“Nor I,” Kassandra agreed, suddenly feeling the air in these deep underground vaults turn chilly. She left the antechamber and followed Chrysis, Silanos and Diona, all now moving deeper into the complex. A thousand voices screamed in Kassandra’s head: talk of lands being controlled by the Cult of Kosmos, men offering their own blood, the Oracle of Delphi herself in the palm of these creatures. She wandered in a daze into a great chamber, and felt a deep, reverberating hum shake her to her very marrow. It was the sensation she felt whenever she touched her ancient—and absent—Leonidas spear. But this was something else, something stronger. Much stronger.
Huge stalactites hung from the cave’s high ceiling, and a circle of polished stone in the center of the floor was studded with several dozen cloaked, masked figures: the torturer brute ambled into place with them, as did the one called Chrysis and the one with the bandaged wrists too. Three more hurried in behind Kassandra and took a place in the circle. Each of them sang long, deep notes in a constant drone, and only when it faltered slightly and some of them looked back at her, did she realize she was expected to join them. Striding over to a vacant space she stepped into it, making up the ring. The endless chant filled the cave and sent shivers scampering across her skin, and her eyes beheld the plinth of red-veined marble in the center of the circle, topped with a small, golden pyramid.
The artifact.
The misthios in her instantly valued the piece and imagined what it might buy. The warrior in her wanted to stride forth and challenge every one of these masked whoresons—murderers of her baby brother, destroyers of her life—to a death fight. Her hands clenched into fists under her robe, cursing Herodotos for convincing her to leave her weapons behind. But then she realized that it was the pyramid itself that was resonating, causing the chamber to shiver, sending those strange impulses through her.
One of the Cultists stepped forward, reaching out in great reverence to place a hand over the pyramid. The rest muttered and sighed in envy, some shuffling impatiently, eager to take their turn. Kassandra was sure that it must contain a candle or lamp within, for it glowed, gently, with a golden light. “I see it: invisible chains around the necks and ankles of every man and woman. The dying of the chaotic light. The narrow corridor of thought, of pure devotion, pure order.”
The rest rose in a babble of appreciation. Three more approached, one at a time, to speak of what they saw, before Chrysis whispered to Kassandra. “It works fully only when the champion touches it at the same time as one of us—he sees our thoughts and allows us to see further. But it is still a wondrous thing to place your hand upon it alone. You, you must take a turn.”
Kassandra gulped, grateful for the mask, then stepped into the circle’s center. She reached out, her hand hovering over the pyramid tip. Her heart thundered, the buzz of voices shook the air around her, sweat stole down her back despite the chill, and then . . .
Crash!
A door at the back of the cave smashed back on its hinges, pins and screws flying loose and the door sagging, broken. A tall, sculpted vision lunged into the chamber and fell into a swaying crouch, like a maddened animal. His legs and arms were hewn with muscle and he wore a white breastplate dripping with golden pteruges and a white cape. His thick, dark waves of hair were held back in a topknot, draped down his back. He wore no mask, and his handsome face was spoiled by a look of uncaged anger. A warrior. A champion. Deimos?
“There is a traitor in our midst,” he snarled. “Forty-two of us there are, and I count forty-two here. Yet how can that be when one of our number lies cold and dead in Kirrha?”
He lifted a severed head and tossed it across the floor.
Kassandra stared at the head as it rolled to a halt, horror rising from the soles of her feet and through her like an icy tide. Elpenor? But she had not cut off his head. This animal must have desecrated the corpse to make a point.
“Who is it?” he raged, his voice like a war drum. “Remove your masks!”
Kassandra’s mind sped, terror rising in her heart.
“That is not our way, Deimos. We choose to remain anonymous to each other,” spoke one Cultist.
Kassandra’s alarm eased a fraction, and then Chrysis stepped forward. “Let us each show our devotion to the Cult by laying a hand on the artifact along with our champion, as has always been the way. Deimos will see what they see and will spot any secrets they harbor.”
