ENYO TOSSES IN her sleep. A storm rages around her. Thunder claps and sleet lashes her cheeks. She's there on the infamous slopes of Taygetos —an invisible figure watching as the ephor lifts the babe above his head, stepping to the edge of the chasm. Then both the baby boy and ephor plunge into the darkness, the girl too slow to catch her brother before the fall. Alexios! Deimos reaches over and grips onto her arm, gently bringing her from the dream. "Alexios," she breathes, eyes opening to the darkness.
A furrow knits his brows together. Somehow the name feels familiar, as though he's heard it before, a long time ago. The hand on her arm, slips up to her cheek —thumb following along the silvery scar running through her left brow. "The artifact showed me you," he begins, softly, "as a girl. You were hiding with your brothers." She closes her eyes, remembering her childhood in Athens before the Cult had taken it away. Timotheus and Tundareos always did their best to shield her from Leandros' wrath. It's what siblings did —protect each other.
Enyo moves closer to him and runs her fingertips over the jagged scar spanning down his right side. It'd been there even when they were children. "I saw a baby boy," she starts, voice trembling, "they threw him off a mountain." Their eyes meet, and she's held in place under Deimos' tawny-gold gaze —the same eyes as the baby on the mountain. Alexios. Her breath catches.
Deimos cards his hand through her copper hair. "We leave for Megara at sunrise," he reminds her. They'd been tasked with keeping the Athenian forces at bay until the Spartans decided to strike. The Megarid was too valuable for Sparta to stand idle while Athens marched forward toward the Peloponnese.
"It'll be nice," Enyo whispers, lips kinking into a subtle smile. As of late, the Cult seemed to make it a point to keep them apart. It feels like ages since they've last fought side-by-side. "The two of us finally together again." She runs her fingers along his jawline. Deimos moves closer and wraps them both in a sheet of linen.
HE THROWS THE torch into the brazier at the center of the room and the dry wood and kindling takes to flames. Enyo shifts on her bed mat rolling toward the empty spot where he normally laid. Deimos hadn't been able to sleep and took to the training grounds when he overheard the group —they meant slit her throat while she slept. She wakes with a start, eyes adjusting to the room, and focusing on the blade she holds at Deimos' neck. "Up, quickly," he orders, rising to gather her bow and quiver.
Shedding her nightclothes, Enyo reaches for the wide band of grey wool for her apodesmos and another for her loincloth. Once clothed in the black-and-gold striped chiton, Deimos settles the cuirass over her head and fastens the ties with haste, doing the same with her greaves and bracers. He is unsure how much time they have. A hundred questions race through her mind but she voices none of them. The chlamys he wraps around her shoulders is a dark, rough fabric held in place by a bronze brooch.
Tossing a sack with her bow, quiver, dual blades, and kopis over his shoulder, Deimos grips onto Enyo's hand and leads her into the night over rock and brook, through the forest and away from the villa above the Temple of Apollo. "What is all this about?" She hisses, pulling her hand back when they reach a small clearing.
"They're going to execute you," he breathes. A cold chill slithers down her spine. Deimos turns around and takes her face in both of his hands. Enyo meets his eyes, shocked to see something she hadn't thought possible lingering in their dark depths. Fear. "I won't let them." She nods once, swallowing the lump in her throat and pushing back tears. Unable to grasp why it had come to this. I am a champion to them, a demigoddess. Threading his fingers through hers, Deimos turns back to the path ahead.
Halting at the main road leading into Kirrha, he turns, releasing her hand. "There's a ship in the harbor called the Adrestia. It sails at dawn," he says.
"Deimos–" Enyo bites down on her bottom lip and steps up to him, resting her hand on his chest, he's not wearing armor and she can feel his heart thundering beneath her palm "–you still have heart," she whispers, "don't let them take it." He leans forward, desperate to remember how it feels like to have her lips against his. Deimos' hand slides up her back and into her hair, pulling her closer. Her kiss is a good-bye and a promise and a dream.
She traces the scar on his cheek. She'd put it there herself while training once. They will punish him for this —she knows they will and so does he. One day our paths will cross again. Enyo doesn't say it aloud, but her eyes do. Stepping away from Deimos, she turns and runs, fighting the urge to look back though it feels like she is leaving a piece of her behind.
