chapter 2: khoros

In the days following Kassandra's arrival, Brasidas's mood improves dramatically. Not because he is working with or even talking to her, because there never seems to be time - but because she has caused a near-existential confusion in the generals of Sparta.

The reason is this:

Nominally, politeia law embraces the parity of the genders. Childbirth is not dissimilar to warfare, and so the value of men and women to society is considered roughly equivalent (a notion that, from what Brasidas has seen during his travels, perplexes most of Greece). Though a woman cannot enter the agoge or hold political office, she administers the wealth and property of her household, speaks in public forum, and is expected to run, wrestle, and throw with the best of her brothers. She is the protector of their homeland and economy when her husband goes abroad; her strength and his are coupled. A man who cannot recognize a woman as his equal is no man at all, they like to say.

And yet, the fact that Kassandra so hopelessly baffles their attempts to classify her proves that the kinks have not exactly been worked out.

"It's not what I was expecting," she says to him one day as they pass each other outside the palace - him going in, her coming out. "This is the city that produced my mother, and her mother Queen Gorgo. A woman that wields iron and wins battles should be no shock."

Before he can reply, one of the ephors rushes him away, admonishing him for keeping the kings waiting.

A lingering sense of dismay follows him into the palace: if this is the reception Kassandra gets from a nation that claims to recognize her power, what indignities must she have endured outside it? In Athens, or even Euboeia or Megaris, where they would see her as nothing more than a body in need of a master?

When Brasidas reaches the throne room, the kings are in the middle of a hushed argument. Their backs are turned, but he can hear them whispering ferociously, can see the cloth of their chitons pull and tauten with every vigorous gesture. Every so often, Pausanias's hand flies up to grip Archidamos's shoulder in his patronizing, I-hear-you-but way.

Brasidas stands patiently with his hands clasped behind his back, and waits for them to be done. He feels certain this is about to become his problem.

The exile has applied for citizenship, the kings finally tell him with paralyzed bewilderment, and he almost asks who they're talking about before realizing, oh. She is disinherited, yet she wants her rightful lands and ownership of her family home - which Brasidas thinks (but does not say) is a fair demand. His new assignment is, quite simply, to explain her to them - to draw the contexts and parallels they need to either give her a role in Spartan society, or reject her from it.

He wonders how long it will take them to realize that there are no parallels.

Eventually, the generals invite Kassandra to demonstrate at the agoge.

This is half a display of respect for her accomplishments in battle and half a thinly veiled effort to quantify her. She does them no favors by arriving in a burnished bronze cuirass, a rough-wrought male body that mercilessly interrupts the long arched lines of her neck and the dimpled muscles of her bare brown thighs.

Brasidas volunteers for the first bout. Whether she wins or loses, holding her own in combat with one of Sparta's favored warriors will elevate her in the eyes of the kings. Plus, having already studied her during their brief collaboration in Korinthia, he feels he knows what to expect.

Kassandra waits politely for him to assume his own stance before drawing her weapons and falling into a shallow crouch, gravity low and weighted forward, favoring aggression over defense. Her torso angles forward, trimming her width to present a smaller target. Slowly, she sways to find her best balance on unfamiliar terrain. As he first observed in the burning warehouse so many months ago, she holds her xiphos unusually - directly in front of her, waist-high and parallel with her shoulders - and keeps the broken spearhead behind her back to hide its intent.

Hand to Athena, Brasidas could just stand here and watch her move! These small ceremonies are hypnotic: hundreds of quiet physical calculations to prepare for a burst of motion. Her control of her body is complete; every part of her at rest except for the ones she means to use. Watching the muscles come alive in deliberate groups might be distracting, if he had any time to look.

Too late, he feels iron on his throat, and the heat of a body at his back. A sharp, involuntary breath of surprise presses the tip of her spear - which is resting almost casually against his side, between his ribs - into the cloth of his armor.

