One passed so close I felt the heat of it sear my cheek, the feathers brushing like a phantom kiss. Another whirled just over my shoulder, so near I could hear the crackle of its flame.
The last two came straight for my chest.
I didn’t have time to comprehend my impending death before a crack split the air and the shafts jolted sideways at the last instant, skidding off an unseen barrier just inches from my chest. They toppled to the deck in front of me.
I staggered back, and my hand flew to my chest, trembling, certain I’d find blood, a wound, some mark of the strike. But there was nothing.
Around me, the soldiers stared with wide eyes and slack mouths. Even Sidon’s ranks, who had cried out when the arrows loosed, had fallen into utter silence.
The stunned hush on deck had barely begun to fracture when I turned … just in time to catch Menelaus exchanging a glance with Theron.
Neither of them seemed surprised.
Menelaus’s smile was sly and satisfied, settling on his mouth in triumph. They both resembled jackals who had baited the trap and found the kill still twitching.
A cold gust slid down my spine, harsher than the sea breeze. They had planned this. Plannedme.
The arrow. The spectacle. The carefully calculated miracle.
My gaze snapped to Achilles.
The relief on his face was unmistakable, pouring across the distance as though it might carry me safely somewhere. He shifted a step forward, shaking the boat, his mouth shaping my name.
Menelaus walked forward and came to stand by me, no doubt armed with the same protection from Theron that he’d given me. “Let this be a warning to Sidon!” he shouted, gesturing toward me. “The Queen of Sparta stands untouched by your cowards’ arrows. Her blood is under the protection of Sparta’s god!” His grin widened.
I didn’t have time to dwell on the lie in his words, that Sparta’sgodhad not saved me at all, before he lifted his hand. “What do you think my army will do when this istheirqueen?”
There was a lull, where soldiers on both sides paused, like everyone was holding their breath in unison, waiting for the next step.
“Forward!” Achilles’s voice suddenly cut through the tension.
What followed was less of a charge than a tidal wave. Oars drove into the water and soldiers spilled from the boats in formation, shields raised and blades in hand. I watched, half in horror, half in awe, as I saw the full might of Sparta for the first time.
The hoplites crashed into the shore, their feet sliding in the red sand. Spearheads pierced the tinted wave as they drove toward the enemy cliffs. The Sidon archers loosed, and the sky filled with hissing fire. Arrows thudded into flesh, and I watched as soldiers crumpled with strangled cries and blood spattered the beach. Others raised their shields in time, their wood and bronze breasts catching the shafts with a ringing crack, splinters skittering off into the air.
The cliffs erupted.
From narrow paths hewn into the rock, Sidon’s warriors poured downward in gleaming ranks, their silver armor flashing with each step. Shields overlapped, and spears angled forward as they advanced like a metallic river spilling toward the sand. The ground shook beneath their descent, a rolling thunder of footsteps.
Achilles surged through the chaos like a scythe, his shield slamming one defender to the ground as his sword swept through leather and flesh in the same relentless motion.
He didn’t fight like other men, not even other soldiers that I knew were considered some of Sparta’s best. There was no hesitation in his movements, no wasted breath, no clumsy clash of blows. He cut, pivoted, and drove forward, relentless as a storm of arrows loosed at once. I saw then why songs already clung to his name. Why even distant villages whispered he was born of a goddess. Watching him tear through Sidon’s ranks, I believed every word of it.
On the cliffs, defenders readied spears and javelins. I could see their muscles brace. They shouted, and their voices shook the stones. But our men did not break.
Spartan lines surged forward as one. At the cliff’s base, blades hammered against a gate of iron-bound timbers, the crash of steel and splintered wood echoing up the rock. Sparks flew with every strike, but the barrier held.
Above, others fought their way up the narrow paths, shields locked, shoulders driving forward. Sidon’s defenders rained spears and javelins down, but the Spartans pressed on with grim determination, dragging fallen bodies aside, climbing the steps.
Beside me, Menelaus stood with his chest puffed in triumph as Achilles surged ahead, leading the bloody charge.
Menelaus let out a booming laugh, the sound swelling above the din of battle. “Look at him!” he crowed. “Born for slaughter, that one. The old gods may have forged him, but Sparta reaps the glory.”
I ground my teeth at his words, bile rising at the way he spoke of Achilles as if he were nothing but a blade to be wielded, another trophy for Sparta’s crown when I knew there was so much more to him. But my gaze strayed back to the cliffs, to the figure cutting through Sidon’s lines. Pride flared bright in my chest despite myself. Whatever Menelaus claimed, Achilles’s glory was his own.
A battering ram at the front finally shattered the gate at the base of the cliff. The wall burst open. Spartan soldiers surged through, flooding into the courtyard beyond. I saw Sidon’s silver-armored warriors retreating.
On higher platforms, some Sidonian defenders lit boiling oil. It spat down the cliff. Flames roared and one blistering puddle hit a group of Spartans. Three screaming men fell to the ground, their skin smoking as the oil hit. Achilles plunged into the inferno anyway, dragging two wounded men to safety with grim speed.
