Underworld: Unbreakable

The Battle of the Fetters

This is Chapter 4 of the serialised novel ‘Underworld’, a reimagining (not a retelling) of the myth of Persefóni. Use the buttons below to skip back a chapter, or begin at the beginning.

Chapter 4

Some time after dawn, we are sitting outside the cave when a man we don’t recognise comes panting up the slope. He isn’t from the valley; he is a soldier. He must have been running through the night and it’s clear he’s exhausted. When he reaches us, he leans forward, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath.

“Are you the warrior Ánitos?” he gasps.

“I am.”

“I bear a message from Níkandros, King of Tegéa.”

I see a flash of something like excitement in Ánitos’s eyes.

“Let’s hear it,” he says.

The messenger draws himself up to his full height, swaying slightly on his feet, and replies, “‘Lakedaímon seeks to invade our lands. We called upon the goddess Athiná, but she did not answer, and now the Lakedaimonians are marching upon us. We have mustered our forces to meet them in the valley below the source of the River Evrótas, but we are few. Will you ride to our aid?’ These are the words of Níkandros, King of Tegéa, to Ánitos the Warrior.”

The messenger stops, sagging and breathless, and Ánitos looks at me.

“The Lakedaimonians are too ambitious,” he says thoughtfully. “If they continue to invade and absorb city-states unchecked, they will upset the balance of power in these lands.”

I nod sagely, but the truth is that I know little of politics and care less. All I know is that the Lakedaimonians are fierce warriors and the Tegéans are generally peaceable - and I have always taken the side of the underdog in Ánitos’s stories of war. Besides, this is what I have been waiting for - a real battle. I can’t keep the light of excitement out of my eyes either, and I think it is this, rather than his worries about the balance of power, that causes Ánitos to turn back to the messenger and tell him, “We will ride.”

The messenger looks at me uncertainly, but makes no comment. Instead, he says, “Forgive the impertinence, but how soon can you be ready to depart?”

“Almost immediately,” Ánitos tells him.

Our blades are always sharp, our armour supple and well-oiled. While the messenger rests, eats and drinks, we collect what we need and ready the horses. His own horse, he tells us, went lame in the mountain passes and he had no choice but to continue on foot. Ánitos gifts him one of ours, likely the best horse he has ever laid eyes on, even if he is from the court of a king. It will be a great prize, if he ever gets it back to Tegéa.

I vault to the back of my own white mare. Her grey tail flicks and her ears point forward; she is eager to be off.

“We will ride south through the mountains,” Ánitos says. “We should come on King Níkandros’s army before nightfall.”

The terrain is rough, and it takes us until late afternoon to reach the valley where the Tegéans are camped. There is a sea of tents, horses and men, men, men - polishing armour, sharpening swords, cooking, talking and carrying water. The smell of smoke, acrid sweat and metal pervades the air. They all stare at us as we ride into the camp, and well they might: Ánitos is a warrior from legend, and I am a woman - the only one in their camp, I imagine, unless they have brought any with them to cook. I stare back, equally intrigued. I have never fought in a real battle before, only skirmishes here and there with bandits and raiders. I feel a mounting excitement in my chest - to face real, trained warriors, and to fight alongside them is something new to me; a test of my skills, my strength and speed, although I’m sure I won’t be found wanting.

The messenger directs us through the camp to the largest tent, near the centre. He calls out and a tall, broad man flings back the tent flap. He looks annoyed, but then checks himself when he sees Ánitos.

“You are Ánitos the Warrior?” he asks, and I am pleased to hear there is something like admiration in his voice.

“I am,” Ánitos replies, for the second time that day. “And this is Persefóni” - the man’s eyebrow arches almost imperceptibly - “the Warrior.”

Both Ánitos and I ignore the incredulous look on the man’s face.

“And you are?” Ánitos inquires.

“General Timaíos. We are currently having a meeting of the war council to discuss the approaching battle. You are most welcome.”

He steps back and we duck inside the tent.