The generals are staring at each other, astonished. Their voices are stuck in their throats.

Kassandra steps back. Another chance.

But, is it a chance? Brasidas hesitates while lifting his spear again to the rim of his shield - reliving the moment over and over and trying to understand, realistically, if there's anything he could have done.

She lunges to his left, attempting to duck under his shield arm, and this time he's ready - readier, at least. He angles his body, cutting off the opening, and slams the haft of his spear forward into her neck -

Or would, if she were still there.

Fuck! He can't give up a second bout as quickly as the first. Even if he loses again - and at this point, expecting anything else would be willful ignorance - it needs to be substantial, believable. Otherwise, it will look ridiculous. No one will believe what they've seen; they'll think he's thrown the match, or that she's cheating, and then this entire exercise will do nothing for her.

Think, he commands himself in a daze. Last time, she got behind him and the xiphos came around the right side of his neck, so this time…

Brasidas slams his elbow backwards, a wild and desperate guess, and strikes a hard pad of gut-flesh. His heart jumps, and he uses the momentum to pivot, bringing the spear around in the tightest arc he can manage, swinging the point low in an effort to knock Kassandra's legs from under her.

She shifts her weight ever so slightly, without a shred of superfluous effort, and the speartip breathes past her shins.

He's too low now, overextended and off-balance, so he angles his shield to protect from the counterattack before bringing it up towards her chin in a vicious backhand swing. She redirects the force, batting it aside with the flat of the xiphos like a boxer turning a jab.

Brasidas takes a few steps back, scrambling for distance. Absolute madness - he's breathless and aching from exertion, yet there she is, perfectly still in her steady crouch with her chest barely moving, a statue in contrapose. But her hair's mussed, and she looks surprised, and that's a victory, at least.

Then - and it's the belated nature of the action that makes it sting so much, as if it were just an afterthought - she hooks her foot forward around his calf and yanks his weight from under him. He goes down instantly in a graceless topple, cracking the back of his skull against the sand, tasting copper and hearing his own ragged groan as the air comes out of him like a bellows.

This, he thinks as he lays there and concentrates on breathing, is why Kassandra's enemies are so good at hiding. This is why they cower behind masks and cryptonyms, and work through proxies and dead drops and impenetrable ciphers. Without the shadows, they would have to face her on equal footing, and there is no such thing.

The sound of sandals crunching on shale brings him back to the agoge , and to his budding headache. Kassandra is standing over him, an anonymous black shape against the midday sun - but then she leans down and blocks out the corona that's been blinding him, and he gets a good look at her face.

Honey eyes wide and wet. Brows knitted, lips pressed thin, dimpled as if she's chewing on the inside of her cheek. Terror.

Brasidas's heart skips, leaving a painful thumping vacuum in his chest - why? His mind races; does she think she's hurt him? No, that's not it. Her hand is out, extended palm-up towards him, but she's not rushing to help, so she must know he's fine. So then -

Kasandra bends lower, opens her hand further - take it, please take it - and the neediness of it is utterly dissonant.

With a jolt, Brasidas realizes what she's asking:

Don't recoil. Don't shrink from me.

Touch me, please. Show me you still can, because enough people fear me, enough…

He takes her arm too quickly, just as she was too quick to offer it. A brief exchange of anxieties that, though it can't have lasted more than five seconds, has taught him more than he feels he has a right to know. With a characteristic lack of effort, Kassandra hauls him to his feet and holds on just a little too long - and then people are approaching the dais and her warmth is gone, and no one but Brasidas will ever know she was afraid.

There are a few halfhearted quips in the aftermath, about how Brasidas is getting soft in his old age or what they must put in the water in Kephallonia, but there's no bite to it. Tonight, the generals will go home and gossip to their wives in drunken awe, and the children will break curfew to play-act their favorite new legend with short swords held before them and broken spears behind their backs.

One small part of Sparta, at least, is won.