Chương 10: Chapter Nine: Neophyte

Marching forward, Pericles didn't bother looking back. With his strides lengthy and brisk, Cyrus had to scramble after him, forcing his trembling legs to keep up. Once he'd caught up enough to catch his breath, Cyrus spoke.

"Where are we going?"

"Downwards," came the cold reply. Pericles headed towards a wide stone stairway that plunged—surprise! —downwards. Cyrus leaned over the edge. It was a long way down, probably all the way to the floor of the valley. Pericles nodded.

"That is where you will sleep tonight." They descended in silence. When they arrived at the bottom, Cyrus slowed his pace, taking in the new, dreary sight. Here, there was no marble. Hell, there wasn't even a glint of something white! Everything was coated with mud, and the only structures were clusters of poorly constructed wooden huts and stone barracks that were probably as ancient as they appeared. The ground was a swamp of freezing mud, churned by hundreds of feet into an absolute mess.

Hearing the sounds of yells, Cyrus glanced up, finding a group of boys, faces ashen with exhaustion, hauling hydrias full of water or logs of firewood from a large crate. An older man was standing near them, wielding a sharp branch that he occasionally used to slap a lagging boy's back. Perciles began to talk, the first full sentences Cyrus had heard the nearly emotionless boy complete.

"This is the Lower Floor," he explained.

"Every neophyte comes through here at the beginning."

"Neophyte…" Cyrus muttered.

"What does that mean?" Pericles glanced over at Cyrus coldly.

"What do you think? Of course it means 'newly planted.' You are simply a seed buried in dirt. As of now, you are completely useless to our sect. Until you learn to cultivate your pneuma, this mud is where you will stay and rot." Cyrus glanced back up the mountain, toward the terraces they'd descended from.

"How long will it take before I can get up from this place?" Pericles shrugged.

"That depends all on you, does it not? Perhaps if you can prove yourself as someone capable, you may petition to join the Middle Terrace and truly begin your training."

"I see," Cyrus murmured uneasily. Pericles shook his head.

"Still, do not expect much. Many are stuck here for years. Only the geniuses ascend faster than that." He paused his explanation there, continuing onwards into the muck. Cyrus followed close behind, trying to avoid the worst of stains on his clothes. They soon arrived at a wide clearing detailed by splintered wooden posts stabbed into the mud. Here, there were around a dozen neophytes, stripped down to their underwear even with the freezing chill.

With wooden swords, they were practicing strikes against straw-filled korykoi.

"This is the training field," Pericles gestured with his hand.

"You will report here every morning, and with your peers, train in the way of the Mount Helicon Sect." The boy turned briskly.

"Now, the place that will matter the most." Pericles led Cyrus to a row of stone barracks. The older boy pointed at the nearest one.

"Just go in and pick any empty mat," he said.

"It would be best if you do not expect privacy or comfort." Cyrus peered inside. The dirt floor was filled with thin straw mats, and the entire room stunk with the stenches of bitter sweat. Despite the daylight hour, several boys lay under blankets. Cyrus couldn't help but frown at their condition. They seemed almost paralyzed, their faces ashen with exhaustion. Before Pericles could say more, a voice called out from behind them." Chaire! A moment, please!" Both of them turned around.

Cyrus watched as one of the attendants who had been with the Archon make his way down towards them. He was awfully slow, watchful of every step, for his fine linen chiton was entirely unsuited for this sludge. He reached them at last, offering a courteous bow.

"Forgive the intrusion," he said mellowly.

"You are the boy called Cyrus, correct?"

"... Yes," Cyrus said warily.

"What of it?"

"Ah, good." The attendant smiled apologetically.

"I bring word from Nicomedes, and I confess it is not the fondest of news. You see, he has already departed from our sanctuary." Cyrus's stomach plummeted.

"What? He's gone already?" The attendant nodded gently, clearly seeing the distressed expression on Cyrus. Then, from the folds of his chiton, he pulled out a small leather pouch.

"He also told me to give you this." Cyrus reached out, taking it slowly. Through the leather, he could hear the jingle of coins.

"Did he say anything else?" Cyrus asked. The attendant shook his head sadly.

"I am afraid not, young master." He bowed once more.

"Now, I am sorry that I could not bring warmer tidings, but I must go now. Goodbye." Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. And just like that, he turned and was gone. Cyrus silently stood, staring at the worn pouch in his hands. Gone, without so much as a farewell. A heavy sigh escaped Cyrus's lips, turning to white vapor in the chilly air. His hand instinctively slid into his tunic to cup the small clay figure hidden beneath.

He squeezed it tightly, praying silently to the goddess of the hearth that his mother, father, sister, and brother were faring better back in Boeotia than he was. He truly was alone now. ❦ ❦ ❦ Pericles simply left him at the barracks, without so much a goodbye, already retreating back up the muddy slope. Cyrus hadn't even had the chance to thank the boy—as cold he had been—for the much needed tour. And so, he just stood there for a moment, feeling terribly awkward in this new environment.

"You're blocking the door, stranger." The protest came from inside. Cyrus jerked, startled, before peering into the gloom. A youth his age was sprawled out on a straw mat, boasting a wiry build and a crown of thin black hair. A snarky grin was affixed to his lips.

"Sorry," Cyrus muttered, fully stepping inside.

"New meat, huh?" The boy sat up.

"You got that fresh look about you. What's your name?"

"Cyrus."

"Cyrus..." The boy chuckled.

