bags in the nearby streams. I would wash my face in the cool waters and stretch my restless legs where the riding had chafed my thighs raw.

“Are you okay?” Theros stirs from his afternoon lull, where I had rested him on the back of my horse. The large creature shakes his head, neighing discontentedly, when realizing that a small rodent had been using it as a bed.

“Easy boy.” I pat his head soothingly.

“She’s a mare.”

“Don’t be jealous.” I pet Theros on his head with my fingers. “And I’m okay,” I tell him, pulling my hand away quickly before he nips me. “Nothing I cannot handle.”

Three days later, I would not know if that were true. The inland heat is dry where the sun’s stare is penetrating and unwavering along the equator. A thick overlay of dust and sand would envelope my skin no matter how often I rinsed. It was suffocating, and it was only spring. Often, I would find myself unable to breathe from the dirt that would get caught in my throat. I wore more clothes than the others, my sweat-soaked tunic layered on top the cloth I bound my chest with. Yet at the end of the day my arms and shoulders still peel, scabbed and raw.

Rai noticed, as he was observant and caring. He would lather me with the soothing touch of aloe where my skin burned the reddest. It made the fabric of my clothes stick to my skin, but anything was preferable to the naked arid heat. Elymus, who cared very little, would smirk over his father’s shoulder, almost condescendingly.

“Elymus, switch steeds with her. The mare jostles too much.”

His smirk would dissolve into the shadow of a scowl. I don’t want to, his eyes would say, but his tongue dared not defy his father.

Instead, he makes a spectacular display of whipping off his shirt, revealing a gleaming bronzed tan. As he dismounts, he peels away the veil of his glamour. Like his centaur father, his form is brawny and formidable, the light hue of his coat rippling over cords of trained muscle.

Rai is displeased. “People will notice,” he says.

“You coddle her,” Elymus’ tone is accusatory, “that will only make it harder for her in the camp.”

“I don’t want his horse,” I say to Rai quietly. He searches my eyes for truth, but I would give him none. When I straddle my horse again, I almost cry out from the pain. But the obstinate part of me, would not give Elymus the satisfaction.

Sometime that day, somewhere, we would find the camp.

The military base is built to imitate order, a rectangular wedge in the desert sand, like measured blocks of a puzzle reshuffled. A wall of grey stones encircles the camp, their poniard edges glinting like metal in the spasming heat. There is only one discernible entryway in view, A stout tower caverned over heavy gates guarded by two spear-wielding soldiers. To defend or to imprison? I cannot help but think.

We approach the sentinels, who rove their jaded eyes over us. “State you name and purpose.” Their voices are monotonous, trained and winded like a machine. “Cavallero. We have an appointment with the commander,” Rai answers. Their faces would shift, fracturing into something softer.

Then the heavy gates creak open for us, gusting hot air billowing into our faces.

The camp is crudely built, lined with rows and rows of large housing barracks. In the middle, there is a span of stripped land where some soldiers tussle in the dirt. They stop to raise their heads as we pass, their glossy eyes fixed on Elymus, and they would nod, bowing their necks.

In the far end of the camp, there would be a tent. In comparison, it is luxurious with its painted robin blue leathers and decorative gold patterns. Fit for a king and no less. Another guard is appointed at the front, looking slightly wearied by his duties. As we approach, he sharpens, a look of recognition passing over his face. Without a word, he disappears into the flap of the tent.

“We are meeting with the maestre de campo, Commander Enyalios,” Rai murmurs as we wait.

“Is that a family name?” It does not sound Spanish.

“He prefers his first.”

The guard reappears, gesturing us inside. “The commander is in a good mood,” he chirps, looking pleased. I follow Rai, climbing off my saddle. As we duck past the guard, I offer him the flicker of a smile.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Inside, space seems to defy science, the room is larger than it appears from the outside. I scuffle into the antechamber, where a large drape divided the commander’s workplace from his personal quarters. The floors are rugged lavishly from corner to corner. Bear, I note, no…bears. In the centre of room, a wide oak table sat, cluttered with maps and iron figurines and thick yellowed books.

Behind the wide desk is a wider man. My eyes pause over him, and they would not leave. He was a massive, barrel-chested man, with skin like tarnished gold and flawed with thick bone-white scars that gleam in the shadows. One long mark of battle cuts violently across his cheek, disappearing into a trimmed pepper beard.

“Enyalios.”

“Cavallero, it has been a long time, old friend.” He stands, almost as tall as Elymus. The muscle of his cheek moves angrily along the scar tissue.

The beginnings of a smile creeps onto Rai’s face. “Still drunk, I see.”

“You try dealing with these fuckers sober.”

Rai presses his hand into the commander’s open palm and slaps his back with the other. Closer, the man reeked strongly of beer. I notice the overturned glasses on his table, spilling sips of piss-yellow over his papers. Yet there were no wisps of drunkenness from the man’s speech nor posture, only the baritone of power. The commander turns to Elymus, who stands straight as a plank, and his dips his chin curtly. “Lieutenant.”

It does not surprise me that Elymus holds a high-ranking position, he is a beast amongst men after all.