There are three other men inside, but it is immediately obvious, even before he stands to greet us, which King Níkandros is. He is younger than I expected - not yet thirty in mortal years - tall and handsome. His voice, when he speaks, is deep, but not brash.

“Ánitos the Warrior,” he says. “And -?”

“Persefóni,” I supply.

“Persefóni,” he echoes. “We thank you for riding to our aid. Please, sit.”

I appreciate the fact that he doesn’t raise his eyebrows at me, but accepts me as readily as he accepts Ánitos. Perhaps, unlike General Timaíos, he realises that underneath Ánitos’ enchantments, I am immortal too.

We take our places on the floor around a low table on which there is a rough drawing of the valley we are in, and the larger river valley below that is intersected by it.

“The battle will take place three days from today,” Níkandros tells us. “We plan to leave at first light and engage them here.” He lays a finger on the map, on the flat, open ground beyond the foot of our valley.

“The Lakedaimonians are a formidable enemy,” Ánitos says. “How do your forces compare?”

“We are pretty evenly matched. Our scouts count about three hundred men in their camp, and we have three hundred and twenty.”

“I see. And what’s your strategy?”

“That is the issue under discussion. You see, my men are trained to attack in phalanx formation, but the Lakedaimonians also use this technique. I have heard of other armies who have achieved success against a phalanx with an initial volley of arrows and a charge, but I fear this will not work against Lakedaímon. Their phalanx is unbreakable.”

“Unbreakable?” I ask, and shoot a glance at Ánitos. He winks at me and leans forward across the table, locking eyes with the king.

“Get us close enough and, by your leave, we will break it,” he says.

Ánitos’s confidence is not unfounded. We have discussed this very problem, and we practised the solution in our sleepy Arkadían valley, but we have never put our theory to the test in a real battle. We are itching at the prospect of trying it.

When Níkandros hears the plan, however, he is sceptical.

“That is impossible,” he says. “Even though you are immortal, there are still only two of you.”

“Then you have one more than you need,” replies Ánitos.

---

The details of the plan are kept secret until the morning of the battle. It is prudent; if Tegéa has sent scouts to the enemy camp, no doubt the Lakedaimonians are watching us too. But the men are assigned roles according to their skills, and we engage in training exercises. King Níkandros walks among the troops, offering encouragement and sparring with his men. I like that about him. Ánitos always says that a true leader doesn’t command from above or behind, but stands shoulder-to-shoulder with his men.

There is one aspect of the plan we can’t conceal; we will be using cavalry. It isn’t something that has been done before in Arkadía. Níkandros’ men don’t know how to fight on horseback, and it’s my job to teach them. I worry that, looking as I do - like their mortal daughters and sisters - they won’t listen to me, but a short display in which I flay imaginary enemies to left and right as I ride convinces them that I have the skills they lack.

I have only a few days, so I choose the best riders from Níkandros’ troops. Even then, I can’t turn them into horse masters in such a short time, but I hope what I can do will be enough, with Ánitos’ help. While I coach the soldiers in how to gauge the optimum distance, to strike before they get too close and not to overreach, he walks among the horses the Tegéans brought with them. They are pack animals, not war horses, and they wouldn’t do well on the battlefield under ordinary circumstances. They would startle at the noise, and the smell of blood would drive them wild. That is why Ánitos walks among them; he is layering enchantments upon them, as he has laid upon our own animals. They will shield the horses from the worst of the noise and smell; dulling these senses so they can focus on sight, movement and touch, responding to their riders and to what surrounds them.

On the evening before the battle, Níkandros eats with his soldiers. On the way back to his tent, he passes mine and sees me rubbing oil into the leather of my homemade padded armour. He frowns and commands that I be brought the bronze armour that his soldiers wear. I try it on to oblige him, but the breastplate is heavy and uncomfortable, the shin guards weighing down my legs, and the helmet obscuring my vision.

“I thank you,” I say, “but I can’t wear this. Our success depends on speed and agility, and this armour affords me neither.”

“But without protection, they will cut you down.”

“Don’t worry - I won’t give them the chance.”