Deimos lumbered down the steps from the door and barged into the circle. “Very well,” he snarled, looking at Kassandra—already by the pyramid—up and down. “You, go ahead. Touch it and tell me what you see. You cannot lie, because I will see it too,” he said, placing his hand on one face of the pyramid.
Kassandra stared at the champion. His tawny-gold eyes were ablaze with hatred. For a moment, she saw her own doom in them. But what could she do? She let her palm drop and rest on the opposing face of the pyramid. Nothing. For a moment, she felt a strong urge to laugh at these fools. What happened next was like a mule’s kick to her head.
Her neck arched and white light flashed through her mind. It was not like those moments when the spear conjured memories of the past. This was real. She could taste the autumnal air, smell the damp bracken, hear the chirruping of birds in the Eurotas Forest.
She was in the lands of Sparta.
* * *
• • •
I crept through the ferns under a bruised afternoon sky, watching the plump boar ahead, thinking of the delicious meal it would make—and of how strong they would think me, only seven summers old—were I to fell it myself. I knelt, drew back my spear, holding it on an outbreath, lining up the tip with the boar’s flank. But then doubt crept into my thoughts: should I wait, should I loose, or should I . . .
With a flash of silver, another lance flew over my head and speared down into the dirt, startling the boar. The beast squealed and bolted. I leapt up and around to face the mystery thrower. “Who’s there?” I yelled. “Come out.”
Mother emerged from the trees, cradling baby Alexios.
“Hesitation only hastens . . .” Mother began.
“. . . the grave,” I groaned, realizing I had failed her lesson. “I know,” I replied. “Father will be disappointed when he hears I am still not ready.”
“Your form is improving, and you are tenacious. But the greatest skill is knowing when to act.” She paced around, setting Alexios down on a fallen tree, then plucking the lance she had thrown from the earth. “Perhaps it is time for you to have this.”
I took the spear. It caught the gray light and dazzled me. Such a fine weapon. The haft was broken, but it was a perfect length for me.
When I touched the leaf-shaped blade, I felt an odd shiver, a fluttering inside. “I . . . I felt something.”
“Oh?” said Mother, smiling.
I touched it again and again it sent a strange sensation through me. “This is no ordinary spear.”
“No it isn’t. It carries with it a long line of power. A bloodline of heroes—the same blood that runs in you and me, in our family. And once, long ago, in King Leonidas.”
“This is . . . was . . . King Leonidas’s spear?” I croaked.
She smiled, stroking my face. “Leonidas had great courage, and he made a great sacrifice at Thermopylae. You share in his blood, and the strength he possessed. We are able to feel certain things happening around us. We are quick as lions to react to danger. That is our family’s gift. But not everyone understands that. Some recognize the power we bear and want it only for themselves. They will try to take it from us.”
“I won’t let them,” I said then with the carefree courage of a child.
“I know,” Mother said. “You’re a warrior.”
I carefully wrapped the spear in a leather roll, sensing that I should treat it with great care. I placed it in my quiver. When I heard the sky growl, I looked up.
“A sto
rm’s coming,” Mother said, lifting Alexios.
It was a strange thing, for it had felt that way to me ever since Mother and Father had returned from their visit to the Oracle in autumn. Mother sensed my unease and placed baby Alexios in my arms. I felt instantly calm, kissing his forehead and gazing into his gleaming tawny-gold eyes . . .
* * *
• • •
Her hand shot up from the pyramid and she gasped. As the memory faded, she stared at Deimos. He was staring back at her, the tawny-gold eyes now wide as moons. There was no mistaking it . . .
Alexios? she mouthed, stupefied.
His head shook in disbelief, his lips barely moving: Kassandra?
She took a step backward, her legs numb.
“Well?” screeched one Cultist. “What did you see Deimos? Can we trust this one?”
Silence.
“Answer the question, Deimos,” another one pleaded.
Nothing.
A heartbeat later and another Cultist bustled forward, sighing. “Then let me take my turn. I have nothing to hide.”