“And who is this?”

The commander turns his attention to me, and my limbs grow stiff. It is a feeling like a predator has found the tail-endings of his prey. Yet I look into his eyes boldly, which I find to be a slate-cold gray like the clouds before a storm.

“This is Perci, my nephew. He wishes to train with the Tercio troops.” The lies pour like rivers from Rai’s mouth. “Since it is recruiting season, I came, hoping, you might grant this favour.” He opens his arms, warmly, as if to remind the commander of their camaraderie. “He is hardworking. And it would do him much good, to have some discipline in his life.”

The commander measures me with his eyes. From the tip of my fingers to the ends of my frayed boots. He ponders me silently, hand to his chin, then the lines on his forehead crinkle into a frown. I know what he thinks, because I am petite and scrawny like a reed in the wind.

“He is weak.”

“He will grow,” Rai replies smoothly. “The fire in him will make up for what he lacks in strength.” Don’t worry, Rai tells me with his eyes, I see you.

As if peering into my soul, the commander nods his approval.

Then— “His skin is too light. He is not of Spanish blood?” His gaze would assess the inflamed skin of my neck, like scrutinizing for my jugular.

“Not entirely,” Rai says quietly. “Roman.”

As if Rai had known exactly what to say. The commander grins very abruptly, a broad toothy grin. To my surprise, his heavy hand finds my shoulder. I almost buckle.

“Hardworking, you say? I like the Romans.”

I feel a taut breath of relief release from my chest.

“However,” his grin dies, “I have hundreds of men that have enlisted for this year’s recruitment. There are only so many mouths we can feed.” The grip on my shoulder tightens painfully. “The boy, will have to fight for a place here.”

-

“I have always suspected that he is an avatar of Ares.”

The commander has, in very few words, ushered Elymus and I out while Rai stayed to chat or whatever it is men do. From outside the tent, we hear the men’s uproarious laughter. Most likely, sharing a few drinks.

“Wh- what do you mean?” I ask, bewildered. I crane my head to look at him. His eyes are fixated on the tent entry, as if he could peer through the leathers. They glitter with admiration.

I think of the commander, with his mortal wounds that never healed right. No, that man is not a god.

He casts me a disdainful look. “It is a form of power cultivation for gods borrowed from Buddhism. They crossover to the mortal realm, reborn as an unassuming mortal, where they will need to overcome five predetermined mortal tribulations, one for each lifetime.”

“What happens if they fail?”

“A god dies.”

Oh, I say dully.

Is it greed? That would incentivize a Greek god to shed his customs and embrace another, risking death. I think of Ares, the god of war. There is too much power in that title alone. Curious, a thousand question bubble within me. But Elymus always knows what the wrong words are.

“Rai will not be able to protect you in the fight,” he says, scraping his palm over his face. “This is no place for a woman.”

Nothing I hate more than people underestimating me. I have survived much more than I should, perhaps more than fate should allow. Against all odds, here I still stand…shakily, dehydrated and fatigued. Sometimes the godly arrogance that I share with my kin is a damning quality.

“Maybe not,” I say, “but I am more than that.”

-

As Helios drags the day behind in his chariot, awakening twinkling stars in his dust, I fall in line with rows of hopeful young men. We assemble in an arc around the training yard, where a ranking soldier stands, parting the sea of men.

“I am Corporal Pérez. You will address me as Mi Cabo, and you are only to answer with: a sús ordines.”

“Boys?” He hollers. “A sús ordines, mi cabo!” we reply, then the men would scatter into muted chatter. At the corporal’s clap, the remaining noise from the crowd shakes away. The moon drips her light into their eyes, and like wolves incarnate, their buoyant eyes would illuminate the camp, betraying their desperation.

“Ah, I have missed how noisy these yards can get,” the corporal continues, “although, as lovely as it is to see so much young blood, we can only take half of you.” A shutter seems to fall over the crowd. Each of them knows this, and each thinks they can best the man standing next to him.

“The other half, will return home. Sólo los fuertes sobreviven!” The men erupt into roars, beating their fists into their chest—a fleshy hollow sound.

“A place among the Spanish Tercio is a coveted, honourable position. You must prove that you are worthy. Each of you have been assigned a symbol—your opponent for tonight will have the same.” I turn my right hand, where on its back they had drawn with ink, the black ram. “Each will take a blade. First blood wins. Diviértete!” With that, two soldiers haul a crate into the middle of the circle. It spills into a pile of swords.

My palms start sweating. The thrum of bloodlust pulsing through the air. I look through the crowds, at men bigger than me, stronger than me, with arms that could crush my skull and thighs that could pop it off my body. They begin to prowl. Something tells me, first blood, is simply a suggestion. Bodies shove me around, elbows first. I feel like a small fish caught in a net, flapping its fins in the air, unable to breathe and struggling amongst sharks.

Someone grabs my wrist, and pulls me out of the crowd. Thank the gods. I think deliriously. But then they turn my hand around, and thrust it into the air with a valiant cry. I am pulled to my tiptoes. Tilting my head to the sky, I recognize the same black ram inked on the hand around my wrist. Slowly and despairingly, I shake my head.