He looks at me doubtfully for a moment, but then his face breaks into a grin. He looks boyish in the warm light of the setting sun. His eyes are alight, and I think that, despite the danger, he relishes the chance to fight almost as much as I do.

---

The following morning, the whole camp is woken long before dawn. I braid my long hair and wrap it around my head securely, then don my thick padded armour and wriggle into a leather harness I made myself. It has two belts which cross over my chest and support the weight of two swords crossed on my back. I have no shield. The mortals have learnt to fight with shields, and they can use them not only for protection, but sometimes as part of their attack. But I don’t think I need a shield, and in any case I don’t want one - I prefer to use my left arm to wield an extra blade.

The soldiers gather outside the camp in ranks. Some are chewing on heels of bread, but most eat nothing. Their faces are drawn and deathly pale in the predawn darkness. They are trying not to be, but they are afraid.

I am not afraid.

We start to march; two hundred and twenty men on foot and a hundred on horseback, making slow progress in the wavering light of torches. I lead my horse down the valley behind them. My weight isn’t much for her to bear, but I want to conserve all her energy. She has a pivotal role in our plan, but it involves me abandoning her on the battlefield, and I am afraid that she will not survive without me to protect her. I lean my head against her neck. She is a good horse - steady and almost impossible to startle, but she is more than that. I feel Ánitos’ enchantments under my hands as I walk beside her, my palm on her flank. Thanks to them, there is no horse in Arkadía as swift and sure-footed or as agile as mine, except perhaps Ánitos’s grey mare.

The Tegéan army lines up on the battlefield, facing west down the valley, as the eastern sky lightens from burnt orange to light yellow to palest grey-blue. The valley is still in shadow, but the Lakedaimonian forces are marching towards us. They form up into a neat rectangle of men bordered by shining shields on every side. From the front, long spears emerge horizontally. Then, a second and a third row pointing diagonally. Further back, the men hold their spears vertically towards the sky.

All is ready.

There is a moment of complete stillness. The breeze blows a few stray hairs across my forehead. An eagle cries somewhere above us and to the south. Then, the sun crests the mountain peaks down the valley, spilling blinding golden light into the faces of any Lakedaimonians not already hidden behind their shields. General Timaíos’ voice roars a command, and a hundred Tegéan riders peel off from behind our phalanx - fifty galloping to the right and fifty to the left of the Lakedaimonian army. At the same instant, a path opens through the phalanx before me. On the other side, the same happens in front of Ánitos. We urge our horses to a gallop through the Tegéan lines, so that by the time we are level with the first row of soldiers, we are flying.

The space between the Tegéan front line and the row of Lakedaimonian shields facing us, punctuated with long spears, is only a few horse-lengths now. With the sun in their eyes, their shields blocking their view, and the sheer audacity of our plan, we have the advantage. Their general cannot see or understand what is happening for moment, and a moment is all we need. The Lakedaimonians have been trained to hold their ground, and not a soldier among them moves his spear as I gauge my mare’s stride and guide her into an incredible leap. She makes it over the first row of spears pointing horizontally at the Tegéan army, and over the second row too. It is then, just before she begins her descent, that I put my feet between her shoulder-blades and spring from her back. As I sail through the air, I feel invincible. I know that no mortal can do this. A mortal would fall, impaling themselves on the sea of spear-tips, but I twist my body like a leaping fish so that it glides between the third row and the fourth. Níkandros was right to call our plan impossible: it is impossible - but not for me.

Below me, none of the Lakedaimonians have time to react. In their tight formation and their bronze helmets, they have limited visibility. The front rows see only my horse descending on them, and behind they only catch a glimpse of me flying overhead. Further back still, they understand nothing until I crash down among them, my swords already drawn.

Surprise is on my side, and I cut down four men before one recovers enough to block my attack. Then, the real fighting begins. General Timaíos has already given the command for the Tegéans to attack. The riders who galloped up the field wheel and smash into the lines from the back, the left and right before the Lakedaimonians have the chance to wheel about and stop them. Níkandros’s foot-soldiers charge the front in the hopes of breaking the line. This is another thing we have been practising with the men; how to spin and use their shields to deflect the spears, and drive their swords in between the enemy shields. But will they be fast enough, and can they move as one? Because once the Lakedaimonians realise what they are doing, we will lose our advantage.

