by Susie Mander
In her arrogance my mother has decided to attend the funeral of the royals and soldiers from Tibuta who fell at the Seawall, including Chase, as I knew she would, believing she can laugh in the face of terror. I imagine her throwing up her arms: “I will not kowtow to those miscreant rebels.” Those miscreant rebels who died on the Seawall have been buried in the killing fields. Satah’s men lie in rows along the edge of the killing fields as is their custom.
I consider the people gathered outside the West Gate who have come to watch the procession. Most are stoic in their grief, leaving the swaying and self-flagellation to those more closely affected by the tragedy. Still, even the bravest of warriors looks uneasy.
Death is nothing new. We see her hanging from the Justice Tree or slumped over in doorways. We see her with her chin resting on her shoulders indistinguishable from sleep. But this fear is foreign to us. It is no longer clear who is Tibutan and who is ‘other’. The enemy could be that baker there with his flour-dusted hair or that woman with the parasol, the hoplite in the whalebone helmet, the foreigner with the blue feather protruding from his helmet, the queen, the bastard daughter, Adelpha, or me. I am the enemy, too. Like the rest of them I am pretending to be more or less than I am: I am in disguise. My head is bent and I hold up a handkerchief to hide my face; my weapons are concealed beneath my grey himation. To an untrained eye I am a harmless pauper.
Our sanity chafes.
Beyond the row of soldiers people from the royal court shuffle uneasily in the blinding sun. Women pick at the hems of their robes or chew their nails. Gelesia’s wailing, the very sound of Icelos, can be heard from up the Walk: “My son. My son.” Those who are merely spectators avert their eyes and block out the sound of grief, glad it is not their son who has been slain, and guilty for thinking such a thing. A few move towards the hysterical Gelesia and offer clichés—“I am sorry for your loss”, “My condolences” and, my favourite, “Chase would want us to be happy.” This is a lie. Chase would not want us to be happy. He would want us to mourn, to shed an entire ocean of tears.
I picture him looking down from above, unable to pass from this world into the next, a mere pinprick of light caught on the sticky backdrop of the sky, snickering. I wonder if he is pleased with the way his perfect, tanned, effeminate body is laid out on the grass, the way he is wrapped in muslin to hide his nudity and the wound that killed him, the way Berenice throws herself on his corpse and weeps, sixteen and pregnant with his child. Some would call it a waste.
The queen and Adelpha stand side-by-side like statues. Slay Satah is a little way off. Thera is there, stony and cold. Odell and Hero huddle together as if collectively they can fight off an early death. I want to get close enough to warn my cousin but there is no way.
My father is on his knees beside Chase’s body reading him poetry. Poetry, of all things, I think. Poetry may heal the wounds of the atrama, it may give the emotions wings to fly but it is useless against real wounds of war. Words will not stem the blood or bring life to dead flesh. I want to run to my father, to pull him to his feet and slap him. More than that, I want to bring him with me. But I cannot. My father left me long ago.
Near me, a plain-clothed serving woman cradles a newborn, rocking her gently back and forwards. The child’s mere existence brings hope to those who have come so close to Icelos. She represents new life, the conqueror of the finite, the eternal cycle.
My resolve is wavering.
A shofar sounds, bringing me closer to my destiny. The fleets lift the dead on open litters and together the royal family inches forwards like a huge, overburdened cart groaning towards the city centre.
Death clings to us.
The sound of mourning is a low hum. We pass the larger marble houses along Justice Way then erupt into the marketplace. At the centre are the sacrificial dais and the gold statue of the First Mother. I have to stop myself from glancing up. Petra’s archers perch in the windows of the surrounding buildings: the gymnasium, public bathhouse, library and brothel. They hold their crossbows on their shoulders. Their fingers twitch as they scan the crowd for the queen or any excuse to shoot. I can only hope that they are able to move quickly enough. Reloading means leaning over the weapon while pulling back the bow. It is a slow movement compared to Adelpha’s mind control, Odell’s ice or Thera’s burning eyes.
