Spartan Beast (The Hellennium Book 2)

by P. K. Lentz

  “That will not be necessary,” Styphon said hurriedly. “I have arranged for her needs.”

  Eris stepped forward and placed a palm lightly on his chest. “You are a good father.” Styphon's ears imparted menace even to those flattering words. “So you know you must do what is best for Andrea. Having been student to my inferior in Athens, she knows what I can offer. Do you not want great things to lie in her future?”

  Styphon fumed, but looking into the deep blue eyes of Eris he recalled his first, bloody meeting with her in Arkadia and knew the futility of opposition. There was no doubt that this was just the intended result of her hard look, the look of an eager killer. Eris delivered it with ease, and in such a way that it was invisible to all in the room but its recipient.

  So instead of protesting further, Styphon nodded assent to the she-daimon's tutelage of his offspring. Equals were brave, but they did not throw their lives away in vain. In shame, he broke Eris's gaze.

  Andrea rose next from the floor, came forward and slid her arms around Styphon's waist. He looked down upon a red ribbon binding the tight braid in which her brown hair was bound.

  “Thank you, father,” she said, and looked up at him with more happiness in her eyes than he ever remembered seeing there.

  It was said that what made a child the happiest was rarely the best for him. Or her. And proximity to Eris was surely not the best for any child. But Eris could not simply be denied. Were he to try to keep Andrea from her, whatever the witch's designs were, there was little doubt he would ultimately wind up on the losing side, perhaps dead. At least this way, he might remain alive to attempt to counter her dark influence.

  That matter resolved, at least for the present, Styphon turned his attention to Alkibiades and the Thracian slave whose arms were wound possessively about the preener's neck. Clean tracks in the grime on her cheeks attested to recent tears.

  “I'm sorry to have barged into your home, Styphon.” Unlike that of his warder, Alkibiades' apology actually sounded sincere. “These are my two favorite girls in the world. I could not pass up the chance to check on them.”

  Styphon's mind filled with harsh replies which he stifled in favor of a more measured response. Strong evidence suggested that Alkibiades was being courted to Sparta's side by order of Brasidas. Why anyone should deem such a thing necessary was beyond Styphon, but then plenty of other matters of state were also beyond him. It was not his place to sabotage such plans. Besides, perhaps there was a way he could use the Athenian to his advantage in controlling his household.

  “My daughter cares for you,” Styphon said. He was sure to make it clear in his voice that the admission came grudgingly. “The slave, too.” He grunted a sigh. “So, as much as I loathe the sight of you,”—that was rather an exaggeration—“as long as the girls' behavior justifies it, and you arrange it with me, you may continue to visit them.”

  The preener's eyes lit and he grinned, appearing genuinely astonished. Eurydike ventured a tentative, disbelieving laugh. Her fist went tight in hope around a handful of the loose, pale blue chiton draped over Alkibiades' hairless chest.

  “Well done.” Eris looked at Styphon, and addressed him, as though he were some animal whose owner had trained him to speak on command. “An arrangement which benefits all involved,” she observed, condescendingly.

  She signaled to Alkibiades, who gave a servile nod. Reluctantly, with a final brief but intense kiss on his lips, Eurydike removed herself from his lap and let him rise. To reach Eris, the prisoner walked a circuitous course which took him past Andrea, whose hair he tousled before departing the house in Eris's ice-cold wake.

  After the pair left, Styphon made no mention of the visit. He only reminded the two females of their chores and went about his afternoon. That night, when all were in their beds, Styphon, not a little self-consciously, posed a question of his daughter.

  “Why might a woman invite a man to kiss her, only to slap his face?”

  Andrea giggled softly. “Why would you want to know that?”

  “I'm asking for a friend. If you know the answer, just tell me.”

  “Fine. It's a silly superstition that some girls have.”

  “Explain.”

  “If a woman slaps a man during their first kiss, the number of times he allows it before stopping her is—” She scoffed gently and finished, “It is the number of babies they'll have together.”