I don’t have time to check on anyone else’s progress, however. I am surrounded by Lakedaimonian soldiers. I slash and parry, block and stab in a whirl of glinting bronze. The shouts and screams, the clang of metal on metal, is only background noise to the dance in which I am playing the tune. I am dimly aware that Ánitos is fighting somewhere off to my left, and that Níkandros’s soldiers are engaged in skirmishes across the field, but the whole battle seems to centre on me.

Lakedaimonians come at me one after the other, two and three at a time, but I am unbeatable. It isn’t that they aren’t skilled - they are, indeed, incredible soldiers, but they are only men. I am immortal; faster and stronger, and I have had hundreds of years in which to practise my art. They fall before me, those fighters who are famed throughout our lands for their military prowess. They can’t stand against me - the battle is around me and within me, and I am wild with it, my eyes flashing, my body alight with raw energy. They don’t give up - soldier after soldier attacks, each one hoping for a different outcome to his predecessors, but I am tireless and unstoppable. I am inevitable.

I’m sweating, and my arms are aching, but energy is still coursing through me. I feel as if I could fight a hundred more men, a thousand. I send another Lakedaimonian soldier to Ádis, slashing his throat between breastplate and helmet with both my blades at once. I turn, swords spinning and catching the light, to defend my back, but there is no one there. The ground around me is strewn with corpses, but there are no men standing anywhere near me. The Tegéan army has won the day.

A short way off, I see Níkandros. He has removed his helmet and he stands, chest heaving, his sword in the belly of a Lakedaimonian at his feet. He catches my eye and grins. I feel every inch a goddess. In this sea of death, I have never felt so powerful, and so alive.

The feeling ebbs away from me as we clear the battlefield. We shackle the Lakedaimonian survivors - at least, the ones who don’t manage to throw themselves on their swords before we reach them - and then we tend to the dead; theirs and ours. The battle was short, but it takes a long, long time to pile up the corpses for cremation. I avert my eyes from their grey faces, still twisted in the agony of their bloody deaths.

Dusk is falling by the time we return to the camp. The pyre still blazes in the valley below us, a gruesome monument to the day’s slaughter. The men set about the business of eating, but I leave my swords and armour in my tent and go further up the valley, to the place where the Evrótas springs from inside the mountain. I strip off my clothes and splash the ice-cold water on my face, my body, my arms and legs. It makes me catch my breath, and it washes away blood and dirt, and the last traces of the battle-madness. I begin to wonder how many men I killed, and whether they had families. It is small comfort to me to know that they perceive death on the battlefield as an honour. I know - or at least I think I do - that every one of those soldiers would rather be alive, heading home to warm hearth fires, warm homes, and warm arms.

I don’t like these thoughts. I stick my head into the stream below the spring in an effort to make them stop, and come up gasping.

When I enter the camp, my clothes clinging uncomfortably to my damp body, there are two Tegéan soldiers waiting outside my tent. They tell me that King Níkandros has requested my presence, and I follow them through the maze of tents to the one I recognise from the meeting yesterday. One of the soldiers calls out and, at the king’s answer, he holds back the tent flap for me. I step into the dim interior, lit by the flickering light of oil lamps. Níkandros is alone. He is reclining on his pallet, but he gets to his feet when I enter. He, too, has washed himself, but his clothes are dry and clean. I am aware that mine are damp and streaked with mud, blood and sweat, but I don’t particularly care. I am only curious to know why I am here.

Níkandros dismisses the guards at once and I stand awkwardly in the centre of the room, waiting for him to speak, while he pours himself a cup of wine. He does not offer me anything to drink.

"You are a formidable fighter," he says at last. "On the battlefield, you are worth thirty of my soldiers."

"All your men fought bravely today," I reply, and I mean it. "Your victory belongs to all of us."