This seemed to snap Deimos from his trance. With a roar, he grabbed the back of the Cultist’s head and rammed the masked face onto the point of the pyramid. With a thick clunk, the mask snapped. Blood puffed, the body jerked then slumped. The pyramid was pristine and golden, completely undamaged, but the Cultist’s face was a crumpled mess. Some of the other Cultists backed away, wailing, but a handful surged forward. “What are you doing, Deimos?” they screeched, clustering around him.
Kassandra backed away, stumbling all the way to the chamber entrance, then turned . . . and sped like a deer, stunned, shaken. She felt nothing as she hurtled back to the secret tunnel and scrambled through it in a blur.
She barely even noticed Herodotos’s words when she emerged into the night and onto the rocky shelf outside, gasping, doubling over and slumping back against the bluff face.
“My dear, what happened?”
She gazed up at the historian, eyes wide. “He’s in there. He’s their champion.”
“Who, my dear?”
“My brother. Alexios.”
* * *
• • •
In the blackness of night, the Adrestia sailed from Kirrha. Reza and the few other crew members manned the sails and the steering oar. Barnabas stood on the prow, one foot on the rail, eyeing the dark as if it were an old foe. Every so often he looked back toward the rear of the boat, seeking a decision from Kassandra, but still she was lost in thought.
She sat by the small cabin, clutching the hand that had touched the pyramid, staring into space. What she had thought of as reality had been cast down and shattered into a thousand pieces.
Herodotos, sitting beside her, carefully cut slices from an apple, lifting each into his mouth slowly and methodically. He again offered her a piece which she again refused and so he tossed it to Ikaros instead, who poked and prodded at it with mild disdain.
“There were many of them, all masked,” she said quietly. “The Oracle is theirs, and the Gods speak to the people through her, and the pyramid is at the root of it all. They have an army of spies and warriors. They control nearly all of Hellas. Everything.”
“Then it is worse than I thought,” Herodotos mused. He stared off into the night for a time. “If Perikles is in danger as you claim, we must make for Athens.”
She slid her eyes toward him. “Of all the things I saw and heard in there, why should I care about him? My brother lives, yet the Cult has turned him into something . . . horrible. They are out to kill my mother. This is my boat and Perikles is nothing to me—just another greedy and bloodthirsty general.”
“Bloodthirsty? You do not know the man,” Herodotos chided. “This war was thrust upon him.”
Kassandra eyed Herodotos sourly. “A general who doesn’t relish war? Unlikely.” She thought of the hearsay and rumors she had heard in the filthy taverns near Sami. “Some say he engineered this conflict under a guise of peace, so he could muster and flaunt Athens’s invincible navy and bask in its glory. Those boats go unchallenged by the pathetic Spartan navy, yet the Spartan hoplites rule the land, peerless and unafraid of the feeble Athenian infantry. But as long as Perikles receives adulation for what happens at sea, who cares about the interminable war?”
“Perhaps. Or maybe he saw that war was inevitable and guided affairs to make the best of them.” Herodotos shrugged.
“You are not convincing me. Why should I care for this distant King of Athens?”
Herodotos laughed, loud and long. “Athens has no king. Perikles serves the people. And his position is hardly splendid: there are plenty who lurk in Athens’s shadows, eager to take his place. If the Cult are colluding against him, it could turn what has been a fraught but noble war into a chaotic and bloody disaster for all.”
Kassandra stared at him, still unconvinced.
“Very well,” Herodotos continued. “But ask yourself this: if you are running from your brother, then you must be looking for your mother?”
She nodded.
“And where will you go to find her? Hellas is vast.”
“I presume you have a suggestion,” she said tersely.
“And you know what it is,” he replied. “Athens is the hub of our world, my dear. Unlike Sparta, with its closed borders and backward-looking ways, Athens seeks traders, merchants, travelers like me. Great minds preside over affairs there. Minds in the possession of much knowledge. If there is to be a clue as to your mother’s whereabouts, it lies within the streets of . . .”
“Athens,” Kassandra snapped, loud enough for Barnabas to hear.
