Julian Cavendish's Arc

Chapter 4 of 4

Herman walked the tunnel under the arena with the helm tucked under his arm. The laurel sat inside the padding, green leaves woven tight in a ring, the stems still wet where Apollo had cut them. He pressed the crown flat with his thumb and settled the helm on his head. The pendant lay cold against his chest. He heard the crowd above him like weather on a roof. At the mouth of the tunnel, a page in a white tunic stopped him. The boy would not meet his eyes. He said Ares had been watching from the high gallery since dawn, a small marble room above the arena floor where the war god studied fighters before a match. The page said Ares had asked twice which row Apollo would sit in. Herman thanked him and kept walking. His hands stayed steady. He understood what the question meant. Ares planned to open on Apollo in the front row and break Herman's head with grief before the first pass. Herman stepped onto the sand and looked up. Apollo sat exactly where he had promised, front row, lyre across his knee, gold robe bright in the sun. Ares came out of the far gate with his spear low and his shield turned in. He did not walk to the center mark. He walked toward the wall under Apollo's seat. The crowd went quiet. Herman saw the left foot slide, not toward him, but toward the stands. Ares cocked the spear back to throw at the front row. Herman did not wait. He moved the way Apollo had drilled him, inside the line of the cut, but this time he cut across the sand instead of into a body. He reached Ares before the throw released. He caught the spear shaft with his left hand and drove his shoulder into the shield. The gold rim rang. Ares turned on him, fast, and the spear came around low, the exact cut Apollo had described. Herman stepped inside it. He set his palm flat on the breastplate and let the sky answer. A single bolt went through his arm into Ares and dropped the war god onto one knee. The spear fell in the sand. The crowd made no sound for a long count. Then it broke open. Ares pushed himself up slowly and looked at Herman with something that was not respect and not hate, only attention. He picked up his spear and walked back through his gate without speaking. The match steward called the bout. Herman pulled the helm off. The laurel had held. Sweat had darkened the leaves but not crushed them. In the front row, Apollo stood with the lyre in one hand and did not smile. He nodded once, the same nod he had given in the theatre, and Herman understood that the gods on the higher tiers had all seen him choose the front row over the center mark.