He nods. "They are fine warriors," he agrees. "It is no mean feat to face the Lakedaimonians in battle and emerge victorious, but I still believe it was your actions, and those of Ánitos, that assured our victory. I thank you for coming to our aid."

He inclines his head to me and I respectfully mirror the gesture.

“It is not merely the way you fight, but who you are. The word spread among the soldiers last night that you were immortal. To have immortals fighting among us gives my men strength and courage - and after today your reputation is assured. This battle - the day the Tegéans shackled the Lakedaimonians - will become legendary.”

I bow my head again, but it is all just words to me. I don't really care about reputations and legends. All I care about is the dance. And I don’t like this feeling, afterwards - the feeling of too much blood on my hands.

"I have been thinking," he continues. "I am a good leader to my men; I fight on the front line and I show them strength and courage. I am a good king too, and I have waited long to take a wife because I feel it is not a choice I make only for myself, but for my kingdom. Now I see that what my people need is a queen who can match my strength and courage - a warrior. Do you agree?"

I stand up straighter, pride elongating my spine. It is usually Ánitos whom people ask for advice, not me. I am pleased to have proven myself to King Níkandros, pleased that he recognises I am not just Ánitos' student, but his equal, both in skill and intelligence.

"I think your people would benefit greatly from having a warrior queen," I tell him. "Too many men underestimate the courage and resilience of women, and you’re wise to recognise it. From this day on, you’ll be known as a king who is skilled in the art of war, and it’s only fitting that you have a queen to fight beside you and to bear you strong children."

I am being sincere, so I am a little thrown when he laughs. "You get right to the point," he says, stepping towards me. There is something I half-recognise in his eyes. I have seen people look at me like that before, but I don’t have time to think who or when because he takes another step and his arms circle around behind my back. He pulls me towards him, pressing my hips into his, so that my back arches slightly and our faces come together. His mouth is hot on mine, and I don’t dislike the sensation, but I want it to be someone else, not him, although I don't know who. His hands slide across my body, snatching and grabbing, as if searching for something he has lost and desperately needs to find. I feel a strange mingling of desire and disgust; deep in my pelvis something I never knew the existence of is stirring, something that yearns and craves for the touch of another, but I am repelled by his greedy hands and I haven’t asked him to touch me, or even given my consent. I realise I don’t really understand what is happening, that I have misread the situation and lost control of it. I put my hands on his shoulders and push him away from me.

He steps back, a furrow creasing his brow.

"I think we’ve been talking at cross-purposes," I tell him.

"Don't be coy," he returns, and I have no idea what that means. "I have not the patience for it. That is precisely why I summoned you here and why I have offered you a place at my side; I don't want a simpering mortal maiden for a queen - I want a warrior, a deadly weapon; a goddess."

He is moving towards me again, and that look that I can't place has returned to his eyes.

His arms encircle me and his lips are almost on mine as he murmurs, "Beside you, I will look like a god."

That desire inside me stirs again at his closeness. I like it that he called me a goddess, and I am curious to know what it would feel like to let him undress me, to lay with him. I think of him on the battlefield; the wild light in his eyes, and mine. If I were his queen, how magnificent we would look riding to war, and how easily we would lay waste to our enemies. If only he was looking at me like Dioklís looked at Loukía the night of their wedding feast, I might relent, but his expression is hungry, wolfish - as if he doesn’t only want to lay with me, but devour me.

In an instant, I make my decision and push him away again, with more force this time. He staggers backwards, overbalances and falls to the floor. He shouts for his guards, and I whirl around as the two soldiers who brought me there enter the tent.

Behind me, Níkandros shouts, "Restrain her!" and I laugh aloud. How ridiculous that he expects two soldiers, weary from battle, to subdue me when he has just told me I am worth thirty of them, when I have recently killed a hundred of the fiercest warriors in the land. I have come unarmed, and perhaps he thinks I am less dangerous without my swords, but he is wrong. I don’t need weapons to defend myself.

