Julian Cavendish's Arc

Chapter 3 of 4

Herman woke before the alarm. The jar of oil sat where Apollo had left it, but there was something new on the table beside it: a laurel crown woven tight, the leaves still green, and a folded note under one edge. The note said only, Come to the theatre before you dress for the fight. He put the crown on the table's center and stared at it. Apollo did not give gifts. Apollo gave advice and left. Herman pulled on a plain tunic and went. The theatre stood at the far end of the guest wing, small and bright, gold columns holding up a white marble ring. Apollo was inside, alone, standing on the bronze floor with his lyre across one arm. He had built a shape on the floor in chalk: two footprints, a line for a spear, an arc for a cut. "You said you'd never fought a war god," Apollo said. "So we practice him now, without him." He set the lyre down. "I'll be Ares. You watch my left foot. When it slides, you move." They went slow first. Apollo talked the whole time, ugly things meant to bait, and Herman kept his eyes on the foot. The first three passes, Herman moved wrong and Apollo's palm tapped his ribs where a blade would have opened him. The fourth pass, Herman saw the slide before the shoulder dropped. He stepped inside the cut. Apollo stopped mid-motion and nodded once. They ran it faster. Herman failed twice more, then caught it four times in a row. The frost did not come. His hands stayed steady. Apollo pushed him harder, cursed at him, called him a banker's boy, and Herman did not swing wide. Apollo picked up the laurel crown from where Herman had carried it in and set it on Herman's head. "This isn't for winning," he said. "It's mine. I want you to wear it under the helm." He held Herman's face in both hands and kissed him, slow, not casual, one full count of four. Then he stepped back like the kiss had not happened. "Front row," he said. "Left foot. Breathe on the notes." Herman walked back to his room with the crown pressed under his arm. His plan for the fight had been a guess the night before. Now it was a drill his body knew, and a promise pinned to his head. He fitted the laurel under the helm's padding so no one would see it. The pendant went under the armor. He tested Ares's cut once more against empty air and caught it clean. He was still going to walk into the arena, and Ares was still a war god. But he was not guessing anymore.