The fleets arrange the bodies on the dais to the sound of sniffing and whimpering.
The queen addresses the crowd. Her message is relayed to the far end of the crowd, her voice an omnipotent echo. She says death is part of the natural order and fulfils the need for balance. She stresses that comfort can be found in vigilance, in dedicating one’s life to Tibuta. It is when she says, “Such a tragedy speaks of the disunity that exists in Tibuta,” that I sit up and listen. We all do. She continues, her disembodied ubiquitous voice echoing off the surrounding stone buildings, “Our disunity is bred by contempt for a people who have suffered too long, for a people who demand that their fears be heard, their gods be acknowledged and their bellies filled. I hear your complaints. I fear your fears.”
The audience is enraptured. They nervously cheer, glancing from the queen to their neighbours.
“Such tragedy must serve as warning. The threat cannot be ignored. I ask you this morning as you honour our fallen children to remember the many sons and daughters of Tibuta who will fall if we do not unite.”
She does not mean it! I want to scream. She is lying. It is a trick. Look around you at the enemy. She has invited him into your homes.
The remainder of the ceremony is conducted with enthusiasm. Once the prayers are finished the queen takes a blade from her white gown and cuts pieces from the dead. “With this offering of flesh I offer you the First Mother’s blood, so her spirit may live on. Her blood is your blood.”
“May the blood of the First Mother live on,” we say in unison.
People are actually smiling as they file past the dais and take a piece of the dead to consume. We recite a prayer for each corpse. I am unable to form the words in my mind. Instead I find myself apologising: “I am sorry, Chase. I should have saved you.”
War-wits dismember the bodies so they cannot be used by sorcerers or inhabited by evil spirits. The heads are taken by the families. The rest is piled beneath the shrine to the First Mother so the birds can carry their atramas into the sky.
The time has come.
I throw back my himation. I search for Petra. When our eyes meet, I nod. I am a terrible god, proclaiming who should live and who should die. Petra glances up at the windows and flicks her finger. It is done.
My eyes interlock with Adelpha’s. She follows my line of sight and sees the tips of the crossbows. Realisation makes her gasp. She shakes the queen’s arm and taps Thera’s shoulder. She points to the assassins and screams, “Look out!”
My nightmare begins.
The archers in the building overhead raise their weapons. Missiles whistle through the air. Thud. Thud. Thud.
Screaming. So much screaming. People run this way and that.
The woman next to me takes an arrow through the heart. A flower of red grows around the wound.
“Now!” Petra yells. Half her soldiers turn, interlock their shields and as one advance towards the royal party, a sea urchin with long spikes protruding from their armoured bodies. The rest of Petra’s soldiers decide they will not defect after all. They form a large circle to guard the royal family.
A wall of Petra’s hoplites advances towards the queen’s army. People scatter to get out of the way. Spears clatter against bone helmets. Shields crash together. The women at the rear bend low, lending their weight to the charge forwards. Pressure builds in the ruck. The formation breaks. Petra’s players scatter. They discard their spears and draw their swords. A hundred individual battles rage around me.
Crossing my hands over my chest, I unsheathe Eunike and Paideuo. Fear washes over me in waves. I ignore it. I ignore the throbbing in my temples and instead race towards the qu
een. Snarling faces swim into view. Murderous eyes. Light reflecting off a blade. A baby crying.
People bottleneck between the buildings as they flee. No one can get through. For a moment the arrows stop. The archers reload.
Those with the right blood use their gifts from behind the wall of soldiers. Their full force is directed at the archers. Adelpha works with her hands outstretched. Her victim, one of Petra’s better women, has dropped her crossbow. Her face strains with the effort of fighting Adelpha’s gift. Adelpha lifts her hands and, as she does, the soldier stands and peters on the windowsill. With a swooping gesture Adelpha sends her toppling to her death. People scatter, shrieking.
Odell fires a stream of ice into a window. It hits an archer through the chest. She clings at the cold arrow, hardly comprehending what has happened.