  Styphon stifled a sigh, lest he betray that his interest was more than casual. He just said curtly, “I see. Thank you.”

  “Were you kissing a twelve-year old?” Andrea asked. “Because no one else believes that stuff. I think she was just playing with you, whoever she is.”

  Styphon grumbled, “Go to sleep.”

  This offspring of his was too perceptive for anyone's good.

  After a brief round of maddening giggling, Andrea fell silent, letting Styphon hope she was done. Moments later, her voice sailed again through the darkness.

  “How many times?”

  After some hesitation, Styphon gave up the charade and confessed, “I lost count.”

  “That many?” Andrea said. “It's going to get crowded in here.”

  “Go to sleep!”

  * * *

  5. Half-dead eyes

  “Dee... Wake up! Dee! Demosthenes! Enough of this. Move.”

  Laying in his borrowed bed near the shipyards of Naupaktos, Demosthenes groaned and swatted the air in the direction of the insistent voice.

  “This makes five days you've been drunk, Dee,” Thalassia said. “No more.”

  “Go away!”

  “We've got shit to do. This ends now. Get up.”

  A hand gripped his arm, and Demosthenes was dragged from the bed. He fell clumsily to the plaster floor, which tilted lazily under him like the deck of a galley under sail. Shifting to sit with back against the solid bedpost, he set bleary eyes on the face which had come to dominate his rather miserable existence.

  “What's it matter?” he demanded. “You don't need my help to glow... grow your fungulus. When that's done, no more Sparta. And Demosthenes can...” With some difficulty, he linked his two thumbs in front of him and flapped his hands like the wings of a bird. “...go to the crows.” He cawed twice, but the second caught in his throat and prompted a fit of coughing.

  When it had run its course, Thalassia gripped his jaw in her strong, feminine fingers and said in a tone just as firm, “No, Dee. We have work to do. We will convince this town to resist, and help them succeed at it—which, if you recall,was your idea. We will go to Athens and do whatever we can. And we will try to find Eurydike, who trusts us and loves us. Is that understood?”

  “You are such a bitch.” Demosthenes shut his eyes as he spoke, so as not to witness her reaction to the words, although he knew he might well feel it.

  “Oh, come on,” was her mild reply. Rather than squeezing tighter, her hand slipped from his jaw. “You've seen me when I'm a bitch. This is not it. I'm kind now, remember? But what I'll be soon if you don't get sober is gone. I won't do this alone, and if you're just going to give up and die, I won't stay and watch.”

  “Go, then!” Demosthenes said. He dragged up his eyelids to meet the wintry stare he found was upon him. “Your work here is complete. You ruined me. You ruined my city. You ruined my world.”

  Thalassia quickly returned, “I want to help you reclaim all of those things.”

  “Your help is toxic!” He scoffed bitterly. “Fitting then, that the last thing I ask of you is to poison a city.”

  “If I leave, there will be no fungulus, you drunk idiot. You'll be on your own, and from where I stand, that doesn't look like a threat that anyone should take seriously, much less Sparta.” She leaned close and laid a hand on a cheek which he had allowed yet again to become covered in a fuzz of growth. “You have one day, Dee. I'll be back tomorrow at this time. If you're drunk, or sleeping it off, you'll never see me again.”

  “I wish—” Demosthenes began acidly.
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  Thalassia touched a fingertip to his lips. “Don't,” she said gently, “say anything you'll regret. We'll talk tomorrow.”

  Standing, she spun and silently departed the room, leaving Demosthenes to ponder the choice between drowning himself in a sea of dark wine or seeing his vengeance realized. There was only one answer, he knew, but it could not be made in earnest until after a few more hours spent in the bed onto which he presently hoisted his tired carcass.

  Around midday, he stepped out into blinding daylight and walked the unpaved road down to the harborside ship-sheds where labor was underway to construct new defensive weapons of Thalassia's design. She was not present there when he arrived, but he had not come to seek her. Finding the craftsman in charge, he merely offered his assistance, and was given tools and a job to do.