He saluted her and bawled the order to his crew. The Adrestia’s sail groaned and the boat tacked around, altering its course to head out to sea for a long voyage around the Peloponnese, toward Attika.
Herodotos lay down to sleep. Kassandra rose and stood at the stern, watching the churn behind the trireme fizzle away in the boat’s wake. In the silvery moonlight, the rest of the sea was an unbroken sheet of gentle peaks and the sky a canopy of deep indigo, freckled with myriad stars. She stared for what felt like an eternity. When her eyes were growing tired, she blinked. One wave had seemed larger, higher, different, as if something was cutting through the water way back there. Another boat? She heard distant whalesong, drawing her gaze in a different direction. When she looked back in the Adrestia’s wake, the phantom “boat” was nowhere to be seen. She shook her head, knowing tiredness was playing with her senses.
When she turned away from the stern, Herodotos was awake and sitting up again. He was staring at Kassandra’s bow and spear, stowed upright against the cabin.
“You eye my spear as if it is a shade.” She laughed.
He looked up at her without a trace of matching humor. “The Lance of Leonidas. As soon as I saw you with it at the temple queue, I knew you had been drawn there just as I had.”
She sat across from him with a deep sigh. “I am of Leonidas’s bloodline. Some say I shamed his bloodline.” A memory of the Cultists’ voices snaked through her mind just then. The sooner we have the bloodline, the sooner we can dispense with Deimos’s chaotic, crude ways. She held up the spear, examining it. “It speaks to me sometimes, like nothing else . . . until tonight.”
“That thing you described, in the Cave of Gaia. The golden artifact?” he said, his eyes looking up and around the night sky as if to check for watching wraiths.
She nodded. “It threw shackles around my mind and my heart, cast me back to times past in a way I’ve never experienced before. So sharp, visceral.” She set down the spear and shrugged. “What makes the golden pyramid and my spear so special?”
His face lengthened and paled. “The spear and the pyramid are special, Kassandra . . . but not as special as you.”
“I don’t understand.”
He gazed off to the prow, beck
oning Barnabas over. “Soon, you will.”
* * *
• • •
Under a cloud-streaked summer sky, the Adrestia drew into an ancient, coastal pass, overlooked by towering mountains of dark rock, lined with green woods. Kassandra’s spine tingled as she looked up at the heights. Thermopylae. A place of ancient heroes.
“You’re happy with this extra stop, Misthios?” Barnabas asked.
“You trust Herodotos, thus so do I. We will continue on to Athens soon enough.” She smiled, then leapt down onto the wet sand. Herodotos climbed down with the aid of a rope ladder.
She and the historian walked up the shore, taking a winding hill track that led into the mountains. “This is the track along which Ephialtes led the Persians,” Herodotos mused, his eyes narrow, misted with moisture. He brought her out onto a small overhang that looked out onto the bay again. A little farther up the mountainside, weak trails of sulfurous steam rose from cave openings. The Gates to Hades, some said. The Hot Gates, said others. “Here, the Persians fell upon the Spartans and their allies. Here, it ended for your great ancestor.”
They came to a weathered statue of a lion, clad in cream-and-yellow lichen, the beast’s features worn smooth by buffeting coastal winds. The Spartan king’s name was still visible, carved on the stone plinth underneath. “Take out your spear, hold it, let it speak to you,” he said.
Kassandra lifted the half lance and clasped it with both hands. Nothing. “This is nonsense. It only speaks to me when it wishes to. There is no point in trying to force—”
* * *
• • •
Bang!
Arrows rained like hail, the sky dark with them. All around me, hoplites pitched over, riddled with shafts, screaming. Red-cloaked warriors fought like wolves, shouting at their allies to fight on, to stay strong. So few of them, and so many of the darker-skinned pack pressing in on them from all sides—flooding down from the hill track, spilling along the bay, a moving wall of wicker shields and sharp spears. The Spartan piper playing the call for a last stand fell, torn by a Persian lance.
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