THE STORM PUSHES the Adrestia off-course and it is not until midday that they find their heading once more and soon after they dock. Irene looks around the dark soil and smoke billowing from the peak of one low-lying mountain. "Where are we?" She asks, having never ventured to this part of Hellas before.
"This is Melos," Barnabas remarks in his usual cheerful tone —nothing could dampen the old sailor's spirits. "One of the Playgrounds of Ares." That explains the volcanoes then Irene thinks, catching a whiff of sulfur. Ikaros lands on the railing between her and Alexios.
"We restock and rest here," Alexios announces. The storm takes its toll on his crew. Many are already asleep above and below deck from manning the oars to keep from crashing into rocks during the storm. They need to gather supplies for minor repairs, restock barrels with potable water, and rest before continuing to Lakonia.
Irene, Iola, and Eppie take to the small agora —seeking out hearty foods capable of lasting weeks at sea. Alexios seeks a blacksmith or merchant to sell or trade the armor he'd found in a chest on the pirate's war galley before the Aegean claimed it. The blacksmith of Melos is a grizzly fellow that stands a whole head taller than Alexios —his arms and neck thick and strong as trunks on young trees. "What can I do for you today, misthios?" He inquires.
The Eagle Bearer places the set of armor on the anvil and walks away with three heavy pouches of drachmae. He passes through the square and pauses to listen to a richly-clothed man speaking to a small gathering. "Warriors! Heroes! Mercenaries of all types!" He shouts. "Sign up here for the Battle of One Hundred Hands. Would you like to be rich? Are you the next Champion?" The man asks before catching a glimpse of Alexios in the crowd. "You, misthios. You look like a true contender."
He returns to the Adrestia with a fresh glint in his eyes that reeks of mischief. Either he's done something or is about to do something reckless. Irene passes a basket of fruit to Tyche and crosses her arms as she turns to face Alexios. "What have you done now?" She asks, immediately seeing through his innocent feint.
"There's a contest," he explains, gripping onto her hands, "if I win, we will be that much closer to eliminating another cultist."
As soon as he says it, everything clicks in place for the princess. Melos. Contest. The Battle of One Hundred Hands. "Alexios! You fool!" Irene scolds. She knows this infamous contest, where thousands have come willingly to die in pursuit of glory and riches.
"I thought you had more faith in me," Alexios smiles, and by the gods that charming smile could almost get him out of anything. She does not doubt his skills in battle, only his ability to face a hundred warriors with nothing to lose and everything to gain.
"And what am I supposed to tell your mother if you don't make it?" Irene queries, crossing her arms. She doesn't want to be the one to tell Myrrine her son died like so many others in a futile competition. He may fight like Achilles —Ares even— but even the mightiest of men can be slain by one arrow.
The princess follows Alexios back into the agora where she finds herself staring up at an oddly familiar face. "Drakios," Irene greets, recognizing the merchant —though now his hair and beard are greyer since the last time he had visited Athens. Her frown starts to fade.
He steps down from the platform. Arms open and smiling. "That is not Irene of Athens is it?" Irene offers a smile and accepts the two quick kisses he places upon her cheeks in greeting. Alexios steps next to the princess, gripping onto her hand —invidious. "How is your brother?" Drakios questions.
Zephyr enjoyed campaigning for champions in Attika —had made acquaintances with many of those who came to Melos only to die in the pursuit of riches and glory. "Dead," she replies, receiving no sympathy from the merchant.
Flocks of fighters gather near city walls —contestants eager to spill blood. The start of the competition draws near. Drakios shifts his attention from the contestants back to Irene and the Eagle Bearer. "Join me on the wall," he says, smile genuine though something heinous lurks in his dark stare, "you can have the best view to see this misthios carve his way to victory." The princess nods, accepting the offer with a tight smile.
Alexios takes his place among the other competitors at the gates leading to the sulfur-dotted landscape. Irene lays her hand on his cheek, holding his warm tawny-gold gaze. "Stay safe," she breathes. He leans toward her and plants his lips upon hers for a short, sweet kiss —something to give him comfort in his last moments if the gods decide he is not meant to see another sunset.
Scaling the stone-steps to join Drakios in his grand booth feels like she is willingly walking into a trap. The merchant steps up to address the contenders. "We have gathered here again for the Battle of One Hundred Hands." A pause as the participants glance around at one another. "Indeed, impressive warriors from all over the Greek world have come to test their might and skill against each other. Whether it is the sharpest sword in the Athenian army or the broadest shield Sparta can muster, all now stand alone against the many." Spartans, Athenians, bandits, and those with no allegiance fighting to the death.
"At our climax, the final two contenders will face off on a special battlefield, but only one will be called Champion." Roars erupt from below. "Let the Battle of One Hundred Hands begin!" Drakios shouts. His cry is echoed by a low horn blast, making the start of the battle.
Hours drag by —or at least to Irene it feels like hours— before the second horn blast.A quarter of those men and women already dead. "You're making quite a name for yourself, princess," Drakios sneers. Her blood runs cold. "I know someone who would pay a pretty price for your head. Just a head," he laughs. Irene grips onto the splintered lance of the broken spear, but a guard stays her hand.
"This is all a rouse, isn't it?" The princess queries, spitting at the merchant's feet. A third horn blast rings out —half are dead.
He looks down disgusted. "You're more perceptive than he is," Drakios remarks. "We've hoped to lure Deimos' sibling out for years," he explains, grinning. "And now that Alexios is finally here he brings me a Persian princess, too."