THE SHIP IS slender and well-crafted. It is smaller than an Athenian war galley and painted black near the keel —red around the rails. The stern rises into a curving scorpion tail and the rostrum sports a glinting bronze ram, eyes painted on either side.
She sees the captain of the Adrestia at the helm of the ship —restless just before the break of dawn— and calls to him. He lumbers off the deck and onto the wharf, straightening a pale blue exomis and white shoulders before introducing himself as Barnabas. His long silver locks are swept back from the sea breeze with a trimmed beard to match, though it is his clouded right eye that garners Enyo's attention. He too is marked by the gods.
At first glance, Barnabas takes her for a daughter of Ares —lithe and strong, splendid in white-and-gold armor with two blades and bow and quiver at her back, a curved sword on her hip. It is not an everyday occurrence to come across an Amazonian. "Will you grant me passage?" Enyo enquires. Barnabas hesitates —this strange woman may be an Amazonian, but she also has the look of someone who flirts too often with trouble. She reaches behind her back and pulls free a heavy pouch of drachmae. "I can pay and work the deck," she offers.
Barnabas eyes the drachmae and after a moment shakes his head. "Keep your coin," he tells Enyo. Her smile is strained —as though it is not something she is used to doing. He turns and motions toward the trireme in all her worn glory. "Welcome aboard the Adrestia!" Barnabas exclaims.
Enyo follows his footsteps, standing at the helm of the vessel. Rowers extend and lower their oars into the water, pushing the Adrestia away from the wharf and Kirrha harbor toward the west. "What's our heading, captain?" She inquires.
The old sailor laughs —a deep, warm genuine sound— motioning to the open water surrounding them. "Wherever the wind takes us!" Enyo leans against the rail, the wind in her hair, salt spray kissing her cheeks. She closes her eyes and lets herself smile. This must be what freedom feels like.
BLACK SAILS EMBLAZONED with the head of a dragon are quickly approaching. Pirates. Enyo spots the ship as soon as they begin turning in the water. "Pirates!" She shouts and the deckhands jump into action. The prowl of the penteconter cuts through the surf —swift and agile. The Adrestia will not be able to outrun a confrontation.
Enyo holds fast to the ship's rigging as the penteconter rams into the Adrestia's starboard flank —knocking most the crew off their feet, but she is still upright, sword drawn. She leaps onto the deck of the pirate ship, and a sense of familiarity overtakes her —this is my home she thinks.
One of the pirates lurches forward, brandishing an ax. Enyo raises her sword —blocking the blow then pivots, cleaving deep into the man's shoulder, bringing a gout of black blood. He drops the ax, howling in pain until she silences him —thrusting her blade into his neck. The next foe comes at her quick. She bends her body around his sword thrust and strips the man of his dagger —jabbing the short blade into his face. He collapses with a moan, face ruptured like a split melon.
Three pirates remain —the captain among them. Enyo does not hesitate to strike first. She slashes up, ripping the neck of a woman open and sends her toppling into the churning depths. The whistle of metal cutting through air is the only warning she has of another assailant. Dropping to one knee, Enyo turns on the deck and swings her sword hard and fast. The double-edged blade slices through flesh, muscle, and bone —severing the pirate's leg below the knee. She catches the curved knife meant for her as he falls onto the deck, bright scarlet blood spurting over the dark wood. Enyo drives the blade into the man's throat and rises.
The captain is a brute of a man wielding an iron mace, but still not a foe worthy of her prowess. Enyo eyes a discarded spear and kicks it up with a flick of her sandal. She takes several steps back and waits for the captain to step before the mast. With two plodding strides, he does and Enyo launches the spear across the deck at the giant. The javelin hammers into the brute's chest, throwing him backward and pinning him to the mast. His eyes flare in anger and disbelief before dark blood and bile spill from his mouth followed by a rattling breath before slumping into death.
Enyo glances at the destruction left in her wake. No one on the Adrestia even managed to board the ship before she dispatched them all to Hades. The deck of the penteconter creaks then begins to sink —leaving a feast for the sharks. She takes a running jump —catching the edge of the trireme and pulls herself up. Most of the crew are staring in awe and veneration as the Adrestia pulls away from the wreckage.
"By Ares!" Barnabas exclaims, clasping the woman on a bloody shoulder. "You fight like a god!" Enyo's smile is grim with no remorse. "I could use someone like you on this old vessel," he remarks.
Her expression softens. "Seeing I don't have anywhere to go that would be nice," she admits.