A Touch of Malice (Hades & Persephone #3)(88)

“Oh, the games are starting!” Zofie said.

They took their seats, and Persephone was relieved when Hermes dropped into the one to her right —Sybil was on the left. They watched as the Opening Ceremony began below. The first announcement was for Apollo—the chancellor of the games—who was carried out upon a litter—or an open chair—which was hoisted by four very strong men with oiled and bare chests. They wore white tunics, gold cuffs, and laurel leaves in their hair—the same outfit Apollo sported. He grinned and waved at the crowd, no sign of his agony present. He was followed by a group of women who danced and threw petals upon the ground.

They made a lap around the field and then returned to the stadium.

“Will Apollo sit with us?” Persephone asked.

“No, he has his own box,” Hermes said.

After, the gods’ heroes marched into the center of the field below as they and their sponsoring god were announced. She recognized several who had trained at the Palestra, including Hector and Ajax.

“Do you have a hero in the games?” She asked Hermes.

“I do,” he said. “Third from the left. His name is Aesop.”

Persephone found him in the lineup—a strong yet lean man with sandy blond hair.

“You don’t seem particularly excited,” Persephone pointed out.

He shrugged. “He has gifts, but he is not strong like Ajax or forceful like Hector. Those two are the real competition.”

There were others, too—Damon who belonged to Aphrodite, and Castor who belonged to Hera.

Anastasia to Ares, Demi to Artemis, and Cynisca to Athena. As they marched onto the field, they flexed their muscles in a posing routine which made the crowd cheer louder.

“Ladies and gentlemen, Gods and Goddesses, Royal Divine among us—give another round of applause for our New Greece Heroes!”

Persephone leaned toward Hermes and spoke over the roar of the crowd.

“You said Hector was forceful,” Persephone said. “What does that mean?”

“You’ll see.”

At the sound of a trumpet, she sat forward, and eight chariots emerged from the shadows of the stadium, each drawn by four, powerful horses. They were mighty steeds, their coats silken and of varying colors. Their hooves pounded the earth as they converged upon the track, sending up dust and clumps of dirt as their handlers—the heroes—urged them on.

“How does this work?” she asked Hermes, her heart already racing from the thrill.

“The charioteers must make twelve laps around the hippodrome. They will keep count there,” he said, pointing to a mechanical system at the center of the arena—a series of dolphin statues that would nose-dive once the first lap had been conquered.

“Why do they use such an ancient form of score-keeping?” she asked.

He shrugged. “We pick and choose what we wish to keep from antiquity, Sephy. Haven’t you noticed?”

While they spoke, her eyes remained on the field, watching the race—a battle between beast and man to be the first to the turning post. There was so much dust, so much speed, so much power, it had to be dangerous.

Just as that thought crossed Persephone’s mind, one of the chariots flipped.

Her shocked inhale caught in her throat as the chariot landed and shatter, the broken body of Castor crushed beneath, but what made her blood run colder still was the laugh that escaped both Zeus and Poseidon at the mortal’s immediate death.

“No victory for you, eh, Hera?” Zeus taunted.

She glanced at Hermes, who quickly reached for her hand and squeezed.

“It is a game to them, Sephy.”

She bit her lip hard, recalling why Triad protested the games—this is what they objected. There was more movement on the field as a group of people ran onto the track to remove the debris from the broken chariot, wrangle the horses, and carry away the body.

“Why aren’t they stopping?” Persephone asked. “That man…Castor…he’s dead.”

“It is the nature of the game,” Hermes said.

Not long after the first accident, there was another. Two chariots collided in a tangle of horses and reigns. Aesop was thrown from his chariot while Demi’s leg was crushed beneath hers—her screams reached them from the floor. Still, they were both alive.

Persephone was torn from continuing to watch and fleeing this place entirely, but she stayed because Ajax was still in the race and in the lead—beside Hector. The wheels of their two chariots were inches from one another, their horses charging on. Of the two, Hector seemed the most desperate, urging his steeds on with the use of his whip—lashing over and over until he used it on Ajax.

“He can’t do that,” Persephone leaned forward, looking to Hermes. “Can he?”

The God of Mischief shrugged. “There aren’t really rules. Is it fair? No.”

She suddenly understood what Hermes meant when he’d described Hector as forceful.

Her attention returned to the track.

Hector continued to lash Ajax until he managed to latch onto the whip and jerk it from Hector’s grasp—but Hector’s cheating came with a price as his chariot strayed too close to the wall, hitting with such force, it broke into pieces and sent him flying. Persephone did not even see where the mortal landed, she was too focused on Apollo who had appeared on the field just as Ajax finished his final lap, winning the race.