  He worked there all afternoon, sweat pouring from limb and brow, and he took a meal with the friendly Naupaktans, meeting their requests for tales of Athens' fall with polite insistence that he wished to feel as one of them for the day and put such things from mind.

  Such was hardly possible, of course, for the memories were everpresent, but the men honored his wishes and let him be silent. It was that evening that Thalassia, the architect of their endeavors, returned to inspect and further guide their work. She paid Demosthenes no special heed, apart from a brief look conveying her cautious approval.

  The look which Demosthenes returned conveyed, or perhaps failed to, that he did not give a fuck about her approval... or wished he did not have to.

  That night he returned to the same bed where he had previously slept off vats of wine and instead slept off a half-day's work. The bed was sized for two, on Agathokles' assumption that they were accustomed to sharing one, but Thalassia had not been spending her nights with him—he did not know where she went. This night was no different; he slept alone and woke alone, and he had just washed and dressed when she made her promised return.

  “Good,” she said on seeing him. “Come with me.”

  “Where?”

  “Just come. Trust me.”

  Sighing, Demosthenes made for the door. “There are none on earth I trust more. It is my special madness.”

  Thalassia smiled and took his hand as they exited into the street, where she tugged him along with purpose. At some point in their residence here in Naupaktos, she had obtained a long, pleated chiton of her favored color, the green of sea-foam, and it was this which she wore. Though they were strangers in this place of exile, passersby gave them not a second glance except perhaps for men committing Thalassia's form to memory for later recall.

  He had acted as a child, and now here he was being treated like one, drawn by the hand to some unknown destination. It was only after some time had passed that it occurred to him to reclaim his hand. When he jerked it free, Thalassia gave a backward glance as if to be sure he was not attempting escape, and then returned her gaze forward.

  Heading west with the morning sun at their backs, they walked until the buildings of the waterfront gave way to empty fields of tall grass and wildflowers, and still they kept on going.

  “It was on a whim that I pledged our aid to Naupaktos,” he said as they walked. “Your aid. But why do you care whether some little shit town ends up paying tribute to Sparta?”

  “Pride,” was Thalassia's swift answer. “I'm sick of losing. And there are probably other reasons.”

  “Probably?”

  “I admit,” she said, “I sometimes act without thinking very far ahead. It's one of my very few flaws.”

  “Astonishing.”

  “That I have flaws? I know.”

  “That you would admit to having one.”

  “Humility is just one of many qualities that makes me near-perfect.”

  Demosthenes scoffed lightly and pondered whether to let the conversation end. As was often the case in her presence, he concluded that silence was likely the best course before proceeding to speak.

  “You needn't pretend arrogance with me,” he said. “In truth you despise yourself, a trait which we now both possess.”

  Thalassia halted, causing Demosthenes to do likewise, and she turned on him first with a look of irritation, then melancholy. “I'm not ready for a suicide pact just yet.”

  She resumed walking on a path which gently inclined and followed the Gulf coast.

  “And if you believe your pledge of aid to Naupaktos was a whim,” Thalassia said next, “you're only fooling yourself. That was the old Demosthenes showing through. The one I knew before I died. I miss him. So maybe that's another reason why I give I shit about this town.”

  On this, Demosthenes belatedly clamped his lips shut, and so had no need of the admonition Thalassia next delivered:

  “Let's not speak until we get where we're going. You'll ruin the surprise.”

  He stayed quiet as long as he could, which was about a dozen paces, before letting out an observation which could not go unspoken: “I don't like your surprises.”

  After that, they walked in silence, always uphill and away from human habitation, along the rocky coast. Sunlight warmed skin which was swiftly thereafter cooled by gusts of sea wind.

  Eventually, Thalassia slowed and halted and announced, “We're here.”

  They stood in tall grass near the land's edge. All that lay ahead was a sheer drop of at least sixty feet into foaming waves.

  “A dead end.” Demosthenes observed. “Why does that strike me as appropriate?” It was with some annoyance, but also rising trepidation, that he asked, “Why have you brought me here?”