"As in the emperor of Persia? My, your parents must have had some big dreams, eh?"

"Yes, it isn't very common," Cyrus muttered flatly, preparing himself for the regular mockery. But this mystery boy did none of that. Instead, he just shrugged.

"It could be much worse, you know. Take my name, Simos. How common can you possibly get?" He sighed in disappointment, before raising a brow at Cyrus. He patted the mattress next to his own.

"Sit here. It's open." Though Cyrus hesitated, the protests from his legs quickly convinced him. Crossing the room, he plopped down atop the mat. The thin straw was terrible at alleviating the cold, but anything was better than nothing. Besides, just having the tension leave his legs was a blessing. Simos stretched, letting out a groan. Then he paused, eyes flitting towards the pouch clutched within Cyrus's grip.

"Let me help you out. First, don't try to bribe anyone with that money pouch. Second, don't go trying to keep it hidden in your tunic either. They make you strip down a lot, so it won't work." Cyrus frowned.

"Then where am I supposed to keep it?" Simos grinned, slapping the ground besides hard.

"A place nobody expects. Just dig a shallow pit and throw in your pouch. Then cover it back up." Cyrus stared suspiciously at the other boy.

"And… how am I supposed to know that you won't just dig it out for yourself?" Simos barked, looking terribly amused.

"You really don't know anything about sects, do you?"

"What do you mean?" Simos shook his head.

"Never mind. Just know that if I wanted to rob you, I wouldn't let you dig it in first. Besides, we neophytes need to stick together. The Epistates push us hard enough as it is." He smirked, then seemed to realize something, tilting his head towards the far left end of the barracks.

"Oh, and don't mind her. She's just really quiet." Cyrus followed his gaze and only then noticed the third occupant of the room. In the farthest corner of the barracks, there crouched a thin, wiry girl. With dark and oily curls that fell over her face, her legs were pulled up against her chest, her hidden face tilted towards the floor. Cyrus blinked in surprise.

"There are... girls here too?" Simos snorted.

"My, what sort of question is that? Of course there are! Do you think the ember cares about your sex?" He shrugged.

"Her name's Thalia, by the way." Cyrus fumbled with his mistake, cheeks flushing.

"I didn't mean it that way. It's just that I never saw a girl in the palaestra. Not outside the Heraia, or something." Simos frowned.

"Where are you from?"

"Boetia." Simos sighed, waving a dismissive hand.

"Ugh. Boeotia is purely agroikos. All of you are just country rustics trapped in the old ways. Just remember that nobody up here cares about your stupid traditions. The sect takes what it gets." Raising a brow, he deadpanned at Cyrus.

"Besides, I'm guessing you've seen the terraces above, right? After all of that, do you really think a girl training here is the weirdest thing?" Cyrus considered that. He supposed Simos had a point.

"You're right," he admitted, glancing back toward Thalia. The other girl hadn't shown any reaction to their conversation.

"I suppose I hadn't thought about it that way." Simos grinned.

"Ah, just give it a few days. We'll get rid of your stupid values soon enough."

"So what about you?" Cyrus asked, trying to keep the conversation going.

"How'd you end up here?" Snorting, Simos picked at his nose.

"Classic, classic. My parents were dirt broke, and we were fishermen near Byzantium." Cyrus raised a brow.

"A fisherman? What catch did you get?" Simos giggled.

"Sponges, my good man."

"Sponges?"

"It's some deep water work. You have to hold your breath, plunge down, and get as many as you can, all while praying that something unexpected doesn't happen and Pontos pulls you down for good." Simos shrugged.

"And one day, something like that did happen. And I truly thought I was done." The boy grinned.

"Except I wasn't. Next thing I knew, I was breathing the salt water like air." Cyrus gaped.

"You can breathe underwater?"

"Like a fish." Simos's smile widened.

"Then, a cultivator passing by happened to see me. And so, I ended up here."

"Really?"

"Yeah." Simos slid down, lying on the mat.

"And you? What happened for you to come here?" Cyrus hesitated. He was unsure if sharing his tale was the smart choice, but Simos had done it all the same.

"Well, I may have got into a bit of a fight," he admitted reluctantly. Simos smirked.

"A fight? With whom, to require such extreme migration?"

"It was with the son of a noble. Luckily, a cultivator found me and sent me here to the sect." Simos's lopsided smile faltered.

"A noble? And you just left your family behind in Boeotia?" Cyrus nodded.

"I left, so the issue should be settled." Simos scoffed doubtfully, giving a shake of the head.

"Really, Cyrus? I don't know… Aristocrats never seem to forget a trespass, at least from what I'd seen back on the coast. Are you sure your family is actually safe?" Cyrus frowned.

"What? What do you mean—" But before he could demand a further answer, the flaps to the barracks were slapped aside. A broad and robust man ducked inside, his weathered face riddled with scars. His features were twisted into a stern expression, his knobby nose and naturally narrowed eyes making him look eternally pissed off. He glared at Cyrus.

"You're the new arrival, correct? Get up. You have been summoned for evaluation." Cyrus blinked.

"Evaluation?"

"Every neophyte has to be evaluated on their first day," the man explained in a flat and bored tone.

"The instructors need to know what they're working with." The stare he gave Cyrus was seeped with distaste.

"So move." Simos whistled as Cyrus reluctantly straightened from the mat.

"Now that's something I wish I never have to relive again," the other boy said cheerfully.

"Best of luck!"