The guard releases his hold on her when the fourth horn sounds and two competitors approach the wall from the low-lying smoke. Irene's relief is palpable when she sees one of the survivors is Alexios. The other is a woman with a swarthy complexion, a shield of Athena strapped to her back. She is a warrior and her expression is that of cold determination to become a champion. "Who is she?" The princess asks.
"Roxana," Drakios tells her, "a fearsome combatant. Had it not been for your dear misthios, she would have been the day's victor." There's something akin to bitter disappointment lacing the words. Irene's gaze hardens as she watches the merchant rise and spread his arms. "Come!" He calls. "We shall finish the battle in the shadow of the volcano in the east."
IRENE LEAPS FORWARD, one hand clamping over a mouth, her knife plunging into a back, slicing between ribs, puncturing a lung. The guard in her grasp stiffens and hisses. She wrenches the spear free and stabs again, and again. The other Cultist guard is turning, sword already half out of its scabbard, his mouth open, drawing breath to yell. His effort is in vain. A sword crunches into his neck, cutting deep, blood spurting. Irene looks down at the two corpses.
"Guards!" Drakios shouts. Alexios looks around the ruins of the temple on Typhon's Crown but finds they are still alone. No one has answered the man's call. "Guards!" He shouts again, panic seeping into his voice. Irene appears behind the battle's organizer instead of his men, wiping their blood from her spear on a torn swath of fabric from one of the corpses.
"They're dead," she announces coming to stand next to the Eagle Bearer, "now tell us what you know." Drakios refuses and settles for drawing the sword hidden beneath his robes, advancing with a flurry of slashes. Alexios deflects the blows to the side, creating an opening for Irene to strike. She does —the edge of her kopis bites into the merchant's thigh and sends him to one knee. Alexios deals the killing blow, a tight slash across Drakios' neck, despite his empty pleas for mercy. Good riddance the princess thinks, staring down at the corpse as blood seeps into the blackened earth.
Alexios looks down at the fallen warrior, Roxana. She'd fought valiantly and honorably for such an unjust end. He staggers back, groans then falls to his knees. "All these people died just for the Cult to find me." His voice cracks —though he had not killed the ones who came before, it feels as though their blood is on his hands regardless.
Irene kneels in front of him, resting her forehead against his. Her hand slips down the front of his cuirass and comes away coated in blood. "You're hurt," she breathes.
He doesn't protest the statement. "I'll be fine until we get back to the ship," he says, pushing himself back up onto his feet.
Alexios doubles over before they can reach the Adrestia. This must have been the gods' will —to remind him he is not a true demigod. Irene slips her arm beneath his. "You'll be fine, huh?" She asks. His laugh is breathless as he drapes his arm over her shoulders. She can admonish him later, for now, they need to get back to the ship.
"Set a course to Sparta, Barnabas," Irene says as she helps the Eagle Bearer onto the Adrestia. The crew isn't sure what to think when they notice their commander limping and covered in his own blood —up until now he's always been untouchable. Barnabas spurs the crew into motion from their gawking —lines are unmoored and cargo secured.
They collapse inside the small pavilion at the stern of the trireme. Irene undoes the pin holding the scarf over his shoulders in place and busies herself with the hooks and ties of his cuirass. Alexios shrugs off the breastplate and leans back against the bench. She undoes the shoulder buttons of his chiton and the stained linen pools low around his waist.
He spares a glance at the wound running from his hip to navel. It still weeps red and though it doesn't seem to be very deep —it's long. "See?" He groans. "Not that bad." The princess ignores his poor attempt at humor as she sorts through her provisions. Alexios watches in a daze as she grinds several dried flowers and herbs into a thin paste with rose oil in a shallow dish.
Irene moves closer to him and touches his cheek —hiding the unstoppered skin of strong wine behind her back. He looks at her from beneath hooded eyes and smiles against her lips when she kisses him. She gives him the brief reprieve before dumping the white vintage over the bloody gash. Alexios throws his head back and curses. "Maláka!" He glares at the princess, breathing labored until the burning and stinging start to fade.
"Sorry," Irene mutters, patting his side dry with a bundle of linen. "It needed to be cleansed." He doesn't say anything, only nods and leans back again, letting her continue her practiced ministrations. After she finishes applying the medicinal paste, Alexios reaches for his chiton but Irene stays his hand. "No," she says, shaking her head, "leave it uncovered." His brows furrow. "You nor I know for certain if what did that was laced with poison. I can catch any signs quicker without it being covered," the princess explains. Poison was a finicky thing —some took days or years to work, others could kill a man in a trice.
Alexios raises his brow. "If you wanted me naked, all you had to do is ask," he replies in the smuggest tone he can manage.
Irene rolls her eyes and kisses his sweaty forehead. The gods both blessed and cursed her by bringing Alexios into her life. "Get some rest," she whispers, shifting toward the entrance of the tent knowing Barnabas and Herodotus would be concerned. He grips onto her wrist before she can rise and draws the princess into his uninjured side, arms wrapping around her middle. Alexios isn't ready to let her go —besides, the sweet scent of her hair and the steady, rhythmic beat of her heart help him sleep.
Alexios jerks awake in the night —panting with sweat beading on his brow. He'd dreamt of his family and the night on Taygetos that'd changed everything. He shifts, finding Irene is still lying next to him —her hand slipping down his chest until he settles back down. Alexios lays his hand atop hers and marvels at how delicate it feels beneath his.
He can't help smiling at her sleeping form, admiring the curve of her lips, the way her eyelashes hit her cheeks —how serene she looks. His fingers card through her hair, cautious not to wake her, and he strokes over her collarbone to her shoulder and down her arm with his knuckles. She truly is the most beautiful woman I've ever seen, he thinks, and he struggles to fathom that he's the one allowed to lay beside her, delighting in her existence every night.