  Thalassia turned to face him, putting her back to the cliff. The wind made of her long hair a writhing gorgon's crown, and a devious light shone in her pale eyes.

  “I've brought you here—and by you, I mean this Demosthenes with half-dead eyes who treats me like I'm his possession, some magic sword he can use to pretend that he's strong instead of weak—I've brought that Demosthenes here so that he can throw himself the fuck off this cliff.”

  * * *

  6. αἱ τοῦ σώματος ἡδονή

  Demosthenes scoffed. “Fuck you,” he said, using her own classless vocabulary, and he spun to begin the return trek to town.

  “I thought you trusted me,” Thalassia called after him. “What is it you think you have to lose? You're already dead! Coward!”

  Demosthenes slowed and halted, but did not turn.

  “We both died fighting for Athens,” Thalassia went on. “I had my rebirth. You need yours. Let me help you.”

  “If you want to help me,” Demosthenes said, still giving her his back, “you know the one and only thing I want.”

  “You can have your revenge,” Thalassia said, coming nearer. “But the path to it is not the one you're walking.”

  As he felt her presence at his shoulder, Demosthenes sighed angrily. “I don't understand,” he said. “You're a hundred-something years old and all but immortal. You've seen a thousand worlds, of the endless number which comprise the cosmos. How can any of this matter to you? How can I matter?”

  “Other worlds are in my past,” she said. “I'm probably stuck in this one until I die. That may be a long time, and I'd like it to be enjoyable. Something has to matter. Something other than trying to right a past mistake.”

  “And you choose Athens? Naupaktos?”

  “No, Dee, you fucking idiot. As you've observed once or twice, I'm mildly... unbalanced.”

  “What I have observed,” Demosthenes corrected her, “is that were there a goddess named Madness, she would kneel at the altar of Thalassia.”

  “Fair enough,” Thalassia agreed, perhaps flattered by the appraisal. “I don't know what this is that we have between us. You hate me, but you don't. You want to leave and never come back, but you don't. You're intimidated by me, like any sane person should be, but you're also not. And me? Most of the time I want to rip your fucking skull out through your face and stomp it to dust. But I also don't. Whatever it is, I know I'd miss it if it went away.
You would, too.”

  Instinctively—defensively—Demosthenes scoffed, even if he sensed in his heart that she spoke truly. Her madness had penetrated him, infecting him as any plague might. Now, contaminated as he was, what other company could he keep but her? She was as his shadow. A shadow with whom he could converse as he could with no other and which was capable of cutting down men by the score on his behalf.

  Of cutting him down.

  He knew. She was a part of him now. If Thalassia were to leave, and he did not die soon thereafter by his own hand or another's, he would spend what remained of his life trying to find her again.

  The way her pale eyes shone hinted that Thalassia knew what thoughts dwelt behind his half-dead ones. Surely, she did.

  “If I smash my head on the rocks,” he observed, “I will not grow a new one.”

  “It's safe,” she assured. “I've done it.”

  “You are not normal.”

  “I'll go first and be in the water if you need help. Just trust me.” She turned from him and ventured closer to the cliff's edge with purpose in her step. As she walked, her chiton fell discarded, so that by the time she ran out of earth on which to walk, she stood unabashedly naked but for high-laced sandals. Many times had he seen that flawless form unclothed, but never once had he truly felt desire for it. Yes, in one drunken, shameful night in Amphipolis he had forced himself on her, but fear and resentment, not lust, had driven him to that. Out of spite she had allowed it, that he might be be left with his well-earned regret.

  Demosthenes followed her to the land's edge and stood by her side looking down. The sight made his stomach lurch: far below, waves slapped jagged boulders, sending white spray skyward. It was beyond madness to elect to throw oneself from such a height into raging sea. But the one standing naked at his side had filled his existence with madness to such degree that perhaps it was his own standards which stood in need of adjustment.

  Thalassia turned her head to look at him, the dark corona of her hair, the only hair on her smooth body, fluttering in the breeze, and she said without smiling, “I'm going. I hope you follow.”