Page 22 of Eryx
His eyes, however, didn’t meet mine. He stared at Axios, and as I turned to look at my companion, I saw his eyes fixed on the older boy, returning his lethal glare. Axios still possessed anger from the day before when I was held in place and punched with no way to defend myself.
I might often view Axios as a kind soul with an even kinder heart, but in instances like this I saw the powerful Spartan male he’d become one day.
Linus told us to stop walking when we reached the temple, then he joined the other adults at the edge of the arena. People in the stands around us cheered, most of them sitting on stone steps, while others stood to have a better view of the altar. I moved a gaze amongst them, seeing men and women of all ages.
“Flog them!” a man shouted, leaning against a post.
As if encouraged by the spectator’s comment, another man shouted, “Show us how tough you Spartans are!”
Axios clenched his hands into fists. His eyes darkened as he viewed the screaming throng of people. Utter disgust marked his face. He felt the ritual served no purpose other than to entertain a crowd that wanted nothing more than our blood painting the dirt.
“Stay by my side,” I whispered, brushing my hand against his.
I didn’t hold the contact for long, but I needed him to know I was beside him. That no matter what happened, we’d be together.
The roar of the crowd became a low buzz in the background as I calculated the distance from our place near the temple to the altar. I studied the length of the whips and the boy who held them, determining the speed at which he could strike.
When the rumbles and yells quieted, I looked to see Gaius approaching the center of the arena. His black hair flowed freely, the strands lifting as a warm breeze swept around us. He addressed the crowd in a loud, booming voice.
“On this day, you will witness youths of Sparta exhibit their extraordinary test of manliness as they are initiated as future warriors,” he said, his voice echoing in the arena. “You coddle your young like delicate flowers, but in Sparta, we pluck them from their mother’s breasts and push them to their breaking point and beyond until they do not feel or fear pain. Do not register its existence. We strip them of individuality, for a great army fights as one. All of Greece knows of Sparta’s renowned warriors. Witness how they are made.”
He held out an arm toward us before stepping aside.
“Begin.”
Our group was led to the altar where we were instructed to form a line and stand in place. We were to be whipped before the game could begin. Thediamastigosiswas to honor Artemis Orthia, and the spilling of our blood acted as an offering to appease her before we started the festival.
Axios tensed and ground his teeth together.
“Place your mind above the pain,” I whispered.
Only one strike each was required. He was strong. He could overcome this.
Quill cried out as the whip snapped against his back. The crowd laughed as his shriek rang in the air.
“Coward!” a man shouted.
“Strike that one again,” Gaius commanded, his gruff voice filled with amusement. “Strike him until he cries out no more.”
Quill received the flog two more times before Pericles moved on to the next in line. Quill shook and tears wet his cheeks, but he made no sound. Axios regarded him with worried eyes, and I regarded Axios. His empathy toward other’s pain did nothing but cause him unnecessary grief.
Theon, Haden, and Melias were then whipped. Although he jerked a little, Theon didn’t cry out as the whip tore into his flesh. Haden clenched his jaw during his turn, and Melias winced. Now, it was my turn.
Exhaling, I stared up at the statue jutting from the temple. The eyes of the goddess held my gaze.This is for you, I told her. The whip cracked against my back, leaving behind a streak of wet. My blood splattered on Axios’ arm, and as I glanced at him, he appeared ill.
Stay strong,I thought, hoping he somehow heard me.
However, it wasIwho needed strength when Pericles flogged Axios. The strap of the leather tore into his tanned skin, adding another mark to go with his other scars from past whippings and beatings. He squeezed his eyes shut and made no sound.
Gods, it hurt to see him hit. I fought the urge to tear the whip from Pericles’ hands and flog him until he lay motionless in the dirt.
When Axios lifted his eyes to mine, I nodded. I was proud of him for being brave and not showing his pain. My stomach turned, though, when I remembered the sound of the whip cracking against him. I knew it was part of the ritual for each participant to offer their blood, but I would’ve gladly taken his lashing upon myself.
Axios gasped as he was struck a second time. The whip dug into his side and blood pooled to the surface as it was yanked away. He shouldn’t have been hit again. I glared at Pericles, my nostrils flaring with barely suppressed rage.
“The goddess demanded more blood,” he said, smirking.
As Pericles reared back his arm to swing again, Axios rolled to the side. The leather whistled in the air before smacking the dirt.
