Julian Cavendish's Arc

Chapter 2 of 4

Herman left the arena before the crowd finished filing out. He walked until the marble turned to sand, and the sand turned into a wider ring cut for Ares. The war god's sparring ground sat under a golden dome, bronze foundations sunk deep, white columns ringing an empty floor. A bronze spear stood upright at the center, planted like a claim. Dark stains ran down the shaft. Herman stopped at the edge and counted them. He did not know Ares. He did not know how the god moved, what side he favored, whether he closed fast or waited. Tomorrow he would find out with a crowd watching. He went back to the guest rooms and locked the door. He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled the gold chain out from under his shirt. The lightning bolt pendant was warm from his skin. He turned it between his fingers the way Gianna had taught him. Just metal. Let it be heavy. His hands were shaking anyway. A thin sheet of ice formed on the water pitcher beside the bed. He closed his eyes and counted to four. A knock. Apollo did not wait for an answer. He came in with his lyre under one arm and a small clay jar under the other. He set both on the table and looked at the frost on the pitcher without comment. "You're going to freeze the bed," he said. He sat down beside Herman, close enough that their knees touched. "Ares fights left. He feints high and cuts low. He talks the whole time to make you angry, because angry men swing wide." He tapped Herman's chest, right over the pendant. "You already know how to hold still. That's the only trick you need." Herman looked at him. "You could have told me that in the arena." "I'm telling you now." Apollo took the pendant out of Herman's hand and closed Herman's fingers around it. "Keep this on tomorrow. Under the armor. When he talks, don't listen. Watch his left foot. When it slides, the cut is coming." He picked up the lyre and played four low notes, slow, matched to a breath. He played it again. "Breathe on that. Not faster." Herman breathed. The ice on the pitcher cracked and slid off in one clean sheet. Apollo did not kiss him. He rested his forehead against Herman's for a count of four, then stood up. "Sleep. I'll be in the front row." He left the jar of oil for the bruises he expected Herman to earn, and shut the door behind him. Herman lay back with the pendant in his fist. He ran Apollo's four notes in his head until his pulse matched them. The frost on the pitcher did not come back. He was still afraid. He was no longer alone with it. He set an alarm for dawn, and for the first time since Zeus had said the word tomorrow, he slept.