Thera has her hands on her temples. She looks from window to window, burning the archers with her eyes. Women tumble through the air.
Our archers are disarmed. Dead, mostly.
Thera turns her fiery eyes on Petra’s hoplites.
“Use your shields!” I yell. The hoplites closest to me hold their bronze disks up to reflect the red light back at Thera. She doubles over, momentarily blinded. The rest of my family battle the soldiers on the ground. My father and Hero cower behind their more gifted kin. I am glad. There is no need for the innocent—the ignorant—to die.
The queen points towards each of the four entrances to the marketplace and barks orders at her loyal servants. Slay has reluctantly drawn his sword but has no need for it since his orca have formed a defensive circle around him. They sniff the air and gnash their teeth. When someone approaches they thrash with clawed hands. They rip flesh and consume it.
Gelesia pulls at her hair. She wails, “No. My Chase. No. What have they done? Not on his special day.” As she wails she spins faster and faster until she is nothing but a blurred whirlwind. She whips up the air and clears a path from the centre of the marketplace to the safety of a nearby building. The queen and the rest of them follow her to beneath an awning. An arrow whizzes past the queen’s face, close enough to leave the tiniest trail of blood.
I choose the nearest of Satah’s soldiers. The man is gifted with a blade but he is heavy so I am able to match him by remaining fluid. My footwork is quick, light. I hear Drayk’s voice in my head: Parry, parry, thrust. Good, be light. Force him back; fight defensively. I am vaguely aware of Petra protecting my back. I thrust and hit flesh. Red splatters on the man’s sandals. A blow ricochets all the way up my short blade and into my bones. I drop one of my swords. Pain. There is so much pain. My jaw is clenched. Sweat stings my eyes. The Whyte hoplite has his xiphos pulled back ready to thrust it through my heart. A dark object whizzes through the air. Petra’s dagger penetrates the hoplite’s forehead. The soldier drops dead. Petra kicks my blade up and I snatch it out of the air. There is no time to thank her. Another hoplite is upon me. Together, Petra and I fight him back.
Too few of Petra’s women stand against the army. And they are falling. Fast. “Look there!” Petra points with her xiphos towards the east entrance to the marketplace. A band of turbaned Shark’s Teeth run this way.
“What are they doing here?” I yell.
The Shark’s Teeth are pursued by members of the Queen’s Guard. The road to the palace is blocked.
“We have failed,” Petra says.
“Get back!” I scream. “Retreat!”
My shout echoes through the crowd: “Retreat! Retreat!”
But there is no way out. All exits are blocked.
Petra kneels and touches the earth like a runner preparing for a sprint. There is a distant rumble. Birds take to the air. The ground sways back and forth and the fighting stops. We are too busy keeping balance to clash swords. Another shockwave rips across the marketplace. Gaps appear in the pavement, pushing it upwards like muslin. The earth rips apart.
The queen and Adelpha duck into a civic building as rubble falls through the sky. Another jolt shudders through the earth. People scream. Both armies are on the ground.
“Go!” Petra yells.
This is the break we need. As everyone struggles to recover, Petra and her soldiers retreat. People debouch through the ravines between the buildings. Many of them stop to help their fallen comrades as they go.
I follow a group into the public library. It is unsettlingly cold inside. In their hurry the retreating rebels pull over shelves. They trample bloody footprints into the scrolls. I push past a cupboard, jump over an upturned urn, clamber through a window and break into the sunlight on the other side, gasping for the fresh air that helps to chase my nightmare away. Around me, my soldiers flee.
How did I get here? I think. My speech runs through my mind: For too long have we been treated like outlaws. For too long has our existence been scorned. We are not rebels.
I run like a damned rebel.
I never meant this to happen. I just wanted…What do any of us ever really want? To belong? To be heard?
Petra is nowhere to be seen. I hesitate, wondering if I should go back for her. A soldier, one of ours, comes up from behind, herding me forwards. “They are right behind us. Go!”