The guards hesitate - I expect the same thought has also crossed their minds - but then they both make a grab for my arms. I twist out of their reach and immediately lunge back towards them, punching the first guard hard in the solar plexus so that the breath is driven from his lungs, then pivoting and landing a kick in the stomach of the second man. He doubles over, and I turn back to the first, dealing him an uppercut followed by a right hook in quick succession. Then I kick him too, and the force sends him backwards where he collides with the tent pole behind him. It snaps and he sits down hard, dragging the material of the tent with him. I deliver one final kick to his head, and he remains still.

I hear the scrape of metal and spin around to see the second soldier, still on his knees, drawing his sword. I stamp my foot down hard on his wrist, smashing it against the floor and forcing him to let go of the hilt. Then, I bring my knee up so that it connects with his chin, snapping his head backwards. I punch his face once, twice, three times until he crumples to the floor.

I swing around to look at Níkandros, my fists still raised. He is on his feet again, but I can’t read his expression. I don’t understand enough about human emotions, and there is more than one twisting his features at this moment. But he makes no move towards me, and I turn and duck out of the half-collapsed doorway, running through the nighttime camp back to my own tent.

I grab my weapons and slip out and into Ánitos's tent next door. He is still awake, sitting on his pallet with an oil lamp burning nearby.

"Persefóni?" He leaps to his feet, grabbing his sword belt and beginning to buckle it around his waist. "What is it? A counter-attack? Did they send reinforcements? Are they here - in our camp?"

"No," I say, breathless. "Nothing like that. The king summoned me to his tent, and I thought he wanted advice, but he wanted me to - and then he - he tried - he wanted to - but I didn't, so I pushed him, and then he called his guards, and I hit them -"

"Persefóni - what?"

"We have to go now! He’ll send more men after me -"

"Persefóni, King Níkandros is a reasonable man. Whatever has happened, we can talk it out. I will go to his tent now -"

"I don't want to be his queen!" I shout.

"His queen?" Ánitos looks puzzled. "Of course not," he says, as if I am being ridiculous.

I wait in Ánitos's tent while he goes to King Níkandros. He is gone a long time, and I try to understand what I am feeling, but it is all very complicated. Did I like or loathe it when he touched me? Do I like or loathe him? He is a skilled warrior, and a brave man, and by all accounts a good king. But I did not like the feeling of being in his power. I know what sex is, of course, and how people do it, but I see now that there is some sort of balance of power involved in it and I don’t know how that works. My ignorance had put me at a disadvantage before him; it had given him the means to control me, and not only that - it was my future that he had wanted to control also.

But the main thing I feel is anger, and that I do understand.

I am angry at myself for not understanding how the world works, and angry that Ánitos doesn’t have to deal with this extra layer of complication. He can fight and win respect, but when I fight, it seems I receive something different. King Níkandros acknowledged my skill, but instead of making him respect me, it made him want to possess me. And he believed that he could, that I would yield to him when I did not falter before three hundred Lakedaimonians on the field of battle. I am angry, too, that Ánitos has to fix this. Why couldn't I fix it myself? Why, if I am so skilled, and immortal to boot, did King Níkandros think he could command me and I would submit to him?

---

Ánitos returns to his tent in the blackest part of the night. I am still awake, waiting. He assures me everything is fine, but we still leave the next morning before the rest of the troops, before daybreak, taking two horses to replace ours that fell in battle.

As we head back through the mountains to our own valley, I am quiet, still trying to sort through the storm of emotions in my head. It isn’t something I can discuss with Ánitos. I replay the scene from the previous night over and over again, but I can’t reconcile the sense of violation I feel with the fact that I am longing for that unfamiliar sensation which his kiss and his touch stirred inside me. To want his hands - anyone's hands - on my body feels like a betrayal of myself.

Back in the valley, I look at the men in a new way as the fierce summer sun scorches their bare backs on the threshing floor, and they straighten up, sweat glistening on their skin. I also realise where I had seen that look in Níkandros's eyes before; it is the way the men - most, but not all of them - look at me when they think I am not watching. I slowly realise that those men would like the same thing as Níkandros wanted but, unlike him, they are afraid to try and take it.

To be continued …