BRONZE DROPLETS OF venom hang from the fangs of a great serpent coiled around stalactites and stalagmites in the Cave of Gaia. Its scales glinting gold in the dim light of the braziers. Beneath the Python's open mouth is a golden pyramid, pulsating with light. It draws Lesya toward it like a moth to flame. Elpenor explains it is a powerful artifact of ancient origin —only those descended from or gifted by the gods can use it effectively. The last person to be gifted a vision from the pyramid had been Pythagoras.
The antechamber Elpenor leads her to has burning sconces lined around the smoothed walls —the flickering flames cast light on five children of a similar age all wearing the same grey exomis. Standing above them is a woman with greying hair and wrinkled face, her jowls already beginning to sag. She extends a spindly hand in the direction of her newest daughter, bidding her step forward. Elpenor presses his hand to her back, urging Lesya forward. The woman's smile is something haunting —a cage of teeth that reminds the girl of a smiling shark. "Come and meet your brothers and sisters."
I already have brothers, Lesya bites her tongue as she looks at the three boys and two girls staring at her. They're all bigger and leaner than she is —each of them has a hungry glint in their nigh hollow eyes. Leysa glances over her shoulder, but Elpenor is already gone. Her frightened gaze returns to the crone and her children. The woman motions to those standing before her and rattles off their names. "This is Deimos, Polyas, Kyberniskos, Elena, and Syntyche."
Chrysis steps in front of Lesya and takes hold of her chin, turning her thin face toward the light —scrutinizing her high cheekbones and the dusting of freckles. The girl has the face of a priestess or a hetaera, not a warrior. "And what is your name?" It's both a simple question and a test.
"Enyo," Lesya responds, remembering what Elpenor had told her.
Lesya sits away from the fire as the other children laugh and speak of battles —their own victories. She curls into herself, neglecting the small plate of food at her feet, despite how her belly groans and rumbles and silently begins to weep. This is not where she belongs. She was meant to continue her womanly lessons under Kalanthe —weaving, and sewing, playing the lyre, even pottery. From between her fingers, she can see the others looking at her and knows now their laughter is directed toward her.
Someone sits next to her, weary Lesya raises her head and finds the largest and meanest looking of the boys at her side. Deimos, Chrysis named him. His dark brown hair is shorn just above his ears —his face a solemn mask as he doesn't share in the other's amusement. "Don't let Chrysis see you crying," Deimos mutters. Tears are a mark of weakness, and weakness cannot thrive in this place.
Her hair —a mix of chestnut and copper— clings to her damp cheeks. "I want to go home," she tells the boy. His other brothers and sisters were much younger when Chrysis took them under her care —it was easy for a child of two or three to forget their names and family, but she has already endured eight hard summers. Forgetting will not come easy, if it comes at all. Deimos looks over her —thin arms and legs with knobby knees and unsettling eyes the shade of a fresh laurel wreath.
Giving in to the pitiful cries of her stomach, Lesya reaches for the plate of food —fresh nectarines, olives, brown flatbread, and two clumps of roasted red meat. "Here," Deimos says, offering her his ration of meat. "You need it more than I do."
"AGAIN," A HARSH voice barks. Alektor circles the two girls, hands behind his back and disappointment on his scrunched up face. He is an ostracized Spartan who now serves the Cult of Kosmos —instructing Chrysis' children in matters of combat and war. Alektor is a cruel man and enforces that every bruise, bloody nose, cut, and broken bone is a lesson —weakness leaving the body. Enyo rolls onto her back and looks up at Syntyche through a swollen eye, the other obscured by blood trickling down from a gash at her hairline. She kicks her legs up and out, springing to her feet.
Syntyche steps around Enyo and lands a quick blow to her already sore ribs. She blocks the next blow intended for her face with her forearms and pushes back —grunting with exertion but making no progress. Her opponent laughs and shoves Enyo back. A fist connects with her jaw, and blood fills her mouth. The sudden jolt of pain is enough distraction for Syntyche to crouch low and swing her leg around —knocking Enyo to her back for what feels like the millionth time.