In the centre of the ring, a hundred eyes are watching us, gold-ringed by the dim campfire.

“I’ve found my match!” The man that holds me announces.

I turn to look at the confident man, who dared declare the first fight. Is he mad? I find that he is not so much a man at all, but a boy, barely of age. This little shite, I seethe. The boy is lanky, all arms and legs, but decked in expensive leathers. A pudgy moon face stares back at me, grinning and promising blood.

Unable to help myself, I spit, “you’re going home tonight.”

“And you are going to your grave.”

I gawk at his audacity.

“Excelente!” The corporal says, although he does not seem impressed by either of us, “we have our first contenders.”

The boy releases my wrist finally, and we kneel to select our swords. It made no difference however, as the broadswords were identical in size and appearance—dull and rust-eaten. I weigh it in my palm. It is heavier than it looks, hefty in my grip.

My rival, he carries the sword like an extension of his arm. He rotates the weapon with his wrist, slicing through the air. I observe his footwork. An irreplicable dance I could not fathom. The sword in my palm somehow becomes heavier.

A queasy feeling squirms under my skin. Perhaps I've poked the wrong bear. Hubris, if not today, then another, will be the death of me. Bellerophon crippled by his beloved steed. Icarus kissed the sun. How lame—Persephone, death by pouting boy-child.

Even the pouting boy-child looks menacing right now.

The sound of a gong reverberates through the night. And then a moment of unreality strikes me: there is no bygone muscle memory to draw on, no trickle of wisdom that will salvage me in the heated midst of a fight. A cosmos of dread expands from my core. And I run my tongue over my teeth, finding an itch in my gums I cannot soothe.

I try to imitate him as he raises his blade to an on-guard position. It feels alien and wrong, and unnecessarily flamboyant. We circle each other. I hold my sword in front of me, tense, willing myself to hold it still.

He would lurch into me first, slashing his blade. I stumble back just in time, but it would snag the front of my tunic. He swipes again, and this time I would catch it clumsily with the side of my sword. He batters it away easily. I falter.

The crowd is jeering, unamused by the play. “End him!” they scream. I do not think they are screaming at me.

The boy swings at me for a couple more times, and I would teeter away from the edge of his sword. Is he frolicking about, or is he not as skilled as I thought? He is simply chasing me with his sword. As I dodge and duck, my steps begin to slow. Inevitably, I realize, I will tire, or slip up.

So against my better judgement, I tighten my grip on the pommel, and lunge.

He side-steps, but his footing is uneven. And…like a buffoon, I would trip over his foot. Unsteadily, he falls backwards, and I land on my elbows into his ribs. Our swords clatter like shattering glass on the floor. The cry he releases is strangled.

Not missing a beat, I drive my knuckles into his face. Much simpler than swords—unadulterated adrenaline recklessly executed. Again. My knuckles scrape against his skin. His cheekbone swells against my fist like a plum in its ripening, yet he does not bleed. Again. Again.

Until I am interrupted by a hot flare of pain from my hand. For a second, I lose my vision to the pain, and I cannot contain the sharp cry that rises from my throat.

He takes the opportunity to toss me to the side. Then he would straddle my chest, the weight compressing against my lungs.

“Who throws a punch with their thumb tucked?”

He forms a fist. “Allow me to demonstrate a real one.”

The first blow is an explosion of pain to my face. I could not even tell where the hit landed. My skull would rattle against the earth. The second strike, I know with certainty, pummelled me in the eye socket, because a blackness would skulk into my sight, taking half of my vision in its entirety.

My body bucks and struggles against his, but he is all solid sharp-edged bone. Helplessness, a naked, familiar feeling. It summons all my rage, a coil of anger starts low in my stomach and unspools, crawling through the cavity of my chest. Helplessness. Not again. Never again.

The boy must lose.

Give me the power to kill him.

A thin thread of liquid trickles into my mouth. Like rain and hot earth, the taste spreads through my mouth. It would gleam gold in the light. No…

When he draws back his fist for the third time, I scream, arching off from the ground and drawing the plump flesh of his cheek into my jaw. I have lost, but I did not care. He flinches just millimetres away, but it only sinks my teeth deeper, tearing into skin. He would scream and he would hit me with wild abandon. But I would not let go. I bite until the muscle of his cheek splits beneath my teeth and the iron of his blood fills my mouth with copper. Only then, would I pull back and spit in his face.

His moon face is speckled with red, his hot damp breath against my skin. Then his body would turn flaccid, sagging off my body like a wilted plant.

It is over. I won…

There is no applause, no cheers, no nothing at all. Arms pull me to the side-lines, where I laid, spent, watching the milky skies above churn. Feet would scuttle in through the dirt. Steel slithering against steel. A gong would sound. The next round of fights begins.

“That was embarrassing,” someone says. And then a shower of foul brown liquid spills over my head. I sit up and retch. An emptied tin bucket clanks against my boots, then a shovel.

“Now, clean up the horse shite, boy.”