I race past lopsided back fences and tangled gardens. Rotting refuse assaults my nose. A kylon barks. Defectors and Shark’s Teeth run in front and behind me. Someone shouts, “This way!” My only thought is, Hurry! I imagine the orca biting my ankles.
The Holy Way, so long and so straight, goes on forever, disappearing into a shimmering oasis in the distance. I am only half aware of the statues and the canal on my right, the wilderness beyond. A young rebel, a black automaton, drags his useless leg behind him like a plover feigning injury to draw off its predators. I drape the rebel’s arms over my shoulder and lift him off the ground. He must live, I think, and this small shift in my perspective, thinking now about his survival rather than my own, is enough to make me persevere.
A Shark’s Tooth calls from behind, “They have turned back.” Defeated, none cheer. All of us know that in the morning, once they have had a chance to regroup, the coalition’s army—or perhaps it is better named the Tri-Nation Army since Satah will amalgamate Tibuta with Whyte and Gregaria—will come for us.
The gate is a relief. The red priestesses treat us with efficient detachment. They lift the wounded Shark’s Tooth from my shoulder and lead him to one of the lopsided tents. The quiet is punctured by the screaming of the maimed and short, sharp demands from the harried priestesses who treat them: “Pass that saw.” “Stem the bleeding.” “More pressure.”
“There are so many,” I say to no one, watching the casualties of my arrogance arrive on stretchers or slung over their comrades’ backs.
Ried finds me and rests her hands on my trembling arm. “Are you hurt?”
I shake my head. “Is it really peace we fight for?”
“Highness, I do not envy you. As a priestess I am free from such concerns. When an order is given I must follow it. I must devote myself to my faith. And yet, from one who has studied the ways of leadership in the hope of one day becoming high priestess—” she pauses to see if she has spoken too freely but I am listening attentively “—I must advise you to hold your tongue. Do not show your weakness. They will not forgive it.”
“Yes…” My voice is distant. Iron resolve sets within my bowels and I look at her properly for the first time. “You are right. Thank you. Now, I must speak to the high priestess.”
She does not respond. Instead, she guides me through the entrance and leaves me there in the cold. The sanctuary is silent save for the abashed chatter of the red priestesses, who speak with Maud around the pool of Shea’s Fire. The flickering of the flames in the oily water is too peaceful when only a moment ago we were mid-battle. They look up but I pretend not to notice. I do not want to see their disappointment. I do not want to feel their eyes all over me, counting the dead. I stand beneath the statue of the First Mother, which is strewn with offerings of figs, daisies and wax prayer tab
lets, and wait for Maud to join me.
“Well?”
I shake my head. “We had over ten men with crossbows positioned around the marketplace but they all missed. The queen got away. Drayk failed to open the gate so we didn’t even get into the palace.”
“Rest,” she says in a tone that invites no argument. “Later we will speak of what to do next.”
Ried leads me down one of the winding, dark hallways at the back of the temple. Alone in the oppressive silence of my room I slip out of my filthy armour and dump it in a pile in the corner before perching on the edge of the bed. I grip my hands to stop them trembling. Already my back aches and later, when my demons come to haunt me, the pain will be almost unbearable. This is entirely different to training. My entire being—my resolve—has been assaulted. My body will not easily forgive me. My eyes will not forget what they have seen.
You sent them to die.
My defiant self is much quieter now.
I want to slump into an exhausted horizontal position of foul moods and contradictory thoughts—I am only one girl. I cannot change the course of history. Today is the beginning of the end—but I cannot. Ried is right. I must be the light that shines in my people’s heart.
I push my demons aside and return to the sanctuary. I call a meeting of the chiliarches to reignite their courage.
Chapter nineteen
Petra returns bloodied but uninjured. As I approach she wipes her hands on her thighs and begins to unpeel her armour. “I am sorry, highness, I have failed you.”
I offer her no consolation. I want to tell her it was my fault but I say nothing. From now on everything I do must seem deliberate. If I admit my weakness she will throw down her conviction along with her armour, I think.