"Again," Alektor roars, swatting both girl's legs with a supple switch. It whistles through the air in warning before snapping against Enyo's thigh. She rolls onto her hands and knees, expelling a combination of dark blood and bile. AGAIN!" Sweat stings her eyes and the cut on her forehead, but she stands again —left shoulder hanging limp.
Enyo comes for Syntyche wildly swinging her right arm. She lands a lucky blow, striking the other girl's cheek. The small victory only brings more pain. A hand rips at her hair, twisting near the scalp —her shrill cry is enough to bring everyone in the training grounds to a standstill. Tears prick at her eyes as she drops to her bloody knees. The pressure disappears and a sharp, bony elbow collides with the side of Enyo's head. Specks of black and white flood her vision as she slumps over. Syntyche spits red-tinged saliva at the Enyo's side.
"Enough," Alektor snaps, tired of the incompetence of Chrysis' new champion. Enyo feels blood pooling under her cheek, dripping from her mouth and nose. Her body is screaming for her to stay down, but she presses her hands to the gravel and pushes herself back to stand on uneasy legs —clenching her bony fingers into tight fists.
Chrysis hides a reserved smile at the girl's perseverance.
"DEIMOS?" ENYO KNOWS it is him. He's the only one besides Polyas that is nice to her. Neither Syntyche nor Elena like her —Polyas says it's because they're jealous of how rapidly she'd become Deimos and Chrysis' new favorite even though she was weak. Kyberniskos, on the other hand, despises everyone equally.
He passes her a stone cup of cool water and lowers himself next to her, noticing the knob of bone protruding from her bruised shoulder. Without warning, he grips onto Enyo's arm and presses onto her side. The quick jerking motion is followed by soft pop. She immediately clutches her shoulder. "It gets easier," Deimos says, tilting her face toward him. Both her eyes are blackened, top and bottom lips swollen and busted, and a crusted scab fades back into her hairline —somehow her upturned nose was unscathed.
"What?" Enyo asks. "Getting beat?" The boy doesn't answer.
They sit next to each other for a long moment, staring at the dancing flames and listening to the sound of water bubbling up from the underground spring. "Polyas and I can help you get better," Deimos mutters, his quiet tone still manages to echo in the depths of the cave. Enyo looks at him —eyes wide. "Meet us after sundown," he tells her before leaving.
Polyas and Deimos are waiting in the training grounds after the sun sets and the moon begins to rise. "You're fast," Deimos remarks —he's seen her fight with the other girls and Enyo can easily evade predictable blows, but tires too easily and fails to deliver significant damage to her opponents. Elena and Syntyche walk away from sparring sessions nigh unscathed while Enyo is left bloody and bruised. "But you need to be stronger."
He nods to Polyas and the other boy lifts a pair of oenochoai filled with ingots of iron and sand then lunges forward. He holds the stance with his torso straight and knees bent for three long breaths before rising and stepping forward with his other foot. Polyas sets the pair of oenochoai down in front of Enyo —removing the added weight of the iron and several large rocks from each. "You try," he says, motioning toward the vases.
Spindly fingers wrap around the glazed handles —she heaves them off the ground and lunges forward as Polyas had, though her arms are almost too short to keep the oenochoai off the ground. On the third repetition, her shoulders start to shake, back curving forward. "Keep your shoulders back," Deimos tells her, his voice is lower and rougher than Polyas'. Enyo listens and pushes forward until her knees collapse —unable to carry on.
The exclusive training session is not over yet, though. Deimos disappears and returns in a trice carrying a thick branch as long as Enyo is tall. He threads the branch through the handles of the oenochoai, tying them together with a thin leather baldric so they won't slip off and break. Then he lifts the weight from the ground. He curls the barbell toward his chin several times before offering it to Enyo.
She mimics Deimos' motions, though her movements are not as fluid as his. Polyas and Deimos both correct her form when it falters and after several sets of repetitions, Deimos catches the barbell when it slips from her exhausted hands. "One of us will be here every night," Deimos announces and Polyas nods in agreement. They will help Enyo find her strength. After all, no one could become Achilles or